Merlin grew up in the midst of a Christian society, but like Vangelis, he had telepathic gifts which never really fit into the cookie cutter world of the Christian Church. Vangelis taught him to embrace both and that it is not sacrilege to develop those gifts, as long as they are used towards righteousness.
Merlin gets up to say his ‘goodbyes’ to Vangelis when a vision of a wailing women fills their minds, ostensibly at the same time; for they both turn to each other simultaneously with the same look of consternation on their faces.
As if to confirm this point, Dominique runs into the living room, looking unsure and forlorn. He is about to speak, but it is unnecessary.
“I cry pardon, my Lor-”
In unison, Merlin and Vangelis interrupt. “No need boy.”
Vangelis does not wait for Merlin to respond. “Go, Merlin. The girl awaits. As does your duty. We are well met! Now go!”
Merlin nods and runs out with Shadow, who quietly whimpers in anticipation. It was Janice he heard in his head. This is confirmed the moment he exits the door. Janice is usually a very attractive lady, and she takes great pride in her appearance. She would never venture out unless she looks appropriately. Great haste had brought her here for she is a mess. Her normally lustrous hair is disheveled, oily and tangled. She wears no makeup; her eyes are puffy, her face blotchy and red, the tell-tale marks of incessant crying.
Upon seeing Merlin, more tears well up in her eyes and rain down her cheeks. She hadn’t even time to dress, for she was still wearing her sleep camisole and slipper sandalees.
“Merlin, it’s Sylvia!” She cries. She holds up Sylvia’s once white wool sweater that had now been tattered in places and stained with crimson.
Chapter 8: Unworthy Son
Caius Cassius’ stallion, Criten, had protested for the last twenty miles under the relentless driving of his master. The horse is the strongest among Herod’s stock, but even he had his breaking limits. The horse had lost weight from irregular nourishment and was constantly dehydrated, a condition that surely would have killed a lesser horse. The horse drank at the brook and ate copiously from the fertile pastures located just outside the castle. She had only been shoed a month ago but would need fresh shoes before another journey. Though the trip was only three weeks, it had aged her a year. A more reasonable rider would have taken five weeks; but all reason was foregone when it came to his father- Herod, the Great. The Falcon.
The images of the bloodshed that Herod had initiated upon the innocent family members of the assassins who failed his father seemed forever burned into his retinas. It greeted him every morning and was the cause of the scream that seemed lodged in his throat. He couldn’t dislodge it, nor could he expel breath for an impossibly long moment.
It was almost as if his father stood over him, ready to pass judgment, reminding him of his numerous shortcomings, making him unworthy to be called son. He could not escape his father’s overbearing presence. Perhaps he never would.
But he could not get the images out of his head. Caius had to oversee the annihilation and ensure no family member related to the assassins was left alive. Troy’s family was killed first near Pinebrook. His wife, Melinda was innocent and knew only that her husband was in the service of one of the Council members of Gilleon, an important post. Her naivety was not enough to save her. She was known to keep a shooter in her kitchen. A sharp shooter snuck up on her and shot her through the neck and belly, killing the unborn child she had in her womb. She was quite visibly pregnant and was at least seven months along. Her children were considered no viable threat, and they were not given such mercy.
In order to conserve bullets, Herod demanded that the children be struck down with a sword. Two of Troy’s offspring were pursued and cut down as they ran from relentless assassins, whose only concern was ensuring Herod’s will was done to decree. Troy’s boy of five Wendolyn, was innocently filling up a bucket of well water when a strategic sword was thrown with deadly accuracy towards him, impaling the boy to a large Cyprus tree near the well. He did not have enough time to utter a scream. He only gasped briefly as blood dripped from his supple lips. Mercifully, he did not feel much of anything.
Though Caius Cassius did not actually participate in the butchery, he nevertheless had to confirm the killings had taken place and verify no one had survived. He swooned several times and expelled the remnants of his insubstantial meal he had eaten that morning. Brutus, one of Herod’s ‘unofficial constables’ in the Menekin Valley, laughed derisively at his predicament. Brutus had seen more than his share of bloodshed and had caused much of it. So were the ways of war. He had nothing but disdain for the ‘over-privileged’, half-wit offspring of Herod Antipaz.
Brutus even surmised that perhaps the boy was not the real offspring of Herod. He had none of his drive, ambition and relentless tenacity. He had a weak stomach as well and had no taste for battle, further adding to his disdainful opinion of the boy. The boy received all the rewards of his father’s considerable achievements and men such as him had to do all the dirty work.
Caius didn’t care about the condescending manner in which his father’s men treated him. It was nothing compared to the assault on his ego that his father’s condescension caused him.
When his father had learned that the assassins had failed to kill the boy, Herod had taken out his anger on the most of convenient of recipients- him. He had beaten him violently, breaking his nose, a couple of ribs, splitting his lip and even damaging his cornea, which made it difficult to focus. He had healed from his physical wounds, but the psychological ones remained.
Perhaps his father would welcome the news of the boy’s whereabouts.
Caius rode up to the castle with a fair amount of ambivalence, unsure of how his father would react to the news. His stallion, sensing his anxiety and having been refreshed with good food and ample drink, dug in her hooves and galloped increasingly harder as they galloped across the drawbridge.
Herod sits on his massive oak throne, which has a beautiful image of a falcon of gold inscribed onto the back of the chair. The chair is more elaborate than Menelaeus throne and has many brass images of predatory birds emblazoned onto them. Two massive skulls are attached to the top of the chair. They were giants and meant to induce fear in any who had witnessed the throne and more importantly, the man who sat upon it.
Herod claimed that he had killed the giants himself on a wild boar hunting expedition, but no one had ever witnessed it. Still, no one refuted it.
Morgana walks into the auditorium and approaches Herod. “Caius is here, Herod. He has news.”
“Will it be pleasing?” asks Herod tepidly.
“A mixed blessing, perhaps. Let the boy tell you himself.”
Dalton, another one of Herod’s newly appointed man-servants, opens the 17’ black, mahogany doors for Caius. Two large green eyes are painted on the doors and seem to continually look at anyone who walks towards them. It may have been an illusion or an act of sorcery. No one knows for sure- only that it induced a fair amount of trepidation for anyone venturing out. At any rate, the message is established loud and clear. Herod is watching, so do not fail him.
As soon as Caius walks in, Herod rises off his throne and approaches him. “What word does my offspring bring me?”
Caius bows in deference. His bow is not returned. Instead, Herod gives the slightest of nods, barely acknowledging him. “Greetings Father. Your will completed. The assassins’ families have been eliminated, and your message has been left loud and clear.”
Herod contemptuously sneers. “My will done? Really? Are you in need of a history lesson, imbecile?”
“I cry pardon, Father. Your most recent will has been completed.”
“Anything else?”
Caius Cassius’ eyes dart from Morgana’s to his father’s and back again, trying to predict how his father will accept the news. As usual, Morgana’s face is inscrutable. He takes a deep breath and continues.
“I have discovered the boy’s
whereabouts.” He says matter of fact.
Herod looks at Caius with a piercing, intense gaze for several seconds. The uncomfortable pause unnerves Caius further. And when his father walks closer to him, he reflexively flinches, half-expecting his father to lash out at him again.
Herod rubs his chin in a pensive manner “I assume then that there is reason you have not moved to finish him?”
Caius tries hard to swallow, but it is as if his throat had constricted to half its size. “Indeed, there is a father. The boy is here in Lycenea. He was rescued by Merlin and the Knights on their way back from Missalia. He is-”
Herod finishes for him. “Under their protection. Anything else?”
“Ai. He serves as recruit, a blinded one. Though he escaped with his life, a blow to his head has blinded the boy. It is unknown whether he will regain his sight.”
Herod unexpectedly erupts in laughter. “Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha! You say the boy is here, right under our noses, in the lion’s den? Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!”
Morgana and Caius exchange an uneasy look. Morgana walks towards Herod in an attempt to iterate the severity of the situation. “It explains much, Herod. I could not have ascertained the boy’s whereabouts with the presence of two powerful telepaths in his midst. He is under their protection and access to him will be very difficult.”
Herod looks at Morgana contemptuously, as if she were a stupid child. “The boy is right under our noses, and we will make our opportunities to see unfulfilled deed complete. He is blind, vulnerable and very close. It may take time, but we will breach his safe little haven.”
Morgana nods at Herod with assurance. “Ai. It can be done, Herod.”
“The boy must pass his tests or be removed from the program. It is very unlikely he will accomplish it, given his handicaps,” notes Herod.
“Don’t underestimate the boy,” warns Morgana. “He has survived an assassination attempt and sustained himself in the most desolate of places, despite the handicap. He is not one to trifle with. Treat him as you would with any other knight and plan accordingly. We need your wits now more than ever.”
“Ai. I will take heed. Set your watch and warrant it so.”
Caius looks at them both dubiously, but when they both look in his direction, he merely bows and nods in assent. “There may yet be an opportunity to prove yourself as my son, Caius,” says Herod hopefully.
“It is all I ever wanted, my Lord.” Caius almost slips and says ‘father.’
Chapter 9: Dante gets the Upper Hand
Dante progresses in his academics, thanks to magically raised lettering called braille. He learns it quickly. He excels in Mathematics and is learning something called algebra. In a couple of years or so (provided he is still a recruit) he will learn trigonometry and calculus. Physics will come even later, probably as a teenager. With that knowledge, he will learn how to set coordinates for propulsion devices like ballistas. And this thought excites Dante more than anything.
Unfortunately, Dante had not bonded with any of the other boys, choosing to sit by himself in the mess hall, his only companion Cammilia. Any attempt on his part to engage one of the other recruits in conversation is ignored.
Dante’s hearing is so acute, he can pick up on a whisper from fifty yards away. Many times, he feigned activity when in reality he was eavesdropping on his group’s conversation. It seems they are engaging in something called ‘branding’ where they target one recruit in order to induce him to leave voluntarily. The self-appointed leader of the group, Maximus, orders the others in the group not speak to Dante.
During exercises, they would routinely gang up on him and take frequent ‘cheap’ shots at him when Dottore is not looking. When they are caught, they proudly receive their punishment. Indeed, they wear it like a badge of honor. The behavior does not escape the notice of Germanicus.
Though it tugs at his heartstrings at times, he will do nothing to intervene. The situation needs to be played out. Maximus feels threatened by the second most powerful member of the group and the need to eliminate that threat. Whether for self-glory or the good of the group, Germanicus is not entirely sure. But it is necessary. Dante needs to be tested.
Once, Luke and Petronius had purposely spilled kale oil on the gymnasium floor, making it especially slippery. When Dante came running in to attend class, he slipped on it and fell painfully on his tailbone, crying out sharply. The boys laughed in response.
The culprits of the prank admitted their guilt and were duly punished, but Dottore knew who had ordered the boys to their mischief-Maximus. They did anything he asked.
Though Germanicus feels compassion for the boy, he will not hide him away to protect him. If he is to emerge as a viable knight, he will have to prove it. Germanicus purposely placed the boy in the most accomplished group, the group which had the greatest chance of making knighthood. If he has any chance of succeeding in the program, it will be with this group.
And so far, the plan had succeeded. Maximus, sensing a threat to his dominance, sets out on a campaign to eliminate that threat. And yet Dante is undeterred. Indeed, with every cheap shot, rejection and slight, he seems more resolute and determined.
Dante’s knuckles are raw and bleeding, both from frequent jabbing and blocking other punches. Dottore had insisted he was progressing enough to perform four bouts back to back. He barely sustained himself from the first three but managed to land several blows on Petronius, Luke and Jericho. One punch knocked Jericho in the mouth, knocking out a loose tooth and him to the ground. Though he had the benefit of full vision, unlike Dante, he had never seen the punch coming. He is momentarily dazed, but once he shakes off his incapacitation, he becomes angry and lashes out.
Giving in to his rage, he telegraphs his movements, creating an overly loud rustling sound in his uniform and alerting Dante to his whereabouts. Dante ducks from the roundhouse punch dives down and sweeps his foot, knocking Petronius off balance and onto his back, knocking all the wind out of him. Petronius sucks in air desperately to compensate and coughs, eliciting snickers from Luke and Jericho. Maximus is not amused and stares Petronius down hard with an exasperated look the moment he recovers.
For a split second, it appears that Petronius is intimidated by Dante, for he hesitates briefly. But a dour look from Maximus is all that is needed to induce him into action. He runs up to Dante to resume when Dottore calls, “Time. Well done, Dante. Petronius, your anger made you careless. You completely telegraphed that last move. Were you in battle, that may have been all the move your opponent needed to jump on you and slit your throat. Give in to your anger at the expense of losing your head. Think runt!”
Petronius nods his head in assent. “Ai, Dottore. I will not let it happen again.”
“See that you don’t runt. Maximus, you’re up.”
Maximus jumps up from a sitting position, flipping in the air the moment his feet hit the ground, eliciting cries of “awe” from his fellow recruits. Though Dante doesn’t see him do it, the sound of the ‘thumping’ and the ‘awes’ of the students indicates his impressive agility. Germanicus rolls his eyes and shakes his head in disappointment. There is no reason for the display except to impress his classmates and intimidate Dante further.
Maximus looks at Dante menacingly. “You can decline the match. No shame in doing so. I promise you it will be less painful.” He then smiles sardonically.
“Give me your worst, prince,” replies Dante, saying ‘prince’ with as much disdain as he can muster. Maximus clenches and unclenches his fists in obvious irritation.
“It’s more than you will amount to, boy!”
“Begin match!” roars Germanicus.
Maximus shoots out his fist quickly, hoping to catch Dante off guard. Dante blocks it and steps aside with his body, feeling his knuckles drag across his arm. He inwardly cringes at what that devastating punch would have done to him.
Maximus strikes out several more times and then uses his momentum from a swift uppercut to hurl a roundhouse towar
ds Dante’s oblique. It hits his target, eliciting a sharp cry from Dante. Maximus was hoping to daze Dante with the devastating blow, but Dante absorbs it and then readies himself for the next assault. Maximus strikes out his fist with maximum ferocity, but Dante deflects it. Dante dives down in a crouched position and then sweeps his leg, catching Maximus squarely off-guard. Maximus falls on the mat with all the air knocked out of him.
When Maximus falls to the ground, Dante jumps on him and smacks him in the groin sharply, eliciting a loud, shrill cry from the boy. Dante holds back with his blow to avoid serious damage but strikes out enough to cause a painful sting that will last for several minutes. Petronius tries to hold in a snicker but is unable. Dante turns his foot and places it above Maximus’ chin. “Do you submit, Maximus?”
Maximus still reels from the excruciating blow and grows angrier by the second. He barely restrains from crying out. “The first two fingers are held up in submission as a plea for mercy. Do it!” demands Dante.
Maximus reluctantly submits. “Ai.”
“Match!” roars Germanicus. “Well done, Dante!”
Maximus shoots up onto his legs and unexpectedly shoots out his elbow, catching Dante just under the eye, knocking him backwards and onto the floor. Blood seeps out from a small laceration. “Maximus!” roars Germanicus. “I called match. You are going to pay for that one! In my office now!”
Maximus walks off arrogantly and looks to his fellow recruits. Only Petronius smiles at him, but it is a half-hearted one and forced at that. He is intimidated by their self-appointed leader. The others in the group do not smile but only shake their heads shamefully. The boys had taken their own ‘cheap shots’ at the boy, but never after Dottore had called time. That was inviolable. Maximus had crossed the line.
At that moment, their opinion of their leader diminishes. Dante had won the match, but Maximus’ out of control ego could not accept it. Would the boy ever learn humility? Germanicus had his doubts.
Lycenea Page 6