“I am not going in.” Ronik dropped his eyes. “It would be wrong to do so.” Cam rose on his saddle. “There’s a light,” he whispered.
Falon saw it. A red glow flickered in the plaza, on the underside of the trees. “A fire,” he said.
“It’s near the tomb.” Cam turned his horse back toward the gate.
Ronik moved to follow, paused, and clasped Falon’s arm to draw him along.
Falon tried to ignore his own rising fear. “Are we children to be frightened off because someone has built a fire on a cool night?”
“We don’t know what it might be.” Cam’s voice had grown harsh. Angry. His customary arrogance had drained away “We should wait until daylight, and then see who it is.”
Falon could not resist: “Now who’s afraid?”
“You know me better,” said Cam. “But it is not prudent to fight at night.”
Ronik was tugging at Falon. “Let’s go. We can retire to a safe distance in the hills. Stay there tonight and return to camp tomorrow. No one would ever know.”
“We would have to lie,” said Falon. “They will ask.”
“Let them ask. If anyone says I am afraid—,” Cam gripped his sword hilt fiercely, “—I will kill him.”
“Do as you will,” said Cam. “Come on, Ronik.”
Falon shook free of his friend’s hand. Ronik sighed and began to follow Cam toward the gate, watching the plaza as he went. Falon was about to start after them when Ronik, good decent Ronik, who had been his friend all his life, spoke the words that pinned him inside the city: “Come with us, Falon. It’s no disgrace to fear the gods.”
And someone else replied with Falon’s voice: “No. Carik and I will stay.”
“Ziu does not wish it. His will is clear.”
“Ziu is a warrior. He is not vindictive. I do not believe he will harm me. I will stay the night. Come for me at dawn.”
“Damn you.” Cam’s mount moved first one way and then another. “Farewell, then.” He laughed through his anger. “We’ll see you in the morning. I hope you’ll still be here.” They wheeled their horses and fled, one swiftly, the other with reluctance.
Falon listened to the gathering silence.
Be at my side, divine one.
The fire in the plaza seemed to have gone out.
Just as well. He would leave it alone. He rode deliberately into the city, down the center of the avenue, past rows of shattered walls and open squares. Past broken buildings. Carik’s hoofbeats were soft, as if he too sensed the need for stealth.
He entered a wide intersection. To his left, at the end of a long street, the temple came into view. The city lay silent and vast about him. He dismounted and spoke to Carik, rubbing his muzzle. Leaves swirled behind him, and Falon glanced fretfully over his shoulder.
Moonlight touched the temple.
He decided against sleeping in the plaza. Better to camp out of the way. He found a running spring and a stout wall on the east side of the avenue. Anything coming from the direction of the tomb or the temple would have to cross a broad space.
Falon removed the saddle, loosened the bit, and hobbled the animal. He set out some grain and sat down himself to a meal of nuts and dried beef. Afterward he rubbed Carik down and took a final look around. Satisfied that he was alone, he used animal skins and his saddle to make a bed, placed his weapons at hand, and tried to sleep.
It did not come. Proud that he alone had stayed within the city, he was nonetheless fearful of what might be creeping up on him in the dark. He listened for sounds and sometimes stationed himself where he could watch the approaches.
But in all that rubble, nothing moved. The smell of grass was strong, insects buzzed, the wind stirred. A few paces away, Carik shook himself.
Then, as he was finally drifting off, he heard a sound: a footstep perhaps, or a falling rock. He glanced at the horse, which stood unconcerned. Good: Carik could see over the wall, and if something were coming, he would sound a warning.
Beneath the skins, he pressed his hand against the goat’s horn to assure himself it was still there. And then drew his sword closer.
Somewhere he heard the clink of metal. Barely discernible, a whisper in the wind.
The horse heard it too. Carik turned his head toward the temple.
Falon got to his feet and looked out across the ruins. A deeper darkness had fallen over the thoroughfares and courtyards. The temple, no longer backlit by the moon, stood cold and silent.
The sound came again.
A few gray streaks had appeared in the east. Morning was coming. He could honorably retreat, leave the city and its secrets, and still claim credit for having stayed the night.
A light flickered on again in the plaza.
He couldn’t see it directly, but shadows moved across the face of the temple.
He shivered.
“Wait,” he told Carik, at last, and slipped over the wall.
Rubble and starlight.
He crept down a dark street, crossed an intersection, passed silently through a courtyard and moved in behind a screen of trees.
The tomb glowed in the light of a lantern. A robed figure crouched on hands and knees at its base. The face was hidden within the folds of a hood.
The figure was scratching in the dirt. It stopped, grunted, looked at something in its hand, and flipped the object away. Falon heard it bounce.
The entire area around the tomb was dug up. Piles of earth were heaped everywhere, and a spade leaned against a tree.
Falon surveyed the plaza, noted sparks from a banked campfire behind a wall to the north. Saw no one else.
The hooded figure picked up a second object and seemed to examine it. He turned so that the light from the lantern penetrated the folds of the hood. He was human.
Falon breathed easier.
He was collecting what appeared to be broken statuary. One piece looked like an arm. And suddenly, with a swirl of robes, the figure raised his lantern, picked up a stick, and looked directly toward Falon. Falon stepped out of the trees.
The man watched him warily. “Who are you?” he asked.
The voice suggested that he was accustomed to deference. “I am Falon the Kortagenian.” He showed the stranger his right hand in the universal sign that he was not hostile.
“Greeting, Falon,” said the robed man. “I am Edward the Chronicler.” The light played across his features. They were cheerful but wary. He wore an unkempt beard, and he looked well fed.
“And what sort of chronicle do you compose, Edward, that you dare the spirits of this place?”
Edward seemed to relax. “If you are really interested, it is indeed the spirits I pursue. For if they live anywhere on the earth, it is surely here.” He held the lamp higher so he could see Falon’s face. “A boy,” he said. “Are you alone, young man?”
Edward was short. His head was immense, too large even for the corpulent body that supported it. He had a tiny nose, and his eyes were sunk deep in his flesh.
“I am not a boy,” said Falon. “As you will discover to your sorrow should you fail to show due respect.”
“Ah.” Edward bowed. “Indeed I shall. Yes, you may rely on it.”
“Edward-that-pursues-spirits: what is your clan?”
The dark eyes fastened on him from within the mounds of flesh. “I am late of Lausanne. More recently of Brighton.” He eased himself onto a bench and drew back his hood. The man would have been the same age as his father, but this one was a different sort: he had never ridden hard. “What brings you to this poor ruin in the dead of night?”
“I was passing and saw lights.” Yes. That sounded fearless. Let the stranger know he was dealing with a man who took no stock in demons and devils.
“Well,” offered Edward, in the manner of one who was taking charge, “I am grateful for the company.”
Falon nodded. “No doubt.” He glanced surreptitiously at the tomb, at the open vault. At the passageway into the interior. “Your accent is strange
, Edward.”
“I am Briton by birth.”
Falon had met others from the misty land. He found them gloomy, pretentious, overbearing. It seemed to him they rarely spoke their minds. “Why are you here?”
Edward sighed. “I would put a name to one of the spirits and answer a question.” He picked up a leather bag. “May I offer you something to eat?”
“No. Thank you, but I have no need.” He looked at the Briton. “What is the question?”
Edward’s eyes were unsettling. “Falon, do you know who built this place?”
“No. Some of our elders think it has always been here.”
“Not very enlightening. It was constructed ages ago by a race we barely remember.”
“And who were they, this forgotten race?”
He seemed to think about it. “Romans,” he said.
Falon ran the name across his lips. “I have never heard of them.”
Edward nodded. Branches creaked. The flame in the lantern wobbled. “The world is full of their temples. You undoubtedly rode in on their highway. The hand that built this city created others like it from Britain to the valley of the Tigris. They devised a system of laws, and gave peace to the world. But today the Romans and their name are dust.”
Too many words for Falon. “What happened to them?”
“That is the issue of the moment. To discover what force can initiate the decline and cause the fall of such power.”
“Only the gods.”
“The gods are dead.” That bald statement, impious and blasphemous, shocked him. But Edward seemed not to notice. “They were lost with their worshippers.”
Falon muttered a quick prayer. He had never heard that kind of talk before. “Why were the worshippers lost?” he asked. “What happened to them?”
He sat down on a piece of broken marble. “Maybe lost is the wrong word. Better to say forgotten.”
“And why were they forgotten?”
“Because they failed to create an institution independent from the state that could carry their memory forward.”
Falon nodded, not understanding, but not wishing to betray his ignorance.
“A society of scholars might have done it,” Edward continued. “Or an academy. A foundation. Even, for God’s sake, a church.”
Falon shrugged. “What do you seek here?”
Edward looked into the vault. “The identity of the occupant.”
The night air was cold. “Then you are indeed too late,” he said finally, pushing a piece of rubble aside with his foot. He looked at the statue, half-assembled like a puzzle. There was part of a leg, a trunk, a shoulder, a shield. The leg matched the figure atop the tomb. The shield was emblazoned with the same sword device that marked the front of the vault.
“No,” said the Briton. “I think not.” He shifted his position trying to get comfortable.
“Then who is he?” Falon asked.
Edward clasped his hands in his sleeves to warm them. “A matchless commander. The hero who might have prevented the general disaster. Dead now these fourteen hundred years, more or less. The chronicles are sometimes conflicting.” He straightened his robe, adjusted it across his shoulders. “Does the name Maxentius mean anything to you?”
“No,” said Fallon.
“He was a tyrant who controlled the Roman capital when this city was young. A vicious, licentious, incompetent coward.” Edward’s eyes locked with his. “Under his sway, no man’s dignity was safe, nor any woman’s honor. Wives and daughters were dragged before him and abused. Those who protested were put to death. The people were enslaved. The soldiers were the only order of men he respected. He filled his land with armed troops, connived at their assaults against the common people, and encouraged them to plunder and massacre. He was a symbol of all that went wrong with the Empire.”
Falon’s hand fell to his weapon. “I would gladly have ridden against this monster.”
The Briton nodded. “There was one who did. His name was Constantine, and I have no doubt he would have welcomed you to his cause.”
Falon felt a surge of pride.
“Constantine appears to have recognized that the Empire, which was fragmented in his time, was disintegrating. But he laid plans how it might be preserved. Or, if it were already too late, and collapse could not be prevented, he considered how its essence might be passed on.” Edward shook his head. “Had he been able to defeat Maxentius, things might have been different.”
“He failed, then?”
“He was a reluctant crusader, Falon. And he marched against Maxentius only when the tyrant threatened to invade his domain.”
“I cannot approve such timidity.”
Edward smiled, “I would be disappointed if you did. But Constantine wished to conserve the peace and welfare of his realm.”
“And where was his realm?”
“Britain. And here.”
“But I do not understand.” Falon grasped Edward’s shoulder. “If this Constantine was a commander of great ability, as you have said, how did it happen he did not prevail?”
“Heroes do not win all engagements,” Edward said slowly. “Maxentius sent army after army against him. Constantine swept them away. Most of the Italian cities between the Alps and the Po acknowledged his power and embraced his cause. And at last he appeared before Rome itself. The seat of the tyrant.” Edward paused. They were exposed out here and the wind cut through Falon’s vest. The Briton looked at him. “Are you cold?”
“No. Please go on.”
“Maxentius had by far the larger army. He also had armored cavalry, a type of opponent you will never see. Fortunately. But he chose not to rely on military force alone.” He broke off and walked into the shadows. Moments later he returned with a woven garment for the young warrior.
Falon took it, thanked him, and pulled it over his shoulders.
Edward resumed his seat. “There was, across the Tiber, a bridge that connected the city with the plain. This was the Milvian Bridge. Maxentius directed his engineers to weaken it. When they had done so, he rode out to engage the invader.
“Constantine was waiting, and the armies attacked each other. It was a ferocious combat, and advantage passed back and forth, from one side to the other. The issue remained uncertain through much of the day. But gradually, Constantine’s troops gained the upper hand.”
“Now,” urged Falon, “strike the chief.”
“Yes,” said Edward. “One might almost think you were there. And he did. He rallied his personal guard and drove the tyrant onto the bridge. But Maxentius had foreseen this eventuality, had planned for it. He retreated across the treacherous span. Unmindful of caution, Constantine pursued, bleeding from a dozen wounds.
“And in that terrible hour, when Constantine had reached the center of the bridge, the tyrant gave the signal, and the structure was dropped into the Tiber.”
“The coward,” snarled Falon. And then philosophically, “Valor is not always sufficient to the day. Constantine need not be ashamed.”
“No, certainly not.”
“And did there arise a hero to avenge him?”
“Yes. But that is another story, for the avenger lacked political wisdom, and soon after his success, the Empire’s lights dimmed and went out. Then the world fell into a night that has had no dawn.”
“But what connection has the tale with this vault?”
Edward held out the lamp. “Perhaps you would care to inspect it with me?”
“No.” He drew away. “No, I would not do so.” To invade the resting place of the dead was to invite bad luck.
The Briton rose. “As you wish.” He smiled, the way one does with a child. “But for me, the moment is at hand.” He excused himself and walked into the vault. Falon watched him go. Remembered the condescending smile. And decided that as long as he didn’t touch anything he’d probably be all right. So he followed.
It was damp and cold. Mulch and earth and weeds covered the floor. The walls were moldy and cracked.
The ceiling was low. Falon had to duck his head.
“There were rumors,” said Edward, “that Constantine survived his fall into the Tiber. One account, of which I have a copy, maintained that he was taken injured and half-drowned to a friendly but unnamed city. According to this account, he lived in that city one year. Others say three. It’s difficult to be sure what really happened. The best sources agree that he hoped to lead another army against Maxentius. But apparently he never fully recovered from his injuries—.” Edward shrugged. “I’ve looked many years for the truth.”
“And how would you know the truth?”
“Easily. Find his tomb.” He kicked away dead leaves and dirt and pointed toward scratches on the stone floor. “Here is where his sarcophagus would have been placed. His armor would have been stored on the shelf.”
“For use in a future world?” asked Falon.
“Perhaps in a better world.”
“Then this is his tomb?”
“Oh, yes, I am quite satisfied on that score. Yes: unquestionably he was interred here.”
Falon wondered how he could possibly know such things.
“He talked of building a second Rome, in the east.” His voice filled with regret. “Something to survive.”
The smoke thrown up by the lantern was growing thick. Edward lapsed into silence. He coughed, tried to wave away the noxious cloud. “We’re done here,” he said.
“Good.” Falon seized Edward’s elbow and steered him back up into the starlight. The air was clean and tasted good. “But how can you be sure this is his tomb? No name is engraved on it.”
“Nevertheless, it is marked quite clearly. Look behind you.” He pointed at the partly-assembled statue. “Look at the shield.”
A burst of wind pulled at his garment.
Edward held the lantern close. In its flickering light, Falon saw only the curious sword. On the vault, and on the shield.
“It was his device,” Edward said.
Falon pressed his fingers against it. “How can you be so certain? There are many who use weapon devices.”
Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt Page 27