CHAPTER FORTY-TWO:
Immortal Foe
Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate
The Path of Tidus stretched before him, perfectly straight as it pierced the countryside. Despite the rain, the water filtered from the paving stones, and thanks to the brilliance of engineers it remained as it always had.
As it always had, that is, except for its silence and loneliness. Where merchants, farmers, and assorted travelers once packed the road, emptiness now reigned. Still, Claudio’s army—about eight thousand strong, having swelled from Antonio’s forces—marched on. Many had taken sick in the constant damp chill. Claudio had caught a cold, and a septic dribble refused to relent.
The citizens along the Path of Tidus gladly fed Claudio and his army. The people of Gad especially had offered what they could: bread, meat, and preserves. The former regent Antonio—whom posterity would despise—had tried to feed lies to the provincials in Gad and elsewhere. But even in their lies, bits of the truth had reached them: Claudio arrogantly, or insolently, or brazenly—whatever descriptors they added—had conquered Khazidea and slain the Fharese emperor. Despite all other falsehoods, they took to Claudio and many joined the army. He had started a new rebellion, not against the Empire but against the Council: against the cowards and the traitors, against the worms in their midst.
Three days after they crossed the Anthanian border, they neared Aurelea. A small city built along the Path, it had no walls. Like many cities of the interior, the people of Aurelea did not fear war.
But when they finally reached what should have been the city, they saw only a hole in the earth, a gaping maw. The immense sinkhole had swallowed the entire city; a funnel of dirt ended in a black chasm of inestimable depth.
Crows called out. A few soldiers called out in fear. This had to be the work of the mysterious northern rebels. In the midst of this dark, rainy day, Claudio hopped off Borak and knelt before the fallen city. He said a prayer in the midst of the falling rain, asking for strength; strength, that he might decimate the rebellion and its dark powers, and that he might destroy the cowardly worms who allowed it to happen.
It was not long before the loneliness was broken. A man—poor, judging by his torn gray clothes—circumvented the giant funnel.
“Signore! Are you Claudio?” he shouted. “I have heard so much about you!”
Claudio tried to smile, but he could not. All those lives, snatched into the belly of the earth. “Hello, signore…” he managed to say.
“Aurelea was once my hometown. I had gone on a pilgrimage to Sanctum… and I saw this happen. The rebels serve the underworld god. They claim there is a whole civilization, a whole world beneath our feet! Legions have broken on them like water. They are invincible. I think it is the end of everything… the Last Days are upon us!”
The man looked gaunt, the skin of his face stretched tight across his bones. Doubtlessly he had gone hungry for days.
“Come, have something to eat,” Claudio said.
“Thank you! Thank you, signore!”
The more he heard about these rebels, the more Claudio was convinced that the man spoke truth. If he faced them man-for-man, on a field of battle, Claudio would fail. He would die like his father—gods rest his soul—and most importantly, he would fail the Empire.
“So what?” Claudio presented the problem to Milo, tribune and friend.
His dark eyes at once filled with thought. “A rebellion of immortal power cannot be defeated by mortal means.”
“A wise observation.” Claudio frowned. “Wise, but not entirely useful. How can we defeat them? Could we order the Pontifex to offer up bulls in the gods’ name?”
“That old man can’t solve a theological problem with an army of priests! Could he really solve one of such magnitude?”
Claudio laughed faintly. Indeed, the question of whether ratlings had souls had taken ten years to decide, and when the answer—Yes!—had finally been chosen, a few high-ranking priests had called for further deliberation. The question remained unresolved. Claudio wondered exactly what constituted a soul, and why—if ratlings had emotions, and could speak to humans—the question was even asked.
Claudio looked into the dirt. He pondered a while, until at last all the racing thoughts formed into spoken words: “The oracle…”
Milo looked surprised. “The Pontifex wouldn’t like that.”
“The Pontifex doesn’t like anything.”
Milo grinned. “Yes, I suppose that’s right. The Pontifex is all rules, regulation, and debate… the oracle is wild, inspired, and maybe crazy.”
“It is worth a try, no?” Claudio said. “The Empire is at a crisis. Anything and everything must be tried. The Pontifex would have offered a solution if he had one. And if he had one, I would have heard of it by now, though I am a rebel.”
“He has been silent, as far as I know.” Milo’s grin widened. “He only runs his mouth when it’s not wanted. As soon as we need him, he shuts up.”
“I’m not sure, though… Mount Hylea is far away. It could be a lot of effort for naught. When has the oracle really helped anyone, or anything?”
“Emperor Varius… Emperor Secundus…”
Claudio pursed his lips and nodded slowly. Emperor Varius had saved his life thanks to the oracle’s mad mutterings; she had identified every conspirator in his midst. She had given invaluable advice to the Emperor Secundus in his wars with the northern barbarians.
Long ago the oracle had done her work in Eloesus, in the wild land of Themuria where she prophesied with the wild satyrs. But after the conquest of her homeland, the emperor had moved the oracle and her spiritual descendants to southern Anthania. He had changed the name Mount Metellus to Mount Hylea to make her feel at home, and provided her with whatever she asked. A long shot, but what options were there?
“You’re right,” Claudio said. “It’s out of the way, but what else can we do?”
~
Down the road they marched, braving the constant cold and rain. Several days later, midway through Anthania, a path diverged. It would take them to the southwest, and eventually to Mount Hylea. But the dark clouds above, and the strangely ghostlike wind, filled Claudio with unease. He remembered what he heard of the oracle, that she was mad, and gave a passing thought to long-dead Queen Astarthe. Then, he walked on.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE:
A Strange Goddess
Anthea Abantes
He had seemed so interested in her at first. Now, he acted like she didn’t exist. He deflected all attempts at conversation, not maliciously but with a look of determination in his eye. His goal of saving the Empire, of punishing its enemies, had consumed him. All well and good, but Anthea wanted him. Anthea, a whore from the west side, wanted Claudio-Valens: a Grand Legate, an Imperial Knight. If her mother still lived, she would laugh at her.
They were turning, now, off the famous Path of Tidus with its great width. Another road, thinner but just as straight and well paved, shot off to the southwest. A wooden sign illuminated the matter: To Isle of Serpents, Mount Hylea, Lornatium and the Ocean.
She had heard of such places in passing, but not in any detail. Isle of Serpents lay miles out to sea, a great volcano in its center; snakes of enormous size slithered through its beaches, as its name suggested. As for Mount Hylea… a mad woman lived on that mountain, claiming to receive messages from a strange goddess.
Memories rushed back to her: memories of a half-remembered dream. Images of a mad woman with white, blind eyes and her mother, a goddess who wished to change the world.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR:
Letters
Bruesio Lornodoris, August
It took the better part of a day to find a sailor brave, or stupid enough to sail the Middle Sea in winter. Eleven Imperial Councilors, their wives and children—a group of about fifty souls—packed tight into a galley.
Bruesio’s wife Flora hated the idea, but after a s
erious talk and a few harsh rebukes she finally consented. She did not want to leave their spacious house, their hound Rufus, or their friends. Her brown and gray hair was uncharacteristically tousled and wild as she climbed onto the ship; she had no time to fix it. She loaded several boxes of jewelry and luggage onto the galley and Bruesio reflected on how much he loved her. Unlike most other councilors, they had stayed together through tough times; one marriage was enough for Bruesio. Two people, one marriage, one life.
He smiled, then hauled his feeble self onto the galley. The rain had briefly stopped. The waves were choppy and rough, and at the sight of them Bruesio’s gut clenched. He wondered if this was a bad idea after all.
Ahead of him lay the isle of Dualmis and its many mansions. As the sailors prepared to leave the dock, he looked back at the city he had loved. It had been a great cause, a great ideal. But the Empire had failed; it had disrespected the noble King of Kings and invited his wrath. It had mistreated the slaves, sold the proud and intelligent Eloesians into bondage under rude Imperial masters. Perhaps—he thought as they pulled away into rough waters—the Empire deserved this.
He sat down on a wooden bench and laid his hand on Flora’s shoulder. He reminded himself that—even if the Empire fell, and its cities burned against rebel and Fharese torches—he still had a life. He had money stored in temples and safe-houses across the former Empire. If he switched allegiance, whether to the Four-Pointed Star or the red swath of the rebels, he would go on with Flora as they always had.
It happened so quickly. The sailors did their best, but the current overpowered them. Before Bruesio had a good idea of what was happening, the prow of the galley had shattered on a rocky patch of Dualmis’ shore. Bruesio went flying and hit the sand, breaking a tooth and perhaps a rib. People were screaming; he glimpsed Councilor Juliano flailing in the water as he was pulled out to sea.
Trapped in Dualmis. Bruesio could think of worse places to spend a winter. He did not like the proximity to the rebels. But he had had friends here: wealthy merchants, former governors… yes, they’d take him in.
His friend Silvio had a mansion on Dualmis. After the explanation, Silvio—as expected—took Bruesio and Flora in, and, moreover, invited them to dinner.
There, slaves brought out bowls of spicy lamprey stew, crispy loaves of sweetbread, and crystal goblets filled with red Korthian wine. Silvio, his wife Marcia, and their aloof son Jacopo shared the meal with the Lornodoris family. Bruesio made sure not to alarm them with the “sinkhole” threat, which now seemed a distant memory; but the talk of the island, and probably the whole Empire, was the rebels.
Flora retired early, and Silvio’s family followed. In the spacious common room, Bruesio took a seat, feeling at peace with the world. What better time to reminisce about his long and fruitful life? He opened Flora’s luggage.
There was the pendant he bought her, made from lapis lazuli and silver; golden necklaces, ruby rings and her beloved emerald earrings. In another box lay her clothing: a Fharese-style woman’s robe of silk, complete with the Four-Pointed Star; a purple dress with gold embroidery that he had bought her for their anniversary; and strangely, a small brass key.
Next, a smaller box he didn’t recognize. He tried it, but it was locked. Bruesio raised a brow and grabbed the key; it fit perfectly. Inside, he found letters.
He picked one up, and the more he read, the colder the room grew. Soon, he was shaking:
To dearest Flora:
You say you will never forget the summer of 975… You say you will always hold it dear to your heart, like I held you. Neither will I forget it. You, in truth, are a beauty on the outside and also within. I will remember you always; but I am soon to be wed. I know this hurts you but I am marrying Catalina. Perhaps it is for the best… for though I held you in my arms, you are wed to old Bruesio. Though feeble he holds much power, even if undue. And though that night was beautiful, he has the influence to remove me from the legion. Just remember that I will remember you.
Flora and Bruesio had wed in 961. He was shaking, nearly convulsing, now. A legionary, or a legate, wed to a woman named Catalina. He grew nauseous.
The letter was signed:
L.V. A.
Lucento-Valens Adamantus married a woman named Catalina. No. No.
“No,” he said aloud.
But it made sense. Around 975, Lucento had been stationed in Imperial City. He had dined with Bruesio… dined with the councilors. Dined with Flora.
“No,” he said again, louder this time.
Their marriage had been a sham. Of all people, why Lucento? Of all people, why an Adamantus?
She would pay with her life.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE:
The Oracle of Hylea
Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate
The skies had cleared; now, the sun shone bright against a blue sky.
Before him, down a hill, was the small settlement called Lornatium: a name Claudio had never heard before. Beyond it lay the rough blue waters of the ocean. It all lay in the shadow of Mount Hylea. Surrounded by a forest of oaks, dark green pines covered the jagged peak up to its snowy summit.
Milo walked beside him. A small dirt path broke off the road toward the lone mountain. Claudio looked at his friend and said, “Ready?”
“I think,” Milo began, “that you should go alone.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know… I suppose I think you’re the one the oracle needs to talk to. It just seems right…”
Claudio peered into his friend’s dark eyes. He trusted his friend’s judgment, but in truth, he did not want to go alone.
The mountain path wound round and round the peak up steep switchbacks and beside waterfalls. The air grew cooler and cooler, and despite it Claudio grew sweatier with every step. The air thinned, but he did not stop. It was more than an hour later when the path abruptly ended at a rocky meadow.
Two things immediately struck him: the ruins of a white pillared temple, and the sound of wild drums.
Claudio hesitated. He had commanded a battle, faced elephants, and gone deep into enemy territory; but he wondered if this oracle would undo him.
The drums continued. He took a few steps forward and stopped; then he swallowed his fear, and walked toward the temple with all the bravery he could muster.
When he reached the temple’s broken pillars, the drumbeat quickened. As he stared at the destroyed temple, its roof collapsed and its stone floor now open to the elements, he got the sense someone was watching him. He touched the hilt of his sword.
“Ah, ah, ah,” a woman’s voice answered from behind.
Calmly, he removed his grip. Slowly, he turned around.
The woman’s eyes were white and sightless. She wore a skirt and a brassiere, nothing more. A green snake had coiled around her legs and around her bare waist, and its cold reptilian eyes peered at Claudio from her shoulder.
“Claudio-Valens,” she said. “I am the Oracle of Hylea. I have lived many lifetimes and I see all things, and yet—” She pointed to her eyes. “—in some ways I see nothing.”
Her hair, dark and thick, hung to her hips.
“In some, I see imminent destruction. In others, I see long bitter life. In others, I see weakness.”
“What do you see in me?”
The drums stopped and the silence felt strange. The snake flicked its forked tongue. “Why have you come?” the oracle asked.
“I have come because the Empire is in crisis. A rebellion has started and no one can defeat them. They have the god of the underworld on their side.”
“What do I see in you, you ask,” the oracle snapped. “Let me be clear, or vague. The emperor will wed a whore. The emperor will become a god. That much is clear. If it does not happen, the nation will crumble.”
“There is no one on the White Throne. There is no emperor.”
“The god of the underworld is on no one’s side!” the oracle hissed. “The god of the underworld
is a god of darkness and shadows. If he grants power to the rebels, light must shine on them. I know what you must do, Claudio-Valens Adamantus! I will do the work. The goddess will call her Servant; but you must be brave. You must turn back, march to Imperial City. You must trust and believe in my words. Then, if you stand the test of bravery and faith, then, and only then, will the rebels falter, and the Empire find its rescue.”
“Very well. I will turn back. What other choice do we have?”
“You say there is no emperor!” the oracle shrieked as if in pain. “That is why you must wed a whore!”
“What?” Perhaps she was insane after all.
“The emperor must wed a whore, as I said! You must become the emperor, and you must do as I said. If you fail, the Empire will falter.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Look!” the oracle screamed.
Claudio gazed beyond the madwoman. In the distance, near the path, someone was struggling through brush and vines: dark brown hair, olive skin. The Eloesian girl, the prostitute… Anthea Abantes. For once, the oracle’s words made sense.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX:
Union
Anthea Abantes
The way he looked at her sent her heart fluttering. Those brown eyes held such compassion, and yet such incredible strength. Unwavering determination, perhaps imperfect like all humans; good, and yet strong.
The oracle turned around. Her wild dark hair and sightless white eyes caused Anthea to shudder. More than that, the snake twined around her body made her tremble. The yellow reptilian eyes, cold and murderous, betrayed an intelligence, or at least a kinship with the oracle: a shared soul.
A temple stood behind them, its roof shattered and its pillars broken. Perhaps, long ago, it had served as the earthly home of some ancient serpent god. “Claudio?” Anthea said.