Plague of Angels

  There was more cheering.

  And after ceremonies of victory and ceremonies for the dead, after drinking more wine than anyone had ever seen men drink, and playing at being drunk (which Persephone particularly enjoyed) the two goddesses finally slipped away from the army into the dark forest around them. They shifted to their true form and took wing, heading for Isis’s temple in the south. Despite the many attacks on pagans, it still stood, and still had loyal priests waiting to serve.

  “I think I’ll have you take the form of that young Roman that Trajan was so found of,” said Persephone as they flew across the Mediterranean.

  “Just as long as you don’t look like Trajan,” said Ishtar, shuddering. “I saw enough of that man to last me an aeon.”

  “Fine, I’ll be Marcus Aurelius,” said Persephone. “I always wished he’d try both sides. The man had a stick up his ass. Think Stilicho will destroy Alric?”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” said Ishtar. “Nyx wanted Rome destroyed and Silicho is getting in the way. I’ll set up a conspiracy against him soon.”

  “Too bad. He’s a good man.”

  “No such thing,” said Ishtar. “He’s just a corrupt and foul as the rest of them.”

  Persephone looked up at the bright stars above their heads. “I wonder where Nyx is these days.”

  400 A.D.

  Outside, a strong wind was blowing, and rain drummed hard against the roof of the longhouse. Inside, warm and safe from the storm that tore at trees and threatened to flood the rivers, two dozen warriors and their chief sat on logs and listened as the old shaman spoke, accompanied by the popping of the logs and the crackling of flames in the fire pit.

  “There are older Gods than the ones our fathers worshipped,” he said. “Older than any that the southern men worship, or even the hidden ones who skulk in the woods and were here before our grandfather’s grandfathers arrived.

  “In the times before mankind walked this earth, before our people were born from the blood of gods spilled in battle, there were many gods, and many, many wars between them. For untold years they fought with one another, and in the end, they were divided in two. The Light Ones, whose great grandchildren became the gods of the south, the gods of plenty and warmth and peace.

  “And the Dark Ones.

  “The Dark Ones are not gods of peace or prosperity. They are not gods of gentle summer sun and thick harvests. They are gods of battle. They are the gods of the cold winter nights and the long darkness until spring. They are the gods of death and of suffering and of iron will in the face of it all.

  “Their children became the Gods of our people.

  “But the Gods of our people have been silent now, for many hundreds of years. They have not spoken to us, have not granted us their presence, have not given us gifts or demanded sacrifice. Even now, their shrines are growing rusty with disuse.

  “They have vanished into the Darkness from where they came, and we’ll not hear from them again.”

  Around the room, there were mutters of disbelief and confusion.

  “They are gone,” repeated the shaman. “They have vanished from the world and will not return. But someone else has.

  “She is one of the Dark Ones,” he said, his voice rising and taking on an oracular timbre. “She is a Goddess of Pain and Vengeance and Suffering. She is a Goddess of War and of Will and of Strength. And she is walking among us. She is searching for a people to worship her, and she has found our people worthy to become hers.”

  “We have our own gods,” rumbled one of the warriors. “Strong gods. Gods who protect our people.”

  “They are gone,” the shaman said. “Gone!”

  The Shaman burst into flames.

  The warriors shouted and scrambled back from the sudden heat and light. The fire roared and the shaman was consumed by it. And rising from the middle of the fire was a silver-skinned woman with eyes of fire, wearing black armor, with a sword in one had and a whip in the other.

  “I am Nyx,” she said, and from her back black wings spread and filled the room. “And I am here to replace your Gods.”

  “Devil!” shouted one. “She is an evil spirit. Destroy her!”

  He drew his sword and leapt forward. Nyx’s own blade moved then, smashing into his and shattering it, sending steel shards flying through the room. The other men swore as the steel cut into them, and raised axes, hammers and swords. Nyx, moving so fast her body was a bright blur, caught the man who had attacked her and raised him in the air. Instead of smashing him to the earth, she shouted, “This is a warrior! This is what I expect from my followers!” She let the man go and he collapsed to the ground, stunned. Nyx offered him her hand. He stared at it, then took it. She squeezed a little, teasing him with her strength, then helped him to his feet. “I came here because times are changing. Your people are small now, but in time you will grow. You will spread and if you let me guide you, you will rule over most of this world.”

  She spread her wings again and the men shuddered at her terrible majesty. “Be mine, O Varangians, and I will raise your people beyond anything you could dream.”

  The room flashed with white light, and when they could see again, there was no sign of her, save for the shattered sword and the blood.

  They sat and talked long past the ending of the rain and the rising of the sun. The women brought them food and drink and the men told the women what they had seen. With no shaman left to guide them, the men sat for three more days, and at the end of it, they chose to follow her and to see where it would take them.

  408 A.D.

  Ishtar, wearing the body of a fat Roman citizen, brought her hammer down hard on a screaming child’s head. Brains and blood spattered and the child dropped like a rock. Ishtar grinned and stepped over the body, looking for another.

  It had taken ten years to get the Romans to turn out Stilicho. Ishtar had woven her way through their numbers, spreading lies, rumor and discontent. Persephone had convinced Radagaisus to invade Italy, forcing Stilicho to strip troops away from the North, which led to the Guals, Vandals and Alans attacking when he was at war elsewhere. Eventually they were driven back, but by then it had been easy to get Rome to betray and kill Stilicho.

  Now it was Rome’s time to burn.

  The Goths under Alaric had made an uneasy and expensive peace with Rome, at the price of an exorbitant tribute. It was easy to claim the Goths were draining Rome of vital food and supplies. Easier still to turn the Senate against them. And when Ishtar had proposed that, as a sign of Roman disgust at the barbarians, the Goths’ families be slaughtered, the agreement was easy and immediate.

  Thousands of Romans filled the streets, chanting and killing anyone who even looked like a Goth. Some of the Goths fought back. The old men had once been doughty warriors and they still had their blades. They were no match for the mob, but they took a fair number with them. The women were raped and slaughtered in the thousands, the children murdered in as many despicable fashions as there were murderers. Some were raped along the way. Corpses filled the streets and the rivers, stripped of their valuables. Dogs ran off with body parts. Ishtar didn’t care.

  When Alaric hears about this, she gloated as her hammer came down on the head of a begging woman with an infant in her arms, he is going to destroy Rome to its foundations.

  The woman fell and the infant rolled, wailing, into the dirty street. Ishtar raised her foot and brought her foot down hard. The wailing stopped.

  410 A.D.

  Nyx, clothed like a Roman matron, her head covered with a scarf, walked through the ruined streets of the sacked city of Rome. The Goths had been decent, all things considered. Most of Rome was still standing. The majority of its citizens were alive; the majority of its women hadn’t been raped. But then, Alaric had higher plans. He wanted to take all of Italy. He would not let his army get fat and lazy so soon.

  The last pagan temple – her temple – had been burned.

  Nyx was amazed it had stood so long.
It had fell into disuse long ago, and there were few, if any, who still followed her in Rome. But it had not been destroyed, until now.

  She stood in the ruins of it, looking at the broken, defaced statue and the charred remains of the couches where, long ago, they had drank so much wine and eaten fine food and listened to sweet music as they made love. The walls – what was left of them – were covered in soot, hiding the faded paintings that artists had fought for the right to commission.

  “My lady?” Nyx turned. A young man in a soot-covered robe approached. “The city is not safe for women alone, my lady. You should return home.”

  I can’t, Nyx thought. Not for another seven hundred years.

  And even then, Nyx was not sure she wanted to go back. Here on Earth, the urge to punish was not so great. The need to torture and maim and despoil the souls of the damned had faded over time. She enjoyed not feeling the compulsion, and wondered if the others did, too.

  Of course, in six hundred years, they’ll all be wiped from the planet, so what does it matter?

  The thought disturbed her, though she did not know why. She should hate them, she should be working on destroying them. Instead she was caring for them. The Varangians were a strong and resourceful people, who raised their children well and decently, and their prayers were now filling Nyx’s brain. And once more, the majority were prayers for strength and help.

  “My lady?”

  Nyx realized she was once more staring at the broken remains of her statue. “I thank you.”

  “It was beautiful,” said the young man. “A beautiful place. Everyone left it alone because it was so beautiful. People often came and sat, looking at the Angel, or at the lovely frescos on the walls. I would come and play my flute, here. The sound would float up to the ceiling.” He shook his head. “Of all the places to burn. Why this one?”

  “It was a pagan temple,” said Nyx, pleased by his praise. “The Christians cannot stand anyone worshipping any gods but theirs.”

  “Still no need to burn it down,” said the young man. “Who was it to? Minerva? Venus?”

  “Not even the memory left?” Nyx looked around at the broken room and the soot-covered walls and the burned benches. “Not even that?”

  “Do you know her?” asked the young man.

  “I do,” said Nyx. “She was a goddess of plenty and of pleasure. Of joy and laughter. And also of vengeance, who would smite those who dared to cross her. She heard all the prayers, whether or not she answered them, and she did her best for her people, and for her love.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Nyx.”

  “And who was her love?”

  “Tribunal.” Nyx had not spoken his name aloud for nearly two hundred years. And though she spoke it in the Roman tongue not the tongue of Angels, she could feel his presence beside her and his strong arms around her. And she could feel his rage.

  It filled her from the ground up, like falling into the Lake of Fire, only this burned white hot, not cold. It burned for the thousands he had seen betray and abuse each other as he wandered the world. It burned for the ones who tortured and raped and killed for pleasure. It burned for the ones who abused children. It burned because it burned. The fire of it consumed Nyx’s grief, consumed her sadness for days past, consumed her desires and thoughts and left her with only one.

  The humans must be destroyed! Earth must be taken from them and given to those worthy of it!

  “My lady,” said the young man. “Shall I escort you home?”

  Nyx’s fingernails became talons, slashing out and tearing his throat open. The young man gargled and dropped, blood spraying over Nyx, the floor and the walls.

  Now that, thought Nyx, Tribunal would approve.

  Nyx walked away from the temple, mind consumed with new plans. There was much work to do, if she was going to destroy the Christians, and bring back her love.

  I am Queen of Hell. And I will be Queen of Paradise, soon.

  She left the ruins of her temple and the bloody remains of the young man on the floor, and did not look back.

  451 A.D.

  In his tent, Attila, leader of the Huns knelt, praying in silence. He was a thickly-muscled man, short of stature but broad in the chest, with black hair, a thin beard and hard eyes. There was a sudden wind behind him, hard enough to knock him nearly off balance and to make the tent flap snap back and forth.

  “Are you ready?” Nyx demanded.

  Attilla prostrated himself before her. ““I am, my lady Nyx.”

  “Are your troops?”

  “More than ready,” said Attila. “We have near half a million men standing ready to invade. We will crush these Byzantines.”

  “Do that,” said Nyx. “Christians have had power way too long. Slaughter them. Kill their priests and their monks. Destroy their holy places. Let them learn to fear the name of Attila.”

  “I will, Lady Nyx,” said Attila bowing deeply.

  “Then take this,” she said, handing him a sword. She’d had it made in the style he was used to, but much, much better. She’d had it forged by the finest craftsmen money could buy, using the highest quality iron she could find. The blade was exquisite, and as soon as Attila took it in his hand he knew it. He grinned and prostrated himself again. “With this, my lady, I will lay waste to the Christians!”

  No you won’t, thought Nyx. But you’ll kill a bunch of them and keep them from expanding while I go in search of an even better race of warriors.

  634 A.D.

  In the desert, Persephone covered her rather handsome face with her veil. She was balanced easily on the back of a camel, and around her, the army of Islam marched. They were crossing the border into Roman Syria, now. Beside her, sitting as easy as she herself, Khalid ibn al-Walid, also handsome if not quite so young, surveyed the army’s progress.

  “We are riding well,” said Khalid. “We should reach the first fortress soon, all things being equal.”

  “As you say, Sword of Allah,” said Persephone. “We will need to slaughter more of the camels before we reach it, though.”

  Khalid grinned. “That is why I brought extra.”

  He had brought many extra, in fact, and with a very deliberate purpose. Camels, when denied water for a time, will drink and drink and drink, and their stomachs store the water cleanly. Whenever the army stopped to eat, camels were slaughtered and the water from their bellies shared among the troops.

  Food and water on the hoof, though Persephone. Clever. Though they have a nasty bite.

  “There! The Romans!”

  They’re not really Romans, thought Persephone as she covered her face and prepared to ride after the patrol, who were already hightailing it back to their fort, somewhere nearby but currently out of sight. But they’re Christians, and that’s enough.

  Besides, who doesn’t like a good fight?

  800 A.D.

  The chief of the Varangians woke and found his Goddess standing at the foot of his bed.

  “My Lady Nyx!” He practically fell out of bed, prostrating his naked body against the splintery wood of the longhouse floor. His wife awoke at the sound, saw who it was, and screamed. A moment later she, too, was prostrate on the floor.

  “It is time,” said Nyx. “Rise, leader of the Varangians. Rise and listen to me.”

  The man rose to his feet, struggling to find dignity in his nakedness. Nyx waved an arm and his armor appeared around him. The man at once stood straighter.

  “It is time for your people to begin their journey,” sad Nyx. “The one foretold, that will bring you a new empire greater than any this world has seen. One that will last ten thousand years.”

  The Chieftain nodded. “It will be as you say, my lady Nyx. Only…”

  Nyx raised an eyebrow, and in that very small movement was a threat of terrible violence. “Yes?”

  Words rushed out of the man’s mouth. “There are many among our people who do not believe in the empire to come. They say it is a false legend, designed to
get people through the winter and the hard times. They may not follow.”

  “They will,” said Nyx. “You will see.”

  Two weeks later, the entire tribe gathered before the shrine of Nyx. The chieftain had sent and boats out to the other villages telling everyone to come. Now eight thousand men, women and children stood before the shrine, waiting. They waited all afternoon, not daring to sit or take a bite of food.

  Night fell, and Nyx arose in a ball of fire that lit every face in the tribe. Her black-scaled armor gleamed in the light of it. Her sword and whip were in her hands, and her eyes glowed red. The entire population fell to their knees, and in the crowd, some of the children cried out in fear.

  “Hear me, Varangians,” Nyx said. “Your time here is at an end. To the east lies the great forests and homes of the Slavs. They have need of your leadership and guidance. And with them as your vassals, you will forge a mighty empire, capable of destroying any that would stand against you, and gaining riches greater unmatched among the tribes of man.”

  “Tell us what we must do, O Lady Nyx,” said their chief. “Tell me how we may achieve this victory!”

  “Gather all your people, your goods and your livestock,” said Nyx. “Sail to the east, down the Volga, and take control of all the lands you survey. Build fortresses and farms, make your people strong and healthy, and once you have established yourselves, you are commanded to wage war against the Christians who live there!”

  “We will, my lady!” said the chieftain.

  “And let your people have a new name,” said Nyx, more on a whim than anything else, “For the Varangians are a small people, and yours shall be a great people! From this day forward, I name you the Rus! And your name shall be remembered throughout history!”

  The crowd, led by their chieftain cheered, and for the remainder of the night, feasted, danced and sang. Nyx, in full armor, allowed herself to partake of the festivities, honoring the women by eating their food, and the men by drinking with them. Their excitement was infectious. She felt a moment of fondness.

  They will become a great people.

  The Slavs were no match for them, and would be easily overwhelmed. From there, it was merely a matter of direction.