Gaiusreached inside the exposed alcove.
Athousand disasters could have befallen this site. A dozen wars hadcrossed this country since the last time he’d been here. But he’dchosen his hiding place well. The palace area had been continuallylived in and not left for ruin. The town was off the main crossroads ofEurope. Armies generally didn’t have a reason to level a coastalvillage with no strategic value. The place was still mostly intact,mostlypreserved. Even better, over the last couple of centuries it had beencleaned up and maintained.
Andin all that time, no one had discovered what he’d left buried.
Hedrew out his prize and held it up to check its condition.
Theartifact was a clay lamp, terra-cotta orange, small enough to fit inthe palm of his hand. A spout at one end would hold a wick; oil wouldbe poured in through the top. It was a poor man’s lamp, too plain andcommonplace for wealth. The designs imprinted around the top were offire. The thing was dusty, covered in grime, but otherwise in goodshape. Just as he’d left it. A couple of swipes with his gloved handcleared some of the dirt. There’d be plenty of time later to clean itmore thoroughly. It didn’t need to be clean, it needed to be intact,safe in hand. The Manus Herculei. The Hand of Hercules, which he woulduse to bring fire down upon the Earth.
Ifarchaeologists had found it, they’d have tagged it, catalogued it.Stuck it behind glass or simply put it on a shelf in someclimate-controlled archival storage. He might have had a harder timeclaimingit then, and some of the artifact’s power might have diminished. Butthis . . . this was the best outcome he could have hoped for, and itmade him wonder if there wasn’t in fact some weight of destiny on hisside. He was meant to do this, and he was being guided.
Hehad been on this path, unwavering, for two thousand years.
79C.E.
WhenGaius Albinus arrived in Pompeii, he had not aged in eighty years. Hestill looked like a hale man in his thirties. A bright centurion ofRome, though he’d left his armor behind decades before. Who neededarmor when one was practically immortal?
He’dnever wanted to be immortal. He’d wanted to die for Rome. That chancehad been taken from him by a monster. Since then, he had looked forpurpose. Some kind of revenge against the one who had done this.Unfortunately, Kumarbis was as indestructible as he was. The force ofGaius’s rage surprised him. He’d never had a reason to be angrybefore. When he looked for an outlet, something he could break ordestroy to somehow quiet his fury, he found one worthy target: theworld. If one was going to be immortal, one might aswell use that time to attempt the impossible.
InHerculaneum, he rented a house. This was a port village up the coastfrom the more decadent, raucous Pompeii. Here, he’d have quiet and nothave to answer so many questions. The place was small, just a couple ofrooms on the outside of town, but it had a courtyard behind high walls.In privacy, he could burn herbs and write on the flagstones incharcoal, washing them off when he finished.
Then,he learned to make lamps.
Hecouldn’t simply buy one in a market and have it be pure, so he went outone night to a pottery workshop and persuaded the master there to helphim. The potter was skeptical, even with Gaius’s particular brand ofpersuasion. Gaius was well dressed and held himself like a soldier—whywould he need to learn to make lamps? “It’s a hobby,” Gaius said, andthe man seemed to accept that. The potter taught him to fashion clay,bake it, fire it. His first few efforts were rough, lopsided. Oneshattered in the kiln.
“Practice,”the potter said. “Even a simple thing takes practice. Keeptrying.”
Gaiusunderstood that, and at the end of a week of working long nights he hada lamp, all of his own making. He paid the potter well, which seemed toconfuse the man.
Thatwas the first step. Next: the inscription.
Hewashed, wore a light, undyed tunic, and went barefoot. The summer airwas thick, sticky, but his skin was cool, was always cool. He’d takenblood from his servant, who now slept in the house, out of the way. Theborrowed strength buoyed him and would be enough to carry him throughthe night.
Afull moon rose as dusk fell, and the smallest hint of sunset stilltouched the deep blue sky when Gaius arranged his tools in thecourtyard. Charcoal, candles, string, braziers, and incense. His lamp.He had a hundred incantations to learn, a hundred symbols to memorizeand write, then write again, until he had them perfect. Practice, asthe potter had told him.
Suchgood advice.
Hehad a lamp to infuse with power.
Kneeling,tools in hand and bright moonlight silvering the courtyard, hehesitated. The hair on his arms stood up, and a sudden tensionknotted his shoulders. It was the sensation of being stalked by a lion.He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.
Thedanger was outside the courtyard, approaching. If he quieted himself,he could sense every beating heart in the town, he could follow thescent of warm blood and the sound of breathing to every hidden soul.But the thing approaching had no heartbeat, and its blood was cold. Thehold it had on Gaius Albinus was difficult to define, but even afterdecades, the bond remained and called to him. He set down his tools andmarched to the courtyard door, wrenchedit open, and looked.
Anold man, his skin shriveled, his bones bent, pulled himself along thealley wall, creeping from one shadow to the next on crooked limbs.Hairless, joints bulging, he should not have been alive. His raggedlinen tunic hung off him like a crucifixion. This was the source ofnightmare tales that kept children awake, the stories of ghouls anddemons
