The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“None of them do. They think we’re barbarians. They think we’re stealing their grain and their chickens.”

They paused to gawk at the huge bulk of the amphitheater, known colloquially as the Ring, looming to the left as they followed the avenue east. The river lay behind them, and when Hanna turned, the broad brim of her hat shading her eyes, she could look up at the hill on which lay the two palaces, side by side, skopos and regnant, elaborate new constructions grown up on top of whatever ancient temple had once graced that hill. “The upper city,” the folk who lived there called it, in distinction from the rest of Darre.

“I don’t think there’re this many buildings in all of Wendar and Varre.”

“Maybe so.”

“I’m glad you came with me,” she added. “I’d hate to walk down here without a companion. I hear there are at least ten murders every night.”

“So they say, and half of them northerners killed out of spite. I don’t know if it’s true.”

“I wouldn’t leave the safety of the palace after dusk if I were alone, that’s certain. Safety in numbers, I suppose.”

They came to the sprawling market for foodstuffs, situated close to the walls so it would be easier for vegetables and fruits from the fields to be carted in each day. Chickens squawked in cages next to thrushes and pigeons. Greengrocers presided over offerings of apples and figs, quince, lovage, onions, and the familiar mounds of turnips. Lush bundles of red peonies and white lilies were offered for sale next to bowls of mustard seeds and stacks of dried plums. One entire section encompassed an herb and spice market; the heady scents made Hanna’s head swim as they passed.

Yet few people seemed to be buying. The longest line lay ahead outside the old law courts where, by the mercy of the skopos, grain and olive oil were handed out to the poor each Hefensday. Women in patched clothing waited restlessly in line, peering ahead to see if they would make it to the gate before the allotment for this week had run out. Even the children stood with tired patience, too hungry to run and play, dazzled by the sun beating down on their heads. A trio of boys, their clothes ragged and their upper lips stained with snot, shouted nasty oaths at the two Eagles.

“Wendish dogs!”

“They’re eating all our food! Pigs!”

“Their mother was a sow!”

Hanna picked up their pace. Many more folk waited sullenly in pockets of shade or leaned against the marble facings of the grand old buildings, half-fallen into disrepair. Guardsmen lined the length of the colonnade, keeping an eye on a score of young toughs loitering on the steps of an old temple on the other side of the avenue. Murmured oaths could be guessed at, nothing more; some played at dice. A few spat in the direction of the street, but it was hard to tell whether they meant to insult Hanna and Rufus, or the city guards.

“Seems a few want for nothing,” said Rufus, “and the rest are in want.”

“I’ve heard it said the war is draining the regnant’s coffers. The palace servants told me it’s worse now than it’s ever been. They hate us because it’s our king leading the war.”

“Won’t it be best for Aosta once all the foreigners are driven out, and the nobles all bend their knee to one regnant?”

“I hope so,” she said fiercely, for wasn’t that why she had turned her back on Hathui and ridden this far? Because she had faith in King Henry?

A man stumbled out into the street and collided with Hanna. His hands groped her chest as he murmured, “Wendish whore!” His breath stank.

She shoved him off with a grunt as Rufus, startled, turned around to see four young toughs headed their way with ugly grins on their faces. The city guards watched passively.

Hanna grabbed Rufus’ arm and tugged him onward. “There are the gates!”

It was said that no gate in Darre did not have four churches built nearby upon the ruins of the old imperial temples. There were six within sight of the western gate, all but one simple structures of brick that could scarcely hold more than fifty worshipers. The sixth was a domed temple, cleared of pagan statues and rededicated to St. Mark the Warrior; his sword of righteousness, which grants strength to the believer, was painted in bright colors above the portico. But which was the church they sought?

“They’re getting closer!” gasped Rufus.

A pair of fraters hurried up the steps of St. Mark’s. Closer by, a trio of clerics in the modest robes of novices walked past; the shortest of the young women glanced her way.

“I beg you, my lady—”

The novices seemed neither to hear nor understand her.

“Oh, shit,” swore Rufus. “They’ve got knives.”

“Run for it.”

“Eagle!”

Carried on a litter by four men, a presbyter appeared out of the crowd. The four toughs veered off. Hanna knelt; Rufus dropped to both knees. The stone burned hot into her knee through the cloth of her leggings.

“Your Excellency,” she murmured breathlessly, heart still pounding with fear. “We are honored at your notice.”