Authors: L. M. Roth
Cort did not
know whether to be relieved or concerned at these words. What prophecy, and why
the mention of his blue eyes?
The old man
opened the door and gestured for them to enter. Cort took Siv by the hand and
they walked down six stone steps into a wide room with an earthen floor. Mats
of rushes bound together were strewn around, in which sweet smelling herbs were
intermingled, releasing a delicate aroma that calmed one’s spirit. There were
finely carved benches and chairs of some dark glossy wood scattered about, and
he glimpsed a narrow passageway that led to other rooms. Tapers of brightly
colored wax cast golden shadows into the room, where the windows were already
shuttered against the coming of evening.
It was clear
to Cort from one glance at Siv that she liked the room; her eyes brightened and
her lips smiled softly as she took it in. He had to admit that it had an
inviting air, although he was not as certain of the welcome of his host, who
watched him with silent eyes and a wariness of strangers. Cort waited for the
old man to address him first; around him his escorts seated themselves and also
waited on the old man to speak.
When he
finally did so Cort was not prepared for his words.
“Long have we
waited for you, tell us what you desire and it shall be yours.”
Cort exchanged
startled glances with Siv, who was no less astounded than he was.
“I am afraid I
do not understand; why have you been waiting for me? For I merely glimpsed your
beautiful land from the shore and felt strangely drawn to it.”
The old man
nodded before Cort had even finished his sentence.
“Yes, you were
drawn to it; for you are the one that was spoken of, the one whose coming was
foretold from long ago,” he stated firmly, although his voice retained the
quiver of age.
“And what
coming is that? I must ask you to explain to me, that I may understand you,”
Cort said slowly, but with an effort to be patient.
The old man
studied Cort once again, and his eyes took on an absent expression, as if he
had left the room and was in some other place and had left the present behind
him.
“Yes,” he
nodded his head again, “I must share with you the story of our people, and then
you will understand.”
The old man
motioned to a woman whom Cort had not noticed before. She was stooped with age
and her gray hair hung in long braids about her face, falling to her waist. She
brought a mug of water to the man, and then stepped back into the shadows of
the room.
“I am Riagan,”
the old man told Cort and Siv. “This,” he pointed to the old woman, “is my
wife, Enid. We rule over our people, if one can be said to rule over our
people, for in truth we are all kings, all queens, and there is not a peasant
among us, for we are descended from the gods. We know this to be so, for we
have this land as a sacred trust, given by them, and to keep it pure is the
charge laid on us by them.”
Cort looked
out of the corner of his eye at Siv, who had fixed her eyes unblinkingly on the
old man and paid him the courtesy of her complete attention. If she were as
surprised and amused by the man’s remarks as he was, she gave no indication.
Riagan
continued his story.
“Long ago,
there lived a maiden of our people named Deirdre. She was as lovely as an
autumn afternoon, with locks of flaming hair, a complexion like new cream, and
brown eyes as soft as the doe of the forest. She was as a princess to our
people, for her father led them at that time. She could have had her pick of
any of the youths, for all sought her hand. But to the dismay of her father,
she would have none of them, and every year when they challenged one another at
the summer games for her favor, she merely laughed and delayed making her
choice for another year.
“And then a
day came when a stranger came to our shores. A mighty storm had blown his ship
off course and into our harbor. And even as the storm brought him, so he
brought storms to us. He was not like our people in appearance, for he was tall
and lean with hair like the flax in the field and eyes as blue as the sea that
laps at our shores.
“We welcomed
the stranger, whose name was Tyr, as was our custom, and gave him shelter and
shared our hospitality. As a guest, he was lodged with the parents of Deirdre,
and as she beheld the stranger, a flame pierced her heart, and she yearned for
him with a longing that could not be satisfied until her craving was gorged.
She begged her father to be permitted to marry Tyr, and in all other things he
would have granted her desire, for she was the joy of his heart, and he wished
to please her in all things.
“But he had
deep misgivings about the stranger; there was something about Tyr that made the
hair on his arms stand up as when a storm is brewing and the air grows heavy
with the brooding of thunder. The stranger could never look him in the eye
without looking away, and he became more and more certain that he had evil in
his heart. But Deirdre insisted, and as she would take no other man for
husband, he reluctantly gave her to Tyr in marriage.
“It was a
decision she would regret for the rest of her days.
“No sooner had
they wed then she became with child, and not long after that she discovered to
her sorrow what manner of man she had married. For suddenly, it seemed that
every maiden of the settlement was with child, and they all claimed that Tyr
was the father. Everywhere Deirdre turned there were two, five, seven, twelve
maidens, all claiming that their unborn child shared the same father with her
own. The shame and anguish were too much to be borne for one of such noble
heritage.
“The day came
for her child to be born; she suffered long in childbirth, and when it was over
and her son was born, she asked the midwife for a draught to ease her pain. But
the draught only lessened the physical pain and she sought for relief from all
her sufferings. So when the midwife brought her the draught she added to it a
bitter herb that she knew to be poisonous, and ended her shame. She had only
waited for her son to be born, as she did not wish to take the child’s life
along with her own.
“Great was the
anguish in the settlement at her passing by her own hand, and great was the
anger against Tyr, who had brought her to such an end. He was surrounded by all
of the young men who had sought her favor over the years, only to lose her to
Tyr. They chased him to the highest cliffs and there they pressed closer and
closer against him to the edge, until he had no choice but to go over it or
face death by their sharp knives and long spears which they pointed at him.
“He jumped:
and a mighty splash with spray that ascended as high as the cliffs was heard.
And then they saw a strange sight. Where Tyr had jumped, a shadow ascended, and
as it rose, another in the shape of a woman followed it, and as the first
shadow rose, so the second one rose, higher and higher until they disappeared
into the heavens above. And it was said that the first shadow was Tyr, followed
by the shadow of Deirdre, and that as she chased him in life so she chased him
death; but in death she would have no rivals, and he would be at last
completely hers.”
Here Riagan
paused to refresh himself with a long swallow from the mug of water that he
held in his hand. Cort was moved by the story, and saw that Siv’s eyes were
misted with tears; of course her tender heart would be touched at the tale of
unrequited love and the pain it had brought on not just the victim but an
entire people.
At last Riagan
was refreshed and he picked up the thread of his tale.
“And after
Deirdre’s child was born and she died by her own hand, one maiden after another
brought forth a child sired by Tyr. And our people were corrupted as his blood
mingled with ours, the blood of not merely a stranger, but one of evil heart
who lived merely to indulge his lusts and to seek his own pleasure. And we fell
from our high status as children of the gods, and we sired lesser men and
inferior daughters, and saw our people fall from glory.
“But it was
prophesied that one day another stranger would come to our shores; another man
with hair like the flax in the field and eyes as blue as the sea, and that he
would save our people and lead them back to their former glory.”
Cort suddenly
realized where the old man was leading and stifled a gasp. Even as he did so,
Riagan nodded at him.
“And you are
that man, and so I say, welcome.”
The July day
was mild and warm with wispy clouds that looked like the wings of angels
passing through this world on errands of mercy as they dispensed good deeds.
The sunlight struck the river and sent it sparkling with ripples of light
dappling the current. The scent of new grass brought memories of childhood,
comforting memories that almost succeeded in obliterating more troubling ones
that occasionally haunted his dreams and woke him in a state of distress, his
heart racing, his bedclothes dripping with sweat.
The dreams
were always the same: a voice raised in threat, the sound of a slap or a thud,
a cry and a whimper. The voice was so oddly at variance with that other one he
knew, that voice that was so quick to laugh at his innocent observations, to
cheer him on in his feats of daring, to soothe him when nightmares woke him and
only his father could chase away the monsters that plagued him.
And in the
morning it was always the same: his mother would appear with a blackened eye, a
cut lip, or a swollen cheek, and the tales of tripping over the hem of her robe
to land on the corner of a stair or the edge of a table, or a fit of clumsiness
that sent her walking into a wall or a door. And his father looking at his
feet, unusually silent and red-faced. And always, Paulina was believed, because
no one wanted to see, so they looked the other way.
It was his
grandmother Quintina who shed light on these incidents when he was thirteen
years old. She had come to pay a visit, and one night Antonius’ sleep was
interrupted by the sound of raised voices and a heavy thud, followed by a
scream quickly stifled. He rushed out of his bedroom and into the corridor,
only to be pulled back by an unseen hand. He whirled around and saw his grandmother
standing back in the shadows of the hall, her face white and her bottom lip
quivering as tears threatened to spill down her face.
She led him
into her sitting room and closed the door gently. She held out her arms to him
and he struggled momentarily between the small boy he felt like and the
teenager he had just become, and who must be strong. It was the small boy who
won, and he flew into her arms and shed a few quiet tears as she gently stroked
his hair and kissed the top of his head.
When he had finished
weeping she led him to a chair. He took it and she took the one opposite.
Neither spoke for several minutes, each waiting for the other. Finally she
broke the awkward silence.
“It was always
that way,” she said in a voice so low he had to strain to hear it. “It is not
easy to speak of, yet it was what he saw between his father and me, and it has
passed down from father to son. My husband has a short and vicious temper,
always hidden in public, yet indulged in freely in the privacy of his home. I
never knew when the blows would come, or what might precipitate them. I was
frantic to please him, to do anything to avoid making him angry. But everything
I tried failed, and so the blows continued to fall.
“Decimus was
always closer to his father than he was to me. When he heard the beatings he
pretended to ignore them; yet I know he heard and saw the evidence the next
day. And as the years passed he tried to emulate his father in every way that
he might win his approval.
“Some of the
behavior of my son disturbed me in the days when his father was the Governor of
Lycenium. He could have his pick of any of the maidens, and he wooed many of
them. He toyed with the affections of some of them and broke their hearts. Yet
it was said that there were some who testified to his brutality when they
displeased him for some reason, and that he was not above slapping them if the
mood took him. If a maiden did not find him of interest, he pursued her anyway,
and did not like to be rejected.”
Here Quintina
stopped and gave Antonius a strange look. She considered him for a moment, as
if trying to decide whether to continue. He peered back at her innocently,
wondering why she did not proceed.
Finally she
smiled weakly and smoothed back the hair from his brow.
“Let us just
say that I had reason to believe that my son was rapidly becoming a bully, and
the thought disturbed me greatly. Gerontius did not seem to notice, but then,
he was a bully himself, although those outside of our family never saw it. Even
our slaves pretended not to see the evidence of his brutality to his wife; so
how could the populace of Lycenium know of it?
“When
Gerontius resigned as Governor we moved to Seneca for a couple of years, and it
was there that Decimus met your mother. She was always a quiet maid, but I fear
he has cowed her into becoming an absolute mouse of a woman. When I see them
together, I see how she looks at him, much as I looked at his father, afraid to
say or do the wrong thing, lest she incurs his wrath and it falls on her.”
Quintina stared
at the wall opposite, and then turned back to her grandson. She noted the
astonishment on his face, and she immediately regretted her words.
“Antonius,”
she said quickly, “I do not tell you these things to turn you against your
father or your grandfather. But you must be on your guard, that you do not
treat your wife as your father treats your mother, as your grandfather treated
me. Resolve in your heart to be tender and gentle to your wife, to treat her as
your dearest treasure, Antonius. For that is the way marriage was meant to be;
do not be led into wrong doing by a bad example.”
Antonius
looked at his grandmother solemnly and nodded his head. In truth, he was
horrified to know that his grandmother had suffered the same fate as his
mother. He decided that he would be a tender and gentle husband, indeed, that
was not a hard resolution to make as he had always been more like his mother in
temperament than his father.
But of one
thing he was certain: he would never raise his hand against a woman, as his father
and grandfather had done.
Now as he sat
on a bench idly looking at the river, the memories flooded the mind of
Antonius. Why this should be he did not know, for he never let himself dwell on
such unpleasantness, dreading the feeling of helplessness it always produced in
him. He hated to see suffering and be unable to alleviate it; and the memories
of his mother’s beatings made him physically ill, the bile rising in his throat
so that he had to swallow it down lest he vomit right here in public, in full
view of everyone enjoying the river on a summer’s day.
A shadow
passed across his view, and he looked up. Felicia stood there smiling at him,
and suddenly all was right again. He gave her the same adoring smile that he
had when he courted her, thanking Dominio for the gift of this woman.
Felicia sat
down next to him and they looked at the river in contented silence. She leaned
against him and put her head on his shoulder; he reached up a hand to stroke
her cheek. They watched the traffic on the river, and heard the sound of the
waves slapping against the boats as they carried their passengers to their
destinations. A breeze ruffled the water and it spread rapidly from one shore
to the other, delighting some nearby children who cried aloud at the sight.
Suddenly
Felicia turned to him.
“Antonius,”
she said, “I would like to invite some guests to dine tonight. Do you remember
my father’s old friends, Justus Lucius and his wife Silvia? They are here in
Lycenium visiting her sister and I wish you to meet them.”
“Of course,”
Antonius said, “I would be delighted to meet them also. Count on it; we shall
ask them to dine.”
Justus had
been pleasantly surprised by young Antonius. What a gentle and intelligent
young man he was! He exchanged a glance with Silvia and understood by her
slightly raised eyebrow and slight smile that she shared his opinion.
And how
radiant Felicia was: it was evident that the young couple were very much in
love, and it touched him to see the way they communicated silently with each
other even in the midst of their guests; the smiles exchanged as their guests
spoke, the hand gestures that clearly meant something only to the two of them,
and the way their eyes softened every time they met the other’s.
Justus was
pleased that Marcus’ daughter was happily settled. It was too cruel a joke that
her husband should be the son of the man who killed his own son, yet he knew
that life was unpredictable and one must take the good and endure the bad. He
decided that for now he would dismiss the thought of this young man’s father
and simply enjoy the company of the young man.
They had
retired after dinner to the small sitting room where the family liked to spend
the evening, and were in the midst of a conversation about the newest scrolls
that had lately been added to the great library when the sound of a familiar
step was heard in the hall and the door flung open unexpectedly.
It was
Decimus, who entered with words of greeting on his lips that died when he saw
their guests.
He was not
alone: Justus and Silvia froze, unable to move when they saw the intruder of
their peaceful evening. Felicia blushed, not knowing that her father-in-law had
returned to Lycenium. Only Antonius was unfazed, and glanced at the others in
surprise.
“What is the
matter?” he asked innocently. “Is there something about the latest exhibit that
is too shocking to discuss?”
“What?”
Decimus asked blankly, shaking his head in confusion at his son’s words.
Felicia
recovered herself and hastened to recover the evening at the same time.
“It is
nothing, Father,” she replied hastily. “We were merely discussing the new
collection of scrolls that the library has acquired.
“I did not
know you had returned to Lycenium: when did you return?”
Decimus’ face
had gone an unbecoming shade of gray, giving him the look of petrified wood
that had been excavated from the ruins of a once great city. He continued to
stare at Justus and Silvia, who remained calm, yet were experiencing the same
distress so evident on his face.
“About an hour
ago,” he replied, and sat down heavily on the nearest chair. “I have some
business to conduct on behalf of the Emperor with the Governor and have just
come from the Hall of Government. I shall remain a few days, and then return to
Valerium.”
His remarks
were greeted by silence, a silence that was at last broken by Justus.
“Well,
Felicia,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I wish to thank you for a most
pleasant evening, but I feel it is time that Silvia and I must be going.”
Felicia knew
that he was not comfortable in the presence of Decimus and inclined her head
graciously. It was Decimus, however, who surprised them both.
“Oh, but it is
I who have intruded on your evening,” he said, as he inclined his head to
Justus. “I shall retire to my old room upstairs and leave you to enjoy the
remainder of it.”
Silvia made a
small sound in her throat that sounded like a wounded animal, but Decimus
turned to her suddenly. He rose to his feet and slowly strode over to her,
where he stood silently as he looked down on her.
“Lady,” he
said in a voice so gentle that Antonius could not have believed it belonged to
his father, “it has been many years. The last time we met you had just been
robbed of someone you loved. And I am sorry for it.”
Decimus’ voice
quivered on his last words, and he snatched Silvia’s hand and raised it to his
lips before he spun around on his heel and left the room as rapidly as he had
entered it.