"My dear," Anastasia took Martina's hand. "I am so sorry—please, come again when you are in Rome, and we will sit together in private and have a wonderful, delightful time. I do not want your memory of my house to be distasteful."
"That would be nice," the Empress said, perking up. The Duchess saw her pupils were dilated and realized the young woman was half-asleep on her feet. "You have a nice house."
"Thank you." Stepping aside, Anastasia glanced over Martina's shoulder and saw, to her surprise, Gaius Julius deftly interposing himself between the prince, the Empress and an approaching Helena. The Western Empress was already clad in cloak and hood, her face tense. Oh, dear. "Come, I'll walk you out," she continued smoothly. "Your escort is waiting—alert and well-fed—I assure you!"
The porters were watching and the big door panels swung wide as they approached. The courtyard before the house was well-lit by torches and a bonfire. The warm night air flooded over them, carrying the sweet, heady smell of citrus and cooking smoke. Several Praetorians emerged, armor gleaming dully in the torchlight. They were alert, hands ready on the hilts of their swords, every other man carrying a lantern.
"My lord?" The centurion in charge of the detachment stepped up, saluting the prince. "Where bound tonight, Caesar?"
"Our house on the Cispian Hill," Maxian said, casting about for Gaius Julius. The older man appeared quickly, hurrying out of the house. As the old Roman passed Anastasia, he inclined his head and gave her a queer look, almost a wink or a nod. The Duchess did not respond, smiling politely, and kissed Martina on each cheek. The Empress smiled back, squeezing her hand.
"Good night," Anastasia said, watching them saunter out onto the street, surrounded by a moving wall of iron and bared steel. Despite the late hour and the prince's powers, his guardsmen were neither relaxed nor inattentive. The nighted streets of Rome were dangerous, even for members of the Imperial family.
"Well."
The Duchess turned, heart sinking, and found Helena waiting on the threshold, eyes glittering, watching the prince and his party disappearing down the street. "Helena, what—"
"What did I say to Gaius Julius or what did he say to me?"
Anastasia pursed her lips, registering the cold, even tone in her friend's voice. "What did you say?"
Helena drew up her hood. "I wished to speak with Empress Martina. I intended to apologize."
"And he said?" The Duchess looked down the street. Empty. Even the gleam of the torches on cobblestone was gone.
"He said the Empress was overtired and would be happy to speak with me at another time."
Anastasia closed her eyes again in relief, nodding to herself. Well done, old goat. Well done. "He was right, she was barely awake. Too much wine and food, I think."
"Really." The icy tone in the Empress' voice brought the Duchess around to face her again.
"Yes—I spoke with them both—she was barely intelligible." Anastasia stepped close to Helena, lowering her voice. "And she was drunk and irritable. Master Gaius did everyone a favor, I think, by keeping you apart."
Helena's lip twisted as she stepped away. "Should I send him a note in the morning, thanking him for insulting me?"
More Praetorians gathered inside and Anastasia heard the Emperor's voice raised in farewell.
"Listen to me," the Duchess hissed, drawing Helena into the shadows at the edge of the door. "You must know how delicate things are. I know Gaius is at work—my informers and spies are watching him every minute—and he is doing many things in the prince's name, not all of them known to our dear Maxian. This business of the Empress and her affection is just one of his plans."
Helena screwed up her face in a gruesome scowl. "So you want to win her away from him—not the prince him, but Gaius Julius him. With your own game and your own plans."
Anastasia nodded, watching the Empress' face intently. "Yes. You have to be civil to her, at least, if you cannot be friends."
Helena's scowl did not recede. "You watch him closely then, with an eagle's eye."
"Every moment," the Duchess replied. Then the Emperor was in the doorway, his son asleep on his shoulder, and everyone was bidding one another good night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Near Iblis
Mohammed became aware of the sky rippling like glossy cloth. The branches of the fig tree were dark in relief against the unremitting brilliance of the heavens. He focused and the sky settled back into a perfectly unremarkable blue. The sun remained a bright disk, shedding only a cold clear radiance on white-limbed trees and emerald grass.
This world is illusion, Mohammed realized. The thought seemed to have emerged from a great depth, slowly ascending to his waking consciousness. Did not Mōha change shape as I watched? Is not the city filled with phantoms and deceit? Is anything here real? Am I real?
For an instant, Mohammed felt a plunging sense of vertigo. Everything seemed to whirl about him with tremendous winds—there was no earth beneath his back—no air to breath—not even the cold glare of the perfect sun on his face. Horrible, gut-wrenching fear clawed at his mind, urging him to scream or flee or strike out wildly. He could feel his hands and feet fray, dissolving in the storm.
I am real! he answered, trying to shout against the maelstrom. No sound issued from his mouth. Indeed, there was no sound around him, no rush or wail of the winds, no singing zephyrs, no blast upon his face. He forced his eyes open again. The sun remained overhead. The leaves of the fig silhouetted, perfectly motionless, against the blue sky. I am real. The fig is real.
Tentatively, he forced a hand to rise and brush against the mottled gray-and-white bark of the tree. I can feel you... but where did you come from? From this sterile earth? With an effort, for his muscles were stiff with disuse, Mohammed turned his head and looked into the forest. There were no fig trees. There were no trees with irregular bark, surrounded by a litter of fallen twigs. Not like the many-fingered leaves scattered around him at the base of his tree. Wait... He remembered putting something in his pocket, long ago, past an eternity of battle and driving rain and the god speaking in the sky with a voice of thunder. I was eating a fig, as we sat waiting in darkness for the Persian horsemen to cross the stream. Zoë was at my side.
Neck creaking, Mohammed looked down and found the tattered remains of his cloak still clinging to his body. Bloodstains on the cloth had turned dark brown and the leather greaves on his shins were cracked open. I put the pit in my pocket, he remembered, the pocket of my cloak.
Straining, his skeletal fingers groped in the crumbling fabric and found the pocket eroded away. Only the roots of the tree could be felt.
"A seed fell," Mohammed croaked, "on barren ground and yielded up this life. Where none had been before. Fruit to feed me, leaves to catch the tears of the dead, the conscience of the earth to remind me of the will of the lord of the world. As he made all things from darkness and men from clots of blood." He sat up.
As before, the city lay below him, beyond the grassy sward. The creature Mōha was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the faint trill of pipes and the merry thump and clatter of drums touched his hearing, rising from the streets and houses below. The pungent smell of a dung fire pierced the air. The sound brought the promise of joy and the warm embrace of old friends in hospitable surroundings.
"What would I see..." he mused aloud, climbing to his feet, spindly arms clinging to the bole of the tree. His legs began to shake with fatigue. Mohammed gritted his teeth, tasting the sting of bitter alkali from eroded bone and enamel. "What would I see there, if I passed through the broken gate and into the city?"
"You would find rest and comfort," a voice said, "at the end of a long, hard road."
Mohammed pushed away from the tree to stand unsupported. A woman was walking up the hill towards him and for just an instant he thought Khadijah had returned from the forest of the dead. She was of middling height; her hair tied back, a long dress of soft, subtle colors falling to her feet. Her hands were unadorned with bracelets or rings and thin, almost translucent fabric clung to her breast and thigh.
Mohammed tensed, seeing now something of Zoë in her oval face, high cheekbones, dark eyes. Another spirit, he guessed. "Who are you?"
"I am Ráha," she answered in a warm, friendly voice. Streaks of white crept through obsidian hair. "The last of your guides."
Swallowing, Mohammed felt his dry throat crack. The voice was so familiar... but he could not put a name to her, no familiar face, nothing but a faint memory of singing—a lullaby—and a rocking sensation. A camel? A ship at sea? He felt his skin grow cold. A crib? It was a crib. Mine. "Where would you guide me? Into the city? Into death?"
"Yes," Ráha said, concerned. "Aren't you tired? You have traveled a long way, seeking solace for the emptiness in your heart." She lifted a hand, pointing to the gates and towers. "What you seek, what your heart desires, lies within the city. An end to your labors, deserved rest, your family, respect, honor. A white beard covering old knees as you cradle your grandson in your arms."
"And the dead trapped in the dark wood, what of them?" Mohammed tugged at the scrap of a cloak around his neck and the decayed wool fell to dust between his fingers. With the movement of his limbs, the rest of his garments sighed away, falling in a brown rain around his feet. "I will not abandon the innocent."
Ráha raised her chin, pointing into the wood. "They cannot enter, my lord, because you are here, balanced between life and death. While you remain, they cannot pass into the city and thereby to the land of the dead."
Mōha said the same thing, Mohammed remembered. Is it true?
"You must choose to pass on," Ráha continued. "You are endangering those who still live." She smiled and Mohammed felt her compassion like a physical blow, a balled fist in his gut. "Every spirit fears change—and yours is very strong! It clings tenaciously to the memory of life. These are not your arms and legs," she said, gesturing to the weak, spindly limbs holding him up. Ráha's forehead wrinkled in thought. "This is the flesh of a dead man, withering in the ground. You must let go of this illusion of life. Free the multitude trapped in this terrible balance. Don't you hear them wailing, frightened, each alone in the darkness?"
"I do," he said. "But I will not yield to your foul master! My work among the living is not complete. The great and merciful one has set me a task, which remains yet undone. So, I say to you, malign spirit, I will return to the living world. I will not enter the city. Yet, by my absence, the dead will be freed to pass on, and find peace."
"But," Ráha said, perplexed, "your work is done. The Emperor Heraclius, who betrayed the cities of the Decapolis, is dead, his corpse only one among thousands, nameless and unmarked. Your people have been freed, your enemies revenged. Even now they claim a great destiny in your name. Your teachings will live on, forever. The allotted span of your days has come to an end."
"The lord of the wasteland," Mohammed said sharply, "sets the beginning and the ending of each man's life—yes, he who made men from clots of blood, from clay—he sets the rising and the setting of the sun! Not you, not your master, not his slave Mōha or any other power! I was struck down by treachery, my efforts incomplete! The voice from the clear air guides me, showing a clear and righteous path against evil!"