The Storm of Heaven (96 page)

Luckily, the old Roman had foreseen that the Prince might come to grief, and his men whisked both of them away to a safe house on the Ianiculum Hill. A priest of Asklepius had been summoned as planned but could do nothing. Nearly three days had passed before Gaius Julius could open his eyes. The worst part of the whole experience had been being aware but unable to motivate his body to action. The Prince remained comatose, barely breathing, his skin waxy and cold. Gaius Julius wondered with growing fear if he would be trapped in this half-life forever. What if the Prince did not die? Would he remain this ancient, withered figure, barely able to walk without assistance? It was maddening!

By a stroke of luck, all of the preparations for the final day of the games had been completed. Gregorious Auricus, in fact, had been able to resolve all of the last-minute problems and controversies without a hitch. Gaius Julius sneered at the wall, thinking that the senator would reap all of the glory and public acclaim for this, when the old Roman had done all the work.
Well, nearly all the reward...
He tucked the pouch of betting tokens away in his robe, taking considerable satisfaction from the weight that pressed against his side.

Thanks to some spurious rumor that the races would be fair, a great deal of wagering revolved around whether the Amazon Diana would win the race. Nearly every serious connoisseur of the races thought it impossible. The woman might be a very demon with the sword, but she had never raced before. Gaius Julius heard she had been training nonstop for the past days, trying to learn the tricks of maneuvering the four-horse chariot, but he knew that three days could not match a lifetime of experience. Hamilcar, however, was a more likely prospect.

The gladiator had never raced in the circus either, and the odds against his victory were long. In fact, the current leader in the yearly standings—Robertus of the Greens—was the odds-on favorite. Gaius Julius, however, paid close attention to all kinds of obscure information. Once, when they were in their cups,
lanista
Narses mentioned the African was skilled with a chariot.

Gaius Julius had taken a risk, betting nearly all of the capital that he had accumulated in Prince Maxian's name on the young gladiator. He had also taken some small steps to ensure the wagers he had laid
against
Diana would pay off as well.

Croaking with laughter, Gaius Julius hobbled out into the passage and then into the back of the
pulvinar
, his dark toga and cloak flapping around his scrawny legs like a raven's tail.

Wind rushed past, whistling through Thyatis' helmet. She leaned into the turn as her chariot thundered around the
metae
. The entire chariot shuddered and flexed under her feet as it swung. The wheels skidded sideways across the sand as the horses, heads down, manes flowing, roared around the corner. Four other chariots, two White, one Red and one Green, were neck and neck with her. Their drivers were screaming imprecations at the horses, whipping them with the reins. Above the thunder of the wheels on the sand, the roar of the crowd was very distant and faint.

Thyatis tugged the reins to the right and the horses leapt the same direction. Cursing, she tried to guide them back towards the inner track. The
spina
was raised in three steps; first a small ledge, then a wall seven or eight feet high, then the platform that held the statues and obelisks. Her left wheel had been veering towards the ledge. Ila's voice was loud in her memory;
don't let the wheel hit the ledge; it'll splinter!

The White driver on her right, trying to swing past her on the turn, had his horses running flat out, sweat streaming off their flanks, when her chariot jumped out. The horses were keyed up and overresponsive and she overcorrected in the turn. Her right wheel slammed into the side of the White chariot, throwing the driver against his front rail. The man shouted in rage. The crowd erupted in cheers, sensing a wreck in the offing.

A Red chariot suddenly surged past on her left and Thyatis cursed herself, wrenching her attention back to the race. The Red driver hunched low in his car, whipping the horses furiously. They sped past, blowing sand and dust across Thyatis. Choking, she swung in behind him. At the turns, the inner track was critical; a driver could gain one or two lengths in each circuit.

A hundred yards ahead, the three leaders went into the turn in front of the starting gates. Hamilcar was hanging a little back from the Blue and Green, running without an opponent on either side. Thyatis was seized by a fierce desire to beat the sly young man. She flicked the reins to the right and her Browns surged into the gap between the Red and the White chariots. Hooves blurred across the sand and she caught a glimpse of the White's wheels seemingly spinning backwards.

They came into the turn, Red on the inner track, then Thyatis' Blue, and the White, screaming insults at her. She felt the tension in the rattling, bouncing car change as they slewed into the turn and she let the rear of the chariot kick out. The back of her chariot swept across the front of the White's horses and they veered away. The White driver lashed at them, losing sight of the ruts torn in the sand by the passage of the first four chariots. The wheels hit a wedge of sand and suddenly bounced skyward. Screaming, the driver tried to cling to the reins, but the horses turned, trying to catch Thyatis' mares. The driver was flung out of the car, which toppled over. The man hit the ground with a crunch and then rolled, shrieking, as he was dragged, his leg tangled in a strap. The chariot car bounced twice, shedding a wheel, then slammed down on the driver and broke apart.

Thyatis lost sight of the man, concentrating on swinging back in behind the Red chariot, which had opened a length or more in front of her. They were in the straight again, stinging dust and sand striking her face. She ignored the pain and let the horses take their head. The browns opened up, their stride lengthening, and she roared forward, rapidly closing in on the Red chariot.

"I'm sorry," said the armored guard at the entrance by the starting gates, "but the stables are closed until after the race. You can come back then, if you want. The drivers like to meet their fans." He smiled down at Betia, broad brown chin crossed by the strap of his helmet. The little blond girl smiled up at him, swinging her shoulders from side to side.

"Are you sure?" she wheedled. "You couldn't just show me the inside? I love the Blues! They're the best, you know, particularly that Amazon Diana! She's amazing!" Betia put her right hand on the man's forearm.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but that's against the rules. Now, if you want to wait, I can maybe see you go in later?" He smiled back at her, showing heavy yellow teeth.

"But I want to go in now!" Betia sounded petulant. Her left hand remained behind her back. She thrust her chest out, letting the thin fabric of her tunic stretch. "Please?"

"No, no." The guard looked away for a moment, to see if his mate had come back from the latrines. "I can't... urk." He looked down.

Betia slipped her knife out of his stomach. The thin space between his shirt of linked mail and his belt was oozing blood. She pressed a hand over his mouth, ignoring his stunned look, then the knife slid across his throat. Blood welled against her hand, dripping down her arm, but she levered him to the ground, letting the stable door carry most of the weight.

Four men appeared and picked up the guard. Another man, dressed in much the same armor and clothing, took his place. Betia wrapped her bloody arm in the dead man's cloak, then pushed the heavy wooden door open with her shoulder. Her blue eyes were bleak, but she kept moving, concentrating on the task at hand. The door swung open and the four ducked in with the body. Four more nondescript figures slipped in behind them and then the door closed.

"Quickly, quickly." Anastasia threw her hood back. Her face was pale but perfectly arranged. The grim light in her eyes matched her cold perfection. "Find the rest of them. No sound. No alarms!"

At her side, Vitellix looked down sadly at the dead guard, his throat seeping dark blood from the razor-thin gash. With the toe of his sandal, he flipped the edge of the man's cloak over his face. The four men split up, moving quickly through the high-ceilinged rooms of the stable. Two of the men had swords, two bows. Mithridates touched Vitellix on the shoulder and then the two of them hurried off, their own weapons bared.

"Ila? Ila!" Vitellix's voice was soft as he passed down the line of horse stalls. "It's Vitellix!"

Anastasia sighed, watching the
lanista
disappear into the gloom. Her gown under the robe was a deep cerulean, low cut across the chest, showing the curve of her smooth white breasts. Without urgency, she reversed the cloak, revealing a sky-blue silk lining, and draped it low on her bare shoulders. "Betia, are you done?"

"Yes, mistress." The blond girl had shed her soiled tunic and dragged the body on its cloak into the nearest stall, covering its feet with straw. Then the girl pulled on a new tunic that matched the Duchess' colors. "All done."

"Good." The Duchess smoothed her round forearms with a dusting of lead powder, turning them a seamless, perfect white. She checked her earrings and the fall of her hair. Gold and sapphire bangles tinkled at her wrists. "Let us see if they are done."

Betia went ahead, her knife bare in her hand, lamplight glittering on the blade. Anastasia followed at a stately pace, her liquid violet eyes taking in the signs of a scuffle as they entered the main area of the stables. At the end of the race, the Blue chariots and their drivers would return here. Once the horses had been unhitched, the drivers—victorious or not—would mingle with their adoring fans and then go off to some banquet held in their honor. The Duchess smiled, wondering what the little cripple Narses would think when he found that his prize Amazon had been snatched out from under his very nose.

That will show him not to trifle with me.

Horns blew and the fourth dolphin turned nose down, golden tail swinging towards the sky. Thyatis hung on for dear life, letting the chariot slide around the turn, axles and wheels squealing. Despite Ila's warnings, she had let the horses take their head, running flat out. Now she was only five lengths and one other chariot behind Hamilcar, who had continued to run swiftly and alone in third place. The lead Blue and Green drivers were dueling for first, an intense game of inches and tight margins at the turns.

Thyatis didn't care about them and she urged her four browns on as they burst out of the turn and into the straight in front of the temple of Victoria. The remaining Red chariot was ahead of her, driver lashing the horses to keep his lead. Thyatis hurtled towards him, running up hard behind his car, trying to get her horses between him and the wall. He caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye and swerved inwards, trying to force the browns into the wall. They ripped past the Victoria, the crowd raising a lusty cheer to see them duel.

Seeing the Red driver swing in, Thyatis jerked hard on the reins and let the browns bolt, away from the wall. She lost a half length but swiftly made up the distance, letting the mares storm ahead. She swept up behind the Red's car, angling for his right wheel with the crossbrace on the front of her chariot. He caught sight of her again and turned his head, snarling in rage.

Thyatis made a rude gesture. The man lashed out at her with the whip in his right hand. The steel tip flashed through the air at her, but this was something she could deal with. She switched reins and snatched the whip out of the air with her left hand. Her right flicked the reins and the browns swung left. The crossbar on the front of the chariot speared into the spinning wheel of the Red chariot.

The driver struggled to reclaim his whip, but Thyatis looped it around her forearm with a blur of motion. Then his wheel blew apart with a shriek, shredded by the iron ferrule on the crossbar. The Red chariot dipped and Thyatis added to the man's motion with a swift heave of her left arm. Screaming, the driver spilled out of the car, cracking his head against the sand, then Thyatis gasped in pain as she let the whip slither off the leather bracings on her forearm, a trail of black smoke hissing from the heavy leather. The Red chariot was splintering across the track, its horses scattering in all directions.

Thyatis shouted gleefully, lashing the horses with her reins. They thundered on, rushing towards the turn. Hamilcar was dead ahead, his horses running easily, barely exerting themselves. The African was braced against the inner wall of the car, left hand on the reins, right raised to the crowd. He swung the chariot around the turn with ease, shifting his weight just so. A storm of girlish screams and squeals echoed off the high arched roof of the triumphal arch of Titus, which was packed with his younger supporters. Even through the haze of dust and grit, Thyatis could see the man smiling like Apollo.

Her own chariot wallowed around the turn, spewing sand and making an ominous rattling sound. The left panel of the car suddenly splintered away, the wicker worked loose by the collision with the Red chariot. Thyatis kicked it free, sending it spinning back behind her on the track. She crouched low, letting the browns hurl her forward. They closed, heads racing the wind, a length and then another.

Hamilcar looked back and smiled, paying attention at last. He waved.

Thyatis' whip licked out and snapped over the heads of the browns. They sprinted forward again, gaining another length. Now they were very close.

The end of the
spina
loomed up, the
metae
sparkling in the sun, a crowd of slaves in red tunics hanging out over the track, screaming encouragement. The two leading chariots made the turn, but Hamilcar goosed his horses and was right behind them, taking the turn at very high speed, one wheel off the ground. The African, one foot hooked under the rail, leaned way out to counter-balance the suspended wheel. Thyatis cursed. She was taking it too close herself. The browns drifted out, clearing the turn, but she lost a length. The African's fingertips brushed across the face of the outer
metae
.