"Now stand beside me and be my eyes. Speak your words but choose them carefully," said the old man.
"Why do I have to do this? I want to learn how to fight. I want to be a soldier."
"Do you want to live, boy?"
"I guess..."
"You guess?" The old man bellowed and grabbed his apprentice. "If you don't want to live, I can throw you into the sea to feed the fish.”
"Let go of me." The boy grumbled, freeing himself. "Fine, I'll tell you what I see..."
The cliffs gave way to a white sandy beach shrouded by strange trees with long trunks and leafy fronds. Huts littered the beach and a woman stood on the shore. The boy noticed that she was naked. Embarrassed, he turned away.
"What do you see?" the master asked.
"There's a beach and some houses and trees and a... woman," he replied.
"Yes, tell me about this woman."
"She's... naked."
"Go on. Describe her."
"She's got big tits," the boy said, and the old man slapped him soundly across the mouth.
"Don't use those words or you'll get worse. If you are to become a Warrior Poet, you will do as I say. Now, describe her."
"Fine. She has dark skin," he replied bitterly.
"Dark is not a colour."
"Her skin looks like charcoal, the kind the Captain uses for his charts."
"Better."
"Her hair hangs down to her waist; it looks like brown moss with water beading off it like the raindrops that collect on the deck."
"Good. Continue."
"She has a slender waist but she is not sickly thin. Her arms are muscular but not grotesque. And her breasts... she is a mother."
"How can you tell that?"
"They are swollen with milk."
"You are improving but you are too focused on the woman's nudity. Tell me why she is standing there."
"I don't know..." he started to say, but the old man jabbed him with a gnarled finger. The boy rubbed his side and looked across the bay again.
When he saw into her eyes, he recognized anger and hatred. Tears darkened her cheeks and she clutched the torn, bloodied garments of a child.
"She is mourning her dead and hating us," the boy whispered.
The master nodded. "I figured as much. This is an island garrisoned by the Persian Army."
“Why does she hate us?”
“Because we do nothing to stop them.”
“I would stop them!" The boy shouted. "I would kill them!"
"And how would you do that?"
"I would take up sword and shield and..."
"Aye, you'd kill a few but remember your family. Remember the men who murdered them?"
The boy did not answer. He hated the old man for bringing up his family. "Why do you say such things?"
"Because I am your teacher."
"You told me you would teach me how to avenge my family! All I do is recite poetry and play music and describe every bloody thing we come across! How is that teaching me?"
“During the invasion,” the master said slowly and calmly, “the Persians allowed the children and the old to flee. Why is that do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think!" his master growled. "Stop spitting out the first words that tumble off your tongue and think!” The boy thought about the Mother, the Goddess his family paid homage to. He thought about Her and his answer came to him.
“They spared us because we do not present a threat.”
“He can be taught!” the old man cried.
“But when will I have my revenge?” the boy asked.
“In time. For now, you must observe. You learn that and the rest will fall into place.”
“But why must I observe?”
“Because, you putrid excuse for a pupil, words can be mightier than any sword. You insert the right words into the ears of the people and you can ignite a conflagration the likes of which Wetiko has never seen!”
He was shocked when his master said that name. That was a forbidden name. Men had been killed for uttering such things. And yet, the boy could not hide his excitement at the prospect of the old man's secret knowledge.
“How will I get a chance? They’ll know my family name in Athens and I’ll be turned over to the Persians.”
“You will go by a new name. A name that will live throughout the ages.”
“And what is that name?” he asked.
The old man smiled. “Aeschylus.”
The boy silently tested out the name and it felt strange on his tongue. He pondered his new name as the trireme sliced through the water, veering away from Eleusis and farther out to sea.
The Ladder Trick
by Nick Mamatas
Alexander needed to find a place to be alone, to cry. The old wounds are bothering me, he thought, remembering the dart in his shoulder, the sharp Malli arrow in his side, and his ruined ankle. But there was something deeper than conscious thought roiling away in his guts. When Alexander was a child, his teacher Old Taki taught him that every man had guiding daemons within him, and that these daemons drove their men like men drive donkeys, to any destination they wish. For good or ill. The Indian campaigns were nearly over. Alexander could smell the scent of the great river Ganges in the air – it was the end of the world, literally. The maps stopped on its far shore. There was land beyond, and thousands of men who were ready for war with chariots and a legion of war elephants and and and... and it was over. He had won, as much as anyone would ever win.
Alexander’s guiding daemon let the man know why he had been compelled to limp out of camp to weep. There’s no world left to conquer. The generals were right. It was time to turn back, to let men see their homelands again. The taste of victory was bitter in Alexander’s mouth. He spit, and cried.
A few hours later, at twilight, Alexander heard one of his bodyguards calling for him.
“King! King!” It was Linos, the excitable boy who had followed Alexander over the Malli wall when the rest of the army had momentarily faltered. “Come!” Linos said as he rounded the boulder Alexander was leaning against. “Come play with us.” Linos’s smile melted as he saw the face of his king and commander, but he knew better than to say anything about it. “Perhaps not...?”
Alexander put on a smile. “Of course I’ll come. Wrestling?”
“Pankration,” Linos said. “The wars are over, after all.” Wrestling was safe. Throw a man and pin him down. Boxing, less so. One could always release a hold or let a man up. There was no way to take back a punch to the eye. Pankration, which combined boxing and wrestling, was the roughest sport of all. Alexander had banned it for the duration of the campaigns. Let the enemy break your limbs, not your comrades, he had declared. But everyone knew the war was over, and warriors need an outlet for their aggressions.
The men had pounded the dirt with their feet to make a flat surface. Alexander saw enough bruises, and empty wineskins, to know that there had been several matches already. An Iranian doctor pressed into service some time ago huddled over a fire with a red-hot sewing needle to stitch up the split forehead of one fighter. The men roared with glee when they saw their commander, and slammed fists against shields.
“Who is next?” Alexander asked when the men quieted down.
“I am!” someone said from the shadows.
“Hephaestion!” Alexander said. “My best friend! The commander of my bodyguard!”
The crowd parted and the general stepped forward. “I’m surprised to see you here... instead of in the tent.” Hephaestion was a quiet man, and rarely participated in any recreations. But here he was, standing on the balls of his feet, his weathered skin oiled and aglow with the flickers of torches. Something deep in Alexander stirred, a sense that soon everything would change, as this one small thing had changed. The empire he had built would grind against itself and crumble into nothingness. The world didn’t just end at the river, it ended in time too – it had already ended and was now going to collapse.
Hephaestion would be dead soon. He would be as well.
“It’s time to celebrate!” Hephaestion said. “I spent years at your right flank.” He gestured at his side, which had been crushed, and pierced, and burnt so many times. The scar tissue was like a map of the world itself, with hills and long streaks for the rivers. “Now war is over, and we can both relax.”
Relax in a no-holds-barred battle? Alexander thought, but he heard himself saying, “I know what you’re suggesting.” It was his daemon speaking, the spirit on his shoulder. “And I’m all for it. An exhibition match for the troops. Two warriors, old before our time!” He stood and turned to his men. “Don’t get too excited. This will look like a pair of saddles dumped in the dirt.” Alexander strode to the centre of the makeshift ring, his knees already bent to avoid a leg-grab, his chin tucked, his breath deep in his belly.
Hephaestion dropped to a fighting stance too. The general wasn’t smiling. All business, Alexander thought. A smile, or a grimace, tenses the shoulders and the neck. No good for a wrestler. So Alexander would box. He threw his right hand, then a looping left. Hephaestion had his hands up and they absorbed most of the force. He changed levels and shot in on Alexander, as Alexander knew he would. Strategy on the wrestling grounds wasn’t so different from strategy on the battlefield. Alexander threw his legs back and pushed himself even lower than Hephaestion, then went for a tackle himself. The general was strong though, and long of limb.
He slid his arms under Alexander’s armpits and twisted his torso, throwing him to the left.
Then it was easy. Alexander rolled, and kept rolling, till he was behind Hephaestion. He jumped on the man’s back, wrapped his arms around his neck and his legs around his chest, and squeezed. The ladder trick – climb a man and choke him. Alexander mounted Hephaestion’s back like it was the curve of the world, and hung on for dear life. He wanted it all. Every victory, every patch of land from sea to wine-dark sea. All peoples under one man, one immortal!
Then Hephaestion threw himself backward. Alexander hit the ground hard. Something within him broke, and blue light flashed behind his eyes like a fork of lightning, then everything went black for a long moment. The general tapped Alexander’s forearm three times, signalling surrender, but Alexander knew that it was just a show for the sake of his own timé – Alexander’s sacred honour. He had been twice tricked: first by the oldest counter in the world, then by Hephaestion's false surrender. The men believed Alexander had won, but not only did Alexander know he had lost, he knew he'd have to pretend to be the victor for honour's sake, and owe Hephaestion all that much more for it. If he could just pick himself up off the ground...
The crowd’s cheers were subdued. Alexander stayed on the ground for a long time. Two stars like glowing blue eyes peered down at him. And he could see himself, through those eyes, like a crushed ant in the dirt. It was his daemon, that had driven him to the edge of the earth on a wave of blood, mocking him. The empire would die with Alexander, and only chaos would reign. What had he done to the world?
Sibling Rivalry
by David Gorman
Mother and Trickster were growing impatient when Wetiko stepped from the darkness into the clearing. Ignoring Mother he looked to his brother. “What do you want, Trickster?”
They were in a small circular forest clearing, lit by a dwindling fire which cast dim shadows on the trees. Wetiko could see the outline of a person sitting with Mother.
Mother stood. “For you to step aside. It is long past time.”
“Why? So you can have man return to living in the dirt? You interrupted my work in Egypt before. Now you would stop my achievements with Caesar in Rome?”
Frustrated, Mother turned toward Trickster. “What about you? You are supposed to make sure we share this world.”
Trickster smiled. While he did enjoy watching his siblings squabble, he was more pleased that Wetiko was doing almost exactly what he would. Why waste his energy when he could enjoy his brother’s labour?
“I do not think it is time yet.”
Mother stared at him, her eyes narrowing in anger.
“You would do this again? Allow Wetiko to rule for so long while I have had but one short opportunity? Brother, this is not right.”
Trickster’s smile disappeared as he stepped toward Mother, growing in size till he was ten feet tall and towering over her. “It is not for you to decide!” His eyes glowed red and his voice shook the ground like rolling thunder.
Mother did not flinch. “You cannot intimidate me, brother. It is time for change and you know it.”
Wetiko stepped forward. “Prove it. I see you brought someone. Who do you deem worthy?”
Mother stared at Wetiko for a moment, then motioned to the woman to come closer. The woman stood up slowly, looking from Wetiko to Trickster. She knew Mother had power, but had never seen a display like Trickster’s. They truly were gods. She was impressed, but resolved not to be shaken. She stepped forward.
Wetiko looked at her in contempt. “This is your representative?” The woman was pregnant, and dressed in plain, simple clothing. “She obviously has no power. And will soon be busy with a new child. Why should I hand over power to her? To you?”
With each word the woman’s anger grew. Glaring at Wetiko she said, “You are a fool. Do you think I am not worthy because I am a woman? Because I am with child? Or is it my dress that offends you?”
Wetiko was enraged. “You dare speak to me in such a way? Mother, control your slave’s tongue or I will rip it from her head!”
“She is no slave.” Mother replied. “And Caesar will soon be finished.”
Wetiko laughed. “Never.”
“You are a fool. Caesar is in love with Cleopatra, who is pregnant with his child. He will change. And your time will end.”
Wetiko stopped laughing. “You are the fool.” Turning away, he said, “This gathering is over. Do not summon me again.” And walked back into the forest.
Mother turned to Trickster. “I am disappointed, brother. But I will have my time again.”
She turned and escorted the woman from the clearing. If Trickster would not do his duty, she would find another way to make Wetiko step aside.
Trickster stood alone. Maybe it is a time for a change, he thought.
••
Wetiko left angrier than when he arrived. Why must Mother waste his time? If she thought a woman and child would be enough to move Caesar from power, she was more naïve than he thought. But, to be sure, he followed Caesar when he next went to Egypt.
Arriving at the throne room first, Wetiko observed Cleopatra reading a scroll. There is nothing to fear here, he thought.
Caesar soon entered. “My love, I am happy to see you, and our future child, again.”
Cleopatra put down her scroll. “As am I. Will you stay longer this time?”
Wetiko’s smile disappeared. Something was wrong. He looked closer at Cleopatra.
Something about her was familiar.
“If I am able,” Caesar replied.
“Then let us celebrate while we can.” Cleopatra stood and gave orders to prepare a feast.
Wetiko had heard that voice before. Looking past the makeup and jewels, he recognized her. Cleopatra was Mother’s representative. Was this Mother’s plan, to manipulate Caesar?
Wetiko returned to Rome and thought about what to do. He needed to retain control of Rome. But if Caesar could not be trusted, what would he do?
He soon found his answer. “Hello, Brutus.”
••
After Caesar’s assassination, Wetiko had plans for his new representative and used his influence to grant amnesty to Brutus and the other assassins. But he was shocked when the public protested, demanding justice for Caesar. Wetiko attempted to influence the mob, but their demands for justice were something he could not sway with promises of power. Unable to calm the people, Brutus was forced to flee from Rome.
With his representative absent, Wetiko’s control over Rome and the
world was weakened. Yet Mother was unable to force him from power, and Trickster still refused to help her. Mother was sure that if Caesar had chosen his child with Cleopatra to be his successor, she would have had enough power to push Wetiko out. Instead, Caesar had chosen his nephew, Augustus Octavian to succeed him.
Three years later Brutus was dead and Cleopatra returned to Rome to meet Marc Antony, one of three men sharing the rule of Rome. Octavian was one of the others, which angered Mother. She saw a chance to bolster Cleopatra’s influence in Rome and hopefully weaken Octavian’s position, and encouraged the meeting. Yet even she was surprised when
Cleopatra fell in love with Antony and became pregnant. But she was still unable to force Wetiko out.
Another winter passed whenTrickster came to her.
“What do you want, Trickster?” Mother asked.
“When Wetiko’s man died I took an interest in a man who seemed likely to rise to power.”
“What! You would deny me my right again? Who did you choose?”
“Marc Antony.”
Mother was shocked. “But he is in love with Cleopatra.”
“I know. He ignored all my warnings. Antony needed her wealth, not her love.” Trickster sighed. “I am enamoured of the world at present, and wish it to continue. Wetiko’s claim is weak, and I intend to take over. Renounce your claim, and once I’ve had my fun it will be your time.”
“That is not right, and I will not give up my claim.”
“Then we shall have no change.”
••
Trickster and Mother remained in a stalemate for over ten years. As the siblings fought, the relationship of Antony and Cleopatra suffered, and Antony lost power in Rome. As Antony’s position weakened, Octavian’s strengthened until there was war between them. Forced out of Rome, Antony fled to Egypt.
In despair over his defeat, Antony committed suicide and died in Cleopatra’s arms. Soon after, her sorrow and fear of Octavian drove Cleopatra to take her own life.
Mother and Trickster were both ashamed, but would not admit that their attempts to play in politics cost their representatives their lives. Instead, they blamed each other for their failure.
The Book of the Emissaries: An Animism Short Fiction Anthology Page 9