time, those empires that had risen and fallen and been forgotten, all those lost dynasties, the captains and the kings – he had tried from time to time to master the sequence of them, but it was no use. Once in his former life he had sought to make himself the master of all knowledge, yes. His appetites had been boundless: for knowledge, for wealth, for power, for women, for life itself. Now all that seemed only the merest folly to him. That jumble of confused and confusing places, all those greatrealms and far-off kingdoms, were in another world: what could they matter to him now?
“Asia?” he said. “Africa?” Gilgamesh shrugged. “Prester John?” He prowled the turbulent cluttered recesses of his memory. “Ah. There’s a Prester John, I think, lives in Roma Nova. A dark-skinned man, a friend of that gaudy old liar Sir John Mandeville.” It was coming back now. “Yes, I’ve seen them together many times, in that dirty squalid tavern where Mandeville’s always to be found. The two of them telling outlandish stories back and forth, each a bigger fraud than the other.”
“A different Prester John,” said Lovecraft.
“That one is Susenyos the Ethiop, I think,” Howard said. “A former African tyrant, and lover of the Jesuits, now far gone in whiskey. He’s one of many. There are seven, nine, a dozen Prester Johns in the Afterworld, to my certain knowledge. And maybe more.”
Gilgamesh contemplated that notion in a distant, distracted way. Fire was running up and down his injured arm now.
Lovecraft was saying, “–not a true name, but merely a title, and a corrupt one at that. There never was a
real
Prester John, only various rulers in various distant places, whom it pleased the tale-spinners of Europe to speak of as Prester John, the Christian emperor, the great mysterious unknown monarch of a fabulous realm. And here in the Afterworld there are many who choose to wear the name. There’s power in it, do you see?”
“Power and majesty!” Howard cried. “And poetry, by God!”
“So this Prester John whom we are to visit,” said Gilgamesh, “he is not in fact Prester John?”
“Yeh-lu Ta-shih’s his real name,” said Howard. “Chinese. Manchurian, actually, twelfth century A.D. First emperor of the realm of Kara-Khitai, with his capital at Samarkand. Ruled over a bunch of Mongols and Turks, mainly, and they called him Gur Khan, which means ‘supreme ruler,’ and somehow that turned into ‘John’ by the time it got to Europe. And they said he was a Christian priest, too,
Presbyter Joannes
, ‘Prester John.’” Howard laughed. “Damned silly bastards. He was no more a Christian than you were. A Buddhist, he was, a bloody shamanistic Buddhist.”
“Then why –”
“Myth and confusion!” Howard said. “The great human nonsense factory at work! And wouldn’t you know it, but when he got to the Afterworld this Yeh-lu Ta-shih founded himself another empire right away in the same sort of territory he’d lived in back there, and when Richard Burton came out this way and told him about Prester John and how Europeans long ago had spoken of him by that name and ascribed all sorts of fabulous accomplishments to him he said, Yes, yes, I am Prester John indeed. And so he styles himself now, he and nine or ten others, most of them Ethiopians like that friend of your friend Mandeville.”
“They are no friends of mine,” said Gilgamesh stiffly. He leaned back and massaged his aching arm. Outside the Land Rover the landscape was changing now: more hilly, with ill-favored fat-trunked little trees jutting at peculiar angles from the purple soil. Here and there in the distance his keen eyes made out scattered groups of black tents on the hillsides, and herds of the little demon-horses grazing near them. Gilgamesh wished now that he hadn’t let himself be inveigled into this expedition. What need had he of Prester John? One of those upstart Later Dead potentates, one of the innumerable
“Asia?” he said. “Africa?” Gilgamesh shrugged. “Prester John?” He prowled the turbulent cluttered recesses of his memory. “Ah. There’s a Prester John, I think, lives in Roma Nova. A dark-skinned man, a friend of that gaudy old liar Sir John Mandeville.” It was coming back now. “Yes, I’ve seen them together many times, in that dirty squalid tavern where Mandeville’s always to be found. The two of them telling outlandish stories back and forth, each a bigger fraud than the other.”
“A different Prester John,” said Lovecraft.
“That one is Susenyos the Ethiop, I think,” Howard said. “A former African tyrant, and lover of the Jesuits, now far gone in whiskey. He’s one of many. There are seven, nine, a dozen Prester Johns in the Afterworld, to my certain knowledge. And maybe more.”
Gilgamesh contemplated that notion in a distant, distracted way. Fire was running up and down his injured arm now.
Lovecraft was saying, “–not a true name, but merely a title, and a corrupt one at that. There never was a
real
Prester John, only various rulers in various distant places, whom it pleased the tale-spinners of Europe to speak of as Prester John, the Christian emperor, the great mysterious unknown monarch of a fabulous realm. And here in the Afterworld there are many who choose to wear the name. There’s power in it, do you see?”
“Power and majesty!” Howard cried. “And poetry, by God!”
“So this Prester John whom we are to visit,” said Gilgamesh, “he is not in fact Prester John?”
“Yeh-lu Ta-shih’s his real name,” said Howard. “Chinese. Manchurian, actually, twelfth century A.D. First emperor of the realm of Kara-Khitai, with his capital at Samarkand. Ruled over a bunch of Mongols and Turks, mainly, and they called him Gur Khan, which means ‘supreme ruler,’ and somehow that turned into ‘John’ by the time it got to Europe. And they said he was a Christian priest, too,
Presbyter Joannes
, ‘Prester John.’” Howard laughed. “Damned silly bastards. He was no more a Christian than you were. A Buddhist, he was, a bloody shamanistic Buddhist.”
“Then why –”
“Myth and confusion!” Howard said. “The great human nonsense factory at work! And wouldn’t you know it, but when he got to the Afterworld this Yeh-lu Ta-shih founded himself another empire right away in the same sort of territory he’d lived in back there, and when Richard Burton came out this way and told him about Prester John and how Europeans long ago had spoken of him by that name and ascribed all sorts of fabulous accomplishments to him he said, Yes, yes, I am Prester John indeed. And so he styles himself now, he and nine or ten others, most of them Ethiopians like that friend of your friend Mandeville.”
“They are no friends of mine,” said Gilgamesh stiffly. He leaned back and massaged his aching arm. Outside the Land Rover the landscape was changing now: more hilly, with ill-favored fat-trunked little trees jutting at peculiar angles from the purple soil. Here and there in the distance his keen eyes made out scattered groups of black tents on the hillsides, and herds of the little demon-horses grazing near them. Gilgamesh wished now that he hadn’t let himself be inveigled into this expedition. What need had he of Prester John? One of those upstart Later Dead potentates, one of the innumerable
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