Remnant of the Fall

by Beth Shriver

  Enan shook his head, intent on Abraham’s response.

  “He has changed,” Abraham replied.

  Enan wasn’t satisfied with Abraham’s answer. He stared at the floor for a moment, then spoke again. “But who among us hasn’t? We grow from young boys into men and have new responsibilities put upon us. How has he changed?”

  Abraham seemed uncomfortable with the conversation. His forehead creased, and he puffed on his pipe repeatedly. Talking about Nethan in his absence was not Abraham’s way. He looked to Ruth for support, but she was busy preparing dinner. At last, he answered with typical diplomacy. “You must spend some time with him. Decide for yourself what has changed about him.”

  Ruth cooked a scrumptious dinner of crisp chicken and baked legumes, and Enan stuffed himself and enjoyed the rest of the evening. He longed for the old days when Nethan was with them at these meals. Nethan had always been a good friend, as was Abraham. Growing up in a small village such as Zayin, all the young boys knew each other well, but the three of them were particularly close. Enan and Nethan had both shown great skill, Nethan with the sword, and Enan with the bow. Abraham’s skill fell short, but what he lacked in weaponry, he made up for in crafting them swords made from the wood scraps his carpenter father gave him. The boys would challenge one another to sword fights with whatever they could find—sticks, brooms, and once even the legs off of Nethan’s kitchen table.

  But when it came to the bow, Enan always out-shot Nethan. From the time Enan could hold the arrow to the bow, he showed such skill that the men in the village would challenge him to hit the eye, the middle of a target. As he grew older, he began winning, and now could not find anyone who could compete with his accuracy.

  Would the three of them ever be together again? There seemed to be tension between his two friends. Enan wondered if there really was something to Abraham’s concern or if he was just over-reacting. Enan missed much when he was away and didn’t want to pry, but he determined he would to both men concerning the issue before he left again.

  ****

  Lit brightly, the small hostelry could be seen from the far side of the village. Most men were settled in with their families and ready for sleep, but tonight Abraham knew his duty as a friend, to both friends. With the news from Enan that Andrew had confirmed their notions of conflict, Abraham had to remind Nethan of his place and talk some sense into his errant friend.

  He took another look at the worn, stone structure and dirt floors, not near large enough to contain the regular patrons. He placed one foot in front of another until he was past the threshold and scanned the many faces of men he didn’t want to know were there. A hard slap to his back made him jump.

  “What brings you to this place of ill repute? You are the good family man who doesn’t let himself enjoy the pleasures that are found here.” Nethan grabbed a cup from a one-eyed man sure not to protest and took a long swig, dribbles falling down around the sides of his mouth and dripping off his dark beard.

  Abraham could see he was well on his way to inebriation, which would make his task more difficult. He had only seen his friend with too much drink in him one other time. That time, Abraham had taken him home and sent him to bed. Nethan had been ashamed and sworn never to overindulge again, but word had gone around that he frequented this very spot and had become involved in the gambling archery that the establishment offered as entertainment.

  “I am here to see you, my friend.”

  Nethan turned the corners of his mouth down, a look of surprise in his eyes. “Well then, I’ll buy you a drink.” He lifted his arm and waved. “Two drinks,” he boomed, and then pushed his way to a table where he persuaded the occupant to leave with a glare.

  A half-dressed woman set down two mugs, and Nethan threw her a silver piece. She smiled, revealing a chipped tooth, and swayed over to another table to deliver more drinks.

  “It’s good to see you here, Abraham. But what of the talk amongst the proper when they receive wind you set foot in such a place?” Nethan took another long drink and eyed his friend. “Does Ruth know you’re here?”

  Abraham frowned at Nethan’s hope that he was being dishonest. What had happened to his noble and honorable friend? Uneasiness stirred in Abraham. “Yes. She knows, Nethan.”

  Nethan nodded and then turned his eyes on Abraham. “You don’t belong here.”

  “Neither do you, Nethan. What has become of you?” Abraham’s voice rose with emotion, bringing a few stares their way. A crusty gray-haired man lifted his upper lip and spoke of them to a younger man. They both stared when they saw Abraham, with obvious wonder as to why he was there.

  Nethan shook his head. “Is this why you came? To lecture me?”

  Abraham leaned closer to his wayward friend. “You have been a friend to me since I could walk. I don’t know what has gotten into you. I miss my old friend, and I worry for your soul.”

  Nethan chuckled and drank the rest of his ale, then fixed his gaze upon Abraham’s untouched cup. Abraham gestured his permission and shrugged. Nethan took the cup and drank again. The silence between them drove Abraham to push further.

  “How can you live with yourself? You discard your friends, wake up each morning to protect your people with an aching head, and try to steal your best friend’s woman.” Abraham stuck out his chest.

  Nethan’s head tilted to the side, his eyes flashed, and he set down his cup with a thump on the wooden table. “I will have you know I do my duty and do it well. I can hold my drink and guard better than any soldier at his post. And as far as Tirzah, that need not be your concern, Brother Abraham.” His strong jaw twitched as he glared at Abraham and toyed with the handle of his cup.

  Thinking back to the times he had seen Nethan with Tirzah, Abraham suddenly felt naïve. Nethan tried to be discreet and casual so no one would think much of them being together, even Tirzah. But Abraham noticed everything to do with Enan, especially Tirzah. He wondered if others had noticed, and if Nethan even cared.

  He hated Nethan’s eyes on him, piercing through him with resentment. Deep down he knew something wasn’t right. It was more than just Tirzah. “What of your friends? Do you have anything to say about that?”

  Abraham’s face was heated. He detested Nethan’s lack of care for anyone he once held dear to him. Nethan had become a bitter man, and for no apparent reason. A crowd had gathered around them, drawing Nethan’s attention.

  Nethan drank away Abraham’s questions with the last of his drink.

  “I’ll put five down saying Nethan hits the eye with the second arrow,” a gray-haired man wagered, throwing down pieces of silver. A call went out for takers.

  Nethan nodded at the aged man and took the bow from him. The betting involved more than just the marksman’s skill. The amount of drink, distance, and how the wager would benefit the archer all influenced the betting. Nethan used to have the dignity to forfeit if there was foul play, but that standard had been lost with the rest.

  “I bet he hits it in the eye with the first arrow,” a second man boasted and threw his silver in with the others.

  “And I bet he does not hit the eye at all.”

  “Ahhh!” The crowd harmonized as Abraham’s silver clunked, hitting the bottom of a copper spittoon.

  Nethan’s head whipped around to confirm the face with the voice. “Wagering against your old friend? That’s harsh, Abraham.” Nethan stared at the unmoving Abraham then took an arrow and placed it to the bow. He took one more glance at his friend and let the arrow fly.

  Thud, In the eye. Half the crowd booed, and the other half rejoiced, each according to his loss or victory. The two old men at the table handed out the winnings, and then stopped and stared at the spittoon and up at Abraham still standing over it.

  “Ah, heck.” An old drunk looked around with a glazed white eyeball, staggered over, and fished out the silver he was owed. He pulled his hand out slowly as the spittle bubbled and slipped down his fingers back into the metal can. Abraham watched and shook
his head, then turned his gaze toward Nethan.

  Nethan’s warm heart turned cold as he returned Abraham’s glare.

  Chapter Twelve

  The slave spoke quickly, with labored breath. “An urgent matter…you must attend.”

  Maximus lashed out at the young slave. “What could possibly demand my attention at this very moment?” Throwing the silver goblet to the marble floor, Maximus waved the man away.

  “The old healer has been found dead.”

  The blood rushed from Maximus’s head, and he grasped the balustrade with both hands, holding himself up.

  Felicia entered the balcony and ran to his side. “What’s wrong?” She looked at his shaking hand. “Why does her death upset you?” Her brows peaked as she studied his face.

  He turned away and did not answer her. “Where? Where was she found?”

  The slave answered hastily. “In her bed.”

  Maximus whipped his head around to him. “Which bed?”

  The slave raised his brows in question, staring directly at Maximus, an act of disrespect. “In her bed chambers.”

  Felicia watched, bewildered, her eyes moving from Maximus to the young slave. She put a hand on his chest to calm him.

  Feeling her touch, he pulled her close to him, burying his face in her thick, dark hair. He smelled the Jasmine oil in the long waves and stroked her back, bringing her closer. Closing his eyes, he drank her in, forgetting for a brief moment the danger Asti’s death brought him.

  Felicia tried to pull away, and Maximus forgot himself and held her against her will.

  She began to struggle. “Please release me.”

  Her words broke the spell. His eyes opened and stared into hers. Felicia looked away, rubbing her arms briskly where his had been. He followed her movements with his eyes until she was gone, then looked at the slave.

  “Take me to her.”

  The slave led his master with quick steps to Ati’s room at the far end of the palace. Maximus’s mind reeled. What would he do now that she was gone? What of Claudius? Would he now be the caretaker of the father he buried in his mind, long before the last full moon? He could not stand the thought, let alone the sight of him again. To Maximus, he was dead.

  The slave paused, standing at the closed door of the nurse’s bed chamber. Maximus stopped abruptly, almost running into the young slave as he gathered himself. As the door opened, Maximus stood outside the threshold staring at the woman’s body lay on her back, eyes shut, and mouth open.

  He took slow steps to her bedside, opened her eyes, and saw that her pupils were dilated, almost completely black. The sight brought back a memory.

  “Leave me.” He waited for the slave to shut the door behind him before continuing his investigation.

  As he pulled down her tunic, Maximus noticed the rash on her upper body—red, swollen welts that extended down to her belly and around to her back.

  Memories flooded his mind, and he mourned anew the death that had forever haunted him. He forced himself to smell her mouth. The bitter smell from childhood leapt at him, and he let out a cry of anguish. He pulled his hair over his face and wept into the long, dark strands until they dripped, then dried his face and pulled the hair hard behind his ears. The ends of his lips turned down as he stared at the woman. His mind replaced her face with that of the loved one he lost so long ago. He touched her face, running his fingers down her forehead, across her nose and to her lips, and his mind relinquished the illusion. Seeing Ati, he yanked his hand back and let out a small cry.

  He knew what he needed to do. He took one last glance at her and walked to the door and down a long hall that lead to a tapestry, and thence to the threshold he thought he would never cross again.

  Stepping slowly into the room Maximus gasped. Claudius was a man of great stature with a broad, flat face which made his large nose and heavy brow stand out. Now, his gaunt, ashen face and emaciated body showed no movement. Maximus wondered if he was still alive.

  He took another step forward and saw one eye open. “Claudius,” Maximus said, only a little above a whisper.

  The other eye opened, causing Maximus to step back. “You are still alive.”

  Claudius’s good eye focused on Maximus. The one-eyed stare unnerved Maximus, but he tried not to look away.

  “Yes, son, I am.” A slight smile curled on one side of his lips.

  Maximus cringed at the sight and immediately felt shame at letting Claudius stir such strong emotions, even after all this time.

  He had buried this man. Many days had passed, but the moment he saw his father again, Maximus regressed, again his submissive son.

  “Water,” Claudius squeaked.

  Maximus glanced around the room and found a pitcher and cup. As he walked back to Claudius with the water, he tried to find strength. He had the power now, he reminded himself. He held his father’s head and put the mug to his lips. Claudius took short slow drinks then raised a finger for Maximus to stop.

  “How is it you are still alive?” Maximus held his voice steady to show he was in control.

  Claudius found his strength and looked at him. “I have had a visitor.”

  Maximus felt his heart pound like a drum, deafening him. Could this be true? He hated the look in Claudius’s eyes and tried to hide his concern by turning away.

  “And who would that be?”

  “Your general.”

  Maximus held his breath. He went numb with the knowledge his father and general would conspire against him. Questions chased one another through his mind until he felt his head would explode. He squeezed his temples between the heels of his hands, pulling at his hair to feel the pain of reality to keep him from losing his senses.

  The torturous doubts stopped. Maximus stood abruptly, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Now I see.” He stared at Claudius.

  Claudius’s face had softened as he watched his son. “What do you see?”

  “I see the reason for the recent change in my general. It was your doing.” Maximus moved closer to Claudius on the broad bed.

  “Why did you not die? Then Marcus would not have found you, and I would still have his respect. You took from me even while on your death bed.”

  Maximus felt foolish. With Claudius coaching Marcus, he had gone along with the general’s every word. The motives of Marcus, Claudius, and Maximus all ran together. Each man wanted power in his own way, for his own desires—Claudius because it was handed down to him.

  Maximus realized his need for power was pathetic, but the need for revenge and his lack of confidence drove him. Claudius had seen Maximus’s evil desires begin when he became sick. He had become too ill from the poison to fight when he was dragged to the unknown room and kept under lock and key. Maximus had informed the people Claudius had perished, and even went so far as to prepare a private funeral for him. Maximus had taken the body of another man to put in Claudius’s place. He was able to proceed with the burning ceremony, covering the imposter’s face with a sheet to keep the spirit from escaping through the deceased’s mouth. Only he and Ati knew the truth about Claudius still being alive, until Marcus found him.

  Maximus felt the first stirrings of his obsession for power at a young age, after his mother died, and felt it grow with him. Maximus would never forgive his father for his mother’s death, but Claudius had never imagined his son would go to such great lengths for revenge, to take his position as dictator before Claudius was even dead. What Claudius had missed was the twist in Maximus’s heart the day Claudius gave amnesty to the man who killed his mother.

  ****

  When Maximus was a boy, Augustus was the palace physician and friend to Claudius. The fever Claudius’s wife Cynthia had contracted was consuming her to the point she could lose her life. In a fit of grief, Claudius insisted the medication Augustus had given her was not healing and ordered him to increase the strength of the treatments. Augustus, at the end of his skills, had heard of a medicine woman a day’s ride from the palace and sent for h
er.

  Ati had arrived with many herbs—overlain, snake root, camas, heliotrope, and milk sap among them. Augustus had anxiously awaited as she mixed together a potion she claimed would give the sick body a jolt and wake the patient’s organs.

  Ati had warned him this had once killed a man, though not at her hands. Claudius was uncertain of her skills, so she told him how many times she had used the drug and that many were healed with the treatment.

  Augustus had taken Cynthia to the purification chamber when the herbs didn’t work. There, she was washed and prepared for entrance to the healing waters. Covered with a thin white garment, she was assisted into the cool bath by a priest who cried out to the gods with chants and mantras. He submerged her under the cloudy cold waters as the smell of sulfur permeated through the air.

  Then she was lifted out and walked up the slick stairs into a room of confession for her sins, the sins that had caused her illness. The wet garment she had worn was replaced with a loose tunic. Too weak to sit or stand, she was lain on a pallet as the priest made her confessions for her. The praying and wailing was taken up by one priest when another tired.

  When she awakened with a scream, still lying on the small pallet, the priest asked her what she had dreamed of. In her incoherent state, she could not answer. The priest asked if she had dreamed of reptiles. When he heard no denial, he took this as a sign she had been forgiven, and she was sent back to the palace to heal.

  Maximus, desperate for his mother’s relief, became a frequent visitor at the temple of Apollo. He offered a sacrifice of an unblemished male sheep and many shekels to the priests. He prostrated himself on the cold marble floor to pray for either his mother’s healing or his death. He left each night with aching back and knees and repeated the ritual the next day.

  Throughout the rest of his life, Maximus never forgot the patches on her skin or the persistent sweat she lay in.

  “Give me cold water, son,” she always asked, and he sought out the coldest water available and brought it to her. She needed help drinking, and he held the cup to her lips with a cloth under her chin to the drops that ran down the sides of her mouth.