by Mary Reed
Bertrada’s smile was as frosty as her blue eyes. “Some of your mechanical marvels have certainly been inspired, although in need of one or two adjustments to make them perform the task intended. Or perhaps even three or four, in some cases.”
“Yes, the lyre-playing automaton was not supposed to serenade us all in the middle of the night,” Hero replied gloomily, “although I did ascertain the nature of the problem. And just as well, as Zeno is most insistent that it is to be one of the figures accompanying the procession for the village celebration. He’s spending almost as much time in the workshop as I do, you know. Personally, I would have thought he has enough to worry about right now having to arrange the boy’s funeral rites.”
Bertrada’s eyes filled with tears at the mention of Gadaric. “I hope there will be a little ceremony at least.”
“Well, I don’t think Gadaric would care much for something so simple as that, considering how much time the boy spent prowling around my workshop gaping at my inventions. I suspect he would have much rather had fire-breathing monsters or some such to see him off on his final journey. Is this why you are in such a bad humor?” He patted her hand. “I keep telling you, you shouldn’t blame yourself, Bertrada. You couldn’t have known Gadaric was intent on creeping out as soon as he could.”
Bertrada silently wiped her eyes.
“Try to keep busy,” Hero advised kindly. “Look at Zeno. Now I think on it further, it’s just as well he has so much to occupy his mind. Or perhaps he’s just blessed with ignorance and doesn’t realize how quickly Theodora could easily decide that it’s his fault the boy is dead. She’s insistent that the wretched festival go forward. Perhaps that’s what’s saved him so far, since she wouldn’t want to risk his loss spoiling her entertainment. The empress was fascinated when she toured my workshop, you know. She told me she was eager to see all my half-wonders completed and in operation.”
“I’m certain it will be a fine spectacle indeed, Hero, but I hear not all the villagers are happy about it. There’s been much grumbling about not tampering with ancient tradition, especially when ungodly machines are going to be involved.”
“Ungodly machines!” Hero was outraged. “Who said that? It was Godomar, wasn’t it? Why, they’re the finest automatons that can be constructed! They’ll make an astounding display for Theodora. Zeno plans not only to include two or three of my lyre-players in the procession but also the flautist I’m working on at the moment. They’ll be pulled along on a cart so their music can accompany the singers. I’m also making a magnificent archer to be carried on a litter. We were discussing that just recently. And when the procession arrives at the headland, there will be speeches and so on. It’s going to be really spectacular, especially since it’s all done by torchlight. The straw man is thrown off the cliff just as the sun rises, you see.”
“We’ve heard something about it from Minthe,” Bertrada replied. “I gather it’s been going on for centuries. A celebration of the end of summer, she said, the straw man being its representation and having to be sacrificed to the autumn gods for a good harvest, or something like that. But really it’s just one of those interesting old customs that Zeno loves so much. Nobody believes in such sacrifices these days and even if they did, they could hardly say so, could they? And yet,” she concluded thoughtfully, “do you suppose that in the old days, real people were thrown off the cliff into the sea?”
Hero shrugged powerful shoulders. “Possibly, one might say almost certainly. However, Zeno’s improvements, as he calls them, will certainly enliven the festival without posing any danger to anyone.”
He continued enthusiastically, explaining the mechanical archer’s role to the girl, and then paused, ruefully contemplating the destruction of the result of so much of his thought and labor.
“If it were not for the honor of enhancing the occasion,” he went on, “I would much rather not lose the archer. But there it is. I gather it’s going to be dressed in some of Zeno’s finest clothing, with not a wisp of straw about its person. Needless to say, Zeno’s been fussing about like a mother hen, chiding me for my slowness in completing the musicians. And they do need to be tested before the day. There’s only a week left.”
Bertrada rearranged the folds of her linen robes daintily, imitating the oft-observed actions of Theodora’s ladies-in-waiting. “Life continually seems to swing back and forth between haste and wait and rarely continues for any space on an even keel, as seamen would say,” she remarked. Her philosophical comment began a chain of thought that leapt rapidly from sailors to soldiers and then she suddenly remembered her reason for seeking Hero out.
“Did Zeno mention anything about guards for the procession?” she asked with over-elaborate casualness. “After all, we can’t afford to take chances with Sunilda’s safety.”
Hero nodded. “He was complaining about the estate swarming with excubitors. Not so much because of their presence but because they aren’t always very careful where they tramp during their patrols and the gardeners are constantly complaining about damage to the flower beds. Then he said that their captain has been very insistent about the need for extra caution, what with the estate being more or less unprotected and open to the world, not to mention the business of the procession. Apparently he thinks it is the height of folly in the circumstances.”
“Captain Felix carries out his duties faithfully, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, and he also stares a lot at a certain young lady,” Hero snapped. “Quite the barbarian, if you ask me.”
“Some might call Sunilda and me barbarians,” Bertrada flared, color tinting her cheekbones. “He is polite enough and after all he and his men were ordered here to protect Sunilda. No doubt he would much rather be at court.”
“And so would you, wouldn’t you?” Hero retorted hotly. “Your strange humor has something to do with this ignorant soldier, doesn’t it? A man who’s grizzled enough to be your father, at that.”
Bertrada said nothing but stood and began to walk away.
“Wait, Bertrada,” Hero called after her. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken so hastily.”
She half turned. There was something in what he’d said about Felix, she admitted to herself. The soldier was certainly a lot older than she.
“Come inside and let me show you the improvements I’ve made to the hand. You know I’m making it only for you. A woman naturally wants a man who is whole.”
Affecting an expression of irritation, she nevertheless followed him into the workshop. “If you’re making the hand on my behalf why are you so eager to boast about it to everybody, Hero? Do you think I don’t know that everyone in the villa has seen it?” Her complaint sounded weak, even to her own ears.
“Ah, but nobody has seen the latest adjustments I’ve made to the leather straps and wires,” Hero explained. “Soon I will be able to hold you with two hands and not just one.”
The girl reddened again.
Hero looked around a cluttered work table, scowled, and walked over to an equally over-burdened shelf by the window.
“I must have put it away.” He reached for a large box set on the low shelf. “Now, it’s only in the very early stages and there are still some problems to be resolved, but wait until you see—” He hefted the box onto the workbench and then removed the lid as he spoke. As he looked down into the container his flow of words was suddenly cut off as cleanly as his arm had been severed.
“It’s gone! Setesh take the bastard who’s stolen it!” His shocked expression presented a ghastly sight as he turned toward the girl, his remaining huge fist clenched in a knot of fury.
***
Godomar tugged at the stubborn door of the low wooden cupboard beside Bertrada’s bed. He gave a harder yank and the door came partially open with a loud creak. For an instant he held his breath and listened intently. Through the open window he heard Sunilda’s faint laughter. So Bertrada was playing with the child in the garden, he thought. It was remark
able how little heed the young paid to mortality. It seemed strange that with her brother dead and her young playmate lying desperately ill the child could even laugh at all.
He eased the cupboard door open. The lone shelf held only a terra cotta lamp and a small box that investigation showed contained Bertrada’s few pieces of jewelry.
Crouched beside the bed, he peered around the room. Its whitewashed plaster walls were bare. Aside from the bed, beneath which he had discovered only dust and a baked-clay playing piece from some board game or other, its furniture consisted of a wooden stool, a storage chest holding several robes, and the small cupboard just inspected.
The same perfume that so often accompanied the young nursemaid faintly permeated the air although Godomar had not found any perfume bottles or unguent jars. He sniffed again. Calyce. It was the scent in which the lady-in-waiting habitually soaked herself. Yes, he thought sourly, she was exceptionally concerned with worldly vanities, was Calyce, and thus doubtless a bad influence upon Bertrada.
A pile of discarded clothing lay in the narrow space between bed and window. He bent over the untidy heap. Overseeing the proper upbringing of children was an onerous affair indeed. However, it was the task he had been assigned by Theodora personally and he dared not shrink from even its most distasteful aspects, such as searching a woman’s bedroom.
The odor of perfume assailed him more strongly. Gingerly he plucked up a thin linen tunica. His lips tightened as he discovered what the artfully disarranged clothes concealed.
It was a stack of codices topped by a collection of John Chrysostom’s homilies. The volumes below were much less commendable. Moving aside a history of the Goths he pushed open the leather cover of the codex lying beneath it.
He noticed first the curse inscribed within:
“May long-clawed demons rend out the eyes of whoever steals this from the library of Aulus Livius Castor”
Then he read its title. It was Ovid’s Art of Love.
His long fingers twitched as he hesitated, debating whether or not to continue. He lifted the volume and noted it fell open at a certain place, no doubt because it had been consulted often. Here was something he did not wish to know, as a decent man. Yet, however unpalatable it was, would he not be remiss if he failed to learn the precise nature of the vile error into which his charge had obviously fallen?
The verse was nearly illegible, words and whole phrases had been crossed out, others substituted between lines and in the margins. It looked as if someone had been correcting Ovid’s meter. He had no time to reflect on this before a voice interrupted him.
“Why don’t you read a few verses to me?”
Mortified at being discovered, Godomar twisted around to see Bertrada standing in the doorway.
“You’ve left Sunilda unattended!” He spoke brusquely.
“She’s with the Lord Chamberlain, Godomar. Surely you have no objection to that?”
“How dare you speak to me in that tone! Furthermore, I insist on knowing where you obtained this pagan filth.”
“Ovid? He’s the finest of poets, pagan or not. Besides, what are you doing creeping about in other people’s bedrooms?”
“The Lord will forgive your disrespect because you are as yet an uneducated child,” the prelate replied wearily. “But as for the woman whom I suspect obtained this obscenity for you, I cannot venture to say.”
“I think that poetry is beautiful. With all the awful things that have happened here lately, is it so wrong to be reminded that there are beautiful things in the world too?”
“I shall instruct a servant to return these to our neighbor immediately,” Godomar said. “In the meantime, I remind you that I am not only Sunilda’s tutor but also her guide in spiritual matters. Any reading material that enters these apartments must first be approved by me. There are enough wholesome writings to keep you occupied during your remarkable apparent idleness without the possibility of the child finding such disgusting works as this.”
Bertrada made a face. “More than enough. The church fathers wrote so much it’s a wonder they ever had time to pray. What a lot of boring old men. Is the world a better place for all their writing? Not one of them could use a sword to any great effect, I’ll wager. Or anything else, for that matter.”
“What sort of talk is that?” Godomar was horrified. “And pin up your hair, Bertrada. Why is it hanging down like that? It isn’t seemly.”
The girl patted her long, blonde hair, which was rioting past her shoulders rather than plaited in her usual style. “Some people might prefer my hair this way,” she said with a sly smile.
Godomar began to speak, then decided against it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bertrada told him. “She looks just like the Whore of Babylon! Isn’t that right?”
“You are obviously distraught by the tragedy that befell your charge, Bertrada. That’s entirely understandable. Nevertheless, I shall have to speak with Livia about your behavior.”
With that Godomar picked up the offending works and stalked out, hoping that Theodora would forgive him if Sunilda should innocently repeat any of her nursemaid’s blasphemous nonsense in her hearing.
He was halfway down the corridor when he met Peter. The servant seemed to have so little to do that one might have suspected the Lord Chamberlain had brought him to the estate just to give him a holiday, Godomar thought sourly.
“I was assisting in the kitchen but Master Zeno’s cook is a very insolent man, and careless to boot,” Peter explained when Godomar questioned him concerning his duties. “He refused to follow any of my suggestions and in fact just said, very rudely indeed, that I must have something more pressing to attend to elsewhere. Everyone seems eager to put me to work except my master. I am becoming weary from not having enough to do. Besides which, I find my thoughts are constantly turning to the things I see all around me. It makes me very uneasy, sir. I imagine it must give a pious man like yourself a great deal to ponder on also?”
“What is it that particularly troubles you?” Godomar inquired.
Peter frowned. “For one thing, there are far too many comings and goings and people creeping around during the night. It’s said that the flesh is weak, I know, but on this estate it seems absolutely helpless.”
“But you serve in the palace, Peter. Surely you have seen such behavior before?”
“My master has his own house, thanks be to heaven,” Peter replied fervently, “and a well-ordered house it is too. Indeed, while I’ve served in many places in my time, I’ve never seen such brazen impropriety since I was—well, even then—” He paused and frowned. “It must be something to do with all these mechanical abominations, sir. I know it’s not a servant’s place to question his betters but is not creating a thing that mimics life almost blasphemy? Perhaps that was why the poor little boy died and Poppaea is now so ill.”
“That is possible,” Godomar acknowledged. “However, you appear to be devout, Peter, so I doubt you’ll come to any harm in this place.”
“But were not Gadaric and Poppaea also devout?”
“Indeed,” the other confirmed, “yet even those of us who are firmly bound to goodness must be always on our guard.”
“If you would be good enough to offer a prayer for me and for my master I would be most grateful,” Peter said hesitantly.
“I will do so gladly.”
Thus reassured, the elderly servant continued on his slow way down the corridor.
Watching him go, Godomar wondered how loyal such a devout man could be to a pagan master who was certainly beyond salvation. Indeed, he suspected that the twins’ Christian but sadly Arian forebears, including even the great ruler Theodoric himself, were presently crying out in agony in their eternal punishment.
The thought reminded him of the preparations he had yet to make for Gadaric’s funeral. Thanks to his ceaseless labors, he thought with some satisfaction, the innocent boy had been a good, orthodox Christian. His r
ites would certainly reflect that. Given the godless enticements of the world—especially those of the court, not to mention Zeno’s estate—it was almost as well that Gadaric had died so young. The road to salvation was a difficult one but his had been shorter than most. Now his sister must continue on that road alone.
Yes, thought Godomar, the road to salvation would be an excellent topic for the address he would give at the boy’s funeral. He wondered if the unrepentantly pagan Lord Chamberlain would deign to attend.
Chapter Thirteen
John walked away from Gadaric’s grave. Although it was past mid-morning the grass of the small clearing in an inconspicuous corner of Zeno’s garden was still soaked with heavy dew. John could feel its moisture seeping uncomfortably through the soft leather of his boots. He chided himself for even noticing such a petty annoyance under the circumstances. After all, life was full of trivial irritations, all endless distractions from its tragedies and joys.
Those who had attended the brief ceremony began to drift away back to the villa. A few remained in the clearing and talked in hushed tones. Godomar’s voice rose above the others. Birds sang cheerfully, unheeding, in the surrounding trees.
The boy’s funeral had been slightly delayed while messages went back and forth between the estate and Constantinople. There had been some concern over where Gadaric should be laid to rest since the twins had no family, or at least not outside Italy, and no permanent residence, having been shifted from one host to another during most of their brief lives. Finally it was decided that burial on the estate where Gadaric had spent his last summer seemed as appropriate as any other place.
“I’ll have a fitting memorial built,” Zeno had said. “With an ever-burning flame. Or perhaps it could include a replica of one of those toy animals Hero made for the children. Gadaric had such fun with them, you know. Hero could make it so that it would move in the wind. I think the boy would have liked that, don’t you?”