by Jeff Wheeler
“Ah.” He was unable to hide his disappointment. “Well, I won’t trouble you, then . . .”
She laughed brightly. “Don’t be silly, Tiberius. You don’t count as people!”
He gave her a wry sidelong glance. “If I were alive, I might take that remark personally.”
“Then it’s lucky you aren’t.” She smiled and beckoned to him. “Come, old man—walk with me.”
He led her through the garden slowly, finding the low and easy ways through woods and fields. For the most part she seemed to have no difficulty, although she would stop from time to time, distracted by something she found beautiful.
They came to a giant marble chessboard on a hilltop, still standing as if in the middle of a game; it looked as if two colossal players had abandoned it suddenly, called away on pressing business. Each piece was a perfectly exact and life-size sculpture of a human being, placed according to his or her role in life—priest and pilot, emperor and heir, guard and servant. Although several pieces lay smashed on the ground, she laughed to see the sculptor’s sense of humor in those still standing: the cook raising his ladle for a taste of the soup, the maid checking the bottom of her shoe, the priest picking his nose.
In another place, they found a collapsed earthen wall, beaten down into the grass by many seasons of rain. Countless bones had tumbled out of the broken clay, and the ground was littered with rotten fabric and glinting gold. As they approached, a black bird was hopping among the old remains, pecking at some bright thing that had caught its eye; it rose flapping at they drew near, carrying in its beak a royal finger bone with a signet ring still attached.
At last Tiberius looked back along a dark forest path and saw that she had fallen behind. Her face was flushed, brow shining; he paused in the center of a low stone bridge, clasping his hands behind his back, to give her a moment to rest in the shade.
Cleona breathed deeply, one hand still holding her stomach. “The baby’s awake.” She ran her palm over that ripe hard curve. “I felt her move.”
Tiberius turned away, afraid his face would betray him if he looked her in the eye. “Must be . . . all the exercise.”
The silence between them was long, but peaceful. Tiberius watched the stream rush by beneath his feet, fascinated by the bright quick water; it was so hypnotic that she had called his name three times before he looked up again.
She was standing very still, looking to the path ahead. “Tiberius.” She spoke more softly this time. “Someone is coming.”
He turned to look. A plump old matron was walking toward them through the forest, wearing a turquoise dress and a light shawl over her gray hair. In one hand, she carried a clear plastic bag of candies; the other was folded behind her back.
She stopped halfway across the bridge, looking up at them with friendly brown eyes and a beatific smile. “Excuse me.” Her tone was perfect, befuddled and a little embarrassed. “Have you seen my little cousin? He’s gotten away from me, it seems.”
Cleona smiled warmly. “What does he look like?”
The old woman blinked and looked down with a rueful little smile. “Oh, he’s just a little boy . . . about six years old? He was wearing a yellow jacket.”
“We haven’t seen him,” Tiberius said, drawing away from the woman with a shudder.
“I’ve got to find him before it gets dark,” the old woman said sensibly. “He’ll get lost out here on his own . . .”
“We can’t help you,” Tiberius said quickly. “We have business of our own to attend to.”
“Well, if you do see him, tell him to go back to the fountain and wait. Tell him his auntie is very worried . . .”
Cleona put out a hand to forestall her as she turned to walk away; Tiberius shook his head.
“Let her go.”
The girl frowned at him, annoyed. “Don’t be silly, Tiberius.” She turned to the old woman again, mouth open to call her back, but the words died unspoken.
As the old woman walked away, the hand behind her back was visible: her fingers were folded around the hilt of a dagger.
Cleona paled. “What—?”
“The Empress Prisca. The boy she’s looking for is Zeno, the legitimate heir to the throne. She found him not far from here, and made use of that knife; if that scene is about to be reenacted, I’m fairly certain you don’t want to see it.”
She shivered. “And I was going to help her look for him.”
“You had no way of knowing.”
“Poor old ghost.” She sounded genuinely sad. “Just imagine being forced to murder that child again and again, for centuries—never knowing that the two of you are both long dead.”
“Yes.” He shuffled nervously. “Terrible.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Her tone was dreamy. “How different the modern ghosts are from the older ones?”
He turned and looked at her oddly. “Different?”
“Come now, Tiberius. I’ve spent more time in the garden than you think; I have noticed it.”
“Noticed what?”
She made a face. “I used to come here for afternoon walks, after the war. Did I ever tell you that?”
He startled, surprised.
“I found it very hard at first, having to sit in session with the senate all day. I would run to the garden just to get away from it; I knew no one would dare disturb me here, especially if I brought flowers for my father.”
“Clever. Devotion must come before budgets and taxes.”
“I always wondered if I would see you here. But you never appeared.”
“I’m sorry I missed you. I enjoy your company.”
“Of course, I saw a lot of other ghosts.” She gave him a searching look. “They aren’t like you, Tiberius.”
“I suppose not.” It was a subject that obviously made him uncomfortable.
“Some of them . . .” She trailed off for a moment, frowning. “Some of the newer ghosts really are just echoes, aren’t they—like a recording, a holographic film. They only appear when you come near a certain spot; if you back just a few steps away from them, they disappear again. You can make them appear and disappear several times just by walking back and forth. Like flipping a light switch on and off.”
He frowned. “You shouldn’t do that sort of thing. It’s disrespectful.”
She looked down over the railing of the bridge. “The older ones, though . . . they seem more like people.” Cleona looked at him again, and he struggled to keep his expression blank. “Dead people, of course. But genuinely human . . . not just a taped message. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I suppose so,” he said reluctantly.
“You can actually talk to them. I spent several hours that summer talking to Quintus Valerius—I kept meeting him by the north wall.”
Tiberius nodded. “His presence is strong there.”
She was studying him carefully as she spoke, watching for any hint of reaction. “Whenever I met Quintus, he was always wearing the same clothes. If I asked him his name, or his reason for being in the garden, he would always give me the same basic information—but the way he said it would vary. Just as you would expect, if he were a living man. He never knew me; no matter how many times we had spoken before, I always had to introduce myself. He couldn’t remember any of our previous conversations.”
“And then there’s old Tiberius.” He completed the thought for her.
“Then there’s you.” She held him with her serene copper eyes. “Quintus and the others . . . all seem to be asleep somehow. When I speak to them, I’m always waking them from the same dream.”
“The dream of being alive.”
“Exactly. Ask them a question; they’ll answer—they even have questions of their own, once you’ve started a conversation. But if you want to know what year it is, or what they’re doing in the garden, they’ll say it’s 1393, and they’ve just come for a little walk, and they have to get straight back afterward for dinner.” She shook her head wonderingly. “Quintus actually s
eemed to think that I was the ghost; when I told him my name, he assumed I was Cleona the First.”
Tiberius smiled. “That’s a natural enough mistake. You accused me of being Tiberius the Third when you were ten; I was quite insulted.”
“Why? Because he was a bad emperor?”
“No, because he was short and ugly!”
She laughed out loud. “Well, I’m sorry, then.” Her eyes twinkled merrily. “You certainly aren’t short . . .”
He put his fingertips to his chest in mock offense. “You, madame, are clearly no judge of masculine beauty. I’ll have you know that I was considered quite handsome in my day; my profile was much admired.”
She grinned. “No one tells an emperor that he’s ugly, Tiberius. I’m sure they told Orthrus he was lovely as a rose and tall as a mountain—and prodigiously endowed with manhood as well—if that’s what they thought he wanted to hear.”
He inclined his head. “A point to the lady.”
“Anyway, don’t change the subject.” She paused, frowning a little, and rubbed her belly absently as she continued. “You are different, Tiberius. You’re aware of the passage of time—you know where you are, and when you are. You learn new things, and remember them over the years: you can tell stories about emperors who died centuries after they buried you. And you always recognize me as your niece, even if I’ve gone from twenty-one to thirty-one since our last meeting.”
He gave her a wry lopsided smile. “I’m surprised that you’ve given this so much thought. Did you have a point to make?”
“The point is, you’re not just a ghost. You, Tiberius, are alive.”
He made a dubious face. “Let’s not exaggerate, dear.”
She shrugged. “To me, a man who thinks, feels, and learns is alive—regardless of whether his body is made of flesh or light. Perhaps I’m too simplistic, but philosophical points don’t really interest me. What does interest me is the difference between a ghost like you and one like Quintus.”
Tiberius regarded her silently. “Your question has more to do with the workings of the garden in general than with me in particular. If you’re not interested in philosophy, I may as well say ‘I don’t know’—because I have only theories and speculations to answer you. No firm facts.”
She turned away, another ripple of disturbance passing over her face. Tiberius, looking down, saw her hand pressed hard to her stomach. “I’ll take your theories and speculations.”
“All right. Then I’ll answer your question. But before I do, I have a question of my own.”
She gave him a little shake of the head. “Always bargaining!” She took a few steps along the bridge. “Ask your question, but we should move on; I’d like to be back to the palace before dusk.”
“As you wish.” He led her through the trees casually, following the course of an old road, its pavement long ago shattered by twisting roots. “I’m curious to know why you chose a body birth for your heir. Surely it’s not necessary. Even if they don’t have incubators nowadays, you could still use a surrogate to carry the child. Why would you adopt such an antiquated mode of reproduction? Is it the fashion these days?”
She shook her head, smiling. “No, it certainly isn’t the fashion. Not for those who have a choice.”
“Why, then?” He ducked under a branch, leading her over a mound of jumbled rock. “It seems an unnecessary risk—body birth is dangerous and damaging to your health, even under the best of conditions.”
“True.” She paused, bending a little to pick her way down the incline. “Believe me, there are times when I regret my decision—times like now. The baby’s kicking like mad; it feels as if she’s dancing on my liver.”
Tiberius looked down at her gravid midsection again, dismayed; seeing his expression, she laughed out loud. “Don’t look so worried, old man! It’s a fetus, not a parasitic growth. It’s perfectly normal for a baby to kick and wiggle at this stage; she’s just becoming more active, that’s all.”
“I . . .” He looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry.” He finished lamely. “I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing. I suppose I find it . . . disturbing.”
“Well, you’re not alone. Just about everyone is looking at me strangely these days. There’s no such thing as a pregnant empress, apparently.” She sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “I’ve had to make up a variety of excuses for this ‘outlandish behavior.’ At this point, I think they’re all ready to dismiss me as another mad Severan, and let it go at that.”
“Well, I don’t need to hear the excuses. What was the real reason?”
She gave him a sly look as she continued up the trail. “The truth? I warn you, you’ll think me a fool.”
“I can keep such thoughts to myself.”
“The truth is, I wanted to love her. My heir. There aren’t many body births among the nobility, but I’ve seen the bond that exists between plebian mothers and their children—it’s very deep.”
“And you felt that this bond was somehow . . . physical?”
“It is. I can feel it.”
She looked down at her belly for a moment, running her hand over it lightly. Tiberius abruptly realized that the hand she placed on her stomach was not for her benefit, but for the child’s—an indirect caress for the unborn.
“I’ve become the vessel for her life, Tiberius.” She looked up at him and smiled. “I know you won’t understand it. You never had any children of your own. But she’s part of me, a piece of my living body—not just some detritus thrown together out of my cast-off cells. I feel intimate with her in a way that I could never be with something growing in an incubator—and I feel somehow subordinate to her as well, as if my own survival and interests were secondary to hers.” She sighed, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “Strange thought, isn’t it?”
“Is she a clone of you? Did you use a consort, get a donation from someone—?”
Cleona flushed a little, quickening her stride. “She has a father. I used DNA from a man—new blood to mingle with the old. The Severans need that from time to time, you know, or we’ll all turn into feeble-minded mules.”
“A man . . .” Suddenly he halted in his tracks. “Good gods. It was Casca; wasn’t it?”
The weight of sadness descended on her visibly, bowing her head as she walked. “He was an officer. His genes were still on file at the war office. It was just a matter of getting to them.”
“Oh . . . oh, my child. I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Her eyes were strangely luminous. “I’ll see him every time I look at her. And I’ll love her . . . for his sake and mine.” She smiled. “Casca will live again.”
Stricken, Tiberius said nothing more.
“What about my question? We had a deal, didn’t we?”
“I . . . I feel foolish talking about it now. Perhaps you could come again some other day. We could talk about the garden then.”
“Bah. You’re just stalling. Pay up, old man—I don’t like to be cheated.”
Tiberius cast around for words, fighting to swallow the pain in his chest. “The garden is very old. It was old beyond record or recollection when I was a boy. But back then, there were gardeners—priests—who spent their entire lives here.” He licked his lips nervously. “It was very beautiful. Nothing like the mess you see now.” He made a vague gesture, indicating the wild wood and the undergrowth, the choking weeds and broken obelisks by the roadside. “The gardeners kept things up. They planted and pruned, weeded, watered . . . there were wonders here, beautiful things kept alive by their hands. Exotic birds, lovely fish . . . in this area, there was an arboretum. Trees from five hundred different worlds, each one a treasure in its own right.” He smiled. “Have you ever seen a helium tree, Cleona?”
“No.” Her face was pinched with distress. “Never even heard of one.”
“Are you all right? You seem—”
“It’s fine. She’s a busy little devil today, that’s all. Giving me a bit of a pain.
” She gave him a weak smile. “Please, don’t let me interrupt.”
“There was only one of them. It was my very favorite. Lovely bark—white as snow. The flowers were strange; they came out in fall instead of spring, fleshy little things that looked like ears. The local insects didn’t care for them. The gardeners had to climb a ladder and pollinate them by hand, with a little paintbrush.”
“Why did they call it a helium tree?”
He smiled. “The fruits. They came out every spring. Great, glorious metallic bunches of them, each one as big as a man’s head, in every imaginable color: green, blue, pink, gold. The gardeners would let me climb up and shake the branches, and masses and masses of them would rise on the wind and sail away.”
She laughed. “So they really were filled with helium?”
“Yes. When I was older, they explained it to me; the helium fruits were seed pods, designed to rise into the upper atmosphere and explode. The cold at those heights was favorable to the seeds somehow—I think it caused them to germinate—and then the wind would scatter them.” He glanced at her face; the natural rosy luster of her golden cheek had been replaced with clammy gray pallor. “Cleona, perhaps we should—”
“Talk,” she gasped. “It helps keep me moving. I have to get back to the palace, Tiberius; I think I’m getting that ‘morning sickness’ I’ve been reading about . . .”
“Yes. Right. The old gardeners.” He quickened his stride. “Well, I befriended them. I spent hours here. The ghosts weren’t just ‘taped messages’ back then, as you say, but living spirits, like me . . . interested in gossip, fashion, current events, full of opinions and advice. They were my friends; I knew them better than my living relations.” He glanced at her quickly, then barreled heedlessly on. “The old men could see I loved their garden for its own sake, so they confided in me a little—even though, in their eyes, I was no one special. Just a future emperor . . . one of many subjects for a great art form. To them, the greatest art form of all.”