by Assaph Mehr
I slapped his face and raised my voice, “Who is your leader? What sodality do you belong to?”
“The cr…” he coughed, “The crossroad college at…” he coughed again, his whole body wracked with pain. He spasmed, blood gushing out of his mouth, and lay still.
I rose up and turned to face Borax. He sensibly closed the door behind him, and was cleaning his dagger on a piece of cloth. “Thank you,” I said, “I owe my life to your timely arrival.”
“Marcus Crassitius said you needed me tonight, and told me to go wake you up from your afternoon nap,” he said with a smile.
“I’d have you stay by my side, tonight and for the next few days. I’ll pay Crassitius later — right now I have a feeling I will need you again soon. Now help me with this one.”
The name Philokrates meant nothing to me; it sounded Hellican. Was this the Hellican I saw at Zymaxis’ cabal? The man there was not a citizen of Egretia. He seemed affluent, but that did not preclude connections with the Egretian underworld.
For those less familiar with the Egretian approach to divinity, we see our numina — the presence of godly powers — everywhere. They are in the open skies, the fertile grounds, the burial places of the dead — and in crossroads. Every crossroad has a guardian presence, one of the lares — the gods of homes and human domains. Every home has a shrine to the family’s lar and the di penates, the gods of the pantry and food. Outside the house, we have lares everywhere — houses, fields, boundaries — even public ones for Egretia itself.
Crossroads are special. Minor alleys might have just a sign set in the wall, a place for the locals to pour libations for the local lar. Major crossroads have guardian colleges. These are tasked with keeping the lar of the crossroad happy by maintaining the streets, fountains and sewers in clean and working order, and by throwing the annual Compitalia in their honour. Members are drafted from the local community. Usually, a simple religious association.
The lares and their associated crossroad colleges go back a long way in our history. Longer than the city, and much longer than the three collegia ruling our daily life. These institutions are sometimes charitable confraternities, caring for those in need, and sometimes little more than criminal organisations. The religious minded say that the colleges are affected by the particular temperament of the lares of the crossroad and indeed of the roads themselves. The cynics say that these colleges are nothing more than taverns for the lowlifes with nothing better to do, getting official sanction for the organised crime.
Whatever your view of them, I was obviously dealing with one of the shadier branches. That usually meant one of the shadier neighbourhoods as well. My only option to find which one was to go knocking on dingy doors and ask if perchance they had been paid for my head and would they kindly stop.
Considering that the dead man mentioned his leader fixing the contract on me with this Philokrates, there might be other members on task. I wanted Borax at my side the whole time until this case was resolved.
We searched both bodies, but found no mark or anything of interest. The men were citizens by their iron rings, yet besides small pouches of coins and their knives, they carried nothing else. We wrapped them in rags, and I sent Borax to hire a donkey from the markets while I helped Dascha clean up the blood and gore. When Borax got back we loaded the bodies on the donkey and carried them through the streets like rolled up carpets. We made our way out of the Porta Fulvia to the temple of Libitina in the Egretian necropolis on the hills across the river Fulvius.
“Don’t know who they were, and don’t care,” I told the clerk and gave him the men’s money pouches. “See that they get as proper rites as this will buy.”
I kept my promise. I am not usually afflicted by bouts of honour and disposing of the bodies in the nearest sewer would have been quicker, but I have seen enough vengeful shades of the dead not to want one associated with my home.
* * *
When we finally left home that evening on our way to the Dented Skull, we had hardly ventured out of the alley that leads to my house from the main street when a figure stepped in front of me to block my way. Before I could even react Borax interposed himself between us, grabbed the man by his ragged tunic and lifted him clear off his feet.
“Stop!” I said as I recognised the face. “I know him, Borax, he’s a friend.”
“So we’re back to friends now?” asked Araxus.
“Don’t push it,” I said as Borax put him back down. He still glowered at Araxus, which was fine by me.
“You seem extra jumpy,” said Araxus.
“We had some unwelcome guests earlier. You have something for me?” I asked.
“In a way. There is a lot of buzz in the circles of those sensitive to the flow. Better we talk inside though.”
We went back to my house and I knocked on the door loudly — in the wake of this afternoon’s attack I left Dascha with instructions to barricade the door as soon as we left.
Once seated in my study, with wine and olives, Araxus began his report. “There is something going on, some subtle but fundamental shift in the flow of magia around. I trust you remember the basics from our years in the Collegium, so I won’t bore you with unnecessary explanations. It’s not tangible, not quite visible yet. Not something so glaringly obvious that even the useless pederes at the Collegium couldn’t just ignore, you know how they’re like. This time… It’s almost as if the numina are restless. As if Vulcanus shifts in his sleep under Vergu.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in sentient numina.”
“I don’t,” he said, “but the people I speak with are not from the Collegium. They have an older understanding of our world.”
“And do the rumours offer any reason what might cause Vulcanus to shift in his sleep?” I asked.
“None yet,” Araxus replied. “And it is definitely new. There are always shifts in the streams, yet this time it’s different. It has an air of expectation to it. They say something is coming, and that it will come very soon. I don’t hold much with the Augurs at the Collegium, but even they should start seeing the signs.”
“Well, it has been going for at least six weeks,” I said, “Since the ceremony that caused Caeso’s death at the very latest, and probably much earlier if you factor in the preparations.”
“That’s just it — it hasn’t. This is a new thing. A matter of days,” said Araxus. “It might not even be related. You know how it goes — the old believers say the numina, and the cynics prescribe it to natural phenomena; the augurs will look for signs of deeper meaning, and the elementori will try to control it.”
“Somehow I don’t believe in coincidences any more” I said.
“It’s an all or nothing proposition,” said Araxus in a philosophical tone, “either it’s all coincidence or nothing is. Right now, though, we don’t have time for philosophy or other tauri stercus.”
“No, we don’t” I said. “Either the augurs did not notice as you say, or they noticed yet did not make it public. They rarely do. I was on my way to meet with the cabal when you jumped us. If they have anything to do with the shift of power, with the numen of Vergu as you say, I might find out about it tonight. I wonder…” Araxus looked at me to provide more details, but I was thinking about something else. Thinking very hard, considering our shared past.
In the end I knew I had no choice. If this was real I would need his help. “Do you remember our old signal?” I asked.
“You mean…? Yes of course I remember,” he replied.
“Good. Borax is very large and very good at what he does, but I might need you as well. If this comes to pass, it will be an ugly business. Will you render me your help?” I looked into his disparate eyes, searching.
“Gladly,” he replied. And I believed him. I don’t know why, but the look in his one green eye made me believe that this time he would make good on his word.
“Give me a strand of your hair then,” I said. He plucked a long hair from his head, and I did the same. I g
ot a slim wooden toothpick, and wrapped both strands together around it. We each pricked our left thumbs on the sharps ends, and spoke the incantation. I placed the res magiae on my desk, then picked it up and put it in my dagger’s sheath. I wanted it on hand at all time.
Chapter XXV
I sat with Borax at the Dented Skull, sipping watered wine and chewing on olives and bread. I had little to go on about the identity of the would-be assassin. The only man who would know I possessed the scroll was Sosius, but his shop had closed for the day when I called at his office on the way.
As we waited, I saw the men of the cabal arrive one by one and make their way downstairs. Only five men arrived this evening before Zymaxis. Gaetanicus first, coming alone and making his way straight down; then the freedman a few minutes later; Fufidius and the other young incantator turned up together in deep conversation, and barely nodded at Septimius the proprietor on their way; the last one I saw walk downstairs was wearing a hood, and I could not tell who he was.
Finally I saw Zymaxis arrive at the tavern. As he walked past me I hailed him. He turned to me, and in an instant I saw the recognition on his face. “Felix, you’re back. Finished with your task? Ready to impress us?”
I took out the sealed clay jar from my satchel. “I think you will be suitably impressed.”
“Not here,” he said. He indicated for me to follow and walked to the back and down the dark stairs.
When we reached the room under the tavern it was set as before, lamps lighting the obscene frescoes, furniture pushed against the walls apart from two tripod side-tables covered in black cloth. As we entered the men ceased their conversations and gathered in a circle. The man who wore the hood now had his head uncovered — the Hellican foreigner.
“We are not in full attendance tonight,” started Zymaxis. “However, before we discuss each member’s progress, we shall address Felix’s petition to join us. We charged Felix with bringing us something to further our cause, as all of you have done in the past. What that thing might be we have left open, given his self-proclaimed profession.” He looked around at the gathered men as he spoke, then turned back to face me. “Show us what you have brought, Felix.”
I walked to one of the stacked tripod tables and carried it to the centre of the room, took out the clay jar again from my satchel and presented it to the group. “Here, my dear fellows, is the culmination of a month of research and daring. You are all men of the world.” I looked from the soldier, to the freedman, to the incantatores. “You would have travelled, you would have heard legends, you would have learnt the importance of the right ingredients when attempting great feats of magia. You might have been privileged to see such being used, and witness one of the great incantations.” I took a small knife from the side table and started to cut carefully around the wax seal. “But how many of you can claim to have accessed some of the rarest, most precious of such arcane materials? I am certain that what I bring to you today will be found of use, either directly or through the vast sums of money it will command from the right buyer.” All eyes were on me as I removed the lid and let the air fill out with the aroma of bloody organs pickled in vinegar. “Fellow men,” I said, and wished I had a wooden ladle as I dipped my hand inside the jar and closed it on something soft and slippery. “Allow me to present you with the recently preserved eyes and organs of a gryphon!” I drew out my hand and held it aloft, and in it were two wobbly, dripping, milky-yellow eyes, staring vacantly into the room.
* * *
The gathered men were suitably impressed. The soldier’s face was hard to read but I thought him surprised, as gryphons were only common to the desert mountain ranges far to the east; the freedman seemed a bit queasy at the sight and smell of the organs in vinegar; Fufidius looked on greedily, whilst his companion’s younger eyes were gleaming at the potential of spells he probably only read about; a puzzled expression crossed the face of the Hellican, before it reset itself and became inscrutable again. Most importantly, I saw a look of great greed and excitement on Zymaxis before he recomposed himself.
“That is indeed a truly valuable contribution. I shall have to verify the quality of the product of course. Why don’t you tell us how you got ahold of such precious items?”
I decided to go with the truth. Well, most of it. Embellished a little. By the end of my story they got the right impression, that I was an audacious rascal, not afraid to put one over the slow-witted elite. I got them laughing at the right points, and clapping me on the back by the end of it.
An exaggeration perhaps, though they did nod their appreciation at the results. Zymaxis also voiced his approval, and addressed the cabal “Men, I think this meets the criteria we set. Objections?”
None were offered. “Excellent,” said Zymaxis. “All that remains is for you to swear the oath. Two of our members are away tonight, so we shall do this on the night of the full moon together with the other business. There is another initiate due to take his oath that night, and you can both then attend the following ceremonies. It will be good for you to witness true power.
“In the meantime allow me to introduce our current members. This is Lucius Duronius,” he indicated the young incantator, “a rising star within the Collegium Incantatorum, who feels he’s being held back. His colleague is Quintus Fufidius Verres, an established incantator of great experience, snubbed by the oligarchy of the Collegium. Of Gaius Marcius Gaetanicus,” he indicated the soldier, “you may already have heard. He was instrumental in the campaigns of Marcus Decius Corvinus south of the Montes Mauretanii yet feels cheated of the glory that should have been his by right. Gaius Rabirius Capilanus, a freedman of Gaius Rabirius Silanus, is looking to increase his standing in our society and restore some justice. And lastly, Philokrates, a Hellican that made Egretia his home, yet found many doors closed because he was not born here.” I was half-expecting that name, so hoped my face did not register any surprise. We both exchanged blank looks, staring into each other’s eyes.
Zymaxis continued. “All of us have achievements behind us and still in front of us, yet we are all united by the feeling that we are prevented from achieving our full potential by a stale and stagnant oligarchy. Indeed we do all that we do for the glory of Egretia. Yet are our efforts recognised? No! We are rewarded with mere pittance, crumbs; held back from achieving even more by men who feel threatened that the past eminence of their families will no longer mask their current ineptitude and decrepitude.” He continued in this vein for a while longer, working himself — and us — into a fervour. I participated by nodding and grunting my agreement with the rest of them.
Eventually Zymaxis’ diatribe slowed down. “You will now have to excuse us, Felix. The next business is for blood members only. Remember though! You must meet us at the top of Vergu on midnight of the new moon. You will take your blood oath then, and become one of us, a true member of our cabal.”
* * *
The disadvantage of hoods is that they block one’s peripheral vision. They are also highly conspicuous on a warm summer night. Thus Borax and I had no trouble in identifying Philokrates as he emerged from the Dented Skull, and follow him around town.
I didn’t know where he lived though, so we had to act fast. At the first opportunity — an alley far enough from the Dented Skull, and dark enough for our needs — I called out his name.
He turned instinctively towards me, his face highlighted by the moonlight. “Philokrates,” I said again, “How glad I am to have caught up with you. I have something I need to tell you, it’s really important! I found something that I am sure you will find interesting. It’s a rather unique scroll…”
We approached him calmly as I spoke, all smiles and visible hands. When we got within a couple of paces from Philokrates I stopped walking, but Borax very nonchalantly took another two steps and threw a hard jab at Philokrates’ jaw. I caught his arms as he staggered and kneed him between his legs. He sank down, Borax grabbed his hood and covered his head with it completely, and I delivered ano
ther knee to his covered head, just for good measure.
Borax hoisted the unconscious body on his shoulder and followed me to the nearest entry to the Cloaca Maxima. I lifted the grill covering the entrance with some effort, climbed down, and received the body of Philokrates as Borax lowered it to me before jumping in himself. As soon as we were out of sight, I cut strips from Philokrates’ cloak, bound his feet and his hands, and then gagged him. I didn’t think we were observed, but even so we kept walking down the sewer, away from the grill. The air was thick and heavy, the smell suffocating.
With the light filtering through the sewer entries almost too dim, I tore another piece of Philokrates’ cloak, and using the incantation as I did in Caeso’s cave I got it to light up. This being a damp environment and far away from the locus of magia ignis under the Pharos, it took me considerably longer before I managed. I wrapped the strip of cloth around a stray stick, and with this makeshift torch we made our way further down the line of the sewer, toward the egress point in the cliffs.
Our ancestors, balancing hygiene and paranoia, have built many off-shoots to the Cloaca Maxima. Wherever possible, those branches head to the sea cliffs on the North side of the city, spilling their foul contents into the sea rather than the bay. At the point of egress, all openings are protected by sturdy metal bars, spaced so that nothing larger than the bodies of dead rats will be able to pass through. The city keeps public slaves to clean the sewers, and make sure that the openings never get blocked up with detritus.
We walked for a while in silence. At one point Philokrates woke up and started to groan through the gag, but we ignored him; Borax had no trouble keeping him tightly on his shoulder.
Luckily we were not too far from the cliffs, and made it to the opening before we succumbed to the horrid smell. Borax dropped Philokrates next to the grill, where the light from the almost full moon was sufficiently bright not to rely on the clumsy torch.