The Gate of Fire (21 page)

"Wait. Do you think—will she stay with me?"

"Stay? No one can tell the future—but that is what you want, is it not? For her to be at your side, as long as you live?"

"Yes." Thyatis' voice was very low. The Matron smiled a little, watching hidden thoughts flicker across the young woman's face like deer racing in the sun and shadow of a forest. "I would like that."

"You
want
that," the Matron corrected her, laying her hand on Thyatis' arm. "You have been her protector, her guide, her rescuer. Is that enough for you, to shield her from the pain of the world and be responsible for her? To see that her children are fed and grow up strong? To have her at your back, at the hearth, waiting for you to return from war?"

"No!" Thyatis looked up, her face filled with disgust. "I do not own her!"

"Indeed," the Matron said in a very dry tone, "you do not. And so you bring her to us—not for sanctuary or to be hidden away from the world while the Duchess and these Emperors decide her fate. No, you are much more trouble than that... This is the thing that you desire: a friend, a partner, this
phedaia
who is your equal—not your master, not your slave—who stands at your side. A like mind and will with which to make delightful compromise. Do you want that?"

"Yes," Thyatis said, almost in tears, "I want that."

"Hmm... perhaps you will have it, but I wonder if you will be content."

Waves, curling white and pale green, boomed along the shore. The sun stood high in the sky, a bone white disk. The surf ran up the slope of the beach, tumbling black sand around Thyatis' bare feet. Beyond the breakers the sea was a limpid green mirror. She walked slowly along the edge of the surf, her toes digging into the damp sand. The freckles that hid along the tops of her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose were very strong. Her hair was loose, hanging in a heavy red-gold cloud along the curve of her back. A broad plaited straw hat shaded her eyes, cast a deep sea green by the water that stretched away to the horizon. A jug of wine on a leather thong bumped against a swatch of colored cloth she had wrapped around her hips. The tiny strip of sand turned, running under a great escarpment of towering black stone. Here, on the very northern tip of the island, a shelf of bubbled lava made a catchment for Thira's lone beach that faced the outer sea.

Around the corner the beach widened a little, and there, on a low dune of sand, was a pavilion of wooden poles and plaited rope with a canopy of white linen. Thyatis walked up, her feet splashing in the edge of the surf. In the shade of the canopy, Shirin sat up on her elbows, her sun-darkened face wreathed in a slow brilliant white smile. Her hair was loose, too, save for two braids that fell like gleaming dark ropes down on either side of her neck. Tiny blue ribbons were twisted into the braids. She was wearing a thin cotton top and had kicked aside her sandals. On one slim ankle she had clasped a silver bangle with tiny golden bells. Thyatis knelt under the canopy and turned, brushing the sand off of her feet.

"Ah, you burn so easily." Shirin sat up and ran her fingers over Thyatis' shoulder. Flakes of blistered skin peeled away under Shirin's fingernail. Thyatis hissed and turned. Shirin's face was only inches away. Her dark eyes seemed enormous. Thyatis was suddenly conscious of her friend's breast pressed against her arm. The thin cotton seemed incapable of keeping in the heat of Shirin's body. Thyatis tossed her head a little, clearing rogue curls from her eyes. She felt a little cold. "Yes, I'm not fit for these sunny skies. Some nice gray rain is what I need... ow!"

"Shhh." Shirin moved a little behind her, her quick fingers undoing the knot at the back of Thyatis' top. "I've some lotion for this. Auntie gave it to me."

Cool liquid dribbled on Thyatis' naked back, and she hissed in surprise.

"Stay still," Shirin commanded, rubbing her hands together. They made slippery sounds.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Thyatis grumbled, trying to look over her shoulder. Shirin moved directly behind her, sliding her long olive legs on either side of the Roman's thighs. Thyatis blushed at the sensation, skin sliding across skin like silk, and hid her face in her hair. Shirin smoothed the oil over her back, cool and tingling. Thyatis sighed happily and relaxed a little.

"Northern barbarians," whispered Shirin in her ear, her breath a cool touch on Thyatis' shoulder, "should stay out of the sun. Indoors, you know, where it is safe and dark. Otherwise, they become lobsters and blister horribly."

"Indoors?" Thyatis said, though she had trouble talking.

"Yes," Shirin purred, sliding closer, her nipples brushing Thyatis' back, hands slick with oil gliding over her shoulders and inner arms. "Someplace comfortable and warm, like a bed."

"A bed?" Thyatis whispered, then she gasped a little as Shirin's warm, slippery hands cupped her breasts. Shirin moved slowly, her palms covering Thyatis' nipples as she worked the oil in slow circles. Thyatis groaned a little and turned her head to Shirin. The Khazar girl's lips were waiting, soft and moist, and her mouth was hot, and Thyatis felt everything disappear but the sensation of Shirin's hands on her breasts and the kiss. She lay back slowly, and Shirin slipped into the curve of her arm, one leg sliding over her thigh. Thyatis' hand tangled in Shirin's hair.

The wind off of the sea ruffled the canopy of the pavilion, making a slow, rhythmic creaking sound in counterpoint to the muted boom of the surf echoing from the high dark cliffs. The tiny bells on Shirin's ankle bracelet chimed softly as she moved.

A young man, his red hair burned almost white by months under desert skies, jogged along a long line of wagons. They were huge, towering over the running youth; their great slab-sided wheels caked with pasty white dust. Striped canvas awnings had been raised over many of them, shielding their contents—crates, barrels, boxes, pretty young men and women in chains, sheaves of arrows and spears, bolts of cloth, statues of marble and bronze and porphyry, wicker baskets filled with plates and bowls wrapped in straw, amphorae of wine and oil in wicker carriers, thousands of wooden crates marked with the sign of the Imperial Persian Mint—all this protected from the rain, wind, and sun that afflicted travelers in northern Mesopotamia. Yoked to each wagon were teams of oxen or mules. The beasts lowed mournfully at the young man as he ran past, his military-issue sandals slapping rhythmically on the hard-packed dirt of the road. In the meager shade of the wagons—for the sun was high and the heat of the day was becoming intense—thousands of soldiers in worn red cloaks and battered armor sat or sprawled, their sunburned faces streaked with road dust.

The young man jogged along, passing the last of the cargo wagons, and found the road crowded with long lines of horses standing in the heat, their heads low. Their riders, Eastern Empire-armored
tagmata
, squatted at the side of the road in clumps. Some had servants holding parasols of dirty orange silk or linen for shade. Most were sleeping by their horses with a blanket for a pillow or talking in low tones. Everyone the young man passed seemed weary and worn from the long march. Beyond the horsemen the road turned and ran down a long slope to the banks of a broad river. The man smiled, seeing the cluster of wagons and pennons that marked his own unit, parked by the side of the road like everyone else. He slowed his pace; the long slope down the hill was marked by cracks in the stone paving and uneven footing. Now he was passing cohort after cohort of infantry—most of them sunburned Goths and Germans muttering in their half-familiar tongues—sprawled in a great mass along the sides of the road. Their officers watched the young man as he passed, but none tried to halt him.

The
caduceus
and lightning-bolt brooch pinned to his cloak lent him gravity, at least, despite his youth. The Emperor gave members of the Imperial Thaumaturgic Corps a great deal of leeway. Even the Germans and other barbarians who filled out the ranks of the Legions acceded to their prerogatives. Angering a wizard was thought to be bad luck—and, well, it was.

The young man swerved off to the side of the road and stopped, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs, breathing hard. A wagon rumbled up the hill, drawn by straining oxen, carrying six great oaken barrels bound with copper staves. The gurgle of water in the barrels was the sound of sweet relief for the thousands of men lining the road. The boy smiled at the wagon master as he drove past and flashed a cheery salute. This was the third water wagon he had passed since he had left the city gates. He jogged on, closing his nose and mouth against the trail of dust rising behind the wagon. He felt good, running like this, feeling his body exert itself. He ran on down the hill.

A thicket of broad-shouldered men in armor of wired iron rings parted, allowing a grime-covered courier to enter the field tent. The man doffed his leather hat and batted at the thick yellow dust, knocking it to the ground. Two more guards, these hard-bitten-looking Latins with narrow eyes, checked the rider's weapons and cloak. Satisfied, they nodded him in.

Sitting at a folding camp desk, a thin, dark-haired man looked up at the intrusion. The courier knelt on one knee, making the half
proskynesis
that was the rule here in the East.

"Hail, Emperor and God, Galen."

"Greetings, lad." Martius Galen Atreus, Emperor of the Western Empire, put aside his quill pen and rubbed ink from his hands. His was a narrow face, with a cap of lank black hair crowning his head. His eyes were bright and filled with a fierce intellect. "What news do you bring?"

The messenger stood and pulled a scroll case from the carry bag at his waist. He was very young, perhaps not sixteen, with close-cut hair and a determined expression. "A letter, Caesar, from the Empress."

Galen's hand, reaching for the copper tube, paused for just an instant, but then he took it and placed it on the desk. The Emperor summoned a smile and motioned for one of his servants. "Well done, lad. You need a bath and a shave and something to drink. Timos, see that this fellow is looked after."

The elderly Greek nodded, smiling at the courier, and escorted him away. The Emperor stared at the message tube on his desk with trepidation. Poking at it with a tentative finger, he rolled it over and saw that it bore the sign and seal of his wife, Helena, Empress of the West. He sighed. He had last seen her in Catania, at their villa on the island of Sicily. There had been words exchanged between them—heated words he had since regretted. She had sent him letters; he kept them in a chest with his personal items, unopened.

In Rome, and even before, when he had been stationed at Colonia Agrippina in lower Germania with the Legio First Minerva, Helena had gained herself a towering reputation as a poet, writer, and sly-handed wit. Her sharp tongue had laid low many a city. Her volume of correspondence was legendary. In the course of one week at Agrippina, while it rained constantly and steadily, he had watched her write seventy-three letters. He valued her mind above all else. The thought that he had found a mate of equal or greater intelligence still filled him with hidden wonder.

But when it might be turned against him in vitriolic anger? He dreaded her wit, even he, the master of half the known world. Galen took the message tube in his hand and weighed it, feeling the papyrus sheets slide back and forth inside.
What
, he thought,
if it is good news?

A memory of Helena, her dark eyes sizzling with anger, her voice raised in a particularly cutting rebuke, her thin hands wrapped around the neck of a Minoan jade vase older than the city of Rome, came to mind. He put the message tube down. He had started that argument with a particularly ill-advised remark about her health. She had finished it.
Perhaps later, when I've had a bit to drink.

"Well?" The young woman's voice was laced with anger.

The young redheaded man shook his head and shrugged. He smiled broadly. He was long used to her anger and abrupt nature. "Nothing to do about it, leader of five. Things in the city are in such a snarl that it will be days before we see the cool porticoes of the agora or even the inside of an inn."

"For this I send you off to scout?" The young woman snapped, smoothing back short raven black hair. Luminous dark eyes and high cheekbones marked her face, which was radiating disgust. Like the redheaded youth, she wore a travel-stained crimson cloak with blue edging and a heavy shirt of leather embossed with bronze studs. The brooch that held her cloak to the shoulder was silver, though, where his was copper. "For this we sit in the heat for hours, waiting for you to finally report in?"

The young redheaded man shrugged again and took a long drink from a leather wine flask that the other man in the back of the wagon had handed him. It was sour
acetum
, but that was to be expected on the third day. It cut a little of the dust in his throat.

"You may bring down the wrath of heaven upon me, O Zoë, Leader-of-five, but I cannot change the will of the Emperor! Say, is there anything left to eat?"

"No, Dwyrin," the dark-haired youth growled, leaning back against the wall of the wagon. "We ate everything out of boredom while waiting for you to return."

"Odenathus, you are a pig of a Palmyrene!" Dwyrin punched the other youth in the arm. "Not so much as a fig left, I suppose!"

Odenathus shook his head, his face a study of pitiful sorrow. "No so much as a fig," he said, "or a date, or a roast hen, or a wheel of cheese, or bread or dried meat or wine, or, well, anything..."

Zoë made a snorting sound and swung out of the back of the wagon, brown legs showing for a moment under her leather kilt. Out of the wagon she settled her belt and checked to see that her issue short sword, the
gladius
, was snug at her side and that the other gear was in place. Dwyrin and Odenathus crawled to the back of the wagon and sat, their legs swinging over the tailgate.

"Leader-of-five? You, ah, you going somewhere?"

Zoë spared Dwyrin a short, pointed glare and lifted her hat, a battered straw thing with a long woven tail that lay down over her neck, off a hook twisted into the side of the wagon. "I," she said, "am going into the city to find us lodging and food. You two are staying here, with the wagon and our gear. And I do mean
stay
with the wagon. Do not
leave
the wagon by the side of the road—not even for a moment—to be stolen by drunken Sarmatian mercenaries... like last time."