A mile past the lavafield, he reached a shallow wadi, dry as a bone. He slid down the side of it, but found, once he had trudged across the sandy bottom, that he was too tired to climb up the farther bank. He began walking up the bottom of the wadi. The river of milk hung over his head, and in the starlight, the mountain loomed enormous ahead of him, gleaming pale white under the moon.
—|—
The ringing of clear bells woke Thyatis. Her eyes opened and she saw a roof of burnished dark cedarwood above her. Sunlight, filtered dim by golden curtains, fell at the edges of the platform that she rested on. A great murmur of people carried on the air to her. She felt strange; her hands and feet would not move to her will. The roof rocked back and forth, and she realized that she was on something that was rolling forward on an uneven road. Incense traced trails in the air and slowly drifted away behind her. A heavy cloth of soft silk lay over her, and a diadem of silver leaves was upon her brow.
Her eyes, at least, she could move, and from their corners she could make out pillars of gold placed around the platform that held her bed. The capitals of the pillars were worked into a deep flourish of leaves and carefully cut flowers. Rich paints anointed the carving with deep greens and yellow highlights. She could smell flowers too, and guessed that the bed of the great platform that she lay upon was deep with them. The bells rang again, tinkling silver, as the wagon stopped. The sound of the crowd rose, and there was the basso shouting of men.
Incense pooled in the still air under the roof beams. Voices rose and fell, though the sound of chanting halted—all-pervasive and unnoticeable until, as now, it was gone. The golden curtains to the left side of the bier parted, carefully brushed aside by a gloved hand. Thyatis struggled to rise, but her limbs, heavy, refused to move. The face of a man rose into view, looking down upon her with sad eyes. He was elderly, with short graying hair and an intelligent brow. He wore a rich burgundy cloak, bound with clasps of silver and gold over a linen shirt of deep purple. His beard was neat and short, shot through with veins of white hair. Gently the man placed a hand on Thyatis' forehead and bowed his own.
Tears fell from his eyes, sparkling in the dusty sunlight. The old man's shoulders shook slightly, and Thyatis blinked the salty water away, but he was trapped in his own grief and did not see the slight movement. When at last he looked up, he had composed himself. He leaned close, close enough for Thyatis to catch the smell of clean fabric and a muskiness of coriander and thyme. His lips brushed her forehead and then he stood fully. The shadow of the roof fell across his face. He was the king once more.
"Good-bye, brother," he said, his strong voice subdued. "I will take you to your true home and build you a monument to last a thousand years." Then he turned and went out through the golden curtains. The voices raised, soldiers chanting a name, as he emerged into the sunlight. Thyatis strained to catch it, but now the world was receding into a dark funnel of rushing lights. The clamor of the people faded and sleep overcame her again.
—|—
The sound of a boot crunching on rock and gravel filtered into Nikos' dreaming sleep. He lay still and opened an eye a bare fraction. A pair of heavy leather riding boots was within his field of view, standing on light sand and scattered rocks, and another pair beyond them. The snort of horses broke the silence. He continued to breathe evenly, though he was sure that the time for subterfuge was long past. Something sharp pricked his ear, and he twitched.
"You know," came a voice in Persian, in a slow burr, "this fellow might be awake already."
Two more sharp pinpricks came to rest between his shoulders. Nikos opened one eye and moved his head slightly. Three Persian cavalrymen were arrayed around him. The closest, kneeling, had a long dagger in his hand and its point rested lightly against the side of his head. The man, almost clean-shaven his beard was so closely cut, smiled down at him and traced the end of the knife across his cheek to rest against the skin of his throat. Nikos swallowed to moisten his tongue.
"I'll not run," he said. "Let me rise and you can take my weapons."
"A reasonable fellow," one of the other Persians commented. The two spears and the knife withdrew enough for him to stand, though the alertness of their wielders did not waver. Nikos climbed to his feet, the rush of adrenaline in his blood cutting through the muzziness of sleep broken too early. The cluster of brush that he had crawled into when the sun had begun to lighten the eastern sky seemed much smaller and sparser than it had in the night. Another Persian was on horseback, a distance from the litter of brush, a bow and notched arrow in his hands. Nikos turned slowly around, catching sight of the great bulk of the mountain to the northwest and another two horsemen. He clasped his hands on the top of his head. There was nothing to be done now.
The man with the dagger deftly removed the Illyrian's shortsword, cooking knife, and the dagger he wore on his left leg. Quick fingers checked the folds of his shirt and his pants. Satisfied, the Persian handed the weapons off to one of his juniors and drew out a length of rope.
"Turn," the sergeant said. "Hands behind your back."
Nikos did as he was told. The sun was bright, cutting through banks of clouds. It might rain in the foothills of the mountains. He stared at the snowcap of Ararat.
Luck of the gods with you, girl, he thought.
After binding his hands, the Persians helped him onto the back of one of their remounts and then the whole band galloped away to the south, leaving a cloud of dry white dust to mark their passing. The tight cords bit into Nikos' wrists. His hands were already becoming numb.
—|—
There was a weight on her chest when Thyatis woke. She shifted a little, off a rock lodged under her shoulder blade. A hiss stilled her, and then she felt muscular coils shifting between her breasts. She lay back, completely still, and slowly opened her eyes. A triangular head with beady black eyes stared back at her. A heavy, scaled body lay coiled across her chest and trailed down onto her belly. Thyatis barely breathed, testing her hands and feet. She could move them again. The head of the asp danced from side to side, its pale pink tongue tasting the air. It drew its tail in with a slithering rasp. It was under her tunic, close to her warm skin. She could feel the coolness along her cheek where its own head had lain against her neck.
Oddly, for she was in dreadful danger, she did not panic or scream. She watched the snake as it curled its muscular body up out of her shirt and down off of her shoulder. It was long—two or three feet in length—and its center was a tight bundle of muscle like the arm of a strong man. At last the tail tickled across the upper curve of her left breast and it was gone. She let out a long breath, still soundless, and turned her head to follow its passage.
It was gone. The dry dust of the overhang floor was unmarked, save for her own footprints. The three horses were cropping quietly at the leaves of the broadleaf trees they were tethered to. She did feel as exhausted as she had expected, and sat up. The sun was high, shining down into the bottom of the canyon outside. A little tumble of ashy coals marked where her fire had been. Echoes of the strange dream were still ringing in her head. The man who had stared down at her seemed familiar to her—in a way, though he had not looked anything like him, he reminded her of her father. Thyatis shook her head wryly; there was no sense in puzzling over it.
The horses were happy to see her, though she had no apples or biscuit to give them. She untied them, one by one, and led them down to the little stream to drink. The sun was high—it was nearly noon. She drank deeply from one of the rock pools in the stream and washed her face and hair. Looking in the shallow water, she grimaced at the peeling skin on her forehead and ears. The sun had never been her friend, her complexion was too pale, but her arms, legs, and stomach, at least, were tan enough to stand the sun.
Breakfast was hearty, culled from the rations in the riding packs of the two Persians she had killed the previous day. She sat on a broad, flat rock that jutted out over the stream near the overhang, in the shade of a broadleaf tree with white and
tan bark. The personal belongings of the two dead men were spread out around her. Little amulets, knives, leather pouches of coin, wadded-up bits of cloth, flint, straw bound up in a knot, buckles, beads on a string, and last a crude map on poorly cured parchment. The map, compared to her own, showed the area around the city of Tauris. She wondered why scouts would have such a map.
They must, she thought, have been truly coming from the west rather than the east. The outriders of a larger force. An army, then, was making its way into the valley she sought, not from the south or east, as she would have expected, but from behind her, from the west. Some Persian force that had been harrying the plateaus of Anatolia, she guessed, called home. Nikos must have been right, the war has begun and the enemy is moving.
She finished chewing the strips of marinated lamb and drank most of the water in the skin. Then she refilled it. When her gear was repacked and the horses had their fill of the stream, she mounted again and gently kicked the bay into motion. If there was a good way out of this canyon, it was upstream, not down. Tauris was still far away, and now she was alone.
CHAPTER FORTY
The House of de'Orelio, The Quirinal Hill, Roma Mater
A bell tinkled in the darkness, a clear silver note. Anastasia's violet eyes flickered open. A sliver of moonlight fell through the gauze curtains of the broad window across the room, only barely illuminating the furniture and the thick rugs that covered the floors. The lady sighed silently and raised herself up. Silk sheets slipped away from her body, exposing smooth bare skin to the cool night air.
"Yes?" she said into the darkness. Her voice was thick with fatigue, and she ran a hand through the unruly pile of curls on her head. At the sound of her voice, a shape stirred by the door and there was a clicking sound as the bar was drawn back.
"Mistress?" The door opened slightly, letting a ray of lantern light cut the darkness in the room. "The lord Prince requests a moment of your time." The tentative voice was Betia's, her new handmaiden. The little blond girl was still tremendously nervous around her mistress. The servants were sure that the "mysterious" disappearance of Krista had been the result of disobeying the mistress of the house.
Anastasia blinked twice and drew the sheets back up over her chest with one arm. The light from the lantern had fallen across her breasts and half of her face. "Lord Aurelian, or Lord Maxian?"
"The Caesar Maxian, my lady. He is waiting downstairs."
Anastasia sighed—some nights seemed to have no end. "Oh, bother. Well, send the young man up."
"Here?" Betia squeaked, her voice filled with astonishment. "The bedroom?"
"Yes, dear," Anastasia said dryly, "we mustn't keep the Prince waiting."
Betia scampered away, her little feet making a pitter-patter on the tiles of the hallway. Anastasia fluffed her hair with her hands and then rearranged the pillows on the bed to make a backrest. Sighing again, for she was very tired, she pushed the quilts off the bed, leaving only a single, almost sheer, sheet to cover herself.
"Tros," she said to the slave standing in the shadows behind the door. "Be a dear and light half of the lanterns."
The slave, a hulking Islander with long black hair, moved from lantern to lantern, lighting them with a smoldering punk. Anastasia lay back among the pillows, adjusting them slightly to better present herself. Footsteps fell in the hallway, the sound of heavy boots and a man's tread.
"Hsst!" Anastasia motioned for the slave to leave. With an inscrutable look upon his face, the Islander slipped out the doors leading onto the balcony, drawing his gladius while he did so. The Duchess moistened her lips and raised an eyebrow as the door opened.
"Lady de'Orelio," Maxian said, turning to close the door firmly behind him. "I apologize for the lateness of the hour..." He turned around and stopped, his next sentence forgotten. To cover the flush of red that brushed over his face, he bowed deeply. "Pardon me, my lady, I did not know that you had retired already."
"Oh," Anastasia said, her voice low, "think nothing of it. I have often thought of entertaining you late at night." Maxian's nostrils flared at the laughter hiding in her voice, but he kept his face expressionless. The room was lit by low warm lights placed about the periphery, beeswax candles by the hue of the light. The Duchess looked magnificent in the dim light and the shimmer of the flimsy cover that lay over her body. He looked away and picked up a chair by the window, moving it to the foot of the bed.
"Given the hour, and your inconvenience, I will be blunt. I have something of yours, something that you've mislaid. I apologize for not returning it promptly, but I was occupied with other matters."
The Duchess sat up straighter, cocking her head to one side. Maxian swallowed as the sheet slipped very low, only being caught by one fine white hand at the last moment. She drew up one leg, pointing the toe. "I must profess ignorance, my Lord Caesar, I did not realize that I was missing anything. What, pray tell, is it?"
Maxian settled back in the low chair, crossing his right leg over his left leg. He met her eyes steadily, feeling a subtle change in the tension between the two of them. In the warm light, her pale-violet eyes seemed quite large. He bit his tongue.
"One of your servants, lady, was found lost on a property of mine. My own guardsmen took her into their custody but neglected to inform me of this for a time."
"Krista?" An edge of anger crept into the Duchess's voice, and she sat up fully, drawing her legs underneath her. The sheet pulled tight under her hand, clinging to the curve of her stomach like a skin of oil. "Did you punish her? If you have not done so, I surely will if you return her."
Maxian smiled a little, seeing the spark in Anastasia's eye. Ah, so she went off without permission... A reckless slave, and I do not think she understands what we are about!
"Truth to tell, Duchess," he said, standing up and smoothing his tunic down, "I was rather pleased to see her when she was brought to my attention. I had neglected to bring any servants with me from the palace and she has done wonders for my household." He walked to the side of the bed and sat down, catching the edge of the sheet with his hip. The Duchess's eyes widened a bit.
"I am pleased that she... satisfies you, my lord." The sheet crept out of Anastasia's hand, inch by inch. Maxian swung his right leg up onto the bed and the movement made the last bit of fabric slip out of the Duchess's hand. She hissed softly at the touch of cold air.
"I cannot say," Maxian said, leaning closer to Anastasia, "that I have ever had anything but complete satisfaction in my dealings with the House de'Orelio. Indeed, the thought moves me to a proposition."
"Really?" Duchess the purred, turning her face toward him. Her right hand fell to rest on his thigh. "What do you desire of the House de'Orelio tonight?"
"I would like to keep this servant, my lady. A well-run household is worth a great deal to me. What will you take for her, coin or trade?" Maxian gathered the edge of the fallen sheet in his hand, feeling the silk slide over her skin as he covered her stomach and breast again. She was very warm under his palm.
"Oh, trade will do, my lord. But at such an hour, you will have to offer a great deal to make it worth my while."
His mouth covered hers and she fell back, her fingernails digging into his shoulder.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The Port of Soli, Theme of Cilicia, The Eastern Empire
"Third Cyrenaicea, Fourth Maniple? That's a mounted unit. Drago! Where's that lackwit?" The centurion had a shout like a boar in heat. His voice boomed over the tumult of the port of Soli. Close to sixty men were crowded into the stifling tent, pressed up against a flimsy wooden divider. A granite-faced quartermaster centurion sat on a triangular camp stool next to the folding table behind the barrier. Soldiers in half mail with arms like tree trunks held back the press of men. The legionnaires shouted and shoved, trying to get to the front of the tent.
"Drago!" The senior centurion scowled. A flap at the back of the tent opened, spilling in a white-hot glare of Mare Internum sun. A Greek with a bad complexion
stuck his head in the opening. "Where the Hades have you been, you insufferable catamite?"
The Greek grinned.
"This boy," the quartermaster said, pointing a stubby finger at Dwyrin, who was standing in the tiny free space between the press of hot, angry men and the table. "This boy needs a horse and kit so he can catch up with his unit. They already pushed off for Samosata three weeks ago. Take him over to the stables and get him whatever they can spare, then get your backside back over here!"
Hundreds of tents surrounded them in a classic Legion encampment grown monstrously out of control. The port of Soli, where the combined armies of the Eastern and Western empires were busily unloading from the Imperial fleet, had been a sleepy fishing village before Emperor Galen and his advance elements had landed four weeks ago. A half-moon of shallow bay, barely enough to allow a ship to reach the rickety wooden quay, on an open shore had marked it. The village behind the quay was composed of mud-brick buildings and flimsy wooden structures.
Galen had landed two thousand infantrymen in the surf of the beach and seized the town. The villagers had mostly fled when the black fleet had appeared offshore. Those who had failed to flee, or had come back for personal belongings, had been taken and impressed into work gangs. Three hundred engineers, stonemasons, and craftsmen had come ashore in longboats at the wharf. Within two days they had torn down the village and extended the quay by fifty feet using the brick, wood and fieldstone from the buildings. Galen had come ashore then, with five hundred Sarmatian light horse and his bodyguard. The Sarmatians, under the command of Prince Theodore, had pushed inland to secure the nominally Roman city of Tarsus, eighteen miles to the northeast.
By the time Dwyrin's ship had reached the port, after a twelve-day voyage from Constantinople, the Western Emperor had put ashore the fifteen thousand men who had sailed with the initial fleet. Theodore and his light horse had secured Tarsus and all of the drayage that they could lay their hands on. Bands of auxillia roamed the countryside, confiscating horses, mules, wagons—all that and every bit of portable food and fodder they could lay their hands on. The one quay in the old harbor had been joined by two more—one composed of purposely sunken merchantmen, the other of brick and soil carved out of the hill behind the town.
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