The Storm of Heaven (10 page)

Tarsus emptied the cup, then met the young man's eyes directly.

"There are many secrets not revealed to apprentices. There are rituals not taught to journeymen. Some lessons can only be learned by hard experience—these things make a master. This summoning of life to dead limbs is one of the things that we do not teach. It is forbidden."

Maxian's face creased with anger. "Why? Isn't the purpose of our order to save and safeguard life? Why swear our holy oath? If the dead can live, what joy we could bring to the world!"

Tarsus remained still, quiet and patient. After a moment, the Prince sat down.

"The spark of life is the province of the gods. Do you remember your first lessons? Do you remember the tale of our revered founder, holy Asklepius himself?"

Maxian frowned. His early days in the school were a blur. He hated the endless drill and practice. The other students had ignored him, leaving him desperately lonely. The skills themselves, the binding of wounds, the closing of flesh, the banishment of disease and righting imbalanced humors, those things came swiftly to him. He remembered that his tutors had praised his quick instinct and native skill. But the reading and copying? He had put all that from his mind long ago.

"Master Tarsus, I remember the school was founded by some prince who barked a shin on Mount Pindos. He claimed drinking from the spring cured him and he gave money to start a sanctuary. But of Asklepius himself, the 'best of the physicians'? No... I don't remember."

Tarsus hid a sigh.
All the best lessons are forgotten!

"Asklepius," he said, "was the half-human son of Apollo the Archer. He was the first physician. In his hands lay the cure for the world's hurts. There was no disease, no wound he could not defeat. He went abroad in the land, in old Achaia across the waters, tending to the sick and to the lame. One day he came upon a woman grieving by the side of the path. At her side, under a stained and mended cloth, lay the body of her husband. Asklepius turned his powers upon the man. In the corpse he found darkness and the echo of the Styx. But the light in Asklepius was so strong, his power so great, he could restore the dead to life."

Maxian's eyes gleamed and the discarded wine cup jiggled and danced on the tabletop. Tarsus stopped, feeling power build in the air like the tense humidity before a thunderstorm. He raised a hand, summoning calm and quiet. The cup, teetering on the edge of the wooden table, spun to a halt and then lay still.

"There is more. The man stood up, hale and filled with life. With great joy, both husband and wife returned home. Asklepius, pleased, continued on his journey. But above, on high Olympus, Zeus, father of the gods, looked down in anger. Here was a man—yes, half god, but still mortal—who took the privilege of life and death upon himself. Here was a man who mocked the ferryman and the guardians of the underworld. In this, the order of the world was set awry and Zeus, foremost guardian of the pattern of things, struck him down forthwith.

"Asklepius was slain on the road, riven by a lightning stroke from the fist of thunder-shielded Zeus."

Maxian cursed and sprang up from his chair, his face dark with anger. "This is a tale for children! There are no gods, no power that moves the storm cloud or the sun. Any man with the sight can see the pattern of the world, its warp and weft. Each priest may call thunder and storm, cast lightning. We make our own destiny, find our own path. I have beaten death before, I shall do so again! If you help me, I know that we can succeed. I have the power to my hand; I but need your skill, noble Tarsus, to guide me."

Tarsus shook his head, his face marked by old and bitter pain. "You
are
a child, to believe this. This is beyond you. Her soul, her
ka
has fled into the darkness beyond the river. You are not a god, you cannot make a new soul from common clay. You may summon life to cold limbs, but you cannot make her
live
again. She is gone."

Maxian snarled, clenching his hand into a fist, and Tarsus felt, for the first time, the enormous strength in the Prince. The room flickered, the walls becoming insubstantial, the light of the lamps dying. A sound rose from the stones, the voices of tens of thousands crying out in fear. Tarsus leapt to his feet, his mind filled with a vision of burning cloud covering the sky. His shield of Athena, once so perfect and white, rippled and fragmented. The power flooding forth from the Prince beat against him.

It touched the body, seeping into skin and bone.

The corpse convulsed, rattling like dried peas in a gourd. Tarsus cried out, but the stones creaking and groaning all around him drowned the sound. The cabinets shattered violently. Where each splinter fell, roots grew out with dizzying speed. They writhed like pale worms on the floor. From them saplings grew. The body on the table suddenly lay still, smooth white flesh covering the bone and rich dark hair spilling down from the skull.

The Prince lowered his hand and the room snapped back into focus. The roaring and the lamentations stopped. Tarsus gaped, imprisoned by a stand of young pines filling the room. The branches dug into his sides, pinioning his hands and legs.

A woman, live and whole, lay on the tabletop, her breast rising and falling as she breathed.

"Rise, my love," the Prince said. He did not seem tired, but his eyes were haunted.

The body sat up, rich, dark brown eyes open. Tarsus saw that she was comely and well made. Her flesh, recently so tormented and ravaged, was ripe with youth. She came up upon her knees, then stood, her head brushing against the curling vines and flowers crowding against the roof.

Tarsus shook his head, seeing the blank look on her face and the stillness that lay behind her eyes.
It is ever so...

"Lad, your strength has grown far past any master of the order. But look upon her! Where is her heart? Her spirit? Those things come from the gods, they are beyond us. You will never make her as she was before. Those eyes will never sparkle with mischief or look upon you with delight."

"But..." Maxian turned, his face intent, "I
have
done it. Two men, long dead, I raised up. They are filled with life! By the gods, sometimes they show too much liveliness! Why them? Why them and not her, she who is worth far more to me?"

Tarsus pushed back one of the branches, easing himself out of the close grip of the dwarf trees. The room filled with a heady aroma of crushed pine needles. "I know not. Who were they? Were they friends, newly fallen?"

"No," barked Maxian in abrupt surprise. "Not friends! I struggled against an invisible enemy. I needed power. A man, now dead, advised me to seek a lever long enough to move the world. I did. I found them both, still moldering in their tombs. But they were long gone to dust."

"Who are these men?" Tarsus put his hands on Maxian's shoulders. "Were they masters of the art? Could they have hidden their spirit away, holding it back from death, from poor, grim Charon?"

Maxian laughed again and took his teacher's hands in his own. Something like true humor was in his face. Fond memories of his time as an apprentice to the dour and proper Tarsus fluttered at the edge of his thought. The older priest had seemed so harsh and unyielding when first they met. Could he have foreseen the genuine warmth and friendship that would grow between them?

"Masters of the art? Not those two rogues! Abdmachus advised me that some men, in death, become powerful by their memory. The greater their legend, the vaster the power that they might contain. Did I need all that strength for my long battle? I did! So I sought out two of the greatest men that have yet lived."

Tarsus felt a cold chill grip his heart.

"I woke him from a cold bed, this Gaius Julius Caesar." Maxian's voice was filled with a near hysterical gaiety. "But he was not enough! Oh no, master, he was not quite strong enough to let me shake the earth. I needed a greater legend, someone who would dwarf that old Republican tyrant as the sun blinds the moon. It was a long, dangerous task, but I found him too, hidden beneath the sand. Locks and wards and guardians ringed him about, but they could not hold me back. He, too, the golden-hair, the living god, this Alexander, son of Olympia, best of the Greeks, master of the Persians, I woke, my hand on his shoulder, letting him rise up and walk under the sun!"

"No..." Tarsus breathed, staggered by the words. "Not that butcher, the parricide, the drunken thug, the kin slayer!"

"Yes," Maxian snapped. "Both of them, the scheming, duplicitous pair, I filled with life and thought. By my will, they walk this earth, a merry pair of rogues. I needed them, and by the gods, they did not fail me. All that I asked, they gave."

Tarsus grasped the edge of the table, his mind busy with this revelation. Maxian stood staring glumly at the girl. She looked down at him, quiet and motionless. He smiled wanly. She remained quiescent, watching him with flat, dead eyes.

"What were they like, these men you raised from the cold ground?"

Maxian shrugged, saying, "As you would expect. Alexander is young and vigorous, eager, charming, always rushing to the front, delighted in new things. He craves battle and adventure. He cannot sit still, but who could gainsay him? Any man would love him.

"The other? Old Gaius? He is gray and sly, the politician's politician. His mind is subtle and filled with tricks. He seems an affable old fellow, the country farmer or the senator on holiday, but his heart is as black as any Parthian chief's. Do not turn your back on him, or leave anything in his care! They are, I suppose, just as you would expect."

"Yes," Tarsus said slowly, "...but they are strong, they have power."

"Indeed! In the hidden world, they burn like bright stars." Maxian held out his hand to the girl. She took it, her arm moving smoothly and mechanically. The Prince frowned and the trees that blocked the door writhed back, leaving a passage. "Krista, go and find yourself clothing, then return here."

Without a word, the young woman walked out, her bare feet rustling in the pine needles on the floor. Maxian turned back to the older priest.

"A man lies dead, as an old friend once said, but his memory lives. Men swear by him—
Praise Caesar!
—or worship at his tomb. Each time such a devotion is made, some tiny spark accrues to his memory, this dead legend. Over centuries, if he is well loved, then great strength may be in him. But—is this not rich?—
he lies in the grave!
The man may not use this strength, but that which raises him up? Oh, then this power may be tapped... Alexander is like the sun! Do you know, they still fear him, worship him, in far India? Barely a year was he among them, the sudden, unexpected invader, and still,
still
they know him. And Gaius? He does not burn so bright, yet he is cunning and served me well."

The thought of attack, of striking out at the young man, crossed Tarsus' mind. His oaths forbade him, though the enormity of what his pupil had done seemed adequate excuse. A swift blow with a dagger, into the brain, into the heart of thought and motion, might slay him.

But how can this be, if he speaks truly? Could he have brought back these legends as living men?

"Where are they now?"

Maxian shrugged, turning away. "I don't know. I sent them away from me, from my mother's house at Ottaviano. I told them to trouble me no more."

"Ottaviano?" Tarsus' voice was sharp as new fear blossomed. "When were you there?"

Maxian shrugged, avoiding the priest's eyes. "Some time ago... a week, perhaps two..."

Tarsus turned gray. Now he knew what curled and drifted around the Prince. It was the stench of mass death, of entire cities consumed by fire, by choking gas and burning stone.

"You were at Vesuvius." His voice was flat with horror. "You were there when the mountain burst. The girl—she was burned in the explosion? How close were you?"

Maxian smiled sickly and Tarsus could see guilt and shame in his face.

"We were," he whispered, "on the crown of the mountain. Men came to kill me. My brother sent them. I saw his face in my mind, when the red-haired woman had the knife at my throat. My own brother sent hired men to hunt me down. Is this possible? Can you believe it?"

Tarsus backed away, edging for the door with his hand. Now he could make out the screams of the dying, faint as the sound of dolphins beneath azure waves. The aura around the Prince was so plain and clear, so violent with the taste of dying, fled souls, that the older priest shuddered in reaction.

Here is the source of this unexpected strength. He has drunk deep of the dying, gaining their power like one of the
K'shapâcara
of legend! By the gods, what a horror!

"Get out," Tarsus snarled, face flushed with disgust. "You are a monster, an abomination! How could you come here, to the sacred precincts themselves! You have violated every oath, every binding, every restriction of our order!"

Maxian blanched at the vehemence of his old master's words.

"What have I done?" the Prince cried in despair. "Defended myself, kept my own life? Do you shout at the fox, or the dog, that kills for its supper? What of the man beset by brigands—do you chastise him if he lays about him with a stave?"

"No," Tarsus bit out, "I do not. But you have drunk deep of the souls of the dying and the dead, growing fat on their suffering and pain. You are a ghoul, a corpse feeder."

The Prince's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Do you hear them?" Tarsus felt bile rise in his throat. "Can you feel them, the shadows of the dead? They are in you! I can feel them, smell them, hear their lamentations—"

"But I did not mean to drink them up!" Maxian's face burned with shame. "It happened—I was at the helm of the engine—the cities were aflame below me and all those souls, all released at once, rushed into me. I could not stop them!"

Tarsus shook his head in disgust and turned away. "Go away from this place," he said. "If you come here again, we will strike you down, if we can. Get out."

The Prince, feeling a great emptiness in his chest, watched in bewildered pain as the older priest hurried away up the stairs. With each step, he felt the air grow cold and loss mount.