Mary Reed: Five for Silver

The rasping, fading voice trailed away. The lawyer’s lips continued to form words without enough breath to animate them.

John bent and put his face next to the dying man’s.

“…deserved to die,” Prudentius was whispering. “The plague might have taken him soon enough anyway. He would have squandered everything and what would my poor family have done then? I was heaven’s tool, nothing more.”

His head jerked to one side and he stared into the shadows. “They’re here…please, holy one…they’re here! No! Let go!”

Prudentius let out a strangled shriek.

John took a step away.

Prudentius’ hand shot out and clutched John’s garment.

“Don’t go! Take me with you! I had to kill him, don’t you see? To help my family…I was merely serving the Lord as best I could.”

The hand on John’s robe lost its grip and fell away.

Prudentius stared fixedly at John. “I beg you, holy one. Tell me whether or not heaven has forgiven me…”

John looked down at the tormented face.

He did not reply.

John stood in his atrium and gazed out into the brightly illuminated garden.

He imagined its green expanse as a pool of brightness set amid largely darkened city streets beneath a sky veiled by acrid smoke. At this hour lamplight would be spilling from the windows of the Great Church to join with the lurid glow of burning vessels, silhouetting the roofs of dwellings under which no living person lay. Few were abroad now except carters transporting the departed to their final earthly destinations or the faithful attending church services, adding their pleas to those praying for the plague to pass.

There was a matter that would not wait for the plague to leave, if indeed it intended to depart at all.

Singing tunelessly to himself, Peter bustled past bearing a large platter of fruit. Hypatia followed, carrying an enormous silver wine jug. Rarely used, it was engraved with bunches of grapes and vine tendrils, appropriate decorations for the forthcoming celebration.

John could not smell smoke tonight. Rather he was aware of the sweet scents from garlands of flowers decorating the atrium, mixed with the odor of rich sauces wafting down from the kitchen.

Anatolius arrived, wringing his hands.

No, John realized as they exchanged greetings, not wringing his hands, but rather absently rubbing badly swollen knuckles. He gave him a questioning look.

“I’ve had a disagreement with Crinagoras,” Anatolius spat out angrily. “I don’t expect to see him again. He came around this evening and started to recite an ode to Lucretia. He claimed it was what I needed to comfort me, not to mention it would keep her memory alive at court. Needless to say, I knocked him down immediately and kicked him out of my house. Then I gathered up all my poems and fed them to the kitchen brazier. My servants must have thought I’d lost my senses. Lucretia…Lucretia I will mourn in private. There are no words…the world is very empty now.”

“I understand. I had to tell Europa her mother was gone, yet tonight how can I not be happy? My daughter is to be married in less than an hour.”

“Of course. We must try not to let our sorrows mar the joys of others, it’s just that…well…”

“Yes, indeed.”

They strolled out into the garden.

There they found Thomas fidgeting beside the pool. He barely acknowledged their arrival.

“Have you solved the knotty problem of the form of the ceremony, John?” Anatolius asked. “I gather the Patriarch was otherwise engaged tonight.”

John smiled. “Don’t worry about that. Peter was bold enough to observe to me earlier this evening that while this would not be a traditional wedding in any sense of the word, what mattered was it was being entered into with sincere intent and that being so, surely heaven would bless it.”

Thomas nodded solemnly. “A wise man, that servant of yours.” He took a few nervous steps away and back again and then glanced at the sky. “Mithra, it’s worse than waiting to go into battle.”

“Hours drag like chains while we wait and fly away like eagles when we wish them to stay,” Anatolius agreed. “However, few go into combat dressed in such fine garments. Silk, I see.”

“Borrowed,” Thomas muttered, looking uncomfortable. “In honor of the occasion.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll soon be back in that barbaric clothing you prefer, and I see you kept your own boots,” Anatolius observed.

Thomas turned to John. “About Nereus’ bull, John, the one you told me about. I’ve obtained a loan from Isis and purchased it as a wedding gift for Europa. She doesn’t know yet.”

“What strange notions barbarians harbor about suitable gifts,” Anatolius commented with a grin. “Though I suspect you could scarcely have chosen a better one.”

Thomas looked gratified.

“It appears Anatolius’ metaphorical chains have begun to change into birds,” John observed, glancing over his shoulder.

Europa, crowned with a chaplet of spring flowers and dressed in a simple, white tunic, had just emerged from the house and was now making her way down the neatly graveled path toward them, accompanied by Hypatia and Peter.

The small group took up their places beside the pool.

Thomas and Europa stepped forward to stand in front of John.

John looked down at his daughter’s sunburnt face. How much she resembled her mother, he thought.

A mosaic of memories passed rapidly through his mind’s eye. The torchlit garden fell away as he recalled the bright and open skies of Crete and Egypt, Cornelia’s saucy smile and sharp-tongued response the day he, then still a young mercenary, had first dared to ask for her companionship, the clay cup broken one amorous night, the cup whose twin he had ordered made and from which he had habitually drunk the raw Egyptian wine he favored until he had deliberately destroyed it, the years of slavery and then regaining his freedom, the even longer period he had spent living in the palace, rising to his present high office…

All those years had disappeared as swiftly as water passing along an aqueduct, babbling swiftly past never to return, flowing ceaselessly along the channel of time, bearing with it all who lived.

And those who had died.

Cornelia, if you can, be here tonight, he silently prayed.

Holding Thomas and Europa’s clasped hands between his, he addressed the couple. His voice was low, but clearly audible in the strangely quiet night air.

“Europa and Thomas, you have stated your intentions to me in private. You will now declare them openly before those assembled here. Europa, do you freely confirm it is your desire to be wife to this man, Thomas?”

“It is,” Europa responded in a determined tone that drew smiles from those present.

“Thomas, do you freely confirm it is your desire to be husband to this woman, Europa?”

“That is what I wish,” Thomas replied.

“Very well. Thomas, do you swear by Lord Mithra and all you hold sacred that you will treat Europa honorably and be true to her always?” John continued.

“I swear by Lord Mithra and by the Sacred Bull it will be so!” Thomas stated firmly, smiling at Europa.

Europa made the same affirmation, making her oath by the Mother Goddess and all that she held holy.

“Then I formally ask Lord Mithra and the Mother Goddess for their blessings upon this marriage,” John concluded, “for by freely confirming your intent and giving oaths below heaven and before witnesses you have taken each other as man and wife. Thus I declare you to be so joined.”

Thomas turned to Europa and kissed her.

As the women hugged each other and Peter, Anatolius offered awkward congratulations to Thomas. “And you had better treat her well, Thomas,” he added, “because if I should hear anything different…”