—|—
Nicholas stumbled backwards, blinded by a stuttering roar, and tripped over the body of one of the Persian soldiers. His head smashed against tile and he felt the room spin, then vanish in a billowing cloud of gray-black smoke. He coughed weakly, unable to rise. Someone ran past him, but he couldn't see who it was. Smoke burned in his throat and pinched a flood of tears from his eyes. Flames roared closer, the heat beating at his face like a hammer.
The sight of Thyatis fleeing the hall, hand in hand with the desert woman, abandoning him, was all too clear in his memory. He wept in frustration, rolling over, head throbbing with dull, thudding pain. He'd dropped Brunhilde again. Blinded, he groped wildly on the floor, searching for her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Temple of Zeus Pankrator, Constantinople
Dahvos mounted a broad flight of steps with a swift pace, noon sun gilding his wheat-colored hair. Full summer rendered the day hot and bright, hazing with steadily rising humidity. He did not pause on the threshold of the high doorway, though a moment passed before his eyes adjusted to the dimness within. Guardsmen—attired in full Legion armor and bearing the sunburst flash of the comes Alexandros—drew back, seeing a grim, fixed expression on the Khazar's face. The easterner's riding boots rang sharply on dimpled marble flooring as he entered, drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the vast hall.
Clerks and captains alike looked up and a frustrated looking priest started towards Jusuf, hand raised in admonition, then halted, seeing the glitter in the khagan's eyes. Like the lesser temples in the city, the house of Zeus was a long rectangle, but it beggared all others for sheer size. The central nave was nearly five hundred feet from end to end, and each aisle of pillars was of gargantuan size, for they supported two decks of galleries overlooking the main floor.
High above, a series of vast circular windows piercing the walls, once filled with colored glass, had been reduced to spiderwebs of copper and iron—allowing thick, dust-sparkling beams of sunlight to fall in brilliant pools on the floor below. In the harsh light, much of the temple interior was in deep shadow and the domed ceilings—ornamented with lavish golden mosaics—were hidden from the casual eye.
At the far end of the nave, in a circle of sunlight, the comes Alexandros hunched over a trestle table covered with papers, maps, cups and wooden ledgers. A block of heavy, plain stone rose behind the Macedonian, draped with irregular dark cloth. Dahvos approached, alone, without his customary escort or the constant shadow of his half-brother. Alexandros did not look up, an expression of complete concentration on his shadowed face.
One of the Goths arrayed around the table turned at the unexpected noise, squinting out of the pool of sunlight. Dahvos brushed past him without a word and the northerner darkened in rage at the affront. "Here now," he growled, beard bristling out.
He reached to lay a meaty hand on the Khazar's shoulder. Dahvos turned, fixing the man with a basilisk stare. His face was a mask of light and dark, but the Goth saw something in glittering blue eyes and lowered his hand. "Pardon, my lord..." he stammered.
Dahvos' nostrils flared minutely, then he turned to the shorter, lither man still standing, staring at the maps and charts laid out before him on the table. "Lord Alexandros."
"Kagan Dahvos," the Macedonian replied without looking up.
The Khazar expressed no obvious reaction at the slight, though the angry gleam in his eyes deepened. Instead, he drew a parchment packet from his belt and laid the cream-colored paper on the table. "These... orders... arrived in my encampment last night. You sent them?"
Alexandros glanced up, raised an eyebrow, then returned his attention to the maps. "Yes."
A faint, wintry smile glanced across Dahvos' lips, then vanished again. "The Roman army has completed preparations for a campaign across the Propontis? You have sufficient supplies? Enough shipping, wagons, pack animals, servants?"
Alexandros nodded, finally looking up from the letter he had been reading, eyes flickering around the circle of men waiting at the edge of the light. "So the orders said, kagan."
Dahvos folded back the first page of the packet with his finger. "'You command my... auxillia... to cross in advance of your main body,'" he read, "'to secure the opposite shore and disperse any Persian resistance in the neighborhood of Chalcedon. The Roman army will follow the subsequent day.'" The Khazar looked up, lips thinning in a humorless smile.
Alexandros nodded in agreement. "That is correct."
"Ships are mentioned—merchant ships and barges—which will provide transport for the crossing. Many are named, as are their captains." Dahvos' forefinger transfixed a second sheet in the packet.
"Yes." Alexandros stood up straight, his face filled with weary resignation. "They were."
Dahvos met his eyes and Alexandros blinked, all too aware of the furious anger boiling behind the Khazar's bland, controlled expression. The kagan bared his teeth in a tight smile. "These ships you mention, comes, are in my direct employ. They were—they are—hired to provide my army with supplies, hospital and transport." Dahvos' voice began to rise, a sharp tone coloring his words. "My men, my cataphracts, lancers, bowmen, scouts, sutlers, blacksmiths... they are my men. Under my command."
Alexandros raised a hand in a sharp motion. "Kagan Dahvos, I under—"
"My nation," Dahvos snapped, overriding the Macedonian, "is a Roman ally, not a subject." He looked around at the officers and captains watching with wide eyes, then back to Alexandros with a long-toothed grin. "We are not sworn to the Emperor, we are not feodus. We came to fight beside our friends, against the Persians." The Khazar picked up the packet with the tips of his thumb and forefinger, dangling the papers in the air. "Allies are consulted, not ordered. Allies are equals, not servants."
The packet fell, clattering on the tabletop, papers spilling awry among the cups and inkstones.
Alexandros stiffened, hand brushing a wayward lock of hair from his high forehead, eyes narrowing. His jaw tightened for a moment, then anger receded, driven down by an almost visible effort of will. "Then I will ask, Kagan Dahvos—will you cross the Propontis, to clear the way into Asia?"
Dahvos said nothing, watching the Macedonian from shadowed eyes. Alexandros stared back, at perfect ease. The moment stretched, grains tumbling from an invisible clock. At last, Dahvos stirred, saying: "I will cross the strait with my fleet and my army. If there are Persians lurking among the summer houses and villas, we will drive them out. This much, we will do for the memory of Heraclius, who was my uncle's friend."
Pursing his lips, Alexandros considered the kagan. He waited, but there were no further words. "Your... fleet... will not return?"
Dahvos shook his head slowly; face mask-like in the slanting sunlight. "On the second day and after, we will press on, into the east. The army of Khazaria will make its way home along the shore of the Sea of Darkness, through Paphlagonia and Colchis. If the Persians or their servants bar our way, we will strike them down." He paused, looking around the circle. "But we will not do your bidding. You can find your own way across the Propontis."
With a barely polite nod, Dahvos turned away and strode away across the vast floor. He did not look back, though his keen ears heard a scuffle, men muttering and a sharp, commanding voice call for quiet. At the doorway, Dahvos paused, running a hand along the marble frame. Panels of tiny figures surrounded the portal, showing men and women at daily tasks, marvelous in their diverse array. He bit his lip, took a heavy breath and then went out, clattering down the steps with a steadily lifting mood. He wiped soot-blackened fingers on his riding trousers.
By the time he reached the plaza he was smiling. Jusuf was waiting astride a slate-colored mare, her mane twined with ribbons and feathers, holding Dahvos' own mount. A troop of his own lancers stood ready, their gear and armor packed, lances polished, bows securely cased in painted leather cases, quivers packed with newly fletched arrows.
"We're going home," the kagan said, swinging up onto his horse. The
dappled gray snorted, pawing the ground. She wanted grass and raw earth under her hooves, not streets of painful cobblestones and cracked marble. "To the camps, then to the port."
The city sprawled untidily around them as they rode west, towards the shattered towers of the Charisian Gate, mile after mile of blackened, brick-faced buildings crowding the avenue. In many places, the buildings had been completely consumed by fire, reduced to shattered piles of rubble. Solitary arches of an aqueduct loomed against the sky, the watercourse fallen in ruin. The sound of hooves on stone rang and echoed from empty doorways and gaping windows. They trotted past work gangs digging in the destruction, clearing the entrances to the baths and public cisterns.
Life was returning the city, in fits and starts. The arrival of Alexandros' army had drawn some survivors from their hiding places, but not all. Strange rumors circulated in the camps—mysterious cook fires had been found, littered with cracked bone—haggard shapes glimpsed at night by patrols, flitting from shadow to shadow, or eyes gleaming from the darkness beyond the watch fires. Dahvos would be glad to leave this place.
—|—
"No," Alexandros said, shaking his head at Chlothar's angry suggestion. "Let him go."
"But, my lord! The Persians have scattered, we can—"
The Macedonian raised an eyebrow at the Frank's outburst and the big man closed his mouth with a snap. Alexandros looked down at the table again, allowing himself a heartfelt sigh. A letter—delivered only the hour before—lay unfolded atop a map of the city and the strait, new parchment covered with a swift, sure hand in blue-black ink. He read the terse directive again, then set the paper aside. The maps of Asia taunted him, showing a monstrous network of roads—good roads too, he thought, well-drained and surfaced, which do not mire with mud or rain, or become impassible with the winter snow—and thriving cities. Rome had been busy all the long centuries while he slept.
Once, he had led an army across these lands—through wilderness and trackless ways, on paths marked by no more than piled stones—and even then his advance had been a bolt of lightning, a thunderstoke... He traced a path on the map with his fingertips, reading tiny names inked beside carefully drawn cities. Nicomedia, he read. Germa, Tyana, Antioch... then the door to Persia and Babylon. An empire... my empire.
Longing stabbed in his gut, a tight fist twisting his entrails. Alexandros bit the inside of his lip and closed his eyes. After a moment, the spasm passed. "Chlothar..."
"My lord?" The Frank was watching him, worry etched on his long face.
"We have received new orders," Alexandros said, tasting bile at the back of his mouth. "Let the Khazars go—they will do us no harm and they will keep the Persians across the water occupied." He gestured for his officers to gather around the table. "The trouble in Egypt has grown worse. The King of Kings Shahr-Baraz is there, with a powerful army. The Caesar Aurelian is hard-pressed. By now, he may be besieged in Alexandria itself."
The officers, Goth and Roman alike, blanched at the Macedonian's even, emotionless words.
"The Emperor Galen bids us take ship for Egypt with all speed, with every man we can put aboard." Alexandros flashed the men a cheerful smile. "Of course, there is no fleet to take us to Egypt. Not yet. My latest report relates the Western fleet is at Tarentum in southern Italia, refitting and being reinforced by squadrons from Gaul and Britannia." The smile shaded into a half-grin and the Macedonian tugged ruefully at his chin. "The quartermasters will be pleased, I'm sure, to learn our hard-won levy of wagons and draft animals and fodder will now go for naught."
Another sharp pain, this one of raw disgust, throbbed in Alexandros' chest. He had prepared meticulously, for months, for a land campaign in Asia and Syria. His own Legion had swollen to nearly twenty-five thousand men—more Goths, more barbarians from over the border, expatriate Huns, Germans and even a smattering of Avars cut loose from their defeated army—and nearly every man had a horse to ride, or a mule to carry his baggage. Six thousand wagons had been secured or made. A hundred thousand arrows, countless spears, horseshoes, rope by the mile, barrels and baskets, sword flats and iron plate. The one Western Legion he had held back from the Egyptian campaign, the veteran Third Augusta—Faithful Pegasus—was once more at full strength. Hundreds of deserters from the Legions shattered before Constantinople had filtered back out of the hills. Shamed men had begged to serve again, regaining their honor. One in ten had paid the price for cowardice, while the others were carefully scattered among reliable units. Those men fought under the eagle again, but each started afresh, no more than the lowliest legionary, no matter if they had been officers before.
The standards of two Eastern Legions had been recovered from the Persian camp in the old palace. Beneath them, Alexandros had organized the motley collection of Eastern cataphracts and individual soldiers who had survived the siege and the destruction of the city. Fourth Parthica—Capricornus—and Sixth Ferrata—Old Ironclad—were each nearly at full roster and eager to prove themselves, though the Macedonian did not trust them to the crucible of battle, not quite yet. Soon, though.
"We will not be crossing into Asia," he said. The words had a bitter, bitter taste. "Demetrios, I will leave you the Fourth and the Sixth with these orders: to hold Constantinople and these lands around, to restore order in Thrace and Macedon. Be cautious, but do not hide in the city. Ensure the people can return to their homes, that the aqueducts are repaired, the cisterns opened. The strait is open and trade will resume, as it always does. You must clear the harbor and the docks of wreck and ruin. Commerce must find a home here again. The city will live, though she has been sorely wounded." Alexandros caught the man's eyes and held them fiercely. "You hold this place in trust for the young Emperor. Know he will return to judge your stewardship! I hold you to the same measure."
Demetrios swallowed, then nodded sharply. The nobleman's prickly anger and pride had worn away during their campaign to reclaim the city. He had seen the skill and bravery of the Goths and the Western legionaries. In the beginning, his own men had not fared so well, but now they had heart. They had tasted victory again and served under their own standards and banners. Such things gave men a sense of place and surety.
"I will, Lord Alexandros." Demetrios bowed to the Macedonian. Alexandros could see the man's thoughts turn to the mighty task set before him and smiled as the Greek's face became somber. There is hope for one of them, at least. While he is willing to think, and to listen.
"Chlothar..." Alexandros stopped himself from sighing again. There was work to be done and no time for laments. "Prepare our men, and the Third Augusta, for transport by sea. Lord Demetrios will win custody of our wagons and horse. Tarentum is... two weeks away, by sea? We will have no more time than that, I'm sure."
The Frank's face screwed up like a puckered quince and Alexandros felt the same disgust. Months of heavy labor cast aside... their swift-mounted army would now ride, crammed like goats into a stinking hold, then walk to battle, wherever the wind had taken them.
—|—
Horses neighed angrily, struggling in their hoods. Grooms and cataphracts alike crowded around the lading ramp of the barge, hands seizing cables and ropes, others pressed against heavy, sweaty brown flanks. The first of the Khazar chargers kicked, splintering a wooden stay, knocking a man into the water. Spray fountained up and the plainsman struggled out, drenched, water lilies in his hair. Jusuf, watching from the shore, jogged down, bare feet squelching on the muddy beach.
The barge had been acquired the previous year in Chersonessos on the northern shore of the Sea of Darkness. Months of travel around the verge of the brackish sea had seen Khazar shipwrights cut away the bow to install a levered bridge that winched down on a beach or sloping shore, letting the horses carried within trot safely to land. Splashing out into the muddy water, he reached the end of the ramp. On this section of shoreline, the sea had proved shallower than expected.
For two miles in either direction, here opposite the great city, the Khazar army w
as unloading in a confused, riotous mass of men, ships, barges, boats, horses and wagons. Somewhere to the north, Kagan Dahvos and the main body were unloading at the port of Damalis, in a proper harbor, with lading cranes and winches. Here, two men pitched to and fro on the ramp, trying to hold it down by main strength. The horses could smell water in front of them and bucked, neighing in fear. Jusuf waded up, just as a fine-looking gelding clattered forward, long mane flying.
"Watch out!" shouted one of the men, a dark-haired Greek with shoulders like Atlas. Jusuf nimbly avoided a flying hoof, swinging up onto the ramp. With his added weight, the wood settled into the water and he caught a flying rein, pulling the horse's big square head close to his own. Hot breath whuffed in his face, and Jusuf grinned in delight.
"Easy, easy there." The gelding shied away, pulling at the rein, but the Greek had climbed up as well and laid gentle hands on the horse's shoulder. Between the two men, they managed to coax the gelding into the water and then to dry land. Smelling one of their own safely ashore and hearing him chomp noisily on carrots and apples proffered by Jusuf from a leather sack at his waist, the rest of the horses followed in better humor.
The troop of cavalry—a jegun, as the T'u-chüeh would say—gathered under a copse of trees an arrow's flight from the shore. Jusuf and his guardsmen had tethered their own horses in the shade. He passed among the cavalrymen, taking their measure, speaking to some he knew from the markets of Itil. They were southern Khazars, from Samandar the White beside the Salt Sea. Jusuf was pleased with their spirit—everyone was cheerful and eager to be home again. Some of the men cast covetous eyes on the rich, loamy soil and the hillsides covered with orchards and gardens. The plains of Khazaria were neither so rich nor so plentiful in their yield. Jusuf did not think any would stay in the warm south, though he allowed he could be mistaken. He missed the open sky and endless, rolling vistas of the steppe. This land was too hot, too close and too crowded.
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