Dei Ex Machina

by Kim Fielding

  “I can tell you things in Latin,” he said. “Things about life in the Roman empire. You can check and see these things are true. That will be proof.”

  But Mason shook his head. “Carl studied ancient Rome and he knew Latin. I could have filed all that stuff away in my subconscious.”

  “I….” Sabbio stood very near the house; he turned to the wall so Mason wouldn’t see his face. “I do not know other things to tell you. I was only a slave.” He brushed his fingers along the rough stucco, enjoying the slight discomfort because even pain was a rare sensation, and he wondered who had built this house and how.

  Mason came up behind him and set a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I want to believe. I can even…. When I was with the Lulićes, something was there. I’m sure of it.”

  “I was there,” Sabbio whispered.

  “I can’t make that leap, though. I guess I can believe in spirits. I even…. Deep in my heart, I know that Carl still exists somehow. Somewhere. But I can’t believe that a ghost could appear all flesh and blood in my dreams.” He sounded as upset as Sabbio felt, which was oddly comforting.

  Abandoning hope of anything but a brief respite from his suffering, Sabbio turned and leaned against Mason. “I am not flesh and blood.”

  Mason held him. “Then what are you made of?”

  Sabbio had to think only a moment before the answer came with complete certainty. “Want. I am made of nothing but want.” Nothing but unfulfilled hope.

  With a soft grunt, Mason tightened the embrace. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could help you.” His heartbeat was like a great drum, and his skin was warm. And his arms—longer than Sabbio’s—were strong and solid.

  “You can help,” Sabbio whispered. And he sucked on Mason’s tender neck. Sex wouldn’t save Sabbio from being a phantom, wouldn’t keep him from tumbling again into the pit. But it would be something precious he could remember for a very long time, a bright light to help keep him intact. And Mason would be gentle with him—Sabbio knew that already. Nothing like the masters who’d used him now and then when he was a slave. None of them had been especially cruel, but they certainly hadn’t been caring. To them, Sabbio was a convenient hole to be filled.

  But now Mason kissed him so sweetly while petting his back—as if to smooth away the scars—and Sabbio inexplicably felt like a youth again, untouched, innocent, yearning. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, but instead he focused on kissing Mason back. He tried to memorize the way Mason tasted, the feel of his teeth against Sabbio’s tongue.

  Although Sabbio knew he’d be clumsy due to inexperience, he intended to worship Mason’s body as he’d worship a god. But he didn’t get that chance—instead it was Mason who licked and sucked and nibbled, who petted and stroked, until Sabbio’s knees went weak and they both collapsed to the soft earth. Mason spread Sabbio’s pliant body as if he were an artist arranging a model and then proceeded to explore every inch of Sabbio with his lips and fingers.

  Sabbio touched whatever bits of Mason he could reach, and he stared up into the clear blue sky with wonder. Whether he was a boy in his long-gone village or a slave laboring for his Roman masters, he’d never imagined he’d remain on earth for hundreds of years. He’d never imagined that one day he’d visit the dreams of a man from far away, and that the man would make his body sing with pleasure.

  When Mason cradled Sabbio’s balls in one hand and kissed the tip of his cock, Sabbio very nearly came.

  “No!” he said, pushing Mason away.

  Mason knelt over him, frowning. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “You did not.” Sabbio took a few calming breaths. “I don’t want it to be over yet. Please.”

  “I could wake up again,” Mason said.

  “Not yet. Please.” He would beg a million times if it would help.

  A small smile curled the corners of Mason’s lips. “I turned my phone off this time.” Then he bent over and returned to his exquisite torture, making sure to balance Sabbio at the edge of climax.

  By the time Mason moistened and stretched Sabbio’s passage, Sabbio had forgotten all languages and could only moan and plead incoherently. Mason’s eyes had shed their earlier shadows and now gleamed like flames, and his lips were beautifully swollen. He could be a god, Sabbio thought. Or at least the son of one. Vulcan, perhaps. When he had breath again and mastery of his tongue, Sabbio would ask Mason about his parents.

  “You’re gorgeous,” Mason said, gazing down at him in wonder. “I dream big.”

  Feeling valued, Sabbio smiled.

  Then Sabbio bent his knees and hooked his arms around them, giving himself as an offering. Mason positioned himself carefully before sliding slowly inside.

  Sabbio was stretched and filled, and as he arched his back and groaned, he knew for now his body contained life, even if this was only a dream. And gods, it felt so good! Whatever existence remained to him—the netherworld, a Christian heaven or hell, eternity as a ghost—it would never be as good as this moment, when he was overcome with bliss and Mason whispered Sabbio’s name with every long thrust.

  When the sensations became almost too much to bear, Sabbio tilted his head back and cried out, and his untouched cock erupted like Vesuvius, spewing hot come over his belly and chest.

  Mason sped his movements, and within moments he jerked, froze, and then collapsed atop Sabbio, sweaty and breathing hard. Sabbio expected him to roll off and stand, but instead Mason kissed him again, deeply and thoroughly, hands smoothing along Sabbio’s arms.

  “I’m going to wake up to sticky sheets,” Mason chuckled. “Haven’t done that since I was a kid.”

  Sabbio relaxed his legs and set his hands on Mason’s ass. Mason was still inside him, and neither of them moved enough to dislodge him. Sabbio wanted to stay this way for eternity.

  “I want you to be real,” Mason said. “And not a ghost either, because… I can’t have a future with a ghost.”

  A future. No, Sabbio thought. I’m all about the past, aren’t I?

  As if sensing this, Mason kissed his cheek. “I’m impressed with myself, you know. I didn’t think I was capable of imagining something as amazing as you. I’m just a guy who plants stuff, you know?”

  “You make things grow,” Sabbio said.

  After several more kisses, Mason finally did pull himself away. He held out a hand to help Sabbio to his feet, which was good because Sabbio was a bit sore. Not that he minded.

  “Is California a good place to live?”

  “Yeah, sure. Good weather. My part isn’t all that exciting, but it’s affordable. And we can grow almost anything here.” He waved his arm, and as Sabbio watched in fascination, the bare earth sprouted plants. The leaves were all shades of green—from dusty gray through fresh grass and into the deep colors of a forest—and scattered flowers added accents of pink, yellow, and orange. The arbor that Mason had mentioned supported fat clusters of grapes hanging within reach of two shaded chairs. A small fountain tinkled pleasantly nearby.

  “Does it truly look like this?” Sabbio asked.

  Mason looked around. “More or less. Real life has more weeds and ants. Do you like it?”

  “Even Diocletian would approve.” And would likely recognize most of the plants. It was nice to know these familiar things grew so long after Sabbio’s death and so far away from his home. It made him feel as if this place could be his home, even though he knew it was impossible.

  Mason slung his arm around Sabbio’s shoulders. “Anything you’d change?”

  Sabbio thought a moment before answering, then pointed to the house. “The sun is very bright there.”

  “Yeah, we get a lot of sun.”

  “I would extend your roof over columns to make a portico. It would be a good place for you to sleep in the afternoons.”

  The corners of Mason’s eyes crinkled. “So I could dream about you?”

  “I do not believe I can enter your dreams when you are so far from Spli
t.”

  Mason looked serious again. Sad. “I’ll miss you.”

  “Even if I am not real?”

  “Even if.”

  They were kissing again when the landscape evaporated. Sabbio tried to keep hold of his lover, but Mason disappeared too. All that remained was a ghost in the abyss.

  8

  Mason woke up with a kiss-swollen mouth and sticky sheets. His bruises ached. So did his heart.

  He showered and dressed and emerged into the large common room. Pete sat alone at the table, sipping tea and reading his Kindle. He gave Mason a slightly distracted smile. “Morning.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Nicole dragged Adam shopping—shoes, I believe. Doug’s meeting with those musicians he’s been corresponding with. I think they’re trying to lure him back for some kind of music festival.”

  Mason poured coffee from the pot someone had thoughtfully brewed, grabbed a plateful of prosciutto from the fridge, and joined Pete at the table. “Reading something good?”

  “Spies. My guilty pleasure.” But he put down the Kindle and cocked his head slightly to examine Mason.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been teaching for over fifteen years. I recognize an unasked question when I see one.”

  “Oh.” Mason squirmed uncomfortably and stared into his mug. Stuff that seemed reasonable when you were alone in a dark room—or dreaming in your bed—sounded pretty lame over a sunlit breakfast. Lame and kind of crazy, actually. But Pete still waited for him to say something. “I, uh, had this dream. After I visited the Lulićes.”

  When Mason paused, unable to spit out anything more, Pete smiled. “I’m feeling very Freudian now. Good preparation for Vienna. Did your dream involve trains and tunnels?”

  “I thought tunnels were for straight guys.”

  “Maybe you’re just a repressed heterosexual.”

  That made Mason chuff a laugh. “Very repressed. Anyway, it was a sex dream, but there was nothing symbolic about the sex. I mean… there were genuine man-parts involved.”

  “Does that bother you?” Pete asked, in true Freudian fashion.

  “Not the man-parts per se. But….” And since there didn’t seem to be any way around it, Mason told him what had happened with Mrs. Lulić, and the two dreams that had followed. He showed Pete the photos of his bruises and even pulled off his shirt so Pete could see firsthand the ones on his shoulders.

  Pete did not call the Croatian men in white coats. He listened closely and peered at the bruises, his mouth squished up in thought. Even after Mason stopped talking and put his shirt back on, Pete was silent.

  “Am I losing it?” Mason finally asked.

  “I don’t think you’re ready for a padded room.”

  Mason exhaled gratefully. “Okay. That’s good, I guess.”

  Pete reached across the table to pat his hand. “People handle grief in a variety of ways. You’ve been pretty private about it, but we can all see how much it’s been tearing you apart. And there’s nothing wrong with grieving, Mason. Nothing abnormal or unhealthy. But it’s also fine to move on when you feel ready for it. That’s healthy too.”

  Picking at the prosciutto, Mason frowned. “So is that what Sabbio is? Some kind of weirdo coping mechanism to help me move on?”

  “Maybe.”

  Mason groaned slightly and rubbed his face. He didn’t want to be nuts, but he also… well, he wanted Sabbio to exist.

  Pete stood, walked to the counter, and plugged in the electric kettle. He whistled quietly—one of Doug’s pieces, probably—while waiting for the water to heat. Then he refilled his cup and returned to the table, where he dipped the teabag into the water several times.

  “Mason, I think I’ve already hinted at what I think is the best standard for judging your own behavior: is it healthy? For the past months, you’ve been neglecting yourself and your friends and family, and that’s not good. But you agreed to come on this trip—”

  “Yeah, I’ve been the life of the party.”

  “You’ve been here, with us, and that’s what counts. That is good. And as for your ghost…. It sounds as if your experiences with Mrs. Lulić have helped you deal with Carl’s loss. You believe he’s in a good place now, right?”

  Mason nodded, then looked up at Pete. “Do you?”

  “Yes. I’m agnostic, but I am convinced that Carl is beyond suffering. If you think that too, then meeting with Mrs. Lulić was a healthy thing.”

  “Okay.” Mason could get behind that. “But now I’m fixated on a hallucination. Fixated enough to bruise.”

  Pete sipped his tea, wincing as he probably burned his tongue.

  Mason wondered how anyone could be so perpetually calm and patient. He’d learned several weeks after the shooting that when the gun had gone off, Pete had been among the first people to rush forward to aid the wounded. He’d called 911 on his phone even as his dear friend Carl lay dead in his lap. And if he’d lost his composure even once, it had been in the privacy of his own home, perhaps with Doug there to comfort him.

  He gave Mason an encouraging smile. “What’s bothering you most about those dreams? Do you feel unfaithful to Carl?”

  “No,” Mason answered honestly. “It’s just… not knowing.”

  “Not knowing what?”

  Mason sighed. “Whether he’s real. I mean, my head knows he can’t be, but my heart disagrees. I wish I could have proof and shut one of them up.”

  “Okay, then. You’ve already established that your dreams themselves can’t prove anything. So what might?”

  Licking his lips, Mason considered. He was positive there would be no paperwork to research—if there had been any Roman records of slaves in Split, they would certainly be long gone. And a slave probably had no grave, no headstone. “Mrs. Lulić,” he said at last. “Maybe she can help.”

  “Maybe. But, Mason, I want you to think about something else. Suppose you become convinced Sabbio is real. Then what? Will you be satisfied to leave him here?”

  “I…. No. I’d want to be with him. Or at least find a way…. He’s been alone for seventeen centuries. Christ, I’m a mess after eight months, and I still have friends and family. He can’t even have a conversation with anyone.” And as he spoke, he realized he’d already made a decision. “I need to talk to Mrs. Lulić again.”

  To his immense relief, Pete smiled and patted his hand. “Then I think that’s what you ought to do.”

  Viktor answered his phone on the second ring, sounding faintly out of breath. “Molim?”

  “Uh, hi. This is Mason Gould. The guy you—”

  “Mason! It is good to hear from you. Already you want tour?” In the background, something clattered noisily. A train, maybe. But Viktor sounded jovial.

  “Actually, I was hoping your mom might be willing to talk to me again. I know I’m being a pain in the ass, but I have some questions.”

  “No, no, you are not pain in ass. Mama likes you. I finish work in three hours. Meet me outside my building.”

  Relief loosened the tight bands around Mason’s chest. He hadn’t exactly expected Viktor to refuse, but the Lulićes didn’t owe him anything. “Thanks, man. I’ll see you then.”

  At the agreed-upon time, Mason stood anxiously outside the ugly socialist building, pretending to admire the shoes in the shop window next door.

  Viktor came loping up the sidewalk wearing a blue workman’s jumpsuit. He grinned at Mason. “Flowers for me?”

  Mason looked at the bouquet in his hand. “For your mom. I brought this for you.” He handed over the paper bag from his other hand.

  Viktor pulled the bottle out. “This is very good wine!”

  “Good. My brother bought a bunch of it the other day at the winery.”

  “It was not necessary for you to bring gifts.”

  Mason shrugged. “You guys are doing me a big favor.”

  As they went inside and tromped up the stairs, Viktor apologized for his work attire. “It is dirty,” he sai
d, scowling at a grease spot on his knee.

  “Hey, I’m a landscaper. You should see me when I’m done with work. At least you don’t smell like composting chicken manure. Carl used to drag me to the shower as soon as I got home.”

  “Ivana, she did this too,” Viktor replied with a soft smile. “She told me every day, no getting finger marks on walls.”

  Mrs. Lulić must have heard them coming, because she was waiting for them at her open front door. She seemed pleased with the flowers, bustling away to put them in water. She returned with a tray laden with tea and cookies and motioned for Mason to sit. Judging by the expression on her face, she warned her grubby son not to follow suit.

  Viktor laughed and kissed her cheek.

  “How can we help?” Viktor asked. “Mama does not think she can talk to your husband.”

  Mason took a polite sip of tea, even though his stomach felt a bit queasy with nerves. “I know. I’m…. After visiting the other day, I feel pretty much okay about Carl. I mean, I still miss him like hell. But the wound’s not so raw, you know?”

  Viktor did know; he nodded thoughtfully before translating for his mother. She sat next to Mason on the sofa and patted his arm kindly. She had lost loved ones as well. Hadn’t Viktor mentioned his father died in the war? Loss was an injury nearly every human being experienced.

  “I didn’t actually come here today to talk to dead people,” Mason explained. “I was just hoping for advice. And I don’t know if you’re gonna be able to help me, but I don’t know who else to ask. It’s… it’s about the ghost who was here the other day.”

  Mrs. Lulić waited for Viktor to interpret. Then she said something back, and Mason caught one familiar word: Sabbio.