Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

– |A wooden man stood at the side of a room with a wooden floor. The floor was worn and rubbed smooth by the scuff and passage of many feet. The wooden man, his stiff arms held out before him, was polished, too, though the patterns were uneven. His neck and face, his elbows, his crotch and knees were all grooved with wear. Once there had been features painted on the face-a fierce red beard and bushy eyebrows-but they had vanished long ago.

Thyatis, stripped down to her loincloth and strophium, stalked sideways, poised on the balls of her feet. Her arms were up, ready, muscles tensed. She drifted forward, then exploded into motion, sweat flying away from her hair and face. The wooden man shuddered as sidekicks and sharp, fast hand strikes rained against him. Thyatis pushed herself, going through the long series of punches, kicks, and blocks with increasing speed. Her muscles burned with the effort. Suddenly, spinning away, she shouted in fury and lashed out with a flying side-kick that cracked the wooden head. There was a splintering sound, and the round globe of old oak flew away, clattering off the wall of the training room. Thyatis landed on her feet, her breath hissing between bared, clenched teeth. Sweat ran off of her in tiny rivers. The cotton kilt around her waist clung, sopping wet, to her thighs.

She shouted again and her fists blurred, cracking sharply against the elbows of the wooden man. The worn grooves in the wood took her strike like they had taken tens of thousands of blows before. She spun away, her wrists and fists snapping through the blocking patterns at the end of the practice movements. Then she squatted heavily on the floor, holding her head in her hands. Her whole body felt like it had been beaten with a butcher's hammer.

"Ah, dear," a quiet voice came from the doorway, "you mustn't break the appliances. That poor man takes enough abuse as it is."

Thyatis rose, scowling, but then saw the Matron standing in the doorway, her elegant gown falling almost to her feet. The elderly woman's white hair was down, falling around her shoulders, and she held a folding fan in one hand. The Matron stepped into the room, her movements carefully controlled and showing echoes of the grace she had owned in youth. She sat on one of the benches along the wall, her head silhouetted against a deep-set window. Far beyond her, the line of the horizon was an azure slash in a field of white. The fan moved languidly, stirring the air.

Thyatis shook her head and stood up, going to the corner of the room where the broken head had come to rest. She picked it up, making a wry grimace at it, and put it back on its stump. It lolled to one side. "I should make a new one," she said, not looking at the Matron.

"Hmm. That might do your body some good; diving to one of the wrecks on the Teeth and recovering the wood to make it. But it will not settle your mind, my dear. Exhaustion will only gain you a short respite. Though… there are many stones to be quarried and carved for the new Temple of Atargatis…"

Thyatis turned to glare at the old woman, but the sight of her calm face and that slight smile that always hovered around her mouth, a dove waiting to unfurl its wings, stopped her. The Roman woman shook her head, sending tiny droplets of sweat sparkling across the room. "I am troubled," she said, gritting her teeth at the words. "I am unhappy. This is what I wanted-and now I feel distraught over it! This is what I wanted and not… what I want. Oh, Goddess, I feel directionless now, suddenly. I hate that. There is nothing to do!"

The Matron nodded, her eyes sparkling.

Thyatis paced around the room, filled with nervous energy. "Do you think I did the right thing?" Thyatis turned and stared at the Matron with an expression of deep concern on her face. "Bringing Shirin here, I mean. I asked no one's leave… it seemed the best course…"

"Your instincts have always been superlative," said the Matron slowly, her head cocked to one side like a curious hawk, watching the young woman pace. "Why do you doubt them now?"

"This is… this is higher than I have reached before. This is the Duchess's game, not mine. Mine is dark alleyways or deserted roads late at night. The quiet use of steel and wire and murder. But this… kidnapping and hiding princesses-oh, that is not a game I've played before. It would be so much easier if I had just followed the Emperor's command!"

The Matron smiled and nodded. She patted the bench beside her with a thin, wrinkled old hand. "Sit, my dear. You have made a serious decision, to contravene the orders of your commander. To go against the will, I suppose, of your mistress, the Duchess. Why do you suppose you did that?"

Thyatis groaned, sitting, and buried her head in her hands again. Through her fingers, her words were muffled, but audible. "I don't know! I thought the Duchess could better use the Princess alive, in Rome, than dead in Ctesiphon. Ayyy… but if the Emperor ever finds out! My head and hers will roll for it…"

The Matron laid a gentle hand on the young woman's shoulder. "I think not, dear. The gossip of the markets reaches even here, to our quiet little island. The Emperor of the East-oh, he is beside himself with rage that such a succulent prize escaped him. Yes, that bear of a man wanted your friend as a wedding gift for his brother. But your master? This Emperor Galen? He is quietly pleased, though he would never say so."

"Why?" Thyatis frowned, watching the smiling face of her old teacher intently. "He bade me go into the city of his enemies and be ready and I failed him. I was not there when his soldiers stormed the gates-I was lost in the maze of the Palace of the Swan, trying to find…" Her voice faltered.

"Trying to find whom?" The Matron cocked her head again, her fine white hair falling to one side. "You were trying to find your friend, who was in danger of her life. You were trying to devise an escape from the sack and ruin of that great ancient city for not only yourself, but for your men and the family of your friend. Against this, you weigh the guessed-at desire of an emperor?"

The Matron stood and walked slowly to the western wall of the room, leaning a little on the balustrade under the deep-set windows. Beyond the window the sun blazed down on the island, throwing the aquamarine sea into sharp relief against the dark cliffs. She pursed her lips, looking out at the empty horizon. "This business of guessing at the intent and the desire of emperors is dangerous. Their concerns are not yours, or of any man or woman who does not wield such power. Their responsibilities color the world a different shade than do mine or yours. Emperors forget friends and family, or even those who have done them a good turn. They can never be trusted, you know."

Thyatis looked up. The Matron's voice had fallen low, and she seemed lost in memory.

"The concern of an emperor," continued the Matron in a very soft voice, "is the cruel business of Empire. I think, my dear student, that in this matter-of following your heart and helping your friend-the scales balance in your favor."

"Then I did the right thing?" Thyatis stood, nervously rubbing her hands on her thighs.

The Matron laughed and turned from the window. "No one can say that," she said, her old face creased by a wide smile. "But tell me this, O impetuous one, if you had left your dear Shirin in the ruin of that palace, and she now was the captive wife of a prince of the Eastern Empire, would you account that you had done the right thing?"

Thyatis stopped cold. An image of the Eastern Prince Theodore flashed in her mind, and Shirin was kneeling at his feet, her face bruised and streaked with tears, her pale yellow silk gown torn. The Prince was laughing, his broad red face flushed. A thin trickle of sweat crept down from his hairline. Without thinking, her lips contorted in a snarl and her fists clenched.