by L. M. Roth
“But he had deep misgivings about the stranger; there was something about Tyr that made the hair on his arms stand up as when a storm is brewing and the air grows heavy with the brooding of thunder. The stranger could never look him in the eye without looking away, and he became more and more certain that he had evil in his heart. But Deirdre insisted, and as she would take no other man for husband, he reluctantly gave her to Tyr in marriage.
“It was a decision she would regret for the rest of her days.
“No sooner had they wed then she became with child, and not long after that she discovered to her sorrow what manner of man she had married. For suddenly, it seemed that every maiden of the settlement was with child, and they all claimed that Tyr was the father. Everywhere Deirdre turned there were two, five, seven, twelve maidens, all claiming that their unborn child shared the same father with her own. The shame and anguish were too much to be borne for one of such noble heritage.
“The day came for her child to be born; she suffered long in childbirth, and when it was over and her son was born, she asked the midwife for a draught to ease her pain. But the draught only lessened the physical pain and she sought for relief from all her sufferings. So when the midwife brought her the draught she added to it a bitter herb that she knew to be poisonous, and ended her shame. She had only waited for her son to be born, as she did not wish to take the child’s life along with her own.
“Great was the anguish in the settlement at her passing by her own hand, and great was the anger against Tyr, who had brought her to such an end. He was surrounded by all of the young men who had sought her favor over the years, only to lose her to Tyr. They chased him to the highest cliffs and there they pressed closer and closer against him to the edge, until he had no choice but to go over it or face death by their sharp knives and long spears which they pointed at him.
“He jumped: and a mighty splash with spray that ascended as high as the cliffs was heard. And then they saw a strange sight. Where Tyr had jumped, a shadow ascended, and as it rose, another in the shape of a woman followed it, and as the first shadow rose, so the second one rose, higher and higher until they disappeared into the heavens above. And it was said that the first shadow was Tyr, followed by the shadow of Deirdre, and that as she chased him in life so she chased him death; but in death she would have no rivals, and he would be at last completely hers.”
Here Riagan paused to refresh himself with a long swallow from the mug of water that he held in his hand. Cort was moved by the story, and saw that Siv’s eyes were misted with tears; of course her tender heart would be touched at the tale of unrequited love and the pain it had brought on not just the victim but an entire people.
At last Riagan was refreshed and he picked up the thread of his tale.
“And after Deirdre’s child was born and she died by her own hand, one maiden after another brought forth a child sired by Tyr. And our people were corrupted as his blood mingled with ours, the blood of not merely a stranger, but one of evil heart who lived merely to indulge his lusts and to seek his own pleasure. And we fell from our high status as children of the gods, and we sired lesser men and inferior daughters, and saw our people fall from glory.
“But it was prophesied that one day another stranger would come to our shores; another man with hair like the flax in the field and eyes as blue as the sea, and that he would save our people and lead them back to their former glory.”
Cort suddenly realized where the old man was leading and stifled a gasp. Even as he did so, Riagan nodded at him.
“And you are that man, and so I say, welcome.”
Chapter XXV
Haunted Dreams
The July day was mild and warm with wispy clouds that looked like the wings of angels passing through this world on errands of mercy as they dispensed good deeds. The sunlight struck the river and sent it sparkling with ripples of light dappling the current. The scent of new grass brought memories of childhood, comforting memories that almost succeeded in obliterating more troubling ones that occasionally haunted his dreams and woke him in a state of distress, his heart racing, his bedclothes dripping with sweat.
The dreams were always the same: a voice raised in threat, the sound of a slap or a thud, a cry and a whimper. The voice was so oddly at variance with that other one he knew, that voice that was so quick to laugh at his innocent observations, to cheer him on in his feats of daring, to soothe him when nightmares woke him and only his father could chase away the monsters that plagued him.
And in the morning it was always the same: his mother would appear with a blackened eye, a cut lip, or a swollen cheek, and the tales of tripping over the hem of her robe to land on the corner of a stair or the edge of a table, or a fit of clumsiness that sent her walking into a wall or a door. And his father looking at his feet, unusually silent and red-faced. And always, Paulina was believed, because no one wanted to see, so they looked the other way.
It was his grandmother Quintina who shed light on these incidents when he was thirteen years old. She had come to pay a visit, and one night Antonius’ sleep was interrupted by the sound of raised voices and a heavy thud, followed by a scream quickly stifled. He rushed out of his bedroom and into the corridor, only to be pulled back by an unseen hand. He whirled around and saw his grandmother standing back in the shadows of the hall, her face white and her bottom lip quivering as tears threatened to spill down her face.
She led him into her sitting room and closed the door gently. She held out her arms to him and he struggled momentarily between the small boy he felt like and the teenager he had just become, and who must be strong. It was the small boy who won, and he flew into her arms and shed a few quiet tears as she gently stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head.
When he had finished weeping she led him to a chair. He took it and she took the one opposite. Neither spoke for several minutes, each waiting for the other. Finally she broke the awkward silence.
“It was always that way,” she said in a voice so low he had to strain to hear it. “It is not easy to speak of, yet it was what he saw between his father and me, and it has passed down from father to son. My husband has a short and vicious temper, always hidden in public, yet indulged in freely in the privacy of his home. I never knew when the blows would come, or what might precipitate them. I was frantic to please him, to do anything to avoid making him angry. But everything I tried failed, and so the blows continued to fall.
“Decimus was always closer to his father than he was to me. When he heard the beatings he pretended to ignore them; yet I know he heard and saw the evidence the next day. And as the years passed he tried to emulate his father in every way that he might win his approval.
“Some of the behavior of my son disturbed me in the days when his father was the Governor of Lycenium. He could have his pick of any of the maidens, and he wooed many of them. He toyed with the affections of some of them and broke their hearts. Yet it was said that there were some who testified to his brutality when they displeased him for some reason, and that he was not above slapping them if the mood took him. If a maiden did not find him of interest, he pursued her anyway, and did not like to be rejected.”
Here Quintina stopped and gave Antonius a strange look. She considered him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to continue. He peered back at her innocently, wondering why she did not proceed.
Finally she smiled weakly and smoothed back the hair from his brow.
“Let us just say that I had reason to believe that my son was rapidly becoming a bully, and the thought disturbed me greatly. Gerontius did not seem to notice, but then, he was a bully himself, although those outside of our family never saw it. Even our slaves pretended not to see the evidence of his brutality to his wife; so how could the populace of Lycenium know of it?
“When Gerontius resigned as Governor we moved to Seneca for a couple of years, and it was there that Decimus met your mother. She was always a quiet maid, but I fear he has cowed her into becomi
ng an absolute mouse of a woman. When I see them together, I see how she looks at him, much as I looked at his father, afraid to say or do the wrong thing, lest she incurs his wrath and it falls on her.”
Quintina stared at the wall opposite, and then turned back to her grandson. She noted the astonishment on his face, and she immediately regretted her words.
“Antonius,” she said quickly, “I do not tell you these things to turn you against your father or your grandfather. But you must be on your guard, that you do not treat your wife as your father treats your mother, as your grandfather treated me. Resolve in your heart to be tender and gentle to your wife, to treat her as your dearest treasure, Antonius. For that is the way marriage was meant to be; do not be led into wrong doing by a bad example.”
Antonius looked at his grandmother solemnly and nodded his head. In truth, he was horrified to know that his grandmother had suffered the same fate as his mother. He decided that he would be a tender and gentle husband, indeed, that was not a hard resolution to make as he had always been more like his mother in temperament than his father.
But of one thing he was certain: he would never raise his hand against a woman, as his father and grandfather had done.
Now as he sat on a bench idly looking at the river, the memories flooded the mind of Antonius. Why this should be he did not know, for he never let himself dwell on such unpleasantness, dreading the feeling of helplessness it always produced in him. He hated to see suffering and be unable to alleviate it; and the memories of his mother’s beatings made him physically ill, the bile rising in his throat so that he had to swallow it down lest he vomit right here in public, in full view of everyone enjoying the river on a summer’s day.
A shadow passed across his view, and he looked up. Felicia stood there smiling at him, and suddenly all was right again. He gave her the same adoring smile that he had when he courted her, thanking Dominio for the gift of this woman.
Felicia sat down next to him and they looked at the river in contented silence. She leaned against him and put her head on his shoulder; he reached up a hand to stroke her cheek. They watched the traffic on the river, and heard the sound of the waves slapping against the boats as they carried their passengers to their destinations. A breeze ruffled the water and it spread rapidly from one shore to the other, delighting some nearby children who cried aloud at the sight.
Suddenly Felicia turned to him.
“Antonius,” she said, “I would like to invite some guests to dine tonight. Do you remember my father’s old friends, Justus Lucius and his wife Silvia? They are here in Lycenium visiting her sister and I wish you to meet them.”
“Of course,” Antonius said, “I would be delighted to meet them also. Count on it; we shall ask them to dine.”
Justus had been pleasantly surprised by young Antonius. What a gentle and intelligent young man he was! He exchanged a glance with Silvia and understood by her slightly raised eyebrow and slight smile that she shared his opinion.
And how radiant Felicia was: it was evident that the young couple were very much in love, and it touched him to see the way they communicated silently with each other even in the midst of their guests; the smiles exchanged as their guests spoke, the hand gestures that clearly meant something only to the two of them, and the way their eyes softened every time they met the other’s.
Justus was pleased that Marcus’ daughter was happily settled. It was too cruel a joke that her husband should be the son of the man who killed his own son, yet he knew that life was unpredictable and one must take the good and endure the bad. He decided that for now he would dismiss the thought of this young man’s father and simply enjoy the company of the young man.
They had retired after dinner to the small sitting room where the family liked to spend the evening, and were in the midst of a conversation about the newest scrolls that had lately been added to the great library when the sound of a familiar step was heard in the hall and the door flung open unexpectedly.
It was Decimus, who entered with words of greeting on his lips that died when he saw their guests.
He was not alone: Justus and Silvia froze, unable to move when they saw the intruder of their peaceful evening. Felicia blushed, not knowing that her father-in-law had returned to Lycenium. Only Antonius was unfazed, and glanced at the others in surprise.
“What is the matter?” he asked innocently. “Is there something about the latest exhibit that is too shocking to discuss?”
“What?” Decimus asked blankly, shaking his head in confusion at his son’s words.
Felicia recovered herself and hastened to recover the evening at the same time.
“It is nothing, Father,” she replied hastily. “We were merely discussing the new collection of scrolls that the library has acquired.
“I did not know you had returned to Lycenium: when did you return?”
Decimus’ face had gone an unbecoming shade of gray, giving him the look of petrified wood that had been excavated from the ruins of a once great city. He continued to stare at Justus and Silvia, who remained calm, yet were experiencing the same distress so evident on his face.
“About an hour ago,” he replied, and sat down heavily on the nearest chair. “I have some business to conduct on behalf of the Emperor with the Governor and have just come from the Hall of Government. I shall remain a few days, and then return to Valerium.”
His remarks were greeted by silence, a silence that was at last broken by Justus.
“Well, Felicia,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I wish to thank you for a most pleasant evening, but I feel it is time that Silvia and I must be going.”
Felicia knew that he was not comfortable in the presence of Decimus and inclined her head graciously. It was Decimus, however, who surprised them both.
“Oh, but it is I who have intruded on your evening,” he said, as he inclined his head to Justus. “I shall retire to my old room upstairs and leave you to enjoy the remainder of it.”
Silvia made a small sound in her throat that sounded like a wounded animal, but Decimus turned to her suddenly. He rose to his feet and slowly strode over to her, where he stood silently as he looked down on her.
“Lady,” he said in a voice so gentle that Antonius could not have believed it belonged to his father, “it has been many years. The last time we met you had just been robbed of someone you loved. And I am sorry for it.”
Decimus’ voice quivered on his last words, and he snatched Silvia’s hand and raised it to his lips before he spun around on his heel and left the room as rapidly as he had entered it.
Chapter XXVI
Shadows
Antonius had been so astonished by the peculiar behavior of his father that he slept little that night. There had been something in the way he had addressed Silvia Lucius that reminded him of the way his father had addressed his mother on the morning after a night of beating…
He finally rose just as the first rays of sunlight streaked through the windows, touching the ivory and pink tiles of the mosaic on the floor with fingers of mauve and violet. The sight called him to the window, where he watched as the sun ascended in a burst of pastel glory that dispelled the shadows of night, sending them fleeing to the far corners of the sky.
Shadows, he thought. Shadows of things of long ago, that yet torment me now. There was something last night, something between my father and that woman, something I should know but do not.
He glanced at his wife still sleeping soundly and crept to his wardrobe, where he fumbled for the first garment that came to his fingertips. He had no wish to waken her, and he did not need one of his father’s slaves to assist him with dressing. Antonius rued the fact that all of the servants were slaves and not freedmen who received wages; but this was his father’s household and he could not change what his father had set.
He closed the door of the bedchamber softly behind him, and paused at his father’s door. He heard movement within; Decimus had always been an early riser, so vigorous an
d dynamic that for him sleep was a mere interruption of his constant activity. Antonius debated within himself, and then pulled up a chair to wait for his father to emerge.
He did not have long to wait. The door of his father’s room burst open and Decimus spilled out into the hall. He looked surprised at the sight of his son so obviously waiting for him, and then the surprise turned to wariness.
Antonius rose from his chair.
“Father, I wish to speak to you privately. May we walk the grounds for a bit?”
Decimus merely nodded his head and continued to stare at his son as an expression of something akin to dread crossed his handsome face.
The sun was no longer mauve and violet, and the morning light was a pale gold that touched the small pond that was bordered with gracious shade trees. They were reflected in the water, and the green of the trees and the stillness of the water brought a tear to Antonius’ eye; he sensed that in a moment all of this would change and the world would never be the same again. He strolled beside his father, silently at first, neither of them willing to be the first to break the last few moments of peace.
But he had sought out his father to find answers, and therefore must speak. He did not know how to begin, so he started with the question that tore at his heart.
“What happened, Father?” he asked abruptly as he turned to look Decimus in the eye. “What happened between you and Silvia Lucius that you greeted her the way you did last night?”
A visible lump rose in his father’s throat: he watched it idly, waiting for his answer; an answer he was certain he did not wish to hear…
Decimus in turn did not know how to answer his son, so he answered as abruptly as his son had questioned him.
“You do not know?” he asked, staring at him in disbelief. “You truly do not know?”
