by Assaph Mehr
“I can,” I said. “What is the name of that symbol? Can you shed some light on its possible meaning?”
“It is the ancient Mitzrani glyph for — how do I translate this? Your Quirite language is woefully inadequate — it is a symbol meaning that which can be counted both once and many. Or I should say, that which is counted many times but once. The indivisible unity of the multitude. The meaninglessness of numbers other than none.” He stopped to smile at me. “Yes, your face wears the same expression as mine once did, and as I imagine my teacher’s did when he was young. It is very old, older than many of our gods, although not all. From a time our people have viewed the world in a different light. It is called the Aten, and has many connotations. More recently though, a mad pharaoh decreed that the Aten stands for the Sun, a supreme god above other gods. He tried to do away with the established pantheon, and set the Aten as single god. A foolish man, his mummy long turned to dust.”
“What might it mean, the presence of this glyph in the rite?”
“Ah, but I have not yet finished. This symbol is Mitzrani in origin, yet it has been borrowed. The Assyricans liked it, though I fear they misunderstood it. Being star-gazers, they transformed its meaning for the stars. For them it came to mean the futility of counting stars. The enormity of the multitude of stars in a singular heaven. Though they too, in time neglected and forgot this.”
“I still do not understand why this… concept… would appear in the rite.”
“That I sadly cannot tell you, without first inspecting the context of the text in which it appears.” Akhirabus said. “Bring me the scroll, let me see if the usage is Mitzrani or Assyrican, if it references natural or unnatural powers, philosophies or mathematics, and I will shed what light my poor understanding can.”
“Thank you my friend. And about the other ingredients listed in the ceremony?” I asked.
“Some are common, some rarer. I can see if I have sold any, although this was a while ago. I will give you a list of my competitors, for though I fear their stock is inferior, your unfortunate young man may have dealt with them.”
“And the herb samples I left with you before I left? Have you found anything in them beyond spices for the wine?”
“I did but little,” said the herbalist. “One, a mild soporific that will render the imbiber in a calm hypnotic state. Second, a weak hallucinogenic that will give dreams. Third, a hypnotic of a different nature, inducing trust. They contained herbs, fungi and some desiccated animal remains, and the heka — the magia as you Quirites call it — the heka binding it was not above that of the common shopkeeper. I say these were produced by a competent herbalist to a discerning customer. They will not be advertised, only sold to those who know what to ask. Their use would let the one administering control his guests, especially if he took an antidote before, and manipulate feelings and emotions.”
We discussed the matter a bit further, and I convinced him — though he insisted that it was unnecessary, that the mixtures were harmless — to give me a small batch of antidote to be taken, should I be made to drink again. He also gave me short list of suppliers and other herbalists, who in his opinion were not abysmally incompetent and could procure the ingredients and produce such mixes.
Thus I was presented with two lists — one from Brewyn for ink traders, and one for Akhirabus for the ritual components and the herbs. I scanned the lists to see recurring names, and found three that could supply all. If Caeso was the naive sort of young man I thought he was, he would procure all from a single source. If not, well, more feet tramping around the town for me.
* * *
Having had a pleasant and productive day so far — three names for the cabal, a list of leads for ritual supplies — I decided to risk the ruination of my good mood and seek out Araxus.
The hour was getting late, but this being Maius I still had some time before darkness set in. I walked along the twisting alleys at the base of the Meridionali closest to the city walls, in between large and crumbling insulae. I reached the old walls, passed through the gates to the Pons Orientalem and crossed the bridge to the Campus Civicus. I wandered around the decrepit taverns and open cesspits, the unsavoury back alleys behind the places of base entertainment. I stayed inside the walls, however — it was not the time to wander outside, past the Porta Purgamenta into the real dumps.
I spread a few small coins amongst the street urchins, and soon enough found Araxus. The last I saw him was when he came to my house before I left to Ephemezica, crazier than usual and babbling incomprehensibly. Today he was back to sanity — or as close to it as he could get; his speech made sense, his human eye focused on me and his black one thankfully turned elsewhere. I bought us some food and wine, in as quiet a place as I could find.
The slave girl brought us plates of skewered meat and bread, wine and water, and left us alone. “Remember that business with the magia vita terminalis about a month ago?” I asked, never sure about him. “You promised to sniff around.”
“How could I forget? Don’t answer that. Yes, I did. Found stuff. At one point I was sure I solved it for you. Came to tell you, but you threw me out.”
“You were raving,” I said.
“I have my best inspirations then,” he mused. I gave him such a dark look, he stopped short. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I only meant–”
“I know exactly what you meant,” I interrupted him coolly. “I never forget, not for a minute, and neither should you.” I drew a deep breath and settled myself. “So what was the inspiration?”
“Buggered if I know now. Not all thoughts are seen clearly, when… when I am myself again.” He sipped his wine. I could see that now, being himself as he called it, he was feeling the same pain as I did every night. Good. Part of me hoped he suffered. “Any which way,” he resumed, “I did ask around. I didn’t have a lot to go on — these rites are not exactly public knowledge. No tremors were felt, even amongst those sensitive to them. I cannot see a way for someone to concentrate such a power, manipulate and draw it, and not raise the hackles of anyone with the right sensibilities for miles around. Is it possible that it was done far away?”
“I haven’t considered it,” I said, “but it might be. How far must it be, for the ripples to die down before reaching Egretia?”
“Hard to tell. There are a lot of incantations being performed here, from the official ones by the Collegium to the shopkeepers and tradesmen with their inconsequential charms. Even the crossroad colleges, worshipping the old lares and numina as they are, contribute to the background noise of magic. The Rite of Pelegrinus, however, should have cut through that still. I’d say at least ten miles for the ripples to disappear below the din, maybe fifteen for those truly sensitive.”
“That sounds too far away,” I said. “He would have had to travel, and even on a fast horse this distance means a couple of hours on the road. I know he spent his last days in the city, certainly his last few hours. He was at home that day, had an argument with his dad and was confined to his room, found dead in the early morning. I do not see how he would have escaped, travelled the distance, participated the ceremony, ridden back still reeling from all the energies coursing through him, and was back in bed just in time to die.”
“Perhaps this rushed execution would have tampered with the rite,” suggested Araxus.
“My understanding of the rite is that it is supposed to take effect soon after completion. I cannot see him riding like the last survivor fleeing the annihilation of his legion, immediately following the hours of chanting required for the ceremony.”
“Since when do you know so much about the process of the ritual?” Araxus asked me.
“I have been busy…” I got out the last wax tablet I had prepared. “Here, read this. I got this in Ephemezica, from a special collection that went on sale in bulk. I do not believe the owner knew the extent of the esoterica that was there, or he would not have been too keen to sell. I cannot vouch for the correctness of it of course, but it appeared
authentic.”
Araxus took the tablet from me, and started to work his way through it, his green eye and his black one reading different parts. On his copy I copied the most information, although I still removed and simplified passages. I did not want this knowledge finding its way around. I still could not trust Araxus, could not tell when his mood will shift and his other aspect take over.
At last he raised his green eye to look at me, though his black eye kept roving about the lines of writings. “This is incomplete,” he stated.
“True. It has enough of what I can track, and not enough on how to make final use of them.”
He paused, but understood the implications. “Fair enough,” he said. “There are also rumours about something big coming up on Vergu. Vultures seen circling the peak to the left, sheep becoming unsettled before being carried there for sacrifice, their entrails turning out green, that sort of cack. I shall track these rumours for you, as well as your shopping list. I shall ask the questions amongst the dregs of society, and should any of them have been sold without authority, you will know. That will still leave you with the bigger problem though. It is one thing to collect and procure the ingredients, it is quite another to use them effectively. If you are certain the rite was performed here and not far away, you will need to explain how a cabal chanted its way through five nights of incantations, without moving even a whisker on the most cack-faced of incantatores.”
Chapter XXI
The next morning I set out to work my way around town again. I wore out many a sandal over the years in the piecing together of puzzles, and have learnt to accept it as part of the job. The Hellican philosophers maintain that the pursuit of knowledge is a higher purpose, that a man should need employ only his mind to reach the higher echelons of truth. My experience was that the truth is reached after much pounding of pavements and asking of uncomfortable questions. History will agree with me no doubt, for while the Hellicans establish schools of thought, we Egretians are busy grasping the world from under them.
I started with the names that appeared in both Brewyn’s and Akhirabus’ lists of potential suppliers. The first owned a respectable looking shop, in a quiet street not far from the forum and the Collegium Incantatorum. He seemed a likely candidate, as location and respectability might draw in those members of the cabal I have seen. All presented as members of the middle tiers in our society. Not the very top certainly, but not far behind.
I located the shop with relative ease, and talked my way into a private audience with the proprietor — one Manius Acilius — pretending to be interested in his ability to import rare items. Once we settled down comfortably in his office sipping watered wine, pleasantries exchanged and the business at last at hand, I started to ask about some of the articles required for the Rite of Pelegrinus. Some, like Assyrican kohl or the purest natron from the salt lakes of the Mitzrani deserts, raised no issues and he was quick to assure me of his quality stock. His interest piqued when I moved to more esoteric items, like shards of black star-stones or sand crystals fused by lightning. He was scratching his head when I got to blood of a dog poisoned by a gorgon’s snake.
“If you are unsure, dear Manius Acilius,” I said, “I have heard good things about your colleague Quintus Mamilius. Perhaps I should go see him next.”
“Oh please, that charlatan sells only inferior quality. It is well known that his ‘Mitzrani’ natron comes around the corner from the delta of the Ridus, and if you go so far as to ask for the blood of a dog poisoned by a gorgon’s snake, you will be lucky to get the piss of a cat that died of rabies. No, if you are after quality and assured delivery, I am the only man in town who can deliver them to you.”
“I am glad to hear this, it is indeed that your reputation stands above all others in our city,” I flattered him. “Tell me though, and this is a delicate matter, those rarer objects — are they in much demand?”
“The only demand that matters is yours, my good patron. Just speak, and I shall endeavour to fulfil it.”
“Well, and here is the delicacy of the business, I am in competition with some others who might wish to buy the same. Would you tell me, kind Manius Acilius, if such interest has arisen of late?”
“You are indeed a most esteemed customer, and I would gladly help, but surely you would appreciate your own privacy in such acquisitions? The name of Manius Acilius is synonymous with discreetness.”
In the end I offered to match the price of any authenticated bill of sale for such items he could show me. I could see his in eyes the irresistible attraction of the margins this afforded him, and I was certain that he would have sold me his mother for such profits.
If only he had anything to sell.
He insisted that none of the rare items have gone through his shop in recent months.
After leaving the shop of Manius Acilius, I naturally made my way to that of Quintus Mamilius, his bitter rival. The scene played out along similar lines, except that Mamilius was much more explicit in his profanities of Acilius.
“That bastard son of a bitch and a camel, ‘dung-brains Acilius’ as he is known amongst those in the business? You will never get anything out of him. Cack quality for the mundane stuff, and empty promises for the rest! You will see, he will ask you for an advance, then say a storm sunk his ship and that he requires a second advance to procure the items again! That irrumator will lead you on and bleed you dry, before you will see anything out of him.”
But in the end he had nothing more to tell me, not for all the gold in the tomb of Croesus.
The next merchant I visited, the last to appear on both lists, was of a distinctly lower strata. His offices were shabbier, located nearer to the docks and the smell of fish. He would have loved to show up the two previous merchants of imported esoterica — and indeed he managed to. He was also more direct.
“Mountain orchids and ferret’s bile? Yes, I do recall something…” He looked at me expectantly.
I took out a pouch of silver coins from deep inside my tunic, and measured a fair amount on the table.
“Yes, it’s beginning to come back to me…” he paused.
I measured out more coins. A high sum, though nowhere near as what Acilius and Mamilius would have made me pay.
“It was a young boy, not even twenty,” he said. “About two months ago or so. Yellow hair, worn long. He came and ordered most items you mentioned. Some I sold him, some he settled on alternatives, was not interested in delays. Paid in coin — real coin, not a banker’s note. I prefer it that way anyway.”
For an extra bribe, he got me an exact list out of his ledger of what was bought. I compared it to my list. Most of the important ingredients according to both Brewyn and Akhirabus were covered, either directly or with decent substitution. The more esoteric ones, the ones they scoffed at, were mostly amiss. I will have to ask them to verify if the substitutions did not introduce side effects of course, although considering the nature of the Rite neither Brewyn nor Akhirabus will be able to tell me for certain. My gut told me that these would do.
The more interesting question in my mind, as I was walking away from the shop towards the Forum Egretium, was why was Caeso doing the shopping himself?
I visited more of the traders down the list. A couple of them recalled a young man of Caeso’s description, either having sold something to him or just remembered his queries for truly exotic materials.
As I continued down the list of shops, I made another interesting discovery. It was in a dingy and smelly shop located at the ground level of a run-down insula. The whole neighbourhood was too close to the docks to be populated by anyone other than the poorest workers — longshoremen and whores. The inside of the shop was gloomy, barely lit through the closed shutters and one sputtering lamp. The floors were unswept and the place was a mess of haphazardly piled sacks and boxes. The smell of the place reminded me of Akhirabus’ shop, although with a dank undertone. Despite the appearance, and while I am not an expert, the look of the herbs hanging from
the ceiling and other supplies lying in open sacks was that of quality materials.
The proprietor was a dark-skinned, dark-haired fellow, with an accent I could not quite place. I started with my usual enquiries after some of the herbs on my list, and then carried it to asking about how much he has been selling of them.
“You ask for special items. Special items have special demand, from special men,” was the reply I got.
A show of silver loosened his tongue. He did not recall a youth of Caeso’s description ever visiting, but he did remember a short, bald man of dark skin and a foreign visage, who regularly bought some base ingredients and certain prepared admixtures.
I have found Zymaxis’ supplier.
I was confirmed of this from his reaction. He suddenly became cagey, and insisted he does not discuss his customers business. A contrast to his willingness to expound on such business before, when I showed him a purse of silver. When I tried to press the point he informed me that he must close the shop, and escorted me hastily outside.
* * *
Next order of business was to start poking my nose at the affairs of the three names given to me by Didia. That Corpio would make enquiries at his level did not preclude finding out other relevant information. Many avenues were open to me, and I planned to follow a simple one — find out who the men were, where they lived; observe their households; buy a miserable slave a drink. Our society is riddled by slaves, anonymous and invisible people we take for granted. But they are still people — they see, they hear, and with the right incentive, they tell.
I started with the forum. That’s where the worst gossips gather, and they were the ones I was seeking out. The process here was simplicity itself. Find a group discussing politics, or anything really. Stand and nod. Then throw a name — “It’s all well and true, my dear fellow, but what do you make of Gaius Marcius in this?”, or “Of course, of course, but have you heard what Tiberius Pomponius is up to?” Then comes that brief awkward moment when they look at you, trying to place you, trying to figure out who you are talking about. The trick is to keep their chain of thought away from yourself and on the subject. Pretty soon they were happy to explain to me that I know nothing, that the man in question was now posted to Capiricia and could not possible affect matters in Hellica. Pretending I meant the other man of the same name only to confuse the cognomen, there came a detailed description of the genealogy and achievements of the man and his family for five generations back. My identity forgotten, the original subject of the conversation put aside, the chinwaggers and gossips of the forum take glee in tracing lineages — and their associated fortunes and misfortunes — above all else.