The Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK™, Vol. 1: Henry S. Whitehead

by Henry S. Whitehead

  And, before he could turn his head to look about in this vastness, into his very soul penetrated the message: “Sleep! Tanit commands.”

  Beside him he observed a porphyry couch, its finials glowing with complicated whorls and insets of some faintly shining metal like platinum. Upon this, without question, his mind and heart at peace, he reclined, and closed his eyes.

  A sweeping, distant, heavenly-sweet breath of music, the music of viols and systra, swept his mind. He slept...

  * * * *

  He strode, a tall, commanding figure, through the narrow streets of the great city where he had lived and worked for many years, the city of London. Above, a waxing moon poured down her gracious light through a black and drifting mass of storm-clouds.

  It was chilly and damp, and he had drawn about himself his heavy black outdoor cloak of rich dark cloth. He picked his steps through the filth and mud of the street, while just ahead of him a man-servant bore aloft a flaming cresset-torch to light the uneven way.

  He proceeded onward, moved by a strong purpose. This, towards which on this uninviting night he hastened, was no ordinary appointment. What few wayfarers were abroad seemed animated by a great and consuming dread. These glanced furtively at him and at each other as they slunk along, giving each other wide berths. And, in the hand of each, a small, sponge-like object, saturated with reeking vinegar, was held before the face.

  At last the two stood before the portals of a magnificent building. The servant knocked. Two men-at-arms, gorgeous in the royal livery, recognizing him, had saluted and allowed him to pass.

  The doors, in answer to the servant’s knock, now swung open.

  A gentleman, splendid in embroidered silks, came forward and bowed. He returned this salutation.

  “A dismal night to be thus abroad, My Lord Burlinghame,” he remarked, and the gentleman smiled and nodded.

  “The King awaits you—anxiously,” said the gentleman, and turned and led the way.

  He stood now, before the King, in a small, richly-furnished apartment, its walls thick with Spanish arras.

  “Come,” said the King eagerly, “sit, most worthy Doctor Campalunis, and relate to me the result of your labors.”

  He delayed seating himself until the King himself had resumed his seat. He spoke directly, pointedly.

  “I know now the cause, Sire, beyond any doubt or peradventure. A surprising conclusion, upon which the astrological art and actual experiment converge to show its actuality! To state the matter pithily it cometh down to this: It is the superabundance of rats in this your realm of England that causeth the plague!”

  The King started, half smiled; grew suddenly serious again, looked mystified, swore roundly a rolling oath.

  “By the twenty-four nostrils of the Twelve Apostles! Good Doctor Campalunis, were it not thyself ‘twould sound like a scurvy jest!”

  He nodded, and smiling slowly, answered the King.

  “It was in sooth a sorry task; one which, I doubt me, few physicians would have descended to! Yet did I demonstrate its accuracy; the ‘calculation’ was based upon the conjunction of our lady, the moon, with the planet Venus. And—it pointed to the rats!

  “Then did I take three rats, and from them—oh, sorry task!—did remove, with these hands, their parasites. These did I transfer to three small beasts of various kinds, a hare, a stoat, and a mewing cat! Proof, Sire! Within twelve hours, upon all three—as the rat-fleas penetrated to their blood—did there appear tumors like to those upon the folk in this calamity we name ‘The Plague’ and which now devastates the realm. Soon thereafter all were dead, each after his nature: the hare without resistance; the stoat fighting; the cat, as though she would never pass—nine lives she hath, according to the ancient saying!

  “Experiment thus doth prove the wisdom of our lady, the moon. I counsel thee, then, that all rats be hunted and destroyed, that the plague stay itself and England be not thrice-decimated.”

  He was driving back in a great rumbling coach. Beside him, on the silken-cushioned seat, lay the great red silk purse of gold presented to him by the King—the King who, trusting him, had, before his departure, summoned Giles Talbot, his scrivener, and was even now preparing a royal proclamation directing, upon pain of the King’s displeasure, all burgesses, shrieves, coroners and mayors to cause the folk to find and destroy the swarming rats and so end the plague...

  He glanced out through the coach window upon the hastening figures of occasional wayfarers; and, ever and again, cressets lighting the gloomy scene disclosed bearers carrying the victims of the plague, hastily and furtively through the muddy streets to the charnelhouse...

  Above, the moon, now clear of clouds, looked serenely down upon this theater of death and destruction, where ruthless King Plague had well-nigh replaced the reign of kindly King Charles.

  * * * *

  Carrying a small, heavy package, he stepped briskly along a sunny roadway towards a goldsmith’s shop. He stepped within and the apprentices raised their heads. Welcoming smiles, murmurs of pleased greeting met him; and then rapid questions in the soft Italian argot.

  “What, the masterpiece? Finished at last!”

  “Ecco, Ascanio, fratello. It is done, eh?”

  “The Master will be pleased.”

  “Per Baccho! A purse that it is magnificent!”

  He placed his burden upon the central table. The others were all crowding about him now eager to see.

  “Touch it not, colt of a jackass!”

  “Room for our Ascanio, the new Cellini!”

  “Run—fly, Beppo! Fetch the Master.”

  He left the inmost wrapping, of silk, where it was, closely draped about the figurine. It stood, shapeless under the unrevealing drapery, about nine inches in height. The apprentices hopped in their anxiety to see it.

  Beppo dashed back into the workroom, the Master following. All stood aside as the tall figure, dressed in plum-colored silk like a nobleman, came hurriedly into the room. The bearded face lighted.

  “Ascanio! The Virgin—not finished—tell me not—”

  “Finished, I believe, to the limit of my poor skill, Messer Benvenuto,” he said, and gravely removed the silk wrapping.

  There arose a chorus of shouts, squeals, hand-clappings, murmurs, small mutterings and sighs from the apprentices; then, this dying down, he looked at the Master. The others, too, were looking at him. His was the ultimate decision, the last opinion of the workroom, of the city of Florence, of the great world. The master goldsmith stood, motionless, silent, frowning slightly, before the figurine.

  It was of red gold, the Virgin Mother of God, chaste, beautiful, cunningly wrought; glowing now in the freshness of the new metal; gleaming, exquisite.

  The Master took it into his hands. He held it off, squinted at it; held it close, gazing intently, silently. He laid it down, reached into a pouch, brought out a magnifying glass, sat down on the stool Beppo had placed for him. The apprentices dared barely to breathe.

  Messer Benvenuto laid it down at last. He returned, without a word, the glass to his pouch. He turned about and looked at his visitor.

  Then abruptly, suddenly, he held out both sensitive hands. “A masterpiece!” he pronounced, and rose from the stool.

  “And this—” he indicated the base of the statue, “no goldsmith hath so done before, Ascanio. Inspiration! Thou hast gone far—to the end of our art. The moon—as a pedestal for the Mother of God! It smacks of the perfection of art. I hail thee, Ascanio—Master!”

  * * * *

  It was very early dawn, a fresh, cool, sea-dampened dawn, just breaking to a delightful smell of dew-wet heather. He paced up and down on the rough stone flagging. He paused, looked about.

  Over towards the east the sun, glorious, burst over the horizon. He had been watching for it from the wall’s top, over the gate, and now in its new illumination he gazed out frowningly, beneath the pressure of the great bronze helmet; over the gray and brown gorse hummocks and undulating prairie of rough f
urze, into the north. There, always concealed, always ready to strike, signaling with their fires to each other, chieftain to chieftain, lay the Picts. Against these this ultimate fortification had been built.

  Behind him, to the south, under the wall a great din arose, a noise compounded of the disassembling of ballistae, much hammering and wrenching as the heavy timbers were taken apart; metallic clangings as the breastplates and scuta were stacked, in tens, a mule-load each; shouts, commands; the ringing, brief blast of a bugle.

  The relief, marching briskly, the never-changing quick step of Rome’s invincible legions, came now to a last routine duty. He raised to his lips a small golden whistle, fastened about his neck with a leathern thong. His men came in from east and west. He saluted the approaching centurion. The guard above the gate was changed mechanically, the two officers exchanged brief greetings. His own veteran century behind him, he marched off duty; descended towards the gate at the south side.

  A vast bustle greeted him. The troops were preparing for their final evacuation of the wall. All about him this clang of weapons being packed rose to heaven.

  He was being saluted. He stopped, listened to the message. He was to go to the Emperor, at once. He acknowledged the orders, dismissed the messenger, turned to the west.

  “As thou knowest, oh, Gaius, the barbarian hordes press back our legions. By sheer force of their incredible numbers, they have worn down the defenses of the north. They slip through. Rome herself calls, at long last. For Rome’s defense we must go.

  “But, oh valiant one, these legions must go safely. It were to serve Rome ill to lose a single quaternion against these Picts. Take thou of thy men, and stay behind, then, here upon the wall. If, at the expiry of two days, thou are yet alive, then follow the legions. Yet, by all the guile and all the skill and all the love of Rome thou dost possess, hold the gate against the north until we are away. I leave thee to the bravest task of all, oh, Gaius!”...

  With his six legionaries, he strode up and down above the gate, watching the north. For a day and a half the three legions had been marching, ever southward, towards their embarkation-points, through the fair and glorious country of Brittania which the wall had made possible; fifteen thousand seasoned veterans, returning to hold off, if might be, for another decade perhaps, the swarming barbarians who were pressing down upon the Mediterranean world.

  * * * *

  For the first six hours nothing had taken place upon the Picts’ side of the wall; only the increase of signal fires. Then had come the slow gathering of this barbarian horde. Now, on the evening of the second day, as he looked down, despite the threatenings of his sweating legionaries, with their rocks, their small catapults, and now—as a last resort—the dreaded firepots, he saw the Picts gathered in their thousands. A dank smell rose from these barbarians; a smell compounded of the sweat of laboring naked bodies, of furze smoke, of the skins of wolves from which they fashioned their scant garments.

  Already the gate was down; already, in their hundreds, the Picts swarmed down below there on the south side of the wall, the Roman side. Convinced now that the garrison had departed, that these on the wall’s top were merely a scant guard remaining for the purpose of fooling them, of holding off their own inevitable attack, the leaders of the Picts were haranguing them to the massed attack up the ramps to the wall’s top.

  Abruptly the moon rose over the western horizon. And with its rising a message, authoritative, definite, filled his mind:

  “Well done, and bravely, valiant one, friend of Tanit! And now I take thee unto myself, ere thou perish in the body.”

  He struggled mentally to reply, as he looked at his hard-bitten, middle-aged men, old legionaries who had remained; who were giving all for Roma Mater. They stood now, massed together, just within the barrier which blocked off the ramp’s top, their shields interlaced, their spears in a precise row behind them, their short blunt swords in their right hands; silent, ready for their last stand. As he looked at these faithful men his heart went out to them. Their devotion, their iron discipline had never once wavered.

  “Nay,” he answered. “Nay, Lady Diana, grace of all the Dii Romae, I go not willingly, but purpose rather to stand here with these!”

  He stepped towards them, his own, somewhat heavier, sword ready in his hand, his shield affixed to his left arm. The roar of the mounting Picts came bellowingly through to them now as the horde swarmed up the ramp. Now the barrier was down, crumpled before the irresistible urge of numbers. Now the short swords were in play, taking terrible toll, like flails, like machines.

  Then all that space was abruptly illuminated, as a huge ball of what seemed to the stricken Picts pure incandescent fire smote the stone flooring of the great wall’s top, burst into a myriad fragments of light, gathered itself together, then went out into a sudden blackness; and through this blackness the figure of their centurion showed itself to his legionaries like Mars Invictus; head up, sword raised on high, and then, as abruptly, vanished.

  The Picts had disappeared. The legionaries looked at each other blankly. One, Tertullius, looked over the edge.

  “All run through the gateways into their territory,” he reported to his companions.

  “And Gaius?” one asked. “What of our centurion?”

  “It is the high Gods! He hath gone to Odin!”

  “The light swallowed him up. Hail, O mighty Mithras!”

  “He is gone from among us, O invincible gods of Rome!”

  “He was godlike. His was the kindness of Chrestus!”

  “Olympus receives him, doubtless, O Venus Victrix! A great marvel, this!”

  Within a few minutes six hard-bitten veteran legionaries were at the double on the trail of the main army, going straight south, pausing not over the various and sundry abandoned arms and supplies, jetsam left strewed along that way of retreat.

  And upon the unanimity of their report and the surprise which their arrival, without their officer, had caused in the ranks of Maxentius’ legions, within the year a shrine to Gaius, who had been taken up by the old gods of Roma Mater, was rising in the little hills above Callericum, which had been the Centurion Gaius’ native village.

  * * * *

  He rose to his feet, stiff from that long reclining, and stretched himself. It was night, a night of warm and mellow airs playing about the olive trees under the full-moon of the early Palestinian spring. He gazed, grave-eyed, towards that sinister hilltop where three Roman crosses stood athwart the moon’s light, dark and sinister shadows of death and desolation. He looked long at them, stooped, and adjusted a loose sandal-thong; rose again, and turning, began to walk towards the city, beautiful upon its own hill of Zion, the temple pinnacles white and glorious in the pouring moonlight.

  But on an olive-bordered slope he paused and looked steadfastly up into the calm moon’s face. There seemed to him to be, struggling towards clear understanding, some message for him in what he had seen that day, the marvels he had witnessed, he, a Greek of Corinth, sojourning in Jerusalem with the caravan of his uncle Themistocles the merchant. The moon had always been his friend, since earliest infancy. Now, aged twenty, he felt always an inspiration, a kind of renewed vigor, when she was at full.

  She was at full now, and he remembered that these Palestinians based one of their religious observances upon the lunar cycle. It was now begun. The middle-aged man next to him had explained the ritual to him just before sunset, when those bodies had been taken down from the crosses.

  It had been a harrowing experience. These Romans were a ruthless lot, “conquerors of the world,” indeed. Greece lay beneath their heel. This Palestinian country, too, was a mere procuratorship, however; not a province like his own Hellas. This execution—he had heard of that method, though he had never witnessed it before—had, however, seemed to meet the approval of the Palestinians.

  The “message” troubled him. Something was pressing through to his consciousness. A duty was being thrust upon him. That, of course, had happened befor
e, in much the same way—warnings, admonitions, growing in his mind. He had always followed them, for, indeed, they had been unmistakable things, matters germane to his inmost thoughts, parts of his own consciousness. What would it be this time? He opened his mind, looking up at that bright, mysterious disk, which, as Aristotle, or was it old Zeno?—he could not remember precisely; he was a merchant, not a philosopher—had taught, regulated the waters of the universe; the tides. An odd conception that! True, doubtless. Something caused the ceaseless ebbings and flowings of his own blue Aegean, of the Mare Internum as the Romans named the great sea about which their vast empire now centered itself.

  The “message” had to do with finding someone. He lay down upon the warm grass as yet unaffected by any distillation of morning dew.

  “Search—search—here in this city of Jerusalem, for one named—”

  The name eluded him. He moved his feet, impatiently. There were ants here. One had crawled upon the side of his right foot. He moved the foot, and it encountered a small obstacle. He sat up, rolled over, reached down. It was a stone, a small, round pebble—petros.

  Then the “message” came clear like the emergence of Pallas Athene full-armed and cinctured from the mighty head of Zeus!

  “Search! Find—Petros!”

  It burned in his brain. He sat there, cogitating it. One named Peter he was to find, here in this city of Jerusalem. He nodded his head in acquiescence. A rich energy suffused him as he looked up once more into the moon’s quiet face.

  He rose, lightly, drew in a deep, refreshing breath laden with the sweet dry scent of myrtle, then he walked down the hill towards Jerusalem, in search of someone named Peter.

  * * * *

  The faint memory of an evil dream contended with a fetid odor which drifted in through the methodical row of star-shaped windows opposite his polished wooden couch with the henna-stained horsetails at its curved foot. The dream, an unpleasant, vague memory now, faded from his waking consciousness, encompassed by that smell. That would be from the ergastulum, the slave-compound of the suffete, Hanno, whose somewhat more pretentious palace towered over his own on the upper slope of the hill. Hanno, now in the field against the revolting mercenaries, was badly served at home. He must send a peremptory message to the keeper of the ergastulum! This was intolerable. He rose to a sitting posture, throwing off the linen coverlet with its embroidered horses and stars thickly sewn upon it, and looked down his long body.