Plague of Angels (20 page)

Ishtar left Fausta curled on the bed, weeping in pain and humiliation.

Now if that doesn’t turn Constantine against his son,
Ishtar thought, as she made her way back to the brothel,
I don’t know what will.

AD 370

Balamber was asleep in his bed of furs, his wife sound asleep beside him, when Nyx stepped into his dreams. His dreams were that of any man of his tribe: of riding his horse, of raiding against the other tribes, and of women and the day to day of life. He was a chieftain of the largest band of his people, and had no ambition to be more.

At least, thought Nyx, not yet.

Nyx’s body was currently lying in its own tent, looking like one of the Hun warriors, with a pair of women she’d stolen on the last raid warming her, one on each side of the bed. The women were impressively feisty, and had tried to kill her with her own knife. She found it amusing, though she had whipped both of them into cowed submission as a warning. Nyx had things to do and this was not the time for her to be distracted. Since then, the women had been much more docile, though Nyx could sense their hatred and knew they would act against her again soon. She might even let them get away, if she succeeded in her plan.

Meanwhile, Nyx went into Balamber’s mind and built him a new dream.

He was riding west, the rising sun at his back, a sword in his hand. Before him the entirety of the world was laid out. He could see all the villages around him, see all the great cities he had only heard of from traders: Constantinople, Rome, Athens. They all lay before him, glittering with riches, open for the taking.

And as he watched, a tall, winged woman in black armor rose from the earth. She had a sword in one hand, a whip in the other. She was, he knew in his dream, a goddess of battle.

“Hear me,” she whispered, and the voice caressed and aroused him as surely as if she had put her hand on him. “All this can be yours. Yours for the taking if you will have it.”

“How?” he whispered back. “How will I take it?”

“I will show you. Bring your people together,” whispered Nyx. “Let them know that a new goddess will lead you to power, if you will follow her.”

Balamber woke, and thought hard about what he had seen. And when he went back to sleep, he saw it again. Every night for a month, Balamber dreamed of victory and conquest, of barrels of grain and wine, furs and gems, silk cloth as soft as a woman’s skin, fine swords and magnificent horses. And every night he dreamed, his tribe’s fortunes increased. Raids were successful, food was plentiful, slaves were easily captured. Balamber spoke to the shaman about his dreams, then to the other warriors in the tribe.

All agreed the dreams were a sign, and Balamber called a meeting of chieftains and warriors. All attended save one, who was found dead with a knife in his chest and his two concubines missing.

397 A.D.

The battlefield was bloody and chaotic. The legion, under the command of Stilicho, was holding the centre in true Roman fashion, their phalanx of shields and swords a breakwater against which the waves of Visigoths crashed. On either side of it, though, the barbarian warriors who made up the majority of the Roman army these days were a disorganized mess. Single combats broke out across the lines as warriors from both sides sought out men worthy to fight.

In the midst of the crush, Persephone and Ishtar came face to face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” demanded Ishtar as Persephone’s blade crashed down against her shield. Both looked like warriors. Both had to shout to be heard over the roar of the battle around them.

“Defeating you,” said Persephone, grinning. She drove her sword forward again, and Ishtar was driven back by the force of the blow.

“You little bitch!” shouted Ishtar, smashing Persephone’s blade away with the edge of her shield and slashing down at the other’s shoulder. Persephone’s shield was already there, blocking, and Ishtar let her sword bounce off of it, spin and come in from low on the other side. Persephone retreated and the blade whipped harmlessly passed her.

“Nice try!” said Persephone. She twisted to the right to kill one of the Visigoths beside them and easily blocked Ishtar’s next blow a moment later. “But not good enough.”

“I am a goddess of war!” snarled Ishtar. “You’re just a goddess of spring and sunshine and the fine art of getting laid.”

Persephone slipped sideways, brought up her shield and locked them together, body to body. “I am also a goddess of death,” she whispered. “Queen of the Underworld, remember?” Her breath against Ishtar’s ear sent a tingle down her back. “And the best fighter in the 666
th
.”

“You are not!”

“And once I kick your ass, I’m going to drag you off and have my way with you.”

“Bets?”

“Bets.”

Ishtar grinned at her. “Fine, loser takes it like a boy from the winner.”

Persephone grinned back. “Deal!”

They pushed away from each other’s shields and fought. The battle around them raged, but even so others began clearing a space. They fought for twelve hours straight, and whenever someone attempted to stop them or attack, they broke away just long enough to kill them. Stilicho’s army slowly advanced, breaking the back of the Visigoths’ attack and driving them away. Still Persephone and Ishtar fought, blades flying faster than any other on the field. By the end of it, both their shields had been battered into near-uselessness, and the two discarded them and used only their swords.

“Tired yet?” taunted Ishtar as she launched another blistering attack on Persephone.

“Nope,” said Persephone, parrying all the attacks and sending a complex series of cuts and thrusts at Ishtar. “You?”

“Just getting started!”

It ended two hours later. Ishtar’s misstep was less than a quarter inch. Her blade too far extended by a quarter inch more. It was more than enough for Persephone, who hacked down hard then spun her own blade in a circle, ripping Ishtar’s blade out of her hand and sending it flying into the crowd gathered around them. Ishtar closed distance and tried to grapple, only to have her feet kicked out from under her and be thrown through the air, landing with a bone-crunching THUD on the ground. Persephone was astride her in a flash, her blade pressing hard on Ishtar’s neck. In the language of the Visigoths, she shouted, “Yield!”

Ishtar turned her head, spat, and growled, “I yield.”

The shout that went up around them surprised them both, and they looked up to see a circle of a hundred men surrounding them.

“That was the greatest fighting I have ever seen,” said Stilicho, stepping forward. “The greatest any man has ever seen!”

Persephone got to her feet and held out her hand. Ishtar took it and allowed Persephone to pull her to her feet. Both saluted Stilicho. “General,” said Persephone, “May I present my brother, Hathgot.”

That earned her a glare from Ishtar who knew full well “Hathgot” meant “witless” in the language of the Slav tribes to the northeast.

“Your brother is a great warrior,” said Stilicho. “Would he be willing to serve Rome?”

“I would, General,” said Ishtar.

There was more cheering.

And after ceremonies of victory and ceremonies for the dead, after drinking more wine than anyone had ever seen men drink, and playing at being drunk (which Persephone particularly enjoyed) the two goddesses finally slipped away from the army into the dark forest around them. They shifted to their true form and took wing, heading for Isis’s temple in the south. Despite the many attacks on pagans, it still stood, and still had loyal priests waiting to serve.

“I think I’ll have you take the form of that young Roman that Trajan was so found of,” said Persephone as they flew across the Mediterranean.

“Just as long as you don’t look like Trajan,” said Ishtar, shuddering. “I saw enough of that man to last me an aeon.”

“Fine, I’ll be Marcus Aurelius,” said Persephone. “I always wished he’d try both sides. The man had a stick up his ass. Think Stilicho will destroy Alric?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” said Ishtar. “Nyx wanted Rome destroyed and Silicho is getting in the way. I’ll set up a conspiracy against him soon.”

“Too bad. He’s a good man.”

“No such thing,” said Ishtar. “He’s just a corrupt and foul as the rest of them.”

Persephone looked up at the bright stars above their heads. “I wonder where Nyx is these days.”

400 A.D.

Outside, a strong wind was blowing, and rain drummed hard against the roof of the longhouse. Inside, warm and safe from the storm that tore at trees and threatened to flood the rivers, two dozen warriors and their chief sat on logs and listened as the old shaman spoke, accompanied by the popping of the logs and the crackling of flames in the fire pit.

“There are older Gods than the ones our fathers worshipped,” he said. “Older than any that the southern men worship, or even the hidden ones who skulk in the woods and were here before our grandfather’s grandfathers arrived.

“In the times before mankind walked this earth, before our people were born from the blood of gods spilled in battle, there were many gods, and many, many wars between them. For untold years they fought with one another, and in the end, they were divided in two. The Light Ones, whose great grandchildren became the gods of the south, the gods of plenty and warmth and peace.

“And the Dark Ones.

“The Dark Ones are not gods of peace or prosperity. They are not gods of gentle summer sun and thick harvests. They are gods of battle. They are the gods of the cold winter nights and the long darkness until spring. They are the gods of death and of suffering and of iron will in the face of it all.

“Their children became the Gods of our people.

“But the Gods of our people have been silent now, for many hundreds of years. They have not spoken to us, have not granted us their presence, have not given us gifts or demanded sacrifice. Even now, their shrines are growing rusty with disuse.

“They have vanished into the Darkness from where they came, and we’ll not hear from them again.”

Around the room, there were mutters of disbelief and confusion.

“They are gone,” repeated the shaman. “They have vanished from the world and will not return. But someone else has.

“She is one of the Dark Ones,” he said, his voice rising and taking on an oracular timbre. “She is a Goddess of Pain and Vengeance and Suffering. She is a Goddess of War and of Will and of Strength. And she is walking among us. She is searching for a people to worship her, and she has found our people worthy to become hers.”

“We have our own gods,” rumbled one of the warriors. “Strong gods. Gods who protect our people.”

“They are gone,” the shaman said. “Gone!”

The Shaman burst into flames.

The warriors shouted and scrambled back from the sudden heat and light. The fire roared and the shaman was consumed by it. And rising from the middle of the fire was a silver-skinned woman with eyes of fire, wearing black armor, with a sword in one had and a whip in the other.

“I am Nyx,” she said, and from her back black wings spread and filled the room. “And I am here to replace your Gods.”

“Devil!” shouted one. “She is an evil spirit. Destroy her!”

He drew his sword and leapt forward. Nyx’s own blade moved then, smashing into his and shattering it, sending steel shards flying through the room. The other men swore as the steel cut into them, and raised axes, hammers and swords. Nyx, moving so fast her body was a bright blur, caught the man who had attacked her and raised him in the air. Instead of smashing him to the earth, she shouted, “This is a warrior! This is what I expect from my followers!” She let the man go and he collapsed to the ground, stunned. Nyx offered him her hand. He stared at it, then took it. She squeezed a little, teasing him with her strength, then helped him to his feet. “I came here because times are changing. Your people are small now, but in time you will grow. You will spread and if you let me guide you, you will rule over most of this world.”

She spread her wings again and the men shuddered at her terrible majesty. “Be mine, O Varangians, and I will raise your people beyond anything you could dream.”

The room flashed with white light, and when they could see again, there was no sign of her, save for the shattered sword and the blood.

They sat and talked long past the ending of the rain and the rising of the sun. The women brought them food and drink and the men told the women what they had seen. With no shaman left to guide them, the men sat for three more days, and at the end of it, they chose to follow her and to see where it would take them.

408 A.D.

Ishtar, wearing the body of a fat Roman citizen, brought her hammer down hard on a screaming child’s head. Brains and blood spattered and the child dropped like a rock. Ishtar grinned and stepped over the body, looking for another.

It had taken ten years to get the Romans to turn out Stilicho. Ishtar had woven her way through their numbers, spreading lies, rumor and discontent. Persephone had convinced Radagaisus to invade Italy, forcing Stilicho to strip troops away from the North, which led to the Guals, Vandals and Alans attacking when he was at war elsewhere. Eventually they were driven back, but by then it had been easy to get Rome to betray and kill Stilicho.

Now it was Rome’s time to burn.

The Goths under Alaric had made an uneasy and expensive peace with Rome, at the price of an exorbitant tribute. It was easy to claim the Goths were draining Rome of vital food and supplies. Easier still to turn the Senate against them. And when Ishtar had proposed that, as a sign of Roman disgust at the barbarians, the Goths’ families be slaughtered, the agreement was easy and immediate.

Thousands of Romans filled the streets, chanting and killing anyone who even looked like a Goth. Some of the Goths fought back. The old men had once been doughty warriors and they still had their blades. They were no match for the mob, but they took a fair number with them. The women were raped and slaughtered in the thousands, the children murdered in as many despicable fashions as there were murderers. Some were raped along the way. Corpses filled the streets and the rivers, stripped of their valuables. Dogs ran off with body parts. Ishtar didn’t care.