The Gate of Fire (58 page)

Krista skipped ahead and came alongside the Prince. His face was sad and touched by old pain. She caught his hand and squeezed it. He grinned, and his mood passed away when she smiled back.

"What is your best memory of this place?"

Maxian took her hand and turned it, bringing her wrist to his lips as they walked. Dark-needled trees were intermixed with the cypress now, and the air had a faint piney scent. The ground changed, too, becoming rockier, the lower slopes and their thick rich black soil left behind.

"You are good to try to distract me," he said, kissing her hand. "That is an old pain, my love. She had a long, full life, and saw her sons grow to manhood. Galen missed her most, I'm sure. I remember, when we had come to Rome in victory and the Senate had proclaimed him Emperor and God, that he looked over his shoulder, standing there in the Curia Julia on the speaker's platform, looking to see if she was there, in the wings, watching him."

Krista squeezed his hand and slipped her arm around his waist. They walked under the trees, talking, until the trail ended in a forest of great boulders and a thick tangle of brush. Stones towered up around them, rough and jagged, and she saw that they stood at the edge of a round bowl at the very top of the mountain. It was a mile or more across and jumbled with pillars and boulders and thickets of boscage. Hawks circled in the air above the summit, coasting on the wind.

"Ah..." The Prince scratched his chin. "This is a good memory. See this wilderness? It is very famous—long ago there was a great rebellion among the slaves. They fought hard against the Republic but were defeated in the end. This was their stronghold, here in the high air on the mountain. Three Legions besieged them for two years before the end. When I was little my brothers and I would come here to play, sneaking among the rocks, climbing down into all the hidden places, pretending to be soldiers..."

Krista looked around, feeling a chill. She knew this place from whispers in the slave quarters late at night. Even in the house of the Duchess there were some stories that were forbidden. This was one, a tale of gladiators and rebellion. The bravery of the Thracian and the greed of Crassus, the cruelty of the Legions and the dreadful cost in lives that brief freedom cost. It grew cold on the mountaintop. The bright sunlight seemed thin now, and she thought she could see the spirits of the dead slaves in the shadows under the boulders.

"Come on," Maxian said, his voice filled with rediscovered joy. "There is a hidden place at the center, a grotto of soft green grass and flowers. I am sure I can find it again!" Ignoring the bleak look on her face, the Prince dragged her into a passage between the boulders.

Anatol peered around the corner of the big house, his hands on the white plastered wall. Three of the other Walach boys crowded behind him, snickering and tugging at his shirt. The yard in front of the house was empty, save for the wagons that they had ridden up from Rome. The corpse-man was in the yard standing still and quiet as a gravestone. Anatol rubbed his nose furiously and nerved himself up. He looked all around, cautious and wary. He was pretty sure that the young master and his woman would not be back for a few hours—Anatol could smell the heady scent in the air as well as anyone. The late spring was blooming on the mountainside; flowers were opening, filling the air with delicious smells and the thick taste of their pollen. Foxes yowled in the hedgerows, and birds made a graceful dance in the air. Even the two dead men were upstairs, locked in sweaty contest. It was spring.

"Go on," whispered Vitaly. "It's just standing there."

Anatol smoothed back his unruly shock of thick black hair and squared his shoulders. His brothers gave him a good push, and he skipped out into the yard. Glaring back over his shoulder, he scuttled up to within ten or twelve feet of the thing standing in the yard. It remained quiescent, staring off into the sky.

"Khiron?"

The head of the thing turned, swiveling like a clockwork, and Anatol felt a chill from the top of his head to the bottoms of his bare, furry feet. The corpse-man's eyes were black and bottomless, filled with pain and a hint of the lash. The mottled yellow-gray skin of the creature barely flexed as it bent its head to look upon him. Anatol gulped and backed up a foot or two. All the Walach boys had seen the speed of the corpse-man; it was like one of the
surâpa
, striking like the wind. It was strong, too, strong enough to bend iron in its fist, strong enough to crack stones to powder. The young master had ordered it to wear a long gray tunic with a hood, but in this bright afternoon it had thrown back the woolen head covering and stood, watching the birds circling in the sky.

"Khiron," Anatol said, his voice growing stronger as the thing remained standing quietly. "The master Maxian directs that you should unload all of the wagons and put the crates inside the big house, in the atrium."

The thing stood quietly, staring down at the Walach boy. Anatol gulped again and began to slide slowly backward, angling for the edge of the house and his confederates. Muscles and veins moved under the skin of the thing, squirming like worms crawling under a gelid surface of translucent wax. Anatol blinked, preparing to bolt if the thing moved toward him.

Khiron smiled, face sliding into a ghastly rictus. Long yellow teeth, sharp and pointed like needles, were exposed. A tongue darted, a black point that vanished, leaving only a memory of its presence on the mind of the viewer. The thing turned toward the house, the break between stillness and motion undetectable.

"I will place the crates and boxes in the atrium." The thing's voice was hollow, a drywell lined with fragments of bone and dust. "I will empty the wagons."

Anatol and the other Walach boys were long gone, a cloud of white dust drifting in the air of the villa yard. Khiron's face collapsed back into its usual blank state as it unhitched the back of the first wagon. Four wooden crates—each the length of a an—lay within, filled with books and scrolls. Khiron grasped the first with its fists. Wood squeaked in protest as the long black nails ground into the pine planks. Khiron lifted the crate out of the back of the wagon and carried it inside, resting on one shoulder.

On the second floor of the big house, the little black cat peered down between the crossbars of the railing that lined the balcony. Its yellow eyes followed the passage of the corpse-man as it passed below and into the house. When it was gone, the cat turned, tail in the air, and padded away into the dim hallway that ran the length of the upper floor.

"Do you feel it?" Maxian lay on the ground, his face pressed against the earth, his eyes closed. Krista stood over him, her arms crossed over her chest. Her face was pinched in worry, and she could feel a cold, uncomfortable eddy in the air. "Can you hear it breathing?"

They stood in a grotto, as the Prince had promised. It was lined by mossy boulders and floored with thick soft grass and dusted with tiny blue flowers. Water trickled over rocks somewhere nearby, but Krista could not make out where the stream was. Dim green gloom crouched under the overhanging trees and puddled underneath the walls of stone. The way into it had wound down through hidden passages in the brush and brambles, over smooth rocks and past sharp-edged cliffs. It lay, she guessed, at the center of the bowl on the mountaintop, the uttermost secret within the wilderness of rock and thorn. Pollen drifted in the air, catching the last light of afternoon, sparkling in slowly falling clouds. The blue sky seemed far above, distant beyond the tops of the boulders.

The Prince had seemed giddy, almost drunk, since they had climbed that last little way down the rocks into the grassy sward. He had run out into the center and whirled around, his arms spread wide. Krista had crouched, nervous, at the edge of the open space. Her arms were covered with goose bumps. This place made her uneasy. Maxian had been laughing and talking to himself the whole time. It set her nerves on edge, hearing him chatter like a little boy.

"Listen!" Maxian looked up, his eyes crinkled up in a grin. "Put your hand on the ground."

Krista, swallowing nervously, knelt on the grass and placed her palms on the thick loam. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Grass twisted under her hands, and she felt the crumbly soil. She closed her eyes.

First there was nothing, only the cool feel of the ground. Then there was something, a hum or a trembling sensation. Then she felt it, deep and distant, muted by unimaginable distance. A slow, heavy surge, a throbbing, the beat of a vast drum. Breath hissed between her clenched teeth, and she jerked her hand away as if burned by a hot skillet.

The mountain had a heartbeat, as slow and regular as a sleeping child. She looked up. The Prince was standing, his face filled from within with joy. It seemed that years of care had dropped away from him.

"Can't you feel it? The power in the earth? It burns like a star, like the sun."

Krista shook her head. She felt nothing but growing fear and a trickle of cold along her back.

"Don't you feel the air?" Maxian was grinning fit to burst. "This place is free of the curse, held in balance by this power in the mountain. I can rest here. I can
work
here." He rubbed his hands together in delight. "This is what I was missing all along—a sanctuary!"

Krista summoned a smile and accepted his embrace, though she felt cold even in the warmth of his arms. When he spun her around, picking her up off of the ground, her eyes were bleak.

Song rose from the dining hall, echoing off firelit walls and round columns in the garden. Alexandros was singing, standing by the fire with his hand on the back of a couch covered with a blue-and-red quilt. He had a strong voice, and it carried well, filled with longing and a hint of glory won. Gaius and Maxian were reclining on couches under the sloped roof that ran around the inner garden of the house. The remains of a hearty dinner were strewn about, and the Walach boys were curled up under the table, snoring softly, their bellies full of roasted pork and grape leaves stuffed with raisins and nutmeats. A round yellow moon had risen and it peered over the peak of the house. It was bright enough to send the stars hurrying before it.

White-armed Hera smiled, and smiling, took the cup.

Alexandros' voice rose, ringing through the empty halls and rooms of the house.

Dripping nectar sweet, from the mixing bowl she poured it round.

Krista moved quietly in the room that the Prince had chosen for them, her slim white hands gathering up clothes and a comb from the side table.

Laughter broke from the happy gods, watching the god of fire breathing hard.

She twisted the bundle into a carrying roll and bound it round with a long length of cloth.

From that hour and all day long they feasted, and no god hungered or lacked a share.

The straw hat hung down her back, held by the twisted leather plait. She turned at the door, frowning, a wicker basket tucked under one arm.

Gorgeous Apollo struck his lyre, calling the Muses singing, their voice and voice in choir, their vibrant music ringing.

Alexandros' voice faded as she slipped down the hallway, calling softly into each room. She was beginning to sweat, fearing that the Prince or one of the men would come upstairs at any moment.

Sun's fiery light set, each immortal going to rest in his own house, those splendid high halls Hephaestus built in craft and cunning.

There was a clattering sound, and Krista froze, sliding to the nearest wall, her heart hammering. Her hand was tight on a thin knife of iron. Something darted past her feet, small and black as night, skittering on the smooth tile with tiny claws.

So went Olympian Zeus, lord of lightnings, to his bed. There, welcome sleep lay for him.

Krista sprinted down the hallway, her soft-bottomed shoes flashing on the tile, and scooped up the little black cat with a swift jerk. The cat squeaked plaintively as Krista stuffed it headfirst into the wicker basket. She came to a halt—barely daring to breathe—at the top of the stairs down to the garden. She could see Alexandros still standing in the garden, his voice raised to the open sky. Maxian was draining a cup of good red wine. She turned away, her face composed and still.

There he lay, and there he slept and at his side, Hera the Queen, goddess on a golden throne.

Clapping echoed and faint voices rose as Krista slipped out the door into the side yard. Looking up at the moon, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. The carrying roll was slung over one shoulder, and the basket was tight in her hand. The side yard was empty and desolate in the pearly light of the moon. Without a sound she slipped away along the line of outbuildings, her face in shadow.

The rattle of pans in the kitchen woke Maxian. Groaning in pain, he screwed his eyes tight. Bright bars of sunlight were slanting in from the high windows of the sleeping room and falling like hammers on his face. He rolled over, pulling a blanket over his head. Drums rattled and rolled in his head, and he could hear the rush of blood in his ears like a waterfall. A hint of jasmine lay on the pillows.

O brilliant physician
, he thought, dreading the hurt of further noise.
Heal thyself
.

"My lord?" Someone knocked lightly on the wooden frame of the doorway. Maxian flinched at the noise, but threw back the blanket. Gaius Julius was standing in the doorway, his leathery old face hiding a grin. "Did you sleep well?"

Maxian snarled and rolled out of bed. He was wearing a wrinkled tunic and a variety of wine stains. He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling it lie lank and greasy on his scalp. He scratched an itch behind his ear. His eyes felt like they had been used by mollusks for a mating bed.

"Yes, Gaius, what is it?"

"We've unloaded the books and put them in one of the rooms downstairs as a library, but where do you want the thaumaturgic apparatus? Also, will you summon the Engine to us today? There are more things we will need that are stored in its hold."