Air and Darkness

by David Drake

  For the most part, the members of the Indian delegation were ignoring Bhiku and Varus. The three richly dressed Indians looked profoundly bored. They stood apart from their own subordinates as well as from the half-dozen members of Sentius’ household under the direction of an understeward.

  The exception was the woman, who watched Varus intently. Her skin was as dark as aged oak and contrasted sharply with her white garment. She had no wrinkles or visible blemishes.

  Varus started to break eye contact with the strange woman, but he caught himself before his muscles obeyed the thought. I am a citizen of Carce, he thought. Why should I allow myself to be cowed by a stranger while standing in the ancient lands of my people?

  “Who is the woman, Master Bhiku?” he asked without turning his head. After a moment she walked toward the pair of gardeners, putting her back to Varus.

  “Our lords’ lord, Govinda,” said Bhiku, “is not a trustful man. He is a great magician as well as the greatest of kings, but his duties prevent him from making the long sea voyage that was required to come here for the first time. Rather than send a magician to carry out the rites he wishes, he sent two of us.”

  Varus felt his face stiffen. “What rites would those be, Master Bhiku?” he said.

  “Govinda wishes the god Bacchus to be summoned to this place,” the old man said agreeably. “You might think that priests rather than magicians would be the proper parties to carry out the rites, but this is not the judgment of my master’s master.”

  Varus grimaced. “I see,” he said. “I don’t set much store by religious rites myself.”

  “In that,” Bhiku said, “you and I are of the same opinion as Govinda.”

  The old man coughed, then continued, “He sent myself and Rupa, whom you asked about, to carry out the rite and to open a passage through the Otherworld by which we and our colleagues will return. Rupa is a member of the household of Ramsa Lal, a rajah subject to Govinda, but Ramsa Lal and Raguram, my master, are on terms just short of war. If indeed war has not broken out in the months since we sailed.”

  The old man smiled. Varus found Bhiku’s personality engaging, though their contact had been too short for him to be able to support his reaction with logic.

  “Govinda thinks that because our masters are rivals,” Bhiku said. “Rupa and I will make sure that the rites are carried out as he wishes.”

  The gardeners were watering the vine from a brass barrel. The container was certainly from India. Varus wondered if the water had been transported also, in furtherance of the “rites” to which Bhiku had referred.

  “You told me what Govinda thinks, Master Bhiku,” Varus said. “What is your opinion?”

  Bhiku laughed, a cackle that could have been threatening had it not been for the old man’s cheerful expression. He said, “People rarely ask me what I think. They want to know what I can do for them, only that. But what I think, Gaius Varus, is that I do not need to be threatened to carry out the duties I agreed to do in exchange for my keep.”

  He plucked the thin fabric away from his ribs and grinned like a frog. “Very modest keep,” he said wryly. “And as for Rupa…”

  His eyes followed the woman. She appeared to be examining an outcrop on the slope above the altar.

  “Govinda is a very great magician, beyond any question,” Bhiku said musingly. “But I would not care to guess how powerful Rupa is, or what her real purposes might be. I have heard it said that she is ancient. I am an old man, but it is said that she is older than I am by hundreds of years. To the eye she does not appear old.”

  “She looks,” said Varus, “as though she were made of polished chert. Smooth and so hard that steel could strike sparks from her skin.”

  “Yes,” said Bhiku. They were speaking with lowered voices, though there was no one near them, nor, in all likelihood, anyone who would have cared about what they were saying if they had been shouting. “It may be that her soul is that hard also.”

  Then, in a still softer voice, Bhiku said, “I think that Rupa may be searching for a word that will split this world the way a knife cuts a pat of butter … and that if Rupa should find that word, she will speak it.”

  The gardeners stepped away from the vine shoot. One spoke to the officials. The bearded man in blue made a peremptory gesture toward Bhiku, who bowed in obedience and started toward his fellows.

  He turned as he walked away and said over his shoulder, “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Gaius Varus. I hope that we may meet again.”

  CHAPTER II

  “Please sit down, Master Corylus,” said Saxa, gesturing him to one of the two backless folding chairs in the office. The curving legs had been carved from burl elm and polished to bring out all the rich figuration. Saxa’s seat was ivory, the curule chair on which he sat in the Senate and at other public events.

  “Thank you,” Corylus said quietly as he seated himself. Death masks of Saxa’s more illustrious ancestors formed a frieze around the top of the walls. In many cases the wax had blackened with age. Against one sidewall stood a cabinet with drawers in the lower portion; above were display shelves protected by a bronze grating.

  Bronze busts of Homer, Vergil, and Horace stood on top of the cabinet. Vergil’s head was wreathed in laurel. Today is Vergil’s birthday, Corylus realized.

  He had met a man—a sort of man—who might have been the living remains of Vergil, the greatest of poets and according to rumor the greatest of magicians as well. That incident seemed now to have been a dream, like so many other incidents of Corylus’ recent life. They had been real at the time, though, real enough to have meant his death and the death of the very world.…

  “I’m in a difficult position, Master Corylus,” Saxa said, clasping his hands in his lap and then changing the grip as he clasped them again. “I suppose you know that I have the honor to be the Republic’s Governor of Lusitania? Yes, of course you know that.”

  Corylus lifted his chin in silent acknowledgment. He had rarely spoken with Varus’ father. It had been a disconcerting experience every previous time, and the present occurrence was that and worse.

  On the one hand, Saxa was wealthy even by the standards of the Senate. He had the power of life and death by virtue of his position, and his enormous wealth could gain him almost anything available within the empire over which the Republic ruled.

  On the other hand, Saxa was a little man who dithered and babbled and whose great store of knowledge was as disorderly as a squirrel’s nest of sticks. Saxa’s worst punishment was that he had enough intelligence to understand how completely he lacked wisdom.

  The latter Saxa was the man talking to Corylus at present, but the wealthy senator stood behind the speaker. Corylus was naturally courteous, but he had to remain aware that discourtesy, real or misconstrued, to this man might literally be fatal.

  “I am carrying out my duties in the province through the agency of a vicar, Quinctius Rufus,” Saxa said, staring at his hands. “Rufus is a Knight of Carce with a great deal of experience in administration. He has commanded a legion on the Libyan frontier, so he’s used to difficult conditions of the sort that service in Lusitania entails.”

  “A wise choice,” Corylus said mildly. That was true in two fashions: Lucius Quinctius Rufus was well suited to govern a mountainous province on the Atlantic coast, and Saxa himself had no business trying to govern anything, not even a two-man board game like Bandits.

  “Yes, yes, I thought so,” Saxa said, looking confused and increasingly agitated. “But I’ve been hearing rumors that Rufus is behaving badly, very badly indeed. That he’s looting temples, stealing the wives and daughters of citizens of Carce, and doing all manner of awful things.”

  “I don’t…,” Corylus said, then paused to rephrase his words. “That is, I don’t know Quinctius Rufus personally, but his reputation is that of a sober and trustworthy man. And besides, you have other agents in the province, surely?”

  Corylus had checked with his father when he heard of Saxa
’s arrangements for the practical aspects of his duties—as opposed to ceremonial matters carried out in Carce. It wasn’t something anyone had asked Corylus to do; nor did he mention what he was doing even to Varus. It had just seemed like the sort of precaution that you took when you were in dangerous country. Politics had as many potential ambushes as there were on the east bank of the Danube.

  Publius Cispius had never served under Rufus, but his contacts in the army included many old soldiers who had. Rufus hadn’t been enthusiastically liked—one veteran had said that the windblown desert sand had more personality than the commander did—but nobody complained about his honesty or competence.

  “Well, that’s it,” said Saxa miserably. “There are reports from Upper Spain that say Rufus has bribed all the officials in his province, even the Agents for Affairs who report directly to the Emperor. And if it’s true, well, it would be very bad for me.”

  Corylus lifted his chin in agreement. “Yes, I can see that,” he said. He still didn’t know why the senator was talking to him, but he certainly understood the cause of the older man’s agitation. “Everyone will assume that Rufus is funneling much of the money to you, and—”

  “Oh!” said Saxa, sitting bolt upright in shock. “Oh, surely they wouldn’t think that! Me steal money?”

  His amazed innocence was quite real, but most people didn’t know Saxa as well as Corylus had come to do through the friendship of Varus over the past few months. Saxa had as little concern for money as Pandareus of Athens, Corylus’ teacher, did.

  Saxa had more wealth than a team of accountants could figure in six months of working, while Pandareus owned little but the clothes he stood up in and a modest number of books. Despite what an outsider would have considered to be huge differences between the men, neither one thought in terms of money.

  “There are evil-minded people in this world, Lord Saxa,” Corylus said. “Even, I’m afraid, in the Senate.”

  “Oh, that’s so true,” said the senator. “Atilius Priscus, a truly great scholar whom I’m proud to call a friend—”

  Priscus was indeed a great scholar. His acquaintance with Saxa had come through his scholarly friendship with Pandareus and the respect the teacher had for Gaius Varus. Unlike his father with his magpie mind, Varus combined memory and organization with a wisdom that came from personality rather than age. For the son’s sake, Priscus socialized with the father.

  Saxa had seen his son save the world. To Saxa, however, the fact that Varus had gained him the friendship of truly learned men was a greater blessing still.

  “Priscus, as I say, warned me that the stories originate with Lucius Sentius. The Governor of Upper Spain, Romanus Pulcher, is a colleague of Sentius in the Indian Ocean trade, and Sentius himself has been bribing people to spread rumors about what’s going on in Lusitania.”

  “Why in the name of Pluto would Sentius do that?” Corylus said. Other than the fact that he was a senator and therefore wealthy, Sentius had little public profile. The only reason that Corylus had even heard of him was because the man had recently dedicated an altar to Eastern Fortune in the harbor of Ostia. Pandareus had taken his whole class to the ceremony to critique the speech delivered by Formianus, a rival teacher.

  “Yes,” said Saxa. “I wondered about that.”

  He stared at the wall painting above the closed door to the entrance hall. It showed Ariadne, abandoned on the shore of Naxos, waving to Theseus’ ship as it disappeared over the horizon. Poking through the right edge of the painted frame were the heads of two harnessed leopards, implying that the god Bacchus was about to rescue the girl to become his queen.

  “I hadn’t had much contact with Sentius in the past,” Saxa continued, still looking toward the painting. Corylus doubted there was an answer there. “Just last month, though, he visited and asked to see my collection of historical treasures. I’m always pleased to show other scholars the fruits of my research, you know?”

  “Indeed, Your Lordship,” Corylus said. Saxa’s spirits had risen as soon as he started talking about his collections. He was a remarkably good-natured man. That was reason enough for Corylus to want to help him, quite apart from Corylus’ friendship with Saxa’s son.

  “Sentius was particularly interested in the objects which had originally been collected by Marcus Herennius,” Saxa said. “The one he kept asking about was the Ear of the Satyr, though, and I’ve never heard of it. Well, hadn’t till then, I mean.”

  “An ear broken off a statue?” Corylus said, frowning.

  “I really don’t know,” said Saxa. He had stopped wringing his hands. Intellectual puzzles intrigued rather than worried him. “The collection … well, it wasn’t an estate sale, exactly. Herennius was proscribed during the Second Triumvirate. The man—his nephew, I believe—who was responsible for his arrest was granted a third portion of the estate. I suppose the nephew might have taken the ear, whatever it is. But that was two generations ago, and I don’t know where the broker who sold the collection to me had acquired it.”

  “Was it a collection of artwork, then?” Corylus said while he tried make sense out of what Saxa was saying. Marble statues were merely cheap copies of bronze originals, and it wasn’t likely that a bronze ear would be broken off … or that it would be of any importance if it was.

  “Well, no…,” said Saxa, suddenly embarrassed. “Not exactly. That is—”

  He grimaced and met Corylus’ eyes. “In fact, Master Corylus,” he said, “it was a collection of magical paraphernalia. At one time I was, well, interested in, ah, hidden knowledge.”

  Corylus showed no expression. If his host wanted to believe that the spells he had worked with the wizard Nemastes six months ago were a secret to those close to him, Corylus wasn’t going to disabuse him.

  “I haven’t involved myself in such matters in some time—”

  Not since Nemastes had destroyed himself and nearly destroyed the world.

  “—but I still have some of the books and objects which I acquired while I was studying them.”

  “Did Sentius’ visit to you occur before these rumors began?” Corylus said. His throat was dry, but he didn’t want to break the mood by asking for a carafe of wine while Saxa was talking in a lucid fashion.

  “Why, yes, I suppose he did,” Saxa said, raising his eyes to the ceiling while he tried to tried to organize events in serial order. “At least I hadn’t heard the rumors before. I wouldn’t have accepted Sentius’ request to visit if I had, would I?”

  “Do you think…,” Corylus said. This was much like getting information of military importance from a civilian who didn’t care what weapons a group of strangers had carried and who couldn’t count above five.

  “That is,” he continued after a moment’s pause, “do you suppose Sentius thought you were lying about not having the Ear of the Satyr? Perhaps he was either punishing you or he hoped to acquire the object if you were condemned for malfeasance in office. Your estate would be condemned, then.”

  “But why would he think that?” Saxa said. “If I had this ear, I’d have shown it to him. I’d give it to him if that would make this business go away. This is a terrible situation!”

  “Yes, I see that,” Corylus agreed. The Emperor was a suspicious man. If he believed that his own secret service, the Agents for Affairs, had been subverted, his reaction would be more enthusiastic than reasoned. “Ah, I’m not sure why you’re telling me this, Your Lordship?”

  Saxa flashed him a sad smile. He said, “I suppose you think I’m a woolly old fool, Master Corylus. And perhaps I am.”

  Corylus said nothing. Saxa was probably speaking rhetorically; and regardless, Corylus saw no benefit in answering the implied question.

  “You’re a friend of my son,” Saxa continued. “I trust his judgment, and I trust my own, though perhaps I shouldn’t. I believe you would carry out a mission faithfully, no matter what bribes or threats were used against you.”

  He paused. Corylus swallowed, then said, “I h
ope you are correct, Your Lordship. I think you are correct.”

  “Furthermore, you are levelheaded,” Saxa said. “More so than one would expect of a boy so young. And your age is an advantage also, since no one would expect me to be sending a youth to Lusitania as my personal agent, my spy if you will. You will appear to be a young man going off as an aide to the vicar. A very junior aide.”

  Saxa cleared his throat and added, “If the rumors are true, I will go to the Emperor and throw myself on his mercy. If they are false, I will lodge a formal complaint against Sentius.”

  “Ah…,” said Corylus in the silence that followed. Not long ago Corylus had considered using his friendship with Varus to gain a position on the governor’s staff. Corylus was suited by background and education to act as the vicar’s messenger and observer in a province with rugged terrain and no little banditry … work very similar to what Saxa was asking him to perform, in fact.

  Corylus hadn’t executed that plan, however, in part because a series of magical events had left him too stunned to consider his future. The other part was the fact that he, Publius Cispius Corylus, had been a significant factor in preventing those events from overwhelming the world and humankind.

  He grinned tightly. My major contribution was in helping keep my friend Varus alive … but that was real.

  Either Varus was a magician or the magical onslaughts that Corylus remembered so vividly were the hallucinations that he had initially tried to convince himself they were. If they were real, it had been a good thing for the world that Corylus had not been in Lusitania when Varus needed his sword in Carce.

  On the other hand, if Saxa and his son were executed out of hand for treason, Corylus’ presence in Carce would be of little benefit against a squadron of the Emperor’s German Bodyguard.