In the Arms of Immortals

by Ginger Garrett

  Drowning in food, she had no time to stop to breathe. The shrimp made Panthea’s fingers so greasy the food slid from between them as she crammed each bite into her mouth. She had to catch the slippery bits of cheese and prawns before they slid all the way down her chin and ruined her beaded gown. With each swallow her throat popped and burned, gulps of air forced in between bites. She had to eat it all, right now, and then she would paint her face and perfume her breasts and study the portrait of her mother once more. Being a lady was such dirty work.

  “Panthea!”

  Her father’s yelp startled her. She yanked at her bed coverlet, smearing the grease from her face on it, frantically wiping her fingers and running her tongue across her teeth to clean them.

  “Panthea!” Dario opened the door without knocking. “Come, my sweet! A noble has come from a distant land—a wealthy noble! Yes, and he is our guest! There is money to be made tonight!”

  “Armando already made us wealthy, Father.”

  “Armando?” Dario replied. “Oh, Armando, of course. Yes, he brought us fortune, but he cost us a fortune, too, always abusing his armor in battle. And his horse has more shoes than the emperor’s wife.”

  “We should move to Florence, or Venice, where the wealthier families are. That is what you must announce tonight,” Panthea said. She picked up a brush and worked on her hair. She hoped he did not notice her hands trembling.

  He sat on the bed, sniffing the air. Panthea reddened and hoped he did not detect the aroma of food.

  “I like it here, Panthea. This is where I loved your mother. I built a life here. You ask me to abandon it too easily, my child.”

  “Should I not build a life of my own?” Panthea said.

  “You know my intentions.”

  “Do you know what your problem is, Father? You have never asked God for more. You deserve more.”

  He grew still. “I had your mother, Panthea. I was not a good husband to her. Why, then, would I ask God for anything more?”

  “Because she is gone!” Panthea yelled. “You have me to worry on now.”

  He looked wounded, his tender face bruised, so she softened her tone and tried to smile. “Think of me as an account well overdue and perhaps you will feel my sense of urgency.”

  “Ahh, Panthea. You have my brains and your mother’s face. You will make Armando exquisitely miserable.”

  Panthea began to speak again, but he held up a finger, grinning.

  “Tsk! The feast is ready. You know my will, Panthea. Present me an alternative by tonight or accept my decision. It matters little to me as long as we do not have this same argument again in the morning.”

  His hand was on the door. “I will not fail you as I failed your mother, Panthea. I will see you married to this good man. I will give you the life I could have had.”

  “I cannot pay your debts, Father.”

  “Neither can I, my dear. Neither can I.”

  He left. Her stomach felt raw and empty, though it was full of fatty foods. Her father concealed his wounds from her, but still he hoped she could heal them. Being the only child of this man made her tense and tired. Though he treated her like a pet, she knew he wanted her to be more of an heir and less like a woman.

  Panthea looked at herself in her mirror. Full-length, it was an exquisite trophy her father had bought her mother years ago. Italians were so good at everything, she thought, but especially at admiring beauty.

  She looked down at her body. The modest swell of her breasts under her bodice, the hollow of her stomach and curved waist … all too thin, she thought. She turned to see the full, flowing skirt, which hinted at an extravagant bottom. She frowned. The curves were not full enough, even with the extra material the seamstress had added. She was a stick of a woman and she hated herself. Hippocrates was right: Thinking like a man had given her a man’s body.

  But she would rather be too thin and keep her wits than live a woman’s life. Her needlepoint looked wretched, her singing voice had made her tutors wince, and she could barely get through a doorway without her skirts catching on something and tearing. How did other women survive all this without ripping their hair out? Panthea was terrible at being a woman, she knew.

  “The essence of women is pleasure,” her father had said once. “Women were born for pleasure, and the pleasure of men”; this is what he had said long ago. He would not repeat the words again. When her mother died, her father stopped believing in pleasure.

  Turning back to the mirror, rolling her shoulders forward to check her cleavage, she then pushed her shoulders back to set off her bosom at its best angle. It would be difficult to hold this posture all night, but if she could, she would look better.

  Thinking of Armando, her posture fell. Panthea could not take a husband who was so easily satisfied. Her poses and practiced witticisms had no observable effect on him. He loved her as she was, and it frightened her.

  She wanted to be more, more than just the woman she was. He was pleased to take her in a diminished state. But with more money from her father, and more servants, she could be perfect. She could even conduct her own affairs. She would know how to be a real woman and yet still think the thoughts of a man. Why would Armando accept her now? Marrying her now was a sentence to a life of mediocrity, of settling, of having no good wine on some nights and blowing out candles early to save the wax. To marry now was to face life just as it was, the constant scrape and compromise and secret humiliations. Her mother’s early death and her father’s eternal penance had taught Panthea that a life can be wasted. She did not want that to happen to her. She did not want that to happen to Armando. She would spend the rest of her years seeing disappointment in his face every morning when he woke.

  Though, when no one was present, she let herself sink into a delicious, shameful dream, shameful because it was a typical woman’s weakness. She thought of Armando’s lips on her hand when he had kissed it in greeting upon his return from the Holy Land. She pressed her hand to her mouth, dreaming that for one moment, she could be as other women were but without consequence. His lips would part as he kissed her, and he would think she was beautiful, and she would believe it. She dreamed of being before him, naked, without pursing her lips or pushing her shoulders back. Panthea dreamed that, in his eyes, she did not have to strive for effect, to create a man’s pleasure. Armando would take her in his arms, and they would discover pleasure together.

  Foolish fantasies. Panthea shook her head and pinched her cheeks. “It’s a wonder I’m not married to a stupid stable hand and mother to ten children. That’s what I deserve.”

  Mariskka was burning alive, swatting at the sparks that were still settling around her.

  She was clean. That was the first thing she noticed; how white her flesh was, how she could see pigment and variations of tone. Gone was the grime and the layers of grey unwashed skin.

  “Is it over?” she gasped.

  “Tell me what you saw, Mariskka,” the Scribe asked.

  Mbube shook his head.

  “That one man scared me. He wasn’t human, was he?” she said.

  Trying to take it all in was going to burst her, split apart the seams of her mind.

  “Describe him,” the Scribe said.

  Mbube turned his head to stare out the window as the sun rose over Manhattan.

  Mariskka decided to try. “There was a blackness all around him, and it was alive. His body was dead, but it moved.”

  “He called the Destroyer,” Mbube said. “He look like man, but not. He much worse. You made anger in him,” Mbube said. “Must be careful. He sees light with you.”

  “Light?”

  “You walk in darkness, like him,” the Scribe said. “But Mbube is with you.”

  “Wait … why is that thing named the Destroyer? What does he destroy?” Mariskka’s brain was not m
oving in a linear direction, not after walking in Sicily seven centuries ago.

  The Scribe’s face grew red, and his eyes narrowed. Mbube huffed.

  “Because you have not read,” the Scribe said to Mariskka, “I must pull you out, back and forth, to instruct. You will not survive many trips.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Mariskka said. “Just tell me what to say and I’ll say it. I don’t need to go back there!”

  “I cannot shut a door you opened.”

  “Yes, you can!”

  “Have you ears but cannot hear? You opened this door when you stole that manuscript. No one who walks in darkness will suffer you to live.”

  “Why?” Mariskka asked.

  “You know too much,” he said.

  “Help me! I said I would believe!” Mariskka yelled.

  “In time, yes,” the Scribe replied.

  She saw him turn the page of the book lying open on the table, and her feet were pulled from below, melting through the floor and time as the darkness hissed at her.

  Chapter Six

  “Grant me success, my lord. I have served you in distant lands. Now, make my line great.”

  As Armando knelt before Dario, the hall silenced to hear the reply. Panthea held her breath.

  Waving from the floorboards, a hand was signaling another cup being lifted up.

  “Father, the beer! You forgot to taste it!” Panthea reached down and grabbed the cup, handing it to her father. Dario sampled the beer, then tapped at the hole with his foot. It was a good keg and should be served.

  “The brewer’s guild continues to bring honour to their membership,” Panthea announced. “We must toast them!”

  Her father was the first to stand, though he was already uneven in his balance at this early hour of the feast. She took his arm, whispering to him.

  “You should rest, Father. I can conduct the evening.”

  “No, no,” he said, grimacing as he took his chair. The fits were leaving him weaker each time. “Panthea, you must learn to trust yourself in the hands of men. We want what is best for you.”

  “And you should trust my wishes.”

  “Panthea, we were both given our riches too young. I fear it has spoiled us for what must come next.”

  He looked sad, his gaze turning again to his glass. So many nights since her mother had died did he spend searching for answers in his beer. What it promised him, she could not guess, but it was enough that he returned every night.

  She loved her father, with his great bald forehead lined like waves of the tide, breaking upon his great bushy eyebrows and wide, sleepy eyes peering out above his spectacles. Everything about him was excessive, and she loved it. His nose was large, and his mouth overly wide, punctuated by enormously long dimples that pinched into his cheeks when he smiled at her. Even his ears were too big for him, sticking out at proud angles and wiggling when he spoke. He had the kindest face ever given a man, and he had never had the heart to use it in being stern with her.

  Armando the knight was still kneeling. He would have to stay there all night until signaled to rise, and her father was not a man of details, at least not social ones.

  “Father,” she asked, “how could this man offer me a better life, when he cannot even raise himself?”

  Dario looked at her in confusion, then saw Armando kneeling. “Armando, my son, rise! Armando has served us well, my friends, has he not? Yes, yes!”

  Cheers and murmurs of agreement were the people’s reply.

  “My friends, to me you owe your prosperity, and to Armando, your very lives.”

  Panthea felt herself growing angry at the fools cheering her father on.

  “No good thing have I withheld from you, Armando. You have shared my wealth, my home, and my city, yes, my beloved city. I am an old man now, past my years of strength, and I must appoint another to rise in my place. I have no heir, so I must seek a man worthy of my legacy. A man of honour, of courage, of great strength, of noble heart, of—”

  “Father, one moment! Stay this happy news. You forget yourself. I am not yet introduced to our guest,” Panthea said, not looking at Armando.

  Damiano stood, bowing to Panthea.

  He moved with a serpent’s selfish grace, surveying her. His green eyes flared with an appetite she did not recognize, and she blushed.

  “Let her go, Del Grasso!”

  Lazarro yanked the woman free of Del Grasso’s grip. Blood was seeping through her sleeves, staining the fabric around her calves.

  “What have you done?” Gio yelled at both the men. Lazarro had followed her here because he did not trust her or because he had not finished harassing her.

  The mute woman had a wild look in her eyes, and Gio feared she would bite or kick. Forcing a calm smile, Gio held out her hands. The woman looked around at the bloody butcher and the angry priest, then took one faltering step toward Gio. The woman was shaking and crying.

  “Can I look at those?” Gio asked, gesturing to her sleeves. Tears streaming down her face, the woman held her arms out, away from her body. The woman looked from side to side, anxiety etched in her face.

  “She is frightened of someone,” Gio whispered. “Let us be gentle.”

  Waiting to catch her eye first, Gio smiled, slowly reaching for a sleeve. Lifting the fabric away carefully, she felt sorry when the woman winced and fresh tears came. The fabric was sticking to the wounds in a few spots. Gio had to yank at those.

  “These wounds are deep,” Lazarro said. “Someone cut her to ribbons.”

  Del Grasso shook his head. “It is no cut.”

  “No, he’s right,” Gio said, trying not to show her surprise that Del Grasso spoke. She didn’t recall anyone having heard him speak this many words in one night. “They are scratches, deep scratches, like from an animal claw.”

  “How did this happen?” she asked the woman, speaking slowly. “What hunts you?”

  The woman opened her mouth and groaned, pointing to where the foreign man Damiano had been standing. She grabbed Gio, trying to pull her to the spot, making gestures Gio did not understand.

  “We must light fires for the wolves,” Lazarro said. He was looking beyond them at the horizon.

  Del Grasso turned and stared at him, and Lazarro cleared his throat.

  “It is too late,” Del Grasso said.

  “Yes, well, I will pay some of the children to do it,” Lazarro said. “They will be glad for the work.”

  Gio stroked the woman’s cheek. “You’re safe now,” Gio promised. “There are no wolves here. Is that what frightened you?”

  “My child,” Lazarro said. “there is nothing to fear here.”

  “I will mend these wounds,” Gio said, challenging Lazarro.

  Lazarro was watching Del Grasso. Neither looked at ease.

  “Then bring her back to me, Gio. She is deeply troubled.”

  “She needs a good meal first,” Gio replied.

  “She needs God more.”

  Gio took the woman gently by the hand and led her away.

  “Don’t believe a word this man says about salvation,” she said under her breath. “If God intended to save you, wouldn’t He have made a start by now?”

  Damiano’s eyes captivated her. Their darkness made her mouth moist and reminded her of stolen sweet things, of secrets whispered in moonlit rooms … how infinite the possibilities of sin were.

  Yes, Panthea thought, Brother Lazarro had indeed preached truth to the people: The road to righteousness was narrow. It confined her.

  The best she could hope for was to keep one foot in front of the other. There was to be no wondering where else a road could lead. Panthea had been given true love and a real God and found them both too predictable. They never failed, either one, that was
true. But they were always there, always dependable, never wavering in course or pitch. This lust, though, was fresh and wild, a dirty, rich feeling that made her knees unsteady.

  “Yes, Damiano, our guest!” Her father rose and extended his arms as if to embrace the stranger from this distance. “Damiano was met at the port, was he not, my friends? My daughter had no such pleasure. She is a good daughter, remaining at home to oversee the preparations for our feast. Sir, may I present my daughter, Panthea,” he said, gesturing to her. “She has the beauty of her mother, the wit of her father, and the temperament of our volcano!”

  The villagers laughed, but only enough to please Dario. They never laughed much at what really amused them. Not when she watched. She was not allowed to see that.

  Damiano’s eyes still rested upon her. The sounds of the room drifted away as the stinging energy of this stranger took her in an intimacy she had only imagined on her lonely nights of wine and wanderings. She felt him upon her skin, felt his hand moving up her arm, pulling her into his chest, his hot, salty skin, like the sand of a beach for her to run her hands upon, to languidly lie upon and dream new dreams. Dark ones, dreams in a moonless land. Dreams that God did not speak in.

  “Thank you for allowing me into your home,” Damiano replied. “My lord had prepared me to find Sicily as a place of wonders, but I had not expected to find so great a beauty. A thousand lifetimes, and a man could find no equal to your daughter.”

  His eyes did not leave her. The darkness made her do a wicked thing.

  “Armando, this is Damiano, our guest for the evening,” she said, rising from her seat, gesturing between the men. “Damiano, this is Armando, my knight. No finer warrior could there be found in all of Sicily. My father was intending to pledge me to him tonight, but your visit has surprised us all. Armando could not be pleased to see you.”

  Armando stood from his seat at the table below Panthea. He was not far from Damiano.

  Damiano extended a hand to be kissed. Armando did not look at it. He only nodded.