The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  Anger flickered again in Dahak's eyes, but it was quickly suppressed. The sorcerer cocked his head to one side.

  "It strikes me, great lord, that your wife lies cold in the ground a goodly number of years. Your sons, too, lie dead by the hand of Rome. No blood of yours remains to take your holdings, to bear your banner in battle. Perhaps you should seek a young wife…"

  A chill developed in the air between the man and the thing in the shape of a man.

  "These children? These little girls that I held upon my knee and tickled with my beard? Your thoughts are foul, Wizard. Our discussion comes to a close."

  "Wait!" Dahak stepped closer again, and Khadames could see that there was the seeming of honesty in that face. "I mean no disrespect, my lord. You are bereft of a wife and these young women-our most precious possession-are desperately in need of a husband to defend their patrimony. All that they stand to inherit, you built in the name of Chrosoes. Without your strong arm, he was nothing, a penniless refugee in a foreign land. Defend his name, his house, his family. Take his daughters as your wives and honor them. In your household, no harm will come to them."

  Dahak paused, searching for words. Khadames made to speak, his voice hot, but the man at his side made a slight motion with his hand and the general subsided. The big man waited.

  "At one stroke," said the sorcerer, his words and stance free of guile, "you restore Persia. If you do this thing, then there will be no war among the spabahadan. No one will dare resist you. One choice and all that is now lost is regained."

  Khadames expected the big man to turn on his heel and leave, but the dark-cloaked figure remained. The moment stretched and the general felt a strange silent tension grow in the air. The man at his side seemed to be bending his will upon the sorcerer and, as grains slipped past, Lord Dahak seemed to shrink and become less.

  "Yours was royal blood," said the big man after a long time. His tone was sour. "You were their uncle, a long time ago. Would you drive them to the market to be auctioned to the highest bidder?"

  "Is that not the way things have always been?" The sorcerer's voice was equally bitter. "Each of us pays a steep price for what we desire. You, of all of us, have sacrificed the most for Persia. Now the time of your reward has come-the foundation of a strong new dynasty, a crown of gold, peace at long last."

  The big man stirred, raising a scarred hand to smooth down the thick, tusk-like mustaches. Khadames swallowed, sensing that his old friend was now seriously considering the situation.

  "There will be no war with Rome," said the big man, at last. "We shall bide our time. Too many have died in the service of Empress Maria's revenge. The people must have a reprieve, harvest must be gathered, earthworks repaired, order restored in our own house, the borders strengthened. I have heard that the Huns grow bold."

  Dahak bowed in obedience, his arm sweeping out. "As you command, O King of Kings."

  The big man laughed at that, a huge booming sound like a temple bell ringing.

  "King of Kings! I had not thought to hear that…"

  The sorcerer smiled, seemingly genuine. He knelt on the hexagonal slabs that covered the floor, and the Sixteen knelt as well. Even the brown-skinned man in the beast mask knelt.

  "Hail the Light of the World, Shahr-Baraz, the Mighty Boar, King of Kings, Shahanshah of Persia. Hail!"

  The words rolled around the chamber and then died away. Shahr-Baraz tugged at his mustaches, looking down upon the sorcerer and his minions with interest. Khadames scratched the back of his head, unable to speak. The world was turning upside down.

  The Boar turned to his old friend and grinned, his big white teeth gleaming in the torchlight.

  "Well," he said, his voice bubbling with merriment. "The mule of fate kicks like a very devil, does it not? Come, old friend, I must send a message to my men in the hills lest they think that I have been taken captive."

  "You have men in the hills?" Khadames' eyebrows rose in dismay. His patrols had been tasked to quarter every copse, valley, and draw for twenty miles in all directions for possible enemies. The gathering of strength to the twin Empresses would gain the attention of many enemies. "How many?"

  Shahr-Baraz squinted and counted on his fingers. At last, he smiled and held up both hands.

  "More than ten thousand. All of my Immortals who made it out of Kerenos River and whoever we picked up on the way home."

  "Ten thousand? The Immortals?" Khadames sputtered in astonishment. His scout commanders would feel the lash on their backs if this were true. "Where are they?"

  "Here and there," shrugged Shahr-Baraz. "Many are in the camps just outside the city." He wagged a finger at Khadames. "Your lookouts and scouts are spending too much time looking for armies of men. We trickled in ten and twenty at a time, all hidden in the cavalcade of petitioners, jumped-up provincial governors, and second sons who have been flocking here."

  Khadames sighed. At least he wouldn't have to bear the burden of command any longer. Just having his old commander at his side made him feel relieved. The Boar turned back to the sorcerer, who had stood silently, his hands hidden in his cloak.

  "Let us leave this noisome pit," said Shahr-Baraz. "Let us go up and speak with these Empresses and see about the business of a wedding."

  Dahak bowed again, smiling. "As you say, O King of Kings."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Near Ottaviano, Southern Latium

  Long shadows fell across the ashy gray surface of Via. Men in plumed helmets, brassy armor, and dull red cloaks rode slowly, their eyes searching the fields on either side of the road. The sun was dim, shrouded by a thick brown haze in the sky. With each step, the horses' hooves raised little clouds of fine gray-black dust. Tiny flakes of ash drifted down from the sky in a constant slow fall like snow. Charred trees jutted from the fields like black posts. The hedgerows and low fieldstone walls were scorched or burned down to the roots. Nothing moved in the dead land save for the party of soldiers on the road.

  Amid the red cloaks, Anastasia rode on a brown mare, her face veiled and a hooded robe pulled over her head. Her violet eyes, dark with exhaustion, stared blankly out at the wasteland. She was covered head to toe in dark russet with black edging. The silk over her mouth and nose was already thick with ash. Her escort trotted along at a steady pace.

  A cluster of bodies appeared at the side of the road, scattered like fallen logs at the entrance to an estate. All that remained were lumps on the ground, covered with ash, and a burned and twisted hand reaching for the sky. It seemed that they had sought shelter in the arch of the gateway to the villa, though against the firestorm that had swept over them, it had been no protection at all. The Duchess had seen hundreds of these pitiful scenes. Farther from the mountain, there had been whole villages of the dead, only lightly touched by fire. From what she could see, there had been some poison in the air that followed the burning. It seeped into cellars and basements, killing those who had taken shelter there. Nothing was spared, not the birds in the trees or the snakes in the brush beside the road.

  The search party clopped into a crossroads town. The buildings were gutted, ripped by fire and buried in drifts of ash. The roof of one building-a public stable by the look-had been smashed in. Anastasia had seen that before too, though it was becoming more common the farther south they went. Great burning stones had been flung from the mountain and had fallen far afield. Two days before she had read a dispatch from the commander of the Imperial fleet base at Misenum. It had been the first report to reach Rome.

  In an unsteady hand, on parchment that still reeked of sulfur, the tribune had written:

  …the cloud was rising from a mountain-at such a distance and in the darkness we couldn't tell which, but afterward learned that it was Vesuvius. I can best describe its shape by likening it to a pine tree. It rose into the sky on a very long "trunk" from which spread some "branches." I imagine it had been raised by a sudden blast, which then weakened, leaving the cloud unsupported so that its own weight caused i
t to spread sideways. Some of the cloud was glowing like an ember in a fire, in other parts there was only darkness.

  The legate (Tacinus Marcus Liva) ordered a boat made ready to investigate. I heard that a cousin of his lived on the slope of the mountain and he feared for her safety. He launched the quadriremes and embarked himself, a source of aid for more people than just Rectina (the cousin), for that delightful shore was a populous one. He hurried to a place from which others were fleeing, and held his course directly into danger. Was he afraid? It seems not, as he kept up a continuous observation of the various movements and shapes of that evil cloud, dictating what he saw.

  Ash was falling onto the ships now, darker and denser the closer they went. Now it was bits of pumice, and rocks that were blackened and burned and shattered by the fire. Now the sea is shoal; debris from the mountain blocks the shore. He paused for a moment wondering whether to turn back as the helmsman urged him. "Fortune helps the brave," he said, "Head for Stabiae. There is a squadron there, under the command of Pomponianus."

  At Stabiae, on the other side of the bay formed by the gradually curving shore, Pomponianus had loaded up his ships even before the danger arrived, though the burning cloud was visible and indeed extremely close, once it intensified. He had planned to put out as soon as the contrary wind let up. That very wind carried the legate right in, and he embraced the frightened man and gave him comfort and courage. Meanwhile, broad sheets of flame were lighting up many parts of Vesuvius; their light and brightness were the more vivid for the darkness of the night. To alleviate people's fears the legate claimed that the flames came from the deserted homes of farmers who had left in a panic with the hearth fires still alight.

  The streets (of Stabiae) rose so high with the mixture of ash and stones that if they had spent anymore time there escape would have been impossible. The buildings were being rocked by a series of strong tremors, and appeared to have come loose from their foundations and to be sliding this way and that. Outside, however, there was danger from the rocks that were coming down, light and fire consumed as these bits of pumice were. Weighing the relative dangers they chose the outdoors; in the legate's case it was a rational decision; others just chose the alternative that frightened them the least.

  They tied pillows on top of their heads as protection against the shower of rock. It was daylight now elsewhere in the world, but there the darkness was darker and thicker than any night. But they had torches and other lights. They decided to go down to the shore, to see from close up if anything was possible by sea. But it remained as rough and uncooperative as before. Resting in the shade of a sail the legate drank once or twice from the cold water he had asked for. Then came a smell of sulfur, announcing the flames, and the flames themselves, sending others into flight but reviving him. Supported by two small slaves he stood up, and immediately collapsed. As I understand it, his breathing was obstructed by the dust-laden air, and his innards, which were never strong and often blocked or upset, simply shut down. When daylight came again two days after he died, his body was found untouched, unharmed, in the clothing that he had had on. He looked more asleep than dead.

  So Anastasia had found things on the broad plain north of the mountain as well. The citizens and their slaves had fled the eruption and the earthquakes in droves, but the stifling air had overwhelmed them. The dark sky had settled over Rome as well, plunging the capital into constant night. There had been panic and fire-it had taken an hour or so before the skyline of the city had been lit by burning tenements. Galen had taken serious and immediate steps, however, summoning the Second Augustan Legion into the city to assist the vigiles and aediles in fighting the fires and maintaining order.

  The Duchess had hurried home from Palatine, her heart sick with dread. When word had come that it was Vesuvius that had erupted and that all the lands around that southern mountain were devastated, she had commandeered a troop of cavalry and set off.

  She knew, in her heart, that all of the men and women she had sent south were dead. Her only hope, in all this ruin, was that the Prince had died as well. Her heart became numb at the thought and she pushed bleak visions away.

  They rode on, out of the village and into a zone of complete destruction at the base of the mountain itself. Vesuvius rose up, its once-smooth sides ripped by long crevices and chasms. The summit, which had tapered to a smooth cone, was now jagged and canted at an angle. A good third of the mountaintop had simply vanished. Anastasia reined her mare to the side of the road. The way was blocked by a drift of large black boulders. The ground still steamed and smoked and the layer of ash was at least a foot deep on the surface of the highway. In the ditches on either side, it was far deeper. She looked up, her exhausted eyes following the line of the summit.

  Foul black smoke still belched from the mountain, pluming into the sky. They were now so close that it seemed like late twilight, though far above the murk, the sun rode high in the sky. The Duchess wondered how long the pall would last-days? Months? Galen had already issued a series of edicts placing all grain production in the Western Empire under direct Imperial control. Thousands of acres of agricultural land in Latium had already been destroyed and the price of bread would skyrocket as soon as the grain factors recovered from the shock of the event.

  The centurion in command of the detachment of equites rode up, his narrow face pale with ash and dust.

  "My lady, it would be dangerous to proceed farther. Do you feel the heat in the ground and the thickness of the air? Dangerous vapors have been released from the underworld-we may well find ourselves in Charon's boat if we continue."

  Anastasia would have laughed at the allusion on another day, but here, under the black slope of the volcano, it seemed all too appropriate. She nodded wearily and turned her horse around. They had seen nothing but corpses once they had entered the gray land. It seemed passing unlikely that they would find anyone alive. The toll of riding lay heavy on her as well. She had not been on a horse for a lengthy period in years. The pain would be with her for weeks.

  They rode back north, following the highway. A wind rose, coming cold out of the east, driving grit and ash into their faces. Anastasia bundled up tighter, feeling chilled to the bone. The horses hung their heads low, fighting through the gray haze.

  It was a long way back to Rome.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  The Bucoleon Palace, Constantinople

  Rufio had served the Emperor of the East for his entire adult life; first as a soldier in the personal army of the Emperor's father, the Exarch of Africa, then, after Constantinople had been taken and usurper Phocas hacked to bits at the command of the new Emperor Heraclius, in the revitalized Imperial Army. His service during the disaster of the war against the Avars had led him into the service of the Emperor. During all that time, he had murdered men and women, stolen, lied, deceived, faked a kidnapping, misrepresented the use of public funds, forged letters, insulted holy men and priests, and consumed food left on the altars of the gods as sacrifice. Once Heraclius had turned to him, during the driving rain that accompanied their retreat from the dismal field of Adrianople, and called him the only man the Emperor truly trusted.

  It had been a moment of weakness, but Rufio, in his stoic way, had let it pass.

  Now the scarred, silent African had been the captain of the Faithful Guard for three years and seen all that the Empire had lost, regained. He had seen the golden-haired youth become a man and triumph over impossible odds.

  It made the guards captain sick to see his master become a delusional cripple, isolating himself from everything that he held dear, letting the Empire that he loved so well slip away into the hands of the great landowners and magnates and priesthoods. Now, he felt uneasy and unfaithful. By Imperial edict, it was treason punishable by dismemberment to stand as he now did. In his own mind, he had already betrayed a man he considered a worthy commander. Now he considered the aspect of real treason and found it palatable.

  "He is a stranger, unrecognizable." Th
e Empress' voice was soft and low, barely audible. Her face was in shadow, barely illuminated by a single candle that stood on a long tapering holder by the door to the sleeping chamber. Martina had come by a hidden way, heavily veiled and shrouded in a thick cloak and long gown. The clothes were none of her own. One of the Faithful had purchased them in the city some days before. Rufio had held himself apart from the murk of intrigue and conspiracy that occupied the idle time of the city fathers, but he had not ignored its lessons.

  "My lady," he said, his rough voice lowered as well. "In this poor light, he looks more like the man you remember than under the sun. He is not well. His body has rebelled against him."

  Martina turned, her glorious brown eyes shining with tears, just visible between two bands of the veil. Rufio could see that the young woman longed to touch her husband's hand, but dared not. Of late, to keep Heraclius in some kind of effective state, Rufio had been adding one or two drops of poppy juice to the heavy wine that the Emperor would consent to drink before sleeping. Even that was difficult, for the Emperor's fears extended to anything liquid. The African knew that this was a dangerous business, but he could see no alternative. If he did not, then the Emperor's sleep would be wracked by terrible dreams.

  If the Emperor did not sleep at night, he was in a hallucinatory daze during the day. Too much needed to be done for that to be allowed. Now, with Heraclius in a drugged stupor, Rufio had brought the Empress to look upon him. It was the first time that she had seen her husband in months.

  "Is he dying?" For all her youth and bookish nature, the Empress was of a practical mind.

  Rufio nodded, his gnarled hands clenching behind his back.

  "How long?"

  "Perhaps a year… he will not allow a priest of Asklepius to attend him. Sviod-one of the Faithful-has seen this kind of thing before. Those so afflicted will linger and slowly decay into death. Madness already comes and goes."