In Numina: Urban Fantasy in Ancient Rome (Stories of Togas, Daggers, and Magic Book 2)

by Assaph Mehr

  He strode to Borax and with a stone spoon started to dollop and spread the mixture from the mortar on Borax’s right hand. Borax flexed his fingers and tried to avoid it, without success. His thrashing managed to flick a little of the sticky cream at Ambustus. He got a resounding slap for that, and Ambustus carefully cleaned himself before continuing.

  “Watch this,” said Ambustus, and began to chant. Borax hissed, strangled a scream, and then roared in pain as his hand aged to that of a man twice his age. The hairs became white, the skin wrinkled further, and muscles atrophied, till his became the hand of a corpse, shrivelled and desiccated, without a speck of life left.

  My stomach heaved, and my hands twitched in sympathy. I broke out in clammy sweat at the thought of whether Ambustus might be tempted to try this on my broken ankle, and to what level would it elevate the pain.

  “It’s a similar process to what the Mitzrani use to mummify their dead.” Ambustus turned to me, ignoring Borax’s whimpers. “Same components and analogous principles but refined and controlled beyond their ken. Yet my powers do not stop there — I have brought the forces of magia to my will and can manipulate them to exact results. In contrast, the Mitzrani mummification is no better than a tanner attempting taxidermy. Let me now show you an even greater achievement — one of my own innovations!” he smiled broadly.

  He stepped back to the table and busied himself with the ingredients, mixing and chanting as he went. The tip of the Pharos was visible through the hatch at the ceiling of the hold and I knew we were exiting the Bay of Egretia.

  Ambustus began treating Borax’s left hand with the contents of his mortar. Borax strained and wriggled, and I suddenly understood why they bound him at the elbows, waist, and knees as well. Try he might, Borax could not avoid Ambustus applying he cream to his hand

  “Don’t fret,” Ambustus cooed, as if talking to a frightened animal. “This will all be over soon. Your contribution to the science of the magia vita will save many lives, and what slave can dream of a better fate?”

  Ambustus stretched and carefully wiped his hands. “Now for our demonstration. I have never quite managed to practice this on a human before, even a slave, so you are witnessing a breakthrough! Our idiot rhones with their taboos on the practice of magia around death — as though life and death are separate things. It’s a shame you won’t live long enough to see it, but I do hope to one day change these rules.”

  He chanted as before and at first the results appeared similar. Borax’s left hand began to wrinkle, acquire the brown spots of age, shrivel. “Now watch!” Ambustus said and changed the tone and tempo of his incantation. Borax’s skin began to stretch, fill up, the muscles crawling back, his complexion becoming pink and vital again. Even the hairs on the back of Borax’s hand went back from white to brown. Boarx stared incredulously, the tendons in his arms twitching as his fingers regained their movement.

  Ambustus concentrated steadily on his chant. Sweat beaded on his brow and his half-closed eyes never wavered from his target. I took this time for a quick chant of my own, even though it was nothing remotely in the same league. A mere cantrip, in comparison, one that I learnt during my brief stint with the legions. One of the incantatores attached to the engineering corps of the legion had developed it and taught it to some of us grunts. Egretians should fight honourably, he held, yet there is no honour in remaining a captive. But I digress.

  I used this charm while Ambustus was distracted, to loosen the bonds and free my wrists. I kept my hands behind my back, holding the piece of rope that had bound me. A moral victory rather than a practical one, in light of my broken ankle and lack of weapons, while facing an opponent who could wither limbs at will.

  Chapter XXV

  “Look at this!” Ambustus marvelled at his own work. He glanced at me, the incongruence of his smile and facial scars chilling. “Flex your hand,” he barked. Borax was staring incredulously at his left hand, moving his fingers. I could see his right forearm twitch too, as tendons pulled on decayed digits, but those remained as devoid of life as Orpheus’ wife.

  “See, I can feel the pulse, strong and steady,” Ambustus placed his fingers next to Borax’s bound wrists. “I could continue to make it even younger, get rid of old scars and wrinkles,” Ambustus traced his index finger along the lines of Borax’s palm. “It’s an interesting question what would happen if I continued past that point.”

  Borax surely knew that there was no way this day would end well for him. In a final act of defiance, he grabbed Ambustus’ finger and twisted hard. The finger made a sickening, cracking sound and Ambustus screamed. Borax held on, twisting the broken digit and screaming back at Ambustus as if they were gladiators in the arena.

  Ambustus flailed wildly, first at Borax’s hand and then at his face, but it is a lot harder to pull one’s finger away from a trained fighter than one would imagine. Our minds recoil at the pain of each movement and prevent us from what feels like tearing the finger off.

  I didn’t wait for Ambustus to wise up. I stumbled to my feet, pulling on the rings in the walls with my hands, then launched myself at Ambustus’ back with my one good leg. My lunge was enough to cover the short distance of the hold. I looped the rope from my bonds over his neck, then crossed my arms and pulled hard.

  Ambustus freed his finger and staggered backward. He knocked into me, forcing me to step back. My broken ankle crumpled, shooting waves of pain up my body and we crashed to the floor. I held on to the rope as we thrashed together, Ambustus flailing his arms trying to dislodge me. I was screaming in pain and frustration, but still I gripped the rope, pulling it tighter, tighter.

  In our scramble, we knocked into the table. The jars and boxes on top came crashing down and the brazier toppled, sending burning embers scattering on the wood floors of the hold. A pile of hessian sacks in the corner began to smoulder.

  Within a minute it was over. Ambustus’ limbs became heavy and his movements slowed, his face acquiring a deep shade of purple as his tongue hung bloated outside his mouth.

  I stretched the rope past the point when he stopped moving and went limp. When I finally let go, his head lolled, and his bulk lay limply on top of me. I rolled him over and stood, leaning on the wall for support. I would have kicked his lifeless body, if my ankle wasn’t broken.

  ***

  Orange flames sprouted from the sacks in the corner, and black smoke billowed up. I grabbed my knife from where it fell, and, holding on to the wall, limped towards Borax to cut his bonds. Even in full health this would have been faster than an incantation, and I wasn’t in a state to perform unnecessary feats of magia now. As I came to free Borax’s right hand, the desiccated fingers crumbled to dust as I worked on the ropes. What remained was a charred stump ending at the wrist, like a thick branch that has burned to its middled. At least he wasn’t bleeding.

  From the deck came alarmed yells at the smoke rising through the hatch. We grabbed some of the sacks by their corners and flung them out to increase the panic. Fire onboard a ship is deadly. We hadn’t moved far outside the bay, so were still close to the shores of the Septentrionali. We heard people abandoning the ship, jumping overboard to swim to shore rather than fight the fire.

  “I think we should run now,” I said to Borax. “Just rush out, cross the deck, and jump into the water. The island of the Pharos is close enough.”

  “I can’t swim, domine,” said Borax, “but I can carry you to the water.”

  “Neptunus’ wet willy, that’s not good. Could you float? If you held on to an oar or something, could you keep your head above water? I’ll get us to land.”

  “I guess,” came the tentative reply.

  “It’s either that or burn and then drown.” I knew how to swim, of course, but with a broken ankle I wouldn’t go far. Certainly not if I had to drag Borax, who only had one good hand to hold on.

  We exited the cargo hold under cover of the smoke. S
taying any longer would have meant suffocation. We emerged to a scene of panic and chaos. What was left of the crew were swimming ashore. The galley slaves in the outrigger seats were rioting, pulling on their chains and kicking the seats to break them. Each wore a neck manacle connected with a length of thick chain and secured to rings at the end of their rows. There were two rows of twenty men on each side, eighty slaves in all to power Numicius’ private pleasure ship. Their oars were the best thing we could hold to float ashore.

  Two hundred paces. That’s all that separated life and death for us. Two hundred paces of choppy waters to the waves hitting the rocks at the base of the Pharos Island. To make it to land, we must find something to float upon, manage not to get dragged out to sea, make it to the rocks, avoid being smashed on them by the waves, and climb the slippery things with three legs and three hands between two beat-up men.

  I got the message, Fortuna — I got it.

  I needed help and the slaves were my only option. I didn’t know how many of the eighty chained men knew how to swim. I didn’t know how many of those who could wouldn’t just swim away at the first opportunity. I didn’t have a choice except to find out.

  I knew any number of incantations to open locks, as well as traditional lock-picking techniques. I even had lockpicks with me, but not enough time to open eighty locks.

  We were right across from the Pharos, the mystical lighthouse of Egretia. It was erected five hundred years ago by the incantator Iunius Brutus. Standing on the top of its island, its high spire was mounted by a marble statue of an egret holding the eternal flame in its beak. The bound forces of magia, burning in the same spot for centuries, formed a focal point, an entry gate into our world from that of the numina. Its light was blinding to the eye, and to the sensitive ones the energies buffeting from it were just as blinding. I’ve seen before a man who channelled that magia to give his incantations powerful energies. He died in agony in the process — practising incantations is not just about power, but about control.

  Options were in short supply, though. At the stern, all four chains holding the slaves came together, two from each side of the galley. I limped between them, stretched my arms out, and laid my hands on the ring to which they were attached. Letting the invisible winds of magia wash over me, I basked in the power of the Pharos, drawing it in, concentrating it and storing it before speaking my incantation. It wasn’t long or complex, just a nuanced variation of the charm I used to break my bonds in the hold. It’s lot harder to concentrate standing with a broken ankle on a rolling, burning ship, but I was proficient with the charm, having performed it many times in my line of business.

  I shaped the magia borrowed from the Pharos to the best of my abilities and released it into the chains. Like a crack of thunder, every lock across every neck of the eighty slaves burst open. At the other end, the chains snapped the ring out of the ship, splitting the wood asunder. Even the thongs of my sandals became undone.

  The whiplash from the chains and the magia hurled me back against the wooden stern. My breath was knocked out and I slid down to the deck. Luckily, the crack of the exploding metal locks stunned the slaves. I recovered first, and yelled, “If you want to live, listen to me!”

  Some didn’t wait, jumping into the water and swimming away as soon as they could. Enough stayed. I had them bundle the oars — those they hadn’t broken — and tie the bundles together with lengths of rigging rope to make thick logs. These would float better than single oars and could be powered by several men holding on and kicking to propel themselves, giving us better odds to reach the shore.

  I put Borax with one group of slaves and myself with another. The fire was roaring furiously by then, heavy smoke billowing from below deck. Other ships were mostly steering clear, not keen to chance a burning wreck at dusk, but a few edged close.

  Nothing was left but to hold on to the oars and jump overboard. When my ankle hit the water, the shock nearly made me let go. I cried out in pain. Only luck kept me from swallowing seawater till I drowned.

  My group kicked and paddled with our hands, aiming towards the Insula Laridae. I caught occasional glimpses of Borax hugging his oar-bundle tightly among other groups making their way to the island. We found a spot where fallen rocks created protruding shelves at water level. The rocks were slippery and the waves vicious, but we managed to claw our way atop. I yelled and waved to those in the water, and men angled towards us.

  “You can run the length the Vicus Caprificus and try to exit the city at the Porta Rupis,” I said to the slaves as they clambered up, “but the gates are closed by now. You can try to disperse and hide in Egretia, but you’ll get picked up as runaway slaves. Or, help me get back to the city centre, and I’ll handle any questions till we reach the temple of Asylaeus. I’ll vouch your master left you to die, chained on board a burning ship. An asylum may not be freedom, but at least you won’t be declared fugitivo and hunted down.”

  Some slaves ignored me, scrambling up the island as soon as they caught their breath. Whether they tried to exit the city that night or hide and escape later didn’t matter. A few stayed behind to help others on the rocks.

  By the time all had made it to the shore, about fifteen of the original eighty were with me. I would have liked to set my bones but getting away was a higher priority. I led the slaves across the viaduct bridge from the Pharos island back to the city. Taking turns, they supported me in hobbling. Borax tried to claim that position, but I insisted he let the others help. I wasn’t sure of his condition and how the loss of his hand would affect him. Stalwart as ever, he walked next to me, growling when anyone jostled me or one of the slaves on whom I leaned tripped.

  The commotion in the harbour was evident. Ships were circling closer to the burning wreck. I could hear the vigiles on the shores. Their firefighting skills were mainly geared towards clearing buildings, but this wasn’t the first fire on the bay. They had rowboats and instructions to protect the wharves while assisting survivors.

  Their organisation was nominally paid for by the city, but more often was supported by the public officials of the year, usually the aediles. Those running for public office invariably run expensive election campaigns. Those are financed in exchange for favours — such as secondary tasks for the vigiles, like hunting runaway slaves. I could see a decury of them roughing up some of the wet galley slaves that ran away ahead of us, nabbing them and tying them with ropes.

  I didn’t feel like arguing with them. The way I looked and felt, I doubted they would stop to listen to my claims of citizenship. As soon as we crossed, I directed my group northward, towards the open sea. The promenade next to the shore doesn’t go far, as it meets the cliffs which rise out of the sea. But where the road turns to snake up the steep hill, one can take a disused path to the egress of the Cloaca Maxima. The sewers spill their contents, which are then carried away by sea currents.

  We waded in, holding to the walls to avoid slipping. Not a pleasant walk at any time, the stream of foetid, cold waters made the pain in my ankle excruciating.

  Borax and the slaves supported me as I led the way through the tunnels. The lines were fairly straight, but it helps if one knows which turns to take. I seem to have had far too many cases which took me down there. I imagined some god found it hilarious, landing me in foul-smelling, sticky sewage. I’m certain he was taking enjoyment at the offences against my nose and the shudders induced by slimy things brushing against my legs in the dark.

  And in the dark we trudged. We had no torches, and nothing to burn for illumination. Only the occasional overhead grill suffused with moonlight and the feel of stones marked with symbols at intersections gave me hints to navigate by.

  I was aiming for the Forum. What was normally an hour’s walk overland took three times as long. My fervent muttered prayers to Fortuna, Cloacina, and — considering what we were stepping in — Sterculius, must have been answered because I found an exit behind the Po
rticus Aemilia. From there it was a short hike up the hill for the temple of Asylaeus.

  At the temple, the slaves huddled close to the altar. Holding on to it would give them asylum, the protection of the god. The priests were not surprised by our wet and bedraggled appearance. I gave the chief priest my account of what happened, or at least the pertinent details, without revealing my hand in causing the fire. For a master to abuse slaves to the point they seek asylum was considered shameful. If found true, and the testimony of a free citizen would weigh the balance in their favour, their owner would be forced to sell the slaves. Not freedom, but at least a legal way for them to escape the galleys.

  One last task remained that night.

  Chapter XXVI

  The wooden door was adorned with a glazed clay tile bearing the image of Aesculapius, holding out his staff with the snake coiled around it. I knocked loudly. Yelled his name. Neighbours were surely used to it, given his profession. He had been a medicus with the legions, where we met when he was working on a comprehensive treatise of first-aid and tried to give lessons to the legionaries. Predictably, our centurions viewed this as a waste of time. A soldier’s role was to fight until dead. If merely wounded, they maintained, his comrades should kick him back into action, not mollycoddle him with bandages. I guess the centurions were afraid close association with the medical staff would give the grunts ways to feign illnesses better — a not-unfounded suspicion, considering how I extricated myself from the army. But we did strike a guarded friendship back then, with me being the one bright soldier who took an interest in his teachings.

  A slit in the gate opened, then his wife unlocked the door. Although approaching middle age, she was still slim and fetching, with long blond curls and horrendous Quirite. Originally from a local tribe out on the border, I knew her as his housekeeper, though Petreius eventually married her despite her dubious origins and atrocious cooking. Her restorative stews, which she offered occasionally to her favourites amongst her husband’s patients, were an affront to both culinary and medical arts.