Authors: L. M. Roth
The stunned
Trekur Lenders stared at the mighty man who confronted them with their jaws
dropped open in surprise. For a moment no one spoke, as all gaped at Dag as
though he had taken leave of his senses. Then Lunt turned from the crowd and
addressed his friend.
“Are you mad?
What ails you, my friend? We know what we do; we give our thanks to Bjorrne,
the great Bear!”
The rest of
the villagers nodded their heads and loudly voiced their assent. Yah, they
declared, they gave thanks to the Bear!
Dag’s breath
escaped in a sigh of frustration as he shook his head and looked at his people.
For one moment he closed his eyes. Then he took a deep breath and opened them.
“Good
friends,” he began at last. “I, too, once gave thanks to Bjorrne. Long have I
joined you in the song and the dance, and waved the Bear skin as we bowed down
to him. But, I tell you now, I can do so no more. For he is not God.”
A gasp erupted
from the crowd, and they all rose to their feet in a flurry of outrage. They
spoke with upraised voices among themselves, then addressed Dag.
“You are mad!”
shouted one sturdy man of perhaps forty winters, who Marcus remembered was
their Tribal Chief.
Tall and clad
in rough flaxen robes, with muscles still impressive peeking out through his
short sleeves, he was an imposing figure, Marcus had to admit. His long dark
hair was braided back in a single plait that fell to the nape of his neck.
Disdain was evident in every line of his body as he strode forward and planted
himself in front of Dag.
With a sneer
he faced him as Dag gazed steadily back at him. They were much the same height,
although Dag was the broader of the two. Still, Marcus thought to himself, the
Tribal Chief had the lithe body of the born athlete. Such a one usually proved
to be agile in a fight, and as such was hard to beat. Marcus would not like to
be the one who would face him in battle.
Now the Chief
vent his fury on Dag and attacked him with bitter words.
“How dare you
cast a slur on Bjorrne! You are mad, mad I say! It is
you
who do not
know what you do!”
All the
villagers clamored in agreement, shouting and pounding their feet on the
ground. The earth shook beneath the feet of Marcus under their deadly anger.
Dag did not
flinch, but looked unblinkingly into the eyes of the Tribal Chief, his own face
impassive, as if unaware or unconcerned that he had incurred the Chief’s ire.
“The Bear is
not a god. There is but One true God we must bow down to. His name is Dominio,”
he stated with reverence.
He turned from
the Tribal Chief to the villagers and raised his voice.
“But you do
not know of Him, yah? I must tell you of Him, for he loves you,” he pointed to
a small boy, “and you,” he gestured to a young woman, “and you,” he whirled
again to indicate the Tribal Chief.
“We were made
to love Him, but our hearts went wrong and we grieved Him. In our sin we lost
our way. He sent His Son, Alexandros, to lead us back to Him, that we might
love Him and be what He made us to be! He has made a new way for us, and now we
are free! You do not need to bow to the Bear, for Bjorrne does not hear you.
But Dominio hears you, and longs for you. Give your heart to Alexandros, and
let Him set you free!”
Truly, Dag was
magnificent, Marcus thought in admiration. His face beamed, illumined with joy
as he shared the Good News with his people. They stared at Dag, however, as if
he were out of his mind. They could not understand, Marcus realized in dismay.
They were blinded by a lie, but to that lie they clung.
It was the
Tribal Chief who decided the matter. He breathed heavily and turned a stare so
malevolent on Dag that Marcus felt as though he had just walked into a wall of
ice, so chilling was its expression. For an instant he saw another face behind
the Chief’s, one so hideous in its evil that he nearly cried out a warning to
Dag. In a flash it was gone. At the same moment, he heard a gasp from Kyrene,
and knew that she too had seen the vision.
Unflinching,
Dag stood his ground. The Chief slowly circled around him, hissing with the
venom of an adder, and swaying his head from side to side as he gazed at Dag
through narrowed eyes.
“You,” he
breathed raggedly, “shame the Bear. You mock your own tribe with your lies. For
that, we should kill you, right now where you stand.”
An angry roar
came from the villagers as they raised clenched fists and crept ominously
toward Dag. He paled and swallowed hard, yet did not draw back from their
hostility and threats.
“I do not lie,
nor do I mock you. I tell you the truth of Dominio’s love, and of my own for
you. And as I love you, and want to share the news of His love for you, I will
not join you as you bow down to Bjorrne. I will not bow down to a false god.”
Now the crowd
turned into a furious mob as they shouted at Dag. Some spat on him; others
hurled stones. Fanchon screamed and ran from his side to escape the flying
missiles, while Cort rushed in to fling his small body in front of Dag in a
futile attempt to shield him. Dag thrust Cort gently aside and did not dodge
the stones. He drew himself to his full height and thrust his spear into the
ground, planting his feet on either side. To Marcus, he resembled an oak tree
that had suddenly sprung up, and was not about to be moved from its place.
His courage
caught the crowd off guard. They stopped their barrage and looked uncertainly
at Dag, then turned to the Chief for guidance. He seethed at Dag and struggled
for breath. At last he pronounced his judgment.
“You,” his
voice cut like a knife as he confronted the great man, “are one of us no more.
I cast you out of our tribe from this day on, and your son and betrothed with
you. Go! Do not come back, or we will kill you. And I will spread the word to
all the Chiefs of our tribes, and if they find you, they will kill you!”
Dag’s eyes
filled with tears as he looked lovingly on the faces of his people. He
struggled for words, but none came.
“Go!” the
Tribal Chief roared, and pointed his index finger toward the forest.
They returned
to Dag’s house to collect their little boat, where they had packed their
bundles before joining the villagers, but did not enter to take any of his
possessions. They judged that any delay on their part might make the mob change
its mind and kill Dag on the spot.
Then, with
heavy hearts but heads held high, they followed the direction of the Tribal
Chief’s finger and headed for the woods.
As he left the
only home he ever knew, Dag did not look back. Nor did he speak of Trekur Lende
or his kin in the days that followed. For that life he knew was over, he said.
And a new one had just begun.
A heaviness of
spirit descended on all of them in the days that followed. Ruefully they
reflected that following Alexandros would bring with it a great price. But was
it, Marcus wondered, a price too heavy to pay?
The immediate
decision to be made was how to continue their journey. Clearly they could not
head further north to Valerium due to the threat of death to Dag. For he knew
how swiftly the word would spread as the Tribal Chief sent runners fleet of
foot to all the villages in Trekur Lende. To go further on their way was to
court disaster.
After
consultation they decided to retrace their steps and return to the River Zoe.
The River would eventually meet the Sea and they could return to Valerium by
water rather than by land. True, it was the long way, but no one wished to risk
the danger to Dag. He declared he did not wish to endanger his friends by
traveling with them, but Marcus insisted.
“After all,
Dag, you and Fanchon must return to Gaudereaux and make your home there now.
And Gaudereaux is on our way.”
At the mention
of Gaudereaux Fanchon brightened visibly. She had been unnaturally quiet since
the expulsion of her intended from his people. Dag saw the logic of Marcus’
reasoning and accepted his counsel. Yah, in Gaudereaux, he agreed, they would
be safe. And there they would make their home.
They looked
again on the lush green valley that lay below. Their journey had been swift and
serene, as if Zoe wished to comfort them for the pain that the Trekur Lenders
brought upon them. Though they were solemn after the turmoil through which they
had just passed, a peace filled their hearts and they did not speak of Dag’s
trouble. He seemed resigned to whatever the hand of Dominio brought upon him,
and accepted His will.
The heat of
July had now come, made more intense by their journey into southern lands. A
haze lay heavy above Gaudereaux. Sultry was the air, and even the bees that
buzzed around their heads seemed too lazy to sting them, as they descended to
the valley.
Marcus felt
his skin prickle in the heat. Used to a cooler climate where the summer was
relished for its moderate warmth, the heavy moist air beat down on his body,
which felt limp and sapped of energy. He did not wish to complain to the
others, and therefore said nothing of his discomfort. Cort, however, had no
such qualms.
“Fanchon,” he
moaned, “how do your people bear this awful heat? It is like steam. It is like
a heavy, wet cloud of hot air.”
Fanchon
giggled as she whipped her head around. She and Kyrene alone seemed unfazed by
the rise in temperature, and Fanchon actually sparkled in her joy of returning
to her homeland. She now turned to the boy with a flippant toss of her head.
“We don’t!”
she exclaimed. “We sleep in the heat of the day, after the noon meal, and rise
when the clock strikes four to prepare for the evening banquet. Our nap
refreshes us to eat, to sing, and to dance, most of all to dance, dance, dance,
until midnight, sometimes to the dawn of the day! Oh, how I love to dance! Just
to whirl and twirl, whirl and twirl! It will feel good to don a festival robe
and shed these traveling clothes, no? And to dine at one of my father’s feasts
will be all I would wish for! And speaking of wishes…”
“Thank you,
Fanchon, for answering Cort’s question,” Marcus cut off the torrent that
threatened to flow without ceasing. “Now we shall know how best to cope in this
climate.”
Felix smiled
and rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He quickly averted his gaze, and chanced
to meet the mischievous glance of Kyrene, who stifled a laugh and cleared her
throat. Fanchon was still smarting at Marcus’ quenching and noticed nothing of
this exchange.
“Well, then,”
she huffed. “Let us go to my father’s house with all speed.”
They had been
welcomed effusively by Fanchon’s parents, Pascal and Gaelle. It had been three
months since they last saw their daughter, but one would have thought it had
been years to judge by the emotion of their greeting. Pascal picked up the tiny
Fanchon and swung her around, much to her delight. Gaelle burst into tears and
held her daughter close to her heart.
Much to the
surprise of Marcus, tears poured down the face of Fanchon as well. She had seemed
to enjoy the adventure of their travels so much that it never occurred to him
that she might be secretly pining for the family she left behind.
Dag stood
aloof but smiling as his betrothed was reunited with her loved ones. The great
man all but dwarfed the short, rotund Pascal, who barely reached Dag’s
shoulder. When at last Fanchon’s parents turned to Dag, Pascal’s hand
disappeared in the huge paw of the mighty Trekur Lender, and the tiny Gaelle
had to stand on tiptoe as Dag bent down to receive her kiss of welcome.
“Come in, come
in all of you,” Pascal beamed. “We have much to talk of, yes? Tell us all about
your travels. We did not expect your return so soon, daughter. We understood
you would visit Trekur Lende and acquaint yourself with your new home.”
He turned a
questioning gaze on his daughter, who quickly ducked her head. A shadow passed
across Fanchon’s delicate face, as when a cloud hides the warmth of the sun
from a flower. She shook her curls slightly and affected a laugh.
‘Not now,
Father, but later after we have rested, I will tell you and my Mother all about
our adventures. Now we are in need of some rest, for we have traveled far this
day. May we retire to our chambers for a while?”
“Of course!”
Pascal blinked and turned to the others. “You shall stay as our guests, for we
have many spare rooms. Come, you may retire for a few hours before the evening
meal.”
He summoned an
attendant with the aid of a little silver bell that lay on a small marble table.
Through the door entered a small, slim young woman who was as dark as Fanchon
was fair. Her oval face with its sculpted features seemed as impassive as a
house that is shuttered for the winter. Thick dark lashes masked eyes cast
modestly down as effectively as a curtain hiding a room from the gaze of the
curious. A bracelet coiled above her left elbow proclaimed her status for all
to see.
Marcus
realized with a sense of shock that he had not seen a slave since they stayed
at the palace of the Ashkani a few months ago. So used to seeing free men had
he become that it was startling to see a servant who was owned by another
person, their property to do with what he wished.
The thought
that this lovely creature must live her life at the mercy of the whims of
others filled him with a sense of outrage at the injustice of it, and Marcus
knew that he had truly changed. How often had his demands been met by the
slaves his father owned, and not once had he ever given thought to their
status. Had he ever considered them as human beings with feelings and dreams of
their own that had been trampled by those who possessed them? No; the truth was
that he had not. The admission filled him with shame.
The small band
followed the slave girl through the spacious villa as she led them to their
chambers. Her sandaled feet made barely a whisper on the hardwood floors, and
she ascended the wooden staircase with a posture as erect as Tullia’s. Marcus
found himself wondering from what aristocratic home she had been snatched, for he
knew that only slaves of the highest pedigree were chosen for house attendants.
She first
escorted Fanchon and Kyrene to their chambers; then showed the young men and
Cort to a separate wing of the house. The villa was large enough that each had
their own room, a luxury they had not enjoyed for some time.
As the girl
bowed and turned to leave them, Marcus halted her retreat.
“Pardon me,
lady,” he began as she turned back to him. “May I ask for your name?”
The girl
lowered her eyes demurely, or was it sullenly, Marcus wondered, and responded
in a subdued monotone.
“My name is
Elena,” she replied with downcast eyes.
“Well then,
Elena,” Marcus answered her. “Thank you for your kindness in escorting us to
our chambers.”
And he bowed
slightly to her.
Elena lifted a
startled gaze. Her black eyes blinked at Marcus, and she flushed slightly.
Plainly at a loss for words, she merely bowed down from the waist.
“Is there
anything else my lords require of their servant?” she asked in a voice as sweet
as honey in the comb.
“No, I think
not,” Marcus responded as he bestowed a smile on the girl.
Elena bowed
again as she lowered her eyes once more. Then she walked backwards from their
presence and left them swiftly.
Felix gazed
after her with a slight frown puckering his brow. He turned to Marcus with a
puzzled air.
“May I
inquire, my friend, why you chose to embarrass that young lady by engaging her
in conversation? It is not the usual custom with slaves, you know.”
“And a shame
it is!” Marcus snapped at his friend. “Are not slaves people such as ourselves,
whose only misfortune is to be taken by violence from their homes and forced to
serve heedless masters in a strange land?” he exclaimed in his newly found
outrage.
“Well, yes,
when you phrase it that way,” Felix admitted, as his frown deepened. “I suppose
I never really thought about it before, really. And perhaps you never did
either,” he remarked in a sudden flash of perception. “You have changed, my
friend.”
“Yes,” Marcus
said slowly, his own patrician brow creased by a frown. “I never noticed the slaves
in my father’s house, except when I required their services. I only saw them as
attendants to answer my needs, and never gave thought to them as people; people
that had been seized, their own lives interrupted and the only life they knew
ended. And all because of the caprice of a foreign invader who decided to rob
them of what was rightfully theirs.”
Marcus stared
into space, heedless of his companions. No one spoke for a long moment. Then
Dag laid a hand on the shoulder of his friend.
“You have
changed, yah? It is good, my friend. Once you were cold. You did not see things
as they are. But now you are kind. You care for the poor of the earth. Dominio
will be pleased, yah?”
Felix chuckled
and nodded his head.
“Well said, Dag.
Well said, indeed. And now, off to bed, for of sleep Cort has need!”
And Felix
casually picked up the yawning Cort, who seemed ready to drop on his feet.
The
conversation ended in a burst of laughter as they bade each other a good night
and retired to their rooms.