Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time (8 page)

“Thank you, Oscar,” Timos whispered to the closing door. He reached for the flagon, filled the cup to the brim and drank it off in one swallow. Again and again, he repeated this desperate gesture until the flagon was empty. Falling onto his bed, pulling the light coverlet over his head, he mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ for his friend’s generosity. Darkness claimed him instantly.

In the morning, Timos rose and bathed before presenting himself to the Bishop. Somehow, a report would have to be delivered. And there would be tea.

The Bishop turned from contemplating the rising sun. “That bad, was it?”

“You have no idea. It was like burning babies; they cried like children.”

“That’s awful. Perhaps we should stop.”

“How can we? Pulcheria’d have us on the pyre next, if we didn’t finish.”

“True, sadly. Maybe you could take a day off and continue tomorrow?”

“No. The sooner I get this finished, the sooner I can forget about it.”

Making his way to the guards’ quarters, Timos looked up at the sky. Fat Sol, climbing relentlessly over the horizon, had dissipated any residual evening coolness. This day was promising to be hotter than the previous.

In the guards’ office, Captain Ochrid, grizzled veteran of too many years fighting the Barbarians, was waiting for him. He looked as tired as Timos. “So, did you catch anything?”

“Yes, sir, a few items. Pretty ordinary, except for ….”

“Except for what?”

“Well, there was … is a book.”

“A book? What kind of book?”

“A book kind of book. Sheets of vellum, bound with leather.”

“Okay, what’s in it?”

“I don’t know, sir. I ... the soldiers were afraid to open it. It’s over there.”

Timos looked around. “Where is it?”

“Over there, behind the desk. We covered it with a blanket.”

In the darkness of the far corner, barricaded by the commandant’s desk, several chairs and a battered campaign chest, was a striped wool cloak with a bulge in its middle. It might have been a sleeping foot-soldier – or a body. Timos strode to it and reached to pull the cover off.

“Be careful, sir.”

“Why, does it bite?” Curious now, he continued. Even in the gloom of the corner, the book glowed and rippled with violet light. Timos knelt to open the cover.

“Sir, I think we should wrap it up and burn it – right away.”

“You may be right, Ochrid,” Timos said, stroking the smooth, soft leather. “But this will take too long to be consumed. If we burn it now, we waste half the morning.”

“You are right, of course. But we don’t want to leave it here – do we? Something might happen to us – to it.”

“Exactly. You go ahead and start searching. I’ll deposit this safely in the palace. We can dispose of it later.”

Ochrid hurried off like a man pursued by wolves. Reverently, Timos rewrapped the book in a clean linen towel and tucked it into his satchel. The book clucked softly, warm against his back, as he strode back down to the palace.

Mid-morning, no one was about to question his presence or offer assistance. He passed straight to his chambers, noting with satisfaction that Oscar had been in to tidy up and remove the empty cup and flagon. No one else would enter now. Placing the parcel on his desk, Timos removed the linen to reveal a work of undulating beauty. The air around the book rippled and gleamed, inviting him to reach out and stroke ... to open the cover – just an inch ….

Come here; you know you want to
, it whispered, the voice musical, soft seductive ... Timos was not bound to celibacy. He had heard voices like that before. Those experiences, while infrequent, had usually been pleasurable. “Not now,” he said. “We’ll get better acquainted when I return tonight.”

Offended by his rejection, the marvellous violet light snapped out.

“Don’t be like that. I’ll see you tonight.” The book remained dull, an inanimate, brown-leather lump.

Leaving the Residence, Timos walked towards the
plaka
of the ward that was to be cleansed today. Sol, now well-advanced in the sky, bounced burning swords off his head. Timos was not a spiritual or superstitious man, leaving that to the Bishop. Just now, he felt that the entire natural world was assaulting his frail, skinny body.

In the center of the
plaka
, Ochrid had just set fire to a mound of brush and boards. To one side, a large pile of tablets and documents waited to be burned. The soldiers standing guard eyed them with suspicion. They had been fully and gruesomely apprised of the previous day’s experiences.

“Is that it?”

“We think so,” said Ochrid. “Our citizens seem to have realised that the dictates of the Emperor’s sister must be obeyed.”

“I hope you’re right.”

”Me, too. You – men! Get that stuff disposed of straight away.”

The troops set to work, pushing, pulling and dragging the struggling manuscripts to the licking flames. As tongues of fire reached out to claim them, the doomed texts cursed and groaned, spitting angry imprecations at the fire and their tormentors. By the time all had been reduced to a pile of smouldering ashes, the detachment, mostly boys, conscripts away from home for the first time, were dizzy and pale, tears streaming down their cheeks, a few vomiting onto the dying embers.

“I think that’s it, then. Do you want us to continue searching? Maybe we missed something.”

Timos was about to agree when the sweet scent of lilacs filled his nostrils. A sinuous, velvety melody began to weave through his head. “Ah ... no, I think that’s enough for today. The
miles
are clearly exhausted.”

“That’s very considerate, sir.”

“Also, I’m starving – aren’t you?”

“I think we could all do with a meal and a rest.”

Leaving Ochrid to complete cleaning the plaza, Timos headed out of the square. Head held high, steps precise and measured, he presented the very image of dignity and decorum. Once out of the
plaka
, beyond the eyes of his men, he began to run, skipping, jumping, tumbling down the steep staircases that led to the main city below. Head burning under the sun, sweat flying from flailing limbs, Timos felt none of it – only a deep craving to be inside the cool privacy of his room and the beautiful book that lay there waiting for him.

Passing into the cloistered courtyard, he checked the sundial. Half an hour before the call to dinner. Time to spend with the creature.

Only half an hour
, a voice in his head complained.

Inside his chamber, Timos stopped. “How can I touch such a being with filthy hands? Forgive me, I must wash. I cannot sully your loveliness with these.”
Yes, do. Only, hurry.

Five minutes later, cleansed and in a fresh tunic, Timos stood before the book and reached out to stroke its cover. The leather seemed softer, more sensuous than before.
Open me
, it begged.

Hands trembling, he lifted the heavy cover. Marvellous violet light filled the room, dazzling him. Flowers and animals never seen on this earth twined around strange symbols, challenging him to parse out their meanings. He traced their shapes with his finger. Fire, feeling, desire flashed up into his brain. New knowledge, unintelligible concepts, startled his senses. “It will take a lifetime to know you, to understand you.”
Oh, yes …,
it whispered.

At that very inopportune instant, Oscar rapped on his door. “Master Timos, please, the Bishop is waiting for you to dine with him. What shall I say?”

“Tell him ... tell him, I am coming immediately.”

As Timos closed the book’s cover, he heard sobbing.
How cruel you are to leave me so
.

“I must. Bishop Probus is my master.”

At those words, the violet light flared out; the cover snapped firmly shut. Timos fell back onto his bed, so painful was his sense of loss. Nonetheless, after a few moments to straighten his clothes and his senses, he made his way to the
loggia
, where the Bishop was waiting.

“I was afraid I was going to have to eat alone, again.”

“No, Your Excellency. The day has been long, the sun fierce. I felt the need to bathe before joining you.”

“That was considerate. Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Just tired, sir. This is not the easiest task you have ever asked of me.”

“I can see that. Perhaps you would like me to relieve you for a few days.”

“No ... I think I should see it through to the end.”

“All right. But if you look this distraught tomorrow night, I shall set Ochrid to finishing it.”

“I wouldn’t. He looks worse than I – if you can believe it. Come, let’s have some of this cool Candian wine.”

“That should help.”

Dinner progressed, more or less as normal. Probus wanted a detailed account of the troops’ activities. At first, Timos was reluctant to describe the way the texts had screamed and cursed. But, as always, bit-by-bit, the full picture was pulled out of him. The Bishop, hands folded over a replete tummy, had an uncanny knack for pouncing on the odd aspect, using it to pull down another fact and another, until a complete story had been assembled.

“That sounds horrific. Perhaps I should order a cask of good wine sent round – what do you think?”

“I think the boys would appreciate it. But from the look of them, the only thing that would make them feel better is their mothers.”

“Poor lads, they really are so young, aren’t they?”

Timos shrugged. “That’s the system. A man doesn’t become a citizen,
polities
, until he’s done his duty to the state – as it was, so shall it ever be.”

“I know. Still doesn’t feel right.”

Shortly after this, Timos returned to his chambers. There, he spent a fruitless hour trying to persuade his book to open her cover. Pleadings, begging, imprecations – nothing worked. At last, angry and frustrated, he gulped down the flagon of wine Probus had sent along with him and fell again into an inebriated sleep.

The next day was worse than the previous – if that was possible. By noon, Timos was so ill – from sun, wine-sickness, from frustration and anger – that Ochrid took charge, ordering his captain back to his quarters.

“Yes, yes, you’re right. What I need is some rest. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“I’m sure of it Sir. Don’t you be worrying. I’ll see everything gets done properly.”

“There’ll be extra
solidii
in your pay packet – for all of you. I promise.”

Once again, released from the book burning, Timos was a beardless youth skipping to a rendezvous. He wondered if the texts they were destroying had been friends of his book.

What if she hadn’t – wouldn’t – forgive him for abandoning her last night? Nearing his room, he slowed, heart pounding in his chest. Ahead, emanating from the edges of the doorframe, the glorious violet light welcomed him back.

Locking the door carefully behind him, Timos regarded the beautiful creature reclining on her bed of white linen, glowing softly. The air was filled with glorious perfume: lilacs and violet, hyacinth and tuber-rose. Heavy, musky, it made him dizzy. Falling to his knees before his beloved, he wrapped his arms around her and rubbed his cheek against her soft leather cover. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

It’s all right. You came back. I forgive you. Now open me.

Timos obeyed, turning pages filled with remarkable beauty, glowing pictures of demons and maidens, of far-away cities never seen – only imagined – of calligraphy with strange shapes – not Greek or Latin – and runic-like inscriptions .... What could it all mean?

Hours passed. Timos felt neither hunger nor thirst. Diving deeply into the wonders on the pages, he barely heard Oscar knock, again and again. More time passed. Timos was certain that all the mysteries of the universe were contained in this extraordinary volume – if only he were strong enough, brave enough, to master them.

His Beloved led him on, her voice now not always so sweet. When he begged for a rest, she hissed that he was a weakling.

A day and night had passed. Timos had not left his room or answered any attempts to summon him. The Bishop was worried, more than worried. He knew something was very wrong. First, he questioned Ochrid, who had just completed the odious task of searching out and destroying the proscribed texts. Probus felt much pity for him, but his dinner would have to wait until he reported what he knew of Timos’ situation. The story of the book came out immediately.

“... and you say he took it with him to our residence? Did you ever see it burnt?”

“No, Your Excellency, I never saw it again.”

“That means it must be with Timos. Thank you, my good man. Go now to your justly-earned rest. Before you retire, however, send me four fresh, seasoned soldiers. We need to have a look at this book. I’m afraid Timos may need some persuading to allow access to his treasure.”

“I’ll arrange it immediately.”

While he waited for the troops, Probus pondered his next move. Rising to dress, he took out the royal purple chasuble embroidered with jet. It was worn during the darkest hours after the death of the Lord Jesus. Probus contemplated the symbolism of this. Then, placing it back into its coffer, he put on the glorious green, white and gold of Resurrection Morning.
If I am to fight the Devil, I need a magic stronger than Death to defeat him
.

As Probus had suspected, Timos didn’t answer his knock; only a low moaning issued through the door. “Break down the door,” he ordered the servants. “Stay out unless I call.”

Inside, he found Timos curled into a ball, gibbering, on the floor. By his side, an old book hissed and vibrated a rainbow of obscene colours. With courage available only to the truly innocent, Probus moved to the book and began to examine the strange texts.

“What are you doing?” Timos cried, “You can’t read.”

“Maybe not. But I can understand this ... abomination”

“Yes!” Timos howled. “It is that. Can you help me?”

“Possibly. We must journey together, to a place no man in this world has ever seen.”

“Where we will die,” moaned Timos.

“That is to be determined. Where are the herbs given you by that northern shaman you met years ago?”