Call of the Kings

by Chris Page

  Twilight stopped to watch a small, dark man with quick hands manipulate three little unturned pots, one with a small dried pea underneath, around a table. Time after time for a small wager a watcher would try to guess which pot hid the pea after the man had quickly moved them around. The small, dark man won every time, his dexterity and sleight-of-hand beating all comers, and he pocketed their coins until Twilight decided to make it a little harder by replacing the pea under the pot the customer tapped. In some confusion, the small, dark man began to lose every time and had to pay out. Looking skyward and muttering, he finally grabbed his pots and fold-up table and stormed off.

  Smiling, Twilight walked on. An old beggar grabbed his leg and gestured to his mouth with his fingers indicating hunger. Putting his finger to his lips to indicate silence, the old astounder reached inside his linen tunic and produced a round, flat, freshly baked loaf of rye bread, which he quickly pushed toward the old beggar. It disappeared inside the ragged shirt quicker than an eye blink to be followed by a look of surprise and then gratitude. Twilight moved on. He couldn’t reverse all the sleight-of-hands nor feed all the beggars in Rome, but an occasional dispensation wouldn’t do any harm.

  ‘Make way, make way!’ came a loud cry as an ornate, silk-curtained sedan chair with a broad-shouldered, shaven-headed black Nubian on each corner came barging down the street. In front, shouting and waving their swords to clear a path, strode two legionnaires. Anyone who didn’t move fast enough was thrown aside or trampled underfoot, first by the soldiers and then the Nubians. The old beggar Twilight had just left with the fresh loaf of bread was busily eating it and didn’t move quickly enough for the soldiers’ liking. One of them kicked him hard in the ribs, then swatted him across the back with the flat blade of his sword. Pitching forward with the partially eaten loaf falling from his hands, the beggar scrambled on all fours to get out of the way whilst also trying to grab some of the bread. When food is in such short supply, a fresh loaf is worth striving for. This brought the sedan chair to a halt, further incensing the soldiers, who set about the poor beggar by raining kicks onto his thin, ragged body.

  Until both of them locked solid in mid kick.

  ‘What’s going on? Why have we stopped?’ a man’s voice cried as a heavily be-ringed, pudgy hand pushed back on the ornate silk curtains.

  One of the Nubians on the front pointed to the two soldiers locked solid in the act of kicking the old beggar, who had picked up the bread and was sidling into the crowd.

  ‘Put me down,’ commanded the voice from inside the sedan chair, and as the Nubians lowered it gently to the ground, the door was flung open and out heaved a hugely fat man dressed in blue and gold silks. He wore a blue silk turban on his head with a large sapphire clip in the centre, and his face sported a shiny black moustache and matching goatee beard. On his feet, small for a man with such bulk, he wore jewelled black silk slippers with turned-up toes. A heavily jewelled dagger hung in a silver studded case around his huge waist. His dark brown eyes glinted maliciously from within the folds of his fat face, which was sweating profusely.

  Breathing heavily with the exertion of moving, the fat man walked slowly around the locked soldiers. Then he looked at the Nubians and around the crowd that had now formed.

  ‘What happened here?’ he said loudly, reaching into the folds of his silk robe and withdrawing some coins.

  The crowd all began to speak at once, and the beggar was produced and pushed to the front clutching the bread with one hand and his sore ribs with the other. The fat man dropped a couple of coins into his outstretched hand, which swiftly secreted them within his rags. As the old beggar told his tale, his eyes darted madly around the crowd until he saw Twilight. He pointed a shaky finger at the enchanter, and the crowd instantly moved away.

  ‘Did you do this to my soldiers?’ The fat man waddled toward Twilight.

  ‘They are bullies and cowards and were viciously kicking this poor man for not moving out of the way quickly enough.’

  ‘They were carrying out my orders,’ rasped the fat one. ‘If you’re some sort of shaman sorcerer beware, for I have many men at my command and friends in high places. Release them immediately!’

  ‘No,’ said Twilight softly. ‘Not until you promise me that you will mend your ways and travel without harm to others.’

  Unused to being spoken to this way, the fat man shouted in anger, ‘I do not make promises to anyone, least of all a ragged shaman.’ He waved his pudgy fingers at his Nubians before pointing at Twilight and screaming, ‘Kill this man.’

  They, too, were locked solid. The crowd began to cheer.

  Twilight leaned in close to the man’s face, by now pouring with sweat, some of it due to the fear that was beginning to tremble through his chest.

  ‘You’re next for the locked solid treatment, and in that state I’m going to throw you into the river,’ he said softly, poking the fat man in the rolls of his stomach for emphasis. ‘My guess is you’ll sink like a stone.’

  The fat man dropped to his knees, his pudgy hands held out in front of him in an attitude of prayer.

  ‘Oh, please don’t do that to me. I am a humble, god-fearing merchant going about the day to best feed my large family. I will instruct my guards never to behave like that again. Of that you have my word.’

  The fat jowls wobbled and the sweat poured down his face, staining the blue silk front of his robe with dark spots as the fat man pleaded.

  ‘What is your name?’ Twilight asked the bully-turned-pathetic sodden-silk-wearer.

  ‘Suleiman Abdul Ra-Hulak,’ sobbed the man.

  ‘Well, Suleiman Abdul Ra-Hulak, understand this, for I will not repeat it. If I hear of one more example of your bullying, the river will become your grave. Do you understand?’

  With great effort Suleiman Abdul Ra-Hulak bent down and touched Twilight’s foot with his dripping forehead.

  ‘Thank you, most mighty wizard. I will always obey.’

  As he lifted his sweaty face, his right hand streaked down for the heavily jewelled dagger in the studded silver case. With a speed of movement belying his bulk, the pudgy hand came up with the wicked-looking, sharply pointed weapon arcing toward Twilight’s stomach.

  Only to become locked solid in mid-strike.

  The crowd, by now several hundred strong, cheered and stamped their approval.

  Making the sign of a circle, Twilight turned the locked solid fat man upside down and suspended him with his turbaned head just off the ground. Then he waved again and the jewelled dagger clattered to the floor, followed by the large sapphire turban clip, all the rings from his fingers, and a shower of coins from within the silk folds of his robe, which was now hanging down over his head, revealing the grotesque folds of his body underneath as they fell the opposite way. Even the jewelled slippers fell to the ground.

  As the crowds scrabbled around on the ground for the booty, Twilight spoke to the nearest one.

  ‘They will come around in a few minutes and won’t be very happy, so make sure you’re all long gone.’

  Then he, too, was gone, but he had a feeling that he would meet Suleiman Abdul Ra-Hulak again. But even he was surprised at just how soon it turned out to be.

  That very night.

  King Philip had implored Twilight to attend a dinner given by

  the pope to celebrate their arrival on the first evening. It was to be a sumptuous affair staged in the Basilica of Saint Peter’s at which Philip was to be presented to the main dynasties, the Senate and Lateran power brokers. These were the movers and fixers whose blessing and continued support for potential inheritors of the great Roman positions of pope and emperor were important. The old astounder agreed on two counts: that he could leave at any time he chose, and it would be the only official function he would attend of the entire visit.

  Thus it was when standing next to Robert of Jumieges about four places down from the pope and three from King Philip, Twilight’s keen hearing picked up a particular announcement fr
om the caller who stood at the top of the imposing Basilica entrance stairway at the far end of the long room.

  ‘Sheik Suleiman Abdul Ra-Hulak and his party.’

  Five minutes later, the fat man whom Twilight had so publicly shamed that very afternoon appeared at the end of the presentation queue.

  He whispered in Robert of Jumieges’ ear, who, in turn, called over a senior legionnaire. The answer was swiftly delivered. Suleiman Abdul Ra-Hulak was a Turk and the most successful merchant in Rome. He controlled the important spice trade, gold and silver markets, and, most importantly of all, the slave trade.

  Every slave traded in Rome was either bought or sold by Ra-Hulak.

  So much for the humble, god-fearing merchant going about his day to best feed his large family. The only god this fat Turk worshipped was money.

  In the interests of King Philip’s naked ambition, Twilight decided to exercise his ‘leave at any time’ option, and Robert of Jumieges found himself conversing with empty air.

  But Twilight hadn’t finished with the fat sheik, now he knew he was the biggest slave trader in Rome - the most abhorrent occupation on earth as far as the old enchanter was concerned - and their paths would certainly cross again before he left Rome.

  He would make sure of it. Pro salute animae - for the welfare of the soul.

  As for his promise not to employ the enchantments except in the most dire of circumstances, apart from the small examples exercised earlier today, which hardly counted, what could possibly be more ‘dire’ than the abominable trade in masses of innocent human beings?

  Later that night Twilight continued his stroll around the historical buildings of Rome. Empty of the bustle and noise of everyday life, it was a good time to explore the city. He arrived at the great domed temple of the Pantheon. With its huge wooden doors locked for the night, it loomed silent and massive on the skyline. Originally a temple for pagan gods, it had been converted into a church. Transforming inside he floated around the interior, soaking up the atmosphere and closely observing the clever construction of its dome, said to be the largest in the world.

  Next he visited Capitoline Hill, the smallest of Rome’s seven hills and an area of redolence familiar to him as one of Merlin’s favourite exclamations. ‘By the Seven Hills of Rome’ had often preceded a discovery or enchanted tidbit of delight, more often than not accompanied by a great furrowing of bushy brows and a luminescent green flash from his eyes. How the old alpha astounder would love to be here with him now, exploring the very buildings he had learned and spoken of so much from the Avalon scriptorium.

  Several important temples were built on Capitoline Hill. In particular he wanted to see the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter, Optimus Maximus - greatest and best.

  He walked up the hill and arrived at the head-high walls of all that remained of the mighty edifice described in various works in the Avalon scriptorium as the greatest temple in Ancient Rome. In his mind’s eye he carried a picture of what it looked like in its first incarnation over fifteen hundred years ago, its second building after it was burned down during the wars under Sulla, and its third after the second building was burned down again when Vespasian battled to enter the city as emperor in the Year of the Four Emperors. As Twilight stood in the middle of the ruins in the dead of a dark, silent Roman night, voices of the temple’s turbulent past flashed across its demolished spaces.

  The shrines to other gods such as Terminus, who gave his name to the final destruction, allowed a veneficus when all was lost, and Iuventas, both gods that occupied the site before the first temple was built. The augurs who had to carry out the correct rites before they could be incorporated within the new building. As they exorcised the past demons, those augurs were carrying out a venefical duty. The temple’s original building and dedication to the mighty Capitoline Triad of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva during the battles with the Sabines. The Sibylline Books, that great font of written knowledge, now long destroyed and said to have been compiled by the sibyls and stored in the Temple to only be consulted by the Quindecemviri - the council of fifteen - in the event of a state emergency. Brutus and the assassins who locked themselves inside the Temple after murdering Caesar - et tu, Brute - and you, too, Brutus! And the twelve thousand talents of gold used by Domitian to guild the roof tiles of the third building.

  Voices, raised and soft, swooping in proclamation and rhythmic in oration, assailed his ears. The hollow rings of clashing swords accompanied by the agonized screams of the dying, a beam of bright yellow light from the sun god entwined with a shaft of pale gray from the moon. Mars embraced Venus around the end of a cornice, and the thunder of quadriga et biga - four-horse and two-horse chariots - rolled around and around the nonexistent walls.

  This was a sacred and special place to venefici. There were more out there, and he vowed to see and experience them. But for now, here was a resting place of gods who had made a significant and lasting difference.

  This place was perpetua - eternal - and Twilight wept for all those former enchanters under their Destiny Stones in Avebury who would never see it.

  Later that day he again joined the throng drifting aimlessly around the great city, content to go with the ebb and flow of human movement to see where it took him. Eventually he ended up standing in front of the Arch of Septimus Severus, the great triumphal arch in the Forum built to commemorate the victories of the Emperor Severus in Parthia eight hundred years ago; he became aware that someone was studying him closely. He turned to see an old, gray-bearded hermit, his long, unkempt hair loosely braided down one side of his face, sitting cross-legged on the ground the other side of the square. With his head on one side he was studying Twilight with a singular intensity that seemed to consume his entire body.

  Vide et crede, homo solitaries - See and believe, hermit - Twilight said gently to the old man’s mind. The hermit’s head jerked as the gentle message hit home. My apologies. I didn’t realize I was staring, came the eventual reply.

  You are a wizard? I am. My name is Odo. Can we talk?

  Twilight walked over to where the old hermit sat.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, smiling down at him. ‘I am Twilight.’

  Standing up in one fluid movement belying his age, the old hermit took Twilight’s arm and led him to a stone bench under an olive tree.

  ‘It will be cooler,’ he said, motioning to the shaded bench. ‘I have a feeling we have much to say to each other and will be here for some time.’

  ‘I sent you the mind message because I could see your aura. It is small but still discernable,’ Twilight said quietly.

  Odo chuckled. ‘Small indeed, especially when compared to yours, which is astonishing. Although I have never encountered another aura, the very power of yours overwhelmed me. It lit up the sky around you, that’s why I was staring. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘There are others with greater power than mine. My replacement, a very special lady called Tara, has one that puts mine to shame.’

  Odo shook his head in wonder. It would not be the first time that day.

  ‘Shall I begin with my story?’ he said. ‘It is a simple one and won’t take long, unlike yours, I suspect.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  His story was simple but fascinating. Placed in an Italian monastery by his farmer father when he was ten years old, mainly because he was ‘a disruption’ around his father’s farm. Odo had spent twelve years as a monk. During his novice years he’d scrubbed, cleaned, and cooked for his fellow monks, washed the feet of all visitors to the monastery, as well as lived the hard life of learning, constant prayer, and piety.

  ‘I’d always known that a monk’s life was not for me, right from the beginning, but in the absence of anything better, it would do until something else came along and I was experienced enough to grasp it. Yes, it was hard but I always had food, a bed, and a warm, safe place to live.’

  ‘When did your aura begin to manifest itself?’

  ‘On the farm. That’s why my fathe
r packed me off to the monastery. With ten brothers and sisters to feed, most of them younger than me, he couldn’t afford my little pranks.’

  Twilight smiled. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘I didn’t then realize that I was any different from anyone else and, in truth, with such a small aura and its correspondingly low power, I wasn’t. Now, of course, having lived with it for some seventy-five years, I have a better understanding of what it is and can do for me. Even a limited aura is better than no aura. Anyhow, eventually I left the monastery and came to Rome on the pretext of a pilgrimage and never went back. After a couple of months here I found employment as a scribe in the mighty Tabularium and stayed there for the next twenty-five years.’

  He pointed to a large three-story building nearby, fronted by classic Doric columns with Corinthian colonnades.

  ‘That’s it. The official archives of the Empire of Rome and all her dominions stretching back two thousand years. All the important documents are kept in there, including the laws, military and religious history, art, poetry and literature, games, taxes, coinage, maps and boundaries, languages, politics, philosophies, sciences, weaponry, money, gold and silver counts, annual grain stored, plagues and other pestilences and, equally important, the accountabilities that bind them into workable understandings. The diktats, contracts, codes, morals, ethics, duties, obligations, fealties, simonies, oaths, conditions, allegiances, and myriad skulduggeries. Rome and her mighty empires would not have survived this long without her skulduggeries; they are the glue that bind it all together and make it possible.’

  Odo smiled at this last statement before continuing. ‘For twenty-five years I laboured in there as a scribe, trying to make sense of it all. Taking all the information in and tabulating, logging, and rewriting it into a readable form. At one time there were over a hundred of us in there doing that. After five years in there I married a beautiful Italian girl called Gina, and we had two handsome boys and a small house the other side of Capitoline Hill.’