The clotted blood, thick and viscous in the open pounds of the body, suddenly boiled up again. The limbs of the corpse twitched as it circulated, reaching the extremities. Flooded with the black liquid, the tissues in the cold breast began to vibrate, new life stealing into organs long unaccustomed to it, struggling with death. Every limb began to shake, the sinews stretching, the tendons popping. Eyelids flickered open, revealing dead white orbs. Stiff lips twitched and the chest, its gaping wounds closed and puckered, heaved with breath.
Maxian was giddy with triumph, seeing life and vitality flow throughout his creation. His head began to spin and he clutched at the stone lip of the table. His ghostly fingers fell through the platform.
In the cavern, Abdmachus stared up at the ceiling with near terror. The whirlwind of bones was gone, all of the remains consumed by the young master. The roots that anchored the roof were gone as well, and a steady trickle of gravel and stones rained down onto the floor of the chamber. The tomb door was gone, dissolved into dust, and a strange wind now blew into the open tomb. For all his long years scrabbling in the earth of graveyards, ossuaries and among the remains of the dead, the Nabatean harbored a carefully concealed fear of close spaces. The earth groaned around him as abused stones shifted. He cowered over the body of the young man, his own talents extended to the utmost to hold up the pattern of protection that kept him from being consumed.
The body of the young Roman twitched in his hands, and suddenly a scraping sound came from the open door of the tomb. The Nabatean twitched around to face the opening, his mind gibbering to him of cold-eyed ghouls and the other denizens of the dead places. In the ruddy orange light of the remaining lantern, the hand that suddenly came out of the darkness and gripped the door frame was smeared with red blood. Abdmachus flinched back and scuttled away from the body of the Prince. Another hand joined the first, and then the naked body of an elderly man heaved itself out of the doorway. He was almost bald, with thinning gray hair and a strong, patrician nose. His body was well muscled yet showing age despite an active life. A welter of scars marked his chest and the side of his neck. The dead man sneered, seeing the little oriental cowering in the dirt before him.
“Get up,” the man snarled in an archaic accent. “Bring me clothing.”
Abdmachus crept across the floor to the bag of tools and began rummaging in it, one eye on the dead man. The corpse pushed away from the wall and shook its head like a dog shedding water. It raised its hands and turned them over, seeing their pale flesh. It felt its chest and traced the scars and old wounds. At last it looked down on the unconscious body of the Prince.
“This is the one who has given me life again?” the dead man rasped.
Abdmachus looked up from the tunic, boots, undershirt, and cowled robe that he had removed from the tool bag. “Yes,” he said, “he is your master now.”
The dead man snorted and dust puffed from his nose. Puzzled, he dug a bony finger into each nostril and dragged out dirt and the desiccated remains of worms.
“Pfaugh!” The dead man cursed and tried to spit. A fine cloud of white powder drifted out of his open mouth. “Have you any wine?” it asked in a querulous voice.
“No,” answered Abdmachus, handing the corpse the undershirt. “Put this on.”
The corpse dragged the cotton shirt over his head and patted it down. It looked down at the Prince lying- at its feet. “I could break his neck right now, while he sleeps. Then I would be my own master.”
Abdmachus shook his head slowly, saying “If he dies, you go back to the worms. While he lives, and wills it, you live.”
The corpse accepted the tunic with a wry smile. Its dead eyes turned to Abdmachus.
“Then he should live a long time, shouldn’t he… Persian?”
[aOMOMQHQH(M)HQHOWOMW)HOWQMQHOHQMQWQWQHQHnwOWQfl THE CISTERNS OF THEODOSIUS, CONSTANTINOPLE
The slow gurgle of water slid past under the bow of the long boat. Thyatis crouched in darkness, her head just above the lip of the hull. She could barely hear the soft sounds of men breathing at her side or the faint swish of oars in water. Like Nikos and the two Turks that were rowing, she was clad in loose-fitting black robes with soot blackening her face and hair. The darkness around them was only fitfully broken by the light of a shuttered lantern that danced over the water ahead of them.
Thyatis squinted, trying to make out the features of the men they were following. It was too dark and the light of the lantern too intermittent. She bit at her lip nervously. The chase was long and slow, wearing on her nerves. At first it had seemed it would be an easy operation-follow two of the Eastern lords who had slipped out of the Great Palace to their presumed meeting with Persian spies, then swoop down and bag the whole lot. She had not expected the quarry to descend into the depths of the half-abandoned cistern system that burrowed under the hill holding the palaces.
The sound of the oars of the other boat echoed off the high ceiling. Intermittently, the murmur of a man speaking carried to Thyatis, but she could not make out the words. Behind her own craft, two more shallow-drafted boats carried the rest of her men.
Around them, great pillars rose out of the cold waters, passing overhead like the branches of great stone trees. The air was chill, for the waters were fresh from springs in the hills beyond the city. Despite the Avar “siege” of the city, the aqueducts that fed the great public cisterns remained open and full. Nikos gently touched Thyatis’ elbow. The boat ahead had pulled up to a jetty of stone jutting from one wall of the vast chamber. The distant lantern brightened as the man carrying it slid the hood aside and a set of steps were revealed, leading up into darkness. The thump of the boat coming to the jetty slithered across the water.
Thyatis held up her hand and the two Turks gently backed their oars. The other two boats glided silently to a stop in the partial cover of one of the towering pillars. The Roman girl watched and waited as two men got out of the boat at the jetty and climbed up the stairs, leaving one man in the boat with a second lantern. After a few minutes there was a distant clang of metal and the last traces of the lantern the two men were carrying disappeared from the steps. Thyatis turned and her hand flickered in quiet-talk to Nikos. Go, she signed, quietly and take the boat.
Nikos nodded and shed his cloak and shirt. Barefoot, he eased over the side of the boat. Thyatis and the two Turks subtly adjusted their seating so that the boat did not rock and make a noise as the Illyrian slipped into the dark water. Taking a long breath, he submerged and the water closed over him with barely a ripple.
For a time, the men and woman in the three boats waited. Thyatis sat, still and quiet, watching, feeling the air around her and the breathing of her men. At last she felt the soft breath of Jochi as he breathed in and pushed his bow away from him, bringing the string taut. Ahead, in the pale light of the lantern on the jetty, she saw the dark waters part near the end of the boat and a lithe, stocky figure emerge. Nikos’ hand blurred and the boatman’s throat was suddenly crushed by iron fingers. The knife in the other hand slid through cloth and flesh with a whisper, and the body of the boatman jerked. There was no sound, but the boatman crumpled into the bottom of the boat. Nikos crouched over him, staring up the stairs.
No sound came, no shouts of alarm. Nikos climbed out of the water onto the jetty. Moving quickly, he picked up the lantern and moved it to the bottom of the steps, pointing upward. On the lead boat, Thyatis motioned her men forward. Jochi reslung his bow and took up his oar. The three boats slid forward over the dark water to the dock.