Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

"Not lost," said Gaius sharply. "You still live in men's dreams and in the histories. A man may travel from Britannia to Sercia and speak your name-be it Alexander, Alexandros, or Iskander-and all, all, will know of it. You are forever young and strong, the brilliant general and able statesman. Your mother tongue, this damnable Greek, is spoken across the world. The works of your poets, artists, sculptors, playwrights are acclaimed everywhere. You traded better than Achilles, my friend, for you gained your fame and now-after a little sleep-you live again."

Alexandros shook himself like a dog wet from the river. Then he smiled and the dark mood passed.

"I do live, do I not? And you as well… we are an odd pair. But what will we do when we come again to the city?"

The Macedonian pointed forward to where, now that they had ridden up onto a bit of a hill, he could spy the white walls of Rome rising up from the plain.

"Well, my lad, I have given it some thought. This is no Pella, or Persepolis, where we may strike down the King and take his place by strength of arms. The Empire is too vast and too well-regulated by the rule of law to allow such a thing. Then, too, we are sorely lacking in the funds to buy allies and patrons. We need money and followers and friends. Oh, and we need to establish ourselves in the public eye, but not-of course-as ourselves!"

Alexandros nodded his head sagely. "I see you've been thinking this over."

"I have," gloated Gaius Julius, rubbing a hand over his bald pate. "This will be such a joy! First, we must find a patron-someone we may ably serve while we go about finding the friends that we need, the gold that we require, and the men that will do our bidding. I think I know of such a man-I heard the Prince mention him to Abdmachus as a friend of convenience. That is an appealing term."

"And then? What then, O noblest of the Romans? Do you think that this power that creeps among the stones and pervades the water we drink, the air we breathe, will let you topple the state and set yourself up in its place?" Alexandros' tone was light, but Gaius Julius knew that the young man was serious. He understood perfectly-he had no desire to abandon this existence either.

"Remember the words of our dear Prince… the Oath is without fore-thought." Gaius wagged an admonishing finger at the younger man. "It only cares that the Empire should sustain itself-it does not care who the Emperor is. Men live and die. Emperors may perish from disease or accident or old age. The State endures, and with it, the Oath. Any man may make himself Emperor, as long as in doing so he furthers the survival of the Empire."

Alexandros whistled in delight and bowed in the saddle to the old Roman.

"Your training in the forum serves us well, old man."

Gaius Julius accepted the compliment. He had been considering his freedom for some time.

– |Come, steed of fire. Leap leagues for me, pinions of iron beat the wind, bringing you hither!

Maxian stood in darkness, his booted feet on the highest pinnacle of the mountain. His right hand was raised and blue-green fire shuddered within his fingertips. Wind eddied around his feet, blowing his long cloak to and fro. The night sky was clear and cold, filled with an abyss of stars. Far below his feet, the plain of Campania spread away, the curve of the bay outlined by thin traces of sparkling lights. The moon had not risen, leaving the land in shadow.

Come, cold Pegasus, seek me out, find me in a faraway place, race zephyrs and comets with iron hooves, come!

Among the stars, a red spark moved, rushing through the cold upper air. Maxian saw it and spread his hands, the blue radiance stabbing out in the night sky.

Come, foal of the crucible, speed to me on wings of steel! I summon you, come!

The wind flared up, shaking the trees and then died out. Maxian stood on the crest of the mountain, looking up into the sky. He lowered his hands and let the chant die away. The red spark rushed ever closer, growing into a trail of flame and then, as it swooped down, into the huge bat-winged shape of the Engine. It blotted the stars and smoke and steam boiled off of it, making a trailing cloud. Stooping low, it crunched to earth, iron forelimbs digging deep into the loamy black soil. Once it had alighted, the iron pinions folded in upon themselves with a squealing sound and the great wings ratcheted shut. The ground shook for a moment as the weight settled. A wash of red light illuminated the boulders and trees. Maxian squinted until the glare of the Engine's eyes died down. There was the sharp crack of a tree splitting, brushed by the long tail as it flexed and curled before settling at the rear of the thing.

Maxian stepped close, looking up into the dimming eyes of the Engine with fondness. This was the first thing that he had conceived and built with the labor of his own hands. It had begun in the pages of an old, nearly ruined book-just fragments of drawings by one of the ancients, describing a thing that might possibly exist in dreams. The prince had need of a conveyance and the skills and knowledge of his friend had allowed him to bend his power to its construction.

Maxian leaned against the warm iron scales of the Engine and shuddered, feeling the pain and loss of Abdmachus' death gnaw at him. I did not mean it to end that way between us! Tears, despite his fierce attempt to screw his eyes shut and hold them in, leaked down his face. He knew that he had killed a man who had only treated him with kindness. The guilt of using Abdmachus and then discarding him as an empty shell ate at the Prince.

He pushed away from the Engine and walked to the hatchway. It was closed and impossible to see among the interlocking and overlapping scales, but Maxian raised his hand and spoke a word of opening. Then it folded down on sliding metal rods and ruddy red light spilled out onto the ground. The Prince ducked inside and his boots rang hollowly on the honeycombed metal decking.

Behind him, still shrouded in night, a wagon waited on the mountainside and beside it, waiting patiently, stood the homunculus, Khiron.

"Come, Khiron. Unload the wagon and place the books in the hold." The Prince's voice echoed in the belly of the Engine. More words were swallowed by the confines of the machine as the Prince moved away.

Khiron bestirred himself, moving from utter stillness to motion within the space of a heartbeat. He lifted a crate made of pine boards out of the wagon. It was filled with a portion of the books and scrolls and tomes that had been gathered for the library. The wagon was filled with more like it. Khiron's bare feet padded on the decking, his long curved nails making a tik-tik sound as he walked.

The Bucoleon Palace, Constantinople

Heraclius was biting his palm, feeling springy scar tissue under his teeth, and trying to keep from crying out. He was sitting on a privy with a board on his lap. It was cold in the urinal. Small round windows were set high in the wall above his head and they let a cold draft seep into the small room. Even the simplest business of his life was painful and degrading. He leaned on the board, feeling his arms tremble with the effort of keeping his corrupted body upright. There was restless movement outside in the dark little hallway where his guards and keepers were waiting. He needed help to get anywhere.

"Rufio?" The querulous sound of his voice echoed from the bare walls. "Attend me."

The guard captain entered the room; his face an impassive mask as he slid his arm under Heraclius. Another man of the Faithful Guard entered as well. Heraclius looked away from the Northerner; he could not stand to see the pity in the Scandian's eyes. Rufio grunted a little, but the Emperor rose with some assistance and smoothed his robe down with a trembling hand.