“A beautiful sunset,” Anastasia said from the comfort of her litter.
“It is,” Thyatis said as she knelt on the pier next to her patron. She fingered the hilt of her sword, thinking of the endless leagues that would soon be between her and her patron. Beyond the handful of men that she was taking with her, she would be entirely alone in the East. She looked up, seeing the calm violet eyes of her mistress. Only confidence and strength were reflected there. Thyatis’ spirits rose and a core of determination began to accrete within her.
“Your supplies are already loaded?” the Duchess asked.
“Yes, milady, everything that Nikos and I could think of, plus more besides. The men are already aboard, most sleeping or reading.”
Anastasia smiled. “They are soldiers, after all.”
Gently she took the hand of the young woman. Seeing her now, clad in dull raiment, a heavy cloak, and worn boots, with her hair tied back and with no makeup, Anastasia realized that she had begun to grow attached to her ward. This troubled her greatly, for she had long considered the last daughter of the Clodians to be only a possibly useful tool. The remnants of her anger over the failure of her stratagem to ensnare the youngest Atrean Prince passed away. Laughing a little, she let go of Thyatis’ hand.
“Go with good fortune,” she said, making the sign of Artemis to bid her well.
Thyatis rose, bowing. “And you, my Lady.” Then she turned, her hair glittering in the last rays of the sun, and went aboard the ship. Anastasia watched her ascend the gangplank and go forward to speak to the captain. The sail ors began to untie the mooring ropes and unfurl the sail. The tide was beginning to run out.
At last, with the purple of night spilling over the harbor, the Duchess tapped on the top of the litter, indicating it was time to go.
Krista blinked and stirred beside her. “Time to go home, mistress?” Her voice was sleepy.
“Yes, dear, time to go home.”
The slaves had roused themselves as well and picked up the litter poles with well-practiced ease, sliding it easily aloft. Then they trotted off down the street. The western horizon was a long smear of deep rose and streaks of gold. In the litter, Anastasia leaned against the frame, staring out at the dark houses as they jogged past on the road to the city. One long finger folded the corner of her shawl over and over, running the sharp edge against her thumb.
/ hope she comes home alive, she thought, letting a dram of the sadness that filled her seep out.
THE PALATINE HILL, ROMA MATER
It was full dark when Maxian returned from the Forum. He was tired and his temper had not improved with a long afternoon spent listening to Senators droning on about the will of the gods and the assurances of the oracles that the Emperor’s campaign in the East would go well. Of late, he had been sleeping badly, with strange dreams troubling his few hours of rest. Despite his eldest brother’s admonitions to take up the burden previously carried by de’Orelio, he had not done so.
As he had planned, he had visited the Offices provided him by Temrys twice, smiled at their ostentatious decor and then left. The official staff and their careful watchfulness made the rooms useless for his task. He knew that Aure?an expected his aid and assistance, but instead his thought returned again and again to the dead craftsmen. He fingered the little lead slug in his pocket as he climbed the stairs to his apartments. He was accustomed to leaning heavily on the undefined “feelings” that were the tool-in-trade of the healer and the sorcerer. The feel of the matter of the scribes reminded him too much of both that dreadful night in Ostia and the experience in the temple at Cumae.
There were forces at work beyond normal sight. He could almost discern them, walking in these ancient hallways. When the palace was almost deserted, as it was now with the Emperor and much of his court gone to Ostia and the great fleet, with only the sputter of the lanterns and the occasional sight of a slave, dusting or mopping the floors, Maxian could feel the weight of the years and the tragedies that had occurred here. From the corner of his eye, if he was careful not to look, the shades of those that had lived here and died here could almost be seen. When he had been younger and had first come here, they had been welcome; the dim outlines of old men, clean-shaven, fierce and proud. Those were the strongest, those who had ruled here in the long centuries of the Empire. Now, with his skills grown and matured, he could sometimes see the others-those who had died in violence, those who had died in childbirth, those who had wept, or laughed, or loved here. Even the stones whispered, trying to tell their stories.
He stopped at the entrance to his apartments; a thin slat of pale-yellow light showed under the door. He had left with the dawn to accompany his brothers to the Forum; no taper or lantern had been lit then. He calmed himself, reaching inside to find the Opening of Hermes. Once he had done so, he drew the power of the nearest lamps to him, causing them to sputter and die. He placed a hand on the wall, feeling the room beyond. Three people waited within, none near the door. The room beyond was watchful, but not filled with anger or hostility. He tilted his head to one side, willing the sight away. It receded and he opened the door.
“Gentlemen,” he said to the three people within. “I trust you have something of importance to say to me. It is late, and I am tired.”
Gregorius Auricus nodded, standing to bow. At his side were two others; another of equal age, who Maxian realized with a start was the woman once known as Queen Theo-delinda of the short-lived Lombard state. The Emperor Ti-berianus had perished trying to drive her out of northern Italy. The other he did not know.
Gregorius gestured to his two companions, “the lady Theodelinda, an old friend of mine, and Nomeric, a fellow merchant, though he lives in Aquilea on the Mare Adria-ticum.”
Maxian nodded in greeting at each in turn. Theodelinda bowed and Nomeric nodded. The Prince put up his cloak and hat on pegs by the door and went into the small kitchen off of the sitting room. The palace servants had delivered a tray of cold sliced meats, flat bread, cheese, and some little dried fish. A stoppered bottle of wine completed the dinner. Maxian picked up the tray and returned to the main room. Once he had seated himself and taken a draft of the wine, he picked up one of the fish and began chewing it. He gestured to Gregorious Magnus to have his say.
“Well, my lord Caesar, I apologize for intruding on your solitude here, but some things had occurred to me since our discussion at the baths and I thought that I should share them with you. We shall not take a great deal of your time. Theode‘ and Nomeric I brought so that you would know the extent of the trouble that is brewing. I account them both good friends, though as you see, neither is a citizen. Theode’ was spared in the destruction of the Lombard state, accepting an amnesty and taking up residence in the hill-town of Florentia. I made her acquaintance through letters.
Nomeric at one time was the chancellor of the feodoratica of Magna Gothica in upper Pannonia.“
Maxian raised an eyebrow at this, for it was generally ill advised for members of the Imperial Household to be meeting at night in their chambers with high-ranking members of subject states, particularly Gothic ones. Gregorius, however, seemed to think that it was perfectly acceptable.