Episode Seven: Procrastination
I sat there – in the dark of my office – for a long time after Metus left. I don't know how long, but I know it was a long time. Longer than I should have, maybe – probably.
The thing about moments like that, what I'd just experienced – like what I had been experiencing all day – sometimes they take time to digest. There is a lot about Peitho and Metus that I won't directly think about for some time.
But I want to talk about Metus a little bit – because I was most definitely thinking about him.
It wouldn't necessarily have been a big deal if a priest had come to visit me. A priest alone I could deal with. But that....
You hear stories when you are child which are pertinent to the danger you might get into. It was not the Master who taught me about the Venatores Malefecarum. For that matter, it was not even the Master who taught me about the Scholeio – but that's a story for another time. It was the people we spent our time with and amongst from whom I learned about the Venatores and their Iustitiarii. The way I was led to believe – via rumors and sidelong glances after half-made sentences – that they used to be hunters of people like me.
In the modern world, we have this notion of the Inquisitor. It's impossible to deny your foreknowledge. The Venatores were an early form of that tradition, you might say. But different in a few key ways which will have to remain for you a mystery for a while yet. In the Book of Acts – Chapter 8, Verses 9-24 – is a story about a man called Simon Magus. Not in that story, but in the apocrypha which include him, he is a sorcerer who converts to Christianity, but becomes a sort of villain, a wrong or heretical sort of Christianity. His penultimate act is to basically duel one of the apostles, not at all unlike how Moses and his brother Aaron dueled the Pharoah's sorcerers as proof that the Israelites should be let out of Egypt.
He dies.
These stories mean a lot more than what I'm about to reduce them to, but the way they tie into what I'm talking about is that they allegoricize the debates which were raging among the different faiths of the first century Annos Domini. Those debates raged well into the 4th century, even as far as the 8th century in the East. In many ways, Islam is a child of these debates – an answer – an answer by the sword – of who has the best interpretation of God. The myths about this time period are that non-Christian and Christian sorcerers dueled in the streets. The Venatores Malefecarum were the church of these sorcerers, where they were taught and trained; their Iustitiarii were the sorcerers.
Rather than pontificate any further, I would ask: What would you do in my situation, Listener?
I have just been threatened with death if I don't help a woman I can't help; and promised it by a mad priest if I so much as appear to be trying. And that isn't even taking Francis's death and its implications on my life into any sort of account.
I feel like my mind has been tied to horses on either side that are whipped to tear me in twain.
This is insane!
The most insane part is that I'm tempted to help Peitho anyway. Psychoanalytical psychologists such as Sabina Spielrein and Sigmund Freud – to name but two – would very likely have a field day with this temptation, my apparent Death Drive. Well, if they only knew how powerful my will to death really way in their lifetimes – and how badly I have failed.... But I digress. Openly helping Peitho is the one thing I could do which would ensure that everything I had built for myself, my very life would be destroyed. It's difficult to say how I know this. Do I know it because I am telling you the story, or do I know it because somehow I just do? I don't know.
What I do know is that it seems true, I think, that most humans live for pleasure. And yet, are we not motivated by suffering – by death? Are not all of our inventions, everthing we make and strive and do— Do they not ultimately take us to our deaths? Are the greatest inventions of the 20th century and now the 21st century not technologies of killing and mass death? Do you not slowly kill yourselves every time you engage with social media, televeision, even your motor vehicles? To say nothing of power lines, radio towers, and nuclear waste. I watch your world, Listener. I see things. I observe.
Change is death. Anything new consitutes a death of the old. You have seen this if you have lived more than twenty years – you have watched how the world has been shaken by, slowly accepted, then taken for granted new technologies, new social norms, new disasters. Creators struggle with this apparent paradox, the temptation to make the same thing that an audience likes until the audience goes away – rather than developing and experimenting and growing. We are creatures of pleasure, of leisure, but to have those things means to resist change until it consumes you and living is death.
Metus offered me life. An escape from the suffering I could in know way know was coming, for which I could never prepare myself – and which I must assure you is coming. And yet it represented for me a fate somehow worse than death: the endless tedium of normalcy.
This may elicit in you the same rolling of the eyes which is elicited in me when I see a perfectly normal, boring, commonplace, average person sporting a “Normal is boring” t-shirt – or, Heaven forbid, a tattoo. May as well wear a Hello, My Name is... nametag which reads in all-caps, bold leatters: “FUCKING BORING.” Alas, this is the truth of the young, and I was no exception: to seek one's uniqueness. Craving to be the exception to the rule that humans are all the damn same.
And you are. You're all the damn same.
I am aware that the tavernmaster and I crossed over this ground once before – and have asked myself no few times about this undertaking how many times to trod the ground I cover until I can be certain you can follow – not will follow; I can never be sure any of you will do that. If I make it too easy, will you find anything of interest along the path? Do you even have he cognitive capacity for difficulty anymore? The Powers That Be have lulled so many of you to sleep with slave labor that breaks your brain if not your backs and distractions so numerous— No. That is not fair. You are victims, more than you are anything. And I have spent so much time isolated from you, so much time with the Powers That Be that— It is not that I do not recognize you. It is that I do not know where to look for you any longer. I am at fault for not seeing in you curiosity and the desire to strive for what really matters.
That is a responsibility I have shirked for too long, and a failing which pains me to admit.
And who knows. Perhaps I fool myself into believing my story matters. It matters to me. That must be enough for me to believe that you are out there, listening for my voice and yearning for Truth.
The Life I would be granted was, in other words, no life. Do I want to resign myself to a wife of life, children, and happiness? I definitely don't believe happiness is real – not sustainable at the very least. But, if Metus represents Life, then Peitho surely stands only for death. And not just because Metus would kill me. Or someone like him. I'd heard the stories. The Venatores Malefecarum were no joke. And even if the priest were deluded— You don't call yourself Dread because you're insincere in your beliefs. Not when you look like that. Or Peitho herself, at some point. The one thing I thought I knew about women at that stage in my life was that – like snakes – they will turn and bite you when it's opportune for them – whether it's in their best interest or not.
We think of death as the end, the find period in the manuscript of our lives. But of course this is not true. Of course there is an after beyond death. Literally speaking, the world and time continue on – just without you. Metaphorically, when the body physically dies, there are pieces of you that you leave behind in ever person you meet; especially if you were an impactful person – good or bad. But there are more deaths than the physical.
If I help Peitho, no matter what I choose, it will be The End for that part of me which thinks I can make a life for myself without interference by the Master. It will mean the death of that version of me who wants to be left alone, invisible in a world of invisible people. It will mean a birth, in many ways. There is a common aphorism among lazy people in the workplace that the more things one knows how to do the more things one will be expected to do. I will be expected to solve every problem the Scholeio or any splinter group from it or like it – like whatever Peitho's family is – feel needs solving. I will be their tool, their piece to move around the Game board as they like. I know this because I know how she wants me to find the man who ran away with her sister: She wants me to work magick. Real magick. She wants me to use the Plant. I'm going to pretend like I don't know it, but I do – and she knows I have it. Somehow. As impossible as it seems.. And if I do that, if I try – even if I fail – it is curtains for claiming I don't believe.
I can never say I am my own person ever again. I will forever know that it is the Master who made me.
I am standing on a precipice – thrust there. Behind me is Order – normalcy. Ahead of me is the pit of Chaos. For how long can I straddle them before a side is picked for me?
I don't know – but I am determined to find out. If I can't make a choice, I know who will give me advice. Even if his beer does taste – and smell – like piss. Good council never smells like roses – unless you've grown accustomed enough with the shit you're crusted in to think yours doesn't stink.
* * * *
The tavern is unlike I have ever seen it: filled – almost to bursting – with people.
I catch his eye almost the moment I enter the door. Jostled among dancing, singing, drinking and eating men and women I am sure I have never seen before, I make my way to the bar.
“I ain't got the time, kid,” the tavernmaster shouts without looking at me. “Pilgrims got me filled up. She's upstairs, though.”
She? Oh.
Peitho.
My skin buzzes with nervous anticipation. She told me not to look for her. Which – I hadn't. But, knowing the tavernmaster, he'd tell her I was here anyway. Fat ass can't ever keep his mouth shut – but what was I going to do? That is the way of tavernmasters and innkeepers. So, one way or another, she is going to be pissed off at me. May as well see her now and get it over with.
A moment later I'm climbing the stairs tucked in the corner to the right of the bar, up to the single room above the kitchen. I stop, just outside it. I can hear nothing, at first. I'm wondering whether this isn't a stupid idea when I hear Peitho's muffled voice:
“But, Matere— ...I know that's not— ...He is so frustrating! Why can't he just know to use the Plant without—“
I practically kick in the door, bursting my way into the room. I hadn't meant to do this. I don't know what I expect to find – Peitho and a conspirator? Whatever it was, it wasn't this:
Peitho, nude, facing me, in the bed that dominates the room, kneeling before a... statuette. I am more than a little stunned, and stand in staring silence. The statuette is a little bigger than my balled fist, green like emerald, and faintly glowing from within itself. It is an image of a serpent, its body coiled in three tiered loops, its head resting at the top; and a pair of great wings wrapped around it like a bird in roost.
I've seen that image before.
Actually, you haven't.
You've seen that image before.
I skid to a stop. My mouth and eyes both gape.
Now is not the time to notice it, but her body is everything I'd hoped it would be – the perfect feminine combination of supple and firm. And hairless.
Peitho's eyes flash caught panic to me for just one second. Then those emerald orbs are all fury and I remember whom I've just intruded upon.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was going to ask basically the same thing,” is my too-honest reply.
The statuette, I realize, is suddenly gone – like it was never there to begin with. I didn't see Peitho's arms move to disappear it, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't distracted by her tits. She stands, rising like a snakecharmer's rope from a basket, in the middle of the bed.
“I will ask you only once more,” she seethes: “What – are – you – doing – here?”
She steps easily down from the bed.
I can't move. I can't even think. I just stare into her green eyes – looking anywhere besides would be certain death at this point.
“You are in danger,” I manage to choke out.
Slowly, glaring at me – but smiling a little bit at this – she makes her way toward me. “Foolish boy. You cannot possibly comprehend what would be dangerous to me.” She stops one step away from being able to easily reach and tear out my throat. Her laugh is cruel. “But tell me, Robert. What danger? From whom? Did you come to warn me, little boy, that you might earn my favor?”
Her hips do that thing, curving her spine in a pose that is meant only to be alluring. Her hands nestle in the curvature of her waist.
I swallow hard. The gulp is probably audible. My eyes want to wander. I feel a trickle of sweat tickle my neck. Peitho crosses her arms beneath her breasts. I shut my eyes tight.
Is that why I've come here?
Have I?
Foolish thought. There is no favor to earn from her.
You're married.
And your girlfriend's husband is dead.
You want to fuck his killer.
“Rob, I'm losing patience.”
She doesn't seem to have mastered the art of patience at the best of times.
Might want to say something.
“The Venatores Malefecarum,” I ejaculate, opening my eyes and immediately ricocheting them up from her nipples. “A Iustitiarius – came to my—“
“The who?” I can't tell whether this is said ironically – as in 'they aren't a threat to me' – or in genuine ignorance.
“The Venatores Malefecarum – they're an acient sect of the church—“
“Idiot. I know who they are. Hunters of Witches. Yes. They destroyed the Gnostics. Led Constantine's victory at the Battle of Milvian Bridge – 'Under this sign' and all that. They destroyed your precious Scholeio Demiourgoi, burned the Library of Alexandria— And were themselves cannibalized by the Church. Why do you bother me with this?”
Do I really want to argue with her about the significance of the Venatores?
She knows the basics. Does she know enough to be frightened?
Fear has many faces. Maybe she is.
She doesn't look like it.
She looks like she doesn't care.
“Right. Yes.” I'm trying to be delicate. There's no knowing what will set her off. And I'd really like to not have my ass kicked by a woman – today or maybe ever. “But that's not all.”
“Then tell me, Robert. Tell me what you think I don't already know.”
I swallow hard again. She is restraining herself; I can see it in her eyes.
“It's just stories – rumors. But when I was with the... when I was a kid, they used to talk abou them, sometimes. They said that they were some of the earliest Christians to make it to Rome. In the early days of the faith – when it was still in its infancy. When the Apostles were still alive. They – Christians in Rome at that time – were forced or chose, the difference doesn't really matter, to worship in the catacombs beneath the city.”
“I'm losing my patience, Robert.”
“Right. Well, they say they found something down there. Something...I don't know. Dark. Something powerful. Some kind of entity. The stories say that it was an Angel, a messenger or avatar of their god. I don't know. But it gave them power. Power like you can't believe.”
“Don't tell me what I can't believe.”
“I'm not – I didn't mean— You really don't like metaphors, do you?”
“I don't like men who think they can explain things to me like I'm an ignorant girl.”
“Right. Well – whatever they found, it took a damn long time before they showed it to the world. They somehow worked out a deal with Constantine.”
“'Under this sign.'”
“Yes. Sort of. The legend is that Constantine had a vision, and that in the vision he should use the sign of the Christian god – the Chi Ro or Staurogram Cross—“ Peitho exhales hard through her nose. “So he did. He put the cross on his soldier's shields and on their banners, and they won the day. The rest is Roman history. But that isn't the whole story. You see, it wasn't a vision. It was the Venatores. Or that's what they say.”
“The Scholeio.”
I don't react. “I heard it said that the Venatores gifted him soldiers – soldiers and more – if he would decriminalize the Christian faith. Evidently they upheld their end of the deal so well he made the religion the official faith of his empire.”
“And you believe this? You don't think it's simpler and more likely that Constantine, in the Eastern part of the Roman world, simply used the Christian soldiers who were available for him, making the religion no longer illegal and then making it official so he would have a properly united army?”
“Of course I do!”
“Then why do you believe that this Iustitiarius is even what he claims to be? The Venatores are gone. Cursed and disbanded by the Roman Catholic Church for stirring up too much trouble with the pagans. If anything, they were useful idiots. Extremists who were only necessary so long as the Faith wasn't the dominant power in the land.”
“You didn't see him, Peitho. You didn't talk to him. And even if he isn't what he claims – the kind of madness it requires—“
“What does he want from you, then? Is he another excuse why you can't help me?”
“Excuse? No. He told me— He doesn't want anything from me. He wants you. He thinks you're a – he's going to kill you.”
“I see,” Peitho says, too calmly. “Get out of my room.”
“But—“
If I had meant to insist that I had actually come here to talk about her job and how I might be able to figure it out – I'm not sure one way or the other – I never got the chance. Quicker than I can comprehend, she closes the distance between us. Her hands are on me before I can react. My legs are swept out from beneath me, and I am suddenly hanging parallel to the floor in her grip.
Then I'm flying.
Out the door and down the stairs.
I have just long enough to be impressed with her strength – to note that I'm falling a few feet above the stairs, at their same angle – before I crash into the landing with a thud loud enough to draw the attention of the revelers packing the tavern. I try not to notice their reactions. I'm slow in getting up. Painfully slow. But nothing seems to be broken, and if I'm concussed – not an evaluation I would know to make at the time – it's just enough to be dizzy. No serious damage done.
Somehow.
I stagger out of the tavern and back to my office.
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