by Allen Werner
Rising slowly to his feet, the Castellan surveyed his nemesis’ room, feeling proud and indestructible, ignoring the pain that continued to throb in his jaw. He wanted another drink.
Rugerius spotted his lifelong comrade, Bergus of Brindisi across the room, completely naked, on his knees, his face buried gloriously between the fulsome bosoms of a very large woman who sat upright on the couch with her legs spread wide apart. Her long dark hair was strewn over them equally. Rugerius watched for a moment. Her hand moved. The woman yawned and gently massaged her snoring lover’s scalp.
Disenchanted, the Castellan of Parthenope stumbled over to Bergus and kicked him roughly on his hairy, naked crack.
“Come now you ape! Why’s this bitch still alive?”
Alarmed and startled, Bergus slid down off the woman’s teats and fought against the weariness. Savage, he rubbed at his bloodshot eyes until they found some focus. He scratched hard at his long blond hair as if he could not feel his own head.
The large, dark haired woman was fully awake having heard enough of Rugerius’ incendiary remark to wear a genuine look of concern.
Despite being completely in the buff, Sir Bergus somehow managed to produce a short silvery blade, a seax no more than eight-inches long. He grinned handsomely at the woman whose company he had shared. “Nothing personal, my dear, but orders are orders.” The dagger passed swiftly through a ray of sunlight before disappearing unceremoniously in the shadows of her chest. It entered her body in the exact same place his day-old stubble had been finding rest and solace.
The young woman whimpered in disbelief. Her trembling right hand gently touched the top of the bone-white grip as if needing some assurance that the weapon was real and she had truly been stabbed. She tried to plea with her murderer, express her deep-seated disappointment with a heartfelt whisper but it was too late. Her red lips could make no sound. Within seconds, her head fell back behind her, the eyes still open.
“None left alive,” Bergus coldly remarked. “None left alive. Tonight, we are butchers.”
Rugerius shook his head and refuted that claim with a pleasant smirk. “Last night we were butchers. Today is a new day. Today we are victors!”
Alert, virile, the inebriation departed, Rugerius Fabbro returned to the king-sized bed and recovered his personal seax from the nightstand, a blade identical to the one Bergus had just employed. As he leaned over to wrap the sheathed dagger to his hairy left thigh, his dark brown eyes drifted over the various things Pero de Alava had collected on his nightstand. Rugerius found focus on a small painted portrait of an adorable brown haired woman. Rugerius stared so hypnotically at the image, an erection quickly developed. He knew who she was.
‘Anthea.’
Rugerius Fabbro dashed anxiously about Pero de Alava’s former apartment, gathering together the rest of his knightly attire that had been tossed to and fro. Effortless, he slid into his breeches finding it difficult to clasp shut the codpiece, his thoughts on Anthea Manikos. He cinched the black belt, touched the heavy pommel of his long sword to confirm it was securely attached and stepped back inside a pair of blood-soaked riding boots.
Sir Bergus was moving slower than slow. The sun was blinding and he wasn’t at all thrilled to be awake. Nude and confident, he stood next to the couch with the dead girl on it and stretched his muscular arms for the ceiling. He removed the dagger from the dead woman’s chest and used a bit of her green dress to wipe blood from the blade. There was a momentary hesitation as the shininess of the steel gripped his attention.
“Rouse the troops,” Rugerius slurred in a commanding voice Bergus had grown accustomed to hearing. “Get a headcount or at least an estimate of the dead. I really don’t care. Find out how many injuries we sustained. Hang the proclamation on every wall and gate of Capua. Send riders into the nearby towns and hamlets with the pronouncement. The warning must go forth. Any voices of dissent shall die. This is their only warning.” Rugerius didn’t wait for a response from his Second. He slammed the door, placing complete faith in his comrade’s dependability and alacrity.
Bergus yawned, his arms once again stretching for the ceiling in a vain attempt to rouse himself. There was no urgency in him at all. He obeyed his fatigue and plopped down on the couch beside the dead girl. He placed his drumming head against her still warm shoulder anxious to rest a while longer.
Sleep did not come and he realized he was alone. There was something deviant he had always wanted to attempt. He didn’t know why or care why but the opportunity had presented itself.
Without hesitation, Bergus mounted the dead girl’s body and started fondling himself until an erection formed. With a maniacal sneer, ignoring the fresh blood dripping slowly down her fat stomach and thick crotch, he entered her.
“We must not waste what the butcher has so generously provided.”
Rugerius Fabbro clamored down the stone-block hall before ascending a narrow circular stairwell. He lengthened his stride as he reached the next landing. Two young guards with dry-tipped spears in hand, alertly smartened at the sound of his raucous approach. They badgered one another before one of them produced a large key from his pocket. He fumbled with the lock on the wooden door, threw up the latch, and stepped aside just as Rugerius barged through.
The apartment was a disaster. A different sort of war had been waged in here. A large crucifix with a broken arm laid dead on the floor near a long red bureau. There were shards of metal and long splinters of wood strewn about the room. A crooked, mangled loom comprised of very old, very dry wood was propped up awkwardly in a corner looking suspiciously as if someone had carelessly flung it there.
Rugerius Fabbro ignored everything. He didn’t care what or why. He stomped heavy through a tiny pile of jewels, sending most of the precious gems tinkling wildly across the flagging. He threw open a closed door and found the room empty, the bed in it still made. No one had slept in here. The sheets had not been turned down. A hint of disappointment and concern pinched his hirsute face. He retreated and hastened for the terrace. Before getting that far, he encountered the woman he sought and breathed a sigh of relief.
Anthea Manikos lay slumped and sleeping beneath an open window in an oriel. Her chin was pressed down uncomfortably against her chest, bobbed brown hair covering her face. On her lap, in one arm, she clung tightly to a blood-stained swath of white silk.
Anthea Manikos had been spared. She had been afforded no explanation as to the reason why she of all people received this special clemency. No one had touched her or manhandled her, not even Rugerius Fabbro. The Castellan merely announced his presence, declared her a prisoner, and left. He placed two young sentries outside the door for her protection. No one was permitted to enter or leave.
After long confusing moments of standing and waiting for the beast to return and mistreat her, Anthea finally did the only thing she could think to do. She retreated to the oriel and spent the entire evening standing vigil over the keep.
A useless sentinel, she forced herself to witness the atrocities as they unfolded. Of course, she couldn’t see much through the flames and smoke, just distant ghosts running in the dark, shadows on the battlements, arrows and missiles, fireballs whizzing by her window. Through a dire chorus of dreadful screams and bitter wailing, Anthea did her best to imagine the wretched horrors being inflicted on her people. What it looked like. How they felt. Her heart was broken, stabbed through but still managing to beat. She prayed for a miracle. She wished and prayed the Creator might be merciful and transform her human form into that of an avenging angel. ‘Grant me blinding white wings.’ Anthea envisioned herself a heroine, sweeping down from on high and entering the chaos, defending her people; or at the very least sharing in their misery. But there was no soaring or salvation. There were no wings or blinding light. As wretched as a stone ghoul fashioned to a cathedral roof, her cold ears repelled the terrifying shriek, her grey eyes stained by billowing clouds of soot and ash, manmade storms that climbed up the walls, entered the or
iel, polluting and defiling everything they touched.
“Aceldama!” She yelled the curse over the roar of flames until her voice went hoarse. “Aceldama! Aceldama!” The legions of Judas deserved to be berated. “Aceldama!”
Near the end, when things grew relatively quiet and much of the screaming had subsided, when the sounds of burning and the heinous laughter of men relishing the spoils of war were all that remained, Anthea recovered a parchment carefully folded in her sleeve.
Fighting tears, she read Pero de Alava’s heartfelt apology one last time, setting each carefully crafted word to memory. His words finally moved her. They were strong and she understood them, each and every one. They had reached her soul and she loved him all the more for this and forgave him entirely. How could she not? Pero had good cause to mistrust his enemies in Parthenope. ‘He was right,’ she thought despondently. ‘The cowards came as Pero feared they might. They raped and killed. They destroyed Capua.’
“Heaven is gone,” she heard Pero whisper in her mind, reading his note. “Heaven is gone and I have fallen so far. It is so dark out here. I am all alone.” She couldn’t agree more. She too was all alone.
‘When last did we kiss?’ She wanted to remember their last kiss, their last embrace. ‘La Torre. At the market. Just before he rode off on that dappled brown.’
She remembered the warmth of the sun that morning as she held a swath of red sindon up for inspection. It was quality material. ‘The blood filling the human heart, the precious fuel keeping the body alive.’ She had leaned over and rubbed a portion of that soft sindon against Pero’s clean shaven cheek. ‘His face never seemed rugged to me. It was always tender and inviting. And the way he could look through me with those piercing blue eyes. It was as if he knew me better than I knew myself.’
Sniffling, she perused the hastily penned letter some more. She reached the last sentence. ‘No one can save me now.’
Anthea shook her head at this pronouncement. ‘Us, Pero. No one can save us now.’ There was a deliberate hesitance as she stared at it for a long time, allowing it to seep in and twist darkly in her mind. This was the end of their story.
Lowering her head to match her unhappy mood, her sore fingers slowly tore the parchment in two, four, eight, and finally sixteen pieces. She clenched the fragments in a fist, extending her hand outside the arch. When she reluctantly opened her fingers, swirling hot currents rising from the inferno below lifted the shreds from her palm and carried them higher into the air. The sixteen fragments of paper swirled and drifted out over the courtyard where they eventually caught fire and turned to ash. “Farewell husband. Farewell.’
As though her heart would never beat again, Anthea Manikos kicked aside the red sindon that lie dormant near her feet. She never wanted to see or touch that material again. Her home was destroyed. Her heart was dead. All the fuel had been expended.
Anthea stooped down instead and retrieved the stained white silk from the floor. Curiously, a little green lizard had been hiding beneath the delicate fabric. It scurried away as soon as she lifted it.
‘I don’t recall seeing one of those in Capua. How did it get in here?’
With a full and heavy breath, she pressed the silk close to her small breasts and leaned against the sill. She continued to scan the smoldering ruins of her adopted home for another hour, her expression never changing. There was nothing more to be done, nothing more she could do. The arrogance of continuing to stand above the fray overwhelmed her in a manner she had never thought possible. It was hopelessness.
Fancifully, she had thought to serve as an inspiration for any poor souls that might have chanced a glance and spotted her up here. But that was futile. No one looked up. She was sure of it. No one received any consolation from her high and mighty presence in an ivory tower, the one soul the devils of this night chose to spare. Her legs were tired of standing, her lower back sore, her aquamarine eyes red and bloated. She slumped down in a heap inside the oriel, beneath the window, crying herself to sleep, waiting for the morning and her executioners return. “My turn will come soon enough.” She assured herself. “I will join my people. I will be raped and butchered like everyone else. I pray it be quick and painless. If not, Thy will be done.”
Rugerius Fabbro kicked Anthea Manikos. He kicked her gently, he believed. He only wanted to wake her. It was the kindest and least violent thing he had done all night. “Get up, Anthea,” he barked and snarled. “We are leaving.”
Anthea lifted her grey-green eyes just enough to spray him with undying defiance.
Impatient and in no mood for a woman’s theatrics, Rugerius reached down and seized Anthea by the right arm. He hoisted her to her feet in one fluid, effortless motion. She was shocked by the speed at which it happened. It was so quick and determined, she had not the strength or dexterity to protest.
The young men that had stood the guard, had also tailed Rugerius into the room. The one who did not possess a key was amused by the Castellan’s handling of the lady and snickered.
Rugerius rounded swiftly on the fool, a painful baring of his jagged teeth sending the youngster into an immediate state of repentance. The sentry, knowing he had errored, struck his fist hard against his chainmail and righted his back and shoulders.
Rugerius couldn’t contain a growl before turning his attention back on Anthea. He looked the disheveled woman over carefully for she was a stranger to him. He knew Anthea Manikos primarily by reputation having stood in her presence but once in his life. He was completely besotted that day and couldn’t recall anything that was said or done, although the tales that had been recounted to him sounded accurate. He was a letch and completely misbehaved, and she hated him for it.
Rugerius’ scowl twisted and contorted several times before finally settling on a show of approval. Anthea’s blue dress hung loose from her shoulders and one of her small breast was partly bared, the nipple virtually perceivable through the lithe fabric. He stared intently on the nipple feeling his excitement growing again, the forte of the codpiece being tested. And then he noted the streaks of blood that were on her dress. He examined her hands, fingers and arms more closely. He wasn’t the most attentive sort and had not noticed them previously.
Without turning back around, he addressed the unsettled guards. “How did she come upon these injuries? Did anyone come in here last night and harm this woman?”
Terrified, the sentries shook their heads and in chorus answered. “No, Sir. No one.”
Rugerius scratched at his mussy beard as he contemplated the odds that these squirming guards defied his orders. He decided that whatever happened to Anthea must have happened before the siege.
Without warning Rugerius suddenly snatched Anthea around the waist and pulled her body close to his. He was much taller than her and her forehead when straight into his nasty damp beard. Her eyes were forced to stare into the eyes of the dragon on his silver breastplate.
“Oh God,” she shuddered aloud, her mind darting straight to ruin. ‘He’s going to abuse me. This is it. I’m going to be raped.’ Before any form of protest could even reach her lips, the Castellan shoved her away from him. She fell into the arms of the guard that had snickered, nearly knocking him over.
Anthea quickly righted herself and stood defiant, arms crossed. She was scared, petrified, but refused to let anyone know it.
“Walk out or be carried out,” Rugerius ordered. “Your choice.”
Anthea huffed. She turned her head slightly and noticed the wreckage in the main room, her grandmother’s flax wheel crumbled in the corner. She saw what remained of the Cross of the Angels on the floor. She thought momentarily to retrieve her rosary from the red bureau but decided that surrendering it all seemed the most prudent course of action. ‘I have died. I will leave everything behind me just as Pero did.’ She even dropped the white silk on the floor and kicked it away. ‘Purity and truth are dead too. There is only God.’
Setting her back straight, curling her nose high in the air, A
nthea Manikos flicked her short brown hair proudly and followed the two young guards out of the bower. They guided her into the hall and down the narrow circular stairwell to the main floor, Rugerius Fabbro marching close behind them.
Anthea Manikos was not sure of much anymore but she was confident she could maintain a heightened state of haughtiness for as long as needs be. This avowal was tested immediately. Once they reached the main floor, she was shocked to witness firsthand the godless atrocities committed by the mercenaries the night before. She had no idea what pillaging and looting truly looked like until now. She had never been near a war, a siege, never seen anyone executed or killed. It was worse than she had imagined. The carnage was unspeakable. The smells were putrid. Bodies and parts of bodies were scattered all about her. Most of the twisted and mangled corpses were hardly recognizable but some were. Familiar friends, household servants, even children. They were ordinary, common laborers, people who had never harmed anyone. They had simply, joyfully, served the needs of this castle with grace and dedication. Their cold bodies were disrobed, disemboweled, all left to rot where they lay, chopped and hacked, stripped and spoiled, shamed.
The flagging on which Anthea walked was tacky, viscid. There were secretions and unrecognizable puddles of goo. The streaks of coagulating blood were legion, and it was impossible to avoid stepping in them. Anthea dared not look down but could sense the stickiness of the fluids grabbing at the soles of her feet. The odor of death invaded her virgin lungs goading her to vomit. She wanted to cry out for the children. She wanted to beat her chest for the mothers. She wanted to aid the fallen men.
‘If only they would let me bind their wounds.’ But she knew better. There were no wounded to help. The bastards had killed them all. Rugerius Fabbro and his host of villainous knights had no shame. The morning sun had brought the light of revelation and exposed their depravity and sin; all dead, all dead.
