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The Tomb
THE TOMB
Jack McDevitt
The city lay bone white beneath the moon. Leaves rattled through courtyards and piled up
against crumbling walls. Solitary columns stood against the sky. The streets were narrow
and filled with rubble.
The wind off the Atlantic smelled of the tide. It shook the forest, which had long since
overwhelmed the city's defenses, submerging ancient homes and public buildings, forums
and marketplaces, and even invading the sacred environs, a plaza anchored at one end by a
temple, at the other by a tomb.
The temple was of modest dimensions. But a perceptive visitor might have recognized
both Roman piety and Greek genius in its pantheonic lines. It was set in the highest part of
the city. Its roof was gone, and its perimeter had largely disappeared into the tangle of
trees and brambles.
Save for a single collapsed piler, the front remained intact. A marble colonnade, still
noble in appearance, looked out toward the tomb. Carved lions slumbered on pedestals, and
stone figures with blank eyes and missing limbs kept watch over the city.
Twelve marble steps descended from the temple into the plaza. They were precisely
chiseled, rounded, almost sensual. The marble was heavily worn. Public buildings, in varying
states of disintegration, bordered the great square. They stood dark and cold through the
long evenings, but when the light was right, it was possible to imagine them as they had
been when the city was alive. A marble patrician stood over a dry fountain. Weary strollers,
had there been any, would have found stone benches strategically placed for their use.
The tomb stood alone at the far end. It was an irregular octagon, constructed of tapered
marble blocks, laid with military simplicity. The marble was gouged and scorched as high as
a man on horseback might reach. And the elements had had their way. If ever it had borne
a name, it had long since been worn smooth.
The tomb itself gaped open. The door that had once sealed the vault was gone.
Above the entrance, a device that might have been a sword had been cut into the
marble. In keeping perhaps with the spirit of the architecture, it too was plain: hilt, blade,
and crossguard were all rectangular and square-edged. No tapered lines here.
The vault rose into a circular, open cupola. Two marble feet stood atop the structure,
placed wide in what could only have been a heroic stance. One was broken off at the ankle,
the other ascended to the lower shin.
On a tranquil night, a visitor so inclined might easily have apprehended the tread of
divine sandals.
Three horsemen, not yet quite full-grown, descended from the low hills in the northwest. In
the sullen wind they could smell the age of the place.
They wore animal skins and carried iron weapons. Little more than boys, they had hard
blue eyes and rode with an alertness that betrayed experience with a hostile world. They
were crossing a stream that had once marked the western extremity of the city when the
tallest of the three drew back on his reins and stopped. The others fell in on either side.
"What's wrong, Cam?" asked the rider on the left, his eyes darting nervously across the
ruins.
"Nothing, Ronik—." Cam rose slightly in his saddle and looked intently toward the quiet
walls that still strove to guard the city. (In some places they had collapsed or been pulled
down.) His voice had an edge. "I thought something moved—."
The night carried the first bite of winter. Falon, on Cam's right, closed his vest against
the chill, briefly fingering a talisman. It was a goat's horn, once worn by his grandfather and
blessed against demons. His mount snorted uncertainly. "I do not see anything."
The wind was loud in the trees.
"Where?" asked Ronik. He was broad-shouldered, given to quick passions. His blond hair
was tied behind his neck. He was the only one of the three who had killed. "Where did you
see it?"
"Near the temple." Cam pointed.
"Who would be inside the city at night?" asked Ronik.
"Nobody with any sense," Cam snorted.
Falon stroked his horse's neck. Its name was Carik, and his father had given it to him
before riding off on a raid from which he never returned. "It might have been best if we
hadn't bragged quite so loudly. Better first to have done the deed, stayed the night, and
then spoken up."
Cam delivered an elaborate shrug: "Why? You're not afraid, are you, Falon?"
Falon started forward again. "My father always believed this city to be Ziu's birthplace.
And that,"—he looked toward the temple, "—his altar."
Cam was, in some ways, a dangerous companion. He wanted very much to be esteemed
by his peers, as they all did. But he seemed sometimes extreme in the matter. Willing to
take chances. He wanted to be perceived as a warrior, but he had not yet proved himself.
He was looking for a chance. His hair was black, his eyes dark. The rumor was that he had
been fathered by a southerner.
Cam was middle-sized, and probably did not have the making of a good warrior. He
would serve, his comrades knew. He would not run. But neither would he ever achieve great
deeds.
The road had once been paved, but was little more than a track now, grassed over,
occasional stones jutting from the bed. Ahead, it angled around to the south gate.
"Maybe we should not do this," said Ronik. He was perhaps everything Cam would have
liked to be. He was tall and strong, and had, until this moment, always seemed utterly
fearless. The girls loved him, and Falon suspected he would one day be a war chief. But his
time was not yet.
Cam tried to laugh. It came out sounding strained.
Falon studied the ruins. It was hard to imagine there had ever been laughter within
those walls, or the birth of children. Or cavalry gathering. The place felt somehow as though
it had always been like this. He patted his horse's neck. "I wonder if the city was indeed
built by gods?"
"If you are afraid," said Cam, "return home. Ronik and I will think no less of you." He
made no effort to keep the mockery out of his voice.
Falon restrained his anger. "I fear no man. But it is impious to tread the highway of the
gods."
They were advancing slowly. Cam did not answer but he showed no inclination to
assume his customary position in the lead. "What use would Ziu have for fortifications?"
This was not the only ruined city known to the Kortagenians: Kosh-on-the-Ridge; and
Eskulis near Deep Forest; Kalikat and Agonda, the twin ports at the Sound; and three more
along the southern coast. They were called after the lands in which they were found. No
one knew what their builders had called them. But there were tales about this one, which
was always referred to simply as "the City."
"If not a way station for the gods," said Ronik, "maybe it serves devils."
There were stories: passersby attacked by phantoms, dragged within the walls, and
seen no more. Black wings lifting on dark winds and children vanishing from nearby
encampments. Demonic lights, it was said, sometimes reflected off low clouds, and wild
cries echoing in the night. Makanda, most pious of the Kortagenians, refused to ride within
sight of the City after dark, and would have been thunderstruck to see where they were
now.
They walked their horses forward, speaking in whispers. Past occasional mounds. Past
stands of oak. A cloud passed over the moon. And they came at last to the gate.
The wall had collapsed completely at this point, and the entrance was enmeshed in a
thick patch of forest. Trees and thickets crowded in, disrupting the road and blocking entry.
They paused under a clutch of pines. Cam advanced, drew his sword, and hacked at
branches and brush.
"It does not want us," said Ronik.
Falon stayed back, well away from Cam's blade, which swung with purpose but not
caution. When the way was clear, Cam sheathed his weapon.
The gate opened into a broad avenue. It was covered with grass, lined with moldering
buildings. Everything was dark and still.
"If it would make either of you feel better," Cam said, "we need not sleep in the plaza."
The horses were uneasy.
"I don't think we should go in there at all," said Ronik. His eyes narrowed. It was a hard
admission.
Cam's mount pawed the ground. "What do you think, Falon?"
Had he been alone, Falon would not have gone near the place. He considered himself
relentlessly sensible. Fight when cornered. Otherwise, the trail is a happy place. He was the
smallest and youngest of the three. Like Ronik, and virtually the entire tribe, he had blond
hair and blue eyes. "We have said we will stay the night," he said. He spoke softly to
prevent the wind from taking his words along the avenue. "I do not see that we have a
choice."
Somewhere ahead a dry branch broke. It was a sharp report, loud, hard, like the
snapping of a bone. And as quickly gone.
"Something is in there." Ronik drew back on his reins.
Cam, who had started to dismount, froze with one leg clear of the horse's haunches.
Without speaking, he settled back into a riding position.
"Ziu may be warning us," said Ronik.
Cam threw him a look that might have withered an arm.
Ronik returned the glare. Because Cam was the oldest, the others usually acceded to his
judgment. But Falon knew that, if it came to a fight, Ronik would prove the better man at
his back.
"Probably a wolf," said Falon, not at all convinced it was. Wolves after all did not snap
branches.
"I am not going in." Ronik dropped his eyes. "It would be wrong to do so."
Cam rose on his saddle. "There's a light," he whispered.
Falon saw it. A red glow flickered in the plaza, on the underside of the trees. "A fire," he
said.
"It's near the tomb." Cam turned his horse back toward the gate.
Ronik moved to follow, paused, and clasped Falon's arm to draw him along.
Falon tried to ignore his own rising fear. "Are we children to be frightened off because
someone has built a fire on a cool night?"
"We don't know what it might be." Cam's voice had grown harsh. Angry. His customary
arrogance had drained away. "We should wait until daylight, and then see who it is."
Falon could not resist: "Now who's afraid?"
"You know me better," said Cam. "But it is not prudent to fight at night."
Ronik was tugging at Falon. "Let's go. We can retire to a safe distance in the hills. Stay
there tonight and return to camp tomorrow. No one would ever know."
"We would have to lie," said Falon. "They will ask."
"Let them ask. If anyone says I am afraid—," Cam gripped his sword hilt fiercely, "—I
will kill him."
"Do as you will," said Cam. "Come on, Ronik."
Falon shook free of his friend's hand. Ronik sighed and began to follow Cam toward the
gate, watching the plaza as he went. Falon was about to start after them when Ronik, good
decent Ronik, who had been his friend all his life, spoke the words that pinned him inside
the city: "Come with us, Falon. It's no disgrace to fear the gods."
And someone else replied with Falon's voice: "No. Carik and I will stay."
"Ziu does not wish it. His will is clear."
"Ziu is a warrior. He is not vindictive. I do not believe he will harm me. I will stay the
night. Come for me at dawn."
"Damn you." Cam's mount moved first one way and then another. "Farewell, then." He
laughed through his anger. "We'll see you in the morning. I hope you'll still be here." They
wheeled their horses and fled, one swiftly, the other with reluctance.
Falon listened to the gathering silence.
Be at my side, divine one.
The fire in the plaza seemed to have gone out.
Just as well. He would leave it alone. He rode deliberately into the city, down the center
of the avenue, past rows of shattered walls and open squares. Past broken buildings. Carik's
hoofbeats were soft, as if he too sensed the need for stealth.
He entered a wide intersection. To his left, at the end of a long street, the temple came
into view. The city lay silent and vast about him. He dismounted, and spoke to Carik,
rubbing his muzzle. Leaves swirled behind him, and Falon glanced fretfully over his
shoulder.
Moonlight touched the temple.
He decided against sleeping in the plaza. Better to camp out of the way. He found a
running spring and a stout wall on the east side of the avenue. Anything coming from the
direction of the tomb or the temple would have to cross a broad space.
Falon removed the saddle, loosened the bit, and hobbled the animal. He set out some
grain and sat down himself to a meal of nuts and dried beef. Afterward he rubbed Carik
down and took a final look around. Satisfied that he was alone, he used animal skins and his
saddle to make a bed, placed his weapons at hand, and tried to sleep.
It did not come. Proud that he alone had stayed within the city, he was nonetheless fearful
of what might be creeping up on on him in the dark. He listened for sounds, and sometimes
stationed himself where he could watch the approaches.
But in all that rubble, nothing moved. The smell of grass was strong, insects buzzed, the
wind stirred. A few paces away, Carik shook himself.
Then, as he was finally drifting off, he heard a sound: a footstep perhaps, or a falling
rock. He glanced at the horse, which stood unconcerned. Good: Carik could see over the
wall, and if something were coming, he would sound a warning.
Beneath the skins, he pressed his hand against the goat's horn to assure himself it was
still there. And then drew his sword closer.
Somewhere he heard the clink of metal. Barely discernible, a whisper in the wind.
The horse heard it too. Carik turned his head toward the temple.
Falon got to his feet and looked out across the ruins. A deeper darkness had fallen over
the thoroughfares and courtyards. The temple, no longer backlit by the moon, stood cold
and silent.
The sound came again.
A few gray streaks had appeared in the east. Morning was coming. He could honorably
retreat, leave the city and its secrets, and still claim credit for having stayed the night.
A light flickered on again in the plaza.
He couldn't see it directly, but shadows moved across the face of the temple.
He shivered.
"Wait," he told Carik, at last, and slipped over the wall.
Rubble and starlight.
He crept down a dark street, crossed an intersection, passed silently through a courtyard
and moved in behind a screen of trees.
The tomb glowed in the light of a lantern. A robed figure crouched on hands and knees
as its base. The face was hidden within the folds of a hood.
The figure was scratching in the dirt. It stopped, grunted, looked at something in its
hand, and flipped the object away. Falon heard it bounce.
The entire area around the tomb was dug up. Piles of earth were heaped everywhere,
and a spade leaned against a tree.
Falon surveyed the plaza, noted sparks from a banked campfire behind a wall to the
north. Saw no one else.
The hooded figure picked up a second object and seemed to examine it. He turned so
that the light from the lantern penetrated the folds of the hood. He was human.
Falon breathed easier.
He was collecting what appeared to be broken statuary. One piece looked like an arm.
And suddenly, with a swirl of robes, the figure raised his lantern, picked up a stick, and
looked directly toward Falon. Falon stepped out of the trees.
The man watched him warily. "Who are you?" he asked.
The voice suggested that he was accustomed to deference. "I am Falon the
Kortagenian." He showed the stranger his right hand in the universal sign that he was not
hostile.
"Greeting, Falon," said the robed man. "I am Edward the Chronicler." The light played
across his features. They were cheerful but wary. He wore an unkempt beard, and he
looked well fed.
"And what sort of chronicle do you compose, Edward, that you dare the spirits of this
place?"
Edward seemed to relax. "If you are really interested, it is indeed the spirits I pursue.
For if they live anywhere on the earth, it is surely here." He held the lamp higher so he
could see Falon's face. "A boy," he said. "Are you alone, young man?"
Edward was short. His head was immense, too large even for the corpulent body that
supported it. He had a tiny nose, and his eyes were sunk deep in his flesh.
"I am not a boy," said Falon. "As you will discover to your sorrow should you fail to show
due respect."
"Ah." Edward bowed. "Indeed I shall. Yes, you may rely on it."
"Edward-that-pursues-spirits: what is your clan?"
The dark eyes fastened on him from within the mounds of flesh. "I am late of Lausanne.
More recently of Brighton." He eased himself onto a bench and drew back his hood. The
man would have been the same age as his father, but this one was a different sort: he had
never ridden hard. "What brings you to this poor ruin in the dead of night?"
"I was passing and saw lights." Yes. That sounded fearless. Let the stranger know he
was dealing with a man who took no stock in demons and devils.
"Well," offered Edward, in the manner of one who was taking charge, "I am grateful for
the company."
Falon nodded. "No doubt." He glanced surreptitiously at the tomb, at the open vault. At
the passageway into the interior. "Your accent is strange, Edward."
"I am Briton by birth."
Falon had met others from the misty land. He found them gloomy, pretentious,
overbearing. It seemed to him they rarely spoke their minds. "Why are you here?"
Edward sighed. "I would put a name to one of the spirits and answer a question." He
picked up a leather bag. "May I offer you something to eat?"
"No. Thank you, but I have no need." He looked at the Briton. "What is the question?"
Edward's eyes were unsettling. "Falon, do you know who built this place?"
"No. Some of our elders think it has always been here."
"Not very enlightening. It was constructed ages ago by a race we barely remember."
"And who were they, this forgotten race?"
He seemed to think about it. "Romans," he said.
Falon ran the name across his lips. "I have never heard of them."
Edward nodded. Branches creaked. The flame in the lantern wobbled. "The world is full
of their temples. You undoubtedly rode in on their highway. The hand that built this city
created others like it from Britain to the valley of the Tigris. They devised a system of laws,
and gave peace to the world. But today the Romans and their name are dust."
Too many words for Falon. "What happened to them?"
"That is the issue of the moment. To discover what force can initiate the decline and
cause the fall of such power."
"Only the gods."
"The gods are dead." That bald statement, impious and blasphemous, shocked him. But
Edward seemed not to notice. "They were lost with their worshippers."
Falon muttered a quick prayer. He had never heard that kind of talk before. "Why were
the worshippers lost?" he asked. "What happened to them?"
He sat down on a piece of broken marble. "Maybe lost is the wrong word. Better to say
forgotten."
"And why were they forgotten?"

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