Seize the Day, page 29
They clambered onto the bank then going a short distance back upstream, they rejoined the Roman road. The rain stopped and the clouds cleared enough for the sun to peek through. How much more cheerful the world looked with a little sunshine mixed in, Marcus rejoiced, finally released from all the worries he had stored up from the confusion of the crossing.
“Look! Look! There!” Gitta pointed ahead. All Marcus could see was a line of trees cutting across the grassland. When they reached it, there was a narrow sidetrack leading to the left.
“Go that way,” Gitta urged and Crenah turned onto it. They were soon swallowed by the half-light of trees, dripping still from the rain. The track was more visible in the shadow of the forest, marked by clear hoof prints of horses and cattle. The elephants took a quick taste of the leaves as they passed a tree. At one point Crenah found a large rock and rubbed her side gratefully against its abrasive surface, reminding Marcus guiltily that it had been days since they had given her a good brushing.
They emerged from the trees into a view of rolling grassland. Now Davo grew excited, gesturing ahead. “Yes! Yes!” Gitta returned. There was faint smoke rising into the air. “There! Go there!” Gitta was pointing.
Sensing the impatience of the girls, Crenah picked up speed and was soon at a half-run with Tantor right behind. Gitta clung to Marcus, in her anticipation not even aware that she was nearly choking him with her tight grip. The quick pace jostled them on top and all four had to hang on as the animals with trunks curled up charged through the grass. They rounded a cluster of trees, then stepped down to a creek bed. The elephants pulled up, coming to an abrupt stop. Just ahead of them was a young girl at the water’s edge, frozen in the midst of washing clothes. Her mouth hung open in surprise as she gazed up at them.
“Zuza!” Gitta called joyously.
“Gitta?!” the girl straightened, startled even more, recognizing Gitta’s voice coming from atop the elephant.
“Zuza! Look, it’s us!” Gitta shouted, leaning across Marcus.
The girl finally spotted Gitta, but she did not know what to make of the elephants. She shook her head and stared at them stunned. Then she turned and ran with astonishing swiftness. “Gitta! Davo!” She ran and soon disappeared from sight in the grass and bush land that lay beyond.
Marcus urged Crenah forward cautiously, not wanting to startle anyone else. They emerged from a screen of bushes to find about thirty round tent-like things in a clearing beside the curve of the creek. To the side were horses, cattle and sheep grazing just beyond. They saw Zuza just arriving and people rushing to her cries. Marcus slowed Crenah to appear more peaceful and casual. Let them be announced first.
By the time they reached the encampment, there was a cordon of men on horseback, with arrows notched, awaiting them. A grim faced man was stationed up front, his watchful eyes constantly roving over them. “That’s my father,” Gitta whispered, sucking her breath through her teeth. It was the first time that Marcus thought of the possible reception they were likely to receive. He had had some vague notions of being greeted as a hero who had rescued the girls . . . but now looking at the distrustful faces in front of him, doubt flooded his mind.
In the rapid, staccato exchange of questions and answers back and forth and Marcus was glad to note that the weapons relaxed gradually. There were even a few smiles that broke through the grim vigilance. A roundish woman appeared, her face changing from disbelief to joy and back again. “Mother,” Gitta whispered. Marcus gave her a hand as she slid down from the elephant’s back. He stayed where he was, giving no one reason to take offence.
Gitta and then Davo were surrounded by people struggling to reach them, to touch them, and welcome them back. Women cried, their voices choked by tears, alternating between joy and disbelief. In the press, Gitta turned toward the elephants and tried to explain, but her voice was lost in the confusion. She and her sister were led away by the enthusiastic crowd.
Marcus and Septimus were left alone atop their elephants, looking at each other, undecided. A young man, his face marred by scars, whistled sharply and motioned for them to follow. Marcus slid off Crenah and obeyed the invitation, trusting that the elephants would find themselves something to eat in the surrounding grassland. Septimus joined him, his face alive as usual with enjoyment at this, Marcus noted with a mixture of envy and resentment. “Oh yes. Homecoming,” Marcus sighed; would he ever return to his home, to his family? At the moment, among strangers in a strange land, they seemed impossibly far away.
Chapter 11
“Mind the threshold,” Gitta warned them as she herself carefully stepped over it into the yurt. Marcus and Septimus followed, ducking their heads to get in under the low entryway. A flap was open to the side letting in fresh air and light. There were three men toward the back, the one in the middle the girls’ father, obviously the leader. On his right sat an old man with a head of thinning silver hair, bristling with vitality, and a stocky younger man on the other side. There was a small brazier on a sand-filled ceramic base, more to give a focus to the interior than to actually heat the place.
“This is my father, Boyan,” Gitta said, bowing deferentially to the man in the middle who sat cross-legged on a rich carpet. The father gestured for them to sit, so Marcus and Septimus sat down awkwardly across from him while Gitta took a position to the side.
Boyan looked them over, his eyes sparkling with the same flecks of gold that Marcus had noticed in the daughters. His face was angular as were his eyebrows, and there were gashes on his cheeks, giving him a fierce look even when he was smiling, which he was doing at the present. “Excuse. I speak Latino not good. My girl, he speak for me.” Septimus nodded for the both of them.
Boyan then spoke to his daughter in a torrent of words, clipped, full of impossible sounds. Gitta nodded and translated. “My father would like to express his gratitude for rescuing his two worthless daughters and bringing them back to him.” Her face was carefully blank, her tone expressionless. Septimus bowed lightly in acknowledgment.
Boyan spoke again, and this time it did not go so well, for Gitta looked at him incredulously, shook her head defiantly, and threw a torrent of words at him. Back and forth the exchange went, each trading explosive sounds full of willpower and in the end, Gitta jumped up and stormed from the yurt, punching through the flap. There was an awkward silence, then Boyan yelled, “Zsiga!” which produced a young man bristling with arrogance.
“This my young,” Boyan said to his guests, then addressed a long stream at Zsiga.
“My father wishes to thank you and welcome you to the family. He is sure you will make wonderful husbands to the girls.”
“What!? How??” Septimus and Marcus both exploded with consternation.
“Yes. Husbands. Surely you do not expect him to take them back as daughters after such a long absence. They are not the same untouched flowers they once were. They belong to you now as wives, so you keep them.”
“But we did not touch them or harm them in anyway . . .” Septimus protested.
“It might well be as you say. But you can’t fault a father for demanding an accounting where his daughters are concerned.”
“Then let him demand it of the perpetrator.”
“Excuse. What is perpeter?”
“The one who has done the harm.”
“Yes, that would be nice, even just,” Zsiga said practically. “But in life we often have to settle for the fruit on the ground and let go the fruit out of reach.”
“But that’s preposterous!” Septimus exploded.
“Pre what?” But then Boyan made a gesture of finality and Zsiga’s voice became firm. “Enough! Make ready to be husbands!” Boyan bristled; his eyes were flashing like daggers, his hair stood spiked like a hedgehog’s, and his beard was so many arrows, all stabbing toward the two prospective grooms.
“But that . . . that can’t be!” Septimus objected.
“Out of the question!!” Marcus echoed him.
There was a quick exchange of words and Zsiga continued. “My father is puzzled how to express both his gratitude and anger at the same time. He has no choice but to kill you . . . but wants you to know he does so most reluctantly. It will hurt him to lose such promising husbands for his daughters.”
“Kill us??!” Septimus and Marcus recoiled in unison.
“Yes! Our custom demands it, and my father is not one to go against custom. But do not worry, he will kill you so swiftly without . . . how do you say . . . any malice.” Zsiga smiled apologetically. “Under the circumstances, refusal merits death. Regrettable but a sad fact.”
“Csorba!” Boyan yelled loudly, and an incredibly broad man pushed inside with a wicked curved blade in his hand.
“Let us not be over hasty!” Septimus interjected with rising alarm. “We have not said no yet. Definitely not.”
“Excuse me. It would be very good to be very clear on this point, if it will be a yes or a no. Csorba would be most upset to cut off your heads for the wrong answer,” Zsiga said with affected concern in his voice.
“Well the answer is obviously yes,” Septimus said, and after just a moment’s hesitation Marcus also nodded his head.
Smiles broke out on all the faces and there was cheerful chattering in the yurt. One by one the others congratulated the two newcomers and pounded them on the back boisterously. Then things settled down again and the interview resumed.
“My father is most embarrassed that he does not know which daughter belongs to which son-in-law? He would be very glad to be enlightened.”
“He and Gitta. Me and . . . Davo,” Septimus said with only a slight hesitation. That translation brought more smiles to the surface and the atmosphere was palpably friendly.
“My father is pleased to have that settled; there remains only a minor matter of what you intend to do about the bride price? As it is customary in our culture, a girl is honored by the price that is paid for her . . . to recompense the parent for the loss of her services.”
“Not so!” Septimus protested, thinking hard. “In my culture it is customary for the bride to bring a dowry with her to enrich her husband.”
“That might be a fine custom in Rome, but we are here, not there.”
“But we’re still within the Roman Empire, and as you yourself have pointed out, the maidens are no longer so . . . so fresh,” Septimus reasoned. “Besides, though we would greatly like to give honor to your daughters, we have not the means to do so.” He held out his hands in a universal gesture of an empty purse.
This unleashed a fresh round of discussions, arguments and counter-arguments, all of which in the end boiled down to this. “My father, seeing what upstanding gentlemen you both appear to be, so Roman and so civilized, will settle for the prestige value of your presence here. He expects therefore to be given the elephants as a bride price. The same elephants which he will then return to you as a dowry. That way both customs can be satisfied and no one needs to feel slighted.” There was much nodding of heads that accompanied this formulation. In such a cordial atmosphere, Zsiga then continued, “Thus my father finds your suits honorable and may I be the first to welcome you both into my family.” There was more nodding of heads and bright, toothy smiles. “The ceremony will be performed shortly. It would perhaps be good if you were to convince the girls of your suits.” Zsiga tried to be helpful.
“What? They don’t want to?” Septimus asked astonished.
“But of course not!” Zsiga explained patiently the obvious. “What woman goes willingly into the servitude of obedience to a man? Especially to a foreigner!”
Thus, in a very short order, Marcus and Septimus found themselves face to face with their intended.
“You let him command you just like that, without a fight?” Gitta exploded all over Marcus.
“I wasn’t given much choice. It was either you or death,” Marcus protested.
“A real man would have preferred death over the dishonor of being coerced against his will!”
“Excuse me, but I have some living to do yet . . .”
“Anyway, it was all a ploy, he wouldn’t have killed you . . . he was just bullying you,” Gitta said contemptuously.
“Well then, good. Let us tell him that the wedding’s off,” Marcus suggested brightly.
“Have you lost your mind? Now that you’ve agreed to marry me before witnesses, you can’t take it back. He really would have reason and just cause to kill you!”
“What can we do then?” Marcus asked uncertainly.
“Marry, of course! Now that you have left us no way out!”
Marcus was thoroughly confused by the customs of these people. He could not believe that he was about to marry. To Gitta of all people. This couldn’t be happening! He looked at Septimus who was conversing with Davo earnestly. Then the girls left, saying something about fixing themselves up for the ceremony.
Septimus faced Marcus with a bright smile on his face. Why, the cad is enjoying all this! Marcus thought, the attention, the experience.
“I always wanted to have a family, but if left up to me, I would probably never have gotten around to it. Just as well that fate took a hand in all this.” Septimus rubbed his hands gleefully together as a sign of satisfaction.
Marcus was not to be mollified. He did want a family, sometime. Even children in the future. But not now! Not under such circumstances! Robbed of all decision, of all romance, of all pretension even, being forced to marry! There could be no question now; his luck had truly deserted him. Everything that had happened, the long chain of events, was cursed with worsening luck. There was just no escaping it.
Septimus grabbed him and pulled him to the creek. “Come on, we must wash up! Try to look our best.” He scraped their chins and cheeks with a knife that should have been sharper, then smoothed their skin with a piece of pumice stone. They put on fresh tunics and combed their hair. Septimus found some wild mint to rub onto their faces to smell better at least.
Returning they found the whole clan already assembled, about two hundred and sixty of them standing in the circle of yurts, the women dressed in gaudy finery. Here and there was a glint of gold, as coins were strung together to form necklaces and bracelets. The men stood around adorned only by the fierceness of their expressions. “What have we fallen into?” Marcus asked himself aghast. “These are the barbarians Rome has been defending civilization against!”
“Stop frowning!” Septimus hissed urgently at Marcus. He, himself, sported a smile from ear to ear. He’s enjoying this, Marcus thought bitterly, alone in his resentment.
Zsiga led the two grooms before an old man, whose face and arms were full of tattoos, no doubt their holy man. Then the two brides were led in, covered by a finely woven, embroidered cloth, hidden from head to foot, not even their faces visible. There was a brief confusion as the tents found their proper partners. Septimus was smiling, though Marcus was not so happy to marry a tent. But her hand was thrust into his and the priest started mumbling some incantation. What god was he calling upon?
Behind them Zsiga translated loosely, “As long as the sun commands the day . . . and the moon rules the night . . . and the clouds breathe in and out the wind, and the grass still clothes mother earth and as long as memory still recalls, this woman is joined to this man, to serve and obey, in all honor and all things. Go! Let sons and daughters be added unto you.”
Two women lifted the veils covering the brides and set them about their shoulders. Gitta was radiant. Her eyes sparkled with flecks of gold, and her hair glistened with highlights playing among the gentle swirls. A silver ornament held her curls in place, her face perfectly framed. A light rose blush had been applied to her cheeks, looking satin smooth. A hint of red highlighted her lips, lending them flawless definition. Her face was calm, almost welcoming, her posture meek and accepting, as befitting a bride.
She lowered her head, and her eyes big and shining looked trustingly up at him. His heart raced, and he was robbed of breath. He had never seen her thus . . . so feminine, so in need of his protection, comfort and love. All this time she had been disguised as a boy, acting hard and unyielding, and thus Marcus had no idea of her real beauty and grace.
Their hands were tied together by a scarf joining them. The couples stood and accepted the homage of the family. Many compliments and well wishes were offered. The civility was so contrary to his temperament that Zsiga had difficulty translating all the fine courtesies. A long felicitation from one of the cousins he shortened to, “And if she steps out of line, whip her into obedience.”
His sister instantly pounced on him. “You lying oaf! He said if the wife should stray from her duties, use a gentle hand and sweet persuasion to steer her onto the proper path.”
“Chastisement is more effective.” Zsiga swished his riding quirt, slapping it against his thigh, then turning to Marcus, offered his benediction. “May the gods blunt the sharpness of your wife’s tongue.” But there was no time to continue the sibling strife as more people pressed to be close to the blessed couples, and more words were poured out to edify them.
Then they were led to a huge feast laid out in a large tent and were seated on soft cushions arranged on carpets. Food was passed around and commented on, the guests praising the taste and the skill of the cooks.
Gitta chose the most succulent delicacies and offered them to Marcus for his enjoyment. Looking at her, Marcus quickly got lost in her eyes, forgetting all his hunger and thirst, thinking of what people called the honeymoon.
She passed him a drinking horn, and he drank before the taste penetrated his befuddled senses. “What is it?” he asked, nearly gagging on the beige liquid. What had he just swallowed?
“Kumis,” she said sweetly, “fermented mare’s milk.” What? Fermented horse sweat, he thought. “It is the pride of our people. It makes the horse and us as one. Like you and me are now one; you to be the head and I the effort and the toil; you the mouth and I the ear. You to command and I to obey.” After such an introduction, Marcus tried another sip, but he still thought it was horse sweat. Strangely though, after only a couple of more sips the taste mellowed as a warm glow spread through him.
