The Pits Beneath the Flavian
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.
"What has happened?" Helena turned, concerned, as Anastasia let the curtain fall over the door. "Are you well?"
"I am awake." Anastasia did not smile, though she raised one white hand slightly. "I would like to ask you a favor."
Something in the woman's voice made Helena pause, though her first instinct was to say yes, of course. The Empress had a mother-of-pearl and silk fan in her hands. Helena bought a moment to compose herself by unfolding it. "What is it?"
Anastasia paused, seeing the subtle change in the younger woman, and she realized her retreat from the world had cost her more than she had realized. The Duchess sighed, feeling very old, and sat down on one of the padded benches that lined the walls in the little room. "I am sorry, Helena, I have no right to ask you for anything. I know you are disappointed in me, and I have already betrayed the Emperor's trust."
"Oh dear." Helena sat as well, her light linen gown folding under her. Even with today's games being an evening program, the Empress knew it would be dreadfully hot in the Imperial box. The marble seats and walls soaked up the heat of the day, then yielded it slowly as night came on. To compensate, she had adopted a confection of silk and linen designed by her seamstresses to be as cool as possible. Helena was sure that the Emperor would find it pleasing, too, since it exposed far more cleavage and bare shoulder than she wanted. The seamstresses wanted to get her pregnant again. Helena wrenched her thoughts around to her old friend. "Anastasia, you have my trust. This must be dire, then, to have you moping about in such a funk."
The Duchess nodded, keeping her hands clasped in her lap. "It is. My failures compound like bad debts, Empress. You have seen the young woman they call Diana, the fighter?"
"I have indeed!" Helena could not help but smile. "Along with the entire city, of course. Isn't she magnificent! Do you… wait. You know her?"
Anastasia nodded, and it seemed to Helena that the weight on her old friend grew even greater. "I do. She is… she is my daughter, my adopted daughter. One of the ones…"
"…you thought had been killed in the eruption." Helena pursed her lips.
"One of your agents."
"Yes."
"Why is she fighting in the amphitheater? That seems odd, even for one of your stratagems."
"It is not my plan!" Anastasia's voice was almost brittle. "She has been charged with crimes and sentenced to the arena. I have not been able to discover the nature of the charges; the court records are sealed or missing. I did not know where she was until I saw her myself the other day."
The Empress nodded, idly fanning herself. "You want her pardoned."
"Yes." Anastasia stared at the floor. A year ago, she would not have needed to ask. Her position would have allowed her to forge release papers, grease the proper palms, lean on the right officials. In another six months, perhaps, she would be in such a position of strength again. But not today. "Please."
"You," Helena said slowly, arching an eyebrow and putting the fan to her nose, "will have to ask Galen for this yourself. The Empress, no matter how wise and beautiful, cannot pardon criminals, even ones that have been falsely accused."
Anastasia paled, her fine-boned white hand going to her throat. "He will not speak to me."
"He will." Helena's eyes narrowed, glinting. "That much, I can promise you."
A muted roar suddenly intruded, the tumult of fifty thousand people standing and cheering. The stone bench under the two women trembled at the sound.
"The games begin," Helena said briskly. "Come with me."
Anastasia stared at her friend for a moment, then stood, taking the Empress' hand.
"Come, now," Helena chided, "he rarely bites!"
– |The light was failing as Thyatis rolled out onto the sand, standing in the back of a silver chariot garlanded with bright flowers. Four pure-white horses led the high-wheeled vehicle, their manes twined with ribbons, tall plumes of feathers bobbing over their heads. Night was beginning to climb into the eastern sky, and the roar of the crowd, welcoming their new hero, rose up like thunder.
"Hail, Amazon!" they screamed, round faces lit by a fading golden glow. Long, slanting beams of light fell through the arches on the western side of the arena, shimmering in the dust raised by the day's fights. The people in the upper seats were standing, shouting, their arms raised. In the lower ranks of seats, where the patricians sat, the crowd was quieter, though there was still a drumming of feet on the stone benches.
"Hail, Amazon!"
Thyatis flicked the reins and the horses picked up to a trot. The chariot sped across the sand, wheels grinding across dark red stains and the rake marks left by the slaves who smoothed the floor between each bout. Raising her hand, Thyatis greeted the crowd. They met her with acclaim, their voices huge, like the gods roaring in the heavens. Coins and flowers and tokens filled the air, thrown by eager admirers. They pattered on the sand like rain. Behind Thyatis, four more chariots came, carrying her fellow Amazons. Candace smiled for the crowd, too, though Agrippina was more concerned with keeping her footing in the chariot.
"Hail! Hail! Hail!"
Thyatis raced the horses to the entry tunnel, feeling the hot, close air of the arena rush past. The horses were glad to run and she swerved to a stop, throwing a spray of dust and sand into the air. It hung, glowing gold in the late-afternoon light, and she sprang down. Her armor was cinched tight and close, clinging to her supple body like a skin. Blood fire hissed, filling her limbs with strength. She felt glorious, invincible. "Hail!" she cried.
The other chariots rolled to a stop, the slaves in the tunnel darting out to take the reins and lead the white horses away. Thyatis looked over her sisters, nodding to each one. She tightened a strap here, adjusted a helmet there. The women's eyes were filled with fear. Some of them could barely stand.
"We fight together," she barked. "We survive together. Do not try to run, or hide or beg for mercy. Together, we will triumph." She turned away, pacing across the sand towards the Imperial box. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Ila in the tunnel mouth behind an iron grating. Thankfully, Hamilcar had forgotten to tell the magistrate in charge of the amphitheater that a very small new Amazon had been added. She stopped, legs firmly planted, before the marble wall of the Imperial box. This time they had given her a helmet, an open-faced thing, chased with silver and gold, with copper wings sweeping back over her shoulders. For all its glamorous appearance it was heavy and unwieldy. Facing the Emperor, she tucked the helmet under her arm.
"Hail, Emperor of the West. We who are about to die, we salute you. Let our blood, spilt in these holy games, give rest to the uneasy dead. Hail!"
Twenty feet above, the figure of the Emperor looked out upon the expectant crowd, which had grown silent, hushed, and raised his hand. It was white against the darkness of the box. The sun was setting quickly. Crystalline spheres rose all along the rim of the amphitheater. Each burned bright and the whole bowl of the massive building was lit as if by day.
"Let the game begin!" The Emperor's voice rolled out, magnified by the shape of the Imperial box and the cupped bowl of the building. His words echoed back from the statues crowning the arena wall. No sooner had they died than a rising moan filled the air, a magnificent and unearthly sound. A dozen men worked the levers and stops of an enormous water organ, calling forth a sound like the gods speaking.
She turned, sliding the helmet onto her head. Already the arena was filled with the rattle and clank of the elevators. Figures were rising from the sandy floor amid wooden structures that aped walls and buildings and an arched bridge. The torchlight glinted from armor and helmets. Thyatis looked to Candace, seeing the Nubian woman drawing her sword. Agrippina held hers in both hands like an overlarge cleaver.
With a rasp, her gladius rippled from its sheath. Now there was nothing but the sight of her enemy, moving tentatively towards her over the sand. This would be her last moment of respite. She stopped, raising her sword to the sky, saluting her enemies.
"Avete, morituri estis, vos saluto!" she shouted, and the crowd, hearing her words, gave forth with a bellow of appreciation. The sky rang with the sound.
– |The skyline of Rome glowed with fading sunlight. On the uppermost deck, the great sails and their masts shimmered with red and gold. The sailors had drawn them in and were busily lashing them down against the night wind. Maxian, shrouded in gray and black, strode across the pine deck with Gaius Julius at his side. The Prince paced his usual circuit, ignoring the cheers and howls that rose up from below. The rising and falling sound of the mammoth water organ rumbled, making the decking tremble. Bending low at each copper bead, the Prince checked the wood around each sphere. This time, the pine was not discolored. The markers had achieved a balance with the Oath.
"Is there anything we can do to help?" Gaius Julius' voice held an interested but distant tone. The Prince shook his head, rising from the last bead.
"No," he said, distracted. "Watch over my body. See that I am not disturbed. If I fail… then I think it will be obvious!" Maxian shrugged the black cloak away. Now they were standing directly above the Imperial box, though it was at least a hundred and thirty feet below. "Are you going to be in the stands, watching?"
Gaius Julius shook his head. He was trying to avoid Imperial attention. "I've done my part for the celebration. This effort of yours concerns me more."
The Prince settled himself onto the deck, arranging his legs and arms just so. He faced outward, across the breadth of the arena, toward the statue of Jupiter the Best and Greatest. The marble figure glowed pearlescent in the failing light, looming large amongst the statues that ringed the interval between the forth and fifth sections of seats. Maxian breathed out slowly, then drew a deep breath. Despite the roars of the crowd and the thundering of feet on the seats, he let his mind empty.
"What happens if you fail?"
The Prince opened one eye, glaring at Gaius Julius, but then both opened. The old Roman had a pensive look on his face and seemed, of all things, to be worried. "What is troubling you?"
"Nothing." Gaius turned away, waving a wrinkled hand in dismissal. "It's nothing."
"Tell me." The Prince sketched a sign in the air with his finger. It gleamed blue for a moment, then faded. The symbolism broke apart the forms he had begun to draw around him in the hidden world. Power beginning to flow to him dissipated, spilling across the wooden planks, dripping down into the air over the crowd. Some of the citizens packed into the seats below looked up, puzzled by some half-heard noise or flash of light. Maxian stood, facing Gaius. "You were going to ask me a question the other day, when I was working in the seats."
"Yes." Gaius Julius turned back, shading his eyes with a raised hand. The setting sun grew enormous, a vast, flattened red disk as it touched the western horizon.
"What is it?" Maxian's voice was tinged with anger. He did not want to be delayed. He had no time for idle chatter. The pressure of the Oath against his shields was very low, barely more than the rush of water over gravel in a stream, but he would have to raise himself into the full flood once more if he was to accomplish his task.
"Why am I alive?" Gaius Julius was nervous. "You could not make Krista live, or the little Persian. Not like Alexandros and I are alive. We think for ourselves, we feel pain, hunger and fear. How did this happen? Are you a god, guised in mortal flesh, that you can bring forth our spirit from dead clay?"
Maxian stepped back, surprised by the vehemence, the sorrow, the pain in the old Roman's voice. "Don't be absurd! I am not a god."
"Then why do we live?" Gaius Julius' voice was sharp. "How did you do this?"
"I don't know!" Maxian let his own anger show. The thought had tormented him for a long time-why could he bring the two men to full life, complete with humor and mirth and joy, when Krista became only a dead thing, a corpse that walked, something to be controlled, guided by his will alone? "There is more power in you than dwelt in Krista or Abdmachus. Perhaps that gives you spirit-your legends are strong, eternal. Who knows the names of a pretty slave girl and an exiled necromancer? No one! But you-you and your Egyptian queen, your conquests, your books-they are known to everyone! And Alexandros!" Maxian's voice gained a brittle, furious edge. "Who does not know him?"
"Our legend?" Gaius Julius looked stricken, his face filling with comprehension. "O you cruel gods… That statue, it looked just like him, the other looked just like me. And I… I am old and bald, my face wrinkled… what fickle memory made him young!"
Maxian stared at the older man in incomprehension. Gaius laughed, seeing the puzzlement on the Prince's face. "You don't see? You just spoke the truth! You gave our legends flesh, not our mortal selves! I am… what they made me, the historians, and the gossipmongers, my enemies in the Senate. I am what the puppy Octavian enshrined!"
The Prince stepped back, disgusted and frightened as the unflappable old man suddenly began to weep. Then he realized it was laughter drawing tears from Gaius Julius, not grief. The words penetrated, at last, and Maxian's lips quirked into a smile. He understood. "Then praise your nephew, for his adulation has given you new life."
Gaius Julius just nodded, choked with bitter laughter.
"A mystery solved, if it is true." Maxian settled himself again, turning his back on Gaius. Again, he raised his hands, marking a sign in the air. The Prince shut all thoughts of Gaius and his mysteries out of his mind.
"Now go away, he's busy."
Gaius Julius, who had started to turn away, stopped, surprised. The voice seemed to come from the Prince, but it had a distinct accent, far different from the Prince's provincial Narbonensis twang. The old Roman stared at Maxian, then looked all around. No one was anywhere near. Shrugging, he hurried away, smelling a familiar sharp odor building in the air.
Gaius Julius stopped at the top of the narrow flight of stairs leading down into the tunnels behind the seats. When he looked back, the air between him and the Prince was hazed with mist, distorted, and the blazing white spheres around the arena made the sky glow in a great reaching column.
– |On the floor of the arena, the false buildings cast shadows on the sand, making a patchwork of dark and light. Thyatis advanced, leading with the point of her gladius, the Amazons a solid wedge at her back. Agrippina and Candace anchored each end, armed with swords. The rest of the women, nervous, crying, bunched together, were armed with a confusion of weapons. Thyatis was sure that the servants bought them in lots from the Imperial army. Some of them, she had never seen before.
The false buildings had been arranged so that to get from one side of the arena to the other, an arching bridge would have to be crossed. It was a dozen paces wide, with a low railing on either side. Thyatis looked back. The attendants were issuing from a tunnel mouth, dark cloaks making them shadows against shadow. Only their silver and gray masks caught the light, shining like phantoms. Some of them wielded whips, the others smoking, red-hot rods. At intervals along the top of the retaining wall that circled the arena, archers were posted. Anyone who refused to fight would be whipped, scourged, shot if he or she did not comply.
"Victory or death, my friends," Thyatis shouted. Candace and Agrippina answered her, "Victory or death!" The other women wailed in despair, but as the three ran forward, they ran too, fearful of being left behind. Ahead, the bridge was empty, though Thyatis was sure the enemy was close at hand.
Her boots rang on the planks as she leapt up the ramp. Something glittered in the air, and she ducked aside, slashing sideways with the gladius. A spear whispered past, hurled with tremendous force from the shadows of the nearest building. It missed Thyatis, but there was a slapping sound from behind her and a gurgling cry. She ran forward. Men appeared from the shadows, shouting, voices hoarse and foreign. The words were unknown to her, though she had picked up a little Persian during her time in the East.
A massive figure lunged out of the darkness, spear point glinting, and Thyatis' hand blurred, driving the sword in a block that sent the spear ringing away. A huge man, standing a good head taller than her, wielded the weapon. He was clad in scraps of armor, ring-shaped mail with flaring shoulder protectors. His beard was dark and curly, hanging almost to his stomach. His spear whipped around, cutting at her legs. Thyatis sprang up, avoiding the stroke.
The Persian fell back a step, reversing the spear into a guard position. Thyatis adjusted the winged helmet, which had slipped a little. The leather strap didn't fit properly. They circled while she considered throwing the helm away. More Persians-if they were really Persians-moved out of the shadows, torchlight glinting on their scaled armor.
"Hold the bridge!" Thyatis shouted, shifting her balance. The spearman dodged suddenly to the left, slashing at her head with the broad leaf-shaped blade. She ducked again, then lunged left, cutting at his head. He parried deftly with the tang of the spear, catching her blade on the metal. Thyatis' concentration focused, narrowing down to just the man, the spear and her footing on the bridge.
Behind her, there was a clash of arms and screams. Persians pressed past their champion, while he dallied over bright steel.
Thyatis danced back as the spear licked at her again. She cut hard at the shaft, but the man was very quick and jerked it back in time. Out of options, she charged in, throwing a blizzard of cuts and slashes at him. He blocked one stroke hard, then reversed the spear haft in a blur and caught her on the ribs. Metal squeaked at the blow and she staggered, her thigh striking the edge of the bridge. She blocked, the point of the gladius pointing down, and drove the spear point into the wood on her left. Her right leg lashed out, a snap kick, and caught the Persian on the elbow with the iron-shod heel of her boot. He shouted, his eyes wide with pain, and jumped back.
Thyatis caught the spear with her right hand, spinning into it, and twisted. The Persian gasped, feeling his broken elbow take the strain. The spear haft slipped in his hand. Thyatis rammed it back into his gut. He choked, losing breath. She rotated sharply, the tip of the gladius shearing through his cheek and into the back of his mouth. Bone cracked and then metal ground against metal. The sword whipped back into guard, slick with blood. The Persian fell sideways.
Picking up the spear, Thyatis cradled it under one arm while she sheathed the gladius in a seamless, smooth motion. Her arms were trembling, glistening with sweat. The crowd, seeing that she had struck down her first opponent, gave a cheer, followed by a chanted shout.
"One! One! One!"
– |"What? You must be mad?" Galen, Emperor of the West, turned sideways in his golden chair, staring at his wife and at Anastasia with equal disbelief. The Emperor's usually lanky hair was carefully combed back and slicked with oil. A crown of golden laurels wreathed his head-an ancient diadem from the time of the Principate, commissioned by Augustus himself-and he was draped in a toga of pure white silk. For a wonder, it was not incredibly hot, though he was sweating slightly. The press of bodies in the amphitheater made it far warmer than the cooling night would have suggested. "This criminal is one of my soldiers?"
"Yes, Lord and God." Anastasia kept her voice low, half kneeling at the Emperor's side. She kept her face turned from the crowd. Part of the positioning of the Imperial box allowed the common people to see the Emperor and his family, to know they enjoyed the festivities too, that they shared the games and the smell and the heat with their subjects. Of course, this meant it was very difficult to have a private conversation in plain view of fifty thousand people. "I sent her with you to the East; Thyatis, a centurion. She did you good service at Tauris."
"I remember." Galen stared out at the arena floor, seeing the Persians and Amazons fighting and dying. Blood streaked the bridge and pooled on the sand. Despite their attempt to stand together, some of the women had been hewn down by the easterners.
"I sent her on, to Ctesiphon, and there it seemed she perished with her men in a fire."
The Emperor gave Anastasia a steely look, his face pinched. "Is she my soldier or yours?"
The Duchess struggled to keep her face calm, though now she was sweating. Thyatis' mission in the East had been to secure Princess Shirin, a Khazar noblewoman, for the Western Emperor, to use as a bargaining chip in the quiet, subtle struggle with the Eastern Empire. But Thyatis had stolen Shirin away, faking her death, and had brought her back to the West. Unfortunately, at this moment, the Princess had not been delivered into the Emperor's hands.
"I am your servant, Lord and God. So is she. Any fault is mine."
Galen scowled. Anastasia could see he did not want to have this discussion now, or ever. Their last official meeting had been emotional and dangerous. Telling the Emperor you had ordered his brother's death was not wise! Particularly when you forced his hand into agreeing it must be done for the good of the state. "How did she come to be in the arena? The truth, woman!"
The Duchess swallowed, her throat dry. Here she would be tested in the balance.
"Lord and God, she led the team I sent to Ottaviano, to deal with… what they needed to deal with." Anastasia heard Helena's sharp intake of breath at her side. The Emperor's eyebrow lifted slightly, his face going completely cold. "They failed, my lord. I thought they were all killed-everyone-but it was not the case. Thyatis lived, though she was terribly injured. Some travelers in the wasteland found her and nursed her back to health. I fear her memory was damaged, lost. I only found out she lived when she appeared here, in the arena."
"Someone lived?" Galen's voice was soft, even gentle. "Someone whose death you desired? This is the… failure you speak of."
"Yes, Lord and God."
"My brother?" he whispered, his lips barely moving. Though the roar of the crowd had grown to such proportions she couldn't hear his voice, she could see the shape of his lips.
"Yes, Lord and God." Anastasia bowed her head, pressing it against the cushions at his feet.
"How do you know this?"
"One of my servants, Lord and God, saw him with her own eyes."
"Where?" The Emperor's voice was a hiss of anger.
"Here, my lord, in the Flavian, on the occasion of the last games."
Galen sat back, his eyes hooded. He seemed to have sunk into himself. Irritably, he motioned for Anastasia to leave. She started to back away, but Helena stopped her, an elegant hand gripping the Duchess' shoulder.
"Husband? What about Thyatis?"
The Emperor had a glare for his wife, too, but she met his eyes with equanimity. After a moment, Galen looked away, watching the struggle on the sand. More of the Amazons had died. But the crowd was in a fine humor, chanting in a huge voice that echoed and rolled back from the walls. "Four! Four! Four!"
"What is her crime?" Helena looked at Anastasia, raising an eyebrow.
"I do not know, Lord and God. All of the papers are lost or missing. She was ambushed and captured by thugs, then remanded into the custody of the Flavian."
"A kidnapping, then. By who?"
Anastasia raised her head, pale face making her violet eyes seem very large. "That would be a scandal, my lord. It would touch the hem of the Imperial authority. Perhaps such things should be let to lie-if you pardon her today, nothing need be explained or revealed."
Galen laughed, sitting forward in his chair, looking down at her. The golden diadem slipped down a little over one ear. "Duchess, are you trying to protect me or someone else?"
"You, my lord. These games must be orderly and without blemish. Too many have died to have their honorable funeral spoiled by the connivance of a few."
"You do not seek revenge?" The Emperor sounded incredulous. "Your daughter, if I remember the papers of adoption correctly, is fighting for her life down there and you don't want to see the men who sent her onto the sand punished?"
Anastasia shook her head. "No, my lord. I believe they saw an opportunity to put on a show as has never been seen in Rome before."
A glint appeared in Galen's eye and Anastasia knew that he had divined the culprit from her answer. "I see. Yes, that is wise, at this juncture. Charges against such a personage would make things very complicated… Very well, if she lives, she is pardoned."
The Duchess nodded, relieved, her hands trembling. Of course, the matter of the Prince would be raised again, in a more private meeting. Helena, however, frowned at her husband and leaned close, her voice fierce. "She may well die in this fight, husband, and then what?"
"Then," he snapped, irritated beyond measure, "the gods willed she die. Are you satisfied, wife?"
"Yes," Helena said, sitting back. His anger left a mark on her, sparking her own, like a shrouded coal burning behind parchment. Anastasia slipped away, while the two of them were furiously ignoring each other. There was a dry taste in her mouth. She needed to find Vitellix and Betia as soon as possible.
– |Sand spurted away from Thyatis' feet as she sprinted off the bridge. Two Persians whirled to face her, their weapons slick with blood. Bodies were scattered on the ground around them. Both men carried spears. The nearest one shouted, whirling his spear around. It was too late. Thyatis' rush slammed her own spear into his side, cracking through his armor, snapping the wire loops holding scale to scale. The iron tip ground on bone. She twisted the spear sideways, then felt it slide through flesh. Grunting with the effort, she threw the Persian, croaking with pain, aside.
In an instant of perfect balance, she took in the scene around her. The spearman to her front was sliding closer, the point of his weapon angled low, butt high behind his head. To her right, Agrippina was locked in a fierce grapple with another man, this one helmet-less, but built like an ox. They strained back and forth, each with a knife in hand. Other men were fighting the remaining group of Amazons, led by Candace, behind Agrippina. Two men with round shields and swords sprinted towards Thyatis.
The spearman attacked, stabbing at her thigh. Thyatis blocked with the ax, but it was heavy, clumsier than the sword. The Persian reversed his stroke with incredible speed, then lunged at her head. Thyatis threw her head back, turning away, throwing her whole body into the motion. The point of the spear smashed into the side of her helmet. Blinding pain jagged through her head and the helmet crumpled at the blow, crushing her ear. She hit the ground hard, half blinded. The ungainly thing slid against her nose. One eye was blinded. She rolled again, frantic, dropping the ax, tearing at the copper wings, trying to wrench the helm from her head.
A spear point slashed into the sand, barely an inch from her stomach. She kicked out, blindly, then turned the motion into a spin, the sand of the arena floor grinding under her back. Then she managed to break the strap and fling the helmet away. The Persian jumped back from her wheel kick, but now he dodged in low, leading with the spear. He was very fast. Thyatis twisted but could not avoid the thrust. The spear point rang on her armor and she felt ribs bend. The lorica held and the spear sprang back. Gasping in relief, Thyatis rolled, taking her weight on her forearm, then flipped up, landing on both feet. Immediately, she fell into an open-hand guard stance.
Now three men faced her, the two shield men flanking the spear. She gasped for breath. Fatigue was setting in. Blood from her ear covered her neck and the side of her face. Without waiting for his fellows, the spearman charged in, slashing at her in a cross pattern. This time she was ready for the quicksilver speed of his attack. A hoarse kii escaped as she slapped the iron blade away with her left hand, grasping for the haft of the spear. At the same time, she sprang up, her right leg arrowing out, her body turning into line with his in the air. Her heel smashed into his face as she seized hold of the spear shaft.
The Persian rocked back, stunned, and Thyatis hit the ground, facing away from him. One hand on the metal tang behind the point of his spear, the other on the ashwood shaft, she spun, levering it against her body. It tore free from nerveless hands, whipping around. The spearman crumpled to the ground.
One of the sword and shield men lunged in at her, shield high, spatha arrowing at her heart. Her face a mask of rage, she slapped the blade away with the haft of the spear, then snapped it back, low, catching him behind the shield, in the stomach. Breath oofed from him, and she jammed the butt of the spear into his eye socket. The wooden shaft fit perfectly into the eye hole in his helmet and there was a violent thunk as it slammed home. Bone cracked but did not break. Blood flooded out of the man's helmet. Thyatis spun, suddenly remembering the other swordsman.
He hacked overhand, sword biting deep into her shoulder plate. It spanged violently and she went down, driven to her knees by the force of the blow. Her left arm seemed to go numb, and she twisted away, trying to bring up the spear. He kicked her in the face, snapping her head back. She sprawled on the sand with a thud. Dust puffed up around her. He settled his grip on the sword, raising it for a second blow. Thyatis stared, frozen.
Agrippina stormed in from the side, shrieking, her sword in two hands like a cleaver. Heedless, she swung at the Persian with the full weight of her body. He leapt back, blocking with his shield, and was driven back five or six feet by the blow. Agrippina struggled, her biceps bulging with the effort. Thyatis scrambled up, snatching up the spear. The Persian smashed his sword hilt into Agrippina's face, rocking her back. Thyatis lunged, the spear fully extended. His sword clove sideways, biting into Agrippina's thick neck.
The spear tore into his armpit. Light mail parted and Thyatis' heave powered the point into his heart. Gasping, the Persian staggered back, blood foaming from his mouth. Thyatis wrenched the spear free, throwing the man to the ground, red spurting from his side. She turned, but Agrippina was already lying still on the ground. Her throat was torn open, big head lolling to one side.
Mouth tight, Thyatis stepped over the dead woman and stabbed the unconscious spearman in the neck, killing him with a sharp, violent blow.
"Nine! Nine! Nine!" The crowd was in a frenzy. Men tore their clothes, shrieking in delight, baying like a vast, uncountable pack of dogs. Women fainted or shuddered, slick with sweat. A great heat built in the amphitheater, the air flooded with sweat and blood and the hot breath of tens of thousands.
Thyatis staggered up, ear bleeding freely, torchlight gleaming on her face. Her arms and torso were red, her hair plastered with gore. "Victory!"
The crowd answered her shout with a howl. She limped forward, the spear held up, the point wavering before her face.
– |A realm of phantoms and shadows unfolded before the Prince, filled with glittering swift lights that flickered and pulsed, tracing the matrices of power defining the waking world. Visions passed before him-cities and emperors and battles-as pale and transparent ghosts. He looked out upon the skyline of Rome and saw it change as he watched, one building rising, another falling, fires sweeping across the tenement blocks, then roaring up in a haze of brick dust, scaffolding and smoke. A towering golden statue of a man was built and destroyed in the blink of an eye. Temples were raised, forming out of the mist, and then torn down. Palaces were flattened, then rebuilt. Time and history surged around him in a buffeting torrent.
Maxian's face aged, his hair turning white, then it grew young again. Wrinkles faded from his skin; age spots mottled, then receded. For an instant he was bewildered by the sensation, losing his concentration, and his face changed again, his hair vanishing. He was shorter, more powerfully built, his head brown and bald, a snarl on his lips. Then Maxian's training took hold and he centered, drawing upon the power that burned steadily in the very heart of his pattern. Here was solidity, a foundation, an anchor. The Prince let events unfold around him while he regained himself. The brown man vanished, clawing at the air, fighting and struggling.
Then the Prince was whole once more, a shining beacon of power. When he became aware of this, the glow faded. He wanted to be a phantom himself, invisible to the enormous strength in the Oath. Bit by bit, with great patience, he disassembled the wards and shields that guarded him. As he had done before, he let power flow over him. He offered no resistance, letting the inertia in the matrices seize him, whirling his spirit form away.
A shining palace stood on a hill-not the confused warren of rooms that crowned the Palatine in the real, waking world, but what Augustus had built at the dawn of the Empire. Classical, severe buildings gleaming white under a clear sky and a pure yellow sun.
You found a city of brick, whispered Maxian's ghost, and left it a city of marble.
Vaulted rooms passed him, filled with throngs of people. Africans, Germans, Numidians, Persians, Scythians-an infinite array of diverse colors, faces, garb, jewels-all come to the city at the center of the Empire. He drifted through chambers of gold and silver and pearl, coming at last to the audience hall at the heart of the Palatine. Here, crowned in living laurel, his toga a simple white edged with the maroon so dear to the Empire, sat the Emperor in state, dispensing justice, granting mercy, a living god.
Maxian felt himself fray, nearing the center of the vortex. He abandoned physicality. He would hold on to only one thing, even though the storm of power around him wore away everything else. Memory, emotion, his physical body-all would be sacrificed. The shining, interlocking spheres of self that hissed and spun and burned at his core would remain. This was the thing that let him exert his will upon the world, his spirit, and its great power above all else was to press, ever so infinitesimally, upon the hidden patterns of the world.
The Emperor turned, his bearded face grave, one hand raised, holding a sphere of brilliant gold in one hand. The other gripped an ivory rod capped with a ram's head in dark bronze. In the figure, Maxian saw order and law and the regular passage of the seasons. In the staff abided power over all the lands of the earth. The Prince stared, compelled to obey, to bow down, to follow the rule and the law of the ancient city. The pressure on his will increased, the dissolution of his self rushed forward. Beyond the shoulders of the seated King, Maxian saw barren, stony mountains, like nothing that had ever risen on the Roman horizon.
A great pressure beat upon him, threatening even the tiny mote of self. It whirled this way and that, unable to withstand the King's awesome majesty. Maxian cried out, but there was no one to hear but the dreadful ruler, looking upon him with reproach and dismay. The lamb at the Emperor's feet bleated, begging for the stern judge to show mercy.
– |Thyatis lurched across the sand. The crystal lights blazed with a pure, colorless radiance. The sky high above was fully dark, leaving the walls of the arena a shimmering sea of white faces. Blood oozed down her arm and she had to keep shifting her grip on the spatha. Ahead, four Persians surrounded Candace. The other women lay in heaps, throats cut, bellies slashed open. The Nubian woman dodged this way and that, desperately trying to avoid their blows.
A raw low growl escaped Thyatis. Blood clouded her vision, spilling from a long gash on the side of her head. Despite her wounds, she felt a burning fire driving her limbs to move, her heart to beat.
The crowd grew hushed, seeing her dragging one leg, each step bringing her closer to the foe. Flowers began to rain down, cast from above. Thousands of petals, flung out in silence. Thyatis did not look up, did not see the shining faces of women and girls and young men crowding close to the retaining wall, watching in silence as she staggered forward.
One of the Persians, a man with a forked black beard, shouted and rushed at Candace. The Nubian woman slashed wildly at him, making him jump back. He laughed, a giddy, mad sound, whirling a curved sword over his head. Candace stabbed at him again but missed. While her back was turned, another man, this one armed with a hooked pole-arm, slashed at the back of her thigh. Candace screamed and the hook tore open her flesh. Thyatis began to run, her head down.
Pain flared in her wounded leg, sharp bright flashes as her sandals hit the sand.
The Nubian woman tried to spin, hacking with her sword, but two of the men rushed in, chopping at her with axes. She was thrown down, one blow cracking her armor. Thyatis felt her legs grow light, blood fire roaring in her ears, speeding her across the sand. The man with the hooked pole scurried to one side, trying to get a clean blow at Candace, who rolled feverishly on the ground, trying to evade the blows raining down on her. Thyatis ran up beside him, face twisted into a mask of rage, and slashed the spatha across as she came even with him. He glanced sideways, suddenly, catching sight of something out of the corner of his eye. The sword bit into his neck and he choked, stumbling, and then Thyatis ripped it out through his spine. The head, spinning in the air, gave out a choking wheeze and bounced away across the sand.
A hushed sort of moan rose from the crowd, and a soft thud-thud, almost unheard, began to fill the air.
Candace cried out as an ax chopped into her stomach. Red fluid welled around the shining metal. Thyatis, still soundless, rushed in, the spatha blurring in a figure eight. The swordsman on the left, his face wrapped in a blue scarf, shrieked, his shoulder suddenly laid open. The man on the right threw himself away from the flashing weapon, sprawling on the ground. Thyatis swung around, feet planted on either side of Candace, who struggled for breath. Thyatis settled her grip on the spatha's hilt.
Forkbeard charged her, screaming, the curved sword a glittering whirl around his head. Thyatis let him come, seeing his wild white eyes grow huge, then flowed into the blow. A haze of blood drifted over her, but she was already moving, spinning away from a new attack.
The thudding became a drumming, though no voice broke the silence, only the massed beat of a hundred thousand feet on the stone.
The last axman leapt in, hewing wildly, his ax cleaving the air with manic energy. Thyatis skipped back, parrying and parrying again. The man was screaming, a high, wailing sound which flew up into the air and vanished, swallowed by the night. Blocking, Thyatis caught the haft of his ax on her sword guard, and they grappled, faces inches from each other. Thyatis let him come, throwing his full weight upon her. She twisted and he flew, slamming into the ground. She kicked the ax away, then knelt, reversing her own blade and driving a convulsive blow into his chest. Ribs cracked and splintered, red fluid bubbled up through the armor, then the light faded in his eyes.
She stood, unsteady, her limbs trembling like jelly. She turned and saw Candace's head rolled to one side. A thin trail of bile and mucus spilled from her mouth. A roaring filled her ears, but it seemed only she could hear it.
"Are there more?" Her cry echoed back from the marble walls. Are there more?
– |Maxian guttered, his spirit lashed by an invisible wind, but he did not surrender. The power that gazed down upon him contained order and the regulation of all things. The Prince bent his will into the wind. Here, in this gleaming palace, in the perfect world that it contained and represented, there was one thing missing. Maxian bent his will upon the Emperor, upon the air around him, upon this hidden, invisible space. He grappled with the power, striving to bend it, ever so slightly, to his will.
It would take so little, for he had the book of Khamun to guide him. Not so long ago, though it seemed an age had passed, he had summoned the ancient tome from the air, binding it from dust and hair and the flesh of the earth itself, all from a single page. That ancient sage, one of the masters of the art, had built this hidden world in a frenzied burst of genius, driven by fear for his own life.
Augustus had not suffered the Egyptian to live, but Khamun's work had outlived his master. The pattern embraced Maxian: buildings and palaces, bakeries and forges, the tramp of soldiers in the ghost streets of this phantom city, the cut of women's clothing, the hairstyles of men. The lives of millions had been yielded up, a day at a time, to reinforce and extend that perfect vision. Each life painted the colors a little brighter, filled in some hidden corner, made everything richer. All it lacked was one… simple… thing.
Beside the Emperor, seated on his carven throne, the air distorted and flexed. Sparkling motes flowed to it, flying from the hair of the seated king, from the polished stone that gleamed underfoot, from the air, from gardens half seen through the arched windows. Maxian's spark burned low, crushed into the marble floor, ground under the invisible heel of the guardian of all that was and all that is. His sight failed, his mind fled, darkness lapped around him. He raged against the night, calling on all powers and deities to aid him.
There was no answer.
The shimmering form standing at the Emperor's right hand faded and then grew stronger, burning with colors, filled with wavering patterns. Something new was trying to force its way into the hidden world. It met resistance; the strictures of the form of the palace did not allow it to be born. Pressure grew against it, faster and faster, even as it took shape.
At the center of the chamber, surrounded on all four sides by signs and symbols, a tiny burning white mote compressed and compressed, until, at last, there was only a pinprick of light. And then, with a rippling in the stone and air, it went out.
– |Galen stood, his face a tight mask, and looked down upon the sand. His right hand was clenched tight, wrapped in Helena's fingers. Full silence filled the amphitheater, disturbed only by fifty thousand people breathing. Below the Imperial box, four of the masked attendants approached, bearing the bloody, torn body of a woman. They halted, silver masks staring up at the Emperor, firelight glinting on their tusks.
"Does this woman live?" Galen's voice rang out, clear and distinct. Every single person in the vast crowd could hear him, from the senators leaning raptly forward in the first tier, to the sailors hanging over the edge of the deck at the uppermost level. "Has she breath in her body?"
"Yes, Lord and God." The attendants spoke as one. They seemed to speak from the depths of the earth itself. "She lives and is victorious."
"Then I grant her, not only the crown of the victor," Galen raised a crown of holly in his hand, showing all the prize, "but also her freedom, for she has expiated any crime, any accusation, any calumny in noble combat, before these witnesses and before the gods."
Thyatis lay on a bier of spears. There was a noise, and she raised her head, seeing above her, suspended in darkness, the face of a man. He held high a crown and she knew it was hers. Struggling, she turned to one side and raised an arm, strong and muscular, still garbed in mail, links fouled and spattered with blood, and saluted him, the Emperor, Lord and God.
"Ave, Imperator!" Her voice was weak, but like his it carried in the silence. Then she fell back, exhausted and spent, and she knew nothing more.
– |High on the wall of the Flavian, Gaius Julius crept out from the stairwell. The trembling air around the Prince had suddenly stilled, then a wind had risen, fluttering the torches. The old Roman felt unaccountably weak, barely able to walk. He stumbled, then fell to the pine decking. His vision blurred; a hissing filled his ears. Gasping for breath, he crawled forward, his fingers barely touching the body of the Prince.
Gaius Julius collapsed, unable to move, his mind in a vise of pain. Just beyond him, the Prince lay, still and cold, without breath, one hand flung out. Wind rustled through his cloak.