Tathea

by Anne Perry

  Isadorus waited for several moments, seizing all the time he could to be alone. When he heard Maximian’s footsteps coming across the marble towards him, he was ready to face him.

  Alexius returned from the frontier of the Empire physically weary from battle and, far more than that, darkened in spirit by the knowledge of the increasing barbarian threat. There was a new nature to it, a savagery as if there was a force beyond which was steadily growing, gathering its strength for some terrible end. The armies of the Empire had kept the barbarians at bay, but at a bitter cost. He had seen too many men die, too many friends. He could not help feeling that the light of the Book had something to do with the power of the darkness that was massing on the outer edges of the world.

  Such news as filtered through from the south of Shinabar was just as harsh.

  He was drawn to see Tathea again with a need so intense he did not even think to resist. He found her walking alone in the cypress garden in the evening light. She came towards him, dark as the trees and with the same fierce, slender grace. Her back was towards the dying sun and he could not read her expression, but she could see his.

  “What is it?” she asked as she reached him.

  “Is it so plain on my face?” he said ruefully.

  “Something you find hard to say!” It was a conclusion, not a question. They knew each other sometimes uncomfortably well, their understanding of even the unspoken was too quick.

  He turned along the stone path beside her, between the fading scent of thyme and rosemary and the last flowers of autumn.

  “The barbarians,” he began, searching for the words to explain the heaviness inside him. “I feel as if there is a presence of evil greater than merely tribes of ignorant men who own nothing and value nothing. There is a lust to destroy, an intelligence of hate which is more than greed.”

  She walked beside him in silence.

  He felt foolish in the solitude of this quiet evening. The realities of war belonged to another world, unimaginable here. And yet the shadow of knowledge lay over him and he could not dismiss it.

  “Thea?”

  She started at the intimate use of her name, and felt a warmth fill her.

  “I know,” she answered, her face golden in the light as she stared ahead. “I have heard news from Shinabar as well. Now when we should be most united, it seems we are full of quarreling over trivialities. There is a malaise over the land, as if we don’t wish to see the truth and have no will left to save ourselves.”

  “Do you think we will really fail?” he asked.

  “Not individually, no.” Her voice was strong with certainly. “‘But in tribulation he will find his greatest strength and his utmost nobility,’” she quoted from the Book. “‘When he is persecuted there will be those who will bear it with patience and without hatred or self-pity. There will be those in flight who will return for the weaker and slower, who will comfort the terrified and the grieving without thought for self. When there is starvation, there will be those who will give their last morsel to save another.’”

  He listened without interrupting. The light was reddening in the west, and the shadow of the cypresses fell black across the path.

  “‘Where there is tyranny and war,’” she continued, “‘there will be those who will give their own lives for their fellowmen, and who will die rather than deny the good they believe. They will make even the greatest sacrifice of all, for love of the light they have seen. And in eternity I shall take them to My heart and their joy will be as Mine. They shall see all things and understand and be filled with peace which has no end.’”

  They stood in silence as the fire of the sunset bathed them and the sharp scent of trodden herbs was pungent in the air.

  “Why now?” he said at last. “Is there really another hand in it as well as God’s?” He drew in his breath, struggling to clear his thoughts. “I know the Great Enemy argues in the Book, but is he simply fate and perversity in things so that the truth may be stated, or ...” He stopped. The sky was shot with a splendor of colors so wild and bright it burned against the earth. He was touched with the beginnings of ideas he would have laughed at only months ago, and a terrifying belief.

  She gazed at him steadily, without a shadow of evasion, until he felt as if their minds had touched and the separation of their bodies was an illusion. The wind of dusk and the brightness in the air bound them together; it did not come between.

  “Oh yes,” she said at last, and there was no wavering in her voice, soft and grave as it was. “The Great Enemy is as real as God is real. Sometimes I remember him, as if I had once seen him face to face as closely as I see you.”

  Everything in him rebelled against the idea. It was imagination! Ghosts in the night! Above all, it was a supernatural excuse for man-made sins. But that was not what she meant, and in his heart he knew it. She was speaking of something as powerful as death, as terrible as the end of all hope, as real as his skin. He had felt it on the barbarian edge.

  He fought against knowing it and did not win. He could never have won because he could not doubt her. It was in her eyes, her mouth, and the breath on her lips. She had seen the Great Enemy’s face as perhaps she had also seen God’s.

  He was seized with an ice-grip of fear for her. She was soul-rendingly vulnerable. She walked the earth alone, and Asmodeus knew her name and knew her burden. He would never forget. Every hour of her life he was watching. She carried in her courage and belief, the spark to light the world. If she slipped even once, the darkness would consume her.

  In that moment he would have offered his own soul to protect her, anything, everything, to keep her from destruction.

  But it was impossible, and he knew it even as the sun slid below the horizon and the salt wind blew in from the sea with the coming night. He forced himself to remember the words of God: “It takes all that a man has, to the height and breadth and depth of his soul, but it does not require more.”

  He held out his hand, and she took it for a moment before letting go and continuing to walk along the path.

  Tathea did not relax her work on the Book, going over it again and again to make sure that what she had written was not capable of misinterpretation, that there was no wavering, repetition, or ambiguity. She spent much time in deep silence when her soul was still as deep water and a fierce and radiant peace settled within her. A light seemed to flood the pages.

  “The creatures of the earth are Mine also,” she wrote in Shinabari. “They are the workmanship of My hands. In beauty have I formed them, each perfect in its place. Their innocence is blameless before the laws of eternity. They have no sin for which to answer, and in the last day it will be well with them, with every bird that flies, every fish that inhabits the ocean, and every creature that runs or creeps upon the land. Not one of them is hurt without My knowledge, and My grief.

  “But I know the end from the beginning, and they shall not perish from My sight. For a space the earth is lent to man, to come under his stewardship, not to be his possession, and he will answer to me for every stick and stone of it, every leaf and flower, and every living thing upon its face, for good and for ill.

  “Just as there are those who will ruin and destroy, so there are those who will cherish and make beautiful, those who will love and who will heal, those who will praise, and who will see My hand in all things.

  “All gifts, all wealth, whether it be of goods or talents, of health or intelligence, of wit or laughter, even of time itself are a trust, to see whether they are used with generosity or with meanness, with love or without it, with joy and with gratitude and humility, that they return to Me rich with the harvest of sharing. And I will magnify all things to them into time and eternity without end.”

  All through the winter news came of the spreading of the Word, and always that it was more and more rapid across the Empire, its strength growing. Men and women in all walks of life were hearing the beauty in the Word, some a faint echo, some a thunder of music that filled their li
ves. Travelers carried it to the furthest provinces. Even soldiers on the frontiers met those who had heard it and repeated it.

  But the incursions by the barbarians were increasing. The news grew worse, especially from the south, and Ra-Nufis warned that the Shinabari will to fight was being eaten away by indulgence and apathy. They were attacked more and more frequently, and with escalating success. There were tales of piracy at sea; traders had been sunk with all hands.

  Tathea went to see Isadorus.

  “I have come to ask once more for armies to retake Shinabar,” she said steadily, although she had no greater confidence than before, only the passion of urgency within her. “Civilization is besieged on all sides, and Shinabar is crumbling beneath a decadent rule imposed by murder. If it falls, as it seems it may, there is no one left to stand against the chaos except Camassia. We shall have to fight one day. Let us do it while we yet have allies, and on our terms, at a time of our choosing, not theirs.”

  He did not answer immediately; at least this time he did not refuse without first weighing the judgment.

  She knew enough not to press him with too much argument. Let what she had said be sufficient.

  Ulciber stepped forward, close to the Emperor’s seat. “My lord, Lady Ta-Thea’s words are wise. Every victory of the barbarians feeds their ambition and gathers them more believers in their eventual conquest. With each raid more people, more lands are swallowed up. If we stand idle and allow this, I fear we are not blameless in their loss.”

  Isadorus looked at him sharply, but his anger was momentary. “You are right,” he conceded. “Peace has become a luxury we can no longer afford. You may have your armies, Tathea. But I will send my own generals to command. The rule of Shinabar will be yours when and if I decide that it will.”

  Ulciber looked at Isadorus again. “The best general is Alexius, my lord,” he said softly. “You can trust him as no one else, both his skill and his honor. No other man would serve you as well.”

  “I know,” Isadorus agreed without looking at him. “I shall send him.”

  It was hers! She had won. She was going back to Shinabar with an army led by Alexius. They would take the Book, and when Thoth-Moara was in her hands again, at peace, with justice accomplished, they would teach the Word to every man and woman in the land. They would begin the rebirth.

  “Thank you,” she accepted quietly.

  And Ulciber smiled and stepped back.

  Chapter XIII

  TATHEA WOULD GO WITH the army. Alexius had accepted command. Whatever reluctance he might have felt at leaving Camassia, and more importantly at leaving Eleni, he subordinated them to the knowledge that it was his duty. Isadorus’s words to Tathea had been unyielding, but they all accepted that once the Shinabari were conquered and an alliance with Camassia sealed beyond reneging, the invading army would withdraw and leave Shinabar to Tathea, with possibly no more than a garrison to hold it, and the threat of reinvasion should the peace be broken.

  So Tathea would ride with Alexius, and fight beside him. If she were to rule her country, she must be seen to have won it, not been given it after the struggle was over.

  Leaving Camassia was difficult. She would miss Isadorus. She did not realize until the moment came how deep their friendship had become.

  “Be careful, Tathea,” he said gravely as they stood on the balcony with the panorama of the city spread below them and the warships already gathering in the harbor, dark against the bright water. “Power is a shadowed thing. We hunger for it, kill for it, and then too often abuse it.”

  “I know,” she answered, following his gaze across the roofs, south to the sea and to Shinabar beyond. “I only want to achieve peace and the freedom to teach the Book.”

  “Only,” he sighed. “And what of others, your ministers and generals? What of their wants? There will always be envy, Tathea, the illusion that the power to control others is real, that we can hold it in our hands, exercise it, and not lose ourselves.”

  “I shall watch,” she answered him. “Anyway, I have no choice now. I must go. I have the Book, and they are my people.”

  “Be careful,” he said again.

  Parting from Eleni was even harder. There was a gulf of pain between them, and even though it had never been spoken, they both understood it too clearly to pretend innocence or denial. Neither meant to hurt, and yet the wounds were real.

  “I’m sorry,” Tathea said as they stood in the cypress walk among the lilies. “The gift has cost you more than I thought. I gave you no warning.”

  “You think I would have refused it?” There was an edge of challenge in Eleni’s voice.

  Tathea hesitated. The question she wanted to ask was intrusive, and yet if she did not ask it now, she would have no other chance. They might never meet again like this.

  “Would you?” she asked.

  Eleni was silent a long time, as if she considered many answers. “Sometimes I think so,” she said at last. “But then I would never have been fully myself. And I think I would rather have tasted it, even for a while.”

  “A while?” Tathea stared at her, and for the first time read the depth of misery in her eyes.

  “I lost it,” Eleni answered the question Tathea could not ask.

  Tathea was stunned into silence. A terrible guilt filled her.

  Eleni smiled. “I lost it myself,” she said very quietly. “You did not take it from me. But I know at last how to earn it back, and I will succeed, not today, not tomorrow, but one day I will.”

  Tathea thought of this while she stood in the armorer’s workshop. The armorer eyed her skeptically, shaking his head and blowing his breath out through his teeth. He admired the feminine form, indeed he had appreciated its aesthetic qualities since his youth, but he had never made armor for it, even ceremonial, let alone full metal-plated armor for war. She carried a lighter sword than an ordinary legionary, one such as a boy might use to learn, but much sharper.

  She stood still, disdaining to look at him. It was his business to make it fit. Let him get on with it. She gazed around at the helmets, greaves, and breastplates hanging on hooks and resting on shelves like grotesquely dismembered parts of long-dead warriors. Most of the armor was new, but many pieces bore dents and scars of old battles. Presumably their previous owners were dead, or too crippled to have further use for them.

  The armorer clicked his tongue. “You actually mean to come close to the fighting, lady? Wouldn’t you be better as a ... a figurehead? A mascot, if you like?”

  “No, I wouldn’t!” she snapped. “Just make it the same as everyone else’s but the right shape for me. Can’t you do that?”

  He was insulted. “There’s no armorer in Camassia better than I am. And that means the world!”

  “Good! Then I am in the right place. You are kneeling on my foot!”

  He moved backwards so hastily that he overbalanced.

  She laughed, and he resumed his measuring without looking up at her face again.

  When the time came for the army to embark, it was a bright, sharp day in early autumn with winter lying ahead of them. It was the only season in which to march and fight in the Shinabari desert. The voyage would take seven days. Time was short. They must conquer before spring brought back the intolerable heat when no army could live in the open.

  As Tathea stood on the quayside watching the massed ranks, thousands of men moving like a lava flow towards the boats, carrying their weapons and their bed rolls and rations with a terrible precision, she was gripped with fear for what she had done. She had been so certain of her cause. Now all these countless men were embarking for war. How many of them would return? How many lives would be marred or lost?

  Each man had only one life. With his death, for him the world ended. Perhaps it ended for someone else too, someone who loved him and for whom he was unique and immeasurably precious. Perhaps each one had a mother who loved him as she had loved Habi, who had nurtured him and watched him grow, with impatience and love and hop
e.

  The wind was cold off the water. Without realizing it, Tathea was hugging her cloak around her. She had disagreed with Alexius as to what sort of cloak she should wear. He had wanted her to wear one in Shinabari blue to mark her out so he and the other guards and centurions could see where she was and protect her. She had wished to wear red like the rest of them, so the enemy would not see her as any different.

  She wore red.

  The enemy! Without even realizing it, she had spoken of her own people by that name. There was no enemy in any human terms. And afterwards, would there be a victory, or only degrees of loss?

  She was shivering. She should stand straight like a soldier, not like a woman who needs someone else to shelter her. How could she expect an army to follow her if she stood here shaking? They knew the wind was cold, but they would think she was afraid. And so she was, not of battles or dangers, not of the desert, but of the enormity of what she had done.

  She heard Ra-Nufis’s voice at her shoulder.

  “Two hundred thousand men,” he said softly. “Not so many when you think of all the might of Shinabar against them, but they are the best. Isadorus has given you the most seasoned of his troops, veterans of the Irria-Kander wars.”

  She could not stop shivering. “What is going to happen, Ra-Nufis? What have we begun?”

  There was no hesitation in him, no trepidation. “A war, Majesty,” he answered. “And men will fall. There will be the crippled and the blinded and the dead. In all wars there are losses.” His voice dropped and became suddenly more urgent, heavy with tragedy. “But there are losses in peace too, if that peace is dishonorable. It is just that we do not see them so easily because the wounds and the deaths are on the inside. It doesn’t mean they hurt less, or that the deaths are not real.”

  She looked at the men trooping up the ramps and onto the ships. Still they moved with perfect precision, as if there were some silent communication between them, parts of a giant whole. The boats tipped under their weight. The sun shone and glinted on their armor. Upheld spears formed a moving forest, naked as rain. There was no sound but the slurp of water against the quays and the sides of the boats, the sucking back from the shingle, and the shuffle of four hundred thousand feet on stone and wood.