The Reincarnationist (6 page)

O
ne minute, Josh was cradling the professor, waiting for the ambulance. The next, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood blew past him, and he braced himself for the first stirrings of exhalation that preceded an episode. At the same time that Josh desperately wanted to stop the lurch, he also ached for it. An addict, this was his drug. It was that exhilarating. It was that horrific.

Josh had always thought that occasional sense of recognition people experience when they meet someone for the first time and feel an instant connection was nothing to pay attention to. You laugh and say,
I'd swear I already know you.
Or when you go on vacation to a town you've never been to but feel like you have been there before. It's disturbing, but you shake it off. Or it's amusing, and you mention it to a friend or spouse.

It's just déjà vu,
you say, not thinking twice.

Maybe when it used to happen.

But not now.

Malachai and Dr. Talmage had educated him beyond that. That fleeting sense was a gift, a moment of unforgetting, signifying that there
was
a connection between
you and the person you'd just met or the place you'd just visited. Nothing is an accident, nothing is a coincidence, according to theories of rebirth that go back through history, through the centuries, circling through cultures, changing and developing, but only attracting so much controversy in the West after the fourth century A.D. In the East, being skeptical about reincarnation would have been as unusual as questioning the wetness of water.

While he waited for what seemed much too long, trying to will the professor to live, Josh was certain he'd tasted death in that place before. He didn't know what had happened here in the past, only that he now felt he was on some unimaginable journey of repetition that was out of his power to stop.

Sitting on the ground, feeling the professor's pulse slow, he trained his eyes out the opening, up toward the sky. This way, as soon as the paramedics arrived, he'd see them.

The air undulated around him, and shivers of anticipation shot up and down his arms and legs. Even while he sat perfectly still in one dimension, he was being sucked down into a vortex where the atmosphere was heavier and thicker, where he floated like a ghost rather than walking like a man, and where he felt pleasure more purely and pain more acutely.

It began like every episode. The scene developed slowly, the way photographs appear, as if by magic, on pristine sheets of paper, swimming up out of a swirl of liquid. He was the stranger outside looking in as the scene opened before him. He saw the players and the stage. And then, in a matter of seconds, he became the person he was observing. Saw now through another's eyes, spoke in the other's voice. Was not himself. Had lost himself. Did not know there was another self.

Julius and Sabina
Rome—386 A.D.

T
he screams alerted him as the wind blew the smell of the acrid smoke into his bedchamber. They all lived in fear of it, and most of them had been witness to some form of it at some point in their lives. Fire was their most sacred possession, and fire was their fiercest enemy.

The story of the great conflagration that burned two-thirds of the city down more than three hundred years before was still told as a cautionary tale. During the night of July 18, a blaze started in the merchants' area. There were too many structures, all made of wood, squeezed too close together. Hot summer winds fanned the flames until one by one, the stores and dwellings, some five-, six-stories high, caught on fire. For six days and seven nights, the inferno raged, and then for several days afterward, it smoldered.

The city was left in ruins.

The historian Tacitus wrote an account describing how terrified men and women, the helpless old and the
helpless young, fugitives and lingerers alike, tried to escape all at once, which only added to the confusion.

Some, it was said, those who'd lost too much, or who were consumed with guilt at not having been able to save their loved ones, chose not to run, but freely gave themselves to the fire and died in the blaze. To make it worse, many who might have helped had been afraid to fight, since menacing gangs were attacking those who tried. That's where the rumors came from that Nero had ordered the fire to persecute early Christians. After all, Nero had been tormenting them for years, using them as human torches, crucifying and sacrificing them. But would the emperor destroy his own city, his own treasures?

Others blamed that great inferno on angry gods and ill luck. Still others believed the early Christians themselves started the fire to destroy the pagan city they despised. For weeks before that fated July night, in the streets of the poorest neighborhoods, early radical upstarts were passing out leaflets prophesying the burning destruction of Rome and stirring up public opinion against the old order.

Now, three centuries later, as Julius ran toward the temple, nostrils burning, feeling the heat on his face intensifying, he worried that this blaze was politically motivated. He and many of the other high priests held that these were the last days of the Roman Empire, as they'd known it. The emperor and the Bishop of Milan were seeing to that. The ideological fight between the all-encompassing pagan order and the thousands of Romans who believed in the teachings of the Jewish prophet Jesus, or who paid lip service to it in order to curry favor with their emperor, was becoming an ugly battle between two ways of life, between many gods and one god.

Paganism was a mosaic, like the designs on the temple floors. It was made up of dozens of sects, faiths and cults
it had absorbed over the years. As a result, religious freedom reigned in Rome for centuries. Why must an old faith be destroyed to make room for a new one?

Using the gray, billowing clouds as a map toward the site, Julius could tell that the fire was close to the Atrium Vestae, the house where the Vestals lived, just behind the circular Temple of Vesta at the eastern edge of the Roman Forum. The eighty-four-room palace built around an elegant courtyard had burned to the ground several times in the past. Ironic that the Goddess Vesta was the greatest threat to those who kept her safe.

As the strong orange blaze reached higher into the blackened sky, one by one they came: priests and citizens, breathing in the fumes, choking on them, but determined to save the house and ensure the fire didn't encroach on the temple. It wasn't only buildings at risk, but legendary treasures that were said to be hidden in a secret substructure under the holy hearth.

By the time Julius arrived there were two dozen firefighters, men from every walk of life who volunteered and were trained to race to the fire site and fight the blaze as soon as it was reported. One small fire—because of all the wooden buildings—could turn into an inferno in no time.

Much to his horror, Julius realized that one of the firefighters wasn't a man—but a woman who hadn't stayed back with her sisters. She shouldn't be there, it was too dangerous. But the men were too busy to try and pull her away or warn her to be careful. Even if they'd tried, he knew it wouldn't have made any difference: she would have been right back on the front line two minutes later.

Defiance was typical of Sabina, who'd been a constant challenge to the sisters who'd trained her. Although they
marveled at her clairvoyance, they complained that her tenacity and willfulness weren't suited to being a priestess.

Neither was her contempt for him.

In front of others, she showed him the minimum of respect required to keep out of trouble. But when no one else was around, if their paths crossed, she let her feelings show. There were days it made him want to laugh that she looked at him with so much antagonism; others when he wanted to punish her for her impudence. It disturbed him because there was no reason for her reactions. And even less reason that despite her antagonism to him, he felt drawn to her. Admired her. Cheered her on.

As the head priestess, she proved exemplary. But unlike the other Vestals, Sabina possessed a stubborn streak, a refusal to give up all of her personality to the group, which propelled her to become one the most educated of all the nuns in recent years, studying medicine and learning how to be a healer, although it added extra responsibility to her already full life. When tired customs didn't make sense to her, she questioned them, changed them and breathed life into the old order. Even when it alienated her from the older sisters and conservative priests, she fought back bravely, passionately. Recently, the most traditional among them were applauding her efforts.

A section of the house collapsed with a loud crash. The fire was winning the battle. Sabina worked as hard as Julius did to smother the flames; she was as valiant a fighter as any man there. When their eyes met for a brief second, Julius looked away, chilled, despite the fire's heat, by the look she flashed at him. She was determined to live, which meant the fire had to die. But either she'd
inhaled too much smoke or she was just too exhausted, because suddenly she fell to the ground.

Angry blisters marred her cheeks. Her robe was ripped up the side and across the front, exposing her long legs and breasts, all blackened with soot.

None of the other men seemed to have noticed. If she wasn't dead, one of them was bound to trample her to death. Julius couldn't let that happen. Leaving his post, he ran to her, picked her up and carried her lifeless body out of the way, the heat at his back becoming less and less intense until he wasn't aware of it anymore.

Sabina was heavy in his arms, and he felt the full burden of her: of her position as head of the nuns, of her complicated response to him, of her power and vitality. Finally far enough away from the fire, he laid her down on a patch of grass, allowing himself to focus on her and give in to his curiosity and his obsession—because if he was honest with himself, despite his best efforts and for no rational reason he knew, that was what she'd become.

Putting his ear to her breast, he listened for her life sounds. All he heard was his own nervous heart beating so loudly in his ears. But from her chest—silence.

No, it wasn't possible that the fire had beaten her.

Not Sabina.

He didn't realize he was shouting until the wind threw his own howl back at him.

No. Not Sabina.

She had too much energy, too much resolve.

He wanted to pray, but the grief crowded out all the words. He shut his eyes. The smell of jasmine and sandalwood emanated from her skin—mixed in with the bitter smell of the smoke—whispering to him, hinting of something he'd never had and now would never know.

By the time the other priests were his age they'd
married and fathered children. They teased him about his unmarried state, not understanding it. Marriages allowed for every taste and predilection, they chided—even for men who preferred sex with other men. Why can't you find a wife?

Only to himself, only now, could he admit that he'd found a woman he wanted to wed, but of all the women in all of Rome she was one of a very select few he couldn't have.

He had been a young priest when she became a Vestal. And from the very beginning she had stood out. She was bright and curious as a young girl, then feisty and determined as an adolescent. His admiration had turned to attraction when her slim body had started to curve, when her breasts and hips teased him from under her robes.

For the past twelve years, Sabina had taunted him, then challenged him. Now, in death, she would haunt him.

Her hatred of him should have cooled his ardor. Instead, it seemed to inflame it. Alone in his own rooms, when thoughts of her would come, he'd find a prostitute. But not the lewdest, the lustiest, nor the most comely chased away the images of the virgin. Julius prayed to the gods to take away his desire. When they didn't, he ignored and surmounted his feelings…He needed to…His attention could doom her. Any congress they might have shared could be her death sentence. And his.

Her eyes were shut. Her lovely red hair was singed and blackened. Julius sat beside her on the grass, unable to get up, although the fire was still raging and he knew the men needed him. Her sisters would come and get her body later and prepare it for burial, but he couldn't leave her yet. Helplessly, he reached out and pushed a lock of hair off of her forehead. It was the first time he'd touched her. Tears coursed down his cheeks, surprising him with
their velocity. Julius couldn't remember the last time he'd wept.

“Sabina.” Again, a cry, not a word, still not a prayer.

And then it seemed as if the wind answered him, softly whispering his name in response. He looked down.

Her eyes were open. And upon him. And there was no anger in them anymore, but another expression: a mixture of defeat and desire.

Sabina had not perished in the fire after all.

He heard a sound that didn't fit the picture. Loud. Shrieking. Not human. No. It was the ambulance coming to him from a great blue-green distance.

She looked at him, longing and pain in her eyes.

But the siren was pulling him up, up through the murky, briny heaviness into some fresh hell.

Rome, Italy—Tuesday, 8:12 a.m.

T
here were three paramedics. Too many people in a suddenly claustrophobic space. As much as Josh wanted to get out of the tomb, which now reeked of blood, he couldn't. Backing up, he flattened himself against the wall and watched the team go into action.

The female medic wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around the professor's arm. One of the men swabbed his other arm and stuck a needle in his vein, readying him for an IV. The third asked Josh questions in broken English.

How long ago did this happen?

When had the professor become unconscious?

Did he know the professor's family?

Did he have any phone numbers for them?

Fifteen minutes.

Five minutes.

No.

No.

He didn't know.

They worked with choreographed precision, totally focused, not seeming to notice where they were or that there was a mummified woman broken apart in the corner. But Josh kept glancing at her, checking on her.

From where he stood, he could see the professor's face, colorless and motionless. But his eyes were open and his mouth was forming words. Josh couldn't hear the words, so he moved as close as he could without getting in anyone's way. Which, in that tiny space, meant taking only two steps forward.

The professor continued whispering in Italian: the same few words over and over.

“What is he saying?” he asked one of the medics.

“
Aspetta
. Wait for her. He's repeating it over and over.”

They worked on him for a few more minutes and then the woman counted—
uno, due, tre
—and together they lifted him off the ground, onto a stretcher, strapped him in, and then, in a complicated series of maneuvers, hoisted him out.

Josh followed after them.

Moving quickly, but also being careful not to jostle him, they wheeled him toward the ambulance. In the distance, the roar of a car engine grew louder. A navy blue Fiat raced up the road, dust flying in its wake. A few seconds later, it pulled to a screeching halt and a tall woman jumped out on the driver's side. She moved in a blur—pure energy—rushing toward the gurney. Josh got a flash of sunburned skin, high, wide cheekbones and windswept, wild, honey-colored hair. Her voice was a combination of authority and fear as she called out her questions to the medics. Even under stress there was a lyrical cadence to her words. As focused on her as he was, Josh didn't notice Malachai until he called out to him.

As always, Malachai was wearing a suit, despite the
heat. He was so meticulous even his shoes were newly shined. That wouldn't last long now that he was on site.

“Are you all right?” Malachai questioned.

“Fine. I'm fine. But I need to talk to Gabriella Chase.” Josh pointed to the woman who'd gotten out of the car. “Is that her?”

“Yes, but first—”

“The professor made me promise I'd tell her what happened, and—”

He put his hand on Josh's arm to stop him. “She's with the medics. So tell me, what happened?”

Briefly, Josh explained about the shooting.

“Were you alone with him?”

“Yes.”

“You were the only witness?”

“Yes. No one else was down there. Now I need—”

“Did you see the man who shot Rudolfo?”

“Yes. Yes, I saw him….” Josh pictured the scene again as if his mind had filmed it. The man grabbing the box, opening it, pulling out the dark leather pouch, throwing the box on the ground, the professor's moan, the scuffle, the shot. He stopped the pictures.

“The guard took the Memory Stones, if that's what was in the box. Shot the professor and took the stones.”

“Did you get a photograph of him?”

“I was rushing to help and then it was too late.”

Malachai stood shaking his head back and forth, trying to absorb the loss. They'd both desperately wanted to see the stones, to talk to Rudolfo and Chase about them, discover if they did indeed have the legendary power assigned to them. Now it appeared they'd never have that chance.

“Did you see them before they were stolen?”

“No.”

“So you don't know for sure they were in the box? They could have been somewhere else in the tomb?” A faint expression of hope.

“I don't know for sure…but from the way the professor reacted I'm fairly certain—”

“I don't think you should mention the stones to the police when they get here. Don't conjecture about what was in the box.”

Malachai must have read the confusion in Josh's eyes because he didn't wait for his question before answering it. “If it appears that you know too much it will make you a more likely suspect.”

“But I'm not a suspect, and shouldn't they know what they are looking for? Don't they need to?”

“If they know, word will get out, it's inevitable, and the very last thing Beryl or I—or, I'm sure, Gabriella, once she knows what happened—want is for the world to know of the existence of those stones.
Especially
if they've been stolen.”

“I don't know. You're asking me to lie to the police.”

“About something that isn't going to help the investigation and that you didn't actually see.”

“So what do I say—that I saw the guard and that I can describe him—but that I have no idea what he took? That I was too busy having flashbacks to the fourth century, where I was hanging out with the flesh-and-blood version of the corpse that's buried here?”

Malachai was astonished. “If that's true, you'd be instrumental to our understanding of what the stones are and how they work.
You'd
be vital to the solution.”

“Well, there are no coincidences, right? That's what you and Beryl have been telling me for the past four months, and it looks like you're dead on. The memories I've been having—” He held his arms out to include the
tomb, the woods, the hills and beyond. “All of this…it's what I've been seeing for the past year. All of this and more…”

Malachai began studying Josh, taking in his shirtless chest, dirt-and-blood-streaked face. “Are you
sure
you are all right? Your hands are bleeding.”

“It's nothing but scratches. The professor is the one who's been hurt, who might not make it.”

Usually, Malachai was compassionate, but from a distance. As a hobby, and to relax the children he and his aunt worked with at the Phoenix Foundation, Malachai performed magic tricks. One of them seemed to be how he suppressed his own feelings, except for a hidden, sorrowful look in Malachai's eyes that Josh could see sometimes in just the right light, as if he had been hurt badly once and never quite healed. Josh often wondered whether, if he photographed the man, the melancholy would show through. But now, for the first time, he was overwrought and distressed. “This is a tragedy. A real tragedy.”

And for a brief moment, before Josh realized how absurd the thought was, he wondered if Malachai was referring to the professor's shooting or the theft of the stones.