Lycenea

by Rory D Nelson

  In fact, the only possibility for leverage is the fact that he is estranged from his son, Talgath. Talgath had not been seen for some time and had abandoned his wife and children for reasons unknown. There were rumors he had abandoned quiet life for adventurous exploits, but they were merely rumors. If Talgath did ever show up one day, perhaps Herod could gain some sort of leverage, but for now, he is at an impasse. Stalemate.

  “Fellow Councilmen. Gratitude for your presence here today. We are well met.” Herod lifts his glass.

  The other Councilmen raise their glasses and nod in affirmation. They speak in unison. “We are well met, Herod Sai.”

  “Some of you are here because of inducements and others are here because you believe in my vision for a new country, a new destiny. You will all share in the bounty that will be obtained when we excise the leaches that are destroying our country from the outside in. I am of course referring to the Brotherhood and the egotistical, weak and inept monarchy it supports.”

  “Ai,” responds Senator Cravitz fervently.

  “The obsequious Brotherhood has permitted our enemies free reign to encroach upon our lands relentlessly. At this moment, we are on the precipice of a great war with the Orachai and the Visi-Gauls. And still, our Monarch and the Brotherhood make their little concessions like obliging pubes who lay down their trophies for a taste of a lady love. This Empire is imploding from the inside out. Gentlemen, it is high time for a change. Are you with me, my brothers?”

  “Ai. Ai!” Exclaim many in attendance. Senator Julius Falco is not one of them. He eyes Herod contentiously, a dour look painted on his face.

  “The first part of our plan will be to eliminate the Brotherhood. That reckoning will be a deed for myself. I have already concocted a plan and initiated it. General Fastidian and I have an alliance as we speak and he is prepared to move against Menelaeus. But his participation in this conspiracy involves some conditions as you well may imagine. We must eliminate the Brotherhood. That is his main condition. His other condition is that we win the support of the People in the Western Lands East of the Rhine Valley. We will be able to do this when we have joined skirts with Pontius, and he calls himself Brother to fellow liberators.”

  Growing increasingly agitated by Herod’s rant, Senator Falco interrupts. “But Senator Pontius is not yet co-conspirator. Is he not?” asks Falco indignantly.

  Herod glares at Falco menacingly but remains calm. “A situation soon to be rectified, Senator Falco. Any other obvious observations?” asks Herod scornfully.

  Senator Falco had been coerced into compliancy with Herod’s group because of an indiscretion he had with a young boy. The indiscretion happened only twice, but if he were ever convicted of the crime, he would lose everything-his position, his wealth and he would serve the remainder of his life in prison. His family would lose their prestige and suffer all the indignities of his indiscretion.

  In a way, their life would be forfeit as well. Senator Falco once believed that Herod had the best interest of the Empire. But he had realized the truth about him. The man is a narcissist, a megalomaniac. He does not have the best intentions of the Empire at stake; only the desire to fulfill his need for domination- at all costs. Senator Falco had reached his threshold. Herod can do with him as he will, but he will not be compliant. If he had to go down, then so be it.

  Senator Falco looks around at the other Council members, hoping for an ally among them, but none come to his aid. He tries to meet their gaze and look them in the eye, but they avert nervous eyes. Senator Falco feels emboldened by a sense of righteousness. What could Herod do to him anyway? He would be missed.

  He stands up to face Herod, looks at him directly in the eyes and speaks. “Your fool-proof plan has many contingencies, Herod-Sai. You would move to kill the very men who have given their lives to preserve our way of life? Ten men rode against an army of over nine thousand because they were the last resort and they emerged relatively unscathed and victorious. For us. For our people. Our way of life.” He looks around at the Councilmen, hoping his words will sway one, but still, none are moved.

  Herod responds with clenched teeth. “For Gilleon, I would do anything. For the greater good.”

  “For your greater good. For your greater coin purse,” mocks Falco. “Pontius is notably absent from foul deeds and a handshake with Lucifer for an apt reason.” He glares at Herod contentiously. “He was the only one of us you couldn’t bribe. He has not been conscripted into your devilry. He is a benevolent man, and you couldn’t force turncoat? Could you?”

  Falco’s knees are shaking, and he feels his heart trip-hammer in his chest, causing him to breathe sharply. His mouth feels like a desert. He had stood up to him. He would leave and confess everything, no matter the consequences to himself. Perhaps if he could reach a sympathetic ear in time, he could diminish the repercussions that would ensue.

  “Do with me as you will, Herod. I want out of your devilry.”

  “Granted,” says Herod. “You’re out!” As soon as the words issue from his lips, he pulls out his six-shooter with lightning quick ferocity and accuracy and fires, sending Falco’s brains splashing out of the back of his head and knocking him to the ground. The gore soaks one of the Councilman behind him, and he moves to wipe up the mess, reflexively gagging and barely stifling an expulsion of dinner.

  Tennyson and two other subordinates step close to the table and cock their shotguns menacingly, staring at the stupefied and cowering senators like a wolf eyeing baby lambs.

  Herod laughs derisively and twirls the six-shooter around his hand, skillfully and then holsters it just as quickly. He looks around at the Councilmen, as if daring anyone to speak out of turn. Most of them are visibly shaking and unable to meet his gaze. Senator Triberius shakes uncontrollably, breathing in a raspy voice, oblivious to the stream of pee that had run down his leg.

  Two of Herod’s manservants enter the dining area and remove Falco’s body with cold efficiency, as if such violent encounters are commonplace. “Is there anyone else among you that has words for me? Anyone else that feels his compliancy is not needed. Because my speed-shooter will not mince words. Hold tongue, or I’ll rip it out of your fucking skulls! Empty head of incompliance lest bullet remedies your misgivings!”

  Triberius forces his mind to go blank, lest Morgana discover his misgivings. He speaks up. “We are well met, Herod-Sai. Hail.”

  The others chime in almost immediately. “Ai. Herod- Sai. We are well met!”

  Herod sits down and looks as serene as if he had just spent his seed instead of blowing a man’s brains out. It affects him no more. “Well then men, prepare yourself for an excellent desert of halenut crème frishe and the finest port you can find anywhere. No expense spared.”

  As Herod sits down, he flares his nostrils, smelling the pungent urine odor. He snaps his fingers and Julius appears before him. He whispers. “Please clean up Tiberius prompt.”

  “Ai. Herod-Sai. Set watch and warrant it.” Julius picks Triberius up as easily as a bag of taters and removes him. Another gentleman cleans up the mess with the same cool efficiency that was mustered with Falco’s corpse.

  Chapter 16: The Spell Dissipates

  Dante had now been at the rectory for a year. Though the training is brutal and the academics are challenging and mentally fatiguing, he is happy. With each passing day, he becomes stronger, more resilient and confident. He had completely adapted to life without vision and can make his way anywhere, with or without his guardian, Cammilia. And yet, at the back of his mind is a pervasive feeling of approaching menace as if his life, could, at any moment take a turn for the worse.

  For the first nine months, the recruits were given approximately four hours of free time in which to play amongst themselves in their extremely regimented day. After nine months, that time had dwindled to only two. Dante and Cammilia are already intrinsically linked, so the training comes quite natural to him and Cammilia. They excel at the drills.

  Maximus looks
on with mounting agitation. His dog, Phates, had failed to form that bond with him, so he found the drills challenging; so much so that he is forced to spend his two hours of recreation time each day working with the dog. Otherwise, he never would have passed his exams.

  Maximus’ diligence pays off with Phates. The dog is highly intelligent, but mistrusting of the blue-eyed boy who fights so desperately and dishonorably and so he is reluctant to obey commands. Maximus had persevered and won the dog’s trust by temporarily ending his brutal campaign of undermining and bullying the boy. No longer did he take cheap shots at Dante after their sparring had resumed. He holds nothing back during their bouts, but that look of mounting desperation is absent from his eyes.

  Half of the time he will defeat Dante in sparring matches, and when he does, he is humble, losing that arrogant gait. The other boys notice the difference. And during the times when Maximus loses to Dante, he shakes off his defeat with the humility of a genteel knight, bowing to his opponent.

  Maximus shoots out his fist with lightning quick ferocity, hoping to catch Dante on his chin. Dante senses it coming and moves his head at the last second and then counters with a quick jab to Maximus cheekbone, hitting him squarely and dazing him for a split second. It is all the split second he needs.

  He squares up on him imperceptibly fast and shoots out two quick jabs to his midsection, eliciting a surprised grunt from Maximus, who momentarily keels over, inhaling in deep, sharp, painful gasps.

  Dante, the consummate sportsman, backs off, allowing Maximus the chance to recover. Though the boys hold nothing back in their bouts, this is not the battlefield. This is an opportunity to hone their martial arts skills on each other, not finish each other off.

  “Two fingers held up in submission, Maximus. What will it be?” demands Dante.

  Maximus smiles that devilish, menacing grin they had all come to love and despise. “I am not finished yet comp,” says Maximus.

  “Come hither and see if you have the means to finish,” says Dante. Maximus approaches, while Dante bridges the gap. The second Dottore nods, Maximus performs a rapid, round-house kick to Dante’s side. Dante, at the last possible second, drops his shoulder, hunkers down and tightens up, absorbing the kick. The kick is monstrously powerful, and if he hadn’t performed the defensive move, he would have received numerous broken ribs, ending the fight prematurely. Though the boys had not yet progressed to learning about using their legs in the martial arts training drills, they nevertheless experimented amongst themselves.

  And Dottore makes no move to discourage them, for nearly anything is permitted in the bouts. There are few exceptions. As Dante absorbs Maximus’ kick, he shoots out his own leg with lightning quick ferocity towards his groin. Because the boys had not begun their drills with their lower bodies, they routinely leave their bodies open after initiating a kick. Dante uses it to his advantage. Maximus fails to return to his defenses fast enough, and he is vulnerable for a split second.

  The powerful kick finds its mark in his groin, toppling him over in excruciating pain. He yells out but manages to bounce back after about thirty seconds. Still, Maximus fails to put up his two fingers in submission. Dante’s hearing is nearly superhuman. He can hear the rustling of Maximus’ sparring robe from a hundred yards away, even in the midst of other sounds. So, he advances towards him and fires two quick, successive jabs to his midsection. Then he fires a powerful roundhouse punch, putting the full force of his hip flexors into it, catching Maximus on the chin.

  Maximus’ knees buckle, and he drops to the mat, unconscious and defeated. “Time. Well done Dante.” Dottore approaches Maximus with some smelling salts and places it under his nose. Maximus lifts his head up, looks around, sits up and vomits. The combination of being smashed in the groin, sitting up too fast and the noxious smell proves too much for his stomach.

  “You have held your own with a fellow recruit, Maximus, but your over-eagerness to use weapons you have not yet learned has left you vulnerable. In two weeks’ time, we shall begin training your lower body. Always consider your opponent when beginning assault.”

  Still shaking off sluggishness from being unconscious and nausea, Maximus is slow to respond. “Ai, Dottore.”

  “So, was I at your age, runt. But unlike you, I was not so well-matched with one of my opponents, who was always ready to show me the truth of my arrogance.” He looks back at Merlin, who smiles and nods in affirmation.

  Dottore helps Maximus up, who feels as wobbly as a new-born calf.

  Maximus turns to Dante and graciously bows. Hearing the gesture, Dante bows in response. “You have defeated me comp. You are skilled.”

  “We are well met. I have won this round only by a few over-eager missteps on your part. Gratitude.”

  “Gratitude.”

  “All right recruits. Time to clean up and prepare for morning meal. Reconvene in the mess hall in twenty minutes. Get to it, runts.” In less than ten seconds, the boys are out the door and down the hall. In the last week, another one hundred recruits were removed from the program. Dottore notes that the competition is getting fierce. It is as it should be.

  Germanicus approaches Merlin. “Maximus has changed.”

  “It had not escaped my notice. Almost as if a fog has been lifted from his head. After the festival, a newfound desperation was pervasive in the boy. But that fog has lifted, and it is almost as if he has found a peaceful acceptance. Saboteur no longer. He has relented. I sense a deep part of him is still conflicted, but that part has been repressed, for better or worse,” notes Merlin.

  “Why the change of heart?” asks Germanicus.

  “I know our interloper was there at the festival, Germanicus. She was there with him, hiding in plain sight like quicksand in a Briar Patch. Like me, she is a powerful telepath, and I suspect that she implanted some powerful suggestions in the boy, but like a drug that eventually wears off, her suggestions have worn off as well.”

  “How do we find him, Merlin? We live in a free society. No longer are the days when we can torture and arrest anyone without cause. This perhaps is the price for living in a democracy. He uses it to his advantage.”

  “I’ve no doubt we will roust him, Germanicus. I just don’t know how. If she were not in his midst, I would have discovered foul deed along with miscreant. He is well-cloaked and is cunning beyond anyone we have dealt with. Pray as will I.”

  “Have you spoken with your mentor about our interloper?”

  Merlin smiles. “Indeed I have. Our enlightened meeting was cut short by a girl in distress.”

  “Sylvia? How is our girl?”

  “Traumatized and bereft of innocence, as you can imagine. I have pledged to alleviate her troubles.”

  Germanicus raises an eyebrow, sensing an imminent disagreement. “Through prayer, meditation, counseling?” He asks.

  “Ai. And if there were other means, I would not have you privy to them, old friend. I love her as if she were my own flesh and blood.”

  “As do I. But we are sworn to uphold Christian ideals.”

  “Perhaps you should leave unwanted queries behind and just be satisfied that I have the best interests of the girl at heart.” Merlin looks at Germanicus adamantly, unwavering. “And there is no hell or high water I would not breach to have her restored.” He says through clenched teeth.

  Germanicus shakes his head, sighs, and shrugs. “I will broach this subject no longer Brother.”

  Merlin nods. “Ai. Gratitude.”

  Changing topics, Germanicus advises. “Perhaps you should reconvene counsel with mentor. It may serve us well. He may shed needed light on dilemma.”

  “A conversation soon to be revisited, old friend.”

  “We are well met.”

  “Ai, Dottore. We are indeed.” They embrace with forearms outstretched and then walk out.

  Chapter 17: A Mission for Felinius

  Felinius easily parries a skillful yet telegraphed blow from Herod and pirouettes to the side with the fluid gra
cefulness of a spirit. He seems to glide rather than walk, run or skip, much like his former mentor and now mortal enemy-Merlin.

  Herod sidesteps and brings up his blade up sharply, narrowly averting a deft strike from Felinius. “Better. Watch where you move your head. You’re still sub-consciously telegraphing. Even doing it inconspicuously will alert your attacker. Use your eyes to observe but not your head.”

  Felinius swings his sword down in a horizontal arc, smashing Herod’s sword down, emitting a large ‘clang’ that echoes through the great hall. Herod feels that sting of it as his hand smashes into his face, splitting his lip. Though Felinius holds back, the force with which he swings is monstrous. Herod shudders to think how bad it would be if he held nothing back.

  “Good. Now you attack,” orders Felinius. Herod advances towards him. “Eyes here, Herod.” He gestures with his finger and points it at his eye. Herod swings and Felinius easily blocks it and then pushes him off, nearly causing him to slip. Herod advances quickly and thrusts inward, but Felinius easily deflects it again. Felinius pushes him sideways, nearly causing him to lose his balance.

  Yet Herod keeps his balance, moves sideways and slashes deftly, which Felinius blocks. Sensing advantage, Herod pivots around and pinions out his elbow, which finds only air. Felinius moves to the side and then fires a lightning quick jab, catching Herod in the midsection.

  Herod drops his sword and doubles over, holding his stomach painfully. “You left yourself open. Always return to base,” instructs Felinius.

  Herod stands up, still reeling from the painful jab. “Refresh foggy memory. Why all these endless drills?”

  “You can’t solve everything with conniving, scheming, diplomacy and concessions, Herod. Occasionally, a real battle may have to be fought. Two hours everyday, Herod. For all your intelligent conspiring, and then to have a boy as young as twelve stabs you in the heart in the heat of rage.”