The Storm of Heaven (78 page)

"Hmm." Narses looked to his vines. "I'm busy right now. Come back later, or better, see me at the school."

He looked back up, a length of twine in his mouth. "You're young to be buying playthings."

Anastasia gave a short, cool laugh. "I don't want to buy a man."

"That one, eh? She's not for sale, not for any price."

"No?" Anastasia shifted so the sun fell in Narses' eyes. He blinked, then started to squint. "How much?"

Narses shook his head. "Even in this foul old city, there are some things that are not for sale. She is one of them. Fate put her in my hands, fate can take her away. But I won't sell her."

Anastasia looked around, seeing patchy walls and a sagging roof on the shed. The plot was in a section of the Tiber Valley leased out to the middle classes for bits of garden. It was no patrician's villa, for sure. "She must make you a great deal of money."

The
lanista
made a
harrumph
ing sound. "It's forbidden for the schools to bet on the fighters."

Anastasia made a half-smile, watching the stocky cripple stand up. It was difficult with only one arm, making him do a little half-step dance. Betting on the fights, the races and the games was illegal, but that just meant enormous sums of coin changed hands without being taxed by the Imperial government.

"Narses, I am not looking for a toy. I want the woman out of the arena."

"Sorry." Narses rubbed his nose. "She's in on a criminal charge. I'm just representing her, picking up the tab for food, water, boys, things like that. She's not mine to sell. Go ask the Emperor to let her out!" The
lanista
chuckled at the concept.

"No," Anastasia growled, "I won't. Please, you'd let one of the younger men out if their... mother paid you. I know these things happen."

"Diana is not a child." There was a bite in his voice. "Are you her mother?"

The Duchess gave him a steely look. His smirking attitude made her angry—she wouldn't give this
peasant
anything. "No. Just a friend."

"Duchess, I cannot help you. The woman is in the arena on a prison charge. Only the Emperor can release her."

Anastasia hissed in disgust, then turned away and strode out of the garden. The man was a dumb stone. Betia hurried after her after carefully putting down some flowers that she had picked while waiting. Narses shook his head in disgust.
Rich people. Always wanting to buy something shiny they saw in the market.
He walked to the gate, closed it, then knelt and picked up the flowers. They were red peonies and very pretty. He tucked one behind his ear.

He waited by the gate, listening. Men ran up and the two women got into a litter, then jogged off down the road. Narses sighed, blowing his lips out, and frowned. He had hoped to finish the last row of trellises today. Instead, he put everything away, then tied up the gate with a bit of rope to keep the goats out. Narses jogged off at a regular, easy pace. There were shortcuts along the river. He could easily beat the litter back to the city.

Rapping hammers echoed in the big open bowl of the Flavian. Dozens of men were working around the fringes of the arena floor, repairing damage sustained in the last series of fights. More men were high up on the marble walls, suspended by ropes, washing the statuary and travertine walls. Gaius Julius paced along the first deck of seats. It was a pleasant morning. The arena custodians were making the best of an off day. The old Roman tipped his hat, squinting up at the higher rows.

A dark figure crouched there, on hands and knees, above one of the
vomitoria
capping the internal stairways. Gaius sighed in exasperation, then climbed up two flights of narrow steps to reach his master. The old Roman had not expected to find Maxian here today, but since he was, there was a question that had been bothering him.

"My lord? What are you doing?" The old Roman tried to keep weary resignation from his voice but failed.
Who knew the business of sorcerers? Who
wanted
to know?

Maxian looked up, dark brown eyes hooded. He grunted, then turned back to the slab of marble under his feet. Numbers were cut into the surface, a V on one side and a VI on the other. Both were almost illegible due to wear. Maxian ignored Gaius and ran his thin hands over the stone, slowly, an inch at a time. He chanted softly, letting the words form of their own accord.

Gaius shook his head in dismay, but remained sitting quietly until the Prince was done. The memory of black lightning lingered with him, and men howling in agony, trapped in the jagged light.

"Well?" Maxian stood at last, stretching his back and grunting a little. He brushed white dust from his tunic. "You didn't climb all the way up here to keep me company."

"No..." Gaius Julius smoothed down the fringe of hair around his head. "Aren't you worried that someone will recognize you, skulking around like this in broad daylight?"

Maxian smiled and raised a finger. The air around him shuddered, bending this way and that, wavering like an open flame. Then the Prince was gone, leaving a nondescript worker in baggy clothing and an annoyed expression. "Do you feel better?" The apparition spoke with the Prince's voice.

"I suppose." Gaius Julius' voice had a strangled sound and he sat down on one of the benches. "I should have guessed. What are you doing with the section markers?"

The Prince wavered again and resumed his own shape. He scuffed a toe across the marble slab. "I am trying something delicate—even with you hulking brutes hanging over my shoulder. I do not want to be disturbed. So I have been laying my own pattern, some signs and symbols to watch and listen and warn."

"Down here?" Gaius Julius looked around. These were the middle seats, which would be swarming with lower-caste patricians and their drinking companions on game day. "I thought you were working up there." The old Roman pointed at the roof high overhead.

"Oh, I've already seen to that. But I found some interesting things in the pattern of the building while I was finishing up. I've been... patching and mending. Making sure these signs have the power of their first making. These section markers ring the whole arena, each imbued with its own mild purpose."

Gaius Julius lifted his sandal, peering at the slab. "There is a spell on them?"

"Oh yes. Old Vespasian was no fool. He built this place with a purpose beyond just entertaining the citizens. I think the Oath spoke to him in his dreams, guiding him."

Gaius Julius laughed, thinking of some of the histories he had read. "Dreamed? Vespasian?"

"Yes, Gaius, he dreamed of gold and its orderly collection. He dreamed of an empire at peace."

"An empire of citizens who had no excuse to avoid paying their taxes, you mean!"

Maxian laughed, but nodded. "At the same time he began construction of the Flavian, each regional governor began his own amphitheater—hundreds of them, one in each town and city. All of them match the plan of the Flavian in some degree; all of them are dedicated to the gods of Rome and to the state."

Gaius Julius raised his hands. "All praise the Capitoline Triad and the Divine Emperor! I see your point. The provincial amphitheaters are the warp and weft of the Oath."

"Even so. Like so much of it, the signs and patterns here have been damaged over time. I'm just making sure they are restored."

"Why?" Gaius Julius tried to keep overwhelming curiosity out of his voice.

Maxian did not answer. The Prince began to pace away, measuring his footsteps, counting under his breath.

I'll ask him later,
Gaius grumbled to himself.

Anastasia's gloom had not lifted by the time she reached the Villa of Swans. She was displeased by her handling of the
lanista
; she should have known everything about the man, about his operation, about Thyatis' captivity before she revealed her interest. She was out of shape, like a gear fouled with rust. It would take time—time she might not have—to restore her network of informers and chatty friends. She entered the gardens at the rear of the house, ignoring the wild display of summer flowers. Even the chuckling of the fountains and streams flowing down from a hidden reservoir at the top of the house failed to cheer her up.

Betia followed along, equally depressed. The Duchess' mood infected her own. There was no sign anyone other than Thyatis had escaped from the destruction of Vesuvius.

"Find the Gaul and his friends, bring them to me."

Betia's head snapped up, her face blank, and then she hurried off.

Anastasia looked around wearily. She was in the hall of the Poseidon. The god loomed over her, regal face staring down the hallway of sea-green marble, his limbs straining against the sea breaking around him in stone waves. He failed to lift her spirits, though this had once been a favorite room. Like much of her house, the Poseidon was cast in shadow, echoing the gloom in her own heart. The villa seemed very empty.

"Oh, you gods, you torment me, showing me happiness, then snatching it away."

Anastasia dabbed at her eyes. Tears were welling up, making sparkling tracks in the antimony on her cheeks. Precious months had passed while she wallowed in despair. Jusuf was gone, sent away like Tros; Thyatis thought dead; Nikos and Krista surely killed. Shirin's babies, who had brought such lively chaos into her life for such a short time, had been in Baiae, right in the path of the eruption. Their tiny corpses had never been recovered. So much death. So little life.

But now, with her mind awake, she was no longer gripped by despair. She was angry. Very angry. Everything had happened because of one man—this prince, this child, this boy—who was destruction for her dreams. Even the bittersweet memory of their closeness was a goad to her.

"Betia!" Anastasia's voice rose, ringing from the vaulted ceiling. "Attend me!"

The blond girl appeared, her hair disordered from running, with the Gaul, Vitellix, in tow. Both of them seemed wary, but Anastasia did not care.

"Gaul. You and your troupe found a man, a Numidian, in the burning inn. Is he here?"

"Yes, my lady. A priest of Asklepius has tended to him—his cheek and knee were broken—but he will be well soon, I hope."

Anastasia considered glaring at the man until he burst into flames, but there was no time for such petty fancies. The Gaul matched her gaze, a little nervous but resolute. "I would talk to him."

"This way." Betia bowed nervously. "He is in the west wing."

The Duchess swept past, the train of her gown picked up in one jeweled hand. "Good. I want to know everything about the Ludus Magnus. Betia—have a scribe join us, immediately."

For a moment, she considered sending a messenger to Helena to ask her for an appointment and for advice. Just as quickly, she discarded the thought. If she was to pick up her old life, she would do so entirely. She would speak with the Emperor and the Empress when she knew exactly what she wanted to say, and to propose.

Heavy age-stained wood groaned on stone and the cell door swung open. Thyatis rose stiffly, her hands in plain sight. The guards were simple men; if she did not stand quietly in the middle of the grimy room, hands out to her sides, there would be no food. She had been squatting, mind empty, in the exact middle of the cell, waiting. At least two days had passed since she and Candace and Agrippina had survived the battle against the criminals. She was pleased with this room, it was much larger than the last. Exercise was possible, though she couldn't really work up a sweat.

"Hello." It was the crippled man, Narses, standing in the doorway. He leaned heavily on his walking stick. Thyatis guessed the cane was an affectation, playing to the missing arm. "Would you like better quarters? A bath? Edible food?"

Thyatis did not answer, waiting for the other boot to drop. Narses chuckled a little to himself, then stepped down into the room. He banged on the door with his stick and it swung closed behind him. Thyatis raised an eyebrow, but the old gladiator just leaned against the wall, tapping his scarred chin with the hawk-headed cane.

"I am serious, Diana. I would like to put you and your two fellow 'Amazons' in better quarters—with beds, for one thing, and a private practice yard. Ah... now I have your attention."

"Why?" Thyatis put her hands behind her back, fingers clasped. She stood straighter. "What do you want from me?"

"Now? Well, previously I wanted to make my money back. But you've done that already... I think I'll protect my investment."

Thyatis laughed, cracking her knuckles and staring up at the groined ceiling. "An investment. Like a stud horse or a milk cow."

Narses nodded, but there was a merry glint in his eye that took some of the sting away. "If you like. Your skill makes you valuable. Let me reward you."

"In exchange for what?" Thyatis leaned forward, a smirk on her face. "For not killing any slave, attendant, guard, wayward tourist that I come across in your house? For not trying to escape?"

Narses nodded, chin jutting out. "A fair bargain, I think."

Thyatis laughed, a harsh bark. "How many days until I—we—go on the sand again?"

Narses held up three stubby fingers. "Your next opponents are prisoners of war, taken in Persia and the East."

"A big show. Just the sand, or with some kind of set?"

The
lanista
clapped his hand to his chest. "You've been to the games before! Yes, twenty Amazons against twenty Persian prisoners of war—they're building a replica of a city called Tauris. It's supposed to ape some siege, a river crossing... What is it?"

Narses paused, humor draining from his face. Thyatis' expression had not changed, but her eyes lit with furious anger. "Diana?"

"A rich jest." The woman bit out the words. "I will not attempt to escape. You will give us training weapons, just wood, of normal weight so that these women you are sending to their deaths can have some faint hope. You will let me speak with these other women and show them some rudiments of defense. We will play out your scene. You will not be disappointed."

Narses nodded, then rapped on the door again. The woman turned away, leaning against the wall, both hands pressed against the bricks. She remained that way while he stumped out. In the hallway, he shook his head in amusement. He had seen so much in the arena, far more than he would have thought the first day he stepped into this bloody house.