GAIUS

Ich weiß nicht, was soll es bedeuten,

dass ich so traurig bin;

ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,

das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.

Near to my ear, as if a pair of lips were to brush my skin, a foreign melody wakes me from my drowse. Breathing my name, inviting me to a distant place.

Where am I?

Sun rays piercing from beyond blind my view. Beneath me, the soft surface pushes against my spine. My fingers weave through the titillating thrill of thistles prickling my palm. Sensations across my body presage an ever so growing tremor in my arm. As I open my eyes, I'm welcomed by a small meadow engulfed by an approaching forest. The gushes of wind bend the low hanging leaves to the rhythm of the faint song looming in the unexplored wilderness. Gently, it's accompanied by the tranquil splatter of water and the distant chirps of a cuckoo. I rise with ease and follow the air.

Bushes and branches guide me through the thicket. Unable to withstand the countless leaves, blades and thorns stroking my arms, I reach a slope ensconced behind oaks. Not as teeming with life, it overshadows the valley. Uncertainty looms in the existence of the path. Still, I am certain the secret of the melody's origin will reveal itself when I mount this peak.

It must have been a while. Step after step, this path doesn't cease. Bit by bit, my armour strapped across my shoulders gashes into my flesh, doubling in weight with each footfall. Little by little, the mount steepens. For it feels like I am dragging my feet through quicksand, unable to make any progression. I don't know for how long I proceed.

Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt,

und ruhig fließt der Rhein;

der Gipfel des Berges funkelt

im Abendsonnenschein.

Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet

dort oben wunderbar;

ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet,

sie kämmt ihr goldenes Haar.

At last! Plunging into the depths of oblivion, my next step misses the hold under me, floating dangerously over a waterfall cascading into a stream that snakes through the forest. And in the heart of it all, a lone girl.

She resides on a boulder at the far bottom of the waterfall. Her mane falls in unruly curls across her back. Obscured by the shadow of firs, underneath her visage, something complicating hides.

A jug in her hand is her only companion. She positions it in front of the spring until it is filled to the brim. Her hands jitter in an eagerness unfamiliar to lethargy. She raises the carafe, stretching her arms across her head, the water spouts over her locks, avoiding wetting her garment. As she combs her hair, she begins her song anew. 

Sie kämmt es mit goldenem Kamme

und singt ein Lied dabei;

das hat eine wundersame,

gewaltige Melodei.

Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe

ergreift es mit wildem Weh;

er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe,

er schaut nur hinauf in die Höh.

At first, her timid voice floats in the air as if she is singing only for herself but slowly it builds up to a raging surge. Her chest swells up with each note of her siren. The vibration of her steady voice forcefully grabs ahold of me. The underlying melancholy of the theme rings in the deepest parts of my soul. And even though I do not understand a syllable of the sorrowful tune, it is as if I completely sympathize with the anguish in her voice. The harrowing solitude of a maiden or maybe the soft cries of a warrior's last breath? The urge to comprehend the unfamiliar tongue forces me along the escarpment. A reckless endeavour. Only a shallow riverbed and edged stones stare back at me. Fifty, maybe seventy feet separate me from a quick death. Any misstep and I will cease to exist. But If I could get any closer, just a little bit, I might understand some words.

Each platform shrinks, as I balance from one decline to the next, and yet her voice is as far as ever.

If my life ends now, so be it.

A twig caves under my foot.

Her siren song falls silent. She whips her head around.

It's her. Adele.

No place for me to hide. Exposed for her to see me.

My foot misses its hold. I lose my balance, followed by the impact of my head on the solid ground.

Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen

am Ende Schiffer und Kahn;

und das hat mit ihrem Singen

die Lore-Ley getan.

The outcry leaving my mouth cannot describe the agony I'm in, as if a dagger was jabbed into my skull, twisting forcefully to crack open an even greater hole. The next occurrence I register is a viscous coat dying my view red. The previous landscape contorts into a kaleidoscope of Adeles.

She was the siren all along. Luring me into my undoing. Waiting like a spider for her prey to entangle in her ruse.

Instantly, eyes opaque as stormy clouds pierce me, sizing me up. She is fast to drag me towards her. I can feel her hands moving up my thighs, sliding up similar to tentacles, latching on to its kill. Like a parasite, her fingers dig into the flesh of my arm, worsening the pain washing over my corpse. And before I know it, her weight squashes me.

My vision is blurred by the blood still spewing out, but I can see her red-rimmed eyes rolling back, flashing her decaying teeth. Maggots, inhabiting Adele's grimace, crawling and wriggling their way through her nostrils, tumble in droves on me. Slowly, with all the time in the world, she lowers her head to mine. A stomach-turning whiff forces me to regurgitate. Her rotten cadaver overpowers my willpower to fight her off.

Her lips float dangerously close to my ear, before she finally whispers in broken Latin, "Gaius, mors tua, vita mea (your death, my life)!"

"Didn't I atone?" I plead.

She doesn't reply to my questions, instead, when I look back at her, the loathsome eyes of Lucretia bore their way into my mind as she echos Adele's words over and over.

Mors tua, vita mea...

Mors tua, vita mea...

Mors tua, vita mea...

Panic-stricken, Gaius shot up. He was covered in sweat, unable to shake off the paranoid feeling that someone was observing him from the shadows, revelling in his torment.

He wasn't lying in a puddle of blood in a Germani forest anymore but felt the stiff bedding under him. The goatskin that had covered him during the night lay abandoned on the floor. The fresco, depicting the emergence of his family in painstaking detail, recalled him to his sleeping chamber. It was just a dream, yet goosebumps crawled over his skin which evoked the lingering grip of Adele.

After months of dreamless nights, she had returned. Adele's lacerated appearance prompted Gaius back to the days following her death. A wicked game she enjoyed playing even after she had faded from his life. Each night, her cries followed him into his dreams. Each fantasy turned into a nightmare. Each gruesome demise foreshadowed a lurking calamity. He was unable to eat, sleep, or even breathe. The guilt controlled his life. And all Gaius was left with was a numbness shadowing his every move.

Without any hints, she slithered back into his nights. This dream centred around a maniac variant of Gaius and Adele's first encounter. The only difference to his previous nightmares was Lucretia's appearance. For the first time, it hadn't ended with Adele but with Lucretia haunting him. What irony.

The gods had sent Gaius a clear sign. Like Adele, Lucretia was a manifestation of Gaius' downfall. An omen not to be ignored. He would do anything in his power to stop the union, no matter what his father envisioned. In the end, Gaius was doing both a favour by escaping a succubus eager to foil his father's plans.

Invigorated, Gaius rose from bed, "Aut viam inveniam aut faciam! (I shall either find a way or make one!)"

***

LUCRETIA

"They do not obey the laws they preach!" Amid the marketplace, surrounded by a flock, a man visibly haggard and in desperate need of trimming as well as a thorough wash occupied a platform. His arms along with his beard, resembling that of a savage barbarian, swirled in furious waves, trying to incite others with his ideas. Like daily clamour of a zealot, some agreed with his exclamations, but most passed him and proceeded with their work. His chant was noise Lucretia ignored, keeping a watchful eye on every face and frame, shop and stall, side road and street. Eventually, the preacher could not oppose the browsing tension of the ridicule of a forward bystander and hastily vacated the platform as the crowd erupted in shouting laughter. 

Throughout the day, Lucretia remained vigilant by using shortcuts and avoiding crowded streets. An arduous attempt, with the bustling street of Rome, people poured in from each corner. These kinds of hummings and buzzings were neverending and continued long into the night. Still, the populated square remained before reaching home and after an extensive day at the temple following Coelia Concordia's governance, Lucretia appreciated an uneventful march.

Adjacent to the following sidestreet, the rear entry of her villa came in view. Lucretia manoeuvred past shacks as the mob disbursed, blending in with a group of young women on the hunt for the finest fabrics. 

Abruptly, an anxious irritation overcame Lucretia. Stacked crates and barrels in front of the gate barred her from entering. Now she was forced to either return to the busy main street and risk further exposure or circumvent by taking the dusky alley to the main gate. Without a second thought, she decided on the latter. In any case, Lucretia had her brother's dagger. It hadn't been an effortless undertaking to acquire it. Inside Rome, weapons were banned, due to fear of desecrating the god's sacred soil. Nevertheless, every man hid a good amount in his house. One of them was her brother. In the morning, after Flaccus had left, she rummaged through his chamber until she found a wieldable blade. With its slender hilt, it fitted perfectly in Lucretia's hand. She padded along her thigh, verifying if the knife remained strapped to her leg. Armed with the dagger, she proceeded.

Facing outwards, the tumult of the street waned in the passageway. The canopies draped to the narrow walls barely provided enough shade from the pitiless heat, combined with the stench, nobody would seek refuge here. Graffiti defaced the red bricks, winning lines boasting of romantic conquest or even scribbles of Tetraites, the infamous gladiator covered faded inscriptions. Other crates blocked her passage to the point where the other end of the road faintly existed. The alley expanded occasionally but mainly remained restricting. She forced through each cluster, careful not to topple loose bundles until the deep tenor of an unfamiliar accent caught Lucretia's attention, "There are tens of thousand Gaius's in this city. How will I know which one you are searching for?"

Lucretia froze.

Did she hear right? Was her mind playing tricks? Someone sought Gaius. The Gaius she had encountered? Certainly not! If they had any business with him, it boded disaster for all involved. She should avoid involvement with them. Lucretia was grateful that the crates hid her presence while she pressed herself against the next standing barrel, eager to leave.

The characters heated discussion continued within Lucretia's reach as the desperate utterance of Cal caught Lucretia attention, "This is all I know to the best of my knowledge. Are you acquainted with any?"

What was her sister doing? Who was she talking to? Why did Cal want to involve herself with the likes of Gaius? She shouldn't endanger herself on behave of Lucretia.

With feigned hesitation, the stranger replied, "An introduction to an aristocrat is a simple undertaking. Any patron of a balneae (bathhouse) would welcome your appearance and invite you to dinner. Why do you need my aid?" There was a rough rhyme to his words as if he attempted to emulate the dialect spoken in Rome.

"This is none of your business." Cal's sharp rebuke did not intimidate the man, rather stoically he replied, "It would be of advantage to know the reason for a meeting."

"Certainly, any patron will welcome my presence without your help!" Cal retorted.

Her sudden steps distanced her from the man. Hastily, Lucretia pressed past several stowaways, anxious to follow the conversation. She almost stumbled into the cleared alleyway before she ducked behind the last barracks.

"Wait!" the man called out. 

Lucretia had a clear view of her sister and the man now. If Lucretia had only witnessed his appearance, she wouldn't have guessed he was a foreigner. With his short, bright tunic adorned with a red stripe on both sides and secured by a metal belt, he resembled more an eques (member of Roman order; military rank; cavalryman) than a freedman. His assured stance, paired with the conceited smile, the clean-cut hair and the shaven face, conformed to Roman tradition. Similarly, his vigorous impression added a youthfulness to his mature age. Only the prominent nose seemed odd in his regal face.

"Carissima (Dearest)!" he exclaimed.

Cal pivoted.

"Don't abandon me!" he clamoured. Carefully he approached Cal as if his advance could daunt Cal's faith in him.

"My mother expected me an hour ago. I must make haste." She spun around again but the man grabbed her by the arm.

"You do not need my help anymore?" It was more a question than a proclamation.

"What gave you the impression I need your help?" Cal impatiently replied.

He did not respond, instead, he leapt towards Cal like a tiger, cornering her between the wall. His arm hooked around her waist, pressing her tightly against him.

"Arminius, stop!" Cal called out.

Lucretia first instinct was to jump to Cal's rescue, but the giggles of her sister perplexed Lucretia. To her surprise, Cal wasn't offended by his hungry glances undressing her, rather she was enjoying it.

"Will you help me without questioning my motives?" she hesitantly asked.

He exhaled, "She does still fancy me!" Tenderly he tucked back a lock that had escaped Cal's bun, "Of course, I will help you. Anything for my Carissima...on one condition!"

She tried to wring out of his embrace, "I doubt you deserve the liberty to demand anything."

As if nothing had happened, Arminius trapped her again, "A kiss will help me refreshen my memory!" The flirtatious tone he used was a thorn in Lucretia's side. The man was courting her for her pleasant demeanour and pretty face, never would he honour Cal for the kind person she was.

Lucretia stepped out of hiding, "Leave my sister alone, you bastard!"

Surprised, Arminius spun around. Calpurnia's eyes darted towards Lucretia in astonishment. She detached from him as if the encounter hadn't happened.

"And who are you?" More than amused by Lucretia's forwardness, Arminius relaxed. "Is that your little sister, Carissima?"

"Don't call her that!" Lucretia snarled.

Cal stepped in front of him, "Please, Arminius, she means well. I will see you another time."

"This imp dictates your coming and going?" he challenged Cal.

Lucretia stepped forward, "If you don't step away from her, I will-"

"You will what?" Arminius's amusement faded as if Lucretia was a vexing fly ruining his day. He turned away from Cal and sauntered towards Lucretia.

She was alarmed. Not only did Arminius have the advantage of height, but if Lucretia's assumptions were plausible, the knowledge of a skilled fighter.

It wasn't the first time a man had laid hands on her just because he simply could.

He wouldn't dare, would he?

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Hey everyone! I finally finished the chapter :) As you see, I have included the poem Lore-Ley (1824) by Heinrich Heine. It centres around the mermaid Loreley, one of my favourite stories growing up (I left a translated version below). If you ever visit Germany, take a boat tour on the river Rhine and look out for the steep slate rock Loreley on the right bank. 

Eventually, I will add a glossary and also a family tree/character list. Many personalities will appear who I haven't even introduced. So look out for them!

Please leave a comment and your thoughts. I can't wait for your feedback!

Lore-Ley (1824) by Heinrich Heine

I'm unsure of what is the reason

I feel so deeply sad

A saga from times of olden

I cannot get out of my head.

The air is cool and night's falling

and calmly streams the Rhine

The mountain peak is gleaming

in the gloam of the eventide.

A dazzling maiden is sitting

up high there, charming and fair,

Her golden jewels are glistening,

she's grooming her golden hair.

With a golden comb she's combing

and sings a song all the while

that has an awe-inspiring

and haunting melodie.

The skipper in his little vessel

is stricken by wildest grief

He sees not the rocks in river,

he only looks up to the peak.

I think that the waters are drowning

in the end both skipper and barque;

And that has done with her singing

the Lore-Ley on the crag.

Translation by Susanne Fiessler © 2020