"I have summoned the Legion commanders to join us just after full light," Heraclius said, "and we will begin deciding which cohorts and regiments will return to the capital, or to Egypt, and which will stay. Many of the men will need to return to their farms or cities in the provinces-some will stay, and new recruits will need to be trained and integrated into the existing cohorts. Too, we must decide what to do with the two Western Legions that my brother Emperor left with us."
"Garrison duty!" Theodore scoffed, sneering. "Over-the-hill infantry and engineers! If we were besieging something, we would bless them, but now? We have little use for them at all. He would have done better by us by leaving all those fine Sarmatian knights whom he brought with him."
Heraclius eyed his younger brother carefully; the rash youth who worshiped the horse-god and the romance of the equites was showing strongly. For a moment he reconsidered placing his brother in charge of the newly won Persian provinces, but then pushed the thought aside. I need someone I can trust there, he thought. He will have able advisors and cooler heads to counsel him.
"Emperor Galen left us something we are sorely lacking, dear brother-experienced infantry and specialists. They will be pure gold to train the four new legions of recruits that will be debarking here within the next six months. You will need more than cavalry to-"
Rashly, Theodore interrupted his brother. "I don't need infantry to rule Persia! I need horsemen and lots of them! Persia is vast and lightly populated. I need cataphracts to garrison and rule and patrol. Infantry works here, in Syria and Egypt and Asia, but there?" He pointed east, past where the slopes of Mount Silpius were tinged with pale dawn. "There I need cavalry, and four legions of it will not be enough."
Heraclius caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Theodore closed his still-open mouth. "I have considered this," Heraclius said after a moment. "I have been considering a massive change in the way the provincial armies work, both within the Empire and in the newly won provinces. In fact, I want to revise the way we raise armed men for war and support them in the field. You know I have made some changes already… well, that is only the beginning of this. The current provinces will be reapportioned into themes…"
The Emperor and his brother left the dock, deep in discussion, and the guardsmen drifted with them, a silent wall around the two men. Dawn continued to swell in the east, and light grew on the stone quays and docks of Seleucia. Hundreds of ships rode at anchor there, fat-bellied transports and massive galleys. The streets began to fill with dockworkers and draymen. Too, long lines of Western Imperial troops-not able by their archaic-seeming armor and ready discipline on the march-began to file out of the town, directed by bull-voiced centurions to their ships. They were the last to leave, following their Emperor, who had put to sea the day before.
– |The ghost of the broken tile faded away, touched by the sun, and Dwyrin came to a halt. The finder had led them on a merry chase through darkened streets and empty plazas, across public gardens and bridges. Finally it came to the eastern gate, the same that Dwyrin had passed through on the great road the day before. The gate was closed for the night, and the torches of the guard post were guttering low. Still, with the dawn coming, there was enough light to see.
"Where now?" wheezed Odenathus from behind him. The Palmyrene was flushed and panting hard.
"I don't… wait. There she is."
A huddled figure was curled up at the base of the gate, just by the guardhouse door. Even in the poor light, Dwyrin could pick out the red cloak and dark boots. He ran up, his heart in his mouth, suddenly stricken by unexpected fear. What if someone had attacked her? Taken her by surprise with a knife?
"Zoe?" His voice sounded harsh in the still air. He crouched down, Odenathus at his shoulder. There was a sour smell of far too much wine and something else, a bitter aftertaste hanging in the air. "Leader-of-five?" He touched her shoulder.
The figure lay still for a moment, then twitched away from his hand. Dwyrin sighed, smelling the wine, and motioned with his head for Odenathus to take her other arm. Together they dragged her up. The hood fell away, and Zoe's head lolled to one side. Her front was covered with dried vomit and other less recognizable stains. A cheap pottery jug fell out of her hand; she had been wrapped around it. The jug cracked on the pavement, but it was empty. Only a dark trickle, like sap, oozed out of it.
"Oh, that is a fine smell," Odenathus gasped. "What was she drinking?"
"What was she thinking, you mean. So much for finding us soft beds and a hot bath!"
Zoe's eyes twitched open, and she snarled at the light. One weak hand raised, trying to shield her eyes from the dawn. The two lads dragged her away from the gate, into the shade of a nearby shop awning. Soon the street would be thick with peasants coming into the city with wagonloads of vegetables and goods to barter or sell. Dwyrin lowered the girl to the steps in front of the shop, carefully holding her head so that it did not bang on the wall.
"Zoe?" Odenathus said, crouching down next to her, his lean face worried. "Do you know us?"
The leader-of-five lay back against the door of the shop, her hair in a tangle around her head. Odenathus held one hand in his own. The other moved feebly to her face and brushed the hair away. Slowly, her eyes came open, but only to a narrow slit. Even the pale dawn was too much light for her head.
"Odenathus?" Her voice was weak and raspy. Dwyrin realized that Zoe had been crying for a long time at some point. He looked around, hoping to spy a well. There was a public fountain at the side of the little square behind the massive construction of the gate. He jogged to it, pulling a wine cup out of his carryall. It only took a moment to fill the cup with water and hurry back to the front of the shop.
He stopped, hard, when he reached the two Palmyrenes. Odenathus was staring up at him with the face of a dead man, bleached almost white, his eyes stunned. The young man sat down heavily, staring sightlessly at Dwyrin. The Hibernian turned, his mouth half open in surprise, and flinched back from the pure brilliant hatred in Zoe's eyes.
The young woman staggered up, one hand against the wall, the other curled into a claw. "Bastard Roman!" Her voice cut the early dawn stillness like a knife digging into flesh. "Your blessed Empire has destroyed us, every single one of us!"
"What?" Dwyrin managed to blurt before Zoe crossed the space between them and slammed her fist into the side of his head with all her strength. Pain blossomed from his ear, and he staggered back.
"Filth-eating Roman pig!" Another punch slammed into his throat and he rolled, gasping for breath. She pounced on him, fists raining down, cracking against his ribs. He scrambled away, breaking free, and sprang up, his face flushed with anger, his own fists raised. Zoe circled, howling insults at him, her entire body electric with rage. She jumped in and Dwyrin blocked her strike frantically, pushing her away. She spun, kicking at his knee and he barely skipped back in time.
"Irrumator! I will kill you and everyone who looks like you, you… urk!"
Odenathus, tears streaming down his face, tackled his cousin from behind, and they crashed to the cobblestones together.
"Help me!" Odenathus shouted at Dwyrin as Zoe thrashed and squirmed like a marsh eel under him. Dwyrin piled on, trying to pin the woman's legs. There was a flurry of arms and knees and a searing pain as she bit him. Dwyrin managed to push a wad of cloth between her teeth, and then they had her pinned down. Odenathus was gasping for air, barely able to speak for the tears that were dripping from his face.
"What… what is it?" Dwyrin was winded, too, and his head was still ringing like a temple gong.
"Oh, my friend, I cannot believe it… our city has been destroyed."
Dwyrin stared at the shock and horror on his friend's face, barely comprehending what he was saying. "Destroyed? How-I mean, who? The Persians? Not the Empire!"
"I don't know, that was all that she said-but I saw it in her face; everyone is dead: my mother, my father, my sisters, everyone I grew up with, or knew…" Odenathus began crying then, and
Dwyrin could only hold his friend tightly, while all the pain in the world seemed to pour into them from the open sky.
– |It was night again, as seemed fitting. Dwyrin sat alone in front of the tent. The wagon loomed over him on one side, and the little oil lamp gleamed, shedding a wan circle of light that included him and the edge of one of the big wagon wheels. He had stopped crying with the help of nearly a gallon of wine. The rest of the cohort was in the city, spending their Persian loot and indulging in whatever desire or pleasure they harbored. The night felt very cold and empty. Both of his friends were gone. Zoe had left the same day that they had found her at the gate. Odenathus had tried to convince her to stay, if only for a few days, but she had refused to listen and had stalked out the eastern gate of the city, alone and on foot. After their brief struggle in the plaza, she had refused to look at Dwyrin, and even Odenathus seemed only marginally acceptable to her. Dwyrin had stood in the midday heat of the gate, watching her figure dwindle into the distance. Watching her go, he felt cold, even with the Syrian sun burning down on him.
Dwyrin raised his cup to his lips. The wine didn't even taste like anything anymore. The open hatred that Zoe had shown him had left its mark; he felt stunned and wounded. But there was no blood to stanch or any wound to close up. Some of the grape dribbled down his chin to stain his tunic, but he did not notice.
Odenathus had left only a few minutes ago. He had been crushed by the news, too, but had managed to struggle through and process his paperwork to leave the Imperial Army. Given the confusion in the city, it had not taken that long-only four days of waiting in the stifling heat of the government offices. He had taken his cash-out with a grim face, weighing the heavy gold coins in his hand for a long time before he turned away from the tribune's field desk. He had taken his things and Zoe's from the wagon and loaded them onto a string of heavily laden camels he had purchased in the agora of the city. Dwyrin had watched him dully, already drunk and lying in the shade of their tent. Odenathus had said nothing to him, though Dwyrin hoped that the easy-going Palmyrene did not bear him the same virulent hatred that Zoe had conceived.
Dwyrin put the cup down by the amphora. It was empty; he could tell that by the weight. The little lamp exhausted its oil and flickered out. "Do you want me to come with you?" His voice echoed in the darkness, but there was no one there. He had wanted to say this to Odenathus, but his throat had seized up and he had not. "I will, if you just ask."
The young man lay down, curling his body up against the cold desert night. Stones dug into his back, but for the moment he did not care. "We should stay together," he whispered. "We're a strong team."
High above the camp, on the soft breeze of night, an owl hunted, crossing the moon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Campus Martius, Rome
Gaius Julius squatted in deep shadow, a cloak of dark red wool pulled around his shoulders and falling to the ground around his boots. It was cold among the ornamental trees, but the old Roman grinned to himself in delight. Indeed, he was flexing his fingers and feeling the smooth movement of muscles and tendons in his hands and arms. Clouds covered the sky, shrouding the sliver of moon that had been peeking over the tops of the cedars.
"What are you laughing about?" Alexandros' voice was edged with tension and excitement.
"I was thinking," Gaius whispered over his shoulder, "that when I was a living man I would be feeling creaky and old and frozen to be out here at this hour. But now? Now I feel fine! I can sense the cold, but it does not dig at my bones."
"Huh." The Macedonian did not seem impressed. The young man continued to fidget, constantly checking the tools and bags that were strapped to his body. "I can still run farther and faster than you. My grip is stronger."
Gaius Julius smiled in the darkness, hearing the utter confidence in that mellow voice. His heart tugged at him, even cold and dead as it was. Something about the golden youth drew him, subtly demanding that he follow the other blindly, even to death. The old Roman was wary and cynical and knew that he had once exerted the same influence upon others. Perhaps he wouldn't be fooled.
"True," the old Roman purred, "but you died so young and with so much left undone. Your restored body is much fitter than mine, which is old and worn out, abused by success… but even so, I do not feel the cold, and that pleases me."
Alexandros made a muttering sound and slouched down against the bole of one of the pine trees. They were crouched in hiding within the first tier of trees. A curving road of gravel and close-fitted stones lay before them, and beyond that the looming circular shape of a great mausoleum. Across the way, a barrier of rosebushes encircled the base of the tomb. High marble walls rose up to a terrace planted with more ornamental trees-lemons and olives intertwined. Two more terraces rose above that, each sloping with green turf and bright flowers. Finally, surmounting the whole edifice, a great brick drum faced with travertine rose up, topped with a stout marble pillar and then a shining golden statue.
Gaius Julius looked up, seeing the thing glittering in the light of torches held in brick recesses at its base. His lips curled into an involuntary sneer. The sight of his so-called nephew, arm raised in benediction over the city of Rome, the crown of laurels upon his head, galled him. "Puppy…" he hissed, feeling envy and jealousy stir in his heart, bitter as wormwood.
"'Ware." Alexandros touched his shoulder lightly and pointed.
A dozen yards away was a break in the neatly trimmed rosebushes and a flight of steps that led up to a pair of broad golden doors. The gold panels gleamed in the light of a pair of lanterns that were hung up on hooks at either side of the doorway. A pair of stools and an iron brazier were placed in an alcove just off of the doorway. Two soldiers in the garb and armor of the Praetorian cohort had been sitting there, talking quietly and warming their hands over the coals. Now they had stood up and were belting up their swords.
"The watch is changing?" Alexandros tensed at Gaius' side, ready to sprint out across the road.
Gaius shook his head and laid a calming hand on the young man's shoulder. "No, not yet. They must be going utmeiant vel in meiantur, as it were."
The two Praetorians made a careful survey of the dark woods and the sky, then picked up one of the lanterns and sauntered off into the stands of carefully manicured trees. Gaius watched them carefully until the light of the lantern disappeared between the trunks. Then he nodded to the Macedonian. "Let's go."
– |The long bronze key jiggled in the lock. The doors, up close, were ornamented with incised pictures of the events surrounding the birth of the Empire. Gaius Julius cursed softly and pulled the key out. The hexagonal lock mechanism was sticking. He pulled a second key from a leather bag hanging from his broad military belt. Behind him, Alexandros moved a little, his lorica making a soft metallic rattle. Gaius shook his head, trying to get the helmet he was wearing to set properly on his head. It had been a long time since he had worn a full legionnaire's kit, and the heavy armor on his shoulders and chest was slowing him down.
Soft politician, he chaffed at himself. The boy doesn't even notice the weight of this metal.
The second key clicked and engaged a pin somewhere in the lock. Gaius put his shoulder into turning the handle and there was a grating noise as a bar rolled back inside the lock. The complaining screech it made seemed very loud, but Gaius knew that the sound would die quickly.
"Here we go," he said as the door cracked open a little. He put the key away and pushed at the panel. It swung in, creaking on its hinges with the weight of all that gold on the door facing. The dim light of a few candles showed inside, and Gaius slipped in with Alexandros close on his heels.
– |"This is all that is left? Just ashes?" Alexandros rolled a carved marble cylinder between his hands, making a tic-tic-tic sound on the top of a malachite coffin. The cylinder was about a foot long and intricately carved on the outside with scenes of men and horses and women and ships and the Forum. "It's so small!"
"Not much left of a man, once
he's been rendered down." Gaius was poking around with a dagger in the niche that had held the cylinder. "I guess you Macedonians weren't much for saving the ashes, though."
"No," Alexandros said, his face pensive. "Wind and fire take the dead back to the gods. I sent many of my men home that way." Gaius looked up, hearing an unexpected thread of melancholy in the young man's voice. In the months since the youth's resurrection he had possessed a singularly positive demeanor. The events of his death and return to life did not seem to bother him at all. Gaius had thought that the youth only took it as his due to rise from the dead and walk among the living again.
"I wonder why they did not honor me that way." Alexandros' face, half illuminated by the light of the little candle-lantern that Gaius had brought, seemed drawn and marked with terrible fatigue. "Did they hate me so, after all that we had suffered together, to leave me trapped on earth, imprisoned in gold and lead?"
Gaius slid the dagger back into its copper sheath and stood up carefully and backed out of the brick-lined alcove that held four recessed niches. He untied a silk bag from his belt, where it had been held with purple string, and shook it open.
"Even in death," Gaius said absently while he worked, "you inspired both hate and love, my friend. If the histories are true, terrible arguments followed your funeral. Blows were struck while you lay in state, your body not even cooled. Some of your generals demanded that you be sent to the gods immediately, but others argued that you should be returned to Macedon to be buried in the city of your fathers. Each man strove to better the others in his grief and love of you."
Alexandros made a face at this, and shook his head and shoulders, trying to shake off the image.
"They were dogs," the old Roman continued, his gray eyes in shadow, "that tore themselves apart once the pack leader was dead. It took two years for an army of craftsmen to build your funeral car, your catafalque. The great generals were already murdering each other for control of your Empire before you were even properly buried. It is said, by men who were there, that the procession of your funeral train took five days to pass. No greater tribute has ever been paid to a living man. Entire nations were beggared to build your coffin."
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