– |"Bah!" Narses snorted. "That is the stupidest idea I've ever heard!"
"Is it?" Gaius Julius waved his goblet at the other man. The remains of two bottles of Campanian wine lay between them. "Or just unheard of? I've never seen such a thing."
"Ay, that's because no one would agree to it-the Greens and the Blues would have a fit! They've their own traditions, you know, and it would anger the gods to flaunt them."
"Oh, please!" Gaius' voice was slurred. The wine was very good and the discussion thirsty. "What gods? Have you seen them? When did storm-crowned Jupiter last grace Rome with his presence? Never! Not even in the old tales. He's always frolicking around with the Greeks, but not with old, dull Rome."
Narses made a sign with his goblet, seeking to fend off evil. Wine splashed on the floor and the lanista cursed. "Look at the waste! Bacchus will be enraged. No, gods or not, my friend, the racing factions would not agree to such a thing. If it didn't work, they'd be a laughingstock!"
"Really? Even with so much money to be made?" Gaius Julius grinned over the edge of his cup. "I'll bet… I'll bet I could convince the Emperor to allow it. That would shut them up."
"How?" Narses' eyebrows crept up on his forehead like a pair of caterpillars. "You know the Emperor?"
"He and I," Gaius Julius said in a dignified voice, "have broken bread together." Then he hiccupped. "Damn this wine, it's betrayed me!"
Narses laughed, but a contemplative look came over him.
– |Ila crouched at the edge of the roof, looking down into the center of the main building. Just below there was a balcony, lined with sleeping benches and partially covered with an awning. Slaves sprawled on the deck, snoring and snuffling. Like many Romans in this mild summer weather, they had moved out of their close, cramped dormitories to sleep under the bare sky. Ila frowned, looking for a way down.
Gulping, she eased to the edge of the roof, swung her thin legs over the side, then dropped down between two large sleeping men. She landed softly, drew a quavering breath and found her balance. After waiting a moment, she slipped between the sleeping bodies to the outer railing. A balcony lined with stout pillars faced the lower floor. She hoped it would be free of snoring layabouts. Ila hopped up on the railing, then prepared to swing down.
"Did you hear something?" The voice was startlingly clear and not far away.
Ila immediately swung over the railing. Her heart was pounding, but she became very still, barely breathing. Footsteps clomped on the balcony, making it shiver slightly.
"I see a lot of lazy slaves," said a different voice.
"Oh, they work hard enough during the day, when we're sitting in the shade! Let them sleep-no, there was something. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, maybe a child."
"Haw!" the other voice said, turning away. "If there was a child here, it would be squealing."
Rough laughter receded and Ila peered out. The guards were gone. Crabbing sideways to the top of a pillar, she monkeyed down, clinging to either side of the fluted column. This floor was deserted, save for rows of orderly worktables and looms. Ila hopped down, crouching below the level of the tables, and then scampered off, towards the north, where Mithridates thought the women would be held.
– |"Narses, do you believe in the gods?" Gaius Julius was maudlin now, deep in his cups. The lanista nodded blearily. "I used to, I think, but now? Where are they? Why don't our prayers move them?"
"Maybe they do." Narses managed to untangle his tongue. "The gods are the gods! They can pick and choose just like men. No one ever said that the gods would do what we wanted. If they exist, we are their playthings, no more than insects."
Gaius Julius scowled. "I hate the thought! A Roman lives and breathes freedom. Are we only tokens, moved on some board? Did the gods make us, put spirit in our bodies? Do they make us live?"
Narses poured the last dregs into Gaius' cup. "It sounds like you hate them. I would praise them, for if they made me, then I live and breathe and take joy in the world! Is there a greater gift than life?"
Gaius Julius closed his eyes. "Am I a living man? I think, I feel, I hope… but what if these feelings are just the dreams of the gods? What if I am only their memory… then I am nothing. I hate this!"
"Then drink more wine." Narses hiccupped, then started to dig under the table for another amphora. "And it will all become much more bearable."
"No." Gaius Julius stood, now showing no effects of the alcohol, and gathered up his cloak. "I am tired of this. I am going home."
– |Dawn stole over the rooftops, throwing a fine gown of pink light over the city. Mithridates stirred, still crouched at the base of the wall. There was no sign of Ila.
Mithridates listened and waited. His brown eyes searched the rooftops. No alarm had sounded. The tiny bell attached to the length of twine lay silent. Mithridates picked his way out of the alley, careful to disturb nothing. The ground was littered with smashed glass and pottery. It would be easy to leave a trail.
A block away, to the east, an insula of flats crowded under the vast shape of an aqueduct. Ranks of plastered arches rose over the houses, carrying three tiers of water pipe from outside the walls into the center of Rome. Mithridates climbed the back stairs, finally reaching the top floor and knocking on a peeling wooden door. A husky man in armor under his cloak opened it. The African slipped inside, finding the room close and crowded.
Mithridates said, "She did not return, though there was no alarm or confusion. I think she is still hiding inside the school. Doubtless circumstances changed and she could not leave."
Anastasia snapped her fan closed. "Rumor tells me that some slaves were moved from the Ludus Magnus to the Flavian overnight, by a secret way."
"Yes," Mithridates answered, "there is a tunnel that connects the cellar of the school to the lower levels of the amphitheater. It is used to transport criminals or particularly popular fighters or just when the streets are crowded on game day."
"Thyatis may be in the pits, then. Can we get her out?"
"No." Mithridates met the Duchess' furious gaze with equanimity. His life was already forfeited, his oath and contract to the Ludus Magnus broken-there was little this woman could do to him. "Not by force of arms. The Flavian is well defended and under Imperial protection. A favor, a pardon, gold-those things might fetch her out."
Anastasia turned away, the back of her hand to her mouth. She had wanted to deal with this herself, in private, but the effort had been both too rushed and too slow. There was another possibility, however. "I will speak with a person of my acquaintance. A favor might be arranged."
"What about the girl?" Mithridates remained, solid as a column, watching her.
"Keep a watch," Anastasia growled, glaring at the African and at Vitellix, who was leaning against the wall, chewing on his nails, worried. "She is a deft creature, she will find her way out."
The Duchess left, followed by a cloud of her servants.
Mithridates looked at Vitellix and smiled, showing fine white teeth in his ebony face. "Why don't we pay the school a visit? You can return me, seeing as how you found me all lost and injured. Perhaps Hamilcar will be there and I can break his neck."
"A fine plan." Vitellix looked ill with worry. "Let us watch for a day, and see."
– |In the alley behind the school, the tiny copper bell at the end of the length of twine shifted on the breeze, making a small ringing sound. Then it fell still, then swung again. A stray cat, nosing among the piles of refuse for fish heads, heard it and slunk close. Tawny eyes gleamed and it batted at the bell with a dirty paw. The bell rattled and rang, and the cat bit at it with sharp yellow teeth. Twine frayed and then tore loose. Amused, the cat chased the bell down the alley.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Perinthus, The Coast of Thrace
"Oh, now, what fresh torment is this?" Nicholas hung out over the railing of the galley, staring ahead in disgust. Roman galleys and merchantmen crowded the harbor, making a forest of masts and rigging. Clouds of
dust rose into hot sky over the town. Full summer had decided to weigh in on the Thracian hills and a white haze cloaked wooded ridges above the port. "Another delay!"
The northerner swung down from the rail, bare chest gleaming in the midday sun. The heat had driven all of them to strip down, even Vladimir, though both he and the Hibernian wound white cloths around their heads in Judean style. Nicholas didn't like having his head covered, but they claimed that it was cooler this way. He was happy to sweat.
"You're in a rush to fight, then?" Dwyrin lounged in the shade of a sail section, feet up on a coil of tarred rope. Nicholas sat down next to him, sighing with relief to enter the invisible field of cool air around the boy. "We can't get into the city, so we'll have to wait while the army unravels the mess."
"We're-I'm-supposed to report to the tribune…" Nicholas groused, chin on his knees, staring moodily out at the acres of ships trying to enter Perinthus. In addition to swarms of war galleys, there were a multitude of fishing boats, merchantmen, coastal lugs and, worst of all, huge Egyptian grain haulers, pressed into service to move the Western army. "…as soon as possible. I don't like being late or disobeying orders."
"Well," Vladimir drawled, his accent thicker than usual, "you are trying hard to get there! We've even the Caesar's writ to smooth our passage."
Nicholas flicked a barnacle at the Walach, who ducked, laughing. Neither he nor the boy viewed the current delay as anything but extra vacation from work. Nicholas, unfortunately, could not shake the feeling that they should already be in Constantinople, not mired here, waiting for a berth at the docks of this backwater. He stood again, nervous, and went to the railing.
Two of the huge grain ships, each three or four stories tall, lumbered into the docks, guided by dozens of longboats filled with sweaty men bending hard on their sweeps. The railings of the grain ships were thronged with soldiers, waving and shouting encouragement at the rowers below. Beyond, the docks themselves were crowded with wagons, shouting centurions, confused soldiers and a few harried townspeople trying to buy fish for their dinner. Nicholas kicked at the deck in disgust-they had been sitting offshore for three days now, waiting.
"Wine! Pomegranates! Wine!" A young voice called across the water. Nicholas looked up and saw a brown-skinned boy, maybe eight years old, poling a skiff towards them. The front of the boat was filled with baskets of fruit and amphorae of wine in wicker and straw holders. "Honeycomb!"
"Boy! Over here!" Nicholas waved his hand. The youth, spying him, turned the skiff with ease and darted across the water towards the galley. "You slugs, get our gear, right away!"
Dwyrin and Vladimir each opened one eye, glared at Nicholas, then shut them again. The Hibernian had the cheek to start snoring. Nicholas jumped back from the rail and gave each of them a good kick in the feet. "Ow!"
"Get up, we're leaving." Nicholas leaned back over the railing, smiling at the youth. "Lad, how much to take three of us to shore?"
"Five sesterces!" The water bandit raised a tar-stained hand, fingers outstretched. "Luggage is extra!"
"How much extra? We've got legionaries' kits." Nicholas was fingering a solidus in his belt pouch. Caesar Aurelian had sent them off stuffed with good food, clutching a travel pass with his name on it, and some coin to ease their passage. The northerner had been very impressed by the Western Prince, who seemed a man after his own heart.
"An extra sesterces per man! But not too heavy," the youth rocked the skiff from side to side with his bare feet, "or you'll swim!"
"We'll take it." Nicholas swung easily over the rail, surprised to see Dwyrin get up and scrounge their gear out of the hold. The northerner dropped down into the skiff, landing easily and immediately finding his balance. Feeling the galley pull against the sea on their passage up from Egypt had felt good, but this little boat was better, since it was taking them somewhere! "Hand me the packs."
Dwyrin leaned over the rail and passed down the first bundle of equipment and carrying poles. Nicholas caught and stowed the gear in one smooth motion. Vladimir handed down the next and within ten grains they were crowded into the skiff, sliding across the water towards the port.
Galleys and quinqueremes rose up around them on all sides, draped with flags and colored awnings. Bored soldiers stared down at them from the railings. Equally bored sailors watched idly from the rigging. The boy was quick and sure with his oar, sending them gliding under hawsers and the sterns of massive ships. The air was filled with the caw of gulls and terns, the rattle of tackle and rope, the ever-present bellowing of centurions trying to get their fumble-kneed charges safely on land.
"How long has this been going on?" Nicholas looked up, watching with concern as a crane swung a military reda overhead at the end of a pair of cables. A shadow passed over the boat as the wagon occluded the sun, swaying from side to side. Despite the creaking of the ropes and a great deal of shouting, the reda reached the eager hands of its owning maniple safely.
"Almost a week," the boy chattered, smooth brown arms twisting the oar to guide them around an anchor rope. "The big boats just keep coming and coming. Plenty of business for me!"
The skiff darted out of the shadow of a grain hauler and up to a stone staircase plunging into the water at the dockside. "You pay now!" The boy stuck out a hand black with tar.
Nicholas gave the boy two solidii, slightly more than the eight sesterces he demanded. Then he hopped ashore, hobnailed boots scraping on wet stone. The bottom step was eroded by the sea and slick with moss, making the footing tricky. Despite that, and a small crowd of buskers and children gathered at the top of the stairway, they managed to get ashore only half drenched and with all of their gear. Dwyrin settled a straw sun hat on his head and, sighing, let the sphere of cool air around them fade away.
Vladimir groaned, but Nicholas just shook his head. "We don't want someone noticing us. It'll be trouble enough to just get through this mess in town without being commandeered into Western service. Get used to the heat again."
Dwyrin patted Vlad on the shoulder. "Sorry."
"Why did I agree to come back here?" Vlad looked morose, already sweating. "I daren't go into the city, you know. The Queen will be waiting."
"I know." Nicholas began to push through the crowd of children and beggars. "We'll figure it out later-after we report in!"
Vladimir glared at the beggars touching his arms, then bared his teeth. They backed off, eyes white with fear. "You always say that…" He was growling.
– |Thick dust clouded the side of the road, painting Dwyrin's face a tannish yellow. Cloth covered his mouth and nose, but he still blinked furiously. A troop of armored horsemen had just clattered past and this particular road was not the traditional Legion road, with a hard surface and drainage ditches on either side. It was more a shallow trench filled with very fine, well-churned dust. The three friends were slogging up out of the broad low valley holding Perinthus at its mouth. Cohort after cohort of legionaries passed them. Each time, they scrambled out of the way and took advantage of whatever shade was offered. This part of Thrace was very rich and lush, which made it easy to pass the time under peach or apple trees.
A rolling series of hills lay around them, stretching into the blue haze of the north. None of them had ever come this way before, but Constantinople could not be far off.
"Gahhh! It's getting under my fur." Vladimir banged his hat against his arm, trying to shake off the dust. "This is so much better than sitting on that ship, sleeping or stuffing ourselves with grilled fish."
Nicholas ignored the Walach and his whining, peering ahead, one brown hand shading his eyes. They had come out of a belt of trees and were at the edge of fields sloping down into some kind of valley. "Look at this…"
Dwyrin looked up, waving a hand in front of his face to clear the dust.
A hundred yards away was a farmhouse surrounded by a cluster of Legion standards and tents. Cavalrymen were milling around under a stand of olive trees. Many of the trees were only stumps and the hous
e itself was blackened ruins. Beyond that, bands of men were sitting and standing under more trees. Thin trails of white smoke rose from their cookfires. The road turned left at the farmhouse, then ran down into the valley beyond. Dwyrin guessed that they had found the main part of the army.
Across the valley, which was very shallow, a city rose up into the haze, vast and gray, with walls stretching out in either direction, both to the north and to the south. Dwyrin swallowed a whistle, seeing rampart after rampart rising up into the sky. He knew the place, though he had only been there briefly. Constantinople, the greatest city in the world, capital of the Eastern Empire.
"What's the matter? We'll be in the city this afternoon." Vladimir cheered up, then sneezed. "That can't be more than five miles as the crow flies. Come on!"
Nicholas shook his head and pushed his hat back. For a moment he chewed his lip, then spat on the ground. Dwyrin and Vladimir looked at him curiously, then at each other.
"What is it?" Dwyrin scratched the back of his neck. A long line of infantry, once-shining armor caked with dust, sandals squeaking in the dirt, swung past, water flasks banging at each hip. A brace of javelins and a carrying pole were over each shoulder. More dust puffed up. They were not singing, as the Legion usually did on a march. Even their standards, proudly carried before the lead men, hung limp in the still air. Dwyrin sympathized. He had done his share of marching. "Nicholas?"
"Look, there, down in the valley. Do you see a dark line?"
Dwyrin turned, raising his hands in front of his face, thumb to thumb and forefinger to forefinger. The air between his fingers shimmered and shifted, then suddenly sprang clear and distinct, showing him a magnified image of the valley floor. The dark line was a rampart of earth, faced with sharpened stakes and surmounted by a palisade of cut logs. Men in cloth headdresses labored along it, digging and hauling earth in woven baskets. Officers moved among them, exhorting them to greater efforts. Men in armor stood guard, watching the hills with arrows laid across their bows. In front of the rampart was a steep-sided ditch, and the ground before it was cleared of brush and trees.
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