Shadow of Ararat

THE SCHOOL OF PTHAMES

Near the flood time, when storms came racing out of the desert in fierce squalls and the wind carried the sweet scent of fresh rain striking the dust, Dwyrin was at last released from his dinner chores. He and some of the other boys, Kyllun among them, wheedled the gatekeeper into letting them go out to swim in the river. Ahmet they roused from his afternoon nap to watch over them. The master acceded to their bright eager faces and came, bringing a parasol and some scrolls he had been meaning to read again. The sun was bright, filling the sky, there was a little breeze, and even Ahmet was pleased at the thought of an excursion.

Downhill from the school, a path ran through the palms and thick reeds to the edge of the river. The boys ran in the sun, whooping and yelling, to the bank. A shelf of sand rose up there and ran against the shore, making a shallow, sheltered bay. Ahmet fanned himself as he settled under a palm. The boys were waiting eagerly by the shore. Ahmet looked up and down the river for suspicious logs, particularly those with eyes. He closed his own briefly, then nodded to the boys fidgeting behind him on the trail.

Dwyrin splashed into the water. He had not been swimming like this in a long time, not since his illicit visit to the temple of the Hawk lord. The river was forbidden to the boys, for other than the currents and deep holes, the sacred crocodiles lurked in its depths, always ready to take a sacrifice out of season. Sophos splashed water at him; Dwyrin cupped his hands and squirted back. Sophos yelled and leapt at him. Dwyrin danced aside, laughing.

The boat of Ra settled into the west, its naming wings touching the thin clouds, marking them with streamers of deep rose and violet. Ahmet looked up from the Libre Evion to see Dwyrin hurling through the air at the end of a long rope. At the top of his arc the boy let go and, with a wild whoop, plummeted into the river with a mighty splash. The other boys crowded around at the base of the overreaching palm that held the rope in its crown. Sophos caught the rope as it swung back and ran back up the bank. Ahmet smiled and turned back to the obscure passage he had been considering.

Dwyrin plunged deep into the murky brown water. His feet struck mud at the bottom and slid to a gelatinous stop., Surging upward, he kicked against the clinging mud. His arms thrust back, pushing him up. The mud failed to release him. Dwyrin surged again and felt the thick coils of mud claw up at his legs. He settled deeper. Far above he could see the boat of Ra shimmering through the water. He struggled. The water was cold around him. His arms worked frantically. His throat choked and he struggled to keep from breathing. His limbs were leaden. Water tickled at his nose.

On the bank, Ahmet looked up. There had been a momentary twinge at the edge of the ward that kept the crocodiles at bay. He put the scrolls aside and stood up. Sophos swung past in the air, yelling, and splashed into the water. The other boys jostled each other to catch the rope. Ahmet scanned the waters. Sophos burst up and swam strongly back to shore. The twinge came again. Ahmet reached out with the Eye to encompass the area.

Dwyrin gathered himself again, lungs straining, heart pounding like his father’s forge hammer, and thrust down with his arms, his legs hanging limp, trapped in deep mud. Again he strove and sank only deeper. Gods, he wailed in his mind, free me! A dark haze clouded his mind. His ears were filled with pain and he desperately wanted to breathe in. Fear washed up in him, eroding his concentration. He began reciting the settling meditation. If he would go, he would go at peace.

A dark shape arrowed through the water toward him. Dwyrin swung to face it as it came surging through the thick silt. Ahmet’s face appeared out of the dimness and his strong brown arms swept the boy up. Ahmet kicked his legs and the boy came loose, sucking out of the muck like a reed shoot. Together they shot toward the surface.

The office of the master of the school was dark and close, its walls hung with long papyrus scrolls, each unrolled from ceiling to floor. On them gods and goddesses, demons and kings, priests and devils looked down with wide staring eyes. Ahmet knelt on the clean-swept stones, his sandals behind him at the edge of the door. His long dark hair, tied back now in a brass clasp, hung damply over his shoulder. His eyes were fixed on the narrow cracks between the paving stones. His hands rested on his knees.

The headmaster tapped a message scroll bound in twine interwoven with purple string against the edge of the low desk. He was slight, with smoothly carved features. His eyes, tucked back under yellow-white brows, were sharp and bright. His long nose betrayed his Nabatean parentage. His thin hands, veined and spidery, picked idly at the edge of the heavy embossed wax seal on the message tube.

“You felt, then, something brush against the ward. Could this have been someone working against the boy? A rival of his clan? A personal enemy?”

Ahmet looked up, his clear brown eyes calm. “No, master, the boy is of no family of import. Neither ransom nor advantage could be gained from his death or suffering. His father is a blacksmith in distant Hibernia. His family is poor. They would have no enemies here.”

The headmaster raised an eyebrow at this. “Poor and a barbarian? How did he come to the school, then?”

Ahmet shrugged, spreading his thin-fingered hands.

“Imperial witch-hunters found him. They paid the bounty to his family and sent him here. The Office of Thaumaturgy out of Alexandria pays for his tuition. We have five or six such boys among the younger students.”

The master pursed his thin lips and tapped the scroll tube against his chin. His eyes narrowed as he eyed the wall carvings and paintings. He turned back to the dormitory master who knelt before him. A smile briefly creased the deep lines around his eyes. “Someone then, within the school. A jealous student? A local, angered by some slight?” The master pushed the tube into the woven basket at the end of the desk. It would wait.

Ahmet was silent, considering. “The boy, Dwyrin, is not unpopular among his fellows. There is one who might hold a personal grudge, but he is a second-year student as well, with no power to speak of.”

The headmaster’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward over the desk, resting his thin arms on the dark fine-grained paneling. “Who holds this ‘grudge’? Why have you not informed me of this before?”

“The matter is truly of little import, master. The Hibernian boy slipped out after curfew a few months ago and stole some oranges from the orchards by the river. When he returned he tried to make it seem that one of the other boys was the culprit instead. I caught the Hibernian, of course, but not before I had switched the other boy.”

“For this… switching… the other boy holds a grudge? Who is this other boy?” The headmaster’s eyes narrowed. Ahmet looked away, finding the shadowed corners of the room very interesting.

“Speak, Ahmet.”

“Kyllun of Cilicia, master.”

There was a hiss of breath, almost unheard. Ahmet flinched inwardly.

“The Macedonian praetor’s son? By Horus, Ahmet, you were given strict instructions to treat that one with gloves of silk! His father is notorious for his temper. Sending his son here, to our little school, is a mark of favor that we cannot refuse.“

The headmaster settled back in his chair, sinking into the deep cotton cushions. His eyes flicked back to the message scroll. “Tell me of these two boys, everything, how are their grades, who is better in the classroom, who is the quickest, everything, Ahmet, everything.”

“Well,” Ahmet began, “first there are three boys involved, not just two…”

Ra had fallen behind the western horizon, carried on his boat of light into the underworld, by the time that Ahmet finished. At last, after a long moment of silence, the headmaster rose from the chair and paced beside the desk, bare feet slapping softly on the dark stones. Ahmet remained kneeling. His hands were damp again. He fought down the urge to wipe them on his kilt. the headmaster stopped before one of the scrolls showing the tributes given Pharaoh by the princes of Meroe. Gazelles, ibis, hippopotami, ibex, and all kinds of creatures paraded across its crinkled surface. He turned to the junior boys’ dormitory master, his thin lips pursed. “Tomorrow, Ahmet, you will take the Hibernian boy into the temple, down into the deeps, to the vaults of initiation, and you will elevate him to the second sphere of opening. You will invest him with all the graces and powers that go with such state, you will gift him with the third eye of perception. You will invoke the power that lies sleeping in his heart. You will make him one of us, the illuminated ones.”

Ahmet stared, eyes wide with surprise, at the thin figure of the master. The headmaster’s voice, thick and heavy, still rippled and throbbed in the air around him.

“Master,” he said, almost choking, “the boy is not ready! He is only a second-year student, no better or worse than any of his classmates. He has improved of late, true, but no more than, say, Patroclus of Archimedea. He still has two years to go to be initiated in such a manner!”

“Yes, but you will take him into the deeps of the temple tomorrow and you will make of him a sorcerer of the second order. By my will, I have spoken and you will obey.”

Ahmet bowed his head. The master of the school was the master of the school and Ahmet had sworn an oath to obey him. The master gestured for Ahmet to rise and gripped the young man’s shoulder with his own gnarled hand.

“If the boy cannot survive the passage to the second sphere his death will be on my head, not yours. I have ordered and you have obeyed. Go with a clear heart, my young friend, and be glad for this youth, who will make such great strides into our world.”

The master smiled, eyes crinkling up, lips twitching, but Ahmet did not respond in kind. He bowed and stepped out of the room through the woven reed curtains. His face was still and composed. Outside, Ahmet bowed to the secretary squatting by the doorway, pens and papyrus sheets near to hand.

“Honored N?s, send word to the keepers of the vaults that tomorrow at full sun I will come to them with one who will ascend, Ra and Thoth willing.”

The secretary bowed his shaven head and began writing the messages that would have to be sent.

Dwyrin woke, head grainy with fatigue, limbs leaden. He had not slept well, tossing and turning, unable to find his way into the realm of Morpheus. It was very early, the thin dawn light gray in weak bands between the slats of the window coverings. The muted rumbling of snoring boys surrounded him. He rolled over and started, coming fully awake. At the foot of his bed stood a tall figure in a long checkered cloak of red and black. A sun-disk of bronze gleamed in the pale light on the broad smooth chest. The figure’s head was curving and black with a long neck and sharp bill. Deep black eyes, shining like marble in water, glittered under the overreaching hood.

Dwyrin’s eyes widened and he scooted back in the bed, his flesh crawling at the sight of one of the temple figures come to life.

“Come,” a deep sepulchral voice rumbled. “Osiris summons you to the depths of Tuat.” The figure extended a hand, wrapped in dark black and gray cloth, ending in a three-fingered claw. “Come, Dwyrin MacDonald.” Dwyrin stared in horror at the apparition. His mind refused to work. The figure gestured, its robes making a soft whispering sound. Two shorter forms emerged from the darkness beyond it: squat manlike things, faceless and dark. Their bodies were ebony and patterned with whorls and lines. They grasped Dwyrin by his arms and lifted him silently from his bed. Dwyrin, frozen with fear, could not cry out as they carried him, led by the tall crane-headed figure, out of the dormitory.

In the early dawn the compound of the school was quiet. No birds sang, no chatter of voices came from the kitchens. All lay clear and still under a pale pink sky. The two faceless men carried Dwyrin past the main building and under an arcade of pillars that separated it from the library. Down a flight of steps into the rear gardens, and down a path of flagstones to the rear gate. There, in deep shadows underneath the thick hibiscus and yellowvine, Dwyrin glimpsed a short figure, standing with a tall staff, wrapped in white and pale blue. But then the figure disappeared from view and the thick gate swung open, outward, and the faceless men carried him on, soundlessly, into the scattered brush and trees.

Beyond the belt of palms and brush behind the school the faceless men put Dwyrin down. The crane-headed figure pointed to a trail that led out of the brushland and up, into the jumbled rocks and spires of the hills that crouched behind the narrow river plain. Dwyrin stared up at the crane in concern.

“Go,” the deep voice echoed. “Go to the doorways of the dead. We will follow.”

Dwyrin looked around. The tumbled red boulders were at last being picked out in gold and saffron as Ra climbed into the eastern sky. In this clearer light, with a cool wind from the west brushing past, Dwyrin saw that the crane-man was richly attired, with golden bracelets on his arms and garments of thick brocade. On his chest hung a bronze sun disk, now gleaming in the pale sunlight. The crane-head was sleek and black, with red stripes running back from the deep-set, gleaming eyes. His skin was dark-hued and polished like mahogany. The hands of the crane were thick and powerful, each with three fingers. One of those now pointed up the trail into the hills. The faceless men had disappeared.

Dwyrin turned and began walking, his bare feet cold on the stones and pebbles. The trail wound up, through a narrow canyon choked with brush and spiny plants. Their branches cut at Dwyrin’s legs and the steepness of the ascent made him short of breath. At the top of the canyon, the trail turned left under a rising cliff and slipped between two great boulders, each streaked with red and white in sloping patterns. Dwyrin stepped under the overhang and into a bowl-shape chamber, open to the sky above. In the sky, as Dwyrin looked up, he saw vultures circling and thin streamers of cloud painted pale pink and cream. The roof of the world was brightening.

Before him, on the other side of the bowl, seven tall doors were hewn from the rock. At the side of each an inset carving depicted a creature from the temple. Seven gates with seven gods of old. Dwyrin felt the crane step close behind him.

“Choose,” it whispered. “Choose an entrance to your fate.”

Dwyrin stepped forward over the tumbled thin plates of shale that littered the floor of the chamber, to the door guarded by the hawk-headed man. Within the shadowed entrance a door of stone swung open. Warm air blew in his face, carrying the smell of thyme, cinnabar, and cinnamon.

Figures waited within, with smiling faces and open arms. Dwyrin felt a push at his back and he was among them, stumbling.

The stone door closed silently behind him. Attendants emerged out of the darkness and Dwyrin, in the flickering torchlight, could see that they were men, but their faces were carved into welcoming smiles and the eyes that stared out from the mask were dead and lifeless. Their hands fluttered about him lightly and drew his sleeping tunic away. He spun about, looking for the crane-man, but it was gone. The attendants circled him and nudged him with light fingers toward a great portal that stood on the far side of the hall. To either side, lining the walls, great seated figures loomed in the darkness, fitfully lit by the torches burning at their feet. The smell of incense was strong in the air.

Distantly there was a low wavering chant and the deep boom of drums. Dwyrin shivered, though the air was warm. The attendants urged him onward, through the great doors that stood at the end of the hall. Beyond them, he found himself in a tile-floored room overlooking, through a broad window, a great city of gold roofs and silver buildings and green trees that spread away as far as the eye could see. Dwyrin stopped, stunned by the sight of glittering blue lakes, green lush fields and a full sun high in the heavens.

“That is not for you yet,” the deep voice of the crane said from behind him. “This is your path,” it said, turning Dwyrin from the vision of the city of gold to a narrow stairway that led down from the room to the left-hand side.

“Here are your servants,” the crane said, “to garb you in the raiment of the initiated. They will anoint you with sacred oils, lave your feet, prepare you to descend into the depths.” Dwyrin, looking into the deep eyes of the crane, felt the attendants wrap a kilt around his waist, place a tunic across his shoulders, rub his arms and legs with oils and scented water. Thick smokes drifted up around him and he breathed deeply, his head oddly light. A chant began as the crane stepped back.

“Go you down now, into the realm of darkness.”

Dwyrin stepped forward to the head of the stairs. Narrow and steep, they wound down into the heart of the earth. He placed his foot on the first step.

“Go you down now, into the realm of the guardians.”

The light of the torches passed away, and he descended by feel. The air throbbed around him with the chanting of the attendants and the strong distant voice of the crane.

“Go you down now, beyond light, beyond sight, beyond hearing.”

Fumes and vapors rose up around him. The walls fell away on either side.

“Go you down now, into sightlessness, into blindness,: into nothingness.”

The stair steps ceased and Dwyrin walked in darkness, across a smooth floor covered with fine grains of sand.

“Go you down now, into the heart of the earth.”

Darkness was absolute. Hazy veils of light began to shimmer across his vision, but he held his eyes closed now. Bright pinpoints of blue and gold and emerald drifted before him.

“Go you down now, letting body slide away, leaving only ka, only sekhem.”

The floor slipped away and Dwyrin moved forward in a swirling realm of subtle light and form.

“Go you down now, into eternity, into infinity, into nothingness.”

Out of the void and chaos of colors and shifting shapes, a throne of basalt rose, and upon it sat a massive, gargantuan figure of a bearded man clad in the symbols of a king.

“Go you down now, into light, into freedom, into all things.”

Dwyrin stood before the ancient king in a swirl of colors and light. The king leaned toward him and spoke, but no sound came from that mouth, only colors and shapes and tones of music. They washed over Dwyrin and he felt something suddenly burst within himself. Fire uncoiled in his stomach and rushed out of him in all directions. Crying out, he fell backward, unable to move. Flames leapt from his fingertips, his eyes, from his mouth. His body burned away, leaving only a clear self behind. The giant king settled back in his throne and raised an ankh-scepter before him. Atop it, a great eye opened and Dwyrin’s clear self rushed toward it. In his mind, Dwyrin wailed as his ka began to shred away in that mighty wind.

In the distance, beyond the colors, Dwyrin heard the voice of the crane shouting, but he could not make out what it was saying. His self was slipping away, peeled back layer by layer by the great shining eye. Dwyrin began to feel an overbearing fear. He would be nothing, his mind shouted, nothing] He would be stripped away and there would be oblivion, no Dwyrin left at all.

/ am not ruled by fear, he thought, and began to chant the meditation of centering and mind-clearing that they had learned in the school. As he did, the fires in his hands and feet began to burn again, and he faltered, but picked up again. The voice of Ahmet, as from a far place, echoed in himself. A mind that is free from fear has all power over all things. The fires burned hotter and Dwyrin despaired, but now the fires drew the swirling light and color into him. His heart leapt and he passed into the meditation of the First Opening of Hermes, that which allowed the students to perceive the dim outlines of the true world.

His body was formed of flame, bright as a star, and the uncoiling thing within him now swirled up his spine and into his head. There was a tearing sensation and Dwyrin felt his forehead, wrapped in flame and light and color, burst open. A golden radiance filled him and the room of the throne. The giant king lowered the scepter and all dissolved into formless chaos, riven with darkness and nothingness.

Dwyrin felt his knees strike a cold stone floor and his arms, strengthless, tumbled before him. His body was shaking. Two strong arms seized him and bore him up. He was clasped to a warm chest and dark scented hair fell about him. Dwyrin sobbed and buried his head in the shoulder of the man. Tears streamed from his face.

“Hush now, lad, you’ll be fine,”“ the crane said with the voice of Ahmet, holding him fiercely close. The crane-man rose from the darkened floor, carrying the boy, and retraced his steps through the winding tunnels and passages of the labyrinth.

Ra was full in the sky when Ahmet returned to the garden gate, nudging it open with his foot. The raiment of the crane guide he had returned to its sandal wood chest in the chambers overlooking the city of gold. Dwyrin slept, exhausted, in his arms. Now the morning silence was broken by the clatter of the cooks, the chanting of the novices and their masters in the temple. Unnoticed, the young master strode up the long steps from the garden and into the shadowed passage that led to the master’s quarters. His own small cell was lit with dim cool light as he entered. He laid the Hibernian boy on his narrow cot and spread the thin quilt over him. Dwyrin remained deeply asleep. Ahmet looked down upon him with a sad, drawn expression on his face. Shaking his head to clear dark thoughts, Ahmet closed the door and strode off toward the kitchens. Breakfast would be late.

Ahmet sat alone in the long hall that served as the refectory for the masters. The tables were bare and empty, some still gleaming with water from their cleaning after breakfast. He had convinced the cooks to give him a bowl of porridge with figs. An earthenware mug of water stood at his left hand. He spooned the meal, sweetened with honey, into his mouth.

“The boy lives,” came a voice from behind him. Ahmet nodded, continuing to eat. There was a shuffling and the creak of the bench as the headmaster sat down next to him.

Ahmet could feel the eyes of the old man upon him. He did not turn, draining the mug of water.

“He will sleep two, maybe three, days. Then he will be hale again.” Ahmet turned slightly; the old man was looking up at the mural on the ceiling.

“I will have a place prepared for him in the second circle apprentices’ quarters,” Ahmet said. The master turned then, his eyes shadowed in the dim hall.

“No, that will not be necessary,” he said, his voice thin and quiet.

Ahmet rose up slightly, his eyes narrowed, his lips tight.

“What do you mean?” he whispered.

The headmaster reached into his loose robe with a narrow, gnarled hand and drew out a message tube, pale white and bound with a coiling piece* of purple and tan twine. He placed it on the tabletop, halfway between himself and Ahmet.

Ahmet nudged it with his finger. “What is this?”

“A letter of request from the exarch of Alexandria to this school, a request for a second-tier sorcerer to complete the levy upon Egypt to satisfy the demands of the Eastern Emperor.”

“What? What demands of the Emperor?” Ahmet was incredulous, his voice rising.

“Quiet, quiet, young master. There is no explanation here, only the request that we supply one second tier sorcerer to meet the levy. I have been unable to learn anything more from my colleagues at the Karnak school, or in Alexandria itself. The tribune has made the same demand, in varying degree, upon all of the schools and temples in the province.”

The master placed a hand on Ahmet’s shoulder, pushing him gently back down onto the bench. “We are neither over- nor underfavored by this, Ahmet. All of the schools have been levied and all are equally unhappy. Unfortunately, ours is one of the smallest schools, with few masters and a limited number of students. I cannot afford to send a journeyman, or even one of the more advanced apprentices.“

Now Ahmet did rise up, pushing back the bench, his face flushing with rage.

“So you send a boy, a youth without even a fringe of beard? He will go to the Legions, you know, he will serve with those who are ten or twenty years his senior. He will vanish, swallowed up, consumed alive by fire or sorcery, disease…” The master nodded, his face graven with deep lines. Ahmet slumped into the bench, speechless.

“I grieve for the boy, too. But with the trouble that he has caused, and the ramifications for the school, I think that this is the best way, perhaps even for him.” The headmaster gripped Ahmet’s broad shoulders with his hands, setting him upright.

“You have taught him well, Ahmet. His spirit is strong, he is not untalented in the arts, his mind is quick. I pray he will flourish there, springing up anew in some foreign soil to blossom and prosper.”

“No,” Ahmet said, his voice low, “he will die, body and mind consumed by some enemies’ enchantment. He has barely the skills necessary to perceive the true world, much less manipulate it. In the Legion, he will be overtaxed and burned out like a reed taper. You are sending him to certain death.”

With this Ahmet rose, and walked quickly out of the refectory. Behind him, the headmaster bowed his head for a moment and then, squaring his shoulders, rose to return to his own duties.

Thyatis rubbed one tan finger idly along the partially healed scab that ran just under her hairline. The uneven jouncing of the litter made it difficult, but no more so than walking on the deck of a galley on the open sea. The thick muslin curtains of the litter rustled in the breeze and she nudged the near side open a crack. Beyond the muslin, a light cotton drape embroidered with fanciful octopi and dolphins provided a secondary screen to deny passersby view into her sanctuary. All around her, faint but unmistakable in the late spring air, were the sounds of the greatest city in the world preparing to take the afternoon off. Thyatis’ thin nose twitched a little as the breeze caught the shoulder of the nearest Nubian bearer, bringing a musky odor of sweat and cinnamon to her.

/ should be walking, she snarled to herself in her mind. / am not some delicate Palatine daughter to be carted around like a hod of bricks.

Despite an irrational urge to throw the curtains aside and leap out into the street, she remained in the litter. She smoothed the fine linen dress down over the sleek muscles of her thighs and concentrated on appearing demure and inoffensive.

The litter paused and the lead slave rapped lightly on the recessed oaken door of the house with the bronze-shod head of his walking stick. Thyatis checked the slim knife that she had strapped to the inside of her right thigh. It was secure and invisible. The litter lurched forward again as the door swung wide. She breathed softly and evenly through her nose. No more time for thinking.

This is my patron, she thought, not an enemy in the warren of the city or a shark in the green waters of Thira. I am in no danger. No danger.

The architrave of the entrance hall vaulted high above them as the doormen helped her out of the litter. A little stunned by the size of the hallway, Thyatis did not resist as they led her forward, soundlessly, over a vast expanse of seamless sea-foam pale marble. The panels inset in the ceiling were painted with more dolphins, mermaids, eels, and sharks. Watery streams of light fell through blue and green glass panels high on the dome of the atrium. The air seemed to shimmer in the dim light. Pale cream walls rose up, unadorned, to reach the base of the dome. A light current of air brushed over her, stirring her hair. At the end of the entrance hall, lit by slanting beams of afternoon sunlight, a monumental reclining Poseidon took his ease in lightly painted marble. Sea nymphs and porpoises surrounded and supported him as he rested. At the base, waves of stone crashed upward from the massive plinth that supported the entire statue.

Oh, my dear, Thyatis thought, this is surely not Pater’s farm!

Her eyes widened as the servants preceded her the length of the hall from the atrium to the seat of the sea king. Though the figure was fully three times life size, the artistry of the painters’ work was unparalleled. The black curls of his hair seemed to fall so naturally, the pale pink of his skin throbbed with life. The lips of the sea nymphs blushed a pale rose, like the most delicate flowers.

“Magnificent, isn’t he?” came a husky voice, breaking the silence. Thyatis turned slowly, nerves taut, her peripheral vision catching the flutter of the servants as they bowed themselves away from her. To the right of the statue, a set of steps descended in broad arcs to an interior garden. A tall woman stood on the topmost step, her raven-dark hair spilling down her back in a glorious cascade of loose curls. Tiny golden pins glittered like stars against the firmament of her hair. A shimmering deep blue-black dress of silk clung eagerly to her figure. Thin necklaces of pearl and raw red gold plunged from her neck to vanish in the soft darkness between her breasts. Thyatis suppressed a momentary urge to gape in awe at the expense of such a garment. The raw silk alone would have done to purchase the province of Pannonia. The lush red lips quirked in amusement, and Thyatis struggled to keep her composure as she realized that her opinion was all too clear to the pair of deep-violet eyes that surveyed her from beneath eyelids lightly dusted with gold.

“Come, my dear, join me in the garden.”

The woman turned, showing an alarming expanse of supple white back in the scoop-backed gown. One long-fingered hand gestured idly to the nearest servant and the man disappeared back down the undersea gloom of the hallway. Thyatis followed the woman down the steps, marveling at her hostess’s movement. She seemed to glide, not walk, and though Thyatis accounted herself sure on her feet, she felt clumsy and hesitant beside the monumental self-assurance of the other woman.

Beyond tall glass-paned doors of bronze and silver a low garden lay, subtly lit in the afternoon sun. Tall rowan trees rose above the tile roofs of the building that surrounded it. An almost invisible canopy of thin filmy fabric covered the open sky, muting the light of the sun. A small brook trickled through an immaculately kept lawn, guided between carefully placed stones. A tiled walkway led across the stream and into a bower that covered the northern half of the garden. Thyatis crossed the little wooden bridge and paused momentarily, as she suddenly became aware of the light sound of harp strings and the whisper of a lute. An air of peaceful repose lapped around her, languid and warm.

The dark-haired woman settled on a couch that was placed in the bower and gestured for her guest to sit upon cushions laid at the foot of the divan. Thyatis found herself almost frozen in apprehension by the understated but absolutely unmistakable display of vast wealth that surrounded her.

“Come, come, dear. Krista will bring us something light to eat and you and I will talk.”

The languid, almost hoarse voice stirred Thyatis from her panicked stillness. With a fierce effort of will,- she forced herself to walk to the cushions and settle there, cross-legged, amid them.

The hostess laughed, a cultivated sound, like summer rain on a tile roof. She leaned back on the divan, resting her round white arm on the cushions. “You are in no danger here, my dear, you are under my protection and in my service. I do not harm my servants, particularly ones who do me such good work.” The woman smiled, her perfect cheeks dimpling. Against her will, Thyatis found the charm of the woman eating away at her battle tension.

“Forgive me for prattling, but certain things must be clear between us,” continued the mistress of the household. “I am the Duchess Anastasia de’Orelio, a lady of the Roman city of Parma. You are Thyatis Julia of the house of Clodia, a hitherto unremarkable clan of Roman landowners. You have been my ward and employee for five years, though we have never conversed before today. I must apologize for taking so long to see you-you are one of my children, under the letter of the law-but it seemed best.”

Thyatis bowed her head to cover a start of surprise. She had not realized that she had been adopted into her patron’s household. An odd mixture of relief and sadness washed over her. She had a place in the world after all.

Anastasia laughed again, genuinely. “And you are very polite for a young woman of your background and skills.”

The Duchess’s eyes sharpened as Thyatis looked up with a calm expression. Silver chains composed of hundreds of tiny perfectly formed links rustled on her wrist as the older woman waved a finger around the courtyard and garden.

“This did not come to a silly or stupid person,” she said. “It came to me because I was-I am-quick of thought, light of wit, and have a very good memory.” Thyatis looked up, her mouth twitching in amusement.

“Ah,” said the Duchess, “Krista is here at last.”

Thyatis turned and observed a young woman crossing the bridge. She wore a simple white shift, though it was of a good fabric and edged with a pale-orange trim. Like Thyatis she was a deep tan, with her dark red-brown hair done up in coiled braids. At first sight, there was something of the Duchess’s look to her dark eyes and lips, but Thyatis saw that they were not blood relations. The girl was a slave, marked by a thin jeweled collar and a barely subservient attitude. In her hands, she bore a broad bronze platter filled with cheese, fruit, and bread. Bowing prettily, she placed the food before the Duchess and knelt on the grass. Unbidden, she opened two small ceramic crocks, one of jam and one of fresh butter. Thyatis realized that she was quite hungry. The summons to meet her unseen and unmentioned employer had come at dawn, and breakfast had been a forgotten detail in a busy morning.

“Now, Krista, look at this young lady and tell me if she can be made more attractive than she is already.”

Krista did not speak for a moment, completing the preparation of Jhe bread and butter, which she offered first on a porcelain dish to Anastasia, who gravely accepted a single piece, and then to Thyatis, who restrained herself mightily and took only two. The slave sat back on her haunches and appraised the visitor with sharp brown eyes.

“Well, her breasts are large enough, I suppose,” she began.

Thyatis was still smarting at the cool commentary of the slave hours later when she at last emerged from the baths that were sequestered under the villa. While she had waited in increasingly furious silence, the slave had detailed all of her obvious and not-so-obvious failings at the prompting and delight of her mistress. After two hours of discussion during which Thyatis felt ever more like an insensate lump, at last they concluded. Anastasia had bidden Krista take her guest to the baths and then make her presentable for evening company. It had taken every scrap of control not to clip the smug little girl behind the knees once they were out of sight of the garden and then ram her perfect little face into the nearest stucco column repeatedly until Thyatis felt better. But she had not, and had suffered the attentions of the bath servants in grim silence.

Indeed, Krista had joined the attendants in preparing her hair and anointing her face, arms, and shoulders with subtle powders and dyes. The skilled fingers of the girl were a wonder, and Thyatis at last, grudgingly, felt the tension that had ridden with her all day seep away into the soapy warm water. At least I have breasts you can see, she grumbled to herself as the dressing attendants arrayed her in a simple-looking green gown and understated jewelry. One held up a mirror for her and she was amazed to see what looked back out at her. Maybe, maybe there is something to all this, she thought.

For a moment, the servants and slaves left her sitting alone on a bench set into a casement window. Velvet pillows edged with seed pearls surrounded her, but the stones were still cold under her hands. Below her, th$ steep side of the house looked down on rooftops below and a scattering of firelights in the gathering evening gloom. The sky was still flushed with sunset.

So much like Thira at dusk, she thought, thinking of the school she had labored in for four years. She felt very sad and empty for a moment, missing the clear blue waters of the sea around the island and the simple, almost pure life within its marble walls. Her fingers tested the weave of the gown, feeling the lushness of the fabric. Fingertips brushed against the necklace of gold and the jewels that were buried in it.

This dress is the price of Pater’s whole farmstead, she thought, and the bleak memory that rose in her mind’s eye brought tears to her eyes. The bracelets and rings would buy and sell her brothers and sisters ten times over. Why did I escape! She wailed silently to herself.

The moment was broken by a light touch on her shoulder and she looked up into Krista’s brown eyes. “Don’t cry, mistress,” the girl whispered, concern in her voice, “you’ll ruin the makeup.” Thyatis nodded and stood up. The slave checked her hairpins, the drape of the gown, and anointed her with one last dust of facial powder. “Please follow me, the Duchess is waiting.”

Thyatis eased back fractionally from the low table that still held a variety of dishes. Porcelain Chin plates and bowls gleamed under the shuttered lanterns, blue and gold etched designs crawling out from under the remains of roasted grouse, walnut-stuffed dormice, three kinds of grilled fish, two kinds of salad, and the shattered remains of an army of sliced fruits dusted with honey-sugar. For a moment she closed her eyes and savored the subtle taste of the spices in the cream custard she had just finished.

Across the table, Anastasia delicately peeled a plum and sliced it into thin strips with the edge of a fingernail. The Duchess smiled fondly down at Krista, who knelt at her side. Her languid gaze on Thyatis, she idly fed the slices to the girl one by one. Thyatis shuddered as the violet eyes assessed her. She felt alone and close to some unknown danger. Yawning, she stretched and shifted amid the pillows, her right leg sliding out and flexing. Her right hand dropped down to rest on her thigh, only inches from the knife she had managed to keep with her through three changes of clothing and a bath.

Anastasia finished with the plum and waited a moment while the slave washed and dried her hands with a soft towel. This done, the girl gathered up the plates and removed them in almost complete silence. When the last tinkle and clatter had died away, the Duchess stood up and moved to the low wall that separated the dining platform from the edge of the tower wall. Thyatis took the moment to shift again, bringing her feet under her. For a long time the older woman stood, at the railing, staring out over the roofs of her own townhouse, its garden, the stables behind it.

Her house stood on the edge of the Quirinal hill, raised up both by nature and man. Below her the city spread away in darkness toward the Tiber. The blaze of lights of the Forum stood to her left beyond the bulk of the mausoleums and temples. The other hills of the city were a sprinkling of lantern lights, bonfires, and torchlight. At last she drew the drapes, closing in the little dining deck that rode atop the highest building in her town estate-no more than seven paces across, a rich wood-lined summer room with a tiled roof and sconces of black iron to hold the torches and lanterns. Despite the season, a cool breeze ruffled the cotton drapes. Anastasia knelt again at the table and poured new wine from the amphora into her cup, and then Thyatis‘.

“The city seems so empty now,” she said, her voice even and unconcerned. ‘The plague took so many.“ She paused. ”Of course, the poor suffered the most, and it was before you came to the city.“

The Duchess sipped her wine.

“I was newly married then, to the Duke, and he brought me to the city from his estates in the north. He wanted to see the theater and speak with his friends and patrons at the Offices.” She drank again.

“He died, of course, when the coughing sickness came. No, that was later. It must have been the bad one that killed him, the one that made you drink and drink yet hold nothing. Yes, he was the one who died in the night, not the day.” Thyatis sat very still, her eyes watching her hostess like a hunting bird. The Duchess was speaking dreamily, almost as if the words were spilling from her lips unbidden.

“No matter, as I said, it was before your time in the city. Come, drink with me.”

Thyatis raised the cup to her lips, but only wetted them with the dusky red Falernian.

“I remember the first day that you came to the city,” Anastasia said, smiling quietly.

Thyatis struggled to keep surprise from her face. She barely remembered that first day-only a confused memory of blinding sun, the crack of a whip, hoarse shouts, horrible fear, and the taste of blood in her mouth.

“You were in a coffle with twenty or thirty others brought in from the provinces, hands bound behind your back, only a slip of a girl in rags. Just one of dozens of children sold to the market to pay the debts of a poor family. You had pretty hair, though of course it was matted and rough. Your legs were strong and you had not surrendered yourself yet. That struck me the most, I think, that you were so new to the chain that you had neither received a brand nor had the life beaten out of your eyes.”

Thyatis blinked, coming back from a distant grim memory. In the moment of inattention, Anastasia had moved around the table and now knelt at her side, long fingers running through the younger woman’s hair. Thyatis struggled to keep from flinching away.

“Your hair is much nicer now,” she said, brushing it back from Thyatis’ high cheekbone and neck. “You are better kept.” Anastasia rose and returned to the other side of the table. Now she sat, wide awaked no longer dreaming of ancient days. “There is work for you.”

The older woman paused, thinking, then continued: “The state has come to a critical period. The Emperor sits easily upon his throne here in Rome, all of his enemies in the West humbled. The people have recovered some of their spirit that was lost in the plagues and the civil war. The fisc, of a wonder, maintains a surplus of coin, and the provinces are beginning to be profitable once again. Despite the unmitigated disasters of the last three hundred years, the Empire has survived and even, now, prospers. It is a dangerous time for the Senate and people of Rome.”

Thyatis raised an eyebrow at this last statement. Anastasia I nodded, her lips quirking in a quick smile. “No greater trouble has ever come to Rome than under the reign of an Emperor without pressing concerns. It is in such times, when the future seems unlimited and rosy, that grand plans and visions intrude into the business of maintaining a vast state, stretching thousands of miles from the dark forests of Britain to the sands of Africa. Experience shows, again and again, that the hubris of the Emperor-flie quest for some unguessable destiny-is a sure road to disaster. We are now at such a point again as faced the Divine Caesar or the great Emperor Trajan or the first Aurelian. It seems like the tide, repeated over and over again.”

Anastasia paused, pulling her hair back and binding it in a loose fillet of dark blue silk. In the dim light of the lanterns, and now the moon peeking through the gauze drapes, she seemed burdened by a great weight. Her hair tied, she | lay back among the cushions.

“If this is the will of the gods, there is nothing that a mortal can do. But if this is the doing of men, of their ego, of their vanity, then there is much that a mortal woman can do. There is much that I can do. There are things that you can do.” Anastasia’s voice was a low burr, echoing from the peaked roof of the little room.

“I serve the Emperor, though I have no office. All those who serve me serve him, and through him the Empire itself. We operate outside of the strictures of the law, as you did so recently in the dyers’ district. I have known the Emperor for a long time, and he has my complete loyalty. Yet…”

She stopped and sat up. Thyatis put down the cup of wine, meeting her gaze.

“What do you know of the Emperor and his brothers?” Anastasia asked.

Thyatis shrugged. “What anyone knows. Galen is Emperor and God. His younger brothers, Aurelian and Maxian, are his left and right arms, extending his reach to all corners of the Empire. In time, when Galen dies,- Aurelian will take his place on the Purple and will become a god himself. One presumes that Maxian will serve him as well.“

The older woman sighed, shaking her head. “To be expected, I suppose. Let me tell you of them:

“Primus, Martius Galen Atreus is our Emperor and God. He is the Emperor of the West, as decreed by the Divine Diocletian in the separation of the greater Empire into two halves. I do not know if your studies covered history, but this was done to resolve problems of rule that the old Empire experienced due to its sheer size. Galen is the son of a regional governor, Sextus Varius Atreus, who was long the administrator of the region of Gallia Narbonensis in southern Gaul. During the most recent civil war, Galen and his brothers were successful in leading the Spanish and African legions against the other pretenders, Vatrix and Lucius Niger, to capture Rome and drive out the Franks and Goths.

Anastasia paused and sighed.

“Even dreadful events can bear good tidings with them. The plague that took so many Romans slaughtered the Frankish and Gothic tribes. Too, the principalities beyond the Rhine frontier have grown strong enough to halt the advance of the tribes farther east. Galen was very lucky in battle to win the Purple. He is, to my experience, wise and cunning. He seems to understand the mechanisms of rule as well as any Emperor in the last two centuries. That he has two capable siblings who have not, yet, conspired against him, bodes well.

“Secondus, the next younger brother, Aurelian Octavian Atreus. A brave fellow, though well nigh heedless in battle-some would say the perfect commander of the equites. Well loved of his elder brother. By all accounts and experience, he is utterly loyal to Galen and to the Empire. It is he who will be our next Emperor, for Galen has yet to have any children. Aurelian, on the other hand, has a thriv ing brood of yelling brats, all as strong as horses and as much like their father as peas in a pod.“

Anastasia paused again, her look grim, and she took a long drink from her own cup. A light breeze came up, parting the curtains, and she rose. Pinning the curtains back, she savored the clean night air. From the distance, the sound of bells and gongs echoed from the nearest temple.

“Look,” she said, “the priestesses of Astarte are rising to meet the moon.”

Thyatis looked out, kneeling next to her patron on the cushions. Far away and below, in the swale at the northeastern end of the Forum Romanum, the domes of the temple of the goddess of the moon were lit by hundreds of candles. All else in that district was quiet and dark, but now the moon had risen high above the Latin hills and the pinpoints of light rose as well, one by one, into the dark sky.

“Ah,” Anastasia said, “as pretty as ever.” She laid her hand possessively on Thyatis’ shoulder. The younger woman trembled a little under the light pressure. Idly, Anastasia stroked her hair. Thyatis grimly kept from leaping to her feet or lashing out with the edge of her hand.

The matron continued, “Aurelian is all that the popular troubadours would have an Emperor be-brave, handsome, kind to children and women in distress. Possessed of a noble bearing and a clear voice. Sadly, he is not the best Emperor for us, for the State, for the Senate and the People. Do you know why, child?”

Thyatis, mute, shook her head no. Anastasia slid the drape of the younger woman’s dress off her shoulder. Her long fingers ran over Thyatis’ smooth flesh, raising hundreds of tiny goosebumps. Part of Thyatis’ hidden mind began to gibber in fear at the intimacy of the delicate fingers. Still, she remained still, though her left hand slid quietly between her thighs.

“Because he has not the sense of one of his beloved horses.” The older woman sighed. “He would doubtless ignore the business of the Offices-, or hand those paltry details such -as the shipment of grain, or the state of the coinage, off to advisors and seek out adventures, glory in battle. He would be slain on some muddy field by a chance-shot arrow, or thrown by a tiring horse, or vomiting his life away in encampment around some Frankish hill-town. Stand, my dear.“

Anastasia rose, Thyatis’ hand in hers, so that both stood. Thyatis’ robe, undipped, fell away in a dark puddle at her feet. Anastasia smiled again, her face mostly in shadow. The breeze had snuffed the candles and lamps, leaving only the moonlight to wash over the younger woman’s naked body.

“No,” the matron continued, “Aurelian will not do. But, tertius, Maxian Julius Atreus, now, he is a young man with potential. The potential to be a very fine Emperor. And he is a young man, with a young man’s preferences… you will please him greatly, I think.”

Thyatis flinched at last, as if struck. The Duchess, seeing her fear, laughed softly.