The Storm of Heaven (70 page)

Galen rose, sighing, heavy robes rustling. He stepped to the edge of the Imperial box, taking his time, making sure that everyone in the huge building could see and hear him. As he did so the murmur of the crowd fell away into silence. The matter of the prize monies and the palm branches was of considerable interest to the crowd. Helena sat up as well.

"We have all waited for this day." The Emperor's words carried in the silence. The design of the amphitheater made his voice audible even in the highest seats. "I know many of you have been impatient for these games, fearing the spirits of the dead would take their displeasure out upon those who still live."

A low rumble came back in response. Everyone in the city had expressed their opinion, at one time or another, of the Emperor's delay, usually in unflattering terms. Now that the games had begun, ushered in by a fabulous parade and three days of feasting on the Imperial ticket, the mood of the people had mellowed.

"It is my belief," Galen continued, raising his voice slightly, "that something should be done well if it is to be done. Excellence in such things takes time. The people of Rome deserve the best games that can be provided. Are the citizens of this great city not the finest in the world, deserving of the best in all things?"

A cheer rose, echoing from the statues on the highest level, reverberating from the encircling wall and the huge canvas sails now run out to shade the northern side of the amphitheater. More and more people had entered the Flavian as the day progressed and now it was near capacity. Everyone liked to hear how important they were and how much the Emperor cared to put on a spectacular show.

"The portents are good," Galen declaimed, "and the first fights auspicious! Let these two brave Amazons come forward for their reward!"

The Charon-masked attendants motioned for the redheaded woman and the Nubian girl to approach the Imperial box. They did so, but seemed paralyzed by fear. Helena frowned, seeing the Gaulish woman was staring down at the sand under her feet, unable to look up.

"You are victorious," Galen cried, looking out at the crowd rather than down at the two convicts below him. "As Rome is victorious over the world! Your reward is not just life, though that is precious, but the acclaim of these citizens!"

Again there was a tumult of cheering. Most of the people in the crowd weren't paying attention yet, this was just one of the warm-ups, but those that were had gotten good value for their money. Helena shook her head and rolled her eyes at the thought. Admission was free, though the allotment of seats was carefully controlled and the seats awarded only to the patricians and certain classes of the city. She turned back to her letter, ignoring the two convict women as they were presented with palm leaves and, in a Greek touch, crowns of holly.

Dear Artemisia,
she wrote, quill nib squeaking slightly on the parchment.
I hope that you are well, or as well as can be, married to a flatulent ox...

Thyatis stared at the crown of holly in her hand. It didn't seem right to put it on.

"Go ahead!" The Nubian girl hissed out of the corner of her mouth. "It's expected."

Keeping her head low, Thyatis put on the crown. One of the black-robed attendants jabbed at her with a spear and she turned, glaring at the man. It would take only one swift motion to snatch the spear away from him... but she did not. She put on the crown and raised her arms again. Scattered cheers came back. Then she and the Nubian girl were herded away into one of the tunnels that led out of the arena at ground level.

"What is your name?" The Nubian girl was giggling. Thyatis understood perfectly—they had escaped death. It felt good, being alive. There was a delicious lassitude in her limbs, a fine afterglow. Far better than the gray dullness which had held her captive for so long.

"Diana," she answered, clasping forearms with the slave. "And yours?"

"Candace." The girl grinned, showing fine white teeth. "I guess we
are
Amazons!"

"Carefully, children, carefully!" The voice out of the darkness was fierce. Four of the Walach cowered on the walkway, clustered around a heavy pine crate. They had been trying to move the crate down a narrow path of stone and rotting wood. Oily, dark water of unknown depth lay under the walkway. Mist pooled in the air, making vision and breath difficult. "Those things are precious."

The Dark Queen appeared out of the fog, a black shape against gray mist. Lanterns hung from poles beside the walkway, throwing a shifting, fitful light across the mossy planks. Her face was a pale oval, white eyes gleaming in the darkness. The Walach crawled before her, pressing their faces to the wood.

"Two of you ahead," she hissed, looming over them, "and two behind."

The Walach boys took hold of the crate, musk glands oozing fear into the close, humid air. The Queen brooded, watching as they hauled the crate onto their shoulders. The walkway creaked alarmingly but did not give way. With careful steps, they inched down the path. The carved jadeite vases in the crate were absurdly heavy. Shaking her head in disgust, the Queen stalked up onto the platform. It galled her to have to move like this, in a hurry, rushed.

Her platform was empty, stripped down to ancient beech planks. The Chin vases, covered with coiling dragons, birds and mountains wrapped in delicate cloud, were the last to leave. Snarling to herself, the Queen drew a vial out of her cloak and wrenched off the cap. A hiss escaped and she quickly turned her face away. Preserving her beauty had cost too much already; she hated the thought of losing what little remained. A flick of her thin hand scattered silver dust across the platform.

She stepped back, the hem of the cloak over her face, and paced quickly away down the walkway. Behind her the platform began to smoke, sending up dark, curling wisps. Even in the heavy, warm air, she could feel the heat of the fire build. Within the hour, nothing would be left but the gorgon's heads, caked with soot. At the entrance, she leapt up the stairs, driven by anger.

These Fates will rue the day they trifled with the Queen of Night!

Her fury had not abated by the time she reached the highest point in the old acropolis. Zeus Pankrator had not visited his temple in millennia, but it remained a glorious structure, perched on a high hill overlooking the watery junction of the Golden Horn and the Propontis. From this vantage, the Queen looked out to the east. Below, in the harbor, her ships were putting out to sea, driven by long oars and the tireless backs of her children. There were six of them in all, fast merchantmen, and then the swift
Helios
pacing them as a guard. Huddled in their holds were the last of the
surâpa
remaining in the city.

She had always expected this day would come. Her people had dwelt in the city for over a thousand years, living and hunting amongst the daywalker herds. Now they were few and driven into hiding. The Queen scowled, her fine-boned face transforming into a mask of hate. Pale fingernails, long and sleek, dug into the marble railing around the tower. She bent her head, concentrating, and felt power shift in the earth. She no longer had the strength of youth, but wind and air were still hers to command. Fog boiled up off the cold waters of the Propontis, spreading like a stain of ink in clear water. Within a few grains it covered the seven ships plowing south, then enveloped their masts and began to mount the massive granite seawalls. Beneath that shroud, her children fled.

She hoped that they would find safety in the west. Long ago she had made arrangements for their sanctuary, but who knew if such ancient trust would hold? The Queen turned away, drawing power back to her, letting the wind and the air and the sea resume their wonted course. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and began to descend the steps.

At the far edge of the water, where fog and mist crept towards the Asian shore, the tide of white suddenly stalled, boiling and seething. The Queen's head jerked up and she stopped, hand pressed against the crumbling wall. Something touched the fringe of her artifice. Even with her power withdrawn, she could feel an echo. Swiftly, almost without her thought, the air around her flickered and shaded to an impossible hue. She leapt back up the stairs, lighting on the railing, her feet bare on cold white stone.

In the east, at the edge of vision, lightning flickered in sullen clouds. At the edge of the water, power was working in the night. Her fog had disturbed some hidden pattern. A wind rose, and she could feel zephyrs rush across the cold waters, driving back the mist. For a moment, she considered putting forth her power to deny this. Then a strange sensation came over her, a flickering touch, riding on the wind. She knew it, recognized it, feeling memory stir. It was an old thing, something she had thought destroyed or banished. For the first time, the Queen knew the source of her dread and the strange feeling of doom filling the daywalker city.

The destroyer,
she thought, feeling truly old.
The Lord of the Ten Serpents.

Thunder rumbled in the east, echoing the dim flash of light in the clouds.

The Queen snarled, in defiance now and not simple rage. She was glad, lighthearted, even, knowing why she had waited. She would not flee to the west. She would wait and prepare. It would be interesting. Even the faint pain lingering in her blood seemed insignificant.
How will you get over the water, I wonder?

"There are the signal flags." Odenathus shaded his eyes, looking out at the sun-hazed shore. "It is Khalid. His men are within the walls of the town."

"Good," two voices echoed as one. Odenathus turned, raising a sharp eyebrow. Both Mohammed and Zoë stared at each other, then laughed. The Palmyrene sorcerer stepped under the canvas shade covering the rear deck of the
Jibril
. The galley moved softly under him, rolling on the swell. Sunlight glittered on the water on all sides, broken only by the sleek, low shapes of war galleys and the round bulk of merchantmen. It was hot on the water, without even the morning's breeze. Odenathus hooked his thumbs into his belt and looked questioningly from his cousin to the lord of the Sahaba. "Well? Do we go ashore here?"

"No, not yet," spoke Zoë, Mohammed nodding in agreement. "The Romans still have a fleet—so we will keep full crews on the galleys. The troopships will unload under our sheltering wing."

"I am troubled," Mohammed said, smoothly following on her statement. "We saw many Roman ships flee our previous battle and I cannot hope storms destroyed them. Too, there are other ships in their hand. We have seen nothing of them, so I would guess the Emperor hoards them, waiting for us to present ourselves in a favorable vantage."

Zoë rubbed her right ear, thinking, then nodded as well. "We must assume our fleet will be destroyed if they bring us to battle."

"Yes." Despite the prospect, Mohammed seemed quite calm. "If all goes well, it will take another three days to unload the army. We must then move overland to Constantinople with all good speed. Shadin will command, with Khalid and his scouts in the van. We have not landed too close to the city—we will have time to forage and spy out the lay of the land. A week, perhaps, until we look upon the walls of Constantinople."

"Yes, and from good, solid land too!" Odenathus laughed. It would take a day or so for the men and the horses to find their land legs again. "And this one-well town? Do we leave a garrison?"

Mohammed's eyes glinted, catching a reflection of the mirror-bright sea. "No. A watch with a fast ship will do. They can bring us news if the enemy comes this way. Our army is not large enough to fight more than one battle at a time. There are ports closer to Constantinople to serve our needs. Perinthus has a good, deep harbor."

Odenathus nodded, turning back to stare at the shore. The hidden world was quiet. The enemy had not put forth his strength yet. The Palmyrene wondered what would happen when he did. Zoë had told him a little bit about her experiences with the power that flowed through Lord Mohammed. It seemed very dangerous.

The whinny of unhappy horses carried very clearly across the still water. Zoë opened her eyes and sat up, clutching a thin blanket to her chest. A series of rattles and clanks and groans followed. The Palmyrene closed her eyes and counted to ten. It did little good. The wind had dropped at sunset, leaving the Propontis very quiet. The army, despite the late hour, continued to unload onto the docks of Sestus, making an unholy racket while she was trying to sleep. Zoë pressed her palms to her eyes, then gave up. Sleep eluded her. A faint muttering sound filled the air, making her irritable and nervous. She let the blanket drop to the bed, then carefully eased up, her movements soft and quiet.

It only took a moment to pull on her pantaloons and a heavy woolen tunic she had found in the market at Caesarea. Bare feet would be best on the deck of the ship. A raven-haired ghost, she slipped out of the big cabin and padded up onto the main deck.

She breathed in, settling her mind, and let the true world open before her. In the darkness, the blue glow of the sea was bright, filled with the patterns of sleeping fish and the dark green surge of currents far below the surface of the water. Keeping her eyes away from the abyss of the sky, Zoë let her mundane perception come to the fore. A hundred yards away, the bulk of the Palmyrene lug
Archelaos
filled the night. Zoë smiled to herself, letting the rise and fall of her breathing and the beat of her heart center her.

Then, with a single light step to the railing, she leapt up. Cool night air rushed in her hair, flowing under her hands, and she lit, breathless and grinning, on the deck of the cargo ship. Lights twinkled on the water, reflecting ceaseless activity on the docks. The crew were sleeping. She heard nothing but snoring, loud and soft alike, aboard. The entrance to the hold drew her, a dark magnet. Zoë padded down the steps from the foredeck and then climbed down a short ladder.