Dei Ex Machina

by Kim Fielding

  “Mama says do not be afraid of Sabbio. He cannot harm you.”

  The laugh that escaped Mason’s throat sounded slightly hysterical. “Fear isn’t the problem.” And then he told them what had happened. He kept it G-rated but couldn’t stop an embarrassed blush, and he was fairly certain the Lulićes knew his dreams were a lot more NSFW than he was letting on. But neither Viktor nor his mother seemed shocked or upset by his story.

  When he was done, Mrs. Lulić patted him and said something in Croatian.

  “You like this Sabbio,” Viktor said, his brow furrowed with concern.

  “Yeah. He’s… I can’t really explain it. Ever since he first appeared, even before I saw him, I was drawn to him. And he’s sweet, and so lonely, and I keep thinking how great it would be to….” He bit his lip instead of continuing.

  But after hearing the translation, Mrs. Lulić smiled at him and gestured for him to continue, so he did.

  “I want to make him stop being lonely. I want to take him to California and let him build a portico for my house, and I want to hear all about what he’s experienced over the centuries, and I want… I want to hold him in my arms every day.” Which would be stupid even if Sabbio was real and alive, because Mason barely knew him. But it was true nonetheless. And he admitted the dumbest part. “I don’t think I even believe in him, but I’m kind of falling for him anyway.”

  Mrs. Lulić gave him a long look before asking a question.

  “What would prove to you that he was real?” Viktor translated.

  “I don’t know. I have bruises from his fingers, but… I guess if he was there while I was awake, and if other people could see him too.”

  “And then what would you do with him?”

  “I couldn’t just leave him here. I’d want to find a way to bring him home.”

  Viktor and his mother chatted for a moment or two. It sounded to Mason as if she was trying to convince her son of something. Finally, Viktor shrugged and turned to Mason.

  “Are you Catholic?”

  “Nope. Dad’s Jewish. Mom is crystals and incense and New Age. I’m undeclared.”

  “We are Catholic,” Viktor said with a small grin. No surprise; about ninety percent of Croatians shared that faith. “But this land has room for other religions too. You can visit museums and see that people lived here thousands of years. In Krapina—to north, yes?—they find bones of, er, Neandertal. In cave. And also, Mama say priests do not always know truth.”

  Mason didn’t understand the twist their conversation had taken. He ate a cookie and sipped his tea, then hazarded a question. “Does she know how to help me?”

  “Not… exactly. But she thinks maybe this is problem for older times. Older gods. You should ask them.”

  “Like…. Jupiter?” Mason found it much easier to believe in Roman ghosts than thunderbolt-throwing deities.

  “It is all…. Ah, I cannot say this in English. I do not know how to explain. If you believe one thing strong enough, maybe that thing is true for you.” Viktor ran fingers through his shorn hair. “Once I was only mechanic for trains. Is good job, important, but not where my heart wants to be. Ivana, she said save money and learn English and you will have job you love. She told me this even when she was very sick. She told me so many times, I listened. And now it is almost true.”

  There was a difference, Mason thought, between having optimistic career goals and sacrificing goats to Apollo. And there was sure as hell a difference between playing tour guide and bringing a ghost back to life.

  Perhaps seeing his skepticism, Mrs. Lulić said something gently. Mason looked expectantly at Viktor, who was smiling.

  “Mama says maybe fate brings Sabbio to you. If this is fate, things will work some way.” Vague consolation at best, yet the words brought some peace to Mason’s unsettled mind.

  One time over dinner, Carl and Pete had gotten into a friendly argument over fate versus free will, with Carl coming down on the side of destiny. A lot of the discussion had been over Mason’s head—of the three of them, he didn’t have a doctorate tucked away anywhere—but he’d enjoyed the banter anyway, and he and Doug had traded amused looks over their partners’ enthusiasm.

  If destiny was true, maybe fate had led Carl to go off in search of a library book just as a mentally unstable and well-armed young man was making his way to the quad. And if that was true, the same winds might have made Adam suggest a trip to Europe, made Doug ask for a stop in Split, and brought Mason to a café on the Riva, where Viktor overheard him mourn.

  It was enough to make his head hurt.

  “I have to think about this,” he said quietly.

  Nobody disagreed with him. Mrs. Lulić fed him more cookies and told a few stories about some of the enterprising ways she and her family had acquired goods during the socialist era. Viktor gave more tourism tips. “Go to Istria,” he counseled. “Is like Italy, but better.” And before Mason left, he was given a jar of homemade ajvar relish, a packet of dried figs, and a lot of well wishes. Mrs. Lulić kissed him once on each cheek.

  Back on the street, Viktor shook his hand. “Come back. Even if you do not find your ghost, come back. World is very big place with many things to see, but at end, all best things are here in Dalmatia.”

  Mason was inclined to agree.

  With the figs in his pocket and the jar cradled in his hand, Mason walked to the palace and wandered its streets. He paused in the peristyle. Diocletian was buried there, and although he’d once slaughtered Christians, they’d had the last word, building a cathedral right over his final resting place.

  Mason found a quiet spot nearby and sat on some worn limestone steps, the sun warm on his face and a few lizards skittering nearby. He liked lizards. He often saw them on his fence at home. Maybe if he placed some flagstones near the arbor, they’d come closer to the house to sun themselves.

  “All right,” he murmured quietly. He looked around to make sure nobody was near enough to hear the crazy American talking to himself. He pressed his fingers to his shoulder and felt the fading ache of the bruises. “Sabbio is real. A figment could never hurt my heart like this.” Yes. That was the truth. And if a Roman ghost was real, why not Roman gods?

  He whispered. “I don’t speak Latin, but I guess deities can manage English. Look, if you’re there, please. Help Sabbio. He’s suffered far too long. Give him a body or give him peace—just don’t make him be alone anymore. I don’t… I don’t know what would please you. I don’t even know who I’m talking to. The Fates? Just… please.”

  He had no more words. With a deep sigh, he stood and made his way back to the apartment. It was time to pack—they’d be leaving for Vienna early in the morning.

  9

  The ghost watched as Mason put his things into suitcases. Mason couldn’t see him, although he kept looking nervously over his shoulder as he worked. It hurt Sabbio to be unable to touch him or speak to him, especially because he wanted to thank Mason for giving him so much. When Mason fell asleep, Sabbio found himself unable to enter his dreams. Perhaps that was just as well; Sabbio had tormented him enough already.

  But in the morning, it was Sabbio who was tormented as Mason packed up the last of his belongings and looked around the bedroom. “I’ll miss you,” he whispered.

  “I will think of you,” Sabbio replied. But of course Mason didn’t hear.

  Shortly afterward, Mason and his companions left the apartment. Their suitcases bumped along the stone street until they left the pedestrian zone and piled into a waiting taxi van. Mason was looking out the window as they pulled away. Even though he obviously couldn’t see Sabbio, Mason gave a small wave.

  Seventeen hundred years ago, when a youthful Sabbio was taken from his home in chains, he’d learned that crying was useless. But now he floated to the top of the palace walls, faced the sea, and sobbed. This time when he fell into the pit, the emptiness was almost welcome.

  He stayed in the nothingness longer than usual. It didn’t seem worth the effort to
fight his way out. Sometimes wispy memories floated by—a gentle touch on his skin, a kind voice in his ear—but he didn’t try to claim them. Those memories were no more alive than he was.

  Eventually, though, he grew afraid that if he stayed in the pit much longer, he’d never find his way out again. And even viewing the world as a perpetual observer was better than viewing nothing at all. Slowly and laboriously, like Sisyphus rolling the stone uphill, Sabbio climbed up and out.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed, and it didn’t really matter. It had been early summer when he met Mason, and although he couldn’t feel the chill, the light jackets and earlier sunsets told him autumn had arrived. Perhaps it was the same year, or perhaps not.

  Sabbio spent the daytime hours atop the palace walls, watching the boats come and go. Or he wandered the Riva, eavesdropping on conversations in many languages. Sometimes he descended to the vaulted rooms of the palace cellars. He would inspect the stonework—still sturdy—and wonder which ones he had set.

  Ghosts didn’t sleep and couldn’t dream, so at night he huddled in the darkness near the greenmarket, waiting for the merchants to make their predawn appearances. He liked watching them set up their booths, and he wondered what their fruits and vegetables tasted like.

  One afternoon when the ache threatened to consume him, he floated to the apartment where the woman had called in Latin. She sat at her kitchen table with coffee and a book, but looked up as he entered. She wasn’t alarmed, only curious.

  “Who is it?” she asked in Croatian. Her gaze didn’t focus on Sabbio, which meant she couldn’t see him. But she listened.

  “Sabbio. I was here once—”

  “I remember.” She smiled warmly. “Are you well?”

  The question confounded him. “I’m dead.”

  Her laughter was kind. “I know. But you still feel.”

  He did, and that was both a blessing and a curse. He crossed the room and perched on the chair across from her, pretending he’d been invited for tea and sweets and soon they might chat about the weather or complain about politicians, just as he’d heard so many people do over the centuries.

  “I’m lonely,” he admitted.

  “I know. And not for an old lady’s company.”

  “You’re not old. And you’re very beautiful.”

  “And you are a flatterer. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, dear, and visit often. But it’s not me you’re pining for, is it?”

  He didn’t answer, which made her frown.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “He came to see me before he left Split. Your American man. Did you know that?”

  “No,” Sabbio said, surprised. “Was he angry that I’d come when he wanted his husband?”

  “No, dear. He’s at peace with losing his husband. He came to talk about you. He hoped I knew some way to prove you were real. He wanted to find a way to help. He cares a great deal about you.”

  Sabbio opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure of what to say. He’d felt so close to Mason during those dreams, but he’d been sure it was only due to his own desperation and Mason’s grief. He hadn’t expected Mason to spare him much thought once he awakened.

  “Sabbio?” Mrs. Lulić asked.

  “Sorry. I….” He tried to collect himself. “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing very useful, I’m afraid. I said perhaps the Fates had brought you together. I suggested he….” She shrugged. “Faith. Sometimes it can work miracles.”

  “Faith in what?”

  “Yourself. And love.” She said it first in Croatian, then in Latin, as if wanting to make sure he understood.

  He had to steer the conversation away from Mason at that point because he was too overwhelmed. So he asked her about herself and her family, and she asked him about his life, and they had a very pleasant chat. But the hour grew late, and he knew she had things to attend to.

  “Thank you,” he said as he moved toward the door.

  “You can stay.”

  “I won’t haunt you. You have grandchildren to spoil.” He had a small, unexpected pang of loss. He would have liked to have had children, grandchildren. A family.

  “I meant what I said before, Sabbio. You’re welcome here anytime. I like your company.”

  That made him smile. “Thank you,” he said again before leaving.

  The next morning he skulked around the peristyle, considering her advice. A klapa group stood near the cathedral, singing about grapevines while tourists snapped photos. Sabbio listened to them for a while. He liked music. It was one of the constants of human beings. Even slaves had used music to lighten their burdens a little. Every spring, Sabbio and several of his fellow stonemasons would save a bit of their meager rations to make an offering to Minerva, and they’d sing in her honor.

  Offerings to the gods. But which gods would Sabbio entreat? Gods of death? Fate? Love? They hadn’t listened to him when he was alive, so why would they heed him now?

  Still, he found a quiet place near the cathedral and looked up to the sky. “I have no offerings for you,” he said, spreading his arms. “I had little when I was alive, and I possess not even a body now. But please, hear me. Grant me peace. Or… love. Just a little. Please.”

  Nobody answered—but then, he hadn’t expected a response.

  A few days later, Sabbio floated around the old part of the city, thinking about paying Mrs. Lulić a visit. Knowing that someone nearby could speak with him was a big temptation. And she’d said he was welcome. But maybe she was just being polite. He’d wait a few weeks longer, just in case.

  He made his way to Narodni trg—People’s Square—where the locals had whiled away the hours since the fourteenth century. It was an even better place than the Riva for listening in on conversations. Today he smiled at a young man who was trying to convince a girl to go dancing with him that night instead of attending a family function. She was going to say yes eventually, Sabbio thought, but not until she’d made the boy plead. Sabbio moved on to an old couple bickering over whether to replace their bedroom curtains, then to some mothers cooing over their babies.

  After a while, listening without being heard and watching without being seen became too painful. He was about to leave for his usual spot high atop the palace when he spied two people sitting at a table nearly hidden behind a wall. One was a beautiful woman with an ample bust and cascades of chestnut-colored hair, and the other was an equally beautiful youth. He had raven hair and mournful brown eyes. They were both looking at Sabbio.

  Sabbio’s first impulse was to disappear. But he couldn’t make himself move; he seemed made of the stone he’d once hewn. Then the woman beckoned to him, and he had no choice but to approach.

  “Salve, Sabbio,” the woman said when he reached the table. Her smile was enough to stir his cock, which was embarrassing since he was naked, but she only smiled wider, as if the sight of his erection pleased her. Her voice was like a lyre, and her eyes were the colors of the sea.

  “You… you can….” He fumbled over the Latin.

  “Of course we see you,” said the youth. His voice was a raspy whisper, as if he didn’t use it often, and his dark eyes were much older than his face. “And now we’ve permitted you to see us.”

  “Who?” Sabbio managed.

  The youth shook his head slightly. “You know.”

  Sabbio looked at him long and hard, and he saw himself falling from a half-built limestone wall; saw himself lying sweaty and alone on a dirty pallet in a dark tent, moaning in agony; saw himself closing his eyes and gasping his final breaths. He turned his head slightly to see the woman, and what flashed before his eyes was Mason crouching between his legs, kissing Sabbio’s balls.

  “I know,” Sabbio said. Mors and Venus—god of death and goddess of love. He fell to his knees.

  Venus clicked her tongue at him. “Don’t do that. It’s tedious. We want to talk to you, not watch you grovel.”

  Sabbi
o stood on shaking legs. He kept his gaze trained on the ground. “I… I….”

  “You called us, didn’t you? So we came.” Venus tucked her hair behind her shoulder.

  “But you’re—”

  “Retired,” Mors interrupted. “Everyone stopped believing in us. They moved on to other gods.” He gestured in the general direction of the cathedral. His face seemed permanently set in a frown, but lack of current worshippers didn’t appear to especially upset him.

  Sabbio blinked a few times. He wouldn’t have thought that after nearly two millennia he’d still be capable of astonishment, but here he was. “Retired?”

  Venus laughed. “Like your emperor Diocletian. We putter around here and there, keep ourselves busy. I’ve been especially enjoying the Internet. So much sex! He likes to take broody walks through industrial zones.” She waved her hand dismissively at Mors, who twitched his shoulder.

  Sabbio was dizzy. Could a ghost faint?

  Mors pulled out a chair that had definitely not existed a moment earlier. “Sit,” he commanded.

  As Mors lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, Venus enjoyed a forkful of pastry. Sabbio had always preferred men—not that he’d had any choice in the matter—but he couldn’t stop watching as she swiped her pink tongue across her full lips. She winked at him. “Retired,” she said again.

  “Then why are you here now?”

  “After Diocletian retired, what did he do?”

  “Garden?” Sabbio said uncertainly. He’d been dead by then and not very tuned in to current events.

  “Yes, he gardened. But not all the time. He also advised his successors. In between growing cabbages, he kept his hand in politics. And that’s what Mors and I are doing now. Dabbling in our old professions.”

  Sabbio shook his head in bewilderment, making Venus sigh.

  But it was Mors who spoke next, and his eyes were surprisingly compassionate. “I remember when you died. You suffered. But when your body was done, you refused to move on. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”