Templum Veneris

by Jeremy L. Jones

  Althea ducked behind the rock and covered her face with her hands. Tears and sweat ran down her face, and she had to bite down on the flesh of her hand to keep from screaming. In the distance, she could hear the baby’s crying. It grew louder and more desperate as if he knew that he was being left for dead.

  She shifted her position and crept to the other side to remain hidden behind the rock as the Rainha and the others marched past her back to the city. When she was sure they were far enough away, she sprinted across the baked ground and ducked behind the slab of rock. She looked back toward the city and satisfied she was alone, stood up. They had stuck some sort of paper underneath the infant with some Cytherean words across it. That was the only protection he had from the searing heat.

  Althea tossed off the brown robe and picked up the child. The paper blew away until it was caught on the face of a nearby rock.

  Now, alone with the baby in that hellish landscape, she finally stopped trying to hold back the tears. So this was the big secret. How do you make an entire civilization of perfect, beautiful people? You toss out everyone who doesn’t fit. You throw out anyone that’s sickly or weak, deformed or blemished.

  Althea stood, holding the child to her chest. When she could stop crying, she tried to calm the baby. “It's okay now, little one,” she whispered. “You’ll be fine. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

  If anything, the baby cried louder.

  Not that she could blame him. She didn’t have the slightest idea of what to do either. Before she could piece together a rudimentary plan, she heard footsteps coming from behind, distant but getting closer.

  Not this one, she thought to herself. She held the child tight to her chest and ran back toward the city.

  ****

  Celia brought Isra back to the Sala Gran and led her into a room deep in the interior. There they sat with several other Cytherean citizens, mostly older, and waited.

  “Why have you brought me here?” asked Isra, leaning close.

  Celia straightened up. “Rainha Isabel wishes to begin talking about the future of Venus and Earth immediately after this Conselho. She also believed that you would find it interesting.”

  Isra took in her surroundings. The room was dimly lit; there were no windows anywhere. All the light came from three small open flames. Two burned on broad concave basins on either side of a silver throne and the third in an open hearth in the center. Several iron rods hung over the side of the basins on either side of the throne with one end in the center. Isra could only guess at their purpose. The smoke escaped through a hole in the top of the domed ceiling that was so high Isra could barely make it out in the dark haze. The hole served a second purpose as well, a single ray of light cut through the thick wisps of smoke and landed on the empty silver throne.

  Besides the audience seated on wooden benches, there were also twenty other women sitting on wooden chairs on either side of the throne. They were nowhere near as lavish or extravagant, but Isra saw just enough polished wood and engravings to know they weren’t without their craftsmanship either. They were perched on three separate tiers and made Isra think of a jury on Earth. If that were true, however, Isra had no desire for them to hear a trial that involved her. Their faces were nothing but hard glares among flickering lights and shadows. They were all older women, elders of the city, and they gave off an air of matronly disapproval.

  “Where is the Rainha?” asked Isra.

  The emissary continued to look straight ahead. “She will be here soon. She had other business in the city. The people require much from their Rainha.”

  They waited for several more minutes before Isabel finally arrived. She breezed into the courtroom without a single word acknowledging the small crowd that had been waiting there. Her white robe flowed around her, and she took her seat on the silver throne bathed in the beam of light from the ceiling. It was as if a goddess herself graced them with her presence as she took her rightful seat of judgment, while two soldiers stood at attention near the flaming basins. Isra looked again at the open flames, the hard looks of the other women and graceful, beautiful Rainha Isabel, a Cytherean’s only hope for mercy in a dark and evil world. At least, that’s what Isra assumed the theatrics were meant to convey.

  A young man standing at attention in full military dress ran the proceedings. His bronze chest plate and shield were polished to the point that they nearly became additional sources of light on their own. He called a name, and a man stood up from the benches near where Isra sat. He marched up to the edge of the hearth and knelt before the Rainha.

  “Raimundo,” said Isabel, her words echoing off the stone walls like the voice of Judgment itself. “This is your third appearance before the Conselho. You have, once again, failed to provide the grain the people of Cytherea require from you. Conselho has been merciful twice in the past. Tell us why we should be merciful once again.”

  The man kneeling before the Assembly looked different from most of the Cytherean men Isra had run into. For one, he just looked old. Common sense dictated that Cythereans aged just like anyone else but the Rainha, for example, wore her age like another accessory to her beauty. This man’s face looked like a worn saddle bag. She could almost hear his joints popping as he knelt by the hearth and wondered if he would be able to get back up. Still, there was a strange mix of defiance and fear in his face. He looked like a man who had seen many battles in his past, but was looking at the one that would finally do him in.

  The farmer paused as if trying to gather his thoughts. Then he cleared his throat and answered. “Once again, I beg the forgiveness of this Conselho and the Rainha. In truth, I do not have the people to properly work the land I was given.”

  One of the women on the middle tier and to the left of Isabel stood up. “Estefania; mother of seven citizens. If memory serves, that was the reason you gave the last time you stood before us. Furthermore, I believe we found twenty oculto workers who agreed to help you in the field. Is all that I have said correct?”

  “It is correct, honored woman,” said the farmer, still kneeling by the hearth.

  “And what happened to them?”

  The man’s reply contained a touch of panic. “Nicolau, the owner of the farm next to mine. He steals my oculto from me. He claims to provide more food, better bunks…”

  Another woman stood up, this time to Isabel’s right, and interrupted him. “Lorena; mother of twelve citizens. You have told us this before, but what would you have us do? Oculto are not citizens, but neither are they slaves. They must work, but they choose for whom they work.”

  “That is what he claims,” repeated Raimundo. “But he speaks lies. He forces his oculto to vandalize my farm and terrorize my workers. They are taunted, beaten and forced to leave my farm and work for him. There is no honor with him.”

  A third elder woman stood up. “Cecilia; mother of nine citizens. That is a serious claim. Do you have any proof of this crime?”

  The farmer breathed deeply. “I do not, honored ladies. My information comes from oculto who have stayed with me despite the danger. Nicolau has coveted my land since we were discharged together from service. He violates the sacred trust between Cytherean citizens.”

  Another woman stood. “Ida; mother of four citizens. What I understand, if what you claim is true, is that you cannot protect your workers from relative hooliganism. How then can we trust you to defend against Corsario? Have you lost the will to fight for Cytherea in your old age?”

  Isra watched the man’s face. His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted around the room with wild speed. He had the look of a trapped animal looking for the one opening that would allow him to survive a precious few minutes.

  Finally, he closed his eyes. “That is not my claim, honored lady. I simply say that my neighbor…”

  The first woman spoke again. “Is not on trial today. It is you and you alone. Is it your claim that you cannot defend your farm?”

  The man’s voice cracked with fear. “I can defend it. I will
defend it. I need soldiers and workers.”

  “Clarissa; mother of five citizens,” said yet another woman standing up. “You need soldiers now. Soldiers and workers. Perhaps Cytherea would be better served if we let your neighbor have your lands.”

  From there, it devolved into a volley of abuse. Raimundo, the farmer, just knelt by the hearth with his head lowered. The light from the flames flickered across a face resigned to defeat.

  As another woman rose to condemn the man, Isabel raised her hand. The woman immediately sat down, and the room fell silent to wait for the Rainha’s words. “I have heard enough. Very soon, the sun will set and not rise for many months. We have shown mercy on two previous occasions. Cytherea needs her farms to feed her people. Therefore, I make the following decree.”

  Isabel paused as if to let the tension build. Isra noticed the accused, with his head still bowed in front of the fire, sneak a couple of glances toward the soldiers standing by the basins on either side of Isabel, as if waiting for them to make a move. She took in the entire scene and realized that this court, like all of Cytherean society, danced to music that was the Rainha herself. The condemned man, taunted and humiliated, could be lifted up by the grace of the goddess bathed in the beam of light.

  “After last night’s Provacao, there is an excess of oculto. I will recommend them to your service. Conselho will also look into the practices of your neighbor. If any crime against Cytherea is found, he shall appear before us. In return, you will meet your next quota. How does Conselho respond?”

  There wasn't even a discussion. A woman in the front stood up and as automatic as reading from a script said, “We agree, Rainha.”

  “Raimundo, do you understand these terms?” said Isabel.

  Unlike Isra, the farmer was surprised. More than that, he looked like a man who was just yanked from the edge of the volcano. He looked up at Isabel with complete adoration. “Yes…. yes Rainha. I do. And I will do as you ask of me. I will not fail my Rainha.”

  The farmer stood up, bowed to the women and left to tend to his farm.

  “That was very merciful of the Rainha,” Isra commented to Celia. “This surprises me.”

  “Why would that surprise you?” Celia responded coldly. “The Rainha loves her people. She shows them mercy out of love.”

  “That farm you showed me,” said Isra, “it was completely destroyed. If the man cannot defend his land, the same could happen to him. Another farm could be destroyed. Can Cytherea afford such mercy?”

  Celia said nothing at first as if thinking of an answer. But Isra got the same nagging prick on the back of her neck that she felt at the farm. She sensed that the emissary was not trying to think of an answer so much as the correct lie. “The Rainha is wise. She knows when to show mercy and when to show strength. But perhaps you may ask her yourself after Conselho is completed.”

  Another man knelt before the hearth to face judgment and Isra glanced up at the Rainha seated in her silver throne. For an instant, their eyes met. In the moment, in that brief look, Isra confirmed her suspicion. Everything in Cytherea moved according to the Rainha’s plan, though Isra had yet to figure out what her team’s role was.

  ****

  It was getting late by the time Althea returned. The light barely changed, but there were far fewer people moving through the streets and doors and windows were shuttered tight. There was a comfort in that, she thought as she bounced the baby in her arms trying to calm him. A few Cythereans still making their way home shot her some suspicious glances, but nobody seemed inclined to interfere.

  She looked around, trying to decide what to do next. She considered returning the baby to his mother but realized that the Rainha would almost certainly remove the child again. Althea shifted the baby and checked her EROS computer. Throughout most of the day, Viekko had been on the outskirts of the city, but he had recently returned to a house near the Sala Gran. Althea assumed it was the same house as last night, which meant he wasn’t alone. She really didn’t want to catch Viekko in the second sexual free-for-all in as many nights, but this qualified as an emergency. Viekko, for all of his faults, was useful in an emergency.

  Althea banged on the wooden door as hard as she could with her one free hand while the baby screamed in her ear. She heard some loud, muffled cursing from inside and, a few moments later, Viekko opened the door wearing nothing but his pants.

  “Tam garig, Althea!” said Viekko, launching into his Martian curse words. “This’d better be good and… tengeriin nokhoi baas, that’s a baby.”

  “Well identified, Viekko,” said Althea, straining to talk above the baby’s crying. “And you’d do well to watch your mouth in front of him.”

  “Why do you have a baby, Althea?”

  “It’s a long story. Can we talk?”

  Viekko looked down at the child Althea bounced in her arms and back up at her. She would have gotten a less incredulous look if she showed up with a green alien in her arms, announced that she named it Forcipes and that she believed it was the new Messiah.

  Finally, Viekko said, “Just a sec,” and went back inside.

  He came out a few minutes later, fully dressed and visibly annoyed. He turned back, leaned through the open door and said something in Cytherean that sounded like a series of apologies. He slammed the door and looked at the baby, still crying and squirming in Althea’s arms.

  For a moment, neither of them talked, they just looked down at the infant. For Althea, it was the first moment she’d had to try and get a grasp of her situation. Apparently Viekko wasn’t doing any better with it. The wailing of the baby echoed through the streets as clear as any alarm.

  Viekko rubbed his ear. “Quite a set of lungs on that kid.”

  Althea bounced the baby in her arms. “He’s probably hungry. He was born only a few hours ago and has had nothing. We need to find a way to feed him.”

  “Yeah, okay, well before we run off together with our Venusian love-child, you wanna tell me where you got him?”

  Althea stared him straight in the eye to try and make the seriousness of this situation concrete. “They were going to kill him Viekko. I saw it. They took him out to the wastelands and just left him on a rock to die.”

  “I see,” Viekko said, with more nonchalance than Althea thought was necessary. “Who exactly?”

  “The Rainha.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “No. I kept out of sight.”

  Viekko ran his hand down his queue. “And once they were gone… you what? Grabbed the kid? Just decided to help yourself? This don’t have some weird psychological thing to do with us does it?”

  Althea’s mouth gaped open. “Us! What the bloody hell does anything between you and me have with this place! Do you think I’m manufacturing this? That I went and stole a baby so I could…I don’t even know what. I don’t care what you do here or who you do it with.” She held the baby close and pressed her cheek against his head. A few tears ran down her face. “I couldn’t just leave him there. In that heat with no food and no clothing. He’s just born, he wouldn’t last an hour.”

  Viekko cleared his throat as if swallowing some emotion of his own. “Let’s not jump to conclusions now. The Cythereans might have a ritual we don’t know about. Some kind of rite-of-passage. You know on Mars when a baby is born…”

  Althea glared at him. “Don’t you bloody well do this again, Viekko. You can rationalize, accept or flat out ignore every other horrid thing about this society, but there’s no getting away from this. Look at this city! Everyone is in perfect physical condition, and you want to know why? Because they throw out anyone that isn’t perfect. That is the reality. This has nothing to do with culture or ritual or anything else, Viekko. It’s infanticide. Worse than that, it's infanticide by exposure. Probably so the child will die and they can wash their hands of it. So go ahead. Tell me why that is okay.”

  Althea stared Viekko directly in the eye silently promising all manner of terrible things she would visit on him
if he insisted on arguing. For a moment, he looked as if he might try anyway and thought the better of it.

  “Fine,” said Viekko, pulling up his sleeve to activate his EROS. “We need to find Isra.”

  Althea’s eyes narrowed. “Isra? Why would you…”

  Now it was Viekko’s turn to cut her off. “What exactly do you want me to do, Althea?” he barked. “Storm the gates? Hold the whole Cytherean army at bay while you go after Isabel? Damn it, Althea, this is a diplomatic mission. So we deal with this all diplomatic-like. We find Isra, and we get an audience with the Rainha. If this is really what it looks like, then we deal with it. Okay?”

  Althea nodded. “Okay.”

  Viekko went back to his computer and locked on to Isra’s signal. “Looks like she’s in the Sala Gran. Come on,” he said, waving for Althea to follow him back down the road.

  She fell into step behind him. Despite all that was going on, Althea had to smile.