by David Drake
“First, when we return to Carce,” Hedia said, “I will ask my husband to build you a temple commensurate with the assistance you have been to my daughter and to the rest of us. If you return us to Carce immediately, we will build you a temple as large as that of Jupiter Best and Greatest.”
Pandareus looked puzzled. “Would the Emperor allow a private citizen to do that, Master Corylus?” he asked in an undertone.
Corylus didn’t know whether to slap the scholar to silence or hug him in delight. Facing probable death in an unfamiliar place, Pandareus was focused on the minutiae of a negotiation. And if Varus were here, he would have had the same first concern.
Surely the human race was of some merit if it included individuals who were more concerned with the truth than they were with their lives or anything else. More concerned with truth than with the continued existence of life on earth.
Corylus chuckled. Everyone looked at him. He said to Pandareus in a normal tone, “Not everyone would share my appreciation of your quest for absolute truth, master.”
“What?” Pandareus said. “Oh, I see what you mean. I’m very sorry; I wasn’t thinking about, well, where we are.”
“I came here to defend the Daughters against Paris and his Ethiopes,” Alphena said, speaking loudly and with deliberate clarity. “Because I couldn’t go home, I mean. I was going to fight them so that the Daughters can escape again, because if the Ethiopes destroy the Egg they’re caring for, the world will end.”
She was blushing. Alphena was young and not particularly cultured, but she must have realized that what she was saying sounded exactly like a boastful senator extolling his courage upon his return from a lackluster campaign.
The carved stick in her hand laughed like crows cackling. First said, “The Daughters have stopped running, little worshiper. They will meet Paris in this place. The priest and his savages cannot harm the Egg; not even the Worms can harm the Egg. But the Worms which Paris loosed will devour all things on the surface of this Earth, and there will be no one to summon the Egg when it must hatch.”
Corylus saw light moving at the edge of the surrounding escarpment. It was reddish, the wrong color to be sunlight reflected from black rock. As he by now expected, the glitter formed itself into an arch of light. The priest Paris stepped through it.
Ethiopes shambled after him. Their uncouth forms had become as familiar to Corylus as the antelopes that were regularly butchered in the arena of Carce. He visualized archers protected by a grill shooting arrow after arrow into the horse-headed creatures, laying their corpses in windrows on the sand.
Corylus didn’t frequent the arena—he’d seen too much of slaughter done for real on the frontier—but he might make an exception for that event. It wasn’t going to happen, though; and even if it did, he wasn’t likely to be around to watch it.
“Well,” he said to his companions. “Whether or not these women intend to flee—”
He nodded toward the Daughters.
“—it appears to me that Lady Alphena’s plan of fighting the Ethiopes is better than any alternative I can come up with.”
He had sheathed his sword when he and Pandareus found themselves among friends. He drew it again and walked toward the oncoming Ethiopes. He didn’t want to slash one of his companions if he cut broadly in the violence of the moment. Not that it would matter for anything but the very shortest time: the time it would take for more Ethiopes to lumber past his body and massacre all the other humans present.
Corylus heard commotion behind him. Varus had just dived into their midst from somewhere. It pleased Corylus to see that his friend tucked his head under and rolled to his feet instead of sprawling full length as he would have done before they started practicing gymnastics together in Saxa’s private exercise ground.
The Ethiopes were getting closer. They were as inexorable as the sea, and like the sea they would grind down all before them.
* * *
VARUS WAS SO PROUD of his perfect tuck-and-roll that it was several heartbeats before he realized that not only had he joined his sister and mother, as he expected, but Corylus and Pandareus were present as well. “Master!” he said in delight. “I’m very glad to see you. I’ve so often in the past days—”
Has it been “days” in the Waking World? Are we in the Waking World now?
“—wished you could see what I was seeing!”
“I’m sure we both have things to tell the other about,” Pandareus said, beaming in obvious pleasure. “Although—”
He looked up at the Ethiopes, still a mile away. They were spreading to left and right as they approached, obviously planning to come at the humans from all the land sides.
Varus couldn’t imagine why they were bothering to be so careful. Did they—or the Etruscan priest who commanded them—think that any of this group were going to run for the hills?
“—it seems unlikely that we’ll have time to discuss matters. I suppose under the circumstances I shouldn’t even name her. I’m pleased to see you, Lord Varus.”
Varus shrugged. He said, “From what I’ve been told”—by the Sibyl, though he didn’t say that aloud—“if we don’t save these Daughters of the Mind—”
He gestured like the orator Pandareus had trained him to be.
“—the Worms will wipe all life from the Earth. I would prefer to be with friends if that happens.”
As it seems very probable that it will, though he didn’t say that aloud, either. He was scarcely the only one having the thought, however.
The Daughters seemed unconcerned about what was going on, though they watched the Ethiopes with the interest one might give to the entrance of unusual animals into the arena. Pandareus looked in their direction and said, “I can’t see the Egg clearly. I wonder whether it has material existence or if it exists only as an idea, as Plato speculated.”
One of the Daughters smiled at him. All three said, “The Egg is real, master.”
“But it is not in this world until the time comes for it to hatch,” the women continued in a different voice.
“If we die,” they said in a third voice yet, “then it will never hatch. But the world will be no more, so there will be no purpose for the Egg.”
“When I heard you chanting before…,” Varus said. He directed his comment to the Nubian women out of courtesy, but he was really speaking for the benefit of his teacher. “You were quoting Thales.”
“Of all things, the most ancient is God,” the Daughters said. The two looking in his direction were smiling. “Thales visited us, friend. But he did not teach us.”
Varus tightened his lips in embarrassment. “I was reversing causation, master,” he said to Pandareus.
“An easy mistake to make under stress,” the scholar said. “And I’m certainly feeling stressed.”
Varus looked in the direction of the Ethiopes. His sister and Corylus had moved ten feet out from the rest of the group. Alphena put a fallen pillar behind her. It was worn to a milky spindle that only memory suggested had been six feet in diameter and as clear as the sea at Baiae.
“I suppose I could throw rocks at the Ethiopes,” Varus said. “Judging from my performance in ball games in the baths, I’m afraid that I’d be more likely to hit a friend, though.”
“Do you suppose our enemies there are the reason Herodotus refers to Ethiopians as wearing horse skulls as helmets?” Pandareus said.
Varus felt a surge of fellowship. He and his teacher were scholars. Though they might not be able to prevent their own slaughter, neither did fear of death keep them from being scholars.
“According to the Sibyl,” he said, “these horse-headed savages were wiped out when the Singiri left this world long ago. I thought perhaps that the Ethiopians of Herodotus’ day may have adopted the fashion from legends they preserved.”
Pandareus chuckled. “It is an honor to have been your teacher, Lord Varus,” he said. “And now to be your colleague.”
Hedia had been looking in the direction
of Paris. He was walking toward them behind the first few hundred or so Ethiopes. Grimacing, she stepped to Varus and his teacher.
“Your pardon for interrupting, Master Pandareus,” she said. “I need to speak to my son.”
She held out the codex she was carrying, using both hands now that the ironbound weight wasn’t cradled against her body. “I think this will be of more use to you than to me, Varus,” she said. “I’m told that it is Zabulon’s Book.”
* * *
HEDIA RUBBED HER LEFT BICEPS, feeling the hard weight of the Book now that she had passed it off to someone who might possibly have some use for it. She would have given it to Varus immediately on his appearance if she hadn’t simply forgotten that she was holding it. Quite a lot was going on.
She had gone to a great deal of effort to get the Book, so it was good that it had gone to someone who would appreciate it. She and Melino together had invested effort, to be accurate. She thought of Melino with some regret, but only for what he had turned out to be. She didn’t regret the end his behavior had brought him to.
Things that had happened recently suggested that Varus was a magician of some sort, though Hedia hadn’t had any inkling of such interests on his part in the past. His father—poor dear Saxa!—had made quite a production of studying what he called the Hidden Arts and what Hedia called being fleeced by every mystical charlatan who passed through Carce. She had been mildly irritated by that: Saxa was a sweet man who didn’t deserve to be taken advantage of.
But then Saxa had become involved with a real magician, and that was much worse. That was very nearly the end of the world … and the world was not safe yet. This present business was all part of what had started then.
Hedia sniffed. This might very well end it. Not in the fashion she would have wished, but a woman living in a man’s world learns quickly that her wishes rarely matter to anyone else.
She looked fondly at Varus. Whether or not he could use a book of magic, he certainly was the proper custodian for a book. That was particularly true if these were his last moments and heralded the end of life on earth.
As for Alphena … Hedia glanced toward the girl, standing ten feet away from Corylus and constituting with him the entire defenses of the party. In all likelihood, the entire defenses of the life on earth.
Gaius Alphenus Saxa had known what Hedia was when he asked her to marry him. All Carce knew what Hedia was: she was notorious. All that she had promised was that she would be a dutiful wife and a mother to his children. She took her duties as seriously as any of the famous women of ancient Carce had taken theirs.
There was little she could do for Varus, but boys were relatively easy. Varus was intelligent and had no bad habits; his bookishness was probably his worst flaw, but Hedia was too wise to imagine that she could cure him of that. His friendship with Corylus was the best antidote she could imagine against the risk of the boy becoming a humorless prig with no companions save his books.
Alphena was a more difficult problem. She was just as strong willed as her brother, and her personality was even more different from Hedia’s. If the girl had been a tramp, it would have affected the kind of marriage Hedia could make for her. If Alphena got a reputation for being a man wearing a woman’s body, though, it would make marriage within her class almost impossible. Even well-born spendthrifts otherwise lured by a large dowry would shy away from becoming laughingstocks.
She smiled wryly. It appeared that the girl’s unladylike interest in swordsmanship was more of a benefit than not; and marriage didn’t appear to be in her future, either.
Hedia sighed. Alphena wasn’t boyish; she was just rebellious and athletic. At some level she had probably decided to be the son Varus was not, out of a kind of family pride. Family pride was something that Hedia understood very well.
Corylus twisted as though someone had grasped the side of his tunic. A lizardman—the old one whom Hedia had seen caged in the dealer’s yard in Puteoli—appeared beside him.
Hedia picked up a block of crystal at her feet: a chip broken from a pillar when it fell against the base of another pillar. It was worn more or less round, and was just of a size for her to grip firmly in her right hand.
Three more Singiri stepped into sight. Corylus clasped the old one’s left hand with his own instead of attacking. “Tassk!” he cried. “I wasn’t expecting you!”
Hedia didn’t exactly relax, but she felt a marginally positive change in her attitude. The lizardmen had been Melino’s enemies, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were her enemies—or Mankind’s.
“The Princess gave you a link of chain, Lord Corylus,” the old lizardman said. “So that you could come to us, she said; and that is true. But the chain connects at both ends.”
Tassk spoke better Latin than most of the servants in Saxa’s household did. He slurred his words slightly, but no worse than guests midway into the drinking after a dinner party.
He, the leader, was naked except for the bits of hardware that he had worn in the cage. His three younger companions might be the same individuals who were his fellow prisoners at that time, but now they wore dark bronze body armor and carried curved swords. They had small shields of bronze also; one of them carried an extra shield.
Alphena seemed just as surprised as Hedia—or as Corylus himself, come to that. Hedia walked toward the group, leaving Varus and his teacher with the Daughters. She didn’t see much point in standing with them, so she might as well learn what their defenders—the ones with swords—were discussing.
“But what are you doing here?” Alphena said, coming immediately to what Hedia thought was the real point.
“Our princess thought that a few warriors might be of service to Lord Corylus, little one,” Tassk said. “Though she was concerned that he might be embarrassed to accept help.”
“I’m the son of a soldier,” Corylus said with a snort. “I’ve never seen an army that was too big to win a battle, and I’m sure not worried about that being a problem now.”
A younger lizardman had been staring at Alphena. He said something to Tassk in a language of clicks and sibilants, still looking at the girl. Hedia moved closer to her daughter, suddenly reminded of the rock in her hands.
Tassk bowed to Alphena and said, “My colleague has noted that you and the older female—”
He dipped his head to acknowledge Hedia. The motion was more sideways than up and down, as though his spine differed from that of a human being.
“—visited us when we waited in the port. As did the two males who are not warriors, I believe. We do not know what their purpose is in this place.”
“At the moment,” Hedia said, “our purpose appears to be waiting for slaughter by those Ethiopes.”
“I do not know the future, honored lady,” the old lizardman said. His little finger—the Singiri had four, not five, fingers and toes—pointed in the direction of Hedia’s block of crystal. His forked tongue lolled out in the expression that Hedia had thought in Puteoli was laughter. “But I honor your spirit.”
The lizardman with two shields tossed one to Corylus, who caught it by the crossbar handle. Tassk said, “I’m sorry I did not think to bring a shield for your young companion, Lord Corylus.”
The club named First made a rude noise. “My worshiper has no need for a metal plate which doesn’t care if it’s fed or not. I will appreciate her offerings.”
I’m not sure that’s an adequate reason to reject a proper shield, Hedia thought. But Alphena was a better judge of weapons than her mother was, and the shield wasn’t available anyway.
Corylus glanced from the Singiri to the Ethiopes, then back again. The leading enemy was only about a furlong, six hundred and some feet, away.
“Master,” he said. “I suggest that we wait till the leading beasts have come three-quarters of the way toward us, then rush them and kill the first dozen or so. Then retreat to here. It’s what a squad of Batavian Scouts would do with a straggling column of Sarmatians.”
; “My princess sent us here to aid you, not to command you, warrior,” Tassk said. He spoke in rapid syllables to the others. In acknowledgment, each ticked the boss of his shield with the flat of his sword.
To Corylus Tassk added, “We are pleased that you are willing to accept our aid.”
Corylus grinned broadly. “There are no men of any race,” he said, “whom I would rather have with me in this business than you and your warriors.”
Tassk translated that to his fellows. One of them responded. Tassk said to Corylus, “He says that since he saw you use your sword in defending the Princess, he is willing to accept that you are a man also. As for me, I will stand with the old one.”
He flicked his little finger toward Pandareus. “It is good for aged men to have companions.”
“It’s about time to open the proceedings,” said Corylus. “Alphena—Lady Alphena? I’d appreciate it if you kept close to me.”
Alphena nodded and walked behind the three Singiri warriors who were spreading to the left. She gave Hedia a glance with no obvious meaning in it.
Venus aid you, Daughter, Hedia thought. Her face showed nothing, either.
The Etruscan priest had halted in the ruins of a small, round building, probably a temple, a tholos. It might never have had a roof. In any case, all that remained now were the bases of six columns. He was chanting.
Hedia eyed Paris and eyed the Ethiopes. Corylus’ attack would probably draw those who had slanted off to encircle the humans back to the direct line of approach. Hedia balanced the rock in her hand and started walking in a curving course. It would take her to the tholos if nothing intervened.
* * *
ALPHENA WAS FRIGHTENED. Not of death or injury, at least not those things at the top of her mind. What concerned her was that she would be fighting at the side of Corylus and three Singiri and that they would be depending on her to keep her end up.
Even without the respect Corylus showed the Singiri warriors, Alphena could see by the way they moved that they were veterans. Though the five defenders didn’t have a chance of success against the Ethiopes—even the ones already present—she didn’t want to let down her friends and allies as her last act in life.