The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones)

by M. H. Hawkins

  Disclaimer:

  This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, and all other aspects of the novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to any real person or event is purely coincidental.

  While this novel contains very loose allusions to various religious and mythological themes, it is entirely a work of fiction. It is in no way intended to insinuate or offer any type of interpretation or stance on any religion and/or belief system, and it should not be used as such. Once again, this novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  Prologue Part I: Pompeii…

  Prologue Part II: Love is a Battlefield

  CH 1: Breathe Again

  CH 2: Highway to Hell

  CH 3: Everything’s Gone to the Wolves

  CH 4: Eat the Rich

  CH 5: One Week

  CH 6: Good Girls Gone Bad

  CH 7: Back to Good

  CH 8: Shut the Door

  CH 9: Right Hand Man

  CH 10: Queens of the Stone Age

  CH 11: My Block

  CH 12: Other Side of the Street

  CH 13: The Other Side

  CH 14: Meet the Parents

  CH 15: Desert of the Ancients

  CH 16: Street Lights

  CH 17: Six Feet Under

  CH 18: Homecoming

  CH 19: Dr. Patterson, I Presume

  CH 20: Demons in the Desert

  CH 21: Family Matters

  CH 22: All in the Family

  CH 23: Hair of the Dog

  CH 24: Reunited Again

  CH 25: Mountain Man

  CH 26: Through the Woods

  CH 27: Inside the Cave

  CH 28: Pikes Peak

  CH 29: Just the Two of Us

  CH 30: Dog Eat Dog World

  CH 31: Burn It Down…. Burn It All Down

  CH 32: Fire and Rain

  CH 33: Walkin’ After Midnight

  Prologue Part I: Pompeii…

  79 A.D.

  Misenum, Italy

  Three weeks after the eruption of Mount Vesuvius

  “Look in the mirror and behold the face of god,” the old man shouted over the crowd and raised his clay cup high above his head. No? No one? The old man’s toast went ignored, swallowed up by the overlapping laughter and conversations of the multitudes. So he shrugged it off, lifted his cup a little higher, and ended his solemn toast on his own. Yet as his cup touched his thirsty lips, a tug on his arm sent his drink sloshing around, and grainy black ale splashed over his long gray beard and the sleeve of his dirty gray robe.

  “Mind your tongue and the words that roll off it,” snapped the one behind the tugging: a strong-looking, stern-faced man in a puffed up robe. Sternly through gritted teeth while keeping his volume low, he warned, “This place is filled with devouts and zealots alike, and neither would give much thought of making an example of your blasphemy or, for that matter, the one speaking it… especially an old, frail blasphemer such as yourself. Now sit down.”

  The old man nodded absently to the man then looked around. His vision was a drunken bundle of blurs and it took him a moment to blink away the haze that was clouding his surroundings, a smoke-filled tavern.

  It wasn’t just the old man’s vision that were hazy. The tavern’s air was thick with smoke and dust, and the tavern itself was packed with patrons. The stone benches that lined the walls and the long wooden table in the center of the tavern were filled—most were Roman merchants or farmers. Many of them were younger, and some drunker, than the old man himself.

  Across the tavern a fight was breaking out. Two men were shoving and shouting at each other while they bounced into the men that were gathered around them and trying to break up them up. Two tavern dogs—kept inside to clean up any split food—were eagerly bouncing around the fighters and barking relentlessly.

  A few more bar patrons shoved their way through the crowd, grabbed the two fighters, and tossed them out of the tavern, shoving them out a side door and beneath the ashy sheet that covered it. Everything settled, and the situation seemed like it was resolved. But as an ashy cloud of dust that came sweeping in, the yelling started up again.

  “Close it! Get them out of here! Close the door! Close the damn door,” everyone yelled as they covered their mouths and tried to fan away the incoming ashes. And when the flapping sheet sent more ashes drifting in to the hot, polluted tavern; the patrons let out another series of angry instructions.

  “Huh,” the old man said, grinning to himself before he took a drink of his ale. Lingering on the sight, he nodded and sniggered to himself. Quite the awakening, he thought, quite the arrival, especially for me… and him.

  The ash and smoke swirled around the poorly ventilated room and hung around the dirt-faced patrons, clinging to them like some filthy aura. Despite the winds and passing time, the ash from Vesuvius was still heavy and coated the town of Misenum. The sheet did little to keep it out. The old man took a deep breath through his nose, sucking in the filthy air, and he smiled and seemed to enjoy it.

  For the moment, the old man continued looking around, trying to regain his bearing. The tavern noise, a convoluted mixture of yelling and drunken laughter, returned to his ears and seemed to help break him out of his stupor. He shook his head and tried to blink away the rest of the haze. It helped, but the old man’s eyes were still burning. He sniffed at the burnt air, and the stench of smoke, sweaty Romans, and roasted goat filled his nostrils. He nodded and smiled to himself. It’s good, he thought, it feels good to be back.

  Still looking around, trying to gain some lucidity, the old man took another sip of ale, wiped the foam from his beard, and continued to study the room. Finally he looked down at the man that had tugged on his arm.

  “Sit down,” the tugging man ordered again, his voice stern and authoritative.

  “Apologies,” the old man said, addressing the tugging man who was still giving him a puzzled and almost-angry look. “I, ah… Again,” said the old man, again shaking away the cobwebs. “I, ah… I apologize, my friend.” The old man grinned slyly then said, “What I meant to say was: ‘for the glory of Rome!’” And he raised his cup again.

  This time the crowd joined him and echoed his chant. “For the glory of Rome!” they shouted, and the shouts of the many drowned out the curses of the few—the few dissenters that were drunk and bold enough to openly curse the empire.

  The old man finally sat down on the bench, opposite the tugging man—a centurion. He set his cup down on the stained wooden table, still wet and sticky from the prior patrons. He reached over to a nearby plate and slid it over to him. “It has been a strange night… and I am old.” Then he tore a chunk of roasted goat off the half-eaten carcass. “And again, my apologies, centurion.” Now chomping on his roasted goat, he said, “My exuberance must have gotten the better of me. Despite the destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum, I am most grateful tonight and in good spirits. I am in the presence of a new friend, and the meat is plentiful—plentiful this night at least.”

  The centurion squirmed in his seat and looked down at his robe, a poor disguise if there was one. He sighed then suspiciously scanned the tavern as he sipped his wine. He was sitting up a little too straight, holding his head up just a little bit too high, and he was clearly out of his element. And it was all but obvious that he was more distinguished and classier than the rest of his fellow patrons. And despite hiding his boiled leather and sheathed sword beneath his ashy cloak, he still stuck out. “No apology needed,” he muttered, still looking around, half-paranoid and half-cautious.

  He knew better; these days, no town was safe for Roman soldiers, esp
ecially lowly centurions, especially ones that were traveling alone. “Perhaps it is I who should mind my surroundings. After the deaths of Nero and Vespasian.” The centurion paused and shook his head. “And with the civil war just ending… and the turmoil in Judea…” The centurion sighed and shook his head again. “The empire is on shaky ground. And danger is as plentiful as the goat meat.” He sighed then took a hard gulp of his wine. “And now, with Vesuvius erupting… it seems like the gods themselves are against us.”

  They are, thought the old man as he lowered his head, tilting it to the side and trying his best to hide his sneaky grin. “No. No, certainly not. Rome is enlightenment. Rome is order. And concerning Judea, it is strange that they would not see the light—especially after we invaded their homeland and slaughtered their people, and after Nero burned down their temple. So strange. So disappointing.” The old man shook his head and tssked. “From my travels, from what I’ve seen during my many journeys, most mortals respond better to foreign occupation… with more dignity.” If they know better.

  “Yes,” agreed the centurion, emptily. “They should.”

  Suspicious of the old man, the centurion gave him a queer look and narrowed his eyebrows, clearly not appreciating the sarcasm. “Regardless, I am just a soldier. And when I receive orders, I must follow them… and rarely do my orders involve me establishing political doctrine.” He sighed and shook his head yet again. “And now… Now I’ve received other orders, new orders, to journey to Britannia. Apparently they do not appreciate the enlightenment of the Roman Empire either.

  The old man chuckled and raised his cup. “To a safe journey, for you and your men.”

  Both men drank. “Oh, my men,” said the centurion. “No, I travel alone to Britannia. That part is specified by this piece of parchment.” The centurion tapped his chest and rolled his eyes. “Oh! But mind you, this parchment is the same parchment that orders me to leave my soldiers in Jerusalem, to maintain order.”

  The old man raised his cup again and grinned. “For the glory of Rome.”

  This time the centurion chuckled and raised his cup as well. “For the glory of Rome,” he echoed emptily.

  “Relax though, my friend.” The old man slapped the top of the centurion’s hand. “You will be fine. Trust me. I know things.” He grinned again. “Your journey to Britannia will be filled with glory and victory. Of that, I am certain.”

  The centurion nodded at the casual yet comforting words then stared into his cup of wine.

  “My friend, I do not think that you’ll find any answers in there.” The old man sniggered than sipped his ale. Then he thrust up an eager hand. “Hmmph.” I almost forgot. Finishing up his rushed drink, he swallowed then said, “Oh, Vesuvius. You mentioned the explosion at Vesuvius. Yes, the smoke was heavy. Some say it was Pluto himself raising the…. Oh, what’s the word? The Greeks called it Hades.”

  “We call it Avernus, or Inferno. The underworld.”

  The old man snapped his fingers and pointed at the centurion. “Yes! Yes, that is it. Thank you. Avernus. Some say it was Pluto himself raising Avernus from the depths of the ground, sending demons to punish Rome for its corruption and the cruelty of its emperors. Others say that the dead are rising, that it is the rebirth of the damned—back from the dead to destroy Rome. Others say that it is a sign of the end… the end of the world. Others say it was the Christian God—striking down his vengeance upon the Roman Empire for the persecution of his people and the destruction of their temple.”

  The centurion shook his head while grinning. “Is that what you believe? That their God—or even our gods—made the mountain bellow out pyres of smoke and spew out rivers of fire—to melt and burn the people of Pompeii and Herculaneum, to soaks thousands in liquid flames while leaving the survivors to starve while their livestock and goats and sheep die from black-lung? You think that that is the work of the gods, of their God?”

  The old man wrinkled up his forehead and his arms squiggled up his sides until they transformed into an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know. That’s just what they say. Besides, the fear of black-lung has made meat plentiful, at least tonight it has.” Then he tore off another piece of goat and ate it.

  “Vesuvius,” said the centurion as he pondered the stories and sipped his wine. “Some say that they saw a dragon—a giant, great red dragon—climbing out of the top of the gurgling mountain.”

  “Really?” the old man said, “a great red dragon, you say? Wow. Picture that: a giant red dragon climbing out of the top of Vesuvius—all while it’s spitting up oceans of liquid fire and bellowing out clouds of black smoke, black as the night’s sky they were. Oh! What I heard was that the smoke had chased them, chased them around—like flying black snakes. As they fled, the smoke swam down from the heavens and wrapped them up and tied up their arms and legs while other black snakes of smoke slid down their throats—and burnt them, burnt them from the inside-out, until they were nothing more than logs of charred timber… but that’s just what they say.”

  The old man grinned again and shrugged. If they only knew, he thought.

  The centurion nodded politely then went to sip his drink, but he didn’t. Instead the centurion did a double-take of the old man. For a second, he could have sworn that he saw the old man’s eyes light up, turning into two little wicked golden flames. But they weren’t.

  So, keeping his eyes on the odd, grinning, old man; the centurion took a slow, measured sip of his wine. He seems to know an awful lot about Vesuvius, he thought, and Judea for that matter, especially for an old man. The centurion said, “I think you may be a sympathizer.” Though the words were light-hearted, they were still nothing less than a condemnation and punishable by death.

  It didn’t matter. Regardless of how the words were said, the old man chuckled casually and shrugged lightly, grinning as he chewed on another torn piece of roasted goat. ”Sympathizer? For the Judeans or for the Romans?” Again his eyes seemed to flash—like sparks from hot, hammered iron.

  Slightly amused and puzzled by his own thoughts, the centurion chuckled as well and shook his head. Pausing momentarily, his smile turned limp and began to sag. I have seen so much death, he thought, and I’m tired of seeing it—Roman or otherwise. Looking down, he studied his cup of wine again. After a long pause, he said, “Behold… see, there is joy and revelry, the slaughtering of cattle and killing of sheep, the eating of meat and drinking of wine. ‘Let us eat and drink,’ you say, for tomorrow we die.” He chuckled. “Judean words, from a man called Isaiah, a Christian prophet.”

  “Ah!” The old man smiled and clapped his hands. “A learned man, you are. I am impressed.” He wagged his finger at the centurion then japed, “Now who is the sympathizer.” Not to be outdone, he cleared his throat and said, “‘For this is the day of the Lord of Hosts, a day of vengeance, that he may avenge him of his adversaries: and the sword shall devour, and it shall be satiate and made drunk with their blood.’ Words from another Judean prophet, Jeremiah. Jeremiah was his name, but his words were not about Rome. Instead they were about the Egyptians. And as beautifully written as they were, they did not bode well for the Egyptians.”

  “But well enough for Rome,” the centurion quipped, knowing that Rome had absorbed Egypt into its empire long ago.

  “Most certainly.” The old man shoved the plate of goat to the side and leaned forward—seeking whatever privacy could be attain in a loud, drunken tavern. “And interesting enough, wouldn’t you say?” the old man said, barely louder than a whisper. He scanned the room suspiciously, looking for any overly curious ears that may be listening in. There were none, so he continued. “It’s interesting. The Christians prophesize the downfall of Egypt, and then their enemy, Rome, goes out and conquers Egypt. That turned out quite convenient for the Judeans, wouldn’t you say? Having one enemy destroy another. And now… now they prophesize about the downfall of Rome and… Vesuvius erupts; civil war breaks out; assassinations have become common place; political corruption is rampant,
and now there’s dissention in the ranks. To the East, the Moors and Judeans rebel. From the West, the barbarians—the Gauls—are invading and rebelling again the empire. And it just… To me, it all just seems quite odd.” The old man shrugged, grinned again, then leaned back.

  Again nodding emptily in agreement, the centurion let out another sigh. “I have no disillusions about the Roman Empire. Parts of it are… vile, corrupt. There are many parts that need to be fixed. But what is the alternative? War? Chaos?”

  The old man nodded in agreement. “Yes, I suppose. The empire offers order—some type of order—at the very least. That it does.”

  For the moment, both the centurion and old man grew somber and silent. Then the old man lit up with some newfound energy. “Oh! But Vesuvius! They saw a red dragon, or so they say—but… from the Far East, I heard a different tale, a stranger tale—did you know that those in the Far East have many gods? Hundreds of them. Hundreds of gods with hundreds of different forms for each one of them. It’s all very queer—to me, at least. But like our gods, their gods walked amongst the people, supposedly. But of course, the stories get convoluted and mixed in with each other. And they vary from tribe to tribe but—”

  The old man was interrupted by the bar wench. Standing next to the centurion, she held up a clay flagon of wine. “Excuse me, sir. More wine for you, sir? And you, sir, more ale?” As she spoke, she was already resting a hand on the centurion’s shoulder and topping off his cup with more wine.

  And though she was addressed the old man as well, both her eyes and smile were fixed on the centurion. Top-heavy and swaying, her tunic hung low. And as she leaned over the table—further and lower than she had to—to pour the centurion’s wine, her tunic hung even lower, and the swaying beneath it grew vivid, all a glance away for the centurion. Strangely enough, though the old man was gawking, the centurion didn’t sneak a peek at all, averting his eyes instead.

  Strange, the old man thought, grinning again. “Thank you,” he said as he handed her a few silver coins. Still holding her hand, he added, “And I’ll take that ale whenever you get a moment.” He winked, and still holding her hand he slimily slid a few more pieces of silver into her palm as he eyed her chest again. “And that is for you, you and your beautiful… smile.”