A Mosaic of Stars: Short Stories From Other Worlds (3 page)

“Demons shall become angels.” The ghost echoed her voice, and as she glanced back she saw that it too walked confidently forward, though without moving from its spot.

Approaching the wall, she saw that the light was coming from an ancient device embedded in the base of the wall. It was dirty and rusted, and a lump of rock had recently fallen against it, pressing on two protrusions that glowed like fine gemstones, one blue and one red. Was it some sort of trap, confining the spirits that haunted this place? A blue gem to display benevolent spirits and a red one to trap demons, as she had heard of in legends?

She lifted away the rock at its base. Both gems ceased their glowing, and the light went out. Behind her, the ghost fell silent.

Mantaj was surprised to feel a surge of sadness. She had lost so much with her mother’s death, and the transformation of that spirit from an image of death to a message of scripture had given her hope. For a moment she had believed that death was not the end, not for good things.

She stroked the blue gemstone, and the lighted flashed again. Leaning the rock against the gem, she saw it resume its soft glow and heard her own voice coming from behind her.

“Demons shall become angels,” the ghost said again.

“Thank you.” Mantaj bowed her head to the spirit trap, and turned to leave.

“Demons shall become angels.” The voice followed her out through the hall. “Demons shall become angels.”

Black Cat

Titus raced down the narrow streets, sand flying from his sandals. Behind him, a dozen voices yelled in angry Egyptian, footfalls pounding after his own.

This was one more for the list of things not to do on leave. Don’t upset the local gods. Don’t stray too far from the other legionaries. And now, don’t try to cheat Egyptians at dice.

He ducked around a corner, dived through an open doorway and shut the door behind him. Hopefully they’d run on past.

The basket hanging from his hand shook, a dozen dormice quivering in terror. They’d looked so plump and tasty, it had been impossible not to push his luck. After a decade in the legion, you got a good meal when you could.

Feet ran toward the door. Wiping the sweat from his palm, Titus gripped his dagger and got ready to fight.

The footsteps slowed as they passed the door, angry shouts replaced by some sort of debate.

A purr made Titus look down. At his feet sat a black cat.

It purred louder, and looked meaningfully from Titus to the basket of mice.

“Ssh.” Titus waved a hand at the cat.

Unimpressed, it meowed loudly.

The receding footsteps hesitated, then headed back toward the door.

Silently cursing the local houses, their thin walls and their cat-tolerating household gods, Titus glanced around the room. There was nowhere to hide, but two doors leading out. Which way to go?

The cat pawed at the basket, looked up at Titus, and then scampered out the left hand door.

“Hope you know your way around.” Titus was no coward, but he’d always been more of a follower than a leader. When in doubt, it was usually best to go with someone smarter than him.

He hurried after the cat.

They ran through the house, past a pair of bemused looking children, and out into an alleyway. The angry voices followed as the cat led him down the twisting back streets, through a bustling market, and up the steps of a temple. A curtain closed behind them, and Titus looked around for a safe place to hide.

Instead he saw cats. Statues of cats. Pictures of cats. Live cats hanging from the furniture, the lamp stands and even the pair of priestesses stood by the altar.

Every pair of feline eyes looked his way. As the dormice shook with panic, every voice in the room was raised in a meow, a chorus so loud it would be heard streets away.

It was a simple shrine. A single room with a single door and no windows. Shouts approached the temple steps, blocking the only way out.

Titus drew his knife. Wanting his other hand free, he dumped the basket on the altar. The black cat looked up at him again.

“Go on then.” Reluctantly, he unlatched the basket lid. “They’re no use to me now.”

Fat felines descended on the mice, snapping with teeth and slashing with claws. They left one untouched, quivering at the foot of a cat-headed statue.

The temple curtain was flung aside and a dozen men stormed in, pointing, shouting and waving knives at Titus.

A hundred furred faces turned their way, and the temple echoed with angry hissing.

The men hesitated, staring from the cats to Titus and then back again. The man who had owned the dormice stared at the altar and shouted. As the hissing rose his companions grabbed his arms and dragged him out the door.

Titus watched them go, then turned with a sigh to see his dormouse dinner disappear in a frenzy of teeth and claws.

As his stomach rumbled, the black cat turned back and deposited a tiny rodent tail at his feet.

“Thanks for sharing.” Titus stooped and stroked the cat. Just to be on the safe side, he mumbled a prayer.

Behind the altar, a cat-headed statue purred.

Lies Like Honey

The stones were cold and hard beneath Marcus’s knees. Pulling a purse from his toga, he tipped the contents into a bowl at the feet of the statue. Gold coins reflected flickering candle light across the carved body of the goddess.

“Hear me, oh mighty Bellona.” Marcus did his best to mimic the humility he had seen in others. There was little reason for a senator to be truly humble. “I bring you this offering, and more to come. Please grant me your power as a leader and orator, that I may humiliate Tullius on the senate floor tomorrow, and ensure my control of the port taxes.”

There seemed little point in lying about his purpose to either a god or a statue. Any god of Rome must know what business preoccupied the city’s senate, and no statue would hear or care.

“I can grant what you ask.” The voice was rich, booming and so unexpected that it made Marcus jump. He had seen the gods grant power, but never before had one deemed fit to speak to him.

None of the temple’s attendants were looking his way. Only he had heard the voice.

“Thank you, oh glory.” He smiled and bowed low. “I will bring you more offerings once I have-”

“I will not grant this power for your petty cause.” Bellona’s voice cut through his thoughts like a sword blade. “But I have need of a voice in the senate. Turn your efforts to stoking war with Carthage, and I will make you a mighty orator, a leader among men.”

Blank faced, Marcus considered his options. He had no desire for war, whether as a leader of a follower. It was a waste of talent and time. But if he was careful, he could get what he wanted from this.

“Or course, oh great one.” He bowed more deeply. “Grant me your power, and I will prove your greatness on the senate floor.”

“Worm!” The voice was a hammer pounding in his brain. He pressed his head against the cold stones, hoping to find some relief from the agony. “You seek to trick me with your slippery words! Implying obedience to my will, while committing to no path but your own. You think I am a fool?”

“That is not what I meant.” Even with his brain feeling like it might spill out through his ears, Marcus could still see a way forward. “I will use your power to make the case for war.”

“Very well.” The goddess’s voice become gentle, washing away the pain. “My power is yours.”

A taste like warm honey flowed across Marcus’s tongue and down his throat. Poetic turns of phrase sprang unbidden into his mind. There was a rumbling richness to his voice as he spoke.

“Thank you, oh great one.” Even he found his new tone charming. “I will do as you ask.”

Rising and turning to leave the temple, he finally allowed himself a sly grin. It was not the first time he had lied for what he wanted. By the time Bellona knew, his work would be done, his argument won with her power. After that, he would make do with attending on the other gods. It would be worth it for the riches at stake.

“Marcus.” Her voice caught him as he reached the doorway. “I have other servants. It will not go well for you if you betray me.”

A temple attendant looked his way as he stood blinking at the sunlit street. The man’s hand lay on the knife in his belt. His eyes gleamed like an iron blade.

Marcus hesitated, contemplating the possibilities ahead of him. Lead a war he didn’t want, or spend months looking over his shoulder for angry priests. Maybe next time he wouldn’t try lying to a god.

Or maybe he would just do it better.

The God of This Hillside

“For the last time, put that thing away.” Carausius glared at the labourer in the grey tunic, the one who kept trying to place offerings next to the syphon pipes. “If the senate thought we needed gods to carry our water then they would have sent a priest, not an engineering team.”

“But the god of this hillside-” the man began.

“A pox on the god of this hillside,” Carausius said. “We have laid the pipes perfectly, there is no need for magic.”

He laid a hand on one of the lead tubes. The siphon ran down one hillside, across the valley, and back up the other side, from a rural collection tank to a water-tower on the edge of Rome. Even by his standards it was excellent work.

“Open the gates,” he called up the hill.

“I already did,” came the reply from near the collection tank.

Frowning, Carausius leaned down and pressed his ear against the pipe. There was no sound, nor the slightest vibration. No water flowed.

He stomped up the hillside, followed by the labourer. At the top stood his assistant Itimerius, his face crumpled with concern.

“Look.” Itimerius pointed to the gate leading from the tank into the pipe. It was open, but no water flowed through. A foot-wide bubble blocked the way, and in the middle of it stood the tiny figure of a water sprite, hair hanging green around her scaly shoulders.

The tank wasn’t full yet, but the water reached Carausius’s knees as he dropped down inside, a measuring stick in one hand.

“Get out.” He stabbed at the sprite with the stick, but she darted giggling out of the way. The air bubble remained. Taking a deep breath, Carausius forced himself to smile at the tiny creature. “What would you like in return for letting the water flow?”

“Not me.” The sprite giggled again, the sound grating at Carausius’s nerves. “Hill god wants offering. Hill god friend.”

“Fine.” Carausius gripped the edge of the tank and hauled himself out. As he stood dripping on the hillside, he turned to the labourer in grey. “Make an offering. Summon the god of this blasted hill.”

“Um…” The labourer pointed past Carausius.

A face had appeared in the freshly dug dirt beside the tank.

Letting out a deep sigh, Carausius turned to the god of the hillside.

“Oh spirit,” he began.

“You mean ‘oh mighty spirit’.” The hill god’s voice was deep, rich and arrogant. Apparently it thought it was one step down from Jupiter, not one step up from a pile of rocks.

“I mean oh noxious vapour,” Carausius replied. “Now tell me what you want, so we can get this over with.”

“What I want is some respect,” the god said.

“Respectfully, what do you want?” Carausius snarled.

“I knew you were too proud.” The god frowned. “You’re one of those humans who thinks you’re good enough without gods.”

“I built this siphon.” Carausius pointed at the pipeline. “I’m good enough without anyone.”

“You didn’t ask my permission to build on my slope.”

“I didn’t need to. The senate priests did that.”

“You didn’t ask for help.”

“I didn’t need your help!”

“You still could have asked.”

“For what? To protect your feelings?”

“To show some respect.”

“How’s this for respect - let the water flow and I won’t turn this hillside into plebeian housing.”

“See - too proud.” Dirt flew as the god snorted. “You’d delay Rome’s water supply rather than say please.”

On the verge of shouting, Carausius caught a glimpse of the city in the distance, and of his team looking at him in resignation.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep, calming breath.

“Oh mighty spirit,” he said between gritted teeth. “Please help the water to flow.”

“And what do you offer me for this assistance?” the god asked.

“Offer you?” Carausius yelled. “You wanted me to-”

He caught himself, took another deep breath, and held out the measuring stick. His hands trembled with anger.

“I offer you the instrument of my craft.” He snapped the stick in half, then plunged it into the dirt. “Which is nothing compared with your power.”

Everyone turned with bated breath to look at the god.