One Nation, Under Jupiter

AUGUST 17, 2766

I adjusted the pillow on the couch, trying my hardest to stay comfortable and focus on the television. It had become impossible to think straight. The insufferable sound of Servius rummaging through the junk strewn around the apartment rose above everything else.

"Servius!" I screamed, lifting my head as far as my aching neck would allow. "Could you...could you be a little quieter? Please?" The slave ran out of the room, a matchbook in his hands.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I need to get the altar ready for the Portunalia." The slave looked down on me, raising an eyebrow. "I'd be done faster if you helped me, though."

"We've...we've gone over this already." I put a hand to my forehead. "I'm tired of all these silly holidays. All those...all those fucking festivals I visited for nothing. You want to do the Portunalia, fine, but I'm staying out of it. Turn up the TV, will you?" Servius rolled his eyes, adjusting one of the knobs on the set before running off again.

"More information on the situation in Beirut as it develops," read the newswoman on the screen.

"Servius!" I screamed again. "Could you change the channel?" No response. The slave was off in his own world, preparing to appease the god of keys.

"The State Department of Space announced this morning that final preparations are being made for the launch of the Sol Invictus spacecraft, with plans to send a man into orbit around the Epulum Jovis. When asked for a response, pilot Lapis Pastor stated he plans to eat with the gods at the same time everyone else will." Eat with the gods. Such a load of bullshit. If the guy's going up into space, he should know he won't see anyone else up there. Why does he stick to these crazy superstitions? He, of all people, should know better than that. Of course, that's assuming the thing even takes off.

"The former leader of the Sons of Horus, known only as Nakhthorheb, succumbed to crucifixion last night," read the newswoman. The screen shifted to show a wooden post, surrounded by a pile of the condemned's dung. The camera panned upwards. I could see a pair of legs now, a nail driven through the man's feet. Soon I could see a shrivelled penis too. After that, I was looking at the bloodied face of Nakhthorheb, still wearing his pharaonic headdress. Even in a death as gruesome as his, there was something almost serene about his face, a man finally at peace. I started to picture his last moments, struggling for breath, surrounded by corpses, begging those crazy gods of Egypt to just take him already. My stomach churned. For some reason, seeing him strung up on television for all the world to see set me off. I couldn't have been sorry for him. Nakhthorheb was a bastard, he deserved this and worse. Still, such a horrible way to die exists out there. I'm probably just another blasphemy away from being on a cross myself. Not that there was much left in life for me.

"A spokesman for the Praetorian Guard described Nakhthorheb's capture and execution as a crucial victory in the endless war against domestic threats," continued the anchor. "However, the whereabouts of other members of the Sons of Horus remain unknown." The television was drowned out again by the sound of Servius' footsteps, dragging something heavy behind him. I pulled myself upright to see the slave preparing the ceremony in the kitchen. On the floor was the altar, a three-legged bowl, stuffed with straw. In one hand, Servius clutched his matches and a copper key.

"What are you doing?" I asked, getting up on my knees.

"Preparing an offer for Portunes."

"What, indoors?" I pointed at the altar. "Are you going to start a fire indoors?"

"It's contained, sir. It'll stay in the altar, it'll be perfectly safe." Servius stepped away, heading into my room.

"What are you doing in there?" I asked. "You'd better not be messing with my stuff!" The slave stepped out, holding up the household god with both hands. The statue flashed that evil smile of his at me.