Plague of Angels

  It was worse at nights, when she was alone and could hear the voices of her worshippers. There were fewer of them with every passing year. More and more people were drifting away from her temples, embracing Christianity and calling on Jesus – who would never answer them because he could not hear – instead of Nyx.

  It made her angry, knowing they were worshiping her love by the wrong name, knowing that they thought of him as a creature of love and peace, who cared and would save them. Tribunal had hated them all, hated what he was supposed to represent to them, and hated what they did to themselves, each other, and to him.

  Every time she thought of her Tribunal, she felt his hatred of humanity rise up inside her.

  And every night, when she listened to her followers, she struggled to understand why He hated them so much. Some of them were awful. A few were so bad she dispatched them to Hell herself, rather than wait for them to die of natural causes. Other who were just as vile she had let live because they were useful to her, knowing they would meet again in Hell where she could give then their just deserts. But the many who were good, or fairly good, who did their best, perturbed her. She shouldn’t care about these tiny lives. And she didn’t, individually, but as a whole they… moved her.

  She could never understand what it was like to live so briefly, to know one had at best a few decades. She wondered if that was part of what made Tribunal what He was, part of why He hated them so much.

  At the end of the seven years, the three Angels met at Isis’s temple at Philae, taking over the inner sanctum and declaring it theirs alone. The priests, seeing what they thought was their goddess in the flesh, acquiesced and evacuated the temple immediately Daily they delivered tribute to Angels in the form of food, wine, and young men and women to be their entertainment. The Angels used the humans as they liked, but spent most of their days creating and then pouring over a map of the world more detailed than any other in existence. Rome was at the center of it, of course, but the world they laid out was far larger than the world the humans knew existed. Persephone wondered what one of these maps—the round earth with its mighty oceans—would do to the thinking of a human. But even the wisest scholars, even the most experienced sailors, would not believe it even if they saw it.

  Nyx stared at the map for five days.

  Constantine and Licinius had broken off their talks in Milan when Maximin had crossed the Bospherus and invaded Licinius’ territory. Licinius had fought Maximin off and gained control of the eastern Roman Empire. The year after, Constantine and Licinius had started in on each other again. It had become a vicious, deadly bicker that cost lives and was helping the empire disintegrate. Christianity was becoming the preferred religion of the empire, though others were still tolerated. It was only a matter of time before that changed, though.

  I hope Constantine falls off his horse and impales himself through his ass on a splintery stump. Nyx sighed. It was unlikely, and she wasn’t able to do it herself. Constantine would live and die in his own time and eventually would (if there was any justice) end up in Hell where she would enjoy punishing him for a few thousand years before turning him over to someone else for the rest of eternity.

  Besides, she had other plans.

  In the North, the there were tribes who had never heard of Christianity. In the East, past the Goths, were others. The Goths were close enough to Rome that half of them were Christians already. Still, they were uneasy neighbors, and there were other, even fiercer tribes around them.

  It would take very little to send the Goths into Rome…

  Nyx blinked for the first time in five days. Then she stood up and called the others to her.

  “About time,” complained Ishtar, coming out of the bed where she and Persephone had been lounging, enjoying a list they’d compiled of all the sexual phrases in the world’s many languages. “I thought you were going to turn to stone, standing there.”

  “Are we going to travel more?” asked Persephone. “It’s boring here.”

  “Please, no!” said Ishtar. “Can’t we just kill something?”

  “Yes to both of you,” said Nyx. “Come look.”

  She pointed to the areas north and east of Roman territory. “Who lives here?”

  “Varengians,” said Ishtar, pointing to the north. “Suiones, Geats.”

  “Huns,” said Persephone, pointing to the east. “Alvars, Alans, Goths.”

  “Many of whom have nothing to do with Christianity.”

  “The Goths are Christians,” said Ishtar.

  “But they are Arianists,” said Persephone, “Which should put them in direct conflict with the Romans, who are Trinitarians, should they cross the Danube.”

  “And all they need to do that is a little push,” said Nyx, tapping the map. “From the Huns.”

  “Oh, let me,” said Ishtar. “I know what will push them to move.”

  “Not you,” said Nyx. “Persephone is going to start working on the Huns. You, have a much more difficult task.”

  “I do?” said Ishtar suspiciously. “What is it?”

  Nyx grinned. “Rome.”

  “Rome?” the distaste in Ishtar’s voice was echoed in her twisted expression. “Rome is falling apart.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Nyx. “And your job is to see to it that it keeps falling apart, until it ceases to exist.”

  Ishtar’s face slowly untwisted until she was smiling, her whole beautiful face lit with glee. “Now, that I can do. When do we start?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Nyx. She took each of them by the hand and led them to the bed. “Tonight, my pretties, we eat, drink and be very, very merry.”

  320 A.D.

  The Sarmatian raiders rode on as fast as they could. The scales of their armor, made from the hooves of horses cut thin and sewn together, rattled and jumped as their horses galloped flat out.

  Their leader rode magnificently, in turns driving his raiders forward, then wheeling back to give battle to the cavalry that pursued. Hour after hour, he fought against the Romans, and his sword and armor were soaked with their blood by the time they reached Issacea, where they had crossed into Constantine’s territory in the first place.

  The rearguard was still there, surrounding the fort and keeping the guards imprisoned. The legion that had held it was the one now pursuing.

  Right. Now to make sure they follow.

  The leader of the Sarmatians shouted a command and as one the entire raiding party – eight hundred strong—wheeled and charge the Roman cavalry. Blood flew in all directions as hundreds of men clashed and cut and mutilated and killed each other. Horses died or went mad with pain, bucking and twisting over the battlefield. Men who fell off their mounts were trampled or dodged desperately through the crowd of animals, trying to avoid hooves and charging beasts even as they sought to pull enemy riders down. Most of the men on foot died. Some escaped the battle and ran into the hills around them.

  The leader of the Sarmatians shouted again and the raiding party broke off and headed for the Danube. Men died as their horses wheeled away, but it didn’t matter. The leader let the rest of his men stream past so the pursuing cavalry could see him raise his prize:

  The legion’s eagle, held high above his head.

  The legion’s cavalry shouted and charged. The leader of the Sarmatians laughed as he rode past Issacea and into the Danube. The town of Issacea was one of the few places where the Danube was low enough to be forded, and the Sarmatians wasted no time in doing so. Their leader, captured eagle still high in his hands, raced through his troop, looking behind.

  The legion’s cavalry didn’t hesitate to follow them, right into the river.

  And on the other side is Licinius’ army, thought Persephone, She had killed the leader of the Sarmatians two months before in single combat, then took his place to lead the tribe. They’d been incredibly successful ever since. She swung the eagle back and forth over her head again to make sure the Legion wouldn’t give up. And Licinius not going to be happy at all to hav
e Constantine’s legions on his soil.

  This is really too easy.

  326 A.D.

  Crispus’s body was a pleasant one to wear, Ishtar decided. Constantine’s oldest and favorite son was in very good shape, strong, and pleasantly endowed, all of which Ishtar approved. He was also a true Christian, fanatically loyal to his father, and a brilliant and successful soldier. His victories on land and sea were the stuff that rebuilt empires, and that wouldn’t do at all.

  Crispus was currently lying asleep, alone, in a very, very expensive brothel where his men had paid for his pleasure as a gesture of thanks for his leadership. Ishtar had borrowed the form of the young maiden that Persephone so liked and had serviced him long, well, and repeatedly, plying him with wine in between each act. The man was dead drunk, asleep, and unlikely to wake any time soon.

  She had taken his form and clothes and slipped out the brothel back door, walking the back streets of Constantinople to the palace. She acted like someone who did not wish to be seen, though she made certain that she was. She reached the palace, entered through a servant’s door, and went in search of Fausta, Emperor Constantine’s wife.

  Fausta did not approve of Crispus’s relation with his father. In fact, she had actively campaigned against it, trying to bring her own three sons to prominence, which would be much better for Nyx’s plans, since none of them were the commanders their half brother was.

  Constantine had left the palace two days before to conduct business.

  Ishtar found Fausta’s chambers and stepped inside. Tall, blond Fausta was lying on her bed, attended by two dark-haired women singing and playing the cithera. Wine and sweetmeats were laid out on a low table. Ishtar went directly to the bed, looked at the servants and said, “Get out.”

  “They will stay,” said Fausta, eyes blazing. “You do not come in here and order my servants!”

  Ishtar pulled out a knife and pointed at the servants. “You will get out of this room and go into the Empress’s dressing chamber. Now!”

  The two girls scrambled to obey, and Ishtar locked the door behind them.

  “What is the meaning of this, Crispus?” Fausta demanded. “How dare you come into my chambers and…”

  “How dare you say to my father that we had an affair,” said Ishtar. “How dare you try to besmirch the memory of my mother and how dare you attempt to take away my throne!”

  “I have done nothing of the sort!”

  “Liar!” Ishtar tossed the knife aside and pulled the thick leather belt from around her waist. “I’ll teach you to lie, you bitch!”

  Fausta started screaming when the first lash struck the side of her face and didn’t stop until Ishtar was done with her. Ishtar, knowing they would not be disturbed, stripped Fausta and whipped her thoroughly, leaving welts down her back, backside and thighs. Then she raped Fausta, sodomized her, and made her take Crispus’s soiled cock in her mouth to finish.

  Ishtar left Fausta curled on the bed, weeping in pain and humiliation.

  Now if that doesn’t turn Constantine against his son, Ishtar thought, as she made her way back to the brothel, I don’t know what will.

  AD 370

  Balamber was asleep in his bed of furs, his wife sound asleep beside him, when Nyx stepped into his dreams. His dreams were that of any man of his tribe: of riding his horse, of raiding against the other tribes, and of women and the day to day of life. He was a chieftain of the largest band of his people, and had no ambition to be more.

  At least, thought Nyx, not yet.

  Nyx’s body was currently lying in its own tent, looking like one of the Hun warriors, with a pair of women she’d stolen on the last raid warming her, one on each side of the bed. The women were impressively feisty, and had tried to kill her with her own knife. She found it amusing, though she had whipped both of them into cowed submission as a warning. Nyx had things to do and this was not the time for her to be distracted. Since then, the women had been much more docile, though Nyx could sense their hatred and knew they would act against her again soon. She might even let them get away, if she succeeded in her plan.

  Meanwhile, Nyx went into Balamber’s mind and built him a new dream.

  He was riding west, the rising sun at his back, a sword in his hand. Before him the entirety of the world was laid out. He could see all the villages around him, see all the great cities he had only heard of from traders: Constantinople, Rome, Athens. They all lay before him, glittering with riches, open for the taking.

  And as he watched, a tall, winged woman in black armor rose from the earth. She had a sword in one hand, a whip in the other. She was, he knew in his dream, a goddess of battle.

  “Hear me,” she whispered, and the voice caressed and aroused him as surely as if she had put her hand on him. “All this can be yours. Yours for the taking if you will have it.”

  “How?” he whispered back. “How will I take it?”

  “I will show you. Bring your people together,” whispered Nyx. “Let them know that a new goddess will lead you to power, if you will follow her.”

  Balamber woke, and thought hard about what he had seen. And when he went back to sleep, he saw it again. Every night for a month, Balamber dreamed of victory and conquest, of barrels of grain and wine, furs and gems, silk cloth as soft as a woman’s skin, fine swords and magnificent horses. And every night he dreamed, his tribe’s fortunes increased. Raids were successful, food was plentiful, slaves were easily captured. Balamber spoke to the shaman about his dreams, then to the other warriors in the tribe.

  All agreed the dreams were a sign, and Balamber called a meeting of chieftains and warriors. All attended save one, who was found dead with a knife in his chest and his two concubines missing.

  397 A.D.

  The battlefield was bloody and chaotic. The legion, under the command of Stilicho, was holding the centre in true Roman fashion, their phalanx of shields and swords a breakwater against which the waves of Visigoths crashed. On either side of it, though, the barbarian warriors who made up the majority of the Roman army these days were a disorganized mess. Single combats broke out across the lines as warriors from both sides sought out men worthy to fight.

  In the midst of the crush, Persephone and Ishtar came face to face.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” demanded Ishtar as Persephone’s blade crashed down against her shield. Both looked like warriors. Both had to shout to be heard over the roar of the battle around them.

  “Defeating you,” said Persephone, grinning. She drove her sword forward again, and Ishtar was driven back by the force of the blow.

  “You little bitch!” shouted Ishtar, smashing Persephone’s blade away with the edge of her shield and slashing down at the other’s shoulder. Persephone’s shield was already there, blocking, and Ishtar let her sword bounce off of it, spin and come in from low on the other side. Persephone retreated and the blade whipped harmlessly passed her.

  “Nice try!” said Persephone. She twisted to the right to kill one of the Visigoths beside them and easily blocked Ishtar’s next blow a moment later. “But not good enough.”

  “I am a goddess of war!” snarled Ishtar. “You’re just a goddess of spring and sunshine and the fine art of getting laid.”

  Persephone slipped sideways, brought up her shield and locked them together, body to body. “I am also a goddess of death,” she whispered. “Queen of the Underworld, remember?” Her breath against Ishtar’s ear sent a tingle down her back. “And the best fighter in the 666th.”

  “You are not!”

  “And once I kick your ass, I’m going to drag you off and have my way with you.”

  “Bets?”

  “Bets.”

  Ishtar grinned at her. “Fine, loser takes it like a boy from the winner.”

  Persephone grinned back. “Deal!”

  They pushed away from each other’s shields and fought. The battle around them raged, but even so others began clearing a space. They fought for twelve hours straight, and wh
enever someone attempted to stop them or attack, they broke away just long enough to kill them. Stilicho’s army slowly advanced, breaking the back of the Visigoths’ attack and driving them away. Still Persephone and Ishtar fought, blades flying faster than any other on the field. By the end of it, both their shields had been battered into near-uselessness, and the two discarded them and used only their swords.

  “Tired yet?” taunted Ishtar as she launched another blistering attack on Persephone.

  “Nope,” said Persephone, parrying all the attacks and sending a complex series of cuts and thrusts at Ishtar. “You?”

  “Just getting started!”

  It ended two hours later. Ishtar’s misstep was less than a quarter inch. Her blade too far extended by a quarter inch more. It was more than enough for Persephone, who hacked down hard then spun her own blade in a circle, ripping Ishtar’s blade out of her hand and sending it flying into the crowd gathered around them. Ishtar closed distance and tried to grapple, only to have her feet kicked out from under her and be thrown through the air, landing with a bone-crunching THUD on the ground. Persephone was astride her in a flash, her blade pressing hard on Ishtar’s neck. In the language of the Visigoths, she shouted, “Yield!”

  Ishtar turned her head, spat, and growled, “I yield.”

  The shout that went up around them surprised them both, and they looked up to see a circle of a hundred men surrounding them.

  “That was the greatest fighting I have ever seen,” said Stilicho, stepping forward. “The greatest any man has ever seen!”

  Persephone got to her feet and held out her hand. Ishtar took it and allowed Persephone to pull her to her feet. Both saluted Stilicho. “General,” said Persephone, “May I present my brother, Hathgot.”

  That earned her a glare from Ishtar who knew full well “Hathgot” meant “witless” in the language of the Slav tribes to the northeast.

  “Your brother is a great warrior,” said Stilicho. “Would he be willing to serve Rome?”

  “I would, General,” said Ishtar.