Maxian stared at the older man in incomprehension. Gaius laughed, seeing the puzzlement on the Prince's face. "You don't see? You just spoke the truth! You gave our legends flesh, not our mortal selves! I am… what they made me, the historians, and the gossipmongers, my enemies in the Senate. I am what the puppy Octavian enshrined!"
The Prince stepped back, disgusted and frightened as the unflappable old man suddenly began to weep. Then he realized it was laughter drawing tears from Gaius Julius, not grief. The words penetrated, at last, and Maxian's lips quirked into a smile. He understood. "Then praise your nephew, for his adulation has given you new life."
Gaius Julius just nodded, choked with bitter laughter.
"A mystery solved, if it is true." Maxian settled himself again, turning his back on Gaius. Again, he raised his hands, marking a sign in the air. The Prince shut all thoughts of Gaius and his mysteries out of his mind.
"Now go away, he's busy."
Gaius Julius, who had started to turn away, stopped, surprised. The voice seemed to come from the Prince, but it had a distinct accent, far different from the Prince's provincial Narbonensis twang. The old Roman stared at Maxian, then looked all around. No one was anywhere near. Shrugging, he hurried away, smelling a familiar sharp odor building in the air.
Gaius Julius stopped at the top of the narrow flight of stairs leading down into the tunnels behind the seats. When he looked back, the air between him and the Prince was hazed with mist, distorted, and the blazing white spheres around the arena made the sky glow in a great reaching column.
– |On the floor of the arena, the false buildings cast shadows on the sand, making a patchwork of dark and light. Thyatis advanced, leading with the point of her gladius, the Amazons a solid wedge at her back. Agrippina and Candace anchored each end, armed with swords. The rest of the women, nervous, crying, bunched together, were armed with a confusion of weapons. Thyatis was sure that the servants bought them in lots from the Imperial army. Some of them, she had never seen before.
The false buildings had been arranged so that to get from one side of the arena to the other, an arching bridge would have to be crossed. It was a dozen paces wide, with a low railing on either side. Thyatis looked back. The attendants were issuing from a tunnel mouth, dark cloaks making them shadows against shadow. Only their silver and gray masks caught the light, shining like phantoms. Some of them wielded whips, the others smoking, red-hot rods. At intervals along the top of the retaining wall that circled the arena, archers were posted. Anyone who refused to fight would be whipped, scourged, shot if he or she did not comply.
"Victory or death, my friends," Thyatis shouted. Candace and Agrippina answered her, "Victory or death!" The other women wailed in despair, but as the three ran forward, they ran too, fearful of being left behind. Ahead, the bridge was empty, though Thyatis was sure the enemy was close at hand.
Her boots rang on the planks as she leapt up the ramp. Something glittered in the air, and she ducked aside, slashing sideways with the gladius. A spear whispered past, hurled with tremendous force from the shadows of the nearest building. It missed Thyatis, but there was a slapping sound from behind her and a gurgling cry. She ran forward. Men appeared from the shadows, shouting, voices hoarse and foreign. The words were unknown to her, though she had picked up a little Persian during her time in the East.
A massive figure lunged out of the darkness, spear point glinting, and Thyatis' hand blurred, driving the sword in a block that sent the spear ringing away. A huge man, standing a good head taller than her, wielded the weapon. He was clad in scraps of armor, ring-shaped mail with flaring shoulder protectors. His beard was dark and curly, hanging almost to his stomach. His spear whipped around, cutting at her legs. Thyatis sprang up, avoiding the stroke.
The Persian fell back a step, reversing the spear into a guard position. Thyatis adjusted the winged helmet, which had slipped a little. The leather strap didn't fit properly. They circled while she considered throwing the helm away. More Persians-if they were really Persians-moved out of the shadows, torchlight glinting on their scaled armor.
"Hold the bridge!" Thyatis shouted, shifting her balance. The spearman dodged suddenly to the left, slashing at her head with the broad leaf-shaped blade. She ducked again, then lunged left, cutting at his head. He parried deftly with the tang of the spear, catching her blade on the metal. Thyatis' concentration focused, narrowing down to just the man, the spear and her footing on the bridge.
Behind her, there was a clash of arms and screams. Persians pressed past their champion, while he dallied over bright steel.
Thyatis danced back as the spear licked at her again. She cut hard at the shaft, but the man was very quick and jerked it back in time. Out of options, she charged in, throwing a blizzard of cuts and slashes at him. He blocked one stroke hard, then reversed the spear haft in a blur and caught her on the ribs. Metal squeaked at the blow and she staggered, her thigh striking the edge of the bridge. She blocked, the point of the gladius pointing down, and drove the spear point into the wood on her left. Her right leg lashed out, a snap kick, and caught the Persian on the elbow with the iron-shod heel of her boot. He shouted, his eyes wide with pain, and jumped back.
Thyatis caught the spear with her right hand, spinning into it, and twisted. The Persian gasped, feeling his broken elbow take the strain. The spear haft slipped in his hand. Thyatis rammed it back into his gut. He choked, losing breath. She rotated sharply, the tip of the gladius shearing through his cheek and into the back of his mouth. Bone cracked and then metal ground against metal. The sword whipped back into guard, slick with blood. The Persian fell sideways.
Picking up the spear, Thyatis cradled it under one arm while she sheathed the gladius in a seamless, smooth motion. Her arms were trembling, glistening with sweat. The crowd, seeing that she had struck down her first opponent, gave a cheer, followed by a chanted shout.
"One! One! One!"
– |"What? You must be mad?" Galen, Emperor of the West, turned sideways in his golden chair, staring at his wife and at Anastasia with equal disbelief. The Emperor's usually lanky hair was carefully combed back and slicked with oil. A crown of golden laurels wreathed his head-an ancient diadem from the time of the Principate, commissioned by Augustus himself-and he was draped in a toga of pure white silk. For a wonder, it was not incredibly hot, though he was sweating slightly. The press of bodies in the amphitheater made it far warmer than the cooling night would have suggested. "This criminal is one of my soldiers?"
"Yes, Lord and God." Anastasia kept her voice low, half kneeling at the Emperor's side. She kept her face turned from the crowd. Part of the positioning of the Imperial box allowed the common people to see the Emperor and his family, to know they enjoyed the festivities too, that they shared the games and the smell and the heat with their subjects. Of course, this meant it was very difficult to have a private conversation in plain view of fifty thousand people. "I sent her with you to the East; Thyatis, a centurion. She did you good service at Tauris."
"I remember." Galen stared out at the arena floor, seeing the Persians and Amazons fighting and dying. Blood streaked the bridge and pooled on the sand. Despite their attempt to stand together, some of the women had been hewn down by the easterners.
"I sent her on, to Ctesiphon, and there it seemed she perished with her men in a fire."
The Emperor gave Anastasia a steely look, his face pinched. "Is she my soldier or yours?"
The Duchess struggled to keep her face calm, though now she was sweating. Thyatis' mission in the East had been to secure Princess Shirin, a Khazar noblewoman, for the Western Emperor, to use as a bargaining chip in the quiet, subtle struggle with the Eastern Empire. But Thyatis had stolen Shirin away, faking her death, and had brought her back to the West. Unfortunately, at this moment, the Princess had not been delivered into the Emperor's hands.
"I am your servant, Lord and God. So is she. Any fault is mine."
Galen scowled. Anastasia could see he d
id not want to have this discussion now, or ever. Their last official meeting had been emotional and dangerous. Telling the Emperor you had ordered his brother's death was not wise! Particularly when you forced his hand into agreeing it must be done for the good of the state. "How did she come to be in the arena? The truth, woman!"
The Duchess swallowed, her throat dry. Here she would be tested in the balance.
"Lord and God, she led the team I sent to Ottaviano, to deal with… what they needed to deal with." Anastasia heard Helena's sharp intake of breath at her side. The Emperor's eyebrow lifted slightly, his face going completely cold. "They failed, my lord. I thought they were all killed-everyone-but it was not the case. Thyatis lived, though she was terribly injured. Some travelers in the wasteland found her and nursed her back to health. I fear her memory was damaged, lost. I only found out she lived when she appeared here, in the arena."
"Someone lived?" Galen's voice was soft, even gentle. "Someone whose death you desired? This is the… failure you speak of."
"Yes, Lord and God."
"My brother?" he whispered, his lips barely moving. Though the roar of the crowd had grown to such proportions she couldn't hear his voice, she could see the shape of his lips.
"Yes, Lord and God." Anastasia bowed her head, pressing it against the cushions at his feet.
"How do you know this?"
"One of my servants, Lord and God, saw him with her own eyes."
"Where?" The Emperor's voice was a hiss of anger.
"Here, my lord, in the Flavian, on the occasion of the last games."
Galen sat back, his eyes hooded. He seemed to have sunk into himself. Irritably, he motioned for Anastasia to leave. She started to back away, but Helena stopped her, an elegant hand gripping the Duchess' shoulder.
"Husband? What about Thyatis?"
The Emperor had a glare for his wife, too, but she met his eyes with equanimity. After a moment, Galen looked away, watching the struggle on the sand. More of the Amazons had died. But the crowd was in a fine humor, chanting in a huge voice that echoed and rolled back from the walls. "Four! Four! Four!"
"What is her crime?" Helena looked at Anastasia, raising an eyebrow.
"I do not know, Lord and God. All of the papers are lost or missing. She was ambushed and captured by thugs, then remanded into the custody of the Flavian."
"A kidnapping, then. By who?"
Anastasia raised her head, pale face making her violet eyes seem very large. "That would be a scandal, my lord. It would touch the hem of the Imperial authority. Perhaps such things should be let to lie-if you pardon her today, nothing need be explained or revealed."
Galen laughed, sitting forward in his chair, looking down at her. The golden diadem slipped down a little over one ear. "Duchess, are you trying to protect me or someone else?"
"You, my lord. These games must be orderly and without blemish. Too many have died to have their honorable funeral spoiled by the connivance of a few."
"You do not seek revenge?" The Emperor sounded incredulous. "Your daughter, if I remember the papers of adoption correctly, is fighting for her life down there and you don't want to see the men who sent her onto the sand punished?"
Anastasia shook her head. "No, my lord. I believe they saw an opportunity to put on a show as has never been seen in Rome before."
A glint appeared in Galen's eye and Anastasia knew that he had divined the culprit from her answer. "I see. Yes, that is wise, at this juncture. Charges against such a personage would make things very complicated… Very well, if she lives, she is pardoned."
The Duchess nodded, relieved, her hands trembling. Of course, the matter of the Prince would be raised again, in a more private meeting. Helena, however, frowned at her husband and leaned close, her voice fierce. "She may well die in this fight, husband, and then what?"
"Then," he snapped, irritated beyond measure, "the gods willed she die. Are you satisfied, wife?"
"Yes," Helena said, sitting back. His anger left a mark on her, sparking her own, like a shrouded coal burning behind parchment. Anastasia slipped away, while the two of them were furiously ignoring each other. There was a dry taste in her mouth. She needed to find Vitellix and Betia as soon as possible.
– |Sand spurted away from Thyatis' feet as she sprinted off the bridge. Two Persians whirled to face her, their weapons slick with blood. Bodies were scattered on the ground around them. Both men carried spears. The nearest one shouted, whirling his spear around. It was too late. Thyatis' rush slammed her own spear into his side, cracking through his armor, snapping the wire loops holding scale to scale. The iron tip ground on bone. She twisted the spear sideways, then felt it slide through flesh. Grunting with the effort, she threw the Persian, croaking with pain, aside.
In an instant of perfect balance, she took in the scene around her. The spearman to her front was sliding closer, the point of his weapon angled low, butt high behind his head. To her right, Agrippina was locked in a fierce grapple with another man, this one helmet-less, but built like an ox. They strained back and forth, each with a knife in hand. Other men were fighting the remaining group of Amazons, led by Candace, behind Agrippina. Two men with round shields and swords sprinted towards Thyatis.
The spearman attacked, stabbing at her thigh. Thyatis blocked with the ax, but it was heavy, clumsier than the sword. The Persian reversed his stroke with incredible speed, then lunged at her head. Thyatis threw her head back, turning away, throwing her whole body into the motion. The point of the spear smashed into the side of her helmet. Blinding pain jagged through her head and the helmet crumpled at the blow, crushing her ear. She hit the ground hard, half blinded. The ungainly thing slid against her nose. One eye was blinded. She rolled again, frantic, dropping the ax, tearing at the copper wings, trying to wrench the helm from her head.
A spear point slashed into the sand, barely an inch from her stomach. She kicked out, blindly, then turned the motion into a spin, the sand of the arena floor grinding under her back. Then she managed to break the strap and fling the helmet away. The Persian jumped back from her wheel kick, but now he dodged in low, leading with the spear. He was very fast. Thyatis twisted but could not avoid the thrust. The spear point rang on her armor and she felt ribs bend. The lorica held and the spear sprang back. Gasping in relief, Thyatis rolled, taking her weight on her forearm, then flipped up, landing on both feet. Immediately, she fell into an open-hand guard stance.
Now three men faced her, the two shield men flanking the spear. She gasped for breath. Fatigue was setting in. Blood from her ear covered her neck and the side of her face. Without waiting for his fellows, the spearman charged in, slashing at her in a cross pattern. This time she was ready for the quicksilver speed of his attack. A hoarse kii escaped as she slapped the iron blade away with her left hand, grasping for the haft of the spear. At the same time, she sprang up, her right leg arrowing out, her body turning into line with his in the air. Her heel smashed into his face as she seized hold of the spear shaft.
The Persian rocked back, stunned, and Thyatis hit the ground, facing away from him. One hand on the metal tang behind the point of his spear, the other on the ashwood shaft, she spun, levering it against her body. It tore free from nerveless hands, whipping around. The spearman crumpled to the ground.
One of the sword and shield men lunged in at her, shield high, spatha arrowing at her heart. Her face a mask of rage, she slapped the blade away with the haft of the spear, then snapped it back, low, catching him behind the shield, in the stomach. Breath oofed from him, and she jammed the butt of the spear into his eye socket. The wooden shaft fit perfectly into the eye hole in his helmet and there was a violent thunk as it slammed home. Bone cracked but did not break. Blood flooded out of the man's helmet. Thyatis spun, suddenly remembering the other swordsman.
He hacked overhand, sword biting deep into her shoulder plate. It spanged violently and she went down, driven to her knees by the force of the blow. Her left arm seemed to go numb, and she
twisted away, trying to bring up the spear. He kicked her in the face, snapping her head back. She sprawled on the sand with a thud. Dust puffed up around her. He settled his grip on the sword, raising it for a second blow. Thyatis stared, frozen.
Agrippina stormed in from the side, shrieking, her sword in two hands like a cleaver. Heedless, she swung at the Persian with the full weight of her body. He leapt back, blocking with his shield, and was driven back five or six feet by the blow. Agrippina struggled, her biceps bulging with the effort. Thyatis scrambled up, snatching up the spear. The Persian smashed his sword hilt into Agrippina's face, rocking her back. Thyatis lunged, the spear fully extended. His sword clove sideways, biting into Agrippina's thick neck.
The spear tore into his armpit. Light mail parted and Thyatis' heave powered the point into his heart. Gasping, the Persian staggered back, blood foaming from his mouth. Thyatis wrenched the spear free, throwing the man to the ground, red spurting from his side. She turned, but Agrippina was already lying still on the ground. Her throat was torn open, big head lolling to one side.
Mouth tight, Thyatis stepped over the dead woman and stabbed the unconscious spearman in the neck, killing him with a sharp, violent blow.
"Nine! Nine! Nine!" The crowd was in a frenzy. Men tore their clothes, shrieking in delight, baying like a vast, uncountable pack of dogs. Women fainted or shuddered, slick with sweat. A great heat built in the amphitheater, the air flooded with sweat and blood and the hot breath of tens of thousands.
Thyatis staggered up, ear bleeding freely, torchlight gleaming on her face. Her arms and torso were red, her hair plastered with gore. "Victory!"
The crowd answered her shout with a howl. She limped forward, the spear held up, the point wavering before her face.
– |A realm of phantoms and shadows unfolded before the Prince, filled with glittering swift lights that flickered and pulsed, tracing the matrices of power defining the waking world. Visions passed before him-cities and emperors and battles-as pale and transparent ghosts. He looked out upon the skyline of Rome and saw it change as he watched, one building rising, another falling, fires sweeping across the tenement blocks, then roaring up in a haze of brick dust, scaffolding and smoke. A towering golden statue of a man was built and destroyed in the blink of an eye. Temples were raised, forming out of the mist, and then torn down. Palaces were flattened, then rebuilt. Time and history surged around him in a buffeting torrent.
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