The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  "Lord Jusuf!" One of the men on picket duty jogged up the road, long hair plastered against his head by the rain. "A band of horsemen are approaching!"

  "Stand ready!" Jusuf waved at his tarkhans, drawing their attention. A ripple ran down the lines of horsemen as men shifted shields around and stirred themselves, ready for action. The Khazar lord nudged his horse forward. A last bedraggled cohort of Romans splashed past, the men leaning against one another. At their rear, a grizzled-looking centurion was walking backwards, shield still at the ready, a gladius bare in his hand. Jusuf nodded to the man as he passed. The Western officer said nothing, his eyes focused on the rain.

  The mare clattered up onto the road, tossing her head, and Jusuf reined in, waiting in the middle of the road. After a moment, shapes appeared out of the rain, horsemen in scaled mail and conical helms. Rain-soaked plumes lay against their shoulders. Jusuf saw that they bore red shields blazoned with rampant dragons.

  "Ho!" he called through the steady drumbeat of rain. "Who is your commander?"

  A tall man in their midst looked up, then wiped water from his eyes. Jusuf spurred his horse forward, seeing that it was the Frankish legate, Dagobert. "My lord! Are there more men coming?"

  Dagobert shook his head, eyes desolate. Jusuf caught his reins, halting the man's horse. The Khazar bent close, eyes intent on the face of the Roman officer. "What happened?"

  "We are beaten." Dagobert's voice was barely audible. He leaned heavily on his saddle. "These are all the Sarmatians that escaped… the Third Augusta is gone, the Tenth Fretensis shattered. Did any man leave that terrible field alive?"

  Jusuf leaned back, seeing that the Frank's will was broken. He had seen this before, where a strong man tasted defeat for the first time. His mind would be filled with terrors and doubt. "Many men have left the field, hale, unwounded." The Khazar projected certainty and confidence in his voice. The Frank only looked away, long blond hair lying in streaks across his noble brow and strong chin. "Your army remains, my lord."

  "But so many are dead…" Dagobert's voice died away. Jusuf turned his horse, clucking at the mare to walk. Together, the two men clopped up the road. In the mist around them, the Khazars, still alert, folded in behind the Sarmatians. The Khazar pickets loped in, long-tailed caps bouncing on their shoulders. They stopped to help the wounded and then faded into the gloom.

  – |Torches guttered, hissing in the rain, throwing a fitful light on the walls of the Great Gate. A remnant of the Faithful Guard stood in the passage, one great iron-bound door already closed, the other pulled halfway shut. Their cloaks were stained and torn, heavy with clinging mud. Armor was twisted and bent, links missing, shields hacked and split. Most of the men leaned wearily against the stone walls, eyes bloodshot and heavy with fatigue.

  Only one man showed any motion, a stocky, thick-built Greek pacing back and forth in front of the gate, just out of the rain. The moat running before the prochtisma sparkled with rain and hail pelting down out of the sky. The clouds overhead pressed close to the earth, heavy and dark, blotting out the sun. A gloom like twilight was upon the fields, even though Rufio guessed it was late afternoon.

  He worried, staring out into the rain. He could barely make out the graveyards lining the highway. The long siege had destroyed all the trees within sight of the walls, but broken pillars still marked the fringe of the old burial places.

  "My lord?" The ekatontarch in charge of the gate garrison approached. "We must close the gate. The army has entered…"

  "Not all of them!" Rufio turned on the man, livid with anger. "There is still one more soldier out there."

  The Greek officer did not back away, his face rigid. "My lord, we must close the gate."

  Rufio's eyes glinted, fury mounting. But the man was right. Emotion was clouding his judgment. The captain of the Faithful felt a familiar chill. He had seen so many men die. They would just be two more…

  "Captain! Look…" The Faithful were pointing out into the darkness. "It's the Walach."

  Rufio turned and saw a hunched figure stumbling down the road, half bent under some burden. The Faithful came forth from the gate, weapons ready, exhausted but still wary and game for one more struggle. Rufio walked forward, black eyes flitting from side to side, watching for an ambush. In this weather, a thousand Persians might be just out of sight, hidden in the gloom. The figure came closer, and Rufio saw it was Vladimir carrying a limp body on his back.

  "I have him," the Walach gasped as he stumbled up. "I have him."

  Rufio put his hand on the boy's face. His cloak and tunic were sodden with rain and Dwyrin's flesh was cold to the touch. "Inside! Everyone inside! Prepare to close the gate!"

  Men crowded around them, taking Vladimir's burden. Dwyrin was lofted on their hands, his head lolling back, and they carried him into the gate on a bed of stout shoulders and brawny arms. Rufio was the last to enter the tunnel, still watching the rain-swept darkness.

  Then the gate ground closed with a deep boom and the fitful light on the road went out.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  The Palatine, Roma Mater

  Helena, Empress of the West, stood at a window, her face lit by flickering red light. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her makeup reduced to smudged streaks. She seemed very tired. The Empress rocked gently from side to side, a young child curled against her shoulder. The little boy was drooling on her gown. Outside, under a night sky filled with smoke, fires were burning furiously in the ruins of the Subura district. The bitter smell of hot ash and cracked brick drifted in through the window. As she watched, a great tower of sparks roared up behind the firebreak dividing the Forum from the Subura tenements. Despite the massive brick wall blocking her view, Helena knew an apartment block had just collapsed in fiery ruin, tiled roof caving in, a jet of incandescent flames leaping up, roaring out the windows.

  "They say, in Rome, fire is profit." Helena's tone was conversational.

  The other figures in the dark room did not answer. There was a low bed, half surrounded by gauze drapes. The only illumination came from the window, a wavering hot red light. A young woman lay on the bed, her side and arm tightly bound in cotton bandages. She was sleeping, her breathing even and steady. A pattern of ugly bruises covered her face. Sitting beside her, hands clasped in her lap, Anastasia watched Thyatis sleep. The Duchess was still dressed in cerulean, though the sky-blue cape had been lost during the panic in the circus.

  "She won't wake faster if you hover like that," the Empress said, turning away from the window. Her hair gleamed with the light of distant fires. "You should sleep."

  "No. Not until she wakes." Anastasia did not look up.

  Sighing, Helena settled gracefully into a plush upholstered chair. Her son, shifting, made a burbling sound then fell asleep again. Murmuring echoes filled the air. Occasionally, distant trumpets sounded over the rumble of the flames. "What then? Do you think she will forgive you?"

  "I hope so." Anastasia's voice was hoarse with exhaustion, but since a priest of Asklepius had put his hands upon her, Thyatis' color improved and the Duchess' worry eased. "Her anger will fade."

  "Really?" One of Helena's carefully plucked eyebrows arched in amusement. "She might take being shot with an arrow amiss. Some people dislike that."

  Anastasia looked up, finally, and there was a hint of a glare in her look. "Not if no one tells her. Not if no one harps upon the event like a town crier… bringing it up again and again and again."

  Helena laughed softly, trying not to disturb the baby. "I will say nothing. But what about the Gaul and his daughter, what about those mercenaries of yours?"

  "They will say nothing." Anastasia flashed another glare, then settled back in her chair, hands covering her face. Her voice grew fainter. "I will send Vitellix and his little troupe away, laden with gold and gifts. They are going home, to Gaul. The men… they are circumspect. They can see what is happening in the streets-they will not brag of this!"

  "No, I suppose not." Helena
watched her friend closely. "How do you feel?"

  "Empty." The Duchess stared out the window at drifting clouds lit from below by countless fires. "But my mind seems clear and I am not without hope."

  "Because she is alive?" The Empress pointed her chin at the sleeping woman. "You're getting sentimental."

  Anastasia just stared at Helena, her face entirely in shadow. "I have come to care for her."

  "You once told me you could not afford to love anyone save the Duke. Do you remember that? You said that he was safe to love because he was dead. What hurt or betrayal could he offer? None! I thought that was very wise."

  "Those were my words," Anastasia said peevishly. "Are you going to lecture me? Why do you care?"

  "I care," Helena said in a serious tone, "because I have a son. An emperor's son. How can my child thrive and grow, live a long life, if his father is overthrown or defeated? No king's son is suffered to live by a conqueror or rebel! Galen must be emperor until my son comes of age, and you must help them both." As she spoke, a cold tone of command entered Helena's voice and Anastasia grew still. The Empress continued, her voice precise.

  "With your help, Galen has prospered. Your illness has hurt him, weakening the state. You have been irresponsible. I cannot allow you these weaknesses."

  The Duchess straightened up in her chair, her whole attention focused on the Empress. Despite the gusts of furnace-hot air that eddied around the window, a chill stole over her. Helena had never spoken to her this way before, not in all the years of their friendship. "My daughter is not a weakness."

  "She is if her loss destroys you," Helena said in a clipped tone. "She is a weapon, one you used with abandon in the past. You cannot protect her or hide her from the world. You cannot hide from the world."

  "I know this." The Duchess rubbed her eyes, getting sparkling white abalone dust on her knuckles. "I will help the Emperor, be he Galen or your son." Anastasia glared at Helena again, her full lips compressing in suppressed anger. "But I will not put aside my love for my daughter. Not for you or anyone."

  "Then harden your heart to her death," Helena snapped, rising smoothly from the chair, still cradling the child against her shoulder. "You made her a soldier and she will die before her time."

  "I know." Anastasia looked up, her face a controlled mask. "Why are you so afraid?"

  Helena was at the window again, staring out over the rumpled hills of the city. The great burning in the Subura raged on, despite the efforts of the vigiles and the Legion troops that Galen had sent into the city. Other fires guttered amid ruins on the Cispian and Viminal hills. Everywhere members of the Green racing faction had lived, the mob had come, seeking vengeance for the "murder" of their favorite. The Empress put her hand on the cold marble windowsill.

  "You are not blind! Look at the city-the mob is wild in the streets, barely restrained by the Praetorians and the Legion. Thousands are dead, entire blocks in flames, senators dragged from their homes and stoned to death or just torn apart. Madness infects everyone. Only the Emperor's swift denunciation of the act and the culpability of the Greens saved Galen's life, and ours. Do you think the Praetorians would raise a hand against the mob if they thought the Emperor were involved in this?"

  The Empress gestured violently at the smoke-filled sky and seething red-lit clouds. She groped for words, but seemed to be gripped by fierce emotion. At last she said, "War threatens the northern borders; already it engulfs the East. The news from Constantinople is poor. Everywhere there is turmoil and trouble. Someone was waiting for this-for some spark to light in the tinder of Rome-and they grow fat from ruin. They want my son's patrimony!"

  Anastasia rose, though she lingered for an instant by Thyatis' side, her fingertips gentle on the young woman's arm. "You think someone incited the mob?"

  "Yes." Helena turned, silhouetted against the flame-shot skyline. "Was it you?"

  "What?" Anastasia stepped back from the window, shocked. "What do you mean?"

  "Did you order your archer to shoot Thyatis so she would lose the race?" Helena seemed to have grown taller. A chill came over Anastasia again, raising goose bumps on her arms, making the fine hairs on the back of her sleek neck stand on end.

  "No. I did not. I ordered him to shoot the Green driver, to save her life! His shot went astray. She leapt up on the back of the horse at just the wrong moment!"

  "Perhaps." Helena stepped close, grim eyes searching Anastasia's face. "Do you know where your archer is?"

  The Duchess shook her head, eyes wide with surprise at this turn in the conversation.

  "He is dead," Helena bit out, furious. "The Praetorians found him in the river, missing his head. At first I thought you were playing a very bold game, running to me with your injured daughter, seeking shelter on the Palatine while the circus was engulfed in riot. That way you would be safe while the Greens and their ally, lanista Narses, were destroyed. I wondered-did you already have a feud with the Greens? With Narses? Did you see a chance to clean house?"

  The Empress cocked her head to one side, watching the play of stunned emotion on Anastasia's face. "But then I watched you while Thyatis slept, while the priest mended her broken bones and shattered ribs. Everything in you was concentrated upon her. This was not your plot. Someone else's, perhaps, but not yours. You did not even hear the sounds of battle in the streets, the roar of the flames, the panic in everyone's voice."

  Helena's voice softened and she took Anastasia's head in her hands. Leaning close, the Empress pressed her brow against Anastasia's. "You watch her as I watch my son. I am sorry she was hurt."

  Stepping away, Helena swung the shutters closed, plunging the room into darkness. "You must stay here until the city is quiet. There is no safety in the streets. I must take my son to see Galen and then to bed. You should sleep, if you can."

  Anastasia found the wicker table by touch. She lit a small gryphon-shaped lamp with a punk. Dim yellow flame licked up from the gryphon's nostrils. Thyatis' face was only half illuminated. Anastasia sat again, her arms clutched across her chest.

  "Here." Helena bent down and lifted a blanket from the foot of the bed. "You're cold."

  "Thank you." Anastasia pulled the dark blue quilt around her shoulders. Her voice was tinged with melancholy. "I will do what I can to help your son and your husband, Helena. I am afraid that events have moved beyond me. Many things have changed in my… absence. The world has passed me by."

  "Huh." Helena grunted, the corners of her eyes crinkling up as she smiled. "The world always moves on, Anastasia. Our memories anchor us in the past. They will drown you, if you don't let go. Think about tomorrow instead."

  When the Empress turned up the quilt to cover her friend's arm, the Duchess was sound asleep. The movement finally disturbed the little boy, whose eyes opened, and he made a face like a little monkey. Little fists batted at the air as he drew breath to wail.

  "Oh, hush." Helena stood up, adjusting the baby and her gown. "Don't make such a racket. We'll go see your pater and annoy him with your squalling."

  – |A withered hand entered the room first, clutching a trembling candlestick. Warm white light spilled over painted walls and a glossy wooden floor. A couch lay along one wall, covered with linen sheets and a blanket. Above the man lying on the bed, the gods upon Olympus looked down, hanging among the frozen birds and painted spirits of the air. In the flickering candlelight, their faces were filled with subtle life and motion.

  "Troublesome child." The old man sat heavily in a curule chair. He was bent with age, the backs of his hands spotted and wrinkled. Leaning close, Gaius Julius squinted at the face of the Prince. It was pale and still, though breath escaped the parted lips. "You remain constant, at least. I win another day of life!"

  The old Roman laughed, a guttural cackling sound. "You would laugh to see how fiercely I clutch to this shadow of existence. I treasure every moment, my lord, every moment." He frowned. "I wish that Alexandros were here… then we could be invalids together, comparing bedsores an
d the firmness of our stools…"

  Maxian did not respond, lying still and cold under the sheets, his brow slightly furrowed. Gaius Julius had brought him here in secret, into one of the apartments the old Roman had recently acquired. This one was very small and very expensive. It was on the third floor of the last privately owned apartment building on the Palatine Hill. Gaius Julius found the investment now gave a rich return-the Praetorians and the Legion had sealed off the Palatine and the Forum, allowing no one through their barricades while the Blues and Yellows raged in the streets, slaughtering the Greens.

  The thought brought a slow, blissful smile to Gaius' face. Unconsciously, his fingers moved jerkily, as if they were counting stacks of coins. His wagers on the outcome of the race had paid handsomely, filling his coffers with delightful gold. Even better, the mob's revenge on the Greens had relieved him of having to pay off his losses. And, of course, his agents were busy in the city tonight, as they had been for the past two days, acquiring properties that had been ravaged by the fires. Gaius had learned well, in his youth.

  "I wonder," mused the old Roman, his wrinkled hand pressed against Maxian's cold skin, "if you will ever die? Will you just maintain, trapped in this half-life? Will I live on while you are sleeping? I'd think this a poor existence if I had not tasted true death."

  The Prince had not taken food or water since his collapse on the roof of the Flavian. Gaius Julius had tried to moisten his lips, hoping to keep him alive, but the Prince simply did not change. The old Roman assumed that Maxian's sorcerous power sustained him. Shaking his head in wonder, Gaius turned away from the Prince and shuffled to his own couch, where he would lie down, eyes closed, thinking and waiting for the day to come again.