After Hours

A small party approached from the shelter of the trees, their boot steps muffled by the fierce storm. Otto squinted, trying to make out the face of his friend, Peter. It had been years since they had last seen each other, during Otto’s first trip to Italy to be crowned Holy Roman Emperor, but his godson’s father could not have changed so much.

It was no surprise his friend did not recognize him, disguised as he was in the costume of a junior member of the ambassadorial party. Only Peter’s most trusted aide, John the Deacon, who had arranged the secret trip, knew Otto’s real identity. And not even he knew the real reason for Otto’s visit, believing instead that the emperor was here to conduct secret negotiations between the Holy Roman Empire and the Republic of Venice, while receiving inspiration from Venice’s saintly relics.

They embraced, clapping each other on the back, and giving the kiss of peace. Putting his lips to Otto’s ear, the Doge of Venice muttered, “You are late. If you wish to see the monastery of San Zaccaria, you had better go there at once, so that you may be safely received before dawn within the walls of my palace.”

Otto’s heart leapt at the thought that finally, his destiny was almost at hand. Soon, he would be taking the first steps toward the greatness that was his due. He just had to fool everyone a little while longer.

Peter grunted, his appreciation for Otto’s desire for secrecy clearly not extending to standing in the pouring rain in the middle of the night. But he bent his head in acquiescence, and led his men back to their boat. John the Deacon helped Otto back onto their boat. Both boats slipped silently away from the dock, and into the lagoon, Otto gripped the rails at the front of his boat as if he could force it to move faster through the sheer power of his will.

The crossing to San Marco was accomplished safely and in silence. Soon, their boat was sliding up the canal behind the Doge’s palace to his private dock. Peter offered to have one of his men guide Otto to the monastery, but Otto had memorized the way.

A few of his companions made half-hearted offers to accompany him, but Otto turned them all down, claiming a desire for solitary prayer and reflection. He had not chosen anyone for this journey that would actually be interested in making a pilgrimage of his own. They were far more interested in experiencing Venice’s legendary luxuries, and happily left him to visit the monastery alone.

No one else was braving the storm at this hour of the night, so Otto had no worries about being seen. The narrow lanes and alleys between Venetian buildings left no room for stealth. They also left little room for the rain water sluicing into the canals. His feet in their simple rope sandals were soon chilled to the bone. But he barely noticed.

He followed the directions he had memorized, turning left at the first intersection, then turning right when he reached a street large enough for four men to walk side by side. He stayed in the shadows of the buildings, more for the protection from the rain than for concealment. Soon, the street arched up and over a canal. The river of wine.

He turned away, heading down the narrow path along the canal. He found what he was looking for at the next intersection: a narrow building, shutters closed against the driving rain, a sign swinging back and forth on its chains with each gust of wind. The Golden Amphora.

There should be trumpets, fanfare and spectacle; something to acknowledge that his glorious future was about to begin. The incessant patter of rain sounded nothing like the rolling thunder of drums or a cheering crowd, but it would have to do.

He was struck immediately by the very ordinariness of the place. The bar itself was a simple L-shape, the top inlaid with marble slabs of all sizes and colors. The red-brown clay mouths of the amphorae poked through regularly placed holes in the bar, where the barkeep could easily dip a measure of whatever a patron required. Simple wooden stools were tucked neatly against the mosaic sides of the bar, depicting the gods pouring wine from a golden amphora to welcome a hero who had slain a lion.

Venice being a cosmopolitan city, there were also bottles along the wall behind the bar. Small tables were scattered throughout the rest of the room, for those who preferred to see the faces of those they drank with. Unsurprisingly, given the weather and the hour, the tables were empty.

Otto’s heart plummeted, his chest filling with a cold far worse than the frigid water he’d walked through to get here. He was too late. This meeting had taken months to arrange; to find a way to slip away from his court and prowl the side streets of a foreign empire, without sparking a diplomatic disaster. He’d paid a heavy price for the secret knowledge that led him here, and had been warned that he could only visit once. Everything needed to be arranged perfectly. This tavern was the only place in the world where man and gods still mingled, and he’d been given a specific time and date to be here. He cursed the storm that had delayed him for crucial hours.

A giant of a man stepped out from behind a curtain. His curly black hair gave him a Greek look, but his braided beard added a barbarian cast to his features. His faintly accented Italian did nothing to clarify his origins. “How can I help you, traveler?”

Otto’s eyes widened at being ordered about by a mere barkeep, but he obediently sat. Did the man somehow suspect Otto was here to meet Mars? Perhaps he was a demigod himself, pretending to be a servant.

Otto wondered what his entourage would think if they knew that, far from praying devoutly at a Christian shrine, their Emperor was in a bar, consorting with a pagan god. He doubted the nobles would care, unless their shocked outrage could somehow elevate their standing among their peers. Even the bishops and priests could give the satyrs and sybarites a close race, although they would use his digression as an excuse to wring more money from his treasury. Piety was for the little people; Christianity, the goad to keep the serfs in line with promises of endless riches after death. The ancient religions understood that men needed rewards in this life. And Otto intended to be extremely well rewarded.

He quickly reviewed likely candidates for a god of wine. The barkeep was clearly a man, with no softening, so he wasn’t Bacchus. He showed no sign of Priapus’s eternal erection. Was he perhaps Liber? But, no, Liber was the height of a normal man.

His thoughts racing, Otto didn’t see the barkeep dip a glass of wine from one of the amphorae. The man was suddenly at his table, wine glass extended. The Venetian glass caught the light, giving a subtle glow to the deep red wine within.

Otto accepted the wine and took a generous swig, determined to appear strong before the mysterious barkeep. It was no cheap watered wine, but a rich and flavorful wine blended with honey and a touch of pepper, warmed to ward off the chill of the night.

He sighed, and took another deep swallow. The warmth spread throughout his body, banishing the chill from his feet, and replacing the cold fear in his chest with radiant confidence. Doubts were for lesser men. With Mars’s help, Otto would become Emperor of the World, as was his destiny. It was too bad that his mother had not lived long enough to see her son on the throne over Byzantium. In time, he would reclaim Rome’s lost colonies in Africa, Egypt, Arabia, and Gaul. None would dare to compare him to his father and find him wanting.

Another curtained alcove caught his attention, as flashes of red and gold light bled out around the curtain. A man’s muscled arm pushed the curtain aside, and a warrior clad in boiled leather and gold plate stepped into the wine bar. Far from ceremonial, his breast plate was thick with dust and flecked with blood. The god of war had come directly from a battlefield.

He paused to accept a glass of wine from the barkeep, a pale white with a slightly greenish tinge to it, then strode to Otto’s table. Otto was puzzling over whether or not to stand—he outranked every man on Earth, including God’s representative on Earth, the Pope—but Mars was a god in his own right.

Otto shrugged. He followed no one, although it would never do to admit as much. “The end days were upon us, and we were not called home to our Father’s house. We must do what we can now with the Earthly world.”

Mars laughed. “Of course. You are twenty years old, and have been emperor for seventeen of those years. How far has your empire expanded in those years? Oh, wait, it hasn’t. In fact, you lost France.”

Otto’s face flamed. “France was lost when I was but an infant, with my mother and grandmother holding the throne for me. I commanded an army at the age of thirteen, restoring the northern borders and beating back the Wends.”

“A noble battle, to be sure.” Mars swirled his hand lazily in the air, and an image coalesced above the tabletop. With shock, Otto recognized himself at age thirteen, stalking around the fine pavilion that had been set up for him in the field. The image sharpened, and Otto could hear his own voice.

“At twenty, your father was called Augustus, Imperator, and Lord of the Universe. He held France, Italy, and Germany in his fist, and kept them against hardened warriors. His defeat of the Emir was a crushing blow to the Saracens.” Mars took another sip of wine, then waved away Otto’s father’s glories as unimportant. “You are not unaccomplished. Your skill at learned debate has been praised throughout the empire. Even Apollo has taken note of you. Why do you beseech me?”

“The Holy Lance? Was a gift from you?” Suddenly, the first Otto’s ability to unite all of Germany under his leadership became much easier to understand. “My father did not see fit to share the truth of it with a swaddling child. No doubt if he had lived, he would have told me of its power. I carry it for ceremonies of state, not into battle.”

Otto forced his teeth to unclench. “The nobles who drove off the man I made Pope were dealt with. I executed Crescentius for his treason, and suitably punished his puppet antipope. I held Rome.”

“Last year, I ordered Charlemagne’s crypt at Aix-la-Chapelle opened; the marble slabs covering his burial place removed. I asked for his guidance, and was given a vision of myself as the new Charlemagne. My empire will be greater even than his, encompassing Germany, Italy, and Byzantium.”

“Yes.” He had been raised on tales of his father’s glory, drinking in stories of someday ruling his mother’s homeland in fulfillment of his father’s promise, as well as the empire whose crown he had been given in his cradle. He would be greater than either his father or his grandfather before him. But the path to glory led through steel and blood.

Mars gulped the last of his wine, and placed the empty goblet on the table. The barkeep reappeared from the shadows and instantly removed it. No replacement was offered, as Mars leaned forward and braced his forearms on the tabletop, staring intently at Otto.

Mars laughed. Otto fancied he heard the sound of clashing swords within. “That’s not how it works. The gods can only make demands of those who are sworn to our service. Anyone else must petition our aid. You make an offer, and I accept or refuse. There is no negotiation.”

No negotiation. Otto’s stomach clenched painfully. Prior to their meeting, he’d mentally calculated all of the things he could offer to Mars, as well as rehearsed different strategies for reaching an agreement. He was, after all, highly skilled at philosophical debate, and had negotiated a fair share of treaties. He’d expected this to be a similar encounter.

Otto’s thoughts raced. He knew what he could offer. But what did Mars want? Clearly the god wanted something, or he wouldn’t have agreed to this meeting. Boredom and a predilection for interfering in human affairs didn’t seem enough reason to obligate himself to an agreement with a mortal. If all he wanted was carnage and bloodshed, he didn’t need to ally himself with Otto for the battles ahead. No, Mars seemed to want the Holy Roman Empire to be triumphant over Byzantium.

He considered their conversation, sifting through Mars’s comments for clues. He’d made a point of questioning whether or not Otto’s Christian God would share one of his followers with an ancient Roman god. And he’d focused on Otto’s troubles holding the city of Rome.

Could the god have been echoing his own problems? The people of Rome had turned to the Christian God. In fact, the Pope, the representative of that God on Earth, lived in Rome. Did Mars want the city back? To have the people worshipping him and his brethren again?

But Otto could not demand that the people worship the pagan gods. His power was tied to the church’s power. The German bishops did much of the work of holding the united factions of Germany together, while he was the Holy Roman Emperor only because he’d been crowned by the Pope. It didn’t matter that he’d elevated the man to his position mere days before the coronation.

He would have to make an example of Rome. Show them that their prayers could not save them. And it was only fitting that they suffer for their disloyalty. Their rebelliousness had forced him to flee Rome. If not for his clever negotiation, he would have been forced to fight them just to get free of the palace where they had trapped him under siege. But it had still galled him to load his goods into wagons and depart the city under their watchful eyes, like a guest who had overstayed his welcome. He’d vowed that he would one day return in triumph.

With a single stroke, he could have his revenge and deliver a sacrifice worthy of purchasing Mars’s aid. Once Rome was secure, he would go on to unite all the empires under his rule. Even the haughty Venetians would bow to him.

“This is my offer,” Otto said, rushing to speak even as the half-formed plans were coalescing in his mind. “I will mount an attack on the city of Rome, the holy seat of Christianity. Those who survive will be sworn into my army of conquest, dedicated to your cause, and bringing the rest of the world to heel. They will learn that the only god who can protect them is the god of war, and the blood of our enemies will pour forth in sacrifice.”

As the last echo of the chime faded, a golden disk appeared on the table. Otto could not read the upsidedown Latin incised into the disk, but spotted his own name, Mars and Roma. Air filled his lungs. It was the terms of his offer. That must mean—

Flushed with triumph, Otto was in a daze as he visited the monastery of San Zacharia, although fortunately the monks misconstrued his befuddlement for religious rapture. He made his way back to the Doge’s palace unseen, and changed into the garments of a mid-level court appointee for his presentation to the Doge the next morning as part of the diplomatic party. He congratulated himself on his cleverness, as none of the Venetian court save Peter and his aides knew that the humble man at the back of the party was really the Holy Roman Emperor. Knowing it was vital that no one suspect the true reason for his visit, he met in secret with the Doge as planned, and still put on his poor pilgrim’s clothes to make his visits to the churches and monasteries that the members of his court thought he’d come for. After two days, he slipped back onto John’s boat to return to the monastery at Pomposa where he’d supposedly been taking a health cure on the shores of Lake Comacchio.

Once back in Ravenna, Otto redoubled his ostentatious religious devotion, making barefoot pilgrimages, kneeling on stones until his knees bled, and allowing chosen courtiers to discover him wearing hair shirts beneath his court raiment. His devotion had always been at least as much pageantry as piety, but now he put on a show that no one would forget.

He sent messages to his vassals, ordering them to send troops. First he would have his revenge on Rome, and then he would embark upon his destiny. But the wait was excruciating. His messengers had to travel over the Alps and throughout the length and breadth of Germany, summoning men from the fields where they labored.

But after all, why should he delay? He had the Holy Lance. He could not lose in battle. The troops he had at hand would be sufficient to retake Rome, and from that victory he would launch a campaign that would strike terror into the hearts of his enemies.

His small army crested the hills surrounding the city, and he paused, struck as always by the city’s beauty. The travertine buildings gleamed a warm white in the sun. There was the parkland where Roman gladiators had raced their chariots. There was the now empty Coliseum, open to the sky, whose seats would once again be filled with cheering throngs beneath graceful awnings of sailcloth when he returned in triumph from Byzantium. Towering columns and domes of cathedrals dotted the city, erasing all memory of the Romans’ pagan temples.

Instead, he rode slowly back and forth across the hilltops, watching the shifting play of light and shadow on the city as the sun wheeled through the sky, and remembered the speech he had given only last January.

“Are you not my Romans, for whose sake I left my fatherland and friends? Whose fame I would have carried to the ends of the earth? I have preferred you to all others. . . . However, I find it monstrous that my most faithful followers, in whose innocence I triumph, are mixed together with the evildoers.”

How many of those glorious edifices would fall when he attacked? How many of those innocent people who were loyal to him would die in the bloodbath that followed? How could he start the conquest of his empire with the destruction of his own capital city? He would not become the next Charlemagne, he’d become the next Attila.

The problem was the size of his army. The people of Rome did not realize that his divine mandate ensured his victory, so would stand and fight against his troops. The resulting massacre would have no glory to it. It would not be a fitting sacrifice to Mars. There would be no cowed and obedient people, worshipping at the war god’s altar, only piles of corpses.

He summoned his captains to him. “We do not have enough men. We will ride back to Ravenna, and wait for the rest of the soldiers. When the full army is here in the fall, then I will return and crush Rome beneath my boot heel.”

The captains shifted restlessly, and traded sidelong glances with each other, but raised no objections. A few mumbled agreement, while the rest knew better than to question the dictates of their Emperor. The only one he had to explain himself to was Mars, and he was confident that the god would understand his reasoning.

A soldier he didn’t recognize rode up, his arms filled with heavy furs. Otto took a cloak, and swung it around his shoulders. It didn’t help. The cold he felt emanated from within, and no amount of furs could keep it at bay. Still, he took the second fur as well.

He stiffened, inwardly cursing the lack of time to prepare an eloquent and reasoned defense. He hated having to depend upon mere facts. “I did not bring enough men. Why waste their lives attacking now, when I will need them to attack Byzantium later? I will come back in the fall, with a full army, and show Rome the folly of her ways.”

“There will never be enough men to give you the courage you lack. With my spear in hand, you could have taken Rome with only your standard bearer at your side.” A golden disk appeared in Mars’s hands, covered with deeply incised Latin words. The god snapped it in half, releasing a blinding spray of golden light. “You have broken our agreement. You will never stand on the far shores of Byzantium, knowing that it belongs to you. You turned your back on your own God, and the worship of a coward means nothing to me. You will not have the world. You will have nothing.”

He had made a serious mistake. But if he could deliver Rome, perhaps Mars would relent and deliver Byzantium. That thought sustained him in the months that followed, when it seemed his very body was determined to betray him with weakness.

Finally, at the end of the year, all of his vassals’ soldiers had arrived, and he was able to march on Rome with a force large enough to terrify them into submission. But he would never see the city.

He took shelter in the castle of Paterno, consumed by fever. His dear friend and former tutor, Pope Sylvester, came to comfort him, but his words of Christ’s divine forgiveness meant nothing to Otto.

A soft summer breeze blew through the room, although the window was shuttered against the January cold. Golden sunlight seemed to stream from the ceiling, illuminating a patch of lush grass growing from the stone floor. A beautiful woman wearing silver armor stepped out of the light.

“Goddess of learning.” If he had the energy, he would have laughed. His heart had always belonged to the scholarly pursuits. After all he had done, trying to force himself to be a warrior, she was the one who had come to him.

She shook her head, her features once again softening. “I cannot heal you from the curse of Mars’s soul fire. But have no fear. You will be remembered. Not for your conquests, but for your mystery. A thousand years from now, scholars will still be arguing over the meaning of your secret visit to Venice, and what you hoped to accomplish.”

“Only because you ended your studies too soon. If you are willing to learn another lesson, I will take you to drink of the river of forgetfulness, and be born in a new body. One born to poverty and squalor rather than an empire. If you can succeed there, you may yet achieve the glory you desire.”