The Storm of Heaven (61 page)

"Can you send him a message? Do you know any of the generals personally?"

"No," Martina muttered, looking at the floor. "I didn't like them. I just saw them at court or when we had a party or something."

Helena restrained her tongue, though she longed to verbally disembowel this child-queen. Memory held her back, for she had felt the same when she became empress. Luckily, the egotistical lady from the provinces had found a mentor in the city. Anastasia had been waiting for the new empress on her first day, even before Galen had received the Purple and the acclamation of the Senate. The Duchess, impeccably dressed as ever, had taken her aside and begun to teach her about being an empress. This child had not learned those lessons yet. Helena was disappointed—only a few weeks before, Martina had been maturing to meet the challenge. Now, given this reverse, she had lost confidence in herself.

"Do you," Helena bit out, "know their wives?"

Martina hung her head low and then shook it
no
.

Helena sighed in disappointment. "They've not sought you out? Looking for favors or your husband's ear?"

"Oh yes." Martina brightened. "They are always about, snooping for crumbs. But I don't
know
any of them. They're not... friends or anything."

"Crumbs are good enough," Helena said, considering what to do with this girl. Emperor Heraclius was bedridden, an invalid, his brother, Theodore, disgraced, the Empress isolated by her unwise marriage, the Faithful distrusted by the Legion commanders... who did that leave? "Martina, are there
any
of the ministers or high priests who will speak to you?"

"No," Martina moaned, looking like she was going to cry again. "The temples have turned their backs on us. Only the priests of the Asklepius wanted to help my husband, but he sent them away. The ministers—they're afraid of me—or... wait. There are two that would talk to me, I think. But only one of them could help... maybe."

"Who are they?"

Martina shuddered slightly, clasping her arms over her chest. The movement pushed her breasts up in the low-cut
palla
. The image in the
telecast
suddenly flickered and went out, leaving a vision of swirling green fire. Helena sighed, then sat back in the cane chair positioned before the ancient bronze mechanism. The boy-priest Alexos was very easily distracted. Even through the poor image of the
telecast
, it was clear the priest was helping the Empress due to a bad case of puppy love. His masters, in fact, would probably be very angry if they knew the boy was allowing the Empress to spy on them.

"Gart, who made this device?" Helena pointed at the slowly rotating sphere. It had reverted to an image of the world as seen from on high. White clouds covered most of the Western Empire. If one watched long enough, one could see them move. "Is it Egyptian?"

The big sorcerer shook his head.

"No, Empress. It was found in Hispania, though the signs and symbols incised in the bronze are reminiscent of Egyptian glyphs. There has been some discussion, amongst our order, as to its antecedents. Most of us believe it is an artifact from before the Drowning."

"Really?" Helena sat up, straightening her back. Sitting in this chair for hours gave her aches and pains. She would have to visit the baths afterwards and have one of the masseurs restore the proper humors. "Can anyone read the signs?"

"No." Gart sighed, an oddly feminine sound to come from such a large man. "It is beyond our art. We can ken the basic use of the device, we can make it perform some feats, but understand it? Read the lines of symbols? I cannot. Perhaps they cannot be read at all."

Helena coughed politely. The thaumaturge sounded just like the old men in the
ludi historiae
who bickered about the ruins along the Nile or the strange, unnamed tombs in the hills of Etruria. When one of the historians said, "It cannot be known," it meant "I haven't a clue." All scholars were loath to admit ignorance. The Empress found it amusing. Her correspondence showed nothing clearer than men barely knew what was going on in their own homes, much less the world at large. "Gart, we have one of these useful devices here. The Eastern Emperor owns one. Are there more?"

The German nodded, his red beard bouncing on his fat chest. "When the device is woken from sleep there is a moment when I feel it reaching out, attempting to find its brothers. All these devices were made by one hand at one time. They were forged from the same metal, drawn from the same ore. This is an old technique—the same craftsman incised the runes and smoothed the edges of the metal with the same motions. In this way, they are very close to being the
same
device in the hidden world. They yearn for each other."

Helena raised an eyebrow at the fat German's poetic interpretation. However, she was not a thaumaturge, so perhaps his description was accurate. "How many are there?"

Gart raised a finger, saying, "This cannot be known with surety, but I believe besides this one and its brother in Constantinople, there are five more. If you press me, I could not say why, but I believe it is so."

"Interesting," Helena mused, but she turned back to the spinning world. A rising hum was beginning to emanate from the
telecast
. "They are trying again?"

"Yes," Gart hissed, attention focused on the burning sphere. "Here!"

Martina, her hair half in front of her face, wavered into view. Again, Helena could see the dim chamber in the distant city and the sweating, pale face of Alexos off to one side. His cheek was bright red, showing the outline of a small, furious hand.

"Empress!" Helena barked and Martina's eyes widened at the tone. "Do not strike the man who aids you! If you do so again, I will neither speak to you nor help you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Martina said, blushing. "I'm sorry."

"Don't say it to me," Helena growled. "Say it to him." She jabbed a carefully manicured finger at Alexos. "And stop distracting him with those flimsy tight gowns. Wear something elegant and refined, suitable for an empress, not a Persian harem girl."

Martina scowled, jutting her round chin out. "I can wear what I want," she said defiantly. "At least people look at me when I dress this way. I hate being ignored! Some of the men like it—is that so bad?"

"It is," Helena said, taking control of her temper. "An empress does not care if she is loved by her people, only if they fear her. Would you want your uncle Theodore to look at you with desire?"

Martina flinched. A moment of violent emotion passed in her eyes, though her face itself remained frozen. Helena's carefully plucked eyebrows narrowed in concern. Raw hatred leaked out of the Eastern Empress for a moment, but then it was gone.

"No," Martina said, her voice cold. "I understand what you mean."

"Good," Helena said gently. "Tell me—each thematic governor must send regular dispatches to the capital, yes? Who receives those reports? Is there anyone who acts upon them?"

Martina nodded, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes. She seemed very tired.

"There are reports—they are delivered to the
logothete
of the
notitia
, who collates them and produces a summary for the Emperor and his council. With my husband in seclusion, these summaries and the letters were being left in the office, where I could read them and respond. Unfortunately, since the ministers have found me out, I do not know who reads them now. Certainly none of these fumblekins has the wit to act on his own."

Helena tapped the back of one almond-shaped nail against her lips. "The destruction of the fleet leaves your enemy with many options. He can now strike all along the Asian coast or even against Greece. No city or province is safe until the enemy is driven from the sea. Listen, Martina, you said that there are two ministers or officials who will listen to you. Who are they?"

"One is Nidus, the
logothete
of the tombs." Martina's voice revealed a clammy terror at the thought of the man. "The other is really no one, just the master of the kitchens. He's a funny little gray man, but he doesn't seem to care that I married my uncle."

"Martina—you need any kind of ally now, so do not dismiss even the cooks. This Nidus, now, you've told me before that the other ministers fear him. Will they listen to him if he orders them to do something?"

"I don't know." Martina frowned, which did not improve her looks. Helena suspected the girl had been spending far too much time mewed up in the damp, underground room housing the
telecast
. Her complexion was suffering. "I don't believe that he's
ever
ordered anyone to do anything! But they will listen to him."

"That is enough." Helena glanced sideways and saw that Gart was tiring. It was taxing work to hold the two devices in communication. "Quickly now—you must change your dress. Look as Imperial as possible at all times! Seek out Nidus and press him to call regular meetings of the ministers. Have the dispatches from the provinces read aloud to everyone. If no one can
order
the others to act, perhaps they will do so on their own. You must find more allies amongst the priests and the nobles—stop ignoring them! Listen attentively to them, no matter how boring. Someone will want to help you, if only for his own advancement."

"I will!" Martina stood, raising a hand in parting. The sphere shimmered and collapsed, whirling down into a flurry of green and white and blue sparks and then, with a rattle, to a set of flat, interlocking bronze disks.

Helena tapped her teeth with her thumb again, nodded to Gart and hurried out.

Twilight was falling as Helena stepped down from her
sella
onto the street in front of the Villa of Swans. She waved irritably at the troop of husky men, then waited, face covered by the edge of her stole, until they had trooped off down the hill with the covered litter on their shoulders. There was moderate traffic on the street—slaves on their masters' business—but no one approached the gate of this house. A drift of leaves had blown up in the recess of the doorway. The Empress' nose twitched at the mess, but she tapped on the door regardless.

There was no answer for a long time, and the sun was close to the western horizon before Helena heard movement in the yard behind the high gate. She redoubled her efforts, using the heel of a small knife she carried to trim pen quills and cut twine. It made a tinny sound on the travertine panel.

At last the gate opened a crack and a pair of smudged blue eyes stared up at her, surmounted by a cap of blond hair.

"Go away," the little girl said. "Her ladyship is not accepting visitors today."

"Or ever, I warrant," Helena said in an acerbic tone. "Let me in, Betia, or I'll have the Praetorians up here and they'll knock the door down."

For a moment the maid considered this, then pushed the heavy door open enough for Helena to turn sideways and step inside. The inner yard, which was little more than a court for people to dismount from their litters at parties, was strewn with dead orange and red leaves. Willows hung over the walls on either side, planted in the garden circling the house. Betia padded away, ghostly in a plain white tunic and gray shawl. The Empress followed, slowly taking in the disrepair and ruin that had overtaken the villa. She was outraged by its poor state. Once, this had been the most gracious and elegant home in the city. Her own summerhouse in Catania followed the same floor plan.

Now the house was dark and silent. Even the great sea hall with its mighty Poseidon seemed dingy and filled with gloom. Following Betia, Helena passed through many dark rooms until, at last, they climbed a flight of stairs and reached the roof. The sun had set, though the western sky was a riot of color. The white domes of the villa glowed copper in the last vestige of the day. A wooden pavilion stood on the roof at the end of one wing of the house. It commanded a sweeping view of the seven hills. In the purple gloaming, the city was beginning to blaze with light. Lanterns and torches glowed in windows; bonfires lit the docks along the river; sacred fires gleamed in the temples. It would be a clear night, allowing the glory of the stars to shine down on Rome.

Helena stepped into the pavilion and saw Betia kneeling next to a wooden chair facing the south. A figure sat in the chair, swathed in dark cloth. Helena stepped to the edge of the pavilion and turned, one hand on the painted wooden half-wall marking its edge. "Anastasia."

The woman in the chair leaned on one arm, chin resting on the back of her hand. In the poor light, her face was a pale oval marked by the dark smudges of her eyes. She did not appear to notice the Empress.

Helena jerked her chin at the slave girl. "Betia, fetch some lamps and wine and something hot to eat."

The figure in the chair moved slightly, rustling, but then subsided at Helena's glare. Betia slipped off into the twilight, quiet as a dove.

"There is trouble in the east," Helena said in a matter-of-fact voice. "I need your help to sort it out." The Empress moved about until she found, painfully, a chair with her shin. She drew it over to where Anastasia was sitting, then sat herself, folding her shawl over her hands. It would grow cold as night deepened. The Duchess said nothing, but Helena thought she could sense a weary interest.

"Emperor Heraclius remains sick, an invalid. His policies in the Decapolis have yielded insurrection and the rebels—aided by Arabian mercenaries—have seized half the Eastern fleet from the great port at Caesarea. To compound these troubles, I learned today the
drungaros
Andrades has been defeated off the Lycian coast, losing the
other
half of the Eastern fleet. Empress Martina and her uncle, Prince Theodore, are locked in a stupid but inevitable struggle to control the Imperial bureaucracy in Constantinople, playing at draughts while the Empire burns."

There was a breathy laugh from the Duchess' cowl and a white hand emerged from the heavy robe. Helena took the cold fingers in her own, controlling a flinch.

"Succinct," Anastasia said, her voice weary. "Why do you trouble me with this?"

"I don't care if you are stricken with grief," Helena said in a fierce voice. "I know your adopted daughters were killed in the eruption, that you sent men to murder my brother-in-law, that they may have failed. You account yourself responsible for
all
the dead. This means nothing to me. These events are in the past. This trouble is in the present and my husband will have to deal with it. You will help me, or I will have you given to the Praetorians for their supper."