Thyatis smiled, showing her teeth in the darkness. If this homunculus could not bleed and die like a man, then it would be rendered down into its very constituent atoms. The young Roman woman rocked back and forth on her heels, feeling immense satisfaction. It was good that the Duchess maintained an Empire-wide network of informers, spies, watchers, and messengers. Acquiring these barrels had stretched her power-it was absolutely forbidden by Imperial edict for a private citizen to possess the substance within those close-fitted oaken staves-but what use was power and influence without its exercise?
The Illyrian laid his barrel down carefully in the nest of blankets and wrapped another tightly woven wool quilt around it. Anagathios did likewise and then they piled more blankets on top of that. The jostling of the wagon would barely touch the nervous substance within. Two of the legionnaires climbed up onto the driver's seat. A team of four mules drew the wagon and they were impatient to go.
Thyatis looked around, seeing the rest of her men mounting up. It was time. The nervous tickling in her stomach faded, replaced by the cold certainty that infused her once action was imminent. Half a glass from now, the Via Appia gate would open and they would be on the road south. She counted heads. Everyone was present. A stable boy led her horse up and she took the reins. In defiance of city fashion, she was wearing long warm woolen trousers. She looked up, her eyes scanning the upper floors of the villa.
At one, silhouetted by the warm gold of dozens of candles, the Duchess looked down from a half-open window. The older woman was cowled in a white cape and hood. Thyatis raised a hand in salute and Anastasia answered it.
"Hey-yup! Open the gate." In the still, cold air her voice seemed loud, but the rattle of the gate chains and the rumble of wooden doors quickly drowned the sound as they swung open. Servants darted aside as the wagon rolled out into the black space of the alley. Two lanterns hung on metal posts at the front of the wagon bobbed and flickered, casting a fitful illumination on the road. Thyatis followed, her breath still frosting in the air. Nikos, Anagathios, and the others were close behind, their horses blowing and whickering in complaint. Sensible creatures, thought Thyatis moodily, they want to be in their nice warm stable, asleep, at such an hour.
– |"In a glass or so," Anastasia said, "they will be at the Appia gate and on the road south."
The Duchess turned, her violet eyes gleaming in the candlelight. She had kept Betia very busy at this atrocious hour, carefully anointing her long eyelashes with flecks of gold, accenting her cheekbones, and smoothing her skin with a fine dust of pearl and arsenic. The wearing demands of the Emperor had kept her on edge for months and blemishes had been her reward. Under the supple cloak-a pristine Sabine white-she wore a demure gown of layered charcoal-gray wool edged with silver. Galen's latest innovation of government was a sunrise meeting, accompanied by hot mulled wine and freshly baked bread and butter. The Duchess was all for catching the consuls, tribunes, and ministers at a disadvantage from a night of debauchery, but she preferred to do so while well-rested herself.
"And I?" Krista stood by the door of the little reading room, well away from the window. The young woman had bound her hair back in a tight braid, then wrapped it with a leather thong. Her tunic and cloak and kilt were a deep forest green that verged to black. The weathered brown leather of her girdle was almost invisible against the material. Like the Duchess, her cloak was hooded, though when pulled up, Krista's left her entire face in shadow. Long sleeves covered her arms and two long knives and a short sword were slung at her side from a Legion-style baldric. "Where will I be?"
The Duchess sighed, holding out her hand. Chains of pearls accented her arm, gleaming in the lamplight. Krista stepped up and took her hand. "You will be upon your way to the port at Ostia by a fast horse, my dear. A galley, the Paris, is waiting for you there. The captain is one of my couriers. He will take you to Cumae, within hours of the mountain and the villa. You will be ahead of Thyatis and her men by at least two days."
Anastasia pressed a wallet of tooled leather into Krista's hand. It was heavy and clinked as the younger woman hefted it.
"Coin enough," smiled the Duchess. "You can get whatever you need: horses, gladiators, slaves, weapons. Cumae caters to the estates of the rich. It has a sophisticated market." Anastasia paused, her lips pursed. "Are you sure of this?" The Duchess leaned forward a little, closing the space between her and the girl. "You need not put yourself at risk."
Krista laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "While the handsome Prince lives, neither you nor I are safe. If we can kill him, then we can rest easy. My lady, please listen and understand me… I must kill him." The dark-haired girl clenched her fist hard, turning her knuckles white. "I must."
Anastasia opened her mouth, ready to press her servant for why and how but then relented. Something had transpired between the two, something more than the business of men and women. She could see the closely held determination that sustained Krista. Things were fragile enough already without provoking more trouble. She let it go. It did not matter how the beautiful Prince died.
"Very well," said the Duchess. "Do you need anything else?" Krista's mouth thinned into a sharp line. She shook her head. "I have what I need already," Krista said, tucking the wallet away. "Goodbye."
Anastasia inclined her head and let her fingers slip out of Krista's hand. "Good luck."
Without another word, the young woman slipped out the door and took the stairs to the lower floor two and three at a time. When she was gone, the Duchess sat at her desk, her heart heavy, and sighed. The day was only beginning. She flipped open the first briefing booklet and blinked, trying to clear her eyes.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Red Palace, Petra, Nabatea
Sunlight slanted across a table top of mottled travertine. The light brought out the whorls of cream and rust that penetrated the rock, mixing with a flux of darker red material. Mohammed's hands were pressed on the table, flat on the smooth cold surface. A pale green porcelain jug of water stood nearby and an arrangement of fresh-cut flowers held in a copper vase cast a shadow over his fingers. The gardens of the palace, watered by their own spring and culvert, were a wonder to behold. On this day, in the late morning, the scent of thousands of blossoms flooded the air, drifting through the high, arched windows on a light breeze.
Mohammed stood at the side of the table, his eyes staring blankly out the window over the rooftops of the city. His whole body, save for his hands, was trembling. The distant sounds of mules clattering through the streets of the city or the cries of hawkers in the market of Trajan went unheard. Sweat beaded his brow and ran in thin rivulets down the side of his neck. The thin cream-colored cotton shirt that he wore was damp with moisture and clung to the hard muscles of his shoulder and back. Tendrils of pure white striped his thick black beard. An almost inaudible hum trembled in the air.
The power released him and the Quraysh gasped softly, suddenly breathing again, seeing again. He staggered a little and groped for a chair.
"Lord Mohammed, I would speak with you." The voice was harsh and brittle, sounding very old for the youthful woman who strode into the room. She stopped, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the Arab chieftain slumping wearily in the wicker chair. "Are you ill?"
Mohammed looked up, his eyebrows bristling. The Palmyrene woman stood, arms akimbo, her legs firmly planted, staring down at him with piercing dark eyes. She was dressed in severe dark colors, a tunic of black cotton over the rippling metal of a scaled iron corselet. Desert robes draped her shoulders, though they bunched at her left shoulder where the hilt of a saber jutted up. She wore Roman-style riding boots and still maintained the thick leather belt of a legionnaire.
"Lady Zoe" Mohammed acknowledged. "Are you ready?"
Zoe's face remained impassive, though one eyebrow hinted at a quirk. "My men and I have been ready for weeks. Yours also-we have sufficient camels and horses for the cavalry. Every wagon within leagues has been confiscated. The water barrels are full, the qu
artermaster satisfied by the count of wheaten cakes and rashers of bacon. We waste our time in these endless drills and maneuvers so dear to your puppy of a general. Even the weather has refrained from becoming too hot. Yet we wait for your command."
"We have waited," Mohammed said in a soft voice. "We have waited for word to come to me."
"Has it come?" Zoe stepped to the edge of the table, her back stiff with anger. Her impatience was legendary among the Sahaba. Jalal was fond of saying that she would flay the khamshin for its sloth in crossing the land.
"Are you ready?" countered Mohammed, rising himself. The strain and weariness of the listening did not take long to pass. He felt certainty and surety of purpose flood his limbs with strength. "I do not speak of your men, or your cousin, I speak of you."
Zoe sneered, her expression filled with bile. Her hair had become lank and spilled from the crown of her head in a tangled mess. Mohammed knew from his spies that she spent long hours closeted in the tomb she shared with the withered corpse of her aunt. The dead Queen had been placed in a catafalque of marble, dredged out of one of the old tombs. When she was not there, she prowled the canyons and ravines that riddled the hills around the city, poking into tombs and crevices. Odd smells and sounds often emanated from the grave-houses of the Petrans. Some of Mohammed's men had reported seeing shapes in the twilight, things like men, but smaller, creeping among the crumbling statues and tombs. Much evil had been done here. Mohammed could feel it like heat radiating off the lava fields of the An'Nafud.
"I am ready," she snapped, her mouth turned down in a grimace. "Are you?"
"Word has come," said Mohammed, bowing his head. "The power that moves the tide and lets sunlight fall has spoken from the clear air. We will leave as soon as the heat of the day begins to fade."
Zoe grinned, showing yellowed teeth. Her eyes lit up. "Praise the gods! I will inform Khalid and Odenathus immediately!" She turned to stride from the room, but Mohammed halted her with a touch on her arm. Under his fingertip, her skin was like ice.
"No," he said. "You and I will go, alone. Camels will be waiting for us under the eaves of Jebel al'Harun."
Zoe turned, her brow furrowed with confusion. Mohammed almost laughed aloud to see her so vexed. The young woman was filled with enormous impatience. Every sinew of her lithe young body strained to release rage and hate and pain in a frenzy of violence. In the palace, she was the bane of the servants. When she was in a black mood, vases and pots would crack and shatter as she passed. Marble floor tiles had been known to warp and splinter where she walked. Those men and women in the royal enclosure who were sensitive to such things had long ago been sent away. The fury that boiled and curdled in the Palmyrene Queen was dangerous when coupled with the power within her.
"Go where? Alone? Why?"
Mohammed picked up his saber and belt and strapped them around his waist. He took his time, waiting for the young woman to breathe out. At last, with a hiss, she relented and subsided a little.
"There is a city-though it is little more than a town-some days' ride from here. The voice from the clear air bids me take you there and stand upon the summit of a hill. We will ride through the night to reach it. It will not take long."
The Quraysh tugged his hood up, letting it cover his head and face. The sun did not spare anyone.
"What town?" Zoe sounded petulant and angry that he did not budge when she tried to bend him to her will. Her forehead creased, and the effort she put forth made a faint haze in the air between them. Mohammed could feel something press against his mind, but it was distant and indistinct like wind on the desert.
"Of old," he said, "men called it Hierosolyma. I name it al'Quds."
Zoe frowned, an expression that only sat well on her face with great practice. "The 'holy'?"
"Yes," said Mohammed as he strode through the door. "It is such a place."
– |The moon was in the heavens, vast and full, turning a white visage to the earth. Zoe felt it shining on her face, almost like the pressure of the sun, though the light was cold. They had been riding since the day-star had dipped below the rugged tan mountains beyond the Red City. As soon as the last glowing pink light of the sun had faded from the monuments and temples of Petra, Mohammed had set out. They rode two rangy black camels with tasseled tack and bit. The creatures made good speed across the desert, ambling along in their disjointed gait. Swaying atop her mount, Zoe watched the desert go past, sleeping under a wash of silver light. The moon was so bright all but the most brilliant stars were hidden.
Time passed slowly, though the camels did not falter or complain. The moon had risen first behind them, a huge bloated yellow sphere that seemed to fill half the sky. By the time that it had climbed high, they were trotting along a sandy shore. A long narrow lake of silver water lay on their right and its surface blazed with moonlight like mercury. To their left, a line of jagged cliffs and mountains blocked the horizon. Zoe had seen no lights or dwellings or sign of man for hours. Beyond the end of the lake, they climbed up into hills on an ancient road. At intervals, milestones rose up beside the path-carven oblong monoliths-and then fell away again behind.
In all this time, as they passed under the night sky, Mohammed did not speak.
Even Zoe felt no reason to break the silence. The snuffling of the camels, the rattle of stones under their three-toed paws, the creak and rattle of the saddles-those sounds were enough to fill the night. The thought of human words filled her with weariness. She dozed in the saddle, letting the camel carry her onwards. After a time, a light breeze sprang up, ruffling her robes and stirring her hair. Its touch was pleasant on her face and she raised her head.
The road wound up through hills with barren crowns. Bare stones jagged up out of fields bordered by low fences of piled rock. Below the hills, sandy valleys were filled with orchards and garden plots. The camels and their riders padded down lanes between the villages. The moon was still high, but westering. In its silver light, the buildings they passed slept. For a wonder, no dogs barked in the night. Zoe looked into the pens and yards as the camels loped along, seeing the sheep and goats and kine sleeping peacefully.
They passed through an orchard of sweet-smelling orange trees and stood at the top of a ridge looking across a bowl-shaped valley. On the far side, atop a craggy hill, the lights of a city twinkled in the night. Deep shadows lay below the hill, for the moon had consented, at last, to touch the western horizon.
"Hierosolyma," said Mohammed in a hushed voice. "We have arrived."
Zoe stared at him in astonishment. To reach the Judean hill-town from Petra should take no less than two full days and nights of travel, even on barrel-chested camels like these.
"How…?" She could think of nothing to say. Mohammed turned, his eyes shrouded in shadow.
"Those who go about in the land upon the business of the Great and Merciful God go quickly."
The Quraysh turned his camel and tapped it sharply on the thigh with a cane. It harrumphed and then jolted into a walk. The road, now broad enough for two carts to pass, wound down the hill into the dark valley. Zoe twitched her own beast into motion and followed.
– |Beneath the high-sided hill, orchards of olive trees pressed close to the chalky limestone. Mohammed let the camel pick its way through the trees. The moon was hidden now behind the city and it became very dark. Zoe rode with her head close to the neck of the camel and turned inward. Branches and leaves brushed against her and plucked at her cloak. The camels stopped. Boulders nestled among the tree trunks and a slope canted up above them. Mohammed dismounted and tied his mount to a sapling.
"There is a path," he said in a soft voice. "It is steep and it leads to a hidden gate."
Zoe swung down, feeling a twinge in her thighs. It did feel as if they had ridden for days. She hobbled after the chieftain. The Quraysh had already gone off through the trees and was climbing up the slope. The Palmyrene girl hurried after, cursing her balky legs under her breath.
From a distance, it di
d not seem that there was any trail through the tumbled stones and rugged cliffs, but Zoe found that Mohammed's footsteps led unerringly to a sloping path. It wound up through a rocky defile and then switchbacked up the face of the hill. It was very steep and her ankles began to complain fiercely at the effort. The path was littered with stones.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The Slopes of Vesuvius
Thyatis padded along the line of a brick wall, her hood thrown back, the water-steel blade bare in her hand. A leather sling-bag hung on her back, holding diverse items. Her left hand brushed along the wall, guiding her in the darkness. Ivy studded with sweet-smelling flowers hung down from the top of the wall. The Roman woman had entered the villa grounds from the southeast, coming up through the overgrown vineyards. Two of the legionnaires were a pace behind her, one with a long boar spear, the other with a heavy bow in hand. The archer had a fire-arrow nocked but not lit. The long wooden shaft was topped by a sharpened copper cage in the shape of a diamond. A plug of bitumen had been packed into the cage, ready for the touch of a flame to set it hissing to life. Thyatis stopped. She had reached an arched gateway with a wooden door.
She listened, but heard nothing but the susurration of the night wind through the tall cypresses that lined the edge of the villa. Even the usual sounds of a sleeping residence were absent-no dogs, no restless horses. The place felt empty, but that could be a simple deception. She tested the lock on the gate. It was unlocked and swung open with a creak at her touch. The two legionnaires froze, their weapons raised, but Thyatis let the gate swing wide. The yard beyond was empty, save for two big wagons parked by the wall of what must be a barn.
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