Book 1: The Lesvos Serpent - Act 4: Philosophy as Preparation for Death - Episode 1: Some Catching Up To Do

Act 4:

Philosophy as Preparation for Death

Episode One: Some Catching Up To Do

Not only does Peitho pay for the carriage, she picks out the driver and negotiates our fare. Overall I would say I am more bored with the whole thing than impressed. She got a good deal, though; and Tedoro's carriage is, if not especially spacious, at least comfortable. It better be – we're going to be sitting in it for the better part of the next week. Her, even longer. And the great black beasts he had for horses were nothing if not a stunningly handsome pair.

Who would have expected Peitho to also be a horse trader? At this point, nothing about her, no expertise, would surprise me. Famous last words.

I spent the time between climbing on the ferry and into Tedoro's carriage only half present each passing material moment. The thinking, experiencing, part of my consciousness reliving the... what? Dream? Vision? Near Death Experience? I didn't know what to call it. I didn't even know what to think about it. Just that I needed to keep thinking about it so I didn't forget even a single detail – not that I thought I could. That part of my consciousness which was, yes, conscious of the outside world was hyper alert, searching every shadow, every black garment, for Metus, expecting him – her? – to appear at any moment.

They did not.

The carriage is, you might say, a two-seater. There are two benches, one facing the front of the carriage, the other behind. The benches are wooden, but cushioned enough to make them, as I said, comfortable. I climbed in first, taking the bench facing forward. Peitho followed shortly after, taking the other. By the time she is seated, I have already taken out my journal and pen and, with one leg crossed over the other at the ankle to give me a sort of writing surface, hunched myself over and set my pen to what pens do when added to paper. I can feel Peitho's eyes on me, waiting for the right moment to ask her question. I can only hope that I don't have to refill the pen's inkwell before I finish.

When I do finish recording my Near Death Vision, she wastes no ime.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing,” I say, snapping the journal shut before she can read any more than what she has.

“I see that. What are you writing?”

“Do you think that's any of your business?” I meet her eyes with lazy defiance in my own.

“I do, actually. Yes.”

“Well, don't worry about it. It has nothing to do with you,” I say, putting the pen and journal back in their pocket.

How do you plan to justify that lie?

It doesn't.

She's the one going to face off with Pepin, isn't she? Doesn't she deserve to know what he's going to do?

Peitho sighs. “Are you going to be like this the whole way? Tedoro says it's going to take a week to get to Pavia.”

I shrug, leaning in the bench so I can look ahead out the window.

“Rob, I—“ Peitho's voice shrinks. I look at her out of the corner of my eye and she's looking at her hands in her lap. “I thought that after last night.... I thought we might be friends.”

“Friends,” I scoff.

“At least friendly. You're being paid extremely well to help me. You could pretend like you are enjoying my company. We could try to figure out what is coming next and what we're going to do about it.”

I glare at her. “Your Mother is going to pay me. Or so you say. I have no reason to believe anything you say. How are you going to reach her once we've made it to Pavia? If you had the coin, you would have paid me already.”

She nods her head, twisting her mouth, and looks at the floor.

We spend the rest of the day in quiet. And I enjoy it very much, thank you. As much as anyone can enjoy spiteful silence.

I imagine that if I am fatigued expressing the inexhaustible doubt and unsettlement which plagued my mind after these dream-visions, Listener, you no doubt grow weary with my inability. We must trek on, however. We have more than 1000 years of this feeling to get it right and develop a common language of understanding.

I spend that time thinking about the Near Death Vision.

What did any of that I'd seen mean? If it was literal, staying in this cart is madness. The sane thing to do would be to run far, far away, screaming and raving, to hide in the deepest, darkest heart of the most solitudinous forest. Of which there are still plenty. Christendom is covered at this time with woods so thick and deep and dark you could wander in and never back out again. Indeed, this is where the word Solitude is derived from.

But here I am instead, sitting, trapped, in a carriage, with the most superlative woman I have ever known – and I'm staring out the window, thinking about a nightmare I had.

What a doozy it was, though.

If at some point since Genoa I had decided that this was all some elaborate scheme of the Master – with the assistance of Peitho's Mother – I was beginning to have some very real and very serious doubts. Peitho said this wasn't anything to do with the Scholeio.

No. She said the Master and her Mother sent her.

No, she said that the Master told her all about me.

Yes, and that her family are not a part of the Scholeio.

She said that her Mother sent her, and that the Master suggested us.

I repeat this argument in my head, over and over, until it becomes a sort of refrane. Thinking.

The simplest way to describe the Scholeio Demiourgoi is as civilization itself.

Civilization is one of those words which has different meanings depending on whom you ask for a definition. Basically, it's all those things for which Azazel was buried beneath the earth for giving to humankind – an ordered structure of human society which gives rise to vocational specializations and trade with other, distant, societies. Their purpose is, in fact, in their name.

The word Scholeio in Greek means Leisure, and in fact was used to mean that particular kind of leisure most beloved of the Athenian Greeks: free time to be spent educating oneself or engaging in intellective discourse. A Demiurge is a Creator. This is the word that Gnostic Christians used to describe the God of the Old Testament, that same Yaldabaoth – but it also means an artisan, a craftsman. The School was, you might say, a trades guild of trades guilds – thousands of years before Guilds formally existed by that name, of course. They were the nerves and blood vessels which communicated with and pumped life-giving blood to all of the known world's civilizations.

There is this idea that all historical peoples have been as warlike and interested in conquest as civilizations like Rome and Genghis Khan's Mongols and the British Empire. This is really not representative of the Truth. Of course there have been Conquerers throughout history. That is doubtless. But for the greatest of them, the Enlightened among those called by Fate to conquer, war and killing are never – or rarely – the object of the quest – uniting large swathes of people under one civilizational identity is. Ending war is the idea. War to end war. What a novel idea.

If the School as an organization was the cardiovascular and nervous system of the world, then the Ennead were the brain. Eight men and women who represent the pennacle of occult political acheivement: the Counsel which decided the destiny of the world. And at their center, like the spoke of a wheel, the Archi – the Center – the Master. My Master.

I can imagine, repeating my refrain, a world in which a secret society comes into some sort of trouble and reaches out to the Scholeio to solve it. Didn't Peitho say her family were a part of the Scholeio once? Before it died, no doubt. I can also imagine those nine black-cloaked figures in my Visions as being the Ogdoad. Does that mean that the Master is the Ninth, their leader – the Grand Magus of the Venatores Maleficarum? That would mean that the Master is playing both sides of the fence, wouldn't it? He helped free the Rod and he's helping bring it back? To what end?

There was a time in my life where it would have been unthinkable to me that the Master might be capable of doing something like this. Peitho was the perfect bait and trap to get me here... but— If I believed what I'd seen at all, orchestrating a war so that a lunatic could kill them all with a magic rod? No. I still didn't believe the Master capable of such a thing. That would mean that whatever this test, this game, he has created for me, is in disregard of potentially thousands of human lives. I just— He spoke too often about kindness and Goodness, justice and the sanctity of life even to risk the possibility of a situation where that could occur. Even if he betrayed me, I couldn't see him betraying all the ideals he claimed to hold so highly.

Again, to what end? To teach me what?

To get me back in the Scholeio clutches? No. It feels much more likely that he is involved in the same way that I am – that is to say he didn't initiate this, but has been brought into it.

So— Does that mean that the Scholeio are working against the Master? That wouldn't make sense to me. They have followed the lead of an Archi for thousands of years. Why would they abandon a tradition which worked for so long? No, it seems much more likely that there's another group out there, some sort of Scholeio Demiourgoi knockoff playing at ruling the world.

And why do they care about me?

They can't only care about me because the Yaldabaoth does. Can they? Perhaps, actually – if the Ninth, the Grand Magus, is getting information from Him. Is this all His plan, then?

That doesn't seem right, either. Wadjet seems just as interested in me as He is. And Lamiya....

The urge to look at Peitho is strong. To look at her until she asks me why I'm looking at her, to confess what I'm thinking about.

But I don't believe for a second that Peitho has anything to help me with. Pepin is my struggle alone.

Was I really going to stop him?

Wadjet made it clear that I was on the razor's edge of failing. What would it mean to succeed? And was it just some kind of trap to get me dead along with everyone else who will be in that valley?

There is a very real reason that the Occult is just that: Secret.

When you look at the underside of reality, you begin asking yourself questions that lead to insane answers. Nietzche said something to the effect that one should beware looking into the void – it might look back.

The problem isn't exactly the Looking, for most of established societies long before my time even. Ancient cultures had rituals for inducing the fear of that glimpse into the Void – the feeling of being seen by the Nothing – instead of simply posting Keep Out signs. Almost as if telling their people, We'll just show you why it's a secret and you'll stay away on your own.

No. It's not the Looking that's the problem.

It's touching the Void that's the problem. If you learn to get over your fear of the Dark enough that you think you can go wandering into it – that is how people – and societies – get lost.

If you lose your fear before you properly know what it is you should be afraid of, bad things are bound to happen. This is why the kid befriending a ghost or a witch or an ET – or something much worse – is always a scary story: Literally anything can happen – because we know to fear the whatsit, and they don't. And it's all more likely to be worse than what we imagine.

This is the way of the Universe. Pluck at its threads at your peril.

Madness feels like it would be a kindness, at this point.

Feeling like I know enough to choose what I know. I envy Pepin a little bit.

* * * *

I'm riding on horseback.

That's not exactly right. I'm lying on a horse's back, my hands clinging to its mane, knees desperately gripping its ribs, and its running. There's something pinned against my chest, gripped in my armpit. The Rod. I can feel its heat. Not only that, I can feel the horse in a way I can't describe and do not understand. I can feel its life... its energy. Its waning, but I know how to keep it running.

* * * *

We arrive in Padua with the sunset.

I must have dozed off. Does this mean that I'm dreaming of Pepin again? There's no reason to jot this dream in my journal, but I do anyway.

Pepin is on a horse. And if my dream is any indication, he isn't nearly so worried for the horse's health. He has, no doubt, already passed Padua by long ago. I wouldn't be surprised if he has already made it to makes it to Verona by now – a span of some 75 miles from Venice. It will take us three days to catch up with him – and if he is somehow able to keep the horse he has alive, or he's able to get another, then we're only going to fall further behind with every passing minute.

We are going to stay in an inn in town. I have not shared with Peitho our need for haste. Wadjet would not be pleased. In fact, if I imagine her pleading in the back of my mind, it would come as no surprise to me. You get used to anything with time. But, anyway, it wouldn't be fair to the horses to push further or faster than we have to. To say nothing of making Tedoro stay awake that long.

Peitho pays for rooms for me and Tedoro, but insists that she wants to stay with the cart. Neither of us argue, and from the way Tedoro tells me about it, it seems that the innkeeper had no problem charging her to sleep in his stables. It's strange, sure, but I don't think anything of it. Maybe she thinks no one will bother her if she's not staying in the inn – maybe she's as paranoid as I am and doesn't want someone hurting the horses. Who knows – who cares.

After we eat and Peitho and Tedoro go their separate ways, I stick around to talk to the innkeeper.

There is no sign of Pepin. One could have expected that. He wouldn't need to stop in the middle of the day, and who would even notice someone riding bareback on a runaway horse? Anyone who saw him, that's who. He must not have come through town. I wouldn't have, either. Talk naturally turns from Pepin to the town. It was sacked last year by the Magyars, descendents of the Huns who lived in modern Hungary and spent my century raiding southern Christendom all the way to Spain. It has not fully recovered yet – won't, likely, for another few years.

Berengar fought and lost an important battle against the Magyars near Padua. Some think that the Magyars were only able to make it into Italy because the Holy Roman Emperor Arnulf of Carinthia let them in to weaken Berengar's hold on Italy. Didn't Arnulf die last year? Sure did. Didn't Arnulf put Berengar in power? Sure did. Well, if Arnulf was trying to take Berengar's kingdom, he shouldn't have died. Don't disagree there, friend. Louis is just a child, and I can't imagine his king regent caring much for the security of Italy – he's got his own problems corraling the East Frankish nobles.

Arnulf conspiring against Berengar leads to Berengar losing the faith of the Italian nobility, and here we are – a war on the horizon, and me chasing down a magic rod that's going to decide it.

I tell him to have a good night and make my way to my room. Several Draig later, and I eventually fall asleep – to dreams of barely clinging to the back of a running horse.

* * * *

Seven days. Then I'm out. Seven days. I can not-think about anything for seven days. That's what I've been telling myself the last three days.

I knew someone once – if she had heard me complain – seven days is, you might know, a lot of days to do anything consecutively – would derisively exclaim, “Seven days! What is seven days? Seven times twenty-four hours? What is an hour? Sixty minutes? Can you do it for a minute? I can do just about anything for a minute.”

I could most certainly convince myself not to talk to Peitho or think about Pepin. That latter, though, was certainly a high ladder to climb. The former would have just been stupid after Verona. I did all right, though, for three days. Three isn't bad. It doesn't win a best of seven series. But by golly, I gave it my best shot. Didn't my tad sit me on his knee one day and tell me that so long as I do my genuine best, that's the best I can do?

My genuine best.

Had I done my genuine best? I hadn't really done anything at all. The Yaldabaoth told me I couldn't do nothing. Metus has told me both to do nothing and that I can't do nothing. I don't want to think about Metus. I don't want to think about this at all.

If I were twenty-five, I would say that Peitho spent the two days between Padua and Verona being a recalcitrant bitch. When it wasn't raining, which it mostly wasn't, she spent her time sharing Tedoro's bench – and his company. I am fine with this. I'm not exactly good company, myself, what with all the smoke – and how much of a recalcitrant bitch I'm being.

I don't want to talk to her. I don't even want to look at her.

Why even am I so angry with her? Because she can engage with Tedoro and listen to him talk for hours about his life, his horses and carriage, and his beloved granddaughter – while also asking questions and laughing at his jokes— And I can only bring myself to care about trying to sleep? Do I hate her because she isn't having the dreams?

Who's to say she isn't?

You know what the Tavernmaster would say.

Not his name – but what he'd say.

I would – I know just what he'd say, because he'd say it every time Regina made me want to leave her.

Ya love er, kid.

Regina.

Maria.

Is that my lot, then? Am I that guy, who every girl he cares about ends up dead?

Ya love er, kid. Face it.

Sigh.

I can't love Peitho.

Sure you can. Listen to her.

It's one thing to know who a person is with you. It's another to see them with someone else.

You can fall for someone from a distance – even someone you think you know up close and don't like.

Two days is easy when you spend it listening to Peitho's laughter.

There was a horse stolen in Verona. Right out in the open. Enough people saw it that our innkeeper even knew what the thief looked like: Short, bone-thin, in clothes and cloak more rags than not; brown hair, start of a beard; with the wildest eyes you've ever seen – bloodshot and blistered like he'd burned them. I didn't need to know more, but apparently he'd ridden a horse into town, lying on its back and holding on for dear life – until, that is, the beast collapsed beneath him, so dead it may as well have had black Xes for eyes.

He gets up, doesn't even seem to care at all, and snatches the lead rope out of the hand of another man, and off the beast flies, half-dragging him, half flying him off the end of the rope like he were no more substantial than a piece of straw that got caught in it. He manages to get on its back and is gone. No one tries to interfere.

“Jesus, save that horse, indeed,” I mutter.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Peitho asks.

“You remember I told you I found the other guy he stole a horse from?”

“Yeah?”

“That's what he said.”

Peitho makes a face, then frowns. “Wait. You think this is Pepin?”

“Don't be stupid.”

“Two days ago, he did this?” She looks to the innkeeper. He nods. “He could be in Turin in a matter of, what, another day?”

I nod twice – once to her, then again to the innkeeper. He leaves.

“He probably reached Pavia yesterday. If his patter holds, he will be at his destination as early as noon.”

“Tomorrow?”

I nod again. Peitho's face is dim with some concealed emotion. Even her voice, the way she asks this, could say and mean so much.

“Will it? His pattern – hold?”

“I doubt it. There is... something going on with him. He ran that horse til it died. That must have taken fifteen hours or more. Clinging for dear life? No. He's not sleeping.”

Peitho looks at me, places her hand atop mine. Her palm is cold in the summer air. Her eyes are bright emeralds and concerned. Had I sounded as dreamy to her as I had to myself?

“Are you?”

I smile and look away, bashful and embarrassed all of a sudden. Why do I feel shame for dreams? I pull my hand away and touch my eyes. “Are they that bad?”

“Yes. But it's not that. I do not sleep well either. I have... observed your nighttime strolls.”

The first night, in Padua, I was able to get to sleep – but not to stay that way. The dream was... maddeningly repetitive. The only thing that changed was the landscape and the time of day. Otherwise, just minute after minute of clinging to a running horse. Like we were on an olde-timey movie set, running on a treadmill, with the landscape painted on another to give the impression of movement. Every time I closed my eyes. So I gave up on closing my eyes and went for a walk.

I'm not surprised that Peitho saw. I didn't stray far from the inn. I felt her eyes the next night. I am somewhat surprised that Peitho is having difficulty too, however. I shouldn't be – I don't imagine her stressors, otherwise I might not be.

I think I can sleep during the day. I can. But I still get the dream – only now it's day! And the last of my weed does nothing to help. No matter how quickly I smoke it.

Peitho stands. I watch her as she walks toward the door, back outside. She gestures for me to follow. Rolling my head on my shoulders, I get up and do so. She's standing just outside when I catch up. I stop in the doorway.

“Come with me,” she says. Her face is bright and young and pretty and inviting in the early evening light, the hues of dusk framing the horizon behind her. “The evening is nice. I would enjoy your presence.”

“No thanks,” I grumble, turning and heading toward my room.

I don't look back, so I don't know how she reacts. But I can. And I can tell you that she watches me leave like she's going to call after me. Then I'm gone. She closes her eyes, exhales long through her nose, turns, and leaves.

I don't stay long in my room. I don't know why I even went here. I'm not going to sleep. No weed. No opium. The dreams. Why didn't I go spend some time with Peitho – without Tedoro and his ears to overhear everything. Was that why I was being such an asshole? Because I didn't want Tedoro to overhear us? Because I wanted her all to myself? What did it matter? Did Peitho care? If not – why did I? This isn't even my job, my quest. I don't really care how this plays out.

Please, Robert. Please....

Rolling my eyes and effusively expressing my agitation in grunts, groans, and sighs, I get back out of bed and go for a walk.