Down These Strange Streets

by George R. R. Martin; Gardner Dozois

  Water poured from the overhang, but not in the manner of a true waterfall; slender streams, like jagged teeth. The guards had pegged the torches into the ground at the edge of the spring; the flames danced like rainbows in the drizzle of the falling water as he passed beneath the overhang.

  The hot, wet air pressed his lungs and made it hard to breathe. After a few moments, he couldn’t feel any difference between his skin and the moist air through which he walked; it was as though he had melted into the darkness of the cavern.

  And it was dark. Completely. A faint glow came from behind him, but he could see nothing at all before him, and was obliged to feel his way, one hand on the rough rock wall. The sound of falling water grew fainter, replaced by the heavy thump of his own heartbeat, struggling against the pressure on his chest. Once he stopped and pressed his fingers against his eyelids, taking comfort in the colored patterns that appeared there; he wasn’t blind, then. When he opened his eyes again, though, the darkness was still complete.

  He thought the walls were narrowing—he could touch them on both sides by stretching out his arms—and had a nightmare moment when he seemed to feel them drawing in upon him. He forced himself to breathe, a deep, explosive gasp, and forced the illusion back.

  “Stop there.” The voice was a whisper. He stopped.

  There was silence, for what seemed a long time.

  “Come forward,” said the whisper, seeming suddenly quite near him. “There is dry land, just before you.”

  He shuffled forward, felt the floor of the cave rise beneath him, and stepped out carefully onto bare rock. Walked slowly forward until again the voice bade him stop.

  Silence. He thought he could make out breathing, but wasn’t sure; the sound of the water was still faintly audible in the distance. All right, he thought. Come along, then.

  It hadn’t been precisely an invitation, but what came into his mind was Mrs. Abernathy’s intent green eyes, staring at him as she said, “I see a great, huge snake, lyin’ on your shoulders, Colonel.”

  With a convulsive shudder, he realized that he felt a weight on his shoulders. Not a dead weight, but something live. It moved, just barely.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, and thought he heard the ghost of a laugh from somewhere in the cave. He stiffened himself and fought back against the mental image, for surely this was nothing more than imagination, fueled by rum. Sure enough, the illusion of green eyes vanished—but the weight rested on him still, though he couldn’t tell whether it lay upon his shoulders or his mind.

  “So,” said the low voice, sounding surprised. “The loa has come already. The snakes do like you, buckra.”

  “And if they do?” he asked. He spoke in a normal tone of voice; his words echoed from the walls around him.

  The voice chuckled briefly, and he felt rather than heard movement nearby, the rustle of limbs and a soft thump as something struck the floor near his right foot. His head felt immense, throbbing with rum, and waves of heat pulsed through him, though the depths of the cave were cool.

  “See if this snake likes you, buckra,” the voice invited. “Pick it up.”

  He couldn’t see a thing, but slowly moved his foot, feeling his way over the silty floor. His toes touched something and he stopped abruptly. Whatever he had touched moved abruptly, recoiling from him. Then he felt the tiny flicker of a snake’s tongue on his toe, tasting him.

  Oddly, the sensation steadied him. Surely this wasn’t his friend the tiny yellow constrictor—but it was a serpent much like that one in general size, so far as he could tell. Nothing to fear from that.

  “Pick it up,” the voice invited him. “The krait will tell us if you speak the truth.”

  “Will he, indeed?” Grey said dryly. “How?”

  The voice laughed, and he thought he heard two or three more chuckling behind it—but perhaps it was only echoes.

  “If you die . . . you lied.”

  He gave a small, contemptuous snort. There were no venomous snakes on Jamaica. He cupped his hand and bent at the knee, but hesitated. Venomous or not, he had an instinctive aversion to being bitten by a snake. And how did he know how the man—or men—sitting in the shadows would take it if the thing did bite him?

  “I trust this snake,” said the voice softly. “Krait comes with me from Africa. Long time now.”

  Grey’s knees straightened abruptly. Africa! Now he placed the name, and cold sweat broke out on his face. Krait. A fucking African krait. Gwynne had had one. Small, no bigger than the circumference of a man’s little finger. “Bloody deadly,” Gwynne had crooned, stroking the thing’s back with the tip of a goose quill—an attention to which the snake, a slender, nondescript brown thing, had seemed oblivious.

  This one was squirming languorously over the top of Grey’s foot; he had to restrain a strong urge to kick it away and stamp on it. What the devil was it about him that attracted snakes, of all ungodly things? He supposed it could be worse; it might be cockroaches . . . he instantly felt a hideous crawling sensation upon his forearms, and rubbed them hard, reflexively, seeing, yes, he bloody saw them, here in the dark, thorny jointed legs and wriggling, inquisitive antennae brushing his skin.

  He might have cried out. Someone laughed.

  If he thought at all, he couldn’t do it. He stooped and snatched the thing and, rising, hurled it into the darkness. There was a yelp and a sudden scrabbling, and then a brief, shocked scream.

  He stood panting and trembling from reaction, checking and rechecking his hand—but felt no pain, could find no puncture wounds. The scream had been succeeded by a low stream of unintelligible curses, punctuated by the deep gasps of a man in terror. The voice of the houngan—if that was who it was—came urgently, followed by another voice, doubtful, fearful. Behind him, before him? He had no sense of direction anymore.

  Something brushed past him, the heaviness of a body, and he fell against the wall of the cave, scraping his arm. He welcomed the pain; it was something to cling to, something real.

  More urgency in the depths of the cave, sudden silence. And then a swishing thunk! as something struck hard into flesh, and the sheared-copper smell of fresh blood came strong over the scent of hot rock and rushing water. No further sound.

  He was sitting on the muddy floor of the cave; he could feel the cool dirt under him. He pressed his hands flat against it, getting his bearings. After a moment, he heaved himself to his feet and stood, swaying and dizzy.

  “I don’t lie,” he said, into the dark. “And I will have my men.”

  Dripping with sweat and water, he turned back, toward the rainbows.

  THE SUN HAD BARELY RISEN WHEN HE CAME BACK INTO THE MOUNTAIN compound. The smoke of cooking fires hung among the huts, and the smell of food made his stomach clench painfully, but all that could wait. He strode as well as he might—his feet were so badly blistered that he hadn’t been able to get his boots back on, and had walked back barefoot, over rocks and thorns—to the largest hut, where Captain Accompong sat placidly waiting for him.

  Tom and the soldiers were there, too; no longer roped together, but still bound, kneeling by the fire. And Cresswell, a little way apart, looking wretched, but at least upright.

  Accompong looked at one of his lieutenants, who stepped forward with a big cane knife and cut the prisoners’ bonds with a series of casual but fortunately accurate swipes.

  “Your men, my Colonel,” he said magnanimously, flipping one fat hand in their direction. “I give them back to you.”

  “I am deeply obliged to you, sir.” Grey bowed. “There is one missing, though. Where is Rodrigo?”

  There was a sudden silence. Even the shouting children hushed instantly, melting back behind their mothers. Grey could hear the trickling of water down the distant rock face, and the pulse beating in his ears.

  “The zombie?” Accompong said at last. He spoke mildly, but Grey sensed some unease in his voice. “He is not yours.”

  “Yes,” Grey said firmly. “He is. He came to the mountai
n under my protection—and he will leave the same way. It is my duty.”

  The squatty headman’s expression was hard to interpret. None of the crowd moved, or murmured, though Grey caught a glimpse from the corner of his eyes of the faint turning of heads, as folk asked silent questions of one another.

  “It is my duty,” Grey repeated. “I cannot go without him.” Carefully omitting any suggestion that it might not be his choice whether to go or not. Still, why would Accompong return the white men to him, if he planned to kill or imprison Grey?

  The headman pursed fleshy lips, then turned his head and said something questioning. Movement, in the hut where Ishmael had emerged the night before. There was a considerable pause, but once more, the houngan came out.

  His face was pale, and one of his feet was wrapped in a bloodstained wad of fabric, bound tightly. Amputation, Grey thought with interest, recalling the metallic thunk that had seemed to echo through his own flesh in the cave. It was the only sure way to keep a snake’s venom from spreading through the body.

  “Ah,” said Grey, voice light. “So the krait liked me better, did he?”

  He thought Accompong laughed under his breath, but didn’t really pay attention. The houngan’s eyes flashed hate at him, and he regretted his wit, fearing that it might cost Rodrigo more than had already been taken from him.

  Despite his shock and horror, though, he clung to what Mrs. Abernathy had told him. The young man was not truly dead. He swallowed. Could Rodrigo perhaps be restored? The Scotchwoman had said not—but perhaps she was wrong. Clearly Rodrigo had not been a zombie for more than a few days. And she did say that the drug dissipated over time . . . perhaps . . .

  Accompong spoke sharply, and the houngan lowered his head.

  “Anda,” he said sullenly. There was stumbling movement in the hut, and he stepped aside, half-pushing Rodrigo out into the light, where he came to a stop, staring vacantly at the ground, mouth open.

  “You want this?” Accompong waved a hand at Rodrigo. “What for? He’s no good to you, surely? Unless you want to take him to bed—he won’t say no to you!”

  Everyone thought that very funny; the clearing rocked with laughter. Grey waited it out. From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl Azeel, watching him with something like a fearful hope in her eyes.

  “He is under my protection,” he repeated. “Yes, I want him.”

  Accompong nodded and took a deep breath, sniffing appreciatively at the mingled scents of cassava porridge, fried plantain, and frying pig meat.

  “Sit down, Colonel,” he said, “and eat with me.”

  Grey sank slowly down beside him, weariness throbbing through his legs. Looking round, he saw Cresswell dragged roughly off, but left sitting on the ground against a hut, unmolested. Tom and the two soldiers, looking dazed, were being fed at one of the cook fires. Then he saw Rodrigo, still standing like a scarecrow, and struggled to his feet.

  He took the young man’s tattered sleeve and said, “Come with me.” Rather to his surprise, Rodrigo did, turning like an automaton. He led the young man through the staring crowd to the girl Azeel, and said, “Stop.” He lifted Rodrigo’s hand and offered it to the girl, who, after a moment’s hesitation, took firm hold of it.

  “Look after him, please,” Grey said to her. Only as he turned away did it register upon him that the arm he had held was wrapped with a bandage. Ah. Dead men don’t bleed.

  Returning to Accompong’s fire, he found a wooden platter of steaming food awaiting him. He sank down gratefully upon the ground again and closed his eyes—then opened them, startled, as he felt something descend upon his head, and found himself peering out from under the drooping felt brim of the headman’s ragged hat.

  “Oh,” he said. “Thank you.” He hesitated, looking round, either for the leather hatbox or for his ragged palm-frond hat, but didn’t see either one.

  “Never mind,” said Accompong, and leaning forward, slid his hands carefully over Grey’s shoulders, palm up, as though lifting something heavy. “I will take your snake, instead. You have carried him long enough, I think.”

  BEWARE THE SNAKE

  An SPQR Story

  by John Maddox Roberts

  John Maddox Roberts is best known for his acclaimed twelve-volume SPQR series of historical mysteries, detailing the adventures of a young Roman aristocrat who keeps getting entangled with murder and other nefarious doings in the dark underworld of Ancient Rome. The SPQR series consists of The King’s Gambit, The Catiline Conspiracy, The Temple of the Muses, The River God’s Vengeance, and eight other novels. In addition to the SPQR books, the prolific Maddox has written fantasy series such as the five-volume Stormlands sequence (consisting of The Islander, The Black Shields, and three others), science fiction series such as the two-volume Spacer sequence (Space Angel, Window of the Mind), and the three-volume Cingulum series (The Cingulum, Cloak of Illusion, The Sword, the Jewel, and the Mirror); contemporary detective novels (A Typical American Town, The Ghosts of Saigon, Desperate Highways); eight Conan novels; a Dragonlance novel; novels in collaboration with Eric Kotani and under the name Mark Ramsay; and stand-alones such asCestus Dei, The Strayed Sheep of Charun, Hannibal’s Children , and King of the Wood. His latest novel is The Year of Confusion, the new SPQR mystery.

  Everyone knows that some snakes can be deadly. As Decius Caecilius learns in the SPQR story that follows, sometimes the problem is knowing one when you see it.

  YOUNG HEROD ONCE TOLD ME THAT HIS PEOPLE ABHOR SERPENTS. IT seems to have something to do with his people’s fall from a sort of Golden Age, in which the serpent is mysteriously implicated. This is the sort of primitive superstition one must expect from barbarians. Civilized people, by contrast, think the world of snakes. We revere and esteem them. Snakes enhance the prophecies of oracles and facilitate contact with the gods of the underworld. It is difficult to imagine civilized life without snakes. Egyptian kings had cobras on their crowns, while Mercury and Aesculapius bear serpent-wound staffs. The very spirit of a place is symbolized by a pillar with a snake coiled around it.

  To be sure, one occasionally encounters the odd asp, adder, or cobra, which carry deadly venom, but that is just the gods’ way of reminding us that their gifts are often double-edged. It keeps mortals on their toes and prevents them from growing too complacent.

  It is true that certain people carry this reverence for serpents too far. Some families, including very respectable ones, keep a family snake and consult with it on all matters of importance. Personally, I consider this a rather un-Roman practice. It’s more like something Greeks would do. But nobody in Italy is as mad about snakes as the Marsi, the mountain people who live around Lake Fucinus, east of Rome.

  Which brings us to the day the Marsian priest came calling.

  “WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT OUR SNAKE IS IN ROME.” THE MAN wore a saffron-colored toga and a ribbon of the same color around his brow.

  “I see. I don’t suppose it crawled here on its own?”

  “Of course not! She was stolen and we want her back!”

  So the gender of the snake was established. We were making progress already. I glanced down at the letter of introduction the priest had brought. Its message was characteristically bald and laconic.

  Decius Caecilius, the bearer of this letter is Lucius Pompaedius Pollux, high priest of the temple of Angitia. He is my client and he has a problem and I can think of no man more fit than you to solve it for him. Below the brief text was appended, instead of a seal, the signature Caesar, Pontifex Maximus. Since he invoked his office as pontifex, this was to be treated as a religious matter.

  “Has there been a ransom demand?” I asked.

  “Ransom?” Pompaedius looked scandalized. “You think this is some sort of kidnapping?”

  “I don’t see why not. Distinguished personages are often held for ransom. People have been doing it since Homer. No reason why the same can’t be done with a beloved snake.”

  “Senator, the Serpent of Angitia
is a sacred being of the utmost religious importance, not some sort of—of animal!”

  “And I would never suggest such a thing,” I assured him. “It is simply that I can assist you better if I can establish some sort of motive for this unique theft. The motive for theft is usually profit of one sort or another. If not money, then what?”

  He pondered this for a moment. “Power.”

  “What?” I said, brightly.

  “What is it you Romans say about the Marsi?” he asked.

  I could think of several sayings we had said about the Marsi, all of them uncomplimentary, but I knew the one he meant. “That we have never triumphed over you, and have never triumphed without you.”

  “Precisely.” He seemed to think he had answered something.

  In the old days, we had fought several wars with the Marsi, and they had made us regret it. A very tough, disciplined, military people, to be sure. We much preferred to have them as allies. They had stood fast with us against the incursions of the Gauls and had not wavered when Hannibal all but destroyed Rome. Our last fight against the Marsi had been a generation before this time, when they had joined with the rebelling allied cities of Italy in demanding their citizenship rights. The war had been bloody, but once the rebels knew they could not win, the Senate had acknowledged the justice of their demands and granted them citizenship. I thought of the Marsian soldiers I had seen with our legions. They wore distinctive helmets, usually crested with serpents in fanciful coils and loops, often in threes.

  “Are you telling me that this serpent embodies the martial valor of your people?” I hazarded.

  “Very much so. When the Marsi first became a people and founded Marruvium on the lake, they prayed and sacrificed to Angitia, asking her to grant them a token of her approval and her patronage of our city and our people. On the tenth day of the rites, a great serpent emerged from the lake. The people built a temple to Angitia on that spot and built a sanctuary for the serpent in its crypt. The serpent is the protector of the people. As long as she is in her sanctuary and healthy, Marruvium is safe and the Marsi will be victorious. Should word get out that she is gone . . .”