More stories from Roger Barnes

[John Dean]

The Letter

                                                                            By Roger Barnes

 

                 The angel of death has been abroad throughout the land;

                                     you can almost hear the beating of his wings. 

                                                                        John Bright 1855

 

Lucy called the dog as she walked back to the Rectory on this warm late spring morning. He wasn’t hers, Buster belonged to her Father but when he joined the Kentish Yeomanry as Chaplin and posted to Flanders she’d agreed to look after him.

                Approaching she saw the gate was open and wondered if the postman had brought a long awaited letter from Thomas, her Thomas, her wonderful, gallant, heroic Thomas that had bravely volunteered in the first week of war. She entered the kitchen and found an old towel to wipe Buster’s paws, walked into the hall and there on the front mat was a long white envelope. She didn’t recognise the writing and thought it looked feminine; she carefully slit it open, extracted a single sheet of paper and started to read.

                Dear Miss Pemberton.

                I am writing to you on behalf of Thomas, who unfortunately was wounded in the Spring Offensive obviously I can’t say where, the Censors wouldn’t allow it but I’m sure you read about it in our National Press. Yes, she could remember the headlines.

   BIG PUSH

Swathes of good French soil have been liberated from the Hun. This resulted in a small loss of life but fortunately far fewer than expected. It didn’t say this strip of land was only 50 yards wide and less than a mile long of shell blasted mud, drenched in the blood of British, Commonwealth, French and German soldiers. Patriotic young men that fought in a cause none understood their losses numbered not in thousands but tens of thousands. Lucy knew none of this and continued to read.

I am pleased to say Thomas’s wounds are not life threatening, but do stop him from writing. There is more good news, he is being repatriated next month and should arrive on a Hospital Train between 10^th-15.^th   If you check nearer the time the station staff will be able to give you more details.

Thomas has asked me to say, it was that last wonderful afternoon you spent together that is sustaining him through this difficult time. She could remember it too. How they’d slipped away after the morning service her Father had conducted and walked hand in hand to the apple orchards on that late spring morning, so like today she thought. They sat against a tree and talked about their fears and aspirations and of course the war. Then Thomas gently stroked her face, her ears and neck, and then other secret places. The memory made her blush at the wonderful things they had done. Now at night and remembering, she trembled in delirious illicit anticipation of what would happen when they next met. Her reverie was jarred by the rumble of what sounded like thunder, but she knew was gunfire from across the Channel. Some said they could differentiate between the Allies and the Hun Barrages’, she doubted this, but it brought her back to the letter.

In conclusion, Thomas sends his love and thoughts and is looking forward to being with you next month.

Kindest regards,

Louise Knight, on behalf of Thomas.       

PS

May I be so bold as to call you Lucy, Thomas has told me so much I feel I already know you? He is such a kind and gentle man, much like my Jethro was until the Good Lord took him, you are so lucky Lucy. But remember war does dreadful things to our young men, and it takes time for them to adjust when they come home, so please be patient with him.        

 Louise.

She read the letter a hundred times before going to the station two days before the 10^th to be told the Train was due on the afternoon of 16^th. She now sat on the platform surrounded by Wives, Mothers and hopeful bright eyed children waiting for Fathers, Brothers and long lost Uncles. She overheard two station staff talking; one said he supposed half the casualties would be drunk as usual, the trains carrying rum to help the wounded through the terrible journey back to Blighty, she didn’t really understand what that was about.  

The trains’ ETA came and went, the Children becoming bored annoying each other in the late afternoon heat. As each train arrived everyone hoped this was it, but they were local services moving people and goods from one town to another. Also there were the London Express’s and the heavy goods taking coal and iron ore to war factories in the North.

Suddenly it was there and nothing could have prepared her for the stench from the hot overcrowded coaches wafting on a gentle breeze, a mixture of unwashed bodies, vomit, blood and alcohol. The state of the men leaving the train ended all hope of happy homecomings. Some were led; head and eyes swathed in bandages, others in makeshift wheelchairs an arm or a leg missing and in one case both. Without exception their bandages were dirty and blood stained, worst of all half were reeling and she didn’t know if it was through pain or drink.

Slowly the platform emptied and she was on her own. She looked round and an elderly porter came and asked kindly. “Was he not on the train Miss?” She shook her head, he continued, “it’s pretty chaotic at the clearing stations, there’s another train on Friday he’ll probably be on that.” She nodded and tears began to form. He saw this and suggested she go to the waiting room.  

While composing herself three soldiers staggered in and sat behind her. She heard one say, “I thought you said your bird would be here to meet you Tom’o?”

Lucy heard a bottle being opened and the smell of Brandy pervaded the small waiting room. A second voice said, “Do you remember those whores in Paris, I’ll say this for you Tom’o I’ve never seen it done like that, mind you she seemed to be enjoying it.”

“Course she was, I know what they like.”

“Is that the way you do it with your bird Tom’o?” asked the first speaker. “I ain’t never done it with my Lucy, never got the chance before I went to the front.”

Lucy could stand it no longer, she stood looking at the men, the one in the middle had a filthy bandage over his eyes the one to his left nudged him and said. “Hey Tom’o there’s a lady come to see us,” she looked down at the one he’d spoken to, it was difficult to tell his age, but his size was right and so was the colour of his hair. Then the man that had spoken looked up at her and said.

“Hallo luvie, why don’t you come and sit on my knee and give a brave solider a nice cuddle?”

                She fled, tears streaming down her face. That horrid uncouth man could never have been Thomas, not her gentle thoughtful Thomas. Then she remembered the words from Louise’s letter, ‘war does dreadful things to a man and you will need to be patient.’ She walked down the platform towards the footbridge hurrying to get away; she climbed the steps, was engulfed by smoke as a train passed beneath and didn’t notice the smuts marking her blouse as she descended to the other side.

                A tall gaunt man his right arm in a sling came on the platform; he looked at the clock and saw twenty minutes had elapsed since his train arrived. Now attending a call of nature it required him to undress and redress in a confined space and with only his left arm that took time. He patted his pocket to ensure the poem he had so laboriously written was still there, shouldered the haversack and looked round. He had truly believed she’d be there to meet him but there was no one, only an old porter slowly sweeping up.   

                He caught a movement on the other platform, a girl and thought it was Lucy. He called out but his gas burned larynx turned the shout to a croak and she never heard. He started limping down the platform, they had removed the shrapnel from his knee but it still hurt and occasionally let him down. He looked at the bridge spanning the tracks and knew if he climbed it he’d never catch up with her, now convinced it was Lucy. He walked down the ramp and onto the sleepers providing a walkway across the tracks, ignoring the sign that read.

        DANGER MOVING TRAINS

He slowly and painfully limped across and could feel vibrations coming nearer, like the Hun artillery carpet shelling towards his position. Then he heard a rushing noise like an incoming round, his knee gave way and he screamed.

                Lucy heard that dreadful scream, she turned to see an express thundering through the station and then it was gone. Looking closer between the tracks she saw a blood stained bundle of Khaki rags, then realised it was a man crawling towards her dressed in an Army Greatcoat. She ran forward towards him, and recognised the fair hair and bright blue eyes of her wonderful, gentle, beloved Thomas.

                                 

[John Dean]

THE FERRYMAN

                                                                        By Roger Barnes

 

            Hateful to me as the gates of Hades

             is the man who hides one thing in

                              his heart and speaks another.

                                                                                          The Iliad

 

“Another bottle of Champers old chap?”

“No not for me thanks Jools, I’m calling it a day.”

Archie stood, nodded at Julian Lancaster and turned to leave Madam Chantal’s. They’d been in the same year at Eton, but finishing each went their separate ways. Julian to Edinburgh to study Medicine, afterwards joining his Father’s fashionable clinic in Harley Street. Archie Dunwoody to Oxford to study the Classics, gaining an honours degree and joining the family Stock Brokers in the City.

Since their association resumed, this had become their favourite watering hole and typical evening out. Archie leaving early Julian staying to take advantage of the services the house provided. Archie was dammed if he was going to pay for it, the next time he did would be the first even if the courtesans were the prettiest and most versatile in London.

He strolled out, summoned a Hansom Cab and gave an address in Belgravia. He was thinking, looking forward to the pleasant interlude to come. He’d been visiting Annabelle for almost three years and it suited them both, no guilt or recriminations. Approaching the house he went in through an unlocked rear door. Now looking down at her beautiful blue eyes and voluptuous naked body he said.

“Don’t worry my dear love he won’t be back for hours.”

Julian watched Archie leaving, knowing where he was going and why. At first it hadn’t bothered him, Annabelle was having her little dalliances and so was he. But of late the relationship had become more brazen, all London knew and he was being made to look a fool.

He called in a slurred voice for another bottle, watched Archie pause and imagined the sly grin, sure now he’d be here till morning. The waiter brought the bottle; he and Archie had different tastes. Archie liked Champagne while he preferred Claret, but tonight his bottles had held only coloured water.

He stood, gave the waiter a generous tip, settled his account and left. Like Archie he summoned a Hanson but asked for the Adelphi Theatre in the Strand. On arrival after instructing the Cabby to wait he got out and knocked at the stage door. It was opened and Sovereigns exchanged for two parcels. These he put under his arm, returned to the Cab and requested Belgravia Square.

Gently knocking, the front door was opened by a footman. Quietly going up the stairs and now stood on the landing he heard feminine giggles and male laughter coming from his bedroom, he put down and undid the parcels.

The first was shroud in the form of a cloak covered in stage blood, the second a mask crafted by the finest artists in London; both recently used in a contemporary production of Orpheus in the Underworld.

Two weeks ago he’d operated on an Army Officer with a broken a leg from a riding accident. The wound become gangrenous and he’d had to amputate. At the conclusion he instructed an assistant to take the severed limb to his laboratory, later cutting away the putrefying flesh he put a small amount in a jar and some in the glass barrel of a hypodermic. Earlier today he’d added Opiates and finely ground Laburnum seeds to the syringe.

He took the jar and a small silver box from a pocket, opened the jar and smeared the contents on the shroud, the smell almost making him vomit. From the silver box he extracted the syringe and fitted a long needle.

Wrapping the cloak round his shoulders he put on the mask and picked up the hypodermic, he was ready. The giggling turned to moans of pleasure and the laughter to groans of exertion, it was time.

Lifting the latch the door opened silently, the room brightly lit by candles. Julian watched Archie’s undulating body, walked over and stood looking down at the writhing Annabelle. Quickly the stench permeated the warm room; she noticed, opened her eyes, looked up and screamed.

Archie thought it was the culmination of his manly ministrations, until it became too high pitch and she passed out. He caught the stench, recognised it, looked over his shoulder and was momentarily terrified by the hideous apparition looking down.

The mask depicted Charon, Lord of the Underworld, the Ferryman who rowed the souls of the dead across the Styx to Hades. It was the rotting face of a corpse, bloody flesh hanging from it, bare gums exposed beneath, broken yellow teeth extending like fangs. One of the eyes had fallen from the socket, now held against the cheek only by the optic nerve.

Archie recognised the apparition, then who it was; Julian had always been a theatrical bastard. But realisation came too late as he felt the long thin needle enter his back. Julian watched his body tense and then the concoction in the hypodermic took effect. The opiates deadening feelings now; would heighten his awareness later. The effect of the ground Laburnum seeds would be devastating, causing paralysis and stopping speech but not the pain as gangrene took hold and he died a slow agonising death.

With this type of infection he’d seen men linger for days, so as his friend and Physician he’d treat him himself. In the morning he’d summon colleagues to help try and save him, or at least prolong his life, because that’s what a friend did. Also tomorrow he’d ask different colleagues to examine his deranged wife, who’s last conscious thought as she’d teetered on the brink of madness was to realise she had nothing to pay the Ferryman with and wonder if he’d take payment in kind. Her long confinement in an asylum would be the best available and elicit much sympathy and understanding from society, as of course it should.

[John Dean]

                                                                          THE ARENA

                                                                      By Roger Barnes         

               

                                                       I looked, and beheld a pale horse:

                                                             and his name was Death.

                                                                            Revelations

 

Only rats were watching in the dawn light as Marcus Britanicaus, limping pushed his handcart through the cobbled street of Rome towards the Colosseum. This was the last day of the Games and he expected a busy one. Forty years old, he’d been a street vendor for the last twenty after an injury forced him to give up the life as a Gladiator and leave the Arena.

He made a good living selling food at the Games; always first to arrive ensured him the prime pitch at the main entrance. Lighting the charcoal and waiting for the oven to heat he thought about his previous life. He didn’t miss the death and terrible injuries he and his co-fighters had to endure. But the female adulation from a win, well that was another matter. The money was also good but the long term prospect of enjoying it slim indeed.

He put in portions of chicken and lamb to heat ready for his first customer. That would likely be Titus Cractecus, the man organising these games on behalf of a Sponsor, who was hoping to secure the popular vote for his election to the Senate.

                He and Titus had been in the same Gladiatorial troupe, but while he’d left because of injury, Titus had won his freedom when he received a Rudis, a beautifully carved wooden sword from the Emperor. Marcus watched him approach; the two men greeted each other warmly. Looking up at the graffiti covered walls, reading, Clash of the Titans, Marcus asked. “Who do you thinks’ going to win?”

                “Could go either way, they’re both good.”

                “Are you planning any surprises?”

                “No, the Sponsor just wants a standard day, parade to start, followed by the usual Cats against criminals. Then a few Christians are going in, the problem is they sit there singing and it sometimes upsets the animals. This afternoon it’s quality bouts then finally the big one, Clash of the Titans as everyone’s calling it, Syfax versus Brutus Arugulas.”

                “I heard the Emperor might be coming, is that true?”

                “Who knows, you coming to watch?”

                “I’ll be in this afternoon.”

                “When you finish, come to my box, I’ll instruct the guards to let you through.”

                “That’s good of you Titus, I appreciate that”

                “Well, we old timers that once stood at the gates of death have to stick together.”

Entering the Colosseum, Titus went down into the labyrinth of passages beneath the Arena to check the beasts; the last thing he needed was them fed before the main event. That happened in Pompeii and the crowd rioted when the big cats entered and laid there sunning themselves instead of mauling the criminals.

                The Christians were on after them, he had Bears and Bulls lined up for that, it was a pity he couldn’t hire the Baboons that ravished women, but the Sponsor said they were too expensive. One of the imprisoned Christians came towards him making the sign of the Cross and chanting.

                “Peace is with you my son, we forgive you and may The Lord God have mercy on your soul.”

                He’d see how forgiving they were when bears were tearing them limb from limb. The last thing to check were the Dwarfs, they’d be dressed as deities from the underworld and used hooks shackled to horses to drag out the bodies of animals and humans alike.

                A trumpet sounded ending the morning session it hadn’t gone badly, the criminals had been massacred by the cats. Then it was the Christians one bull alone killing five, they’d been quite docile until realising hosts of Angels were not coming to save them.

                Marcus arrived and pointing said. “I think he’s looking for you.”

                Titus saw a Praetorian Guard coming towards them and went to meet him. Marcus watched them talking. Coming back he said.

“The Emperor wants the big fight to be Sine Missione.”

                “You mean he wants’ a fight to the death.”

                “Of course, what’ you think Sine Missione means, and he’s awarding a Rudis to the winner.”

                                                               *            *             *

Yonari was rubbing oil into Syfax’s shoulders when the roar of the crowd signalled another fight over. Three more then it was his turn and the winner would gain his freedom.

They had met in the hold of a slave ship, captured separately by Arab traders off the Africa coast for sale at the slave markets in Rome. One night during the voyage, two crewmen forced her on deck, gesturing what was going to happen. Syfax using his enormous strength pulled his shackles free and followed, encompassed their necks with his hands and squeezed. Throwing the corpses overboard he smiled, put a finger to his lips and escorted her back below.

They lost contact at the market; she sold as a house slave he bought to train as a Gladiator. His size, astonishing strength and disregard of death quickly gained him a fearsome reputation and a degree of freedom and wealth.

He hired a lawyer to trace Yonari; the first she knew was when she was brought to his quarters as cook and servant. Other Gladiators in the barracks assumed they were lovers, they never had been, nor would be. The torturous journey from Africa via the market to the school had destroyed his masculinity, replacing it by a profound hatred of Rome and its people, and a burning desire for revenge.   

A cheer came from the arena, two bouts to go.

After Yonari came one of the trainers started showing her unwelcome attention but daren’t go further because of Syfax, so arranged a contest between him and a Lion with a bad reputation. Syfax remembered being told; when a Lions’ tail stops twitching it’s going to spring.

Forewarned and overcoming the urge to run he went in under the animal forepaws and drove his sword upwards into its belly. Now holding its huge head he sang a sad lament from his homeland honouring its Spirit, no one saw what else he was doing.

He borrowed Yonari’s pestle and mortar, then taking the whiskers he’d cut from the Lion ground them to dust, unseen he put this in a stew being prepared for the trainer. Later a scream rent the night and in the morning his body was found, laid in the blood pool of he’d voided.  

                A cheer erupted, one to go.

                Yonari finished oiling his body and he went to the cloak he’d wear, from beneath he took a roll of parchment, gave it to her and said.

“This is your freedom, when it begins you take my wealth and run. Flee Rome, no stopping, no funerals, just go, you promise?”  

                “Why, what’s going to happen?”

                “Promise me.”

                She looked into the soft brown eyes of this gentle man and made the promise.

                They began a ritual carried out before every fight. On a table she put an orange, a knife, a bowl of sand, an oil lamp and a strip of cloth, he put on the cloak. She cut the orange then drew the blade slowly through the lamp’s smoky flame. Syfax squeezed the orange and put his juice covered hands in the sand; it would help stop a sword slipping in sweaty palms. She wiped a finger along the knife’s blade and smeared soot under his eyes to reduce the sun’s glare, then tied the cloth round his forehead to stop sweat entering them.  

                The final cheer went up it was almost time, looking down he saw a tear forming and gently stroking it away said, when we meet again everything will be different. She took his hand and squeezed, he took a deep breath and she saw the animal return.

Walking into the Arena he bowed respectfully towards the Emperor then turned to acknowledge the cheering mob. He was pleased to see it was a capacity crowd, 50,000 seated, another 10,000 standing and estimated a third were women.

                He was adored because he was such a ruthless fighter, few realising the brutality was directed only towards Roman opponents, his skilled swordsmanship allowing him to inflict dreadful injuries. At the finish he liked to administer the killing stroke to the stomach and prolong an agonising death. But fighting an enemy of Rome he tried to bring a quick and painless end.

                He was fighting as a Samnite, armed with a small round shield and a short sword, giving good mobility but little protection. He held the sword aloft as the crowd roared SY-FAX, SY-FAX, then shrugged and the cloak fell away. Usually he fought in a leather apron to cover his masculinity, today he was naked.

                He was like an obsidian statue of a God, his oiled skin glistening in the sun. Slowly turning the mob became subdued, realising they were being mocked and humiliated by his obvious maleness.

                Men were booing, women becoming damp with anticipation, each man knowing when next he lay with a woman it would be Syfax she was thinking about and not him. He revelled in the hatred coming from the terraces, gloried in the humiliation of spectators recognising their own physical inadequacies.

                Brutus was fighting as a Thracian protected by metal and leather, carrying an oblong shield and armed with a curved Sabre which gave a long reach but less mobility.

A trumpet blast signalled the fight to begin but neither man moved. Brutus put the sword through his legs, the curved blade pointing downward in an obscene parody of a man losing his virility, and the mob cheered. Syfax watched him slowly advance now holding the point low aiming at his manhood, twitching it side to side demonstrating his intensions and the mob went wild. Syfax backed away holding the shield to protect his lower body and the mob booed.  

                Watching, Marcus noted each backward step Syfax took involved a slight shuffle to the left and it was a little while before he realised why.

                Brutus now more confident advanced faster determined to emasculate his opponent, Syfax kept moving back and sideways. Then, when Brutus was suddenly facing the sun and momentarily blinded Syfax struck, driving his sword deep into his chest. A stunned silence filled the Arena, this was not the result the mob wanted they wanted him writhing on the ground, slowly bleeding to death through his severed manhood, unable to insult them further.

                Syfax turned towards the Emperor and respectfully bowed again. Careful to be facing him he went to his cloak, put down his weapons and took it up to cover his nakedness. Two Praetorians came to escort him, one hissing to keep his eyes downcast, Syfax obeyed.

The Rudis the Emperor would award lay on a purple cushion; Syfax knelt before him his eyes still adverted. The Emperor lifted and presented it to him hilt first. Syfax took it, time stood still, he was free. He slowly inclined the sword’s point, lifted his head, his eyes locking with the Emperors’, who saw only hatred as Syfax drove it upwards into the soft unprotected flesh of his throat

[Pat Stewart]

Thanks for putting this on the site. I enjoyed it. Pat from Tuesday.