The Storm of Heaven (86 page)

The Persian rocked back, stunned, and Thyatis hit the ground, facing away from him. One hand on the metal tang behind the point of his spear, the other on the ashwood shaft, she spun, levering it against her body. It tore free from nerveless hands, whipping around. The spearman crumpled to the ground.

One of the sword and shield men lunged in at her, shield high,
spatha
arrowing at her heart. Her face a mask of rage, she slapped the blade away with the haft of the spear, then snapped it back, low, catching him behind the shield, in the stomach. Breath
oof
ed from him, and she jammed the butt of the spear into his eye socket. The wooden shaft fit perfectly into the eye hole in his helmet and there was a violent
thunk
as it slammed home. Bone cracked but did not break. Blood flooded out of the man's helmet. Thyatis spun, suddenly remembering the other swordsman.

He hacked overhand, sword biting deep into her shoulder plate. It
spanged
violently and she went down, driven to her knees by the force of the blow. Her left arm seemed to go numb, and she twisted away, trying to bring up the spear. He kicked her in the face, snapping her head back. She sprawled on the sand with a thud. Dust puffed up around her. He settled his grip on the sword, raising it for a second blow. Thyatis stared, frozen.

Agrippina stormed in from the side, shrieking, her sword in two hands like a cleaver. Heedless, she swung at the Persian with the full weight of her body. He leapt back, blocking with his shield, and was driven back five or six feet by the blow. Agrippina struggled, her biceps bulging with the effort. Thyatis scrambled up, snatching up the spear. The Persian smashed his sword hilt into Agrippina's face, rocking her back. Thyatis lunged, the spear fully extended. His sword clove sideways, biting into Agrippina's thick neck.

The spear tore into his armpit. Light mail parted and Thyatis' heave powered the point into his heart. Gasping, the Persian staggered back, blood foaming from his mouth. Thyatis wrenched the spear free, throwing the man to the ground, red spurting from his side. She turned, but Agrippina was already lying still on the ground. Her throat was torn open, big head lolling to one side.

Mouth tight, Thyatis stepped over the dead woman and stabbed the unconscious spearman in the neck, killing him with a sharp, violent blow.

"Nine! Nine! Nine!" The crowd was in a frenzy. Men tore their clothes, shrieking in delight, baying like a vast, uncountable pack of dogs. Women fainted or shuddered, slick with sweat. A great heat built in the amphitheater, the air flooded with sweat and blood and the hot breath of tens of thousands.

Thyatis staggered up, ear bleeding freely, torchlight gleaming on her face. Her arms and torso were red, her hair plastered with gore. "Victory!"

The crowd answered her shout with a howl. She limped forward, the spear held up, the point wavering before her face.

A realm of phantoms and shadows unfolded before the Prince, filled with glittering swift lights that flickered and pulsed, tracing the matrices of power defining the waking world. Visions passed before him—cities and emperors and battles—as pale and transparent ghosts. He looked out upon the skyline of Rome and saw it change as he watched, one building rising, another falling, fires sweeping across the tenement blocks, then roaring up in a haze of brick dust, scaffolding and smoke. A towering golden statue of a man was built and destroyed in the blink of an eye. Temples were raised, forming out of the mist, and then torn down. Palaces were flattened, then rebuilt. Time and history surged around him in a buffeting torrent.

Maxian's face aged, his hair turning white, then it grew young again. Wrinkles faded from his skin; age spots mottled, then receded. For an instant he was bewildered by the sensation, losing his concentration, and his face changed again, his hair vanishing. He was shorter, more powerfully built, his head brown and bald, a snarl on his lips. Then Maxian's training took hold and he centered, drawing upon the power that burned steadily in the very heart of his pattern. Here was solidity, a foundation, an anchor. The Prince let events unfold around him while he regained himself. The brown man vanished, clawing at the air, fighting and struggling.

Then the Prince was whole once more, a shining beacon of power. When he became aware of this, the glow faded. He wanted to be a phantom himself, invisible to the enormous strength in the Oath. Bit by bit, with great patience, he disassembled the wards and shields that guarded him. As he had done before, he let power flow over him. He offered no resistance, letting the inertia in the matrices seize him, whirling his spirit form away.

A shining palace stood on a hill—not the confused warren of rooms that crowned the Palatine in the real, waking world, but what Augustus had built at the dawn of the Empire. Classical, severe buildings gleaming white under a clear sky and a pure yellow sun.

You found a city of brick,
whispered Maxian's ghost,
and left it a city of marble.

Vaulted rooms passed him, filled with throngs of people. Africans, Germans, Numidians, Persians, Scythians—an infinite array of diverse colors, faces, garb, jewels—all come to the city at the center of the Empire. He drifted through chambers of gold and silver and pearl, coming at last to the audience hall at the heart of the Palatine. Here, crowned in living laurel, his toga a simple white edged with the maroon so dear to the Empire, sat the Emperor in state, dispensing justice, granting mercy, a living god.

Maxian felt himself fray, nearing the center of the vortex. He abandoned physicality. He would hold on to only one thing, even though the storm of power around him wore away everything else. Memory, emotion, his physical body—all would be sacrificed. The shining, interlocking spheres of self that hissed and spun and burned at his core would remain. This was the thing that let him exert his will upon the world, his spirit, and its great power above all else was to press, ever so infinitesimally, upon the hidden patterns of the world.

The Emperor turned, his bearded face grave, one hand raised, holding a sphere of brilliant gold in one hand. The other gripped an ivory rod capped with a ram's head in dark bronze. In the figure, Maxian saw order and law and the regular passage of the seasons. In the staff abided power over all the lands of the earth. The Prince stared, compelled to obey, to bow down, to follow the rule and the law of the ancient city. The pressure on his will increased, the dissolution of his self rushed forward. Beyond the shoulders of the seated King, Maxian saw barren, stony mountains, like nothing that had ever risen on the Roman horizon.

A great pressure beat upon him, threatening even the tiny mote of self. It whirled this way and that, unable to withstand the King's awesome majesty. Maxian cried out, but there was no one to hear but the dreadful ruler, looking upon him with reproach and dismay. The lamb at the Emperor's feet bleated, begging for the stern judge to show mercy.

Thyatis lurched across the sand. The crystal lights blazed with a pure, colorless radiance. The sky high above was fully dark, leaving the walls of the arena a shimmering sea of white faces. Blood oozed down her arm and she had to keep shifting her grip on the
spatha
. Ahead, four Persians surrounded Candace. The other women lay in heaps, throats cut, bellies slashed open. The Nubian woman dodged this way and that, desperately trying to avoid their blows.

A raw low growl escaped Thyatis. Blood clouded her vision, spilling from a long gash on the side of her head. Despite her wounds, she felt a burning fire driving her limbs to move, her heart to beat.

The crowd grew hushed, seeing her dragging one leg, each step bringing her closer to the foe. Flowers began to rain down, cast from above. Thousands of petals, flung out in silence. Thyatis did not look up, did not see the shining faces of women and girls and young men crowding close to the retaining wall, watching in silence as she staggered forward.

One of the Persians, a man with a forked black beard, shouted and rushed at Candace. The Nubian woman slashed wildly at him, making him jump back. He laughed, a giddy, mad sound, whirling a curved sword over his head. Candace stabbed at him again but missed. While her back was turned, another man, this one armed with a hooked pole-arm, slashed at the back of her thigh. Candace screamed and the hook tore open her flesh. Thyatis began to run, her head down.

Pain flared in her wounded leg, sharp bright flashes as her sandals hit the sand.

The Nubian woman tried to spin, hacking with her sword, but two of the men rushed in, chopping at her with axes. She was thrown down, one blow cracking her armor. Thyatis felt her legs grow light, blood fire roaring in her ears, speeding her across the sand. The man with the hooked pole scurried to one side, trying to get a clean blow at Candace, who rolled feverishly on the ground, trying to evade the blows raining down on her. Thyatis ran up beside him, face twisted into a mask of rage, and slashed the
spatha
across as she came even with him. He glanced sideways, suddenly, catching sight of something out of the corner of his eye. The sword bit into his neck and he choked, stumbling, and then Thyatis ripped it out through his spine. The head, spinning in the air, gave out a choking wheeze and bounced away across the sand.

A hushed sort of moan rose from the crowd, and a soft
thud-thud
, almost unheard, began to fill the air.

Candace cried out as an ax chopped into her stomach. Red fluid welled around the shining metal. Thyatis, still soundless, rushed in, the
spatha
blurring in a figure eight. The swordsman on the left, his face wrapped in a blue scarf, shrieked, his shoulder suddenly laid open. The man on the right threw himself away from the flashing weapon, sprawling on the ground. Thyatis swung around, feet planted on either side of Candace, who struggled for breath. Thyatis settled her grip on the
spatha's
hilt.

Forkbeard charged her, screaming, the curved sword a glittering whirl around his head. Thyatis let him come, seeing his wild white eyes grow huge, then flowed into the blow. A haze of blood drifted over her, but she was already moving, spinning away from a new attack.

The thudding became a drumming, though no voice broke the silence, only the massed beat of a hundred thousand feet on the stone.

The last axman leapt in, hewing wildly, his ax cleaving the air with manic energy. Thyatis skipped back, parrying and parrying again. The man was screaming, a high, wailing sound which flew up into the air and vanished, swallowed by the night. Blocking, Thyatis caught the haft of his ax on her sword guard, and they grappled, faces inches from each other. Thyatis let him come, throwing his full weight upon her. She twisted and he flew, slamming into the ground. She kicked the ax away, then knelt, reversing her own blade and driving a convulsive blow into his chest. Ribs cracked and splintered, red fluid bubbled up through the armor, then the light faded in his eyes.

She stood, unsteady, her limbs trembling like jelly. She turned and saw Candace's head rolled to one side. A thin trail of bile and mucus spilled from her mouth. A roaring filled her ears, but it seemed only she could hear it.

"Are there more?" Her cry echoed back from the marble walls.
Are there more?

Maxian guttered, his spirit lashed by an invisible wind, but he did not surrender. The power that gazed down upon him contained order and the regulation of all things. The Prince bent his will into the wind. Here, in this gleaming palace, in the perfect world that it contained and represented, there was one thing missing. Maxian bent his will upon the Emperor, upon the air around him, upon this hidden, invisible space. He grappled with the power, striving to bend it, ever so slightly, to his will.

It would take so little, for he had the book of Khamûn to guide him. Not so long ago, though it seemed an age had passed, he had summoned the ancient tome from the air, binding it from dust and hair and the flesh of the earth itself, all from a single page. That ancient sage, one of the masters of the art, had built this hidden world in a frenzied burst of genius, driven by fear for his own life.

Augustus had not suffered the Egyptian to live, but Khamûn's work had outlived his master. The pattern embraced Maxian: buildings and palaces, bakeries and forges, the tramp of soldiers in the ghost streets of this phantom city, the cut of women's clothing, the hairstyles of men. The lives of millions had been yielded up, a day at a time, to reinforce and extend that perfect vision. Each life painted the colors a little brighter, filled in some hidden corner, made everything richer. All it lacked was one... simple... thing.

Beside the Emperor, seated on his carven throne, the air distorted and flexed. Sparkling motes flowed to it, flying from the hair of the seated king, from the polished stone that gleamed underfoot, from the air, from gardens half seen through the arched windows. Maxian's spark burned low, crushed into the marble floor, ground under the invisible heel of the guardian of all that was and all that is. His sight failed, his mind fled, darkness lapped around him. He raged against the night, calling on all powers and deities to aid him.

There was no answer.

The shimmering form standing at the Emperor's right hand faded and then grew stronger, burning with colors, filled with wavering patterns. Something new was trying to force its way into the hidden world. It met resistance; the strictures of the form of the palace did not allow it to be born. Pressure grew against it, faster and faster, even as it took shape.

At the center of the chamber, surrounded on all four sides by signs and symbols, a tiny burning white mote compressed and compressed, until, at last, there was only a pinprick of light. And then, with a rippling in the stone and air, it went out.

Galen stood, his face a tight mask, and looked down upon the sand. His right hand was clenched tight, wrapped in Helena's fingers. Full silence filled the amphitheater, disturbed only by fifty thousand people breathing. Below the Imperial box, four of the masked attendants approached, bearing the bloody, torn body of a woman. They halted, silver masks staring up at the Emperor, firelight glinting on their tusks.