—|—
It was three days before Mohammed completed his business in the city. All that time, more men, horses, and supplies continued to flow out of the Nabatean capital and up the Wadi Musa to the road to Jerash and the north. Ahmet continued to sit in the caravansary, watching columns of light archers and more horsemen pass by. Long trains of wagons, laden with barrels and crates, followed. On the afternoon of the third day, the priest considered what he had seen—close to fifteen thousand men had headed north. Given the thin population of the Nabatean hinterland, all desert plain and rocky mountains, nearly every able man and animal in the principality had been committed. If this same effort was repeated in the other cities of the Empire, the coming war would be great indeed.
There was something odd, too, about the citizens of the city of stone. To the unaware eye, they were a common-looking people—worn thin by the desert, browned by the sun, with dark hair and eyes. To the Egyptian, though, they seemed furtive. They talked little to strangers, or even among themselves. The nightly ceremonies on the mountaintop, on the Ad'deir—the high place—were closed to outsiders, and the chanting was indistinct to his ears in the valley below. There was an undercurrent of power in the city as well, something that constantly tickled at the back of his mind, though there was nothing to be perceived if he put his mind to searching it out.
Mohammed bustled in, followed by two of his men. They were swarthy fellows, with a grim look about them. Ornamented knives and short curved swords were thrust into their sashes. They were clad in robes of tan and rust. Mohammed sat down on the bench opposite the priest. His smile flickered on, then off. The merchant was tired.
"Are you ready to travel?"
Ahmet arched an eyebrow. He had been ready to travel for three days. The rest had done his legs good, though; they felt as if they had recovered from the trek up the desert valleys from Aelana. He would be well pleased to be gone from this city that crouched amid the red hills.
"When you give the word, Master Mohammed."
The merchant slapped a broad hand on the tabletop. "Good. We're leaving."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Palatine Hill, Roma Mater
Two Praetorians, bulky in their red cloaks and plumed helmets, closed the heavy door behind Aurelian. It made a solid sound, sliding closed, and the acting Emperor sighed in relief. It was late at night, near the midnight hour, and he had just finished the day's business. Rubbing tired eyes with the heel of his right hand, Aurelian tugged his cloak off and threw it on a backless chair by the door. The dark-purple garment joined a haphazard pile of shirts, tunics, and other cloaks. The rest of the outer chamber was littered with dirty plates and moldy half-eaten fruit.
Aurelian snorted at the sight but ignored it. At home, on his estate northeast of the city, his wife and her legion of servants would have dealt with all of his mess much more effectively. Here, in the city, in the palace, however, he had banned everyone from his rooms, for they were his one small refuge of peace and quiet amid the chaos of the Imperial Court. Even his bath slaves waited outside the door until he was ready to go to the Baths.
As he did nearly every night, he thought of calling for one of his brother's concubines to soothe him to sleep with gentle hands and a soft, warm body. As he did every night, he shook the thought away. He was too tired to consider anything but the rumpled sanctuary of his bed. He kicked his sandals off, bending the copper clasps that held them closed, and sat down on the side of the large, elevated bed that dominated the inner chamber.
"Hello, brother."
Aurelian jumped at the soft voice and half turned, his right hand holding a bare dagger, reflexively pulled from its sheath at his belt. Maxian sat in a low chair by the window, a dark-gray cloak draped around his thin shoulders.
Aurelian raised one bushy red eyebrow—his delinquent brother looked even more exhausted and worn down than he did. "Are you all right?"
Maxian raised an eyebrow of his own. He had been thinking the same thing about his older brother.
"Yes," the youngest Atrean Prince said. "Do I look like you do?"
Aurelian gave a weak laugh and fell backward into the thick cotton and wool blankets on the bed.
"Gods," he said, rubbing his eyes again. "Galen makes this look so easy! I thought I was helping him before, but there are daily crises that I've never even heard of before. No wonder they divided the old Empire—I cannot conceive of trying to run a state twice the size of ours."
"I am sorry," Maxian said, guilt plain on his face. "I am supposed to be helping you."
Aurelian raised his head up enough to give his little brother a good glare, then fell back again, groaning. "No matter, piglet. Even I can tell that something serious is bothering you. What is it?"
Maxian stood slowly and limped to the door of the outer chamber. He ran his hands over the join at the center of the panels and along the sides. Then he returned to the chair and closed the window shutter, making the same motion over its surface. This done, he settled in the chair, uncorked a heavy wine bottle, and drank a long draft.
"Give here," Aurelian said, rolling over on the bed and taking the amphora from his brother. "You don't drink much, and never bring your own, so it must be very serious. Who is she?"
"Huh!" Maxian laughed, while his brother took a long swallow. "Not a woman like that. A friend died and I took it harder than I should have. It has taken me awhile to shake it off—I must apologize again—you needed my help and I didn't give it."
"Oh, I'll live." Aurelian smiled, his cheerful disposition beginning to show through the weariness. "I'll occupy my spare hours thinking of ways for you to pay me back."
Maxian nodded ruefully; he was sure that Aurelian would devise some particularly fitting revenge for this dereliction of duty. He scratched his forehead.
"I have work to do," Maxian said, meeting his brother's eye with equanimity, though his stomach was fluttering. "Galen's work. This business with the Duchess... do you remember?"
Aurelian nodded, putting his hands behind his head.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I see her every day—every day, my brother—and she scares me and impresses me at the same time. She seems to know everything that goes on. Never once have I put a question to her that she could not answer."
Aurelian got up, rubbing his nose and taking another swallow from the amphora. "I have no idea whether she tells me the truth or not, piglet. She could be concealing anything behind those dusky violet eyes. Each day I have to rely on her more, and that makes me very nervous. I know... I know—that Father trusted her implicitly. She and Mother were close... but, by the gods, I cannot bring myself to do the same."
Aurelian stopped, looking a little surprised at the depths of his feeling. Maxian nodded and took the amphora back, popping the cork back into the spout.
"I'll have to disappear for a while," he said, stowing the jug. "I'm watched all the time now, you know, just like you are. A month or two should do it—when I resurface, I should have some alternative sources of information for you and Galen."
The acting Emperor looked up at his younger brother, a half smile on his broad, bearded face. Maxian drew his cloak on and stepped to the window.
"I know," Aurelian said. "You've always made us very proud."
Maxian stopped, his hand on the shutter.
"Max, the day you came home from school with that caduceus on your cloak, that was about the happiest day of Mother's life. Pater was fit to bust too. I'm sorry Galen and I have to ask this of you now, but—well, you know how it is."
"I know, Ars," Maxian said, still looking away. "I hope you'll be proud of this too."
The shutter clattered on the frame and the young Prince was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Port of Theodosius, Constantinople
Dwyrin scrambled aside from the bulk of a ship crane. Men shouted around him as a great siege engine swung out over the dock, ropes and cables straining to control the weight of the iron-and-wood machine
. Thirty men leaned into the lines that guided the engine down into the hold of the great merchantman. The day was clear and the sky a brilliant blue. A crisp wind off the waters of the Propontis cut the heat on the deck of the ship. Dwyrin climbed up into the rigging, his bare feet and hands quick on the tarred ropes.
From his new vantage he could see much of the harbor under the city walls. Hundreds of ships were jammed into the dockside and the quays of the military harbor. The dockside was a multicolored swarm of soldiers, sutlers, engineers, heavily burdened laborers, and officers. It seemed that the two sloping roads that led down from the towering walls of the city were crammed shoulder to shoulder with an endless stream of men, horses, and wagons. Mules and horses raised their voices in protest, filling the air with a great noise. The transport to which Dwyrin had been assigned also held two companies of siege engineers and one of auxillia. The Gothic mercenaries were helping the engineers load, their broad-muscled backs gleaming with sweat under the bright sun. Their long pigtails were wrapped around their heads like blond crowns. The engineer centurion bellowed orders through a bronze horn. The engine slowly descended into the darkness of the hold.
Dwyrin climbed higher and found a spar to sit upon. His bare legs, finally browned rather than burned by the sun, dangled over the deck thirty feet below. His right arm still throbbed with the pain of the Legion brand. He gingerly fingered it. The pain had been incredible, though now he felt an odd sense of security and belonging. This troubled him, as he had not even met any of his fellow legionnaires. He had been passed from hand to hand until an optio of the quartermaster's corps had dumped him on this ship with his papers and kit. All he knew was that the ship would leave tonight, and in days or weeks it would reach a place called Edessa, and he would find his unit.
The breeze tousled his pale-red hair, grown even longer now that he was escaped from the strictures of the school. For some reason the Legion had not demanded that he adopt the short cut of the legionnaires that he saw on the deck of the ship or on the quayside. He hooked one leg around a rope to steady himself and began braiding his hair back. Around him, the great port of Theodosius continued to swarm with activity like a kicked-over anthill.
—|—
"Get your backs into it, you lazy whoresons! Pull, you bastards, pull!"
Thyatis stalked up the line of sun-bronzed sweating men. The tan linen tunic and kilt that she favored clung to her, soaked with perspiration. Her temper was foul, and had been for days since the disaster at the Valach's house. Nikos, Timur, and the other men hauled for all they were worth. The wagon, laden with supplies and heavy iron-bound chests, creaked slowly up the ramp onto the ship. Thyatis cracked her baton on the side of the wagon, inches from Jochi's head. The sharp sound galvanized the men.
They shouted. "Heave! Ho!"
The wagon advanced another inch.
"Pull, you mangy bitches! Pull!" Thyatis' voice cut the air like a whip.
"Heave! Ho!"
The wagon advanced again, two inches this time. The front wheel crunched into the lip of the ramp. The men shouted again, muscles bunching and straining.
"Ball-less priests! You are weak! Pull!"
"Heave!" came the answering shout. "Ho!"
The front wheel trembled against the lip of the ramp, then there was a groaning sound and it tipped up and over. The wagon rolled forward onto the deck. Men ran up and slid chocks under the front wheel to keep it from rolling forward into the gaping maw of the open hold. Thyatis stepped up onto a giant wooden block that formed part of the main mast. The rest of her detachment, now expanded to two tent parties, or twelve men, hustled onto the ship to secure the wagon. Only two more to go. She slapped her thigh with the heavy baton, ignoring the stab of pain.
The day after the debacle of the raid, she had been summoned to the personal quarters of the Western Emperor. She had sat in a low chair in the center of his study, back straight, eyes front. Though she was consumed with anger at the failure of her mission, her face was a carefully composed mask. This much, at least, the ladies in the House of de'Orelio had taught her. The Emperor, Galen, had met her privately, with only a young Eastern Empire officer in attendance. He was short, but broad-shouldered, with the look of a cavalryman about him. She remembered him from the staff meeting—Theodore was his name. The rest of the face clicked into place; he was the younger brother of the Eastern Emperor.
"So, Centurion, two of your men dead, four injured. A block of the city lost to fire, and the traitors, whoever they were, escaped. To balance this, you recovered an Imperial recruit who was being held captive in the house."
Thyatis flinched. The scorn in the Emperor's voice was clear. She cleared her throat. "We wounded the Persian sorcerer, sir."
Galen's eyes flashed. "You think that you wounded the sorcerer. But witnesses in the street observed him flying away to the east, out over the harbor. Further, he was carrying someone. This does not strike me as being particularly wounded."
"He was very strong, sir. He nearly killed all of us."
Galen nodded, his face a mask equal to hers. "And we know little more than we did before. We know that the Walach, Dracul, was negotiating with the Persians. We know that the traitors did go to his house that night. We know that a Persian sorcerer was in the city—even though none of the thaumaturges in the service of the Eastern or Western Emperors detected him. This went ill, Centurion. Our entire plan may be compromised."
"Yes sir."
Galen sat in thought, his face pensive. Thyatis fought hard against fidgeting. At last, the Emperor looked up again, his eyes troubled. "Not much time passed between the arrival of the traitors and the start of the fighting in the house. You rushed the men in the garden room within what, fifteen grains? of entering the house. It may be that they did not have time to meet and discuss what they had learned in the Palace. One of the servants that we questioned said that there were two Persians who had come to meet with Dracul. If this is so, then maybe the passenger the sorcerer was carrying was the other Persian and our plan is still safe."
He glowered at Thyatis. He stood up and stalked to the window, his anger palpable. Thyatis continued to stare straight ahead, though from the corner of her eye she could see that Prince Theodore had winked at her. Was he trying to reassure her? Galen drummed his fingers on the window ledge. When he turned back, he seemed to have reached a decision.
"You were lucky, Centurion. If the captive boy had not been a fire-caster, you and all of your men would have been dead. I do not hold the outcome against you, though it is in no way pleasing to me. The fleet is leaving within the next four days and we are now completely unsure as to the state of our enemies. More to the point, the failure of your mission has caused me a loss of respect in the eyes of the Eastern commanders. I was counting on your mission being carried off flawlessly."
Thyatis felt her stomach curl up and shrivel into something the size of a dried fig. This was going to be very bad. By sheer will, she kept her head up and her eyes clear.
The Emperor paced behind the desk. "I had intended to keep you close to hand and use you and your men on the campaign as scouts, couriers; whenever I needed something carried out quietly. Now I see no option but to accept the services of the Eastern scouts and to remove you from an obvious position on the playing board."
He stopped and leaned forward on the desk. His eyes bored into hers, fierce and still angry. "I am sending you into the East, ahead of the army. You get the short straw, Centurion. You and your men are being detached from my staff and the army as a whole."
He picked up an oilskin packet from the desk. She stood and accepted the heavy package. The Emperor regarded her for a long time. Then he said, "The packet contains orders for a mission into the high country beyond the old frontier. You are being sent by a roundabout way deep into Persian lands. There is a timetable for when and where we expect to meet you again. I hope that I will have the pleasure, Centurion. Dismissed."
She spun on her heel and walked out. Her stom
ach was fluttering around her ears now. They weren't going to be disbanded! She still had her command and what seemed to be a particularly desperate and dangerous mission. The clerks in the outer chambers stared after her in surprise, for she was grinning from ear to ear as she hustled out.
—|—
Full dark had settled over the city when the sound of men chanting and the creak of the great sweeping oars on the side of the ship woke Dwyrin. The lanterns that had hung from the mast and on iron hooks by the doors to the fore and aft cabins were dark. A thin sliver of moon gleamed above the eastern horizon, but it barely shed enough light to pick out the rigging. The ship was away from the dock and passing between the twin towers that guarded the entrance to the military harbor. He peered over the side of the ship, his blanket wrapped around him. Below, a sleek lateen-rigged coaster, not even half the size of the transport, was plowing through the waves at their side. Unlike the transport, it was lit with lanterns fore and aft.
Beyond the breakwater, the waters of the Propontis opened before them. The sailors scrambled aloft and began running up the great square sail. From his perspective on the foredeck, Dwyrin stared up in puzzlement. The sail was dark, almost as black as the sky. Still, no lanterns were lit, the sailors working in darkness. The coaster peeled away from their course as the prow of the ship bit into deeper waters. Still lit by its lanterns, it curved away to the northeast, heading for the Sea of Darkness. The merchantman, still running dark, headed south. Clouds gathered in the east, driven by winds off the distant steppes. The moon was soon obscured and utter darkness covered the waters. Behind them Dwyrin could see the lights of the city walls in the distance. Long trails of torches sparkled along the stone roads leading down from the city to the harbor. The army of the Empire continued to move, even in night.
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