The Storm of Heaven (20 page)

The boy flinched at the tone in her voice, slipping lower until only his eyes watched her from just above the tabletop.

Martina stepped forward, striding around the table. Her dress, now stained with algae and black, pitchy mud along the hem, rustled as she bent down next to the boy. Her tousled brown hair, which had come completely free of its pins and ribbons, spilled down around her face. She grasped the collar of his tunic and dragged him to his feet. No one could say that the Empress was a brawny woman, but when she was mad...

"I'm..." The boy gulped. "My name is Alexos. Please, milady, don't... do anything violent."

Martina released him and grinned guiltily.

"Sorry! You're just... I expected the library to be empty."

Alexos ducked his head and made some kind of a sign with his hand.

"Your pardon, milady. I was set here to, ah, well, watch the
telecast
. No one said there would be any visitors. And, really, there haven't been. You're the first," he finished brightly, trying to smile. Martina narrowed her eyes, watching him slowly sidle away along the length of the table.

Her voice rose slightly; "Young man." He stopped. "I apologize for startling you."

"Oh," he said, standing very still. "It's no problem, really."

"But," she said, raising a slim white finger smudged with ink. "I have had a troubling day. I don't want to talk to anyone, or see anyone, for quite some time. So—you should go and find a temple somewhere and pray."

When she was done, she settled a particularly steely glare that she had learned from her mother on him. The boy blanched, his hand rising to his throat, but at the same time he did not move.

"Milady, I have been given careful orders by the Emperor not to leave this device unattended. A message could come at any time! It is my sworn duty, and I will not set it aside."

With that, his chin rose and he took a step forward. Saying
Emperor
had filled him with resolve. Martina stepped forward too, her lip curling in a snarl.

"I've no time for priestly duty, boy. I am the
Empress
of the Roman Empire and I want
some peace and quiet
!" Her shriek rang hollowly off the brass lamps and the walls of dusty books. The priest did not move, even though the Empress' face, contorted by anger, was only a finger's width from his own.

"No," he said with a quiet dignity, looking down a little at her. "I will not leave my post. If you want peace and quiet, I believe that there are some tombs at the end of the passage. At least, it smells like there are."

Martina hissed and spun around, striding quickly to the end of the table. This interview was going much the same way that her morning conversation with the ministers and
logothetes
had gone.

Rufio had ushered her into a long, narrow room clouded with smoke. The walls, hung with soot-stained tapestries, seemed very close. Martina kept her face impassive, calmly surveying the men seated around the fringe of the chamber. She did not sit, though there was a plain wooden chair set in the middle of a cleared space. Rufio was close behind her, with two of his Faithful blocking the door. The guardsmen were very large, with chests like barrels and arms like tree trunks. If she put her mind to it, Martina knew that she could summon forth their names. Her memory was exceptional. At the moment, she was occupied with suppressing mild revulsion.

The men in the room, those that had summoned her, were sweating slightly. She could smell their chalky odor, even through the thin, bitter-tasting smoke that filled the room.

"Good morning, noble lords," she said in an even and refined voice. It was her Empress voice, which she had cultivated for discussions with country cousins and drunken ambassadors. The court had not regained the tremendous sense of ritual and ceremony that had marked some of the old emperors. Things had been in far too dire straits for that. Martina, from her reading, had hopes of restoring certain customs, particularly those that kept the Empress from having to deal with slobbering barbarians and slimy little men like these.

"Glorious Empress, you honor us with your presence. Pray, take your ease."

This was the smallest of them, Colos, if she matched name to face correctly. He had been recently promoted to
logothete
of the civic works. Behind her placid expression, Martina tensed. There had been some business with the previous minister... something involving Theodore. A fragment of a conversation swam back up into her memory. Yes, the old minister had been forcibly retired at the behest of the Prince. That red-bearded oaf had suggested a replacement, too. It seemed odd, in retrospect, that a powerful minister should be so easily brushed aside—but if his own ministry had already offered up a replacement?

Martina smiled, a thin stretching of her lips, and she met the bureaucrat's eyes directly with her own. The man's smile became waxy and fixed, then he averted his gaze.

"I would not waste the precious time of such noble men by taking my ease. You summon me in haste, without formal invitation, without speaking first to my husband. There must be some crisis."

The ministers glared openly at her now, their hands twitching a little on their brocaded robes. The matter of the Emperor's health, as far as Martina knew, was never openly broached. A simple fiction maintained in the palace—the Emperor? He was fine, just... somewhere else today. The bureaucracy continued to run as it had always done, just without the Emperor. The prospect of openly discussing why the Emperor might not have been available to give permission was skirting very close to the cancer that ate at the palace.

"Most noble Empress," said a deep, gravelly voice from the back of the room. "A concern has been raised by some loyal but deeply worried men."

Martina felt a chill steal over her. A figure, mostly shrouded in the dim smoky recesses of the room, moved an arm into a puddle of candlelight. Her left eyelid twitched and even with Rufio standing behind her, solid and heavy in his armor, she felt exposed. The arm was pale and thick with fat. Rings of silver and gold bit into thick, sausagelike fingers. The figure leaned a little forward, revealing a placid face marked by slabs of fat and small, brilliantly dark eyes.

"We beg a moment of your time, gracious lady. It is a small matter, just the accounting of some wax, some twine and perhaps a little ink."

The
logothete
of the Imperial tombs smiled, his small, round teeth gleaming in the candlelight. The other ministers seemed to recede into the walls, becoming small and insignificant. Martina felt her hackles rise, and a wash of goose pimples rippled along her arms. The heavy brocade and silk of her dress failed to keep her warm.

"Master Nidus, I am surprised to see you come out in the light of day." Martina pitched her voice to match the chill in the room. "But you intrigue me. You speak of twine and wax. These are simple items, easily acquired in the marketplace. Surely any servant can be sent to fetch them."

She felt Rufio stiffen, but she ignored him and the outraged looks on the faces of the Keeper of the Imperial Inkstand and the Holder of the Legal Binding. Both of those men were turning a shade of purple she normally associated with aubergine ripe on the vine.

Nidus laughed, his thick jowls bouncing a little. His voice was dry and slithery, like snakeskin.

"Glorious Empress, we would not trouble you, I would not trouble
myself
, save that there is unease in the community of the palace. There is dissent, if I may be so bold, among our little family."

Martina remained standing, her hands folded at her waist. The chill remained and deepened. She heard the threat in the rumbling voice. The master of the tombs and crypts was not to be trifled with. Hadn't this one survived four emperors? She felt the anger and the hatred in the other men like heat radiating from a hot griddle. Inwardly, she heard Rufio's cautioning voice urging her to leave the writs and edicts alone, to let them sit.

I can't! Things have to get done! The Empire is only running on inertia now...

"Dissent? Does this twine, this ink, trouble someone? Are their responsibilities too heavy? Do they wish, perhaps, another position—something less taxing?"

Martina turned slowly, her face creased by a cold smile. One by one, she met the eyes of the men sitting in the room. Most of them looked away or could not meet her gaze at all. In the end, there was only Nidus, sitting half in the darkness, half in the faint, shadowy light. Many of the
logothetes
had been born in the palace. Some had never set foot beyond its walls. Some of them were freed slaves. None of them would last long outside, in the vigorous cacophony of the streets. The tomb master, he was of a different stripe. His position came from the priesthoods. Some said that the role of Custodian of the Tombs predated the great Constantine himself. Even before the Eastern capital had been raised up, there had been an ancient Greek city, Byzantium, on these hills.

Some of the tombs were older yet.

"When a family is troubled," said Nidus, his rasping voice growing deep, "the
pater
must keep order. The gods tell us this in ancient tales. A strong father ensures peace and goodwill. Some of the children..." the corpulent man paused, the thick folds of skin around his eyes wrinkling, "...in such a family may grow distressed, even angry, if they think that the
rightful
usages and rights of the father are being usurped by another."

Martina raised an eyebrow, impressed the fat old man would speak so forthrightly. Her estimation of him rose a notch, even as her heart sank. There was no legal basis for any of this; Heraclius had failed to appoint a regent before his illness. A pure power struggle in the palace, in the city, would ensue if the matter became public. She felt a little faint but remained standing and composed. Only Rufio's presence steadied her, that and the faint thought that she could order him—
and he would obey
—to strike all these men down.

"Without a harmonious family," she said, her voice clear by an effort of will, "there is chaos and ill luck for all. Every member of the family should remember that they have a role to play, a place in the
familia
to fulfill. The gods are pleased if they look down and see a hearth in order, where the proper sacrifices have been made."

A muscle spasmed in her jaw but eased after a moment's pause. She met Nidus' eyes and some flicker of respect passed between them. The deal was offered, accepted and sealed in that look. She unclasped her hands, raising a finger and motioning to Rufio.

"I must pay my respects to my husband now, lest I show him disrespect. I assure you, master of the tombs, that
everyone
in the household, no matter how mean and low, or how high, will follow their honorable duty. Everyone may rest assured, and sleep easily, knowing that everything is in its proper place."

With that, and a chill glance at the
logothetes
of the Inkstand and the Binding, she turned and swept out of the room. Behind her, there was a thin, dry chuckle from the back of the room.

Martina stopped, putting her hand on the end of the worktable. She looked over her shoulder, smoldering at this
boy
that thwarted her. He seemed very young and scared, but despite that he refused to leave. She sighed, suddenly tired. There was—well, there had been—a large leather-backed chair pushed into one of the corners of the library. Now, feeling drained and exhausted, she stumbled to it and sat down. The boy let out a breath in relief.

"What are you doing here? What's this device?"

Martina closed her eyes, letting herself relax into the chair. Like everything in this ancient place, it was moldy and redolent of age. It still fit her shoulders, though, as an old friend should. An age ago, when a very young girl had first been brought to the palace in the company of her uncles and their retainers, she had found this chair. Old age seeped from it; the cracked arms and the splintered back all pointed to hundreds of years of sitting in this abandoned room. The palace, with its servants and rituals and the fear that permeated its walls, was no place for an impressionable young woman. Particularly when she had no friends. All she had had, in fact, was the ability to read and to write, and an unquenchable curiosity. Those had been evil days, with a young emperor on an uneasy throne. Enemies on all sides had beset Heraclius. The Avars raided even to the western gates of the city. The Persians waged unrelenting war in the east. Everywhere, there was disaster.

Martina had longed for her childhood home in Roman Africa, where there was some small peace. But her parents were dead and she had been sent to live with her uncles. In those days, with even Constantinople on the verge of daily revolt, she had spent her time far from people, rooting about in the basements and attics of the palace.

One day, sneezing with dust and guided only by the light of a stolen lamp, she had found this library. All of the scrolls and books were very old, the newest being at least a hundred years old. Apparently this part of the palace had been abandoned after a great fire and riots in the Hippodrome. There was a book from that time, filled with lies and rumor and innuendo, and Martina had found it so obviously biased that she had never finished it. It was here somewhere, leaning neglected on a shelf. While her uncles struggled with the priests and the nobles and the barbarians, she had closeted herself here each day, her small brown head bent over one moth-eaten scroll after another. In the cool, comforting darkness there were no snippy ladies-in-waiting, no uncles that hated her. Even the fear that gripped every adult in the palace was easy to ignore.

Looking back, Martina knew that the Empire had been at the very edge of destruction. The acid panic that ate at every adult, making them angry and sharp and mean to a young girl, had not been her fault. It was something outside of them, and her. Even now, when the palace was gripped by this new crisis, it was a thousand times brighter than in those terrible days.

Despite exhaustion, anger roused itself in her again. Now, without so much as asking, someone had invaded her sanctuary, pushed all of the tables around, piled the books willy-nilly and put this
thing
in the middle of the reading room. She raised her head and pointed a long, well-manicured finger.