Stone of Help (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  Eyeing the bruised and dirtied slave master coolly, Troyce observed, “If you are finished with your games, perhaps you, too, should see to your responsibilities, Caranoe.”

  “Lord Troyce,” he muttered through gritted teeth, bowing.

  As Caranoe limped out of the courtyard, Deirdre turned to Josef, beaming. “Josef! How—?”

  He put his finger to his lips, smiling with delight. “The Lord Jesus has said that what we do to the least of these, we do to Him. He cares, child.” Then he lifted the bushel and carried it away.

  She was watching him go in wonder when the kitchen mistress stuck her head out the door and demanded, “Finished those fish yet?”

  Deirdre whirled. “No, mistress, but—”

  “Why, you’ve hardly touched them!” she exclaimed. “Never mind! No time now! Come in to serve the noon meal!” And her head vanished.

  Deirdre hastily brought in the fish and washed her hands. She took the dish Bettina smilingly held out to her. “We’re serving it early today,” Deirdre whispered.

  “Someone special is here,” Bettina returned in a whisper. “Sheva’s son. He won’t be here long, I think.” Deirdre nodded absently and carried out a large bowl of steamed clams with herbs.

  As she set the dish before Sheva and stepped back, she heard the Surchataine saying, “But why must you leave today?”

  A familiar voice answered, “Why should I stay? There’s nothing here for me.” Deirdre looked up with a gasp. Artemeus! Of course, he was Sheva’s son—Savin’s son! How could she have forgotten that? She had spurned Artemeus rather brutally at her betrothal fest.

  Sheva replied caustically, “I am here, and you are to rule after me, are you not?”

  Artemeus laughed bitterly as he broke open a clam. “Rule what? What has Galapos left you?”

  If he sees me, my life is ended. Deirdre hung her head to hide her face.

  “We are daily growing stronger,” insisted his mother. “Galapos will be the one cut off. You’ll see.”

  Artemeus ate quietly a moment, not looking at Sheva. “No, I won’t,” he at last answered lightly. “I’m going abroad. There are places across the Sea I want to visit.”

  “No! You must be at my side when we attack Galapos!” she cried, stung.

  “No, I mustn’t.” He tossed aside a shell and fixed his grey eyes on his mother. Deirdre, directly behind her, began to quake. “I’m not going to fight Galapos,” Artemeus said.

  “Why not?” Sheva demanded.

  He took the flask and filled his goblet himself while she waited for an answer. “I don’t know whether Deirdre is still there or not, but in any case I won’t cross swords with Galapos,” he said.

  “Because of her? She spurned you and insulted you, and you would spare her?”

  In the tense silence that followed, Deirdre felt that her breathing was shaking the room. In a laudable show of maturity, Artemeus evidently decided not to argue the point with his mother. He stood, taking up a handful of nuts. “Well, I’m off.”

  “You haven’t even finished your meal!” Sheva cried. “Artemeus—” He rounded the table and gave her a peck on the cheek. “—please . . .” she pleaded.

  “Goodbye, Mother,” he said, then crossed directly in front of Deirdre on his way out.

  As he disappeared beyond the doorway, Sheva collapsed in grief and Deirdre sagged in relief. He had not recognized her. After the shock of relief had passed, however, she felt somewhat affronted that he had never even looked her way.

  When Sheva left the table, Deirdre and Bettina began clearing it. Deirdre cleaned absent-mindedly, thinking that something could be improved at Sheva’s tables. So she wondered, “Doesn’t Sheva ever have entertainment at her table?”

  Bettina paused as if perplexed by the question. “Entertainment? No. Why should she?”

  “Well, if she’s going to host anyone important, she should entertain them properly, with minstrels or magicians,” Deirdre said, lifting a brow.

  Bettina answered in a low voice, “I suppose she feels their greatest pleasure would be to look at her.” As she said it, Bettina studied her until Deirdre grew uneasy. “Goldie,” Bettina whispered, “who are you to know how important guests should be entertained?”

  Deirdre bit her chatty tongue, then wondered if she shouldn’t confide in Bettina. Surely she could be trusted. Deirdre opened her mouth to tell her when a serving girl popped her head into the room and said, “Caranoe is coming.”

  Bettina wiped her hands and passed through the doors into the kitchen. Deirdre stayed behind, purportedly to finish clearing the table. As Caranoe entered he caught sight of her beyond the doors, but she pretended not to see him as she went around gathering dishes.

  From the table, however, she could hear Bettina say brightly, “Lord Caranoe, have you come again yourself for the trash? What happened to that old man you used to send?”

  “Ah—” he began in surprise, then laughed loudly. “Yes, Old Bag o’ Bones is nearly worthless, being so close to Hades. Why I keep him, I don’t know.”

  “Your kind heart,” Bettina laughed. Deirdre ground her teeth. There was a moment of silence, as he seemed to be waiting. Deirdre worked around the table with extreme slowness, determined to prolong this chore as long as he stood in the kitchen.

  Then he snapped, “I’ll not wait here all day!” Deirdre felt great relief upon hearing his angry footfalls as he stomped out of the kitchen to the yard.

  Bettina reentered the hall to take up dishes from the table. “You were rather nice to Lord Caranoe,” Deirdre observed.

  Bettina shrugged, “I hate him. We all do. But it’s best to stay on his good side.”

  Deirdre nodded, “Yes, that’s best.” But it means I don’t dare tell you my secret.

  Once the meal had been cleared away, Deirdre took Arund’s wraps to the stream to wash them as Bettina had shown her. She tentatively dipped one cloth in the water and swished it around. Lifting it out, she ascertained that it would need more vigorous rubbing to come clean, so she held her breath and plunged both hands into the water. Its pleasant warmth surprised her again.

  As she scrubbed, she heard a mild exclamation behind her back. She turned her head to see a fat fuller woman watching. “What you washing?” the woman demanded.

  “My baby’s wraps,” answered Deirdre.

  “Ho—ee,” the gap-toothed woman laughed loudly. “You not going to get them clean that way, stupid!”

  “What?” Deirdre sat back on her heels.

  “Here!” The woman slapped a small cake of something smelly down near Deirdre.

  “What’s that?” she wrinkled her nose.

  Finding the question unbelievably funny, the woman howled before answering in gasps, “That lye soap, stupid. Use it on the cloths, to make them clean. Ho, are you stupid!”

  Deirdre looked at that poor, hopeless fuller woman calling her “stupid” and felt nothing but pity. So she took up the cake and said, “Thank you.” The woman stilled and weighed that response, then turned and padded away.

  When Deirdre had finished laying the cloths out to dry, she returned to the kitchen to find Arund crying. So she carried him to the doorway leading to the courtyard. While he nursed, she wanted to relax and see what might be happening now.

  The servants, free for a short time, had gathered to amuse themselves with a mock festival. Some of the women were prancing about with baskets on their heads and their noses in the air, in imitation of courtly ladies. The men strutted in front of them, brandishing kindling at each other at the slightest provocation. Then they selected partners to perform around the gallows a ludicrous pantomime of one of Deirdre’s favorite dances.

  Her attention was drawn in particular to one pretty housemaid who haughtily refused the offers of every male around. One man kissed her and she tweaked his nose. Another fell on his knees before her and she kicked him over. The servants watching were convulsed with laughter, and one rejected suitor cried, “Lady, whom will you hav
e?”

  “Him!” she declared, pointing at Old Josef, who was passing through the courtyard. He did not even turn to see the cause of the sudden groans and laughter.

  Deirdre smiled wryly. “You don’t know it, but you picked the best,” she murmured. At once she recalled when she herself had played out that scene. “Roman,” she whispered, her eyes watering, “what are you doing now?”

  Chapter 11

  Roman rode silently through a small village north of Westford. For safety’s sake, he had stopped along the road and torn the insignia of Lystra off his uniform. He was aware that this gave him the appearance of a renegade, but it could not be helped. To travel alone in Seleca wearing Lystra’s colors would be suicidal. It hurt, at first, to see the village children run in terror from him, but gradually he ceased to notice. He relaxed as he passed from the village into the cover of forest. Somehow, the less he was seen, the easier he breathed.

  As he spurred to a canter, he kept up his spirits thinking of his mission—to get her back. Even thoughts of Deirdre herself were somehow secondary to the task of planning her rescue. Doggedly, he pushed aside recurring intimations that something was wrong about the whole venture. He had to find her, he argued to himself; he must follow every possible clue, no matter how questionable the source. Abruptly, he remembered once telling Deirdre—in reference to the witch, yet—that one must always gauge truth by the source.

  Blankly, he stared down the road.

  Before long, he came to another village, a tiny one, nestled in the shelter of great oaks and birches. Spotting a well, he dismounted to drink and water his horse.

  While resting, he scanned the peaceful site. It was one of those dreamy little places that legends grow up around, where so much black earth, moss and ancient trees must house more than mere earthly creatures.

  He turned the creaking handle, bringing up a bucket from deep in the well, and drank from the gourd cup hanging on a nail. It was good water and cold. He closed his eyes. Deirdre, I wish you could taste this.

  “Thirsy? Getcha drinka water?” He opened his eyes and looked down at a toddler with round blue eyes and fawn-colored curls. She clapped her hands, laughing, “Getcha drinka water!” He smiled, so she scampered with astounding speed up the side of the stone well to reach for the bucket.

  “Stop!” He grabbed her just as she would have tumbled into the well.

  She laughed, “Gotcha!”

  “Put the child down slowly, fellow,” a menacing voice said. Roman, lowering the baby, looked up to see a Lystran soldier, obviously one sent by Galapos to protect the villagers. Beyond him was a young woman watching anxiously from a doorway. The toddler ran to her, laughing.

  “I certainly would not harm her,” Roman said coolly. “I am Roman, your Commander.”

  The man hardly blinked. “You’re not wearing your colors, Commander.”

  “I cannot, at this time. I am riding alone to dangerous country,” Roman explained.

  “I see,” the soldier said flatly. “Allow me to observe, Commander, that if you don’t wear your colors, you had best be prepared to be taken for an enemy by everyone you meet. It may be less dangerous to show yourself for who you are, perhaps finding friends, than to hide from everyone and chance a knife in the back from someone who doesn’t know who you are and doesn’t care.”

  Roman eyed him without responding, so he raised his sword to his face in a salute and turned away. Roman remounted and spurred from the village, forgetting even to water the horse. Why did he feel ashamed?

  He cantered easily for a while, but found no pleasure now in planning his great mission. Then he slowed to a walk to eat some of the bread packed in his pouch.

  Moments later, his hunter’s senses alerted him that he was not alone on the road. Without hesitation he turned off the path and concealed himself and his horse in the brush. Then he waited in stillness, watching the road.

  For long minutes he remained on the alert, but neither saw nor heard anything that did not belong to the forest. He began to wonder if his trusted instincts were now failing him as well. Yet, as a caution, he watched and waited still.

  Finally, he became convinced his caution was groundless and left his hiding place. The instant he stepped onto the road again, two figures appeared on horseback from the trees, whooping and kicking their horses toward him. Roman had no time to run. He drew his short sword and held it ready under his cloak.

  They were upon him recklessly, without considering that he might defend himself. The first one who jumped him was stopped dead with Roman’s sword in his side. As Roman wrenched his blade free and wheeled to face the other, he was thrown off balance by a heavy net flung over his head. Writhing, he fell.

  He struggled fiercely as he glimpsed the second approaching him cautiously. But the more he struggled, the tighter the net held him bound. Helplessly, he watched the man raise a club and smash it down in the general area of his head. Roman collapsed, though still conscious.

  He lay as if stunned while the attacker retrieved something from his horse, then carefully began untangling Roman from the net. The instant his sword hand was free, Roman thrust it upward into the other’s chest. Then, his head still ringing from the blow, he deliberately worked himself free of the net.

  Before he even looked to his assailants, he studied that curious net. It was six feet square, weighted all around the edges with lead pellets. The ropes of the net were interwoven with tiny curved barbs designed not to injure, but to catch in sleeves and cloak and effectively make a trap of one’s own clothing. Oddly, these men had intended not to kill or rob, but to capture him. He turned to his dead attackers. Renegades. And the item the second had taken from his horse was an iron neck ring—the kind used on slaves.

  Roman stood immobilized in the shock of understanding that they had intended to capture him and sell him as a slave. It was incredible to him that even renegades would attempt selling one of their own into slavery. Had they become so bold as to attack each other on the roads? And why had they taken him on first sight for such easy prey?

  For a moment, he was shaken in his resolve to go to Corona. If their lawlessness had reached this point, he would never come away alive. In that moment, he stood on the verge of prayer. He even dared to lift his eyes to heaven and wonder where God had gone.

  But no—his vision crashed back to earth. He had gone too far to turn back. He would not tuck his tail and run home. He had taken this upon himself, and he would finish it.

  Grimly, he mounted again and headed north.

  When the head cook finally dismissed her at the end of day, Deirdre bundled Arund up and hurried out to the servants’ house. She was anxious to see Josef. In this past week she had learned so much from him that made her life here bearable—not the least of which was his conviction that God had allowed her enslavement for a reason. She had a purpose here, other than caring for Arund, though what that might be was beyond her knowing. How much she would rather escape! But alone, in a strange country, she would never find home. And Arund—what would happen to him if she left to seek her own freedom? No—she saw no choice but to stay and work. So she kept alert, observing, learning, reading Josef’s Scriptures and listening to him explain them.

  Holding Arund as she sat on her straw bed to nurse him, she fretted over the painful-looking rash on his bottom. It made him cry more, she was sure, but she was helpless to know what to do for it. “Lord, must he suffer with it?” she muttered, then smiled to herself. “Josef will have me praying over the ants on the floor next.” Not the ants, but Roman and Galapos, a thought answered.

  Roman. She had not prayed for him, had she? “Oh, what good would it do?” she muttered again. “He doesn’t need me to pray for him. He doesn’t need anyone’s help to do anything.”

  He is suffering. At that thought, her heart broke a little. “Is he suffering without me?”

  She glanced self-consciously at the door, and as neither Josef nor Sevter had yet appeared, she bowed her head over Ar
und and imitated Josef as best she could: “Father in heaven, please protect my husband, Roman. Enable him to bear the burden of my absence. Please—help him understand that everything will be well, and bring us safely back together again. And please . . .” she murmured, faltering, “keep safe my baby. . . .” She stopped as Josef entered with their evening meal.

  He handed her one bowl of insipid mash to eat while she nursed Arund. Deirdre sighed, “I don’t see how you can live on such small portions. . . . How long have you been a slave, Josef?”

  “Ten years this winter,” he said, licking meal from his fingers. His hands were so chapped, they bled.

  “Ten years? Somehow, I thought you were born into slavery,” she said. When he looked up in amusement she reddened, realizing the thoughtlessness of the remark. “What did you do before you became a slave?” she asked.

  “I was a tutor here—rather, in Savin’s court. I taught a number of the children of the courtiers and officials,” he said.

  “Artemeus?”

  “Yes, Artemeus, for a while,” he answered.

  “What happened?” Arund’s lips loosened and she gently detached him to lay him beside her in the straw.

  “Well, Deirdre, one of my disciplines was philosophy. And in teaching it, I searched out the wisdom of the ages to draw upon—Amenemope, Homer, Cicero, Aurelius, and, the Septuagint. There, in the Jewish law and prophets, I discovered a moving, breathing wisdom which walked with me in the day and waited by my bed while I slept.

  “The wisdom I found there—no, which found me—held fast under every test I put to it, whether of reason or pragmatics or even time. And it gave rise to questions I had never considered. I was haunted beyond words by the prophet Isaiah’s vision of the suffering of the Righteous One.”

  “The Righteous One . . . ?”

  Josef closed his eyes and gathered himself to speak words of power, like a leopard readying to leap. Deirdre felt her scalp tingle. He began: