The Storm of Heaven (72 page)

Tarsus stood, shocked and dismayed. "My lady! You've no fault in this I can see! The Emperor's mind is set against his body, to the detriment of both. If he can be convinced to live, to set aside this self-loathing, then he can be cured. Please—you can help him—your
son
can help him. From your love, he can find the strength to become well."

"What pap!" Martina groped on the desk for something heavy and sharp. "My son is weak, his blood corrupt. He will follow his father across the dark river soon enough." Her hand found a marble blotting pin. It felt good in her hand. Rufio stepped in front of the priests.

"I will take them away," the captain said, muscular hand pinning hers to the desk. "They mean you no disrespect, Empress."

"Get out." Martina's voice was reduced to a hiss. "What is he doing? Get away from him!"

Hipponax, his brows drawn together in dismay, had stepped to the bassinet. The priest laid a gentle hand against the sleeping baby's head, ignoring the scuffle behind him. Warm light reflected in the little priest's eyes, then he smiled.

"Empress, your son will be healthy." Hipponax turned, then raised an eyebrow at the sight of the captain of the Faithful Guards forcibly restraining the Empress, one hand over her mouth. A trickle of blood seeped from fine white teeth biting into his palm. Rufio did not seem to notice. "You should have someone see to that, Captain. Bites suppurate quickly.

"Empress." Hipponax walked to the struggling woman, his voice gentle. "We are not your enemies, though I know you have been poorly treated by our order. Your son is suffering from too much bile. He needs more sun and the comfort of your arms. Do you feed him yourself?"

The priest gently moved Rufio's fingers away, letting Martina take a breath. She glared at both men with undisguised fury. "No. There is a wet-nurse. It is painful for me to nurse him."

Hipponax nodded, then placed Rufio's hand back over the Empress' mouth. The guard captain seemed amused by this, then his face darkened with anger as the little priest cupped each of the Empress' breasts, his head cocked to one side as if listening. Martina surged violently in Rufio's arms, but he lifted her up and her legs kicked violently in the air. Hipponax removed his hands, bowed and stepped back. "Your pardon, my lady. I am sure my head will be easily loosed from my shoulders, if that is your wish. Listen. You should not nurse yourself, and you should find another wet-nurse for your son. There is a subtle balance in the humors of a nursing mother's body. Yours, I fear, is unsuitable for your son. I venture his current wet-nurse is also unsuitable."

Rufio set Martina down. He took his hands from her body, then stepped quickly back. The Empress spun, her face white with rage, lips smeared with blood. "You. You..."

Her head snapped around and a finger jabbed out at Hipponax. "I do not want to see you
ever again
, little man. If I do, I will have you torn to pieces by wild dogs or hacked into sections with cleavers."

Both priests bowed deeply and then, with Rufio behind them, slipped out the door. Martina stood in the middle of the room, shaking with anger. Then her face slowly cleared and she steadied herself with a hand on the table. She took a breath, then another, then shuddered. Her face wrinkled, then her tongue darted over her lips, tasting something like iron and salt.

"Oh, how foul! Arsinoë! Where did that wretched girl get to?"

She spat blood on the floor, then wiped her mouth clean.

"I am sure it is her, my lady," Betia shouted, pushing through the crowd. The arcade surrounding the amphitheater was stifling. Tens of thousands of citizens pressed forward in a huge snarled mass. There were marked walkways, delineated by stone plugs and ropes, but today the city was gripped by a tremendous sense of festivity. Everyone was eager to get to the games. The hawkers in the park north of the Colosseum were doing a frantic business in seat tokens. "Everyone says the leader of the Amazons is a tall, redheaded woman with incredible skill. She slew a dozen wild beasts by herself!"

Anastasia snorted, holding a gray veil before her face. She hated crowds in the city and today was worse: hot, sunny, without so much as a breath of air to alleviate the heat. Some people, crushed in the crowd, had already fainted. Men jostled her on either side, trying to push ahead in the line. The queue inched ahead slowly, disappearing into the black maw of the northern gate of the Flavian. "I don't believe it," Anastasia sniffed, nearly stumbling when a pack of stonemasons surged up behind her, pressing her into Betia's thin little back. The blond girl braced her mistress with both arms, then wiggled forward between a group of bakers. Most of the seats in the Flavian were allocated to guilds, the ancient clans or patrician families. Anastasia had her seats by virtue of her late husband's position as Duke of Parma. She had never been to the games before. If this hot, sweaty crowd were the norm, she didn't intend to go again. "The possibility of her survival is insignificant."

Betia turned, watery blue eyes flashing. "I think we should watch and see for ourselves!"

The Duchess sighed, knowing what pitiful, tiny hope drove the blond girl. She had tortured herself with the same dreams. It was useless; all of the men and women whom she had sent to murder the Prince were dead, annihilated in the mammoth explosion of Vesuvius. Despite the dead feeling in her heart, she continued on, sweating and suffering in her dark gown and shawl. The garb of mourning was not designed for a blisteringly hot day down in the center of the city.

The sand burned white, throwing long shadows down the tunnels on the north side of the amphitheater floor. Thyatis squatted in a nameless grimy passage. A great clamor was under way out on the arena floor. Chariots were parading past, decked with white and silver, holding bronzed men in armor. Gladiators raised their arms, glinting with metal, to the adulation of the crowd. Robes of purple and gold were draped over brawny shoulders. The horses, bedecked in tassels and flowers, stepped past, fetlocks rising and falling in careful unison. Thyatis was sure it all made a fine show from the marble seats. A drumming sound could be felt through the wall at her back, the pounding of tens of thousands of feet against the seats.

A sandaled foot kicked her thigh gently. "Don't be so foul."

Thyatis looked up, eyes slitted with anger. The Nubian girl, Candace, was standing next to her. Like Thyatis, she was dressed in a short kilt of pleated linen edged with badly sewn gold patches. A half-
strophium
covered one breast, leaving the other bare. A crown of cheap copper flashed with gold paint held back her hair.

"This is ludicrous," Thyatis growled, picking at her breast band. "I don't want to flop around while I'm fighting."

"Well," Candace cocked her head to one side, grinning, "it is a little droopy, but very traditional... oomph!"

Thyatis was standing, her fists clenched. Candace looked up with disbelief from the floor, rubbing her stomach. "That was uncalled for, Roman!"

Thyatis' voice was sharp. "I've no time for levity." She looked down the corridor. A dozen women were huddled against the walls, sunk in their own hopelessness. They were dressed in the same ridiculous costumes. "Do you know when we go on?"

"My apologies." Candace stood, dusting herself off. The poor-quality linen kilt was already smudged and torn. "You hear what they call us—we're supposed to be Amazons. This is our
traditional
costume. So we get to prance around half naked."

Thyatis raised an eyebrow at the Nubian girl's perky breast. "Really. I'm thinking that I'd prefer a mail shirt, greaves and a shield instead. Have you talked to any of our fellow victims?"

"No." Candace shook her head, surveying them as well. "More like us—flotsam from the prisons or the market or the bordellos. Poor chicks."

"Give me your
strophium
."

Candace raised both eyebrows in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Hand it over." Thyatis gestured impatiently with her right hand. "The Queen of the Amazons gets to cover both breasts."

"Oh. Of course,
Your Majesty
." Candace gave her an arch look but unwound the cloth. Thyatis wrapped it across her own chest, crosswise, and sighed in relief to draw it snug across her left breast. "Won't you have a hard time shooting a bow now?"

"I doubt," Thyatis said, pacing to the iron grillwork closing off the end of the passage, "they will give us bows today. The
editores
are not stupid. One dead senator would quash their pensions." She put her hands on the iron bars, pressing against them, letting her body flex in line with her extended right leg. It felt good. Sitting in the stone pits under the arena for a week had not improved her temper. Worse, it had been hard to exercise and keep herself limber.

"You lot," Thyatis barked at the other women. "Stand up. Candace, help anyone that can't stand by herself."

The other women stared back in confusion. Two of them stood tentatively. Thyatis jerked her head at them while she reached down and pulled up the nearest slave.

"Listen to me. We're going to be set against some opponent—probably male criminals—as the opening act today. A bloody warm-up for the crowd, not just the clowns thrashing about. There will be weapons set out on the floor of the arena. I'd guess, since we're in a tunnel, that the men are in a tunnel too, on the south side of the arena. We'll have to run and grab what we need."

Thyatis stopped, frowning. Except for Candace and the two older women that were standing, no one seemed to be following her. "Do any of you speak Latin?"

Another round of blank looks.

"Capital. Just capital."

Maxian stopped climbing, thighs burning with effort. He pressed himself to the side of the stairwell, letting the crowd continue past. There was a little niche at each turning of the stair as it snaked its way up through the warren of the Flavian. Usually a statue of one of the gods resided in the alcove, but this one was empty. The pungent smell of onions, garlic and fish sauce choked the air. The upper deck of the amphitheater was reserved for the poor, for women and for barbarians in from the provinces to see the show. Maxian let them surge past.

A family passed him, led by a round-faced merchant, sweating furiously in his games-day toga. His wife followed, drawing Maxian's eye. She was cool and collected, possessed of a magnificent mane of curly dark hair under a gauzy veil. She had a baby in her arms.

She reminded Maxian, suddenly, of the Duchess Anastasia. He wondered what she would say to him now if they met. Their last meeting had been over an interrupted dinner. He had ignored her in main part and she had, politely, left. Soon after, Krista had left his side, then tried to murder him. Melancholy filled the Prince and he leaned against the wall, fist to his chin. There had been a brief time when it seemed they were friends. More than friends.

I wonder,
Maxian thought suddenly,
if our assignation meant anything to her? Did she play me, even then?
It hurt, thinking that she might have just used him for her own pleasure, or worse, for some scheme.
No matter.
He shook his head, then slipped into the flow of men and women climbing the stairs. He could have banished the pain from his legs, but he was intent on a delicate process today. It might put a monkey in the henhouse to throw power recklessly about within the Flavian.

Only another hundred and six steps remained before he reached the broad pine decking under the awning poles.

A phalanx of tubas
blatted
, signaling the beginning of the games for the day. Helena waited until the cacophony died down, then removed her hands from her ears. Galen was laughing at her, his eyes wrinkling up.

"Stop that," she chided him. "I hate all this noise."

"You mean it distracts you from your writing."

"Perhaps." She frowned at him, giving him a good, solid glare. "It's my turn to complain about the games, not yours."

"You should be pleased today," Galen said, leaning close to her, his hand sliding on her knee. "The Amazons are the opening act. There should be plenty of dead men if this notable Diana proves her mettle."

"Stop that. You'll scandalize the Vestals," Helena hissed, narrowing gold-dusted eyes at him. "Here, give me our son."

Galen, distracted from her thigh, nodded to the slave behind him. Little Theodosius had shaken off his colic. Now he was a healthy, squalling baby. Today, matching his mother, he was wrapped in pale violet silk. Galen took the boy in his arms, his face lighting up with a smile as the baby grabbed at his nose. The Emperor turned, facing the crowd. Today the arena was filled to bursting, with buttocks in every seat, as Cicero might have said. A riot of color, a mutable sea of faces filled the great bowl. Galen settled the baby on his hip, mindful of his golden crown of laurel, and raised his other hand.

"Let the games begin!"

The iron grill rattled up. There was a deafening roar of sound, the unleashed joy of forty-five thousand human throats. Thyatis sprinted out, legs blurring over the white sand. Behind her, she hoped, Candace and the other women were running out as well, keeping close together. The sky was very blue and the heat from the sand beat up at her like an open flame.

Five hundred feet away, on the southern, shady side of the arena, another gate was rising. Men spilled out onto the brick walkway circling the arena floor, confused, looking about in fear. The city magistrates sentenced useless criminals to the arena. Those worth sending to the mines or city farms were not wasted on the amphitheater. These would be murderers, rapists, cripples. Anyone whom the state could spare.

Thyatis ran, letting her muscles find their own rhythm. The walls of the Flavian rose up on all sides, half in shadow, half in sun, vibrant with color. The initial cheering died, replaced by a hushed anticipation. The audience had seen this play before, many times. Two gangs of criminals would be urged out onto the sand with whips and smoking-hot brands. The attendants, dark in their archaic masks and robes, would kill those who did not fight.