To his right sat Purandokht, her twin sister, though Arad marked that her eyes were a watery green. They did not match well with the floor, but he forbore mentioning this. Purandokht, too, was encrusted with finery and gold and gems of a thousand colors. Each sat at ease, though Arad could taste fear in the air from the courtiers and nobles who made up their court. To her, he bowed low again and then stood. "Glory to your name, Flame of the East."
A servant kneeling on the step below Azarmidukht held the parchment in his hands. The Princess made a small motion with her hand, barely moving a fingernail. "You bring us news of our uncle, priest?" Her voice was strong, but none would call it melodious. "We are puzzled, thinking him long dead, banished beyond the edge of the world."
"Yes," Purandokht said smoothly, following on her sister's words without a pause. "What favor does he seek of our Royal mercy?" The green-eyed Princess smiled, though it was hard to make out on her henna-etched lips.
"I beg your indulgence, Crowns of the Firmament of Heaven, your noble uncle had heard that some ignorant men disputed your claim to the throne of your father. He comes to lend you his arm in support of your rightful patrimony."
Arad bowed again, his forehead barely grazing the cool tile of the floor. It seemed appropriate. There was a rustling in the court-their neighbors had roused many who had fallen asleep during the revels. Arad had only glanced around for an instant as he had walked from the door up the long aisle among the couches and low tables, but he knew that none of the great spabahadan were present. The true powers in the land were waiting to see if the Empresses could gather any strength at all.
Azarmidukht's eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward slightly, a movement that sent a trill of chiming metal and crystal across the room.
"How strong is this arm? Does he command more than a rabble? None have seen him for nearly twenty years, if my memory of ancient times does serve."
Arad, still facing the floor, smiled bitterly at the brash words. How could anyone not know the power of Lord Dahak, now that he moved in the world?
"Light of the Coming Sun, your uncle comes with a strength of twenty thousand men, all pledged to your cause."
All around the room was a titter of incredulity and some small hiss of fear. The disaster at Kerenos River and the failed campaigns of the dead King Chrosoes had beggared Persia for men and treasure. Once an army of twenty thousand would be the matter of mustering a great Prince's country estates, but now it was a force to be reckoned with and more. Purandokht had opened her mouth to make a scathing remark, but now she closed it with a snap and sought her sister's eye.
Azarmidukht remained composed and raised an eyebrow. "And when, priest, may we expect our uncle to attend us?"
Arad rose, leaving the staff lying on the floor, and met the eyes of the two Queens. "Within moments, Blessed of the Flame That Does Not Die. I hurried ahead to bring you this news, lest there be confusion, fear, or unwary words. Here, your uncle bade me bring you these tokens of the love that he holds for you."
Arad removed a package of cloth-of-gold from his robe and ascended the steps. The Pushtigbhan behind the thrones, a full score of them, tensed. Purandokht caught the eye of their captain and shook her head slightly. Arad knelt on the step at their feet, fighting hard to keep from sneezing. A slowly shifting cloud of myrrh and rose-attar surrounded the Princesses. He unwrapped the package, untying silk twine and showing first an inner covering of silver mesh and then, in his upraised hands, two slim black bracelets.
Purandokht started in utter surprise, her hand flying to her mouth, the rattle of her garments as she made to rise echoing loud in the expectant quiet of the court. Her sister's fingers tightened on the arms of the throne, and a thin hiss of rage escaped her lips.
"Where…?" Azarmidukht could barely speak.
Arad separated the cloths, taking one bracelet in cloth-of-gold and the other in silver mesh. He turned to his left, to Azarmidukht, and held the bracelet up to her.
"In the last days of her life your mother gave this into the keeping of your uncle. She commanded him to bring them to you when her husband, your father, at last lay dead. Rustam protested, knowing that these things should go to you straightaway, but she insisted. Now he sends them to you, a token of his love and hers. Pray, lady, take it as your mother intended."
Arad cursed himself for a coward, raging at himself in his mind. Still, he could not prevent his hands from slipping the thin black bracelet-its fine mesh of scales glinting in the light of the lanterns-around the pale white wrist of the Princess. Azarmidukht stared down at it as it closed on her wrist, sliding snug, and in her eyes the priest could see the reflection of a band of white gold blazing with emeralds. In that brief moment Arad saw into the heart of the Princess and felt the crushing weight of love long thought denied. The sorcerer's will kept him from tears at this betrayal, but he turned and slid the other onto the waiting arm of Purandokht, who was already crying, her tears cutting deep tracks in the arsenic paste makeup that kept her skin so pure and white.
"Your uncle bade me say this." Arad's voice sank to a whisper that did not reach beyond the ears of the two young women. "As she lay dying, your mother said to him that she loved you both very much and was so proud of you. She regretted the long coldness she had showed you, but it was necessary. To come to this day, as you stand Empresses of all Persia, it was vital that she make you strong. These tokens, things that were denied you in life, she passed on that you would know, today, that you were her most beloved."
Arad felt the doors to the hall open, and he stood, turning, and took the hands of the two Princesses. Even Azarmidukht was crying now, though she did not speak. Purandokht was gasping for breath, feeling the long years of bitter hatred she had held for her mother crumble and collapse. The rush of emotion washed over Arad like a shock of icy water, and his hatred for the sorcerer had never been greater. Even so, he helped them rise.
Lord Dahak entered the chamber. Khadames and a dozen Pushtigbhan were at his back. He strode across the marble; rich brown hair tied back behind his head, ruddy pink in his cheeks, and knelt with impeccable grace before the two princesses. "Beloved nieces, it has been too long. You were so small when I saw you last." His voice filled the room with a rich baritone, and every heart there leapt at the surety of command ringing in those words. Dahak raised his eyes, meeting each Princess in turn. Behind them, Arad stepped away behind the golden thrones, unleashed from his master's will for just a moment. Dahak brought the two young women into a close embrace, bending his head to speak softly to each. Azarmidukht was sobbing now, seeing love and acceptance and guileless welcome in the sorcerer's eyes.
In this light, under these lanterns, the face of the sorcerer was the very image of the dead king.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Roma Mater
The wagon rattled through hills of debris rising higher than a villa roof. The road here was elevated on an embankment and sealed with close-fitted paving stones. Krista dozed lightly, leaning back on a frayed cushion wedged against the wooden back of the driver's seat. The little black cat was a warm presence on her chest, where it had curled up inside her cloak. This close to the city a haze of wood smoke clouded the sky and lent the air a bitter taste. The road ran straight as a die, coming out of the valley behind and running ahead to the rising wall of the city. A vast tumbled pile of broken pottery, wine jars, and amphorae rose up on the left. To their right, acres of discarded furniture, substandard building tile, cracked brick, and splintered barrels humped toward the horizon. Among the hills, curls of smoke rose up from funerary temples and the camps of rag pickers and vagrants.
Even with most of the debris of the city being carried down to Portus on barges returning to the great port to pick up new shipments of trade goods, the waste heap of the ancient capital was enormous. Clouds of tiny brown birds swept and dove over the hills, sometimes blocking the sun.
Krista had a bag on her lap as well, with her hand inside, riding on the hilt of a che
ap iron knife. The wagoneer was a surly man with an evil black beard and a sullen disposition. He had taken her copper coin and let her ride with him, but he kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye and, despite being exhausted, she did not sleep. Even this catnap seemed to have encouraged him, and she felt the wagon slow. She cracked an eyelid and measured the distance to the Via Appia gate. No more than a mile, she supposed. I could get out and walk, she thought.
She yawned, stretching, and sat up. The driver's hand snatched away from over her knee. Krista stared at him, and he looked away. Clouds were edging into the sky from the east, threatening to cut off the pale sunlight. Krista shivered and wished she had thought to bring a heavier cloak. It could be quite cold in Rome, even in summer. The wagon jounced and banged as it crossed a bad section of road. Krista slid the little cat into her bag, ignoring the plaintive mew of protest.
Motion on a nearby mound of cracked olive jars and discarded racing chits drew her eye. A man in a dirty brown-and-white cloak was scrambling up the side of the road embankment. His face and hands were wrapped in grimy linen. Krista snapped the iron knife out of its sheath and whirled around. The driver, startled by her motion, looked back toward her. Four more men had appeared out of the rubble on the other side of the road and were running toward the wagon. The driver shouted in fear and cracked his whip over the heads of the oxen.
Krista rolled off of the seat as the cart jerked forward, hitting the ground hard on the balls of her feet and then bouncing back up. The bag with the little cat was clutched tight to her chest. The four men reached the road, ignored the cart, and ran toward her. The lead man was shouting something, but the rags that covered his face muffled the sound. Krista dodged across the road toward the single man who had just managed to make it up the road embankment. He was just standing up, brushing dirt from his tunic, when she spun into him, her right foot flashing around and up to crack against the side of his head.
The man cried out and staggered back. Krista dropped down lightly and then jumped over the side of the embankment. Dirt fountained under her feet as she slid down the side of the road. The man, stunned by her kick, toppled off the road and bounced down the slope, crashing into a great pile of half-burned wicker baskets. Krista hit the bottom of the slope running, and dodged off through the smoldering piles of refuse.
On the road behind her, the leader of the four men cursed and ground his fist into his thigh in disgust. "Krista!" He cupped his hands to make his voice carry farther, but the girl was already gone.
– |It was well past sunset when Krista finally entered the city. After the close shave on Via Appia, she had picked her way through the rubbish yards to the Ostia gate-the next closest entrance in the wall-but some suspicious characters had been loitering in the shade of the gate towers. She crouched in the shadow of a mound of broken statuary for almost two hours before one of the ragged men she had seen before appeared and spoke quietly to one of the watchers. It was afternoon, then, and she took her time working through the debris and smoke and funereal tombs to the east. The city of Rome was entered by many gates, but all of them had guards. Some of the watchers would be more alert than others, and she had no idea how many of the ragged men there were.
At nightfall she fed the little cat the last of the smoked fish from Herculaneum and scratched its ears. She sat in deep shadow under a curving section of wall at the eastern end of the city. The wall was odd looking, lined with arches and pillars in three courses. The main wall ran into it at an angle and stopped abruptly. The archways were filled in with mixed brick and concrete. Over the walls, the daytime din and clatter of the Asinara district was fading as people went home and closed up shop. The little cat was nosing about, looking for mice in the high grass that grew along the verge of the rampart. Not more than ten feet away, a doorway was set into the wall in a very shallow embrasure. The door was iron and heavy and locked, but Krista could smell the rank odor of urine on the bricks that filled the archways on either side.
The curved section of wall was known to her, too; it was the outer face of the amphitheater of Castrense-a theater of moderate size that had been incorporated in the outer city wall hundreds of years ago. Once, she supposed, official games and pageants would have been held in it. Now she knew that it hosted a stodgy succession of theater revivals, religious festivals, and-in the evening-it was rented out for private parties. Even with the height of the wall above her, she could hear the tinny clash of cymbals and the racket of young boys singing. The little black cat sidled back up to her, nosing at her hand. Krista smiled and opened her palm. There was no more fish. The little cat gave a quiet sigh and crawled into her lap.
She sat quietly, waiting for an overindulgence of wine to take its inevitable effect.
– |Krista glided into the alleyway behind the Duchess' villa with trepidation. Rome after midnight was still a dangerous proposition-filled with footpads and murderers-even under the firm rule of Emperor Galen. The city was just too big and crowded and filled with foreigners to police properly. It had taken almost three hours for Krista to make her way across the city to the Quirinal hill and home, but now she was at the back gate, feeling the strain of the long day in her calves. Luckily, the Duchess had great call for people to come and go quietly from her house so there was always a watchman on duty.
She rapped on the stout wooden panel with the pommel of the iron knife and, after a moment, there was a rattling as the spy hole cover was moved aside. A bleary blue eye peered out and widened at the sight of Krista standing under the gate lamp. Krista made a half snarl and bobbed her head. "Let me in." She was very tired and very grumpy. The door clanked as the locking bar was thrown back, and she pushed in before it was even open. The man on watch made to say something, but Krista raised a hand to silence him. "Later, Macrus, later. After a bath and sleep. Oh, what happened to your eye?"
The servant, a burly man with thick forearms and a trunk like neck, had a bandage wrapped around his head and over one eye. He made to speak, but Krista ignored him and carried on. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I'll find the Duchess by myself. You can tell me tomorrow."
She hurried off, her whole body aching with desire for a hot bath and a bed with fresh, clean sheets. At the gate, Macrus closed his mouth with a snap and shook his head in amusement as he locked the gate again.
– |Krista clattered down the steps into the gymnasium and the baths, her cloak already bundled under one arm with the bag and the cat. On the lower level, she turned left in the round atrium, intending to enter the series of rooms that held marble tubs set into the floor, but the ring of steel drew her attention. On the right-hand side of the gymnasium was a practice floor of sand surrounded by an arcade of columns. Krista slipped into the room, her sandals off, and came to stand next to one of the fluted green pillars. Oil lamps in bronze holders burned on each acanthus capital, casting a steady, warm glow over the rectangle of sand in the middle of the room.
In the fighting square, Thyatis attacked furiously, her Indian-steel blade flickering in the air. She was clad in only a short kilt and a twisted cloth strophium that bound her breasts close to her chest. Her long hair was pinned back in a bun and away from her face. Her skin was slick with sweat and silver droplets flew off her arms as she pressed the attack. Nikos faced her, stripped to a loincloth as well, his own sword a blur in the air as he matched her stroke for stroke. Thyatis bounced back, the tip of her blade trapping his on the withdraw. Nikos lunged in, striking for the inside of her arm. She blocked downward and turned on her heel, trying to lead him past her. He countered and threw an elbow at her face.
Thyatis leaned aside, slipping the blow. Her sword flashed back at his throat, and he parried furiously. They traded a passage of lunge and thrust and parry and then stood back, chests heaving with exertion. The echoes of steel on steel faded in the high arch of the roof. Nikos' bald head and bare chest gleamed with sweat. Krista started breathing again. Both of them seemed possessed.
"That is enough." The deep hu
sky contralto of the Duchess filled the air, and Krista started in surprise. Anastasia appeared between the pillars on the far side of the fighting square, her oval face filled with weariness. Krista frowned, seeing that the Duchess was wearing only a very simple gown. The lady's hair was bound up in a silver net, and her makeup was unusually heavy. Behind the striated green pillar, Krista licked her lips. There was some great trouble in the air.
"If you press yourselves more, you will only gain exhaustion, not skill." The Duchess' voice was already weary, and she stepped down onto the sand with the assistance of a little blond slave. Krista raised an eyebrow, seeing her replacement already in train. The girl was watching Nikos, however, and Krista smiled to see the intent look on her face. The Illyrian was rubbing his face with a towel, having put his blade away in its old, weathered leather sheath. The sweat-soaked loincloth left very little of his tough, muscular physique to the imagination. Thyatis turned to face the Duchess, her face grim and set. "We need a little more time on the sand," the young woman said. "Everyone's timing is off."
Anastasia nodded and handed another towel to Thyatis. The young woman smiled back and took it, drying her face and arms. The little blond slave sidled up to Nikos to take his towel away. The Illyrian grinned at her, and she glowered back before escaping with the towels through the pillars.
"I know." The Duchess sighed and pinched her nose. "My men have yet to find the Prince, so we can only train and wait. His caravan disappeared before it reached Cumae, but I have agents quartering the entire province in search of him."
Krista swallowed and stepped out between the columns. In her arms the little black cat poked its head out of the bag, looking around in interest.
The Gate of fire ooe-2 Page 54