The Gift

by Bryan M. Litfin

  “He needs to go somewhere safe until the battle is over,” Teofil said in a hushed tone. Liber pretended not to notice as he organized his shells, but now he was listening more intently.

  “Like where?”

  “There’s a community of Christiani sisters up the shore a ways. They would take him in for a while.”

  I don’t want to go away!

  To Liber’s dismay, Stasia nodded. “Okay. I guess it’s for his own good.”

  Stasia and Teofil began discussing those boring topics again—wars and powders and other strange talk—but Liber could only think about his own fate. He didn’t know if he would like living with the Christiani sisters. The idea was terrifying. As he arranged the shells into a star pattern, Liber asked the Father in the Sky to make him feel calm. His new friends had told him about the gentle Father who lived up there behind the clouds.

  “How are you feeling about all this?” Teofil asked Stasia.

  Liber frowned. He didn’t like how the handsome warrior spoke in such a tender voice. He knew if Teofil made Stasia his wife, she wouldn’t have time for a slow man like him anymore.

  “Nervous, but trusting Deu,” she answered.

  “Same here. Let’s take a moment to pray.” Teofil scooted next to Stasia and lifted his palms to the sky.

  “Wait,” she said. “Liber should pray with us too.”

  Liber’s heart swelled. Stasia is so good to me!

  “I don’t think so, Ana,” Teofil countered. “We shouldn’t weigh down his mind with all this. He doesn’t need to know about our plans. The idea of a bloody battle will scare him.”

  The man and woman on the beach debated how much to tell Liber. Stasia was the more insistent of the two. “Liber is one of us,” she declared. “Or maybe I should say, we’re one of him.”

  “Yes, but to ask him to pray about this is to lay a heavy burden on his shoulders.”

  “Deu hears the prayers of the heavy-laden.”

  Teofil looked at Stasia for a moment, then nodded and gave in.

  She waved Liber over. He abandoned his shells and approached the couple. Stasia smiled sweetly.

  “Liber, we’re going to make a nice home for you with some women who live near here. They’re believers in Deu like us. They’ll take good care of you.”

  “Okay,” Liber said. He would try to do whatever Stasia asked.

  “But first we want you to pray with us,” she continued. “Something important is happening, and we need Deu to hear our prayers.”

  “A big fight. I know.”

  “Oh, you heard us? Yes, it will be a big fight. You must keep it a secret, okay? It’s all going to happen on Midsummer’s Day. I want you to pray very hard that Deu’s people will win. The sisters can help you keep track of the days. It’s three weeks from now. Would you be willing to pray every day until then?”

  Stasia looked up at Liber. Her face was so pretty and kind. He sat down beside her in the sand. “I will pray every day,” he promised.

  Right there on the beach they all prayed to the Father in the Sky. Liber knew his words weren’t fancy and smooth, but he prayed with fervor nonetheless. He felt glad Stasia had included him. Teofil, too, had welcomed him with warmth. These people love me, he realized.

  The next day three sisters in brown robes arrived at the cottage on the earl’s estate. They brought an extra horse. After plans were made and Liber’s few belongings were packed, the traveling party set out. Liber was surprised to see that Stasia had tears in her eyes. He decided to be brave for her sake and not cry like a woman. But inside he felt sad too.

  Liber had ridden behind the three Christiani women for an hour when they stopped for a meal. They had encountered few travelers on the road. Most passed by with a brief greeting, though one strange man had turned his horse and galloped away as the foursome approached. Liber now found a place in the shade. As the kind sisters handed him bread and cheese, his spirits lifted. Maybe this won’t be so bad, he decided.

  Galloping hooves startled Liber. He dropped his bread and cried out. The three sisters also shrieked.

  “There you are, you vermin!” The speaker was the evil man with the hood whom Liber had knocked into the apples of gold. Other mean-faced thugs surrounded him. “So you finally decided to emerge from whatever hole you were hiding in! Now you belong to us!”

  Terror gripped Liber’s gut. He closed his eyes and began to mumble. The rhythmic sound in his head was comforting. Though the syllables held no meaning to him, their monotonous pattern was a refuge.

  “Do not think you can elude us, you warped excuse of a man!” the leader screamed. “The stones in the quarries are heavy. You will work hard until the day you die!”

  Rough hands grabbed Liber and hauled him up. He begged the mighty Father to protect him, but it was no use. Apparently the Father in the Sky could not hear.

  CHAPTER

  16

  The Papa’s mercenaries had arrived—strong men, battle-hardened, with swords and axes and bows for hire. Teo stared at their secret encampment in the woods. Would they be enough? In a few days he would find out.

  “They look tough,” Marco said. “I wouldn’t want to face them.”

  “Borja will have tough soldiers too.”

  “But they don’t know we’re coming. We have the advantage of surprise.”

  “Unless word leaks out,” Teo said, drawing a reluctant nod from Marco.

  The two men stood at the edge of an opening in the forest. Though the place was entirely covered by a canopy of trees, the understory was sparse, and the soldiers had erected tents across a wide area. A stream meandered through the camp, its water clean, for there were no villages nearby. The forest belonged to a Knight of the Cross who supported the Universal Communion. These were his private hunting grounds, a remote and secluded part of the earl’s vast estate. The land stretched away from the sea in a low, flat plain. Few trails penetrated the deep woods.

  Teo tied his horse to a tree where it would be out of the way. He would have preferred to let the animal crop a little grass, but the forest prevented its growth, for the trees took everything the thin soil had to offer. The place was unusual. A vast expanse of crumbly pavement lay just beneath the topsoil. The Ancients’ remains were especially numerous here—not only buildings, but rusted equipment and old wheels and snakelike hoses mingled with the plant life. Teo had passed a peculiar oblong structure on the way to the mercenary encampment. It was made of metal, now badly corroded, with flecks of white, green, and red paint clinging to its exterior. Appendages protruded from it, reminding Teo of the wings and tail of a bird. One end of the building was pointed, almost like a nose, and oval windows lined its side in a continuous row. The whole thing looked curiously like a vehicle, yet Teo knew it was far too large for that.

  Marco snapped Teo’s thoughts back to the present. “There’s the blacksmith,” he said, pointing to a tent at the edge of the mercenary camp. A forge, anvil, and trough stood behind the tent. Horseshoes lay in a heap on the ground.

  Teo and Marco made their way to the tent, greeting the blacksmith as they approached. The man’s hairy chest was bare, revealing muscles as hard as the iron he shaped with hammer and tongs. Wiping his hands on a leather apron at his waist, the blacksmith eyed the newcomers. “What do you want?” he grunted. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “We’re here to pick up the special commission,” Teo said.

  “Oh, right.” The blacksmith turned and went inside the tent, returning with a sturdy rucksack. He handed it to Teo in exchange for a pouch of coins, then turned back to his urgent tasks.

  Teo waited until he had ridden well clear of the encampment before opening the pack. He lifted out its contents: an iron container shaped like a small keg. The keg had a tiny opening on top but otherwise was sealed tight. An iron plug and a funnel were also in the pack.

  “I can’t even imagine how loud that thing is going to be,” Marco said. “My men are going to hear it all the way at the port.
”

  “If they do, tell them to cheer, because it’s the sound of victory.”

  Marco glanced up at Teo. “You sure about that?”

  “Nothing is certain in life,” Teo admitted, “but I’m putting my confidence in Deu. He gave us this gift, and he won’t let us down.”

  “I admire your faith, Teofil, I really do.” A sly grin crossed Marco’s face. “But I’m going to have the Glider anchored offshore—just in case.”

  Liber didn’t know what to do when the injured man was thrown overboard. The skinny fellow had reached the point of exhaustion and was useless as an oarsman. The two whipmasters who controlled the crew had tossed him into the ocean, where he wailed pitifully as the ship continued onward. Though the Defective galley slaves pretended not to hear, many of them whimpered and cringed.

  “That man needs help,” Liber said, terrified at the idea of being left alone in the deep water.

  “Ain’t no helpin’ him,” advised the humpbacked rower across the aisle. “The devils have him now.”

  A whip’s sharp report cracked overhead. Liber closed his eyes and pulled the great oar, the chains on his wrists rattling as he labored.

  The galley arrived at a harbor late on the third day of travel. Everywhere blocks of white stone were being loaded onto tall ships manned by Defective sailors. Liber was herded into a crowd with other new arrivals. An arrogant whipmaster forced the slaves to march three hours up a mountain valley. The sun had stained the sky red in the valley’s mouth when they finally reached a collection of low hovels enclosed by a fence. Men were crowding around a cauldron, each receiving a dollop of gruel in their bowls. Famished, Liber pushed his way forward.

  “Where’s your bowl, idiot?” the man with the spoon demanded.

  Liber stared back. No one had said anything about bowls. The server turned his attention to the next man. Other eager Defectives crowded Liber out.

  “I want some!” Liber shouted. His exhaustion and hunger made him mad.

  The server jumped to his feet and smacked Liber’s face with the spoon. “Then dig it out of your beard!” he snarled. A foreman in the background guffawed.

  Liber was too hungry to give up. “Give me food!” he bellowed.

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “Then . . . then I’ll tell my friend!”

  “What friend?” the server sneered. “You ain’t got no friends here.”

  “His name is Teofil. He’s a warrior. He’s gonna fight you.” It was the most dangerous threat Liber could think of.

  The server’s face turned suspicious. Liber saw his advantage. “That’s right,” he continued. “A big fight. You’re going to lose.”

  The foreman stormed over, cuffing Liber with his club. “What are you talking about, you dumb ox?”

  Uh-oh. Stasia said to keep the fight a secret. Liber clamped his mouth shut.

  “I said, what are you talking about?” The foreman struck Liber hard on the ear. “Tell me what you know!”

  Liber was afraid now. The blow to his ear hurt, and it had started a trickle of blood down his neck. The foreman brandished his club. Liber raised his arms. “A big fight! A big fight is coming!”

  “A battle?”

  Liber nodded.

  “Where?” the foreman demanded.

  Liber remained silent. The club swept down on his injured ear. “Roma! Roma!” he blubbered through the agony. “The Papa!”

  Grabbing Liber by his ragged tunic, the foreman drew him close. “You’d better tell me when it’s going to be,” he said through gritted teeth, “or I’ll break both your shins.”

  Liber thought about how much it hurt whenever he banged his shins on rocks. The threat of the heavy club smashing his leg bones was more than he could bear. Tears came to the big man’s eyes. His shoulders sagged.

  “Midsummer’s Day,” he whispered.

  The foreman grimaced, then released Liber’s tunic and spun away. He marched toward the gate of the Defective camp and disappeared.

  Oh no, Liber thought. What have I done?

  The predawn hours of Midsummer’s Day were dark, and the moon was shrouded in clouds. Teo considered that a blessing from Deu.

  He stood on the roof of an annex behind the Temple of All Gods. The ancient brick temple was circular in its floor plan and, like the Christiani basilica, was topped by a dome. A ladder leaned against the rotunda’s sheer wall, disappearing into the blackness above.

  “Here we go,” Marco said.

  “You nervous?”

  “Terrified.”

  “Me too,” Teo admitted. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

  “You go first, amico.”

  Teo set his foot on the ladder’s lowest rung and began climbing. A coil of rope was over his shoulder. He was glad it was dark so he didn’t have to see how high off the ground he was. Soon he scrambled over the lip of the temple’s lofty roof. Minutes later Marco joined him, breathing hard from the weight of his backpack. Both men rested for a few moments as they gazed at the gloomy Roman vista around them. Then, as if on cue, they rose and turned toward the pale, white dome.

  The base of the dome was tiered in six levels, but the top portion rose in a smooth arc. Stairs had been carved into the dome all the way up. Teo and Marco reached the crest and dropped to their hands and knees. Crawling forward, they approached the black circle at the dome’s high point. It was the oculus—a round hole directly above the great idol of Dakon.

  “Now we wait,” Teo said. He lay on his back and interlaced his fingers over his chest, hoping to catch an hour of sleep before dawn.

  The creaking of a great door awoke Teo from a doze. Servants had arrived in the twilight to prepare the temple for the ceremony at noon. Through a crack in the edge of the oculus, Teo watched the activity below. Men with brooms swept the floor, while others filled a brazier with charcoal. The workers set the brazier on an altar in a decorated wall niche. The giant statue of Dakon gazed upon the proceedings with an expression that seemed more malevolent than benign.

  By midmorning a horde of shamans had congregated at the Temple of All Gods. High-ranking Exterminati and aristocratic dignitaries in expensive robes also milled about. Teo’s heart began to beat faster. He cracked his knuckles and blew out a breath, trying to calm his nerves. Everything has come down to this . . .

  “I don’t see Borja,” Marco whispered.

  “He won’t arrive until the ritual is about to begin.”

  The disc of sunlight shining through the oculus crept across the temple floor toward Dakon’s scaly feet. Slowly the light made its way up the god’s body until his head glowed as if with a heavenly corona. The sun was now directly overhead. It was noon on the summer solstice.

  A bell rang out, startling Teo as he watched. Three times it tolled. The crowd within the temple waited in hushed silence as the echoes reverberated around the spherical interior. Then the main doors swept open, and Nikolo Borja entered the hall. He bore a cloth-wrapped object in his bejeweled hands. An awed gasp rose from the crowd.

  “Brothers . . . comrades . . . men of distinction, I greet thee!”

  Though Borja uttered words of friendly welcome, his powerful aura was intimidating. No one dared respond to his greeting.

  “Today I bear ill tidings for those who revere Dakon the Great,” Borja continued. “A heresy has grown up among us, a disgusting boil on the face of humanity. Like all boils it must be lanced, so that its filth may spill out and the wound may be healed.”

  Murmurs of approval greeted Borja’s vivid words. He stalked across the marble floor, adored by the crowd. Though the onlookers remained silent, Teo could see how they surged forward in their leader’s wake, caught in his magic spell.

  Borja assumed his place behind a lectern, illuminated by the radiance from the idol’s head. After pausing to let a hush descend on the hall once more, he launched into a persuasive speech of eloquent rhetoric. The declamation began with an encomium on Dakon’s virtues, but soon it descended into
a tirade against Deus. Borja’s vilifying words whipped the crowd to a fever pitch. When he spoke of Christiani beliefs, the onlookers jeered. When he recited the misdeeds of the Papa, the shamans called for blood. When he predicted the destruction of the great basilica, the priests stamped their feet in readiness to pull down its walls. Finally, after decrying Christianism as a vile and sinister religion, Borja declared it illegal. The inflamed shamans pledged themselves to its annihilation.

  “And now, my brothers,” Borja declared, “we must seek the favor of the mighty Dakon. Only by means of an appeasing gift will we merit his blessing. Today I come with such a gift. Behold! The sacred book of the Christiani!”

  Borja let the cloth drop away as he held up the leather-bound volume. The onlookers gasped, drawing back as if the pages themselves contained evil charms. Borja stepped down from the lectern and waddled toward the altar.

  High above, Marco laid a box of matches on the lip of the oculus, then checked the strength of the iron bar he had hammered into the roof a week earlier. A rope was fastened to the bar with a sailor’s hitch. Marco clasped Teo’s shoulder.

  “May your God go with you,” he said.

  Teo nodded. Gazing into the oculus, he swallowed, for his mouth had gone dry. A heavy backpack was on his shoulders, and a torch was in his hand.

  Marco struck a match and lit the fuse of a fist-sized bomb. It began to throw off sparks. Next he ignited Teo’s torch. When the fuse on the bomb had nearly burned down, Marco tossed it into the gaping maw of the Temple of All Gods.

  Nothing happened for a long moment.

  But then . . .

  The bomb thundered in the confined space, sending shock waves through the building. Although the effect was intimidating, the weapon was designed to smoke rather than destroy. The billowing vapors that followed the concussion caught the shamans off guard. Their screams added to the confusion.

  “Now!” Marco cried. “Go!”

  Teo pitched the rope’s end through the oculus. Holy words sprang to his mind: The Eternal One is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear? Clutching the rope, he jumped into the smoky temple.