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"Is… Honorius out there, too? Or under here somewhere?"
"No. He was dealt with a long time ago." Deacon Giuseppe made pounding motions.
"I see." The Pope wondered if he could talk to… talk to the Son of God. Or the son of someone, anyhow. Did he have Aramaic enough for that? Or possibly Hebrew? How the Rabbi of Rome would laugh-or cry-if he knew! "Does every Pope do this? Endure this?"
"Every single one," Giuseppe said proudly. "What better way to co
For a lot of the world, why would matter enormously. The Muslims… The Protestants… The Orthodox… His head began to hurt, although the wound didn't. Maybe talking with… him wasn't such a good idea after all. How much do I really want to know?
"When we go back up, I have a lot of praying to do," the Pope said. Would all the prayer in the world free him from the feel of teeth in his throat? And what could he tell his confessor? The truth? The priest would think he'd gone mad-or, worse, wouldn't think so and would start the scandal. A lie? But wasn't inadequate confession of sin a sin in and of itself? The headache got worse.
Deacon Giuseppe might have read his thoughts. "You have a dispensation against speaking of this, your Holiness. It dates from the fourth century, and it may be the oldest document in the Vatican Library. It's not like the Donation of Constantine, either-there's no doubt it's genuine."
"Deo gratias!" the Pope said again.
"Shall we go, then?" the deacon asked.
"One moment." The Pope flogged his memory and found enough Aramaic for the question he had to ask: "Are you the Son of God?"
The sharp-toothed mouth twisted in a-reminiscent?-smile. "You say it," came the reply.
Well, he told Pilate the same thing, even if the question was a bit different, the Pope thought as he left the little chamber and Deacon Giuseppe meticulously closed and locked doors behind them. And, when the Pope was on the stairs going back up to the warmth and blessed light of St. Peter's, one more question occurred to him. How many Popes had heard that same answer?
How many of them had asked that same question? He'd heard it in Aramaic, in Greek, in Latin, and in the language Latin had turned into. He always said the same thing, and he always said it in Aramaic.
"You say it," he murmured to himself, there alone in the comfortable darkness again. Was he really? How could he know? But if they thought he was, then he was-for them. Wasn't that the only thing that counted?
That Roman had washed his hands of finding absolute truth. He was a brute, but not a stupid brute.
And this new one was old, and likely wouldn't last long. Pretty soon, he would feed again. And if he had to try to answer that question one more time afterwards… then he did, that was all.
Child of an AncientCity by Tad Williams
Tad Williams is the bestselling author of the Memory, Sorrow & Thorn series, the Otherland series, and the Shadowmarch series. He has also written several other novels, such as Tailchaser's Song, The War of the Flowers, and The Dragons of Ordinary Farm, which was co-written with his wife, Deborah Beale. His short fiction has appeared in such venues as Weird Tales, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and in the anthologies Legends and Legends II. A collection of his short work, Rite, was released in 2006. He has also written for D.C. Comics, first with the miniseries The Next, and then doing a stint on Aquaman.
This story, which first appeared in Weird Tales, puts an Islamic spin on the traditional vampire tale (the roots of which, of course, are Christian). Set in the lands north of Baghdad, during the reign of Caliph Harun al-Rashid (late eighth century), a group of merchants encounter a strange creature in the desert, and soon find themselves unwilling Scheherazades to the bloodthirsty beast.
Merciful Allah! I am as a calf, fatted for slaughter!" Masrur al-Adan roared with laughter and crashed his goblet down on the polished wood table-once, twice, thrice. A trail of crescent-shaped dents followed his hand. "I can scarce move for gorging."
The fire was banked, and shadows walked the walls. Masrur's table-for he was master here-stood scatter-spread with the bones of small fowl.
Masrur leaned forward and squinted across the table. "A calf," he said. "Fatted." He belched absently and wiped his mouth with wine-stained sleeve.
Ibn Fahad broke off a thin, cold smile. "We have indeed wreaked massacre on the race of pigeons, old friend." His slim hand swept above the littered table-top. "We have also put the elite guard of your wine cellars to flight. And, as usual, I thank you for your hospitality. But do you not sometimes wonder if there is more to life than growing fat in the service of the Caliph?"
"Hah!" Masrur goggled his eyes. "Doing the Caliph's bidding has made me wealthy. I have made myself fat." He smiled. The other guests laughed and whispered.
Abu Jamir, a fatter man in an equally stained robe, toppled a small tower erected from the bones of squab. "The night is young, good Masrur!" he cried. "Have someone fetch up more wine and let us hear some stories!"
"Baba!" Masrur bellowed. "Come here, you old dog!"
Within three breaths an old servant stood in the doorway, looking to his sportive master with apprehension.
"Bring us the rest of the wine, Baba-or have you drunk it all?" Baba pulled at his grizzled chin. "Ah… ah, but you drank it, Master. You and Master Ibn Fahad took the last four jars with you when you went to shoot arrows at the weathercock."
"Just as I suspected," Masrur nodded. "Well, get on across the bazaar to Abu Jamir's place, wake up his manservant, and bring back several jugs. The good Jamir says we must have it now."
Baba disappeared. The chagrined Abu Jamir was cheerfully back-thumped by the other guests.
"A story, a story!" someone shouted. "A tale!"
"Oh, yes, a tale of your travels, Master Masrur!" This was young Hassan, sinfully drunk. No one minded. His eyes were bright, and he was full of i
"The north…?" Masrur grumbled, waving his hand as though confronted with something unclean, "No, lad, no… that I ca
Ibn Fahad knew Masrur like he knew his horses-indeed, Masrur was the only human that could claim so much of Ibn Fahad's attention. He had seen his old comrade drink twice this quantity and still dance like a dervish on the walls of Baghdad, but he thought he could guess the reason for this sudden incapacity.
"Oh, Masrur, please!" Hassan had not given up; he was as unshakeable as a young falcon with its first prey beneath its talons. "Tell us of the north. Tell us of the infidels!"
"A good Moslem should not show such interest in unbelievers." Abu Jamir sniffed piously, shaking the last drops from a wine jug. "If Masrur does not wish to tell a tale, let him be."
"Hah!" snorted the host, recovering somewhat. "You only seek to stall me, Jamir, so that my throat shall not be so dry when your wine arrives. No, I have no fear of speaking of unbelievers: Allah would not have given them a place in the world for their own if they had not some use. Rather it is… certain other things that happened which make me hesitate." He gazed kindly on young Hassan, who in the depths of his drunke