Shadow of Ararat

OSTIA MAXIMA, THE COAST OF LATIUM

The staccato of drums echoed off the brick buildings facing the great harbor of Trajan. Thyatis turned, shading her eyes against the late-afternoon sun as it slanted in golden beams through the remains of the rainclouds. Hundreds of ships, riding at anchor in the mile-wide hexagon of the Imperial Harbor, lit up, their colored sails gleaming in the perfect light. Seagulls circled overhead in the cool rain-washed air, cawing. Apollo and his chariot were preparing to descend beyond the western rim of the world in glorious display. The rainclouds were lit with purple and gold and reds in a thousand hues. A fresh breeze had sprung up, carrying the deep smell of the sea to her. The funk of the harbor was blown away, and with it the stinks of the city behind her.

“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.