“How many more carry these things within their blood?”
“I believe I am the last of those who became cursed in Jerusalem,” Quintus said. “But now, the Syrian tells me, the blight spreads like a plague through the streets of Rome. I have seen new faces at the Temple of Iald-T’quthoth—the faces of Rome’s own citizenry, newly brought into the fold.”
“There must be a way to stop this scourge,” Remistus, an uncharacteristic dread assailing him. “This Syrian must know of a means to put an end to it.”
“The high priest must be captured and killed,” Quintus said. “More importantly, that which has lodged itself within him must be destroyed.”
“Then that is what must be done,” Remistus said. “I can have any number of soldiers ready at a moment’s notice. All you have to do is tell me where to find this high priest.”
“The identity of the high priest is a well-guarded secret,” Quintus said. “When he appears, his face is completely covered by a hood drawn over his head—an extension of the long, scarlet robes he wears. When the time comes to receive the sacrifice, the victim is brought before him and placed upon the altar.” Quintus winced. Inside of him, the things had begun to reassert their authority. In little time, he would once more become their pawn and his ability to reveal any more details would be thwarted. “It is upon that stone the men’s guts are ruptured. It is there that they offer up their innards to satisfy the appetite of the thing that dwells within the high priest.”
“Caius’ body was found along the banks of the Teverone, not far from where it joins the Tiber,” Remistus said. “Most of the others were found in the same vicinity. Is the Temple of Iald-T’quthoth in that area?”
“It lies within a crypt beneath an old farmhouse between Via Ficulensis and Via Salaria,” Quintus said, his hands clasped and knuckles white. His head throbbed with spiraling pain. “Wait…for the next new moon. It will call for me. Find it…destroy it.”
Quintus staggered off without uttering another word. Remistus thought about having his servants restrain the man, to keep him from wandering throughout the city waiting for the eve of his own death. Fearful that he might somehow suffer the same fate by association, the physician watched helplessly as the former soldier disappeared into the streets of Rome.
***
“I expected a visitor,” the Syrian said, his hand swatting futilely a cloud of swarming flies haunting the stables. “I sent him off to find some suitable counselor. It seems he choose wisely.”
“Tell me what you know of this Temple of Iald-T’quthoth.” It had taken Remistus three weeks to locate the Syrian slave. A new moon would soon rise into the dusky night sky and poor Quintus would be obliged to become the next victim in this cycle of ritual slaughter. “Why do these cultists commit such heinous acts?”
“These are no common cultists.” The bronzed old mule driver chuckled as he swept the stalls. “Before I was sold to the family who owns this villa, I saw a great many things—from the monuments that bake beneath the desert sun in the land of the pharaohs to lost Irem, City of a Thousand Pillars. In all of the world, there is no band of cultists like those of the Temple of Iald-T’quthoth. Do you know why that is, good sir?”
“No. Tell me.”
“Because these devotees worship without consent,” the Syrian said. “Not one is in control of his faculties—not even the high priest. They are bound to an entity by compulsion and unable to quit their allegiance.”
“The thing that lives within the high priest must control the other parasites,” Remistus said. That much, he had deduced for himself. “What must be done to eradicate it?”
“You are surgeon, I presume,” the Syrian asked. “First, extract it. When you have it in view, kill it as you would any beast—but be quick about it, or it will fly off to find a new host.” The slave paused, eyeing Remistus with a look of ineffable contempt. “Damn Romans and your thirst for conquest. You will unsettle one nest of vipers too many someday, and the consequences will endanger all civilization.”
Remistus wanted to contest the man’s assertion but could find no plausible rebuttal. Speechless, he turned to leave.
“Physician: Remember to have a skull borer on hand when you confront the high priest,” the Syrian shouted. Tapping his head with a gnarled finger, he added “It lives in his skull.”
III.
En Route to the Sabine Territories, 81 A.D.
“When [Titus] landed, the gnat came and entered his nose, and it knocked against his brain for seven years.”
—Babylonian Talmud: Gittin 56
Demas had assembled a small contingent of soldiers. They donned cloaks to conceal their identities and, in the darkness, they waited for his orders.
His scouts had located the Temple of Iald-T’quthoth days after Remistus described what Quintus had revealed to him. They found the abandoned farmhouse not far off Via Salaria on the route to the Sabine Territories. Sentries had been posted and kept watch over the grounds day and night. Not a single person visited the hidden temple in the ensuing weeks.
In Rome, word of Caius’ death spread sluggishly through social channels. The chatter of commoners gradually found sympathetic ears amongst a handful of Titus’ staunch opponents. Even Domitian—who was rumored to envy his brother’s power—denounced the sluggishness of an official response…though it was Domitian who had hindered it in the first place.
Mercifully, the Inaugural Games had finally concluded. On the final day, according to various accounts, Titus wept openly in the amphitheater.
“You seem troubled, Demas.” Remistus fidgeted in his robes. The garments provided little warmth and the cold night air stung tediously. “Leading this mission will surely bring you a commendation from Domitian. Your service may even win praise from the Emperor.”
“This night will restore peace to Rome,” Demas said. “I am afraid that it will be less auspicious for the rest of us.”
“Your lack of confidence is not reassuring. I hope you withheld your reservations from your troops.”
“These men know their duty,” Demas said coldly. “They will act accordingly. I hope you will do the same.”
Not long after this exchange, the first cultists arrived. Shambling out of the night like somnambulant nomads, they entered the farmhouse and descended into darkness. Following their appearance, a ruddy glow materialized, emanating from within the clandestine crypt. The new moon made its debut at the same moment, the clouds that had kept it concealed finally swept aside by propitious zephyrs.
As the worshippers continued to emerge from the darkness, Demas tapped his soldiers—two at a time—to infiltrate the group.
Though the darkness remained nearly impenetrable, Remistus caught sight of an unmistakable figure slogging toward the farmhouse. He nudged Demas with an elbow and pointed toward the seemingly intoxicated Quintus, plunging headlong toward his death.
“We should go,” Remistus whispered. “It would be better to attack before it has an opportunity to feed.”
Demas nodded in agreement and the two men followed Quintus into the hypogeum.
Candles illuminated the interior of the Temple of Iald-T’quthoth. A winding corridor gradually sloped downward, leading to the inmost chambers of the complex. At length, they arrived at the spelaeum. This long, narrow chamber featured raised benches along the side walls where cultists would gather to witness the ghastly ritual meal.
Quintus had already taken up residence on the stone altar when a lone figure fully cloaked in scarlet robes entered the chamber. Unlike the others, his face remained concealed. Unlike the others, he proceeded with a single-mindedness of purpose. He was driven and determined, focused and unwavering.
The high priest hovered over his intended victim for a moment, his hands gliding over the edge of the sacrificial stone. Remistus had positioned himself directly to one side of the altar, his back to the wall of the spelaeum. Opposite him, Demas waited patiently. Neither man wanted to act prematurely.
&nbs
p; When the thing that dwelled within the high priest began to feed, both men froze in terror at what they beheld.
First, a pair of tapered appendages appeared from beneath the high priest’s hood, each tipped with a knife-like projection that resembled a curved dagger. These reedy, black limbs looked like something that would be found on some exotic insect. The sharp extremities simultaneously pierced Quintus’ abdomen, carving out a sizable portion of flesh and muscle which the thing quickly tossed to the floor.
When its limbs had been retracted, the thing’s ravenous maw appeared. Its head rested on the end of a serpentine stalk. As it began to feast, an array of feelers and tentacles followed it into the gaping wound, helping to extract every bit of viscera. It slobbered hungrily, tearing at the entrails and savoring every morsel.
Demas never issued a command. He acted on instinct, and his loyal troops intuitively followed. He hacked off the beast’s head as it greedily gobbled Quintus’ innards. What remained of its snake-like trunk quickly withdrew back into the high priest’s mouth.
At the same moment, Demas troops made quick work of the remaining cultists, cutting them down mercilessly. The floor of the chamber quickly grew slick with blood.
Remistus—who lacked the reflex of a soldier—was slowest to react. He swallowed the fear that temporarily immobilized him and approached the altar where Demas had restrained the high priest. The soldier was barking commands now, trying to prod the physician to work more speedily. Remistus heard not a single word. He focused only on the face of the man before him, his eyes glassy and unresponsive, his mouth caked with blood.
“Do it, Remistus!” Demas glared at him with a mix of sorrow and disgust.
Remistus placed the instrument upon the head of Emperor Titus and burrowed into his skull.
Almost immediately, Titus’ head exploded and the wounded creature within struggled to liberate itself. It extended countless, flailing members—more than a few possessing those dagger-like tips. It spread horrid, black wings and squirmed against its former host with writhing tentacles.
Demas hacked it with his sword until it stopped its wretched squirming and writhing and twitching and gurgling.
In the silence that followed, the survivors of the massacre heard an unexpected voice.
“In my sleep, I see things that cannot be—things that no reasonable man could ever envision in his most lurid nocturnal reveries.” Slumped against the sacrificial altar, Titus spoke his final words, though the upper part of his skull had been obliterated and large portions of his brain spilled over the cusp of his wound. “Scattered throughout this empire are unseen enclaves that meet in secret sanctuaries to worship gods deemed ancient when this world was nothing but a lifeless, hot cinder with oceans of molten rock. These entities are undying and incomprehensible, their influence on the universe so profound it is undetectable. Such gods may, upon a whim, disembowel the very heavens of its host of stars and render the cosmos a dark, sorrowful abyss.”
Titus shuddered as death claimed him.
“I have made but one mistake,” he muttered with his final breath. “It is the mistake all men of power are doomed to repeat. The world will suffer endlessly for our ignorance and vanity.”
The Seven Thunders
by Robert M. Price
Apollonius of Tyana had entered Ephesus to teach and to heal. Apollonius taught the precepts of the great Pythagoras, and indeed some deemed him the very reincarnation of that worthy, while others hailed him as the son of Proteus, as Pythagoras had been the son of Apollo.
A weary-looking woman came to him, dragging a pallet on which lay her son. “O master, I brought to you my poor son, who has never been able to walk. I love him and carry him, but I grow old and tired, and I fear I cannot carry him much longer. Have mercy on us, son of Proteus.” Withal, she lowered her eyes before him.
The sage closed his eyes for a moment, then replied, saying, “What if the cost for the cure you seek were for you to take his infirmity for your own? Would it be worth it to you?”
Without hesitation, she answered, “In truth, it would, O lord. I am ready!”
Apollonius said, “O mother, great is your devotion! You have already paid the price.” He stooped by the side of the young man and whispered some words in his ear. The man shuddered as if with sudden cold. And at once he climbed easily to his feet. His mother wept for joy as the two walked away, this time with her leaning upon him as they went. The crowd gasped, then rejoiced with much shouting.
The wonder-worker went on from there, and his disciple Damis accompanied him. The two came upon a well where a man was beating his slave for some perceived disobedience. Damis flinched as if he had received the blows in his own flesh. Would his master intervene?
Apollonius knelt on the ground and gathered a pile of pebbles and withered leaves, holding them in a fold of his robes. Then he approached the two men, both of whom turned to face him.
“Sir, I would purchase this slave from you. Would this sum suffice?”
Looking at what the sage held out to him, the slave-owner’s eyes widened, and he said, “Most certainly, my good man! Here, let me record the transaction, and you may keep the note as a bill of sale.”
Damis looked on in bafflement as the man cradled the trash Apollonius had traded for the silent slave. As the man strode off with his newfound “wealth,” Damis gazed at his master, his expression asking his question for him.
“This man has eyes but for gold. He can see nothing else. And so in this case, though when he reaches his home, things may look different to him. And if he is fortunate, he will come to realize that gold is of no more value than what I gave him. As for you, my friend,” and here he turned to the waiting slave, “you may go your way, henceforth in servitude only to your own conscience.”
Apollonius the sage did numerous such feats wherever he and Damis journeyed, but Damis urged him to conceal himself, for it was rumored that the Emperor Domitian was looking to slay him. But he continued undeterred. At Hierapolis, he was met by an embassy of men carrying torches and swords. They recognized him and beseeched him, “O son of the gods, our city is beset by violent men. They murder without reason or goal, like wild bears. Our streets run with blood.”
He considered their words, then asked, “Are these men native to your city? And are they led by a single man?”
“They are men of the city, and known to us, but there is no mob. Each acts alone, and in turn. Another arises as soon as the last is slain!”
“Then it is a demon with whom you deal. He casts off one body for another, as a man changes his tunic. I see you are pursuing him now. Permit me to join you.”
The group passed down street after street until they found their quarry at the end of a blind alley. He had none of the look of a cornered beast. Instead, he looked as if he were waiting for them. The torchbearers paused to see what Apollonius would do.
He stepped calmly toward the murderer, foolishly endangering himself, as it seemed to the witnesses.
“Come out of him, unclean spirit, I adjure you by the sacred numbers 153 and 888, and enter none other in this city!”
At this command, the demoniac sank to his knees and began to writhe and to cry out. The words were punctuated by the sounds of crackling flames, though none were to be seen. The possessed man collapsed in a heap, and the echoing voice of the demon, now seeming to come from no single source, spoke: “I gladly depart, for I must prepare for the triumph to come! The coming of Leviathan who sleeps in his house at R’lyeh!” There was no more.
The sage graciously refused the reward offered him by the city, accepting only the price of passage from the Asian mainland to his next destination, the Isle of Patmos.
On board ship, Damis waited till his mentor had finished his daily meditation, then asked, “Master, are you now heeding my urgings to hide yourself from the Emperor?”
“I am not, my friend, for he cannot harm me. But there is great danger ahead, and not just for us. We go now to inquire
of an old friend of mine. It has been many years, and he may not recognize me. But I think he will not turn us away. In this form, I cannot see certain things that he can. I believe he can be of great assistance to us.”
***
They had no trouble finding the aged seer. The island was home to two major concerns. One was a tin mine, the other a penal colony. The Roman overseers pressed the prisoners into service in the mine, at least the able-bodied ones. The man the visitors sought was under house arrest adjacent to the main prison. He had arrived on Patmos to preach his doctrine to the prisoners. The Romans would not tolerate this and imprisoned him. But he was so old and frail that they decided to treat him gently. Some said he had recruited a few secret believers among the guards, and they allowed their mentor special privileges, such as writing materials. They would bring him letters from the mainland congregations over which he presided, and pass his own epistles to the messengers who awaited them outside the prison.
The guard to whom Apollonius and Damis were directed turned out to be one of those friendly to the man they sought, and he led them to a small, spare cell. The furnishings consisted of little more than a straw pad and a crude chair and writing table apparently fashioned from a shipping crate. The old man slowly rose and gestured welcome. “Who are you, my friends?”
“Damis, this is the Elder John, or John the Revelator. He possesses great prophetic gifts.”
“You are well met, friend Damis! And who may you be, sir?”
“I must confess to being Apollonius, from Tyana. Some consider me a sage. But it is your wisdom we seek.” Withal, he bade John return to his chair, while he and Damis happily sat cross-legged on the floor. The Elder listened with rising interest as Apollonius recounted the recent episode of the demoniac and his ominous parting words.
Tales of Cthulhu Invictus Page 13