by Jeff Wheeler
She walked slowly past him, moving toward the source of the red glow. There was a little shrine there, its back set against the black briars; the red light was spilling forth from its columns and walls. Moving closer, she could see a whole structure built from a radiant stone, which glowed the bright vermilion of eyelids closed against the sun.
In the portico of the building, four caryatids served as columns, each an exquisitely lifelike image of a woman in a flowing gown. Every sculpture was of the same lady, but she had been captured in different moods: once in a laughing dance, her supple arms entwined above her head; once in reflection, a small bird perched on her finger; once with a silent word of welcome hanging on her lips; once with hands crossed over her breasts, her head bowed in grief.
As if in a dream, Cleona climbed the steps toward the stone women; she took off one of her black leather gloves and touched the vivid cheek of the nearest with her brown hand.
“Warm,” she breathed. “And the patterns . . .” Upon closer inspection, the shining stone was veined with milky pink and deep maroon, mottled with whorls of crimson.
Turning, she saw that Tiberius had come up behind her. “Is it really—?”
“Yes. Heartstone marble. Several tons of the stuff.” He pointed to her still-gloved hand, half-hidden behind her back. “I thought you might like to see it, since you wear a bit of heartstone yourself.”
She gave him a sad smile and pulled off the second glove, letting a golden bracelet dangle freely from her wrist. “I am transparent. I should have known better than to hide anything from you, Tiberius.”
“A gift from your lover?” The bracelet was a slender chain of gold, set with two tiny red beads; they shone brightly against the black fabric of her sleeve.
She looked down at the pearls of pink light, touching them with her fingertips. “Yes. These little things cost him a fortune.” For a moment her face shone brighter, flushed with its own incandescent flame. “You understand the symbol?”
Tiberius nodded gravely. “Two hearts aflame. A very eloquent gift. Has your father seen it?”
“He might have. If his spies have found all my hiding places.” She lowered her wrist and looked at him squarely. “Why?”
“It would explain a great deal. Consider the nature of heartstone. The rock absorbs energy from the sun during the day, storing it within; at night, it releases that energy and gives us the heat and light we prize. But what happens if the stone is always kept in a dark place, away from the light?”
She dropped her eyes. “It doesn’t glow. It goes cold and black.”
“It may be that your bracelet has more than one meaning. It’s a rare and precious gift—but loses its fire if you keep it hidden. Love can be the same: thriving in the open, dying in the dark.”
“No.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes were troubled. “I’m sure he never meant to say that.”
“Perhaps he didn’t—but if I was your father, I’d worry. Is the boy from a poor family, by any chance?”
Her lashes trembled. “Why does that matter?”
“You said it yourself, Cleona; the bracelet cost him a fortune. Only a very rich man could afford to buy such a trinket casually. If he isn’t the spoiled son of wealthy parents—and I can see by the look on your face that he isn’t—he must have sacrificed a great deal to give you such a gift. So one must ask: what did he hope to gain?”
Her smile was strained. “Are you the ghost of an emperor, or a monk?”
He rolled his eyes, making no reply.
“I’m cold. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She sat down on the steps of the shrine, drawing her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them.
He studied her carefully. After several seconds of silence, he spoke. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking, Cleona.”
She raised her eyes, glittering in the red glow. “I think you’re a horrible, suspicious old man. And that you’ve forgotten what love is . . . if you ever knew.”
“I won’t deny it.” He walked past her, up the steps of the temple. “In life, I was the living god to four hundred billion souls. If I loved anyone, it was my people.”
“Loved your power over them.”
“Power.” He held the word in his mouth like old wine. “Yes. I know much more about power than love.” He paused on the top step. “If you’re cold, we can go inside.”
“It’s sealed with a solid slab. I don’t think I’m strong enough to move it.”
“It doesn’t take strength.” He extended his shining brown fingers toward the door. “Can you read Solari?”
“A little. My father forced me to learn it when I was eight.” She made a face. “Don’t ask me why; I’ve always hated those old dead languages.”
“Come here.”
She stood and peered at the door. The inscription was so worn that it would have been invisible, if not for the ghostly light of Tiberius; his bright hand dimmed the marble, teasing it back to sleep just enough to bring out the faint shadow of the letters.
“Read it aloud.”
“But some of the words are gone.” She glanced at him, reluctant. “I can’t make them all out.”
“The last line is all that matters . . . the others are only there for the sake of art.”
Haltingly, she repeated what was still legible of the verse, fingers trailing along the lines as she struggled to pronounce the archaic words.
“I was a child beneath her touch
A man when breast to breast we clung,
A spirit when her spirit looked through me
A god when . . . our lifeblood ran . . .
Fire within fire, desire in deity.”
Something shifted within the wall, and the door began to slide, screaming in protest as it ground against dry bearings. Cleona slipped in before it was half-open, shrugging through the narrow crack like a cat.
Tiberius hastily followed. Within the tomb, the red glow was much deeper and darker, the veins of stone bright as the cracks in cooling lava. It was a single room, empty except for a plain heartstone altar. On the broad platform, a shining man and woman lay sleeping, curled up nude together—the golden woman lying on her side, her head pillowed on her lover’s arm, while the man cupped her with his polished obsidian body and wound his fingers into her hair.
Cleona bent close, her pale face underlit by the radiance of the sleepers. “They’re not breathing.” She spoke softly, as if afraid to wake them. “Who are they, Tiberius?”
“I don’t know. The man was a Severan emperor. He wears the crest.” He pointed to the pendant hanging from the man’s neck, threaded on a heavy chain of gold.
“She died before him,” the girl said suddenly. “He built the tomb for her, in grief. It must have taken a very long time—years to gather all the stone, years more to have it carved so perfectly—but when he finally passed, he had himself buried here beside her.” She rested her white hand on the dark tabletop, gentle and reverent. “The two of them are lying together under this—just as we see them here.”
“Perhaps.” He was shaken by the conviction in her voice. “We can’t know. The two of them are too ancient . . . even when I was a child, none of the ghosts in the garden remembered their names.”
She looked up suddenly, and he saw the glistening tears on her face. “Help me, Uncle. Please. I know you don’t understand, but I have to see him.” She put a hand to her chest, her voice rising in pitch like a tortured harp string being wound tighter and tighter around its peg. “I’ve never felt a pain like this—I’m dying . . .”
“Don’t . . .” He reached for her, and she stumbled back, startled. Tiberius withdrew his hand slowly, still holding out the open palm. “Don’t cry, Cleona.” He hesitated, awkward and ashamed. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes were enormous golden coins, brimming with tears.
“Of course you must go to him. Some feelings . . . are too strong to be denied.” He seemed to be speaking to himself. “Let me show you the way out. I
never meant to torment you.”
“Uncle! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She rushed toward him, as if to catch him up in her arms. For a moment he could almost feel her embrace—wet cheek pressed into his hollow chest, the smell of warm clean hair—but when he looked down, she had run right through him. There was nothing to do but turn and follow her out into the dark.
* * *
Winter came early one year, and brought war with it. For several nights running, the skies above the garden blazed with battle, and the snow shimmered with a thousand colors of flame.
Tiberius found her on the eastern wall, standing at the parapet of a crumbling tower. She was dressed all in white, a tight-fitting environment suit and a long winter coat; her hair was coiled beneath a cloth cap. He admired her profile silently for a few seconds, dark and still against the burning sky; the imperial crest was hooked to a collar under her chin, sparkling.
“Your father has died.” Tiberius observed. “Congratulations—or condolences. Whichever you prefer.”
She didn’t look away from the battle. “Hello, Uncle. I’ll accept the condolences, for now. It’s a bit early for anything else. Half the empire has risen against me.”
Another voice spoke in the shadows, sly and dripping with irony. “Oh, he knows what that’s like. Don’t you, ‘Uncle’?”
The old man turned toward the corner of the room. “Decimus. Why?”
“War.” The speaker slouched out into the light, smiling. He was young, no more than thirty, black and beautiful, his lean body dressed in a close-fitting red shirt and breeches. His face would have been handsome, were it not so cruel. He had large bronze eyes and sharply sculpted cheekbones, his broad sensual mouth framed by a well-cut mustache and beard. “Wars and fires always wake me. I sleep the rest of the time—everything else is so intolerably boring.”
Cleona had turned swiftly, her pistol drawn; she held it pointed at the center of the stranger’s chest. “Do you know him, Tiberius?”
“Know me? He grew me from a bean.” Decimus turned back to Tiberius and laughed out loud. “You should see your face, old man! She’s a pretty piece of stuff. Who is she? Another of your protégés?”
“Is he dead?” Cleona asked. Her voice was hard as ice; Tiberius smiled silently beside her. She cocked the ancient pistol and it whined eagerly, building up a charge. “If not, he soon will be.”
“Oh, I’m dead all right,” Decimus said bitterly. “Uncle Tiberius saw to that.”
The old man shook his head in disgust. “That was your doing, boy—no one else’s.”
Cleona holstered her pistol and turned her back. “You ghosts can take your squabbles elsewhere. I have worries of my own.”
“ ‘You ghosts’?” Decimus stepped toward her, head tilted to the side quizzically. The old man moved to bar his way, but he wasn’t quick enough; in a twinkling, the man in red was beside her, peering down into her face.
“I remember you now.” He bared his teeth in delight. “I saw you once before—crying about your little pet pilot.”
Cleona jumped. She backed away, casting a quick glance at Tiberius.
“He’s dead, you know.” Decimus purred, eyes slitted in pleasure. He leaned in close, as if to kiss her. “He’s been blown to atoms. Vaporized.”
The old man took a menacing step forward. Decimus giggled, dancing away.
Cleona frowned. “What is he talking about, Tiberius? Is there something I should know?”
“Nothing.” He gave his nephew a warning look. “He’s mad. Best to ignore him.”
Decimus grinned. “Don’t listen to him, girlie.” He peeked over the old man’s shoulder. “He’s a rotten old liar. Always was.”
Tiberius turned his back on Decimus, trying to put himself between the two of them. “There are other towers, Cleona. You can see what’s going on just as easily from there.”
Cleona raised an eyebrow at Tiberius, her face a mask of humorous disbelief. “You expect me to run . . . from that?” She indicated Decimus with a contemptuous flick of her eyes. “Hell, I wouldn’t run from him if he were alive, much less now.”
Decimus snarled. “Run. Then you can pretend that your boy is alive for a few minutes longer.” He laughed to himself. “What was his name again? Castus?”
Cleona froze, a bit of the color draining from her cheeks.
“No, no,” the younger ghost mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “That’s not right. Cassius? Castor? Something like that, wasn’t it?” He shook his head, mumbling to himself. “It was so hard to make out, with all the sniveling . . .” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Casca!”
Her jaw suddenly stiffened in fury, and she turned to Tiberius with eyes blazing. “How exactly does he know that name?”
“I’m dead. I know the names of other dead people.” Decimus smiled like a skull, tapping his temple with one finger.
“I am not to blame,” Tiberius told her quietly. “I do not confide in him now, any more than I did when he was alive. But he is a resident ghost. He could skulk about . . . overhear things.”
“Indeed he could!” Decimus hooted with delight. “ ‘Oh, Casca! Why, why didn’t I take you off the line?’ ” he simpered girlishly, trying to imitate her voice. “ ‘How will I ever live without you?’ ”
Cleona turned her amber eyes toward the younger man, with an expression of undisguised loathing. “History books sometimes lie, but the garden does not. You really are an awful thing, aren’t you?”
Decimus leaned back against the wall, eyes closed and head half-turned toward his shoulder. He shivered with pleasure, listening to the distant scream of energy weapons in the dark. “Such a pretty child,” he sighed. “She carries herself well; doesn’t she? I’d dearly love to hear her scream.” Tiberius shook his head in disgust, and the younger man smiled brightly. “Isn’t this fun, Uncle?”
“I’ve never shared your enthusiasm for petty cruelty.”
Decimus laughed and folded his arms. “And yet you taught me everything I know.”
“Indeed. That is why it pains me to see you. As always.” Tiberius closed his eyes, weary with the weight of centuries.
“Does it?” Cleona’s voice was tender. “Are you suffering, because of him?”
Tiberius turned toward her. “Does that matter?”
“Yes.” Her eyes shimmered with flashing spears of war light, but her voice was kind. “It matters to me.”
“Then yes.” Tiberius waved a hand. “It causes me genuine grief to see him. He shames me. He is a reminder of mistakes I can never unmake.”
“Oh, please.” Decimus rolled his eyes. “As if you had feelings!”
“That will be quite enough.” She wheeled on the younger ghost. Her voice held such a ringing note of command that both men jumped at the sound. “I think it is time that you were laid to rest once and for all, Decimus Severan.”
Decimus sneered. “Dead is dead. What more can you do to me?”
“There is death, and then there is damnatio memoriae.”
The handsome face twisted, racked by a sudden spasm of emotion. “No. No one would do such a thing. It is blasphemy.”
“Someone would do it, or it wouldn’t have a name.” Cleona turned to Tiberius. “And you will show me how it is done.” She turned her left hand palm upward and slowly closed the fist, clenching the gloved fingers like claws. “We will tear him out of this garden like a tumor.”
Tiberius looked down into her eyes, his heart so full of fierce love that he thought it would burst his chest like a mortar shell. “As you wish, my sovereign.”
Something like sweat had broken out on the younger man’s face. “You’re bluffing. If anyone could do that—”
“I would have arranged it before?” Tiberius shook his head. “That was always the trouble with you, Decimus—so little imagination.” He smiled. “I haven’t been sleeping for all these years. I know where they buried you.”
“And when he leads me to your tomb, I will end this.” Cleona
spoke with firm and gentle assurance. She walked toward Decimus, steps slow and predatory. “Regardless of what I must do. I will rip apart your vault like paper. Throw your bones into the street for stray dogs. Leave your mother’s jewels in the gutter for beggars. Smash your sister’s skull under my boot like a wedding glass . . .”
“You can’t do that!” Decimus roared back. He struggled to master himself; when he spoke again, his voice had dropped back to a low, insinuating hiss. “And you wouldn’t. This place is sacred!”
Tiberius gave a bark of laughter. “Is it? Perhaps it was when there were priests to tend it. You killed something far greater than yourself, Decimus, when you put those old men to death.
“No.” Decimus put his hands to his head, as if to shut out their voices. “You can’t. I’m family! Family!”
Cleona shook her head. “No. You are not. I will decide what that word means from now on.” She turned on her heel, her white coat whirling, and disappeared into the snow.
* * *
The sweet drone of bees roused him from torpor many years later. Like an aging bear, Tiberius rose and followed his nose; he wandered out into the garden, drawn by the smell of fine perfume.
She stood against a wall thick with blooming lianas, leaning close to breathe in the fragrance of a trumpet-shaped flower. Her gown was long and dark, its velvet hem sweeping the ground; her hair fell, sleek in whip-thin honey braids, down to the small of her back. One of her hands was pressed there above her rump, as if to ease a nagging pain. When she turned, he saw that her other hand rested on a pregnant belly.
She smiled. “There you are.”
“Here I am.” He cocked his head to look at her, staring so long that she laughed from embarrassment.
“What is it, old man?”
“You. You look . . . lovely.”
She chuckled. “Maternity clothes. Small wonder you like them—I feel like something out of a museum.”
He nodded. “The old styles suit you.” He put the back of his hand to his mouth, clearing his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
She looked up at the summer sky; it was full of gleaming darters, swooping occasionally to snatch a smaller insect out of the air. “Nothing in particular. A warm day, a few canceled appointments. I wanted to get away from people for a while.”
