Anatolia
When Jurian woke the next morning, Blasios was already gone. Jurian couldn’t help wondering if he’d been driven away by the reverberating echo of Menas’ snores, which had nearly chased him from the fire and out into the cold in the middle of the night. Blasios had left them a pot of porridge, though, and as they sat close to the fire eating their breakfast, Jurian drew a crude map of Anatolia in the dirt with the charred end of a stick.
“I’d say we’re somewhere about here,” he said, pointing to a spot near the center of the peninsula. “Halfway between Satala and Ancyra. If we go north by Byzantium, we could go by land at least part of the way and avoid the rough seas this time of year. But if we go south and catch a merchant ship out of Myra, we could get to Rome much quicker.”
Jurian contemplated the sketch, rubbing a hand through his hair.
Mari touched his knee and asked, “Which way will Casca go, Jurian?”
Jurian shook his head.
Before he could answer, a voice behind him said, “Planning on sailing across Mare Nostrum?”
Jurian glanced over to see Blasios in the mouth of the cave, his hands full of herbs and mushrooms.
“It can be a treacherous sea,” Blasios continued. “Steer clear of the southern waters if you can. I’ve heard of strange things going on around Apollonia and Cyrene.”
“The merchant routes between Rome and Myra stay to the north, I think,” Jurian said, but then he frowned and asked, “What strange things?”
“The way they talk, you’d think the dragons of the old myths had come back,” Blasios said, and shuddered. “God help them, they keep trying to placate the beast with sacrifices.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s having the desired effect.”
“Dragons aren’t necessarily a myth,” Menas said, his voice lower than usual. “I’ve seen things in my day…” He flicked a glance at Jurian. “There are things in this world we still don’t understand. As wise and learned as we are, we still can’t get everything right.” He laughed suddenly. “Saints, these Romans still think the way a chicken scratches the dirt can predict the outcome of a battle. We aren’t as wise and mighty as we think.”
“You don’t think this dragon is just another chicken, do you?” Mari asked.
Jurian laughed out loud, and even Menas chuckled.
Mari looked a bit flustered and said, “I mean, calling it a dragon because they can’t explain it otherwise, like using chickens to predict something they can’t otherwise be sure about.” She scowled and brushed her hair off her forehead. “It made more sense in my head.”
“Well,” Blasios said, smiling. “Even if the dragon is a chicken, I don’t think I’d want to be sailing too close to that region.”
Jurian fixed his gaze on the map. He hadn’t drawn in any of Africa but he knew where Apollonia was, and, roughly, Cyrene, the capitol of the Roman province of Libya Pentapolis.
“What is the dragon—or whatever it is—doing in Cyrene?” he asked.
“God knows, I don’t,” Blasios said. He deposited his herbs and mushrooms on the table and dusted his hands off on his robe. “But the last patient I saw, oh, a week ago now. He had recently come from Egypt, near Alexandria, where he’d heard all manner of rumors about their western neighbors. He said the beast in the hills would snatch random travelers, people who strayed outside the city at night, even cattle and sheep. The earth tremors more than ever in that region, and people claim it’s from the beast walking about in his cave. That bit sounds rather superstitious if you ask me. Anyway, the people have been offering sacrifices to the beast for over a decade now, hoping they will keep it from destroying the city.”
“What sort of sacrifices?” Mari asked.
Blasios studied her in silence, then exchanged a glance with Menas. “Not the civilized kind. I can’t begin to describe them.”
Mari shuddered visibly and set down her bowl. “Those poor people. Imagine how terrified they must be. We see how awful it is, but to them, they’re just trying to stay alive.”
“Fear makes men do terrible things,” Menas said, quiet.
Mari shook her head and added, “I don’t mean to excuse them. I only feel sorry for them. Why doesn’t anyone try to kill the beast?”
“They believe it’s a god,” Blasios said. “They think it’s a manifestation of Molech, that if they anger it, he will dry up the spring that supplies the city with water and kill them all.”
“Dangerous ignorance!” Menas growled, his dark eyes flashing. “They don’t know what they’re dealing with.”
“But Menas, you only know it’s ignorant because you know the truth,” Mari said, laying her hand on his arm. “To them…they think it’s the truth. They don’t know any different. Not yet, at least.” She frowned and grew quiet, staring into the fire.
Jurian swallowed. Mari couldn’t know what the giant actually meant. His words had come from experience, not the safe sort of knowledge born from hearing the right kinds of stories. He felt Menas’ gaze fixed on him, but he kept his eyes on the map. Though he felt inclined to trust Menas, a doubt lingered in his mind. By his own admission, Menas had once been utterly wicked. Had anything survived of that man who had so gloried in his crimes? Could anyone ever change completely?
Mari would say yes; he wasn’t sure if he could agree.
He rubbed his jaw and idly sketched the northern African coast, letting the tip of the stick rest on the location of Cyrene. The dragon bothered him. Until he’d met Menas, he would have laughed off anyone who claimed they’d seen something so mythical as a dragon, but…he’d seen the fear in Menas’ eyes. Real fear. And something that could make Menas afraid couldn’t possibly be a mere fancy. So what could have the people of Cyrene so terrified that they would offer unspeakable sacrifices to save themselves?
“Enough talk of dragons,” Menas said, startling him out of his thoughts. “What’s our path? If anyone wanted my opinion, I recommend Myra. I know a good man there, and the port is always busy with merchant ships. Besides, that land journey past Byzantium would just take too long.”
“Always better to let a boat do the traveling than your own legs, I’d say,” Blasios interjected.
“All right, so, Myra,” Jurian said, tapping the south coast of Anatolia. “Should we go by Ancyra, or cut southwest from here?”
Menas eyed the map thoughtfully. “Ancyra would be the easier journey, but longer, and I’ve heard that it’s dangerous for our people these days. And then there’s your friend Casca. I wager he’ll head to Ancyra in the hope of catching you there.”
“And we can’t avoid the cold and the snow no matter which way we go,” Jurian said.
“I vote the shortcut,” Mari said, then added softly, “I’ve had enough of Legions.”
“Can you lead us to Myra?” Jurian asked Menas.
The giant nodded. “I’ve traveled this region long enough. I know the easy paths and places where we can shelter if the snow gets too thick.”
“And you’re up for it, Mari?”
“I feel like I could walk forever,” she said, her smile like the summer sun.
“Well, no time to waste. Blasios, thank you for your care and hospitality,” Menas said. He stood and crushed the hermit in a tight embrace.
Blasios wheezed and thumped Menas on the back until he let go. “God save you,” he gasped. He gripped Menas’ arm, staring him long and hard in the eye. “Take care of these two,” he said. He frowned and added, “And yourself. I don’t think we will meet again.”
Menas looked ready to protest, but Blasios turned away and picked up the two candles they had used the night before. Drawing Jurian aside, he pushed the candles into his hands.
“You’re going to Rome. It’s a pilgrimage we all must take, but some of us can only go in our hearts. Take these and remember me when you’re there. Light them at the tomb of the rock. Light one for yourself, for guidance on the dark paths you will walk. And light one for him.” He nodded at Menas. “He will need it in the days to come. I see a great sadness in him.” He glanced upwards briefly, then drew Jurian’s head down and kissed his forehead. “Let the high praises of God be in their throats, and two-edged swords in their hands,” he murmured. “These words are for you. Keep them close.”