Chapter Text
His father had named him Two Fox Kits, a milk name, a name discovered on the third day after his birth when the wise woman pronounced that the child would live. His father was a scout, lean and ropey, and he had a vague memory of long legs he used to cling to. The man died like all the others the night the Flesh People burned their encampment. Two Fox Kits hid where he was told to, and in helpless silence he watched as they raped his mother, fought her down, raped her again, and when she had resisted more than their intoxicated state could tolerate, they cut her throat and continued once the scratching hands and kicking legs had lost their animation.
Afterwards they cut slices off the dead, charred it over fire, and ate with juices running down their chins. Blood. Globules of fat. The greasy lines cleaned their dirty faces to some degree. The bearded ones had pieces caught in their wiry hairs. Through the night they sang and dance, shot up, laughed, and did what they wanted because they had all the guns. At some point one of the stinking cannibals staggered away for a piss and Two Fox Kits was discovered.
Although a male child, he was permitted to live in servitude for the next couple of months. The Flesh People had no organized way to go about things, and they were too lazy and too sick with their drugs to do much for themselves. Two Fox Kits was to carry water and burn meat for the others. The captives dwindled. There was some idea that Two Fox Kits would be fattened up by the time he grew too big and too strong and outlived his usefulness, but no matter how hard they force-fed him, he remained a scrawny boy all knees and elbows, all huge sad eyes.
Two Fox Kits used to wonder what they had done to call down the wrath of their gods. He refused to believe that they failed to protect him. It must have been his fault. His weakness disappointed them.
He used to have many ideas about what he would do once the Flesh People were too tired to harm anyone but themselves. Once they were blacked out beside their cookfires or passed-out hobbled with filthy trousers round their ankles. He was too afraid to try. He had ideas, but nothing came of them. He stole one of their weapons, wrapped it in oilcloth, and hid it in a hole by the latrine ditch used by the other slaves. Every night he would uncover it and look at it, but he could not make himself do anything but look. He was again a child paralyzed by fear, again hidden in the grass, again watching. But some day.. some day..
When the Flesh People would pick out a captive, the others grabbed the arm of the condemned and begged them to bear a message back to the gods when they were dead. It was good to be chosen and the face of the One would go transfixed with beautiful relief, and they would nod and stream tears and take all the messages of the living to the lucky dead, messages to mothers and fathers, wives and husbands. ‘Tell my wife I will see her again in the land that is green, where the water is good to drink, where men are brothers.' And Two Fox Kits tugged on the rags of the One-Who-Was-Picked, and whispered, ‘Tell the gods I will be strong, and they will see.’
That night he went to uncover the weapon.
That night, in new moon darkness, the gods sent their reply.
He found himself staring into the eyes of the Messenger. There was no doubt the gods had sent it from the Land Beyond. It was a beast unlike any that he had seen before, a beast neither living nor dead.
It regarded him for a long moment with eyes that pulsed with a soft glow. It tested the air with its nose. Then an ear pricked and it bounded away on metal legs.
The Flesh People were drunk, high, and bloated with the meat of their grisly feast, but even if they had been at their prime there was nothing they could have done. The Messenger barked and howled and flashed through the camp like a knife. Bullets skipped off it. The Big Man of the Flesh People came tottering out with his belly hanging over his naked thighs, blinking, swearing, and his moment was decided the instant the Beast saw the headdress of his office.
Two Fox Kits opened his mouth in a silent cry of fury. This was his time. He drew out the Chewing Weapon and fired staccato bursts into the Flesh People, and nothing looked so wonderful in all the world than the red-black punctures that went across their greasy, flabby bodies. The Gods were on his side-- and he would learn later that they were the Gods of the Legion.
Once the chaos had reached the level desired by the centurion, he had the horn sounded that brought his men out of their position.
The centuria went into the camp and dispatched every cannibal that they encountered, every last one.
The Chewing Weapon would fight no more, and Two Fox Kits trembled amidst the carnage when the delirium of revenge had spent itself. There was nothing left but to run, and he did not go far, weak with shock and hunger. So he hid, and stayed quiet while the Red Men staunched fires and heaped bodies. The Iron Line warrior cut the astonished captives free, to what purpose Two Fox Kits could not know yet.
It was not long before the Beast discovered him. The Beast and its Master, a frightening warrior with armor that flashed in the new morning light. His head was the head of a beast, a beast like the Beast, all in gold.
Two Fox Kits stood grimly and faced the warrior with the red crest. He was a boy but he would go like a man.
He pointed the Weapon, clicked it, and screamed a sound no louder than a whisper.
The Gold Beast Head regarded him a long moment. Then a hand came up to adjust the visor. Beneath it was a clean shaven man with a lifted eyebrow.
Then the Beast bounded up to lick the boy's face.
Later, Two Fox Kits huddled in the corner of a red tent, hugging his knees, glowering in deep suspicion at the Red Man who was on hands and knees, trying to see if he could get the boy to accept some bread and olives. The Beast loved it all and licked an olive clean off the plate. The Red Man made a production of being stern with the Beast, who dutifully re-slurped the olive back where it belonged. The Red Man made a funny face, pinched the slobbery olive, and fed it back to the Beast who looked on him with stupid adoration.
Later, betrayed by his stomach, Two Fox Kits ate the bread, ate the olives, drank clean water, and slept safe and unbothered against the warm flank of the Beast. He even awoke the next morning, alive, warm from a doggy body and the centurion's red cloak.
Later, he learned that the Red Men were chosen by the Gods to lead humanity back to civilization, the true civilization. He learned that the Beast was a dog, a loyal animal who had laid down his life in defense of his people. Decimus told him gently not to be afraid of the Beast, that the Gods deemed him worthy and brought him back from the dead, and so he returned with half his shattered body made new in metal. He was a good dog, as were the men of his centuria, the Hounds of Caesar. He winked at the boy and ruffled his hair.
Two Fox Kits and the remnants of his tribe were brought out of the darkness of ignorance and superstition by the light of the gods, the torch of Mars. They were lifted up from captivity and malnourishment by the hand of Caesar. The Legion brought all tribes into itself and made them stronger. It was the shield that back the raiders, the fiends, the raving predators. It was the spear that killed them. It was the sole voice of reason that spoke in the wilderness and gave Law back to Man, who had ruined the world with corruption and depravity.
Thinking of his mother's bled-out body, thinking of the meaningless fucking and shooting and stink and superstition, thinking of the fingerbones and teeth that showed up in the raiders' defecation, Two Fox Kits knew the time of Two Fox Kits was finished, that that had been a boy's name, a milk name, and so he became a man.
He would never be as strong as some of the others. He would never fight like Lanius. But he had a keen mind and quick wit. He knew what had to be done. He lived to serve the Legion. He loved the Legion and he loved Caesar, the Son of Mars, their god, their king, their father.
The morning he returns to Fortification Hill with his news, an eagle is seen in the western skies. To the men it is an omen, and many drift in their activities to look above. An instructor grabs a child by the shoulder and points to the bird. That bird is the symbol on our standards, the instructor tells the boy that gasped for breath. That bird is the Legion, and you will be a full legionary when you reach such heights. A blacksmith points with a newly sharpened sword, and he says, see that the eagle flies westward into the land of the Profligate. So too will the eagle of the Legion fly west to the sea.
Vulpes Inculta pauses a moment in his climb, and he looks also. The black lenses shield his eyes from the morning sun, and they hide the sudden twinge of his emotions. There is a fullness in his heart sometimes, a fullness he can not bear. The might of the Legion fills him with the same mystery and awe that it had years ago, a life ago. He brings news of the enemy and a most curious proposition. It is his wish that it will please his lord.
...He has conquered eighty six tribes.
He has brought light to a world in darkness.
He is favored by the gods and fortune.
He alone can destroy the remnants of a corrupt world and wake humanity from its nightmare.
The Son of Mars sits on his throne.
His faithful praetorians stand by, each adorned with armor both lightweight and lavishly detailed. It befits their style of combat as well as their station, these hand-picked men. Each of them would die a to defend their leader, their king, their god and father. Each of them lives for the glory of that day.
Caesar knows this. He favors them with a faint smile as he permits the morning report.
There are envoys and supplicants, a tribal chieftain come on hands and knees to offer his allegiance, a Great Khan runner with hair spiked like bird wings, and two decani with some dispute.
There are also women present. Caesar allows them to be seen. It is his whim to permit the envoys to see the beauties of so many conquered tribes, clean, well-kept, with coiffed hair and fine garments. He has possessed them all and in all ways. These are but the merest taste of his collection.
There is another in a diaphanous gown that hides little of her dusky body. She is fitted with a silver armband hammered out by long-dead natives of Old Arizona, and it gleams in the light when she sways her arms. She is to wear a mask in the presence of others, as the Legate wears a mask, and it a mask of a soulful female face with dark eyes behind it. Her face is not so beautiful as the others, not after what has happened.
She is here to sing, and she does, spinning out a soft slow melody to the tune of a slave’s violin. Not enough to distract, but to amaze the Profligates at the comforts and delights of civilization.
Vulpes Inculta is here now also. Caesar sees his slim shadow in the back, patient and humble.
The tribal chieftain is talking, chattering on in his irritating dialect. There is a part of Caesar’s mind that takes in the scattered snatches of half a dozen variants of Spanish and English. Knits them together. He used to dedicate entire journals to the changing dialects of the wasteland. Another time. Another life.
The chieftain has brought his people to join the strength of the Legion, as a river runs to sea.
Caesar prefers it this way. He makes a show of his consideration, looking at his hands, looking at the tent walls, shifting on his great horned throne to set his chin upon his fist. He motions for an attendant to bring him bites to eat. He commands Polyhymnia to sing again.
The chieftain watches his face with the anguish of not knowing.
At last, Caesar gives a nod and looks away. The chief cries out and goes to kiss his hand, but the praetorians are on him in a heartbeat. He allows them to get in a good blow before he stays them. No one is permitted to touch Caesar without his approval. Not even his beauties, who clamor in jealousy for his attention.
The Son of Mars declares that the tribe will come to the Legion and be trained as legionaries. They will be given new wives of their own to do with as they please.
It is time now for the Great Khan envoy to speak. He has been staring in wonder at Caesar's women for nearly the entire time, that is, until Lucius gave him his only warning.
The Great Khan envoy was allowed to see the chieftain's submission and hear all the bounties of the Legion. The Great Khans still think that they will be allowed to rule the Mojave, but once their usefulness has ended, they too will wear the red. It is best to get them thinking of that idea.
The Great Khan envoy is otherwise a waste of time. Nothing new, half commitment, vague promises, and a strange hairstyle.
Next the two decani. There is a dispute among them that no one can untangle. They have brought their quarrel before Caesar, and submit humbly to his excellent judgment.
The Son of Mars claps his hands and speaks to Lucius. He takes also a bit of a snack from a plate, and chews slowly while the two decani are left to decipher his response.
No weapons are permitted into Caesar's tent, but he has made an exception.
Lucius returns with two machetes and gives one to each astonished officer.
Caesar smiles and makes himself comfortable upon his throne.
The Son of Mars commands:
"Begin.”
...Vulpes Inculta steps nimbly over the bodies of both decani. A little hop in his step. He avoids the rapidly spreading pool of blood completely, while the praetorians smirk and grimace and figure out among themselves who will drag the corpses out. Caesar smiles and thinks they have something to learn from quick young Fox.
“Well done, my lord," Vulpes says. He thumps a salute and then takes a knee. Caesar is amused by the man's composure, his bearing. The women are aflutter with whispers and gasps. Polyhymnia has shrank back in fear. The fiddle-player hugs his instrument.
Caesar lets him have an indulgent smile. “Vulpes Inculta, you're a smart boy. Who do you think won?”
“Domine, it is difficult to say. Publius earned first blood, but Junius of Scottsdale stood on his feet the longest.”
Caesar leaned up to look a little, and then arched an eyebrow. “Yet Publius Minor still holds his machete, even in death. What to do?”
“Perhaps my lord will allow Scipio to select the winner.”
There is a dog vigorously lapping up blood from the body with the severed hand. Lucius struggles to shoo him and stop him, trying to lug the corpse, but even after everything, Lucius has never learned you can't stop a dog from getting into anything.
Caesar laughs. “Vulpes Inculta.. Who would know you had a sense of humor? Always a surprise.”
“Domine.”
The Son of Mars is bored of the women now and motions for them to be taken back where they belong. Except Polyhymnia. She will stay in his tent now that her attitude has improved. "What news do you have for me, Vulpes Inculta?”
The frumentarius reports on the status of Camp Golf and Forlorn Hope. His men are tallying a list of supplies and equipment known to be at the disposal of the NCR, as well as tracking the movement of the First Recon units. There is also a man who has come into contact with the frumentarii, a man with a most curious proposal.
Vulpes Inculta hesitates to tell him. The idea may be difficult for him to grasp. “Orion Moreno claims to be a warrior from the Old World People. He claims to have access to weapons and armor far beyond our power. He wants revenge against the people of the Bear. He says.. There are others.”
The Son of Mars is intrigued. “The Enclave.. here?" He smirks at the discomfort that appears on the young man's face. He hadn't shown so much as a flinch at a machete fight in close quarters, but he balks at any contact or alliance with the immorality and decadence of the Time Before.
“That is what the man claims. We may bring him to you if you desire, my lord. We may question him more thoroughly if that is your wish.”
Caesar chuckles. “No, no, my son,” he says. “The Enclave is proud. They believe themselves to be the remnants of Old World leadership. But they are deluded. They are cowards. When the gods burned the world, the Enclave hid and let the flames take everyone else. There’s not so many of them left. They're paying their dues and soon they'll die off and join the rest of the Old World dead.”
“Great Caesar is wise," Vulpes Inculta whispers.
“Still. Perhaps they could serve out their last days in use to me. Fighting against the NCR. I want to hear more of this man's offer. I want to know what he wants.”
“Yes, domine." Vulpes Inculta rises.
Caesar bids him to go, and the frumentarius bows deeply. His thoughts turn now to Polyhymnia, who is trying to pry off her mask. He can tell by her body language that she is going to be in a mood. Sometimes he likes that. He likes that fire in her. He has directed her attitude to be improved and he hopes he will not have to do so again for awhile. It is obnoxious to have to listen to the fiddle player alone who has so small a repertoire. And who cannot go for too long a time without subsiding into tearful sobbing.
The frumentarius is almost out the tent before a thought strikes Caesar. He makes the merest motion of his hand and one of the praetorians immediately jumps up. “Vulpes Inculta," the praetorian calls.
Quick as a fox he is standing before the throne. “Domine?"
“What about that courier? Anything new of our favorite rascal?" Caesar has come to enjoy the man's exploits. Some poor rudderless mail carrier who is stirring up trouble everywhere. A testament to the state of the Mojave.
Vulpes Inculta takes a knee. “My lord, in all the excitement I forgot to tell you. I am gravely sorry and beg discipline.”
Caesar's smile crooks into a pouty frown. “Oh no," he says. “Don't tell me he died from dysentary or something.”
“No, domine.”
"Eaten by fire ants?"
“No. It's.. "
“Scorpions?”
“No my lord, he yet lives.”
“I was worried for a moment. I was starting to warm up to that poor devil.”
“Our informant at McCarran reports that the major has put out a bounty for certain fiends in the wasteland. The courier has collected three of the major bounties.”
“He must be a formidable fighter.”
“I cannot say, domine, but he does something right. He has slain the ones called Violetta and Driver Nephi. With the latter, there was an issue of having a trained sniper on his team.”
“It's good to hear he's got friends.” The Son of Mars chuckles indulgently. “It sounds like the poor son of a bitch needs all the help he can get."
“The issue, and I'll summarize quickly, my lord, is that the major wanted the heads of the fiends to identify them and pay out the bounty. Driver Nephi was dispatched in such a way, by the aforementioned sniper, that any identification from that point was futile. The courier attempted to reassure the major that Driver Nephi was in fact dead, but Dhatri would hear nothing of it. He wanted proof. So the courier told him and I quote ‘Well I hoped it wouldn’t come to this' and he had the sniper drag in a headless body through the entire encampment and dump it on the major's desk. The body had a golf club stuck clean through it. A very distinctive golf club."
Caesar snorted. “A golf club clean through it, amazing.”
“It was reportedly done so by a little woman on their team, a female who wears some sort of ballistic fist. She has some sort of artificial strength.”
“The great Driver Nephi. Killed by some woman." Caesar thumps the arm rest of his throne and looks pleased. “Do you see how the gods turn away from the Profligates, Vulpes Inculta?"
"Yes, my lord. It is so.” The frumentarius seems more at ease that the forgotten story pleases his master. “Major Dhatri was quite annoyed but conceded to grant him the bounty. But he told the courier that any other fiend he dispatched would have to be intact for purposes of recognition.”
“I can tell this is going to be good. Don't disappoint me, Vulpes.”
“The next morning, the courier and his companions showed up at the gates of Camp McCarran with a fiend walking tamely beside them. Of course he was difficult to recognize with his signature armor and weapon stripped from him, or, rather, with a dozen bleeding wounds and a mutilated male member.... But I am told by our informant that when the drugged fiend blabbered two things over and over, cheerfully, deliriously, that every soul in McCarran believed him.”
Caesar leans in. "What were these two things?”
“‘Cook-Cook’, my lord. He just said ‘Cook-Cook' over and over. Laughing and giggling to the complete bewilderment of all. Even as they assembled all the men into companies for a formal execution by firing squad.” A pause. “They allowed a woman to kill him, too.”
“Sic transit gloria mundi. So goes the way of the Profligate, Vulpes Inculta. Fiends are not men. They do not deserve to die a man's death. I am amused by this story, even though you forgot to tell me.”
The frumentarius ducked his head down swiftly, again into a posture of great obeisance. “I will not be so remiss in the future, my lord.”
“Although it amuses me, it is also good to know that Camp McCarran, the heart of the NCR's power here in the Mojave, is in such a state of foolishness that all its companies of men-- First Recon included-- couldn't take down those three monsters. Monsters they are, but a real man will win every time. A man favored by the gods especially.”
"The Bear people are unable to defend the Mojave,” Vulpes Inculta intones. "They are not worthy."
Caesar nods. “So you see," he says. “Keep me updated on the comings and goings of this courier. I want to know what he will do with this money the NCR has given him. I want to know his adventures. I want to know how his little revenge story will play out.”
“The Chairmen will kill him, domine.”
Caesar has already started to consider a few things, wondering a few things. Ideas in the back of his head. He is curious about this man, this courier. Someone who knows how to get results. He likes that. He could have use of such a man. Temporarily, if anything. “Who knows? Fortune favors the brave.”
Vulpes Inculta rises.
“Go now and bring word of this man Orion Moreno. I want to hear what this Enclave man claims to offer. I want to know what the last American has to say." Caesar enjoys a cruel smile. “Find out how many there are. I’m not convinced they have anything left besides their delusions. Tell him I said so.”
The Son of Mars has spoken.
Vulpes Inculta thumps a salute to him.
Caesar has nearly forgotten that Polyhymnia remains. Her eyes behind the mask are narrow.
...
She is his muse and his current favorite. The other women seethe with jealousy and their little contests amuse him. How they hate her! They would cut each other’s throats for his favor. Sometimes he has half a mind to let them, to put a machete in their hands and allow them to settle it as the decani settled their dispute. Women are foolish and petty. They need controlling. Careful keeping. The Son of Mars has made this burned world safer for all females. He would not struggle as the NCR struggled, to stamp out fiends like that flamethrower bastard. He will not allow the Mojave to suffer more than it deserves.
He will be its worthy master.
It is mid-morning when he has finished with Polyhymnia. The light comes in bright and the red tent seems to glow. A fresh breeze is coming over Fortification Hill and some of the smell is lessened. Caesar lazes in his great wide bed, letting the sheets drape loosely over his thigh. He calls Lucius for something to drink.
Polyhymnia faces away from him, curled up. She is feeling sorry for herself again. Sometimes she will fight him so hard that he will have Lucius tie her, and he will come away with a face full of scratches. And sometimes she will weep. Sometimes she will stare at him flatly and not move a muscle. Sometimes she will grimly attempt to finish him as quickly as she can. That amuses him. One time, and only once, she commited a very disgusting act in the middle of their coupling, and smirked at him all the while. "How d’you like that, kid?” This did not amuse him and he told her, gently but firmly, that if she wanted filth, she would be treated accordingly. He had her taken to the latrine ditch where she spent a full day on tiptoes to keep her nostrils out of liquid. He would have also wanted her to spend a night thusly, but it did occur to him that she might have open cuts from her punishment. He didn't want her to die of infection. He only wanted to make a stern point.
She raved in her fever nevertheless. She spoke in all kinds of voices and sang intermittently.
The sybil was taken aback in religious horror and begged him to kill her. "She will be the end of us, domine. She is filled with evils.” The sybil was filled with shit, as it happened; she had hated Caesar’s muse right off for various reasons, least of which being that Caesar no longer brought the sybil to his bed. It would take more than that for him to part with his delicious prize. Polyhymnia had been his favorite radio starlet in her old life and now she is lifted up from the foolishness of the Profligates. To her eternal ingratitude.
He does not require her to love him. She doesn't know what is best for her. She is incapable of doing so. Yet he keeps her safe here. She is well fed. She is finely clothed. It is true she has lost her beauty, but he has other women, younger women. All types of women, all kinds, all looks. But he believes she will achieve what none of his other women have done for him. And she must. He feels the time drawing near.. if his suspicions are correct, if the pain is what he thinks it is.
But it has not happened in awhile.. perhaps.. perhaps it is only the stress.
There is so much happening now. But his concerns are of no matter. The NCR will fall.
He smiles to himself in the comfort of his bed. He turns his head on the pillow to look at Polyhymnia's back. He puts out blunt fingers to stroke her dusky skin. She flinches from him.
“You will bear my child," Caesar is proud to tell her.
“Never, I'll kill it," she mutters darkly, her face caged in by her arms. With a face like that she should thank all the gods for his attention. “I'll kill myself. You know I’ll do it.”
“A regular Medea, hmmm?" His fingers dig into the soft part of her arm. A warning. “You have a fire in you. It amuses me." He will never admit to the lonely desert nights where he sat amazed before his radio. That voice. That heavenly voice.
Her pattern of breathing has changed. He wonders which way her mood will turn this time, like the doomed youths of Crete blundering through the labyrinth. Will she begin to cry? Will she laugh contemptuously? Will she be pleased.. after all, isn't that what she would want? What every woman wants?
“You have a special destiny before you," he tells her, reassuringly. Women are weak and need guidance.
“Won't matter anyways, now will it?" The muffled voice is full of contempt. She knows what this will cost her; she is already sitting up, closing up, looking cagey, waiting for the blow to come. “When you're gone, Lanius will crush your kid like a bug. You think he’ll sit around and wait for your little monster to hatch out? Think he’ll take orders from some crappy diaper? He'll turn on you so fast, it’ll spin your globe baby. It's going on already, and you're the last to know.”
He has Lucius take her to the pit. Her attitude needs improving. She hisses and spits in Spanish as Lucius wrestles her out. His muse, his nasty, ill-tempered muse. He feels her absence almost at once. The loss of her magic.
He lays awhile in his bed, in the mid-morning sunshine.
The breeze has died and the smell returns.
The Son of Mars steps out into the courtyard of his tent. A slave slips a robe onto his body, not so firm as it had been, not so chiseled as it had been. The Mojave sun is bright, too bright.. That is why he has a pain behind his eyes. That must be the reason.
He squints upward and holds a hand to shield his vision.
There is a bird circling high above Fortification Hill. It is a vulture.