Aries Fire (26 page)

Seira committed herself to writing again once bargaining with the Emperor ended.  She decided that a compendium of her treatments would be a place to start.

Attila was not in the main section of the tent.  Seira heard muted cries and lifted the flap to the rear section of the tent and saw a fat Hun, dressed in exotic fabric, with a woman crushed beneath him, his tan mottled buttocks exposed to the air.  His hand covered her mouth.  Labored lungs wheezed as he thrust his hips into her.

The young woman saw Seira and her eyes widened, pleading with Seira. Rage flooded Seira.  She vowed to kill him, whoever he was. She instantly lunged forward.  A striking grip seized her waist, jerked her back, and carried her out of the tent like a carpet from a marketplace.

Attila let go of Seira.  She dropped to the ground; her feet stumbled backwards on the rocky soil.  She ran forward to save the girl in the tent. Attila grabbed her again.

“That animal…” she screamed but was interrupted.

His face loomed into hers quick as an arrow.

“Is Ruga,” Attila said.

He kept one arm affixed to her body.  Seira let her feet fall to the ground and stood, mouth agape.

“NO!” she shrieked and put her hands over her ears.

Bleda, and now Ruga, like a scourge.

“He’s raping that girl!” she said, staring at Attila, venom in her voice. “You will stop him,” she said.

Attila said nothing.  Seira slapped Attila with disgust.  He stood fast, unmoving. His eyes slanted down at her, arms hung loosely.

“Are you all animals?”

She struck Attila with both fists.  She beat his chest and face repeatedly. Hate poured through her.  Her body lifted off of the ground with each blow. Attila stood still, allowing her to spew her disgust and fury.

Seira beat him until her fists bruised.  She started to cry and hated herself for it.  Exhausted from her outburst and bent at the waist, she slid down and hung onto Attila’s hips and sobbed for all the crimes enacted upon women.

Seira stood hastily.

“How many times have you raped a woman?” she seethed, inches from his face.

She thrust a finger into his cheek, hoping to bore a hole into her hatred.  He looked at Seira but did not retreat.  She backed away and paced wildly.

“How many times?” Her fists clouted an invisible foe.

Seira lunged at him and spat at his face.  She paced to and fro then walked away, fists taught.  She could no longer look at the man she called friend. He said nothing, respecting her, and silently sympathetic to her hatred.

“Aya,” he said, exhaling a long, slow breath.

Word had come to Attila that Bleda and his army were in position.  Attila took Seira as his physician and counsel to Bleda’s ship that anchored just off shore.  Ruga was last to board.

Seira looked anxiously on the ship for Alexander.  Her glances stopped at Ruga and Bleda.  They spoke to each other near the beaked prow. A short sail across the channel and they would be at the Imperial Court.

Seira wondered if Attila would introduce her to his uncle Ruga.  Her position with Attila was unique.  No woman held this much power in a Hun enclave.  Alexander appeared and informed Bleda of something.

What would you do? Seira thought. If you knew what that demon did to me.

Seira believed they would not harm Alexander because he offered a valuable service. Nevertheless, they were Huns. They carried no contrition for their actions.  Bleda might slice Alexander’s throat once on land. Seira imagined herself flying at Bleda and stabbing his heart, should it come to that.

Ruga walked toward Attila.  Seira and Attila had not spoken for three days.  Attila reserved the right, and expected Seira to comply, should he have cause to seek her counsel.  Attila looked up at the stars then at Seira.

“You will not speak unless commanded,” he said.

Attila bowed to his uncle.  The men clapped each other’s shoulders in place of an embrace. Ruga nodded and stared at Seira.  An obvious smirk showed on his face.  Seira kept her eyes lowered.

“Attila, we move to the palace now.  Do you have a matter to speak?”

Ruga was blunt and haughty.  It was understood that Attila ought to express his concerns now.  Ruga would present the Hun proposition to Theodosius ll.  Bleda and Attila would remain silent.

“No,” Attila replied.

Before Ruga returned to Bleda he looked again at Seira.

“You are the medicus, Attila’s Rhetman,” he said.

Seira nodded in response.

“You may speak.”

What I would say…she thought maliciously.

“The Rhetman is honored to be in the presence of the Sublime Khan Ruga,” Attila said gruffly.

Seira slowly raised her eyes and caught sight of his chest, a mass of black hair on an enormous torso.  He wore layers of silk robes that hung open to reveal his arrogance.  One large hand held the lapel, fat fingers burdened with ornate rings. 

This khan has not seen war of late, she realized. He is the spawn of pig’s feces.

“Sublime Khan Ruga, I dare not look upon the face of greatness,” she said, lowering her eyes again.  She took his hand and kissed it lightly.

He nodded in approval.  Pride fed a hefty meal. Ruga skimmed her body with his eyes, considering her for late evening entertainment.  Seira felt him and gnawed her teeth.

“Pardon my ill timed interruption. Fresh oysters?” a voice said.

Seira, Attila, and Ruga turned to see Alexander, bowing in a charming manner.  He, too, knew that Ruga subsisted on overindulgences.  Ruga’s attention, now peaked by Alexander, discarded his lust for Seira.  Seira quietly blessed the man she loved. Attila looked at Alexander with a cunning expression.  Seira wanted to burst into laughter, push the Huns overboard, and kiss Alexander.  She remained subservient.

As Alexander led the khan closer to Bleda and away from Seira, his mind formulated another plan that might construct their escape. He would abide by the Hun rule for as long as it kept Seira safe. 

Emperor Theodosius ll walked slowly from the Imperial Palace.  He descended from the height of numerous steps with Cyril.  The night was still, the moon full.  Stars sparkled in the indigo sky.  The Emperor prepared a guarded escort to the church. 

“Have you not been to our beloved city before, Bishop?” he asked, already out of breath.

“No, I have not,” Cyril replied curtly.

He thought the Emperor a small, ineffectual man.

“It appears that there are many Jews in this city,” said the bishop.

“More than one is enough, is it not?”

The Emperor laughed at his own joke.  When he grasped that he did not humor Cyril, the Emperor stopped laughing.

“I assure you, Bishop, by the morrow, you will mark the Jews by sight.  I have decreed such a law.  The Jews must all wear cloth died of one blue shade,” the Emperor said, wheezing.

Having come down the steps, Cyril stopped and faced the Emperor.

“That is truly an admirable act.  I commend you, Emperor,” Cyril said.

With a fixed stare on the Emperor, Cyril reexamined him.  Newfound respect for the statesman led him to believe that Emperor Theodosius ll was not as weak as he thought.

“In my city of Alexandria, we have cordoned the Jews into one area.  It keeps the trouble makers from the rest of the city.”

“Ah,” the Emperor remarked.  “I suppose that will follow.  For the time at hand, I will regulate the businesses of the Jews. I am considering retracting their freedom from ownership.  What are your thoughts on this, Bishop?  I am most eager to learn,” he said.

The Emperor rambled four quick steps for one of Cyril’s lengthy strides.  He looked like a pup at the Bishop’s feet.  The guard escorted them to the church.  Emperor Theodosius ll and Cyril discussed their individual affairs of a prejudicial state.

“Perhaps you would do better to keep them out of public offices?” The Bishop suggested.

The Emperor nodded after a few moments as if he encountered a revelation.

“Why, yes,” he continued to nod.  “Bishop, you are quite inspiring,” he said. “Ah, here we are, your Grace, the church.”

Cyril inspected the architecture of the ancient building and it’s distinctive domed roof feature, so unlike the Roman design. He leaned back and looked up to better see the outside of the four-arched squinch that held the roof in place. Stepping inside the doorway of the dome, the bishop leaned into a marble pillar and strained his neck upward while noting the hollow square base that created an octagonal shape inside the dome.

“Exquisite design,” he said, looking straight ahead into the open vestibule with gold-coffered walls. The Emperor showed him into the vestibule, assuming he’d tour the church with Cyril.  “Dear Emperor,” Cyril began, emulating Leo, “I pray that I might conduct my meditations in private, if that does not offend you,” he said.

“Why, yes, ah, no of course not.  I will have the guard wait for you here.  When you are ready, please revisit the palace where we will dine together.”

“Yes, thank you, Emperor, but I shall dine within the privacy of my rooms this evening and confer with the Deacon before we meet with the Huns…if that is not inconvenient to your household?” Cyril spoke smoothly.

“Why that’s an excellent notion, your Grace. I’ll have your supper await your return. I’ll send my steward later to call for your presence, if that suits you.”

Bishop Cyril tilted his head to the left and lowered his eyes in compliance. Emperor Theodosius ll turned and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck as he waddled off toward his palace, accompanied by two guards.

Left alone in the vestibule Cyril exhaled loudly.  Relieved to be rid of the annoying Emperor, he silently congratulated himself for his ability to manipulate with kindness.  Cyril, poised with purpose, walked beyond and to the right of the altar where a figure of Jesus lay, nailed to a cross.  The Bishop stopped abruptly to ponder the dying face of the pine wood carving. He bowed with reverence and humility before continuing to an antechamber unknown to the Emperor.  Cyril pushed his way through a heavy marble wall, inlaid with mosaics of the resurrection of Jesus where the brightly colored tiles depicted Mary, Theotokos, praying at Jesus’ feet.  Cyril leaned forward with some effort against the solid partition.  The enormous wall scraped across the floor as it revealed an underground structure.  The Bishop closed his eyes and kissed Mary’s mouth softly. He felt exonerated of all ill doings.

Eudocia glided through her library, proud of its contents.  Her father had impressed upon her the importance of knowledge and words.  She carried that importance with dignity and humility, the way the Deacon carried God as his savior. 

The room compared to the great hall in size. Prominent sculptures and artwork decorated the corners and walls.  Scrolls upon scrolls, stacked neatly and arranged by author, lined the shelves made of marble and stone. Deacon Leo perused the books with great admiration.

“You have amassed a collection of the finest works, Madame. Allow me to congratulate your keen sense of propriety and knowledge,” he said, smiling.

The Empress nodded in return, a smile lingered longer on her lips than Leo realized.  Leo returned to the scrolls, magnetically drawn to the works of St. Peter, his personal champion of God’s works on Earth.

Leo’s fingers drew near the scroll, daring to stroke the vibration held within.

“St. Peter,” Leo whispered.  “Upon whom the church has drawn it’s strength for an everlasting doctrine that will one day embrace the whole of Earth,” he sermonized to Eudocia.

She watched him with great interest. Eudocia had risen through the political world quickly with the aid of her sister-in-law, Pulcheria.  Eudocia had saved her private agenda in much the way a young woman saves her chastity for her one and only love.  The Empress sensed a similar attitude in Leo. 

He glanced up and saw the works of St. Patrick.

“Ah,” he said.  “But it has only recently been written,” he turned to pull the scroll from the shelf.  “May I?” he asked before touching it.

Eudocia moved smoothly past the travertine table.

“With the greatest of pleasures, your Grace,” she said.

The Empress pulled the scroll from its neat home and handed it to him.

“This great Saint has converted all of Hibernia to Christianity.  An immense task done with sublime manner!”

Deacon Leo unrolled the copy and laid it upon the table.  He perused it, smiling the while.

“May I offer you a refreshment, your Grace?  Some wine perhaps?”

Leo kept his eyes on the words and lifted his hand to decline.  The first book of Saint Patrick from Caledonia required sobriety. 

“You are welcome to read any of the works in this library, Deacon,” she said.

Leo looked, “Forgive me, Empress,” he said as he removed his hand and let the pages spring back into a roll. “I shall be most honored to read this at a more appropriate time, perhaps.”

“I will have a copy scribed for you,” she offered.  “A gift for your tedious journey home.”

“Yes,” he said, his bright blue eyes lit up.  “I would so appreciate that, with humble gratitude, Madame,” he said, bowing.

Leo turned again to the shelves and carefully replaced the scroll. He saw a book and frowned somewhat.  The Empress turned to where his eyes affixed. She studied his profile.

“You do not approve, your Grace?”

Leo looked at a work by Yosef Ben-Matityahu, also referred to as Josephus.

“I see you bear the works of Josephus,” he scoffed.

“Without him the Aramaic language would have disappeared.  As I see it, Aramaic is essential for the correct interpretation of the holy book, your Grace,” she said.

“He also wrote fervently in defense of Judaism, Madame,” the Deacon stressed.

Deacon Leo was not impressed. He paused before responding.

“I am not wholly surprised to see a work such as this in your possession,” he said, looking at her squarely.  “It has been rumored that your fascination with other cultures, namely the Jews, has led you to more sympathetic opinions,” he said.

Eudocia opened her mouth to speak.

“However,” he said.  “It would be prudent to dismiss these rumors before they take seed in the minds of influential allies,” he said and held an intimidating gaze.