Cartimandua Wants More Time.

Cartimandua says she is not ready to address the man or men in her life. She is not not sure her father is the right person. She has no desire just yet to address her husband who became her political enemy or her lover who had little character.

She suggested I take this space and and share one of my stories. So I will give the beginning of a story I am working on. The end will come later.

                                                         Considering Murder

                                                                    Part 1

I have always been hotheaded. I yell, I scream, I swear. But I never considered murder.

I am a writer. A writer finally successful enough to quit my day job. After two years of looking for my Eden I bought a small house off the beaten path. From the yard I could see nothing in any direction  but what I imagined - the day I bought it- green in spring, deeper green in the summer, a palate of color in the fall. In winter bare limbs peering out from the evergreens

.

The ideal place for solitude. On torrid summer days I could walk my Eden in scant clothing. On some occasions no clothing at all. That was the case on a hot humid day three weeks after I moved in. I had just shed my shorts when from behind the dense pine tree hedge as the back of my house I heard, “Yohoo. Mr. Murdock.”

Scurrying to retrieve the shirt I had hung on a tree branch I tied it around my waist.

Pushing their way through the low hanging pine branches the young couple appeared before me. “Welcome to the area,’ the young man said. “I’m Harold Hayes. This is my wife Amy. We live just over there.” He pointed. “It’s not that far, but you can’t see it for the trees.”

Before I could respond he continued, “My wife’s father is the pastor of the church just down the read. We’d like to invite you to join us. 10:00 every Sunday. 7:00 Wednesdays.”

Searching for a proper response which would not reveal my atheism I said, “That’s nice, but I have mu own church.”

“Where?”

“In town. I try to go as often as I can.”

I had not set foot in a church for over ten years—except for weddings and funerals. My evolution- or some might say my degeneration- had led me from my Southern Baptist roots to Methodism to Presbyterianism to Unitarianism and finally to no church but Nature Herself.

Would that that had been the end of my contact with the Hayes. But it was not to be. The following days revealed an open view from their mobile home of the pond below my house. The pond I envisioned perfect for nude swimming. With resentment bordering on hatred I hunted the bikini I brought from a recent trip to Munich.

Harold and Amy – no it was Amy who proved my nemesis. Days after that first encounter and my finding the bikini I met another neighbor. She appeared one morning at my door with bread (freshly baked if my smell was good). “Welcome to the neighborhood”, she said holding out her offering. “According to Amy you are totally lacking in decency. I knew immediately I had to meet you. You may not know that you are not only godless, but most likely licentious. That is not her word. I doubt she knows the word.” Her lips spread; her eyes smiled. “Are you licentious? Or are you just wicked?”

I extended my hand. “I’m Connie Murdock. Connie for Conrad and you're?”

“Jennifer Collins – down the road a quarter of a mile. Yellow house on the left. Married. No children. Not a member of Amy’s church.”

“What a relief.”

“But I’m not as sinful as you. She says you’re downright wicked. Your behavior leaves nothing to the imagination. She wants me to join her in raising objections to your living here. Amid god fearing people. And I assure you I am not the only person she has talked to.”

“What the Hell have I done to offend her? I only met her once.”

“You wear the most scanty pants she has ever seen. Scantier than her husband’s underwear.” Jennifer’s eyes shone.

“That little bitch.”

That little bitch. I should never have uttered those words – then or later on. But I did utter them.

In quite respectable shorts I was weed-whacking the growth around my pond’s edge whe I saw Amy coming my way.

“Mr. Murdock, I don’t mean to be unneighborly, but you are cutting into our land.”

“But this pond in mine – or so I was told when I bought it.”

“So it is. But the line goes – “ She came closer. “Here, let me show you.” She stood not a foot from the edge of my pond. “Right here—straight line from that oak tree over there, through here, to the big pine up there.”

I smiled. “Then I offer my weed-whacking to you free of charge.”

She did not smile. “We’d prefer you don’t mess with our land.”

As she left my pulse raced, my face burned. I admitted I was hot-headed. Never more than at that moment.

“You fucking little bitch,” I said, unaware was still within earshot.

My hope that I could avoid any contact with her was not be realized. Two days later I was not yet dressed when there was a knock at my door. When in hastily donned shorts and shirt opened the door, I found myself fact to face with the Sherriff. “Yes?”

“You’re Conrad Murdock?”

“I have a summons for you to appear in court.

                  *                            *                          *                              *                               *

Neither the lawyer I engaged not the judge I faced showed any concern for my plight. I was sentenced to probation pending refrain from inflammatory remarks to or about the claimant and from wearing inappropriate clothing within view of the claimant.

Now I was really angry. I was seriously considering murder. Far too many people act out of anger before careful planning. I had some careful planning to do. Thus began my entrance into murder.

     

Cartimandua Has Opted To Go Last So Jewellee Will Go

   Cartimandua begs off; her relationship with the men in her life she maintains were less that desirable. Perhaps she will do it when I have finished. That is if I ever do. I realize I have taken much too long.

  This has not been easy for me. Just five months ago P went out of my daily life. Sometimes it seems only yesterday; other times it seems a lifetime. Too many memories, too fresh wounds make concentrating my attention on exactly what I would say an overwhelming task.
   Forced to deal with some house maintenance problems I have been struck by how much you took care. Without much fuss or complaint. A plumbing problem. You did it. Electrical hassle. You handled it. Painting the barn and repairing the roof. You completed it. Mowing the lawn. Your task.
   Now all those tasks have become my responsibility. I handle them as best I can. It's not the same as when you were here.
   As I watch the construction crew work on gutters and soffits I cannot control memories of a time twenty five years ago. If I may steal a line from Tanaquil-- she said her Tarquinius took a mud hut village and made a world power of it.
    You my P did nothing so lofty as create a world power. But you took a shack and made it into a small villa. I remember so well the day we decided to buy our thirty-five acres with its breath taking view of rural scenery. It was wonderfully isolated from the ugly marks of modern building. Except for the shack. On the very heels of my agreeing I burst into tears. "I cannot leave my nice suburban house and move into this jagged shack."
  After laughing at my description you said with such sincerity, "I can make it a house you'll be proud of."

   You took that mud hut shack and made it into a villa, small to be sure but a real life villa. Thank-you. I cherish every moment I look on it and remember the love and care you gave to every nail, every two-by-four, every bucket of paint.

Tanaquil's Letter to Tarquinius

  Why I get second place no one has explained. But I am second. It has taken me some time to get my thoughts corralled. Lucumo was part of my life from that day I tumbled into his lap at the wrestling matches.
  Mother and Father had given me permission to go alone, without the supervision of the slave whose task was to keep me safe from or for something never explained to me.

   My letter to him who stole and held my heart.

   Lucumo, the day we entered the mud hut, mud mentality of that horrid village called Rome we agreed you would never again be Lucumo. Romans liked to think three impressive names was the way to go. That day you became  Lucius Tarquinius Priscus. We agreed you would never again be called Lucumo. But in my most vulnerable moments you always remained Lucumo, the Greek who never quite measured up to Etruscan standards. But you knew, and I knew you were destined to greatness. It was foretold by the eagle on Mount Janiculum; it was your drive, your vision, your ambition that made you what you were, that made Rome what she became.
   We entered that mud hut village. To the north the Etruscan alliance wielded great power. To the southeast Greek colonies thrived with no decline in sight. To the southwest Phoenicians ruled with little challenge. Rome, that mosquito infested land of backward thinking people was at the mercy of three powers, any one of which might one day control the whole area.
   But you set Rome on the road to greatness unequaled for so long, valued for even longer. You my dear unappreciated Greek alien were a nation builder. Julia, Cartimandua and Jewellee will, if asked, give testimony to your legacy. A legacy that has stretched from our time to Jewellee's.
   I cherish the day you stuck out your foot and toppled me into your life and into a life only princesses can dream of.

Letters to our Mates

   How does it happen that I, Julia, am coerced into writing the first letter to my dead husband? But I did agree. So here is my letter. First I had a serious decision to make. Since I was married three time, which husband would I address?

I decided.

Here is my choice and my letter.

To Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa
   We both know that few marriages in our age were born of love. The majority were negotiated for economic considerations - for the upper classes economic and political considerations. Never more so than in our marriage. On your part and mine.
   When I was married to Marcellus I was caught up in the passion of young love. I was so sure of my destiny. I would be the wife of the Emperor of Rome -- the First Lady of Rome. The first lady of Rome-- equal to or greater than my step mother, Livia. Marcellus was Augustus's nephew, and lacking other offspring he was destined to succeed him.
   But Marcellus died and with him my dreams. Until you. You were second only to  my father. Augustus may have inherited his position from his uncle Julius Caesar, but it was in great part your military and administrative genius along with your loyalty that catapulted him into the power he had. Therein lies our alliance.
   You needed a secure link to the imperial power. What better way that a marriage connection to Augustus? And who was available but me?
   What better chance did I have to achieve my dream of being First Lady than to be married to you? We met each other's political needs.
   Ours was a complicated relationship. You so much older -- my father's age. You were gone so often and for so long to far flung corners of the Empire. I was alone at home with the children. I, fun seeking, sexually adventurous and restless was not faithful to you. You knew. You, who unlike most other men were never unfaithful to me.
   But my dear Agrippa, amid my rashest moments I knew no one who so calmed my restless spirit, who checked my careless behavior. For all your gruffness-- and we both know you could be gruff-- you made me feel like a  woman, a wife, a mother. Your death was my downfall. Would that you had been allowed to live into real old age. I would have had a different destiny. I would not have have compelled my father to exile me. You may believe that of all the men in my life I truly loved you with a love that surpassed mere sexual passion.

Let's Get On With The Grief

   In the weeks and months following my husband's death I carefully kept at bay my classical friends. Julia, the spoiled emperor's daughter, Cartimandua, that wonderful Roman Celtic Queen and Tanaquil, the Etruscan wife of the fifth king of ancient Rome. But it was not to last.

   "If you're going to keep pushing us away because you're not handling your grief, then let's just do it, and do it right." Julia's school marm tone had no warmth, no sympathy.
   "Let her be," Tanaquil said. "It hasn't been that long."
   Julia's horse snort laugh left no doubt of her feeling. "For Juno's sake, Tanaquil, don't you remember how within minutes of Tarquin's death you were actively coniving to make your son-in-law, Servius, the new king? Did you stop to wallow in self pity?"
   "But that was different," Tanaquil said.
   "Ye Gods, give me a break. A dead husband is a dead husband whether he died in battle, from assassination or from some illness. Dead is dead. Now this grieving -- we all have to deal with it. So let's do it right. Let us each write a letter to our dead mates, bearing our minds and souls, stating our loves and pains."
   Cartimandua's words were short and chilly. "I would have welcomed Venutius's death. And Julia, if I may ask, which husband will you address? Or which of your lovers?"
   "I can handle my choice. Can you? Address your father. I remember you mourned his death. Or your chariot driver lover." Julia's voice grew softer. "It will help Jewellee."
   So we agreed. Each of us would write a letter to someone important to us-- who was no longer with us. Tanaquil and Carti demanded that Julia write the first letter. Then we follow in turn.
   Next time Julia's letter to -- we'll have to wait. Will it be Marcellus, her first love, or Agrippa the father of her five children or her father on whom she really did dote?

Mimosas and Butterflies

                                         Mimosas and Butterflies

                                     On my kitchen wall hangs
                                      a montage of nine photos
                                   Butterflies on mimosa blooms
                                          with poetic captions
                                  Produced by my just deceased mate
                            ' In mid August', he said, 'the blossoming mimosa
                                        flutters with butterflies'
                                                It's August now
                                The mimosa outside my kitchen window
                                       The mimosa he cherished 
                                          Flutters with butterflies
                                               

Do We Really Choose?

   'That standing pants tale.' Julia's piercing voice cut through the silence. 'Ladies, did you read that? How endearing. How many of us had such a romantically experience in deciding whom we would marry? Certainly not I-- not for any of my three marriages. I had very little, if at all any. As I am sure is the same with you.'
   'Not the case with me,' Tanaquil said. 'I chose my man, over the harsh objections of my family. With harsher warnings from the priests, and with the rejection of the whole Lydian population. Surely I have shared with you my meeting with Lucomo.'
   'Not that old story about falling into his lap at the games', Julia did not fall easily to arguments questioning her prejudices.
   'I too made my decisions,' Carti said. 'Jewellee has done a fine job describing it. There was that horrid interloper from a northern tribe. He came as a foster son to us. I hated him. At least I think I did. For the most part all the foster sons were bothersome. But then my cousin, Branwen, -- the vamp she was-- set her sights on him. It was disgusting and degrading how she threw herself at him. And he took notice. Oh did he take notice. But then how does a hot blooded man not react to over exposed breasts and endless flirting? I decided she would not have him. Don't let me go on and on. Read Jewellee's account.

        

                   FROM JEWELLEE'S ROMAN CELTIC QUEEN 

Cartimandua peered into her father's workroom.  King Orain, his back to the door, twisted the left side of his long mustache as he leaned forward to examine the sword on the wall. Presented to him by the king of the Parisi, who had extolled the hardness of the iron from which it was forged, it had  not yet been used.

"Is it true," Cartimandua once asked when she was but a child, "that the Parisi once lived where Vercingetorix did?" 

Orain had dropped the shield he was polishing. "Vercingetorix? What do you know of him? And how?"

She had shrugged; then she shrank under her father's piercing stare. "Somebody said it. Sometime."

"You amaze me, daughter." Smiling with obvious admiration he had added, "As far as I know the Parisi are no more related to Vercingetorix than you or I." Then he fell silent. She had never gotten around to asking him again. Someday  maybe.  Cartimandua watched her father, occupied with his thoughts. She bumped the stool near the door, toppling the basket of torcs to be presented to the young recruits at their next inspection parade. 

"Is 'not to be disturbed' an unclear order?"  Orain turned to see his daughter backing away from the door.  "Wait," he ordered and burst into laughter.

Finally he stopped laughing and dabbed at the tears running down his cheeks. "What do I see before me?  Can this really be my Sleek Pony?  And with properly braided hair and -- if I may say so -- a charming tunic, with as far as I can tell not a single grass stain.  And a shawl."

Cartimandua winced at the 'Sleek Pony'. Orain's eyes softened when she did not protest. "Well Cartimandua, what is so important that you need to interrupt me when you know I am at work and specifically asked not to be disturbed?  Or is it that you just wanted me to see you all decked out and were afraid you'd tire of maintaining your appearance until I'm done here." She reddened.  "Well what is it?"

"Father, I wish to marry."

His smile fell away.  "Marry? Did you really say marry?"  She nodded.

"I see.  You wish to marry.  And just whom, if I may ask, do you have in mind? Just whom do you wish to marry?"

"Venutius."

He shook his head while keeping his eyes on her. "Venutius?  The same Venutius you said you detest? The same Venutius you've done everything imaginable-- and some things quite unimaginable-- to irritate.  With the hope, I'm told, to have him go running back to the Carvetii?"

She lowered her head to avoid her father's stare. "Cartimandua, look at me.  You're seriously telling me you want to marry Venutius?"

She met her father's stare.  "Yes."

"And just when did you decide this?"

She shrugged.  "Just lately." She could not confess it was because her cousin wanted him.

"And does Venutius agree?"

"I don't know."

Orain crossed his arms across his chest.  "A permanent connection," he said, "with the Carvetii can only help the Brigantian Federation.  And young  Venutius is quite suitable, I would say. He is turning out to be a promising warrior, better than either of your brothers.  And if what I hear is true better than his brothers.  But are you serious?"  He smiled softly as he looked on face of his most promising child. "I rather imagined Venutius with someone like Mertha or Branwen.  I see the way he looks at them, especially Branwen."

Cartimandua's eyes twitched as she drew her lips tightly across her teeth. The King shook his head.  "As do you, I see.  Well, I'll take the matter under consideration. Now I have work to do."  He waved his hand to dismiss her.  "And Cartimandua, maybe you'd better find your young man and present yourself before you've lost your shawl and dirtied your tunic."

She heard his laughter as she left, but could not know the joy he felt. His chosen heir had made an entirely satisfactory proposal.

   'So,' Carti said. 'My father may have agreed, but it was I who made the choice So your highness, you are not so right this time.'  In a rare time of silence Julia sat sullen and withdrawn.