Thomas Harlan - The storm of Heaven

Without a word, the young woman walked out, her bare feet rustling in the pine needles on the floor. Maxian turned back to the older priest.

"A man lies dead, as an old friend once said, but his memory lives. Men swear by him-Praise Caesar!-or worship at his tomb. Each time such a devotion is made, some tiny spark accrues to his memory, this dead legend. Over centuries, if he is well loved, then great strength may be in him. But-is this not rich?-he lies in the grave! The man may not use this strength, but that which raises him up? Oh, then this power may be tapped… Alexander is like the sun! Do you know, they still fear him, worship him, in far India? Barely a year was he among them, the sudden, unexpected invader, and still, still they know him. And Gaius? He does not burn so bright, yet he is cunning and served me well."

The thought of attack, of striking out at the young man, crossed Tarsus' mind. His oaths forbade him, though the enormity of what his pupil had done seemed adequate excuse. A swift blow with a dagger, into the brain, into the heart of thought and motion, might slay him.

But how can this be, if he speaks truly? Could he have brought back these legends as living men?

"Where are they now?"

Maxian shrugged, turning away. "I don't know. I sent them away from me, from my mother's house at Ottaviano. I told them to trouble me no more."

"Ottaviano?" Tarsus' voice was sharp as new fear blossomed. "When were you there?"

Maxian shrugged, avoiding the priest's eyes. "Some time ago… a week, perhaps two…"

Tarsus turned gray. Now he knew what curled and drifted around the Prince. It was the stench of mass death, of entire cities consumed by fire, by choking gas and burning stone.

"You were at Vesuvius." His voice was flat with horror. "You were there when the mountain burst. The girl-she was burned in the explosion? How close were you?"

Maxian smiled sickly and Tarsus could see guilt and shame in his face.

"We were," he whispered, "on the crown of the mountain. Men came to kill me. My brother sent them. I saw his face in my mind, when the red-haired woman had the knife at my throat. My own brother sent hired men to hunt me down. Is this possible? Can you believe it?"

Tarsus backed away, edging for the door with his hand. Now he could make out the screams of the dying, faint as the sound of dolphins beneath azure waves. The aura around the Prince was so plain and clear, so violent with the taste of dying, fled souls, that the older priest shuddered in reaction.

Here is the source of this unexpected strength. He has drunk deep of the dying, gaining their power like one of the K'shapacara of legend! By the gods, what a horror!

"Get out," Tarsus snarled, face flushed with disgust. "You are a monster, an abomination! How could you come here, to the sacred precincts themselves! You have violated every oath, every binding, every restriction of our order!"

Maxian blanched at the vehemence of his old master's words.

"What have I done?" the Prince cried in despair. "Defended myself, kept my own life? Do you shout at the fox, or the dog, that kills for its supper? What of the man beset by brigands-do you chastise him if he lays about him with a stave?"

"No," Tarsus bit out, "I do not. But you have drunk deep of the souls of the dying and the dead, growing fat on their suffering and pain. You are a ghoul, a corpse feeder."

The Prince's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Do you hear them?" Tarsus felt bile rise in his throat. "Can you feel them, the shadows of the dead? They are in you! I can feel them, smell them, hear their lamentations-"

"But I did not mean to drink them up!" Maxian's face burned with shame. "It happened-I was at the helm of the engine-the cities were aflame below me and all those souls, all released at once, rushed into me. I could not stop them!"

Tarsus shook his head in disgust and turned away. "Go away from this place," he said. "If you come here again, we will strike you down, if we can. Get out."

– |The Prince, feeling a great emptiness in his chest, watched in bewildered pain as the older priest hurried away up the stairs. With each step, he felt the air grow cold and loss mount.

"But… what about…" Maxian stared around the little room, surprised to see the crowded trees and vines. He looked at his hands, then at the room again. One of the vines was beginning to bloom, sending out small white flowers with pale orange pistils.

How can my power be so great, yet fail?

Rousing himself enough to move, he climbed out of the room, stepping over the thick roots that crowded around the door, and stumbled up the stairway.

– |The moon was still bright, throwing deep shadows under the porticoes of the temple. Tarsus watched, his entire body stiff with tension, as the Prince crossed the square. His conscience raged at him, demanding that he lash out at the monster creeping away in the night.

I should raise an alarm, light the night with fire, summon lightning and storm to rage against him.

Remaining still and utterly quiet, Tarsus waited until the Prince had disappeared up the steps. Then he moved quickly along the line of columns that bounded the plaza, reaching the entryway. He looked out into the night, and saw at the far end of the colonnaded road the dim flicker of that fey blue light. The Prince was gone.

Tarsus breathed easier, leaning on his staff.

O praise you gods, that gave me some small common sense! He is so strong, so filled with vile power, reeking of the abattoir… He would overmaster us in a sudden duel, each priest woken from a deep and dreaming sleep!

The priest, his heart still thudding with fear, turned from the gate and hurried away. The elders and the council of the temples had to be informed. They must do something, and quickly, before more innocents were consumed. Plans would have to be laid, friends summoned. Hopefully, the boy would not go far. Tarsus hurried down the steps, his sandals making a quick slap-slap sound on the pavement.

The Bucoleon Palace, Constantinople, Capital of the Eastern Empire

Dim yellow candlelight illuminated a smooth wooden wall. The close-grained surface was carved with rows of curling flowers and vines. Fat-tailed sheep, heads low, alternated with stiff figures of hunters and farmers, frozen in the field or at the hunt. A thick Serican carpet hung from the wall, covering most of the panel.

It creaked and moved, sliding open, revealing darkness. A hand came into view, stubby fingered and webbed with scars and old cuts. A man followed, stocky, broad shouldered, with lank dark hair and the ghost of a beard on his chin. His eyes were narrow and cautious, surveying the room carefully before he set foot within. He moved with the ease of long practice, his feet bare, avoiding those tiles that might creak or make a noise. Behind him, equally quietly, came a taller man, younger, with long blond hair tied back in a single plait behind his head.

Set into the far wall of the room was a sleeping platform draped with silk and linen. A figure lay there, asleep, though the sound of breathing was labored and thick with a watery cough. The dark-haired man approached softly, his nose wrinkling at the thick smell that hung in the chamber. He was used to the stench of the battlefield, the raw-sewage smell of corpses bloated in the sun, the buzz of the flies. This seemed worse, for the man in the bed was still alive.

Is this the punishment of the gods? Are these whispers in the Hippodrome true?

Rufio, captain of the Faithful, the red-cloaked barbarian guardsmen of the Emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, knelt on the woolen covers, his face pensive. Here, in the darkness, where there was no one to see, not even Sviod, who shared this secret, he let some of the worry show in his face. The man in the bed, his master, Emperor Heraclius, avtokrator of the Greeks, was dying. He was not dying of a spear thrust taken on some battlefield, or even of old age, with his grandchildren about him. He was not dying facing his enemies, the men of the Legions at his back. The Emperor was not dying the death Rufio desired.