The Sarantine Mosaic (134 page)

‘Never mind,' he said to the steward. ‘Carry on.'

The night was passing, swift as chariots; they were to find the woman before sunrise. The announced reward was extravagant. Even if divided among ten (with a double share to the decurion, of course) they could all retire to lives of leisure when their service was up. Have their own clean serving girls, or wives—or both for that matter. Little chance of any of that if they lingered or delayed. His men were waiting impatiently in the street. Ecodes turned and went down the steps.

‘Right, lads. Next house,' he said briskly. The steward closed the door behind him, hard.

He had been embarrassed by his own arousal under the sheets as she simulated lovemaking, appearing to be riding him as the door opened. She hadn't let him lock the door, and belatedly he had understood: the room
was
going to be searched, the whole
idea
was for the soldiers to find them engaged in the act, outraged at intrusion. Her voice,
a low snarl changing swiftly to a nasal whine, speaking Rustem's own tongue with ferociously obscene eloquence, had startled him almost as much as it appeared to disconcert the small soldier in the doorway. Rustem, aware that his life was at risk here, had little trouble assuming a pose of anger and hostility.

Alixana had dismounted from her position upon him, clutching the sheets to herself. She fired another volley of invective at the soldier, and Rustem, inspired by fear as much as anything else, had slapped her face, shocking himself.

Now, as the door closed, he waited an agonizingly long moment, heard conversation outside, then steps on the creaking stairs, and finally murmured, ‘I am sorry. That blow. I … '

Lying beside him, she didn't even look over. ‘No. It was well done.'

He cleared his throat. ‘I would lock it now, probably, if this were … real.'

‘It is real enough,' she whispered.

All force seemed drained from her now. He was aware of her naked form beside his own, but not with desire any more. He felt a deep shame about that, and some other emotion that came unexpectedly close to grief. He rose and quickly drew on his tunic, without undergarments. He went over to the door, locking it. When he turned back, she was sitting up in the bed, the sheets wrapped fully around her.

Rustem hesitated, at sea and unmoored, then crossed and sat on the small bench near the fire. He looked at the flames and put a log on, busying himself with trivial activity. He said, not looking at her, ‘When did you learn Bassanid?'

‘Did I do all right?'

He nodded. ‘I couldn't curse like that.'

‘I'm sure you could.' Her voice was leached of nuance. ‘I picked up some when I was young, mostly the swearing. Learned more when we dealt with ambassadors, later. Men are flattered when a woman speaks to them in their own tongue.'

‘And the … voice?' That rancid harridan from some dockside caupona.

‘I was an actress, doctor, remember? Much the same as a whore, some say. Was I convincing as one?'

This time he did look at her. Her gaze was vacant, fixed on the door through which the soldier had gone.

Rustem was silent. He felt as if the night had become deep as a stone well, as dark. A day so long it seemed beyond belief. Had started with his patient gone in the morning and his own desire to see the racing in the Hippodrome.

It had started differently for her.

He looked narrowly at the too-still figure on his bed. Shook his head at what he saw. He was a physician, had seen this look before. He said, ‘My lady, forgive me, but you must weep. You must allow yourself to do that. I say this … professionally.'

She didn't even move. ‘Not yet,' she said. ‘I can't.'

‘Yes, you can,' said Rustem, very deliberately. ‘The man you loved is dead. Murdered. He is gone. You can, my lady.'

She turned finally to look at him. The firelight caught her flawless cheekbones, shadowed the cropped hair, the smears of dirt, could not reach the darkness of those eyes. Rustem had an impulse—rare for him as rain in the desert—to cross to the bed and hold her. He refrained.

He murmured, ‘We say that when Anahita weeps for her children, pity enters the world, the kingdoms of light and dark.'

‘I have no children.'

So clever. Guarding herself so very hard. ‘You are her child,' he said.

‘I will not be pitied.'

‘Then let yourself mourn, or I must pity the woman who cannot.'

Again, she shook her head. ‘A bad patient, doctor. I am sorry. I owe you obedience if nothing else for what you have just done. But not yet. Not … yet. Perhaps when … everything else is done.'

‘Where will you go?' he said, after a moment.

A quick, reflexive smile, meaningless, born of nothing but the habit of wit, from a world lost. She said, ‘Now I am truly wounded. You tire of me in your bed already?'

He shook his head. Stared at her, said nothing. Then he turned deliberately back to the fire and busied himself there with movements old as all hearths, that any man or woman might have done in any age, might be doing even now, somewhere else in the world. He took his time.

And a few moments later he heard a harsh, choking noise, and then another. With a great effort, Rustem continued to gaze into the flames, not looking over at the bed where the Empress of Sarantium was grieving in the night, with broken sounds he had never heard before.

IT WENT ON A LONG TIME
. Rustem never looked away from the fire, leaving her at least the semblance of privacy, as earlier they had simulated lovemaking. At length, as he was adding yet another piece of wood to the flames, he heard her whisper, ‘Why is this better, doctor? Tell me why.'

He turned. In the firelight he saw the tears shining on her face. He said, ‘My lady, we are mortal. Children of whichever gods or goddesses we worship, but only mortal. The soul must bend to endure.'

She looked away, but not at anything in the room. Said nothing for a time, and then, ‘And even Anahita weeps? Or the kingdoms would have no pity?'

He nodded, deeply moved, beyond words. A woman such as he'd never encountered before.

She wiped at her eyes with the backs of both hands, a childlike gesture. Looked at him again. ‘If you are right, you have saved me twice tonight, haven't you?'

He could think of nothing to say.

‘Do you know the amount of the reward they have offered?'

He nodded. It had been proclaimed by heralds in the streets from late in the day. Had reached the Blues' compound before sundown. Treating the wounded, he had heard of it.

‘All you need do,' she said, ‘is open the door and call out.'

Rustem looked at her, struggling for words. He stroked his beard. ‘I may be tired of you, but not
that
tired,' he said, and saw that her smile this time did touch, very briefly, her dark eyes.

After a moment she said only, ‘Thank you for that. You are more than I had any right to pray for, doctor.'

He shook his head, embarrassed again.

She said, her voice a little stronger now, ‘But you must know you'll have to say something about this in Kabadh. You'll have to give them
something.'

He stared at her. ‘Something for … ?'

‘Some results from your being sent here, doctor.'

‘I don't see … I came to obtain some—'

‘—medical knowledge from the west before going to court. I know. The physicians' guild filed a report. I looked at it. But Shirvan never has only one string to a bow and you won't be an exception. He'll have ordered you to keep your eyes open. You will be
judged on what you have seen. If you return to his court with nothing, you'll give weapons to your enemies, and you have them there already, doctor. Waiting for you. It isn't hard to arrive at a court with people hating you beforehand.'

Rustem clasped his hands together. ‘I know little about such things, my lady.'

She nodded. ‘I believe that.' She looked at him, and then, as if making a decision, murmured, ‘Did anyone tell you that Bassania has crossed the border in the north, breaching the peace?'

No one had. Who would have told him that, a stranger among the westerners? An enemy. Rustem swallowed, felt a coldness enter him. If a war began, and he was still here …

She looked at him. ‘There were rumours all afternoon in the City. As it happens, I am quite certain they are true.'

‘Why?' he whispered.

‘Why am I sure?'

He nodded.

‘Because Petrus wanted Shirvan to do this, steered him towards it.'

‘Wh—why?'

The woman's expression changed again. There were tears still, on her cheeks. ‘Because he never had less than three or four strings to
his
bow. He wanted Batiara, but he also wanted Leontes taught a lesson about limitations, even defeat, along the way, and dividing the army to deal with Bassania was a way to achieve that. And of course the payments east would stop.'

‘He wanted to
lose
in the west?'

‘Of course not.' The same faint, almost indiscernible smile, shaped of memory. ‘But there are ways of winning more than one thing, and
how
you triumph matters very much, sometimes.'

Rustem shook his head slowly. ‘And how many people would die in achieving all of this? Is it not vanity? To believe we can act like a god? We aren't. Time claims all of us.'

‘The Lord of Emperors?' She looked at him. ‘It does, but are there no ways to be remembered, doctor, to leave a mark, on stone, not on water? To have … been here?'

‘Not for most of us, my lady.' Even as he said that he was remembering the chef in the Blues' compound:
This boy was my legacy.
A cry from the man's heart.

Her hands and body were hidden beneath the sheets. She was still as stone herself. She said, ‘I'll grant you a half-truth there. But only that much … Have you no children, doctor?'

It was so strange, for the chef had asked him the same thing. Twice in a night, speaking about what one might leave behind. Rustem made a sign against evil, towards the fire. He was aware of how odd this conversation was now, yet sensed that somehow these questions lay towards the heart of what this day and night had become. He said, slowly, ‘But to be remembered through others, even our own heirs, is also to be … misremembered, is it not? What child knows his father? Who decides
how
we are recorded, or if we are?'

She smiled a little, as if he'd pleased her with cleverness. ‘There is that. Perhaps the chroniclers, the painters, sculptors, the historians, perhaps
they
are the real lords of emperors, of all of us, doctor. It is a thought.'

And even as Rustem felt an undeniably warming pleasure to have elicited her approval, he also had a glimpse of what this woman must have been like, jewelled upon her throne, with courtiers vying for that approving tone.

He lowered his gaze, humbled again.

When he looked up, her expression had changed, as if an interlude was over. She said, ‘You realize that you must
be very careful now? Bassanids will be unpopular when word gets out. Keep close to Bonosus. He will protect a guest. But understand something else: you might also be killed when you go back east to Kabadh.'

Rustem gaped at her. ‘Why?'

‘Because you didn't follow orders.'

He blinked. ‘What? The … the Antae queen? They
can't
expect me to have murdered royalty so quickly, so easily?'

She shook her head, implacable. ‘No, but they can expect you to have died trying by now, doctor. You were given instructions.'

He said nothing. A night deep as a well. How did one ever climb out? And her voice now was that of someone infinitely versed in these ways of courts and power.

‘That letter carried a meaning. It was an explicit indication that your presence as a physician in Kabadh was less important to the King of Kings than your services as an assassin here, successful or otherwise.' She paused. ‘Had you not considered that, doctor?'

He hadn't. Not at all. He was a physician from a sandswept village at the southern desert's edge. He knew healing and childbirth, wounds and cataracts, fluxes of the bowel. Mutely, he shook his head.

Alixana of Sarantium, naked in his bed, wrapped in a sheet as in a shroud, murmured, ‘My own small service to you, then. A thought to ponder, when I am gone.'

Gone from the room? She meant more than that. However deep the well of night felt to him, hers went deeper by far. And thinking so, Rustem of Kerakek found a courage and even a grace in himself he hadn't known he had (it had been drawn from him, he was later to think), and he murmured, wryly, ‘I have done well so far tonight at being careful, haven't I?'

She smiled again. He would always remember it.