The Anubis Gates

A hand seemed to squeeze his throat shut, and he knew it was Doctor Romany. In his head he heard the bald-headed doctor’s order: “Return to the camp here instantly.”

He stood up, darting bewildered glances around at the other drinkers in the low-ceilinged taproom, and then, muttering apologies, limped across to the door and out onto the street.

* * *

Doyle leaped to his feet, but his new height made him dizzy and he grabbed the table for support. My God, he thought as he took a deep breath and then reeled off in pursuit of the young man, it really is Byron—he knew Childe Harold, which no one in England will see for two years. But what’s wrong with him? And what’s wrong with history? How can he be here?

He lurched to the door and hung onto the wooden frame as he stepped down to the pavement. He could see Byron’s curly-topped head bobbing through the crowd to his right, and he followed unsteadily, wishing he could make this admittedly superior body work as gracefully as Benner had.

The people in the street seemed eager to get out of the way of the lurching, mad-eyed, lion-headed giant, and he caught up with Byron at the next tavern; grabbing his elbow, he steered him forcefully inside. “Beer for me and my friend,” he said carefully to the barmaid who was blinking up at him. Damn this cut-up tongue, he thought. He marched the ineffectually resisting young man to a table and sat him down, then leaned over him with one hand gripping the back of the chair so that his muscled arm barred any escape. “Now then,” Doyle rumbled sternly, “what’s the matter with you? Aren’t you curious about how I happened to know those lines?”

“I—I have an illness, a brain fever,” said Byron nervously, his smile seeming imbecilic when coupled with his evident anxiety. “I… must go, please, I… have an illness—” The words seemed to be jerked out of him one at a time, as if they’d been knotted along a piece of string that Doyle was pulling out of his throat.

Abruptly Doyle realized where he’d seen this mindless smile before—on the faces of the cultists who he used to see begging for change in airports and out in front of all-night restaurants. I’ll be damned, he thought—Byron acts like he’s been programmed.

“What do you think of this weather we’re having?” Doyle asked him.

“Please, I’ve got to go. My illness—”

“What day is it?”

“—a brain fever, which still clouds my mind at times—”

“What’s your name?”

The young man blinked. “Lord Byron, sixth baron of Rochdale. May I buy you a pint of something?”

Doyle sat down in the other chair. “Yes, thanks,” he said. “Here comes the girl with it now.”

Byron took a gold coin from his pocket and paid for the beers, though he didn’t touch his. “If you’re wondering why a peer of the realm—”

“‘For he through sin’s long labyrinth had run,’” interrupted Doyle, “‘nor made atonement when he did amiss—’ Who wrote that?”

Again Byron’s smile disappeared, and he pushed his chair back, but Doyle stood up and blocked his exit again.

“Who wrote that?” he repeated.

“Uh…” Sweat broke out on Byron’s pale brow, and when he finally answered, it was in a whisper. “I… I did…”

“When?”

“Last year. In Tepaleen.”

“How long have you been in England?”

“I don’t—four days? I think I’ve been sick… “

“How did you get here?”

“How did I… “

Doyle nodded his shaggy head. “Get here. On a ship? What ship? Overland?”

“Oh! Oh, of course, I came back…” Byron frowned. “I can’t recall.”

“You can’t? Doesn’t that seem peculiar to you, that you don’t know that? And how do you think I knew those verses of yours?” I wish I had Ted Patrick here, he thought.

“You’ve read my poetry?” said Byron, his weird smile returning. “You gratify me. But it all seems childish to me now; now I am pursuing the poetry of action, the well-placed sword rather than the well-chosen word. My goal is to strike the blow that shall sever the—”

“Stop it, “said Doyle.

“—chains that restrict us from—”

“Stop it. Look, I don’t have lots of time, and my mind isn’t firing on all cylinders either, but your presence here—I need to know what you’re doing here, I need to know… oh, hell, lots of things…” Doyle’s voice was becoming a distracted whisper as he picked up his beer mug. “Whether this is the real 1810 or some fake one… “

Byron stared at him for a moment, then reached uncertainly for the other mug and brought it halfway to his mouth. “He told me not to drink,” he said.

“To hell with him,” muttered Doyle, wiping foam from his bushy moustache. “You going to let him tell you when you can have a drink?”

“To… to hell with him,” agreed Byron, though speaking with some difficulty. He took a long, deep sip, and when he lowered the mug his eyes seemed more focussed. “To hell with him.”

“Who is he?” asked Doyle.

“Who?”