Tales of Cthulhu Invictus

by Brian M Sammons

  Even before Titus marched to Jerusalem and surrounded it with four legions of Rome’s finest soldiers, a civil war raged within its walls that left sepulchral mounds of corpses amidst lakes of blood in the city’s holy courts. Common citizens found themselves hemmed in by grave circumstances, with stalwart Roman soldiers keen to quell the revolt in the province of Judea on one side and perfidious zealots correspondingly eager to kill those that were for peace with the Romans on the other side.

  Quintus had been informed that the prisoner was a particularly vicious Sicarii named Jaddus, and that he had committed atrocities too ghastly to catalog publicly.

  “If no one inside the walls of Jerusalem will mourn him, crucifying him is a waste of materials,” Caius said. “In what manner did he approach our ranks?”

  “He certainly did not beg Titus for mercy following his expulsion from the city,” Quintus said. “He bypassed our defenses in the night, infiltrated the camp and butchered a dozen men as they lay asleep. He sliced their throats and, I am told, cut open their bellies and ripped out their entrails. He was found just before daybreak yesterday, feasting on the innards of one of his victims like some famished jackal.”

  Jaddus, though conscious, offered no resistance. Whatever malicious intensity he had formerly possessed had been purged by the prolonged scourging he had endured following his capture. Even when Quintus’ hammer struck the nail, driving it through flesh and bone and deep into the wood of the cross, Jaddus lacked the strength and will to protest in any perceptible manner. Instead, his eyes rolled horribly and he muttered a mix of Aramaic and gibberish.

  When the Roman soldiers had finished securing his left arm with ropes, Quintus repeated the process. This time, a geyser of blood erupted as the nail dug into Jaddus’ right wrist. The crimson fountain splattered Caius and several others administering a dozen crucifixions that morning.

  “What ill omen is this,” Caius said, examining the blood as he wiped it from his brow. Each droplet seethed with minute life; tiny, crawling bugs scurried in every direction, trailing thin streaks of haematic fluid. “Foul nits and vermin dwell within his very veins.”

  Caius, incensed and alarmed, seized the hammer from Quintus. Gripping Jaddus’ leg, he placed one foot on top of the other and pounded the final iron nail through the arch of both feet. As blood surged from this new wound, the crucified man erupted with sudden rage and animosity. The raving Sicarii discharged a stream of obscenities and admonishments targeting Jew and Roman alike.

  “Useless, frail beings,” Jaddus howled. “Arrogant empire-builders! Fanatical dissidents!” He eyed his executioners contemptuously as his grievances grew less explicit and increasingly cryptic. As a moment of cogent clarity overtook him, he simultaneously squirmed against the spikes that held him to the cross. With each violent spasm, muscles split and tissue ripped. “Such contemptible creatures, endlessly engaged in inconsequential matters—conquests, rebellions, preservation of your insignificant civilization. You are too primitive to perceive of the formidable entities cohabiting this trivial world. You are oblivious to their dominion over all your pathetic endeavors.”

  By this time, the soldiers had dutifully secured several lengths of rope to the bottom of the cross, and coiled the ends of these lines around a nearby beam fixed confidently in the earth. Using the ropes, the soldiers promptly raised the cross before plunging it down into a small notch primed for it in the ground. It fell into place with such strength that each participant heard the snapping of bones and the rending of flesh.

  “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! A plague of darkness shall fall upon your world!” Jaddus plummeted back into anguished madness, moaning and yowling like a wounded beast awaiting inevitable slaughter. Torrents of blood streamed from his extremities forming sanguineous pools that undulated unnaturally. His expression became increasingly gruesome and contorted, his skull seemed to bulge and distend. His lamentations and condemnations deteriorated into incomprehensible burble, vented with ever diminishing fervor. “Darkness, occupied by nameless horrors, taints your unsettled slumbers even now! Ph’mkrou sh’gfy’oth Iald-T’quthoth ut-ma G’zsharhu! Itharhuac ho’narubol ichacanogot laegggu! Lhathut! Ihaualak…nasho-bornt…noth…”

  “Let him die on that cross,” Caius said. “Let the sun scorch his lifeless body as it grows bloated and corrupted. Let his corpse be carrion for a sacrifice that the gods will bring this war to a speedy end, with victory and glory for Rome.”

  At that moment, the crown of Jaddus’ skull burst wide open, its gory contents spurting through the air. The thick, viscid substance—a repugnant mix of brain, blood and gore—rained down on those soldiers ill-starred enough to be in close proximity. Despite his proven fearlessness, even Quintus fell back a few steps, gasping at the startling loathsomeness of the episode’s aftermath. From the oozing, shattered husk of Jaddus’ head, a black swarm of small winged things, unseated from their nest, took flight with much commotion, congregating briefly in a burgeoning, shadowy cloud that resembled an impossibly gargantuan monster.

  Though the nebulous swarm quickly dispersed, Caius and Quintus both glimpsed this unsettling aspect—and, at that moment, both Romans found reason to believe in the formidable entities and nameless horrors Jaddus had divulged in his dying testament.

  II.

  During the Inaugural Games of the Flavian Amphitheatre, 81 A.D.

  “There were some dreadful disasters during his reign, such as the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in Campania, a fire at Rome which continued three days and as many nights, and a plague the like of which had hardly ever been known before.”

  —The Lives of the Caesars, Suetonius

  The day’s violent revelries had mercifully ended.

  Emperor Titus had launched a seemingly interminable inauguration to commemorate the completion of his father’s massive amphitheater situated in the heart of the Rome. Daily festivities featured the macabre spectacle of midday executions, recreations of famous military engagements and other cruel contests as well as savage gladiatorial combat. Animal entertainments included elaborate hunts and bloody skirmishes between fantastic creatures imported from the farthest reaches of the empire.

  The endless carnage delighted the masses and placated the Emperor, who undoubtedly sought to appease the gods as much as honor the legacy of his father, Vespasian. Following months of celebratory bloodshed, however, an unfavorable omen lingered over the rooftops of Rome. To those same citizens who relished the mayhem of the amphitheater, a series of inexplicable deaths presaged an ill-starred tempest gathering above the city.

  “Another victim has been found,” Demas said, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit ostium in the house of Remistus the Physician. A terracotta lamp, suspended from the ceiling, offered little relief from the chamber’s rampant shadows. Its inadequate radiance revealed few details of the frescoed walls and marble floors. Outside, the evening had grown darker and colder than the season should permit and Rome was unnaturally still with an unspoken, endemic trepidation. “Shall I have the body taken to the Aesculapium for review?”

  “How many does this make—twenty?” Remistus rubbed his forehead fretfully. “Two dozen? More? How many corpses must I evaluate before this matter is brought before the Emperor? How many men must be butchered in this city before this situation is recognized as a threat to public safety?”

  “Domitian has entrusted you with bringing about an end to these deaths,” Demas said, his tone expressing a stoic acknowledgment of Remistus’ hopelessness. “It is his aspiration that his brother, Emperor Titus, should not be burdened by it at a time when so many other challenges face Rome.”

  “If it were a plague—a disease—that extinguished the lives of these poor men, I would gladly consent to Domitian’s request and shoulder the responsibility of restoring well-being to the city.” Gathering his gear, Remistus shook his head and shrugged. “I am asked to solve an equation in which the variables have not been clearly defined. It is a purp
oseless endeavor and my involvement is destined to bring shame to my family.”

  The two men had just passed through the vestibulum of the physician’s residence when an unfamiliar figure severed itself from the shadows on the street and approached. This haggard stranger with dark hair and grim, deep-set eyes deliberately impeded their progress. The fact that he wore only a tunic suggested he was too poor to afford a toga. At first, Remistus thought him a beggar or someone seeking his services as a healer. Something solemn in his countenance, however, suggested he sought a consultation to discuss something far more ominous.

  “Pardon my imposition, sirs,” the stranger said. “My name is Quintus. A colleague of mine is missing and,” he hesitated, clearly unconvinced that he could speak freely without arousing unjustified suspicion., “I believe the body recovered in the countryside earlier this evening may be that of my friend, Caius. May I accompany you?”

  “Most certainly not,” Demas said flatly. As one of Domitian’s personal guards, the young soldier possessed a rigid diligence in regard to regulations and propriety. “This matter is not a public affair.”

  “Is it not?” Remistus, offering a mollifying smile as he put a calming hand on Demas’ shoulder. “These victims are citizens of Rome, Demas. We have seen among the dead, examples from all stations in society—from common tradesmen to revered Centurions. Each victim has a family, a circle of friends and business associates. This rash of slayings is no secret. To think otherwise is an act of self-deception.”

  “Nevertheless, I cannot permit an ordinary laborer admission to the Aesculapium.”

  “Demas: Let me remind you that I am the one who has been tasked with defeating this scourge. If I feel this man has information that will help me achieve that end, it would be irresponsible of you to get in the way of what might be potential progress.” Remistus spoke with such tenacity he allowed no room for debate. “You are welcome to come with us to view the body,” the physician said, turning toward Quintus. “Understand, however, that what you see will likely disturb you.”

  “I know what to expect, sir,” Quintus said. “I have seen many victims of the Temple of Iald-T’quthoth.”

  ***

  By the time the company reached the Aesculapium, the remains of the victim had arrived.

  Like all those before him, the man’s abdomen had been split open, its contents meticulously extracted for some sinister, unknowable purpose. The body had also been almost thoroughly drained of blood.

  Remistus retrieved his surgeon’s kit which contained the standard tools, including scalpels, forceps and catheter. He had augmented the kit by adding a skull borer, bone drills and arrow extractors. He beckoned to Quintus, silently imploring him to join him beside the corpse. Quintus fought back waves of unexpected nausea as he moved toward the man he had known for more than a decade.

  “Is this your friend,” Remistus said. “What did you call him—Caius?”

  “Yes,” Quintus said, covering his mouth and nose with a trembling hand. The stench nearly overwhelmed him. “It is Caius.”

  “You need not stay,” the physician said. “Though they are not keen to admit it, even the bravest men do not linger in the company of death.”

  “I have seen many terrible things,” Quintus said, fighting back tears. “But I have never seen mortality in the face of a friend.”

  “I understand,” Remistus said. He draped an arm over Quintus’ shoulders and escorted him toward the door. He continued talking, but spoke in a muted voice. “Demas has no stomach for this business, either. He usually finds some reason to excuse himself at the earliest opportunity. I will furnish one for him tonight,” the physician said. “Demas, please see to it that Quintus does not leave the premises. I would still like to speak with him when I am finished here.”

  Turning to the corpse, Remistus marveled at the meticulousness with which the assassin had accomplished his undertaking. As with each of the previous victims, the abdominal cavity had been excarnated and utterly emptied of its viscera. The bones had been stripped clean of even the tiniest morsel of meat. Scanning the body’s extremities, the lack of abrasions on the wrists and ankles gave evidence that the subject had not been bound prior to death. The physician could find no trace of trauma to the head nor bruising around the neck that would suggest the man had been strangled.

  The precision with which the flesh had been removed left Remistus both awestruck and alarmed. The exactitude of the cut insinuated that the killer possessed the exactness of a surgeon—and that the victim offered little or no resistance.

  Remistus worked expeditiously but took care to account for even the most insignificant detail. He kept scrupulous notes, recording them with a stylus on thin slips of ivory covered with wax. At home, he would transfer his comments onto parchment. His final chore was to collect the dead man’s personal belongings. Not surprisingly, Caius possessed one item that connected him to all the other victims of this insidious menace: Upon his finger, Remistus found a carnelian intaglio ring bearing the image of what appeared to be a lion-headed serpent.

  Stepping into the adjoining chamber, the physician observed that Quintus wore the same adornment.

  “Demas, see to it that the body is attended to promptly,” Remistus said. “Forgo the customary funeral traditions as we have done in the past. There is no need to darken Rome’s mood further by turning the burial into a public spectacle—even though such grim spectacles seem to bring ecstasy and exultation when presented in the amphitheater.”

  “I shall make the necessary arrangements. What shall I report to Domitian?”

  “Tell the Emperor’s brother that I am interrogating a colleague of the most recent victim.” Remistus shot a consoling smile at Quintus to assure him the questioning would not be punitive. “If I learn anything of consequence, I will send for you.”

  ***

  The morning’s earliest light illuminated the skies as Remistus led Quintus back to his home. The men spoke little during the journey, other than to comment on the unseasonable chill in the air and the curious quietude that had settled over the city.

  The physician left his guest in the dining room temporarily and disappeared into another chamber where he conversed with a servant. A short time later, he returned, accompanied by a young man carrying a serving tray.

  “I am famished,” Remistus said, reclining on one of the couches in the room. “I hope you will join me. I do not enjoy eating along.”

  The meal was simple enough: bread, cheese, olives and dried fruits.

  “How did you and Caius become acquainted?”

  “We served together,” Quintus answered. He ate as politely as his hunger would allow. He had not had the benefit of a formal meal—even a minor one—in several days. “We were auxilia with the Fifteenth Apollonian Legion.”

  “You served under Titus when he was a general?”

  “Yes, sir.” Quintus grimaced when he realized he already devoured all the bread. Remistus saw his lingering hunger and with a gesture sent a servant off to bring more food. “We were there at the capture of Jotapata and Gamla. I remember the day Josephus surrendered.”

  “What about Jerusalem?”

  “Yes,” Quintus said, his tone growing more melancholy. “We watched Jerusalem fall and saw the temple burn. We saw boundless death and a perpetually expanding mound of corpses—the bloated bodies of Romans and Jews, of men and women and children, of soldiers slain in battle, of defectors stoned to death by zealots, of deserters crucified and of whole families who perished by famine.”

  “History will record it as Titus’ greatest victory,” Remistus said. “You cannot deny that you were a part of it.”

  “In military terms, it was a victory for Rome,” Quintus said. “But for many soldiers, the atrocities committed at Jerusalem spawned an enduring nightmare. The horrors I beheld during the course of the siege still torment me. Some of those undying horrors may threaten the empire itself.”

  “You are destined to meet the sam
e fate as your friend Caius.” Remistus softly uttered the revelation as it occurred to him. “You share the same experiences. You wear the same ring.”

  “We all live a hollow life waiting for this terrible, unsolicited end.” Quintus had finally sated his appetite. He stood, his anxiety rekindled. He feared that his capacity to share the tale of his impending doom might soon recede. “My time has come,” Quintus said. “I will be the one to come forward at the next new moon to offer myself to the high priest of the Temple of Iald-T’quthoth. I cannot resist the urge to comply. They compel me to sacrifice myself.”

  “Who asks you to sacrifice yourself? What power do these men hold over you?”

  “Not men—things,” Quintus said. “Things that live inside me. Things that permeated the blood of a Sicarii madman I helped put to death. Many of the soldiers present that day now suffer the same infestation. I share their fate.”

  “I have seen my share of tapeworms and other forms of parasitic organisms, but I have never heard of anything like this.”

  “I would not expect you to believe me,” Quintus said. “Lend me a blade that I may show you.”

  “Very well,” Remistus said, reluctantly retrieving his surgeon’s kit. “But I insist upon doing the bloodletting in this house.”

  Carefully, he drew his scalpel across the man’s palm, causing a small bead of blood to form. It quickly fell upon the marble floor where it created a petite pool.

  “Watch closely, now,” Quintus said.

  Over the next few moments, slender tracks advanced in several directions as the tiny entities scattered. Remistus squatted and glared at the little horrors scuffling across his floor.

  “By the gods,” the physician said. He stood and squashed the things beneath his sandal before summoning a servant to clean up the mess. “From distant lands come perils unknown.”

  “By some device, these creatures control our actions and ensure our silence. The only reason I am able to reveal any of this to you is that I found a means to suppress their influence temporarily. An old Syrian—a slave who serves as a mule driver on the outskirts of the city—learned of my predicament and offered a temporary remedy. He shared his knowledge of the cult with me but said he could not keep me from sacrificing myself when the time came.”