The Flavian, Roma Mater
"I am sure it is her, my lady," Betia shouted, pushing through the crowd. The arcade surrounding the amphitheater was stifling. Tens of thousands of citizens pressed forward in a huge snarled mass. There were marked walkways, delineated by stone plugs and ropes, but today the city was gripped by a tremendous sense of festivity. Everyone was eager to get to the games. The hawkers in the park north of the Colosseum were doing a frantic business in seat tokens. "Everyone says the leader of the Amazons is a tall, redheaded woman with incredible skill. She slew a dozen wild beasts by herself!"
Anastasia snorted, holding a gray veil before her face. She hated crowds in the city and today was worse: hot, sunny, without so much as a breath of air to alleviate the heat. Some people, crushed in the crowd, had already fainted. Men jostled her on either side, trying to push ahead in the line. The queue inched ahead slowly, disappearing into the black maw of the northern gate of the Flavian. "I don't believe it," Anastasia sniffed, nearly stumbling when a pack of stonemasons surged up behind her, pressing her into Betia's thin little back. The blond girl braced her mistress with both arms, then wiggled forward between a group of bakers. Most of the seats in the Flavian were allocated to guilds, the ancient clans or patrician families. Anastasia had her seats by virtue of her late husband's position as Duke of Parma. She had never been to the games before. If this hot, sweaty crowd were the norm, she didn't intend to go again. "The possibility of her survival is insignificant."
Betia turned, watery blue eyes flashing. "I think we should watch and see for ourselves!"
The Duchess sighed, knowing what pitiful, tiny hope drove the blond girl. She had tortured herself with the same dreams. It was useless; all of the men and women whom she had sent to murder the Prince were dead, annihilated in the mammoth explosion of Vesuvius. Despite the dead feeling in her heart, she continued on, sweating and suffering in her dark gown and shawl. The garb of mourning was not designed for a blisteringly hot day down in the center of the city.
– |The sand burned white, throwing long shadows down the tunnels on the north side of the amphitheater floor. Thyatis squatted in a nameless grimy passage. A great clamor was under way out on the arena floor. Chariots were parading past, decked with white and silver, holding bronzed men in armor. Gladiators raised their arms, glinting with metal, to the adulation of the crowd. Robes of purple and gold were draped over brawny shoulders. The horses, bedecked in tassels and flowers, stepped past, fetlocks rising and falling in careful unison. Thyatis was sure it all made a fine show from the marble seats. A drumming sound could be felt through the wall at her back, the pounding of tens of thousands of feet against the seats.
A sandaled foot kicked her thigh gently. "Don't be so foul."
Thyatis looked up, eyes slitted with anger. The Nubian girl, Candace, was standing next to her. Like Thyatis, she was dressed in a short kilt of pleated linen edged with badly sewn gold patches. A half-strophium covered one breast, leaving the other bare. A crown of cheap copper flashed with gold paint held back her hair.
"This is ludicrous," Thyatis growled, picking at her breast band. "I don't want to flop around while I'm fighting."
"Well," Candace cocked her head to one side, grinning, "it is a little droopy, but very traditional… oomph!"
Thyatis was standing, her fists clenched. Candace looked up with disbelief from the floor, rubbing her stomach. "That was uncalled for, Roman!"
Thyatis' voice was sharp. "I've no time for levity." She looked down the corridor. A dozen women were huddled against the walls, sunk in their own hopelessness. They were dressed in the same ridiculous costumes. "Do you know when we go on?"
"My apologies." Candace stood, dusting herself off. The poor-quality linen kilt was already smudged and torn. "You hear what they call us-we're supposed to be Amazons. This is our traditional costume. So we get to prance around half naked."
Thyatis raised an eyebrow at the Nubian girl's perky breast. "Really. I'm thinking that I'd prefer a mail shirt, greaves and a shield instead. Have you talked to any of our fellow victims?"
"No." Candace shook her head, surveying them as well. "More like us-flotsam from the prisons or the market or the bordellos. Poor chicks."
"Give me your strophium."
Candace raised both eyebrows in surprise. "Excuse me?"
"Hand it over." Thyatis gestured impatiently with her right hand. "The Queen of the Amazons gets to cover both breasts."
"Oh. Of course, Your Majesty." Candace gave her an arch look but unwound the cloth. Thyatis wrapped it across her own chest, crosswise, and sighed in relief to draw it snug across her left breast. "Won't you have a hard time shooting a bow now?"
"I doubt," Thyatis said, pacing to the iron grillwork closing off the end of the passage, "they will give us bows today. The editores are not stupid. One dead senator would quash their pensions." She put her hands on the iron bars, pressing against them, letting her body flex in line with her extended right leg. It felt good. Sitting in the stone pits under the arena for a week had not improved her temper. Worse, it had been hard to exercise and keep herself limber.
"You lot," Thyatis barked at the other women. "Stand up. Candace, help anyone that can't stand by herself."
The other women stared back in confusion. Two of them stood tentatively. Thyatis jerked her head at them while she reached down and pulled up the nearest slave.
"Listen to me. We're going to be set against some opponent-probably male criminals-as the opening act today. A bloody warm-up for the crowd, not just the clowns thrashing about. There will be weapons set out on the floor of the arena. I'd guess, since we're in a tunnel, that the men are in a tunnel too, on the south side of the arena. We'll have to run and grab what we need."
Thyatis stopped, frowning. Except for Candace and the two older women that were standing, no one seemed to be following her. "Do any of you speak Latin?"
Another round of blank looks.
"Capital. Just capital."
– |Maxian stopped climbing, thighs burning with effort. He pressed himself to the side of the stairwell, letting the crowd continue past. There was a little niche at each turning of the stair as it snaked its way up through the warren of the Flavian. Usually a statue of one of the gods resided in the alcove, but this one was empty. The pungent smell of onions, garlic and fish sauce choked the air. The upper deck of the amphitheater was reserved for the poor, for women and for barbarians in from the provinces to see the show. Maxian let them surge past.
A family passed him, led by a round-faced merchant, sweating furiously in his games-day toga. His wife followed, drawing Maxian's eye. She was cool and collected, possessed of a magnificent mane of curly dark hair under a gauzy veil. She had a baby in her arms.
She reminded Maxian, suddenly, of the Duchess Anastasia. He wondered what she would say to him now if they met. Their last meeting had been over an interrupted dinner. He had ignored her in main part and she had, politely, left. Soon after, Krista had left his side, then tried to murder him. Melancholy filled the Prince and he leaned against the wall, fist to his chin. There had been a brief time when it seemed they were friends. More than friends.
I wonder, Maxian thought suddenly, if our assignation meant anything to her? Did she play me, even then? It hurt, thinking that she might have just used him for her own pleasure, or worse, for some scheme. No matter. He shook his head, then slipped into the flow of men and women climbing the stairs. He could have banished the pain from his legs, but he was intent on a delicate process today. It might put a monkey in the henhouse to throw power recklessly about within the Flavian.
Only another hundred and six steps remained before he reached the broad pine decking under the awning poles.
– |A phalanx of tubas blatted, signaling the beginning of the games for the day. Helena waited until the cacophony died down, then removed her hands from her ears. Galen was laughing at her, his eyes wrinkling up.
"Stop that," she chided him. "I hate all this noise."
"You mean it distracts you from your writing."
"Perhaps." She frowned at him, giving him a good, solid glare. "It's my turn to complain about the games, not yours."
"You should be pleased today," Galen said, leaning close to her, his hand sliding on her knee. "The Amazons are the opening act. There should be plenty of dead men if this notable Diana proves her mettle."
"Stop that. You'll scandalize the Vestals," Helena hissed, narrowing gold-dusted eyes at him. "Here, give me our son."
Galen, distracted from her thigh, nodded to the slave behind him. Little Theodosius had shaken off his colic. Now he was a healthy, squalling baby. Today, matching his mother, he was wrapped in pale violet silk. Galen took the boy in his arms, his face lighting up with a smile as the baby grabbed at his nose. The Emperor turned, facing the crowd. Today the arena was filled to bursting, with buttocks in every seat, as Cicero might have said. A riot of color, a mutable sea of faces filled the great bowl. Galen settled the baby on his hip, mindful of his golden crown of laurel, and raised his other hand.
"Let the games begin!"
– |The iron grill rattled up. There was a deafening roar of sound, the unleashed joy of forty-five thousand human throats. Thyatis sprinted out, legs blurring over the white sand. Behind her, she hoped, Candace and the other women were running out as well, keeping close together. The sky was very blue and the heat from the sand beat up at her like an open flame.
Five hundred feet away, on the southern, shady side of the arena, another gate was rising. Men spilled out onto the brick walkway circling the arena floor, confused, looking about in fear. The city magistrates sentenced useless criminals to the arena. Those worth sending to the mines or city farms were not wasted on the amphitheater. These would be murderers, rapists, cripples. Anyone whom the state could spare.
Thyatis ran, letting her muscles find their own rhythm. The walls of the Flavian rose up on all sides, half in shadow, half in sun, vibrant with color. The initial cheering died, replaced by a hushed anticipation. The audience had seen this play before, many times. Two gangs of criminals would be urged out onto the sand with whips and smoking-hot brands. The attendants, dark in their archaic masks and robes, would kill those who did not fight.
No one ran to battle, certainly not with such speed.
The elevators rattled to a halt, leaving spears, maces, swords, axes exposed on the floor of the arena. Thyatis glimpsed that they were arranged in two rows, one near each tunnel mouth. Some of the men looked up, staring at her rushing towards them with all the speed she could manage.
The men's line of weapons was only a hundred feet away now. Two of the criminals suddenly darted forward, shouting, realizing that the women behind Thyatis had already reached their own line of weapons and were snatching them up. Thyatis redoubled her efforts, head down, sprinting recklessly.
– |"These are our seats, noble sirs." Betia smiled prettily at the two men squeezed into a block of seats reserved for Imperial governors and tribunes posted to the frontier. They looked up and Anastasia was pleasantly surprised to see the pair were her guardsmen. The larger of the two nodded sharply, then squeezed over on the marble bench. There was an outraged cry from beyond him, but the guardsman turned and glowered at a portly official until the man gulped and went silent.
"Thank you." Betia sat, wedging a basket of snacks between her pale legs, and helped Anastasia sit down. The Duchess had been nearly overcome by the heat and was feeling rather sick. Betia pressed an alabaster flute of lemon water into her hands. "Drink this, mistress. The heat is dreadful today."
The Duchess nodded, lifting her veil and drinking deeply from the cool jar. The tart water was a blessing on her throat. A great roar of sound rose up from the stands and she looked around speculatively, violet eyes drinking in the scene. The crowd was in a festive mood today. The Emperor had promised spectacular games and so far they had not been disappointed. The parades had been grand, the fights bloody and without mercy. The wild animals had even put on a good show. Anastasia felt a pent-up energy in the crowd. Months had passed without any games at all. Now that they had started again, everything was fresh and unexpected.
Betia was standing on her seat, on tiptoes, staring down at the floor of the arena. There was another burst of cheering and clapping. Anastasia tugged at Betia's skirt. "What is going on?"
"It's her!" Betia looked down at the Duchess, her face glowing. "It is her!"
Sighing, Anastasia stood, though her whole body seemed sore. Her depression had taken a physical toll. Cursing at the forest of heads and arms that prevented her from seeing the arena floor, she climbed up on her seat. This was very rude, but any kind of social politeness seemed to have gone straight out the window today.
She could see the sand at last, and she staggered in surprise. Betia, concerned, caught her elbow. Down on the white oval, engaged in furious, whirling combat with a brace of men, leaping and striking, a spear grasped firmly in both hands, golden-red hair startlingly short, was a woman who looked very much like Thyatis. Her adopted daughter, presumed dead, seemed quite alive.
"Oh. Oh, dear." The Duchess found it very hard to breathe.
– |Thyatis blocked fiercely, slapping aside a wild overhand cut. The sword bit into the haft of her spear, then bounced away. She gave ground, pressed by three tattered men. Her first rush into the body of the criminals had laid two of them low, their bright blood smeared on the walkway. The rest had scattered in all directions, some hobbling on stumpy legs. Two of them, grimy creatures with broken faces, she had hunted down and slain. They had begged for life, crawling on the bricks, but she did not have time for mercy. The rest had run for the weapons on the elevator platforms, then had turned to hunt her.
The other women, with Candace at their center, had taken up all the spears and swords they could find and now parked themselves near one of the walls. The attendants, venturing out from the tunnel beneath the Imperial box, were cursing them, trying to get them to take part in the battle.
One group of the condemned men had turned on Thyatis immediately. She had killed one in their first rush, tearing his throat out. His body, limbs askew, was sprawled a dozen yards away. The three facing her began to circle, trying to flank her. She paced sideways, keeping the wall of the arena at her back. It struck her as funny, suddenly, that the men were alike as peas-ragged dark hair, filth-stained bodies, emaciated frames. Prison reduced all men to constituent parts, it seemed.
She shouted, lunging at the nearest one. He scrambled back, crying out in fear. She rushed into the gap, whirling the spear. The butt end, a stocky length of oak, cracked into the side of the man's head. He went down, nerveless, sword spilling from lax fingers. The other two attacked, slashing wildly. Thyatis flicked the spear to the right, batting aside an oncoming sword blade, then driving the corroded iron head into the man's mouth. He jerked to a halt, gargling blood and filmy bubbles. Thyatis let out a hoarse kiii shout, then whipped the spear butt around to her left and forward. The third man crashed into the butt, breath shocked from his body. He staggered. Thyatis wrenched the point free of the man choking on his own blood.
Before she could kill the last of the three, a frenzied shouting drew her attention.
The phalanx of women was under attack from both the remaining criminals and the attendants. It broke, women fleeing in all directions. One of the men waded in, hacking around him with an ax, splitting the skull of one of the older women. She died instantly. The man, his red beard flowing down almost to his waist, screamed in victory.
Thyatis knew the sound; the barbarian had lost himself in the frenzy of battle. She spun, kicking the stunned man in the side of the head with the heel of her foot, then sprinted towards the slaughter. The crowd was howling with laughter and cheers, but she let the thunder of sound wash over her, unheard.
– |Each copper bead was still in place along the circumference of the arena. Maxian rose from the last one, satisfied that no one had tampered with them or dislodged them by accident. There was a strange feeling in the air, a fragile sensation, and the Prince swallowed nervously. He had never attempted anything this delicate before. At least, not without Abdmachus at his side. The old Nabatean wizard had a lifetime of experience in such matters, the Prince barely three years. Maxian shook his head and shoulders, trying to dispel his tension.
I don't have to do this today, he thought, still trying to calm himself. I can wait. I am in balance with the Oath.
His previous effort had proved illuminating. The constant struggle he endured had lessened and then disappeared. No longer did he maintain the Shield of Athena at all times, even when sleeping. It was still ready, the pattern well used and close to hand in his thought, should he need it. He did not think that he would. With the change in his own intentions, as he directed himself to go with the flow of the enormous pattern, he found that it did not abrade against him.
A smooth stone, slick with moss, lying in a running, rushing stream. That was how he thought of himself. There was a great sense of peace within him now, too. It held the kind of serenity that he had found on Vesuvius, before its destruction, when he had dwelt in a point of balance between the fury in the mountain and the power of the Oath itself. It would be very easy to do nothing, to let things stand as they did. To let the stream continue to flow, rushing down to the sea as it had done for millennia.
That, Maxian thought, would be the safe course.
He looked down into the arena, seeing the small figures of men rushing to and fro on the white sand. Across from him, perched amongst the lowest stands of the arena, was the Imperial box. It was gay with color and thronged with people. His brother would be there. Maxian was overcome with a sense of loss. His brother, doubtless, thought him dead. At the very least a monster or a madman.
You could go see him, tell him what has happened, what you've done. He will embrace you, take you in. He loves you, your brother. Go to him.
Maxian blinked and looked around. There was no one nearby. The sailors who raised and lowered the giant awnings were clustered in the shade beneath the masts, eating a hearty lunch. He could hear them chattering amongst themselves like monkeys in the trees. Had he really heard something?
"Odd," he said aloud. It was lunchtime. He should eat. Galen would have a veritable feast laid out in the box. Everyone would be there. Maxian turned away from the copper bead and strode to the head of the stairway leading down into the courses of the amphitheater.
– |Even the attendants scattered before the barbarian, picking up their long gray robes and sprinting out of the way. The redheaded man had hewn down two women and one criminal before running out of immediate victims. He turned, mouth white with spittle. Thyatis skidded to a halt, taking in the frenzied look on his face and his massive chest and mighty thews. Here was a man who would never accept the yoke or the collar. He was too dangerous to put in the mines or on a farm. The overseers would find his hands, thick as tree roots, around their necks in the darkness.
Thyatis shouted, drawing his attention. The berserker spun, seeing her, then charged forward, screaming a high-pitched war cry. The ax, spilling blood, rose high above his head. Thyatis let him come, then hurled the spear with all her might. It flickered across the gap between them and plunged into the man's chest with a meaty thunk. He staggered, but the madness in his face did not change and his steps did not falter. Thyatis leapt aside, but he plowed into her, smashing her to the ground. She rolled, frantic, and his free hand grasped her ankle.
Bellowing like a wild aurochs in heat, he dragged her toward him, blood welling around the spear. She kicked at his face. A meaty fist came down, smashing into her stomach. Thyatis gasped, feeling her breath flee. The spear haft ground against her side. His fist crashed down again and this time she cried out in pain, feeling ribs grind against one another. Pinned, she tried to roll, but he fell on her, sweat and blood dripping from his wounds. Slick red fluid smeared across her. Thyatis gouged at his eyes, but he seemed impervious to pain. He was still screaming unintelligible words in her ear, smashing his fist against her shoulder again and again.
A wave of darkness shuddered across her vision, followed by trailing sparks. It was difficult to breathe, his massive weight pressed down on her diaphragm. Thyatis cracked her head forward, catching the barbarian's nose. It broke, splintering, but he bit at her head, catching her hair. His fist ground against the sand. His entire upper body shook like a dog, wrenching her back and forth. Incredible pain blossomed. She nearly passed out.
The haft of the spear scraped across the ground into her right hand. Gasping in pain, Thyatis shoved on it hard, away from her body. The wooden shaft twisted in the man's torso, and blood and entrails flooded onto her stomach. Now, for the first time, the barbarian screamed in pain and she levered him away, spilling vitals and urine and blood from the gaping wound. Now his eyes were free of the madness and he was howling, a hoarse, endless sound.
Thyatis stood, dripping blood and serum, grinding the spear into the man's guts. He flopped like a gaffed fish, then she tore the spear point free. He was done. She turned, seeing that the other criminals had cut down three more of the women. Only two were left, gamely trying to fend off the attackers. Candace was bleeding from a cut on her breast. Thyatis swallowed, relieved to breathe freely again.
– |Betia hurried, sprinting up the stairs two and three steps at a time, white legs flashing under the short skirt. The din of the crowd, howling for blood and getting it, roared in her ears. The stones of the Flavian were shuddering with the noise and the hammering of feet on the seats. The blond slave had only seen bits and pieces of the fighting on the sand, but it was enough to convince her that the redheaded woman down there was her mistress' sicaria, returned from the dead.
Oh, she thought, almost weeping with joy. If only this means Nikos is alive, too!
Behind each section of seats, ascending from the patricians close to the floor to the plebes high up under the wooden roof, there was a circling tunnel cut with arches that looked out upon the city. These passages were filled with people coming and going and the few lucky merchants allowed to sell their wares within the amphitheater itself. The Duchess needed more water-the poor woman was suffering terribly in the heat and sun-and Betia knew there was a stand not far away. She hoped the queue wasn't too long.
Hurrying around a corner at the end of the ramp, she dodged between a pair of men arguing about the next day's races, then found herself in a crowd of people wanting to buy candied figs and sweetmeats.
"Oh! Bother." Everyone in this city was much taller than she was. Fuming at the delay, she pushed through the citizens, then found herself in a bit of an aisle between the people at the sweetmeats stand and those wanting to buy water. She looked left, trying to find the end of the line. There was a man there, just passing by as she looked, one hand on the outer wall, his face filled with worry, pensive.
She knew him. Betia's heart seemed to stop, frozen with fear.
A tall man, with long rich hair that hung below his shoulders. He came to the Villa of Swans very late, pounding on the door. She had let him in, annoyed by being woken at such an hour. The mistress wanted to see him. Betia had led him upstairs. He followed her like a dark cloud, distracted by his own concerns. He left when the cock crowed and morning light crept across the villa walls.
The girl knew who he was but could not move. Prince Maxian walked on, deep in thought. When he had passed out of her sight, she shuddered and then shook herself. Taking a deep breath, she followed him. The water was forgotten for the moment.
The crowd continued to mill about, taking their ease out of the sun. The eddy of sound from the amphitheater echoed here like waves crashing upon the shore, rising and falling in pitch. The Prince continued down the passage, then turned into one of the sloping rampways that led down to the ground floor. Betia padded after him, heart in her mouth, trying to keep him just in view.
Suddenly, halfway down the ramp, he stopped, his head rising. Betia froze, pressing herself against the plastered wall. It was painted with scenes of the fights and games, long processions of victors and victims in turn. Every five feet or so there was a roundel painted with a man's torso and face. Below each portrait was a listing of their victories and exploits.
"Fool! You've been taken again, in just the same way!"
Betia stared, eyes wide, as the Prince turned abruptly about, a rueful grin on his face. Without even looking at her, he stormed back up the ramp, laughing. In a moment, he was gone, though she could still hear him berating himself. She put a hand over her mouth, giddy with relief, then ran down the ramp as fast as she could. The Duchess needed to know that the enemy was here, in the Flavian, with her, right now.
– |Thyatis hefted the ax, gauging the balance. The weapon had a long haft, with a single-bladed head and a sharp tine. She jogged across the sand, feeling the soles of her feet slip and slide in the goo inside her sandals. Candace and an older woman were still alive, though backed against one of the temporary nets that separated the contestants from the wall of the arena itself. Four men were hedging them in, jabbing with a spear and swords.
Rushing forward, Thyatis swung the ax up to her left shoulder, settling her grip.
"Look out!" shouted someone from the crowd, whistling and clapping only a dozen yards away. The nearest of the criminals looked around wildly. He saw Thyatis rushing at him and shouted in alarm. The men scattered, abandoning their attack on Candace, who slumped with relief against the netting. Thyatis skipped back, watching them spread out.
"Help me with these dogs!" Thyatis' voice was harsh. She was getting tired. The berserker had almost done her in. "To me!"
Candace pushed away from the net and grabbed the other woman. Together, brandishing their swords clumsily, they hurried to Thyatis. The Roman woman turned toward the men, swinging the ax easily from side to side. One of the criminals lunged in, his gladius nosing towards her. She ignored him, watching the other men, her vision unfocused.
One of them had a spear. He was the most dangerous right now.
"What-gasp-now, Your Majesty?"
"Keep behind me." Thyatis grunted. "Watch my back."
Thyatis crabbed forward. The men edged warily away. The spearman circled to her left. He had not raised it up to throw. Maybe, she thought, he doesn't know how… It was a possibility. Recklessly, she darted to the right, exposing her back. She whirled the ax, forcing the swordsmen back. The other men scuttled back, too, staying out of range.
Candace yelped, trying to cry out a warning, then parried furiously as one of the men rushed her. Thyatis ducked and whirled to her left. The ax blurred out of her hand, whirling towards the spearman. He was already recovering from an overhand cast. The spear whispered over her head. Thyatis tumbled and rolled up. The thrown ax hit with a thunk. The spearman stood shock still, staring down at the sharp tine buried in his chest.
The swordsmen attacked. One cut high, the other low. Thyatis sprang up, left leg striking sideways, her body flattening as she brought her head down. A sword flashed past beneath her. The kick caught one man in the arm, cracking bone. She hit the ground, rolled and sprang up, face-to-face with the other swordsman.
She shouted violently, and the heel of her right hand smashed into his nose. Blood and mucus spurted. Her left leg rose, then snapped forward, twice, from the knee. The blows drove into the soft flesh of his stomach, then his chin as he jerked forward. Her left foot touched the ground; she shifted, and plowed her right hand, clenched, into his face. He was thrown back sprawling on the sand.
The man with the injured arm cut at her with a knife in his other hand. Thyatis slipped the blow. She hooked his arm with her left hand, snapping it back to her chest, trapping the blade behind her. Her right fist, still smeared with blood, cracked across his face, snapping his head to the side. Her right elbow followed, smashing his nose. His neck made a grisly, cracking sound.
Thyatis, shuddering with blood fire, threw the body on the ground. She spun, everything slowing, as if the world were winding down. Candace and the older woman hacked at the body of the remaining swordsman, their faces contorted in fury.
Breathing was very difficult, but Thyatis gasped, drawing in huge gulps of air.
The crowd was chanting, screaming at the top of their lungs: "Habet, hoc habet!" The sound rose and rose, rattling the statues ringing the arena.
– |"I am not a stone in the stream," Maxian said to himself, once more on the deck high above the arena floor. "I would be a dam, a channel, a culvert."
He settled himself by the first bead. The wood around the copper had begun to rot and fade, turning papery white. Another day and the copper pellet would work free of the decking and fall to the sandy floor hundreds of feet below. Maxian frowned, running his hands over the boards. In the hidden world, he could feel the tiny frisson of resistance generated by the bead. The copper was warm to the touch. He sighed, settling himself. This would be very delicate work.
He closed his eyes, shutting out the riot of color ringing the amphitheater. He chanted, settling his mind. He eased delicately into the hidden world, insinuating himself into folded matrices and angled patterns. He took his time, denying himself the soft, peaceful comfort the Oath offered. He would be its master, not its slave.
It seemed very likely to him, on reflection, that he would have been beset and killed if he had approached the Imperial box. The Duchess, at least, would be watching for him. Maxian's head bent to his breast, his breathing slowing until it seemed that he did not breathe at all.
In his mind, a glorious panoply of forms unfolded and unfolded and unfolded…
– |Betia squeezed in beside the Duchess, breathless and sweating. The crowd was even more closely packed than before. A bald man with stiff white mustaches was crammed in tight behind their seats, shouting himself hoarse.
"Mistress!" Betia shouted in Anastasia's ear, though the older woman seemed to be crying, her hands covering her eyes. "Please, you must listen!"
Anastasia turned, her glorious violet eyes tinged with red. She snuffled, wiping her nose with the hem of her gown. "What is it?"
"What is wrong?" Betia suddenly registered the poor state of her mistress. "What happened?"
"Oh." Anastasia dabbed at her eye. "Nothing. Nothing. That wretched daughter of mine," the Duchess jabbed a finger at the arena, "nearly got herself killed two or three times! Dear, I think we should go home, this can't be good for my heart or my complexion." Anastasia flapped the edge of her veil, trying to cool herself.
"An excellent idea," Betia growled, grabbing one of the guardsmen. The two men were shouting lustily, waving their hats in the air. Everyone in the arena was doing the same. "It's too dangerous to stay here. He is here, on the upper course."
"He? Who do you mean?" Anastasia put her hand on the blond slave's shoulder.
"I mean," Betia looked around slowly, scanning the faces in the crowd, "Prince Maxian. I saw him, I'm sure of it, on the upper promenade."
Anastasia felt a chill, and then she stood up, fingers digging into Betia's shoulder for support. She drew the veil across her face, her eyes cold. Men and women were in motion all around her, crying and cheering, waving their hats or boards painted with racing slogans. The Duchess saw nothing of the Prince. "Come," she said, stepping down. "We must find the Empress immediately."
– |Thyatis staggered, pushed by one of the gray attendants. A carved wooden mask in the shape of a tusked demon hid his face. Its black eyes stared at her, huge and round.
"Move!" The mouth was a funnel, magnifying and distorting his voice.
She stumbled forward, utterly drained. The strophium at her chest oozed a thin red fluid when she moved. Candace held one arm, the nameless older woman the other. All three wore crowns of golden holly, studded with small gems. Waves of applause rolled over them, then slackened as they entered a tunnel. Slaves in black tunics were waiting with buckets of water. Thyatis collapsed against the wall as soon as she could, gasping for breath. The slaves doused her with water. Bloody froth swirled away on the floor around her feet.
"You did well." A smirking voice penetrated the drumming in her ears. Thyatis looked up and saw the boxer from the inn leaning against the wall, grinning. He was sleek and clean, clad in a red kilt and leather armbands. His skin gleamed with oil and his hair was a glossy black crown. Silver fish-scale armor covered his arm and shoulder. "You impress me. I admit I thought Narses mad when he bought you."
"Did you?" Thyatis turned away, taking a towel from one of the slaves. The fluid on her skin was oily and slick, untouched by the water. She began rubbing it from her arms and chest. "Does it matter?"
"No." Hamilcar shook his head sadly. "They posted the last of the matches today-we will not meet on holy ground. They've decided that you should not die until the last day and not by my hand."
With that, laughing, he strode away down the tunnel, gathering up his fellows as he passed. Thyatis ignored him, crouching down next to Candace and the older woman. They were both shivering with reaction. One of the slaves had bound up the Nubian girl's wound. Thyatis clasped both of their hands in hers.
"What is your name?" Her voice rasped like an awl on strong wood.
The older woman blinked and whispered: "Agrippina."
"Good. A strong name." Thyatis stood, before her knees locked up. "Now we are three."
– |"What do you mean," Anastasia bit out angrily, "I may not speak with Empress Helena?"
"I mean just that, madam." The Praetorian centurion's eyes glittered back, half hidden by the visor of his helmet. "The Imperial family is enjoying the games-they are not interested in seeing scarecrows or beggars today. The fifth day is set aside for such petitions; go see her on the Palatine with the rest!"
"I am not a beggar," Anastasia snarled, raising her hand and her voice. Betia fumbled at her arm, trying to restrain her. "I am an Imperial officer and a close friend of the Empress. She will see me."
The Praetorian shook his head, scarred face impassive. "You've not been given leave to see her. Now, if you don't go away quietly, my men will throw you out, Imperial officer or no."
Anastasia hissed in disgust, but she saw the man was determined. In these mourning clothes, all gray and black, without any makeup and half dead from the heat, she couldn't awe a street urchin. Helena had no idea she was here, and Anastasia wanted a private meeting, not a scene. "Very well. Good day."
The Duchess spun on her heel and stalked away through the crowd loitering in the passage behind the Imperial box. Various ambassadors and bureaucrats watched her with interest as she swept past. Her guardsmen peeled away from the walls to follow her and Betia hurried ahead, trying to remember where they'd left the litter bearers.
"Mistress?" Anastasia's head turned, her face filled with incipient fury. There was a solid-looking man, bald as a hen's egg, with a nervous expression on his face. "I don't mean to be a bother… but, I was sitting behind you in the crowd, and I heard… I heard your girl say you knew the redheaded woman fighting today?"
"Yes." Anastasia was suspicious. This fellow looked like a barbarian, a Gaul, in fact. There was something about him, though, something familiar. Could it be the long, tusklike mustaches? "Do I know you?"
"Oh, surely not," laughed the man, making a sketchy bow. He was very well built, almost like a wrestler, save with flatter muscles, rather than bulging round sinews. "I am a visitor to the city. My name is Vitellix. I am a very, very minor lanista."
Anastasia raised an eyebrow, though its usual daunting effect was lost on the self-effacing man. "You have met Thyatis before? In Persia, perhaps?" She made a sign to her guardsmen, who closed in around the man, their bodies sliding between her and this stranger.
"Oh, no," Vitellix said, starting to sweat again, though the passage was shady and cool. "I know nothing of any Persian business! She was with my troupe, for a little while, while her wounds mended! Please, my lady, I mean no disrespect or harm-it cuts at me to see her thrown to the dogs like this!"
"She is proving a wolf." Anastasia smiled grimly. "More than these curs can stomach. You will come with us, I think."
The Gaul blanched but did not resist when the guardsmen took hold of his elbows. Anastasia marched out of the tunnel, her mind, at last, waking to the chase.