Alternate Wars

by Gregory Benford

  Falon removed Carik’s 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 saddle and animal skins to make a bed, placed his weapons at hand, and tried to sleep.

  The moon sank behind the wall. Shamed by his own fears, Falon withdrew into the skins and listened for sounds in the city.

  Afterward he was never sure whether he had actually slept. But suddenly, deep in the night, he was acutely, vividly awake: The smell of grass was strong, insects buzzed, the wind stirred. A few paces away, Carik shook himself.

  There had been a sound out there that didn’t belong: a footstep, perhaps. Or a falling rock. He glanced at the horse, which stood unconcerned. Good: It could see over the wall, and if something were approaching, Carik would sound a warning.

  Beneath the skins, Falon pressed his hand against the goat’s horn to assure himself it was still there. His fingers closed on his sword.

  Somewhere, far off, 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, this time different: a rock colliding with a hard surface. Bounding along.

  He was thoroughly awake now, and a few gray streaks had appeared in the east. Dawn was yet far away, but he could retreat, leave the city and its secrets, and still claim truthfully to have stayed the night. And who could blame him?

  A light flickered in the plaza.

  He couldn’t see it directly, but shadows moved across the face of the temple.

  Falon shivered.

  “Wait,” he said to Carik, and slipped over the wall.

  Rubble and cold starlight.

  He crept through the dark streets, crossed an intersection, passed silently through a series of courtyards, and moved in behind a screen of trees that looked out over the square.

  A lantern had been set on the ground before the tomb. In its yellow light, a robed figure crouched like an animal on hands and knees.

  It seemed compounded of night and wind and a sense of things long dead.

  Its face was hidden within the folds of a hood.

  Falon froze. The creature was digging in the dirt with its fingers. Abruptly it stopped, grunted, looked at something in its hand. Held it near the lantern. Flipped the object into the dark. Falon listened to it crash out toward the middle of the plaza and recognized one of the sounds he’d heard.

  He saw the source of the other: The area was thoroughly dug up. Piles of earth were heaped everywhere, and an iron spade leaned against a tree.

  Falon surveyed the plaza, noted sparks from a banked campfire behind a wall to the north. The figure in the robe seemed to be alone.

  It repeated the process, picking up a second object, a stone, turning it several different ways, holding it under the lantern. This time it murmured its satisfaction and got clumsily to its feet. Light penetrated the folds of the hood: It was human. A man.

  A portion of ground had been cleared, and filled with individual rocks. The figure hunched over them, rearranged them, added the one he held. Lifted it again, placed it elsewhere. Said something Falon couldn’t make out. But he understood the pleasure in the voice.

  Falon wished he were close enough to see better. It appeared that the man was assembling pieces of statuary. One of the pieces looked like an arm.

  With a sudden swirl of robes, the figure raised his lantern as if he knew he was not alone, straightened with an obvious effort, picked up a stick he had laid by, and started toward Falon. He went only a few steps, however, before he stopped, poked at the ground with the stick, and fell again to his knees.

  He scrabbled in the tall grass, grumbling and muttering in a strange tongue, thrusting the light forward, and throwing rocks about in a frightful manner. The creature gasped and wheezed throughout this frenetic exercise.

  Falon released the breath he had not realized he was holding, touched the goat’s horn with the tips of his fingers, and stepped out of the shadows.

  The hooded man should have seen him, since the young warrior stood directly in his line of vision. But he did not, and continued rather to poke and prod in the weeds.

  Falon closed to within a sword’s thrust. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The man, startled, finally aware he had a visitor, looked up. “Hello.” With considerable effort he got to his feet, wiped clay and dust from his robe, and raised his hand in greeting.

  Falon did not return the gesture. “I am Falon the Kortagenian,” he said, appraising threat potential and dismissing it. He saw neither arms nor skill.

  “And I am Edward the Chronicler.” Edward stood so that the light from the lantern played across his features. He looked simultaneously cheerful and wary. His eyes drifted across Falon’s blade, which he had not bothered to draw.

  “And what sort of chronicle do you compose,” asked Falon, “that you dare the spirits of this place?”

  Edward seemed to relax somewhat. “If you are really interested,” he said, “it is indeed the spirits I pursue. For if they live anywhere on the earth, it is surely here.” He swept up the lamp and held it so he could read Falon’s face. “A boy,” he said. “Are you alone, child?”

  The man was short and quite stout. 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 flesh. A series of chins hid his throat altogether from view. His voice suggested he was accustomed to receiving deference.

  “I am no child,” 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 that, friend Falon.”

  “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 collapsed onto a bench, drew back his hood. The man would have been approximately the age of his father. But he was a different sort. This one had never ridden hard. “What,” he continued with good humor, “brings you to this poor ruin in the dead of night, Falon?”

  “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. The passageway into the interior was dark and quiet. “Your accent is strange.”

  “I am Briton by birth.”

  Falon had met others from the misty land. He found them gloomy, pretentious, overbearing. It seemed to him that 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. “Can I offer you something to eat?”

  “No. I have no need.” Falon looked past him, at the temple. “What is the question?”

  Edward’s eyes locked on him. There was something in them that was unsettling. Something ancient and weary that seemed kin with the city itself. “Falon, do you know who built this place?”

  “No. Some of our elders think it has always been here.”

  “Not a very enlightening reply. It was constructed ages ago by a race whom we now remember only dimly. If at all.” He turned a sharp eye on Falon.

  Falon was too interested to take offense. “And who were they, this forgotten race?” The man spoke with authority, and Falon was accustomed to taking others at their word. Skepticism was not in his nature.

  The Briton took a long breath. “They were called R
omans,” 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,” he said, “is full of their temples and cities. The hand that carved this tomb created others very much like it across the Alps, in the valley of the Tigris, among the pyramids. They built an immense civilization, Falon. Bridges, temples, viaducts. Roads to tie it together. A system of laws. They gave peace and stability to much of the world.” His dark eyes seemed to have fastened on the temple. “But today the Romans and their name are dust, blown across the forests and plains.”

  Too many words for Falon to follow. He thought of a confederacy of clans that was now attempting to impose its will on the Kortagenians. He supposed the chronicler had something similar in mind, although no one he knew had ever shown an inclination toward city-building. “What happened to them, Edward the Chronicler?”

  “That is the question I have pursued all my days. To discover what force can initiate the decline and cause the collapse of such power.”

  “Only the gods,” said Falon. “These Romans must have offended Woden grievously, that he would destroy even the memory of their accomplishments.”

  Edward’s gaze seemed unsettled. It touched Falon, the tomb, a point somewhere among the stars. “They were forgotten,” he said at length, “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, perhaps, might have done it. An academy. A foundation. Possibly even a religious group—”

  Falon shrugged it all away, into the night. “What spirit,” he asked, “would you name?”

  Edward looked toward the stones with which he’d been working. “The occupant of the tomb.”

  A supernatural chill ran through Falon. He hesitated to reply, not sure of his voice. “Then you are indeed late,” he said finally, pleased with his boldness.

  The Briton was smiling. Falon saw that several pieces of a human figure had been assembled. The arm was almost complete. There was part of a leg, a shoulder, a trunk, a shield. The leg broke off at the shin.

  The shield was emblazoned with the same sword device that marked the front of the vault.

  “No,” he said. “I think not.”

  Something moved in the trees.

  “Then who is he?”

  Edward joined his hands within 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 inexact.” He straightened his robe, adjusted it across his shoulders. “Does the name Maxentius mean anything to you?”

  “No,” said Falon.

  “He was a tyrant who controlled the Roman capital when this city was young. A vicious, licentious, incompetent coward.” Edward’s voice shook with indignation. “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 whom he appeared to respect. He filled Rome and Italy with armed troops, connived at their assaults against the common people, encouraged them to plunder and massacre. He was, I suspect, a symbol of all that went wrong with the Empire.”

  Falon’s hand fell to his weapon. “I would gladly have ridden against such a monster,” he said.

  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 the essence of its greatness might be passed on.” Edward stood unmoving against the night. “Had he been able to seize power from Maxentius, things might have been different.”

  “He failed in the effort?”

  “He was a reluctant crusader, Falon. And he marched against Maxentius only when the tyrant threatened to invade his domains.”

  “I cannot approve of such timidity,” said Falon.

  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,” he said. “And here.”

  “But I do not understand.” Falon grasped Edward’s shoulder, turned him that he could look into his face. “If this Constantine was a commander of great ability, as you have said, how did it happen that 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 not only acknowledged his power but also 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 thin vest. The Briton stopped his narrative and stared up at him. “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “No. Please go on.”

  “Maxentius had by far the larger army. He also had armored cavalry, a type of opponent that you, Falon, will never see. Fortunately. But he chose not to rely on military force alone.” Without another word and without explanation, he walked into the shadows. Moments later he returned with a woven garment and held it out to the young warrior.

  Falon pulled it over his shoulders. “Thank you.”

  Edward resumed his seat. “There was, across the Tiber, a float bridge that connected the city with the plain. This was the Milvian Bridge. Maxentius directed his engineers to weaken it. Then he rode out of his capital to engage the invader.

  “Constantine was waiting, and the armies fell quickly to battle. For much of the afternoon the conflict raged back and forth, and the issue was uncertain. It was one more of a series of calamitous events that sucked the lifeblood of the Empire. However that may be, Constantine’s troops pressed forward, and gradually the tyrant gave way.”

  “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 led them against that part of the line in which he could see the tyrant’s colors. The banners wavered at the onslaught, and the shock of the charge broke the Roman line. The defenders panicked. But Maxentius, with his picked men, retreated across the fateful bridge. Unmindful of caution, Constantine pursued, bleeding from a dozen wounds.

  “And in that terrible moment, when his great enemy had reached the center of the bridge, the tyrant gave the signal, and the span was hurled into the Tiber.”

  “The coward,” said Falon with a snarl. 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? Is the tomb indeed empty?”

  Edward arranged his robe, draped it over his knees. He held out the lantern to Falon. “Perhaps you would care to look?”

  “No.” He drew away. “It is quite all right.”

  The Briton rose. “You should assure yourself. Please. Follow me.”

  They entered the passageway, Edward leading with his lantern, stepping over mulch and earth and weeds. It was narrow, the ceiling was low, and the rock walls were cracked. Falon had to duck his head.

  It sloped at a modest angle and ended in a small chamber. The chamber was bare, devoid of furniture or marking save for a marble shelf la
id against the inner wall. “There were rumors,” said Edward, “that Constantine survived. One account, of which I have a copy, maintained that he was taken half-drowned from the Tiber and returned to a friendly but unnamed city. The story holds that he lived in this city one year. Other sources say three. It’s difficult to recover the details. All agree that he hoped to lead another army against Maxentius but that he never fully recovered. And when he died…” Edward shrugged. “I’ve looked for many years, seeking the truth of the event.”

  “And how would you know the truth?”

  “Easily,” he said. “Find his tomb.” He kicked away dead leaves and dirt and pointed toward scratches on the stone floor. “Here is where his sarcophagus once stood. There, on the shelf, they placed his armor.”

  “Then this is his tomb?”

  “Oh, yes, I am quite satisfied on that score. Yes: Unquestionably he was interred here. And a great deal more, I fear.”

  Falon wondered how he could possibly know such things.

  “While he lived, he talked of building a second Rome, in the East.” Edward’s voice was filled with regret. “Something to survive.”

  The smoke thrown up by the lantern was already growing thick. Edward lapsed into silence. He coughed, tried to wave away the noxious cloud.

  Falon’s eyes had begun to water. “Let’s finish this outside,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Outside.” He seized Edward’s elbow and steered him back up into the starlight. The air was cold and tasted good. Falon took it gratefully into his lungs. “How do you know?” he asked. “How can you be sure it’s his tomb? It is not marked.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. Look behind you.” He pointed at the statue, which lay partly assembled. “Look on 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. It was identical to the blade on the vault.

  “I do not know the sign,” he said.

  “It was his device.”

  Falon pressed his fingers against it. “Can you be so certain? There are many who use weapon devices.”

  “This is not a weapon,” said Edward. “It was a symbol sometimes used by an obscure religious cult. For many centuries, in fact, a mark of shame. Said to have magic properties. It’s called a cross.”