XXVI – The Hurting

Welletrix is no stranger to living well.

His ribs press to the couch, reminding him of the triclinium in his boyhood home. He grieves its loss to tribal ambition, and Villa Servi, with its many patrician comforts, proves a hurtful reminder of the easy life his grandfather’s wealth had provided.

With a spindly frame and long white beard, his grandfather personified wisdom. His lavish roundhouse, perched high on a lofty foundation, had been little Welle’s sanctuary. Unlike the village boys fighting for space in their family’s cramped one-room huts, Welle slept in a private room where numerous rugs ensured his feet never touched the dirt. Their crotchety Segni cook kept his belly full, and the woman tending his mother and aunts kept his hair clean and combed.

Yes, going through the motions at Villa Servi was easy, having grown up with servants. His grandfather’s house staff watched over his care from boyhood. They knew their place, even on the migration, and his mimicking their actions here at the villa put the former lady of this house, Scipia Servia, at ease.

The dead woman’s daughter, Vita, enters and lies down beside him on the couch. They share wine and nibble at cheese and marinated mushrooms brought in by the lazy girl, Marilla, who avoids him as if his gaze might turn her to stone. Her sudden silence carries an air of dislike, much like the newfound resentment from the house boys since his elevation to employment.

Welle ignores their discontent—he was never one of them anyway, and such umbrage fuels his determination to assert his place.

Spirits rise as the wine pours, with Vita harping about her day in the numbers and not mentioning giving that druid her old bed. Her brother arrives in time for the main course, acting the gentleman toward his sister, kissing her cheek without hinting at the venom he previously expounded over their mother’s lonely demise.

Three days ago, the ailing Scipia Servia left this world, taking with her the blackness that hovered over this house, but tonight, happiness reigns in the triclinium as firelight gives life to the underwater world on its walls.

The pork loin is juicy and flavorful, but he expects nothing less from the brilliant Nikonidas, who rebuffs Vita’s invitation to dine with them. Lady Scipia never allowed such things, yet Niko wouldn’t think to invite himself, much less accept such offers—he doesn’t even stand eating in the kitchen with his staff.

Skipio will have no such formality under his regime.

The strapping Roman jumps from his couch and jogs to the kitchen, returning with the chubby man slung over his shoulder. He deposits Niko onto his couch before falling into place beside him. The cook giggles behind his hand and drinks the wine poured for him. After several moments of gentle encouragement from Vita, he begins eating the delicious results of his labor.

The siblings regale Welle with childhood stories of how they and Niko roamed the plantation without supervision. Adventurous times ended when their respective fathers’ set down the proverbial sandal; Niko got bound to the kitchen, while Skipio got sent to the village to tend the plantation.

Vita falls silent when her brother bemoans her tremendous luck at being kept indoors. Welle’s heart hurts, knowing only rumors of her time with her father, and he changes the subject by asking about the nautical walls.

Magnus Servius, their grandfather’s father, built this feast room after returning from his schooling in Genua. A consummate illustrator like his great-grandson, the man conjured the wrecked galleon banquet table and Neptune, with his marine servants. Vita tells of little Pomona being the original guest until a youthful Skipio drew the wily Minerva, the horse, and those beefy outrageous mermen.

This surprises Welle. The front workroom contains drawers of highly detailed maps, all drawn by Vitus Servius, but his son’s works, on dozens of scrolls in barrels, are mostly the innards of buildings. Welle wonders if that leatherbound book Lord Skipio hides in his wardrobe holds drawings as bold as these dining room walls.

Niko rises suddenly and holds up a finger before bustling off to the kitchen. Vita sits up when he returns, bearing a patina that smells of baked pears. In the center of the round dish is a white dome cake topped with violet peony leaves. Encircling it are golden balls of fried dough gleaming with honey and poppy seed flecks.

Skipio delicately peels a thin pear slice away from the cake’s side while his sister eagerly plucks a honey ball, savoring its sticky sweetness. Welle uses a spoon to gather his bit, serving Niko before indulging himself. The cake is celestial, with soft bits of pear and a hint of black pepper. While the rich brown spheres prove too sweet for Welle’s palate, they remain a perfect complement to the moist white cake.

Fuller than he should be, Welle bids everyone a good night. Before the house boys stifle the last hall light, he revisits the baths, his wine-soaked brain unsure if that’s Flora sneaking her way into Gan-Gan’s rooms.

After the bath, Welle feels rejuvenated. The late autumn cloudburst outside adds a soothing rhythm to the night. He takes the steam, something he hasn’t done in many years, and after sweating the wine from his body, he trudges lazily to his room, ready for the nothingness that only slumber can provide.

Wind from the inner courtyard brings rain, and a cry of pain comes on its prattle. As the downpour lightens, the wind stills. Silence unfolds, revealing the familiar trappings of a physical altercation. Unable to resist, Welle investigates.

The dark kitchen is still warm from the day’s business, and its only light lures him into the stores. The hatch door in the ground stands open, and from its dimly lit square comes a slap, followed by Skipio’s joyous laugh. A fist strikes skin before rattling chains give way to the druid’s pleasured whine.

Welle retreats, walking backward until free of the stores. He turns to find Niko standing there with a bottle of sleeping spirits in his hand.

Yes, if they’re hearing this raucous interlude, so is Lady Vita.

Niko pulls the cork stopper from its fluted top, releasing a heady mix of Egyptian licorice and Alpine witch elder. Welle snatches it from him, takes a swig, then ventures into the familial lararium.

This narrow cubicle, full of shelves with effigies of family and house spirits, contains a wooden door painted like a stone wall. With a sense of apprehension, he pushes through it and ascends narrow stairs to the second floor.

Vita is not in her suite or on her outdoor porch and he ventures with care, for no lights guide him through the women’s domain. He navigates poorly, cursing when his knee collides with the door jam.

Lord Skipio’s guttural moans follow as Welle traverses the balcony walk. He enters the dark gynaeceum and is grateful for its spartan openness.

Hand out like a man without eyes, Welle follows the soft sobs to Vita, huddling under a bench. He reaches out blindly, first grasping loose hair, and then touching lips slick with snot.

Gentle words entice her out, and they walk blindly to the hallway deck together. He lights the lamp, no thanks to the misting rain, and finds a dry spot big enough for two on the stone bench. After a few swigs on the bottle of spirits, she turns into the cloth in Welle’s hand and clears her nose when he orders her to blow.

Thunder whispers the storm’s retreat, and a weak flash of lightning reveals the lake below. Her brother’s victorious roar makes her jump. A resounding slap follows—Lord Skipio’s open hand upon one of the druid’s buttocks.

“I heard stories of his strange yearnings,” she murmurs, her pale eyes on the night. “I never took stock.” She then regards him with sad sincerity. “He’s my brother, Welle. How could I?”

“There’s worse things he could be,” he says softly.

“Is there?” she asks.

“The first time I saw your brother was on the battlefield.” Distant lights reveal windows from the Servian village; a calmer alternative to recalling the actual memory. “A masked killing machine with a sword in each hand,”

Lady Vita stares down at her feet. “Planus wrote of the battle,”

“Your brother was shredding through our front line before he abruptly stopped.” He finds her watching him from the corner of his eye. “He lifted his mask amidst the carnage, his face disgusted.”

“I apologize for making you think of Octodurus,” she says. “I can’t imagine losing my home,”

Welle tuts. “That shithole wasn’t my home,”

“When Castor brought you here, he said you came from there,” she speaks of the pretty spearman, whose face and haughtiness begged for a proper slap.

“I grew up many miles away on the Alpine’s largest lake.” Thoughts of his idyllic childhood remind him that life isn’t fair. “My grandfather succumbed to fever over the winter, leaving my aunt’s husband in charge,”

“Did he make you leave?”

Welle tuts again. “The only thing that ball sack makes is mistakes. No. My mother seduced him into going along with the great migration,”

“Migration?”

“Fearmongering for profit. We had nothing to fear from the northern tribes.” Welle tempers his bitterness. “It was all just a money grab by the elites. They convinced the ranchers and farmers they were in danger, so they provided carts, horses, and tents for a great move to safer ground and then swooped in and took the lands left behind.”

“Farmers and ranchers? Migrating?” Vita’s mind turns. “We thought—”

“That we were an army? No. When your brother realized he was slaughtering old men and little boys, he stopped.” Welle throws one leg over the other and examines the raindrops on his sandaled foot. “I heard him order his horsemen to sheath their swords,”

“Planus complained bitterly of General Galba,” she says.

“Your brother got his orders. Galba wanted bodies, not prisoners,” he recounts. “Your brother, in turn, ordered his men to use their fists, not their weapons.”

“Skipio lost his command,” she whispers.

“For a time, yes,” says Welle. “But men like your brother weigh such setbacks against the grander scheme of things,”

“What a strange duality,” she says, her head on his shoulder. “How can my brother be so upstanding yet dish out such immoral abuse?”

“If it’s any consolation,” his lips touch the part in her hair. “That grubby little shit is completely enthralled with your brother’s immoral abuse,”

Vita’s head rises. “Perhaps he’s playing at it to safeguard his soul,”

“No, that’s not him.” Welle folds his arms. “I’ve seen abused women roll with the punches to retain their sanity. They sever every nerve just to keep the pain from finding that part of themselves they still control,”

Her sudden silence reminds him of her past circumstances.

“Such tactics are a strength, Lady Vita,” he adds quickly, looking her in the eyes. “Not acquiescence. Not weakness.”

She stares at him, and Welle doesn’t look away because doing so will shame her, and no victim should feel shame for surviving.

“Trust me, that druid delivers his share of torment,” he assures. “That’s how he gets what he wants from your brother,”

“Venus says no desire is held by one heart alone,” she tells him. “There’s always another out there for those who find themselves unsuitable for most,”

“Yes, and your brother seems to have found his suit,”

“Speaking of suitors,” she takes his hand. “Has our Planus written any more letters?”

“Our what?” he asks. “You mean, Gaius Planus Caesar?”

“Oh you,” she gives his arm a playful tap. “I know he’s sweet on you,”

“Where did you get that notion?”

“My brother told me how Planus took you out of the prisoner camp after the battle,” she says, her voice indicating a smile.

Welle feigns outrage. “I know the other horseman think I played Ganymede when sharing his tent, but I did no such thing,”

Her laughter settles his nerves. “Planus said he found you hiding in General Galba’s latrine,”

“Desperate times, Lady Vita. After my mother tried killing your father,” he reveals. “They put her down, leaving me with no protection from her rival,”

“Rival?” she asks, breath baited.

He shakes his head. “No, we’re not talking about that,”

“Oh, please, Welletrix,” she complains. “You’ve had enemies and paramours, and I’ve had nothing except this damned farm,”

“Paramours?” he asks, brow bent.

“I want someone to write about me in their letters,” she says. “Someone to save me from danger by hiding me away,”

“I found an ally in Lord Planus,” he affirms. “We remain friends. Nothing more,”

“I think he would like something more,” she teases.

“Yes, and I would like to be ten years old again,” he says. “We can’t always get what we want now, can we?”

She chuckles. “You don’t find Planus attractive at all?”

“I don’t like that, Lady Vita,” he frowns. “All this romance talk,”

“You’re not a chaste man, are you?”

“Not in this life, no,”

“You never think about sharing your body with another?”

Welle refuses to answer, but this doesn’t deter Lady Vita.

“If not a man,” she wonders, “then a woman?”

“I admire women,” he says, “but not like that,”

“So, you prefer the touch of a man,” she asks, giddy.

Welle rises from the bench, the light rain cold on his face.

“I don’t feel those things,”

“I don’t understand?” she says, joining him.

“I admire people for their looks, I’m not blind,” he explains. “But my esteem never blossoms into anything more than casual appreciation,”

“You never feel amorous?” she presses.

“Of course I do,” Welle confesses. “But I’m averse to involving other people.”

“I think about romance very much these days,” she confesses. “I never thought I would again, but lately, such things are always on my mind,”

“Sometimes our bodies betray us.” Past interludes haunt Welle. “And we forgive them because without our bodies, we’re dead.”

Her face sours. “How old were you?”

“Old enough,” he says, mouth turning down.

“Sex came to me when I was too young to want it.” She hugs herself tight, her breath like smoke in the chilly air. “It became this thing that I—”

“—Lady Vita,” he interrupts. “You needn’t tell me anything other than you were hurt,”

A moment passes without words.

“Thank you, Welletrix,” she says, but then sighs, “can you stop calling me Lady Vita?”

“Absolutely not,”

“Vita is fine,” she tells him.

“I’m an employee and will address you accordingly,”

She laughs softly at his smile. “What are we going to do about the druid?” she wonders, taking his arm.

“Your brother insists on keeping him, and that little shit is more than happy to fight his way to a proper shafting every night,” he speaks with head swinging. “His bowels must be made of iron,”

“If he’s a consort,” she says. “There’s rules for that sort of thing,”

“Rules?” he says, facing her.

“Romans have rules for everything.” She paces to the railing. “We must make him part of the household,”

Welle balks. “I wouldn’t go that far, Lady Vita,”

“I’ll not have him kept in the larder,”

“We could clean up a room in the barn,”

“He’s a human being!”

“That’s debatable.”

Vita stares in displeasure.

“Let’s sleep on it,” he suggests.

“You may sleep,” she states. “But as the new head of this villa, I’ve made up my mind,”

Welle shudders at the thought.