“Listen, Necktie, or whatever the fuck your name is, I’m sure you were a real hard ass in your day, but I’m going to do you a favor, even though you’ve been exceedingly rude to me. Lose this phone number. Lose it, forget you’ve ever dialed it, and don’t even dream about showing your face here or I’ll personally rip whatever balls you have clean off and feed them to you with a steak knife. Do you read me?” She was panting when she finished and her cheeks were crimson. Nobody messed with Blue in her own house.
After a long pause, the voice continued, unfazed, “Midnight. Table for one.” The connection was abruptly cut, and the hum of uncertainty buzzed in her ear. Blue looked ashen as the color faded from her cheeks, and she pasted a smile on her face for the trip through the dining room. She had to tell Achilles and Patroclus that there was an unwelcome guest on the way.
* * *
At just before eleven o’clock, our doorbell rang, and then a key began to tumble the lock. I bolted upright on the couch where I’d been drowsing with Gyro, but he didn’t as much as move an ear. Suma’s voice carried across the room through the dark—soft, worried, and scared.
“Ring, it’s me, Suma.” She stood unmoving. In the shadows her face was very pale.
“Come in, come in. Should I get the girls?” I was already retreating to the hall; I knew they would be needed. Good news never arrives late at night; at least it never has in my life. I opened Risa’s door and found her reading in bed with only her small lamp casting a weak circlet of light in the room. When she saw my face, she nodded and stood quickly, pulling a shirt on with short, economical motions. Risa doesn’t do hysteria.
“I’ll get Wally. Who is it?” she asked, tensely.
“Suma, and I don’t know.” I rubbed my eyes and let the adrenaline go to work. I willed myself to awareness and returned to the living room, where Suma still hung back near the door, rigid with fear. A quiet word, and a muffled question were all I heard before Wally and Risa joined us. Wally was already pulling her hair back and she seemed intensely alert. The atmosphere was crackling with unknowns.
“We need to get to Strata, Blue called and there is something coming. Someone coming, I mean, but she’s terrified and she said that whoever it is, they’re coming for Achilles and Patroclus.” There was awe in her voice at the simple possibility of a creature, no matter how powerful or ancient, thinking that those two were vulnerable. I felt the same way, but my mind began racing with visions of a demon, a god . . . anything. The entire idea was heresy to me, and it shook me at my core.
“Why are you here? Did they ask you to come, too?” I quizzed her as I began pulling my boots on and looking for a different shirt. If there was a fight, I meant to be in the middle no matter what Achilles might think. When she nodded, I asked, “For what?”
“To heal. Patroclus and I are going to be there to heal. Whatever it is, we both must be present.” She said, sick with worry. I imagined it was the same feeling emergency room doctors had waiting for victims to come through the door.
“Old ways and new ways,” Risa said, and in less than a minute we were gathering like a storm at the door, shaking with energy and anxious to leave. I took a long look at Gyro and waved him back. A high whine whistled through his nose, but he obeyed, lying close to the door. Both ears were perked and his eyes bored into us, tiny and glittering. With a deep, protesting growl, he resettled unhappily. Gyro’s obedience only went so far, and his keen canine senses told him that whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we stood inside the doorway of Strata, our collective excitement and tension ratcheting higher as the enormity of the night began to settle. Blue let us in and relocked the door. The first slap of reality came as I saw all tables and chairs were removed from the main dining area. A wide, clear space greeted us, unnatural in the place that we were used to seeing bustle with activity. There was no sound, and Suma silently went to the bar, where her medical kit lay open. I saw bandages and linens of some sort, and the ominous shadow of three Lactated Ringers’ solutions hanging from spaces that martini glasses normally occupied. The lights from the bar gleamed through the plastic bags filled with fluid, creating a gem-like dispersion of the gaudy beams. If we were forced to take intravenous fluids after this fight and Achilles was involved, then whatever was coming through those doors was something I had never seen, let alone envisioned defending my friend against. After seeing Achilles and Patroclus in action, I began to seriously wonder at what manner of beast we would face, but Risa’s hand on my shoulder brought me back to the moment and I shook my head violently to clear it and prepare for whatever craziness was to come. Blue stood fidgeting, a pistol tucked in the small of her back. She’d been instructed not to shoot under any circumstances, unless she needed to escape. Guns could not win this fight, and Achilles’ decision to engage the threat directly carried the weight of law with her; she respected him and Patroclus far too much to abrogate their will on the matter.
Patroclus walked out of the kitchen and his entire visage was grim, but woven with the steel of a man who has seen the very worst of warfare over three millennia. He carried tightly rolled calfskin that was slightly longer than my forearm, and went to the bar where he began to gently unroll the contents. From my vantage point, I could see medical tools that verged on art, and he began to inspect each element with a critical eye, finally holding up a needle that was a hand span in length and gleamed with a soft golden hue.
Suma said, “What is that?”
“Silver, and some other metals. Achilles’ skin is not like other men, and it requires something more specialized to stitch his wounds.” Patroclus’ baritone was softened with thought and worry. “Before I forget, you’ll need this. I won’t be using it; I can’t risk being injured this night. I need my hands uninjured in case something . . . unfortunate occurs.” He handed me a wicked knife with a plain steel blade and a black pommel. I twirled it twice, easily, and found the balance to be optimal. In truth, it was more a short sword than anything else, but so light I handled it with the ease of my years as a knife fighter.
“You’ll want two blades. Trust me,” Patroclus said earnestly.
I thanked him, and thought to interrogate him further about what could go wrong, but Delphine rounded the corner of the kitchen area, dressed in a simple cotton shift and free of jewelry or other adornments. Her mouth was a determined line, but she brightened at the sight of us.
Behind her walked Achilles, like a prize fighter on his way to the ring, but unlike any boxers I had ever seen, he was completely naked. He flexed his arms and even as he nodded politely, I sensed the focus within him. It was tangible, as if his will had a presence, and we all took the measure of the demi-god while I wondered just what the hell I thought I could do to help someone like him. He bulged with slabs of muscle and his entire motion was that of a death artist. He flowed as he walked to the front of the restaurant, and paused before the unique displays built into the wall. The stonework, all done by our tenant Angel, depicted a sort of path through time, beginning with fossils and ending with weapons and art. The collection was stunning and varied, and occupied small grottoes that acted as elegant shadow boxes bathed in discreet white light. He paused before one such nook, and withdrew his own personal xiphos, a sword of unparalleled quality and made in the classic Hellenic style. It was slightly longer than the normal type since it was clearly crafted with his arms in mind. The blade was free of decoration, and the hilt was that of a fighting weapon, not a museum piece. In his hand, it came to life, but he did not cease his equipping with the blade. He pushed through a false back wall in the recess where the sword had rested, and began to withdraw his armor. I instinctively knew that these items were genuine, and had been with Achilles since his time as a warrior began. Patroclus helped carry the armor, and Achilles went to the center of the room, bent to one knee, and began to pray.
I watched the demi-god beseech an unknown being for courage, and I felt my blood begi
n to rise with bravery that I had not known was present only a moment earlier. I rarely think before combat, it isn’t in my nature, I just act, but the next few minutes were a lesson in how the professional soldier prepares for his magnum opus. From a white ceramic bowl, Patroclus removed a wet towel of heavy cloth and wrung it partially dry. It steamed in the cool air of the restaurant, and Achilles washed his hands and face with exaggerated care. With a ritualistic slowness he handed the cloth to the open hands of Patroclus, who placed both towel and bowl gently to the side. I could smell a fragrance from the steam; there were herbs I did not recognize, and they filled my senses with earthy, bright muskiness that bespoke a kind of medicine that was very old, and intensely personal. Achilles stood utterly silent as Patroclus handed him heavy linen shorts that were clearly hand-stitched. Next, he placed greaves on his legs; they gleamed with the dull burnish of bronze, and were laced behind his massive calf muscles with leather thongs. One at a time, Achilles similarly laced bracers which covered the length of his forearm. I noticed that each of them was heavily scarred with bright patches from deflecting blows.
Each piece of armor shone lightly with oil, and Patroclus tested them all for a proper fit before glancing at his watch and announcing, “Fifteen minutes, and our guest will arrive.”
Quilted padding went under a chest piece of multiple sections that slid over Achilles’ shoulders, free of decoration as well, but still somehow artful in its simplicity. He twisted his arms to settle the armor and then said, “Shield.”
What Patroclus placed in his hand was beyond my comprehension. The circle of metal was only nominally armor; to call it treasure was more truthful. In concentric rings, the entirety of man came to life in etchings of lurid color that leapt from the metal. Field and hall, cities and beasts and the art of war all charged to life in rings that grew ever more detailed until the final interior shape of the sun was chased entirely in gold, its rays reaching out to the hammered edge of the disc. Each line terminated in a symbol of the gods, and at the ray that was directed upwards, the unmistakable silhouette of Patroclus’ handsome face gazed serenely upon the battlefield. It was an heirloom from the heavens, and it rested on the burly arm of a soldier who would defend people he owed nothing to from something he knew nothing of. I began to truly understand the concept of honor watching the man prepare, and had a brief, but deep, crisis of conscience, vowing that whatever happened, I was going to fight alongside Achilles until I could no longer stand. In his other hand, he picked up the magnificent sword, and took a practice cut. The air whistled in avoidance with his vigor. Achilles and I waited in the room’s center, with the rest of our party behind the bar, but well-armed and, given the circumstances, in fine fettle.
I chose then and there to stand with him, and Risa and Wally sprang into action. “You have your trench knives?” They both brandished the vicious weapons, heavy blades with handles crafted specifically for the blood fields of World War I, and I knew that for our part, we were ready.
Delphine waved a heavy ivory and wood stick over her head and said, “Perhaps I can use this as well. I’ve so wanted to do something violent, and this evening seems like the perfect time.”
“What is that thing?” I asked, as Suma mirrored my question.
“This?” Delphine looked puzzled. “Oh, correct, you wouldn’t have used something of this sort. It’s a bathing stick. It separates in the middle, like so,” and she split the long object into two sections, both of which looked useful for swinging at someone’s head. “It’s used to clean men up after battle, and on the occasions that they were rude to a working girl, it was used to adjust their attitude. It’s been with me for quite some time, but I’ve always had staff for such unpleasant interactions.” She finished with a genial shrug and went over to the bar area. It seemed that everyone was prepared. Or so we thought.
Patroclus announced, “We are going to kill a would-be god tonight. He is a coward and a failure, but he will doubtless be lethally dangerous.”
“Who is it?” Wally asked, impetuously.
Blue prepared to answer, but Achilles raised a hand, gently asking for her silence. “Allow me, please. I can be more descriptive, as our history with Nectanebo begins six centuries ago. His history begins long before that. You see, Nectanebo was a supposed pharaoh of Egypt, as you would call it today, but in his time as the god-ruler of Kemet, he was a fool. He allowed his army to be overrun with mercenaries and let control of those men slip from his hands. Leader? Bah!” He spat and frowned in disgust.
“No true king gives dominion over his own lands to another nation’s soldiers, regardless of how grim the odds. When Nectanebo retreated to Memphis in the year 344 B.C., he left the Nile herself open as a tavern whore’s legs. No offense intended, my lady, I should learn to speak more mannerly.” He offered an apology to Delphine, who merely grinned.
“None taken. I was a tavern whore for the better part of a century.” She smiled coquettishly and bade him continue.
“As I was saying, before my unfortunate slip of the tongue”—he winked at Delphine—“the Persian navy sailed in without so much as an open handed slap, which was far from the spirited defense that an empire as old as Kemet—what Egypt was called then—truly deserved. Then, the brave pharaoh continued the poor account of himself, choosing to direct from the rear like a figurehead when his own land and people were exposed to the boot of the Persians. Oh, I know who comes this night, and I do not fear him one bit.”
“I don’t understand, did you fight this Nectanebo at Memphis?” I asked. “Is he a dragon, as he believes, or just deluded?”
Achilles sneered, that perfect look of disdain cultivated by officers from every military force in history. It is the derision of an eagle, imperious and cold, and he directed it at me as he said, “No. I did not meet the man there. I met him—”
The door swung open at midnight exactly and a ringing baritone called out, “I have come.”
Standing before us seconds later was a broad, muscular man who was short, olive skinned, and kitted entirely in the armor of an Egyptian king. Intelligent black eyes framed a long, hawkish nose. A cruel mouth was pulled sardonically to one side, and dominated a weak chin from which a small beard pointed down. His neck was heavily muscled like a wrestler’s and spread into a broad back that ended in a narrow waist. Legs like stone columns jutted from his leather tunic, which was adorned with bronze scales in a rowed, overlapping pattern. Huge arms breached the sides of the armor, and when he moved, the metallic layers enhanced a reptilian quality in the man. His proud head bore an ancient war crown of vivid cobalt blue. The Khepresh, sitting low on his brow, was embossed with a poised cobra whose eyes were glittering red gems. They pulsed faintly as he stood eyeing us with majestic disregard. Wrist guards of bronze and lapis lazuli bound his arms, and in each capable hand he carried a single-headed war axe of wicked beaked construction. The handles were compound ivory and a wood of such intense black hue it verged into blue tones. At the end of each, a knob of silver was scored with barbed teeth. The entirety of each weapon was designed to kill, not merely the bladed head. He wore simple sandals wrapped tightly around his legs, and nothing else, save the armor, weapons, and crown. Everything he carried was meant for war. With swaggering steps, he pushed further into the room, and then stopped with a martial finality.
Pursing his lips in distaste, he evaluated everyone in the room in turn. His eyes lingered on Wally and Risa, he frowned slightly at Suma, but he saved a hot flush of anger for Patroclus, letting it fade as his eyes completed their circuit at Achilles. I stepped slightly forward, leaving twenty feet between Nectanebo and me, with Achilles on my left. In my periphery, I saw Wally and Risa begin to sidle toward the door in what was an ill-advised but brave flanking maneuver. With the slightest shake of my head, I disabused them of that notion, not of fear for their health, but because the entire situation was still too new to fully understand. They stopped, but stayed several steps apart, well outside the service area where Suma
and Blue hovered. Patroclus had his hands discreetly beneath the bar and wore a blank expression. I could determine nothing of his thoughts or mood, and even when I looked directly at him, his eyes didn’t even flicker.
Nectanebo spoke, “I laud your ability to instill such dedication amongst your staff, Achilles. Good help is rather difficult to find in such a crass era, but you’ve acquitted yourself admirably, although having a houseboy is somewhat of a requirement in your culture, isn’t it?” He let his eyes slide from Patroclus back to Achilles, who remained deadly still despite the slur.
I smiled. Joking was a sign of fear, even among someone who fancied himself a god. It was a flaw he could not mask, and I laughed, drawing his attention to me.
“You think my vengeance is comical?” Nectanebo’s voice oozed disbelief.
“No, I think everything about you is amateur. You look good with the weapons, but you talk too much and if you were really here to correct some bullshit imaginary insult, you would have come through that door swinging instead of acting like a second-rate thug. You’re all hat, no cattle, as my friend Blue would say. I think you’re a fucking joke.” I winked at him, not because I felt particularly invincible, but I was standing next to Achilles in full battle rattle. Who wouldn’t feel a little cocky?
“Imaginary insult?” The former ruler sneered openly at me, and then focused eyes filled with hate at Achilles. “When you and your sheep fuckers decided to intercede in my affairs, I was set back decades, if not centuries in my path to ascension. Years of drinking fermented mare’s milk and spending entire seasons on horseback just to sway the favor of those putrid little Huns, and in one action, you rendered my credibility with them inert. I spent a near eternity clawing my way from the detritus of what your miraculous victory left behind, and I have built a tower of bones that led me to this very point, where your skull will serve as the last step to godhood. When I’m done with you”—he looked meaningfully at all of us—“I think I shall have a docile staff in place. Yes, very docile indeed, with proper encouragement, of course.” He smiled at us with a death’s head grin, and I heard Suma gasp slightly. Blue muttered something about a grandstanding cocksucker under her breath. You can always count on a Texan to put a bow on things.
Box Set: The Fearless 1-3 Page 72