The Divining (18 page)

     If only they would get going!

     Timonides was tired of lingering in Antioch. And it had taken over a month for them to finally arrive here. After securing a transport vessel for Sebastianus's goods and slaves, they were first delayed by a bad dream that had visited the ship's captain the night before they were due to sail. The second delay, as they were about to depart, was caused by a crow being sighted on one of the masts—a very bad omen for sailing. But after a week of such delays, the
Poseidon
had finally set sail and, enjoying decent weather, arrived in Antioch ten days later.

     But now a month had passed, they had just celebrated the winter solstice. Gray skies hung over the city, and rain had been coming down all day. Even so, it had not been a month spent in idleness. Primo, who had taken up temporary residence at the local Roman garrison, had spent the past thirty days recruiting and training men for his special military unit, drilling
them, arming them, preparing them for the hazardous journey ahead, and especially schooling them in the secret strategies and military tactics they would be using. Sebastianus in the meantime had been busy putting together his massive caravan, buying camels and slaves, meeting with trade merchants, taking on merchandise, conferring with bankers—all the business of commerce. Timonides, of course, had passed each day in diligent study of the stars, their alignments, houses, ascents, and descents, paying particular attention to the moon and constellations and the planets. This mission to China must not fail. Rumor had it that Nero was prone to petulance and did not like disappointment.

     As thunder cracked and shook the centuries-old inn, Timonides looked through the smoky gloom at Ulrika, who was watching the street door.

     She was quite handy with her medical kit, he thought, recalling how on the voyage from Rome, he had been stricken with such seasickness that he had not been able to eat. Once again, Ulrika had come to his rescue, giving him a tonic made from a rare and expensive root called ginger. It had done the trick so that Timonides had been able to eat again, and now he was doubly indebted to her!

     Back in Ostia, awaiting the order to set sail, Ulrika had surprised Timonides by suggesting that she might be of some help to Nestor. Not his mind, of course, for that could never be helped. But Nestor had never learned to speak properly beyond a few garbled syllables. Timonides understood what the boy was saying, but it was gibberish to everyone else. Ulrika had speculated that Nestor could have something called a "tied tongue." Her own mother, she said, had been born tongue-tied and had had her tongue freed when she was seven years old. She recommended that Timonides take his son to a doctor skilled with the knife. Timonides had been tempted, but then he had thought: Do I really want Nestor to be able to talk? Didn't people mock him enough as it was? And what if, in gaining speech, Nestor lost his gift for cooking? Such things were known to happen, unexpected consequences to good fortune, a trade-off as it were, the gods being the capricious pranksters they were known to be.

     No, best to leave things as they were. Especially as he had more urgent matters requiring his attention, primarily the problem of the catastrophe
that continued to lie in his master's future. The first time Timonides had noted the possibility of calamity ahead for Sebastianus, at Fort Bonna months ago, he had been alarmed. But as he had watched the stars and charted their courses, and as he had observed the dark omen continuing to lie in the future—as if, in fact, it moved in time as Sebastianus himself did—Timonides's panic turned to a more objective frame of mind.

     There was no doubt—something terrible awaited his master, it hovered like a dark cloud on the horizon, staying always distant no matter how quickly one traveled toward it. But where or when the catastrophe was going to happen was any man's guess. Timonides had stopped blaming himself for it, and he had told not a single lie since leaving Rome—he had held himself to his usual noble standards, had held the gods and astrology in the highest esteem, had kept himself morally and physically clean and pure, and had arrived at this rainy night feeling spiritually immaculate and without blemish.

     So whatever the catastrophe was, and whenever it was going to happen, no one could blame Timonides the astrologer for it.

     A
S
S
EBASTIANUS MADE HIS
way up the narrow street, leaning into the rain, looking forward to a hot fire and spiced wine, he thought of the remarkable series of events that had brought him to this even more remarkable moment.

     Tomorrow they would depart for Babylon! And after Babylon ...

     He owed this good fortune to Ulrika.

     Sebastianus would not be here tonight, about to embark upon the adventure of a lifetime, had Ulrika not told him the remarkable facts of Gaius Vatinius's secret battle strategy. While Adon's gryphon or Gaspar's conjoined twins would be far more appealing to a sixteen-year-old, Nero's seasoned advisors saw merit in a caravan trader who could guarantee the safe passage of imperial ambassadors and goods to the Far East, thus expanding the reach of the Empire.

     And Sebastianus was certain he would be successful. Primo had been working with his hand-picked unit, drilling them relentlessly, a small fighting
force of mercenaries, loyal veterans, retired gladiators, and marksmen with bows and arrows. A force to be feared.

     He owed it all to Ulrika, and now he had a gift for her!

     Sebastianus neared the tavern with its sign that swung in the wind. No one could read it, as the lamp had been doused by the rain. But the Inn of the Blue Peacock had stood in this spot for generations, a warm beacon in the winter, cool harbor in the summer, offering food and drink to the weary wayfarer, gathering place for those who lived on Green Wizard Street. And temporary home to Sebastianus and his three companions.

     Ulrika slept in the room next to his, on the floor above the tavern, while Timonides and Nestor shared another. But sleep had been elusive for Sebastianus. He had found himself tossing and turning, waking at all hours to kick his blanket off despite the winter night. He dreamed about Ulrika, just as she filled his daytime thoughts. He had come close several times, when he had held her during a storm at sea, or in a rocky chariot, or as they passed through a crowded marketplace, to revealing his feelings for her. But she was still under his protection as a caravan leader, and that was a personal rule Sebastianus would never break.

     And how did she feel about
him?
he wondered as he pushed on the heavy, rain-soaked door. There were moments when he caught her staring at him. At other times, she seemed to move close to him, or she would touch him more than was necessary. If only he could hold her just once, kiss her, caress her ...

     Sebastianus entered the tavern loudly announcing his great news: He had found Bessas and presented the old hermit with a proposition he could not refuse!

     Timonides jumped to his feet, wheezing as he did so. The other patrons had already left, the innkeeper had vanished into his private quarters, and Nestor had gone upstairs to bed. Only the astrologer and Ulrika remained. "Did he tell you how to find Shalamandar?" Timonides asked.

     Ulrika rose and went to Sebastianus, taking him by the arm to lead him to the fire, lifting his damp cloak away from his shoulders. A goblet of warm wine awaited him, and she pressed it between his cold hands.

     Sebastianus fell silent for a moment, filling his eyes with the sight of this fair-haired maiden silhouetted in front of a dying fire. I wish, Sebastianus
said silently, I could give you so much more. I wish I could find your mother for you, or explain your gift from the gods. I wish I could take you into my arms and never let go.

     Instead, he sipped the wine and said, "Bessas does indeed know of Shalamandar and the crystal pools. Even better, he will show us the way."

     "And you believe him?" Timonides cried. "He is not going to take your money and vanish?"

     Sebastianus smiled as he looked into Ulrika's eyes. "Bessas is called a holy man, and people around Daphne revere him, they take him food and offerings, and bless his name. They say he has brought luck to them. And he asks for no money."

     "But he did tell you how to reach Shalamandar?" Timonides said in irritation. He had seen this lovesickness blossom between Sebastianus and Ulrika over the weeks, and knowing that nothing could come of it, wished his master would find a cure for it!

     "He said he will guide us to it," Sebastianus said as he turned to the astrologer. "I offered Bessas what no one else had thought to, what all travelers in foreign lands yearn for: passage home. We depart for Babylon in the morning!"

     T
IMONIDES AWOKE WITH SWIMMING BOWELS.
Moaning softly, he crawled out of bed and padded across the wooden floor on bare feet, cursing himself for taking that third helping of leeks. The innkeeper's wife had stewed them in too much oil and now he was paying for it.

     A floorboard creaked and he stopped, looking at the other bed, which was a sack filled with straw on the floor, covered by woolen blankets. He didn't want to wake Nestor, who sometimes had difficulty getting back to sleep.

     Timonides blinked in the darkness. The rain had passed and the stars were out. Enough light seeped through the cracks of the window shutters to reveal a vacant bed. Where was Nestor?

     Deciding that his son must have gone outside to answer nature's call,
Timonides resumed his journey across the small chamber, to rifle through his travel pack for a stomach powder he always traveled with. A few pinches in a cup of water, and his insides would calm down.

     When he heard the door, he muttered, "Go back to sleep, son, I'm all right," knowing that Nestor would worry about his father.

     But instead of mumbling his incomprehensible, "Yes, Papa, good-night," Nestor remained standing in the doorway.

     Timonides turned to frown at him. Nestor was grinning, and in his right hand he clutched a sack.

     "What's that then, eh?" Timonides said, eyeing the sack. "What do you have there?"

     Nestor's child-grin widened as he lifted the sack. "Reeka," he said with delight.

     Timonides waddled up to him, cursing leeks, innkeeper's wives, winter nights, and life in general. "A gift for Ulrika? At this hour?"

     He held out his hand, wondering what the boy had gotten into now—Nestor had a penchant for bringing flowers for Ulrika, or colored pebbles—and took the sack, thinking it held a melon of some sort, by the weight and shape.

     Praying the boy hadn't stolen it, and that Timonides wouldn't have to find the owner in the morning, and explain things, he opened the sack and peered in, wrinkling his nose, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light in the room. "What—" he began. Narrowed his eyes. Brought the sack closer. "I don't..."

     And then—

     Timonides cried out.

     He dropped the sack and tripped backwards to land on his buttocks. "Nestor!" he cried. "Nestor! What have you done?"

     For Nestor's gift was the head of Bessas, the holy man whom all of Antioch revered.