Ages of Wonder Read online

  “Apollo,” he whispered.

  Play me there, murmured a voice.

  Lucius set the lamp and the swaddled curse tablet at his feet and took out his flute. He played the paean he and the siblings had played that afternoon. He expected nothing now: it had always taken at least three musicians to bring magic into the music. He played, his breath steadying, the song growing from a limping twitter to a strong string of melody, and then he felt huge hands on his shoulders, steadying him. He played, wondering if the priest would hear and come to curse him for being in this holy place where he did not belong.

  I am here, murmured the voice. Do your deed, if you must.

  Strengthened by the hands on his shoulders, Lucius lowered his flute. The air was soft again, no barrier. He stooped and lifted the curse tablet, took the last three steps to the well.

  He paused.

  Dropping the curse tablet into the well would set the curse in motion. Was he ready to aid in such a terrible undertaking? He remembered the words he had memorized, all the afflictions to be set upon Quintus Valerius Cato. How could he wish such ills on another man?

  Quintus had chained Prisca in a dark room. He did not feed her enough, and he misused her, too, showing his contempt for his rival by mistreating something Master Gaius loved. Quintus’ other slaves had had plenty of complaints, and they were supposedly the lucky ones.

  Prisca was a slave, less than human, chattel. Her legal owner had the right to decide what to do with her.

  Lucius was a slave, and he had been ordered to do this duty.

  He could say he had failed. Only Apollo and Mithras would know the truth.

  Lucius held the lamp out over the lip of the well and looked down into darkness blacker than tar. No gleam of light came back to him, only a deep chill and a cascade of faint whispers.

  He tossed the tablet in. “Mithras, I entreat you to aid this curse in its execution in this life and the next.” He did not hear a splash, but he felt a shift in the air, and spikes of frozen nails drove through his bones. His blood on the tablet. His hand in its initiation. It was part of him now, like all his other masters.

  The warm hands on his shoulders pressed once more against his knotted muscles, then vanished. Lucius turned and walked out of the temple. His stomach curdled. Lines of cold lay along his bones.

  The witch waited for him. She tucked her arm through his and they walked back to her apartment building. He stopped at the entrance to the stairs, though, and touched the red thread around his wrist. It unknotted itself and dropped off, the red fading from it until it was pale brown.

  “What? I haven’t gotten my payment out of you yet,” she said.

  He untied the purse with her fee from his belt and handed it to her.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “You may not have gotten the payment you want, but it was payment, just the same,” he said. “I did a piece of your work for you, and it hurt me.” He didn’t recognize his own voice: cold had lodged in it.

  She opened the pouch and looked inside, then up at him.

  “This is more than I asked for,” she said.

  “The master thought my encounter with the god would make me less useful to you,” he said. “He sent a bonus.”

  She made the pouch disappear under her heavy shawl and took the lamp from him. “A wise man, your master,” she said. “I’d be pleased to work for him again. Have him send me someone else next time.”

  On the way home, Lucius stopped outside the house where the party had been. The lights were lower now, the talk quieted to murmurs, but somewhere a lyre strummed softly; someone blew across Pan pipes. He leaned against the wall and took out his flute, played a line of melody to match the one the hidden musicians played inside. At first he could not find the pitch nor the rhythm, but then heat kindled in the center of his forehead, and the music opened up to him again. His newest god had not rejected him, so he played himself inside a prayer and stayed there until the others stilled their instruments in sleep.

  By the time he reached home, the household was dark. He went to his pallet and lay listening to others breathing sleep around him. Deodatus cried out in his sleep, but they were used to that now, and no one else stirred.

  In the space of one day, Lucius had acquired three new masters and cast off one. The cold silver in his bones told him he was bound to Mithras still, by calling down the god to work the curse; the mark on his forehead, the new joy in his music, told him he was still tied to Apollo; but the witch had lost her hold. He touched the slave collar, the chafing sign of his first master, sighed, and slept.

  The curse took days to beat Quintus Valerius Cato down. Master Gaius set Lucius to watch the house and see what transpired. Lucius learned the outside of the house very well, and watched a procession of visitors and slaves enter and leave. He noticed when new graffiti was scratched into the bricks. He learned which narrow slit of window led into Prisca’s cell, and sometimes he lingered outside it and played quietly on the flute. At those times, her soft sobs stopped.

  He met with Quintus’ slaves in the marketplace or a tavern near the house and bought them food and drink in exchange for news from inside the house. The curse started slowly, but its effects grew, until Quintus could hardly leave his bed without pain, and what sleep he managed was haunted by nightmares, the slaves said. A physician was called in three times, and finally Quintus sent for a soothsayer.

  In the long, increasingly warm and humid afternoons, Lucius had time to contemplate. The cold Mithras needles in his bones pricked him sometimes; that was when he knew the curse was working. Times like that, he had no hunger for food; his stomach soured.

  Sometimes a thread of music called him from his post, drew him toward the river or the market, and at those times he gave himself up to the god, until his collar choked him back to the uncomfortable present.

  He was at his post, an alcove shaded by a potted tree, when the curse finally bore fruit. Prisca, frail, pale, and wrapped in a red robe, was led stumbling from the house by one of Quintus’ German slaves, a big, light-haired man whose language Lucius did not know, though he had learned which drink the man liked best at the tavern. The German was half-carrying Prisca. Lucius followed them until they were beyond sight of the house’s vestibule, then slipped up beside the German. The big man nodded, but continued on through the streets.

  “Prisca?” Lucius said softly. Her eyes were red with weeping.

  “Oh, Lucius!” she said. “Finally I am free of that place!”

  “Will you come home with me?” he said. Master Gaius would surely want to see to her safety; he could arrange lodging for her.

  “I cannot. Master Quintus sends me to the temple of Mercurius, so the soothsayer told him.” She held out her chafed wrists. “Look, Lucius. I am free.”

  “Free,” he echoed, and fell back a step.

  “I am to be purified and released. He even gave me three denarii. I can go home to my mother and my sister now.”

  Lucius stood where he was and watched the German coax Prisca down the street toward the temple. Soon they were lost amid the afternoon traffic. The curse had been worded that way: Quintus could only break it by freeing the girl.

  Already Lucius felt a faint warmth along his bones, though he still felt the pricking of a silvery needle in his neck. The god had looked toward him and might never turn entirely away.

  He went home to his first master to report.

  To Play the Game of Men

  Caitlin Sweet

  It’s lonely, being the only horse in hell.

  There are diversions, certainly. The Abyss is fairly dark, but the sounds are loud and often entertaining: the Toiler’s grunts, the faster-faster rumble of his stone, and the gusty sigh he always heaves in the silence after its descent. The Yearner’s infuriated shouts are so dramatic that my ears flick, and when the First Giants roll over in their sleep I actually wish for human ears and human hands to cover them with. At least the Giants have ea
ch other. At least the Toiler and the Yearner can shout back and forth through the gloom—even if all they ever do is whine about too much exercise and not enough food. But I’m alone. My own fault, but I’ll complain anyway.

  I still have my looks, which is something. As I’ve said, it’s dark here, thanks to the smoke, and of course the three layers of night that hang over the bronze wall. But sometimes the night thins, or a gout of flame shoots up from the pit, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the wall. A handsome beast, even if my brown-black sides aren’t quite as glossy as they used to be. The blaze on my forehead looks wonderfully white and unsullied. You can still see why I was so popular on the Peak.

  It wasn’t just that I was handsome, though—I was also dependable. From the moment I was given my first assignment among men, I performed precisely as my divine audience expected me to. “They’ll love you,” hissed my harpy mother, tangling her claws in my mane as she always did, when she tried to stroke it. “They’ll name you and feed you and think you’re theirs,” whispered my wind father, his breath warm and sweet as flowers. Neither of them mentioned that these men would sit on me, their bodies sharp and lumpy and ungainly, or that they’d strap me to chariots so loaded down with bronze that even I grew tired of pulling. But I was eager to please. When the Father of all Gods cried, “Lead them to glory and ruin! Make us laugh and weep!” I tossed my head and pawed at the mountain earth.

  I never expected to disobey—but then, I never expected the Boy.

  “There’s a boy,” the Judge said. Everyone squinted at her. You could only ever really see her on rainy days; in sunlight she was far too sparkly, with all that armor and the spear. “Looks promising.”

  The Warrior grunted. “That’s what you said about the one who ended up goring himself on a boar. My magical hounds wasted a lot of effort on that one.”

  “No,” the Judge said slowly, “this one’s different. He’s a prince. Adores his mother, hates his father. Small, but already good with weapons. Great wrestler. Thinks deep thoughts.” She turned to the Father in a blur of gold. “I say he’s next.”

  “I say we choose a girl,” the Huntress put in. Everyone laughed and shouted at her, and she ran down into the woods, her bow bouncing off her back. (She never could deal with criticism.)

  “Very well, then,” the Mother said, shifting on her throne so that the folds of her gown rippled. “We’ve already let them figure out fire, and mining, and smelting—all very entertaining. We’ve blown their ships off course and allowed them to discover new lands. And their music and writing—we’ve done well there. What will we have this one do?”

  The Father set down his wine jug. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, trailing a new, glistening swath of purple through his beard. “New lands.” Even when he spoke quietly, his words shuddered with thunder. “Been a long time. There’s blood in that. Burning. Lots of ecstasy and anguish. Yes.” He nodded. His brown eyes had already turned silver with tears.

  “The kid’s good with horses,” the Strongman commented. (He was spending the summer with us, even though the Mother hated him.)

  Everyone turned to me. I took one more nibble of grass, trying to seem nonchalant. It had been more than a thousand years since the last War, and I was young for an immortal: I was giddy with excitement, but too proud to let anyone see it.

  “You,” the Father said. (Men give us names; we have no need of them among ourselves.) “You’ve been idle, while your brothers have been busy below. Go”—the thunder rumbled, through wind and sunlight—“Go and make him yours, and you will be rewarded.”

  I went, and even when the high, thin mountain air gave way to the oppressive sky of men, I felt light with joy and purpose.

  Innocence only turns into ignorance when it’s too late to matter.

  The Boy was small. He was twelve years old; at the same age, my former master, the Hero, had looked like a man. I wondered whether the Judge knew what she was doing with this one.

  The Boy noticed me immediately. I was making quite a show of it, of course, bucking and rearing so that the men around me scattered like frightened birds. He tugged on his father’s tunic and pointed at me.

  “No,” I heard the King say, as he regarded me with his good eye (his blind one was puckered shut). “No—and how dare you bring such an unruly beast onto my grounds?” The question he addressed to the horse trader who had brought me to the palace, along with several more docile (and mortal) creatures. The man stammered and flushed; the King’s rages were legendary.

  “I will ride him.” The Boy’s voice was as high and clear as water. The crowd was quiet, suddenly. I gave an especially piercing whinny and a snort that ruffled the hair on the nearest man’s head.

  “No.” More growl than word, but the Boy’s gray eyes remained fixed on the King.

  “Yes, Father. I swear by the King of all Gods that I will ride him.”

  A wind from the east swirled around us all, raising dust from the riding ground. I knew the wind would carry the Boy’s words and image to the Father, and that he would laugh with delight.

  The King’s hands were shaking. “You are a boy,” he said through gritted teeth. Spittle shone in his dark beard. “Do you think you will succeed where your elders have failed?”

  “I do.” The Boy looked at me; a child with golden hair and a gaze like fire. Maybe it was too late for me, even then? (A sentimental thought. I have too many of these in the Abyss, but who can blame me?)

  After the King and the trader had murmured to each other, the King swept his own gaze around the assembly and gave a broad, false smile. “He costs thirteen talents, Boy. If you are unable to make good on your intention, you’ll have to pay for him yourself.”

  The Boy nodded solemnly. “I accept your terms,” he said, “but only because I intend to succeed.”

  The gods are going to love this kid, I thought as I wrenched my bridle away from the man who held it. The laughter that had risen after the Boy’s declaration turned to concerned muttering. He ignored everyone. He walked slowly toward me, his head high, shoulders back. I pawed sharp grooves into the dirt. I could have killed him with one blow; could have killed all of them. This knowledge had helped me endure many unpleasant interactions with men in the past.

  He glanced at the ground, where my shadow shied and shivered, then back up at me. The Strongman had been right: the Boy knew horses—mortal ones, anyway, which were frequently startled by their own shadows. The Boy approached me, his face serious. “Hello, Ox-Head,” he said—and so he named me, before he had even touched me. “Ox-Head,” after the shape of the white blaze on my forehead. “You’re the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen—do you belong to the gods?” Before I could master my surprise, he had grasped the trailing bridle and turned me directly into the sun. “Now, then,” he continued, “there’s no more shadow; nothing to be afraid of. And as you can probably see, I’m very light. My father says my sister looks like more of a boy than I do.” And he was up, somehow, mid-sentence; up, a slender shape in the air beside me; a slight but firm weight upon my back. “I’ll be a man soon, though. Let’s show him, Ox-Head.”

  I let him lead, though it wasn’t hard: he was strong and sure, his knees and heels pressing just enough to direct me. (The Hero had kicked me twice the first time he rode me. He was lucky he survived it.) The Boy and I rode in a slow, wide circle before the palace. I pretended to be restive, at first, but soon I let him feel me calming. He leaned forward, said again, “Let’s show him,” and dug his heels into my sides.

  I galloped. It’s never the same off the Peak—my earthly body is heavy, as is the air—but this time felt surprisingly close. We nearly flew—away from the palace, into a stand of trees, and then in a curving arc back. The Boy’s whoops rang in my ears. You have no idea, I thought, how happy you should be. I’m yours now, and you’re already great.

  The crowd cheered wildly as I reared to a stop (taking care not to unseat the Boy). The King walked over to us. There we
re tears trickling from his good eye, over his scar-seamed cheek. “Son,” he said, as the Boy slid from my back, “we’ll have to find a worthier kingdom. This one’s going to be much too small for you.” Man and child looked at each other and smiled, a moment I knew would play well on the Peak. Indeed, a wind from the north brought me the gods’ voices just as the Boy was turning back to me.

  “Bravo, Ox-Head!” the Father cried, obviously relishing my new name. “You’ve got him!” The Lover sighed and sniffed (her sighs and sniffs were unmistakable, even from a distance). I lowered my nose into the boy’s cupped hand, warm with a happiness that seemed simple at the time.

  My first human master had ignored me—my brother and I were just another wedding present from the gods. His son, the Hero, had reveled in my ability to make him look impressive (I wasn’t even a little sorry when the Thinker decided to let him die). These two men, who knew I was immortal, had cared little for me—but the Boy, who did not know, loved me. From the moment he turned me away from my shadow and spoke my name, he loved me. I think I knew that then, though I can name it only now.

  People think that immortal beings live lives of variety, richness and excitement. This is utterly untrue. Immortality can drag, when you’re always happy and the rain is always warm and the flowers always taste like ambrosia. (Don’t misunderstand me: I’d take this kind of boredom any day, over the dark, malodorous monotony I have to deal with now.) This is precisely why the gods were always at each other, always courting the kinds of jealousies, ecstasies and rages they so enjoyed watching men feel. It’s why they needed me, the immortal who was able, effortlessly, to go down and live among humankind, without needing to turn into a shaft of sunlight or a bull that could tread water.

  I loved pleasing the gods with my work. At first this was the only kind of satisfaction I was aware of. I’d wait for my kin the winds to bring me voices: the Father’s boom, the Mother’s regal whine, the Thinker’s clear, ringing bronze. Even the Lover’s sniffling was praise. I was lending the Boy my divine aura; I was affecting the courses of men and nations for my masters’ diversion. It was a fine game, and I was proud of my part in it.