by Tracy Groot
“Did you ever put on something from Sophocles?” Tallis now asked, scoring his thumbnail in the grain of the tabletop.
“I tried.” Antenor sighed. “The government, with its meager stipend, now has suggestions for all of our performances. None of the suggestions include Sophocles.”
“A pity.”
“It is. Fortunately for the arts in Hippos, Lepidus is now in control. I have hopes his sensibilities are of a more tragic nature.”
“I liked that fellow the other day—what was his name? Claudius?”
“Claudius,” Antenor said, chuckling fondly. “I can send him to the market with a page to post the performances, and he’ll return with a bundle of nut pastries and the page stuffed in his pocket. He can’t remember to put his sandals on in the morning, yet the man can play Achilles—gods, can he play Achilles.”
“Patroclus is your . . .”
“Forename.”
“I should have recognized you.”
“You were pretty busy, if I recollect, that summer so long ago. That was eight, nine years ago? You had a lot of people to look after.” Now that they were talking, he couldn’t resist. “So . . . how is Callimachus these days?”
“Well enough. He has the gout.”
“Does he.”
Tallis finally looked over at him.
Truly, the man appeared haggard, not the amiable fellow he’d met at the theater a week ago. But then, this was all about Portia and truth finding, wasn’t it? Haggardness went with it.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time. It appears the others are not coming,” Tallis said.
Antenor touched the rim of his mug. “Ironic that I’m the only one to show up, don’t you think?”
Tallis looked at him uncertainly.
“Well . . . considering your message. Antenor . . . the one who tried but gave up. An eloquent description. I wondered how you could have known me so completely.”
Tallis flushed and looked away. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter? I thought this was a forum for Truth.” Antenor narrowed his eyes. What had happened to the fellow? He didn’t seem like the vibrant soul who had posted that message. It rather disappointed him.
“Don’t you want to know who forged the reports and stole from Callimachus?” He pushed on to the next: “Don’t you want to know why Theseus died?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
Tallis rubbed his face, then snapped, “Because it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Antenor studied him. What had changed? He’d read the earnest (if perversely naïve) message and felt for the first time in a long time a jostling within. It was the cursed swell Callimachus used to bring when he inspired hearts with fine words.
Antenor was old and wary now. Portia had twisted the good, sucked it dry from him until he no longer believed in good, no longer trusted the motivations of others. But when he read the second message from Tallis of Athens, he felt a rustle of the dryness within, a wind skittering dead leaves along. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A hope blowing.
If he let himself, and he would not because he was too old and wary, he would see one impossible and unexpected chance for his own redemption.
“I did not believe Polonus,” he said suddenly, startling himself. He raised his eyebrows.
Tallis had been absently rubbing his hands together and now stopped. “About what?”
“That Kardus was—being overtaken—” He hesitated. “By Evil.”
Tallis turned such eyes upon him, such dreadfully despondent eyes. He said dully, “And why was that so hard to believe?”
Antenor slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. I knew he was right all along. I didn’t want to believe it. I betrayed Polonus, my dearest friend, by allowing him to face alone a monstrous, a moving, a very real Evil. An Evil I could not understand with my head, but knew with my heart.
“I had warned Callimachus, in the beginning, and against all logic, not to take Portia on. It’s all his fault, don’t you see? I warned him, and he asked me why, and I could not tell him how she managed to put cold in the room by walking into it, how the light of day dimmed when she was around. I could not explain this to him. The gods on Mount Olympus will witness that I tried. He ignored me.” Antenor snorted sadly, shaking his head. “The dear old fool ignored me. He made me feel ungracious and uncertain for not seeing the good he saw in her. She bewitched him as she bewitched everyone else. I could not understand how I was the only one to see it. The only one, until an unlikely fellow that Julia eventually married. Philip, son of the market controller. A most unlikely candidate to fill the shoes of a seer. As unlikely as myself.”
“Seer . . .”
Antenor shrugged. “I saw, he saw. Call it what you will. By then I was embittered, and I denied everything I felt by defying Polonus when he began to notice the changes in Kardus. Philip, this uneducated outsider, was the only one to do something about it. But by the time Julia woke up, Kardus was gone and Polonus had been shut out—by me, and by the others because I led them. Except for Bion. Bion believed Polonus. And I soon began to warn Theseus about his mockery, from some foreboding within. He said, ‘You defy her. Why shouldn’t I?’ I said, ‘Theseus, there is a difference between defiance and scorn. She will not bear your scorn.’ He laughed at me. Much as Callimachus had.”
“Cal’s great downfall was to believe in people.”
“Yes, isn’t it funny—that’s what we loved most about him. His tragic flaw.” Antenor eyed Tallis, who now seemed less withdrawn. “I wasn’t the only one to warn him about her, at the beginning.”
“Don’t tell me—Aristarchus.”
Antenor nodded and smiled a little. “I never liked him.”
“I still don’t. Creepy little man.” Then Tallis said, “He saved my life as much as Cal.”
Antenor folded his arms, remembering. “Aristarchus was watching Portia regale a group on the lawn one day. I noticed, because I watched for anyone who looked on her with other than admiration. She was an Egyptian, from Alexandria. She had an accent, a charming accent. It drew attention to her, and she used that accent. Just when I lost interest in what she was saying to the group, I saw Aristarchus. He was shuffling past, and he’d paused to regard her for a moment. He had the most amazing look on his face: astonished disgust. Like he just stepped in a pile of fresh dung.
“I caught up with him and had the shortest and most engaging conversation I ever had in my life. I said, ‘Why don’t you like her?’ He stopped and looked at me, like he couldn’t believe I asked such a foolish question, and he said this: ‘Same reason you don’t—she stinks.’”
Tallis laughed. It was unexpected, a pleasant sound. “That’s Aristarchus,” he said fondly. “That’s surely him.”
Antenor’s smile soon faded. “I watched her after that, for the whole summer. Sometimes I thought I was being ridiculous, but certain things she did waved a flag at me. It was as if she tried hard to be normal, but didn’t know what that was. It put my attention on her as on a scorpion. No one else noticed the way she tried to fit in. Soon I developed an odd awareness of her. I knew if she walked into the room even if my back was to the door.” He looked at the other man. “What happened, Tallis, between the posting of that marvelous message and this moment?”
Tallis did not answer right away. He went back to absently rubbing his hands. “Polonus has been taken. I’m not strong enough to replace him.”
Polonus has been taken. The words fell heavy upon his heart.
“Then don’t replace him. Listen to me, Tallis: Go back to Athens, now. I’d ask you to stay, because I like you. I’d ask you to run the theater with me. I have indeed read your play, and you have talent. But I knew Polonus was right, though I didn’t want to believe it. If you say you are not strong enough to replace him, I believe you. With all my heart, I believe you. I would fear for you if you even tried.”
“How do you know I would try?”
“Because you remind me of Callimachus.” A pang caught his heart. “He doesn’t give up on people, to his own hurt and to the great hurt of others.” He leaned forward. “Tallis—fly from this place. Polonus was my friend.”
Antenor and Tallis were locked in a look that took some persistence to break. They finally became aware of a small shy voice.
“Master Tallis?”
In the kitchen doorway stood the spitting image of Kardus. And Portia. He had her nose; he had the set of her eyes. But the brown hair touched in copper belonged to Kardus, and the way his ears stood out. Antenor had wondered what became of the child. What great fortune had placed him here, in the safety of the innkeeper? He couldn’t even imagine the child with Portia. Couldn’t imagine her as a mother.
The child came through the passage with a tray. “Mistress Kes wondered if you would like refreshment now.” On the tray were plates of cheeses and olives, sliced date bread. He went to Tallis and carefully put the tray in front of him.
Tallis, despite the mood, smiled a weary but true smile at him. He said to the child, “Are you taking over my job?”
Antenor remembered Portia’s pregnancy. Remembered the looks she gave Kardus, looks meant to be affectionate, but which in reality were chillingly possessive. Savory with triumph.
Kardus didn’t notice—or did, and enjoyed it. He’d changed after he became intimate with Portia. He had been proud of her growing belly, defiant, because he knew what they all thought of her.
Antenor had warned Kardus too. It was exactly the wrong thing to do with Kardus. They all had to watch his disintegration and, from heartbreak, pretended not to see. How Antenor missed that boy . . . he was as fond of him as he was of Claudius.
“No, Master Tallis.”
“Spill something for once, will you?”
Pleased, smiling self-consciously, the boy withdrew to the kitchen.
“Does he know he has a son?” Antenor asked sadly.
Likely he was not even aware of him, from the state Polonus described. What a sad and tragic thing, to have a son and—
What look was this? Tallis was staring at him. And what was this? Kardus’s sister, the woman named Kes`Elurah, had obviously been listening—she now peered through the kitchen doorway with an incredulous face.
She slowly came out of the kitchen, abandoning pretense at eavesdropping, clutching her apron with both fists. “Does who know?”
Antenor was confused. He glanced from the girl to Tallis, whose face was just as shocked.
“You said, ‘Does he know he has a son?’” she said very carefully. “Does who know?”
“Why—Kardus, of course.” Antenor sat back. “Oh, gods—you didn’t know. Why, that must be a bit of a shock. Yes, he belongs to Kardus—Kardus and Portia, though you may not know that either—say there . . . are you all right?”
Antenor rose quickly, because the woman looked ready to faint. He hurried over and helped her to a bench.
She fanned her face, then pressed her palms on her cheeks. Tallis offered a mug, but she pushed it away. Suddenly the woman locked eyes with Tallis. She froze, and Antenor feared she’d drop at that instant. Instead, she began to smile. Then she began to laugh, and Antenor feared worse than a faint: He feared hysterics.
“He’s ours,” she finally cried. “He’s ours!” She drummed her feet on the floor, laughing and crying at once. “He’s ours!” And she bolted from the bench and ran for the kitchen. “Zagreus!”
For the space of a heartbeat, Antenor and Tallis stared at one another. Then they ran after her through the kitchen, and out the back door.
“Zagreus!” she called.
The child was standing near the donkey and cart Antenor had hired, feeding the donkey from his palm. The woman flew at him, skidded to her knees in front of him, startling the donkey. She caught the child in a fierce and laughing hug.
“Zagreus, you’re ours, you’re ours!” she cried.
A dark servant hurried out from the barn, alert and wary. The man Tallis had introduced earlier as Jarek the innkeeper, Kardus’s father, came running from around the inn.
“What’s going on?” Jarek demanded.
“You’re ours, Zagreus!” Kes`Elurah was on her knees, holding his shoulders, then his face.
His cheeks puckered with the hold. He eyed her first, then the other adults.
Kes snatched him again in a fierce embrace. “I’m your auntie, not Ariadne! I am! Arinna is not your mother—she’s not your mother, Zagreus! We didn’t know it, child. We didn’t know it!” She looked about wildly, then pointed out Antenor to Zagreus. “See this man? He came all the way here just to tell us.”
“What’s she saying?” Jarek demanded, his face incredulous.
“So Portia never told you,” Antenor said grimly. “Of course not. Vicious shrew.”
“You are my nephew, Zagreus,” Kes`Elurah breathed, tears coursing down her face. She took his hands to her heart. “You are my blood. It means you never have to go away. You’ll never see her again. You’ll never see either of them because you are ours.” She turned to look up at Jarek. “Father . . . this is your grandson.”
“Kes . . . don’t tell him who his father is yet,” Tallis murmured at her ear. “Not yet.”
Antenor noticed the dark slave nod in agreement.
Kes gazed at her father. “Haven’t we always known, Father? Haven’t we?”
Jarek looked at Kes and Zagreus, Jarek’s dark-brown eyes unreadable, his face firmly mistrusting. Then the eyes began to soften, and his lip began to quiver. Finally he said, “We have.” He blinked rapidly. “We have, haven’t we? Well, just look at him—can’t you see him in the boy?”
Antenor watched the scene, maintaining the proper detachment of a stranger because to them he was a stranger. But in his heart was joy, because something good had come to an unfortunate family, through an old and corrupt master of the theater.
The only one who did not seem surprised was the dark servant who soon withdrew to the barn. Antenor thought he caught a wry expression on his face. If the slave would have spoken, Antenor felt quite sure he’d have said, “Well—now you know what I’ve known for years.”
“It isn’t Master Jarek anymore, and it isn’t Mistress Kes,” the woman was saying to the child. “It’s Grandfather and it’s Auntie. And nobody will take you from us because you belong to us now. We’re blood, we three. We’re family.”
Antenor knew, then, that the forum for Truth was over. He allowed himself one more moment. Then he caught the eye of his driver and nodded.
Tallis sat on the edge of his cot, gazing at the yellow flame of the lamp he held in his hands. The cool, clean light would not go out tonight. He made sure the wick was long and that there was plenty of oil in the lamp. He carefully placed the lamp on the table, on the same ring of oil so it would not make another ring.
Zagreus did not understand it all, but was happy because everyone else was happy. He couldn’t make himself say Grandfather today, and couldn’t call Kes Auntie because the word was not pleasant to him. But his shining face constantly looked from Kes to Jarek. Tallis tried to be happy for them, and turned in early because he couldn’t keep it up.
Tomorrow was the Festival of Dionysus. The festivities would last all day, and escalate in gaiety come evening. They surely had formal activities planned in Hippos. In Scythopolis, one of the holy places of Dionysus, it would be a day off from work. It was an official holiday in Greece and in Rome. He didn’t know if Persia, in the East, celebrated Dionysus. He knew the Jews of Palestine did not. He felt a kinship with them, even if their reasons to shun the day were different from his own.
For most, the Festival of Dionysus was a celebration of spring, a time to get together with friends, drink their health, and while you were at it, lift your mug to good old Dionysus as well. For the religious, it was a chance not only to celebrate their god, but to proselytize the unbelieving. This was their day, and they were in charge. Everyone knew it; everyone respec
ted it.
The nightmare would be about Zagreus—not his little brother this time, but the son of Portia and Kardus. If the others rejoiced to know his blood, Tallis felt unrest. All they had to do was get through the next two days, then he would be happy for them.
He made sure Zagreus was asleep on his pallet in Kes’s room before he turned in. He noticed that Jarek barred the front door after the last guest had left, and that Samir made up his pallet on the floor of the kitchen. They knew what day it was tomorrow. And now they knew more about the dark history of the festival, told to them by a certain Greek dog from Athens over cups of wine in the common room after Zagreus went to bed.
Soon you will come to live in my palace. Kes told them what Portia had said, and Tallis told them a male child was sometimes chosen for their sacrifices to Dionysus. That’s when Jarek bolted his door for the second time in a week.
Tallis watched the flame as he slowly lowered himself onto the cot. Sleep would come—he knew it and he feared it—and he would gaze on the flame as long as he could.
Come and see.
He stood on the top of the ridge, bitter wind urging him forward. The light all around him was a cold grainy light, as though the air was salt and pepper. It made the landscape surreal, made the new green of spring mouse brown. He looked for the sun, but there was no sun. Only cold grainy light.
Ahead of him were the tombs.
Come and see. . . .
Laughing chill wind herded him.
He stumbled into the clearing of Polonus’s home. He braced against the wind urging him forward, for he began to hear the laughter. Mocking laughter, one moment at his ear, the next a distance apart. In and out, whirling around. Triumphant laughter.
The wind shoved, and he fell on his knees. He stayed on the ground because he could not turn that corner, could not go past the shed for the mounting dread.
Come and see, son of Maenad. . . .
Kardus stood before him. He wore broken shackles like bracelets on his wrists and ankles. He was naked, save the shackles. His body was covered with cuts and scars, scaly with filth. His eyes were livid orange and slanted. He grabbed Tallis by the hair and dragged him forward.
