The mysterious man from the boat was gone by the time they came down for breakfast. The landlord, when pressed—and after accepting a few coins as lubricant—admitted that he thought the man might be some kind of courier. An imperial one, perhaps. He had first appeared a few months previous, and had passed through Toletum, every few weeks or so, since. Always moving south with great urgency. Always alone. Always paying well for his discretion.

"A few months?" Lucian asked. "You mean, since Marcus Aurelius has been emperor?"

The landlord considered. "Well, now that you mention it…it was about that time. The first I saw him was in spring, so yes. In fact…it may have been he who brought the news of Aurelius' ascension."

Lucian and Demetrios exchanged a glance. A courier for the new emperor, racing south with urgent business. That explained the speed, the evasiveness, the way he had somehow managed to get ahead of them despite traveling on the same roads. But it didn't explain everything. Why was he on their route? He couldn't be following them if he'd left ahead of them. But still.

That evening, as they were preparing for bed, the proprietor of the mansio knocked on their door. A local merchant, he explained, had heard rumors that a traveling rhetor had arrived in the city. Would Lucian be willing to speak to a small gathering of merchants and notables the following morning? There would be coins in it—enough to help considerably with supplies for the long road south.

With Demetrios' encouraging nod, Lucian agreed, and the next morning found himself in the modest forum of Toletum, speaking to perhaps a hundred listeners who had gathered for the occasion. He chose to tell them the story of the bandits they met on the road, so surprised to find that the targets they thought were trembling merchants were actually protected by a woman with the strength of Hera and the swordsmanship of Athena. The crowd was delighted, and Lucian received many coins as tips, more than enough to replenish their supplies for the next leg of the journey.

They left Toletum the next morning, refreshed and better resourced, heading south toward Baetica and the coast. The road was good, the weather held, and their journey was largely uneventful.

Consabura

Consabura was a town caught between two worlds. It lay in territory disputed by Roman authority and Celtiberian resistance. The Romans occupied it, administered it, taxed it. But the local Celtiberian population resented the occupation and looked to their own leaders for justice and protection. It was a precarious balance, and everyone in the town felt the tension.

It was into this tension that Lucian and Demetrios arrived on the 30th of October, the day before the Kalends of November. They had barely dismounted at the inn when they were approached by Duglassus, a Roman official who informed them, politely but firmly, that a distinguished visiting rhetor was always expected to speak to the town. It was customary. Lucian should speak the next morning, and what he should speak on was the inevitability of Roman rule, and how everyone benefited from it.

"You will speak tomorrow morning," the Roman official said. "You will speak about the virtues of civilization, of order, of the Roman way. You will not leave Consabura before you have." He then turned and left, leaving Lucian and Demetrios to go inside and register for the night.

But before Lucian could greet the landlord, a Celtiberian dignitary entered and made essentially the same request, with one crucial addition: Lucian would speak of the Celtiberian people, praising their virtue and strength, and their noble resistance to oppression.

"You will speak tomorrow morning," the Celtiberian leader—a man named Rammius, with fierce eyes and the bearing of a warrior—had said. "You will speak about the nobility of freedom, of resistance, of the Celtiberian spirit. You will do this, or you will not leave Consabura." And then he left.

"I apologize for the poor manners of my countrymen," the landlord said as he accepted their payment. Those two are the heads of the biggest families in Consabura. They loathe each other, and use politics as an excuse to kill each other."

"You're kidding!" Lucian exclaimed.

"I wish I were," the landlord replied. "Just last week, they actually had a swordfight in the forum! Three men were killed. —Yes, right where you'll be speaking!"

Demetrios was wide-eyed as they reached their room. "We are trapped," he said. "Caught between two sides, each demanding we praise only them!"

"Like a merchant between two thieves," Lucian agreed. But his mind was already working. There had to be a way out of this. There always was.

Here Comes The Sun

The next morning, just before ten o'clock, Lucian stood in the forum of Consabura with both audiences gathered. Romans on one side, Celtiberians on the other, eyeing each other with barely concealed hostility. In the center stood Lucian, and behind him, the sun was beginning its customary journey across the sky.

He began to speak. He spoke about the nature of civilization, about Rome's achievements, about the order and law that Rome brought. The Roman official nodded approvingly. But then Lucian shifted, began to speak about the nobility of resistance, about the courage of people who would not bend, who valued freedom above safety. Rammius leaned forward, listening intently.

As he spoke, Lucian gesticulated, as was his habit, his hands moving to emphasize his words, to shape the air into meaning, and to hide the fact that Lucian was making it all up as he went along. And somewhere around ten-fifteen, he noticed something strange.

The light was…different.

Not dramatically different—not yet. But subtly, almost imperceptibly different. The shadows on the ground seemed weird, somehow. The sun, which was halfway toward its zenith, seemed somehow diminished. The very colors of the world around him seemed subdued, as if the world was turning itself into a ghost.

Lucian continued speaking, but his awareness had split. Part of him still engaged the crowd, still shaped words and meaning. But another part of him was puzzled, searching for an explanation. And, as he did so, he also caught something else: the crowd was also noticing. If he didn't acknowledge the phenomenon soon, he would lose them.

He gestured with both hands, the fingers of each crossing the other, emphasizing a point about the relationship between the conquered and the conqueror. And as he did, he glanced down at his shadow stretching on the ground before him.

In the shadow of his crossed hands, were four small crescents of light. Not the fingers themselves, but the light passing between the holes he'd left between them. Four little crescents, each one perfect.

And, with a gasp of recognition, Lucian suddenly realized what they meant.

Around him, he heard the first murmurs of consternation. Someone called out in Latin. Someone else called out in Celtiberian. The light continued to fade, imperceptibly but measurably. People looked up at the sky, shielding their eyes, seeing the sun diminished.

Panic was beginning to set in.

Without thinking, without planning, Lucian raised his hands. He pointed upward at the darkening sun. His voice, when he spoke, rang with prophetic authority.

"The gods!" he cried out. "Do you see? Do you see what the gods are doing?"

The crowd went silent. All eyes turned to him.

"The gods are taking the sun away! I did not do this. No man did this. The gods did this!" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "And they did it because you have angered them. With your quarrels. With your petty hatred. With your inability to live together as human beings should live."

He lowered his hands, pointing now at the Roman official, now at Rammius. "You," he said to each in turn, "you have both demanded that I praise only you. You have both threatened me if I did not. But the gods have spoken."

The sun continued to dim. Women in the crowd had begun to cry out. Men looked up in fear and confusion.

"The gods are angry!" Lucian cried. "Not at me. At you. At your endless conflict. At your refusal to find peace."

He let the moment stretch. He could feel the fear in the crowd, the gathering panic. The light was becoming noticeably dimmer now. It was as if twilight were falling at mid-morning.

"But the gods are merciful as well as angry." Lucian continued, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "They have shown us their displeasure. And now, if you will listen to me—if Romans and Celtiberians can find common ground, can stop this endless quarrel—the gods will relent. They will return the sun."

He turned to face both leaders directly. "But only if there is peace. Only if you agree to stop the bloodshed. Only if you swear before this crowd and before the gods themselves that you will find a way to coexist. Come down here, Duglassus! Come to me, Rammius! Make your peace before the gods!"

Duglassus and Rammius looked at each other. In the dimming light, with the crowd in a near panic, with the testimony of the sun itself apparently backing Lucian's words, they understood that they had no choice. The gods had spoken. And Lucian was their interpreter. They came down from their platforms and joined Lucian in the center of the forum.

"We swear it," the Roman official said quietly.

"We swear it," Rammius echoed.

Lucian waited. He had no way of knowing how long the eclipse would last. It could be ten minutes or fifty. He would have to trust that it would be brief enough to maintain the illusion of divine intervention. The crowd stood in horrified silence, watching the sun disappear, praying for the gods' mercy.

"It takes time for prayers to reach the heavens," Lucian mentioned helpfully.

Then, gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, the sun began to return. The crescents between his finger shadows began to shrink, to become less pronounced. The shadows on the ground began to sharpen. The twilight began to recede.

As the sun emerged from the shadow of the moon, the crowd erupted. Not in the usual way of a crowd recognizing a speaker's skill. But in raw relief, in gratitude, in the kind of joy that comes from being saved from annihilation.

The gods had shown their anger. And at the pleading of a stranger, a Syrian rhetor with knowledge that went far beyond what any man in Consabura could comprehend, the gods had relented.

That evening, as Lucian and Demetrios prepared to leave town, both the Roman official and Rammius came to see them off. There was an understanding between them now, tentative and fragile, but real. They would find a way to coexist. They had promised it before the gods. They could hardly break that promise.

"Who are you?" Rammius asked as Lucian and Demetrios prepared to mount their horses.

"Just travelers," Lucian said. "Heading south. Toward the Pillars of Heracles."

"You are no ordinary traveler," the Roman official said. "The gods speak through you."

Lucian smiled but said nothing. Let them believe what they needed to believe.

Escape

They rode for nearly an hour before Demetrios could contain himself any longer. He pulled his horse alongside Lucian's and demanded: "How in Hades did you manage to pull that off?"

Lucian looked straight ahead, trying not to grin. "Pull what off?"

"Make the sun disappear! Convince an entire city that you commanded the gods! Lucian, I have never seen anything like it in my life." Demetrios's eyes were wide with a mixture of awe and confusion.

Lucian laughed. "I didn't make the sun disappear, my friend. The moon did it."

"What?"

"You do remember the Earth is a sphere, don't you? And the moon, also a sphere, goes around the Earth, just like the Sun does?"

"Of course I do!" Demetrios protested. But what does that have to do with what happened?

"The Moon is much closer to Earth than the Sun is. And while the Sun takes a year to go around the Earth, the Moon takes only about a month. And sometimes, it goes directly between us and the Sun, blocking its light."

Demetrios thought. "That must also explain those times when the moon itself appears to be extinguished—the Earth's shadow falling on it!"

"Exactly!" Lucian grinned.

"Think about this," Lucian said. "When I was gesturing with my hands, I glanced down at my shadow. And I saw something unusual."

He held up his hands, fingers crossed. "When sunlight passes through the gaps between your fingers, what do you see? Look down at the shadow."

"Dots of light," Demetrios said uncertainly.

"Yes, but what shape is it?"

"The shape of…Circular. Like little suns."

"Exactly," Lucian said. "Aristotle noticed, 600 years ago, that when sunlight passes through a small hole, it creates an image of the sun on the ground. Now imagine that the sun itself becomes a crescent—diminished, bitten away by something blocking the light. The reflection cast would be crescents; and that's what I saw. So then I knew what was happening, and that it wouldn't last too long. So I decided to use it to my advantage."

Demetrios shook his head slowly. "You used a natural phenomenon to create peace," he said. "You took the gods' own work and made it serve human purposes."

"I doubt I'll ever be able to use such a trick again," Lucian said ruefully. "Few people see even one eclipse in their lifetime, much less two."

"Still," Demetrios said, "you used knowledge to prevent bloodshed. You used understanding to forge peace. Not every man could do that."

They rode south, leaving Consabura behind, leaving the warring factions to attempt their fragile reconciliation. The Pillars of Heracles still called, still drew Lucian forward, and this next leg of the journey was to take them to Mariana, a small mining town that ought not to cause any trouble.