The Gate of Fire (32 page)

"Soon now, dear," the midwife chided as she rubbed her hands and forearms with olive oil. "You'll have forgotten the pain in a day or so, mark my words."

"Never!" Anastasia hissed as another wave of contractions rippled across her abdomen. "I didn't forget how it was before... oh, Goddess... ah!"

"Now, now, you've just been a little time away from children and birthing. It'll all come back to you." The midwife made a clucking sound and slipped a gentle hand into Anastasia. The Duchess tried to concentrate on what the woman was doing, but then another wave of pain washed over her and she could only see the ceiling and hear—distantly—someone crying out. The pain passed, leaving her whole body sore and shaking. She slumped exhausted against the attendant behind her. The midwife stood up, holding something red and wrinkled. The woman was smiling. She held up the red thing, and a glad cry rang out from the two women who had been kneeling on the mats at the base of the birthing chair.

Anastasia's head rolled back, and she stared vacantly at the ceiling. The pain ebbed and began to seep away. One of the girls leaned over her, taking the Duchess's head and laying it back on the padded headrest of the chair. She tipped a
krater
of wine to Anastasia's lips. It was hot and very sweet. The attendant stepped away and took a silver bowl of water from the other girl. From somewhere, the Duchess heard a knife rasp out of a metal sheath.

There was a popping sound, and then a wailing cry. At the edge of vision, Anastasia caught sight of the midwife turning, her forearms covered with blood. The girl with the silver bowl was there, and the midwife rinsed her arms, drying them with a pale white woolen towel. This done, she took a second cloth and poured water from the bowl over it. "This is the water of the river of life," the midwife chanted in a hushed singsong. "This is the purity of the first morning of the world."

Anastasia rolled her head to one side—an enormous effort. The midwife had laid the red thing, all squalling and tiny, on the side of the birthing table in a thick linen quilt. With careful, sure movements, she bathed the baby while continuing to chant in the same low voice.

"O Goddess, bless this child and let it see its father's glad smile in five days. Let it grow strong."

Anastasia blinked tears away, feeling a sudden and unexpected sense of loss. Her husband should have been waiting outside the door, pensive and nervous, dressed in his best formal toga and tunic. He should be knocking at the door right now.

"O mistress of the dawn and the hunt, guide the path of this child through the forest. Let it grow wise."

He would have been so proud, his lined, old face all wreathed in smiles, grinning in that merry way that had melted her heart, even as a young and foolish girl. He should be here, she thought disconsolately.
Why isn't he here
?

"O mistress of the ship that crosses the waters, lead this child from birth to death under your beneficent
aegis
. Let it live with honor."

Anastasia began to cry, entirely silently, her chest heaving. She turned her head away from the child and the midwife and the attendants. This is what she had always wanted for her dear old husband, now dead fifteen years.
How can I miss him so? Will this pain ever grow less
?

"Mistress?" Anastasia turned her head back, smoothing her features with an effort of will. The midwife held up the baby, now swaddled in cotton and silk. The woman was smiling, her round face creased with a broad grin. "This is your son, my lady. Shall I send the girls to put a crown of olive above the door?"

The baby stared back at her with deep blue eyes all round and wide. It looked like a little red monkey. The Duchess's lips trembled for a moment, but then she took her emotions in hand and put them behind her. Slowly, without taking her eyes from the round, wrinkly little face and its button nose, she shook her head.

"Sister, this child will never be known to the world until he comes of age. No crown will grace my door, nor shall he walk around my hearth, little hand in mine."

Anastasia sighed, seeing the pitying look in the midwife's eyes. The woman was of the temple, she thought, and deserved some small explanation. The Duchess tried to straighten in the chair, but she was still too weak. "Sister, this child's father is gone, and his family cannot claim him. I will see that he is well taken care of, and when he comes of age, he will come into the honors that his father would likely bestow. No fear, he will not be sent to the rubbish heaps. But I cannot claim him as mine, either, though he will have the protection of my house always."

The midwife nodded, bowing, and tucked the baby into Anastasia's arms. "You'll wait at least until the tenth day, won't you? He needs a name before he goes out into the world."

Anastasia looked down at the little creature cradled in her arms. Every muscle was dead sore and tired, but she still managed to lift her hand and caress his soft hair. "He will have a name," the Duchess said, smiling down, "but it will not come from my hand. We cannot wait until the
dekate
."

The midwife shook her head in dismay at flouted convention, but turned away and began to bundle up the cloths and bowls and jars. The two girls had been busy, too, scrubbing up the blood spilled on the floor and lighting scented candles to drive away the
miasma
attendant upon birth. Anastasia turned her head a little and lifted her chin. The attendant who had held her during her labor glided into view. This woman was old and bent, but her arms and shoulders were broad and strong from decades of kneading bread in the kitchens of the House of de'Orelio. The Duchess sighed, looking at her old face and calm, ancient eyes. The
pistrix
had seen so much!

"Maga, bring the Islander to me. There are things that must be done."

The
obstetrix
bowed and went out, her purse heavier by a dozen gold
aureae
. Anastasia stared after her with narrowed eyes, thinking upon the damage that a chance comment might wreak upon her plans for the future. She would have to see that the midwife was carefully watched for some time. She pursed her lips and managed to run a hand through her hair. The lush curls were in complete disarray, and damp with sweat and the sacred water that the girls had laved her with. She felt light-headed.
An apprentice to learn the art of the obstetrix
, the Duchess thought.
Someone who has the patience to watch and listen for ten or twelve years
...

She shook her head and laughed at herself. Even now, half blinded by pain and exhaustion, she was planning and calculating!

Tros entered the room, ducking under the six-foot-high lintel of the door. As always, his massive shoulders and broad chest seemed to make the chamber shrink. She smiled, feeling greatly relieved that he was here. His dark eyes flitted around the room, checking to see if anyone was lurking behind the curtains at the windows or under the raised bed. This done, he bowed his head and knelt at her side. Sighing, she reached out and ran a hand through his unruly black mop. Tonight he was wearing a headband of bronze links, but even this sturdy ornament could not control his hair.

"You see, great ruffian, I live, and so does my son." She turned a little in the chair, showing him the tiny package bundled into the curve of her arms. "I must send this child away, far away, and you are the only one I trust him with."

Tros looked up, his broad, handsome face filled with astonishment. "I?" he rumbled. "You are too cunning by half, my lady. This is a task beyond my simple skill."

Anastasia laughed, saying, "You underestimate yourself, Islander. You will make a fine nursemaid with a nanny goat close to hand. You are not used to sleeping, anyway. You will make the perfect
mater
."

Tros smiled, his black eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Where shall I take him?" he asked, his voice troubled. "Beyond Italy? Beyond Gaul? Where will he be safe?"

The Duchess's face saddened, for she was thinking of the long journey and the dangers that would swirl around her baby boy like the currents of Charybdis. Safety was not counted in leagues, but in a hundred days' travel. Too, Tros would be gone, and it was very likely that she would never see him again. Her face grew longer. "Farther than Gaul, dear Tros. Do you remember where we first met?"

Tros's eyes widened, and for the first time that she could remember, he frowned. His great black eyebrows bunched together and something like anger drifted into his face. "I do not forget those days, my lady. It was a near thing, there in the
tlachtecatl
... I did not expect to live, or see the green hills of Rome again."

"Yes," she said, "but it is far enough away, and entirely outside the power of the Empire... This child will be safe there, I think, among our old friends. You will have to go with him and you will have to stay..." Her voice faltered, and she covered her mouth with one hand. The rush of emotion was so hard to control. She had not expected it to be this painful. The thought of spending the rest of her days without the comfortable presence of the Islander always within call was suddenly bleak. She settled back in the chair, letting the riot of her hair fall over her face. "You will have to stay there, dear Tros, until he is fourteen years old. You must teach him all the arts at your command. Then, when he is ready to become a man, you will bring him to me."

Tros' face grew grim, for he knew the daily danger that the Duchess placed herself in. Fourteen years could well eclipse her, leaving the boy without any family at all. "When shall I go?"

Anastasia continued to hide her face in her hair, clutching the baby to her breast. "You must go tonight."

Tros looked away. The Duchess was crying again.

The tramp of thousands of booted feet echoed off high, slate-colored cliffs. Dwyrin walked with his head low, his dull red cloak pulled tight around him. The road climbed slowly up the flank of a mountain, rising by inches above a steep-sided gorge. Below, in the mist that drifted in the canyon, a swift stream thundered over black rocks. Above, the sky was thick with fat, gray clouds heavy with rain. Thin drizzle spiraled down out of the sky, but the mountain peaks were not yet completely obscured. The legions marched west, up the long, slow, twisty road from the Plain of Tauris, through the ancient pass of the gates, and then—in another week—down into the hot plains around Tyana. Dwyrin continued walking, seeing only the tips of his boots and the legs of the man in front of him.

Since the army had decamped from Antioch for the long road by land west to the Eastern Capital, he had lost any interest in the world at large. He marched when told to march, he took his turn at camp duties, and beyond that he coveted the wine jug and the isolation of his tent. Sometimes, when the centurion had a free moment, he would tutor Dwyrin in the arts, but those times were irregular. Blanco had his own business to take care of. Dwyrin, exhausted from marching, no longer looked ahead or at the sky.

The Legions tramped under mossy cliffs and past narrow ravines filled with rushing white water. These mountains were rugged and sheer-sided, with desolate summits white with stone. Narrow valleys cleaved them, arrowing toward the sea, filled with pine and cypress. With little margin the road was narrow, just wider than a wagon, and the long steel snake of the army had unwound to its greatest length. Even now, while the Third Cyrenaica was laboring up the pitch to the first gate, lead elements of the Emperor's army had already passed out of the juniper woodlands on the western side of the mountains. Dwyrin did not care; he only cared to keep dry and to put one muddy boot in front of the other until the centurion told him to stop at the end of the day.

The clouds parted a little, spilling pale sunlight down through drifting mist. The cliffs brightened, showing sprays of gold and red flowers in the nooks and crannies of the mountainside. Above the marching line of men, the road climbed and then turned, passing under an outthrust pinnacle of rock. There, on the dark stones, a square tower rose. This was the first gate. The sloping roof gleamed in the sunlight and the banners of the garrison flapped in the breeze rising from the canyon far below. Cruel battlements leaned out over the road, which passed into a broad gateway and a covered tunnel.

Ravens flew up from the top of the tower, disturbed by a ringing of trumpets as a party of riders in crimson and purple entered the gate. On the road below, Dwyrin heard the noise but he did not look up.

"Arrrh!" Heraclius fell heavily on the wet cobblestones. Intense pain flashed in his right knee as it took the brunt of his weight. For a moment he felt completely weak, unable to move his legs. He tried to raise himself, but the rain on the cobbles made it difficult to find purchase. His feet throbbed terribly. The clouds that had parted overhead closed again, now dropping down to enshroud the tower of the first gate in a cold clinging mist.

"
Avtokrator
!" One of the Varangians knelt hurriedly at his side. The man's broad, blond face was marked by worry. The Northman slid his arm under the Emperor's and lifted gently. Heraclius felt his face flush with embarrassment. He was a tall, strong man—he should not need any help standing or getting off a horse. Others of the Imperial Guard clustered around him, facing outward with hands on their weapons. Heraclius stood, feeling the weakness in his right leg. He tried to stand on his own, but fierce pain ripped through his feet and lower legs, and he had to take the blond Northman's arm again.

"Let's go inside," he gasped, fighting to keep upright. "I need to take off my boots."

The Varangians began moving, forming a circle around him. The blond man and two others supported the Emperor to the ironbound door of the tower. The soldiers assigned to the tower parted—at first slowly, but then quickly when the purple cloak and golden armor of the Emperor were seen. Heraclius ducked through the door and felt himself lifted up and carried bodily up a wide flight of stairs. At the top, a vaulted hallway ran deeper into the tower. More soldiers, some of them with badges of rank, parted before the Imperials. They turned through a door, the blond Northman turning sideways to carry the Emperor through in his arms. The room beyond was small, with a domed roof and a fire in a grate on the inner wall. There was a desk and a low chair. A surprised man with short-cropped white hair looked up from where he had been writing at the desk.