by Robin Hardy
Then someone exclaimed, “A song! Let’s have a song in honor of the Surchatain and the Commander!” But not in my honor, observed a peevish voice within her. She tried to dismiss the thought as petty, but it lingered.
Kam immediately began a very silly verse which other voices picked up gleefully. Apparently they all knew it:
“Let out a shout and be up and about;
There’s reason to sing today.
Move from your chair and take to the air;
There’s reason to sing today!
Ho wee oh,
What do you have to say?
Ho wee oh,
Here’s what I have to say:
“Lift up your feet and part with your seat;
There’s gladness afoot today.
Free up your voice and let us rejoice—
There’s gladness afoot today.
Ho wee oh,
What do you have to say?
Ho wee oh,
Here’s what I have to say:
“Give up your gloom and dance ’round the room
It’s laughter that rules the day;
Perk up your ears and cast off your fears
It’s laughter that rules the day!
Ho wee oh,
What do you have to say?
Ho wee oh,
Now I have had my say.”
This drivel went on at length, someone making up new verses continually, spurred on by laughter and cheers. Having placed herself above the joviality, Deirdre soon grew weary of it. She became irritated, then contemptuous, as the affair droned on.
Thinking she must be uncomfortable, Roman glanced at her from time to time as she sighed and shifted about. Immediately after Galapos’ plate was removed, Roman stood and said, “Galapos, please excuse us. I fear Deirdre is exhausted from the day.”
Galapos cocked his head and said, “Go put her to bed, by all means, but then come back here. I must speak with you tonight. Good night, Chataine.” She nodded coolly to him in response.
Roman took her arm as they walked the old, familiar corridors to her chambers. “Deirdre, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, and literally it was true. She had no reason to feel so aggravated and testy, but nonetheless she did, strongly.
“I know you’re tired. . . .” He passed through her receiving room into her sleeping chamber just to see that it was in order and unoccupied. That old royalty within her bridled at the guardian’s brash entrance into her inner chamber. She had to remind herself that he was her husband now. “Sleep now, and I’ll join you later,” he said quietly, stroking her back. She looked away and nodded.
Roman suddenly caught her arm and spun her to face him. She startled at the radiance of his normally stolid face. “Deirdre!” he exclaimed, as if to wake her. “Don’t you realize what has happened? We’re home! God has brought us home, together, whole and safe—and to rule Lystra, yet! Rejoice with me, Deirdre.” It was a plea.
“Of course I’m happy, Roman,” she insisted. “I’m only tired, as you said.” She sat on the downy bed, looking toward the window.
His deflation was palpable. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, and left.
Alone in the room, she looked around with a wave of sadness and nostalgia. The doll she had bought at the Fair sat beside her, waiting. She picked it up, smoothing its little crimson dress.
Yes, she was home, but it was strange to her now. Too many things had changed. And Nanna—where was Nanna? She pressed the doll to her cheek and let herself weep out her longing for her nursemaid, who had cared for her since infancy. How many times had she spoken harshly to Nanna, had lied and been disobedient? How could Nanna have endured it? Why had she done it so faithfully?
In this moment, Deirdre wished more than anything to hold Nanna’s neck once more, to ask forgiveness for the grief she had caused her long-suffering nursemaid. But opportunity to do that had been given liberally in the past. Now the door there was shut and bolted.
Roman walked the corridor on his way back to the banquet hall. The familiarity of these walls and the weariness of his body caused him to slip into a reverie. When he halted, he blinked to see that somehow he had taken a wrong turn and now stood before the door to the Counselor’s chambers. Eudymon’s chambers. Roman’s . . . father. He stared at the door, motionless, while something deep within him began welling up, cracking. Scenes ran through his mind of his father’s attempts to reconcile, to gain his favor, if not his love. And he saw himself aloof, stern, unbendingly proud.
He closed his eyes, shaking himself. Remorse was easy when there was nothing to be done about it. His past actions were etched in stone, never to be altered. For how does one reconcile with a dead man?
The thing inside him cracked full open and he fell on Eudymon’s door. “Father, forgive me,” he moaned. “I behaved in ignorance and spite.” He drew an unsteady breath and whispered, “God, have mercy on him. He is my father.” He turned brokenly from the door to find his way to the banquet hall.
But Galapos met him in the corridor. “They are having such a romp in there, we’ll leave them be and go elsewhere,” he chuckled. Then he paused to assess Roman’s face. “Are you well, my son?”
“Yes.” Roman straightened.
“Then come.” Galapos led to the Surchatain’s chambers and put a hand to the door. He pushed it open and held out the candle. They stood scrutinizing the large, plush chamber from the doorway. It was clean and uncluttered, except for Karel’s papers strewn atop the secretary—all his unfinished business.
Galapos shook his head, uttering a dry laugh. “I feel as if he is here still. Do we Christians believe in ghosts, Roman?”
“None that can harm you,” he answered, gazing at empty space.
Galapos nodded. “That’s good enough for me. Come sit, my boy.” Galapos pointed to a straight-back, deeply padded chair as he sat in a like one near it.
Roman sat heavily. Galapos asked, “What’s troubling you, Roman?”
He shook his head, not lifting his eyes. “I simply . . . never realized the importance of forgiveness.”
“For yourself, or someone else?” probed Galapos.
“Those two are inseparable. That is what I’m discovering.” There was a momentary silence as Roman passed a hand over his brow. The old bludgeon injury pained him afresh at times like this.
“You are referring to your father,” Galapos observed.
Roman’s eyes shot up. “You knew he was my father? How?”
“He told me,” Galapos answered easily, settling back. “The night we plotted your rescue from the gallows.”
Roman rubbed his brow. “You never told me you knew.”
“It did not seem profitable to tell you.”
Roman nodded inwardly, remembering his own harsh response when Deirdre had spoken of his father. “What else did he tell you?”
“That freeing you was more important to him than his own life,” Galapos answered directly. “He knew we had little chance of keeping it a secret, with so many witnesses around. And he knew that he would be the first to answer to Karel for it. None of that mattered—you must be saved.” Roman could not meet his gaze as he spoke. As Roman was silent, he added, “It must demand a lot of love to put another’s life before your own.”
Quietly, Roman said, “He did not fail me, in the end.”
“No, he did not.” Moments later, Galapos shifted. “Roman . . . the holy man, Tychus, who taught here at the palace . . . is he among the survivors here now?”
“No. I looked for him, but he is not here. There are many I looked for who are gone now.”
“Aye. The price of war. . . . And his Scriptures, which you spoke of—can you find them? I wish to begin reading.”
“Yes. But, now, Galapos? At this late hour?” Roman asked, drained.
A little twinkle showed itself in the Surchatain’s eyes. “Like our precious Deirdre, I have a curiosity that will not rest until it finds answers. Please go get them.” Roman lef
t, smiling and shaking his head.
He returned with a large volume bound in leather and gold. Galapos motioned for him to sit. “You’re familiar with this book, Roman. You read to me.”
“As you wish.” Roman paused, then selected a starting point and read: ‘“The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. As it is written in Isaiah the prophet, “Behold, I send my messenger before your face, who shall prepare your way; the voice of one crying in the wilderness; prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. . . .”’” He read while Galapos settled back to listen.
Roman finished a page and stopped to look up inquiringly. Galapos lifted a finger for him to continue. So he read to Galapos of the life of Jesus: parables, miracles, healings. He read of confrontations and prophecies and teachings, and still Galapos sat listening. Then hoarsely he related to Galapos of the last Passover, the mocking trial and cruel execution, the Resurrection.
‘“. . . so then the Lord Jesus, after He had spoken to them, was taken up into heaven, and sat down at the right hand of God. And they went forth and preached everywhere, while the Lord worked with them and confirmed the message by the signs that attended it. Amen.’” Finishing at last, Roman coughed and blearily focused on the Surchatain. Still Galapos sat quietly, thinking. The diminishing candle flickered in the stillness.
Galapos said, “Go to bed now, Roman. We’ll need to start early tomorrow.”
Roman stood with creaking bones and bowed. As he exited and closed the door behind him, he saw Galapos still seated, still in thought.
In the lateness of the hour, Roman passed no one in the corridors but the solitary soldiers on watch. He entered Deirdre’s receiving room and stopped at the door of the sleeping chamber, feeling suddenly a trespasser in this room that had so long been hers. He shook off the reservations and entered the dark room.
The heavy draperies were drawn back, allowing moonlight to illumine a swatch across the bed. Deirdre lay sleeping deeply, draped in a simple silk robe. Roman stood over the bed and looked down on her. In spite of his weariness, just the sight of her—beautiful, safe, resting—awakened to quick power in him those old yearnings for her.
He reached down to stroke her hair and shoulders, then bent to kiss her neck. She did not rouse. He gently turned her shoulders to face him and kissed her mouth. She struggled, still asleep, and pulled away from him. Hungry, he kissed her again. Though unconscious, she nonetheless clearly demanded, “Leave me alone!” He released her in frustration, throwing himself down on the bed.
Chapter 4
A fortnight raced by as Galapos took control of the palace and slaved to make it function on sparse assets. First, he inventoried the palace possessions, soldiers, arms, and animals, to determine their needs and their resources. He appointed a palace overseer and staff from the soldiers, who struggled under Basil’s tutoring to learn the most elementary requirements of maintaining a palace.
But Galapos soon found that the demands of this work were frequently superseded by the demands of the people to settle their quarrels and soothe their pride with appointments and honors. Therefore, once a day in the early morning hours, Galapos held an open audience to hear from them. He used the audience hall for this purpose, and sat on the throne to announce his judgments, but declined the purple mantle. He wished to establish his authority by what he did rather than what he wore on his shoulders.
In one such audience, Galapos sat on the throne with Roman standing to his right and summoned Kam before him. “Kam, you have been a faithful, hard-working soldier. You have served willingly wherever I have placed you and held nothing back. In recognition of your loyalty and service, I wish to appoint you as a captain of the army. Here is your charge: Do you swear to defend Lystra and the Surchatain with your life, to execute the orders of your Commander, and deal responsibly with the men under you?”
“I do, Surchatain.” Kam’s chest was puffed to bursting.
“Then you are so appointed. Commander Roman will assign you a unit,” Galapos confirmed.
Kam bowed as Galapos rose, and Roman began to briefly instruct the new captain, “Your unit is the blue. You’ll begin drilling tomorrow—”
A voice in the crowd flowing around them distracted him with the snide comment, “If he really wished to be honored, he’d be in the Cohort.”
Roman and Kam both turned indignantly toward the voice, but whoever said it slipped back into the crowd. “Who said that?” Kam demanded, grabbing a startled merchant.
“Let it be,” Roman muttered. “Now,—”
“Did you see who said that?” Kam persisted, grabbing another.
“Captain!” Roman barked, and Kam looked over. “I gave you an order, Captain,” Roman breathed.
“Yes, sir!” Kam snapped to attention. For a brief, dangerous moment he had forgotten that Roman was no longer merely the Chataine’s guardian.
“Go prepare your unit’s gear to drill tomorrow,” Roman instructed—a menial task for a captain.
“Yes, sir.” Kam saluted stiffly and went out.
Detaching himself from the hangers-on around the throne, Galapos gestured, “Roman, to the library.”
They had just exited through the great doors when a flustered Basil called after them, “Surchatain, if you will, kindly step back into the hall. A dispute has arisen and the parties ask you to hear them.”
Galapos nodded grimly, making an about face. All their disputes were of such importance that no less a person than the Surchatain could hear them. As Galapos reseated himself on the throne, Roman took a place on the edge of the spectators.
“I will hear first from the one who has a grievance,” said Galapos.
“Surchatain.” An elderly man approached the throne and bowed. “I’m a man of meager means, with only a modest plot of land as my subsistence. I’ve no family and can’t afford to hire laborers. I alone must work my field. Now this man—” he pointed an accusing finger at a fellow nearby—“has four rowdy boys who are nothing but vandals and troublemakers. They’ve been raiding my field and stealing my grain. I ask that you execute them before they take all I have to eat!”
Galapos turned his eyes to the accused. “And what do you say?”
“Surchatain,” he bowed, “it’s true that my boys have been gleaning from his land. But he lets the grain stand so long it gets wasted! Now, I’m a potter, and you know how poor business has been. My family is starving! Will you hang my boys for bringing bread to their father’s table?”
“Stolen bread!” exclaimed the first man.
“You would let it rot before allowing us to have it!” cried the second.
“Order!” demanded Galapos, then fumed, “Why do you prefer knocking heads to helping each other? You”—he pointed to the elderly plaintiff—”You’ve nothing to pay laborers, so your grain rots on the stalks? You will hire this man’s sons as your laborers, and pay them as wages an eighth of what they reap for you. And you,” he said, pointing to the defendant, “the harder your sons work, the more bread will be brought to your table. Moreover, if they work faithfully, and do more than is asked of them, perhaps this man may be moved to leave his field as an inheritance for them.” He waited to see both parties eye each other suspiciously. “Then this audience is ended,” Galapos declared.
He left the throne to join Roman in resuming their walk to the library. On the way, Roman glanced toward the chapel as a pair of soldiers entered it. “The chapel draws much interest of a sudden,” he remarked.
“Hylas is teaching the new converts there,” Galapos answered, preoccupied.
“Hylas? I don’t know him. Does he have Scriptures? He isn’t using ours—I have them all the time,” Roman said. Galapos did not respond, so Roman shrugged and left it at that.
They sat in the library with maps of all the Surchatain’s land and began carefully piecing them together to discover the extent of the royal possessions. “Why hasn’t this been done before?” Galapos grumbled.
“Who knows?”
muttered Roman, poring over a mass of wriggly lines. “Perhaps because the Surchatain owns so much land, they found it easier to assume any particular piece belonged to him rather than not.” He frowned, turning the map around to look it over from a better angle.
“According to this, the Surchatain owns all the land east of Westford to the slate quarry,” said Galapos.
“That can’t be,” Roman dissented. “Taine has a sizeable plot just beyond the fuller’s field.”
Galapos squinted. “That must be what this blocked area is.”
Roman leaned over to look. “No. That’s the lake.”
“No. That would put the lake due east of Westford.”
“Where is the lake, then?” Roman shifted closer.
“There is no lake!” declared Galapos. He leaned on his elbow, exasperated, then raised a finger of authority and demanded, “Roman, banish the lake. It does not appear on the map.”
“It must!” Roman insisted, taking it up. “My father drew up these maps himself. He would certainly make them accurate.”
As Roman scrutinized the parchment, Galapos sat back and smiled slightly at him. “I hope that he is able to hear what you just said.”
Roman raised his face, caught unawares. Then he said, “It occurs to me that the lake is only outlined on the map by the surrounding fields.” He looked down again. “Here it is.” And he placed the map in front of Galapos, pointing. Thus enlightened, they began to develop a reliable picture of the Surchatain’s holdings.
Some time later, a knock sounded on the door and Kam appeared. “Surchatain, pardon the intrusion, but I’ve been hearing reports that you should be aware of. My unit’s gear is ready, Commander,” Kam said in a respectful aside to Roman, who nodded.
“Reports? Regarding what?” Galapos asked, pushing away the maps.
“We’re hearing of renegade attacks on many villages and small townships—looting, killing, taking slaves. It’s getting so that people are afraid to travel outside of Westford,” Kam told them.