The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  Maxian smiled and raised a finger. The air around him shuddered, bending this way and that, wavering like an open flame. Then the Prince was gone, leaving a nondescript worker in baggy clothing and an annoyed expression. "Do you feel better?" The apparition spoke with the Prince's voice.

  "I suppose." Gaius Julius' voice had a strangled sound and he sat down on one of the benches. "I should have guessed. What are you doing with the section markers?"

  The Prince wavered again and resumed his own shape. He scuffed a toe across the marble slab. "I am trying something delicate-even with you hulking brutes hanging over my shoulder. I do not want to be disturbed. So I have been laying my own pattern, some signs and symbols to watch and listen and warn."

  "Down here?" Gaius Julius looked around. These were the middle seats, which would be swarming with lower-caste patricians and their drinking companions on game day. "I thought you were working up there." The old Roman pointed at the roof high overhead.

  "Oh, I've already seen to that. But I found some interesting things in the pattern of the building while I was finishing up. I've been… patching and mending. Making sure these signs have the power of their first making. These section markers ring the whole arena, each imbued with its own mild purpose."

  Gaius Julius lifted his sandal, peering at the slab. "There is a spell on them?"

  "Oh yes. Old Vespasian was no fool. He built this place with a purpose beyond just entertaining the citizens. I think the Oath spoke to him in his dreams, guiding him."

  Gaius Julius laughed, thinking of some of the histories he had read. "Dreamed? Vespasian?"

  "Yes, Gaius, he dreamed of gold and its orderly collection. He dreamed of an empire at peace."

  "An empire of citizens who had no excuse to avoid paying their taxes, you mean!"

  Maxian laughed, but nodded. "At the same time he began construction of the Flavian, each regional governor began his own amphitheater-hundreds of them, one in each town and city. All of them match the plan of the Flavian in some degree; all of them are dedicated to the gods of Rome and to the state."

  Gaius Julius raised his hands. "All praise the Capitoline Triad and the Divine Emperor! I see your point. The provincial amphitheaters are the warp and weft of the Oath."

  "Even so. Like so much of it, the signs and patterns here have been damaged over time. I'm just making sure they are restored."

  "Why?" Gaius Julius tried to keep overwhelming curiosity out of his voice.

  Maxian did not answer. The Prince began to pace away, measuring his footsteps, counting under his breath.

  I'll ask him later, Gaius grumbled to himself.

  – |Anastasia's gloom had not lifted by the time she reached the Villa of Swans. She was displeased by her handling of the lanista; she should have known everything about the man, about his operation, about Thyatis' captivity before she revealed her interest. She was out of shape, like a gear fouled with rust. It would take time-time she might not have-to restore her network of informers and chatty friends. She entered the gardens at the rear of the house, ignoring the wild display of summer flowers. Even the chuckling of the fountains and streams flowing down from a hidden reservoir at the top of the house failed to cheer her up.

  Betia followed along, equally depressed. The Duchess' mood infected her own. There was no sign anyone other than Thyatis had escaped from the destruction of Vesuvius.

  "Find the Gaul and his friends, bring them to me."

  Betia's head snapped up, her face blank, and then she hurried off.

  Anastasia looked around wearily. She was in the hall of the Poseidon. The god loomed over her, regal face staring down the hallway of sea-green marble, his limbs straining against the sea breaking around him in stone waves. He failed to lift her spirits, though this had once been a favorite room. Like much of her house, the Poseidon was cast in shadow, echoing the gloom in her own heart. The villa seemed very empty.

  "Oh, you gods, you torment me, showing me happiness, then snatching it away."

  Anastasia dabbed at her eyes. Tears were welling up, making sparkling tracks in the antimony on her cheeks. Precious months had passed while she wallowed in despair. Jusuf was gone, sent away like Tros; Thyatis thought dead; Nikos and Krista surely killed. Shirin's babies, who had brought such lively chaos into her life for such a short time, had been in Baiae, right in the path of the eruption. Their tiny corpses had never been recovered. So much death. So little life.

  But now, with her mind awake, she was no longer gripped by despair. She was angry. Very angry. Everything had happened because of one man-this prince, this child, this boy-who was destruction for her dreams. Even the bittersweet memory of their closeness was a goad to her.

  "Betia!" Anastasia's voice rose, ringing from the vaulted ceiling. "Attend me!"

  The blond girl appeared, her hair disordered from running, with the Gaul, Vitellix, in tow. Both of them seemed wary, but Anastasia did not care.

  "Gaul. You and your troupe found a man, a Numidian, in the burning inn. Is he here?"

  "Yes, my lady. A priest of Asklepius has tended to him-his cheek and knee were broken-but he will be well soon, I hope."

  Anastasia considered glaring at the man until he burst into flames, but there was no time for such petty fancies. The Gaul matched her gaze, a little nervous but resolute. "I would talk to him."

  "This way." Betia bowed nervously. "He is in the west wing."

  The Duchess swept past, the train of her gown picked up in one jeweled hand. "Good. I want to know everything about the Ludus Magnus. Betia-have a scribe join us, immediately."

  For a moment, she considered sending a messenger to Helena to ask her for an appointment and for advice. Just as quickly, she discarded the thought. If she was to pick up her old life, she would do so entirely. She would speak with the Emperor and the Empress when she knew exactly what she wanted to say, and to propose.

  – |Heavy age-stained wood groaned on stone and the cell door swung open. Thyatis rose stiffly, her hands in plain sight. The guards were simple men; if she did not stand quietly in the middle of the grimy room, hands out to her sides, there would be no food. She had been squatting, mind empty, in the exact middle of the cell, waiting. At least two days had passed since she and Candace and Agrippina had survived the battle against the criminals. She was pleased with this room, it was much larger than the last. Exercise was possible, though she couldn't really work up a sweat.

  "Hello." It was the crippled man, Narses, standing in the doorway. He leaned heavily on his walking stick. Thyatis guessed the cane was an affectation, playing to the missing arm. "Would you like better quarters? A bath? Edible food?"

  Thyatis did not answer, waiting for the other boot to drop. Narses chuckled a little to himself, then stepped down into the room. He banged on the door with his stick and it swung closed behind him. Thyatis raised an eyebrow, but the old gladiator just leaned against the wall, tapping his scarred chin with the hawk-headed cane.

  "I am serious, Diana. I would like to put you and your two fellow 'Amazons' in better quarters-with beds, for one thing, and a private practice yard. Ah… now I have your attention."

  "Why?" Thyatis put her hands behind her back, fingers clasped. She stood straighter. "What do you want from me?"

  "Now? Well, previously I wanted to make my money back. But you've done that already… I think I'll protect my investment."

  Thyatis laughed, cracking her knuckles and staring up at the groined ceiling. "An investment. Like a stud horse or a milk cow."

  Narses nodded, but there was a merry glint in his eye that took some of the sting away. "If you like. Your skill makes you valuable. Let me reward you."

  "In exchange for what?" Thyatis leaned forward, a smirk on her face. "For not killing any slave, attendant, guard, wayward tourist that I come across in your house? For not trying to escape?"

  Narses nodded, chin jutting out. "A fair bargain, I think."

  Thyatis laughed, a harsh bark. "How many days until I-we-go
on the sand again?"

  Narses held up three stubby fingers. "Your next opponents are prisoners of war, taken in Persia and the East."

  "A big show. Just the sand, or with some kind of set?"

  The lanista clapped his hand to his chest. "You've been to the games before! Yes, twenty Amazons against twenty Persian prisoners of war-they're building a replica of a city called Tauris. It's supposed to ape some siege, a river crossing… What is it?"

  Narses paused, humor draining from his face. Thyatis' expression had not changed, but her eyes lit with furious anger. "Diana?"

  "A rich jest." The woman bit out the words. "I will not attempt to escape. You will give us training weapons, just wood, of normal weight so that these women you are sending to their deaths can have some faint hope. You will let me speak with these other women and show them some rudiments of defense. We will play out your scene. You will not be disappointed."

  Narses nodded, then rapped on the door again. The woman turned away, leaning against the wall, both hands pressed against the bricks. She remained that way while he stumped out. In the hallway, he shook his head in amusement. He had seen so much in the arena, far more than he would have thought the first day he stepped into this bloody house.

  "You lads! Take these three women out of their cells, put them in the First Sword's quarters!"

  Narses stomped off, whistling to himself. Hamilcar had been getting used to such plush accommodations! The boy needed to remember who was the master here, and who the oath- and contract-bound slave. Of course, Hamilcar might be a little angry about losing his privileges, his better food, his private bath. But that didn't matter to Narses. The lanista smiled to himself, supremely happy, and made sure that the peony behind his ear was still there. Behind him, the slaves and guards stared after him in surprise. Then they shook their heads and went to unlock the cells. Stranger things had happened, though no one could say when.

  When he got to his office, a thought occurred to him. He banged on the wall until one of the clerks in the outer room came in.

  "Jordanes, send a boy over to Gaius Julius' office with a note to come by when he can."

  "Yes, master!"

  – |Hot water sluiced into the stone tub, steaming as it filled. Thyatis was already sitting in the basin, her knees up to her chin. She hissed, both in delight and at the heat as the water flooded over her toes. Two brawny slaves were pouring for her, hauling big ironbound buckets from the heating room down the hall. She ignored their stares with long practice. Men had seen her naked before. If they tried anything, she would kill them and her promise to Narses be damned! The old cripple wouldn't miss one or two slaves…

  "Candace! Get in here!" Thyatis started scrubbing at her toes with a soapy brush. "Bring Agrippina."

  The two condemned women came in after a moment, then stared at Thyatis, up to her neck in steaming water thick with foam. The two men left, empty buckets slung over well-muscled shoulders. Candace stared after them. Both slaves were wearing only short tunics, which left little to the imagination. After a moment, she shook her head as if waking from a pleasant dream and looked around in surprise.

  "Come on, get in." Thyatis was still in a sour mood, but it was lifting, buoyed by the smell of lye soap and hot water. That had always meant cleanliness and home to her. Even with her black mood, it was a giddy sensation. "What? You like being filthy?"

  "No, not me!" Agrippina said, shaking her head. The older woman stripped off her tunic and eased into the water. Thyatis raised an eyebrow, seeing a brutal network of scars on the woman's arms and thighs. Some of them had healed badly, leaving puckered welts. Beyond that, however, the woman had serious muscle under a layer of fat.

  Agrippina submerged, then surfaced, her hair slicked back. She was had a broad plebian face, all stout angles and a short nose. Thyatis lifted her chin, indicating one of the scars that laced its way across her shoulder. "What did that?"

  Agrippina looked down, frowning, then nodded soberly. "Meat axe."

  "You're a butcher?" Thyatis started working on her back with the brush. It felt so good! Maybe she could convince one of the others to rub her down with salt afterwards. An expensive treatment, but she saw that the previous inhabitant of these rooms had not stinted on the luxuries. There were green and blue bottles of oil, an assortment of bronze strigils and various scrubbing brushes.

  "Yeah. I was." Agrippina captured the bar of soap, which had slid down to the bottom of the tub, and began lathering her hair with it. "Twelve years."

  "What happened?" Thyatis knew she shouldn't ask, but it might make a difference.

  Agrippina stared back, her face blank. After a moment, her eyes blinked, slowly, like a crocodile emerging from the green waters of the Nile. "Killed a man. Cut him to bits with the treadle-saw, put them in the grist mill after, made him into feed for the sacred geese."

  "Oh." Thyatis' forehead creased, furrowing. "How did they find out?"

  Agrippina shrugged, her powerful shoulders rising out of the water, then disappearing again. "The gods were displeased, I suppose."

  "Well, that's a puzzler. Candace?" Thyatis looked up at the Nubian woman, who was still standing beside the tub, looking disgusted. "Aren't you getting in?"

  Candace made a face, staring at the water, which was now beginning to shimmer with oil amid clumps of dirt and hair. "No… I think it might just make me dirtier!"

  Thyatis scowled, then splashed lukewarm water on the Nubian girl. Candace yelped and jumped back. "I'll go after you're done!"

  "Fine. It'll be cold then." Thyatis stood up, letting the soapy water spill off her. The slaves had left three more buckets of hot water just for rinsing. It wasn't the luxe treatment at the Baths of Caracalla, but it would do for today. She turned the bucket over, slowly, letting it sluice down the firm curve of her body. Soap peeled away like a second skin, swirling gray into the rinsing basin. The last of the water was for her hair, which had managed to grow out enough to lie flat against her head. Grains of sand and other, less identifiable grime, rolled under her fingers.

  Hmm, she thought, it might take another four or five baths to get really clean… oh well.

  Agrippina was still scrubbing, so Thyatis sat on the side of the tub, checking herself for scratches or other wounds. There were fresh scars, but they seemed to have scabbed over. She let them be. Dying with cold steel in her gut didn't frighten her as much as rotting from gangrene. While she had waited in the cell, she had washed her wounds with urine, hoping to keep them clean. She wrinkled up her nose, that hadn't been one of her best days, but one of her instructors on the Island had sworn by it.

  At the thought, she froze, besieged by memories. All of them brought some kind of pain, so she started to breathe, slowly and evenly, until they passed. Her mind started to go far away, into the gray haze, but a touch on her shoulder brought her back.

  "Don't." It was Agrippina, leaning over her. The older woman had a bleak look on her face and her sausage-like fingers were digging into Thyatis' shoulder. "If you hide, it gets stronger."

  "What do you mean?" Thyatis pushed the hand away and stood up.

  "You know." Agrippina turned away, gathering up her tunic. "Not my business."

  Thyatis scowled, but she rummaged in one of the cupboards and found a pair of clean tunics. She tossed one to the butcher, then pulled the other over her head. It was too small, but she managed to pull it down enough to avoid complete indecency. "Candace! Your turn."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The Propontis, North of the Golden Horn

  Arrows fell like rain, some burning, streaking across the night. Men struggling on the shore screamed, dying under the iron hail. Shahr-Baraz, King of Kings, Lord of the Persians and the Medes, spurred his horse forward, hooves rumbling on the plank road. Around him, Persian spearmen surged forward, every third man carrying a torch. The night was a wild confusion of burning lights and darkness. Bonfires roared on the shore, throwing a ruddy, red light on the faces of the soldiers. The Boar
cantered down off the bridge, his sword raised, catching the firelight. "Forward! Clear the road!"

  A deep-throated roar answered him and spearmen and diquans in full armor poured down onto the beach. Roman soldiers fled before him, throwing down bundles of pitch-soaked brush and lanterns. The King reined in his horse, laughing-a huge booming sound that rolled and echoed across the battlefield-to see the Romans running like hares. More arrows fell amongst the fleeing men. Dark shapes ran between them, gore-streaked swords flashing. More men died. Shahr-Baraz sheathed his sword with a ting and raised the silver visor of his helmet. The metal plate was worked into the face of a man, with a nose and eyes, and inlaid with gold. Wearing a full suit made for hot work, but gave excellent protection.

  "My lord?"

  The Shahanshah looked down, tugging at his mustaches. "Yes, Lord Piruz?"

  The Eastern diquan made a sharp bow, then pointed up the road. "The Romans are falling back along the road, too; should we pursue?"

  "No." Shahr-Baraz's voice was firm. A troop of men with long axes and maces clattered past down the wooden ramp from the last of the ships. "Push down the road until you can only just make out the bonfires. Round up the guards and beat the bushes for more Romans and our own men. We'll begin sending the army across at first light. You had better have secured the area by then."

  Piruz made another bow and then clanked off into the night. A score of men in full mail and swords followed him. Shahr-Baraz sighed. The Easterner had a black scarf knotted where his breastplate and shoulder armor joined. One of Purandokht's tokens. Some days, the King wondered which of his adopted daughters had more followers. No matter! he thought. They are here, these hotheaded youths, and they fight for me. We can deal with the suitors later, after the war has culled them!

  Shahr-Baraz nudged his horse and trotted back up the ramp. The surface swayed under the charger's heavy tread, but the Boar was not concerned. His engineers had built well on the foundation provided by the Arab fleet. Lines of men marched in the other direction as he let the horse trot along. The Boar knew them, passing in the night, by their standards and ornamented shields, by the make of their helms and the fletching of their arrows. Khorasanians, Medes, Daylami archers, Gaur mountaineers, lowlanders from Mesopotamia, the hill chiefs of Tabaristan. All the panoply and glory of Imperial Persia. He passed lanterns too, suspended on the stern posts of the ships making up his bridge.