Immortal (7 page)

That night, as they sat near the fire, Gamos seemed troubled. “What did he tell you about the trip?”

“Not much,” Agios admitted. “I don't care, though. We are going away from these lands, and that's all that matters to me.”

Gamos stirred the embers of the campfire, the firelight sketching his craggy face in lines of yellow. “You'll be traveling into Roman territory—a dangerous journey.”

“So?”

Gamos looked across the fire at him. “He's taking none of us soldiers as guards. You know the Romans?”

“By reputation only,” Agios said. He added drily, “Mostly I've heard about their slave trade.”

Krampus whimpered at the mention of the word “slave”—or maybe “Romans.”

Gamos sighed. “Do you know what has been happening among the Romans?”

Agios shook his head. “That's nothing to me.”

“You ought to know, though, before you go among them. You've heard of Julius Caesar, who died forty years ago or more?”

“A soldier, wasn't he? I have heard the name.”

Gamos took a swig of wine. “Ruler of Rome. Enemies assassinated him. For years there was civil war, until his kinsman Octavian defeated the armies of Caesar's assassins. Octavian had himself crowned emperor of all Rome's possessions—he took the name Caesar Augustus, ‘the honored Caesar.' You know of Augustus?”

Agios shrugged. “That name I have not heard.”

“Well, he believes in military might,” Gamos said, a note of admiration creeping into his voice. “He's a good leader of soldiers.”

“What has this to do with me?” Agios asked.

Gamos took a few moments before answering. Then he held out his hand and made a fist as he said, “Augustus has tightened the Romans' grip in that part of the world. Rome is master of Syria, Palestine, and Egypt. You know the Romans' way of ruling?”

“They make conquered countries provinces of their empire,” Agios said. “They set up governors and make Roman law the law of the land.”

“Do you know much of their religion?”

Agios shook his head. “Gods and goddesses, like most religions, but I don't know the names of the Roman ones. I've told you religion doesn't mean much to me.”

The fire had burned low as the night waned, and in the faint, flickering light Gamos fell silent for a while. Then he said, “Like most peoples, the Romans worship many gods. The chief is Jove, who is said to rule the sky and all beneath it, and then come his brothers Neptune, who rules the sea, and Pluto, who is king of the dead. Many others. However, when the Romans seize control of a country, they let the people continue to worship their own gods. So in Egypt there are still temples to Ra, the sun god, and all the other Egyptian deities. All the Romans demand is that the locals recognize Roman gods, even with a token sacrifice.”

Agios listened but had no comment other than a short grunt of understanding.

“Some locals, though, resist that. The Hebrews are one such group. Do you know of them?”

“I've met some,” Agios said. “I've learned a little of their language. It is a dialect of Aramaic.”

“Oh,” Gamos said appreciatively. “That will be an advantage.” Then he continued: “They believe in just one God. And they believe their God—I don't know his name—commands that they worship no one else. They refuse even the token sacrifice the Romans demand. You see?”

“Not really,” Agios replied.

Gamos lowered his voice: “Caspar and the others plan to go to the land of the Hebrews. It is not safe there. I have heard whispers of uprisings. Of revolt.”

Agios was no soldier, but he did not recoil at the thought of war. If he had reason, he would gladly stand and fight, for the sorrow in his spirit was slowly hardening into something different altogether. Bitterness. Anger. It would feel good to go into battle.

Gamos sighed. “I wish Caspar would take six or eight of us guards with him. Promise me you'll look out for him, Agios. I have been in his service more years than I can reckon without a careful count.”

“I'll do what I can,” Agios said.

“That is all I ask.”

“What will you do?”

“The rest of the caravan will travel on,” Gamos told him. We are on our way to Khor Rori, the port city. We'll trade what we have and load the camels with goods to carry home. If the gods will it, we will meet Caspar again on the trade route, or failing that, back in his kingdom.”

Agios did not reply. It was a troubled world. He wondered if he would ever feel at home in it again.

Gamos eventually fell asleep with his cloak pulled over his head, and Krampus was able to find rest, too. The bulky man snored and tossed fitfully, but Agios was grateful that he could sleep without fear or pain.

In the firelight, Krampus's ugly face lost its seeming fierceness. In sleep, the big man had an expression of sorrow. Agios wondered about his past, his sufferings. He suspected the simple man had known nothing besides mistreatment and the sting of the lash. It would take time to undo what had been done to him. Not for the first time, Agios wondered at the men who had abused him. It was exactly as he had suspected: Krampus was not a monster, but simply a man starved for kindness. He didn't look or act or talk like other men, but he had something gentle, something childlike in him. Agios had seen it the very first time he laid eyes on him.

Because he couldn't sleep, Agios pulled out his knife. He had pocketed two small pieces of wood earlier and he chose one now, a long, thin piece that would serve his purpose perfectly.

It took hours to carve, and the sun was just spilling gold across the horizon when he put the finishing touches on one of the wings. He had never seen a picture of one of these creatures, but Gamos had spoken of them, and now Agios had made his best effort at capturing its likeness. The dragon was a thing of beauty—his best effort yet—and he marveled at it for a moment. The sleek, scaly body curved sinuously, the tail coiled like a snake. That hadn't been the hard part. Agios had labored over the wings, spread wide and marvelous, and the tiny, pointed teeth in the open, roaring mouth. Agios smiled a little, then placed the beast on the ground next to Gamos. It would be the first thing he would see when he opened his eyes. It was the only way Agios could think to say good-bye.

Quietly, Agios woke Krampus. Pressing his finger to his lips, he helped the giant to his feet and they slipped away in the predawn light. The horses were saddled and ready, and so was Caspar. Without even uttering a greeting, Agios took the spear a servant offered him and slid a short sword into the leather strap across his back. Krampus would not mount.

“Let him go on foot,” Agios said.

“He will slow us.”

“If we try to gallop the whole way, we'll kill the horses.”

“True,” said Caspar. In the end, two on horseback and one jogging tirelessly along, they left the caravan and headed north as a dry wind stirred up clouds of dust.

C
aspar explained that the journey would take close to two weeks, and they would have to trade and hunt to survive along the way. Hunting was no problem—very little could evade Agios's spear—but he worried about the trading. Caspar had said that the surplus frankincense could be sold for food or for unexpected needs, new horseshoes or reins to replace worn-out ones—but Agios knew that frankincense would rouse suspicion and greed. It wouldn't be long before their reputation preceded them, and when that happened, they would likely find themselves in a perilous situation.

“All will be well,” Caspar assured him. “We have the brute.”

“His name is Krampus,” Agios insisted. “Even with him, we are only three. We can be outnumbered and defeated.”

Caspar thought for a moment. “I have an idea.”

At the next village they traded for hot bowls of a rich lentil stew, several crusty loaves of barley bread, and some oddities that Caspar was very secretive about. First they secured six balls of yarn and a dozen small earthenware vessels. Then Caspar visited a seller of medicines and curious chemicals. That night, as they sat with their mats unrolled beside a low fire, Caspar unpacked bags and flasks of powders and mixed them until he tossed a pinch of it into the campfire. It flared like lightning, blinding, and sent a wave of heat that scorched Agios's face. An acrid boiling smoke remained. “Good,” Caspar said. “An acid will make it take fire.” He produced small flasks with corks, prepared them, and then wound skeins of wool around a bag full of the powders and one of the flasks. When he was finished, they each had two balls of wool that they tucked carefully inside their cloaks.

Caspar showed them how one loop of wool was left. “Pull the loop and it uncorks the flask inside. The acid mixes with the powder, and . . .” Caspar mimed an explosion with his hands.

Krampus twitched the loop on one of the two balls of wool he held.

“Not now,” Agios told him quickly, putting a warning hand on the man's broad arm. “It's dangerous.”

Krampus seemed to understand.

As the fire slowly burned to glowing coals, Caspar and Krampus gave in to sleep. But Agios couldn't find rest. Staring into the dying fire, he suddenly became aware that the land was bathed in light, nearly as bright as a full moon on the desert. Yet the moon was well past full, and in a different part of the sky. Agios got to his feet and saw that halfway to the zenith and off to the northwest a star shone, an unfamiliar one. Its brilliance astonished him.

Krampus muttered in his sleep and stirred slightly.

Staring at the star, Agios felt a stirring of memory almost as sharp as longing.

A light in the night. Darkness all around.

He had dreamed of this, dreamed of something even more valuable than frankincense. Something that he himself lacked.

But as a brisk wind lifted the hem of his cloak, Agios turned from the star and its unusual light. It was part of the heavens, an unearthly fantasy of the sort that Philos used to believe in. His son had wished on stars. But Agios knew that was foolishness. The star was nothing but far-off light and impossible yearning: a dream.

In spite of the harsh, unforgiving landscape, they journeyed as quickly as they could toward the city of Megisthes, where Melchior ruled, prodded forward by Caspar's desire to join his friends and their shared anxiety about the safety of the trade route. They found themselves in a dry land with high sandstone cliffs. The rock face was honeycombed with caves—the dwelling places of lepers and outcasts, Caspar told him.

The day grew unbearably hot and Caspar called for a midday break. They watered the stallions in a nearby stream and then tethered them in the shade of a small stand of trees. Caspar took out his bedroll and in minutes dropped into a doze, apparently confident that his guards would let nothing escape their watchful gaze. But Krampus's eyes were fixed on the caves—not the road.

Agios watched his charge. He suspected that Krampus was much younger than he had originally supposed—maybe as young as his mid-teens. But there was no way to know for sure. He was slowly learning to speak, gaining in confidence daily. He usually talked, though, only of immediate needs, food or drink or the need to relieve himself. Never of the past. Perhaps he did not even comprehend time as other men did.

Crouching down beside him, Agios motioned to the hills and the dwellings that Krampus seemed so fixated on. “Where do you come from?” he asked.

No answer but a grunt.

Agios tried in the handful of other languages he knew. Krampus did not respond at all, until Agios spoke Latin: “Where do you come from?”

Krampus growled and shook his head. He mimed pulling at an oar.

“Yes, I heard you were a galley slave. Before that, though? Where did you live? Who were your father and mother?”

Krampus stared at Agios for a moment, and then he turned fully away, giving Agios his back. It was a childish move, a clear indication that he didn't want to talk and, even more likely, didn't want to remember. Agios could understand. He clapped a hand on Krampus's shoulder for just a moment, and then walked away to give him privacy. A measure of peace. Even from several strides away, Agios could hear the muffled, gargling sound that came from deep inside Krampus's throat. It was the sound of his weeping.