The Storm of Heaven (9 page)

"Poppa! She's awake again." The mouse-girl disappeared.

After a moment, the man from her night-dream entered. His skin was slick and glistening with sweat. A short linen kilt clung to his thighs.

"How do you feel?" His voice was muffled by a towel as he wiped his face.

"You... you are Vitellix? I remember you, speaking to me in the night."

He smiled, strong teeth very white in the dimness.

"Yes," he said, "I am Vitellix. What is your name?"

"I am..." The woman paused, feeling a huge, dull pressure in her head. "I... I don't remember."

As soon as she spoke, the pressure eased and a trickle of relief flooded through her. She sighed, gesturing weakly at her immobilized arm. "I don't remember what happened. Can you tell me?"

Vitellix closed the door and there was a muffled complaint from outside. "My boys found you in a stream. You were badly hurt, burned and covered with blood. Your arm was broken and your legs had been badly sprained. You'd taken a chill, too, but they carried you up to our camp. It took a long time to clean your wounds. Many leaves, bits of stone, pine needles and twigs had been ground into your skin. Your clothes were only rags. I've tended many hurts, but you taxed my skill!"

"Yes..." The woman captured a fragment of memory, of fire and a door silhouetted against the flames. "There was something burning... a house?"

Vitellix made a sharp, barking sound, neither laughter nor disgust.

"Everything burned, lass. That bridge was within the devastation of Vesuvius. Do you remember where you were before you were injured?"

The woman stared back at him with wide eyes. For a moment there was a look on her face, a moment of comprehension, then her eyes clouded and she shook her head. "No... What happened to the mountain?"

Vitellix's face turned grim and he looked away. In his hands, the towel twisted as he clenched his fists. "I have seen Vesuvius many times in our travels. We often camped on its wooded flank, buying our dinner from the farmers or vintners. The mountain slopes were rich—the finest wines, the richest cheese, the fattest calf—all came from the bounty of Vesuvius. There were fine cities on its shoulders, too. Pompeii, Herculaneum, Baiae."

The man's face paled as memory took hold.

"A week ago, now, in the night, the mountain shook off its slumber and woke. We were miles away to the south, camped on the road coming up from Croton. It was an odd night of rushing wind and clouds, yet there was no rain. Thunder shook the air and lightning spiked from cloud to cloud. A storm gathered on the height, crowning the mountain with a diadem of cold fire.

"I climbed onto the roof of the wagon. I could see over the trees of the orchard lining the road. The mountain was still and dark, silhouetted against the clouds. Then... then there was a light, just a spark on the summit. It seemed that the thunderheads gathered, lighting the upper slopes with the flicker of lightning. Then the glow began, a fierce red light, radiating from the very top."

The woman felt a creeping chill, even under the heavy blankets.

"Then there was a flash, a brilliant light. It lit the olive trees and shone in my face like the sun rising. I turned away and then there was a sound, like a great shout that rushed over us. Horrible wind followed and it threw me off the roof of the wagon, but I landed square."

Vitellix's voice dropped, becoming almost a whisper.

"Then ruddy, red fire filled the sky. The glow rushed down the mountainside, faster than a galloping horse. Burning stones fell hissing from the sky and the air turned foul. We hid beneath a bridge, there in the countryside above Nuceria, for three days. Sometimes the earth shook like a wet dog, heaving and bucking. Praise Lugh, the bridge did not fall around our ears!"

He sighed and picked up the towel again.

"When the rain of fire stopped, we moved north again, along the highway. Everything was covered with ash. It falls like snow, though it has slacked off. Until we found you, we thought sure that only the dead and ghosts lived under the shadow of the mountain."

The woman coughed, feeling a harsh, grating pain in her lungs.

"Did you see..." She stopped, took a breath and then said: "Did you see where I might have come from? Was there a house, a town, anything?"

Vitellix shook his head slowly. "If there was, lass, it is gone now. All the land around Vesuvius is dead. I'm sorry, but if your family lay nearby, we could not find them."

A gleam of pale blue light caught the priest's eye. Tarsus turned, hands clasped on his staff of office. Something flickered and burned at the center of the plaza, casting long shadows on the arches and windows of the surrounding buildings. The stoutly built priest frowned. Sometimes criminals and outcasts tried to creep into the sacred precincts and steal from the pilgrims sleeping on the grounds. He hefted his staff, taking confidence from the weighty bronze snake coiled around its length.

Determined, he strode forward through cool, damp air filled with the quiet echo of running water. "You, there by the spring pool! Stand and show yourself!"

Someone was hunched down in the darkness by the outflow pipe. The blue glow disappeared, but Tarsus could make out a figure turning towards him. The priest grimaced and summoned a pale white light from his staff.

"Gods of Olympus!" Tarsus froze in shock. A haggard face stared back at him, marked by pain and weariness. A thick, irregular beard clouded a once-patrician visage. Though much changed, he knew the man. "Prince Maxian?"

Tarsus had never seen such a transformation in one of his students. The baby fat of youth had sloughed away from sharp cheekbones; lively intelligent eyes had grown haunted; the healthy, tan skin of youth had turned sallow. The Emperor of the West's cheerful, handsome little brother was changed almost beyond recognition. A dim, strange radiance flickered around the Prince like a half-seen shadow. Tarsus stepped back, grimacing. The air around the Prince was repellent.

"By the gods, lad, what happened to you?"

Maxian leaned heavily on the smooth marble lining the spring box.

"Tarsus? You are still alive?"

"Yes," said the priest. "Though you look on the verge of death yourself."

"Help me." Maxian's voice was low and tinged with panic. "You must help me bring her back."

The Prince motioned weakly. Something lay in the shadows at the top of the steps.

Ah!
Tarsus thought.
That explains the smell.

The priest knelt next to the corpse. The body was not too far gone. Whatever hot flame had licked over it—he reached down and gently turned the skull, feeling the jellylike resistance of muscle attaching the shoulder to the neck—had done so recently. The charred skin was brittle and stiff under his fingers. Long experience and repeated exposure let him put aside horror while he made a swift, thorough examination.

"Ah, my friend, she is long gone." Tarsus sighed. "The ferryman has taken her coin and rowed her across the black river."

"Not so, not so!" The Prince's voice was urgent in the darkness. "If you help me, I can restore her. I beg you, take us to the chambers of healing. With your skill to guide my hand, I know that I can save her."

"Lord Prince, this is foolishness. We are both men blessed with the gods' power, but no one may call back the souls of the dead. That is in the hands of the gods, not of mortals."

Maxian stopped as if struck. Then he straightened and loomed over the priest, his handsome face clouding with anger.

"I have summoned men back from the dead," Maxian said bitterly. "Twice I have stood over tumbled bone and scraps of dusty flesh. Twice I have raised lightning and fire to fill those bodies—one dead a thousand years!—with the quickness of life. Breath and sight and lively limbs have sprung forth from the dust. I
know
that it can be done. My strength is great enough."

Tarsus stepped back, uneasy. Unconsciously, his mind began to weave a pattern of subtle defense. When he spoke again, the compassion in his voice was gone.

"What have you done, Lord Prince? What words have you spoken over a fresh-turned grave?"

Maxian ignored the warning in the older man's voice, eyes brightening. He began to speak, his voice coming from a great distance, reciting from memory:
"O Furies and horrors of hell! Dread Chaos, eager to destroy countless worlds! O Ruler of the underworld, who suffers for endless centuries—"

"Cease!" Tarsus moved, his staff lashing out to strike the face of the man before him. The blow rocked Maxian backward, leaving a deep cut on his cheek. "Such words are never to be spoken in this sacred place!"

Tarsus trembled with anger. There were secrets known to his fellow priests that should never see the light of day. There were pale-eyed creatures haunting the night, whispering at the windows of learned men. The thought that one of his best students—though not the most studious!—had turned down such an evil path filled him with despair. "Where did you learn such foulness?"

Maxian, stunned, touched the wound. Under his fingers, the cut faded, torn skin knitting closed. Blood rushed to his face, restoring circulation to the area. He looked up and Tarsus stepped back, shocked by the fury in the Prince's expression. In the hidden world, a glittering white shield of interlocking geometric forms shimmered between the two men.

"I sought them out." Maxian's visage cleared, anger draining away like spilling water. Great weariness replaced the fury. "A man helped me. He had learned those words as an apprentice in the East. Tarsus, I have done some questionable things, but I beg you, help me make them right. This girl..." his hand fluttered towards the corpse, "...she trusted me and died. I have salved her wounds before, even mortal ones! With your skill, I can bring her back from beyond the black river."

Tarsus shook his head. The stillness of the courtyard, the quiet susurration of the sleeping penitents, the empty night sky, all pressed upon him. He could feel the Prince's entreaty like a physical pressure, urging him to accept. It was the role and the practice of the priests of Asklepius to help those who needed aid. Here was a man in deadly trouble...

Should I refuse? He was my student!

Tarsus sighed. "Follow me. Bring the... girl. We will speak inside."

The priest spilled thick wine into a cup. Water followed. His little room lay on the western side of the temple complex. One side abutted a channel of fitted stones guiding a stream along the edge of the plaza. The priest pushed the cup into Maxian's hands.

"Drink."

Though he felt a great desire for wine himself, Tarsus did not drink. The corpse of the girl was laid out on a table between them. Wooden cabinets, filled with murky bottles, covered the walls. The worktable was smooth, polished granite. When necessary, Tarsus had performed surgeries on the table. Tonight, however, the bone saw and hammer would not be required. This body was beyond even the considerable power of the high priests.

"What happened to the girl?"

Maxian looked up, his pale, thin face flushed with wine. In the warm light of the oil lamps, he seemed very young, as young as when he had first come to the temple. It had been hard to come from a noble's household, to cross the length of the Empire and enter such a renowned school. Luckily, the boy had only been a governor's son when he had first set foot in the Asklepion, not the Emperor's brother! Tarsus sat, keen eyes surveying his student. Maxian looked much older. His hair was tangled and matted with burrs. The priest guessed he had not eaten or slept in days. An odd air surrounded the Prince, like half-heard whispering.

"She... I didn't know what was happening. I..."

Maxian stopped, his eyes distant. Troubled thoughts moved in the Prince, plainly etched on his face. The innocence of youth had fled, leaving a grim and troubled man. "Tarsus, I killed this girl."

The flat statement hung in the air.

"Yes," the Prince said, hand making a nervous, sharp motion. "She came at me with a... a weapon. There was an invisible fire around me and it consumed her like a moth in a candle. I was distracted—everything was burning, even the sky. By the time I could bend my will upon her, she was dead."

"Did you strike her down?" Tarsus' voice was quiet and patient.

The Prince shook his head. "I was beset. Enemies surrounded me. I had raised a sign of fire against their arrows and spears. She—Krista—ran up. I thought she was in the city. I turned and she threw herself into my arms. The sign burned her. It was very quick."

Maxian looked away, face pale. Tarsus continued to watch and wait.

When the Prince had mastered himself, he began speaking again.

"I fled to safety. I tried to restore her as I had done with the others. She came! She walked on the iron floor, she answered, she could move..."

Tarsus nodded, his heart filled with familiar sadness.

Does each of us face this moment? Has any priest of the god not found himself at these crossroads?

"But," the priest said softly, "there was no spirit in her eyes. No spark. No laughter. All the semblance of life, but nothing of the living woman."

Maxian turned, stricken. "Yes! That is exactly..." His voice ran down, seeing the pity and sorrow in the older priest's face. "What does it mean?"

Tarsus sighed and reached for the wine jar himself. The little ritual of pouring and mixing took only a moment. It steadied him and let him put the past away, in dim memory, where such things belonged. The wine was sharp and bitter on his tongue. Tarsus welcomed the discomfort.

"When you left us, my friend, you were a journeyman. In truth, barely more than an apprentice. Many thought—
I
thought—that you had gone as far as you could in the mysteries of our order. It seemed inevitable, with your brother's struggle for the Purple, that you would be drawn into the civil war at his side. Your skills would never be given the chance to reach their full potential. Perhaps your brother would fail, and you and he would die at the hands of the victor."