Marilyn Todd - Sour Grapes

He dropped on to one knee and lowered his head.

'May the prayers of Aita make you strong as you stand before the Mirror of Truth, little Vorda. May the spells of Leinth protect you as you pass through the Halls of Purification, and may Efan ensure no road in the Underworld is blocked to your soul. Let the hearts of your ancestors rejoice at your coming.' He stood up and straightened a mitre that didn't need straightening. 'As death is certain, so is its hour, my lady. The gods allocated Vorda but thirteen summers-'

'You mean someone told her she was destined to die yesterday?'

'Who knows when the Herald of Death appears?' he replied smoothly.

Or in what form, Claudia thought as they continued along the vaulted stone corridors. 'Was she having trouble at home? Anxious, perhaps, about her abilities to perform?'

'Her home life was strict, but not unusually so, and by all accounts Vorda was an accomplished pupil who was very much looking forward to performing the Bridal Dance. Indeed, it was all she chattered about.'

'And you don't think it peculiar when that same cheerful thirteen-year-old throws herself in the river?'

Their footsteps echoed six-fold on the stone floor, and whichever way they turned the music was neither louder nor softer, garlands of herbs drifted out their fragrance wherever they passed and the figures on the wall laughed, danced and feasted, because for all they were supposed to be alive, they were dead, and so was Vorda, and Vorda was nothing to them.

'The will of the gods is unalterable, my child. They speak to the augurs through every aspect of nature, and Their prophesies are absolute.'

How can you argue with that?

'That was another thing I wanted to talk to you about,' Claudia said, and at least this was one topic Darius wouldn't have broached. 'Vorda's death seems to be the latest in a string of misfortunes that have occurred recently. In fact, I've drawn up a list.'

It was all there. The paper merchant's warehouse. The brick-maker's kilns. The tavern-keeper's sour wine, his broken axle. She'd written down those couples that had divorced, listed whose livestock had keeled over, the donkey that dropped dead in the harness, the well that was probably poisoned, so-and-so's financial hardships — the lot. And as Tarchis took the parchment closer to the light in order to read, she noticed that he was a lot older than she'd taken him for. Seventy, eighty, possibly more. It was hard to say under that paint.

'This is very strange.' He took off his mitre and scratched his head. 'You say Crantor's crops failed, yet make no mention of his neighbours' fields being blighted, and how odd that it was the miller's donkey that died.'

'Odd how?'

'Grantor is the miller's brother and his son is the blacksmith, the one whose beehive collapsed and whose wife left him and took their children to Rome. And look, here's another coincidence. The paper merchant's sister is married to the man whose cattle fell sick, and it's his mother whose well went sour, while his… Holy Horta!'

For an old man, he took off down the corridor like an Olympic sprinter, his robes flapping like some great red bat's wings as he flung open his office door. Without bothering to take a seat, Tarchis reached for a quill and began scratching away, connecting the names in great inky lines until the whole page became a criss-cross of grids.

'Misfortune be damned, Lady Claudia, this is judgment.' He thrust the parchment under her nose with the same forceful gesture. 'Thufltha has been unleashed.'

'Whofltha?'

'Do not mock the gods in my temple!' he thundered. 'Once invoked, His wrath is unstoppable. The gods have surely taken vengeance upon the wicked.'

A small, tight ball began to bounce around in her stomach. 'I don't understand.'

'Every bad thing that is listed can be traced to five men, and it is they who suffer the punishment of the gods-'

'Along with their families, it appears.'

'When injustice has been done, the gods wreak revenge, and I suppose the closest thing to Thufltha in your religion is the Furies. Winged avengers, who pursue those guilty of crimes against the family to the four corners of the earth, then punish them.'

'Including the innocent?'

'When Thufltha is summoned, Veive obeys.'

'Veive…?'

'Veive is the God of Revenge, and perhaps you have forgotten the story, my lady; perhaps you have not heard it.' Fiery eyes skewered hers as he bade her sit. 'Twelve years ago, in the fifth year of the Emperor's reign, the five men listed bore witness at the trial of Felix Musa here in Mercurium. The charge was treason, a charge Felix denied, but since the evidence was incontrovertible, he was denounced as a traitor, stripped of his assets and sentenced to ten years' hard labour in the silver mines.'

'If the evidence is not in dispute, why would five upstanding pillars of the community need to be punished?'

'Why?' Tarchis stared at her as though she was simple. 'Because Felix has obviously stood before the Mirror of Truth-'

'You mean he's dead?'

'My dear child, how else would the gods know who to avenge?'

That was the trouble when one leads a zealot's existence, she thought. Tarchis' vision was as narrow as these corridors hewn out of the rock and Claudia wondered whether Gaius had genuinely taken to the priest as a friend or simply exploited his standing in the local community.

'Your husband told you nothing about Felix's trial?'

Claudia was his trophy, not his soul mate. 'Why would he?' They rarely met, much less conversed.

Tarchis leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. 'Because, my dear, there were six men, not five, who bore witness against Felix.' He held her gaze for what seemed like eternity. 'The sixth witness was Gaius.'

Veive looked down the long shaft of his arrow, then tested the feathered flight with the tip of his finger.

Beside him, the winged avenger smiled.

Midnight, and rain lashed the hillsides of Tuscany, swelling the rivers and nourishing the roots of the vines and the olives. There was no lightning, no thunder, thus the Augurs of Tins had no need to be summoned from their beds and continued to snore soundly, oblivious to the drumming volley. For the Priests of the Auspices, however, there was no such luxury. As the clouds discharged their watery cargo, they interpreted the secret language of the sky, musing how the shapes of the puddles related to the Order of the Cosmos and whether the swirls of the rain would maintain Divine Harmony. Around them, drenched acolytes made the sign of the cross for the four sacred quadrants, chanting, 'This is my front, my back, my left and my right', while sodden altar boys laid bowls of bulls' blood on beds of laurel and poplar to propitiate Aplu the Weather God.

In her humble cottage on the Mount of Mercury, surrounded by relatives yet never more alone, Vorda's mother shed a torrent of her own. Life was predestined, she understood that, but to cut Vorda's thread before she'd danced was an act of unspeakable cruelty. The Priest of Uni insisted the rain was the tears of the Queen of the Cosmos falling in sympathy. The Priest of Fufluns told her the rain was swelling the grapes, ensuring little Vorda would live on in the vintage. The priests of the river gods consoled her by reminding her that Fraon the demon had been denied Vorda's soul, and that her daughter would walk the Everlasting Meadows with a heart as pure as her body. For the first time in her life, Vorda's mother found no comfort in the priests' words. Her baby, her baby, her beautiful baby was dead. Lying cold on the rough wooden table that served as her bier, Vorda's laughter would echo no more round this cottage. There'd be no more scolding her for not cleaning her teeth, no more decking the door with gorse together on the spring equinox, no more hugs before bed. Clutching her daughter's cold hand to her breast, Vorda's mother howled like a wounded beast.