A Different World: Part 1 - The Siege of Penthorpe Keep - 6. Chapter 6: A Different Place

Dionysia shivered, wrapping the nest of blankets around herself. Despite her attempts at staying warm, nothing seemed to stave off the cold. She looked down at her lap, at her filthy dress. Even in the low light coming from the candle she could see the smudges on her gown.

She looked up at her father: He was sitting at his desk again, head bent towards the fluttering candle flame. She could hear the scratch of his quil, the crash of the waves, Atticus’s wordless shouts as he ordered his men to work faster, harder. She did not feel bad for the men working out there in the cold, which had coated everything in frost. Not after what they did to Pip.

Pip.

Just thinking about him, what they’d done to him made her heart hurt. Fresh tears threatened to overwhelm her. That’s all I’ve done for the last three days is cry, she thought. It’s a wonder I have any tears left to cry. And she hadn’t slept, oh no, she hadn’t slept for three days. Because everytime she did if she wasn’t dreaming about her sisters and mother and their little cottage going up in flames, then she dreamed about the sailors throwing Pip overboard (and on more than one occasion she dreamed it was her they’d thrown overboard because she was the one who was sick and not Pip, Ambrose smiling at her, his face lit by the brief flashes of lightning that exploded overhead).

Her father offered no comfort. He was just as distant with her as ever. She found herself growing angry and resentful towards him, the feeling curdling and building over time as his silence continued. She didn’t like these feelings but couldn’t make them go away. She prayed to God to make them go away, to fill her heart with love, to help forgive her father, but if the Lord heard her prayers He did nothing. Her anger only built. You coward, she thought. You bloody coward. You’re running and dragging me along with you but where are we going? Where is there to run to? And with that anger and resentment there was an undercurrent of fear. The world was a big place, a vast landscape full of old and mysterious things. And the plague was only making it bigger. Humans and fae alike were dying off, but mostly humans. Due to their genetics, the fae were able to withstand the plague easier than the humans.

At long last he lifted his head and turned to look at her. Had she been thinking her thoughts or feeling her feelings so hard he’d felt them himself? He looked at her for the first time as if just now realizing she existed.

“We should be there soon,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Rome,” he said. “We’re going to Rome.”

Rome? The name of the place sounded alien to her ears after spending her entire life living in the country. Instead of feeling relieved to finally have an idea of where they were going Dionysia only felt a fresh spike of fear.

“What’s in Rome?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“Rome is a great metropolis,” Phillip said. “I’ve never been there, but I’ve always dreamed of going since I was a boy.”

“Why are we going there?”

“There’s a man, a great man - a leader I guess you might say, who has stepped up in place of the Pope.”

“The Pope?” she asked.

Phillip looked sad. “Yes, the Pope of the Church. He was killed by the plague. But now we have a new leader, a Prophet.”

“A Prophet?” Dionysia knew a Prophet was someone who God chose as a conduit to work miracles through: Like Jonah, the disciple who was eaten by a whale, the first example that passed through her mind. “What is the name of this Prophet?” she asked.

“No one knows his real name...no one except God.” Phillip’s Adam’s apple worked against his throat as he swallowed. “They only know him as The Prophet. There can be no better time for such miracles. We need someone to lead us out of these dark times. King Yaldon, the fae king is holding an accord at his palace to sign a treaty with the Prophet, a meeting to unite the human and fae races. Both the fae king and the Prophet have realized that if we are to prevail in the face of extinction then we must join forces before it’s too late.”

Dionysia’s head spun, trying to take in everything her father had just told her. Her father continued, one half of his face shadowed off the other aglow in the candlelight. Dionysia found the sight to be strangely eerie. It was as if half his face was completely gone. “Everyone will be marching to this accord. It will be an event to be remembered. For the first time since God created us we will be treated both as equals and individuals to the fae.” He looked at her again and this time she saw hope in his eyes. She didn’t want to feel the hope he felt. Hope was nothing more than an illusion. And yet she felt a spark of it; if what her father was saying was true - and despite his faults Phillip had never lied to his daughters - then things really were bound to change.

She turned away from her father and allowed the lips of her mouth to curve into a small smile. Just the thought of being out of this room, which she had been stuck in for three days, too frightened to leave it after what happened to Pip, the idea of fresh air filled her with eagerness. For the first time since the death of her mother and sisters she felt something other than grief.

There came a sudden knock at the door, making her jump. Phillip got up from the wooden chair and went over to the door, made out of timber. Dionysia thought if someone wanted to break through it they could do so quite easily, the door was so thin. But no one broke it down. Phillip cracked it open and to Dionysia’s relief it was Atticus and not Ambrose who stood on the other side.

“The port of Ostia is just on the horizon,” Atticus said. “We should be approaching it by nightfall From there is it but a short journey to Rome.” To Dionysia, he said very kindly, “If you stand on the deck you can see it. T’is quite a sight.”

She followed Phillip and the captain of The Elan Vital up to the deck. Sure enough she could see the towers and spires of Ostia like an answered prayer from God.

...

After saying their final goodbyes to Captain Atticus, Phillip and Dionysia transferred their things onto a river barge. For the hour it took them to travel up the Tiber River to reach Tiber Island in Rome, Dionysia found herself appreciating the more relaxing journey.

Just as night fell the barge docked at a landing. Dionysia could barely contain her excitement as she helped her father unload their few possessions. Now she stood on land, actual land, breathing in the air - fresh air, not the stinking air inside their cabin, and the stink of her own flesh - and the ground beneath her feet did not rock back and forth but was solid and unmoving.

Dockers moved back and forth, dragging off large crates, some things piled on top, tied down with rope. Most of what was being said was impossible to understand because everyone was speaking Italian. With the darkness of night it was hard to make out faces. A man staggered drunkenly past Dionysia, glancing at the hustle and bustle. She could just make out his eyes because they reflected the pale silver gleam of the moon.

Dionysia turned her gaze from the docks to the cluster of buildings to her right. Many of them were squarish structures, the sides flat, edges sharp, with canopied rooftops, tall doorways. Many of the windows were dark but occasionally one could be spotted with dim light seeping through. A wave of dizziness hit her as she realized she was in a place alien to her. Directly in front of her was a bridge, which extended over a river. Human shapes strolled leisurely over the bridge: an older man steering a donkey-led wagon, a man and a woman with a little girl; the little girl held a doll protectively to her chest. She seemed to sense she was being watched and glanced curiously in the direction of the docks.

“The Pon Cestius,” Phillip said from beside her, so suddenly Dionysia jumped.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The name of the bridge,” he said quickly, as if annoyed with her. “In Italian they pronounce it Ponte Cestio. Come, let’s find an inn somewhere to sleep for the night. We are both exhausted.”

The word inn made Dionysia think of a bed. The idea of sleeping on a bed instead of a cot made the aching muscles in her back, specifically around her shoulder blades, groan in relief.

They passed underneath the bridge. Dionysia kept her eyes peeled, nervous, expecting danger to spring up and attack them at any moment. Why not? They didn’t belong here. They were strangers in a strange land. Surely anyone would be able to see it with the briefest of glimpses.

Soon they left the cover of the bridge and trekked down cobblestoned streets. Though the island itself was quite small everything felt big and threatening to her: the tall buildings, the darkened alleyways where anything could dwell hidden from view. Armored guards sitting atop horses passed them, carrying swords or spears, capes hanging from their shoulders. They barely glanced at her or her father. It’s as if we’re ghosts or shadows, she thought. In this place we hardly exist.

Dionysia was frightened. Of course she was frightened. The cottage where they’d lived had been isolated. The only people she’d seen on a regular basis was her Phillip, her mother, and sisters. There had been a small village called Helmcaster a half day’s journey away. Dionysia and her family went there every Sunday to the village church, the light coming through the round window just over the Priest’s head like a beacon sent from God. Her mother would always force her to wear a dress and fix her hair - I will not have you walking into the Lord’s house looking bedraggled! her mother would say sternly - and she would sit next to her sisters feeling uncomfortable, itchy and humiliated. And of course all the women in the village would dote over her sisters but never over her. Only because she wasn’t the pretty one. At the end of the day they would stay at Helmcaster’s little inn.

Gone was that life.

Now she was here, in this metropolis. She never thought she’d miss her mother and sisters but she did now. Her heart ached to have her family alive and well, with her again.

If her father was afraid he didn’t show it. He walked stolidly ahead, not hurrying but not slowing down either, as if he knew exactly where he was going. Did he know where he was going? Have faith in him, she told herself. Have faith in God. Have faith He’ll lead you where you need to go.

Her father spoke, interrupting her from her thoughts. His voice was a welcomed distraction from the chaotic storm going on in her head. “I came here in my nineteenth year,” Phillip said fondly, looking around. She could picture his face in the dark, eyes gleaming with wonder and happiness at times passed by. “I had just become of age in the middle of discovering there was so much to the world. I came to Rome, to the Vatican City to be specific, the heart of the Catholic Church. I was scared as you can imagine...as I can imagine you must be feeling now. Once there I’d seen the Santa Barbara dei Librai. But before seeing it I visited the San Benedetto in Piscinula, a church in this area. I can show it to you in the morning, if you’d like.”

Dionysia told him she would even though all she really cared about at this point and time was a good night’s worth of sleep. Her whole body ached in a way it never had before. Her father droned on. She nodded and muttered in the right place but his wistful voice barely made an impression on her. The exhaustion officially had her in its grip. “I stayed in The Rifugio Sicuro, a tavern that had a few beds. The man who owned the place was named Francesco. I can only hope he’ll extend us the same courtesy, assuming he’s alive and well of course.”

They turned down an alley. Candlelight danced through the flame of a window. There was a door on the side of the building; over the door was a sign. There was just enough illumination that Dionysia could make out the name of the bar: The Rifugio Sicuro. The thatch door burst open and a man and woman lurched drunkenly together out of the tavern. The woman laughed loudly, the gown of her dress swishing around her, seemingly unaware of the cold. The man was lifting up her skirt, revealing the wool stockings she wore. He said something in Italian and they disappeared around the corner of the alley. For a moment Dionysia was so intimidated by what she’d just seen she could only stand there, looking at her father with wide eyes. You want us to stay in there? she wanted to ask. A whorehouse?

“It’s not the best place,” Phillip said as though he could read his mind. “But what did I always tell you and your sisters?”

“God provides,” she said in a shaky voice.

“What else?”

“God is always faithful.”

“Yes, and it is so.”

“Let’s go in, shall we?”

He held the door open for her. Dionysia let out a sigh and stepped into the tavern.

The gloom of the tavern seemed to envelope Dionysia and Phillip, belying the name of the place. An older man sat hunched over at a wooden table in the corner of the tavern, mug in hand. His shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair was filthy and tangled. He glance mournfully at Dionysia, his face expressing an emptiness that had no hope of being filled. Fire crackled in the hearth of a stone fireplace. The flames did little to keep the chill inside the tavern at bay yet Dionysia found herself going straight for the fire. She sat down on a wooden stool and held her hands out before the flames. Up close the heat from the flames caressed her like a lover, sending chills up her spine. Her mouth hung open slightly in exaltation. She glanced over her shoulder. A rather large woman approached Phillip, dressed in a red dress. The lacing at the front showed the curves of her large breasts. She said something in Italian, running a hand across the lapel of Phillip’s shirt and he said something back in Italian, smiling graciously. There was a bright flush to his cheeks. Did she detect a flash of lust in his dark eyes? How can he want her after Mother just died? she wondered.

Men had funny ways of expressing their grief.

A middle-aged man stood at the bar. He said something to Dionysia’s father in Italian. She turned her attention back to the fire, letting her mind drift away from the world around her. It felt so good to sit down, to be off ships. For the first time she could remember she could feel herself starting to relax. We might actually be safe now, she thought.

After a time her father came for her. “I got us some beds,” he told her. His face was very grave.

“What’s wrong?”

“The man I told you about who used to own the bar, Francesco...”

His voice faltered and Dionysia felt her heart break for him. She felt ashamed the nasty feelings she’d harbored through this hellish journey. She nodded, silently encouraging him to go on.

“His life was taken...stolen...by the plague,” Phillip said. “The man who has taken his place is his youngest son. The rest of his family has perished. This plague, this aberration has taken so many lives. I can hardly bear it.”

She stood up, bones and muscle groaning in reluctance, took his hand, and spoke words she didn’t feel to be true but said them anyway: “Things will be better when we get some sleep, Father. You’ll see.”

He nodded and together they headed for the staircase at the very front of the bar. The ceiling was so low they both had to duck down. Their room was at the end of the hallway. It was just big enough to hold a desk, two beds, a wardrobe, a tin bathing basin, and a fireplace. A glance out the window showed a view of the alley below.

Once Dionysia finished her father get a fire going she sat down on the feather mattress. Her father wished her a good night.

“Good night, Father,” she said. “And father?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I love you.”

He smiled at her. It was a tired smile but a smile nonetheless. “I love you too, Dionysia.”

She closed her eyes and felt the faint trace of a smile toucher her lips. Then she was asleep.

…

It seemed no sooner was she getting to sleep her father was shaking her awake. Dionysia opened her eyes, reluctantly coming out of the peaceful darkness she had become so accustomed with while on The Elan Vital.

She forced herself into a sitting position. Her back still felt incredibly sore. Her eyes had the heavy feeling one gets when they don’t get enough sleep. “Can’t I sleep a little longer?” she asked.

His smile was almost apologetic. “It’s just a little past noon. I let you sleep as long as I could. I’d let you sleep longer but we have a lot of ground to cover today. I managed to get this for you. It’s not much but I suppose it’s better than an empty stomach.” He held a red apple to her.

Without saying a word, Dionysia seized it and bit into it. She was ravenous: She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. The apple was delicious and juicy but small. When she was finished eating she still found herself hungry. Not wanting to seem ungrateful she smiled at Phillip, thanked him, and began to get ready for continuing their journey. They climbed down the stairs and stepped out into the daylight.

Despite the cold, the island was more busy than at night: People crossing the Pon Cestius, undoubtedly headed for the docks, vendors setting up their stands for the day. Dionysia and Phillip passed horse drawn carriages. A small boy, probably no older than five or six sprinkled chicken feed onto the ground. A gaggle of chickens weaved drunkenly after him, their heads bobbing up and down as they pecked up the seed; their feet left fork-shaped tracks in the dust. Dionysia watched the boy and felt a smile on her face. Amused, she was so distracted she almost bumped into a man who was wheeling a cart out of a building.

“Watch out, miss, lest you want to catch the plague!” he said, his eyes narrowed beneath his bushy salt-and pepper colored brow. His beard was so long she could barely make out the shape of his mouth. She felt a mixture of surprise and horror: Surprise he was speaking English and horror at what was on the cart. The white on top was covered in black splotches of bile she recognized immediately - she’d watched her mother and sisters cough it up as the plague consumed them. An arm, marked with black spots, hung out from under the sheet. Flies crawled over the hand.

“Found a whole family up there,” the man told her sadly. “Man, woman, and two small children, aye. Most people don’t want to be near the plague but way I see it, I’m getting up there in years and am all alone. Way I see it, if I die from the plague there’s no one around to care. Someone’s gotta clean up the bodies, aye.”

Dionysia could not find the voice to offer the response. Instinctively she took a step back and gave the cart a wide berth, feeling her gorge rise at the smell of decay coming from the cart. Her father, several yards ahead, apparently had not notice she’d fallen behind. Throwing a frightened glance, Dionysia broke into a jog to catch up, being careful not to slip over her own feet.

They passed tall buildings, under archways, and turned down alleys. Before long Dionysia’s brain was scrambled: There was no use in trying to remember the route they were taking. Once again she could only trust in her father’s memory, trust he knew where he was going.

Before long they finally reached the Santa Barbara dei Librai. The sight of the church took Dionysia’s breath away. It wasn’t much bigger than the church in Helmcaster but there was a profound beauty to it just as there was to so many of the buildings around her; Dionysia came to the conclusion that Italians had an eye for detail. Atop the oculus just above the door, the Saint Barbara looked down lovingly at the line of people waiting to get in the church. There were men and women and children, people of all ages. Most of them were dressed in rags which looked too thin to provide much warmth, their faces and hands covered in dirt. They’d all come to see the Prophet no doubt and join his crusade to align with the fae. Or maybe they’ve come to see him perform miracles, she thought. As of late they’ve been short in supply it seems.

Dionysia and her father got in line to wait to enter the little church. In front of her a woman rocked her crying baby back and forth, trying to soothe it. It was swaddled in white cloth that looked quite warm and cozy. Still, Dionysia felt bad for the little person. What was the woman doing here with her baby, during these dark times? She thought, Religion always leads to fanaticism. She didn’t know where the thought came from but she felt it to be queerly apt - and it wasn’t something she’d want to say out loud to her father lest she wanted to be smacked across the face. In the eyes of her father, to say such things were blasphemy.

She kept smiling at the baby, focusing on it, distracting herself from the cold. The lady saw her looking and smiled.

“Girl,” the woman said, her voice thickened with a strong Italian accent.

“How old?” Dionysia asked.

“Six months.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sophie.”

No longer crying, Sophie flashed Dionysia a bright smile, lifting her spirits. It was a welcome moment. She looked up at Phillip to see if he’d noticed but he was distracted, craning his neck to get a glimpse at the line - she herself wondered the same thing; surely a church that size could only hold so many people. Ever since leaving The Rifugio Sicuro he’d drawn back into his silent little shell, only coming out when it was necessary. Dionysia was too used to it by now to feel hurt by it.

After a seemingly prolonged hour, Dionysia and Phillip were finally inside the church. It was packed inside: all the pews were filled. People stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the wall or sitting on the stoned floor. The air hissed with whispers and murmurs of excited conversation. They were going to see the Prophet. But the Prophet was nowhere to be seen, at least not yet. Though Dionysia had not seen a prophet before she had formed an idea in her head of what a prophet might look like.

The inside of the church was even more beautiful than the outside: The ceilings was high and vaulted; white pillars rose beside both rows of pews. The walls were painted dark gold. Just behind the altar was a beautiful three panel mural. In the center panel Mother Mary was holding a baby Jesus on her lap, with the other two panels depicting two men. Dionysia had no idea who they were supposed to be...perhaps they were supposed to be angels. The walls were painted a dark custard color.

Phillip noticed his daughter admiring the painting behind the altar and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “That painting is the newest addition to this church - Triptych of Madonna and child with John the Baptist and Archangel Michael. ”

Oh, so those were the two figures standing on either side of Mother Mary.

A sudden hush fell over the church as a man dressed in armor stepped onto the altar. His dark grey-peppered hair was sprinkled with grey. It was impossible to say how old he was. He could have been in his late thirties or early-to-mid forties. His nose was long and narrow, his eyes dark, his mouth a severe frown. A great sword hung from his belt. His gaze swept the crowd as if to challenge someone to try and attack him. If anyone dared try Dionysia knew that sword would be out in a flash. She felt her throat go dry as those cold hazel eyes swept over her and her father.

After a long moment of silence, he said, with a clear commanding voice demanding to be heard, “The Prophet is here.”