THE EMPEROR’S NEW GOD
Jennifer Dunne
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.
One of the men stepped forward. “Otto?”
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.
Otto took a step forward and held out his arms.
“Peter.” He could not make out his friend’s face, but he recognized the voice.
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.
“I understand. We will follow you back to San Marco. But pray, keep your lanterns shuttered and your oars muffled.”
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.
“See that my companions are taken inside and settled. I will make a private pilgrimage, and return to the palace before first light.”
“A room has been prepared for you in the east tower. I will post a man by the door to guide you to it on your return. We will speak tomorrow.”
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.
And he would visit the monastery tonight, since the Doge was bound to ask the abbot about the Emperor’s visit. But first he had somewhere else to be. His destiny awaited.
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.
Otto smiled grimly. He could see the corner of the monastery in the distance, the oil lamps guttering in the wind.
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 opened the door and stepped inside.
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?”
“I was supposed to meet . . . someone.”
The giant nodded, and waved toward the empty tables. “One can never predict how long it will take to defeat an army. Sit. I will bring you wine.”
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.
Mars solved the puzzle by dropping onto the seat across from Otto, the stool groaning at the sudden increase in weight. His gaze flicked dismissively up and down.
“You don’t look like an emperor.” He sipped his wine, his eyes going soft with pleasure, and relaxed his militant posture.
“I am on a pilgrimage.”
“A pilgrimage that includes sharing a glass of wine with Mars? Your God has grown generous with his followers.”
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 smiled. “And what would you do with the world, that you seek my help?”
“Rule it, of course.”
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.
“. . . power cannot be exercised in paltry campaigns in an empty country of miserable bogs against wretched Slavs.”
Mars flicked his fingers, banishing the image. “You conquered an empty country of bogs, driving off an invading force of wretches. And it took you three years.”
Otto clenched his fists, but knew better than to argue with a god. His own petulant words had damned him.
“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?”
“Words will not conquer an empire. I need strength of arms. And as you have pointed out, that is not my natural skill. If I am to succeed in achieving my destiny, I must have help.”
“What of the lance I gave your grandfather? The one that was enchanted to always give victory to he who holds it in battle?”
“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.”
“Do so, and you shall triumph. On the field of battle, at least. Holding cities once you have conquered them . . . is also not a natural skill of yours.”
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.”
“That is why the people of Rome rose up against you not three months past?”
“I spoke to them. They understood their mistake, turned on their ringleaders and beat them nearly to death before throwing them at my feet and begging my forgiveness.”
Mars shook his head. “Words, again. You are a man of words, not deeds. So where has this desire to be a warrior come from?”
Otto hesitated. He suspected Mars already knew the answer, and his reply was a test of some sort. It was a test he dared not lose, or his destiny would never become a reality.
“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.”
“An empire you can only gain by the sword.”
“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.
“I can give that to you. Your armies will be undefeated, and the cities you conquer docile as lambs after you leave them. What are you offering in return for my help?”
“What are you asking?”
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.
Mars lifted a hand and summoned the barkeep. The giant returned with another glass of the pale green wine.
“Your ambrosia, exalted one.”
Mars claimed the goblet and sipped from it. “You have until I finish my drink to decide.”
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 Germ
an 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 glanced at the god, and saw with dismay that his glass was half empty. He was running out of time. He felt the reins of his destiny slipping through his hands.
But what if Otto could encourage the people to turn to Mars on their own? What would prompt the people of Rome to embrace the god of war instead of the Prince of Peace?
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.
Mars swirled the last spoonful of liquid in the bottom of his glass, and lifted it to Otto in a challenging toast.
“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.”
Otto held his breath as Mars drained the last ambrosia from his glass. He turned the goblet over and set it upside down on the table, the glass chiming as it struck the marble surface.
After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar Page 5
