The Son of Rome

“The kyrios of the Raging Heaven was a Hero before he was the Tyrant Riot,” Scythas spoke softly as we rode beneath the light of stars. “And before that, he was only a man. Dutiful, and later wise, but ultimately no greater or lesser than any other mortal soul.”

A half moon rose steadily up above while we traversed the Thracian countryside. Griffon led the way with his virtue, rosy pankration hands hanging like lanterns around our heads and drifting with the current of his thoughts. The constructs of pneuma idly flexed their fingers, clenched and unclenched, contorting in various ways while they cast their light. Occasionally my horse would snap at a limb that got too close, but the others didn’t seem to mind.

“Cultivators in the fourth realm rarely speak of their lives prior to winning glory in the third realm, as a rule. Even the most insufferable of them will never offer up details of their mortal lives without good reason. A quirk of their status, I suppose.”

“A preventative measure,” Griffon said, unbraiding his white mare’s mane. He’d yet to find a style that suited his tastes- or hers, maybe.

Scythas grimaced. “It’s the likely answer, yes. The most treacherous path is the one that no man has walked before - the climb is far easier when you know how those ahead of you did it. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover they kept the past to themselves so no one could follow their unique examples. Any knowledge could be useful.”

That much I knew was true from the tales told in the Fifth. The more recent story of Damon and Anargyros Aetos’ first heroic deed was simply the point proven.

“That much is true,” Griffon agreed. “But it isn’t what I meant.”

“No?”

“As young scholars of greater mystery, we are taught that knowledge is a strength all its own. Even if all a man knows is the question and not the answer, one eye is better than full blind. To know that you do not know a thing is the first step to understanding it. The spring from which virtue and refinement flow.”

“Yes, I’m a cultivator too. What does that have to do with this?”

It was the thesis statement of Greek cultivation, their culture’s core conceit. The grander the complexity and the more opaque the mystery, the more there was to be gained from understanding it.

In one of my boyhood lectures, Aristotle had explained Greek cultivation to me as the untangling of a knot. In Rome we knew cultivation as the succession of a soul. In the time since my world had ended, most of the Greeks I had encountered referred to it as the refinement of a soul. But Aristotle had told me that every man was a tangled mess inside his soul, and so he had declared the act of cultivation to be the untangling of that knot.

Your Romans call this progression the course of honors, the Macedonians call it the hitching of stars, and many Greeks call it the stairway to heaven. Don’t confuse yourself, boy. Think of what we do in terms of simple tangled rope.

The Greek perspective was that a man’s external reality mirrored his internal reality - or perhaps vice versa, or even both at the same time. Their great works of architecture and miracles of civil engineering were the direct result of this mindset. The Greeks desired beauty of self, order over chaos, and so they also imposed that beauty and order on the world outside of themselves. Their cultivation was the same.

There is a mystery inside every man’s soul. A question that he spends his entire life trying to answer. The Greek mystiko seeks to unravel the external mystery of their worldly faith at the same time as they seek to unravel their own internal mystery. We call that virtue.

External and internal, inextricably linked. Even in death, a king could be distinguished from a slave by the monuments built in their memory- a grand mausoleum as opposed to an undecorated mound. That was why every Greek child coveted initiation in a cult of greater mystery. Because every cultivator wanted to believe that the mystery in their soul was more profound than any other.

And there was no external reflection more profound than the indescribable subjects of greater Greek mystery.

As I understood it, the source of inspiration for a Greek cultivator's virtue was itself an omen of things to come - nearly a prophecy for their own personal journey. To draw virtue from exposure to greater mystery meant that Olympus itself was within your potential. On the other hand, to draw your virtue from a citizen’s simple life meant you were bound for a citizen’s simple death. A rule of thumb, as Aristotle had labeled it with some disdain.

The common interpretation is that cultivation is set once foundation is settled - one virtue, one mystery, and only one path to heaven. It follows that the mystery studied must be profound enough to reach heaven alone. Think of the cultivation realms as the distance between heaven and earth. Your place among them is however far the rope can reach.

To advance was to untangle a bit more of the knot. Ascending to heaven, climbing Olympus Mons, meant bridging the gap between mortality and divinity with understanding. If your mystery was too simple, too crude or uninspiring, you could untangle the entire knot and lack the rope needed to make it to heaven.

But if the tangled rope within was the one a man used to pull himself up to heaven, why did it matter from where without he took his inspiration?

Because, boy, a man is an arrogant and prideful creature - and a Greek is even more so. We assume that the gods sculpted our bodies in their image, as we assume they gave us the spark from their own souls. In all things, within and without, we hold this to be true:

As above, so below.

A pankration hand drifting by my head snapped its luminous fingers, drawing my focus back to the present. Griffon and Scythas were both watching me expectantly. Khabur, plodding along on his mare, looked like he might fall asleep out of his saddle any moment.

“They want to know what you think,” Selene whispered covertly, the dappled mare I’d passed off to her trotting alongside my stallion. The stallion snorted and lashed his tail in the mare’s face, but didn’t otherwise bother her.

“What I think about what?” I asked, and she hushed me as if everyone including the Thracian Saylor hadn't heard her ‘whispering’.

“I’m of the opinion that knowledge is power, and knowledge of a thing gives you power over it. Even a Tyrant,” Griffon explained, tilting his head towards the Hero of the Scything Squall at the same time his floating lantern hands all swiveled to point at him. “This one believes otherwise.”

“Knowledge alone is not strength,” Scythas asserted. “Strength is strength. Knowing how a man became strong is not the same as gaining that strength for yourself.”

“I never said that.”

“Then what did you say?”

“Knowledge is power. Not strength.”

An expression came over Scythas’ face that I had only ever seen while he was talking to Griffon. A look of suffering and resignation.

“What is the distinction?”

“Strength is Sisyphus rolling a boulder up a hill until the end of time,” Griffon answered without hesitation. “Power is Sisyphus letting the boulder go.”

Scythas’ brow furrowed in knee-jerk scorn, before the lines smoothed out and his frown became thoughtful.

Selene added to the point. “Strength is the force we can exert,” The pressure we can withstand. “Power is freedom to act. It’s our ability to choose how we exert that force, or if we do at all.

“And it is the ability to take that choice away from those beneath us. Sisyphus is strong, even in death - but he has no power at all.” Griffon glanced curiously at the Oracle’s daughter. “Who taught you that interpretation?”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“My father,” Selene said fondly. Griffon hummed.

“So did mine.”

As had mine, though adopted. Another quirk of Tyrants, I supposed.

“Then by your definition,” Scythas said consideringly, “you’re saying that knowledge of a Tyrant’s mortal life gives you the freedom to act against them - power over them.”

“I am.”

“Then I disagree twice. Take your own example - Sisyphus has strength to push the boulder but lacks the power to stop. Because the Father condemned him to that fate, and the Father is his better.”

Griffon nodded easily. “An accurate summation.”

“The Father’s strength is as distant from a Tyrant’s - even the Tyrant that defied death twice - as a Tyrant’s strength is from a Hero’s. Take what you’ve asserted and apply it to Sisyphus. Do you mean to tell me that if Sisyphus only knew our Father in Raging Heaven, had actionable knowledge of him, that would give the Tyrant power over the god?”

Damon Aetos’ scarlet son tilted his head just a fraction, as if the question confused him.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Irreverent and foolish.” Scythas said, beyond disbelief now. “I wish I could say that sentiment surprised me, but I think I finally begin to understand you.”

“Ho?” Griffon waved thirty pankration hands invitingly, interested.

“You say whatever it is you believe will shock the other party most and commit further to it when called out, taking refuge in the smokescreen of those absurdities whenever you’re presented with a topic that no longer interests you.”

“How cruel,” Selene whispered, roughly loud enough for Sisyphus to hear her in the underworld.

“Very,” was all I said, because I couldn’t say I disagreed.

Griffon raised an eyebrow along with his pneuma, his influence grasping for the Hero. Scythas’ influence rose up and sharply smacked the former Young Aristocrat’s aside. My stallion snorted and tossed his head.

“How is it any fault of mine if the truth appears to you a smokescreen?”

“The truth,” Scythas shot back mockingly. “It’s all too easy to say a claim is true when there’s no way to prove it. If only Sisyphus were here, I could tell him the name of god and see for myself what power that gave him over heaven. Alas, we’ll never know.”

In the blood red light of the rosy-fingered dawn, Griffon’s smile was sharp.

“No need for the Tyrant. Tell me the Father’s name if you know it. I’ll call him out myself.”

Raging heaven rumbled.

“Hua!” the old Thracian jerked up in his saddle, blinking sleep out of his eyes as he looked up and around. “Rain already?”

“No,” Selene whispered.

I glared up at clear and starry skies. “Just thunder.”

“Well?” Griffon invited the Hero. Scythas stared at him.

“I disagree with both of you,” I decided, drawing all eyes to me.

“And what do you propose?” Griffon asked curiously. “Why else would a Tyrant keep their past a secret, if not to prevent others from gaining power over them?”

“Or following in their footsteps,” Scythas added.

As always, they had made things more convoluted than they needed to be. That was to say, they were being Greek about it.

“Do either of you remember the first time you stood under your own power?” I asked.

Scythas blinked. “Physically? Or…” Aside from the obvious meeting, it was also a fairly common phrase in certain cultures to describe a cultivator’s awakening.

“Both.”

“Of course, then. Every cultivator remembers that,” he said matter of factly. Griffon, meanwhile, had started to chuckle quietly to himself.

“What’s funny?” Selene asked him, curious. He shook his head, golden mane of hair burning blood-orange in the low light.

“I’ve just witnessed a miracle. A Roman having an insightful thought.”

I grabbed a glowing hand of his intent out of the air and folded four of its fingers down. He guffawed.

“What?” Scythas demanded. “Enlighten me, if you’ve already figured it out for yourself.”

“I remember the day my soul awoke and I stood under my own power, that’s true enough,” Griffon explained through a smile. “But I certainly don’t recall the infant memory of physically standing up for the first time. If a man exists that does, I’d be surprised.”

“And?” the Hero pressed, looking to me. “Was that the whole thought?”

“Everyone remembers one of those memories, and everyone has forgotten the other. Both of them are foundational moments in any cultivator's life, though. Both were crucial steps in their development, something their parents would surely brag of in their place. But what about now?”

“Ahh,” Selene breathed, understanding.

“Here and now, would you be proud to brag about the very first moment you didn’t need someone else’s strength to stand up straight? Is that something either of you want to do?” I splayed both hands out invitingly. “I’ll listen if it is.”

“I already have,” Griffin said smugly, content knowing that the memory would be seared into my mind forever because the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god had been there to make it memorable.

“… no,” Scythas admitted. “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” I asked him. “Those were key moments for you at the time. Are you afraid I’ll use the knowledge against you?”

He grimaced. “No. They’re just not worth mentioning.”

I’d seen a grimace not unlike that one on my great-uncle’s face every time I asked him to tell me a story from his younger days. The same expression every time, and nearly the same answer to follow it up. The only parts that ever changed were the ages cited.

Why should I waste my time bragging about a thing I accomplished at thirty, when Alexander did it at eighteen?

I shrugged. “For a Tyrant, all mortal memories feel something like that.”

We rode in silence for a long while after that.

Eventually, Khabur led us to our vineyard. I’d been skeptical about an old man’s ability to navigate a landscape he hadn’t traversed in years during pitch dark night, but the Thracian sailor had come through in the end. Our horses moseyed slowly through shadowed rows of grape vines, spilling across the landscape as far ahead as the light of Griffon’s virtue allowed for us to see

After an amount of time that felt random but hopefully wasn’t, Scythas raised a silent hand and hopped down from his horse. With one hand he stroked the dark mare’s head, and with the other he pulled a ripe red apple from a fold in his attire and fed it to her one bite at a time

Then, once she had finished eating, the Hero whistled a single high note and a scythe of wind separated cut her head cleanly off her body. The head struck the dirt amidst coiling grape vines, and a moment later the body collapsed bonelessly beside it. Gushing blood pooled in the soil, and the grape vines drank greedily of it.

“As I was saying before,” he said, just barely audible over the screaming of the other horses, “most Tyrants won’t speak of their lives before they entered the Heroic realm. As was the case in most aspects of his life, however, Bakkhos was an exception.”

Scythas held both hands parallel above the earth, palms facing down. Khabur’s mare whinnied and danced away, the sailor having dismounted from her to kneel in the dirt and pray with closed eyes and clasped hands. To my right, Griffon leaned forward on his starlit mare with rapt attention.

To my left, Selene had plugged both of her ears with her fingers and was watching the decapitated horse’s blood seep into the earth with distasteful expectation.

“The kyrios of the Raging Heaven was foreign-born, if you can believe it,” Scythas continued, the Heroic flames behind his hazel eyes rising steadily. “Born on this very soil, raised on one of these very vineyards. He confided in me once, when I was still new to Olympia and the Raging Heaven Cult, that the best winemakers in the world died centuries and millennia before any of us were born.”

The Hero of the Scything Squall glanced at Griffon, and then at the mare’s corpse on the ground.

“Burn it.”

Thirty hands of burning intent gripped the corpse and rendered it to ash and charcoal.

I heard a faint whisper in the dark.

“The best drinking days are behind us,” Scythas said, imitating the mad Tyrant’s voice and, somehow, invoking something in the earth as he did it. “These days, if you want a good cup you’ll have to go digging for it.”

“Praise be,” Khabur whispered, in steady repetition. “Praise be, praise be, praise be.”

“Praise be to the Hero,” Scythas intoned, and the whispers turned to shrieks. My stallion reared up, screaming his own challenge in reply.

Before our eyes, a massive hand like sculpted squid ink rose up from the soil and the vines and closed around the burnt remains of Scythas’ dark mare, dragging it under. The shrieking rose to a crescendo, and then the soil collapsed into the hole left behind by its passage and the eerie nose ceased.

Griffon and I shared a wide eyed look.

Scythas inhaled deeply.

“Chthonic Hero, whom I have long admired,” he spoke gravely, in the same voice as the man that had broken the Tyrants of every greater mystery cult and arrayed them at his feet. He spoke with grave intent. His words carried weight. I felt the pressure in my soul, something like gravita-

“Where can I find a decent drink around here?”

I stared as a second chthonic hand rose up from the earth.

And pointed.