The Storm of Heaven (83 page)

"General?" Alexandros wiped his face with the corner of his cloak and turned. Chlothar climbed the hill, armor rattling and jangling. Mud caked the man's boots and legs, and his stringy blond hair was plastered back against his head. His face was grim, high forehead creased with worry. "We've come to a bridge—it's too weak for the wagons. The stream is high, too, and running fast."

Alexandros grinned in good humor, thumping the man on his broad shoulder. "There's no way around, I suppose. No other bridge, no ford?"

Chlothar shook his head, a morose expression on his face. "No, Lord Alexandros. There are heavy woods on all sides and the span is ancient and high, two courses of stone—I went out on it myself—well cut, but old, too old. Some of it has fallen away on one side, taking away the retaining wall."

"Good." Alexandros breathed deep, smelling wet pines and stone, hearing ravens quarreling in the trees crowning the hill. "There are some engineers with us in the siege cohort. Send them forward to examine the bridge. I will speak with them after they have had a chance to see it themselves. The men are to break out by
syntagma
and make camp—the file leaders must choose the ground well; we will be here for a time."

Chlothar grimaced, wiping water from his eyes. "What do you intend, lord?"

"We'll rebuild the bridge, like new, or better if we can."

Water roared over black rocks, swirling white between the foundations of the bridge. Broken branches, mud, grass, leaves, pine needles and bits of bracken swept past. Chlothar had not lied; it was a mighty span, nearly a hundred feet high at the center of the stream. Four massive pilings rose up from the swollen flood below, forming a series of heavy brick arches. The roadbed ran on a second, lighter series of arches faced with fieldstone and slabs of granite. Alexandros stepped over a dark brown log, shining with rain, and looked down upon the side of the bridge. His engineers clustered behind him, taking shelter among the pines. The sky was even darker now, with heavy gray clouds rolling out of the north.

"Two of the upper supports, my lord, have cracked." The lead engineer pointed. Alexandros nodded; he could see the fifth and sixth upper pilings had lost their facing, revealing a core of thin red brick. Weather and rain and wind had gouged away nearly a third of the roadbed. The other pilings looked bad, too, with sections of facing missing. "Water seeps in through the breaks, then freezes in the winter, splitting the bricks."

Alexandros nodded again, looking up and down the stream. The water plunged through a steep-sided ravine, cutting across the base of the valley. He already knew, just from the fold of the hills and the thickness of the trees on the far side, that there was no other way through. The old Romans were fond of building in straight lines, but this highway wound back and forth like a snake.

Here, in this rough country, they had followed the path of least resistance. This would be the only place suitable to put a road across. "We will have to tear down the last two pilings, hopefully only to the foundation pier, and rebuild them."

"Aye, that is probably so." The engineers muttered among themselves, but Alexandros knew the sound—they saw a great deal of hard, dangerous work ahead of them. "If we're lucky."

"Can you do it?" Alexandros faced them, eyes hard, chin out, challenging. "Do you have the skill?"

The lead engineer stepped back at the sharp words, face screwed up in disgust. "Sir! We're Romans, my lord, not these Goths and Germans you've got in the ranks. Our kin built this bridge and we can make it good as new."

"Good." Alexandros grinned, still challenging them. "How long, to build in stone?"

"Four weeks," the lead engineer snapped, brown eyes flashing.

"And wood, just for the two broken pilings and the roadbed?"

"Two—maybe less."

"I want stone," Alexandros' voice was cold, cold as the rain falling in a steady sheet around them. "In three weeks. Tear out the damaged piling; throw the debris in the river. You'll want a wooden roof over the whole road, too—a pitched one, so it won't collapse under winter snow. Each
syntagma
will be tasked for stone or lumber or road work. Chlothar, you and I will decide who does what. Dismissed."

The Macedonian leaned against one of the pines, digging his fingers into the mossy bark. A rich, woody smell, redolent of mushrooms and rotting vegetation, filled his nostrils. It made him feel clean, invigorated. There was a cough from behind him. He turned and found Chlothar, looking morose again. "Chlothar, you're a fine officer, but you don't have to look like you've had to sacrifice your last white bull all the time. What is it?"

The Frank handed over a message packet, then ducked under the eaves of the pine. Next to the trunk, the body of the foliage blocked the rain. Alexandros held up the parchment, swiftly scanning the chicken scratching. "Huh. You read this?"

Chlothar nodded, brawny arms folded over his chest. "Yes. They want us to hurry."

"We won't." Alexandros folded the parchment up and put it back in the oiled leather packet. "We will get to the Eastern capital as fast as we do—no more, no less. There will be other delays like this bridge. At a guess, I'd say we will reach the Hellespont in six weeks."

"They sound desperate." Chlothar had learned some caution. He kept his voice neutral.

"It doesn't matter." Alexandros rubbed the side of his jaw, thinking. "These men are not ready for a campaign yet—not a hard one. They are just starting to be soldiers—not that they lack courage, but they must learn to move and fight and think as one. The bridge will help. Is there a goldsmith among the servants?"

Chlothar nodded, puzzled again.

"Good. Send him to me. We have need of three crowns—one gold, one silver and one bronze. Each week, the three
syntagmae
that complete their tasks swiftest shall win a crown."

Alexandros turned away from the swollen river and the rain-slicked trees. Bucephalos needed currying and his feed. The stallion's wounds had already healed, but the Macedonian was keeping a very close eye on the animal. Already, as he and Chlothar descended the hill, the sound of adzes and axes was echoing through the dark wood. Above, the sky was a slate gray, pregnant with more rain.

An iron grate rattled open, and Hamilcar, First Sword of the Ludus Magnus, entered a high-ceilinged room. Thyatis looked up, her face still and grim. Two slaves were lacing her into a suit of Legion armor. She had her arms up over her head. Agrippina and Candace were just finished getting into their armor. The slaves whispered that today was the last day in the Flavian, the massive culmination of month-long celebrations. The Amazons had been moved up to the second to last act, past a battle between
bestiarii
and a poisonous snake of unusual size. The best of the gladiators would follow, putting on a bloody finale.

"I've brought you a mouse," Hamilcar chuckled, pushing a slim little figure in front of him. "I caught it in my pantry. She wanted to meet the 'famous Diana,' so here she is."

Thyatis stood and clasped Ila, who was shuddering, her face bruised, to her breastplate. "Did you strike her?"

Hamilcar laughed, teeth flashing. "She struggled while we were digging her out of her hole. Someone may have been rough, but even mice can give a nasty bite."

The African was freshly bathed and oiled, his armor and leathers gleaming. His usual languid grace was even more apparent—a sign to Thyatis that he was mentally prepared for the arena. He seemed more like a hunting cat than ever, as his well-muscled hand smoothed back his dark hair. She showed her teeth in a humorless grin. "I understand that we will not meet on the sand. You must be very disappointed."

Hamilcar shrugged, drawing a tendril of fine black hair in front of his face. "I have seen the posted schedule, but you know? I do not believe it. I think that the gods mean for us to test each other, pretty girl. I am looking forward to matching skill with you."

"Good." Thyatis put Ila behind her, pressing the little girl into Agrippina's waiting hands. She stepped close to the African, meeting him eye to eye. Hamilcar was not used to facing men his own height, much less a woman. He grew still but did not back away. "I would be happy," she said, "to see that day."

"Good fortune to you, then. Do not die too soon!" Hamilcar stepped back into the frame of the door. He gave an oily smile. "Perhaps the mouse can carry your shield today." Then he was gone and the door swung closed.

"What does he mean?" Thyatis knelt, taking Ila's face in her hands. "How did you get caught?"

Ila sniffled, putting the back of her hand to her nose. "Sorry. I was being very quiet."

"Where did they find you?" Thyatis' fingers gently probed the bruises. Ila stood very still, trying not to wince. Thankfully, the girl's cheekbone was not broken, and the skin was intact. "Were you in the school?"

"Yes." Ila hung her head, whispering. "I was supposed to find where you were being held. Vitellix and Mithridates were going to come and get you with some other men."

"What other men? Who is Mithridates?"

Ila looked around and saw that Candace and Agrippina had moved away, herding the other "Amazons" to the far end of the room. "That mean lady's men—they are fierce killers, professionals! Vitellix says that they are
sicarii
. Mithridates is the black man you fought in the inn—you broke his knee, remember?"

"I remember. This 'mean lady,' what color are her eyes?"

Ila screwed up her button nose, thinking, then said, "A funny purple, like the petals of a flower."

Thyatis felt a chill as violent memory intruded into her thoughts. Sighing, she sat down, holding Ila's hand. "She knows I am here?"

"Oh yes," Ila said, sitting as well. "Vitellix saw you fight in the arena. So did she. It's not hard to tell you're you, Diana! Everyone in Rome thinks you're the most beautiful woman alive!"

"Thank you, Mouse." Thyatis hugged the girl to her. "I don't want to see that woman again, though. I'm done with her, I think, and her
sicarii
."

"Vitellix doesn't like her either," Ila said in a conspiratorial tone. "She's arrogant and mean, and she always talks to him like he was a servant."

"She thinks everyone is her servant, sometimes." Thyatis remembered a brief moment of humanity between them, of caring, perhaps even love. "But she is a human being, too. It's too late for a rescue, though. We fight within the hour."

Ila gulped, her eyes getting big and round. "I have to fight?" she squeaked.

"No." Thyatis' eyes narrowed and she stood, motioning with her head. "Not you. Candace, Agrippina, a word."

The two women clanked over, eyes smudged with tension. No one had slept well for the last three days. The aftereffects of the drugged food and wine had been slow to wear off, making everyone irritable. Thyatis had been pressing them hard, too, trying to show them how to fight with a sword and a spear. Thyatis knew that most of the latest victims—more slaves, prostitutes, women from the city prison—would die. At least this was the last day, the last fight. If they could just live through this, they would be fine. Some of them might even be freed. She had tried not to tempt them with false hope.

"Will they count us," Thyatis said softly, "when we march out?"

"Maybe." Candace looked at Ila, who was scrunching herself into the smallest possible space at Thyatis' feet. "What did that sleek pig say?"

"Nothing," Thyatis growled, her hands on Ila's shoulders. "Mouse won't last a grain out there; we need to leave her behind or hide her somehow."

"If we can," Agrippina rumbled, "we will. But these poor dears... they won't last long either."

"No. Just try and keep them together. I'll do all the killing, if I can."

Candace shook her head, tight ringlets bouncing on teak-colored shoulders. "You can't expect to win by yourself, Diana. These Persians will be veteran soldiers. Not half-dead slaves or convicts blind with hunger."

"I know." Thyatis hooked the shoulder pieces onto her breastplate. "They've given us armor this time, though, and we'll get real weapons. Is everyone suited up?"

Agrippina nodded, looking over her shoulder. "As best we can manage. Most of this stuff doesn't fit."

Thyatis made a crooked smile, feeling her breasts compress under the armor.
Thank Artemis it wasn't her time of the month!
Agrippina, who was well endowed, had foregone the full suit. This was old Legion equipment, purchased at a reduced rate in the market. The armor had never been designed for a woman. "Just keep them shoulder to shoulder and pointed at the enemy. Don't try and kill anyone yourselves, just hold them off."

The Butcher shook her head in dismay. "The attendants will be at us again with the whips and hot irons. They want a good show!"

"Hold them off too." Thyatis' eyes narrowed. "I'm not ready to die yet."

"Yeah," Ila whispered, scowling fiercely. "That oily man needs a good whipping."

"Empress."

Helena turned in surprise, surrounded by a cloud of her maids and attendants, dark brown eyes widening at the sight of an old friend. The tunnel behind the Imperial box was floored with agate and decorated like a palace in its own right. At intervals, there were side chambers where notables could take their ease between acts. The box itself was open on three sides, though covered by an awning, and dusty if the wind got into the arena. This room was usually used for the musicians—flautists, lyre players, tambourine shakers—who provided background for the esteemed conversations of the Emperor and his favorites. The Empress halted, though her maids, eager to see the colorful scene in the arena itself, passed on, chattering and laughing. "Anastasia?"

"May I have a moment of your time?" The Duchess was no longer draped in mourning cloth, though she had not resumed her usual flamboyant dress. Today she was dressed in traditionally cut dark gray edged with black, her classic oval face barely painted, save for some smoothing powder around her eyes. A veil covered her hair. She seemed, not shrunken, exactly, but leaner and stripped of anything extraneous. Anastasia stood aside, letting Helena enter the empty room.