chapter five
Renaissance Spain is a new face carved on old. It is an era of novelty and reminiscence. The bourgeoise dressed their palatial roofs in aristocratic gold while the bustling stone-lined streets were paved with humble proletariats. The city of Barcelona is no exception. It is a rich city, and a poor one all at once. But abundant with trade nonetheless, either passed through laboured hands or fine silk-touched fingertips.
For a day, I am only a tourist in a new, beautiful city. From the docks, the city looked as if it was chiselled from the red earth, wide xanthous buildings decorated with plateresque ornamentation, coming alive under the sun’s blessing. I allowed Rai, once settled the ship and his new crew, to introduce me to his home. I thought he would celebrate the day away with his crew or family. Instead, he spoils me with his native food and wine.
He brings me before the gothic quarter of Santa Maria Del Pi and then the Cathedral La Seu—places of worship where we buy mourning flowers for his fallen men. It is like a drug: all churches, temples, synagogues, mosques alike. Erect hubs of faith. I hear its seraphic hymn, beckoning, although it does not whisper my name. Then he takes me through the streets of La Rambla, the heart of the city where life bled through its alleys, sidled by the hustling mercat de la Boqueria. No one seemed to mind that neither of us has seen a proper bath in weeks, instead, Rai appears to be a popular man, receiving convivial greetings from store merchants. They let me run my grimy fingers over their gleaming trinkets.
I feel Theros’ joy infect me, quivering with exultation from the pocket of my cloak. He has not been home for a long time as well, longer for a rat, delighted by the rich aromas and colours and Spanish warmth. Yet he did not leave my side, and chose to stay under my cloak rather than scurry his paws through panot-tiled streets.
When night overcast the golden city, Rai offered me his home, a gesture of unacquainted kindness. I accept, choosing not to look the gift horse in the mouth. I do not know how long I will stay, in his abode, or these foreign lands. But I desperately needed to recuperate and to scheme—improvisation has never once not costed me.
He chartered a horse from the local stables, and the wide-eyed stallion gallops us away. Slowly, the streets widen and the buildings grow few and sparse in between, green shrubbery in its stead. It is about two hour’s ride, which we spend mostly in easy silence, until we seem to arrive at a small village. Rolling along lush green hills, a village of red-roofed houses cobbled stone by stone—almost Romanesque.
“Welcome to Rupit.”
“It is beautiful,” I say as one does, albeit I do not lie.
The horse trots along the stone paths, until he stops outside a lone household. It is tall and homely, white stoned and the same vermillion clay lidded with a small tiled courtyard. Nestled, in the cleavage of undulating hills, which spans as one endless back yard. Prime real estate. After we unsaddle, one gracefully and the other not so much, he guides the steed around the house, where there is a small roughly stacked stable housing two mares and a beaming young stableboy, who takes the reins dutifully.
“Bienvenido señor Cavallero!” The boy greets. Ca-va-yeer-ro.
Rai answers briefly in Spanish, and then we were moving towards his house, a long day of sun rendered us suddenly sombre. Just as we reach the patio, I feel his hand around my elbow. Firm and callused. He stares at me with the solemn gravity of a burdened man.
When it seems like he could not find his voice, I ask, "What is it?"
He seems hesitant. Long shadows cast over his wearied face.
"There are…. things about myself I have not shared with you, Kora." He seems very nervous all of a sudden. A muscle feathers in his cheek.
"Okay, I respect that." I say, because there are many parts about myself he was not privy to. Exhibit numero one: my name.
"What I mean is: there are certain things that some might find strange in my house. I only ask for your understanding." He leaves it at that, and releases me.
But then why offer me your home? I think, stupefied, and mystified at once.
It is not kind to rouse the beginnings of one's imaginings, because very colourful thoughts are shooting through my mind like peregrine falcons spying mice. He pushes open the door. The inside is as homely as its exterior, with its wrought iron fixtures and patterned textiles. I leer at everything discretely, suspiciously. But nothing looks amiss, and everything smells delightfully wondrous.
It is not until we turn the corner of sala, the source of the smell, that I ascertain, with clear, profuse discernment, what he referred to. And I try to remain composed, but my jaw falls wide open, nevertheless.
"Arctus."
I swallow as the muscular bronzed back of a large man turns. Seven feet tall, wide as a bull. He was leaned over the hearth of a fire, stirring a large clay pot. His hair is earth brown as were his eyes, and his features were thick and crude, like the unfinished maquette of a terracotta sculpture. He wore no clothes.
And stood on four feet.
Beginning at the waist, his brown skin transfigures in a seamless suture into thick brown pelt. Hair grows along his spine, twisted, and beaded with small tan shells, until it dapples over the strong curve of his back, elongated into the equine body of a horse.
His iron feet click on the glazed tiles.
And then his body is entwined, like a grape vine to its trellis, you could not tell where one began and one ended. Rai dissolves into the embrace of the centaur, their limbs finding one another like it is the most natural action in the world. It is so intimate I look away, tendering privacy to their reunion.
“By the gods,” I murmur to no one.
When they part, I am still looking at my toes like they were the most interesting things of the world. “This is Kora. A friend,” Rai introduces, maybe a little breathlessly.
Arctus, the centaur, smiles like a dream. “Any friend of his, is a friend of mine.” His voice is accented and cocoa rich. I wave, gracelessly, and regret it immediately. “You must be terribly hungry,” he says, and gestures to the dining table, “let us eat.”
In my spoon, I find softened white beans and bits of salted pork. It is divine on my tongue, scalding delectableness. Forgetting myself, I almost pour the bowl down my throat.
“That is cocido montañes,” Arctus explains. “A learnt cuisine from the cookeries of the Cantabrian mountains.”
“It is delicious,” I gasp.
His laugh is amused. “I am thankful,” he says. He stands at the head of the tall table, while we sat, looking larger than life and out of place in this small human home. He looks like he belongs in the plains, out in the wilderness with the sand on his skin. Yet I have never seen another being look so content, and at peace.
Rai observes us quietly. He is nervous again. I can see from the way he does not enjoy his stew as he should. Since dinner started, he had fallen to a soundless apprehension. I did not know how to placate him, it is awkward. Instead, I prod at Theros, who I had asked Arctus to prepare a small bowl of stew for. He had done so without question, in a small sauce dish. Odder things have happened.
“I second that,” Theros squeaks, rolling onto his back to make space for his rotund belly. To my surprise, Arctus grins as if he understood the small gray rat.
“How curious,” I comment in Koiné Greek.
“Not at all,” Arctus answers.
I broach the subject tentatively then, because other than the stew, the curiosity is splintering me to halves. “You speak the Doric dialect,” I say softly. Rai, raises his head attentively now, listening while he pretends to play with his stew. “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from originally?” While his voice is mellifluous, his words hold the brutish edge of the laconic phrase. Rupit, Barcelona is long ways from Sparta.
He does not mind one bit, he declares. Then he tells me his story.
> “Many years ago, I lived in the caves of Mount Pelion with my kentauroi brethren. It is quite exquisite near the Pagasetic Gulf, where the nereids bathed and often left the dust of crystallized sea. It looked like there were diamonds in the sand.”
>
> This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
The nereids, I think, my cousins and the water nymphs.
> “For a time, we were young, wild, inebriated creatures. And we turned away from no fight—centauromachies, they named our feral brawls—among our catalogue of vices. So, when the King of the Lapiths invites us to his matrimony with the lovely Hippodamia, who were we, his kinfolk with a penchant for wine and music, to reject?
>
> There would be war, allow me to pretermit the details, and we would succumb to our hubris. Cowardly, and with fear of reprisal, we fled from Thessaly, from our homes in the mountains, our ample Almyros plains, our diamond glittering bays. First to Malea, where we could still taste the sea. But I would leave shortly afterwards, and my brothers would disperse along the Peloponnese. I moved inland, south-eastern, to Lacedaemon, where I would fight with my teeth until I learned the art of the bow. I would fight the Battle of Aegospotami, and be permanently wounded. Even now, when the land drinks, my legs will ache. I decided to retire in the rural villages, for these brutal hands will no longer kill, but heal. As the years passed, I would learn that some of my brothers will find honour, aiding and mentoring Greek heroes, while others die stupid deaths, like dropping poisoned arrows onto their own hooves.”
An acolyte of Apollo, I realize, bearing his bow and his epithet of healing, Paean. Although I did not know enough of the kentauroi race to differentiate history from fiction. There were depictions of the Battle of the Lapiths engraved in the metopes of the Parthenon, where in my youth I had traced their silhouettes with curious eyes.
He pauses, haunted and forlorn for a moment. But then his silt eyes would find a different pair across the table, and they would brighten, as he stares at his lover with shiny moon eyes.
> “A long time later, a young Catalan soldier would visit my village. The Spanish, engaged in diplomatic discourse with the Ottoman empire. This young soldier would be wounded in the line of duty, a delegated messenger or an espion if you ask me, and he would seek sanctuary in my small village.
>
> The enemy of my state. I drew my bow, as I was also a soldier once too, you see. But I could not kill him. In his eyes I found those Magnesia coasts again. So rather, I harboured him for weeks and fed him and aided to him. And then I would fall for him, and he would let me.”
“It was then,” Arctus finishes, “I decided I would make a home with this man. It does not matter where that takes me. My home, my sweet home, my sweet hut. And that was twenty years ago.”
He reaches out for Rai then, who meets him halfway, their hands uniting in a familiar, petal-soft caress. For a minute, the years pass through them, decades in the blink of the eye. Yet it is as clearer than the limpid rivers of Epirus, that their love will outlast them both.
Arctus the centaur, he has lived a long life, I realize. There are celestial stars in his eyes, that were borne in the makings of this world. In those creaseless groves of his face, there were infinitesimal lines of undivulged wisdom. He rests in arms astride a taut warrior body, housing an arcane soul.
“Thank you,” I say finally, at a loss for words. “For sharing your story, it is very lovely.” The bottom of my bowl has grown cold. “Your love,” I say wistfully, “is something to be envied, and admired.” It is rare, I figure, to find a connection as strong and fierce. I could barely begin to fathom it. But I knew of a different love, storgē: a familial connection. For that I would trail to the ends of the world too.
Rai rises from his seat. He touches my elbow gently as an invitation. “You are tired,” he says, “let me show you to your room.”
I follow his lead, bowing to my hosts. “I cannot thank you both enough for your hospitality.”
Arctus smiles. “It is proper Xenia, that is how we treat our guests.”
It has been many years since I left the old country. Language and customs slowly expunged by time and environment. The centaur’s mannerisms are strange yet familiar. His archaic accent invoking bits and pieces of memories, like finding something I didn’t know I had lost. I have missed it, I think, the firm yet rhythmic staccato of our language.
Rai leads me through his halls, to the painted wooden door of a room. “This is the room de invitados, for guests. You may stay here for as long as you desire.”
I push open the door, to a room with the same brown-white interior. A small comfortable bed, and a desk. It is garlanded with many small plants I could befriend. From the overlaying Pothos plant on the ceiling, the stout fiddle-leaf fig, to the prickly cactus on the table. It is more than I could ask for.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
Rai leans against the doorway. “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“When you asked me to teach you to fight.”
I stop and stare at him. “Of course.”
“I am out of practice, and an unsuitable teacher. If you want to,” he says. “I have connections in the military camps in the city. They are recruiting in a month, a new batch of soldiers. The commander is an old friend, and his combat skills are renowned. There could be a spot for you in the infantry if you wished.”
I will do you one better, he had promised.
An honor. The Spanish army is acclaimed with their sword and discipline, leading the immense influence of Habsburg Spain. There would be no better opportunity to master this art. “I-” I pause, suddenly intimidated, because I was a maiden nymph who sewed for a living. No more. Instead, I nod, squandering my doubt with a thin breath of courage. Rai looks pleased by my answer.
“Until then, you stay here.”
Thank you, I wanted to say again, for everything. A part of me wondered, since my revelation on the ship, whether his kindness had stemmed from my misconstrued ‘godhood’. Though I dared not question it. “Persephone,” I would say instead, “that is my given name.”
To give a true name. It is a potent gift in some religions. For his trust, I give him that small power.
“Proserpina,” Rai ripostes simply, in his sweet Latin drawl, “of life.”
-
The next day, I awaken early to find Arctus already up. I help him tend to the house, gathering and hacking lumber for his fire. The hatchet is heavy in my hands, and my strokes are clumsy and weak. But he is a patient instructor. By noon, sweat dribbled like rain down my forehead, but the fruits of my labour nursed a healthy flame in the hearth. We stared at it; our satisfaction shared over the halves of fresh figs from the harvest.
Rai rose then, a new man, shaven and clean. I thought he looked quite handsome beneath the grime. He takes me to the local market, where we purchase food and some clothing. We walk along the surrounding river that meanders through the hills and bedrock, Riera de Rupit, while he tells stories of the village’s once significant political presence.
When we return, there is a new addition in the house. A young man standing next to Arctus. For a second, I thought the excessive sun exposure has been playing tricks, and that I’ve developed double vision. The same bronze skin, hair, and eyes observe me quietly. He is entirely mortal in stature, however, which somehow looked strange. Where my eyes expected the strong lithe physique of a horse, it was the thighs of a human man that greet me.
“Our son, Elymus,” Arctus introduces.
Odd thoughts pass through me. At my surprise, Rai explains, “Elymus was a young centaur in Arctus’ protection. He came to Rupit as a boy and was raised under our care.”
Elymus walks towards me. I notice his form, although graceful, was inhuman. A glamour, I realize. It would be awfully anomalous for villagers to find half-horse men living amongst them in modern Spain. He engulfs my hand in his and shakes it respectfully. Up close, I notice that he is attractive, with the same rugged features as Arctus.
“My father tells me that you will be training in the military camp, where I serve,” he says seriously, “I will accompany you when the time comes, and ensure your safety and wellbeing.”
I feel my heart warm.
For the coming weeks, I spend all my hours of my days with them. I would find that Arctus has a dry wittiness about him, that Rai has a secret stash of spirits, and that Elymus, despite how serious he was in our initial encounter, was loud and boisterous and would fill the house with his unruly laughter. Some days, Arctus would impart his knowledge on healing, and he would be pleasantly intrigued when I showed him my flask of gorgon blood. Other days, I would be tasked with chores with Elymus, where often we would seek mischief and discover ourselves reprimanded later for the hundredth time.
And on one mead-rinsed twilight, where the bright skies were soused by the amethyst beginnings of night, I would find myself on steps of the patio with Rai, giddy from wine. We had become quick friends, and it seemed almost faraway, how we had met unpleasantly for the first time on that fated ship.
“I am only a nymph,” I confessed. “I am no goddess, and I’m sorry if I’ve misled you.”
“It does not matter what and who you are,” he said to that.
I expected anger, some dismay maybe, but not that.
“You have been so kind,” I asked, “if not for that reason, why?”
Rai looked at me then, and I imagined the Aegean Sea in his eyes, its frothing waves cresting against the rocks. Yes, I think, I can see them too. “I am home with my family because of you,” he said, “perhaps I should have said this sooner. But thank you, for bringing me home.”
-
The night before my departure, they would shear my hair. It was long and gathered at my waist, a cloud of scarlet waves. Although I have been told that my hair was lovely, I had always thought that it reflected chaos than beauty. So, when they cut it off, lock by lock, crimson ringlets tumbling to the floor, I did not protest nor mourn. Then they lathered black dye over my hair. When I found my reflection again, I barely recognized myself. My dark hair, now a shy touch on my shoulders, made my face fairer, and my green eyes morose.
Arctus whipped up a feast that night. My mouth would water at the large pan of rabbit paella, complemented with thick slices of ham and cheeses and rolls. It looked and smelled divine.
Elymus and I would fight over serving of migas, an assortment of tortilla and cheese and garnishing vegetables. I am happy, I thought suddenly, I have not felt like this in a long time. Then I was saddened to think just how many years would need to pass before I found this feeling again.
Do not forget, I reminded myself, of the promises you have made.
Then halfway through dinner, my name would slip from Rai’s mouth. Persephone, he said in passing, would you pass the bread? And then he would freeze, his gaze slipping from Arctus’ to mine, apologetic.
Persephone. Persephone. Persephone. My prophecies chased.
“Persephoneia…” the centaur would try in our shared tongue, carefully, like tasting honey from the edge of a knife.
His son would finish his thought with words I’ve heard in countless iterations.
Sometimes, in our inexplicable lore, names become manifestations, and sometimes, manifestations become our names. Aeons ago, I learned the story of my birth, from Hecate’s soft scowl. A product of violence and rape, I was no gift of life for my mother. When I withdrew from her crimson thighs, the empyrean wept and thunder shrieked, because I was the visage of my conception: disfigured and ugly and unloved.
“Persephoneia,” Elymus, and gods, and oracles before him would sentence. “Pherein phonon. Bringer of destruction.”