Stephen Lawhead - The Bone House

Turms nodded. He straightened, raised his face to the sky, and covered his face with his hands. He stood in silence for a moment and then, lowering his hands once more, smiled and said, “There is nothing to fear.” He reached towards the girl and took her chin between his finger and thumb, lifting her head. “Your mother will be well. This illness will pass. In three days, her strength will be renewed.”

“Thank you, lord,” said the man, relief visible on his face.

Turning to one of the acolytes, Turms said, “Send one of the court physicians to this man’s house with a potion for sleep and the easing of fever.” To the man and little girl, he said, “Go in peace. The gods are pleased to grant your petition.”

Bowing from the waist, the man backed away through the crowd, drawing his daughter with him, thanking his king as he went.

“Who will be next?” asked Turms.

A man dressed in the short tunic and sandals of a day labourer stepped forward and went down on his knees. He stretched forth his hands, holding a heavy bunch of ripe purple grapes. “My lord and king, hear me. I am in need.”

Directing one of the acolytes to take the offered gift, Turms asked, “What is your need, my friend?”

“It is for justice, my king.”

“I am listening. Speak freely.”

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

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

“None whatever, my king.”

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

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

“How much are you owed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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