by Allen Werner
Anthea Manikos reached deep within herself and found a vault of poise. She conscientiously strove to maintain her dignity, fearing at every turn her heart might betray her. She felt weak, overly sympathetic to all the suffering. Her five senses were fighting against her spirit, whirling mad, demanding she be outraged and scream. Anthea refused.
She was growing ever dizzier. Each step weighed a ton. ‘Just a little further,’ she told herself. ‘Just a little further. Get outside. One step at a time. Get outside. Soon this will all be over. The fresh air in the courtyard will do you good.’
And then they entered the kitchens. The steward of the kitchens, cheerful Benectus, had been slain and sacrificed on the centermost prep counter as though it were a pagan’s altar. His plump, rotund bulk was laid out flat on its back, spread eagle, arms tied, shoulders disjointed, his throat and belly sliced a dozen times over, tendons in his legs harvested, his intestines snaking out of his body only to dangle down the sides, spilling out on the floor.
Empathetic, Anthea froze. She could move no further. Her legs were stone. She gazed into the face of the once jolly Italian and hardly recognized him. They had crammed a bright red apple down his foaming throat, breaking his jaw in the process. His eyes had been plucked and replaced with olives. Portions of his bald scalp had been peeled back. For the life of her, Anthea could not imagine such an abomination.
The earth started to move under her feet. The sheer madness of the moment was overwhelming. A thousand vibrant colors with the ferocity of a million piercing knives leapt out of the darkness at her. They came from every angle. Nothing was at it should be. Her valorous heart buckled. The room came unhinged and spun until everything in it was bent out of shape, twisted like braided vines, forming a vortex that grew redder and redder at its center until it turned completely black. Anthea grabbed for her stomach and bent at the waist just before retching. There was no use trying to maintain dignity anymore. No angel should ever be exposed to such hell.
The two young guards escorting Anthea instinctively anticipated the blackout coming. As a unit, they whirled about in time to catch hold of her arms in mid-descent, both getting splayed by puke.
Rugerius scoffed, fully uncaring. “Stupid woman.”
He waited a moment to see if she would recover. When she did not, he stepped in the puke and strutted past them all. He continued to head for the door without looking back.
“Drag her along. We go by coach.”
Chapter 4 - Bullfight
Pero de Alava regained his focus. It was difficult. The scorching sun was blaring down hard on him. The heat was sweltering, his dark tan skin roasting, drenched with sweat, fat beads bleeding down his brow and in his eyes. Instinctively, foolishly, he swiped at his face with a dirty damp forearm, adding more sand and filth to his present woes.
“Fuck!”
The bull’s last pass had rattled and embarrassed him. It was swift and unexpected and got the better of him. The beast’s head went low and cut diagonally across his side, a short but dangerous horn coming within inches of grazing his right rib. Pero had been experimenting with the veronica, a very routine move all toreadors perform and briefly lost his nerve. He stumbled backwards, falling clumsily on his cocky ass. He nearly lost his grip on the capa dorado or golden cape. Derisive laughter rained down on him from the wooden fence encircling the ruedo. Their mockery provoked his anger still further.
Recovering on one knee, Pero wrapped several strands of dusty black hair around his ears. He was losing his composure and he knew it. His mind was not where it should be but he couldn’t figure out how to still the bedlam. The world was spinning frantically. His sparkling blue eyes began to track the confines of the training pen in search of the toro.
The ruedo was a typical journeyman’s enclosure at Cielo Diamantes, a training pen that only lacked seating and stands. The sea of rustic faces were familiar, dusty old cowhands, stoic caballeros and jeering peers, most with sombreros in hand. They pestered and badgered young Pero. Few cheered. They seemed to be having a great deal of fun at his expense. Some were standing, some were leaning on the posts. The rest, like his father, sat on the fence itself.
Pero de Alava gazed at Blassilo Velez.
Blassilo Velez stared right back.
The old lion was seated near the gate from which the raging toro had emerged. He wore nearly the same clothing every day, calf skin boots, tight leather trousers, a black sombrero, and an earthy-brown shirt with toggle buttons. Anyone standing close enough couldn’t miss all the chest hair bulging through.
Blassilo coolly stroked his scraggly beard, his ever-critical eye measuring his thirteen-year-old son’s unimpressive performance.
Pero was frustrated and hurt by a self-inflicted chastisement. The eager brown bull was running circles around him. He couldn’t catch up. The dumb beast was outthinking him, outsmarting him. And this bull was a youngster himself, a toro in training, one of the novillos.
Pero knew his father’s facial expressions all too well. The old caballero only had a few. This one reeked of disapproval and disenchantment. ‘He’s not ready. My son is not ready.’
Pero didn’t mean to disrespect his father but his passion got the better of him. He flared his nostrils towards Blassilo much in the same manner the bull flared at him. ‘I am ready, damn it.’ Pero leapt to his feet not knowing if Blassilo had received the challenge or not.
He located the anxious bull stalking behind him. The toro was full of energy, jumping in place, hocking the ground, head and horns twitching wildly. Pero flushed the golden cape instigating the beast to charge at him - immediately.
Blassilo leaned forward, a genuine look of concern having replaced his former expression. “Temerario,” he growled quietly. ‘Not yet. Where is your balance?’ Blassilo realized his son had not yet found his footing, hadn’t thought the exercise through. Everyone watching knew it too. Pero lacked any stratagem. ‘Reckless.’
The watchers grew silent as the headstrong lad then proceeded to do the unthinkable. He frantically charged the bull.
Like a joust, the competitors barreled towards one another.
The bull swept in fast, faster than Pero, it’s powerful horns thrusting right and then left. There was no way Pero could avoid the contact, his gait was absurd. The capa wasn’t even before him, most of the golden material still rippling beside or behind him.
There was dust and fury, a gruff and a groan. The bull’s powerful neck twisted up and in and stabbed at Pero, the horn tearing into the exposed meat of the right forearm. Blood vented from the freshly opened wound inducing the young man to scream. Several cowhands leapt down from the fence immediately and rushed the pen. They redirected the feisty bull away from the downed competitor and towards another gate where it was encouraged to exit the arena.
Goito, the surgeon, was seated beside Blassilo on the fence. The wrinkled-faced old Spaniard looked to be a hundred, but he most surely was not. He took his dear sweet time climbing down off the wooden rails and setting his feet. Bowlegged, gimpy, there was no urgency in him as he shuffled across the sands of the ruedo.
Blassilo Velez did even less than his faithful surgeon. He remained on his perch looking everywhere else but towards his impetuous son, once lifting his sombrero away to wipe sweat from his forehead.
Pero sat on his butt on the ground clutching the bleeding wound, crying a mite and swearing beneath his breath.
Goito arrived and produced some clean linen wrappings from a satchel slung over his arm. He threw the wraps on the ground near Pero’s feet. “Hard lesson, hijo. It looks bad.”
Pero didn’t look up to face him. He was hurting in many ways, his pride stinging the harshest.
“Tormenta rewarded your impatience justly. That bulls got machismo. A good bull indeed. I think he’s ready for the corrida.”
Pero heard the declaration and knew that this was his cue to stand and be judged. He wholly expected the surgeon to add something to his judgment of the conflict.
Expectantly disappointed by the truthful assertion, Pero’s pride continued to manifest and darken as he swept up the wrappings.
“Stanch the flow best you can, Pero, and meet me in the consultorio. I’ll clean it up proper. It will require some thread work. It’s going to leave a mark.” Goito paused and adopted a tone similar to the tone Pero’s father would use whenever he chastised his headstrong son. “Perhaps you won’t be so reckless next time, hijo. Everyone knew you weren’t ready.” He shook his head, anguish dusting his declaration. “Charging a toro? Rash decisions like that are going to get you killed.” The old man looked around the ring. “This is an art, hijo. You must treat it as such. You must learn to be more patient. Nurture your awareness, embrace your surroundings and stand your ground. Plant your feet and stabilize your torso, stiffen your back and shoulders. Don’t charge forward like that ever again. If you learn nothing else from your father and the brave caballeros of Penafiel, learn what it is to be a rock. How you stand in life when your opponent charges, that defines who you are, as a man and a torero.” Goito buttoned up the satchel and walked away. “Don’t be so easily provoked.”
No one else came to help him.
Pero had to be a man about this. This was another test of his machismo and he had failed. He started shaking. He had lost a lot of blood and the pain was excruciating, burning hot up and down his arm, from the fingers to the shoulder. When he pressed down on the wrappings as instructed, to staunch the flow, the intensity was more than he could bear and he lost consciousness. ‘Iya basta.’
Pero improved steadily and returned to reality. It was a slow and gradual recovery. The pain that had been radiating throughout his right arm was not nearly as intense as he had remembered. He also had a fever and a stomach ache. There were bruises and scrapes littering his whole body. These were not the result of a bullfight. And he was older, much older. ‘I’m not in Spain anymore.’
Lying flat on his back in a loose pile of straw, a wood slat ceiling above him, Pero de Alava turned his head slightly to the left and found he had difficulty focusing because of all the light. It was so bright. The room was nothing more than a disoriented, cloudy blur.
A woman’s voice in the haze. She was singing. ‘A siren?’
“By night, on my bed, I sought him whom my soul loveth, I sought him, but I found him not.”
He knew the voice. It was a new voice in his life; one he had recently encountered. ‘What’s her name?’ Pero squeezed his eyes shut and blocked out the blinding light. He thought intently. ‘Druda. Yes, Druda. That’s her name. Druda Fabbro.’ He opened his tired blue eyes yet again and found the disorientation was clearing. ‘I’m in sanctuary, Turstin’s home. Ithaca.’
“They all hold swords,” Druda continued to sing, “being expert in war. Every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night.”
A tempest of memories overwhelmed him, assaulting the space between his ears. ‘A touch of silk to the face. La Torre market. Capua. Benectus. An orange griffin. Francis Whitehall. A messenger. Guidus Salvatore. My armor. My crest. House Velez. Anthea. Her blue dress. A rosary. Miriam. Gemstones. Shattering wood. Tears. Blood. Golden snakes. Letters and light. A basket of oranges spilling across the ground. A young girl’s breasts. A tiny man on a leaf. A white horse in the sky. The back of a strange boy’s head. Darkness. Cold. Roaring. Screaming. Snarling wolves. A devil. A bear. Fire. Marjoram. Sanctuary. Fabbro. Sarcinus. Purple dragon. Wine.’
Pero flinched and his eyes popped all the way open. He was fully awake now, staring at the line of boards on the ceiling above him. Feeling incapacitated, his limbs unable to move, he acknowledged a shiver of fear. He was indeed alive. He had survived the journey but was ailing. Druda Fabbro was still singing but he managed to block that out as her former advice came back to him. “You should see to those wounds quickly, before an infection develops. You’ll catch fever and be laid up for a spell, if it takes hold.” Pero sighed and remembered more about last night. “Patience and prayer, son. If we don’t have time for those, we deserves what we get.” The Spaniard recalled his final outburst. He was livid and drew his sword yet again on Turstin. He was afraid the Fabbros had poisoned him. He tore the poultice from his right arm leaving the worst wound exposed. ‘Temerario.’
There were three windows in the house and all of them were thrown open. Light from a glorious midday sun was streaming through the building. Everything was calm and peaceful, quiet.
“Until the day break and the shadows flee, I will get me to the mountain. Thou art fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.”
Pero craned his head. He spotted Druda standing at the prep counter with her back to him. She was the only Fabbro in the house. ‘She is industrious,’ Pero admired. ‘I’ll give her that. I haven’t been here long or seen much but that old woman is never not working. And she is always happy. Wish I could be the same.’
The shiver of fear was gone. He closed his eyes again as slumber came easy. Carefree, he drifted away on gentle winds towards a snow-capped mountain. He heard Druda’s voice float in from far away. “I will get me to the mountain,” she sang. “I will get me to the mountain.”
‘I’m going to heaven,’ he told himself. ‘I’m going to meet my Maker.’
More than any god, Pero wished to see his former fiancé again, her angelic form floating weightless above the world in a wispy white dress, a crystalline heart of goodwill beating soundly between her small breasts. He knew then and there that this was how he would forever envision her. ‘Anthea is immortal. When I build my kingdom, I shall erect a shrine.’ This was so much better than remembering Anthea the way he had left her, weeping and bleeding on the floor of her bower, calling out to him for comfort.
‘I’m the one who needs comfort now.’ His selfishness had flashed back quickly.
A strong male voice thundered forth from the mountain in the dream. The snow on the peaks began to melt and the emerging presence of coal black rocks made everything darker. “Let go of that deception, Pero. There’s no redemption in that rain. Only pain.”
Pero didn’t care. He sank into the cloud that had been bearing him this far, the sure white foam turning grey and watery.
“Stand,” the voice commanded just before Pero slipped, falling through the cloud into nothingness.
Chapter 5 – Carriage Ride
Jostled roughly, Anthea Manikos awoke in a fright. She found herself seated upright, shoulders pinned tightly between two guardsmen in cold chainmail. They were in the back of a moving conveyance. The world was shaking and it took a moment for her vision to arrive. Anthea recognized them. They were the same young guards who escorted her from Capua. ‘I blacked out, in the kitchens.’
The interior of the conveyance was unfamiliar, done completely in whorish red velvet. There were numerous gold tassels dangling nervously above their heads, bouncing and swaying with each violent jerk the carriage made. Silver filigree fixtures stamped on the walls where the red fabric ended, pearl white handles attached to six locked drawers and a shiny bronze handle on the door to her left. If she had been fortunate enough to have seen the exterior, Anthea would have recognized the vehicle immediately as one of Signore Lama’s professional coaches. Signore Lama was an enterprising businessman with a dubious clientele. His employees were girls, most of them very young, all of them handpicked and assiduously prepared to serve the needs of men, considered by many to be the best in the region. It was a classy enterprise for the most part and considered legitimate even by those most likely to frown upon such debauched activity. It was even whispered in certain circles that several high-ranking church officials frequented Signore Lama’s establishments and coaches, and not to save souls either. Sadly, Signore Lama and his ladies would never again be entertaining any
one nor riding in these exotic conveyances, all of them having been put to the blade with the rest of Capua.
Outside the coach and directly above her head, Anthea could hear the impetuous driver barking commands, his active whip snapping sharply, the team of horses snorting and thundering down some smoky trail.
The Greek beauty wished to disengage from the vice grip the two men had her in, pinched uncomfortably between them but she lacked the strength to make this wish a reality. She was woozy and tired, an acidy taste of vomit still lingering in her mouth. The memory of the holocaust rushed back over her, the blood and the mutilations. She was reminded of the Kitchen Steward. The horrific sight of Benectus’ tortured body, the malicious undoing of his face, had previously sent her spiraling into the void that brought her to this moment. This time, however, his gruesome death did not sicken her. It only served as a catalyst for her antagonism.
And then she grew even crosser.
Rugerius Fabbro was seated directly across from her, only a few feet away. She couldn’t believe she didn’t notice him the moment she woke. He was alone on the coach seat, his long legs spread wide apart, the unwashed fingers of his right hand tapping out an unconscious rhythm against the closed codpiece.
The Castellan’s countenance was severe but distant, his thoughts apparently focused elsewhere. His brown hair seemed darker and wilder than Anthea had remembered it being, trailing down on both sides of his crumply face until it became one with the horrible beard. ‘He didn’t have that the last time I saw him.’ Anthea wasn’t thinking about last night or even this morning. She was remembering the only other time they had met. The Castellan was drunk and naked, fornicating with two young girls in Suadela. Anthea would forever loathe that first meeting. ‘His jaw was whole back then. Such a jackass.’ An uncommon smirk suddenly graced her lips, a hint of gloating buried in it. ‘Pero did that to you.’ Anthea wanted to laugh. She glared at his injury and spotted glimmering beads of ale and traces of bread crumbs still convalescing in the hairs. Smears of dried blood were splashed all over his armor and arms. He hadn’t even taken the time to wash up. ‘Disgusting. Shameful.’
