Gaius drove the archaeologist back to the city center, navigated the crowds to the quiet alley where the gate to the lower level was located. Gaius could have broken in himself—picked the lock, disabled the security system. But this was simpler and would leave no evidence. No one must track him. No one must know what he did.
Dimic unlocked the gate, keyed in the security code, and they were inside.
“Anything else?” he asked, almost eagerly. His gaze was intent but vacant, focused on Gaius without really seeing anything.
“Show me how to reset all this when I leave.”
“Certainly.”
The archaeologist gave him the code, showed him the lock, and even left a key. He helpfully pointed out restrooms at the far end of the hallway.
“Go home now,” Gaius instructed the man. “Go inside. Sit in the first chair you come to and close your eyes. When you open them again you won’t remember any of this. Do you understand?”
“I do.” He nodded firmly, as if he’d just been given a dangerous mission and was determined to see it through.
“Go.”
The archaeologist, a man who had dedicated his life to studying the detritus Gaius’s people had left behind, turned and walked away, without ever knowing he’d been in the presence of a one-time Roman centurion. He’d weep if he ever found out.
Gaius made sure the gates were closed behind him and went into the tunnels beneath the palace. The vaulted spaces were lit only by faint emergency lights at the intersections. Columns made forests of shadows.
He had to orient himself. The main gallery had been turned into some kind of gift shop or market. The eastern chambers had become an art gallery, scattered with unremarkable modern sculptures, indulgent satire. But along the western corridor, he found a familiar passageway, and from there was able to locate the series of chambers he needed. He reached the farthest, not taking time to glance at any of the exhibits—he knew it all already. Then, he counted seven stones along the floor to the right spot on the wall, two bricks up. Anyone who’d come along this passage and happened to knock on this row of stones would have noticed that one made a slightly different sound. A more hollow sound. But in all that time, it seemed that no one had ever done so.
He drew a crowbar from inside his jacket and used it to scrape out mortar and grime from around the brick, then worked to pry the brick free. He had to lean his body into it; the wall had settled over the centuries. Dust had sealed the cracks. But he was strong, very strong, and with a couple of great shoves and a grunt, the brick slipped and thudded to the ground at his feet.
Gaius reached inside the exposed alcove.
A thousand disasters could have befallen this site. A dozen wars had crossed this country since the last time he’d been here. But he’d chosen his hiding place well. The palace area had been continually lived in and not left for ruin. The town was off the main crossroads of Europe. Armies generally didn’t have a reason to level a coastal village with no strategic value. The place was still mostly intact, mostly preserved. Even better, over the last couple of centuries it had been cleaned up and maintained.
And in all that time, no one had discovered what he’d left buried.
He drew out his prize and held it up to check its condition.
The artifact was a clay lamp, terra-cotta orange, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. A spout at one end would hold a wick; oil would be poured in through the top. It was a poor man’s lamp, too plain and commonplace for wealth. The designs imprinted around the top were of fire. The thing was dusty, covered in grime, but otherwise in good shape. Just as he’d left it. A couple of swipes with his gloved hand cleared some of the dirt. There’d be plenty of time later to clean it more 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 would use to bring fire down upon the Earth.
If archaeologists had found it, they’d have tagged it, catalogued it. Stuck it behind glass or simply put it on a shelf in some climate-controlled archival storage. He might have had a harder time claiming it then, and some of the artifact’s power might have diminished. But this . . . this was the best outcome he could have hoped for, and it made him wonder if there wasn’t in fact some weight of destiny on his side. He was meant to do this, and he was being guided.
He had been on this path, unwavering, for two thousand years.
79 C.E.
When Gaius Albinus arrived in Pompeii, he had not aged in eighty years. He still looked like a hale man in his thirties. A bright centurion of Rome, though he’d left his armor behind decades before. Who needed armor when one was practically immortal?
He’d never wanted to be immortal. He’d wanted to die for Rome. That chance had been taken from him by a monster. Since then, he had looked for purpose. Some kind of revenge against the one who had done this. Unfortunately, Kumarbis was as indestructible as he was. The force of Gaius’s rage surprised him. He’d never had a reason to be angry before. When he looked for an outlet, something he could break or destroy to somehow quiet his fury, he found one worthy target: the world. If one was going to be immortal, one might as well use that time to attempt the impossible.
In Herculaneum, he rented a house. This was a port village up the coast from the more decadent, raucous Pompeii. Here, he’d have quiet and not have to answer so many questions. The place was small, just a couple of rooms on the outside of town, but it had a courtyard behind high walls. In privacy, he could burn herbs and write on the flagstones in charcoal, washing them off when he finished.
Then, he learned to make lamps.
He couldn’t simply buy one in a market and have it be pure, so he went out one night to a pottery workshop and persuaded the master there to help him. The potter was skeptical, even with Gaius’s particular brand of persuasion. Gaius was well dressed and held himself like a soldier—why would he need to learn to make lamps? “It’s a hobby,” Gaius said, and the man seemed to accept that. The potter taught him to fashion clay, bake it, fire it. His first few efforts were rough, lopsided. One shattered in the kiln.
“Practice,” the potter said. “Even a simple thing takes practice. Keep trying.”
Gaius understood that, and at the end of a week of working long nights he had a lamp, all of his own making. He paid the potter well, which seemed to confuse the man.
That was the first step. Next: the inscription.
He washed, wore a light, undyed tunic, and went barefoot. The summer air was thick, sticky, but his skin was cool, was always cool. He’d taken blood from his servant, who now slept in the house, out of the way. The borrowed strength buoyed him and would be enough to carry him through the night.