Tathea

by Anne Perry

  Tathea felt a moment of alarm. Where was she? If she had not come, the plan was foiled. It might take months to approach her through intermediaries, and it could be dangerous.

  The beginning of the parade of chariots in the arena interrupted her thoughts. There was a roar of excitement. People craned forward, yelling encouragement. The horses were beautiful, prancing in their eagerness, heads tossing, bodies shining in the sun. The charioteers wore military uniform, scarlet tunics with polished leather armor to their knees, but their arms and shoulders were bare to allow freedom of movement to handle the reins and wield the whip.

  As they passed the imperial box, each chariot turned and the driver saluted the Emperor. One drawn by black horses with eagle crests was level with Tathea and the charioteer looked up. His head was high, his arms extended. He swayed very slightly with the chariot’s movement. In his pride and skill he was as perfectly beautiful as his beasts. His face was aquiline, arrogant, and intelligent. For a moment she forgot where she was. In his ancient unity of man and animal he could almost have been Shinabari.

  He moved on, and she recalled her purpose with a new urgency. She swiveled round to look back up to the imperial box. She must speak to someone, whatever the risk.

  Then she saw Eleni, smiling, leaning forward, watching the same charioteer she had noticed. Eleni was just as Tathea remembered, soft features, honey-warm complexion, the sweep of auburn hair. Tathea smiled to herself. For all the differences between them in race and culture, and now in circumstance, the woman in Eleni was responding to the charioteer in exactly the same way she herself had done. Eleni was just as vulnerable, just as human.

  The chariots were lining up for the signal to begin. There was a roar from the crowd, then the thunder of hooves and a cloud of dust as three score horses charged, throwing their weight against the harnesses, and three score wheels dug into the ground and hurtled forward.

  It was a wild sport, thrilling, dangerous, conducted at breakneck speed amid yelling and stamping and cheering. Women were squealing with excitement.

  Early on there were casualties: wheels jammed, drivers toppled, chariots overturned or careered off the track. At great peril to themselves men ran onto the track to rescue fallen competitors, sometimes carrying them bodily if they were badly injured or senseless. Others waved arms or colored sticks and shooed the loose horses aside before catching them and leading them away. All the time the roar of the crowd rose as the climax neared.

  In the final circuit only six chariots remained. The black horses with the eagle crests were among them. Tathea leaned over the rail, holding her breath. She wanted him to win, but far more than that she was terrified he might get injured.

  The chariots thundered past for the last time, sweat-streaked, spattered with sand. A giant man in white and green finished first, the man with the black horses only a yard behind. Disappointment washed over Tathea and vanished, overtaken by relief. She was weak with the sudden relaxing of strain. It was over, and he was safe. The throng roared its approval as the last chariots crossed the line. A woman beside Tathea was waving her arms above her head in jubilation. Already people were beginning to leave their places to collect wagers or take refreshment, calling out to friends.

  In the arena the winner bowed before the Emperor, and Isadorus saluted his victory, throwing down a laurel, which for an instant as it arced in the air woke a memory in Tathea that vanished before she could place it. Then he tossed a purse of gold.

  After him came the other charioteer, meeting the Emperor’s eyes boldly, and caught the purse of silver thrown to him. He bowed. If he was disappointed, there was nothing of it in his expression or his bearing, but Tathea knew from the set of his shoulders and the swagger of his walk that he would try again and again until he won. In spite of her fear for him, she was eager that he should. She would have been disillusioned if he had been content with second place.

  The next race was beginning. Should she try to see Eleni now? If she waited until it was all over Eleni might leave and it would be too late. Or would she resent being interrupted? Might it sour the possibility of friendship?

  Tathea looked up at the imperial box. Isadorus was watching the race, but his face was impassive, as if only part of his attention were on it. He knew what was expected of him and would never give less, but his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. Beside him Empress Barsymet was talking to a youth of perhaps twenty-two who resembled her so much he must surely be her son, the Emperor’s heir, Merkator. The darker youth behind him would be his younger brother Tiberian. They both stood close to their mother, shoulders half turned towards her, away from Isadorus.

  Could she interrupt now? Behind the imperial family stood soldiers in the purple-bordered tunics of the Household Guard. A few months ago, not half a year, she herself had sat in an imperial box to watch the drama of the theater. A different Household Guard had stood behind her, dressed in bleached linen with blue and turquoise sashes and beaten copper helmets. Outside, the desert night had dried the moisture from the skin, and sand had crept whispering over the stones.

  The race ended and another began. She had missed the moment.

  Two horses passing in front of her collided at violent speed, both falling, hurling their riders clear. Neither man was seriously hurt and both scrambled up, shaken but whole. One horse rose to its feet and trotted off, but the other, a beautiful beast, pure Shinabari from the fine, intelligent head, struggled to rise and fell back again. It was hideously apparent that one of its legs was broken.

  The rider staggered over to it, his face streaming tears, his agony unashamed. He called out to it as if he could ease its fear, pleading with his gods to save his beloved animal at any cost.

  Tathea was sick with horror. In the desert a horse was life. She understood the bond between man and beast, and she felt for the rider as if she had been in his place.

  A figure came down from the imperial box, vaulting over the divisions of the rows, and finally jumped from the lowest, past where Tathea stood, and landed on the sand, his knife already drawn to end the horse’s pain. He knew the rider could not bring himself to do it. It was the charioteer with the black horses and the eagle emblems. Of course, he was a member of the imperial family; she should have known.

  Tathea gathered up her skirts and scrambled over the rail too, landing hard on the sand. There was nothing she could do to help, except stand with the rider whose face was filled with agony as if he would sooner it were his own bones that were broken. Over and over again he spoke his horse’s name, his voice choking.

  “I’ll be quick,” the charioteer promised, his face full of pity.

  The horse lay on its side, its body shuddering, head up, eyes rolling with terror and pain.

  Tathea moved towards the rider but he did not even notice her.

  The charioteer turned back to the horse, steeling himself to do the deed, his shoulders rigid, his hand shaking in spite of his purpose.

  From the steps Eleni appeared, running across the sand, her skirts flying. She pushed past the charioteer and fell to her knees on the ground beside the horse’s head. She took the reins in her hand, speaking to it softly, as if it were a child. Then with her eyes closed she reached out and touched the splintered leg, running her hands down it softly, barely caressing the skin.

  All around them the vast crowd was silent.

  The charioteer tried to reason with her, standing close, his hand on her shoulder. “Eleni, waiting is only making it worse, for the animal as well as the man. Let me end it.”

  “No!” She did not turn towards him.

  The rider stood motionless, ashen-faced, paralyzed with grief.

  Eleni straightened up and turned to the charioteer. Her face was calm, her eyes wide and amazed. She seemed to radiate a kind of joy she herself could hardly grasp.

  “You won’t need it,” she said quietly, looking at the knife in his hand. “The bone is not broken. The skin and the bruising will heal.”

  “Ele
ni, it is in pain.” His voice was gentle, full of hurt. “Don’t prolong it...”

  “It is all right!” she insisted, not loudly but with an authority that stopped him even as he went to step past her. She turned to the rider, smiling at him. “Take him home. Clean the wound, and in a few days it will heal.”

  They all stared at her, then as one they swung around to the animal as it lurched to its feet. Slowly, unsteadily at first, it walked over to the rider and nuzzled his shoulder. He threw his arms round it and buried his head in its neck, his body shaking with sobs of relief.

  “I could have sworn it was broken,” the charioteer said with a look of bewilderment.

  It had been. Tathea knew it with absolute certainty. And just for an instant, as if in a time utterly apart, she stood in another room and watched a woman extend her hands in miraculous healing, but that woman understood her gift and used it knowingly and accepted that it came with a price.

  Then the moment vanished and the present filled the air again, the sand and sweat of the arena, the roar of the spectators as they realized what had happened and rose to their feet, cheering. Eleni and the charioteer were both looking at Tathea, waiting for her to say who she was and why she too had come down from the tiers of onlookers.

  It was time.

  She moved forward to Eleni, her head high. She must be believed.

  “We met in Thoth-Moara ... before my husband was overthrown.” Her voice sounded strange and dry out here. “My name is Ta-Thea.” She gave it the Shinabari pronunciation.

  Eleni stared at her with disbelief, her eyes puzzled. Then recognition came, and pleasure, and pity. “You survived!” She came forward quickly, both her hands extended. She searched Tathea’s face. “How can we help? Have you shelter, a home, people to care for you?” She swung round to the charioteer. “This is my husband, Alexius. He did not come to Shinabar with us. He was with the army in Caeva.” She did not explain to him who Tathea was. He would already know.

  “I escaped with sufficient to provide for my immediate needs,” Tathea replied. What a ridiculously formal phrase for what had happened! She should have guessed the charioteer would be married ... but to Eleni! It hardly mattered. In fact it was nothing at all. She dismissed the pang of regret she felt with anger. The Book was all that was of importance. “But I have something of uncountable value, beyond measure, which I would share with you.” She hesitated only a moment then went on, “It will explain something of what happened here today. You have a right to know, and I think perhaps a need.”

  Alexius glanced across at the horse, still held in an embrace by its rider, but Eleni’s eyes did not leave Tathea’s.

  “Yes ...” she said slowly. “Yes, I do need to know.”

  Tathea went to the Imperial Palace. It was far smaller than the palace at Thoth-Moara, but it had a magnificence of proportion which gave it great beauty. It sprawled over the crown of the hill amid olive and lemon trees and dark cypresses. The first time she went she did not take the Book. She told Eleni the story of her escape from Thoth-Moara, her flight across the desert and the beginning of her quest, the passion, the need which had impelled her to the Lost Lands, to the shore to await whatever might be, and how she woke in the skiff as it scraped the sand, with the Book in her arms.

  Eleni listened intently. They had met only once before and they were divided by different cultures, yet they shared the privileges and burdens of high birth, its loneliness without privacy, and now its violence and also its loss. There was no one else Tathea could have told who would have understood so deeply.

  “And the Book?” Eleni said at last. “May I see it?”

  It was what Tathea had been waiting for, yet now the moment had come she was afraid. So much rested on it. But there could be no retreat.

  “Of course. When shall I bring it?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Tathea spent weeks in the palace. Every day she read with Eleni. The beginning was easy to understand, though its meaning became subtler and more profound with each repetition. The work was an exchange of views between two great persons, the light and the darkness of premortal creation, whose origin lay before the foundations of heaven. As Tathea read it again, seeking to explain it to Eleni whose quick mind hungered to grasp every shade of meaning, she began to appreciate that her own understanding was yet infant.

  She liked Eleni more each time she saw her, but coming to the Imperial Palace was a strange and often troubling experience. In Shinabar it would have been she who received or refused. The servants, who here looked her in the face and directed her where to go, would not have raised their eyes to her in Thoth-Moara. They would have worn her livery with pride. The Household Guard would have lowered their weapons as a sign of submission. There would always have been a steward close at hand, whose sole duty it was to anticipate her wishes. Here in Camassia she waited for admission. The guards and servants had no idea who she was, except that Lady Eleni chose to receive her and that the two of them sat for hours at a time and refused interruption.

  Tathea first met Empress Barsymet quite by chance. She came in casually, leaving her waiting women at the door. She was exquisitely dressed in shades of green with jeweled borders to her gown. The draping of the folds emphasized her height and grace. Her gestures were easy and she spoke without great formality, but there was little warmth in her eyes.

  Eleni introduced Tathea but made only the most passing mention of the Book.

  “Indeed,” Barsymet said with a single smile. “We commiserate with you in your misfortune. I am glad you have found asylum here in Camassia.” Then she turned to Eleni and spoke of some state affair they were to attend.

  Tathea watched both women as they faced each other in Eleni’s gracious room overlooking the herb garden and cypress walk. Barsymet stood very upright and a little stiffly, her shoulders high. In her youth she must have been a beautiful woman, but there was discontent in her face now, and the fine lines around her eyes and mouth were not those of laughter.

  Eleni was less patrician, and the curve of her lips was softer. When she smiled it touched her eyes. She stood comfortably, as though she feared nothing. The two women might have been bound by family and circumstance, and yet looking at them Tathea was increasingly certain they were divided by a gulf that had never been bridged.

  Another woman who called during those days was Alexius’s sister, Xanthica. She swept in, beginning to speak almost before she was through the door. The affection between her and Eleni was obvious, and Tathea was introduced immediately and her presence explained.

  Xanthica regarded the Book, lying open on a small table in a pool of sunlight.

  “Really?” she said curiously. “May I?” She did not wait but walked over and glanced down at the page. She read with gradually furrowing brow. She turned the page and read on, then swiveled around. “What is it?” Her eyes were wide, clear hazel.

  “I believe it is the word of God to mankind,” Eleni answered before Tathea. “He is explaining to the Great Adversary who we are and what we may become, that we can attain an everlasting joy, one that will have no end in all eternity.” She spoke without hesitation or doubt. Perhaps it was in that moment that she committed herself to it.

  Xanthica stared at her. Puzzlement flickered across her eyes. “What is the price of it, this joy?”

  Eleni regarded her gravely. “It is not something you are given so much as something you become.”

  “I don’t understand.” Xanthica looked for a moment at Tathea, then back again to Eleni. “You can’t merely will yourself to become happy,” she protested. “If you could, it would have little to do with God.” She laughed, but there was a hint of nervousness in it. “You say it as if there were only one god. Do you mean to do away with all the others?”

  Eleni’s eyes widened. “If you put it like that, yes, I do. The others are more like reflections of us ...”

  “Oh, that’s nonsense!” Xanthica moved quickly, dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand
. She walked over to the window. Soft spring rain was just beginning to fall outside.

  “We do not have the powers we attribute to them,” Eleni persisted, “but we invest them with our ideas, our desires. We believe they behave as we would, had we their power. We suppose they are stronger than we are but not wiser or nobler. We use the word ‘holy’ to describe them when what we mean is ‘clever.’”

  Xanthica turned back to the room, shrugging. “You are delving too deeply. All I need to know is what to obey. That’s all most people need. I have no wish to be a philosopher.” She smiled at Tathea to rob the remark of offense, and after a little while took her leave.

  Tathea did not see Alexius again. Several times she was on the point of asking Eleni if she had spoken to him of the Book, but the opportunity to do so without it seeming forced never arose. Always she kept her sights fixed on meeting the Emperor himself. He held the power to help her return to Shinabar and take the Book with her, to teach her own people its message. Every time she came into the Imperial Palace with its beauty and grace, its newly gained imperium, she remembered Thoth-Moara and the ancient glories she had left behind, the familiarity, the happiness and the pain she had known there and the violence which cried out for redress.

  She eventually met Isadorus, not in the palace but in the great courtyard on the slope of the hill just below it. One of the military legions had just returned from a period of service on the eastern frontier. Isadorus was receiving a public offering of tribute from his latest subjects, presented by the general in command, and also giving praise and reward to soldiers who had marked their duty with exceptional courage or sacrifice.

  It was a sharp, windy day with patches of sunlight sweeping across, followed by spattering rain. The scarlet plumes on the helmets fluttered, and the occasional cloak flapped loose.

  Isadorus stood on a stone step, Alexius beside him with light catching his fair hair. It was the first time Tathea had seen him since the chariot races. He made the same profound impression on her as before, but now she knew him as Eleni’s husband. Eleni was her friend, the one person in Camassia who had shown her warmth and a fellowship of understanding. And above all, she believed in the Book.