So he cautioned himself, hastening toward the wounded man. And as he got closer, and the footing beneath him became more treacherous, his steps began to lighten. Soon -he was treading water then walking upon it.
Then his sandals skimmed the marshy surface. And, as he approached to within ten feet of the moaning man, the angel was levitating freely.
Altos could only levitate under certain conditions. The condition here, which lightened his heart sufficiently to allow the angel's body to rise, and float, was inherent in the soul whose body he approached.
Floating freely. Altos settled slowly toward the man, his knees bending, his mind foil of questions. Who could it be, who faced death with such equanimity?
Who could it be, who had such passion for life and such love in his unrepentant soul? Who could it be, who met his fate so boldly That merely being in his presence caused Altos' heart such joy?
Kneeling as he descended. Altos settled by the body and brushed mud and blood from The battered face. The countenance revealed was beautiful even in its pain. From split lips no words came now, only rattling breath and occasional groans.
At Altos" touch, one eye opened--The other was swollen shut. The eye, blue as The Mediterranean, regarded him, and the lips tried to form words. The head tried to rise, but fell back with a splash into the mud, which was its pillow.
Broken weds had jabbed him; some terrible fall had bruised him. Its flesh was torn and flies crawled freely over open wounds.
But the single eye met the angel's two eyes, and held. Held long enough That Altos learned why he'd been drawn here and why he'd levitated in this man's presence.
This battered soul before him was Alexander of Macedon, who'd given up salvation to bring the light of civilization to the darkest corners of the ancient world.
Altos gathered up the man in his arms and it was as if Alexander weighed nothing. Floating with The Macedonian toward The Dissidents camp, the angel was moved to send up a paean of praise and thanks. Even in Hell, The proper tools were delivered unto him, that the angel might better perform God's work.
Among The Dissidents was Judah Maccabee, and when Maccabee saw Alexander, with whom he'd fought at Troy, The Israelite was filled with joy. He demanded that the angel give The Macedonian into his care, which the muddied Altos, staggering through the camp with Alexander in his arms, was glad to do.
"Just Al," said The Israelite, calling the angel by the name The Dissidents used for him, "where did you find him?"
"Ah, out there," said the angel, cocking his head vaguely to indicate The swamp. Altos did not admit to his high estate among the Dissidents. Some knew; some suspected; some disbelieved. But none would ask him to his face, because if Altos was really an angel who could grant salvation and deny it, Then all hopes of the questioner were in jeopardy of being dashed eternally.
It was one thing to be sent to Hell by mistake, another to have an agent of God tell you that you belonged here. No one wanted to hear that Not even Judah Maccabee, who was on speaking terms with many of Hell's movers and shakers, including the redoubtable Welch.
"Out there?" Maccabees intelligent eyes narrowed; his tall frame stooped to draw back his tentflap. He motioned Altos and his burden inside. Once the flap was drawn and Alexander laid on Maccabees pallet, the Israelite said, "Last time I saw him, he was ... in a deeper abode. Troy. Ilion, if you like. Or if you don't." White teeth flashed in the gloom. "He couldn't have gotten back up here by himself. I know. I made that journey. And where's Bucephalus? That's what he stayed for, the horse..."
"I don't know what to tell you, Israelite." A careful answer, for Altos had seen in Alexander's eyes all that had transpired. And more, for the angel understood what the Macedonian did not.
"There was no horse, just the fallen man. Perhaps the horse ran-"
"Bullshit." Maccabee had been long among the New Dead, the likes of Welch.
"You know; you don't tell me. Why not?"
Altos spread his hands. "Let us see if we can keep this man from the Undertaker-cheat fate. You're an expert at that, aren't you?"
"First aid? Yeah, I can probably manage. But how is it you're so interested in keeping him alive?"
The Israelite stroked his bearded jaw. Eyes that had looked upon die Roman army and dared to oppose it defocused, then sharpened.
Maccabee said: "What do you want from this, friend? What does your sort want? Why not let him go back to Reassignments? Or did you bring him here-for your own purposes?"
Too smart, this one. Too smart and too contentious. Altos answered the safest question: "I didn't bring him. There are . . . temporal disturbances. Do you understand? The very fabric of Hell's before-and-after is troubled. Someone went. . . down . . ." Altos pointed to the ground beneath his feet and as he did so, Alexander groaned softly, stirred, and then was still again, "... down abruptly, to some deeper 'abode,' as you call it. And Alexander was ... thrust up. Pure coincidence." Altos shrugged. "I bet. But not coincidence that he'd appear here, when Che's not exactly compos mentis, I'd wager. Don't you have to play fair? Or is this just more punishment? Alexander's not up to these sorts of games. I know him." And, rather than tending the battered Macedonian, Maccabee crossed his big arms over his chest and stared hard at the angel.
"I know him, too," said the angel softly. "And he's capable of whatever he asks of himself."
"You might as well be working for Satan, if you separated him from that horse of his just to stick him in with these limp-dicked weekend wonders," said the Israelite in colloquial English. Then he switched to Attic Greek, speaking softly to the wounded man as if Altos weren't present.
The angel left the two men together, wondering why, when God's ways were so mysterious to him, the very sword of Heaven in Hell, they were so obvious to an Israelite whose main distinction in life had been teaching Jews how to die for their ideals.
Of course, that had been Before Christ. It occurred to him then that Maccabee might be jealous-might have wanted to take over the Dissident's; leadership himself. But he could still do that. Though Altos didn't think that he would.
The Macedonian would change everything among the Dissidents. Where Maccabee could have engendered only sacrifice-suicide, in Altos' terms-Alexander could generate passion, belief, personal loyalty.
If Alexander wanted to, he could launch a crusade and every man and woman among the Dissidents would be his willing crusaders. A crusade against the Devil such as had not been seen since the Middle Ages on Earth-and never, in Hell.
If the Macedonian chose to, he could bring the revolution to the Devil's very doorstep in New Hell. If. Assuming, of course, that Che and his followers mounted no opposition.
Altos, outside the tent, was wandering among dozens of other, similar tents under cammo netting, not watching where be was going, absorbed in his thoughts. Thus it took a moment for the commotion to penetrate his abstraction.
As a matter of fact, he didn't notice the ruckus in the camp (Dissidents were always bickering) until a blond woman who had been a twentieth-century news reporter came running up to him, tape recorder in hand, thrusting a microphone toward him.
"A chopper's crashed on the other side of the marsh!" she proclaimed. "Number of casualties, destination, and, cause of crash unknown. Would you like to make a statement?"
"A statement?" Altos frowned. "No, I wouldn't. Why would I?"
When the woman scowled and stalked away, he slipped between two tents and ran toward the marsh. It was another result of the temporal wind shear, he was certain. But someone should have warned the pilot.