Large numbers of soldiers marched the still new road, cut straight across the countryside across all obstacles and obstructions; even buildings and farms were swept aside by the conquering strength of the unstoppable and expanding Roman Empire.
Xanthic had come to watch the war, he thought it would be a good distraction from his routine and offer a chance to discolour the souls of men who were marched far from their homes and families not for a fight or cause they believed in but to increase the power and purses of faceless and unknown Emperor who sat deciding their fate a whole life and world away in a country where only the few had come from or even visited.
He was wrong, not that he would admit it to anyone - he even hesitated to admit it to himself. Scared men under strict discipline are hard to influence, add in a security network on constant vigilance against spies, infiltrators or deserters, ready with swift and permanent deterrents; made it almost impossible. There were a few opportunities to create panic and sew discontent in the small villages and settlements present on the land before the Legionnaires marched their troops through, but as the fleeing locals from other areas closer to the coast had already done a pretty good job of this on their own on their way to the Royal city and protection of the Gods and the Pharaoh. Saying that, watching the bloodshed, chaos and despair was a lot of fun.
A column of dust rose in the distance at the point where sky gently kissed the ground. This was the point Xanthic loved the most when visiting the Earth. Back home there was no horizon and the ground under foot - whether toed or cloven, sat under a smoked sky above which never touched. Xanthic never did workout what kept them apart nor was he interested in spending time finding out. Here on Earth there was a point where the curve of distance stole sight from him, this unknown filled him with excitement and hope for what could be or may never happen. When things are close, Xanthic already knew how events would transpire, he would have worked through multiple scenarios and identified the reality that would be his ideal and played with them for the best results
Time passed slowly under the summer sun, insects busy in their endeavours cared not that a human shape - that was wholly inhuman inside, moved not a muscle, as still as a mountain and as patient as the stone.
The column of dust resolved into another column, this time of soldiers marching in woollen tunics over laid in strip metal armour topped with a plumed officer or domed soldier helmets. Wagons, carts and walkers of all colour and design followed behind carrying support and succour and was en-mass with tailors, doctors, butchers, chefs and whores which easily equalled the marching men. Horses dressed in rich coloured cloth danced the sides passing from the length of the line from the highly polished mounted Legati at the front to a finely dressed General riding between heavily armoured guards towards the rear. Orders and information passing on horseback like neurons between nerve and brain.
A foreparty made up of a small band of soldiers, slaves and a aenetor carrying his lute and buccina, marched half a day ahead of the main body of troops. There was still several hours before they would meet him and Xanthic looked forward to this meeting immensely.
*
A small collection of huts grew up out of an oasis set against dust and rock. People had found it, were sustained by it’s small cool water spring, and set up their home. Families were raised and a farm grew, livestock and crops developed and enriched the family enough for life but not for comfort to flourish but not to the degrees it would attract the attention of anyone stronger who would wish to forcibly evict them from their home. It was through isolation and hardship that forged a inquisitive and friendly nature to strangers within the family. They welcomed all travellers and shared with them whatever fruit were in season, or if an animal had been recently butchered, meat, a rare treat, that they would willingly spare. Xanthic took full advantage of this hospitality, pushing it to its limits before leaving two days previous to walk the long straight road to the coast. He left with a comment that the Romans would be coming again, a new legion walking the long road and a few scout parties would pass close with a possibility of trading food and water from the oasis for cloth and metal. This got the family talking excitedly and preparations for greeting them began.
*
A single horse and rider broke from the forward group, it gave a short burst of speed and savagely brought up before Xanthic in an attempt to intimidate and impress him. A feat often successful and with the benefits that a cowering man cannot present a threat to the small Roman force.
It did not work this time and a heavy leather sandal stamped down hard on Xanthic's shoulder. He had expected this and after the blow crouched before the rider, head low, without a word or sound.
A brief discussion about respect and honour befell Xanthic who listened while watching a team of ants rip parts of a larger insect on the baking road and transport them to their hole in the baked earth.
The rest of the Romans had arrived and a heavy pack containing a soldier's kit, clothes and rations fell at Xanthic's feet. A blast from the soldier informed him he was expected to carry it for him along the road and for him to fall in with the other local slaves who have been press-ganged into labour.
Xanthic either wasn't quick enough to collect the pack and begin his task or the mounted Legionary didn't like the look of him, but he was ordered to carry more including the reluctant to part with his possessions, aeneator's pack and curved buccina,a 3 to 4 meter curved horn often used to issue orders in battle or raise alarm.
Xanthic did standout in this world. He wore reds and purples which many took for a sign of wealth, but he insisted the local cloth be cut into trousers when he had clothes made for him, something that sat at odds to the current masculine world who saw them as immensely effeminate. No man of culture would be seen in such items, especially loose fitting ones like these.
When this upstart of an empire first arrived in this most ancient of civilisations they brought with them a shock of culture from new Gods, transport routes and city planning and a forced work ethic where any man can be forced to carry a soldier's pack for a distance, oft a mile or other identifiable location. Xanthic knew this and sometimes used his influence on mortals to appear as a ranking officer and thus lighten his personal load on journeys where he could not employ a horse.
With the pack on his back Xanthic followed the Roman party forward. He did not tire like mortal men and upped his pace, he continued this increase until even the horse had to up its pace to keep up. The soldiers were calling for the pace to be slowed but the Legionary was pleased to keep his men marching at this exhausting pace to watch this new slave break and be forced to carry on carrying his burden further for his impertinence. Pleased with his plan for humiliation and the prospect of delivering punishment, the Legionary allowed Xanthic to break ranks and set his own pace. Soon the party were drawing behind Xanthic who smiled at his own plan for a punishment of his own.
A dust path intersected the new roman road, Xanthic was far enough ahead now to shrug off the larger of the packs he had transported without any hinderance and dropped it to the parched soiled ground a couple of paces East along the well worn track. The Romans had not noticed his leaving the planned route, when they did, Xanthic was almost a mile ahead along the track, leaving a clearly signposted way of dropped items at regular intervals usually directly on piles of animal excrement which along with dried hoof prints on the track signified a herders used this way to move their animals.
They knew now Xanthic had, through accident or design, moved off their road and had increased their pace to intercept, the Legionary kicked his horse into a gallop and charged down the track with a dust cloud in his wake. Moments later he had covered the distance and of Xanthic there was no sign. The Legionary reined his horse to a stop where a lyre sat on a large pile of animal droppings. He scanned the locality looking for the irritating slave and called out oaths and curses detailing what he would personally do when Xanthic was found. It was in this frame of mind that he met the family who were wa
lking up the track waving their arms in welcome, a child, with fruits of date and fig for the new comer ran ahead towards the horse. The Legionary kicked down in frustration over his lost quarry onto the dark haired child's head and watched as the boy fell broken to the dirt, neck bulging, head craned too far back and as lifeless as the red baked stones that lined the path.
A howl gave out from the family, their precious and hard won welcome gifts of food dropped without a care to land and roll around their feet. The Legionary, realising the consequence of his anger induced action, gasped and raised his arms to apologise and signify his humility. His military training stepped in and he began to reach for his sword as he saw the expressions of grief and instant hatred on the faces of the family. He was too late and he was ripped out of his saddle by reaching hands that turned to claw and scratch. Vengeance, a word previously unknown to the family, was savage and swift; when the horrified roman fore party arrived at a run all they saw was a mother cradling her dead child's body. All the family saw, from their hiding places behind rocks and other similar locations along the track, was an aggressive red mist. Afterwards they felt sick and repentant and they spent months in abhorrence over their actions and prayed to their Gods for forgiveness. Of how the Romans and their slaves felt, no one knew as they were all utterly dead.
Translated from an illuminated manuscript found in a Winchester monastery as dictated by Brother Michael - Conversations with the Angels, 1307
Tuesday 6th May
09:30
My alarm sounded at quarter to seven which surprised me as I didn't remember setting it, so that meant Xanthic was expecting me downstairs with some task or chore on hand. Well, as I am still recovering he could wait.
I walked into the bathroom, slipped out of my long night shirt and baggy knickers, stepped into the deep shower cubicle and closed the glass door behind me.
It was good to feel the hot water running down my waist length hair and I washed it with my good shampoo. I don't have many luxuries in life as Xanthic isn't the best at coughing up dough on payday - when he remembers he does in fact employ me and doesn't keep me as a pet, but I have shampoo and then good shampoo for when I want feel like a woman again. I kneaded my hair with the lather and marvelled at the aroma of woods and spices.
The shower was large; twice the width and depth of my old one at home with my favourite foster parents which caused me to jump when my back touched the cracked icy tiles as I struggled to fit my slender - some would say scrawny and scraggy, and made of thick glass and silvered metal and I loved to dance within it listening to music in my head - when I told this to a male friend he suggested I should install a pole and video camera and make a fortune selling the tapes saying he'll happily buy a few hours worth, I hope I don’t need to repeat the language I used to him at the time. A carved grey granite slab guided the water to a grill in the floor under the corner where the taps sat connected to the pipe to a over head shower head that made the waterfall like soft rain through to a torrential down pour. If you need it, a sharp turn on the regulator and you'll be cleaner than you've ever been before. I ran my hand across my chest with fingers tracing the outside lines of my new tattoo. I'm still getting used to having a permanent mark upon me especially having no choice in it, but as it aided my recovery and possibly saved my life I can't get too upset; at least the redness and soreness have reduced greatly. I thought about shaving my legs but I can't keep the man waiting all day.
For someone who claims to not be of this Earth, Xanthic has pretty much every luxury within his home like deep soft towels, under floor heating, walk in wardrobe and dressing room straight off the bathroom where I kept a lot of my clothes. Yes, here we have a house with rooms I never knew you could have in a home like a library stuffed with leather bound original texts on ancient lives and medicine sat next to Pratchett paperbacks and Superman comics. Dressing rooms with rocking chairs and sheepskin rugs underfoot. Walk in larders and pantries filled with everything even the most fussy of people could define as foods as well as a thoroughly modern kitchen filled with gadgets and cooks aids. But we have no computer other than my old laptop and a telephone straight out of a museum, we also have a three inch long old mortise key for the front door - which is incongruous as the house has a brand new heavy oak red painted front door with an electronic lock, but it won't budge without the key being held up to it and turned wildly in thin air in front of it.
I threw on a black tee shirt and long skirt pulled at random out of a built in real wood dresser and went down to see what Xanthic wanted and for breakfast.
There were two flights of stairs between my bedroom and the kitchen on the ground floor. The 'public' areas of the house are very clean and modern, plastered walls and paint that maintained a current visage of creams and light tones and strangely fluctuates a hue or two darker or lighter depending on its owner's mood. The private areas are ancient, dusty and filled with wondrous sights and books that I just want to run my hands over and fondle in a sensual way; the smell of the library is amazing in its own right, aged paper and leather, cloth and old scrolls, wood and coffee.
I walked into the kitchen, my laptop was open on the large oak dining table and sat next to it was a pile of five old books, three of which I was beginning to know well with my studies, and a magnifying glass of crystal and sculpted pewter so it looked like a clawed foot of a raptor - for all I knew it could have been a clawed foot of a raptor cut off before it could close those sharp talons around an unsuspecting small furry meal.
I poured myself a coffee from the bubbling pot of fresh brewed smoky and black liquid heaven into a deep stone mug and wrapped my fingers around it feeling the heat of the coffee slowly heat the mug. Breathing in the aroma as I held the mug up to my nose I then reached to add the cream Xanthic insisted on having in place of milk.
"Why do you humans always insist on taking the best out of your food and make do with the distasteful?" he would often say, especially when I order low fat cheese pizza or diet coke.
I always skip breakfast itself, something my Mother never let slip if she witnessed it, but luckily Xanthic took me for an adult and said nothing even though there was always plenty of food on the stove or piping hot in earthenware pots and bowls around the kitchen sides. I never saw Xanthic cook but the smells of cooking constantly wafted around the house tempting me with roast meats, bacon, melted cheese and roasting vegetables whenever I felt the slightest bit hungry.
My laptop was not in current demand so I sat in front of it and opened up my diary, nothing more interesting planned today than the usual Tuesday run around the more specialist antique shops and talking to the man on the street to see if anything has come up since Wednesday - the most important and influential day of the week. A Monday day is as important to the 'Others' that inhabit this world as a Friday night was to me and my friends when we were teenagers, and for pretty much the same reasons. It’s a time to get together and let your hair down, imbibe, indulge and absorb all there is to offer in a local public establishment; the only real difference is what liquids are actually drunk and what kinds of atmosphere the clientele generate. I am constantly surprised over the Tuesday gossip of who went home with whom and what demon ended up unconscious under what burning bush. What they say to others when in these states fills my note books to the last page and sometimes it proves useful.
"Not today." said Xanthic not looking up from a large thick book stuffed with numerous bookmarks, scraps of paper and pens to mark important passages and pages.
I was startled. Although I knew he was in the room and could clearly see him, his stillness had withdrawn him utterly from my mind. He was now very much back in the room.
"I'm sending you to spend a few days in the country, fresh air, space to recover, soft bed, good local beer, friendly people."
"What's the catch?" I asked, unaccustomed to acts of spontaneous kindness.
"I need you to go on a quest for me."
"A quest?" I loved the old words he used. Fro
m previous experience I was required to proceed with all haste on a fact finding mission, gather intelligence and report back...........or other words go somewhere, look through a few local papers, a few people's' bins and phone Xanthic if I find anything. "Is this anything to do with your inability to visit me in hospital over the last few days?" there was more than a little curiosity over his absence in the way I asked.
"I'm afraid it might be, but satisfied that it does not involve it enough that I am not worried about sending you alone." he looked up at me and gave a winning smile. He went onto explain that it had been brought to his attention a series of occurrences had happened in a couple of small English villages lying on the river Meen. "Nothing too strange but out of the ordinary enough to arouse suspicion from my kind, and I said I'll look into it for them." He finished before getting out of his worn kitchen chair and stalking towards the coffee pot with lust in his eyes. The chair was at first glance ordinary, wooden rods fitted together to form four legs, supports and a frame and a curved seat was supported in its middle; but it stood out for me because it was almost twice as wide and deep as my chair, the white paint had been worn right through to the natural wood leaving an aged and dirtied ring where wood and Xanthic did not meet. The tall back of the chair had been gently forced back so it was leaning away from straight, especially in the middle where the supporting rods curved left and right from the middle to form a large oval from seat to headrest. I was also full of carvings of skulls and bones and old runes cut in different degrees of depth onto all the parts and then painted numerous times in white gloss. How old the chair was I did not know, but I doubted you would find a brother of it in Ikea.
Diary Of An Occult Resolution Assistant Page 7
