Scientius tapped his temple to indicate he remembered, and then offered, “We're a reasonable distance from Lydda and your mother."
"I'm not going to say my mother is sick."
"She won't really be,” he said in that tone you reserve for the very young, the very old, and the very stupid.
"I know that, and I know there are no gods, but indeed this feels like tempting fate,” I said.
"Don't be superstitious. We'll have to pass through Judea on our way to Cyrenaica. You can actually visit her, not be a liar, and reassure yourself that your lies have no effect on the turning of the universe."
I contemplated the territories we have to cross before reaching Cyrene. Syria, Judea, Cyrenaica. “Maybe we ought to take a ship, and buy horses in Cyrenaica,” I suggested.
"Maybe we can ride to Lydda so you can see your mother, and then take a ship,” Scientius countered.
"That will take more time."
"You don't want to lie about your mother being sick, but you also don't want to see her,” Scientius said. “Why are humans so irrational?"
"We'll just get into another argument about religion."
"Lie. Tell her you're a Christian. Make her happy. She doesn't have to know the truth—"
"That, thanks to you, I don't believe in a damn thing?"
"Don't be so dramatic. While you may not believe in gods, you know these creatures are real, and you know they're monstrous."
"It was easier when I didn't know all these great truths."
"I never told you this would be easy. Ignorance is comfortable."
"So is the certainty of believing in the gods, but you've taken that from me."
"I showed you the evidence. You were smart enough to draw the right conclusion.” He started to leave, then stopped and looked back. “Go visit your mother."
* * * *
"And did you?” the Centurion asked.
"What?"
"Visit your mother?"
"Yes, I visited my mother."
"Do you ever win an argument with this slave?"
"No."
* * * *
The hiss and thwap of the water against the side of the ship was hypnotic. I leaned on the rail, breathing in the pungent scent of brine and seaweed, and watched the coast slip by. I felt like a well-packed barrel after a week of my mother feeding me at every opportunity. A school of porpoises played in our wake. I toyed with the idea that they really were pulling Neptune's chariot, but I released the fantasy. It really was silly that a big man with a beard lived on the bottom of the ocean and controlled the waves.
From Scientius I understood there were wind waves caused by friction between air and water, and tidal waves caused by the pull of the moon. I understood why lightning arced across the sky and it had nothing to do with another big man with a beard, only this one in the sky. I had seen planets circling our sun, and Scientius had shown me the tiny creatures that lived in a single drop of water, but there were so many more things I didn't understand.
It was all so much easier when I believed in the gods. Then I knew everything, and I had all the answers—Jupiter threw lightning bolts, Neptune controlled the waters, Sol pulled the sun through the heavens.... And my slave had created a new god woven out of myths and prophecies. A creation my mother now worshiped, and whose followers my emperor now persecuted because they would not render unto Caesar.
On the coast vague shapes resolved themselves into buildings and palm trees. Bare feet pounded across the wooden deck as the crew hurried to adjust the sail. The ship came around, and pointed her prow at the shore. Down in the hold the horses sensed that we were heading for landfall and began to bugle with both joy and desperation. I sympathized. I hated ship travel; it is the very definition of boredom. No doubt why I had turned to such pointless maundering.
The shore looked close, but it took hours before we, our gear, and our horses were standing on the dock in Apollonia. The stink of rotting fish, tar, and sweat pursued us as we rode deeper into the city.
Diocletian had made Apollonia the capital of a new province, Lybia Superior, and it seemed to be trying to live up to its newfound glory. The walls of the baths were freshly scrubbed, and scaffolding surrounded a palace under construction. At this distance the workmen, carrying stone blocks, looked like black ants climbing one of the massive anthills of Africa with bits of food in their mandibles.
Cyrenaica is another of those bizarre occurrences, like Bithynia, where the ruler, Ptolemy Apion, getting long in years and having no children, decided to bequeath his kingdom to Rome. Now, I grant you, we are a noble people, but it must be strange to wake up one morning and discover you're a Roman with all that entails, both good and bad.
The news of the dragon in Cyrene was everywhere.
From the barber who gave me a shave I learned that the populace of Cyrene was reduced to eating only bread because the dragon had consumed every sheep, goat, and ox. Even though Apollonia was only a few miles away, no one was offering help to the citizens of Cyrene.
In the marketplace I stood with a Berber caravan leader who told me that the dragon was now demanding people to assuage its hunger. The gargling grunts and moans of the camels provided a Greek chorus for this evil tale.
In a tavern, alternating between sips of sour wine and bites of strong roast goat and onions, Scientius and I learned that the king of Cyrene had begun a lottery to select each day's victim. The speakers’ voices were breathless with fear and horror, but their eyes told a different tale. They glittered in the smoky gloom, excited and titillated by the catastrophe that had overcome Cyrene. They were proud to be part of such momentous events, and oblivious to the fact that once every person in Cyrene had been consumed the Old One would come down the road to Apollonia.
The sun sat like half a gold coin on the horizon when we left. The air smelled of dust, fish, roasting meat, spices, and onions. The streets were cleared as people retreated behind the walls of their houses and onto the roofs to catch the evening breezes off the sea.
"I hate people,” I said. “Remind me again why I'm working to protect them?"
"No, you don't, and we protect them because you humans are worth it."
"Really?” I asked, but I was talking to the air. Scientius walked on ahead, up the steps of a temple.
It was small, and the stonework was rough, but the statue of some obscure eastern goddess that stood in the center rotunda was magnificent. Carved lions slept at her feet. Moon and stars surrounded her head. The folds of her stola were painted in stunning shades of blue. Rose paint and gold leaf adorned the marble hem.
Scientius pointed at her. “You're worth it because of that."
"The goddess?"
"No, idiot, the statue. Any creature that can make something that beautiful and make music and write poetry is worth saving. So, get your sleep. Tomorrow you're going to fight a dragon."
"You should beat him more often,” the Centurion averred.
"You can tell him that when you meet him."
The Patrician's smile was condescending and the Centurion rolled his fingers into a fist. “I'll let this do the talking when I meet your conniving slave."
"I wish I could be around to see that.” The Patrician sounded sad, and the reminder had the Centurion hurrying to add:
"Go on. Go on with the story."
* * * *
But the dragon didn't grant me a restful night's sleep. I had begged hospitality in the home of a Roman merchant, not wishing to share my bed with bugs, or sleep with a knife to hand in order to ward off the human vermin I would encounter at an inn. I was awakened by screams and shouts from within and without the house.
I threw on a tunic and raced down the hall, gladius in hand, and came upon the mistress of the house moving like a sleepwalker. She held a hand mirror of silver and gazed into its reflective depths. She crooned endearments to the eyes that gazed back out of the mirror at her. I sheathed the gladius—such a human weapon was not going to serve—gripped the hilt
of my real sword, and began to draw the blade from its hidden depths. Scientius stopped me.
"No, they must not know you are here. Surprise is our best ally."
I settled for just knocking the mirror from her hands as we ran to the great front doors. An oath and a threat and the terrified door slave threw back the bolts.
Out in the street the night was lit by waving torches and a full moon. I choked and coughed, but not from the smoke from the torches. The air reeked like burning oil and sulfur. The Old One flew across the face of the Moon so I got a very good look. It had way too many legs. I lost count at around thirty. It was also the size of the pleasure barge I'd once sailed down the Nile. Each beat of those scaled wings sent gusts of the poisonous air washing through the streets of Apollonia. The hairs on the back of my neck stood erect, and I wanted to draw the sword so badly. I knew this horror would stay away from me if I was holding the sword. Scientius sensed my terror, and he kept a grip on my wrist.
The household guards threw down the torches and fled screaming back into their masters’ houses. On one roof an old man, clad only in his night loin cloth and an ancient helmet, waved a gladius and screamed imprecations at the Old One. It shot down and seized the man in jaws like a river crocodile's. Curses became screams. Something wet and sticky pattered onto my upturned face and the bare skin of my chest. My sweat washed away the blood.
There was no more sleep that night.
* * * *
In the morning we set out for Cyrene. A perfectly good Roman road ran between the cities, but riding up to the front door when you don't know where your enemy is located is foolish. And I had seen that thing. I did not want to come upon it unawares.
So Scientius and I set off across country instead. Dust puffed from beneath the hooves of our horses, coated our faces, and tickled sneezes from our nostrils. Gulls circled and called overhead. We met only a skinny goatherd and his flock as we traveled. The boy and his charges went hopping away, his bare, brown legs not notably thicker than the spindly limbs of his goats.
I knew from my talks with the caravan leader that Cyrene sat on a high plateau. It was one of the last green places before you reached the desert. The question was whether the Old One was actually in the city or had torn a hole elsewhere to enter our world.
We'd covered most of the distance when strange winds began to eddy and whirl around us. They lifted the dust into spiraling cyclones. The smell that had almost overwhelmed me the night before replaced the comforting, normal scents of sea, dirt, and horse. There were no more gulls. In fact no birds of any kind. The world was silent except for the hoofbeats of the horses. Around us the vegetation had died.
Scientius and I exchanged a glance—we were very close. We dismounted, and tethered our horses. They tried to graze on the dead grass, but soon gave up. I did a ritual check of my weapons—hilt, gladius, knife. Scientius waited patiently, and then we advanced on foot. Using rocks for cover, we headed north along the foot of the cliff. High above us five Muses looked out across the valley toward the sea. The sunlight made the marble blindingly white.
Keening cries pierced the silence. A girl's voice, crying in fear. We'd reached our destination. I unhooked the hilt from my belt and prepared to draw the sword. Scientius laid a hand over my wrist.
"Wait,” he breathed into my ear. “Let me find its exact location."
I nodded. He ghosted away through the brush and I sank down to squat on my haunches. I kept my left hand at the base of the hilt, ready to draw if Scientius came running back, pursued by the monster.
He returned a few minutes later. “There's a girl chained to the cliff. It's just sitting there contemplating her, feeding on her terror."
"Didn't it get enough last night?” I asked. Scientius just shrugged and led the way.
It's been my habit to always look through the tear before I engage the creature that made it.
* * * *
"You keep saying that. A tear—what does that mean?” the Centurion asked. “Is this thing from Hades?"
The Patrician took the hem of his tunic and folded it over several times. “There are worlds that lie to either side and above and below our world. We can't see them, but sometimes the creatures that live in those worlds poke a hole through the material that separates the worlds, and come crawling through."
"How do you know they are different worlds?"
"Because I've seen places with three suns, and red skies, and vast plains of ice, and in this case...."
* * * *
....It was night on the other side of the opening, and five moons sailed that alien sky. In my world the sun was hot on my back and the sweat trickling down my sides was a desperate itch.
And then it was time to face the monster. It had its back to me, wings folded like a mantis, and stared at a heavyset girl who slumped in her chains. She was young, fourteen or fifteen years old, with a bloom of pimples across her chin and forehead. Her family was obviously rich because every finger held a ring. A long necklace of gold beads and polished agate fell across her breasts.
There wasn't going to be a better opportunity to stab the dragon from behind—
* * * *
"Wait a minute. You'd stab an enemy in the back?"
The Patrician smiled at the Centurion's outrage. “Absolutely."
"You're losing my respect,” and the Centurion folded his arms across his chest. “And this makes for a terrible tale."
The Patrician gave that secretive little smile again. “You still don't believe any of this is real, do you?"
* * * *
Because I lack a certain humor that is present in almost all other humans, the monster couldn't sense me. But that was going to change the instant I drew the sword. When the blade appears out of the hilt it pulls music from the very air, and resonates in your chest like the beating of drums, or the chords of a great water organ. In the presence of Old Ones or great magic, it also wraps itself and me in a net of glowing lights. It's not a subtle weapon. Fortunately it only has to touch Old Ones and they die.
Alas, this Old One had a lively sense of self-preservation. The moment it heard the overtones, it leaped into the air with a thunder of wings and turned to face me. The girl screamed, the monster hissed; I yelled and ran to place myself between it and the tear in the world. I did not want it to escape, only to return to our world in some different and distant place.
"Empty One,” it said, making it a greeting, and warily eyeing the sword, it dropped back to the ground, but well beyond my reach. Those eyes were glassy red, but dark fires seemed to flare deep within them.
* * * *
The Centurion was frowning. “What does that mean, Empty One? Why did he call you that?"
Once again the Patrician's hand went to his belt buckle and he traced its curving lines. Long moments passed as he considered. Finally he said, “You know how the Greeks say there are four humors—blood, phlegm, black bile, and yellow bile.” The Centurion nodded. “Well, there is actually a fifth—magic. It runs in the veins of almost all people. But not in mine. I am empty of magic. The Old Ones feed on terror, hate, pain, and grief. Magic opens that pathway for them, but they can't feed on me. I am a cipher to them."
* * * *
"Monster,” I said, and nodded in greeting.
"That's extremely harsh,” it said.
"Well, look at yourself,” I replied. “You might have inspired godhood if you'd taken a comely human form.” There was a chance I could goad it into changing its form before we engaged. They are often vainglorious and sometimes they like to interact with their prey.
"It takes so long to bring your kind through terror to worship while still keeping a bit of terror disguised as awe,” the Old One said in tones of mournful complaint. “Just plain terror is much easier and quicker.” It lifted up ten of its legs and clacked the claws together. The wings opened, and he gave them a shake with a sound like palm fronds in a high wind. “And I'll keep this form, thank you."
It had only been a
small chance. I half-turned so I could still watch my adversary, but also see the tear. I set the point of the sword at the base of the opening, pictured it closed, and pulled the sword up the length of it. Dirt, rock, and dead plants cut off the view of distant moons. The dragon made a disgruntled noise.
"I'll have to kill a great many of your kind before I can reopen that,” the Old One complained.
I decided against any further conversation, and charged, hoping to take it unawares. The slightest touch.... But for all its bulk it was unnaturally quick. The wide jaws opened and it blew a gust of poisonous breath into my face. I faltered and it leaped into the air. It didn't take long to grasp its plan. The dragon seized a boulder from the cliff face, and flung it down at me.
I skipped sideways. The rock hit the ground with enough force that the earth shook, and a gout of dirt shot like a fountain high into the air. I was terrified that a veritable hail of stones would be coming my way, but for all its bulk and multiplicity of legs, it seemed to lack the strength to lift more than one large rock at a time. It did claw at the cliff face with hind legs, sending dirt and small rocks cascading down on the prisoner and on me, but they were too small to do much damage.
I dodged another boulder, and tried to think how to bring the fight to the Old One. The harsh stink from the creature had me gasping for breath, and my tongue felt too large for my mouth. The question was which one of us would tire first, or I would misjudge, and a very large rock would land on me.... An idea formed.
I waited until I saw one falling that didn't seem too huge. The dust was hanging in the air, and I hoped it would make it hard for the Old One to see exactly what was happening. Gritting my teeth I allowed the stone to clip my thigh. The shock of pain was so great that for a moment I feared I'd broken the bone, but was reassured when the leg could still bear my weight. Relieved, I fell to the ground and tucked myself close in around the boulder. I allowed the sword to roll out of my hand, and the blade vanished.
* * * *
"You broke the blade? Deliberately?” the Centurion asked.
"You'll see,” came the reply, and there was again that cryptic smile.
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