No one ever knocked on their door. Corscius looked at Decius. “Shall I open it, my lord?” his aide whispered.
Decius shrugged and nodded. What was the alternative?
Corscius rose from his chair, crossed the room, and opened the door. And their lives changed.
Palta was standing there next to a brown-haired man wearing a gray robe. She embraced Corscius. “It’s so good to see you again, Corscius,” she said.
Corscius seemed to be too overcome with emotion to reply. Palta smiled past him at Decius. “And it’s good to see you too, my lord,” she said. “This is Larry Barnes. You may remember him from a hot changing room beneath the Circus Maximus many years ago.”
Ah, he did remember a younger version of the man standing in the doorway. Palta had spoken a great deal about Larry Barnes. And somehow they had found each other. And then they had both found him and Corscius. How astonishing.
“Come in, then,” he said. “Let Palta go, Corscius. She needs to hug me, as well.”
The two guests entered the flat. Seeing them in the small main room, separated from the sleeping area by a dingy curtain, Decius was acutely aware of how low he had fallen.
“But how did you know we were here?” he asked as they settled themselves around the table. Corscius had produced a jug of the local wine, which was far better than anything to be had in Egypt, and poured them each a cup. Then he set out a plate of olives and dates.
“Olef-Nan knew,” Palta replied.
“But how? I didn’t tell her.”
“My lord, when we arrived here I wrote to the director to let her know where we were,” Corscius said. “Forgive my presumption, but no one knows who I am, so I thought it would be safer than a communication from you.”
“Ah, thank you, Corscius. And stop addressing me as ‘my lord’. It will get us in trouble someday.”
“Of course,” Corscius replied. But he wouldn’t do it, Decius knew. Not for long, anyway.
But that didn’t matter. And neither did the size of their flat, or the quality of their wine. Here was Palta, sitting at his table, still alive, still lovely—and happy, it seemed, now that she had found her friend.
“Our story is easy to tell,” Decius said. “We are here. We are alive. And we worry every day that we will be discovered and arrested. But I expect that what you have to tell us will be far more interesting.”
“I believe that you are right,” Palta replied.
Then she and Larry told their story. It lasted long into the night. And when they were done, Decius felt as if he had been reborn.
“And so you want us to come with you to Roma,” he said at the end.
“More than that,” Larry replied. “We need you to come with us. We will defeat the Gallians, but then we will have to rule the empire. We will have priests, but they won’t be enough. The people of Roma loved you. You can gain their support, and you can make sure they are on our side.”
Decius looked at Corscius. “What do you think?” he asked.
“We cannot do otherwise, my lord,” Corscius replied. He was already using “my lord” again.
“Then we shall do it,” Decius said. “And gladly. When do we leave? We will have to book passage on a ship.”
“A ship awaits, my lord,” Palta replied. “We leave when you are ready.”
Borafin
Borafin awoke before dawn, as usual. The room was cold, as usual. Outside, the wind howled, as usual.
He lit the stub of a candle by his bedside, used the chamber pot, gnawed at a hard roll left over from the previous night, and brought the candle over to the table. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the stack of paper on the table. He read the page on top. Was there anything more to be said? Did his words even make sense? Often he didn’t know anymore. He found his ideas and his memories fading and shifting. Had he ever lived in Urbis? Had he ever traveled to other worlds? All that was real was the wind and the sea and the relentless passing of time.
After sunrise, he snuffed out the candle and went downstairs. Livia and Clovis were already there. A large but smoky fire blazed in the stone fireplace, yet the room was still cold. Livia and Clovis were young. They had been lovers once, but no longer, he thought, though they were still friendly enough to each other. They would leave before long, he was sure. Like the others. They wouldn’t want to end up like poor old Metius, wasting away in his room, unable to get warm no matter how they built up the fire for him, raving about ancient grudges.
Now his body lay buried on the headland, overlooking the sea he had come to hate.
Honoria came down in a few moments, and they all made breakfast together. “It will be warmer today, I think,” Honoria said. It was odd, but often she actually seemed to like it here—the silence, the isolation. She still had much to write, long after the rest of them had run out of things to say. He had read it all, of course, and it was good, if wordy—long disquisitions on the structure of government under the priests; biographies of pontifexes, many of whom he scarcely remember from his studies; and, of course, descriptions of the worlds she had visited—how could she remember so much?
“Perhaps we could boil a chicken for dinner,” Clovis suggested.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Honoria said. “That would be good, for a change.”
She too was worried about Clovis and Livia leaving. Clovis in particular was hungry all the time, and he had grown to hate the fish they ate meal after meal. Borafin couldn’t blame him.
After breakfast they set about their daily chores. It was good to have something to do, even if it was as simple as feeding the chickens. By mid-day they were done. Then Borafin tried writing some more, but no words would come.
For Borafin this was the hardest time. This was when the dark thoughts came.
He donned his cloak and went outside, stood on the headland, and stared out to sea. Behind him their home loomed, dark and forbidding. It had once been a fortress of some kind, guarding the western coast of Hibernia, but it had long been abandoned by the time they arrived. They had done what they could to make it habitable, but it would never be anything other than drafty and damp and ill-suited for human habitation.
When the four of them were gone, there would be no one left. Borafin imagined the last of them—it would be Borafin himself, perhaps—sitting by himself, scratching away on his dwindling supply of parchment day after day, knowing that his words would never be read, that his life had been wasted.
Or, afterwards, the fortress standing empty on the windswept headland once again, facing out onto the deserted ocean. Would anyone ever venture into it, someday in the distant future, and find his words—written, perhaps, in a language long forgotten? Would they try to decipher them?
More likely they would use the parchment to feed the fire. A couple of days’ worth of warmth against the bitter winds. What else would they be good for?
And that was when he spotted the ship.
At first he wasn’t sure. He had been mistaken before. His eyes weren’t what they used to be. But he stayed there on the headland, staring out at the dot on the horizon, and it grew and gained form, until finally he raced inside and brought the others out to share his excitement, or tell him he had gone mad.
“It is a ship,” Clovis agreed.
“What does it mean?” Livia asked. “We thought that soldiers, if they ever came for us, would arrive overland. Why would someone come here by ship?”
“Perhaps it is heading elsewhere,” Clovis suggested.
But no, the dot on the horizon grew steadily larger. It was coming towards them.
“What do you think?” Borafin asked Honoria.
Honoria said nothing. She was afraid, he knew—and not just by the prospect of soldiers finally arriving. She had long ago stopped taking her turn walking to the distant village for supplies, claiming her joints were too sore. It had been two years or more since she had seen another human being besides the three of them.
“They will have to anchor offshore and row a
boat to shore,” Livia said.
“Should we do anything with the manuscripts?” Clovis asked.
That was always the question. The manuscripts were why they were here. What would they do with them if the soldiers came? They had discussed this. They had a plan. “I will burn them if we need to,” Honoria said. “Just give the signal.”
“We can’t burn them,” Livia said, tears in her eyes. “We just can’t.”
“Of course we can,” Honoria replied. “We burned the schola. We can burn these few books.”
“Surely it won’t come to that,” Borafin said.
“Let us hope not,” Honoria said. “But we must prepare.”
Along with Clovis and Livia, Borafin made his way down the winding rutted path that led to the narrow beach where a boat would have to land. Honoria stayed at the top of the path, awaiting their signal.
The three of them stood there, looking out to sea. Time passed. The ship came to anchor a few hundred paces off shore and stayed there, bobbing on the waves. “What now?” Clovis demanded. Borafin didn’t respond. Finally they saw a boat being lowered into the water, then people clambering down a rope ladder into it.
Who would come here, Borafin thought, except soldiers in search of priests? Surely someone in the village had made a guess—it wouldn’t be so hard. They were not natives; they kept to themselves; they seemed not to do any work. They were priests who were hiding from the Gallians. And that person had told someone, who had told someone else…
But why were the soldiers coming by sea?
Perhaps other soldiers were coming by land, leaving them no escape—not that they had anywhere to escape to.
They had been here so long, it was hard to imagine being anywhere else. It was home, he thought. As strange as it seemed, it was where they belonged.
“Can you make out anything?” he asked the others.
“Not yet,” Clovis said.
“I don’t see sunlight glinting off metal,” Livia said. “Wouldn’t they have swords?”
Of course they’d have swords.
Whoever they were, they were making good progress. Rowing with the tide, he realized. It would be over soon. He turned and looked up the path. Honoria was standing there, ready for his signal.
“I think these are not soldiers,” Clovis said quietly.
“It is Lamathe!” Livia shouted. “I see Lamathe! And Samos!”
She rushed out into the frigid water, and Clovis followed. Borafin walked up to the edge of the water and stared at the men waving to him from the boat. Yes, yes, yes! Borafin’s spirit soared as he realized that there would be no soldiers, no imprisonment, no torture. Only old, dear friends whom he never expected to see again.
“Come, Honoria! Come!” he shouted. “It’s all right! Everything is all right!”
Lamathe and Samos stumbled out of the boat as it slid to a halt on the rocky beach. “Oh my friends, it’s good to see you!” Lamathe said as they all embraced. “We arrive with amazing news. Are the others in the fortress?”
“Ah, there is only Honoria,” Borafin said. “The others have died or gone away. It has been a long time.”
Lamathe shook his head sadly. “Yes, it was much the same in Alexandria. But it is all going to change. I cannot wait to tell you.”
They pulled the boat up onto the beach and made their way up to the fortress. Honoria met them on the path, weeping. “Oh, I did not expect this,” she gasped. “Oh, Lamathe. And Samos. Come, come.”
They went inside. Clovis put more wood on the fire, and Livia got out the jug of whiskey they hadn’t touched since the death of Metius. If ever there was a cause for celebration, this was it. Then they sat in front of the fire, and Lamathe and Samos told their story.
It could not have been stranger, or more welcome. Lamathe and Samos had met Hieron? Someone had built a Via in their garden? They thought they could bring down the Gallians by themselves, without soldiers, without gants? They had come all this way to bring their fellow priests to Roma with them? Perhaps the long years of isolation and tedium had driven the two of them mad.
Borafin had not known Samos well, but he had attended the schola with Lamathe. Lamathe was not mad. And Borafin believed him.
But did he believe this plan would work?
Honoria put his doubts into words. “I fear that you have deluded yourselves,” she said to them. “These are wondrous events, surely, but how can you expect to bring down the Gallians, even with Hieron and Affron? Why did you not use this Via you possess to obtain gants? Perhaps then you would have a chance.”
Lamathe shrugged. “Hieron and Affron both refused to use gants. They will not do this with violence.”
“But you said the other one—what is his name?—has a weapon.”
“Larry is his name,” Lamathe replied. “And yes, he has brought a weapon from his home world. But he does not intend to harm anyone with it. It will simply demonstrate our powers.”
Honoria looked as if she was going to weep again. “You are asking all of us to trust you, to travel to Roma with you,” she said. “But if we fail, our cause is doomed. Everything we have been working for—here and in Egypt—will have been wasted, because there will be no one left to carry it on.”
“If we do not try, we may not have another chance,” Samos pointed out. “Terra may not have another chance.”
“But what are you doing with your manuscripts? Surely you are not leaving them unattended, for others to find and read.”
“We left Theodosius and Karellia behind in Alexandria,” Lamathe said. “They will bury the most important of them. After they leave for Roma, we have friends in Alexandria who will make sure the rest of them are safe.”
Honoria merely shook her head, as if these precautions seemed far from sufficient.
“Well, I’m going,” Clovis said. “How can we stay here? How can we not return to Roma?”
“I will go too,” Livia added. “Perhaps the plan will fail, but we must attempt it. We have done all we can here. The time has come.”
Honoria looked at Borafin. As did Lamathe and the others. Borafin gazed back at Honoria. She is afraid to leave, he thought. Not because the plan might fail, but because she might fail. She was too used to her life here. She would not know what to do in Roma, how to act, how to live. Borafin grasped her hand. “I too will go,” he said. “Please come with us.”
She shook her head, her eyes filled with tears. “Someone must stay here and guard our manuscripts,” she said. “If you are successful, come back for me.”
“You will be alone, Honoria,” Lamathe pointed out.
“Others can stay with me if they choose.”
“What if you become ill?” Livia asked.
“Then I will die. We all die someday.”
The room fell silent.
“Very well,” Lamathe said. “We have no time to waste—we have a long voyage ahead of us. We will leave tomorrow.”
So it was decided.
Borafin wanted to try one more time to change Honoria’s mind, but instead she tried to change his. “They will fail, you know,” she said to him the next day, as the others prepared to leave. “We can be happy here, whether they succeed or fail.”
“I won’t be happy here,” Borafin replied. “Not if I know I could be helping them. In any case, I want to see Roma and Urbis again before I die. I want to use Via. I want to help Terra. Do you not want these things?”
She did not respond for a while, and then she shook her head. “It seems that I no longer care. You go, Borafin. I will be fine. And if I’m not fine, I have only myself to blame.”
And as he left her there and went down to the beach and got in the boat with the others. As they rowed away he looked up and saw Honoria, alone on the headland, raising her hand in a final salute. He raised his hand as well, and then he watched as she turned her back on them and disappeared into the fortress.
Fifty-Two
Affron
Affron began building his own portal
.
It wasn’t easy. Perhaps it would never be easy. But now, in particular, it was difficult, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to do this.
He didn’t want to leave Elysium, but he knew that he had to.
He had promised to help the others save Terra, but he didn’t think he, or they, would succeed. More likely they would all be captured or killed. Or he would be forced to use that strange power he and Larry possessed, and end up like Jubal and Veronique. The power was still inside him, he knew, and it might come out in spite of himself in a moment of danger or anger. That had happened before, and those had not been happy moments. Now that he had seen Jubal and Veronique and the others, those moments seemed terrifying.
No one had to worry about such things on Elysium.
He complained to Amelia every night. She comforted him every night. “We are more powerful than our enemies,” she said. “And far smarter.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Affron replied. “Or perhaps the others are deluding themselves. Lamathe and the priests need to do something or their lives will have been wasted. Larry needs to make up for handing the empire to the Gallians. And Hieron—his life’s work has been destroyed. He has to set things right. But what is any of this to me?”
“They are your friends. It is your home. You must try.”
“There are other versions of my home.”
“But this is the version that you lived. This is the one that brought you here, to me.”
Affron could not argue with that. So he went into the woods and built his portal. He had time, of course. The others back on Terra had vast distances to travel to get the people they needed and bring them to Roma. And if they arrived before him, they would wait for him; they had nothing better to do.
Eventually the portal was done, and it was time to leave. Amelia was there, along with Hieron and Lucia and Rigol, who gave him a purse filled with gold for the expenses he would incur on Terra. He embraced them all. “I’ll be back when we’re ready,” he said.
“We’ll be here,” Amelia said, smiling. She kissed him, and then pushed him into the portal. He took a step, and then another step, and he was standing in an alley. It was cold out. The alley smelled of garbage. A black cat stared at him; he stared at the cat. “Am I in Roma?” he asked.
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