The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  Maxian flinched from raw, violent memory. Images of his immediate past came to mind. "I am seeking peace," he said in a choked voice. "I have done evil things. I have lost my way."

  Paiawon nodded, looking up at the night sky. "This is a place where evil things were done. Perhaps the gods guided you here, matching like to like."

  Maxian stiffened, a flicker of anger roused in him. "There are no gods," he said sharply. Paiawon was looking at him with a calm expression, the cut branch tapping on the stones. "I am not evil."

  "Can you be a good man yet do evil things?"

  Maxian bit his lip. Horribly vivid memory filled his mind. The flames burning in the circle of stones seemed to echo the violence of an exploding mountain.

  "If," said Paiawon, leaning forward, his face glowing in the warm firelight, "if you saw another man, someone whom you did not know, and heard the priests extol the roll of his acts, and these acts were the ones that you yourself have committed, would you call that man evil?"

  "I… there were many reasons for these things! There were accidents, there were miscalculations! Some things… they seemed the right and proper thing to do at the time."

  Paiawon laughed softly, then flicked his branch out of the fire. It had begun to smoke. "Lord Maxian, is there evil in the world?"

  "Yes," said Maxian after a moment. "Yes, there is."

  "Are there gods above who set that which is evil from that which is good?"

  "No, I do not believe so." Maxian's voice was firm and confident.

  "Why do you feel there are no gods? Everyone else believes in them. Their temples are legion."

  "I can see the true heart of the world." Maxian's face was stiff, his voice harsh. "I can bend the world to my will, call the storm and clouds. All these things that gods are said to drive, I can see their true natures… there are no mysteries, there is no place for the gods to hide."

  Paiawon smiled gently, shaking the branch so that embers fell away from the leaves. Smoke beaded off, making whorls in the air.

  "If this is so," said the boy, "then who says what is evil and what is good? Do men?"

  "Yes." Maxian was fingering the hem of his cloak. It was shredded and thick with grime. "Our conscience tells us. Our morality tells us."

  "Then, man, have you done evil?"

  Maxian stared at the boy, with his harmonious features and his liquid, mellow voice, sitting across the fire. Memory was hot in him, bright with the pain and suffering that he had caused by his own hand.

  Vesuvius burned, a hot cloud of deadly gas billowing out of the shattered cone.

  Tens of thousands cried out in fear, perishing under a rain of burning ash and flaming meteors.

  The body of a child writhed under his fingers, burning with black fire.

  The old Persian's eyes were round in horror as Maxian's thumb seared his forehead with the mark of servitude.

  Men, trying desperately to bring him down, incandesced to ash as he raised a radiant hand.

  The high priest of the magi crumpled, felled by an angry burst of violet lightning.

  A hot joy burned in Maxian's breast as he struck out at the ghost form of his brother.

  "No, I am not evil!" Maxian was standing, the fire leaping up. Wind eddied in the bowl of the hill, stirring leaves and a cloud of dust. Debris swam in a cloud at the edge of firelight, sparkling and hazing the air. "I did… I did these things for the Senate and for the people of Rome. I am trying to save them from wretchedness and slavery. Their backs are breaking under the burden of the Oath! You've never seen their pale, barren, hopeless faces!"

  "Was Krista wretched? Did her back bend under the weight of this power you have set yourself against? Did this Oath kill her?"

  Maxian recoiled, his hand raised in a motion of warding. The boy continued to sit, staring up at him with guileless eyes. The Prince tried to speak but his tongue refused to move. He spit, clearing his mouth, and said: "How do you know her name? What are you?"

  Pai pointed at the tilted stone with his cut branch. "When you were sleeping, you cried out, begging her for forgiveness." The leafy cluster moved, pointing at Maxian's chest. "Did you kill her? This woman whom you loved?"

  Maxian slumped to the ground, fists clenched. "I did. It was… an accident. She leapt out of the darkness. My shield of fire was in full spate. She was destroyed. She… was trying to kill me."

  Pai stood and placed the cut branch on the ground. He stepped around the fire, bare feet light on the ground. The boy bent close, his soft voice whispering in Maxian's ear. His fingers brushed aside the Prince's oily hair, exposing a glassy scar. "Why did she set herself against you? Didn't she love you? Didn't you love her?"

  "I did," the Prince wailed, grinding his head against the ground. "I thought… I thought she loved me too. There were tears in her eyes when she… when she…"

  Pai ran a thumb over the scar. "This wound would kill any mortal. How did you survive?"

  "I called upon the mountain; it filled me with strength, more strength than I had ever commanded. It was a simple matter to close the wound, to repair shattered bone."

  "Was there a cost for that? You traffic in the hidden world; does power come without cost?"

  "No," Maxian gasped, trying to control his voice. He refused to break down, not in the face of this boy. "The power in the mountain demanded release… I gave it. I traded for my life."

  "You traded the lives of twenty thousand men and women and children for your own."

  Maxian could not answer.

  "Do you see their faces when you sleep?" The boy's voice gentled, becoming barely audible. "Do you hear their cries for mercy, for salvation? Do you hear them choking on the poisonous air?"

  "Yes." Maxian shuddered again. "Even when I am awake, I can hear them."

  "Is this an evil thing?"

  "Yes!" Maxian shouted at the earth, for he could not look up. "I have murdered so that I could live. It was an evil thing. I did it. I chose to live."

  The boy stood, his face still smiling and calm.

  "Yet, you say that you are not evil. You have murdered, kidnapped, lied, stolen, murdered again, violated temples and sacred places, trafficked with the dead, foresworn the gods, put your will upon others that they might do your bidding, sent thousands to a horrible death… and slain, with your own hand, one whom you loved. Are these not the acts of a madman, of someone consumed by evil?"

  "I am not evil! I am… not. I cannot be! I am a healer, a priest of the god Asklepius, I am a good man!"

  The boy shook his head sadly and turned away from the crying man. He knelt and picked up a wooden bow and its hooded case and slung them over his shoulder. He picked up the cut laurel branch and thrust it into his belt.

  "If there are no gods to divide good from evil, then men must do so themselves. You must decide. Let your actions suit your words."

  Paiawon stepped into the darkness, out of the firelight, and was gone.

  The slowly whirling cloud of dust and leaves and twigs hissed to the ground. Maxian lay prostrate on the ground by the dying fire.

  – |Dawn found the Prince sitting on the highest point of the hill. The air was brilliantly pure and everything was crisp and distinct. With the haze gone, he could pick out the white strand of the beach and then, a mile or more across the dark water, a farther shore. He remembered nothing after Pai's departure. Perhaps he had slept without dreams. He felt empty, like a jug poured out onto the ground. For the moment, in this quiet, soft dawn, he was at peace. Everything was still, both in the land and in his mind.

  Am I evil or good? Can I find a way to repay the people for these crimes I have committed against them?

  Would the Oath allow him to live? He had struck a powerful blow against it, this seemed clear. The pattern of the Oath, fixing the rhythm and motion of Roman life, had not allowed Vesuvius to erupt. The matrices had constrained the volcano, bottling up the slowly building power in the earth. The two forces had reached a balance point long ago. Only the sudden int
ervention of Maxian and his struggle for life on the summit had allowed that balance to tip. The result had been far more violent, the devastation more expansive, than if the matrices of the Oath had allowed nature to follow its course.

  I should not have remained on the mountain. If I had just left when I intended, none of this would have happened.

  Maxian rubbed his hands together. It was cold. Soon the wind would come up and it would be chillier still on the hilltop, even in the hot sun. He should have gone back to his brother, should have explained everything and accepted whatever punishment Galen deemed sufficient. He should have laid aside his reckless task and accepted the way of things.

  Can I still? Will the Oath allow me to live, a fly trapped in the amber of its invisible structures and forms? Can I find a way to coexist, when I have set myself against it for so long? Wait…

  A thought blossomed in his mind, a simple, plain thought. His eyes widened. There was another way to resolve this, something so obvious it had escaped his attention.

  Oh, blessed gods, I am truly an idiot!

  A sick feeling washed over him. There had been so much suffering and death for nothing. Krista was dead, trying to keep him from further murder, for not so much as a copper. The solution to his problem was so obvious he must have been blind…

  "Wait," Maxian said aloud to the laurel trees and thick stands of grass at the foot of the stone he was sitting on. Some ravens in the nearest tree cawed back at him, fluttering their black wings. "What is this pressure?"

  There was a pressure, subtle but distinct, against his will. In the hurly-burly of the day, as he went about his normal business, it would be unnoticeable. The Prince frowned, turning his attention inward. His eyes closed and his breathing deepened. He let his sight and vision in the hidden world unfold. With a great effort, for he had never done such a thing before, he stepped outside of himself. His body sat before him, eyes closed, legs crossed under him in the Persian style. The first zephyr of the day stirred his long hair. With great care, he allowed himself to become aware of his shape in the transparent world.

  It was difficult, for his spirit burned like a star. It seemed that thousands of tiny points of light crowded in him, each flickering brilliantly. The dragon coil of his self burned brightest of all, surrounded by bright constellations. He let his thought roam, following the patterns that formed muscle and blood and heart.

  There!

  Not a lesion, not a scar, but a wraith of pale filaments that stirred and drifted at the core of his self. His thought approached and the pattern swelled in his true sight. It was beautiful and subtle and cunningly worked. It threaded into thought and memory and intent like a lover, curled close to the sleeping body of her partner.

  What is this? The Prince marveled, for it was a work of art. Some master had built this, a feather-light pressure upon waking deed and desire. He reached out, touching it gently, letting it respond to him, letting it unfold like a swift-blooming flower to show itself.

  Friend, it radiated, warm and inviting. We are friends, you and I. What I will, you will. What I desire, you desire. The pressure was so soft and faint, so gentle, that Maxian felt himself listening in joy. There was a great sense of rightness in the pattern, as if it were the only possible path that could be followed.

  The shield of Rome, it whispered, must be destroyed. It is foul, unconscionable, and abhorrent to free citizens. Let this lamia of the soul be cast down in ruin. See how it murders the sleeping, the innocent? See how it strangles the future in the crib? Here is a tyrant, a king, who rules the people in secret!

  Maxian recoiled with a jolt. The maker's touch burned in his mind. He knew the deft fingers and the agile will that had bound such a thing, crafted such an elegant pattern. The Prince felt sick. This was the touch of a dear friend.

  Maxian was sleeping on a narrow cot, his head on a thin pillow. The little storeroom was crowded with bags of herbs and odd-smelling boxes. He was snoring, the thin blanket pulled tight around him. Abdmachus stood in the doorway, warming his hands with a copper lantern. The old Nabatean looked down upon the young man intently. The Persian agent's brow furrowed in concentration and he raised a single finger, quickly tracing the glyph for friend in the air before him. On the cot, Maxian moaned a little and turned over, hiding his face.

  "How is this? Am I a toy, a puppet, to the will of a dead man?"

  The Prince was filled with anger and despair. Here was a subtle touch upon his mind, placed there by a man he had counted as a friend. Maxian moved cautiously, his will drawing strength from the array of floating stars that were close at hand. Their power filled him and he struck.

  The filaments, seized by his thought, shuddered, screamed and then ripped free. With great determination, he hunted them down, even the smallest thread, and excised them from his mind. These were cancers, he thought with barely restrained anger. Not a great thing, but enough to turn his path, nudging every step a fraction, until he walked as the Persian magi wished, against his own people, against his brother, against the state that had raised him and given him purpose.

  Maxian returned to his waking mind and his body shook for a moment. Then a brilliant wash of light spilled out over the hilltop, making the stones and cracked columns stand out, even in the morning sun. When it had passed, the Prince stood, his face grim, on the summit. His tattered cloak was clean and whole again, the glassy scar on the side of his head vanished, his torn boots mended.

  "Thank you, shepherd," he called out, over the tangled brush and vines. "I will remember your words. I will strive to erase the black stain on me with actions accounted good. I have committed grave crimes against the people and the state and my sworn oath as a physician. I will bend all my effort to repairing this broken trust. I am going home."

  With that, he climbed down from the boulder and began walking downhill towards the sea. As he clambered amongst fallen trees and stones, he sent forth a call, arrow swift, to the south. The crippled Engine was waiting for him offshore near Pergamum, hidden in shallow water. It was severely damaged but it could still fly.

  Come, foal of iron, child of the Medusa, he called. I need your swift wings and steel heart. I would be home and you my steed to carry me there.

  The Prince passed between two slender oaks and disappeared into a thicket of tamarisk.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Villa of the Fauns, Outside Rome

  Ila woke in darkness, hearing a strange sound. She was curled up with a mended old quilt and a thin straw pillow. It was a small bed, really no more than a box bolted to the side of the wagon. Beneath were two cabinets filled with tent stakes, ropes, flags and boxes of carefully hoarded brass nails. Cautiously, she looked around, seeing nothing but darkness and a thin slat of moonlight at the edge of the door.

  "Go away, bad ghosts," she whispered. Since the horrible night of the eruption, the manes and lamiae that crept and crawled in the countryside had been very restless. Sometimes, when the moon had set at night, she could hear them tap-tap-tapping on the doors or scratching at the windows. Ila made sure to keep inside, with her charms close at hand. It was worse, of course, if they were near a crossroads.

  The sound came again, a hoarse moaning like a rabbit being steamed alive in a copper kettle.

  Ila shuddered and burrowed under the covers, pulling the quilt over her mussed brown hair. She prayed fervently to the Many-Handed to make the sound go away, hoping that it was just one of the horses taken with the bloat or maybe Otho drunk, puking under the wagon.

  Anything but a ghost!

  This time the sound was sharp and abrupt, followed by a rattling sound. Ila poked her head out of the covers, pressing her ear to the wall of the wagon. There was a muffled sound-footsteps?-and the creak of a door. Now, that did sound like Otho. Perhaps he and Franco had been out too late and had gotten some bad wine. Then they had been vomiting behind the wagons. Ila shook her head. Those boys were going to get in big trouble.

  She climbed down out of the box, drag
ging the quilt along, and pushed open the door. Across the way, dimly illuminated by the thin moon, she saw the door of Diana's wagon standing half open. Candlelight flickered inside.

  "Oh, dear!" Ila scurried across the grass between the wagons and hopped up the steps to the doorway. The quilt trailed behind her like a big floppy tail, picking up leaves and stems. For the last two days, they had been camped on the hunting grounds of a rich senator whom Vitellix knew, near the city. The troupe master had been gone for quite some time, inquiring after the state of the games and who would be arranging them. It was very dull, waiting for him to come back. Ila was feeling skittish-she hadn't been able to show her riding tricks in Narni; the stage had been too small. Even teaching Diana to drive a chariot was dull-the redheaded woman's reflexes were too good… not so much as a crash to liven things up!

  A small tallow candle lit Diana's wagon. Ila peered in, blinking in the light.

  "Shhh." Ila's head jerked to one side, snub nose twitching. Dummonus was standing beside the bed. He was only half dressed, his broad chest smooth and bare, his hair mussed with sleep. His face, though, was as calm as ever, the placid perfection of a temple statue.

  Diana moaned again, turning in the woolen covers. One arm rose, candlelight gleaming on the patchwork of fine white scars covering her forearms.

  "Look out," she said in a perfectly normal voice. "No, Nikos. Look out."

  Ila crept into the wagon and to the side of Diana's bed. The young woman was sweating heavily, tangled in her covers. Dummonus held her shoulders down. One of her arms was bruised from striking the wall of the wagon. Diana's eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Ila gulped. Her friend's face was contorted by a horrible feral grimace.

  "What is it?" Ila could barely whisper.

  Dummonus shook his head slowly. Diana suddenly shuddered under his hands and he bore down. Her arms twitched and quivered, then her fingers curled around some invisible object as if she were crushing it. A deep growl issued from her chest. Then she suddenly became still again.