“Michael! Michael!”
The sorceress could hear Telamon crying the Nazarene’s name. She saw him interdict and interrogate one individual of the colony, then another and another. The woman could not make out the mercenary’s specific speech—he was too far away—but she could tell by the manner of his inquisition that he was describing the Nazarene and soliciting intelligence of his fate or whereabouts.
Now an ominous evolution began to take place.
As the witch advanced among the multitude, she remarked men of the colony taking notice of the mercenary and pointing him out to others. Their manner indicated suspicion and hostility. One fellow whom Telamon had attempted to interrogate dashed away to a knot of others, addressing them urgently while gesticulating toward Telamon.
This group now made off, rallying others.
The sorceress noted several of these taking arms, while more called for weapons of their own, which were brought straightaway by boys and women. This company, now numbering upward of a dozen, began tracking and closing upon the man-at-arms.
Telamon saw this.
The sorceress saw the mercenary instructing David to get clear and in fact physically propelling the youth apart from himself.
She could see the boy resist.
At once the armed men surrounded Telamon.
The witch saw swords and spears. She heard angry voices. Others of the colony, even women and children, swelled toward this confrontation.
The sorceress pushed and shoved her way forward.
When at last she broke through the crush, she saw Telamon, gladius in one hand, pilum in the other, braced in the center of a ring of hostiles. David, clutching his dolabra in both fists, took up a stand at the mercenary’s shoulder.
An elder with great red mustaches had stepped forth from the circle. He demanded of Telamon his name and enterprise.
“I declare my business to no one,” the mercenary replied, “who confronts me at arms.”
More men hastened up. At a sign from the mustached leader, three stepped forward with bows drawn and shafts aimed at the center of Telamon’s chest.
“Explain that on your arm!” the chief demanded.
Every eye held upon the mercenary’s military tattoo:
LEGIO X
The witch’s gaze darted from the bowmen to Telamon. The archers advanced with clearly murderous intent, leveling their shafts at nearly point-blank range. The mercenary’s soles gripped the earth. He seemed upon the instant of rushing his antagonists.
At this moment a form burst from the margins of the circle.
A child.
A girl.
The sorceress recognized this figure at once.
It was the mute, the feral daughter of the Nazarene Michael.
The child dashed straight to Telamon. She flung herself upon his waist, throwing both arms about him and burying her face in the wool of his cloak.
The child’s garments were singed and charred. Her face and arms bore signs of burns. Even her tangled hair appeared scorched about the edges.
At once matrons and dames among the throng, and no few men, began clamoring, demanding that the man-at-arms release the child to their care.
The girl clung to Telamon as to a crag in a storm. She would not let go.
Sputtering the crude cries of one without speech, the urchin by signs seemed to plead with the man-at-arms to protect her and to act as her champion. She pointed desperately along the track left by the fleeing raiders, as if to implore the mercenary to follow in that direction—and, apparently, to take her with him.
“What?” said Telamon. “The brigands took your father?”
The child gestured again, even more frantically, to the trace taken by the retreating bandits.
Yes! she communicated by sign. We must pursue them now!
The mercenary himself appeared surprised, even bewildered, by the girl’s embrace and by her desperate adherence to his side. With one hand he tugged the child behind him, simultaneously keeping her close and shielding her with his body from the half circle of men who surrounded him.
Telamon confronted his accusers. “What do you want? What have I done to call forth such fury?”
The answer broke from a dozen voices at once.
A day before the catastrophe, a detachment of imperial cavalry, all bearing the X mark of the Tenth Legion, had appeared at the colony. They demanded that the inhabitants hand over a fugitive—a Nazarene named Michael, who had fled to this sanctuary from a Roman prison in Jerusalem.
The people en masse refused.
The equites legionis, outnumbered, rode off.
Twenty-four hours later the raiders came.
“You see,” the leader said, “what they have done.”
Men of the Anthill pressed even more proximately about Telamon.
“He is a spy sent by Rome!” bawled one man.
“Kill him!” cried another.
The elder with the mustaches held his comrades back. He confronted Telamon. “The Romans and the Arabs wanted this man Michael. Why?”
Telamon would not answer.
“You pursue him too. To what purpose?”
The man-at-arms refused to respond.
“Curse you, then!” cried the elder. “Your greed has destroyed our world!”
Weapons of murder were poised to eviscerate Telamon.
“Wait!”
The sorceress now burst forth.
All eyes turned to this wild-haired, half-crippled apparition.
Men of the colony drew back in startlement.
The witch scuttled to the mule that David had led.
“We have brought you a dolet!”
And she produced the clay pot of honey given to Telamon by the man made of bees.
The mercenary glared at the witch in shock and surprise. “You! Get away from that!”
The woman stumbled toward the elder, bearing the pot.
“What hag is this?” one onlooker bawled.
Another snatched the vessel from the sorceress’ grip.
The jar shattered upon the earth.
Men now seized the witch as well.
“Kill them all!”
“Send them to hell!”
Again the mob rallied with fatal intent.
Suddenly the girl-child broke from Telamon. She dashed into the center of the circle. Bending to the earth, the girl seized one of the shards from the jar. She snatched up a flake of charcoal.
Stepping before the elder, she scrawled upon the clay in Greek:
PHILOS
The child displayed this to the chief, then held the shard high for all to see.
Philos.
“Friend.”
Again she clung to Telamon.
Voices in the crowd identified the child.
Numbers confirmed that they had seen her about the colony. She was the daughter of the Nazarene Michael—the fugitive the Romans hunted, the man the Nabateans made off with.
Now here she stood, attesting with furious vehemence that this man-at-arms, who also sought Michael, was her friend.
The passion of the colonists abated.
Faces turned to the leader.
“Who is this child?” he demanded of Telamon. “Who is this crone?”
“Keep the witch. She is not with us.”
“Us? Who are you? What evil fate has brought you among us?”
Clearly none among the throng, even this elder, comprehended the scheme that had wrought the devastation of their home or the place of these strangers within it.
God’s wrath?
Some sin or failing of the community?