The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  The other priests murmured in assent. Tarsus could see the depth of the shock and horror on their faces as he had related the Prince's words. It had taken some time, for chills and uncontrollable trembling had seized him when he relived those moments in his cell.

  "Master," ventured Tarsus, though he wondered if such things should be spoken aloud, "can it be true, what he said about the Conqueror and the first Caesar?"

  Demetrios' eyebrows bunched and a grave look stole over him. Thinking, he cracked his knuckles. "Such a thing has never occurred before… the matter of the death of a man is well known. The girl's state shows well what happens if the body is revived. But without the ka? No. If what he says is true, something more must have transpired."

  Tarsus licked his lips, for there was a horrible fear building in his heart. "What… what if the boy could bring their spirits back from beyond the Black River?"

  The other priests hissed in surprise and not a few turned pale. "Impossible!"

  Demetrios turned, glaring at the priest who had spoken out of turn. "Nothing is impossible, Epicharmus. But Hades does not yield his harvest lightly. Only gods have dared such a thing and succeeded, as the old tales tell." Demetrios turned back to Tarsus.

  "Is the boy a god?"

  Tarsus shook his head. He did not know. "He was tired, master, and giddy with exhaustion. He did not seem a god! The young man that I trained, here in these very precincts, was no god. He bled when cut, he slept, he shit…"

  Demetrios frowned again, his forehead dark like a thunderstorm. "It is said that some men, heroes, have gone into the underworld and stolen back souls from Hades' cold domain. The gods guided those men. Such a thing has not happened in millennia… Would we not feel it, if the gods walked among men once more?"

  The eldest priest rose and turned, bowing before the figure of Apollo that stood in a niche at the end of the dining hall. The cold marble stared back at him with shining abalone eyes, one hand raised. The stone did not speak, and the other priests rose, white robes rustling, and bowed as well. Then Demetrios sat again, his huge hands on the tabletop.

  "Something has happened which we do not understand," said the eldest in a pedantic, lecturing voice. "This is puzzling, yet it may be explained if we discover more of the matter. We do know, however, that a member of our order has become a danger to every living being in the Empire. We must send a messenger immediately to Constantinople to warn the Emperor and our brothers there of what has transpired."

  Tarsus felt his stomach heave. This would reflect very badly on the order. Demetrios had thought of that too.

  "He will not be pleased with us." The high priest's voice was leaden. "There have been rumors-some of which you have doubtless heard-that the Emperor is sick. This is true. It is also true that our brothers in the capital, despite great efforts, have failed to cure him of this malady. We have been banned from the Imperial presence. It may transpire, if our enemies among the other priesthoods take advantage of our position, that we will be banned from the capital."

  Some of the priests in the room had not heard this news and cried out in dismay. Demetrios silenced them with a black glare. He pointed at two of the younger acolytes with a blunt finger.

  "Take this body away and prepare it for cremation. When the sun rises, it will go back to the gods on a pillar of fire and smoke. Tarsus, you must prepare yourself for a journey. The Western Emperor must also know of this, and hear our apology from reliable lips. Emperor Galen knows you, has broken bread with you in his very house. You will take ship to Rome as soon as a ship can be hired. I will compose a letter to carry to him."

  Demetrios rose and the other priests followed. The two acolytes took the girl by her hands and led her out of the dining hall. Tarsus, despite the admonition, tarried, watching the high priest with a sick look on his face. When the others were gone, Demetrios raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

  "Master… what if the boy can bring the dead back to life, but not with their original spirit? What if he can make something like the ka from whole cloth? We do not know what the ka is, or how it manifests itself in a newborn child, but what if this stripling has divined that secret?"

  Demetrios shook his head sharply. "Impossible. That is the realm of the gods alone. Some things are beyond the reach of man."

  Then the high priest went out, the slap of his sandals very loud in the quiet room. Tarsus followed, heart heavy and his mind a chaos of horrible thoughts.

  – |The smell of resin and oil filled the yard, making the girl's nostrils flare. She stood quietly beside a pyre of pine logs, watching the two acolytes drag the last bough into place. They were sweating, not used to such heavy work. Distantly, a bell was ringing, summoning them to supper.

  "You stay here," said the eldest of the boys. The girl did not react. The sound of their feet receded down the passageway.

  Night filled the courtyard and then the stars emerged from the black firmament. They twinkled in the thick air, obscured by a thin haze of cooking smoke rising from the city. The girl remained motionless, though her legs began to tremble with fatigue. The moon idled up in the east.

  After a time, there was the patter of small, soft feet on the rectangular red tiles. A tiny dark shape padded up to the girl. In the moonlight, yellow eyes winked and a small red mouth opened in a yawn.

  "Mrrrow!" the little black cat said imperiously.

  Without looking back, the little cat darted down the porch and into the darkness. The girl stirred and followed, her bare feet silent on the tile.

  Beyond the temple, the girl climbed a grassy hillside in the moonlight, heading north.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Gardens of the Bucoleon, Constantinople

  Martina moved one of her stones, closing off a diagonal. She smiled and leaned back among the cushions in her chair. Her opponent, one of the maids, scrunched her face up, leaning over the round board. The girl was very close to losing, but Martina did not care. It was a fine day, the bright blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds. The usual cold wind from the north had gentled to a breeze, stirring the willows and pines that were planted in the garden. The Empress took her ease on a wooden platform built among flowering bushes and shady trees at the eastern end of the palace grounds. The platform was on a bit of a hill, though Martina knew that it was really the crumbling foundations of an old dining hall. Some Emperor had covered it with dirt and set his gardeners to shape it into a fine, grassy outcropping. The platform itself held a fine view of the Propontis and the distant shore of Chalcedon and Asia. Striped awnings of cloth shaded her from the direct sun.

  Things had markedly improved of late, now that she and that dear boy Alexos had reached an equitable arrangement. The girl placed one of her stones. Without looking, Martina placed one of her own and idly reversed four of her opponent's.

  "Oooh! Mistress, you are too clever."

  Martina smiled, feeling the soft touch of the wind in her hair. She took great comfort from the secrets that the telecast yielded up to her. She knew the full depth of the confusion and terror that gripped the Imperial government. Indeed, she had even ventured to look in upon the Master of the Tombs in his dusty, dank lair at the base of the hill. He was just a man, albeit a man with expensive and refined tastes. These secrets, even unused, calmed her heart and gave her what she desired most greedily-knowledge of her enemies. Now they seemed small and petty. In truth, she did not even feel the need to move against them.

  Let them cower in their precious offices and piddle themselves!

  "Arsinoe, you are too hard on yourself. You're not looking ahead. See, what will happen if I place this stone here?"

  Martina bent over the board, her fingers moving quickly amongst the stones, showing the Axumite girl what would happen in the next five moves. It was a child's game, but it served to while the time away. Rufio would come soon, bringing her the latest news of her husband's condition. At the thought, the Empress felt a little dread enter her again. Heraclius' health did not seem to be impro
ving, despite nightly doses of the Northmen's medicine.

  I wonder if it will truly work, she thought, biting her thumb. If it does not, then there will be a struggle over Heraclius' sons… Praise Hera that his first wife is safely dead!

  Seeing that she had been overtaken by a foul mood, the maids quietly departed, leaving Martina alone on the platform. Their mistress had only very recently paid any attention to them at all, emerging after a year of seclusion in her apartments to be seen in the palace itself. The weight of opprobrium that fell upon her from the nobles, the temple priests and the ministers was heavy. She was prone to fierce rages if bothered while she was brooding. Arsinoe, her liquid brown eyes troubled, was the last to leave, carefully drawing the curtains of the awning closed. Then she descended the hill to a bench where the roses were in bloom and sat, waiting for her mistress to call for her.

  – |Martina roused herself from ugly thoughts and stood, strolling to the side of the platform facing the sea. She bit her lip, looking out on the blue waters. At the urging and good advice of the Western Empress, she had sent out messengers to the drungaros of the fleet and the governors of all the provinces, warning them of Theodore's defeat. A new army would have to be assembled as well, to reclaim the lost provinces. She had received no word back yet, and she wondered if the men in those distant cities and towns would believe the messengers.

  She had refrained, for the moment, from issuing the rescript under Heraclius' seal. Instead, she had ordered Rufio to compose and sign the letters. They did not carry orders, after all, just news and a warning. She hoped that it would rouse the provincial leaders to action. Still worried, she patted at her hair. It was coiled and curled up on her head in a Western style. The maids had proclaimed it lovely, after they had finished tormenting her with their hot iron rods and combs. At least it was different from the usual tangle.

  The priest Alexos thought it beautiful too, but he was only a boy. She sniffed at the thought of him. Still, he seemed quite taken with her when she visited him in the old library. Since discovering the telecast, Martina had been careful to visit the priest every day, taking him his food. He was lonely, mewed up in that moldy basement, and seemed to take great consolation from her visits.

  And he does show me the most interesting things!

  "My lady?"

  Martina stifled a start of surprise and turned slowly, her fists clenched. Then she sighed out loud in relief. It was only Rufio, come up from the little trail that led up to the platform from the seaward side. He bowed as he stepped up onto the wooden deck, ducking under the low overhang.

  "What news, dear Rufio?" Martina stepped to her chair and made to sit, but he made a halting motion.

  "I've just heard," he said, his voice clipped and quick. "Prince Theodore has entered the city. He came by a swift galley from Rhodes. Seeking, I warrant, to outrace the news of his defeat." Rufio grinned. There was no love lost between the Prince and the captain of the Faithful.

  "What will he do?" Martina gathered up her skirts and kicked off the light silk slippers that Arsinoe and the others had forced upon her. "He must seek audience with my husband, trying to explain his failure."

  "My very thought," Rufio said. "Your maids are on the other side of the hill; we may depart unobserved and, later, you may return the same way."

  "So secretive, Rufio! What do you intend?" Martina put her hand on his shoulder, feeling the thick ridges of muscle under his tunic. She smiled up at him. He did not smile back.

  "There are secret ways, my lady. One of them may let you hear what is said between the brothers. I will have to be in attendance myself."

  For a moment, Martina's heart thudded in fear, wondering if the guard captain had also discovered the secret of the hidden library and its treasure.

  No, she scolded herself, Alexos would have told me if the Faithful knew… "Lead on, then, and show me these secret ways."

  – |Martina knelt in darkness, her eye pressed to a round oculus cut into the wall of the tunnel. The air pressed around her, musty with age and dust. The oculus cut through a foot or more of brick and was covered on the far side by painted cloth behind a carved stone screen. To the unknowing eye, the wall of the Emperor's audience chamber seemed solid marble.

  The sound of boots on stone echoed through the oculus and Martina tried to calm her heart. She was afraid of discovery, though only the treachery of Rufio could reveal her. Gritting her teeth, she forced down the fear.

  "Dearest brother, my heart is glad to see you at last."

  That was Theodore. Martina wondered how he looked. She could see no more than light and shadow through the oculus. He sounded as hale, hearty and prideful as ever. In the darkness, her mouth tightened in a snarl. His hair was probably perfect and his armor immaculate.

  "I have not… seen you… in some time, brother."

  Martina bit her thumb to keep from crying out. This was the voice of her husband, but it was a dreadful, watery croak, not the rich, commanding voice of memory. Rufio had reported no change in his physical condition in recent days, but it sounded like he was at the edge of death itself.

  "Brother, you set me to punish the rebellion in lesser Syria! It has taken some time, I must report. However, things are close to a conclusion, so I have returned, fearing for your health."

  Another croaking sound came, like that of some monstrous amphibian from the Nile swamps. Martina covered her ears, trying to blot out the horrible sound.

  – |Rufio's jaw clenched tight. His dark eyes, slits beneath the visor of his helmet, glinted as he watched the reaction of Great Prince. Theodore, stepping forward to declaim before his brother, halted, his face ashen at the cold laughter. Rufio glanced down out of the corner of his eye.

  The Faithful had carried the Emperor into the sitting room on a reclining wicker chair. It was well padded with the finest silk and light, downy cushions. The Emperor lay in it, his naked body covered by an opaque dark-red drape. Only his hands and face were exposed. Rufio knew, from the muffled cries the Emperor made when they covered him up, even the gossamer weight of the linen was a cruel torment. Of course, one could make out the distorted outline of the Emperor's body through the covering, and see the thick gray fingers lying on the cushions. Even the Emperor's face was dreadful to look upon. It had not puffed up with the foul clear fluid that tormented his limbs, but it had grown ancient and withered, fever-bright eyes staring out of gray flesh.

  "You… amuse me… brother." Heraclius, with a great effort, moved one of his fingers.

  Behind the Great Prince, four of the Faithful Guard entered the chamber and closed the doors behind them. Theodore heard them, heard the door close, but he did not turn. Rufio noted that the Great Prince's left eye had developed a tic, but the man's face was impassive.

  "I am glad, brother, to bring you some small joy. But I do not know how I amuse."

  "You… know. You… dissemble poorly. Rufio."

  The Emperor coughed. Yellow phlegm dotted the dark red cloth on his chest. When the Emperor's breathing had resumed, Rufio squared his shoulders, still facing straight ahead, and said:

  "Theodore, son of Heraclius the Elder, brother of the Avtokrator of the Romans and the Greeks, you were charged with the suppression of illegal and immoral revolt and unrest in the provinces of Syria, Judea and Nabatea. Entrusted to you for this matter were eight legions of Imperial soldiers as well as numerous auxiliaries, mercenaries and other specialist cohorts. The Emperor has learned, from loyal and conscientious servants who love the state and the Emperor as their own father, that you have failed in this. Your army has been broken and scattered. Many towns have fallen to these rebels, and more are under siege. Further, you have ignored the able advice of those set to counsel you in war and in peace, and you have abandoned the field of battle to the enemy."

  Theodore's face, normally a handsome tan, turned white. He spared an instant of sheer hatred for Rufio, then bent on one knee to the floor, prostrating himself before his brother. Sweat beaded on his ne
ck and forehead. "Brother, these are lies! I assure you that the army remains whole, though we have suffered some small reverses. I hurried back to the capital to seek your advice and assistance in how to bring these troubling matters to a swift conclusion. Certain persons, disloyal to our brotherly love, have exaggerated and falsified these claims!"

  Heraclius moved another finger, then lay still.

  Rufio nodded to the two guardsmen standing closest to the Prince. With ill-concealed grins, the two Scandians stepped forward and dragged the Prince to his feet. Theodore snarled at their touch, then shook off their hands. Heraclius watched him from beneath lidded eyes.

  "You… crawl before me… hoping that I will make good your… failure."

  Theodore made to speak again, but Rufio raised his left hand. It was clad in a mailed glove. The Prince's eyes were drawn to the bright metal. The guard captain shook his head slightly. Theodore closed his mouth with a snap. Behind the Prince, a guard lowered his stabbing sword.

  "I… will not," the Emperor continued, his voice a bubbling, watery rasp. "You have… shown yourself… unworthy of the trust I have… shown you. Heraclius loves… his brother Theodore. But the… Empire… cannot support… your largess of folly."

  Rufio saw that the Emperor was exhausted. He took a half-step forward and drew a parchment from the belt at his waist. Carefully, with slow and studied motions, he unfolded the paper. All this time, Theodore was staring at his brother in horror, unable to speak.

  "Theodore, son of Heraclius the Elder," Rufio said, "you are stripped of your posts, that of consul of the East, of tribune, of commander of the armies of the Levantine coast. Those estates and properties that you hold in the name of the Emperor are taken from you. Until further notice you will remain within the grounds of your residence here in the city and await the Emperor's pleasure."

  Rufio closed the paper with a snap and returned it to his belt.