only learned of it after Fabius had departed, when Licinius had struck off south. Maybe he had the man with him who had brought the two jewels from the east, maybe a trader they had robbed and enslaved, used as a guide. If the Romans had known about it earlier, it’s hard to see why Licinius and Fabius would have parted company, and separated the jewels.”
“Maybe the gods didn’t want mankind to find the secret of immortality.”
“Maybe the gods have our best interests at heart.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. What we’re doing here.” Wauchope was gazing intently at him, his eyes full of concern. Howard knew Wauchope was trying to keep him going, keep him conscious, squeeze every last drop from their friendship, relish all he could in these moments. Howard returned the gaze. “We’re here for the same reason those Romans took their last great journey. Remember the inscription we saw all those years ago in the jungle shrine? Fifteenth Apollinaris. For the glory of the legion. They were marching alongside the dead of their legion, shadowing them, seeking the trick of fate that would propel them to the other side, death with glory. They were doing what they were trained to do. They were soldiers. Maybe that’s why we’re here. The glory of our legion. The Corps of Royal Engineers. For all who have gone before, for all who have fallen. Ubique.”
“Ubique,” Wauchope repeated softly. “Spoken like a true sapper.”
Howard’s vision had become a tunnel, the edges dark and blurred. All he could see was Wauchope’s bearded, turbaned head, as if it were framed in an old sepia portrait. Howard seemed to be levitating, and to be pricked by a thousand pins and needles, a not unpleasant feeling. He felt he should try to move, but wondered if he were caught in a dream, one where movement would break the spell. If he stayed still, at any moment he might lift himself up, and walk down that tunnel toward the light. “Robert,” he murmured. “I can’t see so well anymore.”
Wauchope clutched his hand and held it tight. There was a sudden commotion at the entrance. A sound of neighing, of pawing hooves. They both peered up the rocky slope. Warm exhalation, crystallized, blew inward, sucked from the mountain air outside and drawn toward them, like a lick of dragon’s breath against the radiance of the rock. They heard more snorting, pawing, and then their eyes grew accustomed to the light, and they saw it. The silhouette of a horse framed against the red sun, a glow that seemed to make the sweat glisten like blood as it shook its mane, spraying flecks of crimson into the air. And riding it, the figure in the terrifying tiger mask, loins girt with plates of armor, the great sword with the gauntlet flashing against the sky, streaked red with freshly congealed blood. My blood. Howard’s heart began to pound, pumping froth out of his mouth. A drumbeat started up, a slow, insistent beat that became louder, coming up the valley slope toward them.
“That horse won’t come in here,” Wauchope said. “But the others will be on us soon, those following on foot. We have a few minutes left.”
Howard uncurled his left hand and clutched Wauchope’s hand hard, then stared up toward him. “Did I do any good, Robert? I built canals and bridges and roads. I showed them how to map the land. Did I do any good?”
“You brought up a family. You were a loving father. There is no better good a man can do.”
Howard’s face collapsed. “My son Edward. My boy. I should never have left him in Bangalore. I should have been with him at the end.”
“You were a sapper officer, and you were doing the Queen’s duty.”
“Duty? In the jungle? What were we doing there?”
Wauchope gripped Howard’s hand. “Do you remember our friend Dr. Walker? He reported the terrible jungle fever that decimated our men back to Surgeon-Major Ross, and Ross came to the jungle to see for himself If you hadn’t told Walker your theory about mosquitoes and the fever, it might never have happened. Sir Ronald Ross, winner of the new Nobel Prize for medicine. Putting down that rebellion was a thankless task, but something came out of it for the common good.”
“The common good.” Howard coughed, and swallowed hard. “The Koya were already immune to the fever. We killed scores of them. We burned their villages. The roads I traced with my sappers are still there, unfinished, grown over. The few we did finish only brought moneylenders, opium dealers, disease. We were there because our government tried to squeeze a few more rupees out of the Koya, and we failed because our government couldn’t be bothered with a place that was unprofitable. We do great deeds with high ideals, Robert, but this was not one of them, and it has shaped my life.” Howard suddenly convulsed, wracked with coughing. Blood poured down his chin, and he clutched the wet patch on his side, the blood bubbling out of his lung. He looked Wauchope in the eyes, his face gray. His voice was a whisper. “I can’t feel my legs anymore, Robert.”
The drumbeat became louder. Wauchope put his hand on Howard’s shoulder, and leaned close to him, wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve. “Steady on there, old boy.”
Howard gripped Wauchope’s hand. “Find the jewel, would you? Take it to the jungle, to Licinius. And return the sacred velpu to the Koya. We owe them.” His voice was trailing off He coughed again, then whispered, “Go back to the shrine, and put it in his tomb.”
Wauchope squeezed his hand. “One thing at a time, old boy. And I’ll need you to help me move the lid.”
“Look underneath, at the base of the sarcophagus,” Howard murmured. “There will be a hole, about the right size for that tube. Licinius was a stonemason, remember? Roman sarcophagi always had a hole in them, to let the decay out. To let the soul fly free.”
“I always said you should have been an archaeologist,” Wauchope replied.
Howard forced a grin, his teeth glistening with blood. “We’ve had a great adventure, haven’t we?”
“Indeed we have.” Wauchope picked up the bamboo tube with his left hand, curling his fingers around it until they nearly touched, then reached down with his right hand and picked up his Webley. “And it’s not over yet.” He gestured at the pistol in Howard’s hand, where it had remained after he fell. “Any chambers left?”
“Two.”
“I can’t believe you still use that old thing. Cap and ball. In this day and age. You really ought to get a cartridge revolver.”
“That’s what you said thirty years ago in the jungle. I’ve managed to avoid firing a shot in anger since then. It has served me well.”
“Just as long as you keep your powder dry.”
“A soldier always looks after his weapon, Robert.”
“You are still a soldier. The best.”
“But not always,” Howard murmured, “a knight in shining armor.”
“Did it feel good? Shooting again in anger, I mean? Just now?”
“I always enjoyed the smell of gunpowder.”
“Well then. Let’s see if we can make up for lost time, shall we?”
“Hann til Ragnaroks.”
“What did you say?”
Howard raised his left hand. His fingers were curled as if he were still holding the bamboo tube, but he could not feel them. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Look at the signet ring. The family crest, with the anchor. It’s made of Viking silver, brought to England by my Norse ancestors. Hann til Ragnaroks was their motto. It means ‘until we meet in Ragnaroks’ in Valhalla.”
“How on earth do you know that?” Wauchope said.
Howard managed a weak smile. “Family history. Always been a passion. Don’t expect it will pass on though. Nobody else interested. But at least I know what to say when I get there. To those who have gone before.”
“Well, I’m deuced if I’m going to Valhalla without a fight,” Wauchope said. “Come on.”
“My hand, Robert,” Howard whispered. “Have you seen? It’s stopped shaking. It’s had a tremor all those years, since the jungle. Since I pulled that trigger. Now I can’t feel it at all.”
Wauchope reached over and cocked Howard’s Colt, wrapping his limp hand around the grip. “I’m going for a recce. Your job is to shoot anything that appears at that entranceway.”
“Right-oh.” Howard’s voice was barely audible. “Soldier first, engineer second.”
“Quo fas et Gloria ducunt. We are soldiers.” “Warriors,” Howard whispered. “Knights.” “What was it you said? Hann til Ragnaroks.” “Hann til Ragnaroks.” Howard whispered the words, then took a rasping breath, bringing up blood again, and clutched Wauchope’s arm. He was shaking again, and his breathing was shallow. “Did I do it?” he whispered. “In the jungle? Did I do it? Did I shoot that little boy?” He looked up imploringly, but he could no longer see Wauchope. All he saw now was the imprint of the light at the end of the cave, and the aura of blue from the rock surrounding it. Wauchope held his hand and squeezed it, then reached into Howard’s tunic to where he knew it was, and pulled out a faded photograph of a young woman holding a baby. He placed it in Howard’s blood-soaked
