Disconcerted, her heart pounding, Fanina looked at him....
No, this was not the repugnant face of the brutish creature she had imagined!
It was the most handsome face she had ever seen on a man; the face of a warrior-god, admirable in its perfection, with a broad, high forehead, framed with short curls so unnaturally white that they paradoxically accentuated the impression of eternal youth emanating from his pure, virile features.
He was the very godlike image of the adventurer, the hunter, the eternal conqueror, the very image of the man of prey, with his finely chiselled nose and strong chin, whose implacable hardness was tempered by the voluptuous curve of his half-open lips that revealed strong, white teeth.
It could not be. She must be dreaming. She must be under the influence of some spell.
Fanina briskly turned back the dwarf’s coarse russet cloak, to discover beneath it an exceedingly fine woollen tunic, far too soft and luxurious compared with the rough homespun of his badly cut hose and the undressed leather of his heavy military boots. In utter astonishment she examined the beautifully tooled scabbard, studded with precious stones, holding his heavy cutlass with its blade encrusted with delicate gold motifs that hung from the tattered nondescript leather strap that served him as a belt.
Everything about this strange figure was paradox and contrast. How could this fascinating face, like that of a hero of legend, go with those ridiculously short, twisted buffoon’s legs, with those inordinately long, extraordinarily muscular arms belonging to a carrier or porter, with those frightening hands with their network of huge blue veins that looked as if they were ready to burst?
And what was the meaning of that iron ring on the thumb of his right hand, that broad black ring with the huge, square, smooth, unembellished bezel pierced with a hole? It was a barbaric, enigmatic jewel, like the man to whom it had belonged, the man who, dead and unmasked, had become even more mysterious, disturbing and irritating.
But she had not really searched him. Perhaps his clothes concealed some message, some document hidden in one of the seams or in the hem.
Frenziedly Fanina drew open the dead man’s tunic and gave a cry. She should not have done it! She should not have disobeyed the interdict!
A gigantic hand had gripped her by the shoulder and was clasping her with superhuman strength, crushing her to the dwarf’s breast, a hard breast, rounded like a bronze shield, that rose and fell spasmodically.
The dead man was coming to life. Scarce breathing and paralysed with terror, Fanina could feel his hoarse panting breath, occasionally interrupted before beginning again on a powerful exhalation punctuated by a deep groan of pain.
He was crushing her, smashing her. Slowly and inexorably he drew her towards his face, as if he wanted to identify her before punishing her for having had the audacity to touch him.
Emerging from her superstitious apathy, Fanina began to struggle with all the strength of despair. Then someone suddenly appeared before her, someone with a great holly stick in one hand, someone battering repeatedly at the dwarf’s uncovered head . . .
‘Stop!’
The dwarf’s grip had suddenly loosened. Her eyes still clouded, without waiting to get her breath, Fanina rushed towards the man who was waiting, stick raised, to strike again.
‘Stop,’ she repeated.
The man looked at her in stupefaction. She recognized him as the old shepherd who had come, some few hours earlier, to the temple to tell Atia about the discovery of Xychus’ body.
‘I’d rather break the cursed dog’s skull,’ he growled.
‘Throw that stick away!’
Still trembling, the old man obeyed, while Fanina frantically fell to her knees beside the dwarf and lifted his battered head.
‘You’ve finished him off! You’ve killed him!’ she wailed in despair.
‘If I had not killed him, illustrious Bella, it’s you who would have been killed!’ growled the shepherd.
He could not understand. Had he been still alive, the dwarf would have been more precious to Fanina than anyone else on earth. For had he been alive, he could have talked. He might perhaps, on the threshold of death, have consented to lift the veil that hid the purpose of his past actions. Every word she could have wrung from him would have facilitated the task she was about to undertake. Still growling, the shepherd stepped round Kald’s body and knelt down beside Fanina.
‘I saw it all from up there, illustrious Bella,’ he explained. ‘Atia asked me to find the wagon that had belonged to the man they fished from the Arminia this morning. Child’s play. All I had to do was to follow the wheel-marks over the heath. I got here just as those two were tumbling down into the ravine. If I had had any idea that this midget could have survived such a fall, I would have come down sooner ...’
Fanina was not listening to him. She was tearing the dwarf’s tunic apart and pressing her ear to his chest where she had laid it bare.
‘His heart is still beating,’ she said in a strangled voice.
‘Yes, he’s still alive,’ the shepherd agreed. ‘But I still fail to see what value the life of a villain like him can have to you.’
Fanina was already up again. She ran towards the torrent, dipped her handkerchief in and came back to wipe the wounded man’s blood-stained forehead, repeating feverishly:
‘We must bring him round! We must bring him round!’
The shepherd got up slowly.
‘In the state he is in, it’s not with water that you will make him better, illustrious Bella,’ he said indolently. ‘His heartbeat is very weak and irregular, like the heartbeat of a man about to die. But if you really want to try, we might have time to fetch Atia.’
Fanina scowled and looked hard at him:
‘Atia? Why Atia?’ she asked sharply.
The old man looked at her in astonishment.
‘Because there is only one person in all the world who can save him, and that’s Atia. Don’t you know, illustrious Bella, that people come from far and wide for the medicine she makes?’
Feeling her bruised shoulder, Fanina thought feverishly. The gods had placed the dwarf in her path. If Atia was the only person who could save him then she must take him back to the temple.
‘We must not go for Atia,’ she told the shepherd. ‘We must carry him to her to save time.’
‘What an idea, illustrious Bella!’ the old man protested. ‘It’s a long time since I had the strength to lift a man as heavy as him!’
‘I’ll carry him myself, if I have to!’ Fanina retorted sharply. ‘Just you cut me two sticks; I shan’t ask anything more of you.’
Cowed, the shepherd drew a bill-hook from his wolf-skin coat. Several young pine trees were growing half-way up the side of the ravine and he walked towards them with heavy tread.
Above her Fanina could hear the sharp blows of the shepherd’s bill-hook as he felled and stripped the young pine trees of their branches. With her cheek glued to the dwarf’s chest, she held her breath. The injured man’s heart was still beating, but weakly, very weakly, as if it might stop at any moment...
‘Here you are, illustrious Bella.’
The shepherd had come back. Fanina swiftly seized the two poles he had brought back and laid them on either side of the dwarf. Then, in silence, his face expressionless, the shepherd helped her tie the wounded man to the two poles. When they had done, he took one of the shafts of the improvised stretcher.
‘You didn’t really think I’d let you set off alone, did you?’ he growled. ‘My name is Velthur, illustrious Bella, and I am the brother of old Ramtha whom you were so kind as to nurse yesterday. I know how much I owe you.’
Fanina came resolutely and stood beside him, then, taking hold of the other pole, lifted it up.
‘There’s a footbridge farther up the river over the rocks,’ the old man went on. ‘After that we’ll find a path that takes us straight to the burial ground.’
‘Let’s start!’ cut in Fanina.
And dragging
the dwarf behind them, they set off.
Chapter Eight
Fighting back the anger which was rising within her, Fanina seized the amphora that Atia held out to her and stalked rapidly off in the direction of the ravine.
Ever since she had brought the dwarf back to the temple the day before, nothing had turned out as she had hoped.
The return journey had been an inexpressible nightmare. The dwarf was so heavy and the terrain they had to cross so rough that Velthur and Fanina had in the end been obliged to stop, worn out, and with aching limbs, every ten paces or so to get their breath.
Every time they stopped, Fanina bent down and applied her ear to the breast of the wounded dwarf. His heart was still beating slowly and unevenly, and it sometimes seemed to hesitate before beginning again still more feebly.
He was going to die! She must save his life! She must wrest his secrets from him!
These words that she kept on repeating to herself acted on her like a lash. She would get up again quickly and seize one of the poles in her bruised, cut and bleeding hands; then, shoulder to shoulder with the shepherd, staggering, her legs leaden with weariness, she would set off again.
Night was falling as the temple came in sight. Atia must have been on the look-out for them, for she rushed up to them, her face ashen and tense.
‘Save him!’ cried Fanina, while Velthur, omitting any mention of the blows he had struck with his cudgel to save Fanina, explained:
‘He fell from the top of the ravine while he was fighting with a kind of tattooed giant.’
‘And the other man?’ Atia asked in rasping tones.
‘Dead.’
‘What does the other man matter? Save this one!’ Fanina interrupted.
Already the dwarf no longer belonged to her. The old woman had taken him over. Single-handed, with incredible strength, she had dragged him off into the depths of the temple and had ordered Fanina to go to the spring for some cold water. Just to get rid of her, Fanina was convinced, just as she had got rid of Velthur after making him swear not to reveal anything of what had occurred.
Atia knew the dwarf, of that there was no shadow of doubt, and the fact that he had been rendered helpless came as a terrible shock to her. One only had to look at the old woman’s face as she bustled feverishly about his bedside to be convinced of that.
And Atia did not want Fanina at hand when the dwarf came out of his coma. All evening and for part of the night, while she lavished massages and potions on him, she had kept on giving Fanina all kinds of tasks that kept her near the entrance to the temple. All evening and part of the night, light-headed with fatigue, fighting against sleep as it sought to overcome her, straining her ears to hear what was going on at the back of the temple, she had obeyed Atia’s orders without question, since Atia was the only person who could save the dwarf.
Then, without warning, she had suddenly fallen asleep.
The old woman had been careful not to wake her, and when, still sitting on the chest where she had been so unwise as to relax for a moment, to ease the pain in her legs, Fanina opened her eyes again, the dwarf had already come round.
Atia was talking to him, and Fanina could hear the words she spoke; guttural words belonging to a northern tongue akin to the germanic dialects the young girl had studied:
‘Listen to me, now ... the man you killed ... he was the one, wasn’t he? He was the one you pointed out to me? Was he alone? You’re sure. He couldn’t have warned anyone, could he?’
Fanina rushed down the gallery.
The dwarf lay on his mattress with half-closed eyes, his head bound tightly in a network of bandages, but this time the great hands resting on his chest were moving.
Atia, her face lined, red-eyed through lack of sleep, stood in Fanina’s way, and said curtly:
‘I need some fresh water. Go to the spring, will you?’
Gritting her teeth, Fanina seized the amphora Atia held out to her and stalked across the cemetery towards the ravine.
No. Ever since she had brought the dwarf back to the temple, nothing Had gone as she had hoped. Things could not go on like this, she said to herself over and over again, as she climbed down towards the torrent. She must not have returned to the temple for nothing. She must not have postponed for nothing the moment when she would be reunited with Vindex.
Trembling, she plunged her face and arms into the icy water, gave them a good rub, then stood up again, calm and resolute. She would act forthwith.
When she put down the full amphora at the entrance to the temple, Atia was there waiting for her. Showing her some small bags full of dried herbs that she had set out on top of the big black chest, the old woman said:
‘Would you be able to make up this potion? I’ve written the formula on this tablet.’
‘I hope so,’ Fanina replied.
As Atia went back to the dwarf’s bedside, Fanina looked over the formula the old woman had given her and bit her lips. As far as she could judge from the knowledge she had acquired, this concoction, which necessitated extremely delicate operations, made no sense at all. Atia was making a fool of her.
Her suspicions were at once confirmed.
‘That will keep her busy for some of the morning,’ the old woman was saying to the dwarf in the nordic tongue she used to speak to him. ‘And meanwhile she won’t keep on bothering us.’
There were all manner of plants in the bags, and the young woman began to sort them out in a leisurely manner. In the depths of the gallery, crouching against the wall, half dead for lack of sleep, but refusing to leave the wounded man’s side, Atia was whispering, whispering, perhaps to keep herself awake. The dwarf must have been replying to her flow of questions, but he spoke so softly that Fanina was unable to make out his voice.
The herbs that formed the basis of the potion were simmering on the stove when suddenly Atia shouted:
‘It’s out of the question! He’s told me he’s coming! He could arrive at any moment now! I can’t hide both of you in the temple!’
Then she suddenly broke off and stood up to look over in Fanina’s direction. The young woman had not shown the slightest reaction, still behaving as if she knew nothing of the tongue Atia was using.
Listening hard, she heard Atia go on:
‘That’s why you must go tonight ... in a few hours’ time, when the drugs I have given you take effect, you will be able to walk ...’
Who was the visitor Atia was expecting? This question took second place in Fanina’s mind, for one thing mattered above all, which was that the dwarf would be well enough by that night to leave the temple, and that until then, Atia would do everything in her power to prevent her getting near him.
Mechanically, Fanina set about reclassifying the plants she had not used. She was thinking furiously. She must act quickly, she must put Atia out of action for a few hours. One of the bags she was classifying contained henbane seed, another, dried poppy seed, and a third held thorn-apples. She had at her disposal quantities of herbs, seed and fruit, all terribly dangerous in inexpert hands, but which, carefully chosen in the right doses, according to the training she had received, would surely enable her to prepare a potion as swift in its effect as it was harmless to the old woman.
Fanina busied herself for a short time over the stove sniffing the air: the strong smell of the make-believe potion Atia had asked her to prepare to keep her away from the dwarf masked the more discreet aroma rising from the container she was watching with jealous care. She went outside for a moment and looked at the sky.
‘Don’t you think it is time to get a meal ready?’ she asked as she came back into the gallery.
‘I’ll leave you to do that,’ Atia replied.
Another receptacle took its place on top of the stove ...
Two hours later Atia let fall the bowl of gruel Fanina had given her, rose smartly to her feet, her eyes blazing with rage, and stalked over to where Fanina stood waiting icily for her, never budging an inch. When the old woman was but a few pace
s from her, her features stiffened, she raised one hand to her forehead, and tumbled into Fanina’s arms.
After laying Atia on her palliasse, carefully covering her with a blanket and tucking her in, Fanina stood up. While preparing the sleeping-draught for the old woman, she had spent a long time thinking about how she would approach the dwarf. None of the tactics she had thought out seemed satisfactory. She could not foresee what the reactions of the wounded man would be.
Since the gods had come to her assistance by giving Atia the unexpected idea of putting the herbs at her disposal, they would help her again. She put her trust in them.
Without hurrying, but unhesitatingly, she walked light-footed and silent to the back of the gallery where shone the torch Atia had wedged between two stones in the wall directly above the dwarf.
His eyes closed, stretched out full length on his pallet, the wounded man seemed to be sleeping. When she reached him she asked in a clear voice, using the most northerly of the germanic dialects she knew:
‘How do you feel now?’
He started, opened his eyes — big, very pale eyes that looked at her in amazement — then, lifting himself painfully up on to his elbows, looked towards the mouth of the temple.
‘Are you looking for Atia?’ Fanina asked with a calm smile. ‘She’s asleep.’
He stared at her, impassive. Propped up against the wall, his splendid shoulders bare, his head bound round and round in dazzling white bandages, he looked like one of those Nordic mariners who occasionally disembarked in Ostia at the end of their long and perilous voyage, and came to admire the splendours of the liternal City. He was really very handsome, still more handsome than when Fanina had first seen his face in the ravine, and as she saw him now, with his tiny twisted legs hidden beneath the blankets, he looked as tall as a giant.
‘I would be lying if I said that Atia is sleeping a natural sleep,’ Kanina went on coolly. ‘I put her to sleep because she was stopping me from approaching you.’
He listened to her, watched her, impenetrable, without giving the slightest hint of the kind of impression Fanina’s words were making on him. He was the very picture of strength. Now he was properly awake, nothing seemed capable of affecting him or of surprising him.
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