Aries Fire (25 page)

He grinned and she pushed his shoulders backwards.  Seira did not notice how effortlessly they communed after not seeing each other for years or not knowing each other for very long. 

An ocean of feelings swelled in Seira.  An illusory love affair with a man she’d not seen in a lifetime beset by pending brutality shook her to her feet.

“I must think,” she said.  “I will go to Attila,” she said, deciding.

“Seira,” he said. “Seirrra,” he whispered like a lover in the dark.

Seira looked at him and softened. She knelt beside him. Alexander drew her to him with the palm of his hand.  She felt his even breath on her lips.  They kissed, lips parted slightly, pressed lightly for the sake of an endless moment. For the first time in years, Bleda evaporated like a drop of water on a heated skillet and a forgotten freedom came into being in Alexander’s arms.

His breath sweet, her mouth inviting. Footsteps approached. Seira suddenly sat up, ending their eternity.

The flap to the tent swung wide.  Attila entered.  He saw one man lying half dead on his back.  Seira stood by the other who began to rise.  Attila put a quick hand to a sword.

“No!” Seira beckoned and threw her hands forward.  “Attila,” she said and paused.

Attila looked at her and at the muscular man who stood, arms at his side. Seira approached Attila.

“Attila, he is…” she started not knowing how to finish.  “He is here for me.”

Attila listened without moving his stare from Alexander.

“He is Alexander.  He is…”

Seira looked at Alexander with an expression Attila recognized between Aymelek and Mundzuk.  It was a telling appearance, one that Seira would never have for Attila.

“He is my love,” she barely said.

Attila whipped his head to look intently at Seira. This shocking news entered Attila as a blade.  Seira placed a gentle touch on his arm, urging him to release his grip from the sword hilt.  Attila looked at Alexander, who remained statuesque and serene.  Alexander surmised Seira was about to be accused as a cuckold.  He graciously and humbly held the moment and respected the ruler of the house. 

Attila walked to Alexander and circled him like a predator circling its prey.  He measured him, smelled and sensed him.  Alexander kept his eyes on Seira.  Attila grunted.  Seira sighed, relieved.

“Aya,” he said to Seira while looking at Alexander.  “Then you will have cause to know the plan.”

Seira’s heart saddened for Attila.  They were both resolved to live with each other, never touching flesh.  Platonic warriors seemed as absurd to Seira as illiterate teachers. No, this was not the way of it.  The stars showed Seira a road home, back to herself.  Seira put a hand on Attila’s shoulder.  She looked at him with kindness.  He returned the look making sure Alexander did not see.  Seira honored this warrior who taught her how to be brave in the darkest moments of fear.  Her hand slowly fell from his shoulder.  Attila accepted Seira’s silent praises.

“To my…” Attila was about to suggest that they follow him to his house but quickly changed his mind, “…To my battle tent,” he finally said and walked out.

Alexander and Seira looked at one another in silence with more questions than answers.  Alexander was content to ride the waves of life’s flow. Seira, moved by impatience and anxiety, needed her questions answered immediately.  They followed Attila.

“Why are you dressed as a Roman soldier?” she asked quietly to Alexander.

He was about to answer when he saw Attila at his tent, staring at them.  Seira could only wonder what thoughts ransacked his mind.  Attila pushed through his tent flap.  Kiral stood in the shadows.  Alexander kept a watchful eye on him and the size of his sword, but Seira was comforted by his presence.  She nodded at Alexander with assurance. 

Attila motioned for them to sit.  He spoke with directness.

“You are the sea man?”

By the stars! Her mind burst into thought. He knew!

Seira showed her confusion, but knew enough not to interrupt Attila while he construed a strategy. Attila knew who Alexander was and waited for Seira to decide which man she chose. She sought Attila’s attention for forgiveness, for gratitude, and to honor him with the respect he so carefully showed her.

Alexander nodded. “I am.”

Attila took a moment to scratch his chin, plucking at stray hairs.  Seira knew how fast his mind formulated. Casting her sight on Alexander and back to Attila her feelings remained mixed.

“Rhetman, we join Bleda and Ruga in Constantinople.  We meet with the Deacon.  They will pay tribute to the Huns or we attack Rome.”

Seira’s mind swam in the complexities of the information. 

How did he know Alexander sailed?  What part does Alexander play in this?

She suddenly no longer wished to be with the Huns. Why did she care if they attacked Rome?  Alexander sat next to her.  Her mind needed to grasp what position she now held with the Huns.  Attila acted as if nothing had changed.  For Seira, her whole world opened to another one as the old world collapsed rapidly.  How could things remain as they were?

“Yes, Attila, but what…how did you know Alexander sailed?”

“Bleda,” he said, looking at her.

Seira wanted to scream at hearing his name.  She needed to tell Alexander everything that happened and yet wished there were a way to annihilate the past without eliciting violent memories or actions.  Seira longed to touch Alexander but dared not in Attila’s presence.  Deeper than that, she feared she’d never be able to touch the man she loved because of Bleda.

I must be calm to hear wisdom, she urged herself. 

Her truth remained, she was still very much part of the Huns.  She resolved to let go of her fiery haste and trust Attila.

“What must we do?”

“The sea man takes Bleda and his army by ship to Seraglio.  There he waits for word from Attila.  We go to Constantinople.  Ruga and Attila dictate conditions to the Deacon. Evet?”

Seira and Alexander nodded.  Attila poured wine into a large cup, drank, and refilled his cup. Seira watched him closely.  His drinking increased in a matter of minutes. The smell of sour wine extracted a vile memory.

“Aya,” he said.

Seira looked into Alexander’s eyes.  He smiled with hope.

“Attila,” Seira said,  “And what of Bleda?” she asked.

He looked at Alexander and then at Seira.

“A warrior becomes experienced by being defeated; a scholar by making mistakes.  Defeat and mistakes we have left in the past,” he said.

She smiled briefly at his wisdom.  He flared his eyes at her.  A distinct look of leadership commingled with brutality in his expression.  Attila, no longer a boy, assumed his role as future khan. Alexander stood quietly, marveled by the implications of their relationship, intrigued by Attila’s proverb and struck by Seira’s profound maturity. He kept silent, but ever observant.

Attila has already moved on, Seira realized, but not untrue to me.

Three hundred Hun warriors marched in disarray.  Bleda led them to the coast with Alexander, his captive, and the wounded prisoner.  Seira looked surprised to see the wounded prisoner alive. He was an old man with a worn, worried face.  Perhaps with Seira acting as physician gave him another chance.  She felt a small measure of accomplishment.

Seira held a fervent hope that Alexander would return to her, unharmed.  Life would be cruel to take him now.

Seira turned her horse to face Attila, who already held a blank stare upon her.  With all of her intuition, Seira seldom knew his thoughts.  She smiled weakly and kicked her horse.  They rode to Constantinople to meet the Deacon at the Imperial palace.  Bleda would sail to Seraglio point, just northeast of Theodosius’s great double wall. 

Attila and Ruga planned to trap the Emperor between the palace and the sea if their terms were unmet.

Seira wondered how Attila’s uncle Ruga would behave.  She hoped Ruga emulated Mundzuk’s ability to lead with fairness and objectivity.

She prayed for Alexander while he traveled with Bleda.  It seemed as if her life moved forward with the past dragging just behind.  She sensed that soon, her past and future would meet, bringing her to a decisive present, where she would choose her fate.

Bishop Cyril and Deacon Leo arrived in Constantinople.  Emperor Theodosius ll greeted them in the great hall, his wife, Aelia Licinia Eudocia, of thirteen years, sat beside him.  The Emperor carried a concerned look.  His round, balding head bore creased lines of age on pale, oily skin.  Pressures of politics weighed on him.  The loss of two of their three children did not show in Eudocia’s dignified countenance.  Her light brown hair, curled atop her head, neatly spiraled her gold leaf headdress.  Eudocia, a cultured woman of means, smiled a dutiful welcome.  Green eyes surrounded by soft, tiny wrinkles gave her a motherly appearance.

“Dearest Deacon Leo,” she said warmly.  “And the Bishop of Alexandria, I bid you welcome to our home,” she nodded.

“Yes, do come and rest. The journey must have been horrid,” the Emperor said quickly, with a blinking twitch that revealed his consumed with political minutiae.

“These caravans are least desirable in the warmer months,” Deacon Leo bowed.

“We are eager to discuss your plan of attack,” Cyril said.

Leo glared at him then turned to the Empress and smiled his holiest of smiles.

“We are also eager to bow to your generous hospitality, Madame,” he said.

Leo walked toward her, his hand extended. She rose from her seat and took his hand.  Cyril watched with impatience as Leo bowed again to the Empress.  The Empress curtsied and kissed his ring.

Eudocia took Leo by the arm.

“Perhaps you would care to join me on a walk, to stretch your body of weary travel?”

“With the greatest of pleasures, Madame Empress.”

“Let me show you the library. We have many new additions,” she said.

Eudocia glanced at her husband who stood and walked toward them.

“Yes, yes, I shall look toward our discussion after a much needed meal.”

Theodosius turned toward Cyril.

“Join me, Bishop.  Meet the General who guards the palace. He will give us the latest news,” he said, raising his arm toward the end of the hall.

Theodosius ll relied heavily upon his army.  He feared the Huns above all else.  Soon, three of the most terrifying men who existed in all the world would enter his home.  Theodosius prayed they would leave without incident.

“Of course, Emperor.  Might I also see the church so that I might pray to God for our cause?” Cyril said.

“Yes, yes, please forgive me, Bishop Cyril.  My mind has been beset by, well,” he interrupted himself.  “I shall have you escorted immediately.”

Attila’s army marched through Turkey.  They reached the Bosporus Sea and camped at Chrysopolis.  The dry, near barren soil kept villages from taking root here. Harsh, mountainous regions hid Attila’s army well.  Ridges towered over eight thousand feet.  He kept guards alert for Bleda.  Seira stood on a ridge and thought about past times when she might have jumped, even if only in her own mind, taking Bleda with her, making certain that he was dead before she herself magically walked away unharmed.

Seira felt lightheaded in this climate and altitude. A constant ringing in her ears caused familiar headaches.  She suddenly realized that warring or tending to wounded and sick seemed the only temporary remedy for her headaches.

The Roman parish in Chrysopolis paled to those in larger cities.  The Bishop Stehpanus and a handful of monks lived isolated from other Romans.  Their job was a bleak one, made in the name of divine education.  The Skypetar and the Arnaut mountaineers separated themselves from Turkey long ago and claimed this region for themselves.  They cared not for Roman holy men who preached salvation in death from the one living God. 

Days passed in the Hun encampment.  Seira lived through the days like any other, caring for the sick with her medicines.  She needed to be engaged in anything that promoted life.  Several of the women who traveled with the army were due to deliver their children.  One new mother and her baby died soon after birth. Infection set in and she had bled to death in the night. Her baby was weak and scrawny. His life ended before the sun rose.

Seira midwifed another mother in labor. 

“Zorluk!” Seira called loudly to the woman. “Push this baby out,” she said as she reached a hand inside the mother. “I cannot do it alone, woman.”

The woman wriggled her legs, arched her back, then leaned forward. She held her breath.

“Zorluk! Push!” Seira said.

Short panting, and then one primal growl and the baby was born.

“Kiz. A girl,” Seira said, and smiled.

The new mother cried and laughed.

A teenage girl attended Seira and the mother.  The teenage girl helped to push the placenta from the womb.  Seira cleaned her mess. 

The baby cried, “eh-ya, eh-ya.”

Seira washed her hands and looked at the little girl.

Another girl in this fiendish world, she thought and sighed.

She suddenly wondered if she would ever be with Alexander again.  Afraid to think anymore, she went to her tent.  Seira lay down, slept, and dreamed.   Disjointed images disturbed her.  Gone were the visions of her youth.  She slept restlessly and awoke unexpectedly.  Her feelings were confused.

I am weary, is all.

Seira knew that Attila rarely slept. He was like Seira in that way. Both full of anticipated expectations that life would occur without them.  They had spent many nights greeting the day after discussions of philosophy, the stars, and battle tactics.

The hour was late.  She entered Attila’s tent and regretted never living in his house, now that she knew it would never happen. Seira realized that she had many opportunities to leave the Huns but simply forgot that it was ever an option.  When they did not war, the Huns lived in established villages.  They preferred stone houses to grass huts. Seira smiled at her need to live in a tent like an outcast leper.

How did I forget that I had choice? How does one forget such a thing? She wondered. I’ve forgotten many things, it seems.