Forever Shores

by Peter McNamara

  ‘Tyline doesn’t work, Tinashi. It never has. Everyone who lives here is infected with the spores. It’s the island’s secret. Charlie wanted to tell the rest of the world. And make himself famous.’

  ‘Why did they want to stop him?’

  She shrugged. ‘Geronimo was right. The spores affect everyone differently. A miracle for some, for others … When Lauren arrived she had a terminal disease, now it’s gone. The spores cured it but now she’s going blind.’

  Lauren reached up, feeling the contours of Katrin’s face tenderly.

  ‘I don’t need to see you. As long as I’m alive and we’re together,’ she murmured.

  Then she tilted her head toward me. ‘You see, Tinashi, when Quentin realised the spores had cured me, he saw a chance to make money. Professor Wang harvested the spores for Quentin and Geronimo to sell in secret, to buyers on the mainland. Then I started to go blind. Quentin didn’t want me anymore. The spores had changed him too. They do that. For some it’s physical change, for others it’s … inward. Katrin tried to stop them. She believes the spores are too dangerous. We know too little about them. She’s the only one who can—’ Lauren trailed off, unsure about how far to go.

  But somewhere, beyond the shock, my mind had begun to function again.

  ‘You’re immune to them, aren’t you? That’s why they were afraid of you,’ I said.

  Katrin moved to sit serenely on the fiery carpet of sand spores, reaching out for her lover. She didn’t bother to answer.

  I left them there waiting for the police and trudged back to my shack. I showered, opened a bottle of pink champagne and took it out onto the patio.

  I toasted the last of the glitter-rose dawn and thought of Charlie whom I’d hardly known and now would never forget. Slipping a crystal-hard teardrop shape from my pocket, I rolled it in my palm.

  Then I thought of how I was now infected by the spores. What would that mean? Strangely, the question didn’t frighten me. I’d come here searching for solace from my life. But there was no solace. There was only change. Maybe that would be enough.

  The Sword of God

  Russell Blackford

  (for Damien Broderick)

  ‘The future shudders, cracks, breaks, reforms. Every minute it shudders; every minute it reforms, and is still itself.’

  Simeon Africanus, the sorcerer of blood and time, speaks softly. But, within the confines of Zenobia’s dimly lit throne chamber, his voice carries well enough for those present to hear—the Queen herself, two hand-picked guards, the neoplatonist philosopher Longinus, and an ancient eunuch servant. At the feet of one of the guards there lies the sorcerer’s sheathless weapon, a black-bladed Persian scimitar.

  Simeon was born in Carthage, but since then he has served many polities, kingdoms and empires. Now he has slipped under cover of darkness into Palmyra, oasis city, focus of imperial conflict in the hot, arid Syrian desert. He has sought wine and an audience with Queen Zenobia. Control of the world is in a crazily swinging balance.

  ‘It clings to itself. But, on occasion, my Queen, a mighty hand can reshape it.’

  Syria, Palestine, most of Egypt and the East have rebelled against Rome, paid Zenobia homage. Great cities such as Alexandria and Antioch. But now her home city is under siege and the future is with the violent Imperator of Rome, Aurelian, who calls himself ‘restorer of the empire’.

  The sorcerer shrugs and drinks quietly from a goblet fashioned of gold and jewelled with emeralds and sapphires. Zenobia’s hospitality is in the decadent style of Egypt or Persia. The goblet is deep and massive, filled with dark wine. Even so, it is little more than a toy in Simeon’s strange hands—hairy and elongated, they are hands like the paws of a carnivorous animal.

  Simeon is very tall, leanly powerful. Smooth-skinned, clean-shaven and apparently youthful, he is as fluid in his movements as the wine he drinks. He smiles, but it is more a kind of snarl; there is a display of sharp yellow teeth, like a mountain wolf’s. His eyes are other than human, huge orbs, a kind of deep apricot-brown. Straight, thick, glossy hair spills over his shoulders in a tawny brown mane.

  He sets down the goblet and waits.

  The neoplatonist philosopher Longinus speaks up, catching the Queen’s eye. ‘This is strange philosophy. But we shall hear more.’

  Zenobia speaks, her voice strong and surprisingly deep, almost like a man’s. ‘Prepare quarters for this traveller. Take his sword and cloak. Then bring us more food and wine.’

  Simeon stands and removes his mud-brown hoodless paenula, his long traveller’s cloak. ‘I do not need food,’ he says. ‘The wine is enough for now. Also, I must keep the sword. Before this evening is over, I’ll demonstrate it to you.’ Zenobia catches Longinus’s eye; the philosopher nods slowly.

  ‘Very well,’ says the Queen. ‘But some of us must eat.’

  The round-cheeked eunuch takes Simeon’s paenula and departs. Outside, he calls in his high voice to other servants. Simeon reclines and stretches his long limbs, comfortable in a short linen tunic.

  ‘Advice and assistance comes from unexpected quarters,’ says Longinus. ‘Tell us more, Magus.’

  ‘Magus is the wrong word. I do not worship Ormazd or the hero Mithras, though I am prepared to serve whatever gods will aid me.’ He addresses the Queen directly. ‘Lady, what of you? I have been told you are a votary of the Palestinian sky god, Yahweh.’

  Zenobia actually laughs, flashing her extraordinary white teeth. ‘What an odd way to put it,’ she says. ‘No, I am no Jewess, if that is what you mean. Like my people, I worship Zeus-Bel … or, otherwise,’—a knowing look—‘whatever gods will aid me.’

  ‘Very well. You must understand, my Queen,’ he returns to the true subject, looks directly into her intense black eyes—‘I’ll never discern what must be. But I have had my vision of what will, alas, be: Palmyra fallen, Aurelian in triumph, yourself taken prisoner, paraded before the Imperator’s chariot in Antioch and then in Rome itself. And, of course, beheaded.’ When he says of course, it is with an offhand flicking of his tawny hair. ‘Firmus in Egypt and your kinsmen in this city will continue the revolt against Rome, fighting in your name, but they, too, will be put down by Aurelian.’ He relaxes again, silent, picks up the goblet, sips more wine. ‘I am sorry to say these things,’ he says at last.

  The eunuch returns with spiced meat and dates, which he sets down. Longinus picks at the food with delicate, manicured fingertips. Simeon ignores it. The eunuch pours more wine, dark as blood, and Simeon drinks.

  ‘Palmyra’s strategoi are the equal of Rome’s,’ the Queen says evenly. ‘We have suffered some defeats recently, but we have won victories, even over Rome itself. My strategos Timagenes destroyed Probus in Egypt, and I myself, with Septimius Zabda, crushed the army of Heraclianus when it entered Palmyra’s territories. Our cavalry are superior to the Romans’. Our camel-mounted dromedarii and our archers are famed across the world.’

  ‘Yes, but Aurelian has already defeated your full cavalry not once but twice. Surely the future is his. And now he lays siege to Palmyra itself. You have cause to fear him.’

  For all her martial affectations, Zenobia is ravishing, the more so now she is angry. Her eyes seem to flash black fire. Part Saracen, part Egyptian, the Palmyran queen claims descent from the Cleopatras and Ptolemies of Egypt, but she is more warlike than any of those ancestors. Perhaps the generations of Saracen desert warriors in her blood are the true explanation of her temperament. She dresses not as a Syrian woman or in the manner of the Persians whom she follows in other things, but as an Imperator of the Romans. She is bare-armed, wrapped in a purple toga over a simple tunic. Her costume is held together by a ribbon of silk about her waist, tied at the centre with a brooch of the jewel known as cochlis—an agate stone shaped uncannily like a sea-shell—and dyed the rich purple prepared in Palmyra from Indian sandyx. Black hair falls freely about fine shoulders. Her eyes are far deeper brown than Simeon’s, close to true black, so that pupil is difficult to separa
te from iris. Her teeth are white as pearls, seeming to sparkle against the black of her hair and the smooth, swarthy skin of her face and arms. Zenobia is strong in profile, with a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a slightly jutting chin that conveys terrible determination.

  ‘Don’t speak to me of defeat and death,’ she says.

  ‘Of course not. But those serving you are not mighty enough, Lady. I have lived many centuries on this earth and provided these hands of mine to many kings and queens who have been thankful for the service.’ He extends them, palms upward. ‘For a small price the future can be changed.’

  ‘And why should I believe all this superstition?’

  ‘If not, why do you bother listening to it?’

  ‘Because we know more than you might think,’ says Longinus. ‘That is why. You were with the Sassanid usurper, Ardashir, when the Parthian host fell before him at Hormizdagan. Strange events took place on that battlefield. We still adjudge you worth listening to, but I warn you that the Queen will not listen forever.’

  Zenobia stands and paces, taller in her Roman ankle-boots, flat-soled leather calcei, than most men. ‘Longinus is right: I get tired of all these words. Convince me that you can aid Palmyra.’

  ‘My Queen, the battle of Hormizdagan was nearly fifty years ago. Look at me. I appear young, do I not? If you credit what Longinus tells you, you must know that I am not a mortal man.’

  She smiles genuinely now, no bitterness. Eyes twinkle and the right corner of her wide, red-lipped mouth turns up, revealing the famous pearly teeth. ‘So be it. And you tell me Palmyra’s future … but then you say you can alter it. How, then? I’m still waiting to be convinced.’

  Simeon places the goblet gently upon Zenobia’s table of white marble. He stands. ‘Lady, if I may take my sword?’ She does not reply, but Longinus makes a small gesture of assent. Simeon fetches his curved scimitar, holds it up proudly in both hands, pointing outwards from his chest. ‘In the court of the Shahanshah in Ctesiphon,’ he says, ‘there are poets who have named this blade The Sword of God, the symbol of world dominion. So much for poets, Longinus might say. And rightly so. Of course, this scimitar has no special powers, despite what poets may fabricate or vulgar men may think. Those powers lie deep within its wielder. I fought beside Shapur when he overran Hatra and when he crushed the might of Rome at Ctesiphon and again at Antioch. Then I departed his service. Your friend Firmus disturbed me at my studies in Alexandria and sought my aid for you. Here I am. Shall I convince you by demonstration?’

  The Queen merely drinks more wine, calls to her eunuch to refill her goblet. Yet, she is thoughtful; she does not put it to her full lips. ‘Very well. What is required?’

  ‘How much do you value your bodyguards? Could you let me have their lives?’

  ‘You wish to lower yourself to swordplay, great sorcerer?’ says Longinus, mockingly.

  And Zenobia’s eyes flash sarcasm.

  ‘I wish to demonstrate what can be done with this simple blade, yes, but scarcely to lower myself. There is no shame in the way of a warrior.’

  ‘Very well,’ says Zenobia. ‘You wish to fight them both? Together?’

  ‘Lady, I do.’

  Zenobia gestures to her guards. Each takes one step forward. They draw short Roman swords from their belts. One man is over four cubits tall, though even he needs to look up at Simeon. The other is smaller but square-built and hard. Both have hair close-cropped, faces grim and blue-stubbled. Imperial veterans. ‘If you can kill these, you are worth many men. Fight, then.’ She addresses the bodyguards. ‘Beware of sorcery, Gaianus.’ She looks earnestly from one to the other. ‘Sextus, good luck to you.’

  The two guards advance toward Simeon, who steps away. He fed one day ago, in his own manner, and he is still strong enough to deal with these two. From his perspective, their movements are slow as he eludes them, as if they move in a ritual dance. His scimitar slashes and removes the sword hand of the tall veteran, Gaianus. Blood flows from the severed wrist and Simeon steps in, keeping Gaianus between himself and chunky Sextus. With a swift movement, Simeon grips the severed arm, takes it to his mouth, and tastes the sweet blood; he sucks down as much as he can, and his strength is renewed. He swings Gaianus by the bleeding arm, shifting him with a speed that the slowly-moving Sextus cannot elude. Sextus stumbles. Simeon flicks his scimitar and cuts Gaianus’s head almost from his shoulders; he puts his mouth to the gashed neck and drinks down more blood.

  Then, as the world perceives time, it is over in the blink of an eye. Sextus gains his feet, but, as Simeon Africanus sees the world, everything freezes. The whole throne chamber is a still tableau, held by the sorcery of time. The Carthaginian sorcerer steps through it, takes two short paces. His scimitar slashes backhanded and cleaves directly through Sextus’s strongly muscled neck. Momentarily, the head seems frozen in place, though detached from the shoulders that supported it. Then time restores itself, shrieking, and the head flies, an obscene thing, through the air, more blood spraying the chamber, the veteran’s strong body jerking, then collapsing, with the life taken out of it.

  Zenobia looks shocked. Blood from the two guards has sprayed her clothing, her hair, her face and arms. The eunuch servant rushes, waddling, to her aid. Though she composes herself, shaking her head, gesturing the eunuch away, her dark skin is ashen.

  ‘What did you see, my Queen?’

  ‘You moved like a hungry wolf and you attacked like one. Your face is covered in blood. Then, in the end, you were … a falcon’s shadow, a mere blur. You crossed to Sextus and slew him before he could even move.’

  ‘Yes, my Queen. And so can I do to Aurelian, or any of your enemies. Keep me fed. The Imperator is devotee of a mighty god, Sol Invictus, the unconquerable sun. But he does not know the meaning of the word unconquerable. As for you, philosopher, you have seen the sorcery of blood and time. Some of it. Are you impressed?’ When Longinus does not answer, Simeon adds. ‘There is more. Watch carefully.’ He crouches beside the body of Sextus. ‘I shall soon be even stronger.’ His lips and his long, supple tongue caress the severed stump of the soldier’s neck. Ah, sweet blood. He takes his fill until he is sated, then he looks up at the Queen. ‘Now you know what I want in return for my service. Blood, Lady. Merely keep me fed. I need fresh human blood. Normally, that of your enemies will be sufficient. But I shall also demand special favours. Favours you may consider unpleasant.’

  No one attempts to interfere with him, but disgust is obvious on the face of Zenobia and the others. Gaianus and Sextus had good blood, but Simeon knows he will have to give up what he has gained if he is to win the Queen’s trust.

  ‘How much did you value these men?’ he says.

  She appears not only repulsed but frightened, yet not wishing to show it. ‘Very much.’

  Simeon nods slowly. ‘They were both strong men. Good men. For the moment, I have grown very powerful on them. Observe what happens next, and remember. But before you observe, you must close your eyes for some seconds until I ask you to open them. You have to trust me, my Queen. If I desired you harm, nothing here could prevent it.’ She obeys his wish. He closes his own eyes, visualises behind them what he wishes to see, suddenly opens them.

  The chamber is again free of blood. All except what has dried on Simeon and Zenobia themselves. Time has flowed backward. Gaianus and Sextus are whole. They step toward Simeon, who easily slips away. Yet, he is now a feeble creature. He has exerted his powers to the limit, displacing what has been. He is so weak it is a positive thing, not a mere absence of strength. Everything else is as it was, but he has displaced his past self … and Zenobia’s. Both remember.

  ‘Open your eyes, my Queen,’ he says softly. She does so. Looks almost as horrified as before. ‘Lady, please stop these men from attacking me.’

  ‘As you were, guards,’ she says. ‘You heard him.’ Gaianus blinks but halts, puts a hand on his companion’s shoulder. Of course, they, Longinus, the eunuch, all remember nothing. Zenobia moves her
head from side to side, not shaking it, but seeming to search for some explanation of what confronts her. She looks down at the blood which still stains her clothing, attempting to reconcile two realities in her mind. ‘Leave this chamber. All of you, leave. You too, Longinus. Leave me with the sorcerer.’ Guards and the eunuch exchange disbelieving glances. Longinus begins to protest, but obviously thinks better of it. ‘Leave,’ Zenobia says. ‘I must be left alone with this man. I know that he will not harm me. Can’t you hear me? Leave, I said.’ And, hesitating, they do finally leave.

  ‘I am very weak,’ Simeon Africanus says. ‘What you saw has taken away some of my own life. But you will help me. Are you brave enough to nurse a wolf? If you wish to destroy Aurelian and reshape the future of Rome, step over here, come to me, Zenobia.’

  She winces at being addressed simply by her name, but she walks cautiously to him. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Hold out your arm to me, slowly. That’s right.’ He takes her small hand. ‘Without this I will die.’ Her skin is exquisite, dark, soft, high-veined, her palm sword-callused. He paws the underside of her wrist with its network of blue veins. Beneath his fingers, blood seeps slowly from the pores of her skin. He takes the bleeding wrist to his mouth, sucks lasciviously, as her entire body stiffens in outrage. But he feels the strength return. Blood of a woman who is nearly a goddess! So much power from so little blood … He will always remember this. A few seconds is enough. Simeon removes his mouth from her wrist, wipes over the wrist with the palm of his hand, and the bleeding stops. ‘Now,’ he says. ‘I am much stronger. All the same, I must sleep. When I have done so, let us consider this latest epistle from Aurelian.’

  ‘Come to my personal chamber at dawn. You will be allowed in. We can discuss it.’

  ‘As you wish … my Queen.’

  The braggart Aurelian has written in Greek, styling himself, typically, as Imperator of the Roman world and recoverer of the East, calling upon Zenobia and her allies to surrender. ‘Your lives will be spared,’ the letter says, ‘but only on conditions. You and your children will live wherever I and the noble Roman Senate appoint as a place for you. Your jewels, gold and silver, your silks, your horses and camels and other animals are to be forfeited to the treasury of Rome.’