The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

Theodore stepped back, brilliant fury apparent in his face and the line of his body. "I am a loyal and devoted servant of the Empire, and you, my brother. I will obey your orders and remain within my residence here in the city."

  He bowed and Rufio was forced to acknowledge the man's presence of mind. An unwary outburst, perhaps laced by threats, would have allowed the captain of the Faithful to strike the man down. Treason was a chancy thing, and Rufio would have taken even a taint of it to rid himself of an enemy as volatile and dangerous as the Prince.

  Theodore stood, smiled tightly at the guard captain and then turned on his heel.

  Rufio nodded to the guards at the door and they parted, allowing the Prince to pass between them. The door swung open and Theodore strode out, his head high. The Faithful watched him pass, their faces marked by respect and hidden laughter. Rufio knew what they were thinking-no one liked the Prince, but he bore himself like a man and a warrior, even on what must be a black day for his ambition.

  "Rufio…" The guard captain knelt beside his Emperor. Heraclius' voice was faint with exhaustion. "Close… close the shutters. The sun is too… bright."

  "Of course, my lord."

  Rufio stood and motioned for the Faithful to come and lift the chair. There were no shutters in the room, nor any windows. The Emperor had mistaken an oil lamp for the sun. Sviod and the others bore him away, hopefully already asleep. For a moment, the Greek stood thinking, then he heard a faint, muffled cough from the nearby wall.

  Ah, he thought and then hurried away through the dim corridors. It was a roundabout way to retrieve the Empress from her hiding place.

  – |Martina sneezed, then batted Arsinoe's hand away when the maid tried to dab her nose with a cloth. "Silly girl, I can do that myself."

  The Empress snatched the cloth from the Axumite's hand and sneezed again. She would clean her own nose! Arsinoe fluttered around for a moment, trying to be helpful, then Martina pointed stiffly at the rose bower and the bench where the rest of the maids were sitting. To Rufio's eye, they seemed quite glum.

  "Get to your sewing," Martina snapped. "If I need help walking or something, I'll call you!"

  Rufio watched the maid scurry down the hill. When he was sure that the girl was safely out of earshot, he turned back to the Empress. She was looking quite doleful, with cobwebs in her hair and smudges of dust and grime on her hands. Luckily, she often looked like this after hours of poring over ancient tomes and scrolls.

  "You heard," he said, "what the Emperor intends for his brother."

  "Yes," replied Martina in a surly voice. "The great ass will loll about his town house here, entertaining his sly friends and plotting against me and the Emperor. By the gods, he should be banished to some small island without food or water, inhabited by fierce dogs tearing at his vitals!"

  Rufio raised an eyebrow, then waited until the Empress had simmered down to a low boil.

  "The Emperor is growing stronger, I think. A month ago, he could not have managed such a long discussion. I have some hope that he will recover from this affliction. Until then, you must be patient."

  "I am patient," Martina snapped. She dragged cobwebs from her hair, scowling, with an ivory comb. "Can you place him under close arrest? Prevent anyone from seeing him?"

  Rufio shook his head. The authority of the Faithful did not extend out of the palace. "The Emperor would have to declare such a thing. Shall I put the matter to him?"

  Martina considered, her hands toying with the comb. "Perhaps… if a moment comes when a suggestion would be favorably received. My husband holds a great love for his brother. Even with this debacle in Syria! If we press him too hard he will become stubborn. I will keep an eye on the Prince myself, to make sure that he does not cause any trouble."

  The guard captain did not react, though he wondered at the Empress' strange confidence. Rufio excused himself and descended the grassy hill. Behind him, the Empress was still combing her hair and muttering. If it is not one thing, he worried, it's another. What is she up to?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Town of Narni, East of Rome on the Latin Plain

  Diana stood, half-shadowed, in an alcove high on the sidewall of the theater. Torches sputtered on the rank of balconies below her, casting a bright, flickering light across the arches and balustrades of the monumental backdrop. The scaenae rose three stories high, each floor fronted by columns, embrasures and recessed alcoves. Below this wall there was a long, rectangular stage of smooth wooden planks over a brick superstructure. In front of the stage were a low wall and then the half-circle of an orchestra pit.

  Night was falling, leaving the sky a deep purple black, streaked with long, thin clouds glowing like fresh ingots in the light of the fading sun. A long day of celebration was winding down. As Diana watched, a troupe of tragic actors in brightly colored robes and enormous wooden masks were vacating the stage. The four men, having taken their bows to desultory applause from the crowd, were exiting through the stage passage directly beneath her.

  Curious to see them, she leaned out over the thirty-foot drop. One hand was wrapped in a stay line for the canvas sunshade. From her current vantage, Diana couldn't see the bustling temporary village behind the amphitheater, but she knew that a crowd of buskers, sweetmeat sellers, priests, acolytes, prostitutes, citizens and merchants were busy there.

  The actors disappeared into the passage. Diana swung back into the alcove, feeling the play of her muscles. She was feeling healthy for the first time in weeks. Vitellix had been working her hard, making her run, jump, climb, crawl and work out on the wire. It seemed rushed, but she had not protested. They fed, clothed and cared for her. If she could repay them in this way, then she would. Today, clad in the tight white strophium and short kilt of the flyer, she felt light and strong.

  Diana grinned happily, watching the few people in the audience stretch and yawn. The tragedians had executed a lamentably long and poorly done version of Pomponius Secundus' Aeneas. From the snickering comments of the theater workers handling the lamps and cables, she gathered that the actors were local amateurs. Little Ila said the play itself was poorly regarded. Diana didn't care, really, she was too excited about finally testing herself on the wire.

  Vitellix walked out onto the stage below, followed by Ila holding a tall pole wrapped in leather bindings, and then Otho and Franco. The troupe master was wearing a loose, dark shirt bundled at the waist and tight-fitting hose. His long, white mustaches were waxed in smooth, swooping tusks. He descended a set of steps at the center of the stage. Ila, who would not be performing tonight, was wearing a fantastic mask of feathers and colored cloth. She stopped at the center of the stage and slid the pole into a round hole cut into the stage. Then she knelt, thin, little hands gripping the leather-wrapped staff. Otho and Franco, taking deliberate steps, walked out at an angle from the pole, forming a triangle with Vitellix at its head.

  "For the edification, amusement and pleasure of those attending these sacred games, I present the Mani Lughi from ancient and noble Narbonensis. We beg your indulgence in the performance of our sacred duty."

  Vitellix was standing on the orator's stone in the orchestra pit of the theater. His voice echoed and rattled from the high arches behind the top row of seats, fifty feet above him and three hundred feet away. Most of the audience ignored him. Despite the high hopes of the whole troupe, Vitellix had only managed to secure them a brief appearance sandwiched in between the tragedians and the main act of the day, a famous pantomime named Nurnius, who had come from Rome itself. Diana had never seen a pantomime herself-or none that her troubled memory allowed-and the others were excited at the prospect of seeing a master in action.

  Vitellix, as was the custom of his troupe, bowed to the audience, then turned smartly and bowed to the stage and the statues of the gods on the upper tier of the backdrop. Under his breath, he recited a prayer that Diana had half heard once before. This time, she caught none of the words, which were in an unfamiliar, barbarian tongue.

&
nbsp; I am not from Narbonensis, she thought, absurdly pleased with the discovery.

  "Begin!" Vitellix shouted and then ran up the stairs, his thick, powerful legs pumping hard. Like a bolt, he shot up onto the stage, took two running strides and sprang up into the air. Diana, even though she had seen the old man practice before, held her breath as he twisted in midair and seized the pole with both hands. It twisted under his momentum, bending into a graceful curve. As it bent, Vitellix let his legs, held tightly together, ride up into the sky, pointing to the heavens. The pole completed its arc, brushing the stage floor, and Vitellix, with a powerful flex of his shoulders, flipped off of it to land upright and facing the audience.

  He bowed, smiling. In the audience, one small girl, sitting beside her parents, clapped for a moment. Then her mother gave her a look and she put her hands in her lap. In the alcove, Diana felt like clapping too, but knew it was not time for such approbation.

  That must wait, she remembered, until all of the sacrifices are complete.

  While the stage master made his exit, Otho and Franco paced to opposite ends of the stage. Ila remained kneeling on the wooden floor. The flexible pole had sprung back upright. Otho bowed to Franco, indicating that he should go first.

  Franco bowed in return, indicating that, no, his brother should precede him.

  Otho shook his head angrily, waving for the other man to proceed. Franco did not.

  Otho scowled and looked to the audience for guidance. Save for the little girl, they were ignoring him. A vendor moved through the sparse crowd with a tray of roasted glazed duck. Some of the people shouted at the man to get his attention. He was doing a fine business this evening amongst those too drunk to leave the amphitheater to reach one of the food stalls. Otho shrugged, then wagged an admonishing finger at his brother. Franco turned his back and gazed up at the stars.

  Otho stamped his foot, then made an exasperated motion and ostentatiously clapped his hands together as if to remove dust. Franco spied a nightjar flitting amongst the torches overhead and began to follow it back down the stage, head turned up and walking backwards.

  His brother, seemingly moved beyond outrage, suddenly sprinted forward, bare torso gleaming in the light of the torches. Franco stopped suddenly as the nightjar disappeared into the darkness beyond the lights. Otho barreled forward, slamming into the staff with his right shoulder. As before, the pole bent and he flowed into the motion, suddenly bent forward at full length, body held parallel to the floor, his outstretched fingers mere inches from his brother's head.

  The little girl in the audience made a muffled gasp.

  Franco put a hand to his chin, puzzled, and stepped away.

  The pole rebounded, flinging Otho sharply backwards. The acrobat flipped up at the same time, letting the snap of the pole flip him head over heels. Otho sailed through the air and lighted, still holding onto the upper part of the pole, back where he had started, facing his brother, who had turned around.

  Franco stamped his foot and made an angry gesture. Otho released the bent pole, sneering, and turned his back. The tip of the pole whistled through the air, arcing sharply at Franco. Just as it reached the end of its swing, Franco snatched it out of the air, took a firm grip, and sprang upwards with all the strength in his powerful legs.

  Otho, feigning indifference, planted his feet and put his hands on his head, fingers intertwined, palms up.

  Franco flew up with the pole, swinging his feet into line with the swift arc. The pole was thrumming with tension as it whipped him overhead and then down. Franco's feet landed solidly in Otho's palms and the twin took the blow with a sagging squat. Then Otho surged up, his muscles rippling, sweat slick on his body, and flung his brother skyward.

  Franco reversed his vault, his grip spreading on the pole as he flew through the air. This time, the pole bent in a sharper half-circle, guided by the placement of his hands, and Franco landed lightly on the pine boards. He released the pole and it shivered upright. As soon as the vibration settled, Ila lifted the pole from the recess in the floor and undid a length of cloth wrapped around the base.

  Springing up in a somersault, she let the long banner snap out and then made a quick figure eight in the air. The cloth snapped and fluttered, making a swift green and gold sign in the air. This done, she ran off the stage to the right, with Otho and Franco behind her, their arms swinging stiff in long arcs at their side.

  In the alcove, high above the stage, Diana felt her limbs tremble in anticipation. Her skin seemed hot and everything acquired a preternatural clarity. She began taking deep, slow breaths, nostrils flaring. Her chest flexed with each breath. Reaching up, she took hold of the wooden rungs of the ladder leading up to the top of the backdrop. She swarmed up, breathing steady and even, and stepped out onto the roof of the theater. At the other end of the rooftop Otho was waiting for her with the flying wire, sweating from his swift climb up the opposite ladder.

  Diana paced forward, aware that the audience below could see her as a white figure silhouetted against the dark sky. Otho crouched down, letting the roof hide him in shadow. He held up the wooden handle of the wire, tightly wrapped with leather, for her.

  Remember to let it slack as you set down.

  She nodded to herself, hearing Dummonus' voice in her mind. The Gaul had drilled her on the art of landing from the wire a thousand times. She wondered, again, what she had done in her forgotten life. Whatever it had been, she had gained enormous upper-torso and arm strength to go with wire-fine scars crisscrossing her arms and chest. Dummonus had been impressed. His art required tremendous strength and body control. Now, she could repay Vitellix for a little of his hospitality.

  The wire in Otho's hand was a heavy cord of tightly woven silk. Of all of the things in the troupe's wagons, the flying wire was the only thing locked away in an iron chest with a heavy cruciform lock. The value of the fabric was far more than the wagons, mules, props and baggage. Diana sighted down the length of the backdrop. Sixty feet of sloping tile roof and wooden walkway separated her from the far end of the stage. Down below, Vitellix, Franco, Ila and Dummonus were hooking a finely woven sisal net to the walls of the theater.

  Otho, watching them finish, clapped his hand on the wooden walkway, and she sprinted down the length of the rooftop.

  The wire was waiting, swinging from a contraption Dummonus had hooked into place on the central hub of the awning cables. One end of the flying wire was attached to the ring by a swiveling joint. The other was held tight in Otho's hand, his whole body straining against the weight of the line.

  Diana hit the end of the rooftop at a dead run, right hand slapped into the wooden handle. Otho rolled away. She soared off the end of the backdrop and swung her legs out stiff behind her. Her right arm burned with the effort of keeping herself at right angles to the rope. Her left jutted straight out. Momentum swept her out and down, in a great arc, over the startled heads of the audience.

  Faces flashed past, mouths wide, and Diana heard only the excited cries of a little girl jumping up and down in the stands below. It was a giddy sensation, swooping through the air, freed of the chains of the earth. Above and behind her, the ball joint whined as it spun. The cables and oculus ring groaned as her weight and centrifugal force torqued the assembly.

  The swing of the wire brought her back towards the backdrop with dizzying speed. She brought her knees up a little and touched down, springing from column to column. The people in the audience gasped, seeing her running along the face of a vertical wall. The little girl shrieked with delight and her mother stared, slack jawed.

  Diana kicked off the last column and into a turn. This time, as she soared over the heads of the audience, she was very close, only a dozen feet away. She swung into line with the rope, bringing her legs up, stiff and close together. Her momentum shifted and her speed picked up. Coming out of the fly-by over the consular seats, she twisted sideways, breaking her momentum, slacking the rope. For a single moment, the wire went neutral in her hand and she
alighted with a heavy smack of bare feet on stone in the round alcove on the third floor of the backdrop.

  She turned, the wire still in her hand, and bowed deeply to the audience. Her arm was in agony and sweat was pouring off her body. She felt exalted and giddy, the world perfectly clear and distinct. The little girl was clapping her hands together as she jumped up and down.

  Diana looked down and smiled, then bowed again and stepped away, out of the light. The audience suddenly found its voice, chattering and exclaiming in delight. Joyful sounds rose up in the wide bowl of the amphitheater.

  – |Diana sat on the ground in the camp, arms stretched over Otho and Franco's knees. They were slowly massaging her muscles from fingertip to shoulder blade with scented oil and camphor. The art took a fierce toll on the arms and upper body of an aerialist, particularly when using the free wire. Some of the citizens attending the festival had sent the artists wine and roasted meat to show their appreciation. They had eaten well. Diana licked her lips, thinking of the fine lamb shank she had gnawed to the bone. The wine had been better than average, too, and she felt at peace with the world. Exhausted, but at peace. Having two men devoting their undivided attention to her didn't hurt either.

  "…still the Emperor demurs on this matter of the games! It is past comprehension!"

  Vitellix had spent the day making the rounds of the other performers' wagons, sharing a cup here and there with the actors, beast trainers, gladiators and fire eaters. He seemed disheartened by what he had learned. Dummonus sat placidly, watching the older man declaim. Ila was curled up beside their fire, already asleep.

  "Evil signs have been reported in Arretium and Ravenna. One of the bear trainers from the north told me that he had seen, himself, a sacrifice at the temple of Jupiter bleed black blood and worms. The skies remain dark and clouded with poisonous fumes and mists. In the southern lands, the earth shakes and rumbles with Poseidon's wrath."

  The Gaul shook his head sadly, his old bald head gleaming in the firelight. "The Emperor is like unto a god, the bridge between man and the divine, yet he must not anger the king of the heavens! Worse, every lanista and editore in the Empire has kenned the profit to be made from these games when they finally occur! Our chances of securing a spot grow smaller with each day…"