– |Anastasia bit her quill idly, staring out the window of her study. Afternoon sun spilled through the tall arched casement, illuminating a worktable strewn with papers and oddments. Despite the shock of Thyatis' words at the party, she had revived enough to wear something that was not wholly black and gray. Instead, she had ventured into cream and light green, which was certainly cooler on such a hot day. She sighed, then put down the quill. Tiny indentations marked its length.
"All the time that she was with you," the Duchess asked, "she did not remember who she was?"
"No." Vitellix was sitting in a chair across the room, out of the sun. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. Anastasia knew the Gaul had not been sleeping well. He worried a great deal, particularly with his daughter missing. "She seemed distant from the world. Sometimes, she described a gray numbness between her and the past. If what I heard through that door was true…"
"It was." Anastasia bit out the words, feeling hopeless anger rise in her again.
"…then I can see why. Can't you let her go? The past is nothing but horror for her!"
"No!" The Duchess surprised herself with the vehemence in the single word. "I will not admit defeat in this or in anything." Her lips thinned into a tight straight line. "We all bleed and suffer loss in this life. It is the way of the world. I am concerned with larger issues."
"Like your own grief?" Vitellix raised an eyebrow and sat back, slumping in the chair. "You still struggle to leave your own villa! I saw your face the other night, at Narses' party and afterwards. You are not the same woman you were. So many of your servants and family are dead-you cannot have escaped unchanged."
Anastasia glared at him, violet eyes narrowing. She lifted her chin, giving him a cold look. "That is my business, not yours, Gaul. You are here because I feel some compassion for you, for your stray daughter. Do not think to tell me how I feel."
Something like anger glittered in Vitellix's eyes, but then it passed, submerged in a wry look. "Oh, your pardon, noble lady. I thought I was here because I know the business of the games and I know Narses and his school. I thought we wanted to get our daughters back."
Anastasia's forehead creased, and she looked sideways at the man. He seemed familiar again, but she could not place him at all. The mordant sarcasm in his voice was impossible to miss. She raised her hands in mock surrender. "Enough. I am tired of bickering with you. How much do you know of Prince Maxian?"
Vitellix sat up again, his face intent. The Duchess offered an olive branch. He had to get Ila back somehow. Losing his wife had been bad enough; he did not want to lose the little mouse too. "Only what I have overheard between you and Helena Julia. He is Emperor Galen's younger brother?"
"Yes." Anastasia took a deep breath, smoothing her gown over her thighs, thinking. "Ah, but where to start? I suppose it began at a party here, in the Villa of Swans…"
– |Thyatis stepped through the arch of the number-twelve starting gate, delighted to be out of the sun and into cool shade. Ila was still holding her hand and pressed close to her side. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, but the redolent smell of horses, hay, oats, oiled leather, waxed canvas, burnished metal and wood was all around them.
"Diana! Welcome!" Narses limped forward, leaning on his cane. The stout man's smile was wide and genuine. He laughed, seeing Ila hiding behind the redheaded woman. "Come in, little mouse, no one will hurt you here, not even this sleek cat."
Hamilcar was leaning against the side of a two-wheeled chariot, squinting and looking bilious. He was not smiling. Much like Thyatis, he was pale and green in the face. In a marked contrast to his usual physique-displaying raiment, today he was wearing a heavy blue woolen shirt that hung down to his thighs. Checked linen pantaloons covered the rest of his legs. Ila hid a smile, thinking that even the thought of the sun or loud noise would probably make him double over, heaving.
"Well, both of you seem to have drunk from the same well." Narses was cheerful, his round face wreathed in a smile. Thyatis blinked at him, thinking him the most evil creature she had ever seen. How could he be so sunny this morning? She had slept for a day and a night, barely able to move, much less speak before she could rouse herself out of the big plush bed in his villa. Ila had helped her to the baths, then scrubbed her down. "I trust that neither of you have gone blind or lost the use of your limbs?"
"No," Hamilcar and Thyatis growled in unison. Then they glared at each other.
"Good." Narses looked around, taking a deep breath, smelling the pungent air. "A business proposition has been put to me." Narses voice was suddenly quite businesslike, cool and composed.
Hamilcar opened one eye, showing it red and throbbing. "You didn't bring us here to talk about advertising, did you? Do we have to appear at some taverna and play at swords?"
"No, not at all." The lanista tapped his cane against one foot, smirking. "If you have not heard, the final celebrations of these funeral games are scheduled for three days hence. The Emperor, of course, will be in attendance, as will a great proportion of Rome. Over three hundred thousand people are expected to attend! There will be a great beast hunt in the circus and then chariot races. Unfortunately, of course, the gladiatorial games are all done with. Sad, really…"
"What," Thyatis bit out, "do you want with us?"
"Oh, sorry. A patron of the art-you needn't know his name, it's entirely unimportant-has been begging me to arrange a match between the two of you. But of course, the fights are over and tradition is tradition!"
Hamilcar stood up, swallowing bile, and put his hands, gently, on the lanista's shoulder. "What are you talking about?" The African swayed a little, then caught himself, blinking.
"Well… the school has been offered a great deal of money-the two of you have been offered a great deal of money-to arrange a match between Diana the Amazon and Hamilcar the Glorious! Oh, what a draw!"
"With swords?" Thyatis began to look speculatively at Hamilcar. "In the Flavian?" She smiled, a tight grin that showed the tips of her teeth.
"No, no, no!" Narses shook his head, stepping between the two of them and looking out the starting-gate arch. "The gladiatorial contests are finished-closed out with that stunner of yours, Diana, and Hamilcar's fine victory. Only the last day is available on the schedule." He turned, his head silhouetted against the vast sweep of the stadium. Thyatis could see the obelisk rising up over one of the lanista's broad shoulders. Bright pennons and banners lined the roof of the stands, silhouetted sharply against the blue sky. "You'll race here, of course, four-horse chariot against four-horse chariot, seven laps in all."
"A race?" Hamilcar's face lit up.
"With chariots?" Thyatis scowled, staring at the high-sided vehicle behind the African.
"Exactly." Narses smiled genially. He tapped the chariot with the tip of his cane. "In three days Hamilcar will race for the Greens and you, Diana, will race for the Blues."
"I've never raced a chariot." Thyatis was outraged. "It won't be much of a contest!"
Ila tugged at her sleeve, making Thyatis lean down. "Yes, it will," whispered the mouse girl, her eyes narrowed to slits, glaring at the African. "I'll show you some more tricks. We're gonna get that smirking cat." She stuck out her tongue at Hamilcar.
The African laughed, his confidence suddenly very high. The news shook off his hangover and he ran a hand along the curved surface of the chariot. "Three days! It seems so long-"
"You seem so short," Thyatis said dryly. "You may wish it were long, when you cross swords with me."
Hamilcar grinned, his teeth brilliant and white in the gloom. "Well, then, we'll finally have a chance to see who masters the other."
Thyatis grinned again. "A good choice of words. You already have a collar, don't you?"
Hamilcar's face went cold. Like most of the gladiators, he was a slave. Thyatis laughed.
– |"I suppose," Anastasia said softly, depressed, "the Prince must have fought there on the mountaintop, and his power-exercised so violently-wo
ke the volcano to life. Disaster followed disaster."
Vitellix stood by the window, staring out at the garden. "Diana says she saw all the other men die at his hand, yet he had been wounded to the point of death himself. Is he truly so strong?"
"He must be!" Anastasia raised her head, glaring at the Gaul. "He does live, if we are to believe Betia. He was sent away to the school at Pergamum, you know, when he was young. The whole family was so proud-a healer with the true art is born to perhaps one family in a million-and they seemed blessed. Who knew things would turn out in such an evil way?"
"Do you think," Vitellix knelt by Anastasia's chair, his face pinched and intent, "Diana was right when she said she could have killed him by striking off his head?"
"I don't know." The Duchess looked away, closed fist bumping her lips. "We know so little about his powers. Krista…" Anastasia stopped, her face bleak, then made an effort to gather herself and resumed. "Krista told me the Prince could raise the dead as creatures without will, though they could speak and act if he directed them. He healed her hurts more than once, wounds which should have killed her. I gathered, from what little she said, he could draw upon the strength of those like Gaius Julius and Alexandros. She said their legends made them powerful."
Vitellix made a sound like a snort and a laugh at the same time. Anastasia stared at him, her eyes dry but desolate. "I have seen them both, I think, the golden youth and the gray old politician. At the house of Gregorious Auricus. In fact, I believe the esteemed senator is Gaius Julius' patron."
"What? His patron?" The Duchess pursed her lips, considering this news.
"Yes… Gaius Julius-if the man that I am thinking of is he-is responsible for the funeral games. He is the actual editore, though Gregorius-for obvious reasons-is the magistrate in charge. Gaius met Diana-pardon, Thyatis-at a party hosted by the senator. He conceived a desire for her, I think, but she rebuffed him."
Anastasia sighed. "Being in such a position would make it easy to have her captured and put into the Flavian as a criminal."
Vitellix nodded, still thinking. "I do not know what happened to the youth, though he suffered some kind of fit at the party. They took him away to a private room."
Nodding, Anastasia rose from the chair, absently smoothing her gown. Nervous, she took a corner of the sleek fabric between her fingers and began to fold it over and over, making a sharp edge that she rubbed against her thumb. "The histories say Alexander was sometimes afflicted with seizures. The physicians call it morbus comitialis, I believe. So-the two legends are here in the city. The Prince is here in the city. I do not believe, from the Emperor's reaction when he and I spoke, that Maxian has approached his brother."
"Does Maxian know?"
"That his brother acceded to my act?" Anastasia shrugged, lifting her white shoulders. "I do not know. If he does, then he will be very angry. The Emperor's life would be in grave danger… or would it?" The Duchess suddenly stopped. "There is-I do not know how to put it-there is apparently a magical guardian, if you will, watching over the Emperor and the Empire. It is very powerful. Part of the Prince's madness is his desire to overthrow this guardian. He believes the guardian exerts a baleful influence upon the people, sapping their vitality. However, it may be strong enough to keep Maxian from taking revenge upon his brother."
"Would he?" Vitellix clasped his hands behind his back. "Would he kill his own brother?"
"Galen would have him killed." Anastasia's voice dropped and she looked down. "Once a man is Emperor, then his actions are guided by the welfare of the state, not by his heart."
"Like yours?" Vitellix raised an eyebrow, but there was no censure in his voice. "I praise the Many-Handed each day I do not have to carry your burden. It would be too heavy for me."
Anastasia met his eyes and he felt enormous compassion for her, for there was such desolation and loss in them. Despite this, he knew she would never surrender her purpose, even if the weight of it crushed the life from her body.
"I will set my men to watch the house of Gregorious Auricus," Anastasia said. "We will find this dead man and the Prince. Please, if you will, see if you can speak with Thyatis and Ila. Narses may extend you that courtesy. He certainly will have nothing to do with me! If necessary, I will have them kidnapped so we can discover what Thyatis knows of the Prince. Also, I will speak with the Emperor and the Empress about this. Strenuous steps must be taken if the Prince is to be captured."
Vitellix nodded, his round face sad. He had hoped to leave this life behind long ago.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Constantinople
The tramp and clatter of hobnailed boots rang through the Great Gate. The ancient towers were blackened, scarred and scorched by the impact of stones and bolts. Constantinople had endured far too much in the last five years. Nicholas marched through shadow, Dwyrin right behind him, Vladimir bringing up the rear. They marched in the legionary cohort assigned to guard the Western legate, Dagobert, as he entered the city.
A crowd was waiting inside the gate, held back by the leveled spears of Eastern troops. The people stared at the foreigners with dead eyes and wan faces. No one seemed happy to see them. Noting the grim Eastern troops standing in the gatehouse, Nicholas wondered what had happened. These men looked defeated. Odd, considering the Arab army had been driven off into the fortifications held by the Persians north of the Golden Horn.
The Western legions held the Perinthus road, as well as most of the Arab works. The enemy, in fact, no longer directly threatened the city. The long, watery tongue of the Golden Horn thrust between the opposing armies. A stream fed into the Horn from the west, making a border between the Roman pickets and the Arab and Persian scouts. The mass of Constantinople lay south of the Horn on its own peninsula. Nicholas expected that once the Western and Eastern commanders put their heads together, a massed attack on the Persian camp would be launched, supported by a concerted effort by the Western and Eastern fleets to smash or drive off the Arab squadrons blockading the city.
In the aftermath of the dawn attack, Nicholas found himself and his two friends welcome guests of the legate himself, who seemed both appalled and overjoyed to have such a powerful weapon at hand. Nicholas watched the Western officers fawning over Dwyrin with growing disgust. The hatred and envy in the faces of the thaumaturges was worse. His gut told him to get the boy into the city as quickly as possible. Nicholas had pressed the legate to abide by the treaty. Dagobert wanted to demur, but he was not bold enough to imprison them. Thus, they entered the city under his protection, though they did not feel particularly safe.
"The Dux Dagobert, Son of Lothair, Tribune of the West, Commander of the Legions!" A bull-voiced guardsman crashed the butt of a heavy double-bitted ax on the floor. Dagobert entered, Nicholas, Vladimir and Dwyrin at his back. Two of his staff officers followed.
A man turned, face flushed with anger, from the table at the center of the room. Nicholas raised an eyebrow, seeing Dagobert stiffen. The easterner was tall and broad shouldered, with a neatly trimmed red-gold beard. He was wearing full cavalry armor and boots with a red stripe along the seam. Ah, Nicholas thought, taking the measure of the man, this is Prince Theodore, of whom so much was expected and so little delivered. Five or six Imperial officers, their silver-washed armor gleaming and burnished, their cloaks made of fine wool and silk, stood around the table. Each man pretended to ignore the interruption.
"Pardon me, my lord," Dagobert said stiffly. "I have come to speak with Emperor Heraclius about driving these Persians from his land."
"Have you? Well, then, long-hair, you will speak with me! I am Theodore, Caesar of the Eastern Empire and commander of the Imperial army. When I have time, I will discuss the disposition of your forces."
"Is Emperor Heraclius dead?" Dagobert's voice rose a little, putting a sharp emphasis on the word Emperor. "Are you his heir?"
Theodore's lip curled a little and he finally faced the Frank squarely. "Dead? No, he is not dead! He is ill, but I command the L
egions in the city and am his royal brother. Listen, tribune, you are most welcome, but I do not have time for you right now. Return to your camp and I will speak with you in the morning!"
Nicholas could see that the tribune's temper was fraying. The plain dismissal in the Eastern Prince's voice was an iron goad. Nicholas motioned with his head and Vladimir and Dwyrin, both wide-eyed, began to inch back out of the room. The Western staff officers moved up, smirking.
"Lord Theodore, Emperor Galen has declared me magister militatis of the Western Empire." Dagobert drew out a short ivory rod capped with gold. He held it up, light from the high, narrow windows catching on the bright metal. "By treaty, within the confines of the Eastern Empire, while I am here, I outrank all other officers in the Legion save the Eastern Emperor. This includes you. Now, where is Emperor Heraclius? I need to speak with him immediately!"
"The Emperor," Theodore snapped, face growing red, "is not here!"
Nicholas reached the door just as the Prince started to shout and eased it open. The two burly red-beards on either side looked down at him with interest, but he smiled and made a little wave with his fingers before slipping out.
"Nicholas! That was interesting! Why leave?" Dwyrin pressed his ear against the door, a sly look on his face. "Wait-I can still hear them. They're shouting."
"We can all hear them," Vladimir said dryly, cleaning out one ear with his finger. "I think everyone in the palace can hear them."
Nicholas rolled his eyes. "Come on. Let's find my tribune and report-then he can hide us somewhere! Bickering generals are nothing but trouble."
The northerner turned to go, but found himself face-to-face with a very angry young woman. She was short, richly dressed and blessed with a tousled head of brown hair. At the moment, she seemed ready to chew iron pigs and spit nails. A brace of very large men in armor were behind her. More of the Faithful Guard, though they were wearing closed helmets and their hands were tight on their weapons. "Out of my way, centurion!"
The storm of Heaven ooe-3 Page 68