Plague of Angels (21 page)

When Alaric hears about this, she gloated as her hammer came down on the head of a begging woman with an infant in her arms,
he is going to destroy Rome to its foundations.

The woman fell and the infant rolled, wailing, into the dirty street. Ishtar raised her foot and brought her foot down hard. The wailing stopped.

410 A.D.

Nyx, clothed like a Roman matron, her head covered with a scarf, walked through the ruined streets of the sacked city of Rome. The Goths had been decent, all things considered. Most of Rome was still standing. The majority of its citizens were alive; the majority of its women hadn’t been raped. But then, Alaric had higher plans. He wanted to take all of Italy. He would not let his army get fat and lazy so soon.

The last pagan temple – her temple – had been burned.

Nyx was amazed it had stood so long. It had fell into disuse long ago, and there were few, if any, who still followed her in Rome. But it had not been destroyed, until now.

She stood in the ruins of it, looking at the broken, defaced statue and the charred remains of the couches where, long ago, they had drank so much wine and eaten fine food and listened to sweet music as they made love. The walls – what was left of them – were covered in soot, hiding the faded paintings that artists had fought for the right to commission.

“My lady?” Nyx turned. A young man in a soot-covered robe approached. “The city is not safe for women alone, my lady. You should return home.”

I can’t,
Nyx thought.
Not for another seven hundred years.

And even then, Nyx was not sure she wanted to go back. Here on Earth, the urge to punish was not so great. The need to torture and maim and despoil the souls of the damned had faded over time. She enjoyed not feeling the compulsion, and wondered if the others did, too.

Of course, in six hundred years, they’ll all be wiped from the planet, so what does it matter?

The thought disturbed her, though she did not know why. She should hate them, she should be working on destroying them. Instead she was caring for them. The Varangians were a strong and resourceful people, who raised their children well and decently, and their prayers were now filling Nyx’s brain. And once more, the majority were prayers for strength and help.

“My lady?”

Nyx realized she was once more staring at the broken remains of her statue. “I thank you.”

“It was beautiful,” said the young man. “A beautiful place. Everyone left it alone because it was so beautiful. People often came and sat, looking at the Angel, or at the lovely frescos on the walls. I would come and play my flute, here. The sound would float up to the ceiling.” He shook his head. “Of all the places to burn. Why this one?”

“It was a pagan temple,” said Nyx, pleased by his praise. “The Christians cannot stand anyone worshipping any gods but theirs.”

“Still no need to burn it down,” said the young man. “Who was it to? Minerva? Venus?”

“Not even the memory left?” Nyx looked around at the broken room and the soot-covered walls and the burned benches. “Not even that?”

“Do you know her?” asked the young man.

“I do,” said Nyx. “She was a goddess of plenty and of pleasure. Of joy and laughter. And also of vengeance, who would smite those who dared to cross her. She heard all the prayers, whether or not she answered them, and she did her best for her people, and for her love.”

“What was her name?”

“Nyx.”

“And who was her love?”

“Tribunal.” Nyx had not spoken his name aloud for nearly two hundred years. And though she spoke it in the Roman tongue not the tongue of Angels, she could feel his presence beside her and his strong arms around her. And she could feel his rage.

It filled her from the ground up, like falling into the Lake of Fire, only this burned white hot, not cold. It burned for the thousands he had seen betray and abuse each other as he wandered the world. It burned for the ones who tortured and raped and killed for pleasure. It burned for the ones who abused children. It burned because it burned. The fire of it consumed Nyx’s grief, consumed her sadness for days past, consumed her desires and thoughts and left her with only one.

The humans must be destroyed! Earth must be taken from them and given to those worthy of it!

“My lady,” said the young man. “Shall I escort you home?”

Nyx’s fingernails became talons, slashing out and tearing his throat open. The young man gargled and dropped, blood spraying over Nyx, the floor and the walls.

Now that,
thought Nyx,
Tribunal would approve.

Nyx walked away from the temple, mind consumed with new plans. There was much work to do, if she was going to destroy the Christians, and bring back her love.

I am Queen of Hell. And I will be Queen of Paradise, soon.

She left the ruins of her temple and the bloody remains of the young man on the floor, and did not look back.

451 A.D.

In his tent, Attila, leader of the Huns knelt, praying in silence. He was a thickly-muscled man, short of stature but broad in the chest, with black hair, a thin beard and hard eyes. There was a sudden wind behind him, hard enough to knock him nearly off balance and to make the tent flap snap back and forth.

“Are you ready?” Nyx demanded.

Attilla prostrated himself before her. ““I am, my lady Nyx.”

“Are your troops?”

“More than ready,” said Attila. “We have near half a million men standing ready to invade. We will crush these Byzantines.”

“Do that,” said Nyx. “Christians have had power way too long. Slaughter them. Kill their priests and their monks. Destroy their holy places. Let them learn to fear the name of Attila.”

“I will, Lady Nyx,” said Attila bowing deeply.

“Then take this,” she said, handing him a sword. She’d had it made in the style he was used to, but much, much better. She’d had it forged by the finest craftsmen money could buy, using the highest quality iron she could find. The blade was exquisite, and as soon as Attila took it in his hand he knew it. He grinned and prostrated himself again. “With this, my lady, I will lay waste to the Christians!”

No you won’t,
thought Nyx.
But you’ll kill a bunch of them and keep them from expanding while I go in search of an even better race of warriors.

634 A.D.

In the desert, Persephone covered her rather handsome face with her veil. She was balanced easily on the back of a camel, and around her, the army of Islam marched. They were crossing the border into Roman Syria, now. Beside her, sitting as easy as she herself, Khalid ibn al-Walid, also handsome if not quite so young, surveyed the army’s progress.

“We are riding well,” said Khalid. “We should reach the first fortress soon, all things being equal.”

“As you say, Sword of Allah,” said Persephone. “We will need to slaughter more of the camels before we reach it, though.”

Khalid grinned. “That is why I brought extra.”

He had brought many extra, in fact, and with a very deliberate purpose. Camels, when denied water for a time, will drink and drink and drink, and their stomachs store the water cleanly. Whenever the army stopped to eat, camels were slaughtered and the water from their bellies shared among the troops.

Food and water on the hoof,
though Persephone.
Clever. Though they have a nasty bite.

“There! The Romans!”

They’re not really Romans,
thought Persephone as she covered her face and prepared to ride after the patrol, who were already hightailing it back to their fort, somewhere nearby but currently out of sight.
But they’re Christians, and that’s enough.

Besides, who doesn’t like a good fight?

800 A.D.

The chief of the Varangians woke and found his Goddess standing at the foot of his bed.

“My Lady Nyx!” He practically fell out of bed, prostrating his naked body against the splintery wood of the longhouse floor. His wife awoke at the sound, saw who it was, and screamed. A moment later she, too, was prostrate on the floor.

“It is time,” said Nyx. “Rise, leader of the Varangians. Rise and listen to me.”

The man rose to his feet, struggling to find dignity in his nakedness. Nyx waved an arm and his armor appeared around him. The man at once stood straighter.

“It is time for your people to begin their journey,” sad Nyx. “The one foretold, that will bring you a new empire greater than any this world has seen. One that will last ten thousand years.”

The Chieftain nodded. “It will be as you say, my lady Nyx. Only…”

Nyx raised an eyebrow, and in that very small movement was a threat of terrible violence. “Yes?”

Words rushed out of the man’s mouth. “There are many among our people who do not believe in the empire to come. They say it is a false legend, designed to get people through the winter and the hard times. They may not follow.”

“They will,” said Nyx. “You will see.”

Two weeks later, the entire tribe gathered before the shrine of Nyx. The chieftain had sent and boats out to the other villages telling everyone to come. Now eight thousand men, women and children stood before the shrine, waiting. They waited all afternoon, not daring to sit or take a bite of food.

Night fell, and Nyx arose in a ball of fire that lit every face in the tribe. Her black-scaled armor gleamed in the light of it. Her sword and whip were in her hands, and her eyes glowed red. The entire population fell to their knees, and in the crowd, some of the children cried out in fear.

“Hear me, Varangians,” Nyx said. “Your time here is at an end. To the east lies the great forests and homes of the Slavs. They have need of your leadership and guidance. And with them as your vassals, you will forge a mighty empire, capable of destroying any that would stand against you, and gaining riches greater unmatched among the tribes of man.”

“Tell us what we must do, O Lady Nyx,” said their chief. “Tell me how we may achieve this victory!”

“Gather all your people, your goods and your livestock,” said Nyx. “Sail to the east, down the Volga, and take control of all the lands you survey. Build fortresses and farms, make your people strong and healthy, and once you have established yourselves, you are commanded to wage war against the Christians who live there!”

“We will, my lady!” said the chieftain.

“And let your people have a new name,” said Nyx, more on a whim than anything else, “For the Varangians are a small people, and yours shall be a great people! From this day forward, I name you the Rus! And your name shall be remembered throughout history!”

The crowd, led by their chieftain cheered, and for the remainder of the night, feasted, danced and sang. Nyx, in full armor, allowed herself to partake of the festivities, honoring the women by eating their food, and the men by drinking with them. Their excitement was infectious. She felt a moment of fondness.

They will become a great people.

The Slavs were no match for them, and would be easily overwhelmed. From there, it was merely a matter of direction.

The time is approaching, my love,
Nyx thought, though she avoided using his name.
Soon, we will rule this world together.

And maybe we will not need to destroy them all?

850 A.D.

The beach was deserted, save for the three of them. The Pacific Ocean was calm; a sheet of silk, pale and shimmering, and the red sun hung low on the horizon. Persephone had brought blankets and spread them out on the sand. She had provided skins of wine, baskets of fruit, bread, honey and smoked fish. The three ate greedily, then lay back in the cool twilight as they exchanged their stories.

They had done this every ten years since their campaign began. Nyx listened to Persephone and Ishtar, and advised them on further steps. She told them her own plans and machinations and what had succeeded so far.

“So the Rus are starting to stir,” said Ishtar. “These new Islamics are harrying the eastern Roman Empire and the western one is now totally collapsed. What’s the score?”

“We’re winning,” said Nyx. “Mathematically, we are winning. We outnumber them now, and when the Rus are in place, we’ll be able to destroy them all. And there’s a group called the Mongols that are starting to stir. I’m going after them, next.”

“Does that mean we can get out of here?” asked Ishtar.

“I like it here,” protested Persephone.

“Then why did you arrange to spend half of every year in Hell?”

“Because I like you two as well,” said Persephone, smiling and running a gentle hand down each Angel’s thigh. Nyx took her hand; Ishtar shoved it away.

“Not in the mood,” said Ishtar. “I want to do more than just manipulate them.”

“We will,” said Nyx. “Soon.”

“Why wait?” demanded Ishtar. “The Islamic people have already taken Jerusalem. We can go in, wipe it out and take over.”

“We are waiting for the right time!” snapped Nyx. “We are waiting for Paradise, remember?”

“Paradise isn’t Heaven, you know,” said Ishtar. “We aren’t going to get that back.”