Hammer of the Earth

by Susan Krinard

  With the lift of one finger, Nikodemos silenced the musicians, and all eyes turned from his face to the door.

  The escort started forward. Quintus matched his steps to theirs, maintaining a soldier’s bearing. He would show these effete courtiers that a Tiberian faced his fate with impeccable honor and courage. If these were to be his last moments on earth, he would not disgrace himself in the eyes of the empire’s champions.

  He stopped of his own accord before the guards could bar his way closer to the throne. He bowed his head the merest fraction, acknowledgment and no more. The courtiers murmured. Danae hid a yawn with slender fingers.

  “Quintus Horatius Corvinus,” Nikodemos said, drawling each syllable. A cupbearer obeyed his negligent summons and offered a bejewelled chalice on a chased silver platter. The emperor drank, wiped his fingers on a cloth of white linen and waved the servant aside.

  “Son of Arrhidaeos,” Quintus said.

  Murmurs grew to soft cries of outrage. Quintus stood unmoved, legs braced apart, hands at his sides. This was not his emperor, nor his lord. He would not call Nikodemos “brother.”

  “Son of Arrhidaeos,” Nikodemos repeated. “As you are.”

  The hall fell silent. The courtiers looked from their emperor to Quintus. An older man, standing near the foot of the dais, muffled a cough behind his hand.

  Suddenly Nikodemos laughed. He slapped the fanged lion’s head under his palm, shaking his head.

  “It is polite of my Hetairoi to pretend they know nothing,” Nikodemos said, “but I doubt a single one of them is unaware of yesterday’s events. Is that not so, Danae?”

  She smiled at him, turning Quintus’s blood hot and cold by turns. “It is, my lord.”

  “No one knows quite what to make of it,” the emperor said. “Do you, Iphikles?”

  The old man of the muffled cough bowed and met his master’s eyes. “Such things do not happen without purpose, Lord Emperor,” he said. “But I cannot tell what that purpose may be.”

  “A wise answer.” Nikodemos leaned back, stretching his legs. “Who could have predicted the appearance of a royal son believed long dead? Certainly not Baalshillek.”

  Courtiers tittered. Quintus noted which men kept straight faces, finding it less than prudent to mock the High Priest even in the emperor’s stronghold.

  “My brother,” Nikodemos said. “Such a strange twist the Fates have brought me. And now I must judge what is to be done with him—a boy raised among my enemies. Raised to defy his own father’s empire.”

  Quintus felt heat rise under his skin. Nikodemos was baiting him, hoping for some betrayal of untoward emotion. Waiting for a vehement denial…or capitulation.

  He would get neither. Quintus held his brother’s gaze and said nothing. “Alexandros,” someone whispered. “Is it truly possible…?”

  “Do some of you still doubt?” Nikodemos said in the same tone of lazy amusement. “Uncover your arm, brother. Let my people see how the Stone God left his mark upon you.”

  Quintus didn’t move. One of his guards reached for the himation. Quintus raised a clenched right fist, slowly unfolded his fingers and drew the cloth away from his left arm.

  Gasps sighed through the room like a rushing wave. Quintus let them look their fill and then readjusted the fabric.

  “You see why my father sent young Alexandros away as a babe, to be raised in safety,” Nikodemos said. “Or so he believed.” He nodded to his right. A guard brought another man forward—Philokrates, blinking in the dim light, his hair a wild, white halo about his head. “I owe this reunion to Talos, who served Arrhidaeos so ably.”

  Talos, builder of war machines. Quintus hadn’t met his former teacher since he’d learned the ugly fact of Philokrates’s true identity, but he detected no change in the old Hellene. If anything, the inventor seemed more confused and uncertain than Quintus had ever seen him.

  “Tell me again, old man,” Nikodemos said. “Is this my brother?”

  Philokrates turned his head slowly and gazed at Quintus. His brown eyes held no expression. “It is, my lord.”

  “And my father gave him into your care, to instruct while he lived with his adoptive Tiberian family?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told me of his presence in Karchedon so that he could be of service to me, did you not?”

  “Yes, my lord Emperor.”

  “And because you hoped to save his life from the High Priest, believing that I would show mercy.”

  Philokrates bowed his head. Nikodemos stroked his freshly shaven chin and half smiled at Quintus. “What would you do in my place, brother?” he asked. “If I were the rebel who had killed your men, threatened your chattel, defied your authority—would you show mercy, or risk my continued treason?”

  Quintus returned the emperor’s smile. “I would never be in your position.”

  “Such humility,” Nikodemos said. “Such foolish courage. But you expect to die, do you not?”

  “I expect the same fate as any of my countrymen.”

  “You refer, of course, to the rebel Tiberians.” Nikodemos addressed his Hetairoi. “Should we admire his loyalty? Iphikles? Hylas?”

  A beautiful young man stepped from the ranks of Hetairoi and flashed kohl-lined eyes at Quintus. “Perhaps he may be given a chance to prove himself, my lord.”

  “Indeed. But can the loyalty of such a man be altered?”

  “Only if that man is wise enough to recognize his error.”

  “That may take some time, Hylas. Would my brother prefer imprisonment or death?”

  Quintus opened his mouth to answer, but Hylas spoke over him. “He need not be lonely in his captivity,” he said slyly.

  Nikodemos laughed. “Not if you have your will.” He looked sideways at Danae. “Perhaps he prefers other company, my dear.”

  “I prefer no company in this hall, Nikodemos,” Quintus said.

  The emperor sat up and frowned. “I think my noble brother would choose death,” he said. “Do you have a last request of me, Corvinus?”

  The Tiberian name was like the whisper of a cold blade against Quintus’s neck. The decision had been made, and there was nothing left to be lost.

  “Withdraw from Tiberia,” Quintus said. “Set my people free.”

  “I am much too fond of your country for such a sacrifice,” Nikodemos said. “What do you wish for yourself?”

  “An honorable death.”

  “Honorable. If by that you mean on a sword and not in the Stone God’s fire…” He gestured to one of the officers. The man saluted smartly and bowed to his emperor. His face was seamed with old scars, and he clutched a battered plumed helmet to his cuirass. “I can think of no better man than the commander of my Persian mercenaries to perform such a task. Vanko?”

  The soldier moved to stand beside Quintus and drew his curved sword. Quintus looked at Danae without turning his head. Her lips were parted, her eyes glazed with sudden fear. She believed Quintus was about to die.

  Quintus had sworn to her that his life wouldn’t end in Karchedon. He’d been so certain. He had achieved nothing…nothing to make this death worthwhile.

  “My lord,” Danae said, her voice slightly hoarse. “I beg leave to retire.”

  Nikodemos glanced at her in mild surprise. “Squeamish, my lady? You do not wish to witness the punishment of the man who so crudely assaulted your person?”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but I do not care for the sight of blood.”

  “Gentle Danae.” Nikodemos held out his hand to her. “Would you spare him, then?”

  “I would, my lord,” Hylas said boldly. “At least until it’s clear that he is of no use to your majesty.”

  “Would you stake your life on his good behavior?”

  The slender young man blinked long-lashed doe’s eyes. “My life is my emperor’s, always.”

  Nikodemos laughed again. “How can I resist such appeals?”

  “Lord Emperor,” one of his officers said, “I advise caution.
”

  “And cautious I shall be.” He bent his stare on Quintus. “It seems you have allies, Tiberian. And I have more important work at hand. Vanko, your men are quartered in Karchedon.”

  “They are, my lord.”

  “Select the best to guard my wayward brother. He is to be confined to his chambers. No visitors without my express permission.”

  Vanko thumped his cuirass. “As my emperor commands.”

  Quintus carefully released his breath. It had all been some courtier’s game to Nikodemos, a test of sorts, and somehow he had passed. Danae had played into the game, and so had the pretty boy Hylas. Now it remained to be seen what Nikodemos expected of him. And how much Quintus was willing to concede to stay alive.

  The guards fell in about Quintus. He turned smartly on his heel and preceded his escort back to his quarters. The door was closed and barred. A little while later a maid brought food and wine, which he barely touched. When the angle of light from the small window indicated day’s end, a second visitor tapped on the door.

  Quintus recognized the girl who entered, and at once he shot up from his chair and faced the door. Leuke, Danae’s servant, bowed to him and took up a stance of prim watchfulness at one end of the room. Danae followed her. The guards wedged the door half open with the shafts of their spears.

  Danae settled in Quintus’s former seat, smoothing her evening robes over her thighs.

  “Come here,” she commanded, looking at Quintus down the length of her lovely nose. “I would study the face of the man who dared lay hands on the emperor’s woman.”

  She spoke loudly for the benefit of the guards, and Quintus obeyed. He stood close, positioned so that he could be observed by the men beyond the door.

  “I regret my discourtesy, my lady,” he said, meeting her gaze.

  “No doubt. I confess I was surprised that such a ruffian could be of the royal house. Of course, you were raised by barbarians and know no better. I am inclined, like my emperor, to be merciful.”

  “You are gracious, my lady.”

  “And you are extremely fortunate.” She glanced at Leuke, and the maid gave an almost imperceptible nod. “If you are very careful,” she said in a low voice, “you may even survive. But you will never touch me again.”

  He heard her words and understood their relentless truth, yet his muscles tightened in rebellion. Tiberian discipline kept him in place even as he breathed in the intoxicating perfume of her hair and the arousing scent of her womanhood.

  Danae bent in her chair as if to adjust the lacing of her finely-woven sandal. “I have been blessed,” she whispered. “Isis came to me in a dream. She showed me what has become of your friends.”

  Quintus leaned closer. “Tell me.”

  “They have been given a great task, and the gods will protect them. But they will not return until this task is complete.”

  “Where do they go?”

  “Into the unknown. That is all I know.” Leuke hissed a warning through her teeth, and Danae nodded in acknowledgment. “I care nothing of what happens to traitors,” she said distinctly, “but you are my emperor’s brother and he will decide your fate.”

  She rose, beckoned to Leuke and floated toward the door.

  “Do you know the emperor’s game, Danae?” Quintus asked softly.

  “He plays no games,” she answered. “He wishes to spare your life. Find reason to let him do so.” She paused, resting her cheek against the door’s polished wood. Her eyes expressed all the things her lips had not, the confusion and fear and conflicting loyalties trapped in her brave and generous heart.

  Do not betray him, her eyes said. Live.

  Then she walked out the door. The guards closed and barred it. Quintus laid his cheek where Danae’s had been.

  “You will never touch me again.”

  He slid to the ground and cupped his crippled arm to his chest. In his mind he glimpsed an image of Rhenna and Tahvo and Cian, standing together outside the walls of the city, looking back as if to bid him farewell.

  They were free. But they fought for something bigger than mere freedom: the Watcher, the seer and the warrior, bound to each other and to Quintus by some magic as potent as the Stone itself.

  I was not meant to go with them. Mine is a different path.

  As quickly as the vision came, it was gone. Quintus stood and walked to the high, tiny window overlooking the citadel square. The sun was setting, but summer heat still blistered the pavement. No one who had not seen it would believe that snow had fallen in Karchedon.

  No one would believe that a woman could wield a sword like a hero born, that a man could become a beast, or that a Tiberian could be the son of an emperor.

  Quintus had begun to believe.

  The old man known as Talos came to Baalshillek in all proper humility, head lowered and body hunched. It seemed the inventor was well aware that he had made a deadly enemy in the High Priest, though the two had never met before this day. Because of Talos, Baalshillek’s most valuable prisoner had fallen into the emperor’s hands.

  Baalshillek expected no little inconvenience from that fact. As long as Nikodemos believed that Quintus’s power over the red stones outweighed the risk of his rebellious past, the Tiberian remained beyond Baalshillek’s reach.

  For the time being.

  The Temple Guard left Talos at Baalshillek’s door and withdrew. Baalshillek did not invite the old man to sit. He poured himself a measure of wine—in moderation, of course—and regarded the inventor over the rim of the cup.

  “Do you know what you have done?” he asked.

  Talos raised his shoulders in a half shrug. “Does the emperor know I am here?”

  “I doubt he will object to a friendly visit.” Baalshillek set down his cup. “He may come to doubt the wisdom of listening to your advice.”

  The old man peered at Baalshillek from rheumy eyes and looked away. “You would have killed Quintus.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps I would have found a better use for him.”

  “Twisting his gifts to suit your purpose?”

  “To the service of the Stone God. But your interference has made that prospect more difficult.”

  Talos offered no reply. He was either frightened into immobility or a Thespian of considerable talent.

  “I could make your life in court extremely unpleasant,” Baalshillek said. “I could turn the emperor against you.”

  “He values me. I served his father well—”

  “—until you fled and made a bargain for your freedom.”

  “To protect Arrhidaeos’s youngest son,” the old man said.

  “A son the emperor never bothered to reclaim. One might even say you failed in your bargain, since you allowed young Alexandros to believe himself a Tiberian, traitor to his own father’s blood.”

  “An unfortunate turn of events.”

  “Most unfortunate—if your pupil chooses to maintain his current loyalties.”

  Talos ran his hand over his flyaway hair. “He understands what he faces.”

  “That I doubt.” Baalshillek poured himself another digit of wine. “And what of you, Talos? When will you begin building new machines of war for our ambitious princeling?”

  If Talos was startled by Baalshillek’s open contempt for the emperor, he didn’t reveal it. “Such machines will benefit you, as well,” the old man said.

  “What benefits the empire benefits my god.”

  “But the reverse is not always true.”

  Baalshillek smiled. “You’re right, old man. That is why you had best consider carefully whom you choose to serve.” He moved to an iron stand that held a wide-mouthed black bowl filled with equally dark liquid. Talos regarded the bowl with wary disgust.

  “Do you feel it?” Baalshillek asked, cupping the sides of the bowl. The vessel’s heat passed into his hands, and he hissed between his teeth. “My god’s power is unconstrained by the petty ethics in which you take such pride.” He passed his hands over the surface of the liq
uid, and it stirred sluggishly.

  Talos shuddered. “How many children did you drain of blood to create that monstrosity?”

  “How many did you kill with your machines of war?” The mixture in the bowl bubbled and seethed. “You would believe you have changed, old man, since those days of heedless destruction. I know that you had dealings with the rebels who traveled with your former student—the females Tahvo and Rhenna, and the Ailu, Cian. Do you not wonder what has become of them?”

  “They are no longer of concern to me.”

  “That would be a wise attitude, if true. Let me set your mind at rest.” Baalshillek lowered his face to the bowl and touched his tongue to the liquid. The metallic taste of blood mingled with the unmistakable tincture of the Stone.

  The images began to form at once, figures and faces rising to the skin of the fluid, only to drown again. Rhenna of the Free People, tall and lean, with light brown hair, honey-moss eyes and a four-striped scar on her right cheek; Tahvo, shaman of the North, short and compact, with silver hair and blind silver eyes; sleekly-muscled Cian, black-haired and golden-eyed like his lost brother Ailuri; and the rebel known as Nyx, a woman of the South, with skin the color of ebony and eyes like the night.

  “They live,” Baalshillek said, letting none of his rage enter his voice. “They escaped the city, and many rebels died to make it so. A few were captured, but they are insignificant.” He dipped his finger into the bowl, then licked it dry. “Your friends, however, must and will be stopped.”

  Talos sighed. “I see no mobilization of troops in the city. The emperor seems indifferent to their escape.”

  “Because he is wise enough to leave such matters to one who understands them.” Baalshillek caught Talos’s sleeve, forcing him closer to the bowl. “Your friends believe they serve a prophecy that binds them to seek certain great Weapons…a prophecy that foretells the downfall of my god.”

  “I know nothing—”

  “You know, but it does not matter. Those called the Bearers, the godborn…they have weaknesses to match their supposed powers. And I have sent each of them a gift.” He called up new images, new faces. First Yseul, the female Ailu he had created from the blood and essence of his captive shapeshifters. Then Farkas, formed from Rhenna’s dread of violation and helplessness. And Urho, Tahvo’s twin, dead at his birth but now reborn to haunt her dreams and visions.