[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]146 BCE[/b] Carthage was on fire. Scipio and his generals looked on in pleasure from their vantage point a mile away from the city walls as it all burned. For over three years Carthage had held out as Rome besieged her. They had finally emerged, begging for peace and food and a chance for their children to live. Their pleas fell upon deaf ears. The man whose adopted father had crushed the great Hannibal Barca had no mercy to give the Carthaginians, just the sword and flames. The women and children who survived were bonded in chains, a life of slavery planned for them. After the fires subsided, the Romans would sow salt through the city and its fields. It had been decreed that nothing must ever be allowed to grow here again. “This too shall befall Rome.” Scipio turned when he heard the voice. He was the only one. The rest of his staff continued to watch the fire and talk among themselves. They seemed to not notice the man in the strange clothes. It looked like something from the far east, baggy and colorful, like the carvings of the old Babylonian kings in the time before time. He wore no shoes. If the hot sand perturbed him, then he did a good job hiding it. “What did you say?” asked Scipio. “You have done something here today that will become legendary for its cruelty. An entire city has been destroyed, boy. You have killed one of my children. One of the greatest city-states of all time is now ash because of you.’ Scipio pulled his sword from the holster on his hip. “Who are you to speak to me this way, pleb?” The man smiled and gestured behind Scipio’s shoulders. “I am someone who can do [i]that[/i].” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that his men were frozen in place. Several of them were stopped mid-laugh or speech, their mouths hanging open. Scipio turned back and pointed the tip of his sword at the strange man. “Are you some sort of wizard?” “No. I am something much more than that. I am a god.” “What god dresses like a fool?” Scipio asked with a chuckle. “Truly, you must stand on par with Jupiter.” “I existed long before Zeus -- and I will call him Zeus and not your sad little Roman name -- was an idea in some drunken Greek shepherd’s mind. And I will exist long after belief in him has fallen by the wayside. But I’m not here to measure… deity size. I am here to deliver a simple message, Scipio.” The man stepped forward. Scipio reared his sword back to strike, but found that he could not move. Like his fellow soldiers, he was frozen by the man's magic. The man smiled as he placed a finger on Scipio’s temple. He saw the future. His return to Rome, a massive Triumph parade in his honor, given the name and honor of Africanus like his father. But then he saw past all that. He saw Rome conquering the world, one petty kingdom and client state at a time. With no Carthage standing in its way, Rome grew and grew until she ruled the world. He saw a Rome so big that its people grew lethargic, dependent upon the state and the wealthy for food, he saw its politicians fighting in the Senate and killing in the streets. He saw bloody civil wars and assassinations. A Republic turned into an Empire. Mad emperors killing Roman citizens. An Empire in decline. He saw men at the gates of Rome, men who spoke in a fierce, harsh tongues. Barbarians. And he looked on in horror as they sacked Rome. All this misery and horror, all of it traced back to his decision today. The man softly whispered in his ear before he removed his finger from Scipio’s temple. Suddenly, Scipio blinked. The man was gone and his generals were staring at him strangely. He was facing the burning city, tears streaming down his face. “Are you okay, sir?” one of the men asked. “Yes,” said Scipio. “... ‘This too shall befall Rome.’” “What was that, sir?” “Just... Thinking of the future.” --- [b]The Tate Club Now[/b] The beautiful woman looked between John Constantine and Jack Hawksmoor with a raised eyebrow. They were in a backroom somewhere around a roaring fireplace. She sat in a chintz chair while an old man stood behind her and watched with a gentle expression on his face. They were just off Oxford Street. Jack could feel the roots of the city underneath his feet. This street had been one of the first ones laid by the Romans, a tribute to the god of cities placed laid down one piece of stone at a time. “What a pleasant surprise,” the woman said. “Not only to discover that John Constantine is still alive, but that he’s here in London… and with a very special guest.” She looked over at Jack and smiled. “Lord Hawksmoor. Clarice Sackville. Back when I was a younger girl, I held a ritual in your honor.” “I hope I blessed you.” “You did,” she said with a nod. “And it is only because of that blessing that I haven’t had John’s bollocks severed and fed to him.” In that moment, Clarice Sackville’s young and beautiful mask slipped and Jack could see behind it. What he saw was hideous and twisted. It was old too. Not as old as him, but she was by far the oldest person in the room by centuries. A human of immense power and immense magical corruption. “Always the charmer,” said John. “And I figured you would come calling once my spell was broken. Surprised you beat Alfie Edwards, though.” “Alfie Edwards is dead,” said Clarice. “About five years now. There was a bit of a dust-up between my people and his. His people came out of the fight the worse for wear.” The man behind Clarice said something. Toothless and with a thick northern accent, Jack couldn’t make out what he had said. But Clarice laughed and reached out to pat the back of his hand. “Good one, Albert. I’ll remember to use that the next time someone asks about dear old Alfie.” “I’m not here on my own choosing,” said John. He nodded towards Jack. “I got roped into it by this one. He’s in major need of my help.” "Constantine is right," said Jack. "Something here in London is killing me slowly. I don't have much time left, and John is the only one who can help." “All due respect to the god of the cities,” Clarice said with a smile towards Jack. “I don’t give a damn. You owe me a lot of money and things far more valuable than money.” “How valuable would a favor from me be?” asked Jack. “Enough to wipe away Constantine’s debt?” The twinkle behind Clarice’s eyes let Jack know that his proposal had merit. “You know,” she said with a rueful smile. “There’s a whole section of folklore about people who make deals with gods and come to regret it. I don’t know, Lord Hawksmoor. You don’t look to fit. If I were a betting woman, and I am, I would say that there’s a chance you won’t live to provide me with that favor.” “If you left John live and he helps me through, I’ll be back to my normal self and just as strong as ever.” Clarice looked between John and Jack for a long moment before shrugging. “What the hell? If Constantine fucks up, I’ll still be able to string him up. No-lose situation for me.” Albert mumbled something. This time John was the one to laugh. “There we go,” said John. “Everyone’s all lovey dovey again, yeah? Good. Because I’m gonna need a few things to help Jack. The first is easy enough. I’ll need enough Tate Club members here tonight to help me perform a ritual. We need to create a bridge with the Underland.” “Fucking hell,” said Clarice. “You’re going to go back down there, darling?” “I’m afraid so. But I have an idea that will see me through, which is why I need the second thing: I need to find Map.”