The Storm of Heaven (63 page)

Narses crossed the sand with a slight limp, leaning on his walking cane. In youth his body had been powerful and strong, but years in the Legion and the arena had taken their toll. The stump of his left arm was bound across his chest with a leather strap. Today, with the sun high and heat sizzling from the sand, he was stripped down to a loincloth and sandals. His muscular body was etched with scars and old, puckered wounds. Short gray hair frizzed the top of his head. Sand crunched under his sandals and squeaked under the tip of his cane.

The Amazon, Diana, was waiting for him at the center of the practice yard. The school mirrored the oval shape of the Flavian, in a quarter-scale replica. Seats under painted canvas shades and behind a tall wooden wall surrounded an oblong of white sand. The practice yard lacked the Flavian's various elevated platforms and hidden doors, but it served. Narses had canceled morning practice so he could consider his new prize.

She waited quietly as he approached. Archers stood ready atop the barrier wall, bows taut. Narses did not think he was in danger, but there was no sense in taking chances. Hamilcar followed him, lean and sun-bronzed, carrying a pair of wooden practice swords.

"My name is Narses," he said, coming to a halt. He approached her from the south, with the sun at his shoulder. Her eyes were gray slits, but she made no motion toward him. The
lanista
pursed his lips, looking her over. After a moment of observation he circled her, keeping two strides away, looking her up and down with a careful eye. Her only garments were a soiled breast band and loincloth. Narses returned to his original position.

"What is your name?"

The woman regarded him, then a half-smile passed over her lips. "Diana."

"Fitting. Is it your real name?"

"It is now."

Narses nodded, squinting a little with his left eye. "May I see your hands?"

"You need to ask my permission?" Thyatis' voice was filled with brittle humor.

"I am asking your permission," Narses responded, leaning on the cane. "Out of professional courtesy."

"I'm not a gladiator," Thyatis snapped.

"No." Narses smiled himself. "You are a soldier. I was a soldier once. May I?"

Thyatis held out her hands, palms up. Narses stepped to her, aware of Hamilcar stiffening with tension, poising to leap to his defense. Too, the archers on the wall sighted and drew their bows, ready to loose them. The woman did not move. The
lanista
ran his right hand over her palms, thumbs, wrists, feeling the calluses and tracing the pattern of scars on her arms. When he was done he stepped back. Narses seemed sad, even regretful.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. "You're a soldier, not one of these toys."

"Toys?" The woman almost laughed aloud but she restrained herself, clasping her hands behind her back. "I don't think your friend likes being called a
toy
."

Narses could feel Hamilcar's anger too, but he just chuckled. "Did you know that, with one famous exception, gladiators set against legionaries lose? The man who is trained to fight in the arena lives in a world of careful constraints. He is like an actor on the stage, with a role and a script to follow. He is not a soldier, who does not care for effect or spectacle but only to live and to kill his enemies so that he might survive. A soldier thrives in chaos, a gladiator in order. When chaos and order meet, the soldier is the master."

Thyatis raised an eyebrow. "You are an odd gladiator."

Narses smiled ruefully, shaking his stump at her. "Not much of one now. I should have been an innkeeper, then I'd have two good arms. Hamilcar, toss us those blades!"

The African underhanded a practice sword first to Narses, who caught it deftly from the air, and then to Thyatis, who let it fall to the sand.

"Pick it up," Narses said, tossing his heavy wooden blade into the air and then catching it for a better grip. "I would like to see you with a sword in your hand."

Thyatis looked down at the weapon, then knelt and picked it up. It was long-hafted, with room to wield it hand-and-hand. Wood wrapped in canvas made for a heavy blade, easily twice the weight of the equivalent iron. She took it in both hands, her right wrapped around the hilt near the crossbar, her left against the pommel. Her body relaxed, left leg sliding forward, bent, while her right slid into balance behind. The tip of the wooden blade pointed down and to the right, in line with her body. Narses' eyebrows rose in surprise, seeing the woman's balance and poise. He raised his own weapon, turning it over so that his palm faced the sand.

They stood, facing each other. A grain passed, then another.

Narses shifted his position, turning his body into line with hers, knees settling. Thyatis responded, swinging the sword up in a smooth motion, weight shifting slightly forward. Her balance remained, as did his.

Again a grain passed, then Narses brought his sword hilt to his forehead, the blade pointing at the sky, and said, "Well done. Hamilcar, take these tools away." He bowed, then tossed the wooden sword to the frowning African. The gladiator caught the sword deftly, then tucked it under his arm. Thyatis waited a beat, then bowed herself, grounding her weapon, then flipped it to Hamilcar.

Narses bent and picked up his cane, shaking his head.

"You have a powerful enemy," he said, looking up at Thyatis. "Do you have a patron? Someone who can pay for your freedom?"

"No," Thyatis said, voice acid with bitterness. "I do not want freedom."

Narses stepped back, surprised by the hatred and anger in the woman's voice.

"I don't understand. You want to fight and die in the arena?"

"Yes." A distant look entered Thyatis' face, showing an echo of terrible loss. "That is fitting."

The
lanista
shook his head in puzzlement. He had seen many men enter the arena and most leave in death, dragged to the Black Gate by dark-robed attendants. There was nothing worthwhile on the bloody sand.

"You are still young," he said, "and you've all your limbs! Your anger will grow less with time, then fade. Turn away from this slaughter! It is foolish. Wasteful."

Thyatis shook her head. "You don't understand. I want to fight."

"You will not have to wait long. The funeral games for the dead of Vesuvius begin soon."

A strange light came into her eyes. "The Emperor honors those slain in the eruption? The
munera
have been approved?"

"Yes," Narses said. "You didn't hear?"

"No," she said, smiling. "But I am glad. Find me suitable opponents, Master Narses! The shades of the dead will be hungry after this long wait. I would send my friends into the underworld with full bellies!"

Narses backed away, on edge. He saw the woman was suddenly glad, even cheerful. Hamilcar joined the
lanista
and they hurried toward the gate in the wall.

Thyatis knelt on the hot sand, ignoring the guardsmen moving toward her. In a moment, they would try and herd her back to the cell with long, barbed spears. She would go without trouble, but at this moment, she clasped her hands, putting her fists to her forehead.

O Huntress,
she prayed,
let my friends find their way to golden fields, rich with grain. I have failed them, failed my mother, failed you, goddess. My heart is broken, but I will do them honor! I will send brave men down to the black river to hold their cups, to serve them, to bring them choice cuts of meat, thick with fat. I swear it will be so!

Then she stood up and allowed the guards to take her back into the holding cells lining the practice yard. The faces of the dead still haunted her, but she thought now they might smile, where before there had been only torment.

"A strange sort of test," Hamilcar ventured as he and Narses walked through the tunnel into the main building. "Not even a blow struck?"

Narses grunted, his cane tapping on the tile floor. "No need. I saw enough."

"Of what? Her sleek breasts and thighs?" Hamilcar laughed, his bronzed face glowing in the light of the high windows. "She is pretty and vicious all at once!"

Narses stopped and turned, looking up at the African, his chin jutting out. "Do you think that her victory over the criminals was a fluke?"

Hamilcar nodded, looking down at the old man. "Of course," he said, brushing back rich, dark hair. "They were drugged or poisoned. No woman has
ever
been triumphant in the arena."

Narses grimaced, curling his fists over the head of the cane. "Hmm, in your memory, perhaps. I remember differently, though it was a long time ago. Listen, when you walk onto the hot sand, do you care if you live or die?"

"Yes," Hamilcar said in a curious tone, "who does not?"

"Her." Narses turned away again, thinking. The patrician Gaius had put a proposal to him. Now, seeing the woman up close, marking the pattern of her muscles, the skill inherent in her motions, the odd scars and welts on her, Narses was intrigued. "This woman is good, young lad. She does not fear death. I would not want to face her over bare steel."

"I could kill her," the African mused, turning his noble head in profile as they passed a polished metal mirror. "I am the best fighter in the city."

"Are you?" Narses laughed as he climbed the stairs to his office. "Perhaps the best
male
fighter in the city. But, you could be right. Many strange things have come to pass. I am too old to be surprised anymore."

The old
lanista
settled behind his desk, looking pensively out the window. Across the rooftops, the arches and arcades of the Colosseum rose up against the sky. From this vantage, the amphitheater was a marble and concrete cliff, towering over the city. Narses felt a little sad, thinking of all the men he had sent to die on the sand. Gaius' proposal troubled him, though he could see the benefits for himself and for the school. The Ludus Magnus was the foremost gladiatorial school in the Empire, revered and respected. Narses had been the master for sixteen years and had seen emperors come and go. He had a reputation to uphold. These funeral games needed to be special. Galen's delays had raised the anticipation of the people to a fever pitch. The usual fights and spectacles would not suffice. "Hamilcar, listen closely."

The African, who had been checking the fit and polish of the leather straps girding his loins and chest, turned. He was an attentive lad, even if he was quite amoral.

"Go to the slave market, the prisons, the whorehouses. Find me every fierce girl that you can, every barbarian, every madwoman. Bring them here and put them in the cells on the third level. But quietly! Don't purchase them all at once. We have one real Amazon, but she should not stand alone on the bright sand."

The wooden flank of the
Khuwaylid
slid past a limestone quay and came to rest, guided by gentle oars and ropes flung from the ship. Sailors swarmed from the ship, tying up and running out a gangway. The planks flexed under Mohammed's boots as he strode ashore. He found the heat of the day pleasant, though anyone else would find it oppressive. The white buildings and wharfs flung the sun into his eyes, but he squinted with the ease of long practice. Behind him, the rest of the Arab fleet was entering the huge harbor. Mohammed was delighted to see a large number of merchantmen tied up at the docks, busily loading and unloading bales and crates of goods.

Commerce endures.
The thought was very comforting.

"My lord, welcome!" Khalid was waiting, handsome face wreathed with a smile. The young man bowed before Mohammed, bending his knee and putting fingertips to his forehead. The Quraysh tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to rise.

"Greetings, young Eagle. Well met, Odenathus! If you are here, then the road to Egypt must be open in the south!"

"It is." The Palmyrene smiled, bowing. "Though there was some difficulty. Cousin! Oomph!"

Odenathus and Zoë embraced, her dark hair flipping around her neck. Mohammed smiled, seeing the young woman was allowing a little happiness to show. He left the two of them to make their greeting, turning back to Khalid. "Is Shadin here? Good. Let's find somewhere to sit and have a cool drink."

Khalid gestured toward the graceful three-story building that served as the port offices. "My Lord Mohammed, I've made this building our headquarters. Your staff is billeted there, and... we have a guest. A royal guest. You will be surprised to meet him, I think."

Mohammed raised an eyebrow at the stress the young man laid on the word
royal
. "Do we?"

Zoë shaded her eyes with a hand, staring at the merchantmen riding at anchor in the harbor. "Is that the
Tigranes
? It surely looks like her..."

"It is," Odenathus said, walking at her side along the quay. "I found the Palmyrene factor still in business here when we returned from Aelia Capitolina. He was surprised to see me, and very glad. I bade him send out messages to all the ships owned by the city—they are gathering here; a few arrive each week."

Zoë smiled, teeth brilliantly white in a very dark face. The time at sea had burned her dark brown. She tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. "That is marvelous! The city is not dead, then."

"No." Odenathus nodded in agreement. "We still own warehouses and ships throughout the whole of the
Mare Internum
and down into the Sinus Arabicus. Many citizens who were abroad are gathering here, as they hear that the Queen lives. They are heartened by your presence, Zoë, and they are very angry with Rome."

"Good," Zoë said, dark eyes shining in delight. "We need more ships to carry men and supplies. Did our courier galley reach you?"

"Yes. It arrived yesterday!"

Zoë frowned, shaking her head. "How strange! We sent it away days and days before we turned back from the Roman shore... No matter. What matters is that the way is open to Constantinople. The Imperial fleet is scattered and many ships were destroyed or captured."

"That is good news," Odenathus said, but something in his voice made Zoë stop.