Hammer of the Earth

by Susan Krinard

  The courtier grinned. “That depends, my lord. If you will allow me the privilege of selecting your garments and your mask, thus permitting me to uphold my reputation, I will of course do all I can to provide any information you seek.”

  Quintus met the young dandy’s eyes and tried to read what lay behind them. Certainly there was shrewdness, intelligence hidden by facetiousness, and a very real measure of stubbornness. But he was no rebel. Hylas was offering a bargain already approved by his master the emperor.

  “Where is the girl who was brought to me last night?” Quintus demanded.

  Hylas’s brows rose even higher. “Girl? Were you given a girl, my lord?” He shook his braided locks. “What a pity.”

  Suppressing the urge to take the ingenuous catamite by his delicate neck and give him a good shake, Quintus folded his arms and stood over Hylas’s chair. “Her name was Briga. Was she given to the priests?”

  Hylas lifted his hand to his throat. “My lord, do not glower so. I swear I do not know. The emperor would never surrender one of his own to the priests, of that I am certain. But if you will be patient…” He gestured to one of his servants, who bent close to hear his whisper, set down his tray and quickly left the room. “Kanmi will inquire about the female. Now…”

  He beckoned to the other servant. “I have bought some of the finest chitons for your perusal…no, Ashtaph, not the green. The blue…ah, yes, the blue.” Hylas took a sweep of finely pleated blue linen from Ashtaph and held it up toward Quintus. “It brings out the brilliance in your eyes, lord Alexa…Quintus.”

  Quintus sprawled in the nearest chair and rubbed a week’s growth of beard. “What is the purpose of this feast?” he asked. “Why is the emperor permitting me to leave my room?”

  “It is not for me to speak for the emperor,” Hylas said, sorting through a bundle of braided cords and sashes. “You have only to rejoice in your good fortune.” He carefully drew an elaborate, many-stranded belt from among the rest. “Ah, yes. This will do very well indeed.” He smiled at Quintus disarmingly. “If I may be so bold…does the name ‘Corvinus’ not mean ‘crow’ in the Tiberian tongue?”

  Surprised at the man’s knowledge, Quintus nodded. Hylas clapped his hands. “Excellent. I have the perfect mask for you, and the black himation will be the crow’s wings.”

  “Hylas—”

  The courtier returned the fabric to Ashtaph. “Leave us,” he said to the servant. The boy gathered up the bundles and slipped from the room.

  “Now,” Hylas said. “I will tell you what little I know. For reasons the emperor has not vouchsafed to me, he has decided to permit you the freedom of the citadel.” He leaned forward, reaching across the table as if he would touch Quintus’s hand. “I advise you to use this gift wisely. Earn the emperor’s trust, and he will repay you a thousandfold.”

  “Did the emperor send you to make this speech?”

  Hylas withdrew his hand. “I speak only for myself,” he said with pained dignity. “I was in the hall when you were brought before Nikodemos. I heard your words of defiance, and they were most courageous and admirable. But by now you must realize they will not win you what you most desire.”

  “A man like you could not imagine what I most desire.”

  “No?” Hylas smiled, but his dark eyes were as soft and wounded as a child’s. “Whether or not you choose to believe it, Quintus Horatius Corvinus, I wish to be your friend. I know you will not be deceived or convinced of anything you do not see with your own eyes. That is why you must allow my servants to prepare you for the feast. Attend as the man of nobility you were born to be. Listen and observe. You can lose nothing by setting aside your pride for a single night.”

  He seemed about to say more but thought better of it, glancing toward the door. A moment later Kanmi entered and knelt to whisper in his master’s ear. Hylas nodded and addressed Quintus.

  “The servant Briga has been taken into the emperor’s direct protection,” he said. “More I cannot tell you now, but if I obtain any additional information, I will bring it to you.”

  “My thanks,” Quintus said gruffly.

  Hylas rose and bowed with his hand over his heart. “I will leave you now, but Kanmi will remain to shave you and prepare a bath. Ashtaph will return with your clothing and give you any further assistance you may require.” He turned to go.

  “Wait,” Quintus said. Did Danae send you? But he dared not speak the question aloud when he knew that Hylas might be the emperor’s agent. “Your assistance is…appreciated.”

  Hylas’s eyes sparkled. “You are most welcome to any service I can render. We will speak again soon, my lord.” He flashed a grin of pure mischief and swept out of the room, leaving servant and tray behind.

  Quintus shook his head, off-balance and bemused. Hylas was the sort of soft, pleasure-loving man true Tiberians most despised, and doubtless he was a polished court schemer. Whether he’d been sent by the emperor or Danae, or come for reasons of his own, he couldn’t be trusted. Yet his advice was sound: Listen and observe. Almost the very words Quintus had spoken to Briga.

  Now the girl was supposedly under the emperor’s protection, Danae was apparently safe and Quintus would have an unforeseen opportunity to walk among the emperor’s Companions. If there was a weak link in the chain of loyalty surrounding Nikodemos, Quintus intended to find it.

  “My lord?” Kanmi said. “If you permit, I will have a basin brought for your bath.”

  “I can bathe myself,” Quintus muttered.

  “Would you prefer that I send maids to assist you?”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  “Then if I may shave you and paint your eyes—”

  Quintus shuddered. “No paint.”

  Kanmi bowed. “No paint, my lord,” he said with a sigh.

  Doubtless his master would share his disappointment, but there was a limit to the concessions Quintus was willing to make, even for the privilege of attending the emperor’s feast.

  He endured the next several hours with all the Tiberian stoicism he could muster. Two muscular servants arrived with a heavy earthenware basin, and a succession of slaves brought hot water to fill it. The basin was not large enough to lie in, so Quintus was compelled to abandon modesty while Kanmi poured water over him, scrubbed his back and dressed his hair. The shave, at least, was welcome. Some time later Ashtaph appeared with the garments chosen by Hylas—blue chiton belted to mid-thigh, flowing black himation deftly arranged over Quintus’s chest and shoulders, copper-studded sandals and intricately worked gold armbands.

  At the end of the almost interminable day, Ashtaph brought the mask. Quintus hadn’t known what to expect when Hylas had mentioned it, and later he had forgotten. But when Ashtaph placed it on the table with a flourish, a crow’s head of beaten bronze complete with wickedly curved beak and serrated feathers, Quintus understood that this was no mere decoration.

  The servants would only tell him that everyone at the feast, men and women both, would wear unique masks of symbolic import. And when they fitted Quintus with his, binding it to his head with leather cords, he felt strangely powerful, anonymous and yet marked for all to see: Corvinus, the Crow, a bird both plain and bold. Quintus Horatius Corvinus, Tiberian.

  Soon after nightfall, guards came to take Quintus to the hall. He carried the mask under his right arm, striding ahead of his escort as if he owned the tiles upon which he trod. As they approached the hall, courtiers on their way to the feast paused to stare and whisper. A portly functionary in rich garb met Quintus at the great double doors.

  “Lord Alexandros,” he said, bowing. He dismissed the guards with a flick of his plump hand. “I am Kleobis, chamberlain of the House of Arrhidaeos. Be so kind as to put on your mask, and follow me.”

  Servants rushed ahead to open the doors, which creaked on their heavy hinges. Sound burst from the hall—laughter, the wail of pipes, the clatter of wine cups. The chamberlain led Quintus at a measured pace down the center of the hall, where
he could observe the long tables heaped with food and the couches occupying every available space between the marble columns on either side.

  It was a glittering company indeed. Men had been seated to the left, women to the right; all wore masks, just as Ashtaph had promised. Every garment was embroidered or painted in complex designs and fixed with fibulae and pins of silver, bronze and gold. Only the servants, one for every couch, wore unadorned white linen.

  The throne on its dais at the head of the hall was unoccupied. Quintus could not locate Danae in the crowd. Kleobis took Quintus to a couch very near the foot of the dais, where the most gorgeous creatures claimed their rightful place. Faces of birds, beasts and gods turned to stare.

  “Welcome, my lord.”

  Quintus knew the voice, though the features were obscured behind a golden mask. Hylas rose from his adjoining couch and placed his hand over his heart. “I am pleased that you took my advice. You are as magnificent as I had hoped.”

  Glancing down at his fancy dress, Quintus shrugged. “A crow is plain indeed among so many birds of brilliant plumage.”

  “And all the more striking in its simplicity.” Hylas twitched a finger, and the servant standing behind Quintus’s couch knelt to offer a cup of wine. Hylas took a cup from his own servant’s hand. “I drink to you, Lord Quintus Alexandros.”

  Quintus hesitated, thinking of clear heads and sharp senses. Then he tilted the cup under the beak of his mask and drank. The servant offered a plate of exotic fruits, tiny birds swimming in highly spiced sauce and other delicacies for which Quintus had no name. Quintus waved the food aside and addressed Hylas.

  “Where is the emperor?”

  “He is to arrive later. I am told there will be a special entertainment.”

  Quintus’s spine prickled at the thought of what such jaded folk as these must consider entertaining. Musicians played pipes, drums and lyres, lending a constant and sensual backdrop to the hum of conversation. A pair of perfectly matched, nearly naked girls danced to the muted rhythm. Yet the vast room was almost hushed, as if its occupants waited for the true diversion to begin.

  He focused his attention on the nearest masks, while their owners surreptitiously studied him in turn. At first the visages seemed to represent several sorts of animals and many varieties of human faces, some noble and some hideous. But as Quintus examined the details, he noticed the subtle emblems and symbols worked into hair and headdresses.

  These were not the representations of men and women, but gods and goddesses—deities of Hellas, Aigyptos and Persis, and perhaps even of lands beyond. One man wore the hawk-mask of the Aigyptian sun god, Re; another impersonated Poseidon, mighty sea-god of the Hellenes, with conch shells and tiny golden tridents wound in his beard. Among the women Quintus recognized Artemis the Huntress, a serpent deity of Persis, and the Aigyptian cow-goddess Hathor.

  Hylas looked at Quintus with the fixed, lazy grin of a perpetual drunkard: Dionysos, Hellenic god of the grape. He was depicted in his youthful mode of sublime beauty, grape leaves twined in curling locks.

  “Do you see?” Hylas asked, leaning close. “The priests seek to ban all deities but the Stone God, and yet our emperor allows this celebration, so that our ancient customs will not be forgotten.”

  Or because it was yet another way of defying Baalshillek and his minions. No priests were present at the feast, yet they must be aware of everything that happened in the palace.

  If the emperor had lied about desiring the Stone God’s ultimate downfall, he had a very odd way of declaring his devotion.

  Quintus examined the women’s masks again, trying to guess which goddess Danae would choose. Often she had mentioned Aigyptian Isis, but Quintus saw no face that matched his limited knowledge of the deity. Perhaps she, like Nikodemos, had yet to arrive. He felt along the sharp beak of his own mask and searched his memory for a god represented by the black bird.

  “You wonder at your divine identity,” Hylas said. “Some say crows are the messengers of death, but among the Keltoi he is sacred to many gods, and he is a servant and prophet of Apollon. I prefer to think of you as Apollon himself.”

  Quintus shifted on his elbow, uncomfortably aware of the courtier’s intimate tone. “As I recall my childhood stories, Apollon punished the crow for bringing bad news by turning him from white to black.”

  “But crows are said to have guided your glorious uncle to the Oracle of Amun at Siwa, in the Great Desert,” Hylas said, “where he was declared a god.”

  “I am no god.”

  “Do not play at modesty,” Hylas purred. “You are far more than you seem, Quintus Alexandros, and your destiny will be mighty.”

  Quintus was about to reply when the music suddenly ceased and every face turned toward the dais. A figure stepped up to stand beside the throne—a man in golden armor molded to represent the muscular torso of an ideal athlete. His mask was that of the king of gods, Zeus, bearer of thunderbolts, crowned with lightning.

  Nikodemos had arrived at last.

  Chapter Eight

  T he emperor raised his hands. “Welcome,” he said. His mask swung toward Quintus, and Quintus sensed the smile under the stern lips of the god. Nikodemos turned toward the musicians and nodded. At once they struck up a tune almost chaotic in its line, wild and primitive, as if to summon up the most ancient of spirits.

  A man dressed in red-dyed leather, wearing a bull’s mask with high, curving horns, leaped through a doorway at the head of the hall. He ran about the room, tossing his head at the guests, snorting and pawing at the floor. His dance was unbridled, powerful, that of a savage beast eager to mate or kill. Men laughed and ladies shrieked, but all sound ceased when the girl appeared.

  She wore a tight-fitting bodice that cupped her bared breasts and a short apron reaching only to her upper thighs. Her mask was that of a flawlessly beautiful woman. In one hand she grasped a staff shaped like a twisting serpent. She approached the bull with mincing steps, teasing, flirting.

  One of the musicians began a slow, steady rhythm on his drum, a thump like the beat of a heart. The girl danced toward the bull, waving the serpent staff. The bull-man wagged his horns from side to side and stamped his feet. They circled each other in time to the drum, eyes locked, opponents and rivals playing out the eternal language of desire.

  Suddenly the bull-man charged, horns lowered to gore. The girl jumped straight up, twisted in midair and landed on the bull’s shoulders. She balanced there for an instant and floated to the ground as lightly as a grain of wheat.

  Courtiers cried out their approval, but the bull was far from defeated. He charged again, turning his body to strike from the side. Once more the girl was ready. She flung herself up and out, arms spread, and vaulted over the bull’s head. Then she prodded at the bull with her staff until he bellowed with rage and grasped her in his powerful arms.

  Ladies gasped. Men rose to their feet. Quintus leaned forward, knowing this dance was but an act and yet feeling its danger. The girl struggled in the bull-man’s embrace. He pushed her legs apart, intent upon taking his prize.

  Nikodemos stepped down from the dais, carrying a sword shaped to resemble a jagged bolt of lightning. He strode up to the bull and thrust the sword against the dancer’s side. The bull-man jerked; he roared, flung his head in a mimicry of death-throes and released the girl, who fell into the emperor’s arms.

  The audience broke into applause as Nikodemos carried the girl up to his throne. She stretched her length against him, slid down his body and bowed at his feet. He raised her and removed her mask.

  Danae’s golden hair spilled down her back. Nikodemos kissed her, and the courtiers clapped and pounded the tables. Quintus half rose and settled back again, fist clenched beneath his himation.

  “Is she not brilliant?” Hylas said behind him. “Who can help but admire such grace, even in a woman?”

  Danae turned to accept the adulation of her peers, skin flushed and eyes bright. Once she glanced toward Quintus, but her expres
sion told him nothing. He averted his eyes from her near-nudity until Nikodemos himself covered her with his cloak and led her to the seat below his.

  Gradually the musicians took up their instruments and conversation resumed throughout the hall. Quintus conceded the need to keep up his strength and accepted meat and bread from the servant, though they tasted like ashes in his mouth. Curious courtiers, singly and in small groups, drifted by his couch to gawk and whisper about the emperor’s rebellious Tiberian brother. Otherwise, Quintus was left alone.

  Hours passed that seemed like days. Nikodemos fed choice morsels to his mistress and listened to her sparkling laughter. The emperor’s Hetairoi grew more noisy as they drank, singing and dancing in defiance of the music, and some left on the arms of friends and lovers.

  Quintus felt only disgust and shame. He did not belong among these people, accepting a false rank meant only to mock all he believed. He debated returning to his room but knew such a move would be a concession of defeat. He had to speak to Danae, to ask her about Briga’s fate.

  Hylas appeared at Quintus’s couch. “Lord Alexandros,” he said, his silken voice only slightly slurred by drink. “You are weary of the feast. Come with me. I know of a quiet place.”

  Quintus sat up and met the courtier’s eyes. “I prefer to be alone.”

  Hylas flushed, though Quintus doubted that anything could shame or embarrass such a man. “I will not deny that I would treasure your regard, my lord, but that was not my intention. There are others who wish to speak with you.”

  “What others?”

  “Friends of Danae. Those who share her distaste for sacrifice.”

  Quintus searched the room for any who might be watching him with more than casual interest. While Hylas had claimed his attention, the emperor and his mistress had vanished.

  “You propose a secret meeting,” he said. “Will Danae come?”

  “If she can. It is safe, my lord, I assure you. Still, it would be wise to feign a degree less sobriety.”