Chrosoes had tried to keep her-a beautiful, singing bird in a gilded cage. He had died, hacked to death by Roman soldiers in the burning ruin of the Palace of the Swan.
Heraclius and Theodore had desired her, to seal the conquest of Persia and bind her royal blood to theirs, cutting the root of Chrosoes' dynasty. Both had perished in the wreck of their own grasp for power.
Thyatis had tried to set her away, a perfect crystalline beauty, in the prison of Thira. For safety. So that she would be unchanged, unblemished when Thyatis returned. Shirin spit to clear her mouth, bile rising in her throat.
There were four graves in the ground, and four little corpses to fit them.
Thyatis was gone, wrenched away by fate and transformed beyond recognition. Shirin's hands trembled and she clasped them firmly around the haft of the spade. The same madness, which filled Chrosoes, distilled into the shape of her lover, like wormwood settling into wine.
The day had been blindingly hot. Now night came, bringing close stifling air. Within the oval domain of the Flavian amphitheatre, Shirin was crushed into a narrow marble seat, pressed all around by sweating, anxious Romans. The entire city was in a fever, enthralled by the newest, most ferocious fighter to ever enter the arena. Every tavern and bath was filled with men and women praising the killing speed and ferocity-the art-of the Amazon Diana. Down on the white sand, lit by thousands of gleaming white spheres, it was butchery.
An axeman leapt in, hewing wildly. Thyatis skipped back, parrying and parrying again. Sparks leapt from her blade as it caught the edge of the axe. The man screamed, a high wailing sound that flew up into the air and vanished into the constant roar of the crowd. Blocking, Thyatis caught the haft of his axe on her hilts, and they grappled, faces inches from each other. The man was still screaming, tendons bulging, eyes bugged out. Thyatis let him charge, taking his full weight upon her. She twisted gracefully and he flew, slamming into the ground. She kicked the weapon away, knelt, reversing her own blade and driving a convulsive blow into his chest. Ribs cracked and splintered, blood bubbled up through his armor, and then the body stiffened and lay still.
Thyatis stood, unsteady, limbs trembling with desire. She turned towards the crowd, oiled muscles streaked with scarlet. Thyatis' expression was wild, ecstatic, transported by blood lust. Shirin shrank back in her seat, the entire world focused down on the face of her friend. The expression there was all too familiar.
"Are there more?" Thyatis' scream echoed back from the marble walls. "Are there more?"
Shirin stabbed the spade into the soil, letting it stand, then bent and dragged the first corpse to the grave. Carefully, she rewrapped each body, tucking in the wool all around. For a moment, she considered placing her knife beside her son.
You will need a hunting knife, in the green fields and forests, to skin your game and cut the fat from sizzling meat above the fire. Then Shirin remembered the blameless dead, the children taken before their time by accident or sickness, were watched over by the elohim and all the servants of the lord of the world. Rejoice my son, she thought, drawing great consolation from the thought of her children among the bright ones. You will not wander in torment, among the uneasy dead.
Beside her neat pile of clothing sat an urn of lime, and she sprinkled each corpse before turning the soil back over to fill the little pit.
"The lord of heaven gave you to me and the lord of heaven has taken you away," she said, softly, bending her head to her knee. "Blessed be the name of the lord of heaven."
When the graves were filled, she worked, kneeling, and fitted the cut turves back into place. There was quite a mound of soil left, so she scattered it across the grassy sward. In some future spring, flowers would bloom and saplings would rise out of the ash.
The plants would grow swiftly and well in such rich soil.
I do not think I am accursed, Shirin thought, but my choices have been poor.
She felt very old, standing on the hillside, looking down at the sparkling blue arc of the bay. The sky was filled with racing clouds, puffy and white, and she watched their shadows pass over the land. After a time, the sensation of emptiness grew too great and she drew on the stola and gown. The Roman garments were hot and binding, but she desired no undue attention, not in this place and time.
The rocky beach ended in cliffs, but Shirin found a narrow path and followed it up onto a headland at the end of the bay. The sky was still black with ashy cloud and a constant gray rain of soot drifted out of the heavens. The promontory held a small temple and she took shelter there, suddenly realizing she was bleeding from a dozen unnoticed cuts. Many women were already huddled under the arched dome, for the hill was sacred to Minerva. When the sun returned, after days of gloomy darkness, the priestesses came and took them all away, out of the devastation. A larger temple sheltered them, and in time, Shirin's back healed and she could move without pain.
Then she set out for Rome, in search of her children, who were supposed to be staying with Thyatis' guardian, the Duchess Anastasia De'Orelio. She located the residence of the Duchess, and made inquiries, but found the servants close-mouthed and suspicious. A placard in the Forum had caught her eye next-a towering Amazon, red-haired, stood over crudely drawn opponents-Diana, read the legend. The Emperor promised a greater spectacle than ever beheld by Rome. Shirin stared and stared, finally succumbing to curiosity, spending her last coins.
Shirin climbed the crest of the hill, spade over one shoulder, the urn of lime tucked under her arm. Her cloak and gown seemed very heavy. It seemed doubtful a gardener would ever tend the ruins, but Shirin was no thief and she returned what she borrowed. The dead pines made a strange palisade of blackened trunks, but the path was clear. When she came down to the low fieldstone wall marking the top of the kitchen garden, she paused.
There were voices, people speaking in the ruins of the big house. Shirin laid down the tool and the urn, then turned up her hood. The thought of seeing another person, much less a survivor of this devastation, was repugnant. This was a private day, her grief not for public display. She would have welcomed a priest to sit by the evening fire and hear her lament. Bile rose in her throat, almost choking her. Shirin hurried away, following the line of the wall, and disappeared over the crest of the hill. There was a road not far away, an easy walk on this brisk afternoon, and it led down to the shore and the ruined port.
"You're sure they were here?" Thyatis pushed aside a fallen timber, letting it crash to the smoke-blackened tiles. Her long limbs were filled with nervous energy and she walked heavily, sending up puffs of ashy dust from the ruined floor. "Not away at the seaside-not returning to Rome? Not lost, among the crowds of refugees, nameless, without a guardian?"
The tall Roman woman looked around, rolling slightly from foot to foot. In better days, the villa had sprawled around a big central courtyard ornamented with fountains and a running stream. Red tile roofs and whitewashed walls, climbing trellis of flowers and fragrant herbs-only a shell remained, gutted, the walls crushed in by falling stones, the tile blackened and broken. She paced through the remains of the great entrance hall, clouds of black ash rising and settling as she moved.