Madman

by Tracy Groot

  After a moment Zagreus said, “He would be sad, if he knew.”

  XVIII

  NEARLY A MONTH since Jarek had died. Life at the inn somehow fell into routine.

  Kes and Arinna ran things in the daytime, Tallis ran them at night. He served food and ale and tried to make the few customers smile. Every day he met Bek and Tavi when they came in from the lake, and they’d sit and talk. They’d ask of Zagreus, and Tallis would say the same thing, that he was closed off and quiet, hadn’t cried since Scythopolis. Zagreus stayed close to Samir, who was busy with his garden and the two olive trees on the northern border of the property. Samir didn’t seem to want the child around. Or, rather, he seemed indifferent to his presence.

  One day Bek brought the most shocking news: Portia had been found dead in the temple. Her priestesses claimed she had been consumed by the presence of Dionysus, and had simply left her earthly confines. Her eunuch had left his too. Novitiate enrollment was consequently lower this year, and many of the priestesses had sudden epiphanies to take up other occupations. Apparently, early death was not an enticement to the vocation of Dionysus.

  If this news brought great relief from any southern threat, and indeed it had lightened their hearts for a time, the northern threat of Kardus soon resumed its rule.

  Samir kept a distance from Tallis. Tallis would have liked to talk with him, as they had done on the shore of the Galilee that evening. Two Truths were not exactly what he had in mind for distracting conversation, but it was better than the bleakness permeating the inn. The only good thing Tallis could see, coming slowly, was that Kes and Arinna were beginning to talk to each other.

  Arinna had gained a proprietary haughtiness Tallis found amusing to watch. She had ideas for rearranging the common room that at first had Kes doubtful, then interested. She came up with different menu ideas, or, perhaps, presented ideas long there but never broached. Without either of them realizing it, Arinna began to take charge of the inn. Kes began to defer to Arinna in small matters. It would not be long before Arinna wore Jarek’s nighttime serving apron.

  Once Tallis came upon Arinna braiding Kes’s hair in the kitchen. Kes seemed embarrassed, or guilty, as if caught enjoying a cup of refreshment with the enemy. She also seemed to have been caught doing something she’d otherwise scorn, a womanly thing no busy innkeeper had time for, but Arinna insisted she stay put until she was finished.

  Tallis couldn’t help but linger and watch, and this did not please Kes in the least.

  At last Arinna threaded the last bead, tied off the braid, and stood back with folded arms. A pleased smile came, and she tilted her head. She said to Tallis, “What do you think?”

  He saw a self-conscious blush as Kes determined not to look at him. But when he said nothing, she did look—and blushed again at his gaze.

  He saw a loveliness forged not from artfully arranged beads and braids, but from grief for her father, and sorrow for her brother, and worry for her nephew; from an incomprehensible courage to face it all over again, fresh every day, and run this place despite it all. And it brought an ache to his heart, and he could only give Arinna a fake smile and push off for the barn.

  And it seemed as though a wait had fallen upon the land. Tallis felt an itch he could not get to. Sometimes it felt as though a lion lay in wait, sometimes like the day Polonus was taken over, when the tidal wave had hit the inn. He felt as though the inn were at the bottom of a cone, and the cone walls threatened to burst in at any moment. Nothing to hold them back anymore.

  Then one day, Antenor visited.

  They sat in the common room with a pitcher of watered wine between them. (Arinna had informed him that until the inn made more money, the wine would be watered. Tallis took the news stoically and managed to rescue a small amphora of the good stuff for his personal reserve.)

  “I came because I feared you’d left without saying good-bye,” Antenor said, eyeing his mug of wine suspiciously. “Then I came because I feared you hadn’t left.” He rolled the mug between his palms and looked about the common room. “It’s different in here.”

  “Arinna’s touch. And I apologize for the wine.”

  “I’m not talking about the decor,” the master of the theater said with a frown. “Or even the wine. It feels different.” His tone strayed to something more reflective. “Perhaps it is the absence of the innkeeper. Amazing, isn’t it? How a single soul affects a habitation.”

  “It does feel different,” Tallis agreed. “It feels . . .”

  But he let it go. He couldn’t tell Antenor how the air felt so thick he thought he could take a handful of it and rub it between his fingers, sniff it, study it. What the thickness was, he could not exactly say. Sorrow and loss, surely. But also the pall. The capitulation, as though a revolt had been put down. A failed insurrection.

  “Feels as though we’ve been taught a lesson,” Tallis muttered.

  Antenor did not seem to hear, or chose not to answer. “You’ve heard about Portia?” he presently asked.

  “Yes, a few weeks ago. Bek told us.” Tallis observed him for a long moment. “Any idea what happened?”

  He had his own theory. No one seemed more bound for justice on that road to Scythopolis than Hector. He remembered the feeling Hector had had about him, so chillingly implacable, as if justice for Theseus were an inescapable conclusion.

  Antenor returned his observation with a knowing glint in his eye. Then he shrugged. “How should I know what happened? You must have heard the same thing I did.”

  “Yes. Seems once again a deed is laid at the feet of a god. Are they investigating?”

  “Without question. I expect it to be consigned to the archives soon, filed under ‘mystery.’” He lifted his hands. “What can you do with the gods?”

  “Yes.” Tallis first made sure no one could possibly overhear him. He leaned on his elbows toward Antenor. “Even if this one is perhaps a bit more corporeal. . . .”

  “Do you mean to say he may wear a hard leather helmet and vest?”

  “And patrol third watch in Hippos?”

  Antenor lifted his mug. “To the god of the third watch.”

  Tallis raised his own. “His first libation.”

  It was good to be with Antenor again. He was a fine companion, interesting and droll. He brought welcome relief from Tallis’s efforts to get conversation out of Kes or Samir.

  For the first half hour, Antenor told Tallis how things were going at the theater, told him of Claudius’s latest escapades. They conversed for a time on small needful things. Then Antenor asked about Zagreus.

  Tallis shook his head. “I don’t know how he is, Antenor. Maybe I’m watching him too closely. He spoke the other day, the most he’s said since Jarek died. But it wasn’t light—he asked who his father was. And Kes told him.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “I can’t tell. I don’t know what it means to him. He was such a cheerful little fellow. A bright little boy, so eager to please. And now he is . . . older.”

  “Is he the reason you haven’t left?”

  “They all are, I suppose. With Jarek gone, and Samir . . . lost . . . and Kes just as quiet, I can’t leave. Not when everything feels defenseless.” He couldn’t help a sigh. “How things would change if Kardus did. Can you imagine?”

  Antenor sat back, appraising Tallis. “If you stay, come to Hippos and run the theater with me. Become a playwright. Dream with me about reviving the academy. But don’t stay here. Polonus did, and look what happened to him. By no means harbor a single misbegotten thought of saving Kardus. Don’t even go near him. The Kardus we knew is not there, Tallis. He’s gone.”

  Tallis gave a hollow chuckle. “Oh, I failed Kardus before I ever tried. I wish I could have known him before he . . . became what he is.”

  “I can tell you a little of him. He was a winsome lad. He was engaging and very clever. Very witty. Confident and so driven. He had much zeal.” He sighed. “Such a tragic waste.”

  “Maybe
it’s best just to keep your head down and mind your own business,” Tallis muttered. “Zeal for anything seems to bring nothing but grief.” He vaguely thought on the diagrams in Polonus’s scrolls. “Perhaps zealous qualities open doors. Bad doors.”

  Antenor raised an eyebrow and grunted. “Well, that’s an interesting thought. The qualities I just mentioned were his good qualities, and they opened good doors. He was not only the youngest teacher in the Hippos academy, but in all the satellite academies. I will say he had other zealous qualities, not so good: he had a nasty temper, he mocked people—he was very good at that. He was also very impatient. And sometimes he had an unattractive imperiousness about him, when he remembered himself overmuch. We don’t talk of those things, of course. We make more of him than what he was, as we do for the dead.”

  “But he isn’t dead. If I could help him, Zagreus would have a father.” Tallis pinched his lower lip. “And Kes, a brother. Imagine it.”

  “Do negative qualities attract evil?” Antenor mused to himself. “Evil to evil? Good to good? Interesting. Very interesting.” Then Antenor eyed him. “Tallis, Kardus will not replace Jarek. Kardus reclaimed will not make up for what happened.”

  “No. But the inn would come into its own again. If Kardus were healed, the inn would become whole. The curse of the Maenad would be broken.” He glanced about the common room. “The air around here, made right.”

  Antenor grimaced. “This is an old path gone down too many times. What more can you do that has not been done? Polonus spoke to me of shamans and exorcists, expensive cures, cheap cures, desperate and crazy cures—they all failed.”

  “Polonus had a list,” Tallis said, more to himself. He watched the wine move in his mug as he gently swirled it. “He meant to try everything on it. Exhaust every possible measure, everything he could imagine. He didn’t get through the list.”

  “Tallis . . . ,” Antenor warned.

  Tallis put down his mug. “What if it’s the list keeping me here?” He raised his eyes, searching Antenor’s. “Everything hasn’t been tried, because Polonus never finished the list. I know; I saw it. And I know how dangerous it is to be near Kardus, to even try. But logic says if there is a way into madness—no, wait! Hear me out, Antenor, I believe this! Gods help me, it’s one of the few things I do believe. It’s because I know. I was in horror, and I wasn’t left there. Cal and Aristarchus soft-spoke me out. And Kardus lives in hell every day. You think he’s the living dead, but he’s not. He’s a prisoner. He’s somewhere near the door to the bad.” He made his hands into fists. “It’s where I was. Antenor, he’s there. He’s sane. He’s in a pit, and I want to throw down a ladder.”

  “You can’t. Polonus—”

  “He thinks he’s been abandoned. He thinks all hope is gone, or maybe he can’t think anymore. He’s alone, because Polonus is not company in his madness. They’re both alone. Weak as I am, if I don’t try to help them, who will? There’s nobody left.”

  Silence, for a very long time.

  “Why do you do this?” Antenor said softly.

  Surprised, Tallis glanced at him.

  “Polonus, my dearest friend . . .” The old scholar lifted anguished eyes to Tallis. “You’re just like him, you know. Yanking the leash, trying to drag me where I do not want to go. He wanted me to see what was happening with Kardus, and I did not want to see. From a broken heart, I did not want to see. He would have had an ally, but I left him to it.” Tears filled his red-rimmed eyes. “I cannot see him that way, Tallis. Don’t you understand?”

  “Go with me,” Tallis said, gazing intently at him. He reached to grip his forearm. “Let’s find the last things Polonus did not do. Help me do those things, though we fail.”

  “If I see him, it will tear out my heart.”

  “It probably will.”

  “I wish you’d gone back to Athens.”

  “Antenor . . . both of us have unfinished business. This is what I must do. I know it now. Only then will I be free to return to Athens and all that is familiar. I’ve been lingering here, like that maddening feeling on this place, and I thought I had reasons to stay. I know now I have to do one thing. I have to finish what Polonus set out to do. I’ll try, and when I fail, I’ll go home knowing I did all I could. It’s a good way to live the rest of my life. It’s the only way.”

  Silence.

  “When would we go?” Antenor asked quietly.

  “What prevents us from going now?”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “All we have to do is get that tablet, and we’ll plot our course. We’ll get the tablet, we’ll get everything—we’ll take it all back here. You’ll find his scrolls quite interesting.”

  “I have no desire to read them,” the old man said.

  “Of course not.”

  “I don’t know why I came here,” Antenor grumbled. “You not only remind me of Polonus, you remind me of Callimachus. Curse him forever.”

  Impulsively, as Tallis rose from the table, he gripped Antenor’s shoulder. “You remind me of him too.” He patted his shoulder and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll have Kes get up a basket.”

  Zagreus was slouched on his stool at the worktable, head on his hand in the same daydreamy position Tallis had often seen in the past few weeks. He was watching the Galilee, idly kicking his foot against the worktable leg. It was late afternoon, and the sun was lowering in the sky. Sunlight glanced off shimmering waters.

  “Where is your Auntie Kes?”

  “Clipping herbs.”

  “Where is Arinna?”

  “Clipping herbs.”

  Tallis watched the Galilee with Zagreus for a time. He leaned against the wall, let his head rest, and for the first time in weeks, felt a great loosening in his chest. He knew exactly what he needed to do, and he was going to do it. He’d likely lose every sensibility left to him, going near Kardus, but he never did have much sense.

  He tried to remember the things Polonus had left undone. Some of those things might take months—did Polonus ever take Kardus to Asclepius, on the isle of Cos? One of the unfinished things, he remembered—and it was the worst one—was to take Kardus to the temple of Dionysus in Scythopolis for the disinvitation of the paredros. What about that enormous column rising from the temple? Would it still be there? Would it let him disinvite the paredros?

  “I don’t want my name anymore.”

  Tallis pulled from his thoughts. “And what shall we call you?”

  “I like the name Baraan. Grandfather’s friend. I like the sound of his name.”

  It was the second-longest conversation since Jarek died. Already, things were feeling better.

  “I like it too. Perhaps we can have some sort of naming ceremony, or whatever it is you do around here. Though it might be a good idea to find out what it means first. What if Baraan means ‘little boy who cannot spit far’?”

  Tallis looked for a smile, but none came. When would he see that smile again?

  “Baraan is a fine name, Zagreus,” he said gently. “We’ll have to get used to it, but . . .” He trailed off, because Zagreus saw something on the waters again.

  The child straightened and stared at the lake. He slid off his stool and went to stand in the kitchen doorway, one hand on the doorframe. His silhouette was dark before the blue backdrop of the sea.

  “Thunder’s coming,” he said.

  Tallis pushed off and came beside Zagreus. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He looked down at the child. “You mean rain? Looks pretty clear out there.”

  The child, transfixed, gazed across the sea. He shook his head. “No. I mean thunder.”

  XIX

  KES SEARCHED THE KITCHEN for things to put in the basket for Kardus and Polonus. She’d made no bread today. She only had day-old loaves from what did not sell yesterday. They used to make twenty loaves of bread a day. Now they made ten, and even that did not sell every day.

  Arinna helped her fix the basket, while Tallis and Master Antenor waited
out back. For once, Zagreus wasn’t slouched at the worktable. Tallis said he’d gone to the lake because he wanted to watch the storm. Ordinarily, Kes would have been relieved that the child was finally doing something besides brooding in the kitchen. But he’d said he wanted to watch the storm, and there would be no storm. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  “He said he wants to change his name,” Kes commented to Arinna.

  “Why would Tallis want to change his name?” Arinna wondered. She took a handful of olives from the large crock, shook the brine away, and put them on a cloth. She wiped her hand on her front and wrapped up the olives. “I like his name.”

  “Not Tallis—Zagreus.”

  “Oh.” Arinna tucked the olives into the basket. “Well, I can’t blame him. I’d change it too. What does he want to change it to?”

  “Baraan.”

  Arinna shrugged. “That’s a nice name. I knew a Baraan. He picked his teeth, but it’s a nice name.”

  Kes was not used to this new Arinna. For the first time in her adult life, she had a friend—someone she had lived with for five years. Someone who . . . but no. She refused to think of it. Arinna came back, that’s all that mattered. It was brave of her to come back.

  But things were awkward around her. Half the time Kes didn’t know what to say, now that there was an avenue for talk. Like with Father, when they finally had the chance to talk. But that chance came and went, and it had been a very long chance. Why did she think it would last forever? Why hadn’t she made the effort? Always wanting him to talk first. Resenting him for not. Such a long chance, it had been.

  “Do you want me to get a piece of that scroll?” Arinna asked as she surveyed what they had put in the basket. “I’ve seen you put it in the basket.”

  Kes was surprised she’d noticed. “Well . . . Polonus didn’t like it when I did. He said it ruined a good book. He said Kardus couldn’t understand it anymore.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of Kardus. Maybe Polonus can still read. Maybe it would be good for him.”