The Storm of Heaven (74 page)

Suddenly, halfway down the ramp, he stopped, his head rising. Betia froze, pressing herself against the plastered wall. It was painted with scenes of the fights and games, long processions of victors and victims in turn. Every five feet or so there was a roundel painted with a man's torso and face. Below each portrait was a listing of their victories and exploits.

"Fool! You've been taken again, in just the same way!"

Betia stared, eyes wide, as the Prince turned abruptly about, a rueful grin on his face. Without even looking at her, he stormed back up the ramp, laughing. In a moment, he was gone, though she could still hear him berating himself. She put a hand over her mouth, giddy with relief, then ran down the ramp as fast as she could. The Duchess needed to know that the enemy was here, in the Flavian, with her, right now.

Thyatis hefted the ax, gauging the balance. The weapon had a long haft, with a single-bladed head and a sharp tine. She jogged across the sand, feeling the soles of her feet slip and slide in the goo inside her sandals. Candace and an older woman were still alive, though backed against one of the temporary nets that separated the contestants from the wall of the arena itself. Four men were hedging them in, jabbing with a spear and swords.

Rushing forward, Thyatis swung the ax up to her left shoulder, settling her grip.

"Look out!" shouted someone from the crowd, whistling and clapping only a dozen yards away. The nearest of the criminals looked around wildly. He saw Thyatis rushing at him and shouted in alarm. The men scattered, abandoning their attack on Candace, who slumped with relief against the netting. Thyatis skipped back, watching them spread out.

"Help me with these dogs!" Thyatis' voice was harsh. She was getting tired. The berserker had almost done her in. "To me!"

Candace pushed away from the net and grabbed the other woman. Together, brandishing their swords clumsily, they hurried to Thyatis. The Roman woman turned toward the men, swinging the ax easily from side to side. One of the criminals lunged in, his
gladius
nosing towards her. She ignored him, watching the other men, her vision unfocused.

One of them had a spear. He was the most dangerous right now.

"What—
gasp
—now, Your Majesty?"

"Keep behind me." Thyatis grunted. "Watch my back."

Thyatis crabbed forward. The men edged warily away. The spearman circled to her left. He had not raised it up to throw.
Maybe,
she thought,
he doesn't know how...
It was a possibility. Recklessly, she darted to the right, exposing her back. She whirled the ax, forcing the swordsmen back. The other men scuttled back, too, staying out of range.

Candace yelped, trying to cry out a warning, then parried furiously as one of the men rushed her. Thyatis ducked and whirled to her left. The ax blurred out of her hand, whirling towards the spearman. He was already recovering from an overhand cast. The spear whispered over her head. Thyatis tumbled and rolled up. The thrown ax hit with a
thunk
. The spearman stood shock still, staring down at the sharp tine buried in his chest.

The swordsmen attacked. One cut high, the other low. Thyatis sprang up, left leg striking sideways, her body flattening as she brought her head down. A sword flashed past beneath her. The kick caught one man in the arm, cracking bone. She hit the ground, rolled and sprang up, face-to-face with the other swordsman.

She shouted violently, and the heel of her right hand smashed into his nose. Blood and mucus spurted. Her left leg rose, then snapped forward, twice, from the knee. The blows drove into the soft flesh of his stomach, then his chin as he jerked forward. Her left foot touched the ground; she shifted, and plowed her right hand, clenched, into his face. He was thrown back sprawling on the sand.

The man with the injured arm cut at her with a knife in his other hand. Thyatis slipped the blow. She hooked his arm with her left hand, snapping it back to her chest, trapping the blade behind her. Her right fist, still smeared with blood, cracked across his face, snapping his head to the side. Her right elbow followed, smashing his nose. His neck made a grisly, cracking sound.

Thyatis, shuddering with blood fire, threw the body on the ground. She spun, everything slowing, as if the world were winding down. Candace and the older woman hacked at the body of the remaining swordsman, their faces contorted in fury.

Breathing was very difficult, but Thyatis gasped, drawing in huge gulps of air.

The crowd was chanting, screaming at the top of their lungs:
"Habet, hoc habet!"
The sound rose and rose, rattling the statues ringing the arena.

"I am not a stone in the stream," Maxian said to himself, once more on the deck high above the arena floor. "I would be a dam, a channel, a culvert."

He settled himself by the first bead. The wood around the copper had begun to rot and fade, turning papery white. Another day and the copper pellet would work free of the decking and fall to the sandy floor hundreds of feet below. Maxian frowned, running his hands over the boards. In the hidden world, he could feel the tiny frisson of resistance generated by the bead. The copper was warm to the touch. He sighed, settling himself. This would be very delicate work.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the riot of color ringing the amphitheater. He chanted, settling his mind. He eased delicately into the hidden world, insinuating himself into folded matrices and angled patterns. He took his time, denying himself the soft, peaceful comfort the Oath offered. He would be its master, not its slave.

It seemed very likely to him, on reflection, that he would have been beset and killed if he had approached the Imperial box. The Duchess, at least, would be watching for him. Maxian's head bent to his breast, his breathing slowing until it seemed that he did not breathe at all.

In his mind, a glorious panoply of forms unfolded and unfolded and unfolded...

Betia squeezed in beside the Duchess, breathless and sweating. The crowd was even more closely packed than before. A bald man with stiff white mustaches was crammed in tight behind their seats, shouting himself hoarse.

"Mistress!" Betia shouted in Anastasia's ear, though the older woman seemed to be crying, her hands covering her eyes. "Please, you must listen!"

Anastasia turned, her glorious violet eyes tinged with red. She snuffled, wiping her nose with the hem of her gown. "What is it?"

"What is wrong?" Betia suddenly registered the poor state of her mistress. "What happened?"

"Oh." Anastasia dabbed at her eye. "Nothing. Nothing. That wretched daughter of mine," the Duchess jabbed a finger at the arena, "nearly got herself killed two or three times! Dear, I think we should go home, this can't be good for my heart or my complexion." Anastasia flapped the edge of her veil, trying to cool herself.

"An excellent idea," Betia growled, grabbing one of the guardsmen. The two men were shouting lustily, waving their hats in the air. Everyone in the arena was doing the same. "It's too dangerous to stay here. He is here, on the upper course."

"He? Who do you mean?" Anastasia put her hand on the blond slave's shoulder.

"I mean," Betia looked around slowly, scanning the faces in the crowd, "Prince Maxian. I saw him, I'm sure of it, on the upper promenade."

Anastasia felt a chill, and then she stood up, fingers digging into Betia's shoulder for support. She drew the veil across her face, her eyes cold. Men and women were in motion all around her, crying and cheering, waving their hats or boards painted with racing slogans. The Duchess saw nothing of the Prince. "Come," she said, stepping down. "We must find the Empress immediately."

Thyatis staggered, pushed by one of the gray attendants. A carved wooden mask in the shape of a tusked demon hid his face. Its black eyes stared at her, huge and round.

"Move!" The mouth was a funnel, magnifying and distorting his voice.

She stumbled forward, utterly drained. The
strophium
at her chest oozed a thin red fluid when she moved. Candace held one arm, the nameless older woman the other. All three wore crowns of golden holly, studded with small gems. Waves of applause rolled over them, then slackened as they entered a tunnel. Slaves in black tunics were waiting with buckets of water. Thyatis collapsed against the wall as soon as she could, gasping for breath. The slaves doused her with water. Bloody froth swirled away on the floor around her feet.

"You did well." A smirking voice penetrated the drumming in her ears. Thyatis looked up and saw the boxer from the inn leaning against the wall, grinning. He was sleek and clean, clad in a red kilt and leather armbands. His skin gleamed with oil and his hair was a glossy black crown. Silver fish-scale armor covered his arm and shoulder. "You impress me. I admit I thought Narses mad when he bought you."

"Did you?" Thyatis turned away, taking a towel from one of the slaves. The fluid on her skin was oily and slick, untouched by the water. She began rubbing it from her arms and chest. "Does it matter?"

"No." Hamilcar shook his head sadly. "They posted the last of the matches today—we will not meet on holy ground. They've decided that you should not die until the last day and not by my hand."

With that, laughing, he strode away down the tunnel, gathering up his fellows as he passed. Thyatis ignored him, crouching down next to Candace and the older woman. They were both shivering with reaction. One of the slaves had bound up the Nubian girl's wound. Thyatis clasped both of their hands in hers.

"What is your name?" Her voice rasped like an awl on strong wood.

The older woman blinked and whispered: "Agrippina."

"Good. A strong name." Thyatis stood, before her knees locked up. "Now we are three."

"What do you mean," Anastasia bit out angrily, "I may not speak with Empress Helena?"

"I mean just that, madam." The Praetorian centurion's eyes glittered back, half hidden by the visor of his helmet. "The Imperial family is enjoying the games—they are not interested in seeing scarecrows or beggars today. The fifth day is set aside for such petitions; go see her on the Palatine with the rest!"

"I am not a beggar," Anastasia snarled, raising her hand and her voice. Betia fumbled at her arm, trying to restrain her. "I am an Imperial officer and a close friend of the Empress. She
will
see me."

The Praetorian shook his head, scarred face impassive. "You've not been given leave to see her. Now, if you don't go away quietly, my men will throw you out, Imperial officer or no."

Anastasia hissed in disgust, but she saw the man was determined. In these mourning clothes, all gray and black, without any makeup and half dead from the heat, she couldn't awe a street urchin. Helena had no idea she was here, and Anastasia wanted a private meeting, not a scene. "Very well. Good day."

The Duchess spun on her heel and stalked away through the crowd loitering in the passage behind the Imperial box. Various ambassadors and bureaucrats watched her with interest as she swept past. Her guardsmen peeled away from the walls to follow her and Betia hurried ahead, trying to remember where they'd left the litter bearers.

"Mistress?" Anastasia's head turned, her face filled with incipient fury. There was a solid-looking man, bald as a hen's egg, with a nervous expression on his face. "I don't mean to be a bother... but, I was sitting behind you in the crowd, and I heard... I heard your girl say you knew the redheaded woman fighting today?"

"Yes." Anastasia was suspicious. This fellow looked like a barbarian, a Gaul, in fact. There was something about him, though, something familiar. Could it be the long, tusklike mustaches? "Do I know you?"

"Oh, surely not," laughed the man, making a sketchy bow. He was very well built, almost like a wrestler, save with flatter muscles, rather than bulging round sinews. "I am a visitor to the city. My name is Vitellix. I am a very, very minor
lanista
."

Anastasia raised an eyebrow, though its usual daunting effect was lost on the self-effacing man. "You have met Thyatis before? In Persia, perhaps?" She made a sign to her guardsmen, who closed in around the man, their bodies sliding between her and this stranger.

"Oh, no," Vitellix said, starting to sweat again, though the passage was shady and cool. "I know nothing of any Persian business! She was with my troupe, for a little while, while her wounds mended! Please, my lady, I mean no disrespect or harm—it cuts at me to see her thrown to the dogs like this!"

"She is proving a wolf." Anastasia smiled grimly. "More than these curs can stomach. You will come with us, I think."

The Gaul blanched but did not resist when the guardsmen took hold of his elbows. Anastasia marched out of the tunnel, her mind, at last, waking to the chase.

A light breeze ruffled the horsetail standards, drawing a rattling sound from the skulls and copper bangles suspended from tall poles. It was such a familiar sound that C'hu-lo was unaware of it, the gentle flapping of flags and banners fading into the background. The T'u-chüeh climbed a hill of green grass, following the line of skull-crowned poles. Atop the hill, surrounded by hundreds of men in armor, the
khagan
of the Avars was standing on a wooden platform, looking out over the marsh flats. The sky was a brilliant blue, streaked with puffy white clouds and the wind carried the smell of the sea.

C'hu-lo sprang up the steps, feeling gloriously alive. It was a perfect day. A day for racing horses, for feeling cold wind rushing in your hair as white hooves thundered on the short grass prairie. It was the kind of day when you could see the summits of the Rampart of Heaven, etched cold and white against the sky, even from the lowland plains. The T'u-chüeh carried a heavy wooden
gorytos
on his back, slung on a gorgeous dark brown leather strap. It was a fine piece of work, one that had come from the treasure houses of Ctesiphon. C'hu-lo felt odd carrying it—the bowcase had been a trophy of war, taken by the great Persian king Khusro the Just from the body of the Hepthalite
khan
Akhshunwaz over a hundred years before. C'hu-lo was sure that the Avar
khagan
would prize it highly.