by IGMS
"How about you? When do you head back?"
"Oh, I'm not in any big rush. It's my first time on Earth, and I may take a week or two to see some of the sights. The missus would have insisted."
An awkward silence falls between us, and we stand beside Gemma's plaque with the eyes of a hundred Hall-of-Famers on our shoulders. Barrows holds out a hand. "I want to thank you for bringing her here. She couldn't have asked for a better escort."
I take his hand. It is rough and hard, a farmer's hand. "It's my honor," I say.
"Safe travels, son," he says, and I start back down the long gallery. Two-thirds of the way down, I pause before the plaque of Derek Jeter and look back. Barrows is just a shadow beside his daughter's plaque. I walk back toward him.
"Mr. Barrows?"
He turns, raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"I --" I reach into my jacket pocket and take out the old, faded scorecard. I unfold it carefully and hold it out. "I want you to have this."
Vassar Barrows takes it with a curious expression on his face. "A scorecard?"
"It's from a game that I saw Gemma pitch when I was fifteen years old," I explain. "She . . ." I get no further. His breath catches when he sees the autograph and what she'd written. He says nothing for a long time, just stares at the piece of paper in his hands. The paper is like a moment pulled out of time.
"She kept her promise, didn't she," Gemma's father says.
"Yes, she did."
"Thank you for this."
"You're welcome." I turn away, and start back down the gallery. His voice stops me one last time.
"You made my day, too, Eddie," Vassar Barrows says.
I keep walking, counting the hours until I'll be back home with my wife, and my girls, and my grandkids. I think about the distance between the pitching rubber and home plate, 60 feet, 6 inches. I think about the gulf of 60.6 light years that separates me from my family, and realize with sudden and terrible knowledge, that is it nothing compared to the gulf that now separates Gemma Barrows from her father.
The Cloaca Maxima
by Rob Steiner
Artwork by Scott Altmann
* * *
My new friend Vitulus poked through my spell components on the shelves of my workshop in 6 BC Rome. "How are you at locating fantasy animals, Natta Magus?" he asked.
"Depends on if it's a real fantasy animal," I said. "And don't touch that unless you want your testicles to shrivel up."
Vitulus's hand hovered over the dried starfish leg he was about to pick up. He withdrew it instead to the hilt of the gladius strapped to his leather belt. The starfish wouldn't have done that, but it could have it imprinted itself with his aura by accident. And then I'd be out one expensive starfish leg.
I grabbed the leg and put it in my spell component purse on my belt. He scowled at me, and I grinned back.
"Are you asking," I said, "or is Prefect Salvius Aper?"
"Officially, the Praetorian Prefect has numerous duties and no time to chase children's stories," Vitulus said. He sat down at the stool on the other side of my worktable and got that uncomfortable look he always had when discussing magical topics. "Unofficially . . . would be most grateful for your expertise in another delicate matter."
"Delicate matter" sounded like sesterces clinking in my coin purse. A fire had wiped out all my spell components and old workshop two months ago when I helped Salvius Aper with another "delicate" matter. While I had turned down Aper's offer of patronage -- couldn't have an oath tying me to this century -- he had still come to me with "delicate" jobs that had helped me rent a new workshop and replenish some of my components. But I still had a long way to go before I had everything I needed for the spell that would get me back home to twenty-first century Detroit.
"What fantasy animal does your boss want me to find?" I asked.
"We don't know its name, but we know it lives in the sewers and can kill a man just by looking at him. Do you know of such a beast?"
"In my timeline there are a number of 'fantasy' creatures that could live in a sewer or kill with a glance. We need to narrow it down. Any witnesses?"
"A flamen of Neptune named Stolo. He says he and his fellow flamen, Paetus, were sitting in the latrines when the head of the beast poked out of the latrine hole between them. Stolo said the creature looked like a large, scaly rooster. It hissed at Paetus, and then he fell to the floor dead. The beast then dropped back down the latrine hole. Stolo ran off screaming for the nearest vigile."
"And you believe Stolo?"
Ancient Romans were terribly superstitious; they saw monsters and ill omens in almost every corner. Most of the time they were wrong. I mean they even thought they could tell the future by studying animal entrails. I knew I shouldn't judge them too harshly, however, since the ubiquitous magic of my twenty-first century came about through centuries of trial and error, some of it actually beginning in Rome during their Awakening three hundred years from now.
Vitulus shrugged at my question. "That's where you come in, my friend. If you can look into his mind, perhaps you can see the truth. If this creature does exist, we can then find it and kill it."
"Well I'm happy to take your money," I said, "but my magus ethics require me to tell you that I think one man's story, even if he is a flamen, does not --"
"There have been six more deaths, all in latrines and all relatively healthy individuals with no wounds." Vitulus's eyes hardened. "Three days ago, a Praetorian was killed in the same fashion."
I considered my professional ethics assuaged.
I had an idea of what kind of creature I was dealing with. If I was right, it was something that could only be conjured by a twenty-first century magus. Which meant I'd have my first lead on finding William Pingree Ford, the mentor, oath-breaker, and former friend who had abandoned me in ancient Rome.
I put on my enchanted Detroit Wolverines baseball cap -- black with a yellow "W" logo -- and said, "Let's go talk to your witness."
Vitulus and I arrived at the Basilica Neptuni after a circuitous walk through Rome's crowds and tangled streets. My new workshop was on the Aventine Hill, so Vitulus and I had to walk north past the Circus Maximus -- where the crowds inside roared over some sort of races -- and past the Capitoline Hill, where the marble columns of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus cast a shadow over the Basilica on the Campus Martius below. I'd been stuck in Rome for sixteen months and I still got lost almost every time I left my workshop.
We entered the columned Basilica and found Stolo at the altar. His back was to us as he lit the braziers that illuminated the imposing marble statue of Neptune in the center of the altar. He jumped when he heard us and whipped around, his eyes wide. He exhaled sharply. He wore an off-white toga with purple stripes, and looked about as old as me -- early thirties, but with a black beard and curly black hair.
"I'm sorry we startled you," Vitulus said. "I brought the man I told you about. This is Natta Magus."
Stolo gave my baseball cap a horrified look.
And then sprinted off in the other direction.
I exchanged a confused glance with Vitulus. "Maybe he's a Cubs fan?" I said.
Vitulus chased after the flamen. "Stolo, where are you going?" he yelled.
I followed them both because I wasn't going to get paid standing there.
It's not easy running in flat, treadless Roman sandals, especially coming from a world where I'm used to rubber-soled sneakers, but I managed to keep up with my Praetorian friend. Stolo's flight took us on a tour of the Basilica Neptuni's main altar chamber surrounded by tall columns, and then into smaller rooms filled with sacrificial components, and then through the flamen barracks and their main kitchen, until we finally ended up in the Basilica's bath chamber. We arrived just in time to see Stolo's dark curly head drop down through a drainage grate in the center of the empty bathing basin.
"Stolo!" Vitulus cried, but the flamen ignored him.
We stopped at the rectangular hole where the grate had been. The dr
ain hole was dark, but we could hear Stolo's frightened grunts and shuffling feet below.
Vitulus took off his toga -- how he was able run with it, I have no idea -- and then stepped onto the ladder rungs that led down into the sewer. I stood over the opening, smelling the dank mustiness and underlying rot rising from the open grate . . . along with the restless spirits that haunted a place where centuries of dead bodies were dumped and/or hidden.
"Hey, Vitulus," I said, "if he doesn't want to talk to us, maybe we should just let --"
"He knows something about the murder of a Praetorian," Vitulus growled as he continued to descend. "He will speak to me if I have to pull out his fingernails."
Ah, damn. Vitulus had watched my back on several occasions since we first met, so I couldn't very well let him go down there alone. I made sure my ball cap was securely fastened to my head, tried to ignore my claustrophobia, and descended after my friend.
The sewer ledge that I landed on was every bit as nasty as I had feared. The brick ledge was about two feet wide, with the sewer water to the left and a brick wall to the right. It was wet, slimy from mold, and smelled like the crap of an entire city. This was the Cloaca Maxima, the storm drain and sewage system that helped Rome avoid drowning in floodwaters and its own cac, as they say around here.
Thankfully I could not sense any angry spirits nearby wanting to feast on my magical aura. That would change, however, the longer we stayed. My ball cap would shield my presence for a while, but not forever.
"Can you make one of your spark globes?" Vitulus asked, peering into the darkness ahead.
I snapped my fingers and a small globe of white, arcane light floated in the air above us. I directed it toward the shuffling sounds I heard up ahead.
"Stolo!" Vitulus yelled again. "Why are you running?"
"You did say you were going to pull out his fingernails," I whispered.
Vitulus ignored me and pushed forward as fast as he could on the slippery ledge.
There was a scream from up ahead, then a splash, and then silence. We hurried forward and stopped when the spark globe illuminated Stolo standing chest deep in the mucky sewer water. He had his right hand on his forehead, where blood streamed down his face.
Vitulus stood with his fists on his hips above Stolo. "We're trying to help you, fool!"
Stolo looked up at Vitulus, dazed. He blinked several times, and then began to weep.
"I'm sorry," he said through his sobs. "He told me he'd kill me and my family if I talked to you again."
"Who told you that?"
"Tiberius," Stolo cried.
Vitulus just stared at him. "Augustus's son? Why?"
"I don't know! And he especially didn't want me talking to him." Stolo pointed at me.
But I was only partially listening, because my ball cap had started tingling. And that was never a good thing in a place like the Cloaca Maxima. The spark globe was limiting my vision to just its area of illumination, but I could sense the anger and hunger of the spirits gathering in the darkness.
"Vitulus," I said, "we need to get out of here. Now, please."
"What's wrong?"
"You know all those angry nasties that I told you live in cemeteries? The sewer ones are even worse."
I felt a rush of magical energy surge toward us. Stolo screamed and was pulled under the water. Vitulus reached into the water, grabbed Stolo's hand, and pulled him up. The flamen gagged and screamed all at the same time. When I reached for Stolo's other hand, I noticed something attached to his leg. It looked like the beak of a monstrous rooster. The stench from its breath rose above the sewage: rotten meat with a curious mix of cinnamon.
"Don't look at it!" I yelled.
Vitulus averted his eyes from the water. He had been on several "delicate" jobs with me, so he knew that if I told him not to do something, he had better not do it.
Stolo was not as well trained. He turned his head reflexively to see what had grabbed his leg. A magical blast vibrated my teeth, and then Stolo turned limp as a doll. I immediately let go, and then pulled Vitulus's arm.
"He's gone, let's go!"
Vitulus hesitated, but let go of Stolo's dead hand, and followed me and my spark globe back to the ladder. The creature seemed satisfied to feast on Stolo, but the sewer spirits had found me and seemed to be calling all their buddies to the banquet that was my aura. The spark globe had all but eliminated my night vision, but I heard their whispers approaching from ahead and behind. I felt their hunger like a gazelle must feel the lion's hot breath. Their howls filled my mind, distracting me from the spell I needed.
I pushed Vitulus ahead of me. As he scrambled up the ladder, I reached into my component purse and pulled out a salt bag. I climbed the ladder with one hand, while uttering the bastardized Dutch incantation:
"Dit alles hier worden bewaakt in de tijd, en er in de eeuwigheid!"
As soon as I leaped up into the bath chamber from the ladder, I dumped the salt bag into the drainage hole. The salt crystals glowed in multiple colors as they floated down into the sewer, like the cantrips I had cast during my intern days. The dust covered the sewer hole like a solid door, and then dissipated as the invisible shield locked into place. The howls of the hungry spirits abruptly stopped.
I put my hands on my knees and took several deep breaths. "If you ever go into the sewers again," I growled to Vitulus, "it'll be by yourself."
I looked at him, but he was standing at military attention and staring at the door behind me. I turned and saw Tiberius surrounded by four lictors, each holding a gladius. I'd seen Tiberius on occasion during my rare visits to the Circus Maximus, when he would watch the races with his father, Augustus, from their private box seats. But Tiberius was even more imposing up close: as tall as me, but far more muscled due to a lifetime in the Legions. His head was covered in curly black hair, and a tuft of black hair peaked from the low neck of his tunica beneath his white toga.
But the magical aura surrounding him betrayed his true identity.
"Hello, William," I said.
"Hello, Remington," my mentor replied, calling me by my real name. He spoke in mild, soft tones, which were meant to put you at ease. It had always worked on me when he was my mentor, making me relax and not over-think my magic. He was using the same tone now, which only made me want to rip out his throat. "Nice to see you again."
"I wish I could say the same."
"How's business?"
I struggled to keep my voice as calm as his. "Great. Considering you burned down my last workshop, not to mention almost all of Rome."
His lips twitched in a proud smile. "Then it's a good thing you were there. I taught you well, Remington."
"Where's Tiberius?"
"He's safe."
"You conjured the basilisk," I said. "Why?"
He gave me the smile of a patient teacher. "For the same reasons I gave you when we last spoke. Magic was not meant for human beings. It all began here, so it will all end here. What better tool than a magical monster to commit an assassination and turn the Romans against magic?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Vitulus stiffen as he looked from "Tiberius" to me. He must've now realized that the man standing in front of us was not the real Princeps' son, though I couldn't imagine how confused he felt. I only prayed he was ready to follow my next move like he had been in the sewer.
"I'll explain in a moment, but first things first." He turned to his four men. "Remove that man's hat and bring it to me."
The four men approached Vitulus and I. All four had the rheumy eyes and slackened mouths of the enthralled, which sickened me worse than the sewer had. More crimes to add to your ledger, William.
As much as I pitied them, they would kill me nonetheless if William wished it. And they certainly could not take my cap.
"Vitulus!" I yelled, and then leaped through the open hole back into the sewer.
I landed with a splash in the awful water, barely avoiding Vitulus when he landed beside me a moment later
. I scrambled out of the water and onto the ledge, slipping once, before I found purchase on the slimy brick. I paused only to ensure Vitulus had made it out. He gave me a nod as he climbed onto the ledge, and then we both ran as fast as we could in the opposite direction from which we had encountered the basilisk. I spared a glance up at the four lictors looking down at us before Vitulus and I rounded a bend in the sewer. I did not hear them pursue us, and I doubted they would. William had probably wanted us to escape down here -- he figured the basilisk and the hungry spirits would finish us off.
That's three times you've passive-aggressively tried to kill me, William, I thought. One of these days I will return the favor.
We were in pitch darkness, so I had no choice but to conjure a spark globe. The globe might enable someone to follow us, but we'd be in even worse trouble sightlessly tripping through tunnels haunted by angry spirits and a basilisk. At least I still had my cap; it wasn't tingling -- yet -- so I wasn't in immediate danger of being eaten alive by sewer ghosts.
"In the name of all the gods," Vitulus asked in a harsh whisper, "what happened back there?"
"That wasn't Tiberius," I said through heavy breaths, "that was the bastard who abandoned me here, William Pingree Ford."
"Why did he look like Tiberius?"
"A spell. Pretty complicated one, too."
"Did he kill Tiberius?"
"No. He needs Tiberius's living blood to make it work. Probably has Tiberius locked away somewhere."
"To what end?"
I was still figuring that out when it suddenly came to me. I stopped in the darkness, and Vitulus bumped into me.
"He wants to assassinate Augustus," I said, as the ideas clicked into place. "He conjured the basilisk, so he can call it. But to direct it, he needs to be looking at it. As Tiberius, he could get close to Augustus and . . ."
Damn. In my timeline, Augustus makes a seemingly minor discovery regarding magic two years from now. It's virtually forgotten for three hundred years, but it puts Rome on track to far more major discoveries during their Awakening. You know the old saying that when a butterfly flaps its wings in China, it causes a tornado in North Atlantium? Well stopping Augustus's "butterfly" discovery might accomplish William's goal -- a humanity without magic.