“When I first came to the city, I was… so to say… not officially welcomed. I sought no license to practice my craft and I did not make myself well known. I took these rooms and set about assiduously minding my own business. I was younger, but still careful, so when first I essayed a commission such as I just demonstrated, I took many extra precautions.”
He paused and poured another cup of wine, motioning to Maxian to drink himself. The Prince sniffed the wine and put forth a small fraction of his ability to see if it was safe. It was, and so he drank.
“It is common knowledge among the practitioners of the craft, at least it is outside of Rome, that the Empire is all but inviolate to sorcery and magic of all kinds. The widespread presumption is that the Imperial thaumaturges are so powerful that they detect or repel all attempts to do ill to the state. But my time here in the city has told me otherwise. Your sorcerers are strong, true, but they could not do this.
“Has it never struck you, or any other Roman, that your enemies have not slain your Kings or Emperors by magic?
That the priest-kings of Persia or the witch-men of the Germans have not shriven your armies to ruin in the field of battle? These enemies can summon horrific powers and, I assure you, have done so in the past. But their efforts were for nothing. Such an attempt is a sure path to ruin for the practitioner. And this, what we have seen this evening, is why.“
Maxian put the empty cup down. By parts he was greatly relieved that he had found someone who not only believed him but had considered the same problem himself. The perspective that he brought, however, was disquieting. He rubbed his face again, trying to urge his mind to motion. Abdmachus saw this and smiled again, though the young man did not see.
“Young master, you are gravely tired. There is nothing that can be done tonight about this. If you would care to, you may sleep here tonight. Here, at least, you can sleep free of troubling dreams and the effects of the power.”
Great cypress trees folded over the top of the lane as they turned off the Via Appia. A suffocating darkness surrounded Maxian, and he shivered though the summer night was still warm. He could smell the richness of the fields on either side of the hedgerows. The lane descended and then turned to the left. The lantern ahead jogged to the right and the horsemen entered a small clearing.
The moon had passed through the clouds and now loomed large over a small temple on the far side of the clearing. Silver light lay upon the stones at the entrance to the tomb. Abdmachus swung spryly down from his horse, as did the two attendants who had led them to this place. Maxian looked around, surprised that the burial place of the Julians would seem so insignificant. Then he too dismounted. The Nabatean stepped to his side, carrying one of the two hooded lanterns they had brought.
“Light your lantern,” he said, his voice low.
Maxian nodded and lifted the heavy bundle from the sad dlebag on his horse. Praetor whickered at him and nudged his shoulder with a great soft nose. Maxian smiled in the darkness and dug in his pocket for a carrot. The stallion accepted the bribe with a gracious air and allowed himself to be tied off to a tree near the entrance to the temple. This done, Maxian unwrapped the lantern and sparked the wick to light with a snap of his fingers. Abdmachus had lighted his as well. The Nabatean turned to the two attendants and bade them sit in the cover of the trees and watch the entrance of the tomb and the lane.
“You’ve the other tools?” Abdmachus asked, turning back to the Prince.
Maxian hefted the leather bag he had slung over his shoulder; there was a clank of metal from within. In the moonlight, the Nabatean’s head bobbed in acknowledgment.
“Then let us go,” he said, his voice still low.
The door to the temple was a heavy iron grate, ornamented with a heavy cruciform lock. The bars were closely set and very thick. Abdmachus knelt next to the lock and carefully felt it with his fingertips. After a moment he began chanting in a very low voice, almost inaudible, yet Maxian could feel the shape of the words clearly. The air around the two men changed, becoming oppressively heavy, then there was the sound of rusted gears and rods scraping and the lock clicked open. Abdmachus stood and breathed out a shuddering breath. He wiped his forehead, then pushed the door gingerly open.
“It’s been too long since I practiced that,” the Nabatean said, his voice wry.
Within, a long narrow room led to the back of the building. The walls on either side were lined with deep-set niches, each holding a portrait bust. At the end of the room was a curved wall and a small altar. Behind the altar stood the mossy statue of a woman. Maxian stepped close and could barely make out the visage of a grim-faced goddess.
Minerva, he thought to himself. Behind him, the Nabatean was rooting about in the heavy bag.
“Here,” Abdmachus whispered, “there should be a circular hole in the side of the altar.” He handed Maxian an iron rod, sixteen inches in length, with a handle at the end. The Prince knelt by the side of the marble block that comprised the altar. He felt along the side in the gloom; the lanterns were almost completely shuttered to prevent their lights from betraying them to passersby. His fingers found a smooth-sided hole, and he guided the bolt into the receptacle. On the other side of the block, Abdmachus had done the same. The Nabatean peeked up over the stone.
“Are you ready?” he asked. Maxian nodded. “Then on the count of two.”
“One, then two… heave!”
The Prince grunted as he put his shoulder into dragging at the handle. Between the two of them, they managed to dislodge the block, revealing a dark opening under the altar and a draft of icy air. A smell of dampness and decay rose from the pit as well. Abdmachus shifted the hood on his lantern and peered down into the darkness.
“Excellent!” he breathed. “There is still a ladder.”
Maxian laughed softly.
“You’ve done this before, I see,” he said to his companion.
Abdmachus’ white teeth flashed in the light of the lantern. “My family was poor, and the hills around my home city of Petra are riddled with the tombs of the nobility… sometimes an apprentice magi must make do with what he has. It has been some time, but one does remember some things.”
The Nabatean tied off a line on the handle of his lantern, then leaned over the pit and lowered it slowly down. When it rested at the bottom of the pit, he swung his legs over the lip and onto the first rung of the ladder. Maxian watched while the old man’s head disappeared into the shaft, then took one last look around. The empty eyes of the ancient heads gazed curiously back at him from the funereal niches. He shook his head in amazement at the desecration he and the old man were about to perform. No matter, he thought, the dead care nothing. I need a tool, and many who would die will live because of what we do.
Maxian had fallen asleep within moments of his head hitting the thin pillow. The little storeroom behind the sitting room was crowded with bags of herbs and odd-smelling boxes, but the Prince had paid no notice. He was snoring within a minute, the thin blanket pulled tight around him.
Abdmachus stood in the doorway for a little while, his hands warmed by the “copper lantern he held before him. The old Nabatean considered the young man carefully. The Roman was exhausted and emotionally drained.
Why, after all these years, should such an opportunity fall to me? he wondered. He had come to enjoy living in the barbarian city, even if his dress was mocked by the laborers who frequented the taverna on the corner. His brow furrowed in concentration and he raised a single finger, quickly tracing the glyph for friend in the air before him.