The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  But Rufio was not the Emperor. Indeed, he was oath-sworn to execute the Emperor's orders instantly, as were all of the Faithful. On that day, when the Emperor had screamed insults at the old, white-haired priest, if he had been ordered, Rufio would have cut the elder down. This was the burden laid upon him, to serve at the right hand of the Lord of All Men, Augustus Romanorum.

  Yet, in all this, Heraclius had never ordered Rufio to cease trying to save him.

  So, here in the darkness, in secret, the soldier crouched in the bed of the Emperor, urging single drops of aromatic fluid from the glass vial, letting them fall one by one into the Emperor's slack mouth. This was a distillate of juniper berries and parsley seeds, made by Sviod in a hidden room in the barracks of the old palace. Rufio had served with the northern barbarians who formed the bulk of the Faithful Guard for many years and he trusted this one, this blond youth, more than most.

  Besides, he thought bitterly, this is his grandmother's recipe! Why not trust the Empire and my own neck to the wisdom of a woman likely dead and moldering a thousand miles away?

  The glass vial was empty, the last drop trickling down the Emperor's throat. Rufio let out a thin, controlled breath and began to ease his way off the bed. In such tainted air, Rufio's nocturnal visits would be considered treason, and more than one captain of the Faithful had ended his days in the small Courtyard of the Ax, his sightless eyes staring up at the sun. The Faithful Guard had sworn an oath to the Emperor, not to their captain.

  "It is done," said Rufio softly, rearranging the bedclothes to cover up the dents his knees had left in the sheets. "Let us go."

  Sviod was already at the panel and it closed softly after them, sliding flush against the wall. Behind them, in the dark room, the Emperor stirred, moaning in pain. His guilt and fear tormented him, even in sleep.

  – |Another sliding panel revealed another room, and Rufio stepped out into a well-lit space filled with fine oil lamps. The chamber was slightly smaller than the Emperor's bedchamber, but it was vastly better smelling, with the scent of rose and jasmine touching the air. He took a deep breath, hoping to clear the reek from his lungs. Tall, narrow windows let in cool, northern light by day and were shrouded with tapestries by night. Stacks of papyrus scrolls and parchment books buried the sleeping couch set into the wall. A large acerwood table dominated the room. It too was covered with papers and tablets and maps. More boxes of wicker and wooden slats covered the floor, containing Imperial tax records and audit reports. Behind it, curled up in a large wing-backed chair, her feet tucked under her, sat a young woman with long, tousled brown hair.

  "It went well?" She looked up at the sound Rufio made, crossing to the table. Her light green eyes were smudged with exhaustion and worry. He nodded and put his hands on the back of the chair.

  "No one saw us, Empress. Sviod is disposing of the evidence."

  Rufio had parted from the Scandian in one of the tunnels that bored through the heart of the Bucoleon. Sviod had found a rubbish pit in the upper city, hard by the street of glassmakers. The bottle, washed out with springwater and then broken, would be cast away there, lost amongst a million fellow shards of glass. Rufio hoped that he was not marked by any of the spies that thronged the city.

  "Is he any better?"

  Rufio roused himself from his thoughts and met the woman's eyes. Her face was fixed and calm, like a mask. He knew that she had tried to put the pain of her husband's decline and his rejection of her aside. She carried a heavy burden well, but it was beginning to tell. The pert, open features and the ready smile that had endeared her first to her uncle and then to the palace staff were shrouded by exhaustion.

  "Empress, I cannot tell. He was in pain, suffering from evil dreams. Sviod says that his uncles, when they suffered this ailment-"

  Martina raised a hand.

  "I know," she said, her voice weary. "They drink gallons of this concoction of their granddames. And it takes a week or more to show an effect." She put down the Anatolikon tax record she had been reviewing and rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. "While we, in this hornet's nest, are forced to get by with a drop or two a day, should we be so lucky. It might take months, should he live so long, to cure him."

  Rufio nodded in resigned agreement. It was a tricky situation. The Empress sighed and stood, stretching her arms over her head. Rufio looked away quickly. Martina, as was her wont after "retiring" for the evening, was wearing a soft plum-colored tunic that barely reached her knees and fleece slippers. At first it had troubled Rufio even to be in her presence; it was a crime to be alone with her, much less while her husband was sick abed two floors and a hundred feet away. Now, since he had compounded that crime with treason and conspiracy, he just tried to ignore that she was a pretty young woman.

  "Should I leave?" Martina faced him, hands on her hips, watching him with a serious expression on her face. "I am sure, for the black looks that Bonus gives me during temple services, that the high priest of Zeus Pankrator would gladly countenance my divorce. Within a day I could be safely away, within a week I could be home in Africa. Within the month, if need be, I could be in Mother Rome. I know a woman there, she could help me."

  Rufio shook his head slowly, though what she said was true.

  "And your son, what would you do with him?"

  Martina pursed her lips and looked away, her gaze straying to the crib in the corner of the room. In it, sleeping deeply-at least for this little while!-was her son by Heraclius. Little Heracleonas had come into the world early and roughly, in a tent in the mountains of Armenia, but had seemed a hale child. Now, nearly a year later, he was troubled by vague illness. A priest of Asklepius came every two or three days and looked upon the child, but it seemed that nothing could be done to make him strong. He could not even walk yet.

  Like my husband, brooded Martina. Hidden powers move against us, denying us happiness.

  "I do not know," she said, turning back to Rufio. "One of my stepsons has already died by odd circumstance, and the other, poor Constantius, fears to be seen with me. If I flee, taking Heracleonas, he may die before I can find refuge. What will happen to Constantius then? While his father lives, while I am here and my son is alive, he is safe from the attentions of these parasites."

  Martina glared at Rufio, who spread his hands, showing his agreement. She bit at her nail, then picked up one of the long quill pens that lay on the countertop. She needed something in her hands.

  "If I go, then Theodore will return. Papers will surely appear, making him the heir, the regent of his invalid brother. He will be Emperor, if not in name, then in fact."

  Rufio watched the Empress carefully, for she had begun to change under the pressure of her situation. When she had first been brought from Africa to live in the house of her uncle, to be tutored in art and literature, she had been quiet and demure. Compliant, even. Far more interested in the doings of books and painting, of sculpture and the theater, than the tawdry business of who stood closest to the Emperor. The guard captain sighed quietly. Heraclius and his niece had married out of love. Such things were not done, particularly among the nobility. Certainly never the Emperor!

  Yet, he insisted. Even his closest allies argued against the match… and now, here we are.

  Martina had shed her compliance, her naivete, in the harsh training yard of the palace. Life in the Bucoleon was simple-if the Emperor smiled upon you, then you prospered. For this moment, while Heraclius lay between life and death, everything was out of balance. While he lived, Martina could continue to exist, even when the great lords and priests were dead set against her. Once he died…

  "I will not let that fool replace my husband." Martina's voice was hard.

  Then too, there was a deep and abiding hatred between the Empress and her other uncle, Prince Theodore. Rufio did not know where it had sprung from, but from the first day that the little girl had been in the palace, that tension had existed between them. Only the love that both parties shared for Heraclius had kept peace
in the house. Now that they dealt directly with each other, the dislike had deepened. Rufio was well aware that Theodore held no love for him either. Should the Prince become regent, he would be lucky to escape with a head on his shoulders.

  Martina smiled coldly, her fingers smoothing the quill down on the pen.

  "Captain, we will persevere. Tell your young Scandian to make more of his potion. I will find a way to see that my husband takes more of it rather than less."

  Rufio nodded and rose, hearing a tone of dismissal in her voice.

  Very Empresslike, he thought to himself, pleased.

  "Wait." Martina sat again at the desk, turning one of the lamps so that it gave her better light. A cup of red ink sat close at her hand. She dipped the quill and then, with a quick motion, scribed a signature on the scroll in front of her. "These papers are ready-place them on the logothete of the treasury's desk before you go to sleep."

  Rufio grimaced, but he took the papers. They were neatly lettered, and not by any scribe in the palace. Those fellows needed coin as badly as any did, and were notorious for making extra copies of interesting things that passed over their writing desks.

  Three crimes against the state in the passage of one day, he thought glumly to himself. My record improves.

  Without looking at the fresh signatures, he placed the drafted laws into leather slipcovers and bound them up with a special dark red twine. Martina bent close, her head almost touching his own, and dripped wax onto the knots. Her small, creamy-white hand stamped down hard with the sigil. Rufio tried not to breathe, but the heady aroma of the Empress' hair, perfume and hot wax filled his nostrils.

  "Done," she said smartly, tucking a strand of hair back behind one ear. There was a smudge of ink on her cheek. "Good night, Rufio. I will return the ink and the binding twine to their proper places."

  Rufio did not answer her smile or the wicked gleam in her eye. The patricians who held the esteemed and noble offices of the Keeper of the Imperial Inkstand and the Holder of the Legal Binding were corrupt and venal men. It pleased the Empress that she, or her servants, could make free with their signs of office in the depth of night. It made Rufio nervous, for those men already held Martina in contempt. Slighting them in this way only bred more ill will.

  He bowed and went out through the panel in the wall.

  Behind him, Martina stood at the crib, one slim hand brushing the sleeping face of her child. She was terribly lonely, bereft of husband and family, but she dared not keep Rufio with her long. His discovery with her, particularly without a proper escort, would mean his death and her disgrace. This galled her, for she knew from the histories that previous empresses had entertained whole troops of gladiators, grooms, foreign princes, even chariot drivers and street sweepers in their chambers. But then the Empire had been at peace, or their husbands had countenanced such behavior in the interests of public image.

  Or they were powers in their own right.

  Moodily, she stared out the window. The moon was high enough to illuminate the crowded maze of buildings, some new, some decrepit, which made up the palace.

  I am in a not particularly well kept up cage, she thought, not for the first time. I need an advantage, an ally, something to hold back these jackals and wild dogs… I need a friend.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Insula Tiberina, Roma Mater

  "Hello, Helena."

  Late-spring rains had come to Rome, washing the marble and plaster buildings clean. The ash and grit drifting down out of the sky were gone. For the first time in months the air seemed clean and clear, and a spring sun shone down, making the temples on the Capitoline Hill glow with a blaze of color. Even the Tiber, that notorious muddy stream choked with the city's filth and the outwash of a hundred Latin farms, was running high and swift against its banks. With another week of rains like this, it might even begin to flow clear.

  "Hello, Anastasia. May I sit?"

  At the center of the river, on the Tiber Island, there was a verdant garden on the grounds of the Temple of Asklepius. From its benches, under graceful willows, one could sit and watch the parade of humanity surging back and forth across the Pons Aemillius, the oldest stone bridge in the city. Today, there were flocks of ducks under the bridge and a funeral procession crossing it. The rattle of drums and the wailing of the professional mourners carried across the water. Despite the tumult, in the garden there was a sense of peace and tranquility. The priests of the temple lavished care upon the plantings, for the masters of their order held that the sound of running water and the smell of fresh and growing things were the best care that could be provided.

  Helena sat brushing away a few narrow leaves fallen from the willows shrouding the bench. As befitted a lady of the city, she was wearing a conservative dress and tunic, with a light lace scarf covering the sleek line of her hair. In defiance of usual fashion, her hair fell only to her shoulders. Like many in the city, she wore somber colors and very little jewelry. The extent of the devastation in the south, where ancient Vesuvius had erupted only months before, had touched everyone. Of course, with the resources at her command, the bracelets on her left arm had come from distant Taprobane and blazed with rubies set in electrum. Sitting, she sighed gently, leaning on one hand.

  A breeze sighed through the willows and quaking aspen that filled the garden behind them. It was a beautiful sound, like falling water, and it moved Helena's heart to thoughts of peace. This was a rare thing, for she was a woman of considerable and vehement conviction. Her husband often marveled at her restlessness, when he had time to notice it. Emperors tended to be distracted.

  Her companion was silent, her head bowed, her face obscured by a dark, soot-colored cloth. Helena could barely make out a pair of folded hands in the woman's lap. Her bare fingertips peeked forth from heavy sleeves. Helena frowned, her fine white forehead creasing in vexation. Anastasia's fingernails were unpainted and in dreadful need of a manicure.

  "Anastasia, you are not well."

  The dark shape on the bench gave a choked snort, which Helena took to be the beginnings of a laugh. Helena waited, wondering if her old friend would say anything, but a turn of the glass passed and there was only silence between them.

  "I wonder," said Helena at last, picking restlessly at the edge of her shawl, "if you would care to have dinner with us in our apartments. Just the three of us. Perhaps tomorrow? If, of course, your social schedule is not too full."

  Anastasia did not reply for some time and Helena was beginning to grow angry when the woman in the dark cloth said, "You must have something new to show me. A wig of black Indian hair? A tiger pup? A brace of pygmies? Some new contraption of Aurelian's?"

  The voice of the other woman was old and bitter and cold. Helena swallowed the heated words that had been close to flying from her mouth. She turned, fully facing her companion, and reached out with a gentle hand. Anastasia did not resist the touch and Helena carefully drew aside the veil that shrouded the older woman's head.

  "Oh, my friend…" Helena's voice trailed off. She laid aside the cowl, draping it on Anastasia's shoulders. "You, my dear," she continued in a stronger voice, "must entertain my hairdresser. Whoever has charge of your hair now is addled!"

  Anastasia still did not smile, though there was a faint wrinkling around her eyes. Seeing her friend for the first time in weeks, Helena despaired. Rumors were rife, amongst the ministers and notables of the city, that the notorious Duchess of Parma, Anastasia de'Orelio, the wealthiest woman in the Western Empire, had at last laid aside her interest in the world.

  Can it be? they whispered in the baths, while they thought no one could hear. Can the violet-eyed goddess have turned her back on us at last? Will the glorious Villa of Swans lie empty and cold? Where will the grand parties be, the decadent bacchanals? The social season is ruined!

  Helena had sat these past weeks, holding court in her own salon, worrying. The patrician wives of Rome were in an uproar as no one knew what the truth of the matter was.

&
nbsp; Is she abroad? Some of the women were sure that the Duchess had taken some barbarian king for her lover and lay in his dusky arms in far Hesperidia. Is she, praise Caesar, dead? Others, who had felt the whip of her tongue and the dagger of her intellect, prayed that she might have fallen among the dead of Vesuvius, asphyxiated on the docks of Herculaneum with half of the idlers in Rome. Who, lamented a few, will tweak the noses of the corrupt, self-serving men who clog the Senate chambers like so many pigs in the trough?

  Helena worried for her friend, who had vanished from the public stage, and for the Empire. Helena was one of the few people in her husband's confidence who knew the full scope of the Duchess' influence and power. The common herd of senators and tribunes knew her only as a scandalous society matron. Anastasia, a young widow, had inherited more than her husband's estates and title upon his untimely death. For the last seven years she had been the Emperor's spymaster as well. The old Duke had chosen well, taking her as his wife. He had been a canny old goat, keeping his head and fortune in the midst of the War of the Three Pretenders. Helena had never met him, but she could see the memory of him living on in Anastasia.

  Galen Atreus was a good emperor and a good husband, but he did not have the passion for intrigue which could make him a great emperor. In this respect, as Helena was fond of reminding her dear husband when he grumbled and muttered about "women of power" and "that damned, know-it-all Duchess," she made a perfect match. Galen was an exceptional administrator, daring general, notably honest and beloved of the Legions. Anastasia filled in the sly and devious and underhanded traits he lacked.

  But the former Anastasia was elegant, refined and impeccably dressed. Helena had learned nearly everything that she knew of the art of public appearance-the use of artful paints, of proper clothing and jewelry, the wry remark, the cutting rejoinder-from the Duchess. Anastasia had been the most well-presented woman Helena had ever known.