It was for this reason that the eyes of the powerful lord rested avidly, insistently on Anait, the most stunning, desirable woman in the city. So intriguing that she would make even the wisest, most upright of men lose his mind, so beautiful that she had Lars Thyrrens, the most powerful of men, in her thrall. A man who had risen to power merely, or mainly, to satisfy his own desires, to satiate any craving for food or wine or rare, precious objects, any longing for a young man or maiden in the prime of youth and beauty.
But she never returned his looks. She never tired of contemplating her own husband, Lars Turm Kaiknas, a man as handsome as a god, strong, yet as gentle and sweet as a young lad. She couldn’t stop caressing his hands, his arms, his face, because he had finally returned to her after a long absence, a war campaign beyond the northern mountains, in the vast valley crossed by a great river. There, at the head of the Rasna ranks, he had fought off the hordes of blond Celtic invaders. He led the army of the league of twelve cities to the walls of Felsina, driving them onward as far as the mudbanks of Spina, a city made of wood and straw but rich with gold and bronze, defended only by the wide swamps surrounding it.
The party was in his honour and in his palace. Anait was impatiently awaiting the moment at which the guests would wander off, in which the lauchme would give the signal to end the festivities, so she could finally withdraw to the warm intimacy of their bedchamber and undress in front of her husband in the soft glow of the midnight lamp. She’d savoured the moment already in the ardour of his eyes. For Anait there was nothing else; no one else existed in the great festooned hall. The soft chatting of her dinner companions barely reached her ears, intent on listening only to the words of the man she loved, the man that she herself had chosen when, as a young girl, she had sent a servant with a message to his house, offering herself as his bride.
But the ardent glances of the lauchme did not escape the guests. Many of them were aware of the rumours that Anait’s son, young Velies, had been conceived during one of the numerous absences of her husband; that he was the son of Lars Thyrrens. A lie that had surely originated in the palace of the king himself, to induce people to believe what he could only let himself dream of. In truth, Turm Kaiknas was the city’s greatest warrior and the head of its army, so that not even the lauchme could challenge him, much less try to seduce his wife. If he wanted to take her by force, he would have to kill her husband first, a difficult, if not impossible, endeavour. Everyone loved Turm Kaiknas, for his valour, his deeds, his heroism. He would be the king of Velathri if it were up to the people.
Anait leaned close to her husband and whispered something in his ear, and this aroused Lars Thyrrens even more; he could only imagine how he would have felt with her lips so close to his face. He decided that the moment had come to carry out his plan, and he was in such a state that he never considered in the least the consequences of the evil deed he was about to enact. He nodded to one of the servant girls who stood at his side and she went off as if obeying a command. She waited until Anait was reposing again on her own kline, then she approached her and whispered something in the lady’s ear. Anait exchanged a few words with her husband, who nodded as she stood and followed the maidservant out of the room.
Turm Kaiknas had more wine poured for himself and settled back to watch the jugglers and dancers who had disrobed and were now dancing naked in front of the dinner guests, especially those who had come unaccompanied. Meanwhile the lamps began to go out as the oil was consumed, a ruse that allowed even the most timid of them to pull one of the dancers over to his own couch, his sweetly scented kline.
The guests arranged at the far side of the room noticed Lars Thyrrens getting up and disappearing behind the curtain, but he was only gone for a few moments; he had soon returned to recline at his place. Only those who were very close could see that it was not him but another, an actor who greatly resembled him, garbed and made up in the same way, but they had been forewarned and none of them showed the slightest reaction. The guest stretched out at the very corner of the triclinium who could thus spy the corridor that led away from the hall itself, could see both the true Lars Thyrrens, who was walking circumspectly through the shadows, and the false Lars Thyrrens, reclining comfortably, intent on drinking wine from a cup. But he said not a word, as he too had been instructed by the master of ceremony, who had been bribed by the lauchme.
Anait soon reached the corridor which led out of the hall, preceded by the maidservant, who was still whispering, ‘The child was crying, my lady, we could not calm him…’ She could not see Lars Thyrrens waiting in the shadows, behind the door of the vestibule outside the bedroom. As soon as Anait entered he leapt upon her and threw her to the ground, covering her mouth with his hand. At that same instant, the musicians in the hall increased the volume of their instruments, adding tambourines and kettledrums, which covered the sounds of the struggle going on in the semi-darkness of the vestibule. Anait was a strong woman and she fought him off with great vehemence, but Lars Thyrrens was a monster of a man, tremendously powerful. He ripped off her clothing and tried violently to possess her.
The maidservant had hurried off, even though her malicious nature would have urged her to stay and watch, and she had not noticed that little Velies had truly woken up and wandered from his room. He stood in the vestibule, rubbing his eyes as if he could not believe what he was seeing. Anait caught a glimpse of her son, his shadow against the wall, inordinately lengthened by the light of the single lamp. She feigned submission for a moment and, as her assailant softened his grip, she bit his hand as hard as she could. The boy realized what was happening and the cruel scene distorted his delicate features into a mask of horror. He opened his mouth to scream. Enraged by the pain in his hand, aware that the child’s cry would alert his father, Lars Thyrrens pulled his dagger from his belt and hurled it at the boy.
The child’s cry was cut short. His face turned white in the pallor of death as a copious stream of blood ran down his side from where the dagger had stuck hilt-deep. Then the lauchme squeezed his hands around the neck of Anait, who had seen it all, trying to stop her from crying out. He tightened his grip until he felt her body collapse beneath him. Then he got up, composed himself, slipped back down the corridor and occupied the shadowy place left free by the actor, just in time.
Turm Kaiknas was no longer resting on his kline. His hearing had been honed by long hours of wakefulness at the head of his troops in the most remote, danger-filled places, where he had learned to pick up the slightest of noises. He had heard a suffocated cry coming from his apartments. His son, visited by a nightmare? And where was Anait? Why hadn’t she returned?
An agonized howl burst out of the vestibule and Lars Thyrrens cried out himself in alarm. His guards rushed forward with lit torches in hand and many of the guests poured into the corridor after them. The scene they met with was horrifying. Turm Kaiknas was on his knees between the corpse of his wife and that of his son and he held a bloody dagger in his fist.
‘Take him!’ shouted Lars Thyrrens, and, before Turm Kaiknas could react or even speak, the guards were upon him. Although he fought off some of them with the very dagger he held in his hand and managed to twist free, others assailed him from every direction. Like a lion caught in a net, he finally succumbed, stunned by a blow to the nape of his neck from behind.
Lars Thyrrens shouted, ‘You’ve seen it with your own eyes! Everyone knows that Turm Kaiknas has always despised his wife because she was unfaithful to him, because she bore him a bastard, the fruit of an illicit relationship!’
‘It’s true!’ shouted all the onlookers. Because they were all slaves of Lars Thyrrens, the powerful lauchme of Velathri, all ready to swear to whatever he declared. No one dared to contradict him.
A single voice thundered out behind him, ‘You lie! My sister never betrayed her husband! She loved him more than life itself. And Turm Kaiknas adored his son. He would never have raised a hand except to caress him.’
It was the voice of Aule Tarchna, Anait’s brother, an augur who interpreted the signs that the gods sent to men, priest of the temple of Sethlans on the hill that overlooked the city. His features were harsh with indignation, but hot tears flowed from his eyes, because in a single moment he had lost everything that was most dear to him.
‘No?’ replied Lars Thyrrens. ‘Then it will not be difficult for him to prove his innocence by winning the trial of the Phersu. You are a priest, Aule Tarchna, and know well that only the gods can judge a crime so horrendous it goes beyond all imagining.’
‘Damn you! Damn you! You cannot do this. You are a shameless, sacrilegious, bloodthirsty beast. You cannot do this.’
‘Not I,’ replied Lars Thyrrens. ‘The oldest law of our people. The most sacred. You should know that.’
