by Molly Tanzer
She smiled down at him.
“Unngh,” came a feeble cry from beside the monster’s body. Manlius sat up, shoving aside the monster’s severed foot with one hand as he held his bleeding forehead with the other. “Oh, you’re both alive, too! But where’s Petronius? Did he survive?”
***
Petronius tried to tell himself he didn’t care that he was in disgrace as the battered party made their way slowly back to the Roman camp. Fuck them, fuck them all—the happy couple, who set to making out every time they thought themselves unobserved, the dog, who now loved Spurius, and Manlius, who acted like he’d saved the fucking day even though in reality he’d been even less helpful than Petronius if you really thought about it. He hadn’t landed a single blow, and his unconscious body had hindered the warriors’ assault. But whatever. They’d be back soon enough, and maybe, Petronius thought, he’d actually done well as far as his future welfare was concerned. Surely now he would not be asked to attend the next expedition in search of the other Romans stationed here in Britannia.
Due to the various injuries and general exhaustion—and the occasional petty assault by flocks of angry crows—it took them twice as long to cover the same ground. On the fourth morning of the return trip they saw smoke on the horizon, and when they stumbled out of the forest onto the riverbank that afternoon, Petronius was all smiles like the rest of them. He’d never been so happy to see a Roman encampment, and he basked in the shared glory of a successful return … until the story came out. Spurius, that goody two-sandals, told the general everything. Well, everything except for Petronius’ carrion-eating, but Petronius sensed that was less a desire to shield his fellow man from shame and more that Spurius had simply failed to observe the incident.
“You should be crucified,” said General Nerva, “but I shall spare your life, for you are useful in your way. As long as you make a record of the adventure, that is—with all the details of your part in it. I want all of Rome to know you for what you are.”
“Sir, I—”
“Don’t you dare call me sir. Were you under my command I would crucify you,” said Nerva. “Just … be quiet and keep to yourself until we decide what next to do. I wouldn’t even give you leave to come to the celebratory feast, but King,” he said a name that sounded like ‘Barbarbar’ to Petronius, “wants you there.” Nerva looked thoughtful. “Maybe he wants to crucify you. I’d allow that.”
“You are generosity itself,” said Petronius sourly, but that incensed the general to such a degree that the scholar fled to the lean-to by the cesspit that was to be his shelter, and sat there until nightfall, brooding.
He sat alone at the feast, too. Manlius, Spurius, and The Thing sat with the King, getting all the choicest cuts of venison and wild boar, and enjoying the bouquets of wildflowers, jewelry, and fine weapons given to them by other members of the clan. The tale of the adventure was told simultaneously by Manlius and The Thing, to everyone’s delight but Petronius’, for he found his only mentions in the tale were as the sniveling comic relief.
After they’d finished their retelling, the king stood. Holding up his hands, he called for silence.
“Barbarbar,” he said. “Bar.”
“Ah, the King would like to … announce? Make an announcement,” supplied Manlius.
“Barbarbar-bar, bar,” said the king. The Thing stood. Petronius saw she was blushing. Gross!
“A …” Manlius said something in quiet tones, and the king nodded. “Betrothal! He’s announcing that his daughter—what?” More discussion. “She’s his daughter, everyone! Well, she’s engaged to …”
“Barbar,” said the king, pointing straight at Petronius.
The silence was absolute.
“Bar?!” cried The Thing.
“What?” even the unflappable Spurius appeared bothered by the news.
“I’m already married!” protested Petronius.
Manlius was deep in conversation with the king, who was looking increasingly annoyed at having his decision questioned. The Thing was cawing like the terrible ravens that had bothered them on the way to and from the boneyard, and Spurius had gotten to his feet.
“He says he has heard much of Patronius’ cowardice,” explained Manlius to the confused Romans. “And he says having a coward for a husband will enable his daughter to have a family but still live the life she wants, for he can cook and clean and raise the babies while she hunts and goes to war,” said Manlius, looking rather entertained as he turned to address Petronius directly.
“Bar!” cried the king, extending his hand to the bewildered Petronius. “Bar!” he said to his daughter, who reluctantly put her hand in his, looking helplessly at Spurius. When Petronius joined them, the king pushed them together and said some words.
“Congratulations,” said Manlius, after the celebration began anew—more soberly on the part of the barbarians, more hilariously on the Roman side, who jeered as they drank deeply of the savages’ liquor. “Best wishes on a happy marriage, may Vesta bless, and all that.”
“Really?” said Petronius, looking at where his bride spoke animatedly to Spurius just inside the treeline. “Yes, it’s very amusing, but what am I to do?”
“Looks like get cuckolded,” said Manlius, as The Thing pulled Spurius behind a tree, and then he ambled off.
Petronius’ guts tightened. “Like hell I am,” he mumbled to himself, and strode over to where the lovers giggled in a shadowy glade. They were talking quickly in hushed voices, and exchanging loving touches. Petronius was having none of it.
“Hi Spurius,” he said brightly, stepping out from behind a tree. “How’s my wife?”
“Oh—Petronius,” said Spurius, looking up. “No hard feelings? I mean, she doesn’t want to, and you don’t want to, so we’ll just pretend. She’ll come with us, and when we get back to Rome we’ll—”
“What are you babbling about?” said Petronius. He was so fucking sick of Spurius, his smug kindness, his handsome face, his stupidity. “I’m here to make sure you don’t take what’s mine—it’s my wedding night, you know.”
“Petronius.” Spurius’ voice was taught as a bowstring. “You can’t be serious.”
“Serious as a heart attack.”
The Thing hadn’t said a word, but was looking back and forth between the two men with keen interest. Petronius gazed at her without fear, and was pleased to see she clearly resented this.
“It’s outrageous. It’s, it’s—” Spurius was sweating, Petronius saw it glistening on his forehead. “I’ll kill you before I let you touch her!”
“No, I don’t think you will,” said Petronius. He felt drunk, he was so happy to be in control of the situation for once. “Not in front of these people—think of what her father would do. He’d probably blame his daughter—and what would that mean for her?”
“Bar?” said The Thing, looking at Spurius. Spurius answered her, and her face darkened the more he spoke. “Bar!” she cried. “Bar!” Her hand went to the knife at her belt, and she looked right at Petronius. “Bar-bar!”
“You’d better tell her the way the wind’s blowing,” said Petronius smugly. “She’ll need to shape up if she wants to better herself by becoming a good Roman woma—urghhh!”
The thin-bladed dagger stuck out of his chest, just slightly to the left of his sternum. Petronius could feel his heart struggling to beat around it.
“You!” he managed, looking into The Thing’s eyes.
“Bar bar,” she said, and spat in his face.
Petronius fell to his knees.
“Take her life! Avenge me!” he cried, looking up at Spurius. “A savage has killed your countryman, Roman! To arms!”
Spurius said something to The Thing in urgent tones. She nodded, and they both fled away from the camp and into the blackness of the forest.
Petronius, shocked, began to laugh. Spurius Calipash had to be the biggest hypocrite in the world, to enthuse so constantly over Roman this and Roman that, only to side with and the
n nip off with some savage slattern when it came down to it.
Oh, how he hated Spurius! He hated him too much to wish him misery in this life alone—he wanted with all his heart for the Calipash name to become disgraceful in every way that would be offensive to the soldier: Infamous among respectable citizens, associated with nefarious rather than for honorable deeds, and eventually deemed too worthless to hold a place in the historical record, excised rather than celebrated by future generations. To have his name and his heirs relegated to dark whispering and nefarious marginalia—yes, that would be a fitting memorial in every way.
Petronius’ mouth tasted strange—at first he was reminded of the flesh of the putrid monster he’d snacked on, but then he realized it was just that a bubble of his own blood had pushed up his throat and popped between his teeth. Then a curious wind began to blow, sweeping past Petronius and deep into the wood as he laughed at the notion of anyone associating the Calipash name with iniquity.
No, if he wanted to punish Spurius, he would have to do it himself. Though he felt his life ebbing away, Petronius staggered to his feet and lurched back towards the shore, where campfires blazed and the smell of roasted meats perfumed the night air.
“Romans!” he cried, breaking from the treeline. “We are betrayed!”
Those closest to him paused, and Petronius smiled as he wrested the dagger from his own chest. The wound spurted black blood; the firelight was dimming to his eyes though he knew it burned just as bright as it had a moment ago.
“A barbarian dagger to the heart!” he shouted, holding it aloft with the last of his strength. “An ambush! They come for us, to kill us while we make merry! To arms, Romans! To arms!”
“To arms!” cried someone.
And then Petronius died, the last sound he heard that of myriad Roman swords being drawn from their sheaths.
Author’s Note
—and—
Acknowledgements
Of how I came into possession of the original documents chronicling the long history of the Calipash family I can say only that they were bequeathed to me by Oliver Hubert Sandys, my lover in the early days of my college career, just before his researches into the mutability of human flesh when subjected to strange extracts from specimens of the order Cucurbitales, gathered on certain far-flung plateaus, turned him permanently into a begonia. At the time, I had to comfort myself knowing that the transformation was at least apropos; dearest Oliver could never stand full sun, and the delicate peach-colored blossoms that he still produces year-round yet recall to my mind his clear skin and winsome smile.
For some years, my grief over Oliver’s untimely transmutation was too near to pay any heed to his strange collection of folios, church records, legal documents, diaries, journal publications, newspapers, and other sundry archives. I knew that he was a distant relation of an extinct, notorious family of once-impressive property and wealth; I never suspected that years later, in the course of my researches for my Master’s degree, I would discover a reference to that same family in the marginalia penned by Samuel Clemens into his personal copy of Sarah Grand’s The Heavenly Twins (1893), a photocopy of which the archivists of the Berg Collection at the New York Public Library were kind enough to send to me. While I do not wholly agree with Mr. Clemens’ remark that “a cat could do better literature than [The Heavenly Twins],”(Well, a cat could probably do better than the ending of that novel, but parts in the middle are really quite good.)
I was fascinated by this comment I found later in the text: “Between the first stanza of Holmes’ poem “Truths” that opens this farce, and the characters of the mischievous twins Angelica and Diavolo, I wonder if Madam Grand was acquainted with those queer Calipashes, who never terrorized England as much as she has done with this work of fiction.”
Upon reading those words, I felt myself aflame with new passion, new purpose! At long last I had discovered a real contribution I could make to academia, and one which I was in a unique position to present. Turning to my Oliver, who was blooming prettily on my desk, in that moment I resolved to change the focus of my career. Instead of continuing with my work on how the ideas of amelioration versus abolition of slavery were represented in popular British literature of the 18th and 19th centuries, I would dedicate myself to researching and recording the strange history of the Calipash family. Even a brief perusal of what I possessed showed me a deep treasure-trove of unrecorded, unknown incidents that fascinated me. I hoped my advisor and major professors would feel the same.
Little did I know that I would be cast out of my program for my resolve to bring to light the lost saga of this debauched, unlamented clan of aristocrats, but that is what happened. My advisor knew too well the whispered rumors of the Calipash family, and told me in no uncertain terms that if I was truly determined to dedicate myself to this effort, he would move to withdraw my funding immediately. But I would not allow myself to be bullied by those without vision, and thus the work you have just read is entirely an amateur effort. I have endeavored to make it scholarly and accessible in equal measure; you, dear reader, must be the judge of whether I was successful.
The first piece in this collection, “A Spotted Trouble at Dolor-on-the-Downs,” I transcribed after discovering that Oliver’s documents contained several pages torn from the Junior Ganymede Club for Gentlemen’s Personal Gentleman’s “Club Book.” (NB: I have since returned those pages to that club for re-inclusion.) The Junior Ganymede Club is, of course, best known for its most celebrated member: Reginald Jeeves, valet to Wodehouse’s beloved subject, Bertram Wilberforce “Bertie” Wooster, Lord Yaxley. The only addition to Jeeves’ record of those strange events at the Marine Vivarium is the title, which I hope would please both Mr. Wodehouse and Jeeves himself. I know the content of this piece may disturb Jeeves fans, for he fails to liberate those unfortunate victims of Cirrina’s diabolic schemes. I, too, was surprised by his actions; I can only conclude that despite his powerful brain, there is only so much even that paragon of English virtue could do when faced with some of the stranger realities of this world. Yet his legacy is not a small one: He did singlehandedly end the Calipash family’s legacy of petty horrors, and that is no mean feat.
The second piece, “The Hour of the Tortoise,” was compiled largely from the diaries of the unfortunate Chelone Burchell, though I have modernized Chelone’s spellings and included some exposition explaining the conclusion of that young woman’s sad fate. I have also expanded the sections of her aborted pornographic novella based on her own writings in surviving editions of Milady’s Ruby Vase. I believe my passion for the excellent, unusual—and sometimes unusually disturbing—pornography produced by writers in the late 19th century put me in a unique position of doing her some justice in this regard, and I hope readers who enjoy her passion and voice will investigate the delights, disturbing and titillating alike, of her contemporaries. Titles published by William Lazenby, including the magazine The Pearl, are a good start, as they contain excellent work by Algernon Charles Swinburne, “Jack Saul,” and other fine authors.
Regarding “The Infernal History of the Ivybridge Twins,” several errors have been corrected in this revised second edition. The original piece was my first effort at recording the Calipash family’s sordid past, and when I submitted it to the editors at Innsmouth Free Press for their anthology Historical Lovecraft (2011), I never expected them to take it, much less for it to be reprinted in Night Shade Book’s The Book of Cthulhu (2011), much less inspire my dear editor Cameron Pierce to request an entire collection of the family’s history be brought to the public’s attention by this humble scholar. For that reason, I felt free, for the purposes of storytelling, to bend, or tinker with, certain details, such as Rosemary’s use of her foremother Honor’s alchemical texts to switch bodies with her mother. Additionally, to the father Calipash I originally gave the name St John, as it is a Calipash family favorite. His actual Christian appellation appears in only one surviving document, and it is smudged. The name on th
e register may well be St John, but to keep things clear in this manuscript I have reassigned him as Clement, another popular family name.
A Pretty Mouth is one of the two pieces in this collection I had to do the most outside research for, and thus it consists of mostly my own extrapolation, collation, and, if I may, writerly voice. I had at my disposal only Honor’s treatise on soul-exchange via blood transfusion—written, I should mention, entirely in ancient Greek, so I must here thank Dr. John Marincola, department chair and Leon Golden Professor of Classics at Florida State University, for his exemplary instruction in the fundamentals of that wonderful language—and a bundle of Henry’s letters, all of which had been returned to Calipash Manor by their recipients due to their perceived insanity. That it is recorded by later Calipashes that “Mrs. Godfrey Vincent” was sent to live out her days “away from any potentially exciting influences” (a delicate way of, I suspect, conveying that she was sent to Bedlam or a similar institution) after producing two female children, and, finally, one male heir, is indeed sobering.
Henry’s letters provided the backbone of A Pretty Mouth, but his bombastic style and poor grammar forced me to choose a different way of presenting his story. I also had to fill in the cracks, as it were, with such books as Blood Work by Holly Tucker and A Profane Wit: The Life of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester by James William Johnson. Details of student life at Wadham, during the Restoration, were supplied by the latter of those two, as well as Wadham College by Jane Garnett and C.S.L. Davies.
