The Storm of Heaven (73 page)

No one ran to battle, certainly not with such speed.

The elevators rattled to a halt, leaving spears, maces, swords, axes exposed on the floor of the arena. Thyatis glimpsed that they were arranged in two rows, one near each tunnel mouth. Some of the men looked up, staring at her rushing towards them with all the speed she could manage.

The men's line of weapons was only a hundred feet away now. Two of the criminals suddenly darted forward, shouting, realizing that the women behind Thyatis had already reached their own line of weapons and were snatching them up. Thyatis redoubled her efforts, head down, sprinting recklessly.

"These are our seats, noble sirs." Betia smiled prettily at the two men squeezed into a block of seats reserved for Imperial governors and tribunes posted to the frontier. They looked up and Anastasia was pleasantly surprised to see the pair were her guardsmen. The larger of the two nodded sharply, then squeezed over on the marble bench. There was an outraged cry from beyond him, but the guardsman turned and glowered at a portly official until the man gulped and went silent.

"Thank you." Betia sat, wedging a basket of snacks between her pale legs, and helped Anastasia sit down. The Duchess had been nearly overcome by the heat and was feeling rather sick. Betia pressed an alabaster flute of lemon water into her hands. "Drink this, mistress. The heat is dreadful today."

The Duchess nodded, lifting her veil and drinking deeply from the cool jar. The tart water was a blessing on her throat. A great roar of sound rose up from the stands and she looked around speculatively, violet eyes drinking in the scene. The crowd was in a festive mood today. The Emperor had promised spectacular games and so far they had not been disappointed. The parades had been grand, the fights bloody and without mercy. The wild animals had even put on a good show. Anastasia felt a pent-up energy in the crowd. Months had passed without any games at all. Now that they had started again, everything was fresh and unexpected.

Betia was standing on her seat, on tiptoes, staring down at the floor of the arena. There was another burst of cheering and clapping. Anastasia tugged at Betia's skirt. "What is going on?"

"It's her!" Betia looked down at the Duchess, her face glowing. "It
is
her!"

Sighing, Anastasia stood, though her whole body seemed sore. Her depression had taken a physical toll. Cursing at the forest of heads and arms that prevented her from seeing the arena floor, she climbed up on her seat. This was very rude, but any kind of social politeness seemed to have gone straight out the window today.

She could see the sand at last, and she staggered in surprise. Betia, concerned, caught her elbow. Down on the white oval, engaged in furious, whirling combat with a brace of men, leaping and striking, a spear grasped firmly in both hands, golden-red hair startlingly short, was a woman who looked very much like Thyatis. Her adopted daughter, presumed dead, seemed quite alive.

"Oh. Oh, dear." The Duchess found it very hard to breathe.

Thyatis blocked fiercely, slapping aside a wild overhand cut. The sword bit into the haft of her spear, then bounced away. She gave ground, pressed by three tattered men. Her first rush into the body of the criminals had laid two of them low, their bright blood smeared on the walkway. The rest had scattered in all directions, some hobbling on stumpy legs. Two of them, grimy creatures with broken faces, she had hunted down and slain. They had begged for life, crawling on the bricks, but she did not have time for mercy. The rest had run for the weapons on the elevator platforms, then had turned to hunt her.

The other women, with Candace at their center, had taken up all the spears and swords they could find and now parked themselves near one of the walls. The attendants, venturing out from the tunnel beneath the Imperial box, were cursing them, trying to get them to take part in the battle.

One group of the condemned men had turned on Thyatis immediately. She had killed one in their first rush, tearing his throat out. His body, limbs askew, was sprawled a dozen yards away. The three facing her began to circle, trying to flank her. She paced sideways, keeping the wall of the arena at her back. It struck her as funny, suddenly, that the men were alike as peas—ragged dark hair, filth-stained bodies, emaciated frames. Prison reduced all men to constituent parts, it seemed.

She shouted, lunging at the nearest one. He scrambled back, crying out in fear. She rushed into the gap, whirling the spear. The butt end, a stocky length of oak, cracked into the side of the man's head. He went down, nerveless, sword spilling from lax fingers. The other two attacked, slashing wildly. Thyatis flicked the spear to the right, batting aside an oncoming sword blade, then driving the corroded iron head into the man's mouth. He jerked to a halt, gargling blood and filmy bubbles. Thyatis let out a hoarse
kiii
shout, then whipped the spear butt around to her left and forward. The third man crashed into the butt, breath shocked from his body. He staggered. Thyatis wrenched the point free of the man choking on his own blood.

Before she could kill the last of the three, a frenzied shouting drew her attention.

The phalanx of women was under attack from both the remaining criminals and the attendants. It broke, women fleeing in all directions. One of the men waded in, hacking around him with an ax, splitting the skull of one of the older women. She died instantly. The man, his red beard flowing down almost to his waist, screamed in victory.

Thyatis knew the sound; the barbarian had lost himself in the frenzy of battle. She spun, kicking the stunned man in the side of the head with the heel of her foot, then sprinted towards the slaughter. The crowd was howling with laughter and cheers, but she let the thunder of sound wash over her, unheard.

Each copper bead was still in place along the circumference of the arena. Maxian rose from the last one, satisfied that no one had tampered with them or dislodged them by accident. There was a strange feeling in the air, a fragile sensation, and the Prince swallowed nervously. He had never attempted anything this delicate before. At least, not without Abdmachus at his side. The old Nabatean wizard had a lifetime of experience in such matters, the Prince barely three years. Maxian shook his head and shoulders, trying to dispel his tension.

I don't have to do this today,
he thought, still trying to calm himself.
I can wait. I am in balance with the Oath.

His previous effort had proved illuminating. The constant struggle he endured had lessened and then disappeared. No longer did he maintain the Shield of Athena at all times, even when sleeping. It was still ready, the pattern well used and close to hand in his thought, should he need it. He did not think that he would. With the change in his own intentions, as he directed himself to go with the flow of the enormous pattern, he found that it did not abrade against him.

A smooth stone, slick with moss, lying in a running, rushing stream.
That was how he thought of himself. There was a great sense of peace within him now, too. It held the kind of serenity that he had found on Vesuvius, before its destruction, when he had dwelt in a point of balance between the fury in the mountain and the power of the Oath itself. It would be very easy to do nothing, to let things stand as they did. To let the stream continue to flow, rushing down to the sea as it had done for millennia.

That,
Maxian thought,
would be the safe course.

He looked down into the arena, seeing the small figures of men rushing to and fro on the white sand. Across from him, perched amongst the lowest stands of the arena, was the Imperial box. It was gay with color and thronged with people. His brother would be there. Maxian was overcome with a sense of loss. His brother, doubtless, thought him dead. At the very least a monster or a madman.

You could go see him, tell him what has happened, what you've done. He will embrace you, take you in. He loves you, your brother. Go to him.

Maxian blinked and looked around. There was no one nearby. The sailors who raised and lowered the giant awnings were clustered in the shade beneath the masts, eating a hearty lunch. He could hear them chattering amongst themselves like monkeys in the trees. Had he really heard something?

"Odd," he said aloud. It was lunchtime. He should eat. Galen would have a veritable feast laid out in the box. Everyone would be there. Maxian turned away from the copper bead and strode to the head of the stairway leading down into the courses of the amphitheater.

Even the attendants scattered before the barbarian, picking up their long gray robes and sprinting out of the way. The redheaded man had hewn down two women and one criminal before running out of immediate victims. He turned, mouth white with spittle. Thyatis skidded to a halt, taking in the frenzied look on his face and his massive chest and mighty thews. Here was a man who would never accept the yoke or the collar. He was too dangerous to put in the mines or on a farm. The overseers would find his hands, thick as tree roots, around their necks in the darkness.

Thyatis shouted, drawing his attention. The berserker spun, seeing her, then charged forward, screaming a high-pitched war cry. The ax, spilling blood, rose high above his head. Thyatis let him come, then hurled the spear with all her might. It flickered across the gap between them and plunged into the man's chest with a meaty
thunk
. He staggered, but the madness in his face did not change and his steps did not falter. Thyatis leapt aside, but he plowed into her, smashing her to the ground. She rolled, frantic, and his free hand grasped her ankle.

Bellowing like a wild aurochs in heat, he dragged her toward him, blood welling around the spear. She kicked at his face. A meaty fist came down, smashing into her stomach. Thyatis gasped, feeling her breath flee. The spear haft ground against her side. His fist crashed down again and this time she cried out in pain, feeling ribs grind against one another. Pinned, she tried to roll, but he fell on her, sweat and blood dripping from his wounds. Slick red fluid smeared across her. Thyatis gouged at his eyes, but he seemed impervious to pain. He was still screaming unintelligible words in her ear, smashing his fist against her shoulder again and again.

A wave of darkness shuddered across her vision, followed by trailing sparks. It was difficult to breathe, his massive weight pressed down on her diaphragm. Thyatis cracked her head forward, catching the barbarian's nose. It broke, splintering, but he bit at her head, catching her hair. His fist ground against the sand. His entire upper body shook like a dog, wrenching her back and forth. Incredible pain blossomed. She nearly passed out.

The haft of the spear scraped across the ground into her right hand. Gasping in pain, Thyatis shoved on it hard, away from her body. The wooden shaft twisted in the man's torso, and blood and entrails flooded onto her stomach. Now, for the first time, the barbarian screamed in pain and she levered him away, spilling vitals and urine and blood from the gaping wound. Now his eyes were free of the madness and he was howling, a hoarse, endless sound.

Thyatis stood, dripping blood and serum, grinding the spear into the man's guts. He flopped like a gaffed fish, then she tore the spear point free. He was done. She turned, seeing that the other criminals had cut down three more of the women. Only two were left, gamely trying to fend off the attackers. Candace was bleeding from a cut on her breast. Thyatis swallowed, relieved to breathe freely again.

Betia hurried, sprinting up the stairs two and three steps at a time, white legs flashing under the short skirt. The din of the crowd, howling for blood and getting it, roared in her ears. The stones of the Flavian were shuddering with the noise and the hammering of feet on the seats. The blond slave had only seen bits and pieces of the fighting on the sand, but it was enough to convince her that the redheaded woman down there was her mistress'
sicaria
, returned from the dead.

Oh,
she thought, almost weeping with joy.
If only this means Nikos is alive, too!

Behind each section of seats, ascending from the patricians close to the floor to the plebes high up under the wooden roof, there was a circling tunnel cut with arches that looked out upon the city. These passages were filled with people coming and going and the few lucky merchants allowed to sell their wares within the amphitheater itself. The Duchess needed more water—the poor woman was suffering terribly in the heat and sun—and Betia knew there was a stand not far away. She hoped the queue wasn't too long.

Hurrying around a corner at the end of the ramp, she dodged between a pair of men arguing about the next day's races, then found herself in a crowd of people wanting to buy candied figs and sweetmeats.

"Oh! Bother." Everyone in this city was much taller than she was. Fuming at the delay, she pushed through the citizens, then found herself in a bit of an aisle between the people at the sweetmeats stand and those wanting to buy water. She looked left, trying to find the end of the line. There was a man there, just passing by as she looked, one hand on the outer wall, his face filled with worry, pensive.

She knew him. Betia's heart seemed to stop, frozen with fear.

A tall man, with long rich hair that hung below his shoulders. He came to the Villa of Swans very late, pounding on the door. She had let him in, annoyed by being woken at such an hour. The mistress wanted to see him. Betia had led him upstairs. He followed her like a dark cloud, distracted by his own concerns. He left when the cock crowed and morning light crept across the villa walls.

The girl knew who he was but could not move. Prince Maxian walked on, deep in thought. When he had passed out of her sight, she shuddered and then shook herself. Taking a deep breath, she followed him. The water was forgotten for the moment.

The crowd continued to mill about, taking their ease out of the sun. The eddy of sound from the amphitheater echoed here like waves crashing upon the shore, rising and falling in pitch. The Prince continued down the passage, then turned into one of the sloping rampways that led down to the ground floor. Betia padded after him, heart in her mouth, trying to keep him just in view.