The Gate of Fire (55 page)

I'm too small
, she whimpered to herself.
Too small and weak and careless
.

Worse, he was covered with fine white scars and jagged puckered welts. He was bald and grim-looking, with a mean look in his brown eyes.
I shouldn't have looked right at him
, she thought, berating herself for the lapse. It only compounded her error in letting him notice her being unnoticeable. Behind the shelter of the chair she hung her head in shame and almost sniffled. A student of the art was supposed to avoid notice by simply being a part of the background of the scene or room or crowd. It was against the rules to be invisible all the time.

Betia steeled herself and pinched the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. Crying was forbidden, too. She knew where she had fouled up, but it had been a joy to pass through the house or the market or the temples without anyone noticing her. It had given her a delicious sense of freedom, knowing that she could pass into any place, all unseen, without having to explain her presence or ask for admittance.

I was too confident
, she lectured herself.
Lord Nikos is a professional, not a student. Of course he would notice me! Perhaps I will not get too bad a beating
...

Her face fell at the thought. Her mistress was quite strict about these things. Drawing attention to oneself, particularly in such an odd way, was sure to disgust her. She considered throwing herself on the Duchess' mercy, but then remembered that the lady was rather lacking in patience these days.

She sneaked a look around the corner of the chair again. Lord Nikos was standing, his eyes flashing as he argued with Lord Jusuf about some plan or trap or mechanism. Betia noticed that Lord Nikos had a very muscular chest, all smooth and brown and well defined, which you could kind of see through his tunic.

"And these servants, what of them? Are they men or monsters?" Nikos put his fists on the table, leaning forward. Maps had been brought out, showing the land between the capital and the great bay a hundred miles to the south. A dozen possible strategies had been raised and discarded. Servants had brought wine and cooked meats and more shelled nuts. The Illyrian turned to the Duchess, raising an eyebrow.

Anastasia sighed and put down a goblet of watered wine. She was tired, though this kind of thing had once fired her blood like a drug. Now it seemed much the same as another hundred sessions late at night in just another room half filled with a smoky haze. "I am not sure of it," she said, "but it may be that some of the Prince's servants are not human. They walk like men, wear the clothing of men, but..." She paused, groping for the word.

Jusuf looked up from where he had been puzzling over the notes written by the foreman of the excavation crew. He turned one of the sheets of thin-scraped parchment around and pushed it across the table to Nikos. "Some of the bodies that were found in the rubble," he said, "seemed to be those of men. But look at the drawing here—see the foot?"

Nikos turned the parchment around and squinted at it. The light was poor, for the candles had begun to burn down. Then it brightened, and he saw out of the corner of his eye that the little blond slave had slipped up beside him and was replacing the candles. He frowned, but pretended not to notice her. The drawing on the parchment was well executed by a man the Duchess employed to paint not only her wall frescoes but also various buildings, people, machines, and other items of interest to her. Things like dead bodies dragged from the ashen slurry of a ruined house.

The drawing showed a foot with a cut made along the line of the body and the skin pulled back. It seemed to be the foot of a man, but there were extra muscles and tendons, and above each toe—big to small—was a sheath of some kind. Nikos squinted again, unable to make out the fine details. The drawing was beautiful, etched on the parchment in a dark brown ink with a tinyquill.

"It is a claw," Jusuf said in a tight voice. "Some of the Prince's servants are animals that wear the shape of men. Among my people, we call them the
ursakurt
—your term, I believe, is
lycanthrope
. I have heard tales from my grandfathers of such—but they left our lands long ago, before even the Gok Turks came from the east."

Nikos cursed again and rubbed the back of his bald head. This just got worse and worse.

Betia almost laughed out loud, seeing the face that Lord Nikos made. After sitting here worrying for almost an hour while her elders argued and cursed and exclaimed to one another, she had realized that his bald head and its smooth tan surface reminded her very much of a brown hen's egg. With that she had become much more relaxed and had even stolen some of the food from the trays that were brought in. The Duchess, of a mercy, had seemingly forgotten that she was there.

But Betia had learned the hard way not to forget that the Duchess could command her at anytime.

A breath of air touched the little blond girl's neck, and she sprang to her feet in perfect silence, turning toward the door, sliding her body between the door and the back of the Duchess' chair. She had heard neither the pad of a servant's step outside nor the
tink-tink
of one of the Khazar boots on the tile.

A figure was there in a dirty dark robe and a funny smell, like dust and mud and the marketplace. One hand was on the door, and the other was already over Betia's mouth. It was a strong, slim hand, with short-clipped nails and the ridges of callus that marked the swordsman.

"Hello friends," a familiar voice said. Nikos turned in puzzlement and saw the Duchess's eyes open in surprise as well. "Why the long faces?"

Nikos' heart skipped a beat, and the figure at the door shook the hood off her head, letting a river of red-gold curls spill down over her shoulders and the tattered tunic and robe. There was a hiss of air as every man in the room took a breath to speak.

"Nikos!" Thyatis swung around the side of the table and wrapped the stocky Illyrian in a bear hug. She was laughing, her grimy face split with a huge grin. "You didn't get lost on your way home!"

Nikos laughed, feeling a huge weight—it might be the whole world—lift from his shoulders. He hugged her back, unable to speak.

Thyatis turned, her grin lighting the room, and made a half bow to the Duchess. Anastasia's eyes were shining, too, and she raised an elegant hand for Thyatis to kiss in greeting.

"My lady," Thyatis said, pressing her forehead against the back of Anastasia's hand. "You see, I did come home. Late and much delayed, but I am here."

"Welcome," Anastasia said, her old beauty suddenly returning to her face. To Nikos, it seemed she was young again in her smile. Her weariness fled. "You've come at the best time."

"It seems so," Thyatis growled, still holding the Duchess's hand as she turned to look upon the rest of the men in the room. The Khazars crowded around her, pounding her on the back and exclaiming at the wear on her boots and cloak. Jusuf smiled across the table, though he did not move to embrace her. Thyatis raised an eyebrow, noting the hand that the Khazar had laid on the back of the Duchess' chair.

"You've all been about some tomfoolery, I see." Thyatis gestured at the maps and papers on the table. "There is a hunt in the wind—I could hear it in your voices as I came up the stair. Tell me all."

Steam boiled up from the surface of the big cedar tub, and Thyatis lowered herself into it with a groan of pure relief. The water was hot and fresh, and there was plenty of it. The young Roman woman had bound her hair up in a bun at the back of her head. Every muscle in her body had decided it was time to wake up, start aching and demand immediate attention. It felt so good, after weeks of dogging around the Aegean ports on a succession of lugs and coasters before finally reaching Rome.

"The children are fine." Anastasia was sitting by the side of the tub on a marble bench. The Duchess was tired, too, but the haunted look in her face had passed, replaced by something approximating her old confidence and demeanor. "They made a horrible ruckus in the house—running about like wild monkeys—and drove the maids and the cooks to distraction."

"Ah-huh?" Thyatis had settled into the water until only her firm, rose-colored lips were above the water. She leaned back into the side of the tub, letting herself float in the steaming water. "Did they break anything?"

"Oh yes," Anastasia said with a faint smile. "It took a great deal to keep track of them."

"I brought them presents," Thyatis said dreamily as the heat seeped into her sore muscles. "Are they here?"

"No." The Duchess reached over to the wall and took a stiff brush from its hook on the wall. She handed it to Thyatis, though the young woman let it go in the water and watched it float. "I sent them with Betia to the circus—there was a wild animal show—and then they wanted to see an octopus and a sea serpent and all sorts of things. So I packed them off to my beach house at Baiae for a couple of weeks in the sun. We'll go see them soon."

"How much did they grow?" Thyatis was sad, thinking of Shirin all mewed up on Thira while her children frolicked in the surf on the bay. The Princess would doubtless have a few words to say about the soft life that her children had been living in her absence. "Are they completely spoiled?"

"Yes," the Duchess said, smiling. "I fear so. They are precious. I understand that their mother is quite beautiful."

Thyatis raised her head out of the water, steam curling from her forehead. Water sluiced down her neck, and her hair clung to the shape of her head like a pelt of fur. She raised herself a little out of the water, putting her arm on the lip of the tub.

"Who told you that? Surely not Jusuf—he blushes when anyone talks about her having children. It must be that wretch Nikos."

"It was, but I could see her face in them, too," Anastasia said, laughing. She smiled down at Thyatis, her hands folded on her lap. "He told me a great deal about it—you've set his Roman standards on edge, I think."

Tension stole across Thyatis' face, and she met the calm, quiet eyes of the Duchess evenly. "Do you think I did the wrong thing?"

Anastasia considered her for a moment, gauging the depths in the younger woman's eyes. She marked the planes of the face and the hard muscle that girded her shoulders and arms. The Duchess nodded, seeing that she had sent away a brash youth, still incompletely formed, and had received back—safe by the gods!—the full measure of an adult woman. The Duchess picked at the hem of her gown, thinking. "Thyatis..." She stopped, suddenly unsure of what to say.
That is a wonder
, she scolded herself. "My dear, once we discussed the day that I purchased you and brought you into my family. I told you then that I bought you because there was something unbroken in your eyes, standing there in the slave coffle in that hot dusty market. That was true, but once you had left for the east, I found that I missed you. I have realized that I purchased you because you reminded me of... me."

Thyatis canted her head and turned, putting her arms on the edge of the tub and her chin on her interleaved fingers. "How so? I was a dirty peasant girl in a torn tunic, barefoot, and only moments from a brand."

"True," the Duchess said in a sad voice. "And so was I, on just such a day, many years ago. I was an orphan—my parents murdered by pirates off of the coast of Sicilia. They were Vandal raiders, I believe, who still held some strongholds on the coast of Africa in those days. I was very lucky to leave their hands—but among them, odd-colored eyes are considered a mark of bad luck. I was sold in the great market on Delos." The Duchess' face seemed shadowed by the old memory. Then she smiled and it passed. "Agents of the Matron purchased me in a job lot with six other girls. It was the eyes again. I was to be had"—her voice held an edge of bitterness—"at a discount. But I do not regret it."

"They took you to the island?"

Anastasia shook her head. "No, things were in too much confusion then. No one was admitted onto or off of the island until Imperial order had been restored. I do not know if it still exists, but at that time there was another sanctuary in the mountains of Epirus. We were taken there and trained in secret. Oh, those were a cruel six years!"

"Six?" Thyatis touched Anastasia's foot, gently squeezing the older woman's big toe. "How you must look down upon the younger generations who must only suffer for five..."

Anastasia touched Thyatis' hair and bent down, kissing the crown of the younger woman's head. "Ah, but we did not have the benefit of Lady Mikele's ministrations then..."

"Oh!" Thyatis stood up and made a face. "That was a soft life, then!"

Anastasia laughed and held up a robe of soft cotton. Thyatis bowed and slipped the garment over her broad shoulders.

"Perhaps it was, but I think that you followed your heart and I could not—will not—gainsay that. You matter too much to me."

Thyatis smiled and embraced the older woman and knew that she
was
home.

A spinning wheel of fire drifted over the arches of a stone bridge. The span had three courses, rising almost sixty feet above the bed of the Baradas River, and it was wide enough to allow a cohort of men to march abreast. The wheel blazed in the air, spinning faster, and slammed into a barrier of overturned wagons at the northern end of the bridge. There was a hissing sound like a hot blade plunged into a quenching bucket and the line of wagons exploded in smoke and flame. One wagon was catapulted into the air, wheels flying off as it disintegrated. The Syrian militiamen behind the barricade scattered, running pellmell for the safety of the walls of the city. The remaining wagons burned fiercely, sending up a billowing column of pitchy black smoke.

Odenathus and his cavalry galloped across the bridge. Some of the Palmyrenes were armed with bows and sent a ragged flight of arrows after the fleeing Syrians. Odenathus pulled up as he reached the smashed barricade. While his men trotted past, he concentrated and reached deep into the earth, touching the flickering fluid glow of the river. Power came to his hand, and the remaining wagons, still burning, toppled away from the road, clearing it.