The Storm of Heaven (27 page)

Theodore's face, normally a handsome tan, turned white. He spared an instant of sheer hatred for Rufio, then bent on one knee to the floor, prostrating himself before his brother. Sweat beaded on his neck and forehead. "Brother, these are lies! I assure you that the army remains whole, though we have suffered some small reverses. I hurried back to the capital to seek your advice and assistance in how to bring these troubling matters to a swift conclusion. Certain persons, disloyal to our brotherly love, have exaggerated and falsified these claims!"

Heraclius moved another finger, then lay still.

Rufio nodded to the two guardsmen standing closest to the Prince. With ill-concealed grins, the two Scandians stepped forward and dragged the Prince to his feet. Theodore snarled at their touch, then shook off their hands. Heraclius watched him from beneath lidded eyes.

"You... crawl before me... hoping that I will make good your... failure."

Theodore made to speak again, but Rufio raised his left hand. It was clad in a mailed glove. The Prince's eyes were drawn to the bright metal. The guard captain shook his head slightly. Theodore closed his mouth with a snap. Behind the Prince, a guard lowered his stabbing sword.

"I... will not," the Emperor continued, his voice a bubbling, watery rasp. "You have... shown yourself... unworthy of the trust I have... shown you. Heraclius loves... his brother Theodore. But the... Empire... cannot support... your largess of folly."

Rufio saw that the Emperor was exhausted. He took a half-step forward and drew a parchment from the belt at his waist. Carefully, with slow and studied motions, he unfolded the paper. All this time, Theodore was staring at his brother in horror, unable to speak.

"Theodore, son of Heraclius the Elder," Rufio said, "you are stripped of your posts, that of consul of the East, of tribune, of commander of the armies of the Levantine coast. Those estates and properties that you hold in the name of the Emperor are taken from you. Until further notice you will remain within the grounds of your residence here in the city and await the Emperor's pleasure."

Rufio closed the paper with a snap and returned it to his belt.

Theodore stepped back, brilliant fury apparent in his face and the line of his body. "I am a loyal and devoted servant of the Empire, and you, my brother. I will obey your orders and remain within my residence here in the city."

He bowed and Rufio was forced to acknowledge the man's presence of mind. An unwary outburst, perhaps laced by threats, would have allowed the captain of the Faithful to strike the man down. Treason was a chancy thing, and Rufio would have taken even a taint of it to rid himself of an enemy as volatile and dangerous as the Prince.

Theodore stood, smiled tightly at the guard captain and then turned on his heel.

Rufio nodded to the guards at the door and they parted, allowing the Prince to pass between them. The door swung open and Theodore strode out, his head high. The Faithful watched him pass, their faces marked by respect and hidden laughter. Rufio knew what they were thinking—no one liked the Prince, but he bore himself like a man and a warrior, even on what must be a black day for his ambition.

"Rufio..." The guard captain knelt beside his Emperor. Heraclius' voice was faint with exhaustion. "Close... close the shutters. The sun is too... bright."

"Of course, my lord."

Rufio stood and motioned for the Faithful to come and lift the chair. There were no shutters in the room, nor any windows. The Emperor had mistaken an oil lamp for the sun. Sviod and the others bore him away, hopefully already asleep. For a moment, the Greek stood thinking, then he heard a faint, muffled cough from the nearby wall.

Ah,
he thought and then hurried away through the dim corridors. It was a roundabout way to retrieve the Empress from her hiding place.

Martina sneezed, then batted Arsinoë's hand away when the maid tried to dab her nose with a cloth. "Silly girl, I can do that myself."

The Empress snatched the cloth from the Axumite's hand and sneezed again. She would clean her own nose! Arsinoë fluttered around for a moment, trying to be helpful, then Martina pointed stiffly at the rose bower and the bench where the rest of the maids were sitting. To Rufio's eye, they seemed quite glum.

"Get to your sewing," Martina snapped. "If I need help walking or something, I'll call you!"

Rufio watched the maid scurry down the hill. When he was sure that the girl was safely out of earshot, he turned back to the Empress. She was looking quite doleful, with cobwebs in her hair and smudges of dust and grime on her hands. Luckily, she often looked like this after hours of poring over ancient tomes and scrolls.

"You heard," he said, "what the Emperor intends for his brother."

"Yes," replied Martina in a surly voice. "The great ass will loll about his town house here, entertaining his sly friends and plotting against me and the Emperor. By the gods, he should be banished to some small island without food or water, inhabited by fierce dogs tearing at his vitals!"

Rufio raised an eyebrow, then waited until the Empress had simmered down to a low boil.

"The Emperor is growing stronger, I think. A month ago, he could not have managed such a long discussion. I have some hope that he will recover from this affliction. Until then, you must be patient."

"I am patient," Martina snapped. She dragged cobwebs from her hair, scowling, with an ivory comb. "Can you place him under close arrest? Prevent anyone from seeing him?"

Rufio shook his head. The authority of the Faithful did not extend out of the palace. "The Emperor would have to declare such a thing. Shall I put the matter to him?"

Martina considered, her hands toying with the comb. "Perhaps... if a moment comes when a suggestion would be favorably received. My husband holds a great love for his brother. Even with this debacle in Syria! If we press him too hard he will become stubborn. I will keep an eye on the Prince myself, to make sure that he does not cause any trouble."

The guard captain did not react, though he wondered at the Empress' strange confidence. Rufio excused himself and descended the grassy hill. Behind him, the Empress was still combing her hair and muttering.
If it is not one thing,
he worried,
it's another. What is she up to?

Diana stood, half-shadowed, in an alcove high on the sidewall of the theater. Torches sputtered on the rank of balconies below her, casting a bright, flickering light across the arches and balustrades of the monumental backdrop. The
scaenae
rose three stories high, each floor fronted by columns, embrasures and recessed alcoves. Below this wall there was a long, rectangular stage of smooth wooden planks over a brick superstructure. In front of the stage were a low wall and then the half-circle of an orchestra pit.

Night was falling, leaving the sky a deep purple black, streaked with long, thin clouds glowing like fresh ingots in the light of the fading sun. A long day of celebration was winding down. As Diana watched, a troupe of tragic actors in brightly colored robes and enormous wooden masks were vacating the stage. The four men, having taken their bows to desultory applause from the crowd, were exiting through the stage passage directly beneath her.

Curious to see them, she leaned out over the thirty-foot drop. One hand was wrapped in a stay line for the canvas sunshade. From her current vantage, Diana couldn't see the bustling temporary village behind the amphitheater, but she knew that a crowd of buskers, sweetmeat sellers, priests, acolytes, prostitutes, citizens and merchants were busy there.

The actors disappeared into the passage. Diana swung back into the alcove, feeling the play of her muscles. She was feeling healthy for the first time in weeks. Vitellix had been working her hard, making her run, jump, climb, crawl and work out on the wire. It seemed rushed, but she had not protested. They fed, clothed and cared for her. If she could repay them in this way, then she would. Today, clad in the tight white
strophium
and short kilt of the flyer, she felt light and strong.

Diana grinned happily, watching the few people in the audience stretch and yawn. The tragedians had executed a lamentably long and poorly done version of Pomponius Secundus'
Aeneas
. From the snickering comments of the theater workers handling the lamps and cables, she gathered that the actors were local amateurs. Little Ila said the play itself was poorly regarded. Diana didn't care, really, she was too excited about finally testing herself on the wire.

Vitellix walked out onto the stage below, followed by Ila holding a tall pole wrapped in leather bindings, and then Otho and Franco. The troupe master was wearing a loose, dark shirt bundled at the waist and tight-fitting hose. His long, white mustaches were waxed in smooth, swooping tusks. He descended a set of steps at the center of the stage. Ila, who would not be performing tonight, was wearing a fantastic mask of feathers and colored cloth. She stopped at the center of the stage and slid the pole into a round hole cut into the stage. Then she knelt, thin, little hands gripping the leather-wrapped staff. Otho and Franco, taking deliberate steps, walked out at an angle from the pole, forming a triangle with Vitellix at its head.

"For the edification, amusement and pleasure of those attending these sacred games, I present the Mani Lughi from ancient and noble Narbonensis. We beg your indulgence in the performance of our sacred duty."

Vitellix was standing on the orator's stone in the orchestra pit of the theater. His voice echoed and rattled from the high arches behind the top row of seats, fifty feet above him and three hundred feet away. Most of the audience ignored him. Despite the high hopes of the whole troupe, Vitellix had only managed to secure them a brief appearance sandwiched in between the tragedians and the main act of the day, a famous pantomime named Nurnius, who had come from Rome itself. Diana had never seen a pantomime herself—or none that her troubled memory allowed—and the others were excited at the prospect of seeing a master in action.

Vitellix, as was the custom of his troupe, bowed to the audience, then turned smartly and bowed to the stage and the statues of the gods on the upper tier of the backdrop. Under his breath, he recited a prayer that Diana had half heard once before. This time, she caught none of the words, which were in an unfamiliar, barbarian tongue.

I am not from Narbonensis,
she thought, absurdly pleased with the discovery.

"Begin!" Vitellix shouted and then ran up the stairs, his thick, powerful legs pumping hard. Like a bolt, he shot up onto the stage, took two running strides and sprang up into the air. Diana, even though she had seen the old man practice before, held her breath as he twisted in midair and seized the pole with both hands. It twisted under his momentum, bending into a graceful curve. As it bent, Vitellix let his legs, held tightly together, ride up into the sky, pointing to the heavens. The pole completed its arc, brushing the stage floor, and Vitellix, with a powerful flex of his shoulders, flipped off of it to land upright and facing the audience.

He bowed, smiling. In the audience, one small girl, sitting beside her parents, clapped for a moment. Then her mother gave her a look and she put her hands in her lap. In the alcove, Diana felt like clapping too, but knew it was not time for such approbation.

That must wait,
she remembered,
until all of the sacrifices are complete.

While the stage master made his exit, Otho and Franco paced to opposite ends of the stage. Ila remained kneeling on the wooden floor. The flexible pole had sprung back upright. Otho bowed to Franco, indicating that he should go first.

Franco bowed in return, indicating that, no, his brother should precede him.

Otho shook his head angrily, waving for the other man to proceed. Franco did not.

Otho scowled and looked to the audience for guidance. Save for the little girl, they were ignoring him. A vendor moved through the sparse crowd with a tray of roasted glazed duck. Some of the people shouted at the man to get his attention. He was doing a fine business this evening amongst those too drunk to leave the amphitheater to reach one of the food stalls. Otho shrugged, then wagged an admonishing finger at his brother. Franco turned his back and gazed up at the stars.

Otho stamped his foot, then made an exasperated motion and ostentatiously clapped his hands together as if to remove dust. Franco spied a nightjar flitting amongst the torches overhead and began to follow it back down the stage, head turned up and walking backwards.

His brother, seemingly moved beyond outrage, suddenly sprinted forward, bare torso gleaming in the light of the torches. Franco stopped suddenly as the nightjar disappeared into the darkness beyond the lights. Otho barreled forward, slamming into the staff with his right shoulder. As before, the pole bent and he flowed into the motion, suddenly bent forward at full length, body held parallel to the floor, his outstretched fingers mere inches from his brother's head.

The little girl in the audience made a muffled gasp.

Franco put a hand to his chin, puzzled, and stepped away.

The pole rebounded, flinging Otho sharply backwards. The acrobat flipped up at the same time, letting the snap of the pole flip him head over heels. Otho sailed through the air and lighted, still holding onto the upper part of the pole, back where he had started, facing his brother, who had turned around.

Franco stamped his foot and made an angry gesture. Otho released the bent pole, sneering, and turned his back. The tip of the pole whistled through the air, arcing sharply at Franco. Just as it reached the end of its swing, Franco snatched it out of the air, took a firm grip, and sprang upwards with all the strength in his powerful legs.

Otho, feigning indifference, planted his feet and put his hands on his head, fingers intertwined, palms up.

Franco flew up with the pole, swinging his feet into line with the swift arc. The pole was thrumming with tension as it whipped him overhead and then down. Franco's feet landed solidly in Otho's palms and the twin took the blow with a sagging squat. Then Otho surged up, his muscles rippling, sweat slick on his body, and flung his brother skyward.