"How long have you been doing this?"
"Scavenging the ruins? For months. Almost since the first day I was posted to this gods-forsaken place. I couldn't believe no one else had thought of doing the same thing. The locals are all too superstitious to go nosing about the ruins, and so are most of the Roman soldiers. That silly Lucius keeps the others frightened half to death with his stories about witches and ghosts. I encourage him at every turn, of course. Meanwhile, I come here as often as I safely can, and go treasure hunting. Sometimes I find a ring or a stray coin; usually I find nothing. But every so often I make a real discovery, like a cameo from a brooch, untouched by the flames and in perfect condition. Or a bag of coins that must have been buried by some wealthy Corinthian, thinking he could come back later and claim it. I hide the things I find. There's no safe way to smuggle them out without someone noticing, and nowhere in this gods-forsaken place to spend the money or sell the precious stones, so my treasures just keep accumulating. How Tullius and his friends were lucky enough to stumble on this particular hiding place, I can't imagine."
"Lucky? Surely it was misfortune that led them here."
Marcus laughed. "Yes, since I observed them doing it. I couldn't report them, because that would ruin my own scheme. And I had no intention of letting them come back here the next day, and the day after that, plundering the treasures I've worked so hard to accumulate. Ugh, this thing is hot!" He took off his helmet and tossed it on a soft patch of ground, then combed his fingers through sweat-soaked tufts of blond hair streaked with gray.
"So you got rid of them," I said. My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. I was so dizzy I thought I might fall. "Did you kill every one of them, all by yourself?"
"I certainly did. With this." He pulled his short sword from its scabbard. "Had a terrible time cleaning all the blood off afterward."
"But how did you manage it? Why didn't they resist? No, wait—I think I know. You're not alone in this scheme. The innkeeper is in it with you."
"How did you deduce that, Gordianus?"
"The way Antipater and I slept last night—we were tired from the long day and the heat, but not that tired. It wasn't natural. Some sort of drug was put in our food or wine. Something that made us sleep like dead men. The innkeeper did it."
Marcus gave me a shrewd look.
"And he did the same thing to Titus Tullius and his party," I said. "He put something in their wine that sent them into a deep sleep—so deep that not one of them woke while you killed them at your leisure. Why didn't you kill Antipater and me, as well?"
"I'm a soldier, Gordianus. I kill from necessity, not for enjoyment. Clearly, your interest in the ruins was historical, or in the case of your old tutor, sentimental. A Roman pup and a doddering Greek wandering amid the rubble and declaiming poetry posed no threat to me. I told Gnaeus to drug you so that you'd sleep through the killing; I saw no need to kill you as well. It seems I made a mistake—which I now intend to rectify."
He deftly swung one leg over his horse and dismounted, keeping the drawn sword in his hand. He tightened his grip on the hilt, making ready to use it.
I backed away and tried to stall him with more questions. "The witch's curse—the lead tablet among the bodies—was it a forgery?"
He laughed. "Can you believe the coincidence? Gnaeus and I found it when we searched Tullius's room an unusual number of shouldorckor after the killing. We couldn't believe our luck—a genuine curse tablet, scary enough to make Lucius faint and even old Menenius loose all common sense."
"But who made the tablet?"
"Ismene, I'm sure. Lucius always said she was a witch. I took the lead tablet downstairs and hid it among the bodies. It was perfect, that Lucius should be the one to find it. And the way you read it aloud, with that tremor in your voice—like an actor on a stage! Even I had to shudder. 'Egyptian Ufer of the Mighty Name!' " Marcus laughed so hard he stopped in his tracks. But he was still holding the sword.
"Lucius said something about soldiers who died in their sleep," I said. "He blamed witchcraft."
Marcus shrugged. "That was my doing. Aulus figured out what I was up to and demanded a share. So I poisoned him. A month later, Tiberius did the same. Lucius was sure they died by witchcraft and told everyone so. No suspicion ever fell on me."
"If poison worked before, why didn't you poison Tullius and the rest?" I said, desperate to keep stalling him.
He shook his head. "That would have required a great deal of poison. No, it was quicker and easier and more reliable to give them all a sleeping draft, and then use this." He slashed the air with his sword, so close that a gust of warm air blew against my nose.
While I ran through every question I could think of, I had been looking for something to throw at him. I was surrounded by rubble, yet all the stones and bits of wood were either too big or too small to use as a weapon. Marcus saw my consternation and smiled. He said he killed for necessity, not enjoyment, but the look on his face told another story.
I staggered back, weak from heat and thirst. My heart pounded so hard I thought my chest would burst. Amid the oily spots that swam before my eyes, I glimpsed ghostly faces—the dead of Corinth, making ready to welcome me.
I heard a strange whistling noise.
Marcus abruptly dropped his sword. His jaw went slack and his eyes rolled back in his head. He crumpled to the ground.
I stood dumbfounded, then looked up to see Ismene. She seemed to have materialized from thin air.
"How did you do that?" I whispered. "You killed him without even touching him. You were nowhere near him."
She gave me a withering look. "First of all, he's probably not dead. Feel the pulse at his wrist."
I did so. "You're right, he's only unconscious."
"And not likely to stay that way long. I'd tie him up, if I were you."
"With what?"
She rolled her eyes. "Use the leather reins from his horse."
"Ah, yes, of course. It's the heat—I can't seem to think straight. But I still don't understand how you did that. Was it a spell?"
"Feel the back of his head."
I did so. "There's a big lump. What sort of spell—"
"Really, young man! Did your father never teach you to use a sling?" She held up a bit of cloth. "Witchcraft achieves many things, but as long as there's an egg-sized stone handy, I don't need Ufer of the Mighty Name to bring a man down."
I finished tying Marcus's ankles and wrists. "You're very resourceful," I said. "Are you really a witch?"
"Titus Tullius and his friends are all dead, aren't they?"
"Yes, but that was because—"
"If you don't like my answers, don't ask me questions."
I thought about this, and decided to show her more respect. "The handwriting on the tablet at the inn was the same as the handwriting on the tablet I read in the room on the Slope of Sisyphus. You wrote both curses. That's your witch's den, isn't it?"
"I'm one of the women who use it, yes."
"Who is Eudocia, and why didn't you finish the curse against her?"
Ismene laughed. For a moment her face was transformed. She looked almost pretty. "Of all the questions to ask! Eudocia is someone's mother-in-law. At the last moment, the woman asking for the spell lost her nerve. I still made her pay me. Now, I suggest you draI pick up the corner of the net... I pick up the corner of the netacnotorpe this soldier over his horse and hurry back to Lechaeum, before you die of thirst."
"What about you? Don't you need the horse?"
"What for?"
"To get away. The commander has the whole garrison looking for you."
"I'm a witch, you silly boy. I don't need a horse to make my escape. Now go about your business and I'll go about mine." She reached into the narrow place, pulled out a handful of coins, then stuffed them into a pouch at her waist. The loose garment she was wearing appeared to have many such pouches sewn into it. Several were already bulging.
"You're taking Marcus's loot?"
"I never intended to do so, but Ananke demands it. Better I should have it than a Roman soldier."
"Titus Tullius impugned sorcery and insulted the dead of Corinth. Now he and his friends are dead. What about Marcus?"
"His own commander will see to his punishment."
"And Gnaeus?"
She spat on the ground. "There's a lead tablet under his bed right now. He'll be dead before nightfall."
Hackles rose on the back of my neck. "And me?"
She smiled. "You've done nothing wrong, young Roman. You and the poet showed only respect for the dead of Corinth, and for the sacred place of Persephone. You do the bidding of Moira in this affair. You are the agent of fate. Do you not realize that?
"Now go!"
BY THE TIME I got back to Lechaeum, the sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows. In the dry breeze that moved through the grass I no longer heard the whispers of the dead, only the sound of wind. The ghosts of Corinth were at peace, with me at least.
As I approached the inn, I could see at a distance that Antipater was still asleep under the fig tree. One of the dogs saw me and barked. Antipater shifted in his sleep, but did not wake. I thought I saw a movement at one of the windows upstairs. Had Gnaeus seen me? I hurried on to the garrison.
Lucius was on guard duty. At my approach, he ran to alert the commander. Menenius appeared a moment later. He strode out to meet me, staring at the soldier slung over the horse like a sack of grain. Marcus was just beginning to regain consciousness. He mumbled and tugged fitfully at the leather straps around his wrists and ankles.
"What in Hades is going on?" demanded Menenius.
My throat was so parched I couldn't speak. Menenius ordered water to be brought. It helped a little, but not much. It is not an easy thing, revealing a truth that will lead to another man's death. Marcus was a murderer many times over. He had poisoned two of his comrades and slit the throats of a dozen Roman citizens. If Ismene—or Moira—had not intervened, I would have been the thirteenth. I had a duty to both men and gods to deliver him to justice. Still, I found myself unable to look at Marcus as I told Menenius all I knew, aware that my testimony would lead surely and swiftly to his execution. Once he was fully awake, Marcus might deny my story, at first. But I had no doubt that Menenius would obtain a complete confession from him.
Roman citizens are accorded the dignity of a swift death by beheading, but what did the law decree for a soldier who had murdered his own comrades? Would he be crucified like a slave, or stoned like a deserter by his fellow legionnaires? I tried not to think about it. I had played my part. Now it would fall to Menenius to act as the agent of fate.
The commander dismissed me, saying he would question me again after interrogating Marcus. I walked swiftly to the inn. The first stars had appeared in the sky. The shade beneath the fig tree was now so dark I could hardly see Antipater, but I heard him softly snoring. The lazy dogs did not even look up.
I stepped into the inn. The vestibule was dark, but the doorway to the tavern framed the soft glow of a single lamp. Gnaeus must have lit the lamp. I imagined him standing in the room, alone amid the ghosts of the slain. At any moment, soldiers from the garrison would arrive to arrest him for his shouldorckorcomplicity in the murders. I had no intention of warning him, but something compelled me to step into the tavern.
Half in light, half in shadow, Gnaeus hung from a rope secured to a beam in the ceiling. His lifeless body still swayed slightly, as if he had committed the act only moments before. Ismene had told me he would be dead before nightfall.
The next day, Menenius allowed us to leave. He even arranged for our transportation across the isthmus. Two soldiers drove us in a wagon, and seemed glad for the excursion.
At Chenchrea, we found a ship to take us to Piraeus, and continued on our journey.
As the Isthmus of Corinth receded in the distance, I wondered if the magic of Ismene had truly motivated all the bloodshed and havoc of the last few days, with no one aware of the full truth except the witch herself. If that were the case, how many times already in my life had I been the unknowing agent of unseen powers, and when would I next fall under the spell of such sorcery?
I shivered at the thought, and hoped never to encounter Ismene again.
* * *
The Ramshead Algorithm
By KJ Kabza | 12874 words
If you search around www.kjkabza.com, you'll find that KJ Kabza does not use periods in his name. You might even find out what the "K" and "J" stand for—but probably not. You will find information on his previous publications in New Myths, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and various other magazines. You'll also find a goodly amount of amiable attitude (or should that be 'tude?).
Mr. Kabza's F&SF debut, like the previous story in this issue, is a twisty tale about reality and relations. But that's about where the similarities end. And where it all begins? Well, we here at F&SF recommend that you dive headfirst into this story. Don't worry about coming up for air. It'll happen when it happens.
BENEATH THE FOUR OF US was a patch of bare earth, which Yuri had anchored into reality with a screw he'd muttered. Beyond our tiny island of the rational, the lines, as they say here, ran crooked: unknown suns rocked in the sky in polynomial smears of light. The walls of vegetation surrounding us reiterated with themselves, morphing each second into something different. The sudden paths in the undergrowth pulsed, as if breathing, before being swallowed by life again. Unchallenged by screws, The Maze reigned.
"Are we anywhere close?" I asked them.
A worker from Trail Crew 64, a translucent thing covered in dexterous pseudopodia, spoke up. Her voice came from the vibrations of a million cilia. "I think so. I didn't have my curvessor with me when I noticed the damage, but I'm sure your problem is starting somewhere here in the 64th cycle. We shouldn't need to tune into another cycle to find it."
I scratched my thigh. Something burned there, like the bite of an insect, though the insects in The Maze aren't exactly real either. "Well, even if you're wrong, I've fixed problems on a lot of other cycles before. We should be able to figure it out without involving yet another Trail Crew."
Yuri thumped the bare earth with a triumphant set of talons. To the being from Trail Crew 64, he said, "Space-Cowboy-Hero Ram can fix anything."
They all turned to admire me. I scratched my thigh again and pretended not to notice. I'd been doing this for a decade, and I probably could fix anything by now. But the "Ram of Earth" folktales that were starting to go around were bad enough, and I didn't want to fan the flames.
"But what's wrong with your leg?" asked Yuri. "You are injured?"
"No. I just—" The fabric beneath my hand felt hot.
An injury would've been preferable.
Slowly, I slid a hand into my pocket, feeling for my vial of silvery spirit water. I withdrew it. Inside the stoppered container, 2,000 times stronger than glass, wondered what acth
Yuri tossed his ox-like head in alarm. "Cowboy-Hero—"
"Sorry, everyone," I blurted. "It's just a chaos knot here that needs untying, you'll be fine—I think I see a tree that won't change over there—gotta go—"
I turned side. I closed my eyes and tuned into the 98th cycle, not letting my rational eyesight ruin my sense of irrational impulse that could be my only guide in this place. I almost twisted my ankle in a small hole, ran over something wooden and hollow, made a turn at full speed, ran through something wet, and jumped.
I crashed through brush, and was suddenly running over consistent, grassy ground.
I stopped and opened my eyes. Trail Crew 98 HQ. Our hard-won clearing, anchored over acres, where all the Trail Crew workers from the planets on our shared plane of reality camped and recovered under the familiar laws of physics. I ran expertly through the compound, past the ancient, central Spindle and its contradictory shadows, and past Perihana'ii's hut and its plume of smoke. Above the compound, the lines ran crooked, too; fifty feet up, the smoke from Perihana'ii's fire splintered into colo
rs, or stars, or schools of frightened fish.
I ran into one of the private bathing houses and took the fastest bath of my life. While I splashed and cursed and dropped the soap, I ran through a mental list of options, all of them bleak. I was the only crew member from Earth in the entire Maze. My permanent two-way portal to Earth had just been officially approved. Only six outside people had even been to my world so far, and none of them were on my crew and therefore plane of reality, and none were even anywhere near the First East Iteration, the family of realities to which I belonged. And no one here at HQ could master the illusion of a human shell yet.
Better hurry.
After I jumped out of the bath, I shoved my work clothes in a duffel bag, then took out my $1,000 shoes (Christian Dior) and gave them a fast look-over for anything telltale. Any green blood? Bone shards? Thanatos sap?
Nope. Chemicals first, then: deodorant (Michel Germain, Sexual), aftershave (Perry Ellis, 360), summer scent (Issey Miyake, L'Eau D'Issey). Beneath the manufactured finesse, the smell of myself dissolved.
Clothing second: from a garment bag hung on a hook, Yves Saint Laurent (various collections). Boxers, jeans, socks; undershirt, button-down shirt, watch (Rolex, Cosmograph Daytona); aforementioned $1,000 shoes.
Hair last. I went to a mirror, a piece of polished tin nailed to a post. Meticulous and stupid: dry, gel, comb, sculpt.
If my portal were taken from me—
I stopped the thought, grabbed my bags, and ran outside, along the crescent-shaped bank of alarm pools that made up an edge of the compound. Each tiny pool, scrying the health of the two-way portals we watched over, lay clear and calm.
Except, of course, the farthest and newest one.
Mine.
I reached it, dropped my bags, and wiped my calloused palms on my $450 jeans. I typed on the boiling surface, wincing at the heat, seeking and discarding the incorrect times and places until the surface cooled with the single moment that contained the danger to my monitored portal. The stilled spirit water condensed into colors. I leaned forward.
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