Thyatis' lips twitched, then she looked back across the deck. Now Vladimir had his arm out level and Betia had drawn herself up, arms stiff on his forearm, body balanced over his fist and was slowly swinging her legs up over her head. The muscles of her back and shoulders were sharp as razors. Vladimir watched with open appreciation, stiff with the effort of holding her entire weight with one arm. "Betia's not a maid."
"Ah-huh. Why bring her, then?" Nicholas scratched his head and Thyatis realized he was truly puzzled. She hid a sigh, thinking, but what do you expect? He has no idea what kind of training she's been through…
"She's our messenger, our spy in the marketplace, our quiet, hidden eyes in a crowded street." Thyatis pointed at the African and the Walach with the point of her blade. "Each tool to a purpose, my friend. Strength, size, speed, a deadly eye-not much use if you don't know where to go, who to kill, where to find a missing pouch of letters… our little Betia is worth her weight in gold, or more." She looked back at Nicholas, grinning. "You'll see."
"I suppose." Nicholas twisted the ends of his mustache in a nervous gesture. "You won't be worrying about her if things get hot, then? I would…"
"Are you going to worry about me?" Thyatis' voice settled into a professionally level tone. "Why would you worry about her and not about Vladimir? Or Mithridates?"
Nicholas made a face and raised a hand as if to deflect the question. "I see. We'll each take care of our own business."
"What we'll do," Thyatis said softly, eyes narrowed in a hard glare, "is trust each other. If any of us are in trouble, the others will help, but we won't assume Betia, or I, or you, require 'looking after.' Do you follow?"
"Yes," Nicholas said, rising from the deck. Thyatis could see he was irritated.
"Good," she said, rising as well. "Let's spar. I'm starting to feel rusty, sitting on this damp boat." She stepped back, clearing some space. The Indian steel blade gleamed in her hand, point drifting towards the deck, her grip light on the hilt.
Nicholas stared at her as though the seas had parted, revealing Typhon in all his awful glory. "What? You want to fight?"
"Yes," Thyatis said, letting her body relax into stance, shoulders level, rising up on the balls of her feet. It felt good, even to begin the proper exercise of form. The sword quivered, a seamless extension of her hand and will. "We need the practice-and the time will past the quicker for some honest sweat!"
Nicholas blinked, watching her, and he shook his head suddenly. "No-I won't. Not with bare steel! Let us take staves and spar with them instead." Thyatis saw his knuckles turning white on the hilt of the blade. He's afraid, she thought in amazement. Afraid he'll hurt me. How strange!
Chuckling, Thyatis sheathed her sword. Given the man's reaction, there was no point in pressing the matter. "Very well," she said. "The staff it is, then."
Relief flooded Nicholas' face and he tossed the scabbard to Vladimir, who had wandered over. The big Walach caught the weapon from the air with one hand. Mithridates was right behind him, Betia riding his shoulders, arms crossed on his bald head, pale legs tucked into his armpits. "Vlad-are there staves about?"
Thyatis rolled her neck, then deftly caught a length of oak tossed by the African. She spun the wooden staff in her hand, flipping it across her shoulders and into her other hand. Nicholas had his in hand as well and now his body relaxed into a fighting pose-not quite the same as Thyatis'. She saw he'd been trained by a master emphasizing power and the striking blow. She shifted her feet, turning a little away from him, hands sliding on the smooth wood. The hiss of bloodfire began to trickle through her and she grinned wide, feeling suddenly awake.
Nicholas began to circle, his feet very light on the deck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Villa of Swans, Roma Mater
Anastasia stood at the edge of her garden, watching one of the serving girls hurry down the steps from the kitchen, platters of spiced eggs balanced in either hand, weaving through a thick crowd of citizens and freedmen. The guests were lively, talking loudly, drinking heavily, taking full advantage of the liberal feast provided by the Duchess. The girl turned sideways, up on tiptoe, and slid between the enormous bulk of a grain merchant, his coterie of henna-haired "nieces" and a cluster of grim-faced Legion officers. The soldiers were drinking heavily, sitting glum and quiet on benches lining the colonnade around the heart of the villa.
The maid breezed past, through columns glowing with copper Hispanian lamps and strings of cut glass and down into the garden. The arbor was heavy with lanterns and the wooden bridge crossing the stream was lit from below with the flickering glow of dozens of candle boats. Even with the evening well advanced, the center of the house was filled with laughter and light. Despite the festive atmosphere, Anastasia was content to stand in the shadow of rowan trees hanging over the garden's edge; pale, perfect face stippled with distant lamplight, watching the ebb and flow of her guests. Her invitations-each hand delivered by a phalanx of slaves-had incited a huge response. The porters and door guards had been turning away eager guests at the morning meal, and by noon the front gates were closed and barred against an expectant crowd. Eager guests flooded into the house at the earliest opportunity-even before the bakers and cooks finished the first course of the evening-long dinner. Anastasia allowed herself a small smile-she may have been in mourning a long time, but she remembered how to entertain and Rome's fickle social memory had not yet forgotten her.
Today, I am novelty! she thought. Tomorrow? Day-old bread, a copper a loaf.
Rising voices in the great hall, eager, nervous and excited caught her ear. The Emperor? Anastasia checked her hair-flowing loose, in dark, glossy waves, only barely restrained by threads of pearl and gold-then her gown and stole. The dress was new and modest, as befitted such troubled times. Still, the slick fabric clung eagerly to her breasts and flowed over hip and thigh in a cascade of ultramarine Chin silk. The spark in men's eyes was reward enough, even if she felt positively demure.
Across the garden, a crowd of people in the main hall parted, some bowing. Anastasia's violet eyes narrowed and then she frowned. Not the Emperor. He's being fashionably late. She was disappointed. The so-current prince, and his… The Duchess scowled… consort? Companion? Private secretary?
Maxian entered, properly attired in a formal toga and tunic, only the traditional bare feet of the custos magicum departing from a patrician's ideal. Martina, hanging on his arm, hip pressed to his side, had not been limited by such social constraints. The Eastern Empress' usually plain brown hair was tightly curled and ornamented with brilliant jewels. Martina's gold-laced gown, silky transparent drape, her shoes-everything bespoke wealth and power. The Duchess grimaced, noting the possessive hand-studded with golden bracelets and glittering jewels-wrapped around Maxian's arm. The girl smiled brilliantly, and Anastasia's eyes narrowed. Bleached teeth? Where did she find a wizard to-where else? Ah, child-what am I to do with you?
Biting her thumb in annoyance, the Duchess strode out of the shadows and paused for a heartbeat at the top of the stairs. Not one head turned toward her. Everyone in the garden was focused on the prince and upon his too-brilliant companion. Schooling her face to genteel welcome, Anastasia descended to the grassy sward, the fingers of her left hand touching the edge of her scooped neckline.
"Lord Prince Maxian," she purred, gliding through the crowd of senators and their wives clogging the entrance to the main hall. "My lady, Empress Martina, welcome to my house." Anastasia caught the prince's eye, smiled warmly, then turned to the younger woman and bowed gracefully, taking her hand in greeting.