Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

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.