The Storm of Heaven (51 page)

Hipponax nodded slowly, playing with the wine cup on the table between them. "That would seem the best thing. Though, I wonder..."

"Wonder what?" One of Tarsus' eyebrows arched like the curve of a bow. His affable old friend, who had labored for so long in humble obscurity, sounded almost sly. The intrigues of the capital, he thought, must be infectious. Too, Hipponax seemed angry. Tarsus guessed that the corruption of the temple priests had gone too far.

"I can't imagine that Empress Martina, loving her husband as she does, is glad to see his body bloat with foul humors. Perhaps if we approached
her
—in secret—she could allow us to cure her husband. If the Emperor were well, then many transgressions might be forgiven. This breach of faith between temple and Empire might be healed. You would get the Imperial aid you need to deal with this dangerous student."

"And if Heraclius dies while we are attempting to heal him?" Tarsus fingered his neck, filled with mounting apprehension. "We'll both find ourselves in it. Not very enticing..."

"Nonsense," Hipponax said, smiling confidently. "We are both masters of the art. We can cure him."

Now it was Tarsus' turn to look sour. "Really? And who will cure us if things go badly?"

Iron bolts rattled back in their sockets. Diana became woozily aware of stone flagstones rushing up towards her. A spark of bright pain followed as her forehead rasped across the paving. She fell heavily on the floor. Freezing water sluiced across her face. The bolts rasped again and locked in place with a dull
clang
. Diana stared up at the ceiling, domed and arched with ribs of exposed sooty brick. Numbness clung to her like a heavy blanket, making the world—the grimy stones, the black roof, the chill, foul air—seem distant.

Get up,
a muffled voice shouted.
Get up now!

"Nikos?"

Diana rolled over, forearms tingling as if they had fallen asleep. The rest of the room swam into view. It was a rough rectangle, twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide. Behind her was a short flight of steps and a wooden door studded with iron bolts. Lamplight spilled down from recessed openings in the roof. She was dressed only in a grimy loincloth and a twisted breast band of patched wool. Her nostrils flared, taking in a truly horrible stench.

The room was dim, but she could see movement. Figures resolved out of the poor light and the smell grew worse. Her nose registered urine and feces and the bitter, metallic taste of fear. She crouched, shifting her feet. She felt slow... her arms and legs were so far away!

"It's a woman!" One of the figures creeping forward straightened up into the light. It was a scar-faced man with a patchy beard. There were five or six others behind him. Diana did not like their looks. Her face drew tight in a snarl. "They've given us a woman!"

"Given?" Her voice rasped like a wire brush on rusty iron. "Perhaps."

The men fanned out. Diana's nostrils flared, seeing skin pockmarked with open lesions. At least two were missing little fingers and one kept only the stump of his right hand. None of them had bathed for a long time. Feeling light-headed, she drifted to the left, putting the wall within arm's reach. Her left hand curled at her waist, palm up. Her right hand faced away from her body at chest height. Without considering the motion, which seemed to be the most seamless and natural thing in the world, her left leg slid forward slightly and her right went back, pointing to the floor.

The men paused, shifting from side to side. Diana could see them eyeing one another, wondering who would strike first. The tension in the air grew. She grimaced, becoming entirely still. When she did so, the largest of the men looked left and right, baring his teeth. Diana turned her direct attention away.

Let the pack determine precedence,
she thought.
Ignore me for just a moment longer.

Her whole body began to wake up, blood and muscle stirring with blood fire. She shuddered. A giddy sensation of delight and anticipation filled her. The numbness fell away. Each worn stone and pitted brick grew very clear and distinct.

The largest man strode towards her, shoulders swinging. But he was watching the other men out of the corners of his eyes. One of them jerked forward, his face raw with lust. The large man stepped sideways, cuffing the smaller man with his fist. There was a muffled curse.

Diana moved as soon as the pack leader turned away, her right foot knifing up, her upper body spinning away and down. The heel of her foot smashed into the back of the leader's skull, right above the spine, with the force of her full movement. There was a splintering
crack
and a gelid, wet sound. Blood sprayed away, dotting the faces of the prisoners with tiny scarlet marks. The big man toppled forward, eyes bulging out of their sockets.

Rage flowered in Diana, wiping away all thoughts of simply cowing the remaining criminals. Her right foot dropped to the floor and she spun through the motion, left fist flashing out. The first of the remaining men had turned towards her—mouth open in a bestial shout—when she smashed his nose into pulp. A great cry of rage rose up as the other men realized that she had killed two of their number. The man with the crushed nose fell backwards.

Three men plowed into Diana, knocking her back against the wall. The impact drove the breath from her body, but she squirmed away. She smashed her forehead into one face, feeling giddy delight at the resulting scream. Fingers clawed at her arms and she shoved hard in response. The man staggered back, surprised at her strength. All those hours working on the wire with Dummonus were paying off. A little man, his face like a terrier's, clung screaming to her right arm. With a jerk she bent his fingers back, hearing them crack and splinter, then she smashed his face. Like the others, he staggered away.

The remaining man picked her up and threw her against the wall. She twisted, hitting with her shoulder, then kicked off from the stone. The point of her shoulder plowed into his midriff, but he just grunted and wrapped his arms around her. He squeezed, trying to crush the breath from her. Diana let him turn her upside down, then brought her thighs together hard around his neck.

He bit at the flat, hard muscle on the inside of her thigh, but she'd already smashed a fist into his groin and while he was gasping in pain, she flexed her legs sideways, snapping his neck. He fell, voiding himself. Diana scuttled away from the twitching body. The two remaining men drew back in horror.

Diana ran forward, her feet light on the slick floor. A high-pitched scream rang back from the walls of the cell. The terrier-faced man was holding his broken hand, crying, when she ran past. Stiff-fingered, her hand chopped out, catching him in the neck. He fell, choking. The motion flowed into a spinning kick that drove her left heel into the groin of the last man. His eyes bulged, tongue protruding between blackened lips.

The last was scrawny, the weakest and smallest, cowering against mold-covered bricks, blood covering his face from a broken nose.

"Please! Please don't hurt me! Please, I wasn't—"

Diana dragged him back by his hair. "Was I
given
to you?"

Her fist lashed down, then again and again. He stopped screaming after a moment, then she shuddered to a halt, her arm red to the elbow with blood. Memory flooded her thoughts, bright and fresh. She let the body of the scrawny man fall to the floor, then turned, her face supremely grim. The terrier-faced man was still alive, vomiting on the floor. She twisted his head sharply, thumbs digging into his ears, until his neck popped. Then she was done.

Blood fire ebbed, leaving her shaking, but she did not fall to her knees. Instead, she braced her feet, hands over her face. Tears cut silver trails through the translucent red serum coating her face.

Oh, oh my dear friends! I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. Oh, Nikos!

She cried in silence, her shoulders shaking.

A pair of hands clapped softly overhead, signaling polite applause. "Magnificent. The people of the city will sing your praises, lady, for those men were all rapists and murderers of women."

Thyatis looked up, her head rising like a feral cat's. Another head was silhouetted by a warm glow in one of the ceiling recesses. She could not make out any features, but the voice was cultured and patrician, supremely self-confident.

"You are Diana? Late of the troupe of Vitellix the Gaul?"

"Yes. What is this place? Who are you?"

Soft laughter echoed from the ceiling. A hand rose against the light. "I am not important, and you will not be here long. Men will enter the cell. They mean you no harm, but if you attack them, you will be killed. They will tend to your wounds."

"I have no wounds," Thyatis bit out, turning towards the heavy door. There was a rattling as the bars withdrew. "I am a citizen; you will suffer if you do not let me go. My
familia
is powerful and they do not take kidnapping lightly."

"Ah," the cultured voice said, "but you are accused of a crime, and have been sentenced to execution. All quite laboriously legal, I assure you. Your family, if you truly have one, cannot go against the Emperor's will."

"What crime?" Thyatis' voice was steady and even, like the grinding wheel of a mill.

The voice laughed but did not answer. The cell door opened and two heavily armored men, dressed from head to toe in iron mail, entered. At the same time, Thyatis was aware that other men were watching from the small windows. Metal sang with the particular sound of a spring being pulled taut. The guards were not half-starved criminals thrown in a hole but professionals. She stood quietly and let them bind her hands.

A bath would be pleasant,
Thyatis thought, walking out of the cell. Her feet made a sticky
pit-pat
on the floor.
Then escape.

Gaius Julius stepped down from the wooden bench, twitching his toga straight. It amused him that so few people looked good in traditional costume. He did, which gave him a subtle advantage when dealing with the overweight senators clogging the Forum. He smiled genially at Ovinius. The prefect was sweating.

"You see? She's really a danger to leave loose on the streets."

The prefect had a haunted look. Gaius Julius put a comforting hand on the man's shoulder.

"Ovinius, you worry too much. Take care of her tonight and she'll be off your hands tomorrow. Later, if fortune allows, you will see her again."

"You mean," Ovinius whispered, "if she isn't put down like a rabid dog."

"This is possible," Gaius said, guiding the prefect back towards his office. "But the
lanistae
of Rome are well skilled in handling barbarian slaves, wild animals and other ferocious beasts. You've done your part well. Fully half of your debt to that ogre Syphax will be retired tomorrow. I will send a man with a bank draft in the morning."

Ovinius tugged at the neck of his tunic, though he didn't breath any easier. They passed a number of muscular young men loitering in the corridor. Gaius flashed their leader, a tall, darkly handsome African, a quick grin. The gladiator did not smile back, watching the prefect with cold eyes, while flipping a gold coin from hand to hand.

"This is quite illegal," Ovinius said in a low voice. "Sentencing criminals directly to the games without a public trial has been outlawed for centuries!"

"Pish," Gaius Julius said with an airy wave. "Watch and see. Diana
wants
to be in the Arena. There's nothing immoral about giving people what they want."

"How is he? Has he woken?"

Vitellix ducked under the lintel of the wagon door. He was very tired, having jogged back from the Aventine after a long night of drinking in the inns by the Flavian. Despite an itchy graininess in his eyes, he bent over the massive shape of the black man sprawled on the bed.

"No. But he'll mend." Ila looked at him wearily. She had a blanket pulled around her thin shoulders, and she managed a tired smile in greeting. "He shouldn't have tried to hurt Diana. She has a temper."

"I know!" Vitellix nodded his head ruefully. A half-smile played on his lips. "He's lucky you heard him shouting in that fire. Would have burned to death otherwise... a heavy brute." The Gaul massaged his shoulder. The African weighed two or three times his own weight. "I found her, Mouse."

"Where?" Ila's voice quavered, all possible fears clear in her eyes. "Can we buy her back?"

Vitellix sighed, running a wrinkled hand over his bald head. "I don't think so. She's been taken to the Flavian and put away below. I'm sure that
lanista
Gaius is behind this. But she's not a slave, she's been accused of some crime and sentenced to death by combat in the amphitheater."

"Well." Ila screwed up her face, thinking, brown eyes squinting ferociously. "Then we'll have to rescue her, like in the old tales. That'll teach those Romans to mess with us Gauls!"

Vitellix smiled and took the girl's hand. Ila despaired, seeing the bleak look on her father's face. "We won't, will we? We'll just leave and forget about her."

"Mouse, she's not one of us, not really. She just traveled with us for a while."

Ila turned away, sniffling, but she refused to cry.

The Gaul laid the back of his hand on the Numidian's forehead. The fever was dying down and his breathing had eased. Vitellix snorted; he'd never expected to do so much doctoring with a troupe of acrobats and aerialists! "Mouse, go to bed. I'll watch him until morning."

Ila refused to respond, staring at him with accusing eyes from the cocoon of her blanket. She scrunched up even smaller, curling into her chair. Vitellix nodded in resignation, then stepped out of the wagon, feeling exhausted himself. The night was cool. Wind moved in the branches of the holly trees, brushing their limbs across the curved roofs of the wagons. Vitellix looked up at the sky, seeing the Hunter rising in the east, a string of bright jewels at his belt.

What to do? We need a powerful patron, but we haven't got one...
His thoughts began to whirl around, chasing one another.