by Allen Werner
‘Merman indeed.’
Orio pointed towards the bow of the Seppioline. “You see that isle ahead, my Lady?”
Anthea leaned out even further over the wet rail into the spray of seawater. She cuffed her right hand over her eyes to shield the light reflecting off the white capped waves. She spotted the isle the Captain spoke of dead ahead and pointed towards it.
“It is called Megaride,” the Captain said. “The Castel dell Ovo is on that isle, built directly over the maiden’s final resting place. But we Latins tell the tale of Parthenope differently.” He nodded reverently toward the black volcano. “Old Vesuvius was not always the dark seething mountain you see there. Thousands of years ago, Vesuvius was a centaur, a cheery, lighthearted fae dancing and whistling, not a care in the world. Misfortune befell him however. He fell madly in love with the siren Parthenope; and she with him. It was an odd coupling but they seemed destined to live together for all eternity.” He took his thumbs out of his wide belt and started pointing at the sky. “But their love was doomed. Great Zeus lusted after Parthenope. When he learned about her infatuation with Vesuvius, the god, in a jealous fit, cursed the carefree centaur, turning him into a tempestuous volcano. Parthenope refused to reciprocate the god’s advances so Zeus transformed her as well. He made her into a city nestled beneath the mountain. And that is where they are today. Parthenope and Vesuvius, star-crossed lovers condemned to spend all eternity perpetually out of reach, longing for one more touch, one more kiss.” Orio placed his elbows on the railing, his countenance nearly one of admiration. “When the great mountain gets to quaking, they say it is the centaur’s rage intensifying. On bad days, he is ready to lash out and destroy the whole world for the love he’s lost. Only the purified waters of pity pouring forth from Parthenope’s virgin breasts can appease him and prevent calamity.” He paused and righted himself. “That or the blessed blood of San Gennaro.”
Anthea smiled brilliantly. “I still prefer the Greek telling.”
Orio Polani released a hearty laugh and stroked at his moustache as though it were longer than it was. “You Greeks always do. But you may change your mind if Vesuvius gets to quaking.”
Anthea turned back eagerly to the mountain and purred. “If only his great heart would stir for me. I’d love nothing more than to feel the earth move beneath my feet.”
Chapter 7 – Affairs of State
A few wispy white clouds feathered the bright blue sky above the Bay of Naples. A calm but steady breeze approaching from the south guided the Seppioline smoothly into the harbor.
The Port at Parthenope was one of the busiest seaports in all Middle Sea. Today the port was idle. Gherardus Fabbro had commanded that the port master shut down the entire shipyard until the Seppioline had docked, the greetings and formalities were commenced and the festivities proceeded on towards the palace. Only a handful of rogue fishing trawlers dared to challenge chastisement, slipping silently in and out of the shadows along the breakers at the outermost edges of the waterfront. In the harbor, there were not less than twenty humungous galleys, three times the size of the Seppioline, standing at anchor. Most were merchant ships but a few were crafted for war, dark and menacing. Their creaking boards and towering masts groaned like slumbering ghost ships. The Seppioline eased by quietly, almost fearful of rousing them and inviting their wrath.
Gherardus Fabbro stood on the docks at the end of the lowered gangplank. The Lord of Parthenope, Grand Duke of Campania, wore a sleeveless, boiled-leather vest uniquely fashioned to resemble rigid armor, the soft material dyed ingeniously in metallic silver-grey with a snarling face of the purple dragon Sarcinus resting over his heart, the body extending across his broad chest, the spiked tail weaving its way up and over his right shoulder. Gherardus Fabbro wore polished silver boots, jet leather breeches and had a thin ceremonial golden sword sheathed on the belt. Gherardus was fit and trim, a healthy man soon turning sixty-seven. His thinning, mostly black hair sat flat against his head, a jewel-encrusted crown of burnished gold reflecting sunlight.
Immediately to Gherardus’ right stood a short, similarly aged man without any hair at all. The bald gentleman was dressed unceremoniously in heavy blue silks, the placket, cuffs and collar embroidered in ebony. Perspiring and unquestionably uncomfortable, wiping his forehead several times in several minutes, the bald man appeared none too pleased to be present at this ceremony or perhaps that was how he always looked.
Anthea’s suspicions were aroused and she had great difficulty reining in her stare. She was concerned. ‘I pray mighty Theȯs, that this sour-looking stranger be not Rugerius Fabbro.’
Behind Gherardus and the old man in blue silks, an impressive, disciplined cordon of strong knights wearing the silver plate of the royal guard, an identical cape of stone-grey secured to their shoulders, the heavy cloth falling stiffly down their backs, stood shoulder-to-shoulder, six men deep.
Father and daughter marched proudly down the wood plank from the Seppioline with Orio Polani just a step behind. The crowd trumpeted. It was a controlled cheer for when the visitor’s feet first reached the dock, the hooraying ceased. The only sounds not stilled by this were the perpetual surf lapping the pylons beneath the docks and the thousands of banners flapping in the breeze.
Straightway, Gherardus Fabbro took hold of Nikitas’ right hand and shoulder. He did not even look Anthea’s way. He bowed his head lamentably, his hard eyes focused squarely on the old Greek. “Nikitas, I regret I must begin this reception with a heartfelt apology.” There was a long drawn out pause, one that felt premeditated, strangely insincere. “My son, Rugerius, is not here. I assure you he had the noblest of intentions. How he yearned to accompany me, stand at my side and receive his bride by his own hand.” The Grand Duke shook his head. “Unexpected affairs of state have prevented him. He is most distressed by this unanticipated turn of events, as am I.” There was another long drawn out pause. “You must understand that the duties of a Castellan, especially in a city of this size, are many and upright. You will learn that Rugerius must be, from time to time, excused to cede to that pledge as necessary. It is the devotion of a knight. His can be an onerous existence, often interfering in his private life, thwarting him from realizing personal goals he so dearly wished to achieve. This is one goal he can never have back. He has missed the memory of it forever. I pray you can find it in your heart to pardon his diligence and dedication to the service of this city. No offense is intended. Some obligations cannot be forsaken.”
Anthea breathed a sigh of relief as her eyes were released from the fearful stranglehold the bald man had on her. ‘Thank mighty Theȯs that old sourpuss is not Rugerius.’
Trying to stay relaxed, or at least appear to be relaxed, Anthea pressed down her dress with both hands. She wasn’t sure what she should be doing or thinking right now. No one had instructed her on what was to be expected. For a moment, she lifted and scanned the impressive fanfare gathered across the docks to receive her. It was a flamboyant array of striking colors and stately pageantry beyond anything she had ever witnessed. She could not judge the true depth of the ogling crowd, so many people gathered directly behind the cordon of grey-caped knights, eager, happy faces pushing up and over the guards, gawking lords and ladies. Interwoven into the tapestry of citizens were musicians and dancers. And although she didn’t notice them at first, an adorable militia of little girls in bright spring dresses stood conspicuously at the front of the line, one before each royal guardsman, each bearing a small basket of flower petals.
Anthea felt humbled by the grandeur. She was also surprised she did not feel more overwhelmed by the colossal spectacle, still capable of standing and smiling. ‘I should have swooned by now.’
Perhaps it was the absence of the Castellan that assisted her calm. His nonappearance prolonged the sure-to-be awkward initial introduction. Of course, that didn’t mean she didn’t want it to occur. Down in her belly, deep in her soul, a fire of anticipation still seared. Selfishly she clung to a most ho
peful notion, a fantast belief that Rugerius Fabbro would astonish them all. Having completed his earnt task in haste, he would crash these proceedings wearing a kingly robe made of fine minks, perhaps riding a powerful white roan; a late but grandiose arrival indeed.
Gherardus Fabbro suddenly dropped Nikitas’ hand and turned his attention fully on Anthea. She curtsied respectfully as their eyes met. The old man was a head taller than her and she was pleasantly surprised to stand in his shade. It was warmer than she thought.
Gherardus touched her chin with a strong hand. She noted immediately the shiny band of gold on the index finger.
“Nikitas,” Gherardus championed. “You may well be the most truthful man alive.” The Lord Commander’s grey eyes locked on Anthea’s brown young face again. “Men tend to exaggerate the loveliness of their daughters but not you, Sir. No. In fact, your words concerning her loveliness have been understated. You should be ashamed.”
Nikitas was pleased, beaming from ear-to-ear.
‘He has a wholesome countenance,’ Anthea thought as she labored to examine her examiner right back, not nearly as directly and attentively as he did her. She had to maintain a certain modesty, or so she felt she did. ‘Such distinguished lines etched in the brow and cheeks. Noble flecks of grey concealed beneath the strands of black. I can see them. He may be old but he appears stout, virile, brimming with courage and confidence. This one surely turned the lady’s heads in his day. And that tint of blue lingering beneath those fierce, aquiline eyes. I pray his son has inherited similar features. If he has, Rugerius must be dashing.’
“After Penelope passed,” Nikitas started, his voice breaking a prolonged silence. “I spared nothing employing the finest educators in all of Greece to prepare Anthea for royal appointment. She is a creative soul I tell you, a virtuoso with needle and thread. History, philosophy, arithmetic, it’s all in there.’ He smiled with pride at his girl. “Anthea is as intelligent as she is beautiful.” Suddenly he looked concerned as if he had slipped and said something inappropriate. He stuttered slightly as his next words were quick. “And she knows when to speak. She’ll never talk out of turn, I assure you. And she knows Latin and Greek.” Now it was Nikitas who sounded as if he were forcing things.
Gherardus Fabbro paused a moment, his hand gently brushing away two strands of dark brown hair the wind had caused to fall over Anthea’s eyes. Reflectively the old man continued to inspect his son’s bride, his drifting spirit seemingly swimming through some longing depths, hollow and forgotten. And then a twinge suddenly rattled him and he withdrew his hand as if it had been stung. He clutched his ring finger. “I apologize, my Lady … I … for my headstrong son.” The Lord Commander withdrew his embarrassed countenance as he had done with his hand, his voice cold now. “He should be here.”
Anthea suspected there was something more unfortunate than simple regret lurking behind Gherardus’ mien and speech. ‘Was that anger? Frustration? Outrage? He called his son, headstrong. What did he mean by that?’ Anthea considered inquiring but as her father had so assuredly stated, she knew when to speak. This was not the proper time or proper place for arcane revelation. ‘There are too many ears. Too many eyes. He’ll say more about Rugerius to me when the time is right.’
Recovered fully from whatever ailed him, Gherardus Fabbro, exposed his hand yet again, placing the fingers lightly on Anthea’s shoulder as he turned her to face the crowd.
“Stand tall now, daughter, as my people pay you homage.”
Anthea Manikos stood tall.
“Campania is a prosperous kingdom and the stores of Parthenope overflow. All things here are at your disposal. Your every wish shall be our command.’ Gherardus glanced sidewise. “And these people, my people, are your subjects.” The hand with the gold ring lifted above his head and waved but once. That evidently was the signal for the baited silence ended.
The mob behind the cordon of guards erupted.
Euphoric, primed to be released, the musicians busted out in song, a thousand trilling pipes joined by a hundred thundering drums. Gay dancers, both male and female, leapt from one end of the wharf to the other, colorful streamers twirling, snaking and trailing behind them. The little girls danced and flower petals filled the air, drifting on the breeze, covering the wharf. Everyone but the guards cheered and hollered, their heavy boisterous feet-stomping creating a powerful rhythm that shook the entire length of the sturdy docks to the deepest sunken pylons.
The whole world was moving beneath Anthea’s feet and she remembered the dark mountain and the tale Orio Polani told. Goosebumps returned to her skin and she warmed them again. ‘Vesuvius roars. The heart beats for me. There is so much love here. So much love. I’m going to adore this place.’
Gherardus Fabbro motioned to the cordon of royal cavaliers and a handsome, blond-haired knight dressed inversely to all the others, stepped forward. His stride was long and sure. He wore a milk-white cape with shiny silver hems. His plate mail was burnished gold, a coal black ship emblem burned into the metal over his heart. He was impressive and confident.
“In place of my son,” Gherardus informed, “Sir Bergus of Brindisi has volunteered to escort my Lady to the palace.”
“Buongiorno, Anthea,” Bergus hummed courteously. The knight from Brindisi offered her his right elbow and Anthea dutifully placed her left hand upon it, her head bowing ever so slightly.
“Buongiorno, Sir Bergus.” Anthea’s response was sheepish and shy as she attempted to inspect the confident knight without him knowing it. ‘Magnificent. Is this how they grow all their men?’
Gherardus Fabbro leaned into Nikitas’ shoulder. “It is a perfect day for a stroll,” He announced. “The sun is brilliant and the sky is blue. The air is warm and time is on our side.” He directed his gaze on Anthea. “I hope, if there are no objections, we might prolong your entrance to the palace and take a leisurely walk through the streets of our fine city, give you ample opportunity to drink in the very essence of our hearty spirits. If, however, you would prefer a conveyance, a litter could be arranged.”
“No,” Anthea retorted quickly. “I have been confined these past few days to the deck of a swaying ship. A stroll on steady land is most welcomed.” She smiled at Sir Bergus, both her hands gripping and squeezing at his muscular bicep. “Let’s imbibe.”
Sir Bergus took a moment to leer at the beautiful Greek. He then took the first step which instigated the whole procession to proceed. Anthea straightened back up with only her left-hand resting on the knight’s right elbow. They had not even cleared the docks when she managed to tilt her head back slightly and overheard Gherardus Fabbro introduce the sour-faced old man in blue silks to her father.
“The last time you visited us, Nikitas, my Provost was away on business in Florence. This is Guidus Salvatore.” The two men nodded respectfully to one another. “Guidus is meticulous concerning all contracts and has raised a few points of order with ours, minor discrepancies in the language that we must deliberate. He will clarify as we walk. We’ll need to decide on them before the ceremony commences.”
Anthea felt no apprehension upon hearing these words. ‘Whatever the incongruities might be, my father will resolve them. He loves me and wants what is best for me. He has invested so much time and energy into this arrangement. I swear I’m going to make him proud. By this time tomorrow, I will be the royal consort of the Castellan of Parthenope, Rugerius Fabbro.’
Wending their way deliberately through the old city, the entourage proceeded at an unhurried pace. Anthea was thankful she was not being harried. This leg-stretching walk gave her a brief respite from many of her worries. It was an opportunity to settle her nerves. Now that they had finally arrived and were standing on Italian soil, the certainty of the impending marriage had become almost paralyzing. She still had not met the man she would be sharing her bed with. ‘Share a bed with.’ The thought made her anxious and weak. She had never shared a bed with anyone, least of all a man. She had only kissed three boys in her
entire life and two of them were cousins, all out of curiosity. To lay naked with a strange man, she touching him, him touching her, concerned Anthea to her very core.
A virgin, Anthea Manikos had read some censored material, seen provocative works of art and gossiped with other women who had given themselves over to men, some married, some not. The whole ritual of intercourse had her on edge. Some said sex hurt, others said it was splendid and wonderful and they couldn’t engage in it often enough.
Anthea was ever thankful for some distraction. Sir Bergus kept interrupting her daydreaming with odd stories about the old city. The jaunty knight seemed enthralled with his own voice. As they passed certain buildings and thoroughfares, he shared with her his impressive knowledge of architecture and history, pointing out nearly every building, fountain and statue along the via.
Anthea was, as her father stated, an educated woman, and she had some basic understanding of construction and art. She amazed even herself recognizing certain imprints of Rome’s former glory as well as several obscure traces of the all-to-familiar Hellenic culture chiseled in the masonry. Greeks had been the original settlers of Parthenope, their ancient influence still bleeding through much of the masonry.
At one point, Anthea remembered finding herself awkwardly in tranced with Sir Bergus’ appearance, staring blankly at the side of his square head, watching his chattering mouth with wild wonder, the long blond hair flowing so freely around his rugged, clean-shaved face, barely touching his broad shoulders. ‘Bergus is so kind, rather sweet and handsome. I wonder if he has wed.’ The enchantment continued. ‘If Bergus be any indication of the character of man my beloved is, then I shall surely faint when we first touch.’