The Blood Star (58 page)

It was a stark little narrative, yet all that
had been left out of it—and that, no doubt, was much—was visible in
the worn, sullen faces of these two boys and their mother. I could
see the bitterness of their hatred, which included Ducerius, their
neighbors, and even myself. And I did not resent this, though I was
innocent of all that had befallen them, for it was natural that
they should hate the whole world. When one has been sufficiently
wronged, nothing can set it right again.

“What is your name?” I asked of the elder
son.

“Tullus, son of Servius.”

“And your brother?”

“Icilius.”

“And your mother?”

“Tanaquil.”

“Then you may sleep in the barn for now,
Tullus, son of Servius. It is a poor place, but it will keep the
rain off. We will find better for you if you choose to stay. But
first you must rest and eat and find your strength again, for you
are of no use to anyone the way you are. When that is done, you and
your brother will help in the fields, and my woman, whose name is
Selana, will find work in the house to occupy your mother. I, by
the way, am Tiglath, son of Sennacherib.”

Tullus translated my words for his mother,
the woman Tanaquil, and when she understood she wept and threw
herself to the ground to kiss my feet. This was an embarrassment
not only to me but to her sons, who were shamed that their mother
should abase herself thus before a stranger. I raised her from her
knees and gave her into Selana’s care.

“I see that the Lord Kephalos, whom you call
a physician, has had his ear notched,” said Tullus as he and his
brother walked with me to the barn. “Is he your slave?”

“He was once, long ago, but we have been
through much together since then. Now he is only my friend.”

“And will you notch our ears too?”

“No—and I did not notch his, for he was
captured by soldiers in a place called Tyre and it was much later
that he came into my possession, when I was myself yet a boy, not
any older than you are now.”

I looked at him and smiled, but he did not
return my smile. His mind turned only on the injustice of all that
had befallen him, of which now I was a part.

“I will not mark you as my property,” I said.
“You and I both know what we have a right to expect from one
another, and that is enough. If this farm prospers, then we will
all prosper together, and if it fails I will be no less a beggar
than yourself. Be at peace with me, Tullus, son of Servius, for I
too know what it is to be an exile, to be driven from one’s home by
the wrath of a king. It is a bitter thing to lose one’s
birthright.”

Our eyes met for an instant, and I could see
that he did not understand. How could he have understood? Yet it
formed the basis for an eventual bond of sympathy.

Still, things were not immediately easy
between us, for the pride of youth does not grow supple all at
once. Mother and brother presented no such difficulties—Tanaquil,
who felt only gratitude and was, I suspect, by nature a submissive
creature, developed an admiration of Selana that was almost
worshipful, as if she herself and not the “
Domna
,” the
mistress, as she called her, were the younger of the two. Selana,
who gave herself no proprietary airs and perhaps had missed the
companionship of another of her sex, treated the Sicel woman as an
equal. And little Icilius was still only a child, without fear or
self-consciousness, and surrendered quickly to a smile and a kind
word, even if the word was Greek and he could not understand
it.

And in the days that followed, Tullus as well
gradually yielded up his hostility and learned once more to take a
certain pleasure in life. He understood farming and knew how to
work, so I listened to his suggestions and left him to do things in
his own way, allowing him to be a man among other men. When he saw
that he was treated with respect, he at last forgave us.

“I think they will do well enough,” I
remarked one day to Kephalos, after they had been with us a time.
“All are good workers and the elder is a born farmer.”

But Kephalos only shook his head, a look of
worry clouding his eyes. I knew what was troubling him, and I could
not help but laugh.

“You are jealous of Ganymedes’ interest in
Tullus,” I said. “But you need not concern yourself, for if I read
the thing rightly Ganymedes is foredoomed to disappointment—Tullus
has no such inclination.”

“Still, Lord, I see evil coming from this
business. Perhaps you would have been wiser to keep your generous
instincts under better control.”

I laughed again, not knowing that my friend
spoke with the voice of prophecy.

I could not, however, believe that I had
misplaced my confidence in these two boys. With their help our
second harvest was more than twice as great as our first, and in
this Tullus seemed to take as much pride as if the land had been
his own and his fathers’ before him for a thousand years.

He had been right to have expected evil at
our hands and to have dreaded his lot, for the Greeks, I
discovered, treated their slaves wretchedly. But the Greeks, though
they were bad masters, were at least preferable to Ducerius, who
trampled over all his people, free and slave, as if they were the
very dust. I had not realized how utterly he was hated until I
heard Tullus’ words against him, each one sharp as the blade of a
copper knife. Other stories as well made their way to us—the whole
countryside, it seemed, festered like a putrid boil.

And increasingly it was not only the Sicels
who complained, but the Greeks as well. Brigands came down from
their mountain strongholds and ranged through the flatlands,
plundering farms as freely as dogs steal scraps in the bazaar, and
the king did nothing to prevent them.

One afternoon, eight days before the Festival
of Mounichion, when the trees have found their leaves again, my
neighbor Epeios came by leading his fine horse, which was burdened
with sacks of food.

“You remember Teucer?” he asked, “the one who
spoke so eloquently at your house-building in praise of kingship?
He was raided night before last. I am on my way there now.”

“I will go with you,” I answered. “We can
take the wagon—how bad was it?”

“I know nothing more than that Teucer
lives.”

When the wagon was ready and Epeios had
tethered his horse to it and sat beside me on the bench, Selana
came out of the house with a large bundle in her arms.

“I will come too,” she said, climbing into
the back. “His woman may need assistance.”

This was so obvious that Epeios and I
exchanged a glance, as if to inquire of each other why neither of
us had thought of it.

Teucer’s farm was some four hours from mine,
and it was almost nightfall before we arrived. The wagons of
several less distant neighbors stood about in the yard and there
were perhaps thirty men and women about, most of whom I knew by
then. I did not see Teucer among them.

The farmhouse showed clear evidence of having
been put to the torch—one wall was badly scorched and half the roof
would have to be replaced. Otherwise there was little to show how
much else had been lost in the raid.

Teucer had no reputation as a man of energy,
and his farm was a small affair, with no more than five or six
plethra
of land under cultivation and only a few
domesticated animals, enough to provide a living for himself and
his wife but no more. His house and barns were shabby in
appearance, as if the master had neither time nor inclination to
keep them up. I could not help but wonder what brigands found in
such poverty to tempt them.

It would appear they had not even been
tempted by Teucer’s woman Ctimene, for she was laid out on a table
in the farmhouse kitchen with a ragged wound just above her left
breast. Thus, as it turned out, the only assistance Selana could
give her was to join with the other women in preparing her for
burial.

Teucer crouched on a stool beside the table,
tears streaming down his leathery face as he watched them clean the
blood from her corpse and wrap it for the fire.

“This will finish him,” Epeios murmured to me
as we stepped outside again. “Some men are lost without their
wives. It has nothing to do with love—even if each hates the other,
they cannot function without a push from behind. Teucer is that
kind. He will not know what to do with himself now. He will go to
pieces. And I believe he was fond of her.”

Inquiry revealed that all the brigands had
stolen—perhaps all there had been to steal—was one broken-winded
old horse, good for nothing except pulling a plow. It seemed an
inexplicable piece of mischief. Finally a number of us collected in
Teucer’s barn to discuss the matter.

“Why did they kill Ctimene?” someone asked.
“This farm is not close to the mountains, and no one else in the
neighborhood was raided—why go to so much trouble, and spill blood,
for nothing but a worthless old horse?”

“Perhaps their dogs were hungry.”

Everyone laughed at this, but it was not an
answer so much as a comment on the senselessness of this crime.

“Perhaps they believed they would find
more.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Everyone
knows that Teucer is poor. Even I knew it, and I have been only a
few months on this island. Except to ruin him, I cannot understand
what their object could have been.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, as if I
had unwittingly spoken the truth they had all been struggling hard
not to mention.

“Still, something must be done.”

Diocles the Spartan stood up from where he
had been sitting on an empty harness box. He was a squat man with
black hair and a black beard, and his face was as red as if he had
been drinking wine all morning—he always looked thus, although he
was a man of the most abstemious habits. His hands moved
impatiently as he spoke.

“If they will raid Teucer, they will raid any
of us—no one is safe now, that is obvious. By the Mouse God’s
navel, we cannot wait patiently to be looted and murdered at the
convenience of these bandits.”

He sat down again and looked around at us
defiantly, challenging anyone to disagree. This, of course, was
impossible.

“Yet these men are many—they have horses and
arms, and when they have done their wickedness they vanish back
into the mountains like shadows. We are but farmers. What can we
do?”

“Even a farmer knows enough to cut the head
off a snake,” I said. “I keep an iron sword beside my sleeping mat,
and I am sure it is not the only weapon in Greek hands. There are
lions in the mountains as well as men, or so one hears. Let us hunt
one as we would the other.”

“Lions do not fight back,” Epeios said.

Had I wished to prove him wrong I had only to
remove my tunic and show him the scars I carried on my chest and
shoulder, but I did not.

In any case, it did not seem to be a popular
suggestion.

“This is a matter for the king to settle,”
said Halitherses the Ithacan, after a long silence. He was nearly
seventy and had lived on this island longer than any other Greek.
Many thought of him as a wise man. “It is the duty of kings to
protect their subjects, and we all acknowledge the sovereignty of
Ducerius and pay his taxes.”

“He has no love for the Greeks,” someone
answered. There was a general murmur of agreement.

“Yet he is still king here, and dealing with
bandits is a king’s province.”

“Yes, he deals with them—for a portion of
their spoils.”

There was much laughter at this and it made
Halitherses grow wrathful, as old men will.

“What else would you do?” he shouted. “Follow
Tiglath into the mountains and end there with your throats cut?
No—I thought not!”

“He is right. Let us appeal to the king
before we do anything mad.” Epeios glanced at me as he spoke,
raising his eyebrows as if to suggest, I am still your friend,
though I speak against you when you propose folly.

“Yes, let us appeal to Ducerius,” I answered.
“Certainly he would consider it an act of defiance if we did not.
Kings grow uneasy when their subjects take up arms on their
own.”

Halitherses was very pleased.

“Then we are in agreement?” he asked, looking
from face to face.

We were. I even consented to make one of the
delegation. We would ride to the king’s citadel the day after
next.

But first there was the funeral of Ctimene to
be attended to.

A group of us stayed up through the night
with Teucer, for there was anxiety that if left alone he might try
to harm himself. Thus the men at least were rather sullen with
excess of wine the next morning, when in the gray light the
murdered woman’s corpse, wrapped in linen and purified with wine
and spices, was laid upon a pyre which Teucer, as her husband, set
to the torch.

The logs were from a fresh-cut beech tree,
still full of pitch so they burned hot and fast. It was not even
two hours before the ashes were cool enough to allow us to gather
up Ctimene’s bones for burial in a bronze jar.

Epeios rode back to his own farm by a
different route, and thus Selana and I were alone together in the
wagon as we drove home in silence.

At last, when she attempted to say something,
she began to weep. I put my arm across her trembling shoulders,
holding the reins with my free hand.

“You do well to weep,” I hold her. “And not
only for Ctimene’s sake. I am very afraid these may be the last
days of peace.”

XXV

The embassy from the Greeks included five
others besides myself, and the Lord of the Sicels kept us waiting
in the courtyard of his stronghold for three days. Halitherses, who
had been on terms of friendship with Ducerius’ father, was almost
as much overcome by the insult as by the hardship of being forced
at his age to sleep so many nights on the cold ground. When the
time came for speaking, the old man could hardly find his
voice.