The door didn’t open easily. It had been closed for uncounted years, long enough for windblown dirt to bury the bottom portion so seamlessly the tower looked like it was built that way.
Whoever was on the other side yanked and pulled, causing the door to tremble and shake. Dirt readied his knife and waited, since a thing that moved and talked with no mind was almost certainly something he’d need to destroy, but the tone of pleasant inoffensiveness in the male voice calmed his fear somewhat.
Finally, after long enough Dirt considered helping push it open, it swung inward. The sunlight fell on a thin figure in rags, male but short for an adult, who looked rather like a corpse until he smiled.
At that point the skin on the bottom half of his face simply came loose and slipped off, drooping under his chin of age-blackened bone. He lifted it back into place with one bony hand, hardened lengths of flesh hanging from the joint at the elbow, where they were fastened on somehow.
Dirt shoved him hard with his mind, sending the skeletal figure tumbling head over heels into the room, and sliding Dirt backwards three steps back over the frozen soil. He hesitated to do anything more powerful, though, at least not yet. Father’s promise that there was something for him here itched in the back of his mind.
“Pardon my appearance,” said the voice. It was mild and obsequious. Dirt lowered his knife, still wary. “The water is out and I cannot bathe.” There was a pause, then the tone of the voice shifted to something a bit sterner. “Please do not damage me; I am the Master’s property and harm done to me will be considered vandalism.”
Socks leaped up to crowd the landing in front of the door, lowering his head to peek right over Dirt. Antelmu tried to climb up, but it was too hard with one good hand unless he dropped his spear, and he wasn’t willing. Socks picked him up and set him nearby.
“If you would like to come inside, I will fetch the Master,” said the dead thing. It stepped back into the sunlight, strips of flesh drooping off most of its skeleton and flopping like ribbons. Just enough of its flesh remained in place to act as tendons and allow it to move. For clothing it had nothing but the ancient remains of a simple robe with a crimson belt dangling from one shoulder. The face was so distorted and ruined it was impossible to tell how old it was supposed to look.
Dirt said, “Who are you?”
The thing’s mouth didn’t move as it spoke. The words were coming from its face, but not in the expected way. “Please simply call me Servant. I was crafted by Caesius Sornatius Vala, with consultation from Avitus Numitorius Urbanus and the Collegium Magorum. More patterned after myself will soon be available for purchase by the discerning Patron.”
“Did I hear that right?” said Dirt.
Socks said, -It does not smell like rotting flesh. What is it?-
“He said my name. I made this person? Or helped? And I think I recognize that other name, Caesius. Except I think I called him Caeso.”
“What is he saying?” whispered Antelmu.
“It’s my language,” whispered Dirt in reply. “He said to call him Servant, and in your language that means servitore.”
“So do I call it famulus or servitore?” asked Antelmu.
The skeletal man ignored their chatter and said, “If you would like to come inside, I will fetch the Master. Children are only allowed if accompanied by a slave, a tutor, or a family member. The Master has instructed me to welcome anyone who arrives, without restriction or prejudice. I apologize, but you will have to leave your dog outside; the Master cannot abide animals near his instruments. Shall I fetch him a cake to chew on? I apologize, but I cannot offer any food. Our deliveries have been delayed,” recited the bizarre corpse. Every sentence out of his mouth sounded disjointed from the previous one, as if he was given a list of things to say and was simply reading them as appropriate.
Dirt gave him a closer look and grew less and less sure he could even tell what Servant was even made of. It looked like flesh, but not quite. But also not wood, or metal, or cloth, or hide, or anything that Dirt could recognize.
“I assure you I am harmless. Please simply call me Servant. If you would like to come inside, I will fetch the Master,” said Servant, his voice inflecting in the exact same ways as before. He swung his arm to beckon them inward, giving a polite bow.
-I smell blood in there, but it is faint,- said Socks.
“What kind?” whispered Antelmu.
-It is too faint to tell. But it can’t be ancient or I would smell nothing.-
“So are you going inside?” asked Antelmu, by thinking louder than necessary. He was still learning.
“I think I have to, until I see what Father meant when he said there’s something for me here. Hopefully it’s not a gruesome death and he was making a joke,” thought Dirt in reply.
-I am looking with ghost sight, and I see many strange little fiddly human things in there, and lots of scrolls. At the top there is an empty bed, the stairs go down twice, and at the bottom behind a door there is a stone coffin with a corpse in it. I don’t see anything dangerous except for Servant,- said Socks.
“Okay. Well, I’m going in then. Warn me if you see anything moving that shouldn’t be,” said Dirt.
“Do you want me to come?” asked Antelmu, thinking loudly again.
-You can’t fight until your wrist bones grow back together. Wait out here with me until Dirt says it is safe,- said Socks.
That was what Antelmu had been hoping, although he didn’t want to admit it. Not that he could hide it, when inviting Dirt and Socks to see his thoughts. But to him, the moving corpse looked like a decaying puppet, not a corpse, and once Dirt knew what he meant, he began to agree. What bothered Antelmu was that it was moving by itself.
-I asked Father if there is something dangerous in there and he will not tell me. Be careful, little Dirt. I do not trust this creature or this place.-
“Well, if Father wants to test me, then I will succeed and learn or I will die. But I won’t run away. I bet there’s nothing dangerous, though. Not in the Turris Solis. It wasn’t a… well, never mind. I don’t remember,” said Dirt.
He put his knife back in the sheath and straightened his attire. Then he stepped in through the doorway, every sense on edge, just in case. Servant stepped around him to close the door, and Dirt backed away to keep the puppet-corpse in his sight at all times.
The interior fell into complete darkness as the door clanged shut. All those windows had been filled in, apparently, and allowed no light in. Dirt’s heart skipped a beat as he summoned a light to circle overhead, and thank Grace, Servant wasn’t lunging for him with claws out once Dirt could see again.
It looked like the inside of a tomb. Clean, no dust anywhere, the air old and still. Everything silent, untouched for ages uncountable. At least that’s how it felt. A dead place. Dark as death during the brightness of the day.
Despite all that, he was certain that he had been here when he was Avitus. It wasn’t as familiar as his handsome little villa, so he hadn’t been here often, but he recognized it all the same. The entry room of the Turris was as wide as the tower itself, probably fifteen paces across. A fine wooden desk sat near the door, with a cabinet for travel attire that stood empty. Beyond that, displays were arranged around the room with pleasing regularity, each bearing something curious. Nostalgia gripped him, bringing him back thousands of years in time, when he had gazed upon this same scene with a sense of eager wonder. What delightful curiosities!
Dirt hurried over to the first one and saw a contraption of brass gears, impressively regular. A handle on a pull-chain said ‘TRAH’ so Dirt pulled it. The gears clicked and began turning, each in a different direction. As far as he could tell, its sole purpose was to make a regular clicking sound.
He moved to the next, a display of puppet joints, which begged to be played with, so he did. Thankfully, it was made with metal filaments instead of regular string, which would certainly be too fragile to use by now. But the metal threads worked, and Dirt pulled here and there to make a knee bend or a hand flex, and not for the first time. He’d been here before, in this exact spot.
“I will let the Master know you are here. Please, entertain yourself with any of the displays,” said Servant. He made a swishing sound as he plodded across the mosaic floor and down a flight of steps. Dirt figured that the Master was probably the dead person in the coffin, and Servant would be back soon with an excuse.
Caeso had always been a genius with his contraptions, thought Avitus fondly. How pleased he would be to know they’d survived him for so long. Perhaps that was the man himself interred down there, not one of his descendants or students. Not likely, but perhaps. If so, Avitus would have to pay his respects.
He looked down at the display with all the joints on it until he found the brass placard that named it. DE INTERIORIBUS OPERIBUS HOMUNCULI, it said. Of the interior workings of a little man.
Avitus fluttered a hand to shoo away his foolishness, almost laughing. Of course! Not a corpse or a puppet at all, but a homunculus. How far that art had progressed, and he’d completely forgotten about it. Now that he recognized Servant as a marvel, he eagerly awaited his return.
He moved from display to display, and as he did, more of it came back to him. A thing grown, not made, but not quite alive. A thousand spells to act on every conceivable part of its anatomy, and a thousand more to give it a semblance of awareness and understanding.
This display showed a magnified view of a partial spell carved into a piece of bone, depicting how small and fine they were. That display showed the initial alchemical components, likely for the bones, but deliberately neglected to show the process by which they were transformed. Over here, a list of the things a homunculus might need to say, and the magical operation that helped it recognize the appropriate situations.
Avitus made his way around the room and glanced down the stairs. Of course it was black as the inside of a stone down there; the basement had no windows to begin with. That made him wonder how Servant saw, or if he did at all?
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Well, however his vision worked, he was taking his time. Avitus took the opportunity to look under all the cushions and was rewarded with a copper coin, green and unrecognizable now. Probably a half-silver, enough for a plate of steaming lamb at Clavii caupona when he went back to Turicum. Now there was a thought! How long had it been?
-You are thinking like an old man again,- said Socks, amusement in his voice.
Dirt scowled. “Maybe a little bit. But can you blame me? I’ve been here! I know all this stuff. Were you watching my thoughts, or do you want me to explain?”
-I was watching, of course. The homunculus is in the basement staring at the coffin. He might be talking to it, but I can’t hear.-
“I guess I’ll keep looking around. He’ll probably come back and tell me the Master is sleeping or something, and ask me if I want to wait.” Then he widened his mental speech to include the other boy and said, “Antelmu, it’s probably safe in here if you want to come see.”
Dirt was halfway up the staircase before the other boy stepped in, timid and wary. Dirt brightened one of his lights and left it down there so Antelmu could see, then waved and gestured at the displays.
Then he went upstairs and found a more relaxed lounge area, with couches in the middle and diamond-shaped scroll shelves lining the walls, the majority of them occupied. The room was all still dark, of course, with the windows covered.
Covered with what, it occurred to him to wonder? Sunlight would be better for reading. Now that he actually looked at them, the window well was full of stacked rocks held together by cheap mud mortar, if anything at all. Some places the holes were stuffed with grasses, big tufts of them, which decayed and fell to the floor and got replaced as necessary. In fact, the floor under the windows was the only place that was dirty at all, or even dusty, and it wasn’t bad enough Dirt would have noticed if he wasn’t looking.
Dirt went over to the wall and started pulling rocks from the window, and soon enough the upper half of the stack collapsed. Some fell outward and clacked against the closed shutters, but most tumbled inside and clattered across the floor.
“Are you okay?” shouted Antelmu from below.
“Yeah, just opened a window,” he shouted back.
He pulled the rest of the rocks off the windowsill, making a lot of noise and a huge mess, and found that the wooden shutters were a lot newer than he expected. They weren’t thousands of years old and preserved by total isolation from the elements, like everything inside was. They had none of that ancient fragility he’d experienced. How could they be any newer, though? And they were even stained and lacquered, crafted so perfectly they had a tight seam on all edges. Not perfectly enough to keep the light out, apparently, but better-than-expected nonetheless.
Oh well. He pushed them open and they creaked and groaned and finally swung outward, flooding the room with sunlight. He leaned halfway out the window, balancing on his stomach, and waved to Socks. The pup stood and rose on his hind legs to give Dirt a lick on the face. Dirt moved back and Socks stuck his snout into the window to peer inside himself. It didn’t quite fit, though, so he had to turn his head and peek in with one eye instead.
-I bet you will want to read every one of those,- said Socks.
“Yep! But first, only the ones that are magically preserved. I think the rest, it’ll be dangerous to open them unless I’m ready to start copying. If one got ruined, I’d cry,” said Dirt. He looked around the room. There were almost as many scrolls here as in the library at Prisca’s schola. “I wish I had someone who could help with that.”
-Find someone with fingers. I will not help you.-
“You would get bored and give up after six inches of scroll,” said Dirt.
-I would also change some of the words as a joke, and you would never know.-
Dirt glared at him, but then broke into a grin. “Well, now I’m curious what you’d change.”
-You would never know.-
Socks lowered himself and Dirt heard him pulling open shutters on the first floor with his mind, then knocking over the rocks filling the window. It was remarkable how much light that let in, changing the staircase downward from a pool of murky darkness to just another room.
Dirt let his lights all wink out and went to see what scrolls were here. He went through them one by one, checking the titles either from writing on the exterior, or by gently unrolling an inch or two. None of them were treatises on magic, and anything historical was focused on one person, like The Journal of Emperor Severus I, and The Life of Senator Decius. Many had no title at all, and the first sentences made Dirt suspect that they contained hasty notes, possibly written by his old friend Caeso during one of his fits of madness.
One said, the susceptibility of leakage of light from the bone mercury was greater than expected after the addition of rotated blood and oil of roses I suspect impurities in the oils but it may be that roses contain more fire and less earth than I previously measured I am beyond perplexed by this obnoxious mixture why will it not simply behave.
After that, it was blank for a few inches and Dirt put it down. At least half of them were like that, offensively wasteful. A whole scroll for a few lines of notes? Why not just write on sheets of paper and leave them in a stack? Surely, if he unrolled them, there would be more writing further down. But he didn’t dare, since they were fragile enough already.
He peered around and decided to check the rest of the scrolls later. The library here deserved a proper inventory at some point, and it should all be preserved for future generations to read. Maybe the Duke could recommend someone? He spoke a bit of Dirt’s language, and mentioned there were others.
Dirt wanted to read the biographies before they left, though, if they had time. But first, may as well see what else was in the tower. The ceilings were higher than in the Square Tower by quite a bit, but he’d still counted four floors of windows and the gazebo on top.
Up he went, and at the top of the next flight of stairs was a door, locked, with a keyhole and a latch. Now that was something he’d never seen before. Locks, another thing he’d forgotten existed. He created a tiny light and sent it in the keyhole, then peeked inside to see the little bits of metal that made it work. A mental push here and there, and he found the piece that unlocked it. A simple click, and that was that. He tugged the latch and the door swung inward.
The next floor was clearly living quarters, with the space divided into several rooms. A lounge near the stairwells made a nice sitting area, complete with chairs and couches and end tables to rest things on. One table had two tarnished silver cups, and another a stack of papers. One room had a bed and a cabinet full of clothing, all in his people’s style, but cut for adults. Robes, ribbons, cloaks, undergarments. Everything a man would need.
Another door revealed a washroom, with a pump system to drive fresh water up from a well or cistern somewhere below. Dirt cranked the pump a few times, but all it did was squeak.
The last door had a kitchen, complete with a small oven that vented out the window. The pipe had been rotated inward when the window had been closed up, and whatever food might have been here had decayed without leaving any trace.
The final floor, last before the exit to the gazebo on the roof, was a study. Sheets of paper and half-rolled scrolls lay strewn about the room, dangling over the arms of chairs or sitting stacked on several desks. Bottles of glass, metal, and ceramic filled shelves, each marked to show its contents, and between them were more papers. Inkwell and pens, too, at least a dozen of them. Strange bits of metal, like gears or tangled wires, were strewn about the midst of the chaotic mess, as were lengths of wood and the random potshard. He could hardly walk in without stepping on anything.
One cabinet held papers in rectangular dividers, and Dirt saw a glint of brass so he carefully made his way there first. Each step, he had to gently nudge something out of the way to make room for his foot, and it didn’t look like the previous occupant had spared the trouble. Most of the stuff on the ground had footprints on it. It wasn’t durable enough to step on now, though, and even pushing it a little tore the edges.
The brass on the cabinet was labels, as he’d hoped. It contained letters, hundreds of them, some on rolled paper and some flat. The labels were scrawled with a good hand, but only gave the person’s praenomen. GAIUS K, NONUS S, AGRIPPA, VOLESUS, NONUS C, and so on. The names were in no particular order, but Dirt knew which one he was looking for. He scanned them all until he found it.
AVITUS N. His name. The cubby was stuffed with papers, and the one next to it had no label and was almost full itself. He pulled out the top sheet and recognized his own handwriting.
Caeso, dear friend, I write to you in admiration of your recent accomplishment. Do not be so upset that it was not as total as you had hoped. Replicating something as durable and flexible as the material you sent me is already enough for your name to be spoken by everyone from the meanest slave to the most refined Domina. If you were to turn aside from your goal now and mass-produce the stuff, you would be rich enough in a year to build yourself ten more towers. I would very much like a cloak made of it, and some shoes. The fact that it does not contract like muscle only means that you have found the skin for your homunculus, not its interior parts.
Research, as you do not need me to tell you, is often like that. We discover only when we explore. You thought you were crafting and calculating and devising, but that is not the whole truth. You have been exploring, with the same spirit of our own ancient mariners or the twins who found the Prosperous Valley. That long nose of yours points ever toward a farther horizon, and the eyes that see over it must, of necessity, see farther than those of others.
I have no doubt that by the time this letter reaches you, whatever fugue of depression colored your letter to me will have dissipated, and you will be eager to share something new. Rejoice in your variability, my friend, and remember it when you are low. I and many others rejoice with you, in sincere admiration of your many abilities.
Dirt smiled to himself. If this was how Avitus wrote to his friends, Dirt wondered if he should be teasing Socks more. Probably. If even Father called the pup a rascal, he deserved it. He continued,
I turn now to some of what I have been doing. We have spoken long about my many projects—indeed, I begin to think I must visit you again, perhaps next year—and I am pleased to report no progress on any of them.
I simply cannot make anything larger than a scroll permanent, and if I place a cutting enchantment on a blade, it cannot hold a stability one at the same time. The whole thing shatters. I have also failed to figure out how to make an enchantment draw in its own mana, like the Precursors seem to have done. I am so frustrated that my servants have to bat my hands with a stick to keep me from pulling my hair out.
However, I find lately that my mind is turning from these pursuits to something even more impactful. Some have mocked me for an excess of piety—although never you, dear Caeso, which is one reason I adore you so—and perhaps they are right. Can a man honor the gods too much? Perhaps. And yet I cannot cease from pondering about them. What does it mean to be perfect?
In all their interactions with those who honor them and show piety, and do not shame themselves before the people with base behavior, are they not gracious and bounteous? Yet even the most blessed oracles speak with them only across great difficulty. The gods hold the reins to steer the world, but so seldom manifest in it. Lucina may inhabit a rabbit and light the way for a lost traveller, or Melodia a lyre and grant a song none can forget. Caelpater became a bull to trample the wine fields of Meraror. Some even appear in human form, but never as their full selves, resplendent in glory.
We can act on every material, and even ward against unwholesome spirits, or daemons, or dream-eaters and kidnappers. More and more of the world falls under the control of the wise, with new sigils discovered almost monthly. I have attached a few documents to this letter to that effect. Read them well.
But one thing remains beyond us, and that is the domain of divinity. Upon it we cannot act, and its laws are beyond our knowing. Are we not fashioned after the form of the gods? Is there not some spark of them to be found in our composition? If not, we would not have such affinity with them that they respect our piety. They do not ask the goats to pray or the birds to give sacrifice. Only men.
I am searching for the sigil to act upon the divine, dear Caeso. Not to bind them, but to serve them. Call me a fool if you wish, and laugh, and I will not begrudge you. I am a fool and deserve to be mocked. And yet I persist. Here is my aim: I will not cease until I have opened the way for the gods to manifest fully in the world. I believe it can be done. Perhaps one morning you will wake to discover that everything has changed.
I miss you dearly and think of you often, old friend. I shall send another letter a few days behind this one, discussing more mundane matters. That will give you something to look forward to.
A.
Dirt stared at the words, unable to read them a second time. This was it. This is what he’d done. How and why he’d broken the world. Somehow knowing more made it worse, not better. What had he been thinking? Magic on the gods themselves? Or something like that. Maybe on their realm, or on his own. Regardless, guilt and horror made him feel wretched. He was facing a sin for which he hadn’t suffered enough. Three thousand years tortured in the void could never pay this price.
“Please come downstairs,” said Servant. “The Master does not permit anyone in his personal quarters, except by invitation. The Master is resting, and will greet you after nightfall. Can I offer you refreshment? I apologize, but I cannot offer any food. Our deliveries have been delayed.”
Antelmu peeked in from behind the decaying homunculus. “Find anything interesting?” he asked.