The extraordinary thing about demons is that they don’t rule the world. They reproduce normally—I’ve never seen a female demon, but I know they exist—and they were around back when it really wasn’t all that hard to take over the world. Pretty much everyone took over the world at least once back in the day. I even thought about it a couple of times. For some reason, it just never seemed like there was enough of them to truly dominate.
Why there are so few demons in the world was one of the questions I posed to the only demon I ever had a face-to-face conversation with. Unfortunately, he was not all that forthcoming.
I was living in Carthage at the time, in one of my occasional incarnations as a wealthy man. By modern reckoning this was around the third century BC, and I was making a fine living as a merchant, shipping goods—mainly ivory, but also a little gold and silver—mined or hunted in the more savage sections of middle Africa. I had customers from Tyre to Corsica, three boats to move product, a couple hundred employees, a few dozen slaves, and one of the largest houses in Carthage. (Don’t get on me about the slaves. It was expected. Besides, I’ve been a slave myself, on four different occasions.)
Business was pretty cutthroat back then, as things always are when money is involved. (As a side note: I thought money was a bad idea way back when it was first invented. I remember the moment very clearly. This guy owed me a sheep, but instead of giving me an actual sheep he gave me five coins he said were worth the same as a sheep. “But I can’t eat round pieces of metal, asshole,” were my exact words.) I always had somebody trying to edge in on my business, much as I had done to others when I first built my little empire. My trump card was always time, especially in an era when the life expectancy was somewhere in the mid-forties. Most of the town thought I’d made some sort of pact with a deity—a few thought I was a deity—but nobody ever organized a lynch mob over it. Carthage was nice like that.
What was not nice was the two harbor problem. Carthage had two harbors, but only one of them was within the city walls. That was where they put all the war vessels. Important when you’re one of the first empires in the Western world and therefore spend a good amount of time defending said empire (and the first of the Punic Wars was only thirty years away), but annoying when you want to do business. I had to operate my ships out of the second harbor. Every time cargo was loaded or unloaded—and I always oversaw these things personally, because nobody trusts a Carthaginian—I ended up spending the day beyond the protection of the city walls. This was my biggest business advantage because I wasn’t robbed blind by my captains—others were—but also my biggest disadvantage. Cities in those days were built to keep the rabble out, you see. Not at all like today’s cities, which are clearly designed to keep the rabble in. Every night I spent beyond the walls of Carthage was a night I took my life into my hands.
Not to say I didn’t have protection. I employed private guards who followed me around everywhere and did a very effective job of scaring away the standard blackguards. And because I wasn’t about to sleep on the dock, I kept a modest home a short walk from the pier.
On this one particular evening, after a long day helping unload a shipment of silver from southern Spain, I retired to my modest home and immediately sought refuge in my personal bath.
A lot of people are under the impression that it was the Romans who invented the concept of the bath. Those people don’t know what they’re talking about, because I was using baths before there were Romans. Trust me, it’s one thing to deal with a lifetime of dirt and grime when that lifetime is thirty years. It’s quite another when that lifetime is counted out in millennia.
Anyway, so I took a bath. And after a very relaxing hour or so I emerged into the atrium to find a demon sitting on my couch.
“Hello,” I greeted amicably. One must always be amicable when faced with a demon. Not that it helps any.
“Hello,” he grunted back. The demon was as ugly as the rest—protruding jawbone with a double row of jagged teeth, a pug nose, and a small set of horns, all covered in a dark brown skin. “Are you Amilcar?”
“I am. I see you’ve gone and slain my guards.”
He had. My very expensive bodyguards were lying in a heap in the corner. I imagined he’d frightened off my slaves. Nice of them to warn me.
“They were not interested in letting me in,” he said, matter-of-factly, referring to the bodyguard stew. “I’m afraid I broke them.”
“They at least tried to earn their money, didn’t they?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he disagreed. “Didn’t put up much of a fight. And that one there started crying when I tore his leg off. Very unprofessional. Why don’t you sit down?”
I did. No use arguing, even when one is in the midst of a blind panic. I was nearly naked and completely defenseless, having left my sword outside near the tub.
This would never have happened in the city, where demons are stopped at the gate. Somebody knew enough about me to know when I was vulnerable.
“I have to tell you,” I began, “you’re very eloquent. I didn’t know your kind could speak in sentences.”
“Don’t like to,” he said. “It’s easier to kill a guy than it is to talk to him, you know?”
“Actually, I’m really fond of talking.”
“I can tell.”
Already this much conversation had exceeded this demon’s comfort level. He kept fidgeting and his eyes darted around the room as if maybe hoping another guard would pop up so he’d have someone to kill. Why he wasn’t killing me was the question of the day.
“So, what do I call you?” I asked.
“Whomp.”
“Whomp? Your given name?”
“It’s the sound people make when I hit them in the chest.”
How charming. “What can I do for you, Whomp?”
“My employer is interested in your shipping routes.”
“Oh? Which ones?”
“All of ‘em, I guess. He wasn’t real specific. Lemme see if I can remember this… he said he wants, um… maps, names of buyers, names of sellers… oh yeah, and whoever gets your ivory for you? He wants his name, too.”
“I could just give you my ledgers,” I suggested.
“You know, I asked him that. ‘Why don’t you just steal the guy’s scrolls,’ I said. He said that won’t work. Says they’re unreadable.”
Which meant whoever hired the demon had already seen my ledgers, which were written in a pre-Phoenician language using alphanumeric symbols I’d invented myself. (It’s the same code I use in my Swiss bank book.) The code was nothing a good linguist couldn’t have deciphered eventually, but we didn’t have linguists back then. We barely had languages.
“So, you want me to translate all of them?” I asked.
“You could just tell me.”
“Last count I had a hundred and seventeen buyers, Whomp.”
“Okay, then translate.”
“That’d take days. Plus none of the scrolls are here. I could head back to Carthage in the morning, get started right away and let you know when I’m all finished. How’s that?”
“I’m thinking maybe my employer didn’t think this through real well.”
“I have to agree.”
“Enh. It was worth a try.” He stood up. He was more than two heads taller than me.
“So, that’s it?”
“Yeah. Now I gotta go to the other plan.”
“Um, is that good?”
“Good for me, sure. Maybe not so good for you, just cuz I gotta kill you now.”
“Is that really the backup plan?” I asked.
“He said if you don’t cooperate I’m supposed to kill you.”
“But I am cooperating.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that and I get paid either way.”
“How about if I give you something now? Like the name of the ivory dealer?” Useless information, because anybody who approached my contact other than me would be killed in about a second and a half. I like to go di
rectly to tribal leaders for my ivory.
“I don’t think that’ll make a difference,” he said.
“I should start running, then.”
“If it’ll make you feel any better.”
So, I ran. Whomp unfortunately was standing closer to the entrance than I was and, not knowing how quick he might be—despite their size, demons have very good reflexes—I didn’t want to risk going that way. Instead I headed back toward the bath, which was outdoors. The demon was right behind me, proving that he was indeed very quick for his size.
When I reached the edge of the stone bath, I vaulted it, landing safely on the other side next to my clothes and more importantly my sword.
Yes, I carried a sword. As a wealthy man, I never had much need for it, but my reasoning was better to be too well armed than not armed at all. I knew how to use it, too. I was even foolish enough to think my skill might be sufficient to defeat a demon, even without a couple of friends, a big boulder, and a cliff face. I’ve gotten wiser with age.
Whomp came barreling out of the house just as I reached my sword. Focusing all his attention on me and not expecting a spa to be in his way, he fell in.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, splashing around. He was about waist deep.
“I call it a bath. Do you like it?”
“Don’t usually like water,” he admitted. “But this is nice. Heated?”
“There’s an oven underneath.”
“No kidding.”
“Really,” I said.
“After you’re dead, you think I could have it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
He climbed out, and I foolishly stood my ground on the cool grass beyond the bath. We were on the crest of a small treeless hill, with Mount Byrsa in the distance on one side and the shore on the other. And with no other houses anywhere close by (I was easily the wealthiest landowner in this little area) we were utterly and completely alone.
“Nice sword,” he said. “Thought you was gonna run.”
“I decided to give this a try first.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
Whomp swung his right fist at my head, a hypothetically lethal blow that caused the air itself to whistle in protest and surely would have proven disastrous for me had I not ducked. My response was a comparatively feeble counter-swing with the short sword aimed at his exposed right side. The blade dug into his skin, but barely penetrated more than a thumb’s-width and drew no blood. If he were a man he would be wondering where the bottom half of him had gone off to.
His response was to swat at me with his left arm, much the way one might attack a harassing bug. The shot hit me in the shoulder. I tumbled over and away from him, finding my feet quickly and luckily hanging onto my sword.
“You’re pretty quick for your age.”
“I keep in shape,” I answered, rotating my shoulder to see if there was any permanent damage. “Why, how old do I look?”
“Somebody told me you were the oldest man in Carthage. Must’ve been thinking of someone else.”
“No, that’s me,” I said.
“Huh.” In two quick steps he was on top of me, both arms out and seeking to grab and possibly hug. This would be the preferred attack, I guess, if one wanted to stop getting stuck with a sword. The charge left both of his sides exposed, but since I’d already taken an unsuccessful swing at his torso I wasn’t about to try it a second time.
Instead, I jumped aside and swiped at his leg. Nearly got the sword broken in two, but it did trip him up and he even yelped in pain just moments before landing flat on his face. I seized the opportunity and lunged at his neck, but he’d already begun to roll over. He caught the blade with the palm of his bare hand and swatted it aside. If he were a man, he’d be down one hand.
Still on the ground, he kicked me in the stomach. I staggered backward, desperately seeking air, which was not immediately forthcoming. This left him plenty of time to get back up to his feet.
“This is fun,” he said. “You’re a lot better than those guards of yours. They just stood around and hacked at me.”
My reply was to gasp for breath.
“We about done here?” He was leaning over me the way one might if one were examining a dead bird. Overconfident, he left his neck unguarded.
I pushed his raised arm aside and brought the sword around, this time catching him in the neck with the strongest force I could muster.
It was about as effective as the shot to the torso.
“Aahhh,” he uttered, less in pain than in aggravation. He shoved me away. “Just give it up, will you?”
“Can’t,” I said.
I’d pretty much run out of ideas. A part of me knew this battle was going to end up more or less the way that it had, but as I’d never attempted to kill a demon before I figured I owed myself the chance to try it at least once. Stupid me.
Whomp sighed dramatically and then charged for me again. Having tried the duck-and-counter and the step-aside-and-sweep already, I went for the only idea I had left. Charge back.
What followed was somewhat like a joust, with my sword pitted against his fist. We both connected. He hit me with a glancing blow that exploded into the side of my face and spun me around and down like an unstrung puppet. I landed gracelessly a few paces away from where he fell on his side. Fully half of my sword had ended up buried in his chest.
He lay still, and for a few seconds I thought I’d actually pulled it off.
“Oww,” he grumbled. He looked down at the blade. I tried to get to my feet, but he’d seriously messed up my equilibrium, so I sort of just crouched there and waited for the hillside to stop rocking.
“You almost ran me through,” he noted. “Good work.”
Up until he rolled up to a sitting position, I was holding out hope that I’d caused some nerve damage or something, but no. He was almost completely unharmed.
I made it to my feet, still fairly wobbly. “Does that hurt?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said matter-of-factly. He reached down and grabbed the sword by the blade and pulled. Slowly, it slid out of him.
At least I’d drawn blood this time.
He climbed to his feet again, my sword and all hope of winning this battle still in his hand. He broke the blade over his knee.
Tossing the pieces aside, he asked, “Any other ideas?”
My vision finally clearing up, I said, “I thought I’d fall back on running.” And then I did just that.
I sprinted down toward to the pier. He didn’t start after me immediately, not because he was too worn out, but because he was clearly aggravated that I wouldn’t just surrender already.
Other than the pier, my only real option was to head up toward Mount Byrsa and maybe just keep on running until I reached a landmark I recognized, like the Nile. I was pretty sure I still had long-distance running skills to my advantage. It’d be like old times, when I’d have to spend six or seven days running after food until the food finally got too tired to run. But that would take too long. Plus, I’d have to return to Carthage eventually—if only to pick up my stuff—and I’d still have a demon problem on my hands. Better to find a place to hide for the night, steal back into the city in the morning, and not leave again until I’d found out who hired Whomp or until I was sure I’d outlived him. Finding such a hiding place would be the hard part.
Meandering through the small collection of boathouses, I reached the dock, which had only my ship in port at the time. This significantly reduced my options. With two or three boats, I could conceivably hide in the hold of one of them, but hiding in the only boat available was maybe not the best idea ever. And I’d end up cornered.
I could hear him coming. With the houses in the way, he was temporarily obscured from sight, but it sounded like he was heading straight for me. Evidently, demons are good trackers.
Out of choices, I jumped onto my ship and climbed the mainmast. Whomp reached the dock a few minutes later.
“There you are,” he said, lo
oking up. He stepped aboard the ship, checking out the surroundings to see if I had any other surprises left, like a small army hidden below deck. What I wouldn’t have given to have a small army hidden below deck. “You run pretty fast. How old did you say you were?”
“I don’t know how old I am. Lost count.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m immortal.”
I figured it was a good conversation topic, and the more talking he did, the less killing he did. He looked confused rather than impressed.
“Im-what?”
He was circling under the mast while talking, making me wonder if he was going to attempt to climb it.
“Immortal,” I repeated. “I don’t get old and die.”
“No kidding.” No, definitely not impressed. And it looked like I wasn’t going to get the “well, since you lived that long” free pass from him.
I was clinging to the very top of the mast. We didn’t have crow’s nests in those days. We barely had sails. Just pieces of silk we threw up on the odd chance the wind was going the same way we were. Usually, we rowed. Consequently, if he were patient enough, I’d eventually fall because it’s not easy to hold that position. But demons are not known for their patience. Makes them great for storming sieges.
“How’s that worked out for you?” he asked, as regards my immortality. It looked as if he’d decided how to approach this problem.
“Not bad so far,” I said.
“What happens if you fall from, say, the top of a tall mast onto a hard wooden deck?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Never tried it. Hey, can I ask you something? Before you kill me?”
“Sure.”
“How come there aren’t more of you?”
“What, you mean in Carthage?”
“I mean in general. Since you’re so hard to kill and all.”
“It’s a secret,” he said, honestly sounding like nobody had ever asked him that before, which was possible.
“Yeah, but you’re gonna kill me anyway,” I pointed out.
“That’s right.”
Immortal Page 12