Thomas Harlan - The storm of Heaven

He smiled, strong teeth very white in the dimness.

"Yes," he said, "I am Vitellix. What is your name?"

"I am…" The woman paused, feeling a huge, dull pressure in her head. "I… I don't remember."

As soon as she spoke, the pressure eased and a trickle of relief flooded through her. She sighed, gesturing weakly at her immobilized arm. "I don't remember what happened. Can you tell me?"

Vitellix closed the door and there was a muffled complaint from outside. "My boys found you in a stream. You were badly hurt, burned and covered with blood. Your arm was broken and your legs had been badly sprained. You'd taken a chill, too, but they carried you up to our camp. It took a long time to clean your wounds. Many leaves, bits of stone, pine needles and twigs had been ground into your skin. Your clothes were only rags. I've tended many hurts, but you taxed my skill!"

"Yes…" The woman captured a fragment of memory, of fire and a door silhouetted against the flames. "There was something burning… a house?"

Vitellix made a sharp, barking sound, neither laughter nor disgust.

"Everything burned, lass. That bridge was within the devastation of Vesuvius. Do you remember where you were before you were injured?"

The woman stared back at him with wide eyes. For a moment there was a look on her face, a moment of comprehension, then her eyes clouded and she shook her head. "No… What happened to the mountain?"

Vitellix's face turned grim and he looked away. In his hands, the towel twisted as he clenched his fists. "I have seen Vesuvius many times in our travels. We often camped on its wooded flank, buying our dinner from the farmers or vintners. The mountain slopes were rich-the finest wines, the richest cheese, the fattest calf-all came from the bounty of Vesuvius. There were fine cities on its shoulders, too. Pompeii, Herculaneum, Baiae."

The man's face paled as memory took hold.

"A week ago, now, in the night, the mountain shook off its slumber and woke. We were miles away to the south, camped on the road coming up from Croton. It was an odd night of rushing wind and clouds, yet there was no rain. Thunder shook the air and lightning spiked from cloud to cloud. A storm gathered on the height, crowning the mountain with a diadem of cold fire.

"I climbed onto the roof of the wagon. I could see over the trees of the orchard lining the road. The mountain was still and dark, silhouetted against the clouds. Then… then there was a light, just a spark on the summit. It seemed that the thunderheads gathered, lighting the upper slopes with the flicker of lightning. Then the glow began, a fierce red light, radiating from the very top."

The woman felt a creeping chill, even under the heavy blankets.

"Then there was a flash, a brilliant light. It lit the olive trees and shone in my face like the sun rising. I turned away and then there was a sound, like a great shout that rushed over us. Horrible wind followed and it threw me off the roof of the wagon, but I landed square."

Vitellix's voice dropped, becoming almost a whisper.

"Then ruddy, red fire filled the sky. The glow rushed down the mountainside, faster than a galloping horse. Burning stones fell hissing from the sky and the air turned foul. We hid beneath a bridge, there in the countryside above Nuceria, for three days. Sometimes the earth shook like a wet dog, heaving and bucking. Praise Lugh, the bridge did not fall around our ears!"

He sighed and picked up the towel again.

"When the rain of fire stopped, we moved north again, along the highway. Everything was covered with ash. It falls like snow, though it has slacked off. Until we found you, we thought sure that only the dead and ghosts lived under the shadow of the mountain."

The woman coughed, feeling a harsh, grating pain in her lungs.

"Did you see…" She stopped, took a breath and then said: "Did you see where I might have come from? Was there a house, a town, anything?"

Vitellix shook his head slowly. "If there was, lass, it is gone now. All the land around Vesuvius is dead. I'm sorry, but if your family lay nearby, we could not find them."

The Temple of Asklepius, Below Pergamon

A gleam of pale blue light caught the priest's eye. Tarsus turned, hands clasped on his staff of office. Something flickered and burned at the center of the plaza, casting long shadows on the arches and windows of the surrounding buildings. The stoutly built priest frowned. Sometimes criminals and outcasts tried to creep into the sacred precincts and steal from the pilgrims sleeping on the grounds. He hefted his staff, taking confidence from the weighty bronze snake coiled around its length.

Determined, he strode forward through cool, damp air filled with the quiet echo of running water. "You, there by the spring pool! Stand and show yourself!"

Someone was hunched down in the darkness by the outflow pipe. The blue glow disappeared, but Tarsus could make out a figure turning towards him. The priest grimaced and summoned a pale white light from his staff.

"Gods of Olympus!" Tarsus froze in shock. A haggard face stared back at him, marked by pain and weariness. A thick, irregular beard clouded a once-patrician visage. Though much changed, he knew the man. "Prince Maxian?"

Tarsus had never seen such a transformation in one of his students. The baby fat of youth had sloughed away from sharp cheekbones; lively intelligent eyes had grown haunted; the healthy, tan skin of youth had turned sallow. The Emperor of the West's cheerful, handsome little brother was changed almost beyond recognition. A dim, strange radiance flickered around the Prince like a half-seen shadow. Tarsus stepped back, grimacing. The air around the Prince was repellent.

"By the gods, lad, what happened to you?"

Maxian leaned heavily on the smooth marble lining the spring box.

"Tarsus? You are still alive?"

"Yes," said the priest. "Though you look on the verge of death yourself."

"Help me." Maxian's voice was low and tinged with panic. "You must help me bring her back."

The Prince motioned weakly. Something lay in the shadows at the top of the steps.

Ah! Tarsus thought. That explains the smell.

The priest knelt next to the corpse. The body was not too far gone. Whatever hot flame had licked over it-he reached down and gently turned the skull, feeling the jellylike resistance of muscle attaching the shoulder to the neck-had done so recently. The charred skin was brittle and stiff under his fingers. Long experience and repeated exposure let him put aside horror while he made a swift, thorough examination.

"Ah, my friend, she is long gone." Tarsus sighed. "The ferryman has taken her coin and rowed her across the black river."

"Not so, not so!" The Prince's voice was urgent in the darkness. "If you help me, I can restore her. I beg you, take us to the chambers of healing. With your skill to guide my hand, I know that I can save her."

"Lord Prince, this is foolishness. We are both men blessed with the gods' power, but no one may call back the souls of the dead. That is in the hands of the gods, not of mortals."

Maxian stopped as if struck. Then he straightened and loomed over the priest, his handsome face clouding with anger.

"I have summoned men back from the dead," Maxian said bitterly. "Twice I have stood over tumbled bone and scraps of dusty flesh. Twice I have raised lightning and fire to fill those bodies-one dead a thousand years!-with the quickness of life. Breath and sight and lively limbs have sprung forth from the dust. I know that it can be done. My strength is great enough."

Tarsus stepped back, uneasy. Unconsciously, his mind began to weave a pattern of subtle defense. When he spoke again, the compassion in his voice was gone.