Elena is 41
Elena went to St Ignatius's church for the last time six years later, on the day of Nikkos's funeral. She did not see the fresco as she came in. She did not see the iconostasis over the altar or the candles that flanked it. She was not even aware of her husband's arm around her or her daughters' tears beside. All she could see, all she could understand, was that hideous, mocking, black thing on the dias before the altar. Her tears fell, but could not hide it. She lowered her head, and could still see it in her mind. Nikkos. Nikkos, her boy, her baby, her golden child, cut down in a pointless scrimmage with Venetian raiders on the banks of the Golden Horn. With cruel, knife-edge clarity, she remembered how happy she had been when when he got the post with the customs service, an Imperial office like his father's that carried the same exemption from the levy. She remembered how tall he had grown, how handsome, how dashingly he had twirled his new cloak the morning he set off for his first day at work, a young man of the City with his whole future before him. Not six months before...
She remembered his footsteps on the stairs and the bang of the street door as he dashed out of the house, three mornings ago now. She hadn't seen him - he had slept late and she had been busy with the girls, but it hadn't mattered. There was always the evening, and the next day. The evening... He had been working late - he was always so diligent, always so keen to impress - and he must have heard the disturbance on the docks (Godless Venetians from their fleets in the Marmara, sneaking over the harbour chain in small boats to kill and burn). He had come running down to the waterfront with a lantern - he didn't even have a knife! - and some Latin crossbowman had put a bolt through his heart. Killed on the instant, they had told her when they brought his body home. She hadn't even told him goodbye.
She felt her husband lift her - the service must be over - and as they turned to leave her eyes caught the fresco, lighted by a shaft of sun through the eastern window. For a moment she looked up, unable to move. There stood her younger self, solid and strong, loyally supporting the blessed cleric as he received his vision of - what? Battle and death on the plains of Syria?
Why did you do it, God? No comfort for a woman, no mercy for a child, but You found time for a mad dream for an old man, the sort of dream that makes old men start new wars and bring fire and death to Your people? Her eyes filled again, rage as much as grief.
I hate you, God.
The graveside was worse. Nikkos looked so small, so helpless in his coffin, it was all she could do not to bend down and embrace him. Instead she had to stand and watch and listen to the tributes and condolences of his family and friends. She would treasure them in the years to come, but for now they were needles in her heart, every one. A girl she had never met crept up shyly and threw flowers. A pompous official from the Ministry gave a pointless speech about how the whole City shared her grief, if such a thing was possible for a woman who had lost her first-born. And the priest of St Ignatius, horribly sincere, had laid a would-be consoling hand on her arm. "He is with God now," he had said gently, "and he would not wish you to sorrow." Then, with one final twist of the knife, he had continued, "You must be strong. You have other children who need you."
For a moment she had wanted nothing more than to hurl him into the grave with Nikkos - or to leap in herself and leave the pain behind. But the man was right - terribly, hideously, mercilessly right. There were people who needed her - her husband, her girls. She could not cut her throat and end the pain, could not crawl into a corner and die of grief.
Why us, oh God? she whispered.
Why me?
The pain faded at last, though it never died. For months a voice, the cut of a cloak, even a hairstyle could crack her heart or set her to weeping, but one day she found to her surprise she could think of Nikkos without hurting,as she had learned to think of her mother and even of Simeon. That was the year the Venetians were driven out of the Marmara, the year tales of plague and revolt in the provinces were replaced by reports of bountiful harvests and even the hope of peace. There was life in the City again and life even in Elena. But she never went back to St Ignatius's church again.
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Apologies for the delay - I meant to update yesterday but the board wasn't taking submissions.
wildwolf - I'm glad you like it.
If it matters, the Empire at this time contained all the former Ottoman territories, plus Hellas, Wallachia, Antalya, Kastamonu, Aleppo, Syria and about half of Egypt.
coz1 - I fear I have already answered your question
Semi-Lobster - Good to hear from you!
To answer your question, Antioch & Alexandria are already done, so there only remains Jerusalem...
Director - You people are beginning to scare me. How will I ever live up to the hype? (
). Well, all praise gratefully accepted, especially from such a fine writer as yourself.