The Storm of Heaven (71 page)

Invisible in the darkness, the presence of the catafalque filled the hold. Zoë stepped close, letting her fingers find the ornamented scrollwork on the four corner posts. She shivered, feeling a deep chill in the air.

The muttering grew louder and she shook her head. A sick feeling grew in her stomach. Memories of death crowded her thoughts—the dead of her city, the acres of bones, the tumbled ruins, the shattered, smoke-blackened buildings—clutching at her with dry, twiglike fingers. Gasping, Zoë fell against the side of the catafalque, tears streaming down her cheeks. All of the pain that had filled her before the night journey with Mohammed came welling up, crushing her with its vast weight.

Daughter, listen to me.

Zoë's head jerked up, all her focus and concentration gone. It was very dark in the hold. A creaking sound echoed from the floor, coupled with the lapping sound of water against the side of the ship. The air grew cold. Zoë shuddered, afraid to move, afraid to touch anything that might be squirming close to her in the darkness.

Listen. Listen to me. Please, Zoë, hear me.
The words were faint, almost drowned out by a near-audible muttering and hissing.

The Palmyrene woman pushed herself up from the floor, sliding away from the sarcophagus lying on the wooden platform, garlanded with flowers and rare spices. It was hard to move, an effort even to raise her head. Something dragged at her, trying to crush her down to the planks. Zoë started to choke, feeling nausea well up in her, biting at her throat. She clenched her teeth, biting back on vomit. There was something hot on the right-hand side of her head. Trembling, she raised her hand, touching her hair.

Something was at her ear, a spidery web of metal whiskers and wet, chitinous surfaces. Her fingers dug at it, tangling in sharp wires and rustling, clacking mandibles. Zoë snarled, a guttural animal sound, and ripped at it. Horribly bright pain blossomed and there was a tearing sound, coupled with a gelid, wet
slurp
.

"Aaaah!" Zoë tore at the thing, screaming in rage. "Aaaah!"

The thing writhed, cutting her fingers. Blood welled, spilling down her neck. A bright spark guttered alight in the darkness as Zoë called in desperation upon her power. In the flickering light, she saw a staccato image of something like a huge black spider, covered with waving ebon fronds, squirming in her hand. It was wet with blood and some shining fluid. A whiplike tail lashed in the air, darting at her eyes, a triple-pronged mouth flashing at the tip.

"No!" Her scream ripped the air and was followed by a brilliant white flare of light. She hurled the thing away from her, clacking and chittering. It struck the side of the catafalque and bounced away. Flames leapt up from the dry wood, burning brightly among the dead flowers and drifts of incense and cardamom. A billow of stinging white smoke rose from the platform. Zoë crawled away, hands on the floor, heading for the ladder to the main deck. A swift, rustling sound followed her and she jumped aside, catching sight of the spider-thing leaping at her out of the darkness. This time she was ready.

Fire roared out from her hand, filling the air. The thing was caught in the blast, silhouetted for an instant before it was set alight. It shrieked, flung back against the far wall of the hold. There was a sickening crunch and then Zoë chopped her hand down, face contorted with disgust. A jagged arc of lightning lit from her clenched fist and smashed into the creature, blowing it to fragments. The wall leapt with flame and the catafalque was burning fiercely. A hissing scream rose from the platform and there was a dry, rattling sound. Zoë backed away, her shield raised, flame roaring against the wavering blue surface. The side of her head was cold and wet. She pressed a hand against her ruined ear, trying to stop the flow of blood.

The ship groaned and the shattered side of the hold suddenly buckled, letting a flood of water into the burning room. Steam hissed up, filling the chamber and billowing out of the hatchway. Zoë, surrounded by licking flames, leapt up, springing out of the hold and onto the deck of the ship. A grinding sound followed her and the decking shuddered under her feet. Water continued to pour into the hold, drowning the flames. Hand bloody, her head throbbing with pain, Zoë staggered to the railing, ignoring the panicked cries of the crew. The
Jibril
floated peacefully, now lit by many lanterns. There was shouting. She choked back nausea. Waves of pain washed over her. The moment of fierce energy she had summoned up was fading, leaving her weak.

Legs trembling, she climbed onto the rail. The ship listed as the hold flooded, making balance difficult. Planks and beams ground violently, snapping as the hull cracked under the pressure. Focus came, but only slowly, like a drunk weaving down a street. The entrance to the hidden world eluded her, coming and going in fits and starts. The sky flowered open into an abyss of burning lights, then grew dark again. Steeling herself to the effort, Zoë tried to shut out the pain and the weakness. Suddenly, the matrices of perception coalesced and she could see the pattern of the sea and the air.

Desperately she leapt, soaring into the sky, the rush of her passage blowing back her hair.

Something metallic wiggled in her bloody ear and she screamed in fear, smashing her palm against the side of her head. The dark surface of the water rushed up with dizzying speed.

A soft, insistent tapping sound filtered through the air. Martina blinked woozily, realizing she had fallen asleep at her desk. She raised her head, tasting something foul on her tongue. Across the room, beside little Heracleonas' bassinet, Arsinoë rose, gathering a gown around her dark shoulders. The maid padded to the door, then leaned against the close-grained panel, listening. "Who is there?"

There was a soft answer and the maid turned to Martina, her black eyes wide. "Mistress? It is Rufio, with two priests of Asklepius."

"Oh, what now?" The Empress rose, trying to clear the taste from her mouth. "Can't they let me sleep?" She tugged her tunic straight, then draped a woolen stole around her shoulders. A heavy
krater
of wine on the desk made a poor mirror, and she made a face when she saw the heavy smudges under her eyes. "Let them in."

Rufio entered quietly, sliding through the door as it opened. Two men, one large and heavyset, the other small and old, followed him. Arsinoë, looking very worried, closed the panel behind them. Martina flicked her head, pointing the maid to the bassinet. The African girl scurried to the baby.

"Well, what do you want?" Martina failed to keep scorn from her voice. The two men with Rufio were clothed in the archaic himation and chiton of their order. The taller man, his face dignified by a thick dark beard, bowed politely.

"Dear lady, Empress, we must apologize for the abuse you have suffered at the hands of some members of our order. Please know that neither myself—and I am Tarsus—nor my colleague, Hipponax, agree with or condone the insults offered you and your husband."

Both priests bowed again and Martina found her expression softening in response. Years had passed since any priest she had met in the city greeted her with such civility. "I see! You are well-spoken priests, at least. My apologies. How can I help you?"

The two men shared a glance, and then the smaller one bobbed his round head and smiled gamely. "Lady, we hoped that we would be allowed to tend to your husband. Both of us are blessed with the healing art and we were thinking..."

Tarsus followed smoothly, "...that we might do some good, for everyone."

Martina sat down in her chair, overcome by a surge of emotion. She fought back tears, motioning weakly to Rufio. "The captain of the Guard can tell you what has happened before."

"We know," Tarsus said, stepping around the desk. He knelt in front of the Empress, his light brown eyes kind and his voice gentle. "The captain told us of the previous attempts and of their failure. Please, mistress, let us try. We are loyal citizens. You must know the Emperor's sickness is like a poison in the body of the state."

"It will do no good." Martina pressed a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes. Tears seeped from between the lids, stained black and leaving a gray trail down her cheeks. "The gods have cursed him."

Tarsus stood and looked at Hipponax, a grim look on his face. "Have the other priests said this? Or do you fear such a thing?"

"The other priests," Rufio rumbled from the shadows, "have said many things. That does not mean they are true."

"My lady," Hipponax urged, "may we see him?"

"What harm can it do?" Martina waved at Rufio, her eyes still pressed tight. "Take them through the passage."

Rufio nodded, his eyes glinting in the light of the candles. "This way."

Tarsus dithered for a moment, then turned away from the Empress, Hipponax's hand on his arm. Together, they followed Rufio, who had pressed a concealed latch and opened a panel in one of the walls. The shadows swallowed all three men.

Once they were gone, Arsinoë crept up to her mistress, who was clutching the side of the chair, shaking violently. The maid laid a quilt over the small, brown-haired woman, then pressed a cup into her hand. Martina drank swiftly, spilling a thin trail of dark red wine down her chin. The stain on her tunic spread slowly, creeping down across her breast.

Each time Rufio entered the Emperor's presence, the foul smell struck him as if for the first time. The guard captain wondered if there had been any change, really, since they had begun feeding Emperor Sviod's remedy. The glassy, distended skin, the puffy limbs, the hoarse, croaking breath—they all seemed the same.

Tarsus and Hipponax knelt on either side of the Emperor, knees sinking into the plush quilts covering the Imperial bed. Both men discarded their bulky himation, rendering Rufio a grim, armored clothesrack. As soon as the two priests entered the chamber, a change fell over both of them: their timidity and nervousness were gone, replaced by a swift, professional manner.

"Dropsy." Tarsus met Hipponax's eyes and the smaller man nodded in agreement. "Fluids are gathering in the limbs; the lungs are being crushed by the weight of clear humors in his chest." Tarsus gently laid back the silk sheets covering the Emperor's grotesque body. Neither man flinched at the fish-pale flesh or the bulging navel standing up like a tiny phallus. Hipponax ran his hands down the swollen legs, his fingertips close to but not touching the gray flesh.

"The motive threads in his legs may be damaged." Hipponax pulled the sheets from the Emperor's feet. "His toes are beginning to turn dark. Blood is pooling in them, perhaps stultifying. His circulation of bile and blood must be very poor."

Tarsus laid a hand on Heraclius' forehead, eyes closed. There was a soft humming sound and the Emperor suddenly lost some of the stiffness in his body. Rufio moved slightly, hand moving towards a knife at his waist. Hipponax looked up, then shook his head. "Do not be alarmed, Captain. Tarsus has only made him sleep without dreams."

The little round priest sat up, tapping a thumbnail against his teeth. "Tarsus, if this were simple dropsy, any priests who treated him before would have been able to set the balance in his body aright."

"Yes." Tarsus leaned close, smelling the gargling breath issuing from the Emperor's slack mouth. "Captain, is he drinking an infusion of juniper berries?"

Rufio started, then said, "Yes. Compounded with some other herbs."

"Parsley seeds. How much have you been giving him at a time? For how long?"

"Only a little, but over the last several months." Rufio shrugged. "He refuses to drink when he is awake, he fears any liquid, and at night it must be done in secret. There are too many hostile eyes in the palace."

Tarsus looked at Hipponax, disturbed. "Such a course of treatment should have greatly reduced these symptoms."

The little priest bobbed his round head in agreement, the fringe of hair around his ears catching the faint light of a single candle. "Not a normal disease, then, something else."

Tarsus settled back, closing his eyes. Hipponax did the same. After a moment, Rufio jerked his head around, thinking he heard a sound in the hidden passage. When he looked back, the two priests had placed their hands on the torso of the Emperor. A soft white glow was seeping from under their fingers, trickling across the swollen flesh.

Rufio's face contorted, filled with undisguised horror and loathing. His nerveless fingers dropped the two cloaks to the ground in an untidy pile. Then he looked away, his fist clenched around the knife at his waist. His knuckles whitened with a crushing grip. Silently, his face gyrated between anguish and rage. Then—with an effort visible in his shoulders and neck, where the veins bulged—he mastered himself. When he turned around, the soft white light washed over a stoic face, unmarked by tears or any kind of emotion in his black eyes.

"You failed." Martina's voice was dead and cold.

"Yes." Hipponax seemed drained, reduced, his face graven with weariness. "But there is the tiniest seed of hope, Empress."

Martina raised an eyebrow, her powders and colors a ruin. Neither of the priests looked any better in this dim orange light. "Tell me."

"The Emperor has made himself sick." Tarsus leaned forward, haggard face intent. He met Martina's eyes with a candid look. "We used our arts simply to divine the cause of his ailment. I—
we
—believe he ate too much dry salted meat while on campaign. This caused his body to begin retaining fluids. A common enough occurrence in the desert, particularly when a man's humors are out of balance. But—
but
—when the swollen feet and distended limbs struck him, he believed the gods cursed him. Now, the mind torments the body."

Hipponax nodded in agreement. "My lady, your husband cannot be treated by our arts because he will not let himself be cured. He is consumed by fear. I would guess, from what I have heard, he believes his marriage to you has brought the wrath of the gods upon him."

Martina jerked up, face white with rage. Her wine cup flew across the room and shattered, making a shockingly loud sound in the quiet room. "I am
sick
of hearing this is my fault! Get out, both of you. Rufio, take them away. You are no better than these other priests—at least they had the bravery to say this from the first."