4. GREECE 12th Century
A TOWN NEAR ATHENS
A FTER countless hours of walking along the winding dirt road, dust rising softly beneath his feet with every footstep, the Romani witch felt the weight of sentimentality settle upon his tired mind.
There had been so many roads like this, where whispers from the sympathetic dead and pulsing emanations of an always familiar spiritual energy—Aeneas’ soul—compelled him in one direction or another.
Too often, the Romani witch arrived in a place—whether a forgettable village or a grand city-state—only to find that he had just missed a man who, according to everyone he spoke to, fit the description of the person he was searching for: his beloved Aeneas.
The road he was currently travelling down headed south toward Athens, a destination that would take approximately two more hours to reach.
It was bordered by cypress trees, juniper and myrtle shrubs, and the occasional field of peonies that swayed gently in the warm summer breeze of the late afternoon.
For days, whispers from the dead, those well-meaning ancestors, had beckoned him to traverse this path, their voices echoing like distant phantoms in the recesses of his mind.
Yet, as he walked further down this road, he found nothing but an overwhelming sense of futility, as if the ground beneath his feet conspired to keep him from discovering anything of worth or significance.
With each footfall, he was reminded that the tenth anniversary of his fateful quest was fast approaching, a poignant milestone marking the day he first embarked on his search for the elusive man who held the essence of his eternal beloved within him.
The memory of that initial departure at the age of sixteen, filled with hope and longing intertwined with the earthy scents of the surrounding landscape, resonated deeply within him as he lamented the passage of time and the lack of success in his quest.
As the Romani witch was about to delve deeper into his melancholy thoughts, he noticed a town in the distance that had not been there the last time he travelled this road, though he realized that last time was several hundred years back.
As he approached, he was pleasantly surprised by the welcoming smiles and friendly gestures on display.
These days, when he arrived at a new place—new to this version of himself, in this life—the locals often greeted him with tense expressions and suspicion.
This atmosphere had pushed him to conduct his business quickly and leave if the red-headed man he was looking for was not present.
The energy in this town felt remarkably different; it was refreshing, after a long time, to be greeted by strangers with openness and goodwill instead of distrust and hostility.
Without warning, a sudden wave of euphoria washed over him, enveloping his senses in a shimmering glow. The unexpected rush left him momentarily dizzy as if the world around him had swirled into a vivid blur, making his heart race with exhilaration.
By Hecate! I feel you here, my love.
Nevertheless, despite the sense of deep connection, the Romani witch was cautious about becoming overly excited or confident.
He had experienced this sensation before, only for it to be a transient impression in the environment, a lingering emanation of a soul no longer in the direct vicinity, nothing more than an echo.
And as he had dreaded, the blissful sensation vanished as swiftly as it had come upon him. In its wake, it left a palpable emptiness that enveloped the space around his heart, as if the joy had been siphoned away, leaving only a hollow void inside him.
Damn it! Was it no more than a spiritual hiccup?
Did this cheerful place once harbour the man I seek, but no longer?
Am I simply sensitive to this residual energy, as I have been so many times before?
Again, I fear I am too late. The damnable Wheel is a potent adversary this time around.
But you will not stop me, wretched fate-maker. I will find him or die in the attempt!
Feeling discouraged and ravenously hungry, the Romani witch set out to find an inn to partake of a meal, perhaps even some amiable company for conversation, before setting out for Athens.
He also deemed it wise to seek out a cobbler to repair his well-worn boots, now dulled and scuffed from countless journeys across Europe, éire, and parts of the Maghreb.
As the Grecian town was modest in size, the Romani witch found his way to a rather welcoming-looking establishment in no time.
The building’s stone chimney puffed thick plumes of smoke that spiralled into the balmy air.
Rich and savoury aromas drifted from every nook and cranny of the inn’s weathered wooden facade, inviting him closer to the source of such fragrant culinary delights.
Though this may be the only establishment in town that serves libations, this is a popular place, well-tended and bright. From the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen, I can see why patrons come for more than strong mead, good wine, and a cheery atmosphere.
“Welcome, stranger,” greeted a shapely woman with an olive complexion and a cherubic face.
Her long black hair cascaded down her back, loosely tied with a vibrant blue ribbon that matched her apron.
Her warm smile and inviting demeanour added a touch of charm to the cozy atmosphere around her.
“You’ve arrived at a special time, though this is the final night of a week-long celebration. ”
With a mix of urgency and fervour, the animated server divulged to the Romani witch that her quaint town had endured a harrowing siege one year past. A ruthless band of vagabonds had descended upon them in the night, vulgarly shouting their intent to dispossess the townsfolk of their coin and any possessions they desired.
And that before they left, they planned to set the beloved homes of the residents ablaze, leaving death and destruction in their wake.
Having seen no signs of lasting damage to the town on his way in, the Romani witch scrunched up his face, suspicious of the seemingly tall tale.
“I see doubt in your eyes, handsome stranger, but I speak the truth!”
The Romani witch did not wish to be discourteous to the woman, but he was hungry for food, not for embellished ramblings.
“Young Astraia does express herself with a fervent passion, good sir, and though she might be a bit overly exuberant in her delivery, she speaks truthfully.”
The Romani witch turned his head to the left to see who possessed the husky, pleasant voice speaking on behalf of the server.
A handsome, older gentleman with a congenial face, stark white hair and a beard to match approached his table.
He held a flagon of mead that looked quite tasty and refreshing to the thirsty traveller.
“May I sit and join you, stranger?”
The Romani witch smiled widely and gestured for the older man to take a seat. “Please do. It has been a while since I have had the pleasure of conversation and friendly company.”
Following a brief exchange of names, the Romani witch placed his food and drink order, prompting Astraia to make her way to the bustling kitchen hastily.
The older of the two men, Anastasios — who had already dined—inquired about the Romani witch’s solitary status.
“Do you often travel alone, my new friend? Do you have a wife, children or any family waiting for you somewhere?”
“No wife or family, and I shall remain alone until I find the man I have been tirelessly searching for. He means a great deal to me, and we have been sadly separated by oceans of time and distance. Though I am close to finding him. I am sure of it. I feel it in my bones.”
The Romani witch was determined not to let his thoughts drift into wishful thinking .
He needed to maintain this belief in finding Aeneas as a firm and resolute outcome, always.
He feared that the Wheel of Destiny would interpret frustration as a lack of conviction.
That could ultimately work to the Wheel’s advantage, ensuring that dark fate ruled over his life and kept him from Aeneas until the day the Romani witch took his final breath.
He also planned to keep much about himself private from these townsfolk, revealing no more than he already had.
Given the unpredictable and often bigoted attitudes towards two men in love, even in Greece—which was once quite supportive, or at least non-intrusive, towards such relationships—he felt it best to be cautious with his actions and careful with his words.
Attitudes had shifted ever further in the direction of intolerance over the centuries throughout Europe, leading to greater hostility toward anything that deviated from the traditional Adam and Eve story; Christianity, as always, was no friend to the divergent mind and heart.
And to admit to being a witch, a practitioner of the old ways, a follower of nature, of Terra!
Well, that was a death sentence in many lands.
The Romani witch had grown quite powerful since Pompeii.
He could protect himself and Aeneas when necessary, when his beloved’s magic had not followed him into a new life.
Still, he was not a god, and there were limits to what he could do against a large force of religious fanatics, be they an angry mob or an army.
Anastasios gently patted the hand of the Romani witch and smiled warmly.
“I understand,” he said softly. “I understand.” He then winked and turned his head toward another table, where a bald-headed, older man with a kind face, a thick mustache, and a round belly laughed heartily; everyone at his table joined in, bursting into laughter and sharing a joyous camaraderie.