The Wanderer and the Way 6
You May Cover Yourself
This is Chapter 6 of The Wanderer and the Way
In the weeks that followed, Theodemir made every show to his uncle that he intended to take his place as a captain of Visigothic armies and heir to his uncle’s responsibilities as lord of Iria Flavia and much besides. He resumed the practice of arms. He met regularly with the important men of the area, and made acquaintance of their sons whom he was one day to lead in battle. He also made himself amiable to such of their daughters as his uncle occasionally hinted at as suitable matches for him. In this he restrained himself from reminding Witteric, who had been a widower for some fifteen years and whose children were all in their graves, that there were a number of widows of both wealth and charm who would be both glad and able to assist him in his duties, enrich him with their possessions, and strengthen him by their alliance. His uncle, he was certain, was well aware of these advantages, but he was also aware that any such woman, given command of the household and its staff, would quickly find other employment for Witteric’s small brown girls.
When it came to Witteric’s attention that Theodemir was sending Sakina to her own bed each night, he sent Fatima to attend him instead. Fatima let fall her dress and showed herself to him with a motion so practiced and automatic that he had no chance to stay her hand from undoing the pins. For a moment, Theodemir allowed himself to gaze on her. If Sakina was fair, Fatima was more fair, though in each he was aware of those particular ways in which they fell short of the ideal of beauty that was Agnes. He had not lain with a woman since he had left Rome, and for a while the hardships of the road had worn down the habit of it in him, leading him to believe that a chaste life, which he had been certain would be pleasing to God, would in time become pleasing to himself also. But the sight of Agnes had awakened all the desires of manhood in him, and being presented each evening with the means of satisfying the practical aspect of those desires was a trial. He had told himself at first that his desire was for Agnes and for Agnes alone and thus that no other woman could tempt him. But as Fatima stood before him and let her dress fall to the floor, he was forced to acknowledge that this was not so.
His vocation was to Agnes. Of this he was certain. But was it his vocation to make her his wife and the lady of his estates? It was what he wished for with all his heart. But he had received no sign that this was in fact what God called him to. Should he then, must he then, hold himself chaste for a woman who might in fact require a very different service of him? For Fatima was very fair to look upon, and he had but to summon her and she would serve him according to his desire without reluctance or complaint. Without, at least, any show of reluctance. Without any show of feeling at all, for Fatima’s pretty, youthful face was as much a mask as Sakina’s had been.
“Where is Sakina?” he asked Fatima at last. Until that moment she had attended him without speaking a word, and he saw in her face some small motion of surprise and alarm at being addressed.
“She attends the lord,” she said shyly. He could see in her face that she had become aware of her nakedness, and of his eyes upon her, now that they were in conversation.
“Has she done so before?” he asked. “You may cover yourself,” he added, for Fatima’s distress at her nakedness was now palpable.
Fatima bent and picked up her dress and held it to her. In her confusion, it seemed that she had forgotten the question, so he repeated it. “Has Sakina attended Witteric in his bed chamber before?”
“No, lord,” she replied.
“Because that is your place?” he said.
There was a palpable fear in Fatima’s eyes now. Witteric’s small brown girls lived a life of some luxury, for Witteric wanted no mark of privation or violence to mar their beauty. He treated them as well as he treated his horses, to which he showed considerable solicitation. But those services that he did require of them, he required to receive in silence. Fatima had presented herself to Theodemir as an instrument of pleasure without betraying any sign of distress. But when asked to speak, she was filled with dismay.
How would Agnes wish him to treat Fatima, he wondered. The Abbey of St. Hilda at Whitby, he was certain, did not provide small brown girls for the service of noblemen who might visit there. Was such practice common elsewhere in Northumbria? Had it been common in her father’s hall? Would she think ill of him for the use of such as Fatima or Sakina, or would it seem to her the most ordinary thing in the world? And if it had mattered to her once, did it matter to her still, now that, as she said, she found it so very difficult to care? But this line of thought was sophistry, and in his heart he knew it to be so. In his heart, he knew exactly how Agnes would wish to see Fatima treated.
“You may put on your dress,” he said. He turned his back to allow her privacy while she did so. She dressed in silence. She was too shy to give a sign that she was prepared for him to turn again. When he was certain that she had had time and enough to dress, he turned. She stood on the same spot, dressed now, but the distress in her face had not diminished.
“Has Sakina ever attended a man in his bedchamber before?” he asked.
Fatima stared at him mutely, and he realized that Sakina had, of course, attended a man in his bedchamber before. She had attended him. His euphemism, meant to spare her, had only caused Fatima confusion. “Has Sakina ever served a man in his bed before?” he asked.
“No, Lord,” Fatima replied, whispering with downcast eyes.
“Is it because he has tired of you that Witteric has taken her to his bed?”
Fatima’s reply was a silent shake of her head.
“It is because I have sent her away each night?”
Fatima’s nod was almost imperceptible.
Theodemir strode toward the door, meaning to go to Witteric’s bedroom, burst through the door, and demand that he release Sakina. If he went quickly, he thought, he might intervene while Sakina still had her virginity. But as he emerged into the veranda, he suddenly understood. His uncle demanded a submission of him. A submission to Witteric’s way of living. To burst into Witteric’s room to save Sakina’s virginity would be to invite exile from the villa. And exile from the villa would mean exile from Agnes.
And if he were to preserve Sakina’s virginity this night, he realized, he would only delay something that would most certainly come to pass soon afterward. Sakina had entered into the company of Witteric’s small brown girls. He was in no position to ransom her. And if he did, his uncle would soon conquer or purchase another whom he would use in the same way. Rescuing Sakina this night would do nothing to alter the balance of suffering in this world, nor the balance of sin. At best, he would change one tiny part of where that suffering and sin fell. But in doing so, he would be exiled from Agnes and thus fail in his vocation.
He went back into his room, sat down on the bed, and put his head between his hands. Fatima remained as she was, standing in the same spot, awaiting instruction. One motion of his hand, he knew, would cause her to drop her dress to the floor once more and come to him, to press her warmth and youth against his flesh. And if he took her so and used her so, he wondered, would this be less distressing to her, being in accord with her expectations and experience, than if he should speak to her again, or even if he should send her away as he had so many nights sent Sakina away?
And if he sent Fatima away as he had sent Sakina away, who then would suffer for it? Would her failure of seduction bring Witteric’s wrath upon her? Would it be a mercy, in fact, to beckon Fatima to him and bid her serve him as she had been instructed to serve him? Would this be a lesser sin than if he should refuse her and send her away to be whipped by his uncle? And was it necessary to use her so, so as to preserve his place in the villa and avoid being exiled from Agnes?
He wished that Agnes herself was there to advise him. But then he remembered that Agnes had never spoken to him in a way that was kindly or wise. He had attributed kindness and wisdom to her, perhaps on account of her beauty, perhaps on account of his vocation. But every word she had actually spoken to him had been either diffident or snappish. If she were here now to observe this scene, would her words too be diffident? Would she shrug at his dilemma, too worn down or too corrupted by the use that had been made of her and the way of life she had observed in his uncles’ household, to care if Theodemir sinned, or how he sinned, or whom he sinned upon? Did she assume that all along he had been making use of Sakina to relax himself for sleep? He remembered how she had scolded him for his lustful inspection of her person when they had first met. But did her desire for the propriety of men’s eyes extend beyond her own person? She was, after all, the daughter of a nobleman and had had slaves at her command all her life. If she demanded the propriety of his eyes for her own sake, would she also think it proper to spare Fatima, a mere slave, taken in war, from the gaze of her captors and owners? A terrible fear came over him that Agnes’s only answer would be one of snappish contempt for his weakness but that she would not care enough about him to be concerned about his sins, nor care enough about small brown slave girls to care that they were sinned against.
“Is there any young man, Fatima,” he asked, “who looks upon you with the eyes of love?”
Fatima made no reply but lowered her head and shuffled her feet nervously.
There had been a concubine in Rome, Rosalina, that Theodemir had particularly favored. But she had been a saucy and vexatious creature, a punctilious businesswoman who kept strict account of services performed and payment rendered. It had been a heartless but pleasant transaction, and her habit of strict reckoning had left him feeling that his own ledger had remained in balance with each transaction. Fatima was younger and fairer than Rosalina had been. Rosalina had shown both initiative and enthusiasm in the course of their transactions. It had been abundantly clear that her enthusiasm had been part of the service, something included in the price, for it had disappeared when the hourglass ran out but could be revived at once if the price were paid and the glass turned again. Would Fatima show initiative and enthusiasm in the same way if he were to beckon to her now and lay her down upon the bed? Or would she lie there with the same blank submission that had been on her face when first she had shown herself to him? Was that the kind of submission that Witteric craved from his small brown girls? Was it the kind of submission he craved from Theodemir?
He wished that he could simply lie down on his bed and go to sleep, but Fatima still stood in the middle of the room, awaiting his instruction.
“Is it my uncle’s instruction that you remain with me through the night?” he asked her.
Fatima gave a small nod, and then her hands reached up to undo her dress once more.
“No, no,” he said. “If you must remain in the room, take a cushion for a pillow and lie down by the door. And if my uncle should ask you in the morning what service you did for me, you may tell him truthfully that you fulfilled my every wish and desire.”
Fatima nodded mutely at this, and Theodemir found himself wondering if she were disappointed by this order, unaccustomed as she was to going to sleep without the service and presence and warmth of a man. But her sentiments could not be guessed, for once again her face had become a mask, like a girl in a fresco. She laid herself down by the door, not taking a cushion but cradling her head in her arms. Her silence was eerie, as if she had been an angel, or perhaps a succubus shunned. Theodemir rolled into his bed and lay on his side facing the wall. The lamp that Fatima had carried into the room was still burning, but he made no move to extinguish it. For an hour or more he lay wakeful, battling with a demon of fierce desire which took by turns the faces of Fatima, of Sakina, and of Agnes. When he wakened in the morning, the lamp had burned out, and Fatima was gone. Every night thereafter, Sakina would carry the lamp that lit him to bed and then, immediately and without words, lie down across the threshold of the door, turning her back to him. If the night she had spent in Witteric’s bed had brought any change in her, it never showed in her demeanor. And whatever time he woke in the morning, she was always gone.
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