The Bone House (5 page)

“It is for justice, my king.”

“I am listening. Speak freely.”

“I have been working for a man who promised to pay me each evening when work was completed. I have worked two days without pay, and last night he dismissed me. When I complained that I was not paid, he set his dogs on me. They tore my clothes.” He indicated a ragged rent in the hem of his simple garment. “I seek the promised wages.”

Gazing down at the man, who still had not raised his head, Turms asked, “What reason did he give for dismissing you?”

“None whatever, my king.”

“Did he have cause to dismiss you without pay?” inquired the priest king gently. “Theft, perhaps, or drunkenness? Or laziness?”

“My king,” said the man, bridling at the insinuation that he might have been in some way to blame for his troubles, “I am an honest man and do an honest day’s work. I earned my pay and now I am hungry, and my children are hungry.”

“How much are you owed?”

“Twenty-five denari,” replied the man readily. Turms looked into the fellow’s eyes for a moment, and the man returned his gaze unwaveringly.

“I am satisfied,” declared the king. Turning to one of the acolytes, he said, “Give this man fifty denari out of the treasury. Then send the Master of the Rolls with two soldiers to collect the same from this man’s employer.”

The acolyte picked up his wax tablet and, with a rosewood stylus, recorded the king’s judgement in the soft wax. Other petitioners came forward then—some seeking a judgement, others in search of a decision or knowledge of the most favourable time to begin some undertaking or another, still others for healing of various ailments. Each brought an offering that was added to the growing heap, just as every judgement and decision was dutifully recorded on the tablet.

Then, as the ranks of supplicants thinned, there came a commotion from the rear. Turms, in the middle of a pronouncement, sensed a ripple of excitement pass through the remaining crowd. He finished quickly and then turned to address his people. “What is happening here? Why this unseemly murmuring?”

“Someone has come, lord king,” offered a nearby subject. “A stranger. He is asking to see you.”

“A stranger has come?” wondered Turms; his fingers felt for the pebble couched in his sleeve. “Make way and let him appear before me.”

At the king’s command, the gathering parted to allow the newcomer through. Striding towards him was a tall man in strange colourless clothing that bisected his long body—white above and black below—but the face was open and friendly; moreover, it was a face he knew. “Behold!” called King Turms, raising his hands in exclamation. “My foreign visitor has arrived.”

The stranger went down on one knee, then rose and was recognised by his friend. “Arturos! Is it you?”

“The sight of you gladdens my heart and makes my spirit soar,” replied Arthur Flinders-Petrie, reciting the ancient greeting response. “I have longed to see you, my lord king.”

“My people,” said the king, “I present to you my friend Arturos. Make him welcome among you during his sojourn with us.”

There were murmurs of assent all around, and others called greetings, which Arthur returned in kind.

Turms turned to one of the acolytes and said, “Guide my esteemed visitor to the royal lodge and command my house servants to make him welcome and give him refreshment.” To Arthur, he said, “The day’s audience is nearly finished. I will join you soon.”

“As you must,” agreed Arthur. “I have no desire to interrupt your holy offices.”

With that, the acolyte led the king’s guest away, up the long earthen ramp to the royal lodge where his arrival was announced.

“Arturos! You have returned!” cried the Master of the King’s House, rushing out onto the broad porch of the lodge. “On behalf of my king and all the people of Velathri, I bid you peace and welcome.”

“It pleases my heart to see you, Pacha,” said Arthur, feeling his way back through a long-disused corridor of language. “I had hoped to return sooner, but . . .” He shrugged.

“Life is a constant turmoil for men in the world,” offered the king’s housekeeper. “But you are here now, and I trust you will stay long enough to allow Tyrrhenia to soothe your soul.” Laying a finger to his lips, he paused, then added, “I think a libation of sweet wine will prove efficacious in this regard.” Indicating a low couch covered with red cushions, he said, “If you will please make yourself comfortable, I will return shortly.”

“You are too kind, Pacha,” replied Arthur. “I am happy to look after myself.”

The royal housekeeper bowed and backed away; he disappeared, clapping his hands and calling to the kitchen servants to attend him at once. Arthur sat down on the couch and stretched his long legs before him. He did not feel like relaxing—the opposite, in fact. No doubt he could persuade Turms to take a walk with him in the vineyards and olive groves later. After weeks aboard ship, it was a little light exercise he wanted.

The voyage from England had not been easy. The weather had been against them almost from the start, and the conditions aboard ship were primitive, to say the least. It was not his preferred mode of travel, to be sure, but the other way—ley travel—was out of the question at the moment. The dangers were just too great. Indeed, he had pressed it as far as he dared just to get here.

“Arturos! Stand up and let me see you!”

Arthur glanced up to see Turms in the doorway: a tall, imposing figure, almost gaunt beneath his ceremonial robe, his once-smooth face showing lines of age. His hair, greying at the temples, hung straight to his shoulders, his forehead shaven in the manner of the priestly caste. Turms removed his ceremonial hat and unbelted the golden sash, then turned to receive his friend.

Arthur rose to his feet and was gathered into a firm and friendly embrace. “My heart soars at the sight of you,” said the king, kissing him on the cheek.

“Mine too,” replied Arthur happily. “Indeed, my soul has been singing since I set foot on Tyrrhenian soil this very morning.” He spoke with greater ease and confidence as his former skills, like birds returning from migration, came winging back to him across the years. “How long has it been since I was here?” he wondered. “Five years? Six?”

“Over twenty, I fear,” said Turms, shaking his head slightly. “Too long, my friend.”

“Ah, me,” sighed Arthur. “I had hoped to return much sooner. But events overtook me and it was not possible.”

“Still, you are here now.” The king turned away suddenly and called, “Pacha! Bring wine and sweetmeats! We must welcome our guest.”

He turned back and, taking Arthur by the arm, led him to the couch. “I was made aware of your coming,” he said, taking his place beside his guest. “Just this morning I received an omen foretelling your arrival. I did not know it would be you, of course—only that I would receive a foreign visitor before day’s end.” Turms smiled. “And here you are.”

“Indeed, I am,” said Arthur. “And I could not be happier.”

“I will have a house prepared for you—a new one this time—”

“The old one will be more than satisfactory,” said Arthur quickly. “If it is available?”

“No, no, I will not hear it. That house is too far away. I want you close by so that distance will not impede our lessons.”

“Your generosity, O King, is as wide as your wisdom,” said Arthur, bowing his head in assent. “But you may change your mind when I tell you that I did not come alone this time.” He leaned forward. “I have a wife.”

“You are married!”

“I am.”

“But where is she?”

“Still aboard the ship—”

“What!” exclaimed Turms. “You keep her waiting like a bundle of cargo on the deck of a stinking ship? What a thoughtless, uncaring husband you are!”

“Please, Turms, I meant no disrespect to either yourself or my dear wife. In truth, I was uncertain of my reception.”

“I hope you know you can trust our friendship,” said Turms. “My regard for you has never altered.”

“It was not you or your friendship I doubted,” replied Arthur. “Believe me, that thought never entered my mind.”

“But?”

“I wanted to see how things stood here.”

“Ah!” Turms nodded with appreciation. “Very wise. Yes, I remember now—at the time of your last leaving the Latins were threatening our borders. You might have returned to a very different place than you last visited.” He made a laudatory gesture in the air with his hand. “I commend your caution.”

Pacha approached, leading a servant bearing a bronze tray with silver goblets and a delicate glass jar of pale, amber-coloured liquid. There were bowls of honeyed almonds as well. The servant placed the tray on a three-legged stand and backed away as the Master of the House poured the wine, sipped from the goblet, then handed it to the king. He repeated the process for the king’s guest, then retreated quietly.

“I am glad to see that all appears peaceful now. The realm prospers under your reign.”

“For now, yes. The bellicose Latins have been tamed, or at least discouraged. The prime instigators have been caught, judged, and either executed or exiled. The Umbrians—an altogether more reasonable tribe—have taken over administration of Ruma city. At present, you have no need to fear becoming ensnared in a battle between warring nations. Peace, that ever-fragile flower, blossoms in profusion across the land.”

“Since that is the way of things,” said Arthur, rising once more, “I will inform my wife. She will be most heartily glad to leave the confines of the ship.” Arthur’s manner became grave. “Xian-Li is the reason I have come. My wife is with child, you see—”

A glance at his visitor’s face told Turms that all was not well. “What should be a joyous occasion has been clouded for you in some way. I can see it. What has happened?”

“Xian-Li has had a troubled time,” replied Arthur simply. “I have come to you for advice. I have told her of the skill of Etrurian physicians, and she is most eager to meet you. I will go fetch her now.”

“You will do no such thing, my friend,” said the king. “I will send Pacha to the ship with my bearers and they will bring her in my chair.” He raised his hand and summoned his servant. “Arthur’s wife is waiting aboard the ship in the harbour. Take my chair to her at once—but see the bearers employ the utmost care. The lady is with child.”

“It will be done, my king.” Pacha bowed and hurried away; soon his calls urging the bearers to speed could be heard echoing down the hillside.

While awaiting the arrival of Xian-Li, the two sat and talked and drank their wine, renewing old bonds of friendship, casting their memories back across the intervening years to the time when Turms had been but a lowly prince, third in line to the throne, and Arthur his student, assigned by King Velnath to teach the exotic visitor the language and customs of the Tyrrhenian people. The two young men had quickly become fast friends; and though it had been a long time since they had last seen one another, their high regard for one another had not diminished.

“You have not changed at all,” remarked Turms, regarding Arthur closely.

“Nor have you, my lord king.”

“Careful.” He wagged a scolding finger. “It is a dangerous thing to lie to a king. But, see here, for you I put off my crown. When we are together I am only Turms. We will turn back the years and be what we once were.”

“As you will,” agreed Arthur. “I would like nothing more.”

They talked about the time when they had both travelled the country as part of Arthur’s schooling. Turms’ father had seen in the young foreigner a source of knowledge he was determined to utilise. The old king had died before the summer was out—killed by a Latin assassin’s blade. Turms’ brother had ascended the throne and, in vengeance, declared war on the Latins, forcing the two young men to abandon their travels and return to Velathri where Turms, under command of his elder brother, had entered the priesthood. With the country deep in preparations for war, Arthur had made his farewells and departed with the promise to return in a year or two when peace had been restored.

“And now you are king,” said Arthur, grinning with pleasure to find his old friend in such an exalted position. “You must tell me how that came about. That is a tale I am keen to hear.”

“It is nothing,” replied Turms, fanning the air as if waving away a fly. Taking up his cup, he said, “Do you remember the last summer we were together?”

“It was in many ways the most glorious summer of my life. How could I ever forget?”

“Two keen and ardent souls without a care in the world. The days we spent in Ruma and Reate.” Turms chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. “The
nights
! Sabine girls are the finest in all the world, say the sages. And, from experience—limited as it may be—I can in no way disagree. I should have married one when fortune smiled.”

“It is not too late,” Arthur pointed out. “Never too late.”

Turms smiled. “Perhaps not.”

CHAPTER 4
In Which Tea and Sandwiches
Are Encountered

G
iles?” Sensing that her companion was no longer with her, Wilhelmina spun around to find him on hands and knees, heaving the contents of his stomach into the soft pine matting of the pathway. She returned and knelt beside him. “Take a deep breath and relax. The worst is over.” She put her hand on his back. “That’s right—a slow, deep breath.”