A Rose-Red City

Fourteen

Killer hit the turf and lay still, dead or broken or unconscious. Asterios stared over toward him for a moment and then turned to survey the wagonload of onlookers. It raised its head in another bellow of triumph, mocking the onlookers’ impotent fury. Then, still breathing hard from its exertions, the monster turned its back on them once more and paced in leisurely fashion over to its victim.

Jerry wailed. “If we all go? All of us?”

“NO!” Sven thundered. “There is a deal. The Oracle said we must not, and we promised.” Ariadne had been tempered in a thousand battles with a lawyer.

”What did the Oracle say?” she demanded. “Its exact words?” It was little Jean-Louis who answered. “It said, ‘Asterios wants Killer more than it wants Howard. It has agreed that he may have a sword and the rest of you will be safe in the wagon; the legions will stay away. I have agreed that no man will help Achilles.’ ” The Minotaur still had its back to them, standing and staring down at Killer, idly kicking his head from side to side.

“Right!” she said. Grabbing the wand from Jerry’s limp hand, she vaulted over the side of the wagon and was running before she reached the ground. She heard the roars of outrage behind her being choked back.

The fight had moved a long way from the wagon.

She knew she must look absurd, a powder blue midget racing into a battle against a giant. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do or why she was doing it. She didn’t like Killer; he was a dirty-minded, obnoxious little punk, but she wasn’t going to let that hateful monster kill the boy if she could help it.

Killer was starting to twitch. The Minotaur was behind his head, and he must have opened his eyes and looked up and seen it staring down at him, for he tried to rise— and Asterios put one foot on his face and pushed him down again.

It likes to play with its victims.

And Ariadne was still running, silent on the grass.

Then Asterios uttered a quieter, rumbling whinny that might have been a laugh, clasped its hands behind its back, and bent over, twisting its head. She thought for a moment that it was merely peering into Killer’s eyes, but then she saw the horn, directly over the boy’s heart… and Asterios continued to bend.

Killer reached up and grasped the horn, and the cavernous chuckling noise came again. Blood was visibly trickling from the monster’s cuts down onto its victim, and Killer was now obviously taking the strain, trying to hold that icily descending horn away from his chest. He squirmed, doubling himself to bring his legs up, pressing his feet against the massive head… and Asterios rumbled mockingly again, remorselessly increasing the pressure. It must outweigh Killer three to one— the could never resist its weight. The horn moved steadily lower, gently folding his limbs ahead of it, touching his chest Still it had not seen Ariadne. Still she ran. Perhaps she could ram that wand down its horrible throat; Jerry had said wands could burn the demon.

Asterios was bent almost double now, its legs apart, its back toward her, its rear vulnerable. It had not heard her, or it would be moving faster to destroy one victim and then turn on another.

And then it either heard or saw her. Roaring, it jerked loose from Killer, unclasping its hands, raising its head— too late. Without slowing down, swinging the heavy wand two-handed like a golf club, she struck upward as hard as she could between the Minotaur’s widespread legs; flame and smoke spurted from its crotch as faerie wand met demon flesh.

With a deafening scream, Asterios collapsed in a heap on top of Killer. Ariadne fell over both of them and then was thrown clear by the monster’s wild convulsions.

She struggled to her feet and staggered, dazed. Killer and the still-bellowing monster seemed to be writhing together in some horrible embrace. Then Killer had rolled free and was scrambling to his feet, so splattered with blood that it was impossible to tell whether or not he had been wounded— but he was mobile. The distant onlookers broke into hysterical yells of joy. Ariadne started to run for the silver sword shining in the grass. That was a long way, too. She grabbed it and headed back again, reeling and breathless and miserably aware that she was badly out of shape. The wand and sword were slowing her down.

She came to a gasping stop and held out the sword. “Put it back!” Killer screamed. “You must not interfere!”

Asterios, still roaring, clutching its genitals, had risen to its knees. “No man may interfere!” She tried to yell and could hardly get the words out at all.

But Killer’s face was inflamed and furious beneath the blood stains. He had one hand pressed against a slash across his chest and he was swaying on his feet.

“Put it back where it was, you stupid bitch,” he snarled at her. “And get back in the wagon where you belong.” Behind him, Asterios made an attempt to rise and sagged again, bellowing.

She was almost too furious to think. This was a clash of cultures, like Jerry’s story of Thermopylae— Killer would not accept help from a woman. A ball of twine would be all right, but she was not supposed to interfere in a hero’s actual battles.

Asterios lurched to one knee, then to its feet, bent double still.

The Iliad?

Hadn’t there been goddesses involved in the battles between Greeks and Trojans? It was his bible, Jerry had said.

She took a deep breath, suppressed her panting, drew herself up as straight as she could, and said, “Don’t you know who I am, Achilles?”

“Ari…” he said, then the rage faded, and his eyes opened wide. “Athena?” he whispered.

Asterios half straightened and started to shuffle forwards, one hand reaching for Killer’s neck.

“Quickly, mortal!” Ariadne said. “Kill the Minotaur!”

Killer nodded, grabbed the sword, and jumped clear of the monster’s grip, just in time. Ariadne raised the wand threateningly in case it came for her, but Killer swung the silver sword in a blazing wide arc at Asterios’ throat.

The Minotaur toppled backward to the turf, and Killer raised the sword, two-handed, and thrust it down, burying it in the monster’s chest.

The wagon exploded in cheers, erupting people as a volcano throws rocks. Killer turned to stare at Ariadne, and she held out the wand. “You have done well,” she said.

He was panting, naked, splattered with blood, and for a moment she thought he would kneel to her. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. She also was gasping and sweating, too much for a goddess. Realization flickered in his eyes. Then he grinned and lifted his hands invitingly.

She threw herself into his arms.

It was the kiss at the shrine all over again, and this time she did not even try to resist. She could not breathe in his grasp, could not think, was conscious only of the pounding of their two hearts and his naked form against her and of a great joy that this Killer had survived. She dug her fingers into his back and returned his kiss wholeheartedly.

He was an obnoxious little punk, maybe, but now she knew she would not be able to resist him. Whenever he called, she would come.

Jerry led the pack at first, then slowed, and he was the last to arrive at the celebration, the group that was standing around Killer and Ariadne, waiting for them to break loose from their embrace.

He wandered over to inspect the prone form of the Minotaur, the silver sword still protruding from its rib-cage. Killer would certainly break his rule against booty and have that head mounted. Jerry pulled out the sword and wiped it on the grass. Then he heard much laughter behind him: Killer was accepting congratulations from the others now. Even the Gillises were in there.

Ariadne broke free and came towards Jerry and then stopped. He held out a hand. “Well done!” he said.

She shook his hand, lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Doesn’t this carcass look smaller than you expected?” Jerry asked. “Jerry… I don’t know why I did that.” He forced a smile and hoped that it looked genuine. “Did what? Displayed that incredible courage of yours yet again? You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met, Ariadne— man or woman. Don’t be sorry for that. Or do you mean kissing Killer?”

“Both.” He shrugged. “Quite understandable. He’s had four hundred years of practice. I’m the only one, almost, who has ever been able to refuse him— and even I’m lined up now.” He was sounding bitter and childish; she was hurt.

“Damn!” he said. “I’m not jealous of Killer, Ariadne; truly. Every husband in Mera— Oh, hell! I mean I don’t own you.” She studied the Minotaur. “Yes, it is smaller… Jerry! It’s shrinking!” So it was; bloodstains fading, pelt disappearing. Already the monstrous head was barely more than human.

One by one, the men came over and shook Ariadne’s hand. Their awkward discomfiture amused her.

Then Jerry was grabbed roughly from behind and whirled around by Killer, still wearing nothing but smears of blood and a huge grin. He had a gash on his chest, and his lips were bruised, but the bruises could easily have been done during the congratulations. “You’re the only one who hasn’t…” he shouted, and stopped when he saw where Jerry was pointing.

Now everyone noticed the transformation— there were screams and shouts. Carlo had his eyes open, looking dazed and confused, but unwounded and unbloody. The onlookers fell into an uneasy silence.

“Helga?” Jerry said. “You have some spare clothes? Clio? See if you can find some water.” He knelt down beside Carlo. “Relax,” he said. “You’ll be okay in a minute.”

“The gate is open!” Tig exclaimed, pointing.

Not only was North Gate open, but a stream of citizens was pouring out of it, too far off to recognize, but obviously preparing to welcome the hero.

Killer was scowling down at Carlo. “Hades!” he muttered. “I can’t have him skinned now, can I?” He glanced around and spoke loudly to regain his friends’ attention. “Who shall ride beside me when we make our entry? Jerry! You shall have the honor!” Jerry rose and shook his head. “I’m in disgrace. Ariadne, obviously.” Killer frowned like a thunderstorm.

“Not me, thanks,” Ariadne said. She looked over at the growing crowd. “No, Killer, let Clio ride beside you.” He was astonished. “Clio?” he said scornfully. “What’s she done? Why Clio?”

“Because she’s your wife,” Ariadne shouted, “and no decent man would think twice!” Nobody spoke to Killer like that.

“She has a point!” Jerry said hastily, moving to put himself between her and the deadly raised wand, the clenched fist. The fiery glare swung on him, and he braced himself for the shattering impacts, knowing he could never be fast enough to block them. Then, astonishingly, Killer spun on his heel and stalked away— hopefully to get dressed. The onlookers relaxed with an audible sigh like the sound of wind in straw.

Jerry knelt by Carlo again to hide his trembling.

Ariadne crouched down beside him. “Jerry… thanks! But he wouldn’t have… would he?”

“Why don’t you ask Clio?” he muttered, and helped Carlo sit up.

More surprise— Killer did order Clio up to the driver’s bench beside him, and her youthful face glowed with the joy of summer dawns.

A double line of citizens cheered them to the gate, with Killer standing up, holding reins in one hand and the wand in the other, accepting the applause with juvenile glee, and taking his time.

Even inside the city, the jubilation continued. There were, usually, only two real wagon roads in Mera— Wall Road, which ran around the perimeter, and Main Street, which spiraled up the hill to the house of the Oracle. It was this way they followed, rumbling along slowly while citizens came running alongside to cheer. Jerry had returned to his former seat at the back, with Ariadne close beside him, and he was astonished at the number of people who wanted to welcome him back also, trotting by the wagon and reaching up to shake his hand, standing on their doorsteps or in their storefronts to lift their caps in greeting and call his name. He was kept busy, for at the same time he was trying to keep up a commentary for Ariadne, aware that he was babbling with excitement, taking as much pride as if he had created Mera all by himself, and also seeing a little of it freshly through her eyes.

“Notice how old it is?” he said. “Ancient, in some parts, a terrible jumble really, and yet it all seems so bright and new, as though it had just been put together by a planning commission.”

“Not a committee!” she answered, smiling. “By a great artist, perhaps. It’s beautiful. Who cleans the streets?”

“They clean themselves, I think, like the clothes,” he said. “But if I think Fishermen’s Walk needs a polish, I go out with a broom, and others do the same. There’s the Concert Plaza— we don’t go in for halls in Mera, because of the weather— recitals and ballet and plays. I had a part in a Sophocles Festival that Clio organized, and Shakespeare is much better here, where you can get all the shades of meaning…” He pointed out the art stores, most of them run by the artists, the cafes run by the good chefs, and some of his closer friends. “Look, Maisie, there’s Father Julius that I told you about.” He commented on some of the houses and the people who lived in them, noticing for the first time in decades that among the crowds of all races, the old, the middle-aged, and the young— them were no children. Then…

“There! There, in the sidewalk cafe!” He lifted his cap in greeting, and the man rose and responded with a smile. “I told you you would recognize him.” She went pale, nodded, and whispered, “Mozart!”

“We don’t have many celebrities,” he said. “I think you’ll get on well with him— he doesn’t suffer fools. There’s old N’bana, my favorite witch doctor; Ali Al’iza — he used to be a slaver— and that woman was a priestess of the sun…” They passed Jewelers’ Lane, Farmers’ Market, and Poets’ Corner, and at last the crowds thinned out. They came to Hospital Court, where the road ended, and they all climbed down from the wagon, laughing and thanking Killer for the ride. Here they stood high above the city, on an open area flanked by great cypresses and the final little rocky crest of the hill, and he pointed out the low, airy building of the Hospital to her.

“It’s not needed, of course,” Jerry said, “except for people like Killer, who more or less has his own bed there; but healing is fastest up here, close to the Oracle and the center of faerie. No doctors, but a wonderful old couple look after the patients…” Ariadne took a deep breath of the fragrant air, the gentle breeze stirring her honey-colored hair and making it gleam in the sunshine. “And now we go to the Oracle?”

“Yes,” he said, “… in a little while.” Sven took the reins and turned the wagon. The other Merans wished them good luck and wandered back down the hill, following the jingling, creaking wagon, leaving Jerry and Killer and their four rescued mortals. Killer stood clutching his wand, putting on the brave front of a returning hero without being very convincing; Jerry was holding his boars’ tusk helmet.

Gillis seemed strangely good-humored, although looking absurdly out of place in his battered suit with his tie knotted loosely and his coat over his arm. Maisie clutched her husband with one arm and a shapeless bundle of pants and sweaters under the other and was obviously upset and worried. Carlo was slouching even more than usual and had apparently not bothered to recover his Outside garments.

“Let’s go see this Oracle of yours, then!” Gillis said. “I think I am owed some explantions and apologies and I am obviously not going to get them from you.” Jerry led the way to the steps. Ariadne held his arm and peered at him curiously as they went.

“You’re not looking forward to this, are you?” she asked.

Be honest. “No. A visit to the Oracle can be a very trying experience anytime,” he said. “And I did screw up badly.” They wandered up the gentle stairs until they reached the wide, flat expanse at the very top of Mera. Over in the center was a raised platform, supporting a high circle of huge rectangular slabs of pink granite, topped by a circle of similar slabs— Stonehenge. The pavement inside was empty. Ariadne, he supposed, was seeing polished columns, Maisie a red chapel “Let me show you the view first,” he suggested. “People come up here often, to sit and look and gossip, and if the Oracle wants to send a message, it calls one of them in.” There were indeed about a dozen people scattered around, some of them standing and leaning on the stone balustrade which ran all the way around, others sitting on the raised benches. They nodded politely and did not interfere— they could tell that these newcomers had come on business, and one thing which never failed in Mera was good manners. Except in a few people like Killer, of course.

The whole city lay spread out below them, and the country beyond. “There’s North Gate, where we came in.” The meadow outside was where Killer had fought the Minotaur, but they knew that, and beyond that lay a low range of grassy hills, blocking any further view. The sky to the north was dark and stormy, and that was normal.

He pointed out the Concert Plaza again and a few of the streets, leading them gradually around to the west and a view of wooded hills with sunlight spiking off silver streams. “Do you like fishing?” he asked Ariadne. “Or canoeing? I used to be a good man with a punt at college.” She smiled, squeezed his arm, and said nothing.

They carried on around the balustrade until they were looking south, and the landscape that day was all spring-like: orchards pink with blossom and dark loam fields being plowed by teams of oxen.

“So you have peasants?” Gillis said. “They feed their masters in the city?”

“We have peasants,” Jerry said, “because they want to be peasants. They work or not as they feel like, as does everyone in Mera. They live in the countryside because they prefer it to the town. Most people have a job of some sort because they enjoy doing it and it gives them satisfaction and a sense of identity. Craftsmen like to make things, cooks like to cook, the farmers like to grow things. There’s no nine-to-five in Mera, no serfs, no wage slaves.” Then he pointed out the Dance Floor and the start of Fishermen’s Walk, and they had come round to the east, where the blue sea sparkled away endlessly. They gazed down to the little harbor and its pink granite quay and tiny specks of men unloading their catch from the fishing boats. A bark under full sail was coming in very slowly in the gentle wind, and a dhow was already unloading cargo, its gowned crew indistinguishable from the them.

“So there are four ways out of the city,” Gillis said. “Didn’t you say?” Jerry nodded. “Three gates and the harbor. North to duty and danger, west to fun and adventure, south to the fields. East is the harbor.”

“And where does that lead?” He tightened his hold on Ariadne. “That leads away for ever. If you are going to return to the real world, Graham, you and Maisie, then you will leave by ship— and you can never return. That much I do know.”

“I admit that it is a beautiful place, Mr. Howard,” Maisie said, plucking up courage as she did when she was talking of her faith, “but I do not wish to stay. I fear the Devil’s works.” Jerry leaned on the rail and nodded sadly. “That is what Father Julius says, that you lose your immortal soul if you stay in Mera. He has been here for centuries, busily trying to persuade us all that it is our duty to leave, go back, and repent.” She flushed angrily. “You did not tell me that before. And what of his own soul?” Jerry smiled. “He says his duty is to spread the message— I think he expects to be the last one out. He is a kind and charming old man, and we are very fond of him, but his thinking is as muddled as a creel of eels.”

“We shall not stay, Graham!” Maisie said firmly.

He shook his head. “Never! You are lotus eaters here, Howard. You do not grow or develop, you produce nothing except for your own satisfaction— contribute nothing to humanity, achieve nothing. Is that not so? You are basically the same person you were forty years ago, fossilized forever in a happy stupor of self-gratification.” Jerry thought about that, watching the harbor far below him. “Yes,” he said at last. “What you say is quite true. This is the land of the lotus eaters, but perhaps there are those whose digestion will not stand a harsher diet? And also there are those who owe no debt to the world because of what the world has done to them. You may be different. You will not be forced to remain.” The big man snorted and turned to look at the house of the Oracle. Killer was watching him with some amusement and being astonishingly quiet for Killer.

“This Oracle?” Gillis demanded. “You said it is human, yet you always talk of it as neuter— as ‘It’. Tell me what to expect.”

“Expect the truth,” Jerry said. “And the truth is not often palatable. It is not like other oracles, where you ask questions and they return ambiguous answers. This one asks the questions, and you tell it the answers— and you cannot lie to it.” He heard Ariadne draw in her breath, and her grip on his arm tightened.

“That’s why we have no police— and no lawyers,” he added, and Gillis scowled angrily.

Then Killer straightened suddenly. “I am called,” he muttered, and walked off across the courtyard toward the house of the Oracle, tapping the wand against his leg.

“I heard nothing,” Ariadne whispered. “No, you wouldn’t,” Jerry said.

He must be showing his apprehension plainly now, for the other four were frowning at him.

“I should perhaps have found better clothes,” Gillis said uneasily, “if we are to have an audience with the ruler of the city.” Jerry laughed and got glared at, so he explained. “Clothes are the least of your worries. You will meet the naked truth in there, Gillis— and you will be naked before the truth.” The big man flushed angrily. “What does this Oracle look like, then?”