Tathea

by Anne Perry

  She went back to the rooms they occupied this week and knelt alone in prayer, racked with a terrible knowledge of loss for Ra-Nufis. Without meaning to, she had invested in him the tenderness and the hope she would have placed in Habi.

  He could not have betrayed her more totally.

  She poured out her grief before God, not seeking an answer, simply the knowledge that He understood. Gradually a great peace descended on her and a warmth, as if she were encircled by His arms. A still, small voice spoke to her soul, “Asmodeus too was My son,” and she knew the anguish of God.

  What Lindor had said was true. The doctrine of the Light Bearers was now very closely defined, and to alter it or question it became a crime before the law, punishable by confiscation of property. Quoting from the Book, even Ra-Nufis’s version, became a crime for anyone except the ordained priests. Those suspected of heresy were excluded from public office or preferment in the army. No one would lend them money. They were forbidden to plead in the law courts or teach in the academies. The guild of architects refused them membership, as did the goldsmiths, the stonemasons, and the apothecaries.

  By summer it was not unknown for those accused of heresy to be driven from their homes, their belongings vandalized, even for them to be openly attacked in the streets. Youths set on an old man and his heart stopped in fright. Everyone knew who they were, but they were not prosecuted. A woman was stoned to death. It was barely investigated. Yet the number of believers in the old faith continued to rise in spite of persecution and injustice.

  By autumn it became a crime punishable by death to hold a copy of Tathea’s re-writing of the Book. It was Eleni who told her so, brought by Saspia to the rooms they currently occupied. Eleni looked tired, as if she had been awake many nights, but there was peace in her face. To Tathea’s great joy, she brought with her the little black and white cat.

  “I have come to join you,” she said simply, looking at Tathea. “I can no longer stand apart. The time has come when we must choose which side we are on. Those who are not with you are against you.”

  “Not with me,” Tathea corrected gently, “with God. It may cost you your life.” She knew it would make no difference to her. The very way Eleni stood, head high, eyes clear and sad, made her knowledge plain and her commitment.

  “I know,” she agreed. “I also know it will cost me my soul if I do not.” She set the cat down. “I want to be part of the battle, I must be, and I would far sooner do it with you than alone.”

  Tathea held out her hand and Eleni clasped it. Their friendship could not be as it had been before. It must be different after Alexius, but it was just as deep.

  The days grew cooler, and the old quarter of the city was a hard place to live. There were none of the luxuries Eleni had been accustomed to all her adult life. She was an emperor’s daughter and an emperor’s sister, and now she walked up and down flights of steps carrying pails of water from the street well. She ate coarse bread and wore plain linen and simple sandals, even in the rain. She could not afford to be different. Word would fly back to Ra-Nufis. She would be asked to deny the Book, publicly, and she would have to refuse. He could not then spare her without losing his authority.

  And Tathea, who had been Empress, and then Isarch, also carried water, washed her own clothes, and shopped in the market for bread, cheese, and fruit. But she had been a soldier, and for her the hardship came more easily.

  At night they often sat long into the darkness and talked of all manner of things, occasionally matters of no importance, simply to share. They told jokes or long, funny, trivial stories. The only way to make things bearable was to laugh. The net was growing tighter all the time. Every few days news came of some follower losing his work or his home. People were being robbed without recourse to the law to help or avenge them. No one was safe. Old men, women, even children were injured in property and in person. The number of those found in possession of Tathea’s new translation of the Book and executed for heresy and treason grew steadily.

  The winter passed. Every twenty or thirty days they were obliged to take their few possessions and move, in case some careless word or prying eye, some too observant watcher, should betray them. Zulperion’s spies were everywhere, and there were thousands willing to do his bidding.

  Fear settled over the city. “Zulperion of the Honeyed Throat” convinced even Tiberian not to threaten him. Devotion became rigidly orthodox. The voices of the established faith grew louder and more strident. People vied with each other in proclaiming their adherence to the letter of the law and were ever quicker to accuse those they imagined were deviating. No one dared differ with his neighbor. The frightened, the simple-minded, or inarticulate became victims of those who judged before they could themselves fall under suspicion.

  It was Eleni who brought Tathea news of the death she found hardest to bear. Eleni had been out to buy bread and had heard the talk at the baker’s, and then in the street. She came in white-faced and closed the door behind her, shutting out the noise. Then she stood motionless, not putting the bread down.

  It was her stillness which caught Tathea’s attention. She looked up from the table where she was writing, the cat beside her. “What is it?” She had become accustomed to hearing of injustice and loss, but it never ceased to hurt or to amaze that Zulperion’s golden tongue could persuade so many that it was right, even that it was the work of God.

  “Lindor,” Eleni answered, her mouth pinched, her voice catching. “He had a copy of the Book. I don’t know whether someone informed on him or if he grew careless. It doesn’t take much these days. Zulperion’s men came at night and forced their way in—that’s legal now if there has been an accusation. They searched the house. They found his Book, and there was no denial. Not that denial is ever any good.” She moved from the door and put the bread on the table. The cat went to it immediately, smelling the warm crust. “It only prolongs the whole wretched pain and farce of it,” Eleni went on. “Lindor didn’t try. He’s seen too many others dispossessed to imagine escape. He wouldn’t denounce the Book.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Hardly anyone does. Almost all of them go to their deaths branded fanatics and enemies of the people with their heads high.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry!”

  It was one senseless injustice too many. Tathea sat numb for minutes, then rose slowly to her feet, feeling stiff and suddenly old. She excused herself and went to her own room. She sat on the cot which served as a bed. She had the cat in her arms and the hot tears trickled down her face. She allowed herself to weep as she had not done for years. It was not for Lindor—good man as he had been and a friend to the cause, who had never counted the cost—but for all the brave, loving, and honorable people who had believed her words and gone to their deaths.

  Was she doing the right thing? Or was this really only a slow descent, step by shallow step, down to the very destruction she thought she was avoiding?

  She missed Alexius! That was the one thing she could not tell Eleni. And it would hurt Sanobiel to tell him. He would feel he was being measured and found wanting, that somehow he should have made this decision for her. And that was false. It was hers alone.

  Eventually she sat up and washed her face in the dish of water, then dried it on the rough cloth. She could not ask Alexius. He was gone. Anyway, there was only one person who knew all things.

  First she must still the clamor of confusion within herself, drive out the sense of guilt for all the pain.

  She knelt to pray. She asked first for clearheadedness enough to hear God’s answer and know it was truth and not her own wishes or fears. Gradually, a stillness descended upon her. With pure clarity she remembered what Alexius had said about the watchman on the tower and the cry of warning. Those who see have the burden of speaking the truth whether they are heeded or not, whether they are loved or hated for their words.

  And she saw, as if in vision, Merdic and the Lost Legion, fighting without hope in the Waste Lands, battling the Lord of Despa
ir, willing to die but not to surrender. Then she saw Menath-Dur, and heard the tinkling bells on his shoes. He had taught her the meaning of hope and, without ever saying so, of faith also.

  Above all she remembered in her soul the great vision which had shown the plan of all things and the purpose of God. She knew the answer to her prayer. The war with the Great Enemy was for souls, not for lives. This news was bitter and hard to bear, but it was not a defeat unless she allowed it to be. For Lindor it was the final victory.

  She straightened her skirt and pushed her hair back off her face.

  She found Eleni sitting, copying in her careful, beautiful hand. She looked up when she saw Tathea, her face puckered with concern.

  “It’s all right,” Tathea said gently, going to sit beside her. “It hurts, but it is not a destroying pain. This is as it has to be.”

  Eleni looked at her steadily, seeking to read the deeper heart behind her eyes.

  Tathea put her hands on Eleni’s shoulders, holding her gently. “It is,” she repeated. “You told me this is a time of choice, there is no more middle ground. You are right. Lindor chose, and that was his victory. It is our burden and our blessing to be the watchmen on the tower and to speak the words which warn and also divide.”

  “And Ra-Nufis?” Eleni asked. “And all those who go downward?”

  Tathea slid her arms round her and held her close. “They are God’s children as well. He loves them more than we know how to, but they are free.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Asmodeus himself was God’s son too.”

  Eleni clung to her in silent, overwhelming knowledge.

  Tathea did not realize how deeply Zulperion hated her, or how greatly the steadily growing number of men and women who defied him and chose her Book threatened everything he had built with such care. He punished more and more people with confiscation of goods, expulsion from labor or homes, loss of position in the community, even with death. But far from frightening them off, it seemed to feed their rebellion until they seemed now to endanger the very fabric of the faith in the city. If he did not put an end to it, in time it would spread throughout the Empire. The core of treachery and unreason, as he saw it, was deeper than he had at first believed. Ra-Nufis had warned him, and then gone to the provinces to forestall rebellion there, leaving him with the responsibility for settling the issue in the city. He must do it before Ra-Nufis returned or his own position might be at risk. Ra-Nufis was no easy master to serve. One needed a position of power to rest in one’s bed at night.

  The woman Tathea was the heart of the problem. Without her, the rest of them would soon wither away. It was unfortunate that Isadorus’s sister, Lady Eleni, had joined her. It would have been a great deal better if they could have somehow prevented that. He should have worked harder at wooing her to his cause, as he had with Barsymet, although Eleni had not the same vulnerabilities. But it had been a clumsy omission. Her gift of healing was a superb tool. It was exactly the kind of miracle that produced awe in people. Word of that kind of thing passed like fire. It did not need to happen often, the tales grew in the telling and could always be nurtured a little.

  He stared out the window of his palace at the gardens and fountains below.

  And Eleni was not the sort of woman to try to make personal capital out of her gift, not like Tathea. Eleni had no hunger for power, and now that she was a widow, she had largely retired from public life. Still, she was loved by the people and held in good respect. He was angry with himself for having ignored her.

  But the real problem was Tathea. Ra-Nufis had been very angry indeed at her return from the island. He had warned she was unpredictable. Zulperion had made the mistake of assuming that her defeat in Shinabar had shown her the futility of her goals. Apparently she did not learn.

  He left the window and crossed to an ebony table on which stood a jug of wine. He poured himself a goblet full. It was excellent, but he barely tasted it.

  She would have to be gotten rid of. She had forced the issue by persisting in this heresy to the point that it threatened to destabilize the whole of society. She could blame no one else. She had engineered her own destruction.

  He finished his wine and poured more. It slid down his throat with a soothing fire. It would have to be done discreetly, of course, made to look like an accident. She had provided plenty of legal cause to have her executed, but one never knew which way public opinion would go. She certainly could not be tried. Only a complete lunatic would allow her such a platform for speech, and heaven knew the woman would take it! She had demonstrated that. And then she would look like a martyr. There were always gullible fools who would be persuaded to excuse her heresy and undermining of the truths he and Ra-Nufis had labored so hard to build and to teach.

  No, there could be no question about it. She must meet with an accident at the moment of arrest. She must resist, offer violence. After all, she had marched across half of Shinabar with the army, fighting side by side with soldiers. And what sane and decent woman would do that? It would be easy enough to believe she tried to fight when she was cornered and knew she was guilty of heresy—and yes, sedition!

  He took another long draught of the wine. She might very well be planning to overthrow the Emperor and set herself on the throne of Camassia! That was not in the least difficult to believe. After all, she had done it in Shinabar. The more he considered it, the more he thought it might be true. There was no end to her ambition.

  The more swiftly he acted, the better. He strode over to the golden bell on the stand by the door, and rang it sharply.

  It was answered within moments by his private clerk.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Fetch Lord Mynoth.”

  “Yes, my lord.” He withdrew to obey.

  Mynoth came immediately, a dark man with quick, intelligent eyes and a sense of waiting power in him. Like Zulperion, he was dressed in a long brocaded silk robe with embroidered crimson and gold borders.

  “I have delayed too long in dealing with the seditious heresy of the woman Tathea,” Zulperion said, watching Mynoth carefully to see if he understood the intent behind the words.

  “Indeed,” Mynoth agreed. “Your forbearance borders upon the dangerous. A little mercy is virtuous, too much may be an evil thing.”

  Zulperion smiled coldly. “Do you consider me evil, Mynoth?”

  “I consider you have taken leniency to its ultimate degree, my lord,” Mynoth replied. “But you will not take it beyond, unless I am much mistaken in you.”

  “You are not! The time has come. To hesitate longer would be irresponsible. I have stayed my hand as long as I can. Take a suitable force of men whose discretion you can trust absolutely. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do.” Mynoth nodded. “It would be most unwise to take any whose judgment might be suspect or whose loyalty could be swayed—under pressure.”

  “Precisely. Go and arrest her. A certain person has told us where she may be found. He required a little persuasion.” He shrugged. “But it is done.”

  Mynoth pursed his lips. “Are you sure it is wise to bring her to trial, my lord? She will not go quietly. She will cause as big a public furor as she can.”

  “I am aware of that!” Zulperion snapped. Mynoth irritated him acutely at times. He knew very well what was necessary, but he was demanding to have it spelled out. “It would be most unfortunate, even dangerous to public good,” Zulperion went on. “But then I doubt she will come without a struggle.” He watched Mynoth closely. “She is a soldier—of all things. I think it extremely likely she will be carrying a knife or dagger of some sort and will attack you. You must take great care she does not injure any of you—or even kill you. She knows what lies ahead of her if she is tried, because she is most assuredly guilty. She can hardly afford to recant.”

  “Yes,” Mynoth agreed with a curl of his lip. “I imagine she will fight. An extraordinary woman. I look forward to meeting her.”

  “Then go and do it!” Zulperion said tartly.
“And notify me when it is done.”

  Mynoth withdrew. He did not like Zulperion, and he coveted his position. He was not pleased to be doing this particular piece of work for him either. Killing women, even this one, was not a priest’s job.

  He picked four of his most trusted men and went discreetly to the old quarter, armed only with daggers.

  They broke in and found the woman. She was alone, sitting reading. It was one of her own copies of the Book, the evidence of her damnation was there in her hands. She was a very handsome woman, thought Mynoth, noting the auburn hair streaked with gray and the broad brow. She did not look foreign. In fact she looked vaguely reminiscent of Emperor Isadorus. Perhaps there was something about a crown that stamped itself in the features.

  She admitted who she was, almost as if she were proud of it, and she came with them surprisingly willingly. It was awkward because she made not the slightest effort to fight, and she certainly was not armed. It was all very unpleasant. He wished she had fought; then at least they could have killed her in hot blood. As it was, they murdered her in an alley, coldly and deliberately, and then two of them had to fight each other to make it seem there had been some resistance. They carried the body out into the marketplace and demanded a way through the crowds.

  “We caught her in the act,” one of the men said boldly. “She had the Book in her hands. We wished only to question her, but she attacked us. Now make way, we must carry her back to the High Priest Zulperion. Stand aside!”

  But the people did not move. They stood ashen-faced, huddled together and strangely angry.

  “What do you care?” Mynoth demanded. “She was a foreigner, a Shinabari, and she brought nothing but trouble!”

  “She was Baradeus’s daughter!” one old man said with tears in his voice. “She was more Camassian than you are! She was Isadorus’s sister, and she healed us of all our ills in the name of God!”