The Storm of Heaven (111 page)

"You men, open that gate wide and form up in front of it, arms presented! Vladimir, you take the other side, make sure the tunnel stays clear!"

The sharp stamp of many booted feet moving in unison caught his ear and Nicholas turned, squinting in the bright sun. People were clearing smartly from the avenue. Suddenly the citizens were gone and a phalanx of red-cloaked men, each at least six feet tall, filled the street from side to side, marching smartly forward, axes perfectly aligned on their shoulders, arms swinging. The Faithful Guard marched bareheaded, mustaches and beards sparkling with ribbons. At their center, on a litter of gold and pearl, a man rode in a silver chair. Nicholas felt shocked quiet fall over the crowd lining the street.

Even he felt a catch in his throat, seeing the pale figure riding above the heads of the Guard. Nicholas had only ever seen the Emperor once before, during the last siege, but his strikingly handsome face and curly golden hair could not be missed. The dark tan from years of campaigning was gone, replaced by a pale, sallow tinge to his skin, but Heraclius held his head high. His visage was composed, forbidding, but he raised his hand in greeting to the crowd as the litter entered the square before the Great Gate.

"Imperator!" Nicholas shouted, voice full and strong, ringing back from the towering walls of the gate. "Imperator! Thou conquerest! Thou conquerest!"

Heraclius' head came up at the sound of a single voice in the air. He smiled.

"Imperator!" boomed the ranks of the legionaries in the gate tunnel. "Imperator!" The sound echoed through the central courtyard. The Faithful continued to advance, their measured tread cracking on the flagstones of the street. Nicholas stepped back against the gate pillar and raised his right arm in the Western salute. At his side, Vladimir did the same. Heraclius passed, still staring straight ahead, but Nicholas thought he saw the man's eyes flicker sideways as the litter entered the gate.

"Imperator! Thou conquerest!" roared from the massed throats of nearly two thousand men. The sound rolled and boomed in the tunnel, sounding like tens of thousands. The crowd in the street, still amazed and stunned, began to cheer. Within moments, Nicholas was engulfed in a crowd of jubilant citizens, laughing and singing, their hearts suddenly light with relief.

Nicholas found himself embraced by a well-built woman with shoulder-length blond hair who gave him a big wet kiss on the mouth and then swung him around. He kissed her back, laughing, and then she was gone, swept away by the crowd. Hundreds of people were flooding into the square from the nearby buildings, cheering and passing out jugs of wine and beer.

Stone ground on stone, and a rectangular flagstone the size of a sleeping man levered up. Grit puffed away from the edges of the stone. Complete darkness was broken by a febrile green radiance seeping from the opening. A hunched, cloaked figure stepped up out of the hidden stairway, one pale, white hand holding up the stone block. The other hand clutched a crystal phial shedding sickly light. A small black shape darted between the woman's legs, sliding across the dusty floor, sending up puffs of dust. Sneezing, the little cat shook its head in disgust. The room had not been opened for a long time. Shelves lined the walls, filled with ancient bottles wrapped in straw.

The Dark Queen gently lowered the slab. It dropped into place with a heavy thud. She had shed the long gown, donning a plain black tunic, chiton and dark gray cloak. Her hair was bundled back behind her head, held in place by silver pins. She thought she would be inconspicuous in the palace. The cat sneezed again, then meowed imperiously, scratching at the door.

"Step lightly," the Queen muttered, taking care to leave the dusty floor undisturbed. Her hand pressed against the door, letting the sensation of ancient close-grained wood seep into her perception. After a moment, satisfied that no one was on the other side, she cracked the rusty bolt with her free hand and slipped out into the tunnel. The green light washed over casks and barrels, all heavy with dust and cobwebs. The Queen sniffed the air, then she turned left and moved off into the darkness. The green light seeped down the walls, puddling in the paw prints on the floor, then slowly faded away.

Men shouted, struggling across the flagstoned road, and the singing rage of iron on iron filled the air. Jusuf stared up at the blue sky, watching fluffy white clouds drift past. There had been a horse standing over him for a moment, nudging him with its soft warm nose, but another horse had come too close and the first mare had bolted off, whinnying. The Khazar's head seemed too large for his helmet. The metal dug painfully into his scalp. Weak fingers scrabbled at the strap under his chin, but the bronze clasp refused to budge.

A green-clad man on a horse blocked out the sun. His spear drew back, leaf-shaped blade flashing with sunlight. Jusuf stared up at the man, puzzled by the fury transforming the Arab's face, then blinked, blinded by the glare. Shadow covered the sun and there was violent motion. Two other men in leather kilts and fitted lamellar mail leapt over his body, stabbing at the first man with javelins. The horse reared back, its face pricked by one of the short spears. The green man lashed at them with his lance.

Jusuf felt hands dragging him back. A sharp pain in his side cut through the dull fog. The roaring in his ears faded and he could think again. He was sweating, the day hot, the riot of battle loud all around him.

"I'm fine," he gasped, trying to stand up. The Roman centurion commanding the rear guard dragged Jusuf to his feet. The Khazar felt his face, fingers coming away smeared with blood. "I'm fine."

The Arabs were still furiously engaged, trying to break through the Roman line by sheer ferocity. Arrows snapped among them, the Khazar riders shooting into the thick of the melee. The legionaries stood firm, holding off the Arab assault with spears and busy swords. Jusuf felt pain stab through his head. The side of his helmet had been crushed in, grinding against his skull, rasping away the skin.

"God above!" He managed to get the point of his belt knife worked under the chin strap and sawed away the thick leather. The helmet came off his head with a wet pop. Blood spilled out of the dented metal in a thin red stream. He felt sick.

"You stay away from her! Ow! Leave me... get off! Ow!"

Thyatis woke to the sound of a scuffle—someone was growling and shouting—and her eyes opened slowly. There was a beamed roof, dark wood against white plaster, overhead. Sharp words hung in the air like smoke. She blinked, realizing that her back and side were stiff with pain. A soft hiss escaped gritted teeth.
The mule kicked me again?
she thought curiously.
Who is making that racket?

"Papa, help! Yeee-owch!"

Bracing for more pain, Thyatis turned her head and saw little Ila on the floor, her face pressed into glazed tile, one arm wrenched behind her back. A blond girl—a name trickled up from hazy, wobbly memory—
Betia
—was holding her down, knee pressed into Ila's back. Thyatis tried to grin, but that
was
painful and she realized that her face was throbbing and raw. Despite ferocious efforts on Ila's part, the Island-trained girl was easily restraining her.

"Let her up," Thyatis said, her words echoed by another's voice. Anastasia was standing in the doorway, her face a white oval in a sea of black cloak, chiton and stole. "Mouse, come here."

Looking smug, Betia let go and Ila, scowling furiously, retreated to the bed, legs planted firmly, her little brown body squarely between Thyatis and these invaders. Thyatis curled an arm around Ila, making her sit. Betia faded into the shadows by the door, smirking, and the Duchess slowly unwound her stole and veil.

"May I come in?" The older woman's voice was quiet and a little sad. Thyatis saw that she had dispensed with her usual powders and creams, leaving dark circles under her eyes and knife-thin wrinkles around her mouth. She seemed very old and careworn. Even her movements seemed slow, as if her limbs were heavy. Despite this, something in her face seemed hopeful.

"Where am I?" Thyatis gave Ila a squeeze and felt the little girl's fingers wrap around her own.

"You are in the Palatine," Anastasia said. "Empress Helena is hiding us until the trouble in the city dies down."

"There's riots," Ila muttered out of the corner of her mouth. "They thought you were murdered by the Greens."

"I was..." Memory was a jumble of scenes and sensations. There was a momentary flash of brilliant pain. "I was shot from behind... an arrow as we came out of the turn?"

"Yes." Anastasia looked down at the floor. "One of... my archers shot you by mistake, trying to hit that accursed African."

Thyatis made a choking sound, then half crushed Ila trying to draw breath. The horse girl pounded her vigorously on the back and finally Thyatis was able to look up, tears streaming from her eyes. "I was shot with an arrow by accident?"

Anastasia nodded, her violet eyes smudged and pale. "I'm sorry."

Thyatis, exhausted by the coughing, lay back on the heavy pillows. "What do you want?"

"May I come in?"

Thyatis gestured weakly, and Anastasia came to the other side of the bed. Ila stiffened, then turned her back, pointedly, on the older woman. Betia remained, almost invisible, in the shadows by the door. Ila contented herself with glaring at the maid. The Duchess sat, fingers clutching a corner of the quilt.

"You'll be well," Anastasia said, trying to smile. "Helena's doctors are very good. They knitted up your ribs and drew down the swelling. Tomorrow, or the day after, you'll be up and around."

"And then?" Thyatis watched her patron curiously. She was too tired—drained, really—to muster anger. The Duchess seemed to have grown more solid, now that Thyatis looked at her closely. The glorious hair, the dazzling jewels and ornaments were gone, even her flashing eyes were dimmed. Lying in this quiet room, somewhere in the sprawl of the palace, Thyatis realized that Anastasia was just a woman, like herself, neither wiser nor more clever. Merely herself—tired, worn, disconsolate—and, perhaps for the first time, honest.
How strange,
she thought,
once I was more frightened of her than any man with a sword.

"You can go where you please," Anastasia said, unable to meet the younger woman's eyes. "You are free of the arena, and free of Narses, and free of me."

The pale shadow of a grin lit Thyatis' eyes. Her right hand held Ila close. "What about the dreadful Prince? Don't you need me to hunt him down? To murder him?"

"No." The Duchess' hand was plucking at the quilt, folding an edge over, then unfolding it, then folding the fabric again. "My spies cannot find him. He has vanished. Narses too, though he might have been killed in the riots."

"Are you going to stop looking?" Thyatis' eyes narrowed in puzzlement.

"Yes. What could I do if I found him? He is beyond my power."

Thyatis took Anastasia's hand in hers. The Duchess' fingers felt cold and frail.

"You're tired," Thyatis said. "You should rest."

Anastasia nodded, closing her hand over Thyatis'. "I will. I will. Soon."

"Now," Thyatis said, weariness leaching into her voice. "We'll both lie down and rest for a little while, and these two"—the younger woman motioned with her head at Ila and Betia—"will watch over us while we sleep."

"That sounds nice." Anastasia's voice was faint. Her hand felt light in Thyatis' grip, as if the woman had been reduced to shadows and air. "Sleep now, dear."

"I will." Thyatis closed her eyes, smiling. "You too, Momma."

Anastasia stood slowly, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. She turned the edge of the coverlet over Thyatis' hands, hiding the thin glassy web of scars. Then she bent down and kissed Thyatis' cheek. The younger woman was already snoring softly.

Ila watched the Duchess go out with a narrow-eyed glare, but when the two invaders were gone, she curled up on the side of the bed and closed her eyes. Thyatis' muscular arm, browned by the sun, webbed with old cuts and bruises, held her close.

After a moment, the little girl's eyes opened, anger replaced by mournful sadness. "I never got to ride my horses. Dumb rules..."

A warm yellow glow suffused the tent. Night wind luffed canvas, then a drape lifted away and Zoë entered, her face a cold mask. Odenathus followed, unwilling to continue their argument inside the meeting tent. The Palmyrene woman stopped, staring around at the faces of the men gathered under the pavilion, then let Odenathus take a place beside her.

The oil lamps threw distorted shadows on the peaked roof. A low murmur of noise died down as Zoë entered, so she raised an eyebrow in question. It was clear that the lords of the Decapolis, the Mekkan chiefs, the Judeans, even the Yemenite ship captains had been deep in conversation for some time. Her face was tightly controlled, showing neither friendship nor rancor to the captains of the Sahaba. She waited, saying nothing.

"Lady Zoë, good evening." Zamanes, King of Jerash, stood up and made a deep bow to her. "I am sorry that you were not told of the meeting earlier. Please, take no offense from this. We are all struggling with the death of our leader, our teacher."

"King Zamanes." Zoë inclined her head in his direction. There was a frosty edge to her voice. She looked around the circle of men again, eyes glinting. Only Shadin and Khalid met her gaze, but they were straightforward men. "What are you discussing?"

"We debate who will lead us." Something in the King's tone made it clear the matter was still in dispute. "We wonder what we shall do, now that both Mohammed and the Emperor of the East are dead. A black day I had not thought to see."

Zoë bowed her head and slowly raised the hood of her white robe and settled it over raven-dark hair. Her people had different burial customs than did the Mekkans, but she had taken care to discover how a woman of the desert city dressed when a close relative had died. Odenathus began to fidget at her side, but she glared at him sidelong, eyes bare slits, and he became still. She looked back to Zamanes. "Have you chosen?"