Night & Demons (18 page)

The merchant chuckled. “I know what I’ve heard from Menelaus,” he said. “Mostly that Pyrrhus isn’t a gentleman. He’s a priest from somewhere in the East—I’ve heard Edessa, but I’ve heard other places. Came here to Rome, found an old temple that was falling down and made it his church.”

Dama sipped wine and rolled it around his mouth as if trying to clear away the taste of something. Maybe he was. He’d felt no twinge at mentioning Menelaus’s name, even though his friend’s body was still in the process of being laid out.

Menelaus had always wanted to be cremated. He said that the newer fashion of inhumation came from—he’d glance around, to make sure he wasn’t being overheard by those who might take violent offense—mystical nonsense about resurrection of the body.

Vettius looked past Dama toward the bartender.
“
You there,” he called, fishing silver from his wallet. “Sausage rolls for me and my friend.”

To the merchant he added, as blandly as though they
were
old friends, “There’s something about a snake?”

“Yes . . .” Dama said, marshalling his recollections.
“
He claims to have one of the bronze serpents that Christ set up in the wilderness to drive away a plague. Something like that. He claims it talks, gives prophecies.”

“Does it?”

Dama snorted.
“
I can make a snake talk—to fools—if there’s enough money in it. And there’s money in this one, believe me.”

He bit into a steaming sausage roll. It was juicy; good materials well-prepared, and the wine was better than decent as well. It was a nice tavern, a reasonable place to stop.

Besides being the place nearest to the Prefect’s doorway where Dama could get a drink.

He poured a little wine onto the terrazzo floor. The drops felt cool when they splashed his sandaled feet. Vettius cocked an eyebrow at him.

“An offering to a friend,” Dama said curtly.

“One kind of offering,” the soldier answered. “Not necessarily the kind that does the most good.”

Dama had been thinking the same thing. That was why he didn’t mind talking about his friend after all . . . .

For a moment, the two men eyed one another coldly. Then Vettius went on, “Happen to know where this temple Pyrrhus lives in might be?”

Dama hadn’t mentioned that Pyrrhus lived
in
his church. It didn’t surprise him that the soldier already knew, nor that Lucius Vettius probably knew other things about the Prophet.

“As it happens,” the merchant said aloud, “I do. It’s in the Ninth District, pretty near the Portico of Pompey. And—”

He popped the remainder of his sausage roll into his mouth and chewed it slowly while Vettius waited for the conclusion of the sentence.

An open investigation of Pyrrhus would guarantee the soldier an immediate posting to whichever frontier looked most miserable on the day Rutilianus’s wife learned what he was doing to her darling.

You know, I don’t much like being made a fool of with the Prefect.

Vettius wasn’t going to get support through his normal channels; but it might be that he could find someone useful who took a personal interest in the matter . . . .

Dama washed down the roll with the last of his wine. “And since it’s a Sunday,” he resumed, “they’ll be having an open ceremony.” He squinted past Venus and the smirking Priapus to observe the sun’s angle. “We’ll have plenty of time to get there, I should think.”

He brought a silver coin from his purse, checked the weight of it with his finger, and added a bronze piece before slapping the money onto the counter.
“
To cover the wine,” Dama called to the bartender. “Mine and my friend’s both.”

The two men shouldered their way into the crowded street, moving together as though they were a practiced team.

They heard the drum even before they turned the corner and saw the edges of a crowd which Vettius’s trained eye estimated to contain over a thousand souls. Dusk would linger for another half-hour, but torches were already flaring in the hands of attendants on the raised base of a small temple flanked by three-story apartment buildings.

“Are we late?” the soldier asked.

Dama dipped his chin in negation. “They want places near the front, and a lot of them can’t afford to buy their way up.”

His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the expensively dyed cloaks and the jewelry winking in ears and coiffures of matrons waiting close to the temple—the church—steps. “On the other hand,” he added, “a lot of them
can
afford to pay.”

The crowd completely blocked the street, but that didn’t appear to concern either the civic authorities or the local inhabitants. Vettius followed the merchant’s eyes and muttered, “Pyrrhus himself owns the building across the street. He uses it to house his staff and put up wealthy pilgrims.”

A flutist, playing a counterpoint on the double tubes of his instrument, joined the drummer and torch-bearers on the porch. Two of the attendants at the back of the crowd, identifiable by their bleached tunics and batons of tough rootwood, moved purposefully toward Vettius and Dama.

The merchant had two silver denarii folded in his palm. “We’ve come to worship with the holy Pyrrhus,” he explained, moving his hand over that of one of the attendants. The exchange was expert, a maneuver both parties had practiced often in the past.

“Yes,” said the attendant. “If you have a request for guidance from the holy Pyrrhus, give it on a sealed tablet to the servants at the front.”

Dama nodded and reached for another coin. “Not now,” said the attendant. “You will be granted an opportunity to make a gift directly to the divinity.”

“Ah . . .” said Vettius. “I don’t have a tablet of my own. Could—”

The other attendant, the silent one, was already handing Vettius an ordinary tablet of waxed boards. He carried a dozen similar ones in a large scrip.

“Come,” said—ordered—the first attendant. His baton, a dangerous weapon as well as a staff of office, thrust through the crowd like the bronze ram of a warship cleaving choppy waves.

There were loud complaints from earlier—and poorer—worshippers, but no one attempted physical opposition to the Prophet’s servant. Vettius gripped Dama’s shoulder from behind as they followed, lest the pressure of the crowd separate them beyond any cure short of open violence.

“Pyrrhus’s boys aren’t very talkative,’’ Vettius whispered in the smaller man’s ear. “Drugs, perhaps?”

Dama shrugged. Though the attendant before them had a cultured accent, he was as devoid of small talk and emotion as the messenger who brought deadly lies about Menelaus to the Prefect. Drugs were a possible cause; but the merchant already knew a number of men—and a greater number of women—for whom religious ecstasy of one sort or another had utterly displaced all other passions.

Pyrrhus’s converted temple was unimposing. A building, twenty feet wide and possibly thirty feet high to the roof-peak, stood on a stepped base of coarse volcanic rock. Two pillars, and pilasters formed by extensions of the sidewalls, supported the pediment. That triangular area was ornamented with a painting on boards showing a human-faced serpent twined around a tau cross.

The temple had originally been dedicated to Asklepios, the healing god who’d lived part of his life as a snake. The current decoration was quite in keeping with the building’s pagan use.

There were six attendants on the temple porch now. The newcomers—one of them was Gnaeus Acer—clashed bronze rattles at a consistent rhythm; not the same rhythm for both men, nor in either case quite the rhythm that the staring-eyed drummer stroked from his own instrument.

The guide slid Vettius and Dama to within a row of the front of the crowd. Most of the worshipers still ahead of them were wealthy matrons, but a few were country folk. Vettius thought he also saw the flash of a toga carrying a senator’s broad russet stripe. More attendants, some of them carrying horn-lensed lanterns rather than batons, formed a line at the base of the steps.

Dama had paid silver for a second-rank location. The first rank almost certainly went for gold.

The merchant had opened a blank notebook and was hunching to write within the strait confines of the crowd. The tablet Vettius had been given looked normal enough at a glance: a pair of four-by-five-inch boards hinged so that they could cover one another. One of the boards was waxed within a raised margin of wood that, when the tablet was closed, protected words written on the soft surface. A cord attached to the back could be tied or sealed to the front board to hold the tablet shut.

Dama finished what he was doing, grinned, and took the tablet from Vettius. “Shield me,” he whispered.

Vettius obediently shifted his body, though the two of them were probably the only members of the crowd who weren’t focused entirely on their own affairs.

Dama had been scribbling with a bone stylus. Now, using the stylus tip, he pressed on what seemed to be a tiny knot through the wooden edge of the tablet supplied to Vettius. The knot slipped out into his waiting palm. A quick tug started the waxed wooden back sliding away from the margin of what had seemed a solid piece.

“Pyrrhus the Prophet has strange powers indeed,” Vettius said as he fitted the tablet back together again. “Let me borrow your stylus.”

He wrote quickly, cutting the wax with large, square letters; not a calligrapher’s hand, but one which could write battlefield orders that were perfectly clear.

“What are you asking?” Dama whispered.

“Whether Amasius will die so that I get promoted to Legate of the Domestic Horse,” the soldier replied. He slapped that tablet closed. “I suppose the attendants seal these for us?”

“Ah . . .” said Dama with a worried expression. “That might not be a tactful question to have asked . . . ah, if the information gets into the wrong hands, you know.”

“Sure wouldn’t be,” Vettius agreed, “if I’d signed ‘Decurion Vettius’ instead of ‘Section Leader Lycorides.’”

He chuckled. “You know,” he added, “Lycorides is about dumb enough not to figure how a question like that opens you up to blackmail.”

He grinned at the pediment of the church and said, “Pyrrhus would figure it out, though. Wouldn’t he?”

Dama watched a heavy-set woman in the front rank wave her ivory tablet at an attendant. She wore a heavy cross on a gold chain, and the silk band which bound her hair was embroidered with the Chi-Rho symbol. Menelaus may not have thought Pyrrhus was a Christian; but, as the Prefect had retorted, there were Christians who felt otherwise.

“Hercules!” Vettius swore under his breath.”That’s Severiana—the Prefect’s wife!”

He snorted. “And Ganymede. That boy gets around.”

“Want to duck back now and let me cover?” the merchant offered.

Vettius grimaced. “They won’t recognize me,” he said in the tone of one praying as well as assessing the situation.

An attendant leaned toward Dama, past the veiled matron and her daughter in the front rank who were reciting prayers aloud in Massiliot Greek.

“If you have petitions for advice from the Prophet,” the man said, “hand them in now.”

As the attendant spoke, he rolled a lump of wax between his thumb and forefinger, holding it over the peak of the lantern he carried in his other hand. Prayers chirped to a halt as the women edged back from the lantern’s hissing metal frame.

Dama held out his closed notebook with the cord looped over the front board. The attendant covered the loop with wax, into which Dama then firmly pressed his carnelian seal ring. The process of sealing Vettius’s tablet was identical, except that the soldier wore a signet of gilt bronze.

“What’re you asking?” Vettius whispered under cover of the music from the porch and the prayers which the women resumed as soon as the attendant made his way into the church with the tablets.

“I’m asking about the health of my wife and three children back in Gades.”

“You’re not from Spain, are you?” the soldier asked—reflexively checking the file of data in his mind.

“Never been there,” Dama agreed. “Never married, either.”

The door of the church opened to pass an attendant with small cymbals. He raised them but didn’t move until the door shut behind him.

The music stopped. The crowd’s murmuring stilled to a collective intake of breath.

The cymbals crashed together. A tall, lean man stood on the porch in front of the attendants.

“Mithra!” the merchant blurted—too quietly to be overheard, but still a stupid thing to say here.

Dama understood about talking snakes and ways to read sealed tablets; but he didn’t have the faintest notion of how Pyrrhus had appeared out of thin air that way.

“I welcome you,” Pyrrhus cried in a voice that pierced without seeming especially loud, “in the name of Christ and of Glaukon, the Servant of God.”

Vettius narrowed his eyes.

Dama, though he was uncertain whether the soldier’s ignorance was real or just pretense, leaned even closer than the press demanded and whispered, “That’s the name of his snake. The bronze one.”

“Welcome Pyrrhus!” the crowd boomed. “Prophet of God!”

A double
crack!
startled both men but disturbed few if any of the other worshipers. The torch-bearing attendants had uncoiled short whips with poppers. They lashed the air to put an emphatic period to the sequence of statement and response.

Pyrrhus spread his arms as though thrusting open a double door. “May all enemies of God and his servants be far from these proceedings,” he cried.

“May all enemies of Pyrrhus and Glaukon be far from these proceedings!” responded the crowd.

Crack crack!

“God bless the Emperors and their servants on Earth,” Pyrrhus said. Pyrrhus
ordered,
it seemed to Vettius; though the object of the order was a deity.

“Not taking any chances with a treason trial, is he?” the soldier muttered.

“God bless Pyrrhus and Glaukon, his servants!” responded the crowd joyously.

The merchant nodded. Those around them were too lost in the quivering ambiance of the event to notice the carping. “What I want to know,” he whispered back, “is how long does this go on?”

“Pyrrhus! Liar!” a man screamed from near the front of the gathering. The crowd recoiled as though the cry were a stone flung in their midst.