by Daniel Stride
in Issue 150, July 2024
My name is Quintus.
The Roman, my Vandal friends and acquaintances called me, in those long-ago days, when the withered husk of the Western Imperium still hid within the swamps of Ravenna. A time of turmoil, and of opportunity. The Eternal City itself had shrivelled into nothing, and yet without the leash of loyalty, wealth might be won by those with both daring and luck.
So it was with me.
My father was a trained scribe from Syracuse, and from him I learned to read and write. In another age, I might have worked in a quiet tax office, living and dying without ever discovering the gladius. But my father lost his head for an ill-timed joke about General Aetius – a joke so ill-timed he never said it – and my grieving mother died of malaria soon after. I faced swift destitution.
And then Vandal ships arrived upon the shores of Sicily, their sails like the wings of hungry gulls.
The Vandals under King Genseric had seized North Africa, and thence launched raids from Carthage and Hippo. Soon Mare Nostrum was awash with pirates, and every coastal town erected stone walls in desperation.
Myself, I joined the booty-seeking barbarians, and never looked back. Roman by birth, I even turned Vandal in the Great Sack, when Genseric landed in Ostia and punished Petronius Maximus. The statues and scrolls and precious stones we plundered from the Eternal City… the folk sung songs in the streets of Carthage. Just as Alaric and the Goths had brought the Mistress of the World to her knees, so had we, and with even greater savagery.
But there exists a stranger tale from that time too, one you shall never read in the Church Chronicles, nor hear from any man’s lips save mine and my fellows’. A terror from the Ancient World, awful to pagans and blasphemous to Christians. Grey I have grown, and my seafaring days are long over, but know this: it haunts my dreams still.
***
It began the year following the Great Sack. The Vandals deemed themselves invincible upon the water, and their ships looted the coasts of Hispania, Gaul, and Italy with impunity. Coin and treasure flowed into Carthage and Hippo in rivers of gold, and men like myself prospered. Meanwhile, King Genseric dreamt of conquests, and a fate for his people greater than mere piracy.
Unfortunately, while Rome’s Western Imperium lay upon its deathbed, it was not yet a corpse. Mere months after the King had stood upon the Capitoline Hill, watching his men peel the roof from the Temple of Jupiter, he suffered his own sharp reverse. Cunning old General Ricimer outfoxed and smashed the Vandals in a sea-battle off Corsica, and it was with a sorry line of battered ships that Genseric limped back to Carthage.
During that sad return, a sudden squall blew up in the night. One Vandal ship at the rear became separated from the rest, and when the squall turned storm, the poor ship found itself buffeted this way and that.
This was my ship, for I had again sailed with the barbarians, sharing their hunger for plunder. Fool that I was. That night, riches seemed a far-off hope indeed. Not only had the Imperial navy sunk our comrades, but the weather wished to finish us off.
The ship rode the slopes of mighty waves. It summited foam-white crests, and then plunged into the darkness of terrible abysses. Spray rained down upon the deck. The roaring of the waters was louder than battle-trumpets.
I prayed to both the Christian God and to bearded Neptune that they might spare our pitiful lives from the fury of wind and wave. A desperate entreaty, but one granted – our sixty-foot craft remained afloat, and we lost only one man overboard, a fellow named Gento whom no-one liked or missed. Nor did the mast snap. But struggle though we might, the storm cast us ever-further out to sea.
Come dawn, the storm ceased, and the waters at last grew calm. We found ourselves utterly alone. Neither Vandal nor Roman ship could be seen.
“No sign of Ricimer,” I said cheerily.
The ship-captain was a hoary old pirate named Gunthamund. He scowled. As I was Roman, he did not like or trust me.
“No more wind either,” he said. “To the oars.”
All through the heat of the morning, we heaved the ship southwards. Gunthamund saw the crew each took fair turns at the oars. Or maybe not so fair. My turn lasted longer than the others, and the sun beat down like the lashes of a whip. I was glad to finally quench my thirst from the water-barrel.
After midday bread, a fresh breeze arose, enough for Gunthamund to raise the sails and relieve the oarsmen. The mood of the crew lifted, and spare hands played at dice. But we still kept a wary eye out for Imperial forces – we were a lone Vandal ship, adrift somewhere in the Mare Nostrum, and Ricimer was a man to be feared.
“Land ho!” called the lookout.
The dice-game stopped.
On the larboard side an island stood, grey cliffs looming out of the water. It was not the coast of Africa, where Genseric sat licking his wounds. Nor was it the coast of Corsica, site of Vandal defeat, nor even my old home of Sicily. But it was land and shelter. Somebody had answered my prayer.
***
Ashore, we found fresh water-springs, and olive trees. But no fishing village or settlement. A disappointment. We might have taken slaves back to the Carthage market.
Dining on olives and gull-eggs, my fellows and I rested the night. The next day, we repaired the ship-planking, damaged in the storm. If we worked slower than Gunthamund hoped, it was because we found the island so inviting. One only wished to drink strong wine from Hispania, and play dice, and bask upon the sandy beach. Even the most voracious of pirates needs time for the little pleasures of life.
The sun was setting when young Huneric returned. I call him young because he was one aboard who had seen fewer winters than I. He had searched the island thoroughly, lest we miss something of interest.
“There’s a temple!”
I went over to him.
“A temple, you say.”
“Near-buried among the bushes.”
Huneric’s arms were covered in bramble-scratches, and his eyes were wide with excitement.
“Did you look inside?”
“Only for a moment. But it’s an old pagan temple, true enough.”
My parents were Christian, of course. As was I. We all were, barbarian or Roman. Yet in those times, greybeards could remember life before Emperor Theodosius, and cults still lurked in strange places. Especially in the hills and forests, and on forgotten islands. I had always shown healthy respect towards the old gods, for no sailor wishes the wrath of bearded Neptune. And yet… there might be treasure here.
My greed got the better of my ancestral Roman piety.
I also realised such doubts were for my heart alone. The Vandals in the crew never claimed the slightest allegiance or affection towards the former gods of Rome. Followers of Christ – and Arius – to a man, they had no qualms about despoiling even the holiest of the ancient places. Something they shared with the most ardent of the Nicene fanatics.
Night did little to dissuade anyone. Soon, torches in hand, we were striding off into the interior of the island, in pursuit of Huneric’s lost temple. Three men were left behind to guard the ship, and mind the fire. Each groaned long and loud about their ill-fortune.
***
Stray sticks and twigs cracked beneath our shoes, and thorns grasped at tunics and leggings. The tree-trunks closed in around us. The light from our torches cast strange and dancing shadows, until branch and bush were always shifting. Enough for me to recall stories from my mother’s knee.
Think not that I was ever a coward, brave only against the defenceless. Sword in hand, I had fought to the death upon the deck of a ship, flames and bloodied corpses all about. Outnumbered, I had survived sudden ambushes from dagger-wielding fishermen and mule-drivers, desperate to defend home and coin from barbarian raiders. Some in Rome had stayed during the Great Sack, and served surprises for the unwary looter.
But this island unnerved me. The ghosts of my ancient forefathers, sincere pagans all, seemed to cry out in warning. And worse, they cried out to me alone, for the Vandals heard nothing, and doubted nothing. My friends saw only a temple to a dead cult. Despoiling it meant both treasure and approval from the Christian God. Small wonder Vandal mouths watered, and that they bore hempen sacks over their shoulders, ready for a night’s plundering.
“Here,” said Huneric, finally.
In the torchlight, I saw the youth had cleared a pathway through the bushes. A yawning door awaited, darker than midnight. The stone around hung heavy with curling ivy.
“Who first?” I muttered.
A twinge of terror must have entered my voice, because Gunthamund laughed.
“Our Roman trembles before a dead god,” the captain said. “He thinks to turn tail and flee back to his mother. Well, he leaves more coin for the rest of us.”
“Nothing of the sort. I fear no pagan temple. Neither its gods nor its curses.”
Gunthamund smiled.
“Then you first, my brave Roman.”
My heart fluttered, but my face stayed stern.
“Very well,” I said.
Gripping my flaming torch tight, I strode through the door, first among the company.
***
I found a chamber of shelves. Each shelf was of smooth, flat stone, albeit sticky and heavy with grime. Upon each level sat countless rows of ornaments, all fashioned from bronze, and all coated with the green tarnish of time. Here were high-necked jars from ages long forgotten, together with amulets, and small statuettes of gods and monsters. Some bore inscriptions. I could not read them.
I peered into the shadows. A sword and shield lay upon one shelf, the shield somehow polished and free from tarnish, even after centuries.
I had been a fool. There was no threat here, and Gunthamund had been right to mock my hesitation.
Even as the Vandals stuffed the ornaments into their sacks – they are ever a pragmatic people – I wandered down a narrow corridor, into the darkness of the next chamber.
Here I found no shelves, but many strange wall-paintings. In the light of my torch, I saw a pair of nude statues, with shrivelled penises and hands raised in supplication. An altar too, small and decorated with images. Birds, beasts, heroes, and the power of the pagan gods.
I did not like that altar, and turned instead to studying the walls. Among the paintings were words in Greek, which I could not read.
“Anything in there, Roman?”
Huneric. He bore his own bag and torch.
“Nothing but the mysteries of the ages, unless these statues take your fancy.”
He entered this second chamber, and peered around. Christian Barbarian though he was, I think he felt his own flicker of awe.
“Who is the altar to?”
“I do not know,” I said. “Maybe we might find some clue.”
The pair of us were still squinting at Greek words when Thrasamund and Gelimer entered. Sacks over their broad shoulders, they bore scowls as well as loot.
“I’m disappointed, Roman,” said Gelimer. “No gold, no ivory, and only tarnished bronze knick-knacks… your gods weren’t worth much in the old days, were they?”
“More than whatever you lot had, before Arius’ merry men found you in the forest.”
Gelimer smiled. The man had a sense of humour.
“Are there other treasures?” asked Thrasamund.
“If there are, they are well-hidden,” I said.
Gelimer nudged his fellow.
“Let’s look at that altar.”
The two started pawing at the stone decorations. I wished them all the best, and returned to my own efforts.
Suddenly, Huneric tapped me upon the shoulder, and pointed out an inscription.
“That’s Latin script?” he asked. “Not Greek?”
I handed him my torch, and leant in close. The youth was right. Someone had hacked ugly letters into the wall.
I ran my fingers over the letters, sounding them in turn.
M-E-D-V-S-A
“Medusa,” said Huneric.
I frowned. “The snake-haired gorgon of Greek myth… beheaded by Perseus.”
A lost temple, with the name of Medusa inscribed upon the wall. Sudden dread gripped my heart. I swept around, sword in hand.
The top-slab of the altar tumbled onto the floor, with the heavy thud of stone upon stone. The racket drowned out my cry. I stared as Gelimer reached down. He lifted something from a compartment hidden within the altar…
A slithering nightmare emerged from inside. Grey-green in the flickering light of Thrasamund’s torch.
“No!” I shouted. “Do not look at the face!”
Too late.
Gelimer’s outstretched arms stiffened before my eyes, and his hair and bearded face grew fixed and grey. Within moments, the deadly gaze had rendered him into lifeless stone. Another statue for the lost temple.
Thrasamund yelped, and stumbled back. But even as he fell to the floor, his flesh too hardened into cold stone, and the chamber again rang with a grim thud. Thrasamund’s torch sputtered and died.
“What’s that racket?”
Gunthamund stood outlined in the chamber doorway. He had seized the bronze sword and shield for himself.
My back was to the wall, and I kept my eye-level high. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I dared not look over to the head, but I knew it lay waiting in the shadows.
“We have found something foul and terrible.”
“What is this great terror, Roman?”
“The head of Medusa, slain by Perseus long ago. She whose gaze turns men to stone.”
“A pagan tale to frighten children.”
“It is no children’s tale. The head has claimed both Gelimer and Thrasamund.”
“The Roman speaks truly,” said Huneric. “Both are now statues. I saw it.”
Gunthamund paused.
“Back to the ship,” he said.
***
With gloom in our hearts, the pirate band trudged back through the dark woods. Those who had sought gold and precious stones grumbled, and Huneric told the crew of what had befallen Gelimer and Thrasamund. Some disbelieved, but the sheer earnestness of the youth drove even the doubters to silence.
It was only when we reached the safety of the sandy beach, that I noticed Gunthamund was missing from our number.
“Did he… look?” asked Huneric.
“He can’t have done,” I replied. “That would be rank madness.”
We waited. No-one dared speak what everyone was thinking, and no-one was brave enough to venture back to the temple to search.
But we need not have worried. Gunthamund came strolling out the trees, sack in hand and a broad smile upon his face.
“Where have you been?” I demanded. “We thought you turned to stone!”
Gunthamund laughed.
“I have used my cunning and cleverness, rather than mewling in terror. Within this sack is the only valuable thing upon the island. Your unspeakable pagan horror, safe and secure.”
I blinked. Our captain had carried off the head from the temple.
“Are you fever-mad?” I shouted. “Throw it away! Bury it deep! It is a dreadful thing from the time when giants and monsters walked the earth!”
“Foolish Roman,” snapped Gunthamund. “King Genseric back in Carthage will pay a pretty sum for Medusa’s head. With this mighty prize… his dreams of Vandal conquest shall come true, and with it shall come all the untold riches of the world. Constantinople, Alexandria, and Antioch shall be mere paupers next to us!”
Cheers from most of the crew. The Vandals had the coldness of born pirates. But some men, especially those closest to Gelimer and Thrasamund, looked nervous.
“I value my head over Medusa’s,” I said. “But if your heart is set on taking this thing to Genseric, I cannot stop you.”
“What is that?” asked Huneric.
I turned, hand instinctively reaching for my sword.
Far-off, beyond the range of the fire, something emerged from the trees. Slow and yet inexorable, passing from midnight shadows into moonlight. I caught a glimpse of strange figures.
Four men. Two naked, even as the supplicants from the temple chamber. Two bearded, and clad in Vandal garb.
I shook my head. But my eyes did not deceive me.
Statues walking. Animated, even as bronze Talos in the old tales of Jason.
“It’s Thrasamund!” someone shouted. “I’d recognise that beard and tunic anywhere!”
Before anyone could stop him, the fool raced up the sand to greet his friend. Thrasamund grasped him, and broke his neck. Simple as snapping a twig. The dead man fell at the statue’s feet.
“Onto the ship!” Gunthamund suddenly cried. “Everyone onto the ship!”
The crew did not need to be told twice.
We seized what food we could, and waded out through the sea-foam. We clambered aboard the ship. Each man grabbed an oar, and started rowing for dear life.
The ship pulled away from the shore, just as the four statues arrived at water’s edge. Visible now in the red firelight, they gazed out at us with faces both stoney and dead.
Even while I poured all strength into the oar, I shivered.
***
Out to sea, we breathed relief. Gunthamund found breeze enough to raise the sails.
When I finally headed below deck, seeking sleep, I noticed the captain still kept that accursed sack at his feet.
***
I lay awake in the cramped and stuffy darkness. My head was cushioned by my cloak, as was my custom, but the floor was hard and rough against my back. All about me, the hold rang with men’s snoring.
I normally have no difficulty sleeping, even in the harshest of places, but that night my mind ran through the terrible things I had seen. The legends of the pagan world had risen from the grave to haunt mortals once more. Would that we had never seen that island.
“Roman,” hissed a voice beside me.
Huneric. The youth could not sleep either.
“Yes?” I whispered.
“Gunthamund still has the head.”
“I know.”
“I fear it. Even in Genseric’s hands. Even if the head wins the Vandals untold riches, and allows our King to use your Emperor as a purple-cloaked footstool.”
I smiled.
“You are right to fear Medusa.”
“Tonight, I shall tie a rock to that sack, and fling it into the sea.”
“Gunthamund would gut you.”
“Not if you stand beside me. Together, we shall knock sense into him.”
“You do not fear his wrath?”
“I fear his wrath,” said Huneric. “But I fear him less than Medusa. Or her walking statues.”
Huneric spoke truly. What was Gunthamund beside Medusa? She was a creature from a land beyond time. Our captain was a mortal man, even as we. He bled, and could be slain. Even those crew who still harboured dreams of Vandal conquest… they had seen Thrasamund and Gelimer. They had seen the price of Gunthamund’s hubris.
I rose, and pulled my sword from beneath my cloak-pillow. Then I crawled from the hold, taking care to wake no-one else.
Huneric followed.
***
The deck was quiet, and the breeze gentle. The two men on watch sat cross-legged, playing dice by lamplight. They were engrossed in the game, and paid no heed to us. Or maybe our footsteps were so hushed, we made no more noise than a rat’s shadow.
Beside the mast, Gunthamund lay snoring in his hammock. In foul weather, he decamped to the hold with the crew, but when the weather was fine, he preferred the ease and comfort of a solitary hammock. I could not blame him.
He clutched the sack to his chest, as if it were his infant daughter.
I gritted my teeth, and glanced across at Huneric. The ship-lamps cast shadows, and my companion had turned deathly grey. The poor lad appeared to have second thoughts. I felt his nervous fear.
It was now or never.
Mouthing a silent prayer, I knelt beside the sleeping captain, and reached for the sack. Close, so close…
Gunthamund’s eyes flew open. The old villain had only pretended to sleep.
“Greetings, Roman,” he said.
He leapt from the hammock, and stood before us triumphant.
“I see you brought aid,” he said. “No matter. You shall die for this.”
“I have no wish to kill you,” I said. “I only ask you throw the head overboard. Turn from this terrible path.”
“So you can take my place as captain? I am not such a fool as that.”
“You are a greater fool, if you think either yourself or Genseric can wield the Medusa’s head.”
“Because we are barbarians, and not civilised like yourself? You have always looked down upon us, Roman. You joined our side to feast on the corpse of your own people, yet hold your nose at every step. Even during the Great Sack. But no. Your age is past. It is now ours. The Vandal people shall have their day in the sun.”
The captain fingered the strings of the sack. Gunthamund was untying it, ready to release the terrible contents…
“Eyes shut, Huneric!” I barked.
And then the struggle began.
My shout had finally roused the dice-players from their game. They rushed down the deck towards us. I had no time to consider my options. Three against two… I turned to deal with the pair, leaving the captain to Huneric.
“Mutiny!” cried Gunthamund. “The Roman betrays us. Kill him!”
The nearest watchman – a stout fellow named Fredebal – hesitated. I was not friendly to him, nor he to me, but even so, the captain’s orders confused him. One moment, he had been spending a quiet night at dice, the next he found himself in a deadly crew dispute.
Fredebal’s hesitation was all I needed. I ran him through with my blade, easy as a knife through hot butter. I heard his death-gurgle, and he slumped to the deck.
The other man, Wisimar, had his sword drawn.
“What is this, Roman?” he hissed. “Murdering us under the cover of darkness?”
I parried his thrust. The clang of steel upon steel took me back to the heady terror of battle. I had heard tales of the gladiator fights of old, ere Honorius banned them, and had always wondered how I would have fared in the arena.
“No murder.” I feinted, then launched a savage thrust at his gut. Wisimar barely had time to evade. “I merely wish our captain to throw the Medusa’s head overboard.”
Sword scraped against sword in an ugly screech.
“But think of the reward from the King,” said Wisimar. He swung at my head, a sweep wild as the forest-Celts of Caesar’s day. I safely ducked beneath.
“Genseric does not need this thing. No man needs it. Did you not see Thrasamund and Gelimer?”
“Statues walk. Empires fall. We live in strange times. I care not, so long as I feel the clink of coin in my hand.”
I saw an opening, and took it. My blade leapt out and pierced Wisimar’s sword arm, its bite as deadly as any viper. Wisimar yelped. Distracted by the pain, he offered little resistance as I followed with a swift thrust into his jugular.
Wisimar collapsed gasping at my feet.
Bloody sword in hand, I turned.
Gunthamund and Huneric struggled up against the ship-railing. The captain thrust the Medusa’s head into the lad’s face, the terrible snake-hair dangling all about. It was like something from an ancient nightmare.
But Huneric’s eyes were firmly shut. Nor did he lack his own weapon. His right hand clutched a dagger, and he blindly sought to stab Gunthamund in counter. I saw Gunthamund grasp him at the wrist, and slowly wrestle the dagger away.
“I’m coming, Huneric,” I called.
Fool that I was. No sooner had the lad heard my voice, than he turned his head in hope, and his eyes caught the dreadful visage of Medusa.
But even as he died, Huneric dropped his dagger. It clattered onto the deck. Huneric grabbed Gunthamund’s arm in his own turn.
The captain cried out, and struggled to pull away. But he could not escape. Huneric’s statue had him pinned, clinging on with the grim strength of stone.
Shutting my own eyes, I raced across the deck. My blind fingers seized hold of cold stone. Then with all the might of back and shoulder, I heaved poor Huneric over the railing. I gritted my teeth. My muscles strained.
Heavy, so heavy, and Gunthamund was kicking at my shins…
I felt the statue totter on the brink, and then it tumbled over the railing-edge. It thumped and scraped against the side, loud as thunder. Gunthamund cursed me, and all Romans… and then I heard a mighty splash. Sea-spray rose all about, cold and wet.
The statue of Huneric had fallen into the sea, taking Gunthamund with it. And with the captain, Mare Nostrum swallowed the snake-head of the gorgon. It now lies deep beneath the waves, lost and forgotten.
Or so I imagine. I confess I still did not look down.
***
I trudged down to the hold, and shook the crew awake. Even as they groaned and grumbled, my summons to the deck were obeyed.
Once the men were lined up, groggy and blinking and newly-torn from sleep, I told them of what Huneric and I had done, and of the fate of their captain. Nor did I hide the bodies of Fredebal and Wisimar – the fresh blood upon my blade was there for all to see.
I told the Vandals too, that they might kill me if they wished. But I would fight, and slay as many of them as I could, ere I was overcome.
It is a sore thing for any sailor to lose both his captain and his dreams. Much less in the space of a night. But it is a sorer thing to fight with sleep in the eyes, for no great purpose or reward. The Vandals are a pragmatic people. They would kill me, sure enough, but many of them might die too. None fancied bleeding out on the deck, not when their eventual victory would bring them no new gold.
At last, one man piped up.
“Gunthamund has gone, and I don’t care if it’s to Hell or Heaven, or to his blasted ancestors. Let the Roman be our captain, and be done with it. He’s as good a pirate as any.”
“The Roman for captain!” echoed another.
“The Roman for captain!”
The night rang with cries both gleeful and sleepy.
***
The ship returned to Carthage without further incident. We soon learned Genseric had not abandoned his ambitions, not when Rome was squabbling with itself, and so many juicy plums hung along the coastline, ripe for the plucking.
But none of us ever told the King and his men what we had found within that strange temple, and though for many years afterwards I sailed beneath the Vandal banner, I stayed wary of lands and islands unknown.
©July 2024, Daniel Stride
Daniel Stride has a lifelong love of literature in general and speculative fiction in particular. He writes both short stories and poetry; his work has featured in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and New Maps Magazine. His first novel, steampunk-flavoured dark fantasy, Wise Phuul, was published in November 2016, by small UK press, Inspired Quill. A sequel, Old Phuul, is due out in 2024. Fond of both chocolate and cats, Daniel lives in Dunedin, New Zealand, and can be found blogging about the works of J.R.R. Tolkien (among other things) at A Phuulish Fellow (https://phuulishfellow.wordpress.com/). This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.
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