A TOKEN OF A BETTER AGE

by Melinda M. Snodgrass

Melinda Snodgrass is the author of Circuit, Runespear, and many other novels and stories. Along with her good friend George R.R. Martin, she created the “Wild Cards” series. Her most recent novel is The Edge of Reason and a sequel, The Edge of Ruin, is scheduled for publication next year. According to the bio posted on her Website ( www.melindasnodgrass.co ), she is also an accomplished singer, horse rider, screenwriter, and she manages a small natural gas company.
Her F&SF debut is set in the same universe as the “Edge” novels, but you don’t need any extra background info in order to enjoy the tale.

“I’m going to be broken on a wheel of swords and then beheaded,” the man said in answer to the Centurion’s question.

The Centurion was surprised. That was a high honor, a mark of respect. Well, at least the beheading part was, he amended. When he’d asked about the man’s crime, he’d expected a story like his own—convicted and sentenced to fight in the arena until defeated and killed. But this poor bastard wasn’t even being given the chance to fight. He was going to be tortured and then killed.

Another, closer look, revealed what the Centurion had missed with his first, cursory glance. Beneath the dirt and dried blood the tunic was fine wool and the man’s boots were well made and hardly worn. The Centurion could see where decorations had been torn from the tops of the boots. He also saw where the skin on the man’s arms was lighter, marking the places where armillae once rested.

The man was smiling at him. Genuinely amused. The Centurion tried to cover his confusion by blustering, “Ho, we have a patrician among us.”

Some of the other prisoners in the dungeon beneath the arena in Nicomedia looked over at them, but most were uninterested, lost in their own troubles and terrors over what tomorrow would bring. In the dimness of the dungeon, lit only by smoking, flickering wall torches, their eyes glittered. It reminded the Centurion of the big cats in their cages that he had passed on his way to the dungeon, and he decided it was a good comparison. Most of the people in here were also dangerous killers. And the Centurion was no exception.

In addition to the gladiators there were a few frightened criminals who stayed in the corners, sniveling. The Centurion was a criminal, but he was also a soldier and he would not show such fear.

Near the stone bulk of a supporting pillar a handful of Christians droned their prayers. The emperor hated the Christians and had started another round of persecutions. So far their god hadn’t appeared to stop him.

“So, what are they killing you for?” the Centurion asked.

“Saving a city.” The Patrician gave a sideways look from the corner of his eyes. Again he seemed amused. “And you?” he asked. “Gladiator?”

“No, no, I’m a legionnaire, a Centurion.” The leather straps of his lorica creaked a bit as his chest expanded, as if to say, I’m part of the greatest army in the world, and proud of it.

“Neither of those will get you condemned to the arena.”

The Centurion deflated. “Sadly, I am also a thief.”

“Ah.”

It was suddenly important to the Centurion that this man know he had not been enslaved for his crime. He would walk into that arena a free man, and if he won every fight he would walk out—as a free man.

“I plan to be the last man standing tomorrow,” the Centurion said. “Diocletian will be watching, and I’ll end up in his guard.” Most of it was bluster. He also hoped the brave words would disguise his fear.

“Wish for the first two. I’d avoid the third if I were you,” the Patrician said dryly.

“Know the emperor that well, do you?” The Centurion spit on the stone slabs of the floor and then regretted it. He shouldn’t waste spit, he was going to need it, especially if the guards didn’t feed and water them in the morning.

“I was in his guard.”

In his experience bullshit always trumpeted, but this was said quietly. Like it was a fact. The Centurion was suddenly embarrassed by the way he’d pushed in on the man, as if being in this cell made them somehow equals and comrades. A hand closed on his wrist, strong fingers that brought an ache to the bones. The Centurion hadn’t even realized he was moving away from the Patrician until that grip stopped him. The Patrician looked up at him. His expression was serious and calculating. With a wave of the hand he indicated that the Centurion should join him.

Nervous and flattered, he dropped down to sit next to the Patrician. Even through the rough wool of his tunic the hewn stone was cold against his haunches. He shivered briefly and wrapped his arms around his chest. The Centurion was suddenly aware that the other man’s eyes were tracing the line of the biceps, and studying the tendons and muscles that wrapped his left wrist. The Centurion wondered if he was a boy lover, and felt his hand clenching into a fist. He would hate to waste his strength beating a catamite. But at the man’s next words, he relaxed.

“You can fight with either hand,” he said. The Centurion nodded. “That should give you an advantage.”

“For the first four or five. After that....” The Centurion shrugged.

“Let us talk through the night. I’ll tell you my tale, and when you walk from the arena tomorrow you’ll take the story back to my mother in Lydda.”

The Centurion make a rude noise. “Look, I’m not getting out of this. It was just brag ... what I said.”

“I think you might. I think your opponents won’t be at their best tomorrow.”

The Patrician touched the intricate buckle that held his wide leather balteus. The buckle was a strange thing, made up of curves and spirals and many shades of gray. His fingers slid through the loops, and stroked the glass-like material. The Centurion wondered why no one had taken it from him, but why would they when there was gold to be had, and this was a dull nothing? Still, there was something about the thing that made his scalp prickle.

“All right, but if the emperor changes his mind ... if you walk out, you must go to my mother in Luceria, and tell her what happened to me,” the Centurion said, and he tried to match the man’s off-handed tone.

“Done.”

They gripped forearms. The Centurion scooted back to rest his back against the wall, and settled in to listen. The man had a good voice, deep and soft.

* * * *

The word had gone out that a serpent—no, it was more than that, a giant lizard, no, greater than a lizard, a dragon—was afflicting Cyrene. The tale flew up and down the coast, whispered in crossroads colleges, taverns, and marketplaces.

I paid attention to such tales. Most times they were just flights of fancy, concocted by bored and credulous people, but sometimes they brought us word that one of the Old Ones was abroad in the world.

It’s beneath my dignity as a military tribune to loiter in taverns, marketplaces, and crossroads colleges, but the first two locales offered no impediment for my slave. I sent Scientius out among the people.

I waited for his return in the roof garden of the fat merchant’s villa we’d commandeered to house the tribunes. The man’s taste was atrocious, so very few of his possessions had been taken. It was a fortunate circumstance for him that he was a clod, less so for young tribunes trying to get ahead. While the sun sank, turning the waves of the sea to shivering flames, I sipped wine, tuned my lyre, and waited for Scientius’s return. Even the tart/sweet scent of blossoming orange trees that shaded me couldn’t hide the stink of the tanneries down by the docks. My troops called Cilicia “the shithole” and I couldn’t disagree.

I’ve always savored this time of day. The breathless heat and the assault of the sun ended, and for a few hours I was treated to the soft cry of night birds, the squeak of bats, and the stars. Scientius showed me they are burning globes like the sun, but they are so far away they look like jewels....

* * * *

The Centurion glared, thinking the Patrician was mocking him. Tales of wonder to hold the fear at bay were one thing, but this.... He was not a fool.

“Now that’s a bunch of horse dung,” he said.

“No, I’ve seen them. Through glass lenses that Scientius constructed.”

“Well, there’s your mistake. Slaves are cunning and slothful. You’ve gotta watch them.”

The Patrician smiled at the lecturing tone. “Mine is certainly cunning, but he’s been right about many things.”

* * * *

My lyre gave a soft cry, a series of whispered notes. My slave had returned. He waited in the doorway until I motioned him forward, and he bowed when he reached me. We always observed the formalities. It wouldn’t do for people to realize that the slave was actually the master. He’s an interesting-looking man.

* * * *

“And it’s important that you pay attention and remember this,” the Patrician said, and his look was intense as he leaned in close to the Centurion.

“Why?”

“Because you must recognize him tomorrow when you leave the arena.”

“I told you, it won’t—”

“Have faith.” And a strange, almost bitter, little smile curved his lips.

* * * *

Scientius is as powerfully built as a Gaul or a Goth, but his skin is Nubian black, and his eyes are akin to those of the people of Sinae.

“It’s one of ours,” he said to me as he bent low to refill my wine cup.

His voice is deep and bell-like, and the chimes that hung in the trees shivered and breathed their music into the onrushing night, and mingled with the voice of my lyre. Scientius has this effect on instruments. I have a friend who is a musician, and he always wants my slave in the dining room when he plays. He swears the instruments sound better. I’ve always just smiled indulgently, and never indicated that what he’s said is true.

I was sure Scientius was right about the dragon, but Cyrene was far away, and I was suddenly very comfortable in Shithole. “You’re sure? This isn’t the most convenient time for me to ask for leave.”

He pulled a scrap of Egyptian papyrus from his sleeve and read, “They’re reporting a stink that fills the air, and catches in the throat, an advancing darkness, otherworldly winds that filled the streets of Cyrene with ash, and there are voices in the winds and faces in the mirrors.” The papyrus was folded over several times and returned to the sleeve. “It’s a tear in the world,” he said, and nodded for emphasis.

“I’ve lost track of how many relatives I’d sickened or killed just so I can get leave,” I complained.

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.

“You’re going to throw the broken blade like a knife, right?”

“You’ll see.”

* * * *

The hilt lay between my outstretched hands. It would be a close thing and my timing would have to be perfect. The stink made my eyes water, and since I could only keep them open a slit, I was certain I would misjudge the distance and the moment.

The clatter of those bony wings almost drowned out my thundering heart. The Old One landed, and I saw a row of clawed feet. Two things happened simultaneously—I snatched up the hilt and drew the sword while the Old One’s teeth drove into my back. It lifted me into the air like a hound preparing for the head shake that would snap the spine of a rabbit.

I screamed; its saliva burned like Greek Fire. It also gave a horrified cry when it heard the thrum of the sword. Its broad chest was directly in front of me as I hung in its jaws. I slapped the flat of the sword against the scales. The Old One dropped me, and I rolled feebly away before I was smothered by its bulk when it fell writhing onto the ground. I swear, the creature’s dying cries could probably have been heard in Apollonia. I stuffed the folds of my cloak in my ears, and I felt sorry for the girl; she couldn’t cover her ears. The silence, when it finally came, was almost as shocking as the noise.

Then Scientius’s arms were around me, and he helped me to my feet. “Oh, well done, well done,” he said as he pulled the material of my tunic out of the wounds, and poured warm water from his waterskin across the bloody bites. The girl continued to alternate between sobs and screams. I waved Scientius toward her.

“I can’t take much more of that noise. Get her down.”

But the good citizens of Cyrene had done an excellent job on anchoring the chains. Scientius finally admitted defeat, and he galloped away to summon men with chisels. I limped off to retrieve my horse and shared my waterskin with Cleodolinda, for such was her name.

“You will be well rewarded by my father,” she said after I’d trickled a bit of water into her mouth.

“Good.”

“He rules this city,” she added.

“Even better,” I said.

She cast me a look from beneath her lashes and added, “I’m of marriageable age.”

“Oh,” I said.

* * * *

“Hold it. A princess offers herself to you and you say oh?”

“First, her father was never going to marry her off to a military tribune, and second, she was far from a beauty. Money buys beauty, and I figured I’d have money coming.”

“You’d stab your enemies in the back, and you’re greedy for money.”

The Patrician shrugged. “So?”

“I thought this was a story about you being a hero,” the Centurion said.

“I fought a dragon and saved a city. How much more heroic do you want?”

“You won by playing dead,” the Centurion argued.

“But I won.”

“Well, it’s still a poor tale. You should say you scaled the cliff, and leaped onto its back, and hacked at the wings, and—”

“I’ll leave you to embellish it.”

* * * *

In due course the king and his guard arrived. The king’s initial reaction was one of skepticism and suspicion, but softened as his daughter told the tale. Fortunately she’d been crazed with fear so her story bore no resemblance to the actual facts.

* * * *

“Did she make it heroic?” the Centurion demanded.

“Very.”

“Good.” He settled back against the wall, satisfied. “Me and the princess, we’ll do this up right.”

* * * *

I was invited to the palace and graciously accepted. Usually Scientius hustles us away from the scene of an incursion, but this time he wanted to linger. My slave wandered through the madly celebrating citizenry. As for myself, I feasted, dodged the princess, and arranged with a bank in Apollonia to handle the upcoming reward.

Scientius found me in the mews one morning where I was trying to decide if I actually wanted to try hunting with an eagle rather than a hawk. The bird’s flat, hateful stare and the weight of the thing made me decide against it.

“You need to get your ass out of the palace and down to some of the taverns.”

“So I can drink cheap, sour wine, and fight off the fleas and bedbugs. No thanks.”

Scientius ignored me. “They’ve drawn the exact wrong conclusion.”

“About what?”

“About what defeated the Old One. They’ve decided it was the offer of women that did the trick.”

I was stung. “What about me? I killed the damn thing.”

“They say the offering of the maidens inclined the gods to listen, and they sent you.”

“So, they’re going to keep on sacrificing young girls in the hope of keeping a steady flow of heroes wandering through?”

“That pretty well captures the gist of it,” Scientius said.

I exhausted my vocabulary of curses in a couple of different languages, then said, “Why are people so damn dumb?”

“Because the world is frightening and you don’t have enough knowledge to understand it, so you try to propitiate what are basically naturally occurring phenomena.” He paused and stroked a finger down the breast of a hawk, then added, “and nobody likes dying.”

My gloves hit the bench, and the sharp sound had the birds screeching and beating their wings as they fought against their jesses. Feathers flew around us. “Well, they certainly are keen on killing.”

“Absolutely, if they think it will keep them from dying.”

So, I abused my palate and my gut in a series of taverns. I chatted with the women washing clothes at the city fountains. Shared war stories with soldiers in the guardroom of the palace. And finally I casually raised the topic with my host.

He waved a plump, pink hand, and nearly knocked the tray from the hands of a slave who was offering him slices of roast pig. “Yes, I have heard this, too. Some of the city fathers have petitioned me to find a way to raise the level of our sacrifices from birds, sheep, and oxen, because they have been pushed by their constituents who are always ignorant and often violent.”

“You’re not going to accede to this madness, are you?” I asked. “Rome will not be happy.”

“But Rome is far away, and Diocletian has his own problems.”

I had to admit that was true. Not all was well between his co-emperors Maximian, Galerius, and Constantius, and Diocletian chose to rule his quarter of the empire from Nicomedia, while still insisting he was the most senior of the four emperors. Would they even notice, much less care, that Cyrene had begun human sacrifice?

The king continued, “I can’t cure their ignorance, but I can give them a little bit of blood and keep them from my door.”

“Your own daughter was offered in sacrifice,” I said.

“That was because I made the mistake of a lottery. The priests will find a different formula.”

“And which god will you feed with this blood?” He looked at me oddly and I realized that my phrasing was probably strange to a person who didn’t actually understand the true nature of the world.

“I’ll leave such matters of theology to the priests. It doesn’t matter to me.”

But it certainly mattered to me. There were some Old Ones whose power I did not want increased.

* * * *

“Wait a minute. The monster you killed was an Old One. Now you’re saying the gods are also Old Ones.” The Centurion rubbed at his scalp as if trying to force the idea into his head.

The Patrician gave a slow smile. “You see, I knew you were a clever man.”

* * * *

Of all things, the one that most distressed my slave was human sacrifice. Which is why I waited until we were in the caldarium, where the rising steam offered an obscuring veil. He possessed many more languages than me, and therefore an even more impressive vocabulary of profanity. Once he ran down Scientius reverted to Latin and said,

“You must stop this.”

“How?”

“You could appoint yourself military governor,” he suggested.

“I’m a military tribune traveling with no entourage, just a disrespectful slave. No one is going to believe that tale. I might as well just kill the king, and crown myself ruler of Cyrene. I might last a couple of days before the captain of his guards decides that’s a pretty good blueprint for advancement. And Attius would like to marry Cleodolinda.”

“Perhaps the girl could appeal to her father. Beg him to spare anyone else from the terror she endured. He must love his daughter.”

Despite being the most brilliant man I’ve ever known, Scientius has moments of breathtaking naiveté. “Her father chained her to a rock in front of an Old One. If he’d really loved her he would have refused, or hustled her out of the city, and told the citizens she died of a fever.”

He paced, hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve worked too hard to wean your species away from sacrificing humans to appease vengeful deities. At least the animals don’t feed the Old Ones. And I thought my fostering of a loving, merciful god was a master stroke.”

“And it might have been if the poor, dumb Christians hadn’t refused to offer libations to the emperor, and hadn’t added in the gibberish about eating flesh and drinking blood,” I said as I climbed out of the hot water, and quickly slid into sandals so the heated floor didn’t burn my feet.

“As hateful and murderous as you Romans are, you at least have the right attitude on cannibalism and human sacrifice,” Scientius said.

“Which we exemplify by killing Christians.”

Scientius followed me into the frigidarium where I plunged into the marble pool and gasped as the cold water hit my overheated skin. “I think we let Rome handle this. I’ll just take my reward, and tell them—”

My slave rejected that with a resounding, “No! Rome won’t do a damn thing. We’re in Cyrenaica. None of the four emperors will bother with this; they’re too busy plotting against each other.”

As I stepped out of the tub, my mind spun in frantic circles, thoughts bumping against each other like rudderless boats in a maelstrom. Scientius wrapped me in the Egyptian cotton towel and started to give me a vigorous rubdown, but I walked away, hating him for putting me in this spot. I had no idea what to do. I just knew that I never wanted to see another girl, face contorted in terror, betrayed by her loved ones, facing an Old One.

The answer came to me in a dream. That sounds mystical, but it was actually the result of overeating at the banquet, and the discussion of Christianity, both of which made me think of my mother. She had come to Christianity after the death of my infant sister. Mother viewed the Christian promise of resurrection as far preferable to Hades for Juliana, so the shrine to the household gods was torn out, and even the death masks of the ancestors were consigned to a storeroom. We had worshiped privately in the family quarters with only a handful of trusted slaves present.

When I’d followed my father into military service, I adopted Mars as a personal god, and made offerings to him, figuring a soldier could never have too many gods on his side.

That had been the state of affairs until I’d met Scientius at the theater in Epheuses. He had told me I was a special and unique person (and what man doesn’t like to hear that), so I listened and thought him a madman when he told me that all the gods were monsters invading our world, and that he had created this amalgam god called Jesus to try and counter them.

I was perfectly happy to drink his wine and let him rave. Then he had me draw the sword, and I knew it was all true. There were no gods, just monsters. I had the ability to wield a weapon that could kill them. The only question was, would I do so, or flee back into comforting ignorance? I decided to see the world, not through a glass darkly, as Paul had said in his epistle, but face to face—even though the faces were often terrifying. I’m one of the few men in the world to possess such knowledge, and it’s a lonely and isolating thing.

And now I was faced with a decision that would put me in direct conflict with the emperor I served.

* * * *

“What in Hades’ name did you do?”

* * * *

“Shut down the temples and take the treasure?” The king’s tone was thoughtful, but there was a touch of barely suppressed excitement.

“You wouldn’t have to finish construction on that massive temple to Hercules. Think of the money you’d save,” I offered, pushing but trying to keep from pushing too much.

We were in the king’s study. It was an impressive space with hundreds of scrolls, all collected, he told me, by his grandfather. I noticed a layer of dust over most of them—apparently this current scion of the royal family was not a reader.

“The fucking priests are never satisfied. They’re sucking the treasury dry,” the king said as he refilled my cup with good Falernian wine.

As I allowed the rich, sweet sip to roll around my mouth, I briefly considered whether life as Cleodolinda’s husband would be all that bad. I could drink wine like this every day, and live in a palace.... A palace at the ass end of the empire, populated by provincial yokels, I reminded myself.

“But what am I going to have to give these Christians?” the king continued.

“Not much.” I took another sip. “For them it’s all about poverty and meekness, and turning the other cheek.”

“Absurd,” the king said.

I didn’t mention that my slave had conceived of these ideas hoping to turn humans from war to peace.

* * * *

“That’s crazy,” the Centurion said “Humans like to fight.”

The Patrician agreed. “That’s exactly what I told Scientius. I think he gives us far too much credit. The Christians are already murmuring against the Mithrans, and the Jews, and our gods.”

“Yeah, but look at them.” The Centurion gestured at the knot of sleeping Christians. “They’re like sheep going to slaughter.”

“But humans like to fight,” the Patrician reminded him.

* * * *

The king had one last objection. “But how will we convince the nobles and the people that this is the best way to keep them safe?”

“We put on a show,” I said. “We gather in the throne room in front of as many worthy citizens as you can cram in. You offer me a reward and I say....” I stood and declaimed in the best Cretian fashion. “I will not accept your coin, oh, great king. The only reward I will accept is the knowledge I have brought Cyrene to the one true god. Without the power of Jesus the Christ I could never have defeated the monster. God sent me to you. God’s only price is that you accept and love him. No blood is necessary to earn the love and protection of the Lord. His only demand is that you love each other. I did not come because you sacrificed your children. God sent me so that no more children need die.” I sat back down, wet my throat with another swallow of wine and shrugged.

“Do you mean that?” The cup executed a turn in the air, spilling a bit of wine onto the king’s lap.

“What?”

“About the reward,” the king said.

“No. You’re about to get the wealth of the temples. Don’t be greedy.”

“I could say the same of you.”

* * * *

“And did you get the money?” the Centurion asked.

“Would I have returned to be part of Diocletian’s personal guard if I had?”

“How did you lose that much gold?”

“I wasn’t going to lug gold across a thousand miles of stinking desert filled with bandits, or put it on a ship and risk the pirates. I took a bank draft,” the Patrician answered. “And the king made sure there was no money in the bank in Cyrene to back it.”

“You were an idiot.”

The man looked around at the stone walls. “Given my current situation, you are demonstrably correct.”

“And how did you get here?” the Centurion asked.

“They threatened my mother.”

* * * *

Whenever you are close to power you have rivals. Factions form, people jockey for position, backbiting ensues. Mine was a little turd named Lucius Cornelius. He couldn’t abide the fact that a provincial like myself was the Emperor’s favorite. He felt that honor should have been his as Roman born, and as a member of a powerful family.

I was careful to guard my back in the physical sense, and since I knew Lucius was a physical coward I wasn’t terribly worried. I hadn’t counted on him being cunning rather than brave. He made it his business to find out everything he could about me and my family.

My mother is a dear woman, but like all converts she refused to be circumspect about her Christian faith.

Lucius picked his moment well. Diocletian was wroth over a fire that had broken out in the palace. Galerius, his fellow emperor and a fervent hater of this new cult, convinced Diocletian that the Christians had set the fire. Diocletian had ordered another round of arrests and persecutions.

We were at a banquet. I had been invited to join in as a guest, though I was seated well down the table. I saw Lucius enter, rapping the heels of his sandals against the marble floor in that way men have when they want all to know they are on important business. He bent down low to whisper in Diocletian’s ear.

I returned to my conversation, and my first indication of trouble was how my tablemates suddenly fell silent, and some rose to their feet. I looked over my shoulder to see the Emperor bearing down on me. He’s a tall, thin man with a hard mouth, and at this moment his lips were folded so tight that they seemed to have disappeared.

He seized me by the back of my toga, dragged me off the couch, and threw me to the floor at his feet. When you’re manhandled by an emperor you acquiesce. I lay on the floor looking up at him.

“Your mother is a Christian. How can I trust that you are not also a follower of that troublesome cult?” the emperor demanded.

“Have I ever failed to make the proper obeisance to the gods?” I hedged.

“You can’t trust what one of them says,” Lucius murmured. “They are sly, having wormed their way into your very palace.”

It was cleverly done. The reminder of the recent fire had the blood surging into Diocletian’s face. The man takes his architecture very seriously.

“You are dismissed, sir,” the emperor shouted at me and he spun away.

“And the mother,” Lucius pushed.

I came off the floor, my hand closing into a fist.

“Execute her,” my former lord ordered.

“How weak,” I said, and filled the words with drawling contempt and patrician disdain. “She is only a woman. What man fights with women?”

Diocletian is low born, very low born. The rumor is that his father was a freedman, a mere scribe. Diocletian became an emperor because the army made him one by acclamation. I had made him a plebe before his guests. Now I just needed to turn the full force of his fury against me.

“I’m your real enemy, Imperator. I brought an entire city to the one true god.”

* * * *

The Patrician paused, and seemed to be looking at something far away and long ago. “Within the hour I was condemned.”

The Centurion reached out, and briefly gripped the Patrician’s shoulder. “You are a good man.”

“Despite backstabbing, lying, and taking bribes?” the Patrician said.

“Isn’t that just being a good Roman?” the Centurion countered, and they shared a quiet laugh. The torches guttered and hissed, and the Centurion shuddered. In a few hours he would know his fate. “You are also a brave man.”

The Patrician stood. “As are you. And now it’s time to make certain you win today.” He held out a hand. The Centurion grasp his wrist, and was pulled to his feet. “But if I do this thing, you must make a vow.”

“What? Another one?”

The Patrician nodded.

“All right, what is it?”

“You must seek out my slave.” The Patrician paused, and unhooked the strange buckle from his belt. “And give this,” he gestured with the buckle, “to him. Only to him. He will be waiting by the north gate. You remember my description?” The Centurion nodded. “Good.”

He clapped the Centurion on the shoulder, and moved quietly toward the sleeping criminals. The Centurion kept pace with him, wondering what he was going to do. Throttle them all while they slept?

The Christians were huddled together. Some of them still had their hands folded even while they slept. The Centurion reflected on that level of dedication. And decided they were fools. If the tale the Patrician had told was true, there were no gods.

Perversely it made the Centurion feel better. It would explain why, despite all the sacrifices he’d made to the gods over the years, he had never been rich. Instead he’d been reduced to stealing, and now found himself in this dungeon. But of course the Patrician’s tale was just that—a tale.

The Patrician stopped near a clot of sleeping men. He took the buckle in his right hand, and laid his left hand against its base, and pulled his hands apart. A dark, black blade appeared from the base of the buckle. The Centurion clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the cry of shock and fear. It felt like he was being shaken from the inside, and there was a sound like the deep chords of a water organ. The Centurion had heard one once at the Colosseum on his one and only trip to Rome.

A few people stirred at the sound, but most were sleeping the deep sleep of hopelessness and exhaustion. The Patrician laid the flat of the blade on one man’s thigh, on another’s shoulder, on a third’s arm. They all began to twitch and writhe like men with morbus caducus, the falling sickness. He moved quickly through the dungeon touching anyone who looked like a fighter with this magic weapon. People began to wake. A woman screamed at the sight of the convulsing men.

The Patrician quickly tossed the sword from his right hand to his left, and in midair, between one hand and the other, the blade vanished. He grabbed the Centurion by the shoulder and pulled him away, retreating until their backs rested against the cut stone.

“There,” the Patrician whispered. “That should give you the advantage. It will take them hours to recover from the shock.”

“What did you do to them?”

“It would take too long to explain.” He glanced up at a slit high in the wall where pale sunlight was seeping through. “And I have no more time.” He began to thread the hilt of the magic sword back onto his belt.

“Hey, don’t do that! I’m going to fight with that!” the Centurion cried.

“I doubt it. You probably have the magic in your blood. I don’t, so I can use the sword.”

“Doesn’t hurt to check. I might be unique too,” the Centurion argued.

The Patrician shrugged, and handed over the hilt. The Centurion inspected it, but there seemed to be no lever to summon the blade. The Centurion repeated the motion the Patrician had made, but nothing happened. The futile tries continued until the Patrician finally lifted the hilt from his hands.

“It would have been too much to hope that you could replace me. Just remember your promise; give it into Scientius’s hands. Only his hands.” He finished hooking it back onto the belt, and clasped the belt around the Centurion’s waist. “Even without the blade, it’s a potent weapon. It will protect you. You will win. You can’t be defeated.”

They turned at the sound of the bolts being thrown. “Why don’t you use it?” the Centurion asked. “You could escape from here.”

The great wood-and-iron-wrapped doors creaked open. The light was blinding, and the guards mere shadows against the glare. “The Emperor would be wroth. He has come today specifically to see me die. If I escape that fate, he will kill my mother.” The Patrician gripped the Centurion’s forearms once more. “Remember your promises. Give the sword to Scientius. And tell my mother I love her.”

He walked forward to meet the guards. His back was erect and there was no hesitation in his steps.

“Wait!” the Centurion called. The Patrician paused and looked back. “What’s your name?” the Centurion cried.

“Georgius,” he said, and disappeared into the light.