The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  She glowered.

  Brand was just relieved. Her assertion that she would not be recognised had been right. Gevenan had never come face to face with her before, but he had seen her many times, especially at the chariot races. He was used to Brand being in attendance on her. Yet her identity never occurred to him.

  ‘A friend of mine from Kardiastan,’ Brand told him by way of introduction.

  Gevenan nodded and Ligea acknowledged him with a nod of her own.

  ‘You’d better make damn sure she’s a good friend when you so casually speak of rebellion in front of her. Brand, what is it you’re doing? Finding an easy way to suicide?’

  ‘We’re planning to start a rebellion to bring down the Exaltarch and rid the empire of slavery. We have the financing. We have the safe haven to plan and train. What we do not have are the people. We need men like you, to train others.’

  Gevenan stared at him. ‘Have your brains mushed since you got rid of your collar?’

  ‘They were still there last time I looked.’

  ‘You’re trying to recruit me?’

  ‘That’s right. Can’t think of a better man.’

  ‘You’re asking me to run away and train, what, a few miserable ex-slaves who can wield a soup ladle and a garden hoe? What do you want them to do, eh? Stick a few feathers from their dusters up some legionnaire arses?’

  ‘Something like that. Although we might do better with men more used to wielding a blacksmith’s hammer or a firewood axe.’

  ‘Ah, you great Altani barbarian—what in all of Acheron makes you think I want to end my wretched life burned at the stake outside the walls of the city?’

  ‘You’ve been telling me for years that if only the opportunity would present itself, you’d be out of the Praetor’s villa like a bunny rabbit with a fox nipping at its balls. I’m offering you the opportunity. And this.’ He dug into the pocket of his wrap and fished out a coin. He held it up for Gevenan to see.

  ‘A full gold sestus?’ Gevenan swallowed. ‘Sweet Melete. Where did you get that?’

  ‘I told you, we have financing. And this is yours, your first full year’s wage. All you have to do is leave the city on the north road in about a month’s time.’

  ‘That’s all I have to do?’ Gevenan asked, his voice laden with sarcasm. ‘And I suppose I can just ignore the legionnaires on my tail the moment I’m found missing. Do you know how valuable the Praetor thinks I am? My horses win his bloody races! And then there’s the matter of the retribution.’ He waved a hand at the boys on the beach. ‘This new lot might not be much to your eyes, but they have as much right to life as you and me. And how do I get out of the city gates wearing this’—he tapped the slave collar welded around his neck—‘with no authority letter?’

  ‘You’ll have an authority letter with a Magistrium seal. Not just for you, either, but for any stable lads accompanying you. But I don’t think there will be anyone at the gate to stop you. There is going to be utter chaos in the city at the time, with the citizenry fleeing in all directions. In fact, I suggest you take all the Praetor’s horses with you.’

  ‘Now I know you’re blithering moondaft. Brand, you’ll have to give me more information than this. Who would I be fighting for?’

  ‘For yourself. For freedom. For the right to be a citizen and have your labour paid for.’

  ‘A name, Brand. A name.’

  ‘No, not yet. Not until you are heading north. But I will say this: you will have plenty of proof that the rebel leader has divine help.’

  Gevenan laughed. ‘Jumping Ocrastes! You’re more than just a tile or two short upstairs, aren’t you? What should I expect—Melete herself to step down from her plinth in the temple?’

  Brand gave a grim smile. ‘Keep your ears open. You’ll know what I am talking about when the time comes. And the day to leave Tyr is the day of the whirlwind. I’ll give you more details closer to the hour.’ Brand held out the coin.

  ‘You’re giving this to me now? Without even my agreeing to this scheme?’

  Brand grinned.‘ You’ll be there. I haven’t the faintest doubt of it. If there is anyone you want to bring along, do so. The only proviso is that they be the kind of people we can use.’

  Gevenan took the coin, but his amusement was sardonic. ‘You’ve just said goodbye to your money, my friend, along with your wits.’ He turned to go, but as he turned, his gaze met Ligea’s.

  There was a long silence as they assessed one another. It was Gevenan who moved first. He raised his hand and touched the dip of the scar on her face. ‘Did the bastards do that to you?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No. But it’s the scars that no one sees that hurt the most, anyway.’

  He nodded and indicated her cheek. ‘That one’s nothing. You’ve still got all the pieces that matter, believe me.’ His grin was appreciative.

  She stared him down, the force of her personality pinning him like a speared fish. ‘You be there,’ she said, ‘on the day of the whirlwind.’

  There was no promise of a friendly reception in her tone and his grin disappeared. ‘Why should I?’ he asked, his belligerence more sneer than threat.

  ‘Because you bear an Ingean name.’

  He studied her for a moment longer, then looked back at Brand. ‘Watch yourself, Brand. Grit in the gut, always makes ’em cranky.’ He mounted his horse and continued down towards the sea where the others cantered their mounts along the sands.

  ‘Can he be trusted not to betray us?’ Brand asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Betrayal never even occurred to him. I suspect he was more worried for you than anything else. He likes you. At worst, he’ll simply keep the money and do nothing. But he hasn’t made up his mind yet. Tell me, what was that last remark about grit supposed to mean?’

  ‘Grit in the gut—horse talk. Means the animal is feisty and hard to handle. It was a compliment, of sorts.’ His gaze followed Gevenan, his eyes full of shame. ‘Why do I feel so damn dirty?’ he asked as he looked back at her. ‘I feel I have betrayed a good man.’

  For the briefest of moments he again saw the bleakness of her soul in her eyes, before she looked away to gaze on the sea. ‘That’s what violence does to people,’ she said flatly. ‘It besmirches you. And a war is the worst violence of all. What I will do here and you will do in Altan—we call it rebellion, but it is war. And wars kill innocents, and leave the perpetrators sullied for all eternity.’ The wind picked up, tugging at the edge of her robe and she wrapped her cloak tighter about herself. ‘I ask myself, half-a-dozen times a day, whether what I do is right. I scour my motives when I lie in my bed at night, wondering. Wondering whether the old Ligea is still there, with her callous indifference to those around her. Wondering if…if I will be able to live with the innocent blood on my hands at the end of it all.’

  She turned away from him to walk back to the city.

  He followed her, his thoughts dredging up visions of the future. Win, Ligea, and the slaves will be worshipping at your feet. Lose, and you don’t have to wait for Rathrox—the slaves will crucify you. The whole of Tyrans will vilify your memory…

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rathrox Ligatan strode down the Via Meletia towards the East Gate in a pall of bad temper. It would have been pleasant to envisage himself as a commanding figure, parting the crowds by virtue of his stature, but in his heart he knew he resembled no more than a scurrying insect that instilled fear, not respect, in those who recognised him. His unprepossessing assistant Clemens, hurrying short-sightedly at his side, did nothing to redeem his image.

  The man was a cretin. Why in all seven hells had he ever chosen such an idiot to be his compeer flunkey? He was no more than a pen-pusher with a good memory, a sly blatherer. And he, Rathrox, had mistaken the memory for intelligence, the slyness for cunning and the blathering for eloquence.

  Gods, he must be growing old. A scrawny old man, whose teeth were rotting. But he still had power, damn it, and he could still make strong men cringe. When a sla
ve staggering under the weight of a bundle of firewood blocked his way, he lashed out with his arm and sent him flying. It made him feel better.

  He unclenched his jaw. ‘Say that one more time, Clemens. Slowly and clearly. You are a compeer of the Brotherhood! Don’t you know how to deliver a coherent report, you fool?’

  The man took a deep breath and tried again. ‘It started nigh three weeks ago, Magister, at the Meletian Temple. An acolyte youth reported—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that! I asked you to investigate, even though High Priestess Antonia said it was nothing. Did you ever prove it was more than the wild ramblings of a lad who breathed in too many orlyx fumes and wouldn’t admit to having plundered the temple supply of the drug?’

  ‘Um, well no. Except that the lad swore—’

  ‘Utterly unimportant. What else?’

  ‘A few days after that, the Goddess appeared in a whorehouse near the Butchers’ Gate. The customers there are mostly sellers from the wholesale market—stall owners and such. Lowborn, of course.’

  ‘Go on, you incompetent clod.’ As if he didn’t know of the place, and its clientele.

  ‘We questioned as many as we could find afterwards. They all said the same thing—this glowing woman suddenly turned up in the reception room. Just like that. There were twenty or so customers awaiting their turn, a few slaves serving food and wine. The brothel-keeper was there as well.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Like the statue in the temple, they said. Taller than a man, anything up to twice as tall. Although I can’t see that could of been right. She would of been bumping her head on the ceiling—’

  Rathrox winced at the grammar and Clemens stuttered to a halt. Another glare was necessary to start his babble up again.

  ‘Long golden hair. Dressed in white. Clutching something in her hand just like the way she is at the temple, a scroll, I reckon. Most of them reckoned she was just a golden glow, not real and you could of put your hand through her, although not all of them agree and I’m damn sure none of them tried. Most of ’em had their noses pressed to the carpet by this time anyway, peeing in their robes, I reckon.’

  Rathrox gritted his teeth. ‘And just what made you think all this twaddle is worth Brotherhood attention?’

  ‘We didn’t at first. They use orlyx crystals at the brothel, too. We wouldn’t even of investigated at all, if we hadn’t of had five or six other reports trickling in since. Same sort of stuff. A golden goddess who never spoke. Always at night. Usually in the open street, rather than places like the bawdy house. Via Securia, Via Locusta, Via Solaria, the Forum Astium in the Snarls. All poorer quarters. Via Securia is portside and Via L—’ Another exasperated scowl stopped him.

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes, Magister.’

  Rathrox stopped and looked around. They were in a marketplace selling fruit and vegetables. It was late morning and there was little produce left. ‘Where to now?’

  Clemens pointed ahead. ‘I believe the statue is that way, Magister, where all those people are standing.’

  He strode on, Clemens scuttling to keep up, until he reached the edge of a crowd. ‘Clear a path for me,’ he ordered.

  Clemens cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, ‘Make way for the Magister Officii! Make way! Magister coming through!’

  A path opened up with almost miraculous suddenness, and Rathrox proceeded, Clemens trailing behind like a pig on a string, until they reached legionnaires guarding a statue on a plinth at the other end of the marketplace. Rathrox looked up at the statue as the soldiers saluted him. The sculpture was of Melete. The gold leaf of her hair flaked in patches and the paint of her red robe had cracked and faded to pink. Only the bright blue pigment of her irises had stood the test of time. Her unpainted skin glowed softly with gold light.

  ‘What happened here, legionnaire?’ Rathrox asked the nearest guard. He tried to sound bored, but his heart raced in shock.

  ‘Don’t rightly know, Magister. People found her glowing this morning when they came to set up the market. And there’s some kind of barrier round her. Can’t see it, but it’s there.’

  Rathrox reached out his hand and, even though he had been warned, still felt horror at the impossibility of it. There was an invisible wall between them and the statue. ‘Did anyone try to break it down?’

  ‘Yes, Magister. Chopped at it with an axe. But we couldn’t even put a dent in it. Goes all the way round the back too…’

  ‘Melete’s blessing the city with her presence!’ an elderly woman cried out from the crowd. ‘We should be kneeling at her feet in awe, Magister!’

  Closer by, a market stallholder muttered, ‘Happen it’s a warning. An earthquake coming, maybe. Wait till the city’s foretelling tomorrow, you’ll see then.’

  ‘No, she’s telling us to treat ’er better, that’s what,’ said another man. ‘Look after Melete ’n’ she’ll look after us, right enough.’

  Rathrox hid a snort. The gullible would believe anything.

  Just then the crowd parted again, murmuring approval, and the High Priestess Antonia appeared with an entourage of priestesses from the temple. She gazed at the statue and the enraptured expression on her face doubled Rathrox’s annoyance.

  He grabbed her by the elbow and hissed in her ear. ‘Reverence, it’s got to be a trick—’

  ‘You should show respect to your deity!’ she said in a furious undertone, pulling her arm out of his hold by dropping to her knees. The surrounding crowd began to follow her example.

  Rathrox turned to Clemens. ‘Let’s get out of this.’ As they walked away from the crowd he asked, ‘And you, Compeer—do you believe in the Goddess?’

  ‘Of course, Magister.’

  ‘And do you think this is the doing of the Goddess?’

  Clemens hesitated.

  ‘Come now, Compeer, you are one of the Brotherhood. Surely you have an intelligent opinion?’

  ‘I—I’m not sure, Magister. There—there doesn’t seem much sense to any of it. I reckoned maybe it was the work of that zealot sect down in the Snarls, trying to convince everyone they should spend more time on their knees at the temple, but we couldn’t find no evidence. Then I reckoned it might be the Meletian priestesses, hoping to bring people flocking to worship, along with their purses, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘But if Priestess Antonia hasn’t said nothing to you…’ He gasped, pursing his plump lips in surprise.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The dogs. At the temple. The night the acolyte said he couldn’t move and the Goddess spoke to him. They—the dogs—were encased in an invisible cage…’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘The temple guards.’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘The cage? It disappeared. Suddenly. As if someone had just clicked his fingers and made it go away. That’s how the temple guards described it.’

  Rathrox shook his head. What the sweet hells was going on? If there was one thing he didn’t believe in, it was that the gods made personal appearances. At least, not any more. He wasn’t even sure they ever had. Some of the other incidents might have been haze-dreams, or wild gossip, but not what he’d just seen. He walked on, thinking.

  Golden glow…

  Why did that seem familiar?

  Kardiastan. Of course. People who glowed gold. Or green, or red. But that was twenty years ago. More. And the gold ones, they were dead now, weren’t they? Except for Ligea, of course. And she wasn’t here, and was loyal to Tyr anyway.

  He turned to Clemens. ‘This is some kind of Kardi magic. One of their blasted numen must be in the city. They’re trying to unsettle us.’

  ‘Kardi? There’s not many of them about, is there? People don’t like Kardi slaves. They are too rebellious, for a start, and there’s been all those rumours about them being numina. And as for freemen—well, they don’t seem to leave Kardiastan much. You don’t hear about too many Kardi traders here, for example.’

  ‘No, you don
’t. So if someone does turn up, you should hear something. Especially if it is a woman.’

  Clemens nodded thoughtfully. ‘It may be nothing, but I had a report about a pregnant Corseni the other day. A poorly dressed woman visiting an expensive midwife, one of my informants. The woman’s behaviour was odd, so I tried to check her out, but none of my Corseni informants had ever heard of her. What if she wasn’t Corseni, but Kardi? After all, who can tell one brown-skinned barbarian from another?’

  ‘Get a proper description. Find out if she had anything strange about her hands. The numina have gemstones inserted into their palms, sometimes with the skin grown over the top. Try to find her—offer a reward. I want all city gates manned all day from now on, and everyone is to have their hands checked, coming in and going out.’ He hesitated. How in all the seven layers of Acheron did you arrest someone who could burn a hole through your chest with their unholy jewel? ‘Better still, send Legate Valorian to me to discuss this. We have to work out a strategy to deal with such numina.’

  ‘Yes, Magister.’

  As Clemens continued to pace alongside him, Rathrox waved his hand in an irritated fashion. ‘Well, be off then. Get started!’

  Clemens gave him a startled look. He needed to go in the same direction as the Magister anyway.

  ‘Run, Clemens, run!’

  Clemens started running down the street. Rathrox smiled. He needed to smile at something.

  Hadrin shuffled along the paths between the burial vaults of the necropolis. His lantern had gone out, the cheap candle stub burned to the end, the acrid smoke of its last flicker still tickling his nostrils. He scarcely noticed. Unrelated thoughts streamed through his head and, like clouds in a windy sky, they never held their form for long.

  The wine he had drunk earlier in the Green Bear Pothouse on the Via Ursa warmed his belly nicely. Didn’t need no lamp, he didn’t. Didn’t believe in ghosts, or shades, or whatever you liked to call them. He was the necropolis watchman, and proud of it. Kept the place nice and tidy during the day, just as he was supposed to. Cleaned the weeds from around the graves, all except the herbs, of course, and at night he made several rounds at different times, to make sure all was well. He knew the paths as intimately as he knew the bench where he always sat in the Green Bear.