by David Drake
CHAPTER VI
The light four-wheeled carriage was owned by the Republic’s courier service, but Saxa’s wealth put it at his son’s disposal as a matter of course. Varus would have been perfectly willing to rent—or buy—a similar vehicle, but there was no market for them except for the government.
Varus smiled. Rich, powerful men didn’t pay for things. He didn’t know how he felt about that as a philosopher. He was coming to the conclusion that he grasped facts very well, but that ideology was beyond him. Every theory he heard seemed to squeeze between his mental fingers when he tried to grasp it. Yes, but … seemed to be his response to every general statement.
The driver, a government slave, cracked on the three horses—a trace horse on the right of a yoked pair. He had come with the vehicle. The baggage, including a goat, traveled behind in a heavy cart.
“When I was my uncle’s assistant…,” Lucinus said, rocking on the rear seat beside Varus. “We crossed the sea itself on a bridge of air.”
“How long were you with your uncle?” Varus asked. This sort of travel was tedium, because the carriage rocked and rattled too much for him to read. Even conversation was difficult because of the thrummm! of the iron tires against the stone highway.
“Ten years,” Lucinus said. “He summoned me when I was fifteen—after Melino betrayed him, though I didn’t know anything about that at first. I barely knew that I had an uncle. My father was a farmer, well enough off to provide for my schooling but no more than that; I was already working with him on the farm. My mother never talked about her brother. But the messenger came, and they sent me off at once.”
He looked at Varus. “They were terrified,” he said. “I didn’t know why at the time, just that something was wrong.”
Lucinus shook his head, thinking back to events that must have occurred seventy years before. “I suppose they thought my uncle might have wanted me as a human sacrifice,” he said, speaking barely loud enough for Varus to hear him over the sound of the tires. “And they were afraid to object. But all Uncle Vergil wanted was an assistant, an additional pair of hands to reach things he didn’t want to touch with his own.”
The carriage was keeping a steady pace without having to buck traffic even in congested areas. Four cavalrymen hired from the transient barracks in Capua rode ahead, using the weight of their horses—and, when necessary, the flats of their swords—to clear the road for the carriage.
If Saxa had used his own servants for the purpose, there was a risk that he would be accused of raising a private army. Supplementing the income of off-duty soldiers was more politic.
“What did you do for your uncle?” Varus said, studying his companion. Varus and Lucinus both wore ordinary traveling garments: short cloaks over plain tunics with broad-brimmed leather hats. Varus’ clothing was new, while Lucinus’ was worn though not ragged.
Given the magician’s jar of gold coins, that was additional proof that he wasn’t interested in ordinary material things. Lucinus might be lying, but the ordinary goals of deceit—wealth, luxury, and status—didn’t apply in his case.
Varus didn’t think Lucinus was lying.
“I ground herbs and minerals to his direction,” Lucinus said. “I spoke responses when a spell required two speakers. I read his books—all was open to me—but I…”
He gave Varus an angry glare.
“I am a great magician!” Lucinus said. “Even Melino would not be my equal were it not for his ring, the ring he stole. But even with my years and all my study, there is no one to equal my uncle. My uncle could have burked the Worms by himself, but now—you and I together will be able to control the Worms only if we have Zabulon’s Book, and even then it will try our strength.”
Varus thought of Vergil, and thought of his own attempts to write epic poetry. The elements were there, but the result …
“A scholar…,” he said aloud, but to himself more than to his companion. “Can have a vocabulary as great as any poet’s. But he still will not be a poet, however much he might wish otherwise.”
A wisp of thought touched his mind. Vergil had been a great poet and—on his nephew’s telling—a great magician. Varus knew he was not a poet.
But the present situation didn’t call for poetry, and the recent past suggested that Varus might be a magician despite himself.
He smiled faintly.
* * *
“OOH!” SAID SYRA as she followed Hedia up the short walk to Melino’s front entrance. Two guards watched from the porch, their thumbs hooked in their sword belts.
Hedia frowned, though the change in expression would scarcely have been noticeable to anyone watching. There were various ways to react to the outburst. A number of Hedia’s acquaintances would have had the maid whipped to bloody rags for speaking without permission in her mistress’ presence.
Hedia wouldn’t do that unless she were making a point to the rest of the household, but it was an unusual enough event to demand explanation. She looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
Syra flushed. “My skin tingled when I stepped onto the walk,” she said in a quiet voice, her eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, Your Ladyship.”
Hedia nodded minusculely and mounted the three steps to the porch. She had felt nothing, but she suspected that Alphena would have had a reaction similar to the maid’s. Alphena was sensitive to magic, as her mother was not.
The guards wore helmets and body armor like soldiers on active duty. The small one was probably Greek or an Arab, but the larger guard—over six feet tall and heavily built—was more exotic. He was armored in scales of black horn sewn onto leather backing. His cap was made of boar tusks, of all things. The teeth were laid with their points upward in four alternating rows so that they described S curves from the helmet rim to the peak.
“You are expected!” he said to Hedia with a guttural accent. His black beard and moustache were so thick that she caught only flashes of his teeth as he spoke. “The servant stays outside.”
Hedia considered protesting, but that would be pointless for a number of reasons. The guard would have no real authority, and the maid’s presence didn’t matter: not to Hedia, at least, and probably not to Syra, either.
As Her Ladyship’s chief maid, Syra had more real power in Saxa’s household than the majordomo of the Carce town house did. She was more than willing to pay for her status with occasional discomfort while involved in Hedia’s confidential affairs.
Instead of bothering to respond directly to what the guard had phrased as a command, Hedia said, “Open the door.”
The big man’s expression was hidden beneath his facial hair, but the small one was leering. If she learned that Syra had had trouble with the fellows, Hedia would see to it that they were repaid.
The door valves were already squealing back, pulled not by human servants but by a pair of baboons in harness. They were big brutes, each as heavy as a well-grown man. They had large canine tusks and full manes, and they smelled overpoweringly male.
The baboons were chained to the doors and opened them by backing away. They stared at Hedia, looking more like small lions than large dogs. She walked between them, looking to neither side.
As she reached the reception hall, she glanced over her shoulder. The beasts were pushing the valves closed with their forepaws, walking on their hind legs. One of them met her eyes as he reached up to shoot the bolt.
Would you like to tear my throat out? she thought. Or is it something different you’re thinking? Perhaps one day we’ll learn.
“Lady Hedia,” Melino said, walking toward her with his hands outstretched. He wore a long white robe, opaque but fluttering as though it were made of gauze. “Don’t worry about my doormen. They’re harmless, just there to add color.”
If you believe that, you’re a fool. And if you think you can fool me, young man—that’s been tried by fellows who were much more clever at it than you are.
Hedia took his hands. They were surprisingly cool. “I’m glad to
hear that, dear,” she said. “They quite frightened me.”
Still holding her right hand in his left, Melino walked with her into the office at the back of the reception room. He had left open the wooden lattice when he came out to greet her.
Hedia paused and looked around the reception room before she left it. “How many servants do you have?” she asked. She couldn’t see or hear anyone else in the house.
“Inside, none,” Melino said, smiling with pride. “No human servants, that is. Would you like refreshments? Of any sort, dear Hedia. Just ask.”
Though light came through the opening above the pool just behind her, the reception room was not nearly as bright as the outdoors. In the relative dimness, Hedia noticed again that Melino’s eyes glowed like a cat’s. The ruby on his finger also hinted that there was a flame in its interior.
“Perhaps later, Master Melino,” she said. “Perhaps you should get on to the matters you wanted to discuss with me in private?”
Because this was a rented house, Hedia was surprised to see that twelve death masks looked out through the wicker screen of an upright chest against the wall. The wax expressions were disquieting.
“Are these your ancestors, then?” she asked. Nothing in her voice showed anything but mild interest.
“My ancestors in art, so to speak,” Melino said. He had knelt to open the iron strongbox against the opposite wall. He turned and pointed. “The mask on top is Zabulon’s,” he said. “Are you familiar with the name, dear lady?”
The answer would have been, “No,” but without waiting for her to speak Melino continued, “He was the man who first brought the wisdom of the stars to Earth. He put his knowledge in a book, but the words of the Book cannot be spoken.”
The face wasn’t that of anyone Hedia wanted to know better. The features were heavy, the brow scowling. The hair and beard added to the wax image were in tight ringlets of an eastern style. She wondered if Zabulon had been a Persian or of one of the tribes that the Persians ruled.
“I’ve never heard of him,” Hedia said with a toss of her hand. She returned her attention to Melino.
He rose, holding the hand mirror he had taken from the strongbox. The mirror’s back and handle were silver, as bright as if the metal had just been polished. It was ornately molded, but because of highlights from the surface Hedia couldn’t see much of the subject. From the little she could make out, she didn’t regret being generally ignorant.
“Before we go on…,” Melino said. He smiled more broadly, which he shouldn’t have done: it made the falseness of the expression even more obvious. “Has a man named Lucinus contacted you about, well, about anything? He won’t look as old as he is, probably fifty or so. And it’s possible that he’s using a false name, but I doubt he’d bother with that.”
Hedia smoothed the frown before it reached her forehead. “No,” she said. “I’ve met no one like that. As a matter of fact, you’re the only stranger I’ve gotten to know recently.”
She let a wicked smile spread naturally. “Closely enough to matter, that is,” she said.
Melino grimaced instead of reacting to the invitation. A rather obvious invitation, Hedia thought with a touch of pique.
“I know he’s close by,” Melino muttered. “He can’t force the wards I’ve put in place around this house and he hasn’t the strength to attack me directly, but he may try to reach you. If he does, you must reject him. Or.…”
His voice trailed off. His ring threw a bloody red reflection from the back of the mirror.
“This Lucinus wouldn’t be the first man to try to make my acquaintance,” Hedia said tartly. “He doesn’t sound like the sort who would interest me, but I’ll make the decision when I believe I have sufficient facts.”
She was beginning to regret this excursion. Though … Melino’s oddity, while irritating, added a degree of interest as well. She wouldn’t second-guess herself just yet.
“That’s why I brought you here,” Melino said. “One of the reasons, I mean. To give you the facts about the man.”
He turned the mirror so that both of them could see its face. To her surprise—concealed by an emotionless mask—the reflective surface wasn’t of silver or highly polished bronze. Rather it was—
“This is a mirror of orichalc,” Melino said. “Only the greatest of magicians have objects of this metal. It was the secret of the Atlanteans, and Atlantis perished a hundred Saecula ago, each of a hundred years and ten years!”
Hedia knew rather more about orichalc—and about Atlantis—than Melino seemed to realize. She saw no benefit in telling the fellow that. In seeming wonder, she said, “My! One could almost take it for gold.”
“It’s brighter than gold,” he said smugly. “And much rarer. Now, look into it and I’ll show you Lucinus.”
He spoke a word. A reddish glow began to form on the mirror’s face.
“Lucinus was the nephew of the magician Vergil,” Melino said. “He was Vergil’s apprentice and had been taught many of his uncle’s spells.”
Melino began to whisper verse, which Hedia heard only in snatches. “Now take the path and complete the vision…,” he said, and the mirror’s fiery surface brightened still more. In it objects appeared, at first wisps of smoke but gaining form and features.
An old man bent over a basin in a stone hall. The basin was flat, the shape of a mixing bowl for wine, but it was greater in diameter than the man was tall.
“That is Vergil,” Melino said. “The greatest magician of all time, save Zabulon himself.”
The old man straightened. He kicked off his sandals, then undid the sash of his tunic and pulled the garment over his head. He tossed it on the floor. Nude, he looked even older. He stepped to a marble bench and lay supine on it with the care demanded by creaking joints.
Hedia had known her share of older men.
A younger man appeared in the mirror beside the bench. He wore a breechclout and carried a cleaver with a broad, heavy blade.
“That is Lucinus,” Melino said. “He is our enemy and the world’s enemy. He hopes to gain Zabulon’s Book and with it loose the Worms of the Earth. He thinks that he can control the Worms after he frees them, but he will fail. The Worms will destroy all things.”
The image of Lucinus raised the cleaver high. “What is he—,” Hedia said, her hands rising reflexively to her mouth.
Lucinus brought the cleaver down hard, beheading the old man and chipping a notch in the bench. The head rolled to the flagstones. Blood pulsed three times from the stump of the neck, then oozed as the arteries emptied. What else could he have been about to do?
Lucinus tossed the head into the basin. Then, bathed in blood, he began methodically to joint the corpse. Each severed portion followed the head into the stone basin.
“He murdered his uncle,” Hedia said. She had seen death outside the arena—and killed—before, but the cold brutality of this dismemberment shocked her. “To gain his uncle’s power?”
“No, no, he didn’t murder Vergil,” Melino said in irritation. “He was to add the herb, the moly, to the basin to rejuvenate Vergil. Vergil had spent his last eleven years searching the Otherworld for the herb. When he found the place it grew, he plucked all there was and brought it back … but he couldn’t prepare himself for the spell. His apprentice was to do that.”
Lucinus dropped the last piece of the body, the left foot, into the basin. The liquid was beginning to boil, though there was no fire beneath that Hedia could see. He laid the cleaver on the dripping table and wiped his hands on a napkin that he took from a three-legged table. Only then did he pick up the small gold coffer that was also on the table.
“Instead of adding all the moly to the vat with his uncle as he was supposed to,” Melino said, “Lucinus stole part of it for himself. See!”
What Hedia saw was that if Melino had wished, he could have convinced her—he could have let her convince herself—that Lucinus was a brutal murderer. Instead Melino was so focused on his business tha
t he insisted that she know the truth about his enemy—even though her error had been utterly damning and perfectly believable to anyone not a magician herself.
It meant that Melino was rather a self-satisfied prig, but she’d already been aware of that. It also meant that the fellow was honest, or at least dealing honestly with her.
Lucinus opened the box, looked in, and dropped three pinches of the contents into the basin in careful succession. He closed the box.
The liquid boiled more fiercely. It began to change color from the original bloodred to orange, and then to yellow.
“He thought he could make himself immortal by taking the herb while he was still young,” Melino said accusingly. “But the portion he stole only delayed his own aging, and it prevented his uncle’s successful rejuvenation. The greatest magician since Zabulon has become a monster, because Lucinus betrayed him!”
Lucinus closed the coffer. Holding it in both hands, he stepped beyond the mirror’s image. He was still covered with blood, and he left bloody footprints on the floor behind him.
The basin was at a rolling boil. The liquid was dark blue, but the color was changing to indigo as Hedia watched. Something—was it a hand?—gripped the rim from inside.
“Be closed!” Melino said. The image and the red haze vanished.
He staggered. Hedia caught him in both arms, then held him close with her right and took the mirror from his hand with the other. She set the mirror facedown on the strongbox from which he had taken it.
“Come,” she said softly. “Isn’t there a place we could be more comfortable?”
He looked at her, easing away. She couldn’t read his expression.
“Yes,” Melino said. “We’ll go upstairs now. I think time is short.”
Hedia smiled as she followed him to the stairs in a curtained alcove to the side of the office. One could have a great deal of fun in a short time, if necessary.
* * *
WHILE ALPHENA AND HER ENTOURAGE were still half a block from the house of Aulus Collinus Ceutus, the wife—Collina—rushed into the street with twenty of her servants, all wearing finery. Four maids under the direction of a corpulent steward began tossing flower petals onto the pavement.
