A Flame in Byzantium aoc-1

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The streets were almost deserted and the donkey cart was incongruously protected by an escort of six well-armed soldiers. As the decrepit cart rattled down to the Bucolean Harbor, Olivia rolled in the back of it, unable to keep her balance or to brace herself against jolts and turns.

  Another contingent of soldiers was waiting at the docks, and they unloaded Olivia from the back without speaking. Two of them carried her aboard a dorkon, its angled lanteen sail still furled.

  "There she is, boatmaster," said the shorter Guard. "Handle her gently. She's a great Roman lady, this one, and we're sorry she came to this."

  The boatmaster hitched up one shoulder. "They warned us she was a sorceress and that she might try to work her wiles on our boat. Some of the men were for having a last go at the lady, but I said that we'd take no chances with the likes of her." He spat copiously and called on several Saints to protect him. "For it is a bad business, having such a creature aboard."

  "You won't have me aboard for long, boatmaster," Olivia reminded him, and resigned herself to rough handling.

  "Take her aft," the boatmaster ordered. "There's some chickens in crates. We're bound for Rhodes when we've finished this job."

  The soldier obeyed promptly and none too gently. When one of them swung Olivia around so that her shoulders struck two of the crates, he only grunted and shifted his grip on her.

  Olivia was starting to experience the vertigo that being on water gave her which not even the Roman earth in her shoes could entirely counteract. She struggled in her bonds to face the front of the boat, knowing the hypnotic effect the sea would have on her. She was oddly pleased to see that there were several small fishing boats out, torches in their sterns, wide nets flung across the sea like the mottled pattern of moonlight. At least, she thought, they will have to get beyond the fishermen before they drop me overboard. The notion was comforting in its silliness, and she discovered that she was almost smiling.

  She knew that this levity could be dangerous, but for the moment she welcomed it.

  The sailors cast off with a minimum of fuss, and the sail opened like a night-blooming lily as the boat moved away from the wharf. The sailors made it evident that they were not going to pay any attention to Olivia, taking care not to get too near her as the boat edged out into the Sea of Marmara.

  Silently the dorkon moved away from Konstantinoupolis, going slowly in order to maneuver through the fishing boats. Even the luff of the sail was muted; the bow whispered through the water as if wanting to keep its passage secret. No calls, no signals from the fishermen disturbed the dorkon as she began to pick up speed, leaving the fishing boats bobbing like fireflies over the moon-flecked water.

  They were moving at a good pace when the boatmaster resigned the tiller to his next-in-command and brought two men aft with him.

  "We might as well do it now," the boatmaster said as he approached Olivia.

  She froze, her hand almost on the dagger hidden in her belt. "Now?"

  The boatmaster went on as if she had not spoken. "We'll slack off, slow down and make sure she's in the water. No telling what a sorceress like this might do."

  "Boatmaster," Olivia said, speaking forcefully. "I wonder if I might make a request?"

  He struck her across the face with the back of his hard, thick hand. "You're not to talk. We were warned about that."

  Already slightly dizzy from being on the boat, Olivia fought nausea as she tried to steady herself. Then she fell to the deck and her fingers closed on the dagger.

  The boat was slowing down, and it began to rock more as she was brought around, wallowing in the rise and fall of the waves.

  "Get her up and over," the boatmaster ordered. "Now. Before she can do anything."

  "But we're supposed to tie the sack again, over her head," one of the sailors protested.

  "If you want to take that kind of chance, you're free to, but I wouldn't open that sack. She might conjure anything out of it, and who knows what would become of us all. I say throw her in now. The Censor won't know or care unless someone tells him." There was a threat in this last, and two of the sailors made signs against the Evil Eye.

  Olivia's brief rush of elation was lost before it had begun; she was wrenched to her feet, then hoisted into the air and flung away from the side of the boat to a host of blasphemous oaths. She struck the water, and for a short time was so disoriented that she dared not move. Eventually her head broke water and she caught a glimpse of the dorkon drawing away from her. She tried not to stare after it, knowing that would only serve to sap her fading spirits to no purpose. The dorkon's wake was froth in the moonlight, then drifted and was lost.

  With a terrible effort, Olivia worked her knife out of her belt, trying not to thrash with the struggle. Part of the time she was able to breathe air, occasionally she was under the water, and it stung her nose and lungs, adding to the discomfort and confusion that was gradually overwhelming her. She fumbled with the knife and it dropped to the bottom of her sack; it took her far too long to retrieve it, and when she did, her whole body was lethargic, so that any movement at all was a grueling ordeal.

  She brought the knife up to the cord around her neck, but could not cut it. Disheartened, she let herself drift for a little time, then resolved to make another attempt. This time she tried to cut the sack itself. One, two, three times she poked at the rough fabric without success. On the fourth jab, which she noticed was weaker than the others had been, the tip of the knife snagged on a heavy slub in the weave, and as she tried to pull it free, a large tear opened like the mouth of an exotic sea creature. Sobbing, choking, Olivia renewed her efforts, and at last she had ripped away all but the small section of the sack that held the cord around her neck like a bizarre wreath.

  She was out of the sack, but her body was exhausted; the earth in the soles of her shoes was wet, steadily losing its potency. Only the power of the night gave her any resistance to the insidious somnolence that tempted her. It would be so easy to stop fighting, to yield to the seductive lure of the water, to drift away from all the turmoil and the pain and the strife.

  Only the distant motion of the torches on the fishing boats held any fascination to her, and she clung to that with some small, committed core of herself. If they could float, so would she! Her arms ached whenever she moved them, her head was muzzy, her legs might as well have belonged to someone else for all the sense she had of them. Her knife was gone, dropped some time—she did not recall when—while she strove to escape from the sack. She focused her dwindling attention on the fishing boats and hoped that morning would not come too soon.

  Dazed, demoralized, she floundered, sometimes keeping the torches in sight, sometimes not. There were fewer of them, she thought. Most of the fishermen must have their catch and were now returning to the land. She tried to paddle toward them, but the effort was too great.

  But it did seem to her, she thought when she was not filled with chaos, that a few of the boats were nearer. One of the torches seemed to be growing larger, and she made a last, pathetic effort to swim toward it. She splashed ineffectively, and for a short time she slipped under the surface again.

  When she rose and was able to clear her head a bit, she noticed that one of the fishing boats had come quite near, and was moving back and forth over the sea. She watched it, bemused, her body no longer able to move.

  She was gazing up into the immensity of the night, caught by the beauty and vastness of the sky, the constellations no longer clear to her, when something brushed her outflung arm.

  Olivia let out a hoarse yelp, then whimpered as a darkness loomed between her and the stars.

  "For Poseidon, will you give me your hand, Olivia?" Niklos ordered in an undervoice.

  Although she was certain that none of this was happening, that she had actually sunk to the depths of the sea and was lost in a pleasant dream, she did her best to humor herself, and with tremendous exertion, was able to wag her hand out of the water.

  Niklos grabbed it, mutter
ing a string of obscenities that would have awed the boatmaster. He was desperate with worry, and took little care about how he got her aboard. Dragging first her arm and then her leg, he wrestled her over the side and onto the rough planks. He wrapped four stout ropes around her, securing her to the mast. All the while he watched her, distracted with apprehension.

  "Zejhil!" he commanded, keeping his voice low since he was aware how well sound carried over water.

  The Tartar woman came from the shallow hold. "You have her?"

  "Yes," he said, and the word itself made him giddy. "Bring that rolled mattress. Wrap it around her. And then head for Cyzicus." He rose from his task and went to the high tiller set aft in the boat.

  Zejhil obeyed, her impassive features only once revealing the alarm she felt. "She is half-drowned."

  "But only half," Niklos pointed out, letting himself laugh for the first time in days. He kept his eye on the shore, but his attention was more on Olivia than the line of darkness at the edge of the bright sea.

  Near dawn, Olivia turned her head. "Niklos?"

  Though the word was little more than a croaking whisper, Niklos beamed at her.

  "Where…"

  "We're going to Kythera." He glanced down at Zejhil asleep in the bottom of the boat. "You?"

  "I'll… heal." She leaned back against the mast. "This mattress is soaked."

  "So were you," he pointed out, leaving most of his feelings unspoken.

  "That hymn—?"

  "I gave a donation to three monks; I said it was for a relative feared lost at sea. They accepted the donation." He secured the tiller with cords, then came to her side. "Shall I take the mattress away?"

  "Not yet. I still need it." Her voice was faint but each word was steadier, less strained.

  "All right." He beamed at her. "Tell me about it later. There's plenty of time."

  Her answering smile was weary and her chuckle ended in a cough, but at last she said, "Yes, centuries. Thanks to you."

  Niklos put his hand on her stringy, matted hair. "Just returning an old favor." As he got to his feet, he said, "Sunrise soon."

  Olivia turned her head to the stern of the boat and saw the first tarnished glow at the rim of the sea. As she watched, it brightened and smoldered, as if distant Constantinople were on fire. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she had turned, facing the bow again, and the pallid moonpath spread over the wrinkled sea.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Chrysanthos to Belisarius, delivered to Konstantinoupolis three weeks after the General's death.

  To the great and admirable Belisarius, greetings from the godforsaken out-post Colonna Romanum where Chrysanthos now commands, by default as much as promotion.

  It has been more than three years since I have written, and almost nine since I have seen you. For the lack of letters, I ask pardon, but there has been so little to tell. Out here, we are cut off half the time, and the rest of the time we are so bored that there is nothing to report except for the number of flies biting the horses. Ever since Totila was killed, and then his heir Teias, we've had few skirmishes even at outposts like this one. Until two months ago.

  Drosos was posted to Mons Falconis, which is a three day ride from here. He was second-in-command to Solonios, nephew of the Exarch Narses, and I do not need to tell you how Solonios got his position, do I?

  Yes, I say was. Drosos was killed six weeks ago. Mons Falconis got cut off and Solonios would not order an attack or send anyone for reinforcements, for fear of what his illustrious uncle would say. Drosos took it upon himself to remedy that, and with Fabios, Leonidas' son, rode around the enemy lines. Fabios arrived here, wounded and half-baked with fever and we did what we could for Solonios and his men.

  Drosos wasn't so lucky. He was thrown when his horse was lanced, and the barbarians caught him. They staked him out, still bleeding, and then rode to the charge over him. There wasn't enough left to give him proper burial. If he hadn't disobeyed Solonios, none of the men would have survived, and so he had what he told me last year he no longer deserved: an honorable death.

  I am sorry to have to send you this news, especially since it is my understanding that in your battles with the Huns last year you were badly wounded yourself. The rumor is—and I hope it is not true—that you have been blinded. It is bad enough to have lost Drosos; to know you cannot fight again would be too much for this old soldier to bear. Let me hear from you much sooner than you have heard from me, with news that you are thriving now that you have saved Konstantinoupolis and are once again in some favor with Justinian.

  Is it true that Kimon Athanatadies was found guilty of heresy and hanged on a butcher's hook across from Hagia Sophia? I could not believe it when the story reached here. I hope that it is so, and that he suffered long and hard for all he had done. If it isn't so, I might well be the one hanging on a hook when I am posted back to Konstantinoupolis at the end of next year, but I doubt if it would bother me as much now as it would have when I left there nine years ago.

  I hope that the next time I write to you, it is with good news, and the invitation to dine with me upon my return. It is an honor I look forward to with joy and gratitude. Until then, my respect and my affection is with you; it is heartening to know you have been vindicated at last.

  Though I am remiss at letters, I am still very much your friend

  Chrysanthos

  Captain (still)

  Epilogue

  Text of a letter to Olivia from Sanct Germain.

  To my long-treasured Olivia, Sanct Germain sends greetings from Naissus, and thanks her for sending news of her travels.

  So you are going to Alexandria now that Justinian is finally dead and his nephew Justin rules in Constantinople. I hope you have not decided to do this out of devotion to Drosos' memory. You tell me that you want to find out what is left of the Library and to try to salvage any of the texts that might have escaped the fires. That, I probably need not remind you, is dangerous work; high risk for a dubious reward.

  You told me once that Drosos called you a monster and that you did not know how to convince him you are not. Olivia, he was right. We are are monsters, Olivia, never forget that. But we need not be monsters simply because we are.

  Some time soon, I, too, hope you can return to Roma. I know how hard it is to be drawn by your native earth. Why else would I be in a place like Naissus? In less than a month I will be back in my native mountains, and they will restore me in ways I need not explain to you.

  I am pleased to know that Niklos Aulirios is still with you. His sense can stand you both in good stead, for often you have more courage than sense, which is one of the many reasons that I loved you while Nero wore the purple and love you now, and will love you when both of us are nothing more than dust.

  Take joy in living, Olivia, else the burden is too great for even you to endure, and loss of you would grieve me more than any other loss I have sustained in all my years.

  In this, the Lord's Year 566, you have my love, as you have had it for the last half millennium

  Sanct Germain

  (his seal, the eclipse)

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 8461e6ba-eedb-41bf-a4ab-276bd82d4445

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 15.11.2012

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  Document authors :

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

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