Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time (13 page)

“Marozia, daughter of Theophylact,” Anastasius began, “how many husbands have you had?”

I looked again at the corpse. No one had closed the eyelids. No one had shown even that much respect for a dead Christian. For the third and last time, I looked into those eyes. It could not have been tears that stung my own eyes. I had given up grief with other childish things.

“Three husbands,” I said.

“Three? A pious woman has just one. What were their names?”

“Alberic, Guy and Hugh.”

“Alberic the Elder was the father of our beloved Prince.”

Anastasius looked sideways at the Prince, who ignored the flattery.

“But Hugh of Arles – is he not the enemy of Rome? Is he not the same Hugh who besieges our city, as we speak?”

“The same,” I said.

“And why did you marry Hugh of Arles?”

“My ambition misled me,” I said. “Hugh is a descendant of Charlemagne.”

“Who died over a hundred years ago!”

“Nonetheless, Hugh had a claim to the highest office. With my help, and the help of my son the Bishop of Rome, he seemed destined to become Emperor. I truly repent my error.”

“Repentance is good, but first, let us get the whole truth. Was there conflict between Hugh and our Prince before he became Prince?”

“Hugh planned to kill my son. The King wanted me to have no male heir when I became his empress.”

“And you were willing to let this happen?”

“I was, to my shame.”

“Our Prince inspired the Romans to rebel and chase Hugh from the city. Your son imprisoned you. But you never gave up your ambition, even in prison. And now, Hugh prevents anyone from entering or leaving our city.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but has your Prince not sealed the gates?” The words had come from my mouth. What was I doing? “And has your Prince not threatened with death anyone caught near the walls with a rope?”

Anastasius gaped at me, but I was not finished.

“What I did, I did for Rome, to restore our greatness. We could have been the seat of emperors, again.”

“Did you not sneak out of the city by night to meet with the Hungarians?”

“That would be treason.”

I noticed that my words fell short of denial. Now I looked straight at the Prince and raised my voice.

“Romans, do you want to restore your glory?”

Here is the thing about the Romans. They bore easily. Anyone can sway them with a speech. Alberic had done it when he inspired the Romans to overthrow Hugh. They had hounded the King to the walls of the city and down a rope to the outside world. Alberic had ruled us for four years. Now it was time for us to forget the whoring and murdering of the mother, and turn against the son.

That explained the reeking shout that rose from every mouth full of rotting teeth in the vast basilica.

Alberic stood and faced the mob.

“Romans! Romans, listen to me! Have you forgotten? This woman tried to raise up a Burgundian over you. A Burgundian whose place should be on his knees lacing your boots. Four years ago, I asked for your help to protect your ancient rights. You answered me with deeds. You chased Hugh the Burgundian over the wall and out of the city like a thief. You threw this woman into prison, where she belonged.”

It was working. The bellowing and jeering subsided. Alberic seemed about to finish this sordid business in the strengthened position that he sought.

“Romans!” said another voice – my voice.

“Romans! Look at this son of mine. His throne looks modest, but it has cost you much – not in treasure but in blood. Each of you knows of someone murdered on this man’s orders. Only when it came to his mother did he shrink from shedding blood. But not from murder. He murdered his mother slowly and in stealth, through starvation and neglect. And for what? For daring to survive as a woman in a man’s world. I call upon you all to absolve me.”

The Romans bellowed their approval.

“This Prince stole your ancient liberties. Remove him. Chase him, hound him, kill him. Is this not your birthright as Romans?”

They were very close to the words Alberic had used against his mother and her husband Hugh at their wedding, the moment that should have been their triumph.

The strange hold released me and just in time. Alberic made a gesture and his men at arms charged into the mass of Romans with clubs swinging. The foreign communities joined them. If the Prince felt relief when they obeyed, he gave no sign.

I had no doubt that he would deal with me, but at the moment, the mob was his most urgent problem. I turned in a circle, unsure of what to do. I came face to face with Anastasius.

“What the hell were you up to there?!” He shouted just inches from my face, but I could barely hear his words.

“That wasn’t me!” I shouted back. “She made me do it.”

“She made you. Brilliant. Get going.”

“Get going where?”

“Do I have to explain everything?”

He did not. I had to run and no place in the city would be safe from Alberic. I would have to go to Hugh of Arles. I only hoped that I had something to offer him.

I thought this as I ran for the vestibule, dodging Alberic’s men and kicking and punching men, women and probably children, for all I know, who got in my way.

The nearest section of wall was directly to the south of the Lateran. If I could reach it ahead of my pursuers, I could hope to pay silver for a rope and a boost over the wall. I churned a great deal of mud getting there. I could not believe that the militia men had beaten me there, but they had. They thought they had hidden themselves well enough to lure me into a trap. But I saw their tracks on the wall where they had climbed to the battlements.

I turned and headed north. Maybe the most distant point would be the most unexpected. But the journey was long and exhausting, and as dusk began to gather, I looked for a place to hide overnight.

By the time full darkness had come, I had become lost somewhere in the heart of the city. I had never left Rome, but I still knew how to get lost. I staggered through the streets as blindly as if Alberic’s torturers had put my eyes out. I had slipped in the mud and stumbled over blocks of stone embedded in the ground, or newly fallen from ancient buildings.

Then I came to a stone fence that, to my questioning hands, felt like something built on a human scale and maintained by living men. With the last of my strength, I climbed over the fence and collapsed against it.

I expected to sleep like a dead man, but exhaustion kept me awake. I kept seeing Marozia, several days dead, then as a child, then as a child several days dead. That last vision made me whimper and my snivelling brought a response. It sounded at once human and bestial, and it came closer to me. One voice became several and then more than I could have counted, even had I not covered the sounds with my own shrieks.

With my back to the stone fence, I kicked out and encountered solid flesh. By the sound of them, my attackers retreated briefly, but then they came at me again. I screamed, “No, you devils! Don’t take me to Hell! I only followed my orders!”

Light came from somewhere, first dimly then with more strength. The light became a torch that bobbed mundanely and reassured me. The bearer was human.

“Caught myself a pig thief, have I?”

The bearer of the torch illuminated his own face as he guided himself. I did not know him, but I had seen him among the butchers at the meat market.

“No, Cola, I am not a pig thief.”

Half of the butchers in Rome are named Cola, but I saw that I had succeeded in impressing him.

“Do I know you?” he said.

That one was easy. “One time when you were drunk. I spoke with the militia and they didn’t beat you.”

“I must have been very drunk. I don’t ever remember them not beating me.” He hauled me to my feet. “Mustn’t sit here. Pigs will eat you.”

I believed him. From what I could see in the torchlight, Cola’s pigs looked more than half-wild.

“Come. I have a better place for you to sleep.”

“Why would you help me?”

“You spoke up for the Senatrix.”

Cola had undoubtedly cheered her overthrow four years earlier, but I decided not to remind him. If it was Alberic’s turn to fall from the Romans’ favour, that was his fault.

We climbed his stone fence, again, and he led me to his hovel. I ducked to enter and encountered odours almost as vile as those in Marozia’s cell, beginning with his smoky fire. I did not want to consider what Cola burned for fuel.

He extinguished the torch. In the dim light from his fire, he pointed me toward a straw pallet.

“My wife’s. She died.”

He looked me over by torchlight. “You look like man who needs a rope.”

For a moment, I misunderstood. Did he intend to strangle me and present my body to Alberic?

“To leave the city,” he said.

“I’ve never been out of the city.”

“Same with most of us. The Senatrix was different, though. She feared nothing and no one.”

“Did she really visit the Hungarians?” It would be interesting to find out what he believed of her.

“I once saw her coming back. At night, yet. She climbed up the wall without a rope. Like a bat, she looked, in the moonlight.”

A day ago, I would have ridiculed him, but now I needed him.

“Friend of mine up north will help you,” said Cola. “I’ll take you if there’s a coin in it for me.”

“There will be. When I’m on the wall with the rope in my hand.”

“Fair enough.”

Cola sprawled on his own pallet and in moments, started snoring. I stretched out on his wife’s straw and stared into the darkness.

His hovel did not improve in the daylight. Wordlessly, we shared some bread, chickpeas and sour wine.

“Might want to look more like one of us,” he told me. He threw me a tunic that was more holes than fabric, but his point was sound. I needed to look more like a plebian and less like myself. I stripped off my better tunic.

We headed north. I lacked the time for furtiveness and the most direct route took us past the Pile, the largest building in Rome. A good part of the population lived in it, or did business in it, or buried their dead in it, while others dismantled it for building materials. It was large enough to accommodate all of these uses.

The ancients seemed to have sat in it and watched spectacles, but we no longer knew what they had seen.

In my borrowed tunic I strode boldly up the Via Lata with my new friend. Soon, we reached the People’s Gate at the northern rim of the city.

I looked and thought,
I can die now.

The gate stood open. I had seen an open gate once before. It was my earliest memory. I had watched Formosus greeting an emissary from Constantinople.

Prince Alberic rode a horse, the finest in his stable. On another fine mount, a man in a warrior’s leathers faced him. Even at a distance, their smiles looked like the leers of false friendship.

I had not survived the past forty years in Rome without learning something about powerful men. Alberic no longer trusted the Romans and he had turned to another source of strength. He would make an alliance with Hugh of Arles, besieger of the city, last husband of Marozia, and Alberic’s enemy until now. Young Alberic had chased Hugh from the city. Alberic the ruler had invited him back.

“That,” said Cola, “leaves you the Hungarians. I hope you can learn to ride a pony.”

“Possibly. I doubt I can learn to shoot one of their bows.”

Cola shrugged.

“Now, about that coin.”

“Several. Here’s the first.”

Cola kept his word, which no one assumes of any Roman. He and his friend lowered me to the plain outside the walls. Until dusk, I cowered in the shadows, where the watch would not see me. Then I set out on foot. I had no destination, but I needed none. I wanted only to make myself visible.

Sinewy men on wiry ponies surrounded me. The silence of their sudden appearance would have terrified the old me.

“A Roman,” said a man who acted as their leader. “We kill Romans. Why shouldn’t we kill you?”

“You would lose an opportunity,” I said.

The words tasted unfamiliar as I said them. They emerged in a language that I did not speak.

“What kind of opportunity?”

“You want to plunder Rome,” I said. “I want to rule Rome.”

Poor Rome,
I thought.

“You sound like someone we used to know,” he said.

“Imagine that.”

“Let’s talk.”

Albert Tucher’s
hardboiled crime fiction has appeared in numerous print and online publications. He is the creator of suburban prostitute Diana Andrews, who figures in five unpublished novels and thirty published short stories, one of which appears in
The Best American Mystery Stories 2010. F
or years, he has been trying to use the bizarre and fascinating Rome of the tenth century AD in fiction. At last, success!

The author speaks:
Few historical periods are as obscure as the early tenth century in the city of Rome. Literacy was rare and sources are sparse, but it seems clear the city had closed its gates figuratively, if not literally. Where a half-million-to-a-million people had once crowded within the city walls, perhaps twenty thousand now lurked among the ancient ruins. One family ruled the city as a private domain and betrayal was their way of life.

MODERN ERA

INQUISITOR

William Meikle

From the journal of Father Fernando. 16th August 1535.

T
he time has come. It arrived yesterday from the New World in the hold of the
Santa Angelo
and it has been brought to the castle. The Inquisitor General has tasked me with discovering the true nature of the abomination, to make a full and careful examination, and ascertain what manner of
Inquisition
might be made. It is a great honour and one which I will fulfill with all the diligence the good Lord hands to me.

There is a certain doubt in my mind, a cloud that has hung over the proceedings since I read Juan Santoro’s journal last night. A dark evil is detailed in those pages and although the Inquisitor General teaches us that all things are powerless before the truth of our Lord, I have grave misgivings about the thing I am about to see for the first time

I have prayed for strength, but still, my knees feel like water and there is a cold pit in my belly that nothing can assuage.

However, my duty is clear.

It is time for the questioning to begin.

From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 3rd April 1535.

If there is a hell on Earth, then surely it is in this place here. No god-fearing man should have to face the horrors I have led my crew through on this day. I give thanks that I have brought us all back safely to the ship, and I am much afeared with the thought of the return voyage, for the cargo is most foul and ungodly. But I would be remiss in my duty to the Church if I did not report on the things that plague this new land. If the Crown wishes, as I have been told, to colonize this place, then we must know what manner of things lay claim on it at present.

In truth, I know not what we have found. The natives died bravely defending it and for most of the day, we bethought that we had stumbled on a great treasure. We fought through their defenses, hacking and slashing our way through the savages to the centre of that dark temple.

As I have said, we expected treasure. What we found was beyond our ken. I have had it sealed in a lead casket and will take it back to Seville.

But the journey will be long, for already, it whispers in my mind and I fear my dreams will be dark indeed during the long months at sea ahead.  

From the journal of Father Fernando. 16th August 1535.

“Already, it whispers in my mind.”

I had given no thought to that phrase, believing it to be the product of a sailor’s superstition. But now, having seen my new opponent, I know better.

When we opened the casket that had been brought to the chamber where the questioning was to take place, I originally bethought that we had been played false and that trickery was at work. At first glance, the lead box seemed empty, its bottom a dark shadow. But, as Brother Ferrer leaned over it, something
surged
within and he was forced to step back, so suddenly that he knocked over a brazier and sent coals skittering on the flagstones. The blackness that rose from the casket, a thick liquid which had the consistency of pitch, seemed to rear back at that, giving me time to slam the lid closed on the obscenity.

And that is when it happened.

There was a
tugging
in my mind, a probing of an intelligence. I knew immediately what it was doing, as it is my own profession also. Even as I sought to ascertain the form of my opponent, at the same time, it was questioning me.

I am not the only inquisitor here.

And there was something else, something I am loathe to relate here lest it is discovered and my sanity is brought into question. I only caught but a fleeting glimpse, just as the lid of the lead casket dropped back into place, but it was unmistakable. As the black thing
oozed
to the bottom of the box, a single eye, pale and smooth as a duck’s egg, opened ... and blinked.

From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 29th May 1535.

Calamity has overtaken us, as I feared it might.

The thing has plagued our dreams since the start, and the crew has been without sleep for many days. There have been mutterings of mutiny since the beginning of the month and last night, matters came to a head. Three crewmen took it upon themselves to rid us of our tormentor.

At least, they tried.

Their screams in the dark alerted me to their plight and I was first to enter the hold. It is hard to describe the fear that gripped me as I saw the carnage the thing had wrought on my men. It was obvious that they had lifted the casket, probably intending to throw it overboard. But someone had dropped his end – that much is also obvious from the dent in the leftmost edge. I can only surmise that the jolt opened the casket – and let the beast out.

What did not need conjecture was the fate of the men after that.

The black ooze lay over the bodies like a wet blanket – one that seethed and roiled as if boiling all across the surface. Pustules burst with obscene wet
pops
and flesh melted from bone, even as the men screamed and writhed in agony.

Their pain did not last long. All too soon, the blackness seeped in and through them until even their very bones were liquified and, with the most hideous moist
sucking,
drunk up by the beast, which was now three times larger than previously. It opened itself out, like a black crow spreading its wings, the tips touching each side of the hold walls.

All along the inside surface of the
wings
, wet mouths opened and the air echoed with a plaintive, high whistling, in which words might be heard if you had the imagination to listen.

Tekeli-Li. Tekeli-Li.

My every instinct told me to turn and flee. But there was nowhere to escape to except the sea itself and that was a choice no sailor would make. Instead, I stood my ground while Massa, stout coxswain that he is, brought forth some firebrands. Only then did the thing seem to cower and retreat, and only then did I remember the circles of burning oil which we had crossed on entering the black temple in the jungle.

I called for a barrel of pitch and tried to hold the beast at bay with a brand until aid might arrive. My adversary had ideas of its own. Now that it was free of the casket, its powers had increased. It probed at my mind, searching for my weaknesses, taunting me with my dreams. I saw things no man should have to see as I was shown the atrocities that had been committed in this thing’s name by the savages in the temple.

The grip on my mind grew stronger.

I saw vast plains of snow and ice, where black things
slumped
amid tumbled ruins of long dead cities.

My head swam, and the walls of the hold melted and ran. The firebrand in my hand seemed to recede into a great distance, until it was little more than a pinpoint of light in a blanket of darkness and I was alone, in a vast cathedral of emptiness.

A tide took me, a swell that lifted and transported me, faster than thought, to the green twilight of ocean depths far distant.

I realised I was not alone. We floated, mere shadows now, scores – nay, tens of scores of us – in that cold silent sea. I was aware that other sailors were nearby, but I had no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below us, cyclopean ruins shone dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumbled in a non-Euclidean geometry that confused the eye and brooked no close inspection. And something deep in those ruins knew we were there.

We dreamed, of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulfed the stars, of blackness where there was nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while our slumbering god dreamed, we danced for him, there in the twilight, danced to the rhythm.

We were at peace.

A flaring pain jolted me back to sanity. I smelled burning skin, but took several seconds to note that it was my own hand that had seared. The coxswain, stout man that he is, had broken the hold on me by touching his firebrand to my skin.

I had no time to thank him, for the beast had encroached closer to me while I dreamed and even now, threatened to engulf me.

Once again I held the firebrand ahead of me and, with the aid of the coxswain, I held the beast at bay, struggling to keep its grip from settling on my mind. Indeed, if the barrel of pitch had not been brought, I might have succumbed.

Burning the pitch enabled the recapture of the beast to proceed more rapidly. The heat from the flames threatened to set fire to the deck of the hold itself, but I refused to allow the men to put it out until we had driven the beast back into the casket.

I have ensured that the box is sealed completely and it is now stored at the furthermost end of the hold. All I can do is keep the crew as far away from it as is possible on this small vessel.

That, and hope that in our dreams, we do not fall again under its spell.

But it is hard. For every time I close my eyes, I dream of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulf the stars, of blackness where there is nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while my slumbering god dreams, I dance for him, there in the twilight, dance to the rhythm.

In dreams, I am at peace. 

From the journal of Father Fernando. 17th August 1535.

Captain Santoro’s journal has at least given me a place to start. I already knew that s
trapado
would not be an option for this particular miscreant. Nor would I be able to utilise the rack or the maiden. But fire would be more than sufficient for my purposes. It took little work to prepare the cell for
Inquisition
, as matters are already set up amply for the ordeal. I ensured that the lead casket was placed inside concentric circles of oil, such that they could be lit immediately in the event of an attempt to escape. I also had a brazier full of coals at hand to my right side and three needle-pokers burning white-hot in a small oven to my left.

Even before I opened the casket, I felt the
tickle
in my mind, but I pushed it away. My God is stronger than any heathen devil. I mouthed the
Pater Noster
as I lifted the lid.

Once again, the black ooze surged and the tickle in my mind turned into an insistent probing. Memories rose unbidden in my thoughts: of summer days in warm meadows, of lessons learned in cold monastery halls, of penance paid for sins.

I was under questioning.

That I could not allow. I am master of this
inquisition
. Several wet mouths opened in the black ooze. Using a pair of pliers, I plucked a hot coal from the brazier and, as another mouth formed, I let the coal drop inside.

The grip on my mind released immediately, replaced by a formless scream, which quickly became a chant that echoed around the cell. I knew the words. I had read them in the Captain’s journal.

Tekeli-Li. Tekeli-Li.

A long tendril reached from the lead box, coming towards me. I took a poker from the oven and, with one smooth strike, thrust it through the black material. The ooze retreated, shrinking back as far into the corner of the lead casket as it could get.

I leaned forward, a fresh poker in my hand.

“Are you guilty?” I asked, and stabbed down hard.

The
Inquisition
proper has begun. 

From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo. 17th July 1535.

Will this nightmare never end?

The beast, despite its incarceration, has steadily increased its hold on us since we forced it back into the casket. We cannot allow ourselves to sleep, for when we do, we are trapped in its spell, lost in the dream somewhere above the cyclopean ruins.

In truth, the dream is seductive, even more so than drinking endless flagons of wine or constant inhalation of the weed that the natives smoke in the New World. Three of the crew have succumbed, falling into a deep slumber from which they cannot be awakened. They breathe and their eyes are open, but I cannot get them to eat and they are already close to starving. I fear they will be long lost afore we reach port.

Some days, I almost feel like joining them. I am kept awake by a suffusion made from a roasted bean, a drink we discovered among the native tribes where we landed in the New World.

Would that were all we discovered.

Some of the crew have reported that the beast is also reaching into their minds during waking hours. Many of them have had the same compulsion – to go down into the hold and open the casket, releasing the thing to roam the decks. No one has yet given in to the demands, but it is another reason to make for port with all speed.

I know not how much longer we can hold.

From the journal of Father Fernando. 25th August 1535.

It has taken more than a week, and sorely tested the Inquisitor General’s patience, but finally, after I have burned away more than nine-tenths of its matter, it has weakened. I have found that the mind-grip works both ways. If I concentrate hard, I can catch glimpses of what the beast is thinking and feel its fear.

I have put it to the
inquisition
, and it has answered me.

As shocking as it seems, the beast has no conception of our Lord. Indeed, it seems never to have encountered a single Christian, despite the fact that it is possibly the oldest living thing on the face of the earth. That revelation came as something of a shock to me. The creature has memories going back to a time when ice covered the face of the earth. Its first encounter with Man shows a savage race clothed in furs, with only rudimentary speech, and I am at a loss to know how such a thing can be reconciled from what I know from my study of the biblical texts. I must seek guidance from the Inquisitor General, for my thoughts are troubled and dark.

This beast I have under my ministrations is devious and subtle. It works constantly at me, testing my belief with scenes of lust and debauchery: maidens in states of undress displaying themselves wantonly for my pleasure, hot blood flowing to feed my growth. I have to see these things, and endure, for in the seeing, I also learn more about the beast’s drives and passions, which are mightily strong.