Sunset and Evening Star

By Leslie Fish

Note: This story takes place approximately 3 months after events related in "Proof Positive," by Sharon Emily in "Showcase 2" c. 1973.

I. Easter Parade

Captains's Log: 5478.1:

I disliked this mission from the start. For one think, I've had too many bad experiences with time-travel to like this jaunt. For another the nature of this assignment – rescuing ancient art treasures via transporter from ancient Rome, just before the city was sacked and burned by the Ostrogoth Conquerors – requires taking the ship around the sun, rather than stepping through the Guardian of Forever. Time-travel puts Kaffbein stress on the engines, which in turn puts stress on chief engineer Scott, and limits the visit it only four days – which puts stress on the eager research party. Nerves are tight all around.

Third Problem is the running fight between the research party's Chief Historian, Dr. Agnes Day, and the top archeologist, Dr. Ellison Hawk. I'm not sure what their professional dispute is, but their obvious personality clash has a lot to do with it. Agnes is young and pretty, sweet and dedicated, proper and pious, dutiful and relentlessly high-minded. Hawk is as darkly handsome as he is short, has the pride, courage and temper of a bantam rooster, and is cheerfully radical in personal tastes and professional ideas. They can't seem to help hating each other's guts. Agnes thinks Hawk is a destructive, cynical, atheistic sex-maniac. Hawk claims – loudly and often – that Agnes is a frigid, sanctimonious bigot. From the hour they came on board, they've been at each other's throats. Who the hell had the bright idea of putting them on the same research team? Spock has been obliged to break up fights between them several times a day and the strain is beginning to show. They're on the ground now and I don't envy Spock's situation.

When Kirk got the call from Spock, commenting delicately that some "command interpersonal diplomacy" was required, he could make a good guess as to what the problem was. Knowing from glum experience that beaming the contenders back to the ship would cause still more trouble, he stopped at the supply room for a minimal period costume – a long hooded cape that covered him from head to foot—before he went to the transporter room and beamed down.

He materialized in the prearranged spot, a long door-less alley just off the Via Sacra. 5th century Rome had lost the sanitary habits of its heyday, and the alley was full of garbage; Kirk tried not to breath the stench as he picked his way up the alley to where Spock stood, looking almost annoyed, blocking the scene from any possible glances of passing natives. Sure enough, Day and Hawk were faced off above their tricorders, arguing fiercely, just barely managing to keep their voices down. Agnes, in the costume of a mendicant nun, looked like a petulant angel. Hawk, dressed in the fashion of a semi-skilled tradesman, resembled a slightly-scruffy satyr. Spock, wearing a long cape similar to Kirk's, wore a look of weary, grim neutrality. Kirk pitied him.

"All right, what's the problem?" he asked, as he came up to them. "It'd better be good this time."

"I assure you, sir, I didn't start this," Agnes Day began, turning toward him with a look of sweet appeal that was marred by her obvious indignation. "It's entirely this – Mr. Hawk's doing."

"Captain, we've run into a serious snag in carrying out our assignment." Hawk snapped, making no effort to hide his pique. "Half the treasures aren't' here."

"What?"

"Apparently, Captain," Spock put in before either of the others could reply, "There was a mistake in our data. Some 52 percent of the art objects we were sent her to rescue have already been lost or destroyed."

"Why? What happened to them?"

"Obviously the decadence of this culture has spread to its appreciation of art," Day explained. "Most of the pieces have been sold, given away, destroyed through negligence or vandalism—"

"Vandalism before the Vandals ever showed up?" Hawk laughed shortly. "No sir, there's another explanation, and it's damned important when you consider today's date."

"According to the contemporary calendar," Spock clarified, "Today is Easter Sunday."

"Of course!" Agnes sneered at Hawk. "That's one of the reasons we chose this particular date: everyone will be in church, praying. We can visit the old pagan temples without being seen."

"In church? …Oh." Kirk floundered, then remembered that by this time—the middle 400's—Christianity was the official religion of the dying empire. Rome was a Christian city now, and even those few who retained pagan sympathies wouldn't dare miss a church service today. "That makes sense. I don't see why we can't get into the temples without trouble and make off with the remaining art treasures. Where's the problem Dr. Hawk?"

"The problem is that they won't just be in church!" Hawk was practically dancing from foot to foot. "I tell you, I've studied the archeological evidence and I know what I'm talking about! It wasn't just negligence or greed that lost us half those treasures, it was—"

"There he goes again," Agnes interrupted tearfully. "He makes a personal point of calling Historians liars! No matter what the accounts of the period say, he claims they're all—"

"Biased!" Hawk almost yelled. "Don't fool yourself into thinking that an historian can't hold a grudge, or slant a story, or tell only half the truth, or write outright lies if he—or she—thinks it's good for Humanity to believe one thing instead of another—"

"And of course only the archeologist—the man with the shovel—can find the truth. Right?"

"Break it up!" Kirk snapped, seeing where this was going. "Hawk, get to the point, if you have one."

"The point is, Captain," the little archeologist fumed, "that the art treasures stored in the ancient temples were deliberately destroyed—deliberately and systematically—by the new master of the city—"

"He's referring to the Church!" Agnes almost cried. "He's always looking for excuses to—"

"I can prove it!" Hawk insisted "Dammit, listen to me! The study crews we've put in those temples are in danger, great danger, until we know for certain which way the destruction's going today."

"Destruction…? Explain." Kirk turned to the archeologist. "What danger are you talking about? What does the date have to do with it?"

"Everything!" Hawk glanced past Spock to the mouth of the alley. "Look, the crowds will be getting out of church soon. They'll form a procession to march through the streets. We have to pull all our people back until we find out which way that parade is going—and, better still, where it's not going. Do you understand? Will you do that much?"

That made sense anyway. "Spock, attend to it," Kirk told him. "Get the teams to keep out of sight until the procession's gone."

Spock duly pulled out his communicator and spoke hurriedly into it.

"That," Agnes sniffed, "will cost us several hours of priceless study time."

"Believe me, it's necessary." Hawk glowered. "You don't know—and I'm sure that Little Miss Sanctimony here wouldn't tell you, or bother to remember it—but Easter Parades weren't always harmless little fashion shows. Here and now, there's nothing you'd want to meet less—except maybe the Goths themselves. It's a crazed mob, drunk on self-righteousness and bent on destruction! That's what happened to all those missing statues and painting and—"

"Just listen to him!" Agnes wailed. "He's trying to persuade you to keep the study teams idle for hours and hours, on this ridiculous excuse, with no evidence whatever! The things some people will do just to flatter their own sense of importance—"

"My importance, nothing! If you'd look at the eye-witness accounts and the physical evidence, even you'd have to admit that until as late as the 19th century, Easter parades had a nasty habit of turning into pogroms! It's an old, old tradition, Little Miss Sweetness and Light, and a pogrom is exactly what we're facing here!"

"'Pog…" what?" Kirk struggled to keep up.

"'Pogrom,'" Spock explained, "is an old Earth term for a form of riot, in which the believers of one religion would attack believers of another religion, in an attempt to convert them."

"'Convert or die,' sort of a small crusade," Hawk elaborated. "Specifically, it's an old Yiddish word describing the periodic attempts of their good Christian neighbors to do them in and rid the world of 'heathens.' Pogroms often started from the church doors on Easter Sunday. It's a very old game, Captain."

"And you think that's going to happen here, today?" Kirk took a quick look out of the alley. There was no one in sight. "What makes you so sure?"

"First, the fact that more than half of the old temples in this city have been looted, burned and smashed in a manner that couldn't possibly be accidental. Second, that fact that pogroms have, for centuries, started on Easter Sunday. Third…" He smiled unpleasantly at Agnes. "The fact that organized religion has a cute habit of turning fanatical and bigoted when faced with people who prefer not to believe in it. Add 'em together and what've you got? A clear and present danger, I say."

Spock gave a quiet sigh. Kirk could understand his attitude perfectly. Hawk seemed to delight in iconoclasm, as if his favorite food was roasted Sacred Cow, and religion was on of his favorite targets; he'd been know to rave against it for hours. On the other hand he was a brilliant and justly famous archeologist; he knew his subject well, he wasn't inclined to cry wolf, his hunches tended to pay off and his warning were usually worth listening to. It wouldn't hurt to get a second opinion though. Kirk mentally crossed his fingers, turned to Agnes and asked her what she thought.

"I think," said Agnes, putting her hands together and making her face and voice calm. "That Mr. Hawk is the sort of embittered atheist who wants company in his misery. His unfounded accusations and hysterical attacks on religion reveal a deep fear: fear of loneliness, fear of himself, and ultimately fear of God. He cannot be rational on this subject.

"Thank you, Dr. Day, for your psychology report." Hawk gave her an ironic little round of applause. "Now let's call up Dr. McCoy and get his opinion on Roman History."

Like Punch and Judy, thought Kirk, rubbing his eyes. "Stick to the point, Miss Day. Do you think there's much possibility of the Easter parade turning into a riot that could endanger the ground parties?"

"I strongly doubt it," she replied firmly. "Recall that at this period Christianity had just risen to ascendancy in Europe, sweeping away the old pagan cruelties and corruption on a tide of religious reawakening. People hungered for God, for the simplicity and purity of Christ's message, which had not yet been confused and distorted by the political opportunism and worldly concerns which crept in later. People at this time were generally concerned with the spiritual aspects of life, trying to live according to Christian precepts, preparing for eternity—"

"So busy worrying about the next world that they neglected the sewers in this one," Hawk sneered, kicking emphatically at a heap of garbage. "They let their army fall apart and were overrun by the Goths if you'll recall. Let's hear it for the spiritual life: bleeeeaaaachh!"

"'Man does not live by bread alone'!" Agnes snapped at him.

"Man sure as hell doesn't live with it!"

"Back to the point!" Kirk almost roared at them. "Are you saying, Miss Day, that there's no danger of a riot? No harm in letting the research team continue to take the art objects out of the temples?"

"I can see no reason why anyone should be in danger today."

"Bullshit!" yelled Hawk. "Captain, at least have someone keep an eye on that parade and warn the teams if it starts coming their way. Dammit, nothing's as dangerous as a crowd drunk on self-righteousness!"

"All right, Dr. Hawk, we'll do that little thing." Kirk had had exactly enough of this squabble. "In fact, the two of you will get that duty. Mr. Spock, call the ship and have them locate the procession; we're going to go and watch it."

Both Hawk and Agnes started to say something, stopped, looked at each other, and shut up. Thank god, Kirk thought, waiting while Spock made the call. Maybe this little jaunt will keep them quiet for the rest of the day. If so, well worth the effort. I wouldn't mind watching the parade anyway… Spock got the coordinates and led the way out of the alley. Kirk fell in beside him, leaving the two scientists to follow at a short distance.

As they plodded silently down the ancient emptied streets, looking for signs of a procession, Kirk couldn't help noticing how worn and tattered and ancient the city looked. He saw houses of stained and crumbling stone, empty lots cluttered with rubble and garbage, sad dry fountains and broken aqueducts, raw sewage stinking in the rain gutters, weedy holes in the pavement of the streets that had once been the city's pride. The air was thick with bad smells, heat, buzzing flies, and the colonnades of broken white pillars suggested uncovered bones. Like an unburied corpse, half rotted away, Kirk thought. So this is how a dying empire looks.

From somewhere ahead came the chiming of bells and many voices singing hymns. The sweet solemn sound contrasted eerily with the depressing scene around them. Kirk smiled as he thought of the obvious analogy—and how fitting it was on Easter.

Spock must have noticed it too, for he murmured a New Testament quote: "'Behold…the resurrection and the life.'"

Kirk glanced at him, surprised and pleased. "What, getting emotion in your old age, Spock? I thought Vulcans considered human religion illogical."

"I was merely considering the applicability of certain religious symbols," Spock replied, pokerfaced. "The theme of spiritual rebirth is certainly appropriate in this setting."

"Oh, indeed." Kirk smiled again, considering how much his friend had changed through the years, especially since… "You know, Spock, I doubt you would have noticed that before your last time travel expedition. It must have had quite an effect on you, meeting the real Jesus of Nazareth."

"Affirmative," Spock replied stiffly, giving the slightest impression of a blush. "I found it a most fascinating experience."

"No doubt." 'Most fascinating,' he says. A human would have been dithering with adjectives. "Uncounted millions of people would have wanted to make that trip, meet the Master themselves… You know, Spock, you never did tell me about it."

"Some experiences, Captain, are impossible to put into words."

"Yes, yes, that's precisely the problem," Agnes put in, smiling radiantly. Of course she'd heard of Spock's famous time-journey; most historians had. "That's why the Gospels are so often misinterpreted, why it's so difficult to explain to people who haven't experienced it—" She glanced sidelong at Hawk. "—what it's like to feel the presence of God, to be joined in spirit, to- to- Oh, words are so inadequate!"

Kirk looked away, unaccountably embarrassed for Spock's sake.

"Indeed," Spock replied, pulling the hood of his cape a little closer around his face. "Language barely applies to the situation."

Kirk could detect the discomfort in Spock's voice, and judged it was high time to rescue him. "Quiet everybody," he warned. "We're getting close."

That was true enough. There was a crowd ahead of them, jostling and peering toward the growing sound of singing and bells. The party quietly joined the throng, a little perturbed by the distracting smell of unwashed clothes and bodies. Kirk wondered if this was one of the poorer sections of town; the people, what one could see of them under their loose, heavy clothes, didn't look very well-fed or healthy… He abruptly forgot about them as the procession approached.

At a distance, the oncoming parade was a vision of ethereal loveliness gracing a dull world. A contingent of men in gold-trimmed white robes advanced, holding up a great gold crucifix that glittered with gemstones, or swinging gold censers that billowed clouds of sweet smoke. Directly behind them, in an ornate gold-trimmed litter carried by dark-robed monks, rode a man in elaborate red robes and a distinctive cardinal's hat, both embroidered with gold thread, as were the gloves on the hands he raised in a gesture of blessing. After that, pressed so close that they seemed to be jockeying for position, came three men in gold-trimmed white robes with matching tall mitred hats and long white stylized shepherds' crooks sheathed in gold foil and gems. Behind them came a chorus of white robed boys singing a stately hymn. And after them, more dark-robed monks ringing sweet-toned hand bells and carrying stiff banners with images of saints on them. Behind that contingent surged the enormous crowd of worshippers in their Sunday best clothes.

Kirk hadn't seen many religious procession in his life, but this one, he thought could compare with the best of them. Agnes murmured an appreciative prayer. Hawk sneered furtively. Spock said nothing.

It wasn't until the procession came past them that the little party could see the flaws in the façade. Kirk was startled to notice that the robes of the marchers were muddy up to the knees—which made sense when he glanced at the broken and pitted street. The gold embroideries and the upraised hands were crusted with long-embedded dirt. The bejeweled officials were unhealthily fat and the plain-robed monks were startlingly lean. There were lice visible in the hair of every bared head, and fleas hoping among the billowing robes. The boys' chorus was not really made up of boys; they were grown men, undersized and oddly fleshy, with smooth beardless faces and high tremulous voices—and Kirk shuddered as he understood that they were eunuchs. What's wrong? What's wrong with all these people? he wondered, coming up as if from a dream to the chill realization that where in all this crown—with the exception of himself and his people—was there one face or body not marred by the subtle bone-warping of rickets, or the pocked skin and snaggled teeth of disease and malnutrition, or the stains of years worth of dirt, or the glassy eyes of fever and mania. Not one untouched.

"Sick," whispered Hawk. "Each and all. Sick."

"The poor things," Agnes murmured, her eyes filling with tears of pity. "It's the climate, the poverty, the effect of this wretched city… And of course, their medicine wasn't as advanced as ours."

"It's the neglected roads and sewers and broken-down water supply," Hawk insisted. "Not to mention the lack of baths. The pre-Christian Romans were very big on baths—not to mention exercise and balanced diet—but your dear Church closed down the public bath houses and declared daily washing vain and immodest—"

"Quiet!" Kirk hissed at them, although there wasn't much chance of them being overheard. Their immediate neighbors had fallen in with the marching crowd, which was beginning to chant 'Alleluiah!" quite loudly. "Come on let's follow them. See where they go." He led the party into the fringes of the crowd, close enough not to look out of place, far enough away that they wouldn't be overheard if they kept their voices low.

"Besides," Hawk continued in a slightly gloating undertone, "Ancient Greek and Roman medicine wasn't that bad. Their preventative medicine was excellent, their surgery wasn't bad at all, their psychology was extraordinarily good, and their understanding of dietetics was downright surprising. The Greeks were physical-culture nuts and the Romans had a national fetish about public health. Then along came your beloved Church with its scorn for the physical, its liking for bread-and-water diets and holy fasting, its pious otherworldly concern—"

"Famine and plague have little to do with religion," snapped Agnes, pointedly not looking at Hawk. "'The rain falls upon the just and unjust alike.' When such disasters happen, some religions give people more comfort than others."

"Sure, by telling them that it's God's punishment for their sins!" Hawk chuckled. "That might hold water if the 'sins' were practicalities—like ignoring hygiene, or letting the topsoil erode; but for some reason the 'sins' are always just the opposite: being too 'worldly,' taking too much care of themselves and their health, not spending enough time and attention—and money—on religion, not being sufficiently obedient to God and His Official Servants. Hah!"

"You're distorting the facts, exaggerating small failings all out of proportion, ignoring the obvious blessings—"

"And you're ignoring the obvious evils and their causes!"

"Keep quiet, both of you!" Kirk snapped, grateful for the covering noise of the crowd's rhythmic chanting. "Remember where we are and what we're doing! We're not here to argue, but to observe, remember? I don't want to have to remind you again."

Hawk shrugged. Agnes looked away. They both—thank whatever—shut up.

Ahead of them the crowd moved faster and the rhythmic chanting took on a loud, ragged, frenzied tone. The meticulous order of the parade began to break up; the white-and-gold vanguard sheered to one side and the gold litter with its red-dressed occupant veered off to the other, the beardless choir crowded behind the halted cross, as if it were a battle standard. They changed their tune to something like a quick march while the three men in mitres ranked up before the gold litter as if in military order. This development had obviously been planned. The black-robed squadron of monks handed over their banners to the choir and then continued straight ahead, no longer ringing their bells but beating on them with large and very serviceable-looking clubs that they had pulled from under their robes. The sound of the bells was no longer sweet, but harsh, electric, hot and discordant, grating on the nerves.

Someone began shouting furiously in a high, fierce harangue. Kirk couldn't tell if it was the red-robed man or one of the mitred three before him, but the shouting came from somewhere over there. It was hard to make out the words above the deep and eerie growling of the crowd, but the few fragments the translator could catch sounded ominous: "defend…true faith…smite down…sins…godless….cleanse the city…accursed of God…servants of Satan…purify…" and again "smite down." The crowd lunged forward and began to run, yelling wildly.

"Which way?" screeched Hawk, clutching at Kirk's arm "Where are they going? We've got to know!"

Kirk led them, fast, to a nearby cracked pedestal denuded of its former statue, scrambled up on top of it and stretched to look. Directly ahead, at the end of the street, stood a small classic temple of pale stone—and the crowd was headed straight toward it. He pulled Hawk up beside him and pointed.

"Oh, no!" Hawk wailed as he saw it. "Not that one" The temple of Rome Defended, the personification of the city—besides the art treasures, the priceless records—Captain, if there's anyone inside that temple—"

Spock snapped some brief orders into his communicator, then closed it and pulled out his tricorder. He aimed it at the building, and frowned. "Captain, the study team in that building has just beamed up, but I am getting human life-form readings on my tricorder. Someone is still inside."

"Who?"

Before Spock could reply, the answer became visible. An old woman in threadbare white robes came out onto the porch of the temple. The surging crowd, surprised halted for a moment at the foot of the stairs. The old woman looked calmly at the enormous mob and began to speak. Her voice was as old and frail as the rest of her, and Kirk could catch only bits of phrases: "…what right…disturb the scholars here…do no harm and break no law…preserving the memory of our ancestors…honoring the spirits of the virtuous dead…maintaining…civic virtue and strength of the city…this uncivil uproar…to behave on a holy day…go your way in peace…"

Incoherent screams from the dark-robed men in the lead drowned the rest. The crowd roared again and surged forward like a tidal wave. Kirk got a brief glimpse of dark robes billowing, clubs rising and falling, and then the old woman sank down and disappeared in the heaving sea of bodies.

"No! No!" screamed Hawk, lunging forward.

Kirk caught him just in time, pulled him off the pedestal and dragged him into concealment behind it. Spock pulled Agnes Day down beside him, and they all crouched silently in the shadows, listening to the crowd bellow and smash ahead of them. The noise went on for a long time; smashing stone, hammering of metal and crackling flames sounded clearly above the joyful whooping and snarling of the mob. Kirk couldn't be sure if he heard screams. Smoke and ashes and the smell of burning began to drift past them in the sullen wind. Hawk buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Agnes kept her eyes tight shut and moved her lips in silent prayer. Spock did nothing, but his face was very pale. They waited.

After an immeasurable time the noises faded. The rumbling of the crowd drifted away, following the renewed singing of the choir and the ringing of the bells. Kirk gritted his teeth at the bitter irony of that sweet sound leading the growling horror.

"I think we can get up now," Kirk whispered, edging his way around the crumbling pedestal.

The others followed him silently. They saw no one else, no further danger. The street seemed empty of life. At last they slipped out of hiding and got a clear view of what the mob had done.

The graceful little temple had been turned into a gutted, fire blackened ruin. The columns had been pulled down, dropping the porch roof to a rubble of broken stone and tiles. The delicate carvings on the column heads and fallen lintel and all around the door had been carefully and deliberately smashed to powder. Charred rags of once fine hangings and priceless manuscripts were strewn on the porch and stairs and the mud-filled street below, mixed with fragments of snowy marble that had once formed splendid statues. As the four approached, a hot wind puffed out of the doorway, carrying big dark ashes and foul smelling smoke. Kirk chose not to speculate on exactly what was burning inside.

The body of the old priestess lay on the porch, partly covered by the rubble of the fallen roof. Only one out flung arm was recognizable; the rest of her body resembled a bundle of bloody rags. At first Kirk thought that her head was buried under a clutter of fallen tiles, but as he climbed to the top of the stairs he saw that, in fact, her skull had been crushed. The broken tiles barely covered the spilled porridge of blood and brains and bone and hair. He turned quickly away and stared into the temple, where an oily bonfire of smashed furniture and torn manuscripts was guttering in a roomful of barren rubble.

Hawk, weeping quietly and making no effort to hide it, slipped past him into the temple and paced around the central room, searching for something, anything, left un-smashed. Kirk looked back down the steps to be sure the others were all right and saw Spock and Agnes picking their way up the stairs.

Something moved behind them. Kirk started to reach of his phaser, but then he saw that it was only an old man in an old patched toga. He tottered up to the foot of the steps, stared at the destruction for a long moment as if having trouble believing it, then clutched his hands to his old white head and began to wail.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" he howled. "Oh, these decadent times! Oh, that I live to see this! Oh, the curse of long life in so vile an age. Ai! Ai! Ai!"

Spock and Agnes edged away from him, looking for escape routes, but there was no need of that. The old man didn't seem to notice them at all. He continued to cry and tear his hair, not paying attention even when a young woman with bad teeth and frightened eyes ran up and took hold of his arm.

"Grandfather, please be quiet!" she hissed at him, throwing fearful, apologetic glance at the little party on the stairs. "You—you are disturbing these good people. Come. Come home and lie down. You're not well." With one of her hands she clutched a heavy crucifix pendant at her throat, squeezing it for luck or reassurance.

"Nothing is well!" cried the old man, shaking off her other hand. "Nothing in all this wretched world…Ai, ai, the world is sick unto death and nothing escapes the plague—not even the memory of valorous ancestors, not even the honor due to the virtuous dead, not even the love of bravery or beauty or the safety of the city. Nothing, nothing…" He beat his frail old fist on his bowed head.

"Grandfather, you're distracted; you don't know what you're saying." The woman looked nervously up at Agnes, Kirk and Spock and repeated loudly: "He's old and sick, and he doesn't know what he's saying!"

Kirk, wondering why the woman was so frightened, dutifully nodded agreement.

The woman turned back to her grandfather and tugged emphatically at his clothes. "Come, come, you mustn't stand out here in the bad air. Do come home, now. You wouldn't want the neighbors to see you like this, would you?"

"I no longer care!" the old man pulled himself free, stumble toward the stairs and sat down. He pulled the end of his patched toga over his head and rocked to and fro, groaning. "Let them see, let them see, let them hear, let them run and tell the priests. Let me be taken and burned. I no longer care!"

"…Burned?" Kirk echoed aloud, shivering.

"Yeah, burned." It was Hawk, smoke-stained and bitter-faced. He'd come out of the temple with only one salvaged item in his hands. For one horrible instant Kirk thought it was a severed human head—but then he saw that it was the broken-off head of a statue, superbly carved and realistically painted, a portrait of a strong-face handsome woman with calm gray eyes and dark-gold hair tucked under an incongruous tall-crested helmet. Hawk cradled the sculpted head as if it were a tiny baby, on thumb gently tracing the flawless arch of a carved eyebrow. "The penalty for 'idolatry' is death by burning. Didn't sweet Aggie tell you that?'

"'Idolatry?' But-but what harm is he doing?"

"He's showing respect for the statues and temples of the old pagan gods, that's what. Even if he's doing it only to honor his ancestors, that's enough to get him killed—and probably get his whole family run out of town, too." Leaving, Kirk to think that over, Hawk turned from him and started down the stairs.

The woman saw him coming and must have assumed the worst, for she grabbed the old man and tired to drag him to his feet. "Grandfather, get up! Hurry! Do you mean to have us all killed for you folly? You'll have us all burned!" Her voice rose to something close to a scream.

"Run away, then!" shouted the old man. "Run off and save yourself! When you hear word that you grandfather is dead, you may say to everyone: 'Alas, it comes as a great surprise to me! But then, his mind has wandered much of late, and who knows what a doddering old fool may say.' Yes, save yourself! Go on, run away from me! I'll tell the priest nothing of you, even if I live so long as to see them. Indeed, I'll be happy to forget you, you wretched craven sow. Be off!"

"Jus as you like!" snapped the woman, pulling her headscarf close around her face. "Ruin yourself alone, old fool!" She turned and ran away up the street.

"Yes, run!" the old man threw feeble shouts after her, "Run! No Lucretia, you! No Veturia…eh, not even the courage of Nero's wicked mother. Ai Ai, even the strength of our women is gone…ah…" He subsided into weary moaning and wringing his hands.

Hawk cane to the bottom stair and sat down beside the old man, who glance up at him with a face too tired or fear. "Are you in much danger?" Hawk asked quietly.

"Perhaps." The old man shrugged. "That wretched sow won't speak, for fear. The priests have all gone off. No on is here save you and your friends…"

"Don't worry about us; we won't tell anyone. We too….honor the memory of the virtuous dead."

"The glory that was ours… So few remember anymore, or wish to." The old man looked carefully at Hawk, as if not quite believing that anyone else could share his feelings, and noticed the object in his lap. "What have you got there?"

"It was the only thing left," Hawk explained, showing the carved head.

The sight set the old man off again." Ai! Ai! Rome is shattered!" he howled. "Now the last guardian spirit flies from the city! Nothing remains!" He pressed his trembling old hands to the statue's cheeks as if her were touching the face of a dead lover. "Lost…oh, lost…" he moaned. "Now let the plague come and take us all. Let fire devour every house. Let the savages to the north burst through the gates and trample our last dust underfoot. Our virtue is utterly gone."

Hell, that's exactly what is going to happen! Kirk thought, shivering at the old man's prophecy.

"Fascinating," murmured Spock, dispassionately taking tricorder readings. "A perfect example of 'magical thinking,' not unlike belief in voodoo. He assumes that what befalls the idol will befall the city it represents. Amazing to see such primitive thinking in an educated person, as he appears to be."

"The Romans were a very superstitious people," Agnes explained. "The consulted fortune tellers, believed in omens of all sorts, saw spirits in every shadow. Christianity came as a great relief for them, offering a simple and unified body of prophecy and promising protection fro all those menacing 'spirits.'"

"…Relief?" Kirk muttered, looking around at the still-smoking ruins.

"No, virtue is not completely gone," Hawk sighed. With a brief look of regret, he handed the carved head to the startled old man. "Keep it," he said. "Hide it somewhere safe, give it to someone you can trust, and don't let the memory fade. You understand? Remember, and make sure the world remembers." He stood up and helped the old man to his feet. "Get out of this city. Go to Venetia, or Sicily, or some out-of-the-way place where no one will bother to look for you—and go soon. You're not safe her, and neither is she." He touched the statue's flawless forehead one last time. "Take her away from here. Hurry."

The old man nodded rapidly, gibbering thanks and blessings. He hid his prize in the tail of his ragged toga and doddered away down the street as fast as his old legs would carry him. Hawk watched him go, then turned and plodded back up to the broken porch.

Kirk met him halfway up the stairs. "Hawk, why did you do that?" he asked. "You said it was the only thing left in the temple, out of everything we came to get…"

Hawk defensively hitched up his shoulders and glared at the Captain. "To avoid tampering with the future," he snapped. "When I got that piece out into the light and took a good look at it, I recognized it for a fragment that survived the fall of Rome in the usual way. In our time, it's on display at the Greater London Museum—as intact as we just saw it, except that the paint's worn off. That's why I couldn't take it with us, had to give it to one of the natives to preserve. See?"

"Was that the only reason?"

Hawk met Kirk's eyes for a moment, then looked away. "No," he admitted.

"You're not showing much scientific detachment," Kirk smiled. "You're not supposed to get involved with the natives, much less worry whether or not one old man has something to live for."

"So, maybe I'm a soft touch for scholarly old men…" said Hawk, moving on up to the porch. He paused beside the body of the dead priestess. "…And brave old women."

Kirk made himself look at the ragged body, noticing that her fingers were torn where someone had yanked off her rings. He hoped that someone would come by eventually and give her a decent burial. Spock too looked at the body and frowned, probably wondering about the same thing. Agnes, beside him, folded her hands and began to murmur a prayer.

Without warning, Hawk went wild. "Don't you dare!" he yelled, swinging a roundhouse punch at Agnes. Kirk barely grabbed his arm in time. "Don't you dare mumble your pious mumbo-jumbo at her, not after your nice holy co-believers murdered her! Leave her to the gods she believed in, you bitch! You sanctimonious—" Spock ended his tirade with a judicious nerve pinch, and caught the little archeologist before he could fall.

"Pitiful," commented Agnes, unruffled. "Obviously neurotic. Like so many people who have no…nothing to believe in, he has no reliable standard for behavior and is becoming erratic in his actions. I don't think he'll remain on the university staff much longer."

Kirk held back a moment's impulse to slug her himself. "I don't think much of your prediction, Miss Day," he commented between his teeth. "After all, your last one was wildly wrong." He waved at the destruction around them. "'No danger,' you said!"

"All human beings are fallible," she answered calmly. "It's our nature to err."

If I have to talk to her for one second more I really will slug her, Kirk thought, clutching his hands together until his knuckles cracked. He saw Spock staring at him and was grateful for the diversion. "What is it, Spock?"

"I was…just thinking, Captain…" the Vulcan answered reluctantly. "It does not appear to be true that 'a soft answer turneth away wrath.'"

"It didn't work for her, did it?" Kirk snapped, jabbing a finger at the old woman's corpse.

Spock looked down, then away. Even someone who didn't know him could have seen the pain on his face.

"No one's perfect," Agnes insisted. "No one, and nothing—except God. That's why forgiveness is so necessary."

"Forgive?" Kirk could not help asking, glancing around at the scene of ruin and death. "Forgive this?"

"Yes," said Agnes.

Kirk looked at Spock, saw the confusion and pain he was struggling to hide, and was bitterly ashamed of being human. "Let's beam back up to the ship," he said, badly in need of something else to absorb his attention.

Spock, equally grateful for the distraction, took out his communicator and hailed the ship. He spoke briefly with Scot on the bridge, and frowned at the answer he got. "We should hurry, Captain," he said. "There is solar radiation approaching from recent sunspot activity, which may interfere with the transporter."

"The sooner the better." Kirk's eyes kept straying back to the dead priestess. He wondered who in this rotting city would have the courage or decency to bury her, or if she'd be left to the crows.

Spock obligingly relayed the order to the transporter room, and the familiar hum and sparkle filled the air around them. They materialized a moment later on the transporter pad. Without a word, Agnes stepped off the pad and strolled out the door. She looked as if she had professional business to attend to, and perhaps indeed she had. Spock lifted the still unconscious Hawk to his shoulders and followed the historian out the door, right past the gaping transporter technician.

"Just a minor accident," Kirk explained, not wanting to go into details. "Spock's taking him to Sickbay to check for bruises." The small lie annoyed him. He started off the pad, reaching under his cloak to take off his ground party gear, and stopped right where he was. Something was missing. "Oh, no," he groaned, checking to make sure. All I need, losing 23rd century items in 5th century Rome…Tricorder, phaser, translator, and communicator— Hey, where's the communicator? —Damn, I know where… He remembered exactly where he'd been standing when he'd grabbed Hawk to keep him from punching Agnes: right there beside the old woman's corpse. He really didn't want to see that sight again—but his own unwillingness angered him. "Beam me back down, Mr. Kyle," he said. "Exact same coordinates. I can't leave that lying around in ancient Rome."

"But, sir—"

"It'll take me less than a minute. Hurry, before some native finds it."

"Aye, sir." Kyle obligingly pushed the levers down, and the Captain faded away in a cloud of sparkles.

The intercom beeped for attention and Kyle answered it. The caller was Spock, announcing that the expected burst of solar radiation had arrived, and ordering the suspension of all transporter activity for the next 2.75 minutes. Kyle turned several degrees paler than usual and shakily explained that he'd just beamed the Captain back down to pick up a dropped communicator.

Spock promptly attempted to call the Captain. He tried for the next 2.75 minutes, with no success. Exactly 30 seconds later Spock and a Security detachment, disguised in native dress, beamed down to look for him. The found the ruined temple just as they'd left it, and they found the lost communicator near the body of the old woman, but Captain Kirk they didn't find at all.

To Be Continued in:

Chapter II.: Transporter Malfunction of the Month