"Perhaps the people will think otherwise,” he said with a threatening frown. “They know a city that tolerates blasphemy will lose the favor of the gods."
But I was not to be intimidated. “The Athenians may not ever vote me another prize, but it would be a different thing if someone tried to stop them from hearing me,” I warned him.
So it proved. I followed The Ransom of Chryseis with The Mercenaries, the story of the soldiers sprung up from the dragon's teeth, and how they turned their swords on their creator. The year after that it was The Women of Heraclea. Each time, the Athenians crowded into the theater to hear my words, but each time I made them uncomfortable. The Women of Heraclea had the entire audience weeping by the time the last verses were sung. I thought that it was even possibly worthy of Phrynichos.
When it came to The Fall of Minos, I had to play the role of Theseus myself, as no other actor dared recite the verses calling down the wrath of Poseidon to destroy the sea-empire of Minos and free his subject cities, including Athens, from the burden of tribute:
Earthshaker! Father—
If my father you are—
Then shatter the rock
Of this city's foundation
And cast it down!
Tear open the earth
To bury it.
And raise the sea
In a great engulfing wave
To wash its ruins away!
The echoes of my words fell onto a profound silence as the audience sat motionless in horror to hear such a curse uttered on the stage. Through the eyeholes of my mask I could see Pericles rigid with rage, stone-like as any victim of Medusa as he sat in his official seat—Minos on his throne.
Immediately after the production, he threatened to have me prosecuted for sacrilege and treason, fined ten thousand drachmas, but I pointed out that every line in my drama could be justified by the authentic poetic sources: the god had indeed destroyed the palace of Minos with a great earthquake. In the end he settled for ostracism, which would not give me the opportunity to speak in my defense. I believe he feared I would recite the entire text of my new tragedy in court. I had let it be known that the title was Pericles the Tyrant.
Thus it was that I became the first citizen ostracized by the Athenians since Aristeides the Just, a fact I did not fail to point out to Pericles at my departure, adding, “I must matter a great deal to you.” I am sure he is looking forward to the end of my ten years of exile, when I will be able to return and produce my tragedy, unless things have changed greatly in Athens, whether for better or for worse.
In the meantime, I have chosen Cuma for my place of exile. The region is a pleasant one, and I find it an excellent source of inspiration, being so near the shrine of the god. As yet, there is no theater here, but I have encouraged the Cumaeans to consider building one and sponsoring tragedies. If they do, I have promised to write one for them, to inaugurate their stage. It is always good to honor the gods.
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Copyright © 2005 by Lois Tilton.
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Back to Moab by Phillip C. Jennings
A Novelette
Phillip C. Jennings's fond desire is to hike the Glagolitic Alley to the walled town of Hum in Istria, visiting in turn the Pillar of the Chakavian Parliament, the Table of Cyril and Methodius, the Seat of Climent of Ohrid, the Pass of the Croatian Lucidar, the Belvedere of Gregory of Nin, the Wall of Croatian Protestants and Heretics, the Resting Place of Zakan Juri, and terminating in the Gate of Hum itself. Any land that has such things could easily have subterranean apertures to other planets—in fact it seems highly probable that while there, he'll also find his way “Back to Moab".
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My midlife adventure began at an over-air-conditioned Las Vegas conference. Junkets like this were the bane of my career. By day three I grabbed any excuse not to hear Mr. Gupta drone on about international insurance law. When my cellphone buzzed I fled to the hallway and spent a quarter-hour at liberty, hearing about my husband's latest job prospect. Then a hotel crew came tidying after our lunch caterers. Not having the brass to brazen out their glances, I slunk back into the meeting.
Most of us had laptops open, though we'd long ceased taking notes. Squeezing by, I noticed the background “wallpaper” on Samantha Villiers’ machine. She gave me a wink. The conference died its final death an hour later, and I got to Sam before she closed up. “What's that?"
"Hi, Janet. We had a slow June, too much spare time,” she said. “I've been researching my vacation on the Internet.” She tapped the screen with a glossy nail. “It's the library of a monastery somewhere in Istria. I knew the globe would snag you. It's your hobby. I told my people in Switzerland about your write-up in Weekender, and someone emailed this to me."
I nodded. Everyone had checked out so it was just a matter of schlepping luggage to the airport shuttle. Sam and I rode together. She told me more than I wanted to know about her holiday destination; art colonies, nudists, native wines, truffles, castles, walled cities, gorges, and underground rivers. “Now that the days of hideous Balkan politics are over, Istria is opening up."
"Can you forward that picture to me?” I asked. The pixelation had been stretched so details were impossible to make out, but clearly it was old, a globe with a cherrywood frame, the blue of ocean faded to green and the colors of land gone yellow. Sam showed it to me again at the airport, a vast northern blotch and a vast southern blotch with an equatorial ocean between, which could only mean that this globe was made in the eighteenth century or earlier, before the voyages of Captain Cook.
Well, no. It might mean a lot of things, but possibly the object on Sam's screen was a collector's item. Three centuries ago, people believed in a huge southern continent, balancing the mass of Asia to the north. Cartographers obliged by showing land wherever they could. Could this globe possibly be an uncatalogued Coronelli? I had the collector's disease bad. No way was I going to let this rest.
That night I unwound from my trip. Sam sent her email the next day, including Internet addresses about Istria, a place with interior attractions which tourists ignored, preferring the coast. Sam's Franciscan monastery was one such retreat, in the neglected city of Pazin, folded in ranges of looming karst.
I sought more information. When the week was done I telephoned my co-hobbyist. Lady Paysbury was Dean of Gynecology at London Royal Hospital.
Her life was booked. In lieu of leisure, she had wealth. We'd done business before, despite the ocean between us. It was simple: she funded, I fetched and did the write-ups, adding to my repute among the world's historical cartographers.
Someday I'd quit the insurance biz. Meanwhile I planned my forays so they didn't conflict with my career. Nor was I bereft of mate and daughters, who at times made me travel alone, but mostly were eager to come and impose their own priorities.
I let slip the information about the nudists. The Olson family went “eeewww.” I talked about karst and gorges and caves. No enthusiasm. They knew naught of truffles and found the idea disgusting. “If we're going to Italy, we should go to Tuscany,” they said.
"Istria isn't in Italy. It's in Croatia."
"Croatia!” This failed to cheer.
"But Dante visited the place and that's where he located the entrance to hell,” I said.
Ken, Melody and Annette were not swayed. I spoke again. “Tuscany gets the press nowadays. Ten years from now it'll be Istria. You'll be ahead of the curve."
No dice. Melody's summer theater schedule got in the way. In the end, my trip would be solo. The abbot of the monastery would prefer it thus. I wrote and telephoned and emailed, but the rules of Croatian monasticism confounded me. Having no choice, I decided the thing to do was just show up. Monasteries had to take you in, didn't they?
* * * *
I flew to Trieste on a bargain flight at the rag end of tourist season. I fetched my luggage and got tapped on the shoulder. Drago Sabotnik smiled his wol
fish grin. “Jan! Welcome to Trieste!"
If you're a math major in college and have a name like Janet Olson, you go into insurance.
If you're Drago Sabotnik, you become a wild genius. “Drago!” I said, surprised as hell. “So this is where you ended up?"
"Near enough. Trieste is close to a number of borders. That comes in useful,” Drago said with a wink.
Drago had worked on stochastic decision-modeling software in graduate school. He used it to track the stock market. When he began peddling to big investors, he told them to tweak the default variables. Most didn't. Drago placed his own orders and waited until “p” became 59 percent. The market went into a mad zoom as two dozen brokerage houses obeyed their computer-generated buy orders. Drago became rich overnight, rich enough for a lifetime.
He disappeared before the article came out in the Wall Street Journal; “When Mathematicians Go Bad.” Perhaps Blue Tuesday wasn't his fault, but his role was questionable. The use of lockstep software for stock trading was outlawed. The lesson had been learned.
I remembered Drago as a complex classmate who wrestled with his soul before he did anything, so the spontaneity of riding with me from the airport to my hotel struck me as odd. Maybe his old college crush on me was still a factor. He was big on Trieste; harbor, funicular trolley, ancient synagogue. “Enough with the tour,” I said while still in the cab. “Tell me about yourself."
"There isn't much,” Drago said. “I have money now. I don't call it my money. I regard it as a trust. I'm a praying man, Jan. I know what they think in America: I'm a bad guy, but if I went back and defended myself it would waste everyone's time and I might end up in prison. Meanwhile there are important things to do. But let me turn the tables. Tell me, what brings you to Trieste?"
"I collect old globes. Well, not me exactly. I'm the front person, but I'm developing a reputation. Globes are my specialty in the field of historical cartography."
"Historical cartography,” Drago repeated. “You know, on the Internet if you combine ‘Istria’ and ‘maps’ you get an enormous number of hits. We're the homeland of historical cartography. We're sophisticates. You won't find an unappreciated treasure in this part of the world."
"I see. A praying man? Perhaps a Franciscan monk? I think it was no accident you met me at the airport,” I said.
"I'd spare you a trip,” Drago said. “The globe you want isn't for sale."
"The monastery could have sent a letter,” I complained.
"And should have. But by the time your translated email—oh, bother. Why defend them? The Croatian Nationalists have won control of the government and the Catholic church, particularly the Franciscan order, is closely involved. Your communications got set aside in the political hullabaloo. So you spent your money and I wish it weren't wasted. There's much else good in these parts.” Drago sighed. “If I could help—but the globe, no. Not ever that."
"What about that globe? Why does it look like no place—oh, here we are. What a hotel! Art deco and then some."
We paid the cabbie, and made our wind-whipped way into the glorious interior. I checked in. We squeezed into a tiny elevator and lurched to the fourth floor. I entered a high-ceiling suite and set my suitcase by the dresser. Drago took the phone and spoke to room service. “Some good wine to celebrate our meeting again,” he said to me.
"I have to shower off a day of airports and cramped planes,” I said. “Then I want an accounting. Tell me the story of that globe. Lady Paysbury will expect no less."
Drago nodded. I came back from my shower in a hotel bathrobe. A knock on the door signaled the wine. Drago poured. We toasted each other. “Well then, about the globe,” Drago began. “What are your impressions from the picture? Which should never have been made public, by the way."
"A badly whanged-out East Indies,” I said. “Oversized, but small compared to the humongous Australia. Even Asia is oversized, except India's gone missing. That's the only sense I make of it."
"Dear old Jan, what's your impression of the Austro-Hungarian empire? An underachiever in world affairs, don't you agree?"
"I'm told pensioners in Italy are still alive who collect from the imperial days."
"From tiny Austria, doing the noble thing.” Drago drank. “Foolish, perhaps. There is no empire anymore. Nor do I imagine it will be wanted again. On this world, gone. On another world, the grand ideal. And all connections, very very secret."
"Another world? How am I to take that? You've gone off the weird end,” I said.
"We do that a lot here,” Drago agreed. “We believe in Crusader orders and heirs to Byzantium and all that crap. People kill each other because of what happened in 1452.” He paused and took another drink. “It's not a very good other world. At this juncture the Austro-Hungarian Empire can't put a lot of money into the place. Sad, really."
"Sad bullshit."
"They used to come the other way. We stopped that centuries ago.” Drago sipped again. “Janet Olson, I noticed this about you back in college. Everyone assumed you were on their side. Winos evicted from K-Marts came bitching about security guards as if you'd make everything right. You reek of humanity. And now I want to tell you more than I should about all this. You'd make a great confessor."
"It's good wine,” I said, holding my glass to the light. “No, but if it were another world, how'd it get mapped the whole way around by underachieving Austrians, or Franciscan monks?"
"Or yet less likely, by the Dur Ossur. They're nocturnal and breathe fog. That's their handicap on a world of huge deserts. Our handicap is, we don't reproduce. Lack of women."
"How do you get there? Spaceships?” I asked, mastering a skeptical look.
"A miracle, with chance of death,” Drago said. “It's like something from a torture chamber. It's not of human manufacture, and it can misfire. We send only devout monks who accept the risk. If we did otherwise, a single female, the long peace would be over. If you knew about the Dur Ossur, you'd understand."
"Neener-neener Twilight Zone stuff! I'd still like to see the globe,” I said.
"It's not going to happen."
"Why this elaborate lie?” I complained in a louder voice. “I understand when people say no deal. You don't have to cook up stories of fog monsters from another planet."
Drago spoke after a long silence. “You'll have to swear to secrecy. The day you show up in Pazin—"
"Tomorrow,” I said. I knew he'd relent. In the old days, the power I held over Drago had frightened me. Maybe it scared him too. Once a mad romantic, now he'd gone far in the opposite direction.
"Tomorrow I'll prove I'm no liar, if you make a promise beyond any compromise. Our captured iron box isn't of human manufacture. I'll show you that, too. But only if you keep your mouth shut."
I made an easy promise, easy because I wasn't having a bit of it. Drago and I drank a last glass of wine and then I got him out, on the excuse that I needed to sleep off my travel fatigue. I went to bed and woke hours later to gray skies and rush-hour traffic. Morning? Evening? I called down to the desk to find out. That's when I noticed my cell phone was blinking.
It could only be Drago, but it wasn't. In her message Samantha left a local number.
How had she found me? Was it just by chance that her vacation overlapped my visit? I was in a paranoid part of the world, and more was going on than could be explained by coincidence.
I needed to clear my head. I put on my jogging togs and went outside to run along the esplanade and breathe some Adriatic air. Afterward I sat down to al fresco coffee and returned Samantha's call. She answered: “Where are you? Still in Trieste? I'll be right over."
I barely had time to buy the International Herald Tribune and get my second cup before Sam pulled up in her red Spider convertible. The sun burned through the clouds, and all was happy good cheer. “I'm so pleased to have someone I can rattle off at in English,” Sam said. “What's your schedule today?"
"Rent a car and head down to Pazin, to the monastery,” I said
.
Sam nodded. “I've got a car. Pazin is on my list, if you want to share the ride."
"I might spend more time at the monastery than you'd like,” I warned.
Sam shrugged. “There's the castle and the gorge, both close and touristized. How can you turn this down? Everybody knows what a cheap traveler you are!"
I laughed and nodded. I could do nothing else if I hoped to stay friends with this woman. After a short return to the hotel, Sam and I were on our way. Borders came quickly. Leaving Italy, we drove through narrow Slovenia and reached Croatian Istria. Most of the traffic veered for the coast, but Sam and I turned inland, driving past hilltop castles and tiny walled towns. Any historical cartographer will confess his true dream is to visit the lands of centuries ago. Here I was, only the roads were paved and Istria had gas stations.
Samantha clicked on the radio. A newsvoice spoke. “There's some accident involving a yacht in the Limsfjord,” Sam translated.
"You know Croatian?"
"Italian,” she said with a laugh. “The radio guy uses both languages but just one accent. What about you? What languages do you know?"
"German,” I said.
"There are lots of German tourists. German could be useful,” Sam said.
* * * *
Although Mediterranean and entirely non-Norwegian, Istria's Limski kanal had been dubbed the “Limsfjord” because fjords were a tourist draw. Istria had everything a tourist could want. It was wonderful that way. It even had a mysterious gateway to another planet, if Drago Sabotnik was to be believed.
We reached Pazin in time for lunch. The city was squeezed by the folded heights and depths around it. Schoolkids played soccer in the monastery environs. After we ate, Sam took her way toward the famous gorge that had inspired Dante. I gave her a smile and a wave, found the monastery door unlocked, and went inside to repeat the name of Drago Sabotnik until I met someone willing to help me.
Asimov's SF, Oct/Nov 2005 Page 18
