Hannibal Cannon goes back in time to a fictional Ancient Rome specifically to buy a rare bottle of wine for a friend.
( <> indicates translation for the reader)
Somewhere in Cimerora…
"Yes, thank you," a man spoke as quietly as possible. His gruff, resonant voice wasn't conducive for whispering, but he stood out here and preferred not to draw attention. He drew the thinly woven shawl tighter around his shoulders as he vanished through a tapestry-draped door in the back of a shady building. He crossed through sun-pierced alleys between buildings, following closely behind his toga'd patron.
"<Through there>" the guide motioned towards another door.
Hannibal opened it and peaked inside. It seemed so dark after the blinding sunlight outside. "Hello?" He removed the blanket from his head and replaced his monocle over a clouded eye, "<I'm sorry, my Latin is not very good.>" he tried.
Then, a delicate voice emerged from a corner, "Hannibal. <A familiar name, but an unfamiliar face.>" A woman, adorned in silk scarves moved from the shadows. She was young, beautiful. A Sybil. "<When I spoke of the coming of Hannibal, returned from the dead, you can imagine the confusion. You've worried the townsfolk. But I was not afraid. You came in need of my help, didn't you?>"
She approached him, "<Come into the light.>" He nodded and stepped into a bright shaft of sunlight. "<A marvel. You... died a long time ago, but weren't...permitted to leave. The gods must-->"
"Not gods, madam. I couldn't possibly claim such a benefactor as--" She shook her head in confusion and he remembered she didn't understand, "<Thank you, madam>," he offered. "<But, I do need your help>."
He removed a stone-like bottle from his bag to show her. "<I realize it is Greek, but... getting there is hard and you are here,>" he fumbled through the language. How does one speak an only cursorily understood language let alone explain why a zombie from thousands of years in the future was visiting only to buy a special wine for a friend?
“<It has a blood seal, ichor of gods, understand?>” he asked.
She took the bottle, and turned it in her hands, “<Open it?>”
“<I cannot. It requires an essence of life. I am sand to it.>”
She nodded and retrieved a small curved knife, cut carefully into her thumb and touched the cork. With some struggle, she managed to open it. As she did, and the aroma touched her nose, she looked up at him wide-eyed. “Bacchus!”
“Yes,” the bartender replied, “<Where can I get more?>”
The Sybil closed her eyes and the shaft of light that hit the sparkling motes of dust seemed alive around them with golden fingers reaching into the space. Hannibal stepped back. As he did, he heard the shout of Romulus’ troops echoing nearby. He took up a post by the door and peaked through the wooden slats. Glancing back at the Sybil, deep in her mindseye, he opted not to interrupt.
It seemed like eternity waiting, and the shouts grew ever nearer. He could almost make out some of the words. “Traitor!” “Punished.” “Emperor Augustus.” Hannibal felt the memory of adrenaline mounting in his collapsed, dry veins. He peeked again. They were in the alley.
“<WHERE IS THE SYBIL?>” The soldiers cut a man down and kicked in the door. He could hear the clattering of stoneware and pottery.
He turned back to the Sybil, but daren’t touch her yet, “Sister, please. It doesn’t matter. I’ll find another—” a knock at the door.
“<OPEN UP!>”
“Shit.”
Hannibal threw off the blanket and rolled up his sleeves, “This wasn’t part of the plan, now was it?” A foot slammed against the door, “One moment!” he called in a bright English accent. He cracked his knuckles and his neck side to side with a series of pops akin to snapping wood.
He opened the door, “Hello?”
Romulus’ troops gathered around the door. “Only 6 of you? What a shame. Now, before I begin, how many of you want to be able to walk home on your own?” They readied their spears and began shouting.
“<MONSTER!>”
“<THE SYBIL MUST BE HERE!>”
“<IT SPEAKS!”
“How rude of me, I forgot you don’t understand. Let me...clear things up for you,” he balled up a fist and sent it right towards the first man’s jaw, which impacted with a sickening sound. The other men shouted again and began to thrust their spears. Hannibal slammed the door in one of the men’s faces, opened it to see, then slammed it again into another. A spear struck the door beside him. He bounced side to side for a moment with long-practiced footwork, then opted for a bit more modern approach. Akin to a football player, he ducked down and charged forward through the door, sending a soldier into the one behind him, pinning them both against the wall across the alley.
The 3 soldiers unaffected charged at him. He kicked one solidly in the gut before grabbing the spear of another and forcefully continuing it’s trajectory directly into the two soldiers against the wall, impaling them both.
“Now why on Earth would you do that?” Hannibal laughed. The stunned soldier who’d just killed 2 of his comrades did nothing, allowing time for a series of easy jabs which felled the man quite quickly. The two remaining soldiers were a bit paler now, but also far angrier. One of them shouted something profane and drew his sword.
“<Get the Sybil>” he said. And at this time the bartender noticed the red sash and broach indicating a higher rank. The flanking soldier broke ranks and entered the small building in which the Sybil had been sheltering. The officer brandished the sword with a smile. “<Come now, monster! Let me put you to rest.>”
The soldier swung his blade. The boxer dodged. Back and forth they went, as if in a dance. But Hannibal had no time for games nor clever retorts while the woman he’d endangered could be killed. The soldier was very skilled, and for the first time in a while, Hannibal felt himself evenly matched.
A woman’s scream.
Hannibal’s vision narrowed, cloudy and dark until there was only one thing he could see. The prey. He grinned a rotten smile of grey and gold and rose to his full height of 6’6”. He took two massive strides forward and the soldier responded in turn, jabbing forward with the blade. With a quiet ripping noise, it tore through the boxer’s shirt and vest and pierced through the back. Hannibal grabbed the man’s neck with two decayed hands and twisted it, like a cork off a bottle. And with a similar pop, the man’s head detached, spilling forth red bitter wine. The body crumpled and Hannibal dashed into the building.
“Sybil!” he cried. The soldier stood over her. She was holding her arm. A trickle of blood dripped down her forehead. “Bastard.” Hannibal strode toward the assailant.
At this point, the soldier’s eyes had reached the short sword sticking out of Hannibal’s chest. His face went white - or at least seemed to in the dimly lit room.
“<That’s right.>” the dead man said in Latin.
The soldier dropped his spear and made a dash for the door. Hannibal, who remained between them, didn’t allow it and snatched him by the toga, “<I’m sorry, but you know too much. I pride myself in keeping secrets.>” he drew his fist back and decked him so hard, his head snapped back and he tumbled into the shelf of urns behind him with a crash.
“Requiescat in pace.” Hannibal spat, “Always wanted to say that. Though, fairly certain it’s still the wrong Latin.”
He returned to the Sybil and knelt beside her, “<Are you alright?>” she nodded. Then suddenly, threw herself forward into the man’s wide chest. He froze in surprise, for he’d never dare to touch a Sybil. After a quick moment she leaned back with a wrinkled nose. “<Sorry.>” The sweet rot of unlife was quickly becoming more apparent. He stood to leave.
“<Wait!>” she cried, “<Your wine. I’m sorry, he...broke it.>”
Hannibal looked at the purple stain on the dirt, “<Does not matter. You are safe.>”
The soothsayer frowned and touched Bacchus’ gift, “<There is more. At the top of the mountain, outside the town, there is a temple. Take this…>” she handed him an earthen bottle, “<and this…>” she wiped the blood from her brow and wiped it around the rim of the bottle. “<Fill the bottle with the water from the cistern and say these words…>”
She leaned to his ear and whispered to him in 7 voices with wide, pupilless eyes.
She stepped back, and once again in her normal voice, “<There will be soldiers>.”
The bartender nodded, “<I’ll make do. A friend needs me.>”
The Sybil smiled, “<You will succeed.>”
And at that, Hannibal Cannon, proprietor of Hannibal Cannon’s Alehouse wrapped himself in a thinly woven shawl and stepped back out into the ancient city.