The Storm of Heaven (92 page)

Zoë nodded, then turned and sat against his knees, handing him the brush. "Tell me, but you have to brush my hair."

Making a snorting sound that passed for laughter, Mohammed took the brush, holding it up for a moment. The silver back was smooth and reflected his face, inverted. Even upside down, he seemed old and tired, with deep shadows around his eyes.
Where is the young man who rode to Damascus with a pack train of fine plates and goblets?

"Don't sigh. Tell me what you are thinking." Zoë glowered up at him.

"Ah, I don't know where to begin." Mohammed gathered the young woman's hair, exposing the sleek line of her neck, then began to work the brush through the violent curls with a slow, even motion. Long ago, when he first married Khadijah, he had done the same for her. Little rituals like this were easy to fall into. They occupied the hands while the mind was disturbed. "I do not like these Persians. Shahr-Baraz and Heraclius are far too alike in my mind for him to win my trust. He and Khalid are close, too. I have seen them talking."

Zoë grunted. "Did you know," she said, "Khalid served in the Persian army as a youngster, before he joined you? He was a scout. He was at Palmyra."

"Yes, I remember." Mohammed began working through a tangle, keeping the hair slack so that the brush did not pull. "He seems quite devoted to our cause, but I wonder... Your cousin and he are thick as thieves. They are constantly larking about."

Sniffing, Zoë raised a hand, critically examining her nails. "Odenathus is a lout sometimes. Some days it seems he has grown up, then he'll be an... an ox again! He plagues me! Khalid is a bad influence on everyone. What will you do about him?"

"Do? I'm not sure that I need to do anything. Not yet. Shahr-Baraz,
Khagan
Bayan and I will have words again tomorrow. The Boar says that he has a plan for taking the city, which I am interested in hearing. If it seems likely to work, we should make the effort. Otherwise, we must put our heads together and think of something else."

"I will come." Zoë made her pronouncement, complete with a regal snap of authority. "I am Queen of Palmyra and command half our forces. I will have my say in this. You men will make a mess of it, I'm sure."

Mohammed ran the brush through the last of her hair, smoothing it out across his thigh. "As you command, O Queen." His voice was very dry. "You and Shahr-Baraz at odds will be amusing, at least."

"Amusing?" Zoë stood, drawing her shirt close and narrowing her eyes. "Do you think that I am
amusing
?"

"No." Mohammed stood as well, his expression gentle. "Thank you. I will be glad of your company."

Zoë frowned, then relented, letting her brief anger flow away like a desert storm. She met his eyes, drinking in his calm, ineffable strength. "The end of this is close at hand, my friend. Our long road leads to this gate of stone and this ancient city. Can you feel it in the air?"

"Yes." Mohammed was suddenly calm, his expression distant. "The voice from the clear air is quiet. I think that means that we have come, at last, to the hinge of fate."

"Nicholas." The door to the barracks room swung open and two men entered. Nicholas stood, arm stiff in salute. Vladimir rolled out of bed, grabbing up a shirt to cover his pelt. Dwyrin, poring over a book he had found in the market, looked up, puzzled. The third watch had just passed and the three friends were preparing to bed down. The rest of the maniple quartered in the high-ceilinged, drafty, rat-infested room was out on watch duty, pacing the miles of wall protecting the city. "Well met."

"Tribune Sergius! I hadn't thought you were still in the city." Nicholas clasped the heavyset officer's forearm in greeting. "I am glad to see you!"

Sergius smiled, short-cropped white hair gleaming in the lantern light. "I'm glad you weren't killed in the desert. There is little time—I've read your report of the movements in the Galata hills. I've brought someone that wants to talk to you."

The man behind Sergius stepped forward, coming into the circle of light. He was thick-set, with short, oily black hair and a craggy, grim-looking face. Everything about him, from his thick wrists and knuckles to the small scars on his neck said
soldier
to Nicholas. A very experienced professional. The northerner straightened, seeing a killer's look in the man's eyes.

"This is Rufio," Sergius continued, "the commander of the Faithful Guard."

"Oh." Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "Well met, sir, but why are you here?"

"I'm here for the boy." The man's voice was cold and direct, like ice grinding through the flanks of a ship caught in the floes off Grönland. "I'm here to take you under my wing. Sergius and I, given the political situation, have come to common cause. We need each other, I think. Get your kit, we're moving you to the Bucoleon itself, close to the Emperor."

"The Emperor?" Dwyrin squeaked, but hurried to gather up his gear.

"Yes. The situation is rushing to a violent conclusion." An edge of great weariness leaked into Rufio's voice, but Nicholas saw that the man was in complete command of himself. An aura of effortless competence surrounded the officer. Nicholas liked to think that he was a professional, but this man was an exemplar. "I need you where you can do some good."

Nicholas shoved the last of his equipment into its carry sack, then checked to make sure that Vladimir and Dwyrin had left nothing behind. Sergius had moved to the door and was watching the corridor. "We're ready."

Rufio didn't waste any words but moved swiftly down the hall. A pair of the Faithful were lurking at the junction of the main hall and a cross corridor. The two Scandians fell in behind them. Nicholas guessed that they were pure-blood Svenska, from north of the Gray Sea. Old and implacable enemies of the Dann lords, though he didn't suppose that mattered here, in the south. There was plenty of everything to go around, not like in the icy wastes.

"What is the political situation?" Nicholas picked up his pace, matching Rufio's.

The captain of the Faithful gave him a sideways glance, then said, "You know the Emperor is ill?"

"I heard. There are some wild rumors about."

Rufio nodded absently. They passed into a kitchen, filled with steam and the smell of baking bread. Behind the ranks of cone-shaped ovens was a staircase leading down. Rufio took the steps two and three at a time.

"The Emperor is slowly recovering," Rufio said in a low voice. "But Theodore and Martina have been at each other's throats for months. They hate each other and Theodore has scored two coups in recent days—first, the Emperor's first son, Constantius, has taken refuge in his uncle's residence. That gives the Prince an heir to control. Second, the commanders of the Legions in the city have agreed to let Theodore command them in battle. Martina cannot even appeal to the people or the circus factions for help—her marriage has turned the priests against her."

Nicholas stopped, eyes narrowing. "Where do you stand, Captain?"

"I am with the Empress." Rufio turned in the narrow space. The stairwell continued to plunge downwards. Nicholas was sure they had passed below street level and were entering the catacombs and tunnels honeycombing the city. "The Emperor's desire is known to me and he would not want his brother in command. Unfortunately, his illness has progressed to such a point that he is delirious most of the time. I have been forced to take extraordinary steps."

"Won't Theodore win?" Nicholas held up a hand, causing Vladimir and the others to stop. "You say he has the support of the army and the priests and the people. What does the Empress have, then?"

"She has me." Rufio turned away and continued down the stairs. "She has Sergius and the Office of the Barbarians. Even one of the
logothetes
supports her."

"Will that be enough?" Nicholas called down the stairs, voice filled with dismay.

"Perhaps," Rufio's voice echoed up from below, out of the darkness.

Draped in white wool, her face and head covered by a folded wimple, Thyatis climbed a short flight of pale marble steps. Her head was bent low, unable to bear the glare of the sun. She stopped inside the doorway, clinging to a fluted pillar. Within the central room, a fired burned. The garden surrounding the temple was filled with the quiet noise of bees and crickets. Thyatis swallowed in fear. This place was forbidden. Only the priestesses of Vesta were allowed in this inner sanctum.

The gate to the larger Atrium Vestae had stood open at her approach. The lectors with their bundled rods and axes were absent. A brazier had burned in their empty watch house. Thyatis had called, hearing her voice die among pillared halls. Searching for one of the priestesses, she had ventured into cool, dim chambers, then to this garden tucked behind the building.
This is forbidden! I will be buried alive!

She stepped into the inner room, feeling the heat of the fire beat on her face.

Nestled in a deep marble bowl, the flame of Rome burned bright, licking up from the coals. Thyatis knelt, her forehead pressed against the marble lip of the bowl. Her fist ground into the stone, drawing blood. Tears dripping on the tessellated floor made a soft sound.

Meteors plunged out of a sky burning with orange and vermilion light. Vast roiling clouds surged across the heavens, shedding sparks and a black rain of ash. The sea surged, crashing against a shore filled with low-lying buildings. Temples and villas were inundated, their tile roofs cracking under the shattering wave. Foam boiled up, sweeping through the streets. Thousands died, drowned or crushed, their corpses lifted high on the black waters. Beyond the harbor mouth, the wreck of a ship broke apart on the long mole protecting the wharves and docks. A spar tossed in the boiling sea. A figure clung to it, trapped in the rigging, dead, blind face staring up at the burning sky. Beneath the water, a red light gleamed and flickered on the woman's chest. Her dark hair spread in the water like a fan, her face shrouded by steam.

"No! Oh no. Oh no." Thyatis levered herself up from the edge of the bowl. Every horror she had suffered paled, becoming faint and indistinct. This was raw, a jagged wound torn open inside her. Sea-gray eyes wide, she stumbled back, away from the fire hissing in the center of the temple. She fell against a wall, her shoulder cracking one of the wooden panels. "Oh, not her too, not her! Oh, my love!"

Little sister, you must not believe these visions.

Thyatis stiffened, feeling a cold breath on her shoulder. The broken panel revealed a hidden chamber. She turned, rising, left hand groping for a sword. Her fingers found only folds of heavy cloth and a braided girdle. In the opening, a pair of gray eyes blazed, shining in the darkness. A figure of a woman stood in shadow, hidden, wrapped in deftly woven robes, a spear leaning against her shoulder.

"What are you." Thyatis could barely speak.

Your guardian, sister, your patron, a guide in these dark places. Listen, as the Crooked One once listened to me. Closely, for my words are wisdom, winged from the heavens. You must keep hope, child, and tend it in your heart. While you have that hope, you will win. Victory will come, though the seas break and storms swallow the world. You, of all women, must keep hope you will come home again, through torment and illusion and betrayal. Ignore these qualms in your heart.

There is no truth in fear.

"Wait!" The figure grew dim, the brilliant eyes fading. "Does she live? Does Shirin live?"

The figure smiled, though it was more felt than seen. Thyatis turned away, her mind racing. What if Shirin had fled the island, come to Rome? What if she had taken ship, some coaster or merchant lug from Athens? It would beat up the coast, fat sails filled with wind, coming under the shadow of the mountain. Many ships that made for Rome harbored in Misenum overnight... such a ship, Shirin aboard, might have laid to in the wide bay at Neapolis on a warm summer evening. In the night, the mountain would wake, raising tumult in the sea, flinging meteors, a rain of burning ash.

"O you cursed gods, you have taken everything from me! Everything!"

Thyatis fell to the floor, nails digging into the tile, weeping uncontrollably. She had driven her body to its limits the past days, training while light remained in the sky, pressing herself and Ila harder than they had ever been pressed. She had lamed horses, smashed chariots, feverish to master the skills she would need to beat the smirking African on the raceway. At night, when visions tormented her, she drank until her pain was dulled and she could find some rest in the arms of gentle Morpheus. Now that failed too, and she shuddered uncontrollably.

Not everything is taken from you,
the gray-eyed voice whispered, faint, as if from a great distance.
Not everything. Open your eyes.

Thyatis woke, hot sun beating down upon her back. Puzzled, she rose, arms heavy with armor. She looked around, her face lighting with awe. The heavy gown and robes were gone. She wore high-strapped boots, a tunic of linen clasped at one shoulder, iron bracelets. Her other shoulder and bicep were covered with fitted bronze. A helmet rode on her head, heavy and tight. A sword lay on the ground at her feet and she knelt to pick it up. A hilt of bone ran into a half-moon guard, set with an eight-rayed star. The blade swelled towards the tip, making it point-heavy, but the edge was keen and a thick tang ran down the center line. Her hand fit perfectly.

A temple rose around her, glowing in brilliant hot sunlight. Huge round columns rose up in a stone forest on all sides. Thyatis stood at the intersection of two colonnades. Before her, the columns opened out into a half-circle. Enormous stone lions rose up, flanking a monumental doorway. The great beasts stared down at her, dead eyes rimmed with flaking paint. Long beards curled from their chins. Every surface on that rising doorway was covered with carvings. Plaster clung to the sandstone, holding the remains of bright colors on a white background.

Thyatis gulped, then gripped the sword tightly and advanced. A thin, dry wind blew past her, whirling sand across her path. Everything seemed ancient and abandoned. Distantly, at the edge of the temple complex, she knew an army was waiting. The darkness within the doorway loomed, growing deeper as she approached. All light seemed to fail at the boundary. Broad, flat steps led up, and she ascended with a sinking heart. She stopped in the portal, one foot touching the darkness, her body in the light.