As I stood upon the parapet in the brilliant Mediterranean dawn, I understood what Priam must have felt as he looked out and beheld the ships of the Greek armada, bringing years of war, death and destruction. But he at least had the splendid battlements of Troy to shelter behind, a brave and battle-tested army to defend them.

But no, the Homeric metaphor was upside-down. No willful son of mine had stolen another man’s queen. Was I not the son, albeit illegitimate, of Rome? And had not my own queen been stolen from me? Or had she stolen herself? And why could I make no sense of it, shake off such disjointed fantasies?

But the image was clear, the danger real, the collapse of my world complete. For the Vandals had come, like a recurring nightmare, in the very ships we sent against them. The sun rose, like all the gold of Egypt, behind a hundred vessels at least, most of them galleys, whose weight of men and weaponry I knew all too well. Death dotted the unresisting sea. Had our own fleet been so imposing? I suppose it must have, as most of the vessels here had been part of it.

But not all. The Vandals must have taken what remained of the Roman fleet at Caesarea as well, as some of the galleys were longer and sharper, more in the African than the European style. And the awful truth was, this was probably not their only force. How could it be? For Hippo, though a prize well worth plucking, was not the plum of Roman Africa.

And then. . .did I only imagine it? No. While perhaps half the ships came on, the other half bore away. My God, they must be scouring the coast up and down for hundreds of miles.

In that moment I knew that God was truly dead. No Heavenly Host had arisen to smite the Arians. On the contrary, the invaders were greeted by fair weather— as they must have been to make the crossing from Spain without loss— and a gentle sea in which to land, or sail on, wherever they chose. Had the gods of war sent them rowers as well? No. Soldiers and prisoners like myself: human plunder, taken from their homes, their families. Of what had happened to their women I dared not even think. Meryl.

It was all so unreal, with or without the sleepless night, the harrows of the day that preceded it, and the great dark continent behind. My mind would simply not take it in, all thrown together in a tangle of racing thoughts: the Trojan War, our own invasion turned against us, God and Meryl and Augustine…..

My reveries— more truly, mania— were broken off as a great wail went up from the city. For word had reached the inhabitants of their fate, albeit they had been forewarned. But like so much of life (including Death) that is unpleasant, until confronted by the actual fact we do everything possible to evade, escape, deny. Worse had come to worst, as it invariably does.

Lines of soldiers hastily gathered from their barracks were now ascending the stone stairs of the inner wall to stand beside us. I understood now what Cassius must have felt when he looked out and saw Count Asteria’s forces on the march. For these were not the proud and feared Roman Legions, but a pale imitation of them. Or a dark imitation, as many of those gathered were Arabic or Negroid.

As they continued to mount to the parapet which crowned the city wall, they also included native warriors that the Consul must somehow have induced to fight beside us. While their spears were welcome— I had seen how deft and deadly they could be— of what use were skin-shields against the cruel shafts and machines of war the Vandals were sure to bring against us: skilled archers, javelin throwers, catapults and battering rams?

But the most disheartening sight was saved for last. Rows of slaves, bound by shackles about their necks and ankles, after climbing to join us, had their chains run through great ring-bolts in the parapet floor, so there could be no thought of flight. Like the galley-slaves of ancient Rome, they would go down with their ship, in this case a wall, drowning not in water, but in their own blood.

My eyes returning to the Vandals. . .were met by the very last thing I had expected, trying as I was to steel myself for battle. They were landing men and supplies by boat on the beach— predictable enough. But instead of gathering on the keys as we had done in Barceno, ready to fight at a moment’s notice….. They had landed at a safe distance both up and down the shore, on the beach rather than the harbor quays, where the fighting might well have begun. Instead they continued to methodically disembark, some setting up tents and pavilions, others moving on to the abandoned homes and storage buildings behind the city. What kind of attack was this?

Then it hit me, a battering-ram wielded by a giant. They would not come upon us in a mad rush, had no intention of wasting lives in a furious assault upon the walls. They brought instead a far grimmer foe, and one which had leveled greater cities than this: hunger, pestilence and fear, a patient and determined siege.

I thought at first I must be wrong— it was so unlike their conduct in Spain….. Again the ram struck home, bursting the gates of my mind asunder. To them Africa must be a different proposition altogether. They were not here like a plague of locusts, merely to devour, destroy and move on. No. They had found their own kingdom at last. Hideous thought! The

Vandals were here to stay.

Whatever slight hopes I entertained of rescuing Meryl— after the encounter with ‘Monsignor’ it seemed a foregone conclusion that she and the twins were in danger— evaporated as quickly as the marsh mists that the blazing sun now obliterated.

“Fool!” I choked, just able to stifle the sound in my throat, though not the rage of self-loathing that shot through me. Christ! I had entered a doomed city, now cut off from all retreat, to save an erstwhile bride who had abandoned, if not outright betrayed me. Oh, how I wish I’d let Cassius and Ariel dissuade me! But were they any safer, now that the great Enemy had planted their flag in Africa? True they remained at a distance, well hidden, with the vast desert as an escape route behind…..

And then I saw him. Augustine. Strange. Had I not seen his likenesses in Rome I would not have recognized him. For he did not bear the trappings of a Prince of the Church, but was dressed as a simple monk. An old and careworn monk at that, leaning on a plain wooden staff.

He was not tall, something less than average height and build, with round, almost hunched shoulders, and a neck completely covered by a thick

and wavering beard. He had a large head— not large in the sense of being grotesque, but clearly his dominant feature. His hair was brown, well streaked with gray, cut short in a tonsure. His eyes were sad, more bewildered than domineering, as if with all his years of monastic research he had no real understanding of the world. They must once have been large, like the head, but now had sunk deep, overshadowed by fleshy brows. These were drawn together in an expression of doubt and worry.

Of course he was worried; that’s not what I’m trying to say. I don’t know why this is so hard. He is, after all, just a man, like so many others we elevate to god-like stature, then glorify or vilify according to our needs. All I can really say is that he looked quite human, not severe and paranoid like his minion, just thoughtful, troubled and sad.

He ascended the stairs slowly, followed by a train of monks, and with the aid of the long staff he bore. No, I must amend what I said earlier. For this device was in fact pontifical, with a crucifix at its head that made the dangling Christ look more horrific, more actively and presently tortured than any I had ever seen. Was the life, the message of Jesus Christ no more to him than grotesque suffering? Must all the world bleed as well? I have seen torture and death; I have no need to hold them forever before my eyes.

As he stepped out onto the parapet, the regular forces went down on one knee, bowing their heads before his exalted presence. If I did not wish to draw his notice I must do the same. And so I did, though perhaps a heartbeat late, as my eyes revealed in the quick glance I allowed myself. He seemed to distinguish me, to consider me briefly, though his gaze naturally went on over the parapet to the grim enemy that confronted us.

He looked out at the ships which continued to disgorge both men and gear, sighed wearily. Then seeming to remember himself— that as God’s representative on earth he must appear strong and all-knowing— he lifted his chin aristocratically and turned to address the men.

“My brothers in Christ,” he began. “Our enemy has come, and he is strong. But fear and falter not, for he is the Enemy of God as well, and as such cannot endure. Do we not already behold his fear, his hesitation to attack the Holy City of God?”

Did he actually believe this? Siege rather than blind attack was a tactical maneuver. The Vandals were no cowards.

“None come to the Father but through me,” he continued, “and through his Holy Church.”

Was he deliberately misquoting Scripture? For I had written out the passage many times, and while the first part was accurate, the second was pure invention.

“The Arians may call themselves Christians…..” In fact the Arian beliefs were mostly pagan, derived from Norse mythology. And if not, why the title of his broadsheet, The City of God Against the Pagans, which was nailed to the doors of every building I had seen? Those who tortured Krieg, and mocked him for his faith, were certainly not Christians. “…..but they are heretics, blasphemers, denying the very Divinity of Christ!”

A spark leapt forth as he struck the iron-shod base of his staff against the stones of the allure, and I realized suddenly that I had been lulled by his humble appearance. For the men all around me flinched and drew back, as before the seat of judgment. In my heightened state of nerves, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Here, in fact, was a true giant of the Church. And need I add, a very dangerous man? For the divine inner peace he had tried to show, now fled before the onslaught of animal rage.

“Does any man here embrace these lies of the Devil?” he demanded.

Was this his idea of rallying the men in the face of deadly peril? He seemed to realize this himself, for after a flash of exasperation, he again controlled himself.

“My Christian soldiers,” he began again. “This is the hour which God has preordained to put our faith to the ultimate test. The Devil is strong, no question, but Almighty God is as far above him as the eagle that stoops to strike the serpent. And more than this, for God only allows the serpent to exist, as a trial of our faithful obedience.”

I cannot in honesty record the rest of his speech, for I do not remember it, only its tone, which was wheedling and cruel, as if he were probing our sinful hearts with a needle. Such pedantic drivel! There was nothing natural or manly about him— a spiritual eunuch, empty and impotent.

But when he finished speaking— could he have read my mind?— he turned his gaze, ugly and wrathful, upon me. I was frozen with fear, could not move or think to save my life. No, he was not looking at me— I breathed again— but at something behind me….. My backpack, leaned against the wall where I had placed it in the night. The flap was open. He was looking at the scrolls in their leather cylinder, set with the Star of David!

At his gesture a guard approached him. He pointed toward me and,

assuming the role of God, with ten words condemned my soul forever.

“Take him away, and bring his things to my chamber!”

II

It was full night as we stepped through the Stone Circle and entered the Sacred Grove. Nechtainn had been silent as we walked, deep in thought. I had not disturbed his meditations, and did not now. For if the place had an otherworldly aura in the full light of day, how much more so now? Yet as I looked up at the stars overhead it was not fear I felt, but awe. How brightly they burned in the indigo vault of Heaven, the fathomless mystery of Creation!

We had passed many tents as we neared the heart of the island, though none lay within the fence of stone that marked the boundary of the ritual plain. Just beyond it Nechtainn had spoken with a novice who rose from one of a cluster of campfires and came toward us. The natives about it welcomed us, and beckoned us to join them. And so we did, sitting beside them in the orange glow of the fire.

Whole families had come, the first I had seen beyond our own island. They welcomed their spiritual leader, of course, who was as natural and warm with all of them— the children no less than the chieftains— as I had come to expect of him. And while they studied me with eager curiosity, as one of the mysterious travelers from the east, there was little or no hostility. Whatever holy day had drawn them hither seemed a joyous celebration of life, which touched them all with gentle happiness. They sang and danced, as the children laughed and squealed behind us, running to and fro in some antic game of their own. I felt my tension— for I was still unsure where we were going or why— melt away. At a further word from Nechtainn the novice retired to his tent, returning with a leathern flask.

“Will you drink?” asked the High Druid simply. I wondered at the intensity of his eyes as he said this, but clearly it was important to him. I have never knowingly been rash, but if there was the least chance that obedience would bring me closer to a meeting with Brigit— the reason I had come, and the hope I could not entirely submerge— then I would do it.

The taste was strong but not unpleasant, some kind of herbal elixir. Yet when no one else partook, I had to ask.

“Why?” I said, in the little Gaelic I possessed.

“Something to help you sleep,” he managed to convey, through a combination of word and gesture. I wanted to ask why I needed it…..

Now in the Grove, perhaps an hour later, I felt the full effect. Not mind altering, certainly not poisonous— the thought had occurred to me, but I had faith in this man— only an overpowering urge to sleep.

So when he indicated an oval futon on the ground I did not question him, but lay back as a pillow slid beneath my head— though I could not have said who put it there. Nechtainn, kneeling, laid a blanket across me, then kissed my forehead as if I were a child. I was content, only looking up at the stars between the trees one last time before I closed my eyes. So beautiful, so peaceful.

I fell asleep, and dreamed blissfully that Brigit lay beside me, kissing my cheek, then exploring my body with soft and loving hands. Need I say it was a dream from which I never wanted to wake? Though I knew…..

#

I opened my eyes in the first grey light of dawn, to find myself unable to move. My hands and feet were bound!

But to my unutterable joy and relief, I saw Brigit leaning over me. I was not spread upon the Inquisitor’s rack— the blackest nightmare of those who know of such things— not bound in iron by madness and hate….. For as I turned my head toward one of my pinioned wrists, I saw the hands of which I had dreamed gently tying the last knot with some kind of silk. From whence had it come? Recognizing the small bloodstain so forcibly imprinted on my mind, I realized it was from the same sacrificial garment that Cassius and I had examined. Why, and what was the symbolism? That answer, too, came quickly. On that occasion, during that ceremony, the male had been dominant. . .though in the end, ascendancy lies with the woman. Things were clearer in my mind, if no calmer in my heart.

For now I recognized where I was, and what lay beneath the futon, which had not been removed. What I had taken in my swoon to be the ground itself, was in fact a great stone lid, laid across the cistern. A roughly cylindrical curtain, blowing gently in the breeze, surrounded us, suspended by sewn extensions of the cloth, tied about the branches overhead.

The Two Trees. Now I understood, though the realization brought little comfort. For I was bound in the very center of the Stone Circle, between them. I was to be the sacrifice. But of what ritual, to what end? Was I to be killed for my trespass, or joined in marriage as the vestal virgin had been? How can I tell you the wave of fear and hope that broke over me ?

“Brigit,” I asked in turmoil, “what is happening?” I realized then that my plea, uttered in Latin, meant nothing to her. She only leaned closer, kissed my forehead as Nechtainn had done, then brought another flask toward my lips.

“What is it?” I demanded. Then in Gaelic, “Why?”

She drew back with a hurt expression. Only then did I mark her own emotions, and realize that she herself was in turmoil. She too was confused and frightened. How closely love and fear are interwoven in the great moments of our lives!

“Could you love me?” she asked simply, as a tear trickled down her cheek. For all my anxiety, this touched me to the heart. I forgot my binds, my trepidation. It did not matter what others would see, think or feel. Only she existed in all the world.

“Yes, Angel.”

She could not understand the endearment, as for a moment my mind took me back to another time, when I had woken from a death-like swoon to

see a beloved face….. But she must have felt it. She looked at me gratefully, still questing. Then bent down, her hand upon my cheek, and kissed me full as the tears of lost innocence wet both our faces. She brought the flask to my lips, and this time I did not resist. I could not understand the present, or see one moment into the future. But in that kiss, which like her name would be upon my lips as the last breath left me, we two, strangers in life but not in heart, had pledged our silent troth, and embarked upon the greatest adventure of all.

The strong and bitter liquid touched my throat. I swallowed hard. Again.

The light was growing about us, and the curtain billowed. I could just glimpse the hem of pale robes beyond. But for all my love of her, real now and not a young man’s fantasy, I wondered yet if it was the white of marriage, or of death. For now Brigit had taken up an ivory handled knife, its curved blade of polished steel.

The curtain was raised, and I saw about us first the semi-circle of priests, who bowed ceremoniously and slowly backed away, then the throng of worshippers beyond. I looked up at my bride, and/or the instrument of my death, as she held the knife poised above my breast. The first rays of the rising sun touched the blade with a gleam of red gold. If I must die, then let it be by her hand. For there could now, and forever more, be no one else.

She kissed the hilt with trembling emotion, chanting words in an ancient language. The priests took up the chant, and then the throng. She touched the point to my breast, starting a trickle of blood that stained my sacrificial gown, much as the other’s had been, with virgin blood. But instead of plunging it into my unresisting flesh, she drew it back and began to cut away my garment, white and silk as the other’s had been, lightly touching me with the other hand as she did, as she must have done the night before.

Soon I lay naked, but unashamed. Then she stood and loosened her robe, trimmed with cloth-of-gold as pure as that of the High Druid himself….. And let it fall to the ground.

“I love you,” I said soundlessly, with all I had to give. And though she could not understand the words, she read the intention in my eyes, and gave me a grateful half-smile in return. For again we were alone in all the multitude.

She knelt beside me once more, and touched the small wound with her fingertip. Then traced a quivering line with it down across my torso, my abdomen.

“Dear God,” I prayed silently, “let me be virile, and give her what she needs.” Her silken fingers engulfed the base of my phallus, as in a flood of passion and relief I understood the second potion: an aphrodisiac, to overcome my nerves…..

But as she stroked so gently upward, all was lost in the first true intimacy of my life. My sex, already stirring, firmed and lifted in undeniable longing, unbelievable pleasure. Her lips were upon my breast, as I closed my eyes and lost all thought of dying.

The chant turned to song, to me a chorus of angels as she straddled my legs, then guided me in with her hand. She gave a little gasp of pain as her virgin’s seal was broken, our bodies and souls joined completely.

“Brigit!”

#

I, Ariel, take up the tale. We are gathered here on this sacred island, this blessed realm at the Summer Solstice, the feast day of Sun and Earth, the longest day of the year. I record now what my beloved friend could not. I do so without guile— as his heart has ever been with me— freely confessing my own emotions at the time. I am no writer, and don’t know how to separate the act from the symbolism, or say this in any but the simplest terms. But if wishing with all my heart to do it well can make it so, for what it meant to all of us, then perhaps some echo of the great cry of my soul will be heard.

It is said our greatest joys are touched with sadness, from which their true beauty arises. Surely this is truth. For as the bodies of the lovers joined, I wept with both happiness and sorrow. Happiness for my gentle friend, and sorrow for myself. For I tell you now without shame, and with all the turmoil it awakens in my heart, that I have never loved him more.

The High Druid had asked me to stand with him at the fore of the assembled throng, though why he would not say. He spoke no words of magic, nor would I have been moved by them if he had. Instead we only watched from our small distance. But if a woman ever experienced a true epiphany, and knew without question that we are not alone, it was myself in that moment. True miracle!

For even as Gaius cried out her name the sun rose, huge and majestic behind them, perfectly framed between the two hindmost Stones. The girl arched her back, wrapped her hands about his ankles and…..

Oh, gleam of blinding light beyond the grave! Their union is etched in my mind forever, a perfect benediction. I have no words to describe it. But there it was, the communion of Man and Woman, God and Man, the heart of life. I thought I knew what it was to be alive, to be a wife and mother. But I knew nothing of Eternity until that moment!

Then compelled by something greater than myself, and which I could not deny, I moved toward, and then around the lovers in an unhesitating half-circle, all shame forever banished, as the unborn life surged inside me. For I too was part of this, most blessed celebration of Fertility. I stood now on the far side of them, the sun at my back, warming and compelling me. I looked down on Gaius as he returned my loving gaze, both of us so deeply moved. And let my own garment fall.

#

I am Cleades, former slave, now free as I could not have dreamed. And though I am not a man of words, I gladly take up the tale as Gaius and Ariel ask. For I love him as well, the beautiful young Roman, recorder of our epic tale. And had I not, the night before, experienced the same blessed communion with my beloved Burgess? He and I stood together unashamed, our hands and hearts entwined.

Ariel stood beside the lovers now, on the far side of us, framed in poignant symmetry, the perfect disc of the sun behind them, naked and lovely as the day. Her pregnant form, though stark, was indescribably beautiful, a goddess of love and new life, if ever such a being walked upon the Earth. She knelt down beside them, as without foreknowledge or cue, the two lovers each reached out a hand, and laid it gently upon her swelling breasts.

Brigit arched her back suddenly, as at the same moment Gaius throbbed into her. Joined in the consuming passion of orgasm, which I will never know, they cried out plaintively. The sound was soon lost among the singing and cheering, as all in the crowd felt the power of the moment.

The symbolism was clear to me as well. For the White Druids, among whose followers I now count myself, believe that at the Summer Solstice the Earth Mother and Sun Father must not only be revered and worshipped, but aroused to fertile coupling. Thus the ritual mating, in which the two friends I love were so gloriously chosen to participate. Yet this time, as Burgess has

explained, it was the male who must be bound, showing woman’s greater role in the creation of new life.

And I realize now that in his wisdom Nechtainn had seen a two-fold meaning in his choice of Gaius. Not only was his Brigit astride him in the more important role of Mother, but she, a Native girl, and the very archetype of her kind, was dominant over a Roman, an outsider. And while there may have been some initial resentment among those who knew him as such, it subsided as they slowly understood what this meant: this was their home, their culture, their Faith, and if we wished to join with them, we must be bound by their laws and precepts.

As for Ariel herself, toward whom, in her blessed condition, there could be no animosity….. She was not a symbol of anything, but like the Sun and Earth themselves, an actual, life-giving force, a beautiful and fertile young woman.

Forgive me, Gaius. I cannot say what it was to me, to all of us. Perhaps I only lessen it by speaking. I only want to relate, if I can, something of the power and glory of the moment, which needs no clumsy building-blocks— words— to tell. It simply was.

Real life, real hope, real God.

Oh blessed Day, oh blessed Land! Great Gods, forever just beyond our reach, thank you for the glory of Love!

I

It is perhaps the darkest reflection on humanity that when our lives are threatened and destruction imminent, rather than joining together in mutual support, the small and weak among us turn upon their own. To judge by the number of ‘heretics and spies’ lined up for trial, the only thing Augustine had accomplished that first day of the siege was to diminish his force and dishearten the men. For when soldiers are already afraid— and they’d have to be insane not to be, surrounded by the most brutal invaders on either continent— it doesn’t help to threaten them from behind. And Biblical quotations from a mean old man, by the look of him not altogether sane, won’t stand up to arrows and swords. I would have fought to the death on those walls, so long as there was the least chance that Meryl lay somewhere within…..

Useless. Not an arrow had been shot, not a ladder or assault tower had touched upon the walls, and already the City was crumbling. Its leaders— I had yet to see the cowering Governor— seemed more interested in assigning blame and cannibalizing their forces than in defending the people whose lives were in their hands.

Had the Vandals’ reputation for ruthless cruelty (and almost uniform success) preceded them? Or course, but that doesn’t mean they’re invincible, or that you give up without a fight. Damn the fools!

My trial was held almost at once. I’d spent a miserable day and night in a ramshackle hold, cursing myself for my folly in coming here, my carelessness in not securing the pack, only saved from despair by the thought that Meryl might still be alive. Or that— God help us— the Vandals made a successful assault, and I could escape in the confusion.

But even then I would try to find her first. I know there are men who can lie with a woman, promising marriage, and then abandon them. But rail at myself as I might, I was not one of them. I had not simply joined my flesh to hers, but my soul as well. Perhaps we could both still find a way to freedom…..

But no. Providence had deserted us all when the ship was struck by lightning. From then on it had been a downward spiral, all but inescapable. Only Cassius, who had suffered such misfortune that he could no longer be surprised by anything, and Ariel, who had every reason to live, had managed to elude the stroke. But for how long? And then with a qualm I thought of my beloved Sarah. Thank God they had convinced me to leave her behind!

So raced my thoughts, trying to escape the grim physical reality: impossible, of course.

As the detachment of spearmen (yet another depletion of the men who guarded the city) led us in irons toward the central monastery, I looked back

at the ramparts to see the defenders, such as they were, inactive, not only gazing anxiously out at the encircling force, but down at us, in strained and melancholy boredom. They were like drunken men (drunk with fear and inaction), whom the slightest push would send reeling to the ground. Oh, why didn’t the Vandals attack!

We were led, prodded by both ends of the spear, into what must at one time have been a castle or keep, now a cathedral and monastery. The sandstone walls of this inner fortress, no doubt formidable in their day, were now lined and cracked with age. As we passed in through the arching double door, it seemed to my excited imagination to have opened by itself….. But no, here were two black-cowled figures— otherworldly enough in this waking nightmare— who closed it again with a muffled thud, neither feet nor faces visible, but only thin white hands upon the door.

Inside an eerie stillness reigned. A few monks moved past with downcast faces, whether in fear of the attackers or their own superiors, I could not know or care. One of the meaningless thoughts that buzzed through my brain like flies about carrion, told me they had every right to be afraid. The Vandal attackers were not likely to spare the followers of a Bishop who referred to them as heretics, pagans, and mindless barbarians. All but the doorkeepers wore ash-stained sackcloth, as if presiding at a funeral pyre, the death of life and hope.

As we filed into the arched Cathedral, my last fantasy of a fair hearing left me. Roman justice could be harsh toward the conquered, but rarely punished the conqueror: its own fighting men. But there was no magistrate or military tribunal here. Instead we filed past rows of priests in three-sided cloisters, looking like corpses in upturned caskets. Surely these were faces that had never seen the sun, but spent their entire lives toiling away at obscure religious tracts: Saint Paul’s epistles, Saint Jerome’s bitter and sadistic ‘translation’ of the Bible. And of course Augustine’s own “Confessions,” and equally laudable excrement. For they had a strict Catechism to cement: the Catechismus Catholicae Ecclesiae, as nearly opposite the teachings of Christ as can well be imagined.

And at the head of the Cathedral, beyond the altar, a dais and throne were raised still higher above the sinful supplicants. And in it sat almighty Augustine, this time a true Prince of the Church, donning his regal finery: the violet robes and tall miter of the Archbishop, the ascetic’s staff replaced with the symbolic shepherd’s crook, its curving head of solid gold. Poor (and black) sheep need not apply for deliverance.

To either side of him were the Inquisitors, a three-headed monster to bully all into confession of our sins. But no forgiveness this time. To Augustine’s left stood a grim monk who seemed a thousand years old— our half-hearted defender— leaning on his staff not to flaunt his authority, but to keep from sinking down onto the floor. On his right, my friend the Monsignor, boiling with indignation at the sight of me. For he himself was responsible for my presence in the city, an act of mercy he obviously meant to rectify now.

Before us stood another row of prisoners, their clothes torn open, their backs striped with the merciless blows of the lash. My mind reeled. Had Christ suffered the Roman scourge only to pass it on to the hands of these ‘Christians?’

It was then that I saw Cleades, who turned, and whimpered at the sight of me. This had to mean that Alexander was dead. For I knew him: he would have died before allowing his brother to suffer so again. I only wished we could have exchanged forgivenesses—

My heart stopped. For there she was, my once beautiful wife, tortured and terrified for the sin of being a Jew, like the mother of Christ. I could not have kept her name from my lips if I wanted to. For all was lost now.

Hearing it she turned, saw me and began to scream piteously. “Gaius! Forgive me! Take me away— ”

“SILENCE!” roared the Monsignor, with a venom he made no effort to conceal.

But how could that pathetic soul obey? What more could they do to her, or threaten her with, than the death which so clearly awaited? One of the guards rushed forward and clubbed her to the ground. I ran forward, pulling the whole line after me. As I bent and cradled her in my arms, the only prayer left in me was that the blow had killed her, and her suffering was ended. I bent my ear to the beloved breast—

My arm was nearly wrenched from its socket as one of the guards hauled me back into line, then knocked me all but senseless with a blow of his great fist.

And so the three of us, stunned and nearly out of our minds with fear, swayed in the double line of those awaiting sentence, our fellow prisoners doing their best to keep us upright. As I slowly became aware that a voice was speaking, reading out the charges, the very word ‘trial’ sickened me with false hope.

There is no need to record the rest. One Inquisition is much like another: religious fanatics condemning the victims for not sharing their brutal delusions: that the Devil lurks in every free heart, and God is a raging psychopath, galled by the very sight of his wicked and ungrateful creation.

There can be little bravery in the face of such madness, and few of us had the heart to defend ourselves against the Monsignor’s paranoiac assertions. Because the two things you can never argue with are ignorance and insanity, both of which glared out at us from his raging, demonic eyes.

The only thing I could not understand was that, as the names and charges were read out, as the victims pleaded for their lives— perhaps they did, and I am lost— or for reason of any kind….. When my own turn came, Augustine motioned to his minion, who stopped and approached him, seeming suddenly deflated as his superior whispered something in his ear. Then he gestured to one of the guards, and just prior to my line being herded off with the others, weeping and wailing, my shackles were removed and I stood alone, too dazed even to react.

I could not hope that my journal had moved the Archbishop to pity, which was beyond him. And yet I was led to a small chapel where I was commanded to kneel and instructed to pray— which I did, in spite of myself. Need I tell you what I prayed for? Not for God to forgive me, or even deliver me from the hands of my enemies, but for my bride and the young Greek, whose being seemed to merge into one, and whose minds were surely broken, along with mine. And that if there was anything I could do to help them, I be given the strength to try.

The guard then led me, none too gently, through a maze of passages and winding stairs….. Into the chambers of the great man himself! These combined a private study with a bedroom, and a lavatory off to the side.

He sat at a high desk with an angled front, a large scroll spread out in front of him. I swallowed hard as I realized it was mine: the journal I had tried so faithfully to keep, now no doubt to be used against us. With a further qualm that nearly dropped me to the floor at his feet, I realized that my Sarah, too, would be laid bare, along with Cassius and Ariel. But no, came the faintest voice of hope. The inhabitants of the city could not get out…..

The guard steadied me then stood silent, waiting. I could only do the same. At length Augustine turned and regarded us.

What happened next was so unreal, I felt I must have truly lost my mind. Though I had been prepared for threats and ravings, nothing of the kind occurred. He only smiled at me wearily, one man to another, and with a wave of his hand sent the guard away. The heavy door was closed behind us.

“You are Tiberius Gaius?” he asked, not unkindly, “and this is your journal?”

I stared at him in blank amazement. How do you answer the man whose thralls have tortured your wife and close friend, who still holds the lives of all those you love in his hands?

“She was your mistress,” he pursued dryly, “the woman who called out to you?”

“My wife,” I said doggedly.

He indicated the scroll. “I read it all, last night. There is no mention of a ceremony, other than the hideous Jewish rite she proposed. You don’t honestly believe she meant to go through with it?”

I tried to master my rage, for her sake, but could not.

“And who married you, to the mother of your son? the woman you later abandoned for a more favorable match, only to abandon her, too?”

His eyes flashed at this— for what I had said was true— though he soon calmed himself. I could not imagine why, for I was striking at the heart of him with all that I possessed. Though of course it is easier to remain above such things when you hold the power of life and death in your hands.

“You know something of my background?” he asked in the same dry manner. “Oh yes, you were a scribe. How many other lies and distortions did you copy out?”

“I translated the Scriptures from the original Greek text, which bear little resemblance to the ravings of your friend Jerome…..” I don’t know

why I continued to battle him. I simply could not stop myself.

“Do you want them to die horribly?”

There was no need to guess who he meant by ‘them’.

“Let them go,” I said flatly, wondering at my own instinctive courage. “Or whatever it is you want from me, you won’t get it.”

“My dear boy,” he said, as my skin crawled at the endearment. “You don’t understand. She is a Jew, and lost in any case.”

“Why? You could set her free— ”

“Predestination, Gaius.” He now adopted the manner of the wise Biblical scholar, trying to enlighten a willful and ignorant pupil. “She was born to perdition, and though free will allows her to choose the way of her fall— ”

“You’re not God!”

Again the flash of irritation, quickly submerged.

“No, only a humble servant, who has spent a lifetime studying His Holy Word.”

“Behold, I bring you a new Commandment,” I quoted. “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” And, “Judge not, lest ye shall be judged.”

“Please,” he said facetiously, waving this away. “Do you think I brought you here to engage in theological debate with a child?”

“Then why did you bring me here? … Please,” I said, barely able to control myself. “What can I do to save them?”

I had been aware for some time of the sounds of a scuffle far below, drifting in through the shuttered window: the muffled voice of prisoners, probably gagged, crying out for mercy. But it all seemed so much of a piece that I had hardly noticed them. Yet now I heard a scream that froze my blood, followed in an instant by the whoosh of sudden flames. A moment later, through the most heart-rending cries imaginable, acrid smoke drifted in through the shutters.

“What have you done?” I said in a cracked whisper.

“She is dying,” he replied icily.

I ran to the window, lifted the latch and threw open the shutters. A hundred feet below, two staked-out bodies burned, thrashing uselessly, one of them a woman, her hair and dress ablaze.

“She can’t hear you,” he said just as coldly.

I turned on him in trembling rage. “She was my wife!”

He rose now like a dragon in its wrath. “She was your Jezebel!”

In that moment I could have killed him with my bare hands. But as I rushed at him in a fury, a great black shape moved from the shadows to intercept me. Large and powerful hands held my forearms like sticks.

“Thank you, Obu,” said Augustine wearily. “Take him away. Perhaps a few weeks in the dungeon will make him more amenable.”

My hands were pushed behind my back as the guards reappeared, bound me with some kind of leather thong, and I was half led, half carried away.

What did it matter now? How could I begin to care? My wife, my only love, who was not to blame for her delusion….. My mind simply would not take it in. After so much trauma and tragedy. . .dead.

My Meryl!

Dead.

II

I’ve heard it said that trial and travail need many words to convey, while happiness is a tale quickly told. Perhaps they are right. But I feel an obligation to— no, that is not the right word— call it a kinship with those who will one day read this work. Perhaps I grow vain. But having worked so long and hard upon this journal, I do hope that someday it will be understood and appreciated.

So. You stayed with me through the dark and introspective times that came before; I would, if possible, share with you some measure of my present happiness.

We’d been married in that stunning ceremony, my Brigit and I. And when it was done, when the people began to disperse, Nechtainn approached us smiling.

“Alainn,” he said, the Gaelic word for beautiful, as he placed the robe once more about my young bride’s shoulders. She turned and embraced him like a father, which explained much I had not earlier understood. And so help me, there were tears in his eyes. Above and beyond his paternal feelings, he had risked much in choosing me, and the gods (or simply the God within) had smiled on all of us. This day would be remembered in song for many years to come, and in my heart, forever. Then covering my groin with a second robe— I had quite forgotten my nudity, Genesis in reverse— he bent down and helped her to untie me.

Ariel cried softly as she refitted her garment. As I rose to stand beside her, she drew me near and whispered, “I love you, Gaius. And I’m so happy for you at last.”

I embraced her gently. We’d never been so close. And I realized with a qualm, even through my love and tenderness for the young woman I had just married and made love to, that we never would be again. As she herself wrote, how our joys and sorrows intertwine!

But now Brigit regarded me, seeming hurt and a little angry. I took her in my arms, kissed her full, and with her sweet face close in my hands, shook my head emphatically. It was the only way I knew of telling her it was she I had chosen, and that Ariel was only….. Only? How could I ever apply that word to my Angel, who had for so long been my guiding star, giving me hope, and a reason to live? For in that moment I knew, without shame or remorse, what it was to be in love with two women. Though I knew that for

both their sakes, I must let go the long dream of Ariel for one less ethereal, perhaps, but far more tangible and real.

And how I loved my Brigit already: how our bodies had merged, as if they were made for each other, and how the passion had flowed! How could anyone call this sin? It was a celebration, nay, the very essence of life.

Nechtainn put his arm tenderly about Ariel’s shoulders. “Sweet child,” he said, the words now known and familiar to us both. He put his hand lightly on her stomach, which seemed to knot at the touch. “Not long now,” he said. And he gestured to a woman, a midwife, who came forward. Then he embraced Brigit, and I saw tears of separation and loss that he could not conceal. She cried in his arms, with at least as much wistful and bittersweet emotion. I could not know then, as I do now, that she is his adopted daughter, doubly dear in that he and his wife could have no children of their own. It all made sense now: from the piercing look he gave when he knew I was coming here (and why, though I did not know it myself), his conflicting emotions when Ariel told him of my love for her, the close scrutiny of his wife, and his own deep introspection as he led me in silence toward the Stone Circle. Yet he had trusted me, not only with the ceremony that is the pinnacle of his Faith, but with the heart of his very daughter. Tears overwhelm me as I write this. Has any man ever given another so great a gift?

Then I only knew that they cared deeply for one another, and that this would be a difficult parting. We all sensed this— Ariel, the brothers and myself— and would have given them time to recover. But Nechtainn is a strong man, as surely you have seen, and Brigit no less than he. Anyone who says that women are not as strong as men, has never been to Ireland. They gathered themselves, turned back toward us.

Then the High Druid extended an arm toward Clear Island. For it was time to go home.

Our home. It was only then it hit me. Brigit would return with me, my wife. And when it seemed right, Sarah would join us to complete the family. Our family. I held my new bride, and said her name with all the passion it engendered.

“Brigit!”

For I was home now. They were my home, Brigit and Sarah, and I swore with all I was that I would never leave them. “Amor tu,” I said in Latin. And though she could not understand she touched my face, her eyes still searching. What emotions must be churning in her young heart, married to a man she had accepted, but still hardly knew. I took her hand gently. But though she seemed grateful for this, there was something in her look that I had not expected. What was it?

Now Alexander approached, and any tension that may have existed between us fled as he offered me his forearm, which I took warmly. And this gave me the chance, as the others moved off toward the boat…..

“Can you translate for us?” I asked eagerly.

“Of course.”

I turned to my bride, and through him I said. “I love you, my beautiful Brigit, and I will do all I can to be a good husband, and make you happy.” She nodded, but still that look was in her eyes. Anger? Jealousy? I went on, not knowing what else to say. “I understand that this is sudden for you, leaving your island, your friends. Please know, I will not try to keep you from the things, the people that you love.”

“My parents?” And her look was one almost of defiance.

“No. Of course, they are welcome anytime. I know (though in fact I couldn’t) how dear they are to you. I meant…..”

Now her look was quizzical. No use dancing around it.

“Moll,” I said. The worded needed no translation. Now she flushed, and looked hard at me. “It doesn’t matter how I know, Brigit. I only want you to know that…..” I struggled for a way to tell her. “She will always be welcome to visit you, or you her.”

Her young face was so expressive. The emotions moved across it like the shadow of clouds across a hillside: first embarrassment, then anger, and

finally, unspoken question. My eyes and reassuring nod must have conveyed something of my meaning, because she bit her lip to stifle a tear, then said through Alexander.

“Thank you….. She was sent away. That is why the ceremony fell to me.”

At this another question occurred, so vital I was almost afraid to ask. But I must ask, for her sake.

“You were not forced into this? Were not forced. . .to accept me?” How I prayed the answer was no!

She looked at Alexander, not understanding his first translation. He talked with her for several minutes, then explained to me.

“No one forced her to do anything, Gaius. She was a vestal virgin, a high honor here, by choice. And no one forced her, either to take Molle’s place, or to choose you. Ariel told Nechtainn of your feelings for her, as I think you know, and he and Brigit talked for hours as you slept. She wanted to know everything he had to tell about you. She could have chosen another— you were not the only candidate— but she watched you as they spoke, then lay down with you, and knowing that you loved her….. She chose you, Gaius, and does not regret the choice now.”

She wanted me. Sweet Heaven, she was mine!

Then her face clouded and she said something else to Alexander, who turned again to face me. “She wants to know about Ariel.” A pause while she spoke again. “What are your feelings, your relationship with her?”

“She is my truest friend,” I said without hesitation, “and the wife of our leader.”

“The unborn child. . .is not yours?”

“No, my sweet. What you and I shared this day, I have never known with any other woman.” She had been watching Alexander as he spoke, and now examined both our faces.

“True,” he told her, one of the words that I had learned. Then he straightened, and said to me.

“Congratulations, Gaius, but now we must be off. You and your wife will work it out, I’m sure. No doubt Ariel will want to have her child at home, with Cassius there beside her.” Though this had been meant as a prod to get us to the ship, I took the further point directly.

“As he will want to be with her,” I said. And in that moment, if you can believe it, I even loved that old son of a wolf-bitch, the battered warrior who, for all his rough ways, had brought us out of terrible danger, so that Alexander could bring us here. How much I owed to them both!

“Yes,” was all I could say to his insistent glance. Then, “What about Brigit’s things?”

“Already being loaded,” he said with a wry smile. “They do things right in Erin.”

“Yes, they do.”

And now, so help me God, I will too.

We walked quietly toward the lagoon, and the feel of her breast against my arm as we walked hand-in-hand was warm and fulfilling in a way that defies all attempt to describe it. I can only say that this simple reassurance— of love, a mate, and the banishment of loneliness— spoke to something deep inside me, and in her, that needed no words.

Yes, we’ll be all right, my Brigit and I. For together we have embarked upon the greatest adventure of all, and my tears flow like rain as I write this. How true are Cleades’ words, like the man himself:

Oh, great gods, thank you for Love!

I

The truly heartbreaking thing about Holocaust— they murdered my beloved Meryl for no other reason than that she was a Jew— is that when your loved ones are killed, when you believe you will never again feel or care for anything, pain and fear prove you wrong.

To spend long days and nights shackled to a dungeon wall is indescribable. But it seems I must try, as recording these horrors is all that remains of my harlequin’s life. I don’t know how long I have been here, as I am below ground, and the light (or lack of it) never varies. But I must say something of this Hell, cold comfort though it may not be.

First there are the physical torments. My own chains were bolted to the stone above and behind so that I stood, arms outstretched as on a cross, unable to sit, let alone lie down. So when fatigue, hunger and thirst overcame me, the best I could do was to wrap my hands about the chains and hold on, bracing my legs at an angle from the wall. Needless to say this reduces sleep, when possible at all, to a fitful dozing, releasing me for the briefest moment. . .until the muscles relax and gravity does its work, wrenching me back to a painful consciousness not only of the present anguish, but of the outright torture to come.

For the brutal fact is that tyrants and torturers attack both body and mind, no matter their high-flown rhetoric. And if there exists a more raw animal terror than finding yourself in the power of the dogmatically insane, I have never heard of it.

Oh, yes, I have read of such things, even being ordered to transcribe— I tried to refuse, but the patron was the Byzantine governor of Syria— Herod III’s, “Intimidation and Control Through Torture and Execution.” A cheery little work to be sure.

Which brings me to the gentle art of psychological torture. For no animal, set upon by the pack in a whirlwind of tearing teeth, can know the excruciating fear and helplessness of being chained upon the altar, awaiting the whim of a psychopath. For though it undoubtedly knows the greater physical pain as it is torn to pieces, two things are absent. First, the animal’s suffering, however terrible, is brief. Because the human predator, unlike the animals he shuns as soulless beasts, does not, as they do, go directly for the kill. No. Like domesticated cats they prefer to play with their meal. And second, there is not the excruciating interval while the human victim waits, imagining the pain to come, surrounded by the screams of those whose virginal anticipation is over.

And one more thing. The tyrant must make an example of his victim: show his enemies how wrong they are to oppose him, and (hideous thought, but one I know quite well), that the pain and terror they endure, are their own fault. This last is the consummation, the orgasm of all that has come before, and in the face of which Death itself is but the afterglow.

‘Saints’ Jerome and Augustine— the latter not yet canonized, but how can the Church fail to bestow its highest honor upon the long suffering (and long-winded) Bishop of Hippo?— like to speak of the fiery torments of Hell. Thus they are particularly adept at creating it here on earth. For Jerome it was only through art— if we may apply that term to spiritual rape and murder— and the reader’s imagination. Horrible enough, I daresay. But for Augustine, and for those who will undoubtedly come after, there is the physical gratification as well.

You see, though nearly all dungeons are underground, this one is truly unique. Above it, the serene monks pray, and ponder the mysteries; the priests celebrate mass in that lovely cathedral, which doubles as the Day of Judgment (why should God have all the fun?); and the Bad Shepherd leads his flock to the slaughterhouse. For is that not the end of all sheep? But here, I mix my metaphors. What I’m after is the idea of Heaven and Hell contained within a single structure— Above and Below— divided by naught but the killing floor. And as miserable as their Heaven is, you should see their Hell! Men lifted from the floor by nooses about their necks— fouling themselves as they clutch futilely at the rope— are but one entertainment. Satan, you have a rival!

Do I become facetious, who should be setting down my tale in cogent and compelling order? Of course! Ah, but how do I write it? you ask, chained in the pit, the expectant bride-to-be. I will tell you after I speak of my recent interview with Augustine. For the two are not unrelated.

I was dragged, semi-conscious, up and up it seemed, spiralling toward some eminence. Was I dead, my spirit climbing, on angel’s wings, toward Heaven? No such luck.

For as I regained consciousness (if not sanity), I lay upon the penitential bed as my familiar demon, Augustine, watched me from the high writing desk and chair to which he seems to have chained himself, if only figuratively.

Of course my soul wretched at finding myself in his bed. But you see, gentle friend, I could no longer stand. And as soon as released by the guards I had swooned, and so been laid upon it, where I slept like the dead in their catacombs, that burrow beneath Imperial Rome. Hadn’t the early Christians hidden, met, and worshipped their? How quickly the oppressed

become the oppressor!

I don’t know how long, whether hours or days, I followed Christ into Hell. But when I woke he was still there, as if neither he nor his bowels had moved, and I was bound head and foot to the stolid wooden frame. Needless to say I had not woken as they tied me down. I reopened my eyes— I had, like a child, tried to close them again to make the nightmare go away— to find him gazing at me almost wistfully.

So that is why he kept me alive. God help us, he finds me desirable, a romantic figure for his insane fantasy. But I had not been touched or molested. Why?

He climbed down from the chair, walked to a nightstand beside the bed, where he lifted a pitcher of wine and brought it to my lips. I did not resist, the undeniable longing for sustenance even greater than the desire to spit in his face. And with no saliva in my cracked, parchment mouth….. He tried to stroke my forehead lovingly, at which I thrashed like the demon-possessed he must have thought I was.

Again the irritation that must be an inseparable part of his age and wasted life told on the pale, doughy, pathetic face. But once more he controlled it, stiffly returned to the seat of ease, took up his quill, and wrote more of his flaccid drivel even as he spoke. Posterity!

“Would it surprise you to learn that I was once like you?” He glanced at me briefly, then back to his death’s work. “It’s true. I once sought truth

and love: through Greek philosophy, free thought, even physical passion.”

“But they brought you no definitive answer,” I spat back at him, “no absolutes of Good and Evil. So in bitterness you created them yourself: a vengeful God, galled by the very sight of His ungrateful children, and the Devil that rose out of your own worst fears. Heaven if you cower before this lunatic invention, Hell if you have the courage not to.”

My fevered state gave me a strange lucidity. Or perhaps it only comes to me now as I write. I honestly don’t know. But then or now, I continued:

“But even that wasn’t enough. You had to make hard and fast rules, a harsh dogma to impose on those not as cowardly as yourself.”

He whirled, his face distorted with rage. There was a demon there, to be sure. But like a man suffering from passion-induced heart disease— and, I might add, afraid of death for all his talk of Faith— he took several deep breaths to calm himself, then turned away again. And though the hand that gripped the quill trembled with indignation— how dare I speak the truth?— still he wrote on.

“Why do you insist on provoking me?” he asked wearily.

“You murdered my wife!”

I’d have thought this too would evoke an emotional response. But apparently his disdain for women is so complete, that for all my passion he hardly noticed the words.

“She betrayed you, as all women do,” he said with half his attention. “As Eve betrayed Adam, and the Jews betrayed our Lord.” And before I could reply to this, “Do you honestly believe she could have come to any other end, a fallen seductress, a lovely and lascivious Jew?” He said the word with such hatred that it twisted my heart like a rag.

“And so you anticipate God’s will,” I mocked helplessly, “hasten the damned on their way? As you’re no doubt planning to do with my friend, if you can keep your ‘lascivious’ priests off him long enough.”

I stopped, realizing two things at the mention of Cleades. First, that I still cared very much what became of him— a weakness in this mad game that was sure to be used against me— and second, that anything I said or did might be heaped in fiery coals upon his head. The Church is a great one for whipping boys.

“Ah, so you care for the little Greek boy.” His eyes betrayed a faraway longing as he spoke.

“Of course I do, you animal!” I blurted uncontrollably. Then trying to make light of it (a joke, I realize), “You’ve read my journal.”

“Yes, I have,” he said, reaching to caress it with his horrible, withered hand. “He is not dead: merely imprisoned, like yourself.”

“You can do no worse to him,” I lied, “than what you’ve already done. You raped his soul the day you killed his brother.” This much, surely, was the truth. For Alexander would have dared damnation to save him. He must be dead, and Cleades’ mind broken by it. “No doubt you find them both ‘abominations’, cannot begin to understand their love for one another in the midst of their suffering.” I grew weak and teary at the thought. “Subjected to unspeakable baseness, forced to have sex even with themselves, trying to save each other from madness and emotional death.”

“How you try my patience,” he chided, the wise older man. “I won’t speak of the complex relationship between Predestination and free will, which is beyond you.” Like that between celibacy and molesting little boys? “I speak to you now as a man.” Lucky me! “But do you honestly believe he would he have fared any better in the world outside these walls? You yourself describe the way the desert pagans ogle him— ”

“You’re not God!”

His quill stopped. “I am His prophet, His instrument! My hand is mercy!” Again the sudden check, the bitter expression of one who knows he must not give in to passion, but cannot help himself. “Don’t you understand? Those predestined to the Pit of Fire live in utter misery, from which there is no escaping. I merely extinguish the false hope— ”

“Stop it! Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?”

He rose in wrath, his best imitation of Moses (another Jew, by the way). “Thou shalt not take the Name of the Lord thy God in vain!”

“I do not take it in vain, but in deepest entreaty! How can you twist His message of love and forgiveness into one of death and damnation?” Here I might have said something worthy of an epitaph, if my feeble strength had not abandoned me entirely. “You’re insane,” I ended lamely.

He, too, must have felt the futility of this confrontation— if he is even capable of feeling now. He sat again, so weary, empty and alone that I could almost pity him. Almost. He lifted a mallet and touched a small gong. A servant appeared at once: a lithe and handsome youth, looking fearful.

“Yusef,” he said, not unkindly. “Bring us some seed-cake, and the chilled white wine from the cellar.”

When the boy had gone and returned with what was asked, Augustine moved once more to sit on the bed beside me. Again I could not keep my body from hunger and thirst, my heart from a desperate (and no doubt futile) hope. He dipped pieces of the cake in wine, placed them in my mouth. This is my flesh you eat, this is my blood you drink. Then he patted my chest, which I could not elude, and began to speak.

“You care for this Cleades? You wish no further harm to befall him?”

I turned away, understanding at last the brothers’ bitter shame at having to submit to Asteria’s obscene caresses. For if they did not….. “Of course I do.”

“You think it’s only lust I feel for you?” He sounded hurt. I turned back in surprise, not trusting. What else could it be? He looked deep into my eyes.

“I told you I was once like you. What I did not tell you….. I had a son. I loved him. And now he is dead.”

He rose and began to pace slowly back and forth, back and forth, as on a death watch. “He was so sincere, with a questing mind and soul that could only have come from me. And when he grew to manhood he showed such filial devotion….. And yet God took him away from me.”

I said nothing, stunned. To suddenly see into your enemy’s heart, and realize he too longs for love and understanding….. That he was mad, I knew, but with this last trace of emotion and humanity. Was there a way to use it? For Sarah still waited….. The pain was too great, so I locked it away.

“Let him go,” I said, “or I’ll curse you with my dying breath.”

“I cannot.”

“Then you are altogether evil.”

“What if I brought him here?” he said, as if he had not heard me.

I stared at him, uncomprehending. Again he raised the mallet, rang the gong twice. This time the huge bodyguard, a slave, reappeared.

“Find the Greek boy. Feed him, bathe him, and give him decent clothing.” He looked at me with forlorn entreaty, as if asking, had he done the right thing? What else could I say?

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice trembling, and turned away.

“Then have Yusef prepare the adjoining room,” I heard him say, “and bring him here.” I assume the bodyguard nodded, for he left the room.

“Why would you do this?” I asked brokenly.

“You love him?” I could not deny it. “Then I love him.”

He returned to his desk, drank some of the wine himself. He sighed with age, loss and resignation, then continued writing.

Later that night Cleades was brought up from the dungeon, and we were installed together in the room next door. And there my scrolls were returned to me. Thus I am able to write, and record this all but unbelievable series of events.

Is this really happening? Am I mad, or is he? I don’t know. Only that when Cleades wept in my arms I felt no revulsion. Only pity and a crushing sense of loss. For what am I to do now?

Now.

Now.

II

Brigit and I love each other, the bond so suddenly made now maturing into a quiet acknowledgement that our union was meant to be. As the days roll slowly by, they bring a tide of peace and happiness I have not known since childhood.

There is some awkwardness between us, of course. I know but a little of her language, and she, until recently, none of mine. But when a man and woman set out together with willing hearts and a common goal— a new family— somehow the thing is done. We manage to convey what is needed by day, and by night, find in the lover’s embrace that which goes beyond words, the rhythm of our longing, the rhyme of our souls.

I wasn’t sure how the others would react to her, or she to them. Because for all my present joy, I am not blind to female jealousy. Even my sweet mother possessed it in some degree.

But in truth I need not have worried. She had won Ariel’s heart from the first, and I’m grateful to both of them, for wishing my happiness and striving to be friends. While somewhat unlike in their outward demeanor— for Brigit is not at all the soft and subservient girl I first took her for— they both possess the same inner strength. And there was even less cause for concern between my wife