The Last Plutarch

by Tom O'Donnell

Reed then updated Meric about the goings-on in Panchaea, the talk among his friends, the anger and outrage over the dead soldiers. The Temples were packed with Plebians praying for another Calling, that they might avenge their loved ones. The Matron Adams pulled Reed away to let Meric rest. On the way out, however, Reed stopped and said in an awed voice:

  “They say you’re to be given a Triumph.”

  Meric stared at him. Dizziness overcame him.

  “I’m … what?” he asked.

  “A Triumph!” Reed repeated, almost vibrating with excitement. He’d been bursting to divulge the information all through dinner.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s what everyone’s saying.”

  Meric had been nine the last time a soldier had received a Triumph. An old legionnaire, Goethe, had set up a series of clever traps and pitfalls for the horde of savages pursuing his pentacrus. He’d tricked the savages into following him, then led them far astray, saving a dozen injured companions. His penta had returned to Panchaea, but Goethe had been given up for dead. Two months later, he’d walked out of the Wildlands alone. In a thick forest, he’d eluded the enemy, stripped off his armor, and covered himself in mud. He’d harassed and baffled his foes with such marvelous efficiency that they’d become convinced he was an angry spirit. For his heroic deeds, Goethe had been awarded a Triumph.

  Will they really grant me one too?

  *

  Instructor Boson gave him the news the next day. Not only was Meric to be given a Triumph, but Dominus would be there to see it. Vitruvio’s force was on its way back to Panchaea.

  Meric should’ve been ecstatic. Instead, it was all too surreal.

  “What will happen to Trajan?” he asked.

  “I imagine he’ll be executed,” Boson said.

  Meric tried not to think of Meliai. How must she feel? She’d brought him to a sacred place and tried to heal him. In return, he’d brought her father in to be executed. Serving the Plutarchs was a virtuous calling–so why did his insides squirm with shame?

  Meric was confined to his quarters until the Triumph. It was tradition not to walk among the public until the ceremony. For three days, he swung between a dizzying mix of emotions: yearning to feel the sun on his face, berating himself for the same desire; proud of capturing Trajan, ashamed of leaving Meliai; amazed about being given a Triumph, suspicious about the Plutarchs’ motives. Despite his steadfast loyalty, some of Trajan’s seeds had grown doubts, which crept and wriggled through the branches of his thoughts.

  In the confinement, he grew restless. What he didn’t want to admit, even to himself, was that home wasn’t really the destination most often on his mind. He would’ve been happiest with a trip outside the perimeter-wall. His quarters, although luxuriant, were permeated by Fog, which had begun to feel oddly constricting. He’d gotten used to the lighter outdoor air, the open sky, the far-off views. Did he truly miss it after so short a time?

  Finally, the day of his Triumph arrived. He was awoken by four laughing girls in shifts as thin as a spider’s web. They led him to a steaming bath, where three others waited. Together, the seven virgins cleansed him, shaved him, cut his hair, powdered his face and made him into someone beautiful. Clothes formed from the Fog; fabric so white it genuinely effulged. When all was done, an angelic being looked back at Meric from the mirror.

  Outside, he boarded a golden palanquin. It floated majestically, borne aloft by–

  Tiny machines.

  –God’s Will. Meric couldn’t see from inside the compartment, but he could hear just fine. As the palanquin moved, it was joined by many feet. Music-makers went ahead of them. A parade was leading him up Divinity Ave, toward Fountain Square.

  A parade in my honor.

  Surreal. It was all so surreal. He looked at the golden walls of the palanquin and saw Meliai in the forest, turning to glance at him, the curve of her bare shoulders as strong as they were delicate.

  Forget her.

  Music was playing. The crowd chattered and cheered. People called his name. Was that Reed’s voice? An eagle screeched, sounding forlorn. The beastmasters’ menagerie was walking in the parade. Meric had enjoyed the spectacle in days past, but suddenly he felt bad for the animals. The wild had been taken from them, replaced with parades. The wild, where they belonged … like her…

  Godsblood, forget her already.

  At long last, his palanquin slowed to a halt. The door opened. Meric emerged into a wall of noise. The palanquin hovered above a raised circular platform in the center of a three-tiered fountain. A bevy of statues spewed water from the top tier to the middle. A one-meter waterfall connected the middle tier to the lower. The platform in the center of the fountain, upon which Meric now alighted, was dry. A thousand faces looked up at him from all around Fountain Square. The crowd faded into the haze, seeming to stretch forever. Days ago Meric had been a captive on the run for his life, and days before that he’d watched his friends being crushed and stabbed by the hundreds. Suddenly he was being praised like a hero. The changes were too drastic to comprehend.

  A Priest mounted the fountain, climbing a narrow ramp protruding from the water. He gave an account of Meric’s deeds, voice carrying through the Fog. At first it felt almost as though it were someone else’s Triumph. Slowly, the solemnity of the moment, the weight of the crowd, the reminders that he’d dreamed of something like this since he was a child–it began to weigh on Meric. The event’s reality was penetrating. Emotions grew heavy. His stomach fluttered. Reed and his mother were in the front row; they brought the feeling home. Friends and acquaintances were scattered throughout, waving, nodding, smiling. Frost, his fellow survivor, was there as well–though he only looked dead-eyed at the cheering crowd. Everywhere else was an eager, joyful face. And, after all, hadn’t Meric earned this Triumph? Wasn’t it a once in a lifetime event? Yes! And then…

  “Dominus!”

  Meric almost leapt down to embrace him. He’d missed his best friend enormously. He hadn’t appreciated how much until that moment. Dominus stood with a group of soldiers, wearing a big, laughing smile. Had it been possible, Meric would’ve abandoned the ceremony just to talk to him.

  “…for this is his Triumph!” the Priest finished, and the crowd’s roar sent a thrill through Meric. The Priest descended, leaving him alone on the platform. A great booming sound carried through the Fog.

  Kuari, the sacred drum.

  The crowd fell silent.

  The Godhand emerged from the Fog, beating its slow and terrible instrument. The crowd parted in fear and awe. The white-eyed, spiky black automaton had always been something of a mystery. It led the Plutarchs in processions on holidays, yet it was neither Plutarch nor Plebian, neither alive nor dead. It was an instrument of God, and only rarely did it do anything but beat its holy drum and drive away evil spirits.

  It does more than that for Triumphs though, thought Meric, remembering Goethe’s.

  Floating behind the Godhand was Abraxas.

  His stern gaze and half-lidded eyes ignored the crowd entirely. Leaving Kuari to dissipate in the Fog, the Godhand ascended the same narrow ramp used by the priest. It stopped on Meric’s left, uncomfortably close. Abraxas floated forward and stopped on his right, lowering his feet to touch the platform. Meric swallowed. He was sandwiched between a Plutarch and a creature of the Fog.

  Abraxas didn’t shout, yet when he spoke, his words carried unnaturally far.

  “In the eyes of Panchaea, the Plebian American Adams has earned a Triumph. But the eyes of God see truest of all. Therefore, let his blood be tested. Let this tool of the Fog, this silent messenger of the Omnipotent, reveal his worth for all to see.”

  It was the same speech he’d given for Goethe all those years ago.

  Meric knew what was coming. He remembered it well, not only from Goethe’s Triumph but from a dozen laserpainter dramas. He held out his left hand, palm upward. The Godhand turned to him with eyes of white light. It raked a cold black claw along his palm,
drawing blood. It raised the claw to its mouth. A smooth, inhuman black tongue snaked out and lapped up the blood. Then the Godhand moved to the edge of the platform. It traced an incantation in the air.

  Trajan would tell me it was nothing but a machine. That it was ‘programmed.’

  He’d meant the thought to be sardonic. Instead it raised uncomfortable doubts.

  A stone basin rose out of the platform. The Godhand completed its spell and spit a solution containing Meric’s blood into the basin. The basin closed around it and sunk back into the fountain. The crowd watched the water expectantly.

  Goethe had been a redblood. Meric could only hope for the same. Red was the color of the brave. If the water turned red, glory would be his. The crowd would rejoice. Unique gifts would coalesce from the Fog. Women would beg to wed him.

  I’ll ask for Swan, he thought, even as Meliai came to mind.

  But maybe the Godhand would sense his doubts, his heresy. He’d let Meliai dip him in that pool, after all. Maybe his blood would turn yellow, the color of cowards and liars. His Triumph would turn to shame. Men would call him yellowblood and say his deeds had been false. Fear tugged at his spine.

  It was no good to think of the third color. Those who thought of it were unworthy. Goethe’s red had proven him a warrior, yet even he hadn’t achieved purple. Only the most exemplary Plebians–those destined for legend, those who served without doubt or hesitation–could earn such an honor. Their quality was beyond question. Of the few living Plebians who’d been awarded Triumphs, none had earned purple. Meric watched the water.

  The fountain grew muddy. His heart thudded. Surely it wouldn’t turn purple, but what if it did? A greedy excitement gleamed in his eyes. Inky black swirls shifted and combined. The waters grew iridescent. Slowly, they resolved into a solid hue…

  Is it red?

  And then everything froze. Utter silence fell. Meric’s gaping mouth trembled. Abraxas turned slowly to look at Meric, but even the godlike Plutarch’s gaze went unheeded.

  The water was not yellow.

  The water was not red.

  The water was not purple.

  It was a color Meric hadn’t even known it could make, but whose meaning was clear to all. The waterfall, the bubbling pool, the streams pouring from the indifferent statues–all had turned a perfect shade of shining silver.

  The color of the Plutarchs.

  CHAPTER 13

  Abraxas covered his shock well. A Plutarch could not be surprised. A Plutarch could not be dumbfounded. Before a crowd of Plebians, a Plutarch couldn’t be anything but dignified, noble, wise, magnanimous. There were a few exceptions–Gallatius and that drunken fool, Rasmus, for instance, whose familiar foibles came off as endearing. Even the Greeks had had some embarrassing gods. But Abraxas would never stoop to such behavior. He forced himself to smile, as a cloud of confusion and anger swirled in the depths of his being.

  The crowd was murmuring. American Adams was staring in disbelief. The Godhand had, for all intents and purposes, declared him a Plutarch–could there be any other interpretation? Even Abraxas had never seen such a thing. The Godhand was a machine. It was not self-aware. Because of its complexity, however, it was never disbanded into the Fog of which it was composed. It remained a distinct unit stored in the White Palace, full of old programming–which had been true almost since the fall of the American Empire. The Godhand was as old as Panchaea.

  When the Godhand tasted a Plebian’s blood, it executed subroutines to analyze the owner’s genes. Based on that analysis, it would spit a certain solution into the basin. When the basin lowered into the fountain’s hidden machinery, a flood of chemicals was released into the water. If the Godhand’s analysis found evidence of inheritable diseases or undesirable genes, a yellow mixture would be applied. Otherwise, a red mixture was applied. In this way, the ceremony served not only to reward Plebians for their service but acted as a dampener on undesirable qualities. No wives would pine for a yellowblood, while redbloods would have many children. Similar tests were often performed–albeit with less drama–for Plebians who wished to marry. The genetic stock was thus kept in prime shape.

  Only in rare cases did the Master of Ceremonies transmit a signal to the Godhand to release the purple solution. It was necessary for Plebian society. Sometimes they needed a hero to worship–one even more revered than the redbloods–and at every Triumph the people wondered and hoped for that outcome.

  Before the ceremony, Abraxas had decided American Adams was that hero. It had been generations since anyone’s blood had tested purple, and the legionnaire’s feat had been truly remarkable. His interview, his Instructors, his Fog records–everything indicated the man was not only the best of Plebian stock but highly loyal to the Plutarchs. A fitting hero for Plebian worship. Abraxas had transmitted the signal. He’d given the ritual speech, reminding everyone that the Godhand was a tool of the Fog–a tool of God’s Will, its judgment beyond question.

  And then the water had turned silver.

  How?

  That could be determined later. Right now he had to handle the situation. A Plebian could not be a Plutarch. The myth of Marthuk and the sacred lake was used to reinforce that fact. Unfortunately, a thousand-plus Plebians had witnessed the Godhand’s judgment–sactioned by Abraxas himself.

  The crowd’s murmurs evolved into a roaring, riotous applause. Plebians were ruled by base emotions. Like monkeys. Like children. They lost their minds with the joy of the spectacle, whooping and screaming and weeping. One day, the Fog would spread again, and Panchaea would repopulate vast territories. When that happened, only the best of the species would maintain Fog-access. The Plebians would be the farmers and soldiers of the new world. A servant class. Too emotional, too impulsive, too simple-minded–but necessary for the species. Abraxas didn’t pity them. They had their place. He looked after their interests. He gave them time to spend their energy before raising his arms in a calming gesture.

  “The Godhand has judged,” he announced. “American Adams has been found worthy of the rarest of honors, unparalleled for many generations. Therefore, let a plethora of gifts be given in his honor. Let the celebration continue all day. American shall accompany me to the floating palaces, where all shall know his worth.”

  The crowd was beside itself. Abraxas seized the Fog. He and American rose into the air. The Plebian threw his hands out for balance, alarmed. Abraxas shifted the Fog around him, supporting his limbs in gauze-like layers. It wouldn’t do to let the hero plunge to his death.

  Godsblood, what’s happening down there? another Plutarch transmitted. It was Nias, hidden in the Fog somewhere above the crowd. Nias had been tasked with manifesting the celebratory gifts.

  Triple the gifts. The celebration will be longer than expected, Abraxas sent back, ignoring the question. Nias and the others would know soon enough. The crowd below faded into the haze. The sound too was absorbed by the Fog. Then it was only Abraxas and American Adams ascending alone through a gray-white world. They looked at one another. If his story was true, American Adams was the best of Plebian stock. American Adams had earned that Triumph. But the man could not be made into a Plutarch. The risk was too great. And the good of Panchaea took precedence over all.

  “A shame,” Abraxas said to himself.

  “What–”

  A gray cylinder materialized around the Plebian, trapping him inside.

  *

  “Could this have been Trajan’s doing?” Afrika asked.

  She sat across from Abraxas at the round table in the White Palace. The tabletop was supported by a column of white smoke. Several of the dozen chairs were empty, certain Circle members having neglected to attend. Perhaps they thought it a minor matter. Perhaps they failed to realize that the recognition of a Plebian as the equal of a Plutarch would have drastic consequences in the streets below … and by extension, the Fog above.

  “The possibility occurred to me,” Abraxas said. “It could’ve been part of an elaborate deception.
Trajan would know that we’d award a Triumph to a lone soldier returning with a dread enemy in tow. Trajan was an Artificer, and he may have studied the Godhand’s programming. I thought it could be one step of a grander scheme. After securing the Plebian, I went to investigate.”

  “And?” Vilindrio asked, three seats to Abraxas’s left.

  Abraxas recalled entering Trajan’s hidden prison; the uncomprehending gape, the confusion, the hands raised to block the light. The human mind hadn’t evolved to deal with days of sensory deprivation. With no effective stimulus, it turned inwards. It went to strange places. It changed. And eventually, it broke. Surprising how easy it was. You could feed the body, but unless the mind was fed too, the body would become useless.

  “Trajan was clueless. I’m reasonably certain this wasn’t some convoluted plot. No one, it seems, knew the Godhand would turn the water silver.”

  “Then why did it happen?” Afrika asked.

  Abraxas sighed into the silence.

  “Senescence,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me?” Vilindrio asked.

  “Panchaean society is decaying. Our peers have grown too comfortable, too undisciplined. It’s shameful. There are fewer Artificers than ever before. Too few dedicate themselves to the nuances of the technology that keeps us aloft. The Godhand’s programming is old. I doubt anyone has delved into its innards in decades. We expect it to do what it’s always done. Unfortunately, I think it’s safe to say we’ve forgotten some essential details of the early Triumphs. Plutarchs must have been more involved. Our top Artificers are going over its coding as we speak, but I already know what they’ll find: the Godhand’s blood-analysis is more extensive than we knew. It is programmed to recognize–and respond to–the Marker.”

  Afrika sat forward and put her hands on the tabletop.

  “Do you mean to tell me…”

  “The Plebian has the Marker,” Abraxas said.

  There were murmurs around the table.

  “It’s the only reasonable explanation,” Abraxas added.