Aries Fire (23 page)

They held hands and let the cool breezes unite them for the last time.  Their friendship, however brief, made a different life for Seira, one filled with the hope of being a woman. Seira grieved for Aymelek openly and quietly for herself.  The loss of a friend, while still alive, seemed egregious.

Attila suddenly entered into the opened flap of Aymelek’s tent.  He bowed then turned to Aymelek for a moment.  Seira saw a familial fondness pass between them.

“Rhetman,” he said to Seira.

Seira squeezed Aymelek’s hand and left the tent with Attila.  He looked at her with an expression of assurance.

“Bleda travels with Aymelek and Mundzuk for burial.  You come with me to the West camp.  There we stay.  New lands are given us. Evet?”

Seira thought she would feel relief, knowing Bleda would be far away.  Bleda had dismissed Seira and acted as if she were invisible.  At seeing him, Seira identified a jagged scar on Bleda’s cheek as her mark upon him.  That gave her small satisfaction. Perhaps he was done with Seira, having already exacted his punishment.  Seira hoped he would continue to treat her as if she were too small to see.

She nodded to Attila and gave him a small smile. He normally kept his feeling well concealed beneath his masculine exterior, but now he looked so proud to be able to tell her she would not have to fear Bleda. She could tell he was relieved to be able to keep Seira safe and by his side.

“And after the funeral?” she asked Attila.

“Bleda travels to Ruga in Persia.”

She wished it was Bleda’s funeral, but small favors still felt like huge blessings.  Seira and Attila knew she now had the skills to kill Bleda if it were necessary.  They also knew Seira’s desire for such revenge faded daily with her violent memory of Bleda’s attack.

“Thank you, Attila, dear friend,” she said, taking his hand. “I am so sorry that Mundzuk is dead,” she whispered to him.

He looked into her eyes with appreciation.  Seira wondered whom he would marry and would Attila gaze at his new wife in the same way.  She felt equally privileged and denied more than ever before.

Dawn arrived with the air cool.  Attila and Seira, indifferent to weather, readied themselves to ride to the Western camp.  Kiral made ready to escort Mundzuk’s body and to ride to Scythia with one hundred Hun warriors, accompanied Bleda and Aymelek.  Seira hoped Bleda would disappear forever.  A silent, uncomfortable feeling roused within her as her hope converted to a mere wish.

Seira mounted her restless horse as she watched Aymelek’s figure blend with the pastel horizon, knowing she’d never see her friend again.  There was finality to death and separation that carried stark recognition for her. Seira simply did not like endings.

Seira’s uneasiness grew and it unnerved her horse.  She worked hard to restrain him and her hushed trepidation.  Seira released her grip on the reigns and galloped, imagining herself a young girl, free of danger.

Chapter Eleven

The past, the masculine, journey with karma

Or Saturn conjunct Jupiter in the 9th

T
HIRTY LITTLE BOYS
stood in rows of three.  Red, silk robes draped their small bodies and buried their feet.  Their hair cropped high above their ears and forehead, the child-monks sang in unison.  The priest who directed their voices looked askance and pointed to the selected soloist.  The boy took his cue and a sweet, pure sound rose above the rest, caressing the stone walls.  Reverent notes floated to the ceiling of the cathedral where a nestling of doves flapped their wings.  The birds finally settled and cooed intermittently to the melodious scales.

The priest was, as his father and grandfather before him, trained at the Schola Cantorum in Rome founded by Pope Sylvester over a century prior, and took his choir practice as serious as his confessions and daily prayers.

As the echoes of the boy’s Plainchant rang sad, none realized the Roman Catholic Church would have control over the advancement of music for centuries to come. 

Bishop Cyril stood in the archway to the cathedral and listened.  He was moved by prepubescent harmony.  Voices chimed clearly in the spacious chamber.  He made a note to meet the boy who brought him to a Divine feeling.

Quick, precise tapping footsteps approached the Bishop.  The Bishop’s steward bowed, with head tilted, hands folded chest height, eyes fixed on the floor, and whispered something.  Bishop Cyril stared at his steward’s head, annoyed with the news.  He paused then replied.   The steward nodded once and walked away with an efficient gait.  Their eyes never met.

Bishop Cyril raised his eyebrow and nodded in approval to the priest.  The plump, gray haired man stood proud and cleared his throat.  He faced his choir again as the bishop slipped from sight.  Cyril moved swiftly to Deacon Leo’s offices, behind Saint Maria Maggiore Cathedral. 

The reigning Pope, Sixtus lll, built this cathedral in Rome and designed it to contain a mosaic of the bible’s Testament of God. Cyril ignored it as he passed.

He glanced briefly at the semicircular apse that contained the Pope’s seat.  His footsteps strode on large blocks of inlaid tile and gray mortar.  It would be months before he returned to Rome. 

Passing the chancel, he exited through a door painted with the image of St. Peter.  Looking at it contemplatively for a long moment, he opened and closed the door succinctly, inaudibly, save for the click of the handle. 

Deacon Leo had already left the cathedral and awaited Cyril’s presence.

Cyril reached Leo’s office and perused the contents of the Deacon’s desk drawer. Inside it was a black leather pouch, neatly stored. Contained within the pouch lay a key attached to a golden chain.  He snatched it, shoved the drawer closed, hid the key under his coat and left quickly.

The Bishop made his way to the caravan that carried Deacon Leo, his steward Valens, and a driver.   Six Legionnaires guarded the caravan, two at the doorway.  They stepped aside to let Cyril pass.

“Ah, my Bishop.  I began to think you changed your thoughts on the matter of campaigning with me,” Leo said.

Cyril entered the twenty-foot long caravan made of oak wood and iron sheet metal, neatly forged with carbon and bronze edging, that glimmered royally in the sun.  He sat across from Leo on a built-in bench strewn with comfortable cushions.  It was dark and hot.  Cyril reached for a metal shutter to let in some air.

“Here,” he said, handing the key to Leo.  “Next time, your Grace, send your steward to run your errands.”

“Cyril, Cyril. Will you not one day understand the importance of personal procuration?”

Leo bent forward and spoke in a low voice.

“I trust you, my friend.  I keep my enemies close to my breast and away from my personal things,” he lied to Cyril.

Cyril removed his coat and reclined on the bench.

“Yes, of course.  Pardon, your Grace, I grow impatient to end these wars,” Cyril said.

“Our meetings with the Huns will go favorably,” Leo said. 

“Pelagius, finally no longer a threat and now the Huns.  We cannot continue to pay tribute to Ruga and his animal relations, Bleda and Attila,” Cyril said, annoyed.

“Have faith, dear Bishop.  I may yet hold some sway with Attila.  He is the more civilized of the three.  Did you know he was once a ward of the Court under the Emperor Honorius?”

Leo did not wait for Cyril to reply.

“Yes, and Aetius, my cousin will join us in the talks. This gives me comfort.”

“Aetius? By what authority is a soldier given the right to speak for the Holy See?” Cyril interrupted.

“I did not say Aetius would be speaking. I said he would join us.  He is a decorated and formidable soldier who once lived with Mundzuk.  One would liken him to Hector,” Leo paused altering his tone of voice.  “And by my right, Cyril. Never question that.”

Leo reminded Cyril who controlled the Hun campaign.

Fidgeting in his seat, Cyril finally found a more secure posture on the narrow bench. He met Leo’s eyes and said nothing for a moment. His nostrils flared a bit, preserving his composure.

“Pope Sixtus has left us with an immutable task,” Cyril said seriously.

“Yes, indeed, one that brings with it great rewards.  Although at times, my friend, I grow weary of tribal discord.  Well then,” he said with a cheery voice.  “Let us move it to our benefit,” Leo said and looked at the key in his hand.

Attached to it was a round medallion. A golden eagle carved on the medallion shimmered in a splinter of light pointing through the open shutters.

“It’s been nearly thirteen years since Mundzuk’s death.  His brother Ruga has taken the reigns of the Hun outbursts yet with all of these talks Roman blood is still shed. And if Khan Ruga does not wish to form a new alliance?” Cyril asked.

“Then we employ the assistance of Aetius.  We shall negotiate different terms to more persuasive individuals,” Leo said pleasantly.

He stared at Cyril and dropped the key into his breast pocket beneath his robe.

“Driver!” Leo called abruptly.

The caravan jolted forward only to labor over cobblestones and pitted earth.  Cyril half smiled as he leaned back into a cushion, his body rhythmically swayed with the motion of the caravan.  Leo and Cyril both rocked to and fro out of the city and behaved as if they were completely alone and content to be so.

The Bishop and Deacon made way for Constantinople and the Eastern Roman Empire, in the early morning hours of Spring, in the year 434.

An unusually long winter took hold of Seira’s body.  Even here, in western Iberia she thought it strange that the season could last so long.

An omen? She wondered.

The sun grew longer in the sky each day and she snorted cynically, doubting the existence of Spring without budding proof.

What omens had seeped through her daily, mundane life in thirteen years? Seira’s thoughts turned from omens and visions.  Keeping her hours accounted for by tending the sick and teaching the children to speak Latin filled her days.

Long gone rage turned to temporary hope when she and Attila rode west, away from an old life with Mundzuk, so many years ago.  Examining her deepest thoughts would reveal a buried, half-done hope of renewal, as promising as Spring itself, with affection, family, love, and the sensual pleasures fatefully denied. 

Hope dulled to routine, especially since Attila warred most times away from their reasonably peaceful village. 

Visits with Attila, proud King of his people, were reduced to midnight meetings when he bade her come to hear his battle tactics before he departed on another skirmish.

Seira walked from her tent once more, from just outside the village, toward Attila’s mostly stone and wooden house that sat at the epicenter of his community.  From what Attila had told her, he built his house as a diminutive replica of Mundzuk’s palace in Scythia. 

Attila’s house was clean, with delicate artifacts gathered and stolen from all parts of the world. Seira spent hours there, especially on chilled nights. It was considerably warmer than her tent.

Attila had asked Seira many times to live in his house, not as concubine or wife, but as family, as an equal.  However honored, something more akin to temptation inhibited her.  She secretly wanted him to pursue her as a lover but knew she’d deny him in the end. Living with Attila did not seem fair to either of them and living inside the village felt awkward. Seira stayed, falsely contented, in her tent, lavishly supplied by her warrior friend.

Seira carried a large basket of freshly laundered and evenly trimmed linens.  Attila and Bleda had just returned from their latest campaign to force Rome to a bloody bow before slicing its empirical head.

Word was sent to Seira by Attila’s house servant to come in haste. Berit, Attila’s servant was a middle aged, petite and capable woman. Seira believed Berit to hail from the north country of the Danube.  Her dialect was often difficult to understand but Seira surmised it contained some Romanian or Swabish with Germanic tones.  Berit reminded Seira of Kiki in small ways: the brusque manner in which she moved and the satisfied sounds she made after tasting her stews always placed a smile on Seira’s lips.

Seira still ached in parts of her body that held memory of Bleda. She placed the basket on the ground for a brief moment to stretch out her arms and tilt to either side of her hips.

Seira neared the main entrance of Attila’s house and heard scuffling and mixed voices.  She pushed the large wooden door forward and entered, scuttling sideways to keep the basket from getting stuck in the doorway.

“What goes on here?” she inquired of Berit. “Did you find a rat in the stew?” Seira teased.

“Bebelus!” Berit huffed as she pushed Seira aside and grabbed a large bucket of water.

“What?” Seira asked, trying to translate “Venire. Oh, coming! Yes, who’s coming?” she asked still carrying the basket as she rushed after Berit.

“Bebelus, Sara,” said Berit, disgusted at having to translate every word and pronouncing Seira’s name the only way she could.

Just then Seira heard a cry, a woman’s pained cry.

Seira hurried, as Berit beckoned, and brushed past her into one of the guest bedchambers.

A woman writhed on a goose down bed in the throes of full labor. Berit ran to her and looked to Seira.

“Bebelus,” said Berit.

“Ah, yes. Bebelus venire. A baby is coming,” said Seira.

With that Seira dropped the basket and grabbed several swatches of linen. She knelt at the foot of the bed, already soaked in the woman’s water. Seira lifted the mother’s silk robe. Before she could think about who this woman was and where she acquired such a fine robe, Seira saw the baby’s crown.

“Berit,” Seira paused.

She tallied the number of translations needed to ask Berit to run to her tent for her tools and tinctures. Another decision made itself clear when the woman in labor screamed and held onto her belly. There was no time to get her birthing stone blocks or to sit the woman up.

“Berit, the knife, briceag, BRICEAG,” she said. “Get me the knife woman.”