Tathea

by Anne Perry

  They docked in the city, which was not as ancient as Tarra-Ghum but had the magnificence of the Empire clearly stamped on it. Buildings of rich-colored stone, warm as sunlight, stretched beyond sight over the hills. Cypress and lemon trees showed in patches of dark green, olives silver-gray. Here in the harbor she was surrounded by fat-bellied ships laden with cargo from all over the world—sleek warships, triremes and quinquiremes, busy fishing skiffs, and elegant barges. Everywhere was movement. Shouts echoed across the water.

  Tathea went ashore and walked up the worn stones of the quay into the streets, past storehouses and shops, and then on past people’s homes. She had been educated to understand Camassian speech, but it sounded alien, the cadences different from her own. And the smells were different, sharper, touched with the salt and the damp of the sea air, nothing like the hot desert wind of Thoth-Moara.

  She must find lodgings. She must not be alone in the streets at nightfall. The Book was once again wrapped in her blue cloak, but she had no other clothes, and no possessions other than what was left of the jewels. And she had no way to defend herself. She must sell one of the gems to raise some money.

  It was difficult. This was not a task she was used to. Never before in her life had she had to consider the daily necessities of food and shelter. They had always been provided, and like the air she breathed, she had taken them for granted. The Camassians regarded her oddly, not for her dark Shinabari looks—they were used to every race on earth—but because she was a foreign woman traveling alone and only too obviously unused to it.

  The first few weeks passed slowly. She was a stranger in a land she did not know and among a people to whom she was of no importance. She was merely one more face among the tens of thousands that thronged the streets. On the ship it had seemed like an excellent idea to approach Lady Eleni. She was the one person in Camassia who knew her. But in the past they had been equals, or almost. Tathea had been an empress, Eleni merely an emperor’s sister. Now Tathea was a fugitive, possessed of nothing but a handful of jewels and a gold-covered Book written by the hand of God. But surely that should be enough.

  Sometimes it seemed so, when she was rested, when the sun was high, when a man or a woman smiled at her in the street. But when she was tired, when darkness came and she climbed the steps of her lodgings and heard the voices of people laughing together and speaking a language that was foreign to her, then it was not. The worst was always when she saw children, young children with wide eyes and slender shoulders, the way the soft hair grew at the back of their heads and their delicate necks. Then nothing was enough, nothing comforted. She crept into her room, bolted the door, and wept.

  She sold more of the jewels Kol-Shamisha had given her and purchased a house on the Hill of Cypresses, near the Imperial Hill. She hired servants. She bought good Camassian clothes, long-sleeved dresses caught high under the bosom with rich, embroidered borders in bold patterns of blues and greens and golds, fit for a lady to be seen in. A small black and white cat with a pointed face sauntered in one day and took up residence with her, a companionable creature that sparked a flare of joy and memory in her that she could not place. She quickly learned to love it. She became used to the daily life of the city, and grew familiar with the customs and values of its people. They seemed less sophisticated than the more ancient Shinabari. They were harsher, hastier to judge, less tolerant of eccentricity. But they were also less cynical, and they were angered by corruption in a way Tathea wished her own people had been. They still believed they could eradicate it. Their ideas were raw, unpolished by experience, sometimes short in the understanding of life’s trials and failures; but they were also untarnished by disillusion. There was no weariness of heart or soul.

  At times she felt very apart from them, and much older. There was an aching loneliness in being separated from the subtlety and wisdom of her own culture, refined as it was over millennia. The Camassians did not understand Shinabari wit, the multitudinous variations of meaning in an old and exquisite language, full of nuances lent by legend and literature. She had no one with whom to share sudden moments of laughter, self-mockery, or joy at tiny things made beautiful by time and knowledge.

  She concentrated on the golden book and prepared to teach its light to others. She did not alter her plan to begin with Lady Eleni.

  Tathea had been in Camassia nearly sixty days when she first saw Emperor Isadorus. She was part of a crowd lining the streets as he passed by in procession. It was a celebration of some victory in the provinces, an excuse to please the people and proclaim a holiday. The day was warm with the haze of the fading year. There was a smell in the air of cypress, dust, and fallen leaves. A certain depth in the quality of the light mellowed the color of the stone buildings. There was no glitter, no distraction to the eye.

  She waited with the rest of the crowd, pushing forward, a baker with flour on his hands to one side of her, a woman with a child on the other. She wanted to see the Emperor’s face, not from admiration or the sense of unity which possessed those around her, the pride of belonging to the heart of the world, but because she hoped to read in his features something upon which to base her judgment as to how she should approach him. If she failed there would be no second chance.

  There was a stir of movement around her. Someone made a joke and everyone laughed. There was the sound of feet slithering as people jostled each other, and the clinging smell of dust and sweat. Far along the massed heads, up the broad road between the palaces and halls of government, the cavalcade of the Emperor was coming. Shouts went up, trumpets and bugles blew, and the air was filled with noise.

  Tathea pushed forward, determined not to be elbowed away from the front. Soldiers appeared, dressed in leather tunics reinforced with metal plates. It was not ceremonial armor such as Shinabari soldiers wore on state occasions but heavy and practical, designed for war. Scarlet plumes decorated their bronze helmets, and scarlet cloaks swung from their shoulders. Instead of the halberds and curved swords of Shinabar, they had spears and short, broad blades in scabbards at their sides. They marched in perfect unison, like a walking wall, legion after legion of them, tens of thousands of men from every province: broad-shouldered and sunburned from the south; narrow-eyed, high-cheeked men from the east; taller men with fair skins and heavier bones from the north; blue-eyed men from the west, islanders from the Edge of the World. They carried their battle standard aloft and held its Imperial insignia with pride, as if their unity in this vast, conglomerate whole was more to them than their individual part.

  The noise of cheering thundered on every side, drowning the tramp of feet and the clank of armor. Tathea was bumped and poked, her feet trodden on, her sides bruised. The sun was high and getting hotter. Somewhere a child was crying, tired and frightened, perhaps lost. Tathea felt suffocated as people surged forward.

  After the legionaries came soldiers on horseback. They rode beautiful beasts with arched necks and high-stepping feet, their hooves clattering on the stones. The sight of them brought Tathea a violent ache of homesickness. They were desert horses, bred in Shinabar, brought here under the treaty signed by Mon-Allat.

  But there was no time for the indulgence of pain. The Emperor’s guard was passing, proud men with bronze breastplates gleaming in the sun and scarlet-crested helmets. Alone behind them rode Isadorus himself, on a white horse, saddled as if for war and armored like the guard. Did he actually lead his troops in battle, as once the Isarchs had, a thousand years ago? He rode comfortably, with the grace of a man long used to the saddle. But it was his face Tathea stared at, trying to pierce the outer mask and read the nature of his mind behind the broad brow, the long straight nose. She was not close enough to see the expression of his eyes, but to her the mouth was the key—wide, mobile, intelligent, with enough fullness for passion but too little for indulgence. It was the face of a man whose power lies within him. If birth or chance had not given him dominion, then he would have built it for himself. There was no cruelty in it, no rashness, no
weakness for a courtier to manipulate.

  The cheering rose in a wave of sound, battering her ears. Tathea had never been in a throng like this before. In the processions in Thoth-Moara the people were held back to allow her to pass. Here she was shoved from side to side, a person of no importance. It made her feel alien and overwhelmingly alone.

  She turned and tried to force her way out, suddenly desperate to escape, to return to her home and solitude, to hold the Book in her hands, read its now familiar words, and allow its spirit to sink into her soul as if its Author’s hand had touched her.

  She stumbled and would have fallen but for strong fingers grasping her and taking her weight. Her first instinct was sheer panic at being held. She tore herself free and stared at the dark face of the man in front of her. He was lean, smooth-cheeked, with a long, straight nose and delicate lips, Shinabari dark, and no more than twenty years old.

  “Ta-Thea,” he said gently. “Majesty ...”

  She froze, her body rigid, a wave of sick terror surging through her.

  He smiled, touched his finger to his brow between his eyes, then lowered his head, still looking at her. “My name is Ra-Nufis, and you will always be Majesty to me, no matter what usurper sits on the throne of Shinabar—for now.”

  She did not know him. The name meant nothing. Her first instinct was to deny who she was, but she dismissed it. He looked so certain, and if he were Shinabari he might well have seen her dozens of times. She did not recall the face of every courtier or supplicant. And had she really lost so much that she had sunk to the indignity of denying her identity?

  She straightened up, meeting his eyes. “Who is he? Do you know that, Ra-Nufis?”

  He kept his hands by his sides but began slowly to follow the crowds who were moving up the hill. She kept pace with him.

  “If you mean his name, yes I do,” he answered gravely. “Mon-Allat’s nephew Hem-Shash sits on the throne now. But who prompted the assassins I do not know, or who speaks through Hem-Shash.” He turned to look at her. “Perhaps I can find out. They are usurpers, all of them, and their rule is oppressive.” His voice was urgent and he kept close to her, shielding her from being brushed by the people streaming along beside them. “But they are nervous—they constantly look over their shoulders, as the guilty always must. They see plots and counterplots even where there are none. Guards are tripled, people arrested without warrant or cause.”

  The sound of his speech with its familiar cadences brought the old memories flooding back, and Tathea longed above all to go home, to feel the dry heat and the prickle of sand, to be among the people she knew.

  “Knowledge of a few names won’t change that!” she said harshly, more to herself than to him. She must not indulge in dreams. Thinking of Shinabar was painful. Hearing of the changes there, predictable though they were, hurt her more than she would have expected.

  Ra-Nufis caught up with her but kept a respectful mien, hands at his sides so he did not accidentally touch her, just as if she had still been his Empress.

  “I agree,” said Ra-Nufis quietly. “The names of assassins are of no importance. History will deal with them. Of infinitely more value would be the names of those who are still loyal, those who have enough courage and love for their country to work and fight to restore justice, even to die for it if necessary.”

  She stopped abruptly and turned to stare at him. He met her eyes without flinching, a long, steady gaze. He was so young, his face showed no lines of anxiety or temper yet. Her heart lurched for his innocence.

  “What are you saying?” she asked huskily.

  “That you are the last rightful heir to the throne of Shinabar, Majesty,” he answered. “And that I will do anything to protect you and return you to your country, where your people need you. Many of them remain loyal to your house, and as the abuses increase, so will their number.” His face was alive with urgency. “I will find them. I will build knowledge, fact upon fact, name upon name, until you have enough to act.”

  Dared she believe him? Had the same power that had given her the Book also sent Ra-Nufis to help her return to Shinabar with it? How could she be certain?

  She looked at him steadily, ignoring the last of the crowds drifting past them, chattering about the procession, their families, the next day’s business.

  “I no longer believe in all the old ways,” she said, watching his eyes. How much of the truth should she tell him? She must tread carefully.

  He was confused. “What do you not believe?”

  Not yet. It was too soon. Learn to know him a little.

  “Many things,” she said lightly, letting him know by her smile that she was setting her answer aside only temporarily.

  In the days and weeks that followed, she did indeed learn to know him. He offered her help in all manner of small ways, found her a perfect chair for her home, chose a blanket for her in warm colors like the desert, discovered which market sold the best bread and dates, and they laughed together over Camassian notions of Shinabari cuisine.

  One day in the small garden of her home she told him something of what she believed they should be seeking.

  “We should be climbing always a step upwards,” she said, “towards the kind of courage which can face the knowledge of agony and despair and failure without turning away, the kind of wholeness of heart and mind in which there is no division of purpose, no lies, no self-deceit.” She watched his face, motionless in the sunlight. “Towards the kind of love which can cherish and nurture—forgive even the most wicked, the ugliest and most callous,” she finished. “Which is the love of God for the world, and yet keeps the law of creation and is the power which begets all the souls of men and Molls that they shall have joy.”

  Ra-Nufis looked across at her, his eyes shining. “Where did you learn that?” he asked.

  She smiled. “I have a Book in which it is written—”

  “May I see?” he interrupted, then blushed, looking down and blinking. “I’m sorry. That was ... brash of me. I should not be so—”

  “Of course you may,” she answered quickly. “It is for sharing. You are the first, but it is for everyone.”

  “The first? Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Now, if you wish.”

  “I wish ... more than anything else on earth.”

  Tathea stood up and he followed her inside to the cupboard where she kept the Book. She unwrapped it from the blue silk cloak and held it out to him.

  He took it from her with trembling hands, moving his fingers slowly over the gems on its surface, as if he were afraid to open it. He looked up at her, then down at it again.

  They sat down and she waited.

  He opened the cover to the first page. He began reading. He read for an hour without even glancing at her. When at last he did raise his eyes to hers, they were bright with tears, and a brilliance of wonder shone through.

  “It is everything!” he said simply. “I can hardly begin to understand all it means, but I know its beauty is the heart of the universe, the power and the meaning of all that exists. We must take this back to Shinabar ...” He did not even realize he had included himself in the task. “Let me go first and begin to gather information.” His fingers moved gently over the surface of the Book. “This must not be taken there until we have overthrown the usurpers and restored justice. Few people know me. I can move about unseen.” His voice was rising with urgency. “I can find out where your support is, learn military, political, and economic information which you will need to gather forces here. It will take time.” He stood up slowly, holding the Book out to her. “I had best begin to plan now.” He did not even consider the possibility of her refusing. He knew what was in the Book, and he knew she knew it even more profoundly. There could be no turning back.

  By the beginning of winter Ra-Nufis had left Camassia. Tathea decided she must hesitate no longer in seeking Lady Eleni. The best course would be to approach her in the open. The forthcoming c
hariot races should provide an opportunity.

  Accordingly Tathea selected her best Camassian gown, dark wine-purple with gold cord under the bosom and a deep embroidered border at the hem. She regarded herself critically in the long, polished glass. She was too dark to look Camassian, but she did appear a woman of dignity and some importance. She could not be dismissed lightly by the Imperial Guard.

  She stood with the Book open in her arms and read the first page again, as if she were communicating with the One who had written it; then she closed it, placed it in the chest under her clothes, and locked the chest, pocketing the key.

  She had made her decision. There was no purpose in pondering it anymore. She left the house.

  It was a cool, bright day. The circle of the race arena was crowded, tier above tier, fifteen stories high at the outer rim, and five hundred yards across.

  Tathea stared around her. There must be a hundred thousand people here, of every trade and occupation, a dozen races, a score of creeds, all packed elbow to elbow, shouting and cheering. Wagers were being laid, arguments waxed hot and furious. The air was heavy with the odors of meat, the pungency of lemons and quince spices and the sweetness of honey. People called out greetings, challenges, encouragement to favorites. The sound of a dozen languages swirled around her.

  In spite of its size, the circuit the horses would run was tight enough to be dangerous at speed. There was always the risk of mutilation or death. It required skill and courage to compete, and wealth.

  There was a rustle of excitement and a sea of faces turned towards the imperial stand. Tathea looked too as Emperor Isadorus came into view, raising his arms in salute. Beside him was a woman of stern, patrician handsomeness, her gestures gracious but cool, as if she took little pleasure in the crowd’s adulation or the prospect of the races. That must be Barsymet, the Empress. It was certainly not Eleni.