ROADS LEAD TO ROME Casca Petronius Ostia, 64 A.D. [GM] Your host looks a little puzzled, but shrugs. "I'll have to report the assault anyways. If you want a ride to the coast, I believe Lucius is running an errand there the day after tomorrow, to pick up some marble tablets for his engravings. I can probably find someone in the village who can host you until then. You, ah, do have somewhere you can obtain payment for boarding, and passage wherever you're going, don't you? Somewhere a message could be dispatched to?" <><><><><> Casca ponders. A lot of awkward questions here, but also some interesting possibilities. "Your friend Lucius .... does he have much success selling his engravings?" <><><><><> [GM] The man shrugs. "Fair enough. Nero's....tastes in ostentatious displays haven't hurt *his* business-" leaving unsaid how many businesses have been brought to ruin by Nero's mismanagement of the Empire- "so Lucius finds plenty of rich customers in nobles who want to decorate their homes with big gaudy marble pieces." He shakes his head. "He's expecting a lot of business now, with Nero's passion to rebuild Rome after the fire." <><><><><> Casca rubs his chin. "I have had some fair success with business dealings in the past. Perhaps I can earn my keep with some sage advice." <><><><><> [GM] The man looks dubious, but says, "I suppose you could talk to Lucius and see if he feels your advice is fair enough to be worth paying for." Lucius turns out to be a muscular young man with curly black hair, dusting dirt off his hands when you enter his shop. <><><><><> Casca looks idly at Lucius' wares. He wasn't half-bad, either. Casca may once have had some of the man's work at his estate. Way back when ... "I hear you're hoping to cash in on the rebuilding in Rome. Could be a lot of work. A lot of competition, too, I'd gather ...." <><><><><> Lucius looks at you, a little startled. "Competition? Well, I'm sure there are other stonemasons and sculptors who will be employed in the rebuilding. Surely there's enough work to go around." Inquiring further, you learn that Lucius is basically a one-man operation, who's never even given a thought to expanding his business....though there is plenty of potential for expansion. Typical of successful rustic craftsmen, Lucius does not really think of his trade as a "business"....it's something he does in order to make money, a simple exchange of services that keeps him fed. Not only has he no concept of economics, but he doesn't even know the going rate for marble works in Rome; the vendor middlemen he's been dealing with are robbing him blind and he has no idea. Helping Lucius turn his little trade into a thriving business is just the sort of challenge that appeals to your mercantile instincts...but it would also keep you close to Rome. How long would it be before someone happens by that recognizes Casca Petronius, fabulously wealthy merchant, notable playboy, and escaped Christian? But then again, no one will be searching for you, because the Prętor believes you are dead.... <><><><><> Management consultants are a breed as ill-regarded as theives, lawyers and whores, but have been around almost as long. Take Casca Petronius, for example. The dead and not-dead Roman drew up a fairly extensive plan to help his new Ostia friends capitalize on Rome's voracious need for marble. Nowadays it would be called a marketing plan, except that this plan was full of common sense and actually worked. Casca made a tidy sum. And quickly. He booked passage on the first ship to Alexandria, and thence to ... who knows? <><><><><> [GM] 65 A.D. Alexandria, Egypt ..... With a small fortune in gold concealed on your person, you flee Ostia with your newfound wealth. It's only a tiny fraction of what you once possessed, but it's seed money. You later learn that you departed Italy just ahead of even more unimaginable atrocities, as Nero goes to ever- greater extremes to satiate the jaded appetites of the decaying aristrocracy. And at night, you remember the expressions on the faces of your fellow Christians, in the jail cell in Rome, when you bartered for your freedom. You were betrayed, of course, but somehow you're still alive. None of them are. Peter and Paul are dead, but you have survived. In Alexandria, crossroads to the East, you are pleased to find signs that Christianity is spreading here too....though as the horrific news arrives from Rome of the crackdown against this sect, it is rapidly going underground. You are browsing one of the more expensive markets in Alexandria, while you consider where you will go next, when a bolt of electricity seems to shoot up your spine, and your head spins, with your heartbeat suddenly increased to an incredible volume, pounding in your ears. It's a disorienting and thoroughly unnatural sensation. But everyone around you continues about their business, completely unaware of the sensations that are overwhelming you. <><><><><> Casca drops to his knees and grabs his hand in his hands. Paul had talked about something similiar happening to him once, on the road to Damascus. Guilt whipsaws across Casca's conscience as he considers the many counts on which an angry Lord can incriminate the apostate Casca. You've gained the world and lost your soul, old boy. You've saved ypurself a little pain in this world for eternal pain in the next. Bravo. <><><><><> [GM] Other market-goers look at you curiously as you drop to your knees, but for the most part they simply walk around you. With travelers from all corners of the world passing through Alexandria, many strange customs are commonly seen here, and they may think you are simply practicing some strange religious observance. One man, perhaps thinking you look more like someone suffering a stroke than a man kneeling to pray, leans over and lays a hand lightly on your shoulder. "Excuse me, are you well?" he asks solicitously. Meanwhile, the crowd before you seems to part, as a lean man with sun- darkened skin, wearing robes with embroidered stripes that would seem to signify some minor office, stands there looking at you with an inscrutable expression. His hair is sparse at the temples and all but bald on top. His face is unwrinkled, yet nonetheless appears weathered by many years of experience. He's one of those people whose age seems impossible to guess; not a young man, but not an old man, and you can't be sure of his race either. Too dark-skinned to be from Europe, too light to be African, and his features also appear to be a blend of many nationalities, or none. The buzz and the thundering of your heartbeat continues to reverberate in your head, unabated. <><><><><> Casca entertains the notion that the dark-skinned stranger might be God Himself. The idea is too terrifying. Casca does what he has done too much lately when confronted with the awesome questions of life, death and afterlife. He turns to the helping hand. "I seem to have taken ill. Can you please help me away." <><><><><> [GM] The good Samaritan helps you to your feet and leads you to a nearby wineseller's square, where you sit down. The buzzing, jittering sensation running up and down your spine does not diminish, however. The Egyptian asks if he should summon a physician. <><><><><> Casca rubs the back of his neck. "No, I ... I am cursed beyond a doctor's ability to heal. Leave me to my perdition." <><><><><> [GM] The Egyptian looks at you curiously, but finally leaves you, with a shrug. You notice the dark-skinned, balding man with the embroidered robe standing at the edge of the square, still staring at you. He walks forward until he is standing in front of your table. "I don't recognize you," he says in Latin, his face still ominous and unreadable. The pounding in your ears is deafening. <><><><><> Casca grabs the table. The words are Latin words. Good Latin words, in fact. This is very much like that night in prison .... where reason and the body send mixed and impossible messages. His body is getting impossible signals, yet somehow it seems insane or ridiculous to ascribe supernatural origin to uncanny phenomena. If this man is God, then to say that Casca doesn't recognize Him either would risk fate. But surely this isn't God? Yet, who else could it be? "Who are you?" <><><><><> [GM] The man's frown deepens. "I am Semoch, of Rhodes," he says. "Who are you, and who was your mentor?" <><><><><> "I am Casca," says Casca. "I have no .... my mentor is the Yahweh, the one true God." Casca wipes his brow. It seems unlikely that God would come from Rhodes. Casca has been to Rhodes. But why take chances? <><><><><> [GM] Semoch's face remains expressionless, but something sparkles in his eyes....mirth or irritation, you can't tell. "Casca," he repeats. Then pauses. "Let me try again. You are Roman, are you not? Do you know Gaius...I do not know what family name he is using now, Portio or Solus or Romulus, or perhaps something else?" He moves slowly around to stand opposite you, across the table, then sits down, slowly and deliberately, as if carefully considering every movement before taking it. His next question is even stranger: "When were you born?" <><><><><> Casca is rocked by this familiar stranger, addressing him as if he were party of some sort of ... something. Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity? An elaborate test? "I have never heard of such a man. For myself, though, I was born in Antium." Casca drums his fingers on the table. "And yourself?" Casca is fairly confident that Semoch is not some kind of divine messanger. But perhaps from the other side of the spectrum? Yes, there is a possibility worth considering. Satan come to collect on his due, but not without some preliminary torment. <><><><><> [GM] Semoch seems to find neither your answer nor your question satisfactory. "You don't know what you are, do you?" he asks. Then he lowers his voice. "The uneasiness, the tingling along your spine, the buzzing at the base of your skull.....do you have any idea what it means?" <><><><><> Casca balls his hands into fists. He hates this. Until very recently, nobody would have the temerity to speak to him this way. He was suddenly sick of all the confusion, all the impossible paradox. If this was the devil, then let him be done with his business. "Stop talking in riddles! If you have something to say, then say it!" <><><><><> [GM] Semoch's face seemed incapable of producing a deeper scowl, but it does. "Listen to me, you fool," he almost growls. "You recently had a near- death experience, didn't you? Either you know you were killed and somehow came back to life, or you've convinced yourself that you didn't really die. Apparently it's my misfortune to be the first immortal to discover you since. Now are you willing to accept what I've just told you and hear more, or are you going to retreat into denial and religious zealotry? If the latter, then I shall take my leave of you, and your fate is in your own hands....and that of your god." He almost sneers at the last. <><><><><> Casca stares into the putative immortals' eyes. Is he promising the same curse he offered Eve? The same temptation he dangled in front of Jesus in the desert? Either way, this demon wants a renunciation. Casca is not willing to give it to him. He may be damned, but at least he'll be damned with an ounce of dignity. "I was murdered and returned to life by the grace of Jesus Christ our Lord." A horrifying though suddenly occurs to Casca. He now knows why the Lord didn't save Peter or Paul. It wasn't the Lord who saved Casca. "If you are responsible for my state, I owe you no favours. I did not ask for this curse. I would happily have died in Christ/" Casca steels himself. This time he has another chance. <><><><><> [GM] Semoch rolls his eyes heavenwards, looking exasperated. "A curse on all fanatics!" He turns his gaze back to you, harsh and impatient. "Neither I nor Jesus Christ are responsible for your state. You aren't the only one this has happened to, and it's been happening since long before your deluded Messiah was born." He stands. "I don't have time to waste with you. I am meeting with a Consular official and I cannot be late. If you wish to discuss this further, you can find me this evening at the Library. If not, continue on your way.....I'm willing to go only so far to help fledglings. I made the attempt- if you wish to proceed in ignorance, it is on you." With that, he turns and strides away from the market. As he disappears into the crowd, the buzzing and throbbing in your skull fades. <><><><><> Casca lets Semnoch go. He is relieved, to tell the truth. His ship sails in an hour and he'll be in the Holy Land. Far from the devil. Except ... (and that great niggling "except," that horrible strain of reason that persist in unreasonable circumstances -- Greek learning always seems to overcome Christian conviction). ... why would the devil walk away so easily? Why would he .. it ... just give up. More than that, why wouldn't it care? Casca was still thinking about that when the ship sailed. After all, he was going to be immortal a long time. And if he was immortal, then it stood to reason ... no, reason compelled the fact ... that others would be immortal as well. And it was a big world, which surely could have few immortals in it. Casca could walk the earth until the end of Roman days and perhaps never meet another. The curiosity ... the remorse ... would gnaw at him like <><><><><> [GM] The Library of Alexandria is famous throughout the civilized world; when Rome captured the city, the Legions had careful instructions not to harm this repository of knowledge. From the outside, however, the Library is not nearly as grand as its reputation; just a large, plain, stone building. But few mere libraries have Legionaires assigned to guard the entrances. The sight of Roman soldiers here, so far from Rome, gives you pause....but of course there are Roman soldiers throughout the Empire, and none of them could possibly recognize you. It's not as if you're wearing anything to identify yourself as a Christian. Then again, Semoch might have alerted them. But he could have sent them after you already, if he wished to turn you in. None of the soldiers takes notice of you as you walk up the steps to the main entrance. The two at the doors look you over, and apparently decide you look sufficiently respectable to be a library visitor. On the inside, there seem to be two types of visitors; scholars, who are given flat wooden slats as "passes" while they search through the scrolls and maps and artifacts archived here, and tourists, who are escorted by robed clerks through the many rooms, shown all the arcane treasures for which the Library is justly famed, and tactfully maneuvered so they don't get a chance to touch anything. One such clerk approaches, and asks in passable Latin "Ave, sir! You are wishing a tour? Or wish to apply for a research permit?" At the base of your neck, the tingling starts again, blossoming into horrible spasms in your gut once more. <><><><><> Casca looks around, scanning the people for Semoch. "Actually, I'm supposed to meet Semoch of Rhodes." <><><><><> [GM] "Semoch of Rhodes?" the clerk asks, puzzled. "You mean Semoch the Librarian, yes? He is a native of our city-" "This is a friend of mine, Kirit," Semoch says behind you. "Thank you, you may return to your duties now." The clerk bobs his head and withdraws. Semoch looks at you, not appearing overjoyed to see you again. "Come with me, we can talk in private in my office," he says. As you walk through the library, he mutters over his shoulder, "Rhodes is the city I was affiliated with long ago, and still consider to be more my home than here, but I only use that to identify myself to others of our kind. To mortals, I am Semoch of Alexandria." <><><><><> "Our kind ..." repeats Casca. He walks into Semoch's office, biding his time and holding his tongue. <><><><><> [GM] Semoch's office is spacious, confirming your belief that the Librarian must be highly ranked here. It's also impeccably neat, with dozens and dozens of scrolls lined carefully on the shelves, and a small, neat pile of documents on his table. He does not have a Roman-style couch, but a three-legged stool. He sits down and glances at the work he was apparently engaged in, then clasps his hands together, elbows resting on the table, looking at you with the same appraising stare he gave his document. "All right, so where shall we begin? I'll repeat the question I asked before; when and where and how did you die?" <><><><><> Casca thinks for just a moment, and then decides that he has had quite enough of thinking, thank you very much. "I was stabbed during the Great Fire. A political enemy sent a siccarius after me. To tell the truth, I am unsure now whether or not I really died, or just imagined that I had, based on the extent of my injuries." He stops here, unwilling to tumble into the sordid story of his capture and release. <><><><><> [GM] "You died," Semoch says with certainty. "That is how it works. You are killed for the first time, and you come back to life.....and now you are immortal. If you had not died, the sensation we feel in one another's presence would be dim to me, and imperceptible to you. I take it you have not felt this sensation before?" <><><><><> Casca senses that it is unwise to let too much on, but decides that in his position he can gain nothing through concealment. "Yes, I had wondered about that sensation. Is it some sort of allergy?" <><><><><> [GM] "Not an allergy," Semoch replies. "It's part of our physiology. Whenever two immortals come into close proximity, they simultaneously sense each other. It prevents us from sneaking up on one another....helps enforce the rules of the barbaric Game that has evolved over the centuries." <><><><><> "The game?" Casca asks. <><><><><> [GM] "The Game," Semoch repeats, stressing the word. "You see, when one immortal kills another- yes, we CAN be killed- the killer receives part of the slain immortal's psyche, and much of the knowledge possessed by the victim, in a blaze of energy. Supposedly it's an intoxicating, even addictive, experience. Certainly it makes an immortal who kills many other immortals very powerful and dangerous. Some immortals hunt others of our kind. It's barbaric, but then many immortals ARE barbarians. It's called the Game. It's been going on for millenia. It has rules which are supposed to make it 'fair', and all of us have to obey them, even those of us who do not play the damnable Game, since you haven't much choice in the matter if someone comes after YOU." <><><><><> The early germ of a thousand ideas are planted in Casca's head. For now, he is flabbergasted. "How many ... more of us are there? How did we get to be this way?" <><><><><> [GM] Semoch laughs. "Ah, how many times have I heard those questions, over the centuries, or asked them myself? I'm afraid no one knows the answer to either, Casca Petronius. I've heard many theories about how we come to be, and why, but most are mystical babble, and the rest are nothing more than speculation." His fingers brush over the documents on his desk. "Numbers are something I have tried to estimate myself, by recording every immortal I meet, or hear of, but the fact is, I have traveled more extensively than any mortal, and probably more than any immortal, and I am quite sure that even I have seen only a small part of the world. Immortals appear to be a universal phenomenon; we're born among every race, in every nation. I have personally met- well, you make the eighty-seventh. I estimate conservatively that there are at least thirty now alive in what you Romans would call the 'known world'. There could be many more than that, and there are certainly far more dwelling in lands that Rome has never heard of." <><><><><> 87 minus 30. Casca can guess what happened to the rest. "What else are we vulnerable to? What happens if I'm burned alive or sickened with disease? What if suffocate? Or starve to death? Or drown?" <><><><><> [GM] "The only thing that can kill us permanently is decapitation," Semoch says, appearing pleased that you are at last asking sensible questions. "Everything else is only temporary....albeit unpleasant. Being burned alive is as painful for us as for mortals. Starvation and drowning and suffocation likewise. The difference is, after dying, we rise again and are able to remember what it felt like. We do not, however, get sick." He picks up a small knife from his desk. "Most every injury we suffer will heal very quickly, unless it does actually kill you, in which case it may take anywhere from hours to days, in extreme cases, for you to recover. Once you do return to life, your injuries will heal at a normal rate. Normal for us, that is." He nicks the end of one finger, holding it up so you can see the small line of blood, then sticks his finger in his mouth, sucking on it. When he holds it up again, the cut is gone. "It's that decapitation you have to worry about," he says. "Because others of our kind seek us out, looking for opportunities to take an immortal head." <><><><><> Casca bites the tip of his thumb. None of this precludes a theological explanation. But now is not the time. "I presume we don't age, either. Is there some sort of network ... no, that would be too risky. Immortals would scatter for their own protection." There is an element of sense imposed on nonsense. Casca seizes it like a dog to a bone. "How do you stay hidden? The difference in aging patterns would be suspicious ... you'd need to find ways to transfer wealth." Casca is lost in thought now, devising ways to transfer wealth to third parties. There could be a valuable service in this. Not all immortals would be blessed with his business acumen, but a truly long-range investment could make a man very rich indeed. <><><><><> [GM] Your blood tastes normal. Your thumb heals in moments. "We don't age," Semoch confirms. "Most immortals simply move around every twenty years or so, if not more frequently, and change their name. Some have become very adept at disguise, and in some societies in the past, it was possible to remain immortal out in the open. That has become less viable in the modern era." He smiles ironically. "Wealth? What is wealth to an immortal? It's usually easy enough for one of us to find a niche in society, with the knowledge and skills we accumulate over the centuries. Wealth and power is transient. Knowledge is the only thing we can take with us wherever we go. I have been rich, more than once. Eventually war or revolution or catastrophe destroys whatever place you choose for your home, and you have to move on, often with very little time to gather your things. I know some immortals have been known to bury caches of gold and other valuables in remote places, for later retrieval." He shrugs. "I no longer bother." <><><><><> Casca looks out the window. The Great Lighthouse stands on a spit of land, its pinnacle a firery glare of sun reflecting on mirror. "Perhaps .... this has been most interesting, Semoch. I don't know that God has nothing to do with these events, only that the relationship is not as direct as I once thought. He no doubt bestows this gift on saints and sinners alike. But tell me, what plans do you have?" <><><><><> [GM] Semoch snorts. "God!" His voice is scornful. "Haven't you been listening to anything I've told you? Surely you aren't STILL going to cling to this faddish cult of yours?" He shakes his head, and favors you with a humorless smile. "Much as I dread societies in which beheading becomes the favored method of execution, for obvious reasons, it's a shame that Rome prefers crucifixion nowadays. If they'd cut your Messiah's head off, we wouldn't have yet another silly religious movement inciting unrest." <><><><><> Casca smiles. He is not interested in a theological dispute. "You evade the question artfully. Just as well. If you wish your eternal privacy, it is no business of mine to pry." <><><><><> [GM] Semoch's smile turns to a frown once more. "I have always pursued knowledge. Since the fall of Rhodes, Alexandria has become the greatest center of learning in the western world. This is my place for now. You are free to go where you wish." He pauses. "Traditionally, when an elder immortal discovers a newly reborn one, it is the duty of the elder to train the fledgling, educating him or her about the rules of our savage Game, and also teaching the combat skills you will need for survival. I, however, am not a combatant, and definitely not a teacher. I can recommend a couple of mentors, and send you to them with letters that will assure you of receiving hospitality. I would say that Gaius is the best choice, but I do not know where he is at present. Hmm, perhaps Techo. I am pretty sure he's no longer bitter about Carthage. I think Alexander is still living in Sparta, if you do not mind being tutored by a Greek. Others come to mind, but you would have to travel a considerable distance." <><><><><> Casca nods. "Alexander sounds like just the man. I owe you, Semoch." <><><><><> [GM] Semoch snorts. "Don't be so quick to obligate yourself to another immortal.....debts among our kind can accumulate for a *very* long time. And you may not thank me once you meet Alexander." The older immortal chuckles wryly. Despite his gruff manner, Semoch is fairly hospitable, if not warm. He gives you a tour of the Library, which is as vast and full of wonders and ancient knowledge as its reputation. You could spend years here. Semoch makes idle comments about remembering the author of such- and-such work, or refuting a commonly-accepted assumption about ancient history.....he gives no details that would allow you to guess how old he really is, or even where he's from, but he has definitely been around a while. He briefly describes the most important rules of the Game. "*Everyone* has to follow them," he says. "Anyone who becomes known as a violator is subject to being killed on sight, without the protection of those rules." The first, do not fight on holy ground. Which certainly pleases you (and sends a pang of guilt through you, since you have not been to a proper service since you escaped Rome.) Semoch points out, however, that the rule applies to any ground considered holy by ANY religion. Secondly, you must fight one on one. Once a fight between two immortals begins, no others are permitted to interfere, no matter what. A corollary to this rule is that fights must be face to face. You cannot use a bow, or spear, or sling, to take down another immortal and then behead them while they're lying wounded on the ground. Nor can you send mortals to fight your battles for you. "However," Semoch observes, "the rules do not forbid you to surround yourself with mortals who will keep potential assailants away from you." He nods at the Roman soldiers who stand guard outside the Library. Two days pass, and you're tempted to stay and dabble in academic pursuits. But Semoch clearly isn't enthusiastic about having another immortal around. He writes a letter for you to take with you to Sparta. He doesn't know exactly where in the city Alexander lives. "But wander around and eventually you'll sense one another. It's rare that two immortals can coexist in one city for very long without becoming aware of each other." You have passage booked on a ship to Greece. The morning your ship leaves, you make one last visit to the Library, to say good-bye to Semoch. You sense the buzz and feel the roiling in your stomach (which is quite unpleasant, but Semoch said it will fade over time) even before you approach the Library steps, which surprises you, as you understood Semoch would be inside all night and all day, and you get the impression he leaves the Library only when he has to. You become aware of another man approaching, drawing to a halt just on the other side of the street from you, and staring with a quizzical, mildly surprised but unconcerned expression, ignoring vendors and messengers and soldiers who walk back and forth between you. He also ignores the stares that he receives; he must be used to them. While travelers from all over the world pass through Alexandria, very few come from as far south as this man must have. His skin is black as night, making his eyes and teeth shine in the darkness of his face. His head is perfectly bald. He stands somewhat shorter than you, but his chest and shoulders are at least as broad as yours were back in your wrestling days, and his arms are thickly muscled. He wears a Roman-style outfit, with trappings typical of the North African influence, and carries a thick wooden walking staff, polished to a dark gleam and capped with metal at both ends. He sets one end on the ground in front of him and leans against it, regarding you. <><><><><> Interesting ... Casca heads inside and warns Semoch. "Another immortal is standing outside, probably of the head-hunting variety. He's massive, too. Any idea how your rules balance the odds between the powerful and the weak?" <><><><><> [GM] "They don't," Semoch says dryly, not looking overly concerned. "The Rules do not forbid a thousand year-old warrior from killing a fledgling, so long as it's a so-called 'fair fight.'" He sets down the stylus he was writing with. "Could you perhaps be a little more descriptive? 'Massive' does not tell me very much." <><><><><> "Bald ... very dark ... darker even than the Mauretanians and Nubians. And dressed like a common Roman." Casca considers. "Out of curiosity, if we were to cut down a foe with guile rather than brawn, something I take to somehow mean 'unfair' by these rules, how would anyone know if the enemy was dead?" <><><><><> [GM] Semoch frowns. "An immortal from southern Africa....but civilized. I know of no such man....most disturbing." He rises, then stops and turns towards you. "I think perhaps you think too much, Casca Petronius." "The Quickening does strange things sometimes. It leaves impressions in whoever receives it. It is said that some immortals can perceive a tainted Quickening. I have never experienced this myself, but I have seen enough in my time that I would not completely discount the idea." He stares at you. "Do not be tempted to follow that path. Running away is one thing, but violating the Rules quite another. It WILL catch up to you. No, if this dark immortal has hostile intent, the solution is quite simple....I will have the Legionaires deal with him. And if that does not work...." Semoch steeples his fingers. "I have other options." He leads you out of his office, and walks to the entrance to the library....where you see that selfsame dark-skinned immortal speaking to one of the soldiers stationed at the door. <><><><><> "If he has hostile intent, of course." Casca ponders. "With that sword in his hand that seems likely. He must already be in the legions to brandish it so ... Perhaps we should send a messanger to see what he wants?" <><><><><> [GM] "No, I will speak to him myself," Semoch says. "I don't need to cower behind a messenger with a troop of Roman soldiers standing right there." He walks forward, and the two immortals size each other up as they greet one another. Semoch talks to the dark-skinned immortal for a few moments, and finally nods curtly. The Legionaire steps aside, allowing the black man to follow Semoch inside. Semoch takes both of you back to his office. The short, broad- shouldered immortal grins at you again, showing perfect white teeth that remind you of a lion's. "We met outside, but were not properly introduced," he says, in cultured Latin at least as good as your own. "I am Aman." He bows slightly, though somehow he manages to remove any sense of true humility from the gesture. He still grasps the staff in his large hands, one end firmly planted on the floor. <><><><><> Casca feels the rush again and tries to see he can tell anything from it, the way Semoch suggested. "A pleasure. I am Casca Petronius." He extends his hand. <><><><><> [GM] "I don't know you, Casca Petronius," Aman says, taking your hand in a grip that feels like he could tear your arm off at the shoulder. "Another Roman, eh? Or merely adopting that nationality for the time being?" "He's new," Semoch says, stressing the word 'new' slightly. The Librarian is watching the dark-skinned immortal with a blank expression. "Aaah," Aman says, nodding. "Indeed. Well, welcome to our ranks." He chuckles, not a sound that puts you at ease. <><><><><> Casca nods. "Thank you. What brings you to Alexandria?" <><><><><> [GM] "Why, the search for knowledge, of course!" Aman spreads his arms expansively, still holding the metal-capped staff in one hand. "I came here to the famous Library of Alexandria on a quest for enlightenment and erudition. Imagine my surprise and delight to find a fellow immortal here!" His grin looks more and more like that of a predator looking over its next kill every time he flashes it. Semoch, for his part, remains impassive, but his brow does wrinkle slightly, perhaps in skepticism. "Exactly what sort of knowledge might you be seeking?" the Librarian asks. Aman tilts his head and eyes you. "Well....while I certainly mean no disrespect to our young compatriot here, it is of a personal nature..." <><><><><> Casca smiles. "Then, I shall leave you to it. I've a boat to catch for Sparta." <><><><><> [GM] Aman nods. "Good journey to you, Roman." Semoch also nods. "Give my regards to our mutual friend." "Ah, you know Alexander?" Aman says, still smiling companionably. Semoch blinks, but otherwise betrays nothing. You feel chilly even after stepping outside into the Egyptian sun, already warming the streets in the early morning. Only when the shuddering in your spine fades, at the bottom of the Library's steps, are you able to breathe normally again. You make it to the docks just in time to board your ship to Sparta. <><><><><> [GM] 65 A.D. Sparta ..... The trip to Sparta is uneventful, though you are a little nervous about carrying so much cash on your person. The ancient Greek city's glory days are centuries past, but you wonder how many immortals have tread its streets, and whether you'll someday return to Rome and see crumbling, ancient edifices that you remembered newly built. Then again, you have yet to see the "unaging" part of your immortality tested. You have supernatural healing abilities, definitely, but could Semoch have been lying about the rest? What proof do you have that he's really as old as he claimed? (Actually, he never did give any indication of HOW old he is.) You tried wandering the wealthy residential sections of Sparta at first, figuring that would be the logical place for an ancient immortal and long- time resident of the city to dwell, but after two days you sensed nothing. So you've begun expanding your search. Very reluctantly, you enter one of the rougher neighborhoods....and passing by a gymnasium, the same spine-tingling, stomach-twisting sensation you felt near Semoch and Armand passes through you. <><><><><> Casca feels for the small knife hidden in his tunic. Scant protection, but better than nothing. He quietly enters the gymnasium and looks around. <><><><><> [GM] Entering quietly doesn't seem to help.....all eyes are on you the moment you step inside. The men who fill the gymnasium are huge, muscular and definitely rough customers. Some are lifting weights, others are (or rather, were) grappling in the middle of a ring, engaged in pancratium contests....despite their being practice sessions, it looks like the sparring is pretty much full-contact. One man, standing up to join the rest in staring at you, wipes casually at his nose, from which a long, gooey streamer of blood is descending. You were never more than an amateur wrestler, having seen the common fate of most professionals, at least in Rome. The bruises and crooked noses and missing teeth you see among the men gathered here tells you that these men probably are professionals. The Greeks aren't as fond of death-sports as the Romans, but pancratium is still a popular spectator sport throughout the Roman Empire. Your stomach continues its disorienting convulsions. Then one really HUGE individual steps towards you. He's well over six feet tall, and bulging muscles ripple across his body from head to toe as he moves. Bare chest glistening with sweat, he'd just risen from demolishing his opponent, who is now sitting up with a groan, aided by his friends. The huge wrestler is young, blond-haired, blue-eyed, and except for his rather grotesque physique, might be considered quite handsome. HIS nose is straight, and he's missing no teeth. He also looks like he could rip your head off with his bare hands, and furthermore, he looks like perhaps he wants to. "Lost, little man?" he drawls in Greek, in a deep voice with a trace of a foreign accent. <><><><><> Ah ... Greek culture. Why Nero emulates this crowd is beyond Casca. Perhaps it is the homoeroticism of all the nude male wrestling. Casca swallows back a chunk of fear. He used to buy and sell men like this. Of course, one such bought man also slit open his throat. Of course, Casca survived that. Which is rather encouraging. "I'm looking for Alexander," he says evenly. <><><><><> [GM] The huge blond barbarian cocks an eyebrow, and flexes his hands. "Alexander? And just what do you want with Alexander?" <><><><><> Casca keeps his eyes on the barbarian's. "We're ... kin ... so to speak." Remembering the Quickening, he adds, "He is probably expecting me." <><><><><> [GM] [Note: Casca cannot be sure whether or not the barbarian, or any other man in the room for that matter, is in fact the immortal he's sensing.] The tall wrestler snorts. "Alexander has no kin that I've ever heard of." He steps forward, and claps a massive hand on your shoulder, squeezing hard. "You don't belong here. I think you should leave, before you get hurt...." "Let him go, Cardoc." The voice is rather high-pitched, even a bit wheezy, as if emerging from a constricted throat. The barbarian who seemed about to lift you by the shoulder, with one hand, relaxes his grip, and half-turns. Another man is coming forward. Unlike most of the other men in here, he's clothed, though only in a loose-fitting tunic. If he's a wrestler, he's in the lightweight class. Shorter than you, and with none of the rippling muscles displayed by most everyone else here, he nonetheless has a commanding, even intimidating presence. Cardoc lets go of you and steps back, and you see all the other wrestlers also make way for the small man with a narrow, pinched face and short, bristly black hair. He regards with you with hostile blue eyes, hands on his hips, frowning with obvious displeasure. You see no weapon on him. "Like Cardoc said....what do you want with Alexander?" he snaps. <><><><><> Suspecting this to be his man, Casca says, "Semoch of Alexandria asked me to come here. He said that Alexander might have much to teach me." <><><><><> [GM] The short man's expression doesn't change; he continues examining you critically. "Did he?" he responds at last. "Semoch seems to be under the impression I run a school with open enrollment, apparently. I pick and choose my students, and YOU certainly aren't much to look at!" The other fighters gathered around chuckle at that. You can't really blaim the man for his appraisal; your brief incarceration did nothing to reduce your paunch, from years of high living, and while once your arms and chest were fairly well-developed, now they're a little bit on the flabby side. By comparison, the hard, muscular bodies surrounding you all attest to the efficacy of Alexander's training, if indeed this is Alexander and if indeed he trained them. <><><><><> Casca darts his eyes back and forth. If there was one thing he has learned, it is when to lie, when to bluff, and how to tell the difference. "I rather doubt he had me in mind for study. At least not physical study. I think I have as much to offer you as you have to offer me. Tell me, have you considered entering these brutes in the Neronian Games? You stand to make a small fortune ... we stand to make a small fortune ... if we play our cards well. I gather that some of these men ... share our unusual attribute?" [Nero was a notorious pan-Hellene, much to the disgust of more rugged Roman conservatives. Nero also created his own version of the Olympics, called the Neronian Games, due (I think) in AD 65, at which he competed.] <><><><><> [GM] The entire gymnasium, with the exception of Alexander, breaks into ribald laughter. They seem to have found your "unusual attribute" comment rather amusing. Alexander scowls, and gestures sharply at you. "Follow me!" he snaps. As he walks back through one of the arches, Cardoc leans close over your shoulder. "Watch your back, Roman," he whispers. "Or this 'brute' will be happy to show you MY unusual attribute!" He slaps you on the back, hard enough to send you staggering forward. <><><><><> Casca follows, without comment, but watching his back as instructed. <><><><><> [GM] The other immortal (you're now pretty sure he is the one you sense) leads you up a set of stairs, to what appears to be his personal quarters. The decor is, appropriately enough, Spartan. "So, you want to be trained, and Semoch sent you to me, eh?" he says, with his back turned to you. He spins around, and somehow he's acquired a short sword, though you never saw him pick it up. "Why should I? Why shouldn't I just take your head right now? I am not terribly fond of Romans, you know." <><><><><> Casca should have played it cool. He should have not flinched, but instead cooly looked at the sword and made a wry comment. Real people don't react that way, however. He steps backwards, too frightened at first to say anything. "I can help me ... I ... I have skills, management skills. I can set you on a financial course that can keep your school secure and out of the clutches of creditors and tax-collectors. That would be worth your time, wouldn't it?" <><><><><> [GM] "Management? Creditors? Financial....?" the other immortal looks at you as if you're speaking a foreign language, though you were speaking perfect Greek. "What ARE you babbling about?" He sneers, and lowers his sword. "What do I care about money? I have enough to run my school....to train warriors." He looks you over disgustedly. "Oh, stop quivering! I don't kill fledglings, unless they deserve it. But if you really want to study under me, you'd better have more fortitude than you've exhibited thus far. Gods, are you going to take a lot of work!" <><><><><> Casca straightens up. "Where do we start?" he asks firmly. <><><><><> [GM] Alexander rolls his eyes. "Tomorrow morning. There is a room in the back where you will sleep. Understand, I would make you sleep in the barracks with the other men, but they'd beat the s*** out of you. I'm not sparing you that out of kindness, but because it's awkward explaining why you don't have a mark on you an hour after you've had a dozen men kicking you in the face. For the same reason, you're going to be 'protected' when you spar with the others....I don't want them injuring you and thus revealing your immortality." His dark brows come together in an ominous scowl. "But when WE work out together, in private, I will show you no mercy. I promise you, you will not think Semoch did you a favor sending you to me, when I'm done with you." He leans out the door and yells "Philip!" You hear feet running up the stairs. Alexander turns back to you. "Why don't you get trained by Gaius, anyway? Don't tell me someone took his head? Gods, what a sorry state if you're the only Roman immortal left!" "And in answer to your earlier question....no, I do not have a stable of immortal gladiators here. I very rarely have more than one immortal at a time. We aren't that common." He looks out the door. "Philip is special. He will be an immortal, but he doesn't know it yet. He hasn't experienced his first death." Alexander's eyes fix on you intently. "You will say *nothing* to him!" <><><><><> "Not at all," says Casca. "How do you know that Philip is one of us? And who is ... was ... Gaius?" <><><><><> [GM] "Gaius Fabius Pontio, at least I think that is his original name....he changes his nomen and cognomen periodically, for obvious reasons. He is the oldest Roman immortal I know of. He was a Legionnaire during the last two Punic Wars. Decent man, for a Roman. I haven't seen him in a long time, and with our kind, there's no telling when someone is just traveling far and wide, in seclusion somewhere, or has lost his head in a duel. I'm sure he'd train you, if he were about, but he's probably as disgusted with your Emperor as I am. I suppose he couldn't stomach living in Rome under Nero. " You hear the footsteps coming nearer, and Alexander says "As for Philip, you'll see what I mean." The young man who appears in the doorway is barely more than a boy...perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. He hasn't reached his full height yet, but he already has a trim, muscular build, his bare arms and chest filling out as a result of what must be a rigorous training regimen. He's quite handsome, and regards you dispassionately with deep brown eyes. His hair is black and curly, and falls almost to his shoulders. He's wearing only a belt and a loincloth, and his skin is glistening with sweat. Looking into his eyes, you feel a peculiar premonitory sensation...there is something within him that you can detect but cannot define. Even with your stomach still twitching and your head buzzing at Alexander's nearness, there is something additional about this lad that sets him apart from a common man. He only stares back, unblinking, with no indication that he senses anything from you or Alexander. Then his gaze shifts to Alexander...and his expression becomes one of respect and adoration. "Yes, Master?" he asks. "Take...Casca, to that empty room behind the unused pool. He will be joining our company," Alexander says curtly. Philip blinks, and betrays a flicker of surprise, or doubt, before his face smoothes over again. He nods his head and says "Yes, Master." He looks at you, then turns on his heel to walk back the way he came, without looking back to see if you're following.