The Magic Circle (7 page)

The emperor drew himself together, signaled for the guard to give the pilot some silver for his trouble, and turned away to signify that the audience was ended. But as the money was handed to Tammuz, Tiberius added: “Pilot, with so many passengers on your ship, there must be other witnesses available to confirm this strange story?”

“Indeed, my lord,” agreed Tammuz, “there were many witnesses to what
I
heard and did.” Deep in the unfathomable black eyes Tiberius thought he saw a strange light. “Regardless of what we believe we know,” Tammuz continued, “there is one witness alone who can tell us whether that Great Pan was a mortal or a god, and whether he is alive or dead. But that sole witness is only a voice, a voice calling across the waters—”

Tiberius waved him away impatiently and departed for the isolated parapet—his prison. But as he watched the pilot being led down the slope to the harbor, the emperor called his slave and handed him a gold coin, motioning toward the Egyptian on the trail below. On swift feet the slave descended the trail and handed the coin to the pilot, who looked up to the terrace where Tiberius stood.

The emperor turned away without a sign and went into his empty quarters in the palace. Once there, he poured aromatic oil into the amphora on his altar and set it alight in the service of the gods.

He knew he must find the voice—the voice crying in the wilderness. He must find it before he died. Or Rome itself would be destroyed.

THE WITNESS

I only am escaped alone to tell thee
…

My thought

Darkened as by wind the water …

There’s always

Someone has to tell them, isn’t there?…

Someone chosen by the chance of seeing
,

By the accident of sight
,

By the stumbling on the moment of it
,

Unprepared, unwarned, unready
,

Thinking of nothing … and it happens, and he sees it
.

Caught in that inextricable net

Of having witnessed, having seen …

It was I
.

I only. I alone. The moment

Closed us together in its gaping grin

Of horrible incredulity
.

I only. I alone, to tell thee …

I who have understood nothing, have known

Nothing, have been answered nothing
.

—Archibald MacLeish,
J.B
.

God always wins
.

—Archibald MacLeish, J.B.

Snake River, Idaho: Early Spring, 1989

It was snowing. It had been snowing for days. It seemed the snow would never end.

I had been driving through the thick of it since well before dawn. I stopped at midnight in Jackpot, Nevada, the only pink neon glow in the sky through at least a hundred miles of rocky wasteland in my long ascent from California back to Idaho, back to my job at the nuclear site. There in Jackpot, against the jangle of slot machines, I sat at a counter and ate blood-rare grilled steak with fries, chugged a glass of Scotch whiskey, and washed it down with a mug of hot black coffee—the multi-ingredient cure-all my uncle Earnest had always recommended for this kind of stress and heartache. Then I went back out into the cold black night and hit the road again.

If I hadn’t stopped back in the Sierras, when the first fresh snow came down for the day of skiing I’d suddenly felt I needed to soothe my aching soul, I wouldn’t have been in this predicament now, sailing along on black ice in the middle of nowhere. At least this was a nowhere I knew well—every wrinkle of road along this trek from the Rockies to the coast. I’d crossed it often enough on business, for my job as a nuclear security expert. Ariel Behn, girl nuke. But the reason for this last jaunt was a business I’d as soon have missed.

I could feel my body slipping into autopilot on that long, monotonous stretch of highway. The dark waters of my mind started pulling me back to a place I knew I didn’t want to go. The miles clicked away, the snow swirled around me. The studded tires crunched on the black ice that flowed beneath.

I could not erase the dappled image of the grassy slope back there in California, the smoothly geometric pattern of those tombstones moving across it, those thin, thin layers of stone and grass. All that separated life from death—all that separated me from Sam—forever.

The grass was electric green—that shimmering, wonderful green that only exists in San Francisco, and only at this time of year. Against the brilliant lawn, the chalk white gravestones marched in undulating rows across the hill. Dark eucalyptus trees towered over the cemetery between the rows of markers, their silver leaves dripping with water. I looked through the tinted windows of the limousine as we pulled from the main road and doubled back into the Presidio.

I had driven this road so many times when in the Bay Area. It was the only route from the Golden Gate Bridge to the San Francisco Marina, and it passed directly by the military cemetery we were entering. Today, observed up close and in slow motion, it was all so beautiful, so ravishing to the eye.

“Sam would have loved being here,” I said, speaking aloud for the first time during the ride.

Jersey, sitting beside me in the limo, said curtly, “Well, after all, he
is
here, isn’t he? Or what’s all the hoopla about?”

At these close quarters, I caught a whiff of her breath.

“Mother, how much have you had to drink?” I said. “You smell like a brewery.”

“Cutty Sark,” she said with a smile. “In honor of the Navy.”

“For God’s sake, this is a funeral,” I said irritably.

“I’m Irish,” she pointed out. “We call it a wake: drink the buggers on their merry way. In my opinion, a far more civilized tradition …”

She was already having trouble with the three-syllable words. Inwardly I was cringing, hoping she wouldn’t try to give part of the eulogy that was to be delivered by the military at graveside. I wouldn’t put anything past her—especially in this state of incipient inebriation. And Augustus and Grace, my well-starched father and stepmother who disapproved of everything, were in the car just behind.

The limousines pulled through the iron gates of the Presidio cemetery and slid on past the funeral parlor. There would be no indoor service, and the coffin was already sealed for reasons pertaining, we’d been told, to national security. Besides, as we had also been told somewhat more discreetly, it might be hard to recognize Sam. Families of bombing victims usually preferred not to be afforded that opportunity.

The cortege moved along Lincoln Avenue and pulled up the drive sheltered by brooding eucalyptus at the far end of the cemetery. Several cars were already parked there, all with the recognizable white license plates of the U.S. government. Atop the small knoll was a freshly dug open grave with a cluster of men standing around it. One was an army chaplain, and one with a long thick braid of hair looked like the shaman I’d asked for. Sam would have liked that.

Our three limos pulled up in front of the government vehicles: Jersey and I in the family car, Augustus and Grace behind us, and Sam in the black limousine up front. In a lead-lined coffin. We all got out and started up the hill as they unloaded Sam from the hearse. Augustus and Grace stood quietly aside, not mingling—which I frankly appreciated, so Jersey’s breath wouldn’t be a problem. Unless someone lit a match near her.

A man with dark glasses and a trenchcoat separated from the gaggle of government types and moved over to speak a few words to the other two family members. Then he approached Jersey and me.

I suddenly realized we weren’t dressed for a funeral. I was wearing the only black dress I owned, one with purple and yellow hibiscus all over it. Jersey was in a chic French suit, that particular shade of ice blue that was her trademark when she was on the stage because it matched her eyes. I hoped no one would notice our lapse in protocol.

“Mrs. Behn,” the man addressed Jersey, “I hope you don’t mind waiting a few more minutes? The president would like to be here for the ceremony.”

He didn’t mean
the
president, of course, but a former president: the one Jersey called the Peanut Farmer, whom she’d performed for when he himself was in the White House.

“Hell no,” said Jersey. “I don’t mind waiting if
Sam
doesn’t!”

Then she laughed, and I got another waft. Though I couldn’t see the man’s eyes behind those glasses, I noticed that his mouth tightened into a thin line. I stared at him in stony silence.

The helicopter was coming down across the road, settling on the Crissy Field landing strip beside the bay. Two dark-paned cars had driven out to meet it and collect our distinguished guest.

“Mrs. Behn,” the shaded one went on
sotto voce
, as if in a spy movie, “I’m instructed to tell you that the president, acting in behalf of our current administration, has arranged this morning’s agenda. Although your son, as a civilian adviser, was not technically a member of the military, his death took place while he was performing a service for—I should say, rather, operating in an advisory capacity to the military. Our government therefore plans to honor him appropriately. There will be a small ceremony; a military band will play; then the deceased will be given the seventeen-gun salute in farewell. After that, the president plans to present to you the Distinguished Service Medal.”

“What for?” said Jersey. “I ain’t the one who died, sugar.”

The ceremony did not go exactly as planned.

After it was over, Augustus and Grace retired to their suite atop the Mark Hopkins on Nob Hill, sending a message that they were “expecting me” to join them for dinner. Since it was just lunchtime, I took Jersey to the Buena Vista to drink her lunch. We found a wooden table at the front windows, overlooking the wharves and the bay.

“Ariel, honey, I’m really sorry about what happened,” said Jersey, tossing down her first glass of Scotch as if it were milk.

“Sorry doesn’t help,” I said, repeating a line of hers from my childhood when I’d done something wrong. “I’m having dinner with Augustus and Grace tonight. What the hell am I supposed to say to them?”

“Fuck them,” said Jersey, looking at me with those famous icy blue eyes, which seemed surprisingly clear, given her recent dietary habits. “Tell them that I was startled by the guns. It’s true. I was startled by those damned guns going off in my ear.”

“You
knew
they were going to give a seventeen-gun salute,” I pointed out. “I was there when the security agent
told
you. You were as drunk as a skunk.
That’s
why you fell into the grave—good God—in front of all those people!”

Jersey looked up at me in injured pride, and I glared back.

But all at once I felt it coming over me, and I just couldn’t help myself. I started laughing. First Jersey’s expression changed to surprise; then she started laughing, too. We laughed until tears were streaming down our faces. We laughed until we could no longer catch our breath. We were choking with laughter and holding our sides at the thought of my mother sprawled, ass up, six feet down in a hole in the ground, before they even had a chance to lower the coffin.

“Right in front of the Peanut Farmer and everything,” Jersey practically screamed, and this set us off on another peal.

“Right in front of Augustus and Grace,” I gasped between hysterical sobs.

It took a long time to run down, but at last we subsided into moans and chuckles. I wiped my tears with my napkin and leaned back with a sigh, holding my stomach, which was raw from laughter.

“I wish Sam could have seen what you did,” I told Jersey, squeezing her arm. “It was so bizarre—just what tickled his funny bone. He would have died laughing.”

“He died anyway,” said Jersey. And she ordered another drink.

At seven o’clock I arrived at the Mark in the limo Augustus sent for me. He hired a car whenever he visited any city so he’d never have to degrade himself flagging down a cab. My father was into appearances. I told the driver to collect me at ten and take me back to the little Victorian inn where I was staying across the bridge. Three hours of Augustus and Grace, as I knew from experience, would be more than adequate.

Their penthouse suite was large and filled with the lavish flower arrangements Grace required in any surroundings. Augustus opened the door when I knocked and regarded me sternly. My father was always elegant, with his silvery hair and tanned complexion. Now, in a black cashmere blazer and grey trousers, he looked every bit the part of the feudal lord he’d been rehearsing for all his life.

“You’re late,” he said, glancing at his gold wristwatch. “You were to arrive at six-thirty so we could speak privately before dinner.”

“This morning was enough of a family reunion for me,” I told him.

I instantly regretted having alluded to the earlier events of the day.

“And that’s something else I want to speak with you about: your mother,” said Augustus. “First, what can I fix you to drink?”

“I had lunch with Jersey,” I said. “I’m not sure I need anything much stronger than water.”

Wherever Augustus went, he had a well-stocked bar set up, though he drank little himself. Maybe that’s what went wrong when he and my mother were married.

“I’ll fix you a spritzer; that’s light,” he said, and squirted the soda from a mesh-encased bottle, handing the wineglass to me.

“Where’s Grace?” I asked, taking a sip as he mixed himself a light Scotch.

“She’s lying down. She was quite upset by that little debacle your mother pulled this morning—and who can blame her? It was unforgivable.” Augustus always referred to Jersey as “
your
mother,” as though I were responsible for her very existence, rather than the other way around.