The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  In the distance, a dog awoke and began barking furiously. Something had troubled its dreams.

  Zoe rolled back Mohammed's eyelid with a thumb and froze in shock. Darkness, live and twisting, had shimmered in his pupil for a moment. Taking a breath to steady herself, she pressed her hands to his temples and settled within herself. Her own power woke and stretched and tested the confines of the world. Mohammed's body glowed between her hands and she felt, for the first time, an enormous strength in him. It was like banked coals burning white hot-not noticeable from a distance, but should you come within their proximity-like the heart of a sun. Echoes of conflict still drifted about him-both the cruel bitter darkness and that brilliant light.

  The Palmyrene stood up suddenly, shaking, and shook her hands as if they were wet.

  Something has entered him. The thought was plain and appalling. The man at her feet had become the vessel of some power. It slept within him now, but could wake at any moment. Her head rang like a temple bell with the brush of its strength. Pure and unalloyed, it nestled at the heart of the man.

  Is this the God of the Wasteland that he worships? Zoe was daunted by the prospect. In all the days of her life she had been told that the powers of the gods-Zeus Ammon, Bel the Guardian, all their ilk-were expressed through men, through their priests. Once she had joined the Legions of Rome, Zoe had learned that she herself-a mortal woman-possessed powers of her will and mind that could mimic or surpass any prelate or high priest. In that light, she had found the gods paltry and weak, perhaps no more than the fantasies of men. Tools that the cunning might use to bend the common people to their will.

  But this? This was the hem of a garment far beyond her ken. She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes, willing the images to pass and the memory to be blotted from her mind.

  Lights at the edge of the plaza caught her attention. Men with torches had come out of the buildings, drawn by the disturbance in the night. She crouched down and gathered up the old man's body. It was heavy, but she was young and strong. With a grunt, she managed to slide him onto her shoulders and then stand. His head lolled against her shoulder and he began to snore.

  Just like a man, she cursed to herself, fall asleep after everything's done and leave a woman to clean up!

  Staggering under the weight, she made her way out of the temple and to the top of the stairs. One foot was on the top step before she realized that a flicker of torchlight was gleaming below. The mutter of sleepy voices rose up. Snarling at the ill-luck, she backed away, casting about with her mage-sight for another way off of the plaza.

  On the southern side of the vast open space, a light caught her eye. It was a wisp of blue, hanging in the air like a candle flame. Below her the sound of voices strengthened.

  "Search the compound," came a gruff voice. It had the ring of a Legion centurion. She moved farther away from the stairwell. The hanging flame beckoned and, without any better ideas, she hurried over to where it flickered in the darkness. As she came closer, it disappeared, falling below the level of the platform. There was an opening between her feet, round and dark, with the smell of water rising out of it.

  The flame fluttered away, swirling down the well. There were steps cut into the wall, winding down into the foundation. Somewhere below, water dripped into a pool. Zoe shifted the Quraysh on her shoulders to a more comfortable position and put her foot on the first step.

  Gingerly, she descended into the encompassing dark.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The Palatine Hill, Roma Mater

  "Good evening, Augustus, Lord and God Galen, Emperor of the Romans." Anastasia bowed formally, a single curl of her dark hair falling over one eye. It was evening and the lights of the city twinkled through the windows of the Emperor's study, high on the southern face of the Palatine hill. The Duchess turned, the doubled necklace of black pearls around her pale neck glinting in the lantern light. She bowed as well to Aurelian, who like his brother, had risen at her entrance. "Aurelian, Caesar, Prince of the Empire, greetings unto you."

  The two men were sitting at ease over the remains of a light dinner of roasted black grouse brushed with garlic, cardoon in vinegar and oil, and hardboiled goose eggs dusted with paprika. With the weather tending toward the heat of summer, everyone was beginning to avoid heavy foods. Still, the night threatened enough of a chill to warrant woolen tunics, and for Aurelian, a half-cape. Despite his heavier build, it seemed that he was more sensitive than his brother to changes in temperature.

  One of the servants who had been standing in an alcove off the study brought out a slim-legged oak chair and placed it beside the pair of couches.

  The Duchess sat delicately, letting the long drape of her charcoal gray gown fall naturally. Her hair was bound up in a cloud on the top of her head, shot with silver pins. Even her sandals were in fine leather dyed a very dark brown. Anastasia did not come bearing good news and her garments reflected her mood. Galen coughed, his nervous eyes darting over her face, hands, and clothes. The Duchess repressed a wry smile; she could ken his thought, divining some unexpected disaster. His brother, the bluff Aurelian, was just frowning, wondering why she had interrupted their little moment of privacy and quiet.

  "What has happened?" Galen's voice was sharp and flat. His attention focussed on her, fierce and intent, and Anastasia felt the familiar shock of his personality. Usually it would stir her blood in competition, but tonight it only made her weary. The Emperor carried his power well, and part of that effectiveness was his will to use it. "You seem somber this evening, my lady de'Orelio."

  "I am distressed, my lord Galen. I come to you with poor news."

  She withdrew a package of papers from a hidden pocket in the over-cape of her gown. They were almost pure white-exceptionally fine parchment sanded smooth-and bound in a black ribbon. These she placed on the edge of the dining table, making space between a plate that had held candied mushrooms and a bronze ewer holding sour wine. The Duchess then removed a heavy signet ring from one hand and placed it atop the papers.

  "By the law of the State, those who conspire against the person of the Emperor, or his family, forfeit all titles, properties, usages, and rights to the person of the Emperor, who shall-as the Divine Augustus first said-best dispose of them." Anastasia's voice was calm, though her hand trembled a little as she briefly touched the ring and then drew away.

  "This is the House de'Orelio and all its lands and chattels. It is yours."

  Her pale finger, lightly coated with a matte of white lead powder, drifted to the ribbon around the parchment sheets.

  "These are the business concerns; the fabricae, the ships, the granary shares, the wine shops, the investments in Gaulish iron and British tin, the vineyards in Terraconensis and Sicilia. With them, my lords, is my signed confession and statement of guilt. I pray you, do not waste the time of the Senate with a public trial. I am guilty, but I throw myself upon your mercy, hoping for a discrete and private end."

  Galen was standing, his eyes bright with fear and anger. His voice shook when he spoke. "Guilty of what? Has some madness overcome you? What is this conspiracy against me?"

  Anastasia looked up, her face pale in its subtle makeup, her violet eyes huge and accented by a thin outline of kohl. She pressed her slim fingers to her chest. Unlike most of her gowns, this one had a high collar and her hand lay like a dying swan on that velvet surface.

  "Not you, my lord. Never you. I have sent my men to take arms against your brother, Prince Maxian, in his refuge at Ottaviano near Cumae." She paused, and it seemed that her voice might break. "I have sent them there to kill the young Prince and return his lifeless body to Rome in a casket of iron."

  Galen staggered, his face blanching white, and he sat down. One hand gripped the edge of the couch. Aurelian's eyes had assumed a dreadful aspect and his fist curled around the hilt of a short stabbing sword at his waist.

  "You would kill our little piglet?" Aurelian's deep voice ground like stones in a whirlpool. He stood, his
brow furrowing, and he stepped to the Duchess' side, his thick-fingered hand touching her neck. Anastasia steeled herself and turned her face away, letting her hair fall loose in front of her eyes. "Our brother? You would send your footpads and sicaraii to seek him out in our mother's house?"

  Aurelian's voice was rising, sending echoes ringing from the tall columns and the glazed tiles of the domed roof. The sword rasped from its sheath and settled in his hand, a gleaming extension of his arm.

  "Yes," said the Duchess in a faint voice. She clasped her right hand around Aurelian's wrist, pressing his muscular palm against her neck. Her fingers were not long enough to encircle the thick muscles. "Tonight, beyond the speed of messenger on horse or ship to warn him, he will die. I have taken every precaution…" her voice strengthened and she looked up at Aurelian "…every precaution that he be slain."

  Aurelian had raised the blade, preparing to give his rage vent in her body, but the sight of her calm eyes, ready and waiting for death, stilled his hand. His face contorted, filled with confusion and fear.

  "Why?" Galen's voice was drained and possessed of a depth of grief. "He could not be brought before me in chains? Unconscious? Even blinded and helpless?"

  "No, my lord." Anastasia turned, leaning her head on Aurelian's arm. She too was weary. "All that I have learned tells the tale of a man grown so strong in the dark arts, so practiced, that he can take mortal wounds and live, regrow the eye plucked from his head, slip any bond, suborn any guard. He has drunk deep of ancient Oriental poisons-he trafficks with the dead, he raises up grave-wights and commands them, his fingers are thick with tombdust and lost secrets. Persians whisper in his ear. This dear boy, your brother, has set himself to replace you, to throw down the Senate and the people, to raise himself up in your stead."

  "Impossible!" Aurelian shouted, but he turned to Galen, his face showing him lost in a strange land. "Gales, this is the piglet! Our little brother, a priest of blessed Asklepius! He has taken oaths… he cannot be a monster!"

  "He is," Anastasia said, taking Aurelian's hand in both of hers and drawing him down to sit beside her at the end of the dining couch. "He has murdered foundling children and pensioned soldiers, he has placed workings upon men so that they might obey his will in all things. He has raised up a thing, a homunculus, that has murdered and consumed dozens of citizens, even strong men of the Praetorian Guard. He rides a serpent of fire."

  Anastasia stroked the side of Aurelian's head, feeling the thick oily heaviness of his bushy red hair. The man seemed about to weep. The Duchess turned again to Galen, her face pensive with worry.

  "My lord and god, all these things I have learned very recently. You knew some of them before, but not their entire scope. I know… I know that you wanted to give your brother time to heal and rest. I know that he has gone to your mother's estate at Ottaviano. An agent of mine has been close to him and recently returned to me. Things are far worse than you or I believed."

  Galen raised a hand, his face terrible in repressed fury. A thin finger extended, jabbing at the Duchess.

  "You took upon yourself to execute the Emperor's justice outside the sanction of the Twelve Tables. You usurp my authority, woman. If this man, my brother, is to die, it should be by my hand and order, not yours." The Emperor ground out each word like copper curling away from an iron die. Anastasia made a half-bow, still sitting and holding Aurelian's hand.

  "I know, my lord. I am a traitor to the State. I will accept my punishment and death. But I could not wait, or risk that you would grant this man mercy. For the good of the Senate and the people of Rome, the Prince must be killed. I am sorry."

  Galen looked away, his fists clenched. A vein throbbed in his forehead. When he looked back, after a long moment, his eyes seemed dead and clouded. His voice was bitter.

  "There will be no punishment. This thing must be done. You have the will to lance this wound upon the body of the State."

  The Duchess bowed her head again, disguising tears that pearled at the corners of her eyes. In the Emperor's voice, she heard the judgment and sentence of the Senate and the people of Rome.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Vesuvius

  The gloom of the bowl-shaped grotto seemed to fold around Maxian like a comfortable old cloak, warm and soft, with a few tears and patches, but so well known that it was a relief just to settle into it. Night had fallen again after a sunny cloudless day. The Prince had tarried on the mountain, meditating and napping in the warmth. The last wagonload of books and sundries had been brought up from the villa and stowed in the Engine. Khiron was somewhere in the crevices and gullies among the boulders, waiting for word to climb into the iron hull of the Engine and depart.

  Maxian sat at one edge of the grotto, his back to a sloping boulder, feeling the cool moss and the subtle comforting rumble of the mountain. He could see an arc of stars in the sky. Soon the moon might rise high enough to shine down into the bowl, filling it with a quiet silver light. Faced with the prospect of going out, beyond the point of balance between the Oath and the forces restrained within the mountain, he tarried. It was peaceful here and calm. He could doze in the sun without the worry of maintaining a vigilant shield. Khiron watched over him, keeping shepherds or wayward youths from disturbing his rest. Once he left, he would plunge back into the constant struggle with the corrosive power of the Oath. There would be no rest then.

  So, he had stayed overlong, days past when he had intended to return to Rome and his brothers.

  – |Maxian started awake, hearing the rattle of a stone falling somewhere in the grotto. He stood up, feeling stiffness in his arms and legs. He laughed softly to himself and patted the flank of the boulder. With the warm ground and the constant faint rumble of the mountain, it was easy to fall asleep here. The heat of the rocks made the bowl a little warmer than the night should be, raising a faint dewy mist. Maxian cracked his neck and walked toward the southern end of the grassy lawn. It was time to depart.

  "Khiron! Come out, dead thing. It is time to go." Maxian heard his voice echo from the rocks.

  He reached the far side of the glade and turned, looking up at the rim of the bowl. Where was the creature? It never went far away, even when it nosed about for living things among the rocks.

  "Khiron, attend me!" The Prince put a tone of command into his call.

  There was movement in the darkness at the side of the bowl and a lithe figure slipped down out of the shadows. Maxian frowned at it-the creature's head was turning this way and that and it moved quickly and low to the ground. He looked around the great circle of rocks again. It was very quiet. Khiron passed through a bit of starlight, his glistening skin shining, loping along in a crouch.

  "Khiron? What…?"

  Fire bloomed in the night, a sudden sharp orange wash of light that stabbed at the Prince's eyes and threw the boulders and mossy trees into high relief. Something hissing and spitting flame tumbled out of the sky and bounced toward him on the grass. Gobbets of flame scattered, clinging to the stones. Maxian jumped back in alarm and saw Khiron suddenly straighten up, its mouth yawning in a scream of rage.

  "Yaaaaaarrr!"

  The Prince staggered, slammed back into the bole of a cypress tree by a cold slapping shock to his diaphragm. He looked down, stunned, and gaped at a length of arrow shaft that jutted from his stomach. Blood welled up from the entry wound, wicking down the length of the arrow and fouling the fletching. In the hissing red light of the flames, each drop of blood turned golden as it fell toward the ground.

  Time slowed as the Prince watched his life blood spill out.

  Another arrow slammed into his shoulder, punching through bone and cartilage with a broad triangular head, lodging in the tree behind him. Pinned, the Prince struggled against a flood of pain and shock to raise his head. Despite the mortal wounds, his mind still seemed whole and aware, though everything was moving so slowly that he was disoriented. With a great effort, he managed to look up.

  Men rushed out of the gloom, their helm
ets and iron mail glinting in the firelight. Another of the burning pots had fallen from above, breaking on a huge looming boulder, and long streams of burning liquid sputtered and snapped as they flowed down its sides. The mist had blown back, leaving a glowing roof over the grotto. Khiron was in motion at the center of the space, though Maxian saw that a dozen heavy black arrows had pierced the homunculus. Shrieking, Khiron leapt toward the nearest man, talons outstretched. The man, a heavy-set fellow with a full helm, skipped aside and Khiron caught the tip of the man's spear with his shoulder. There was a gelid sound of razor-sharp metal punching through sinew and stitches of twisted gut, then a slap as the crossbar at the base of the spearhead arrested the passage of the weapon.

  Khiron shrieked again, seeing his prey beyond his reach. The creature slashed at the haft of the spear, catching it and wrenching it away. The spearhead twisted in the wound, then popped free. The armored man scrambled away and Khiron reversed the spear with a flip. Bowstrings, somewhere above, snapped with a musical twang and more arrows suddenly stabbed from Khiron's back. The homunculus shrieked again, but ignored the pain and hurled the spear with a convulsive heave. The left arm flopped, broken and shattered, at its side.

  Maxian blinked, suddenly feeling horrible weakness wash over him. The scream of the armored man as the spear tore through his mailed armor from back to front and pinned him to the face of a slab-sided boulder was lost on him. Chill flooded through the Prince and he patted fruitlessly at the blood welling from his stomach. It was hard, caught against the tree, to move.