In the darkness on the far bank, there was an answering flare of light: flash—flash—flash. The men around the Emperor murmured softly; no one had expected their allies to be where they had promised to be. Who expected such things of barbarians? Galen raised a hand and the noise stopped.
"Send a man across with a rope," he said to the centurion standing next to him. The twenty-year man turned and muttered gruffly into the darkness. A moment later two men climbed up the hill, stripped to the waist, with heavy leather belts. The men were well built, with thick chests and arms like wrestlers. Their dark hair was cut very short and their skin gleamed in the torchlight. Galen looked them over and nodded.
The centurion growled at the two. "There's a band of horseflies on the far bank. They have an emissary to speak to the Emperor. Take a line across and bring the fellow back." While he spoke, other legionnaires had snapped a waxed line of heavy cordage onto hooks built into the backs of the leather belts. The two legionnaires saluted and scrambled down through the reeds that lined the water.
"Batavians," the centurion rasped, "swim like eels." His breath puffed white in the cold air. Galen nodded, drawing a heavy wool cloak around his shoulders. Winter was coming. There was a quiet splash, like a frog jumping into the water. The rope began to spool out from the hands of the legionnaires that were holding it.
The Emperor waited patiently in the darkness.
—|—
Galen rubbed his eyes wearily. It was late and he had been up since before dawn. Luckily, he sat in a chair a pace back from the heavy goldplated monster of a throne that Heraclius' servants had been lugging over mountain and valley for the last six weeks, and could indulge himself with a yawn. The great tent, fully the size of a villa, was warm too, with hundreds of beeswax candles to light the audience chamber at its heart. The Eastern interpreter was listening intently to the words of a wizened old man in a bright blue shirt with heavy stitching around the collar and embroidery at the cuffs. The old man, with a wisp of white hair around his head and pale-yellow pantaloons, reminded the Western Emperor of a mummer in a traveling show. He smiled a little and turned his attention back to the notes that his secretary had given him of the numbers of wagons that were still sound, of the number of bushels of wheat and barley that remained in stores.
Long ago, when Galen had first opened discussions with the new Emperor of the East, they had struck upon an arrangement by which precedence could be resolved when one of them was in the lands of the other. By Imperial fiat, each had declared the other his magister militatum, an old title reserved for the official in charge of the armies of the state. Each Emperor had then agreed to the appointment of a strategos who actually performed those functions when the magister was absent from his post. Now, with both of them on campaign, Galen found that Heraclius had been serious about his fellow Emperor fulfilling his duties. In truth, it worked well, for Heraclius spent nearly all of his time unraveling political difficulties among his warlords and the local tribesmen, leaving Galen to tend to the army.
The little old man stopped speaking, and the interpreter turned to the Eastern Emperor, who was beginning to fidget on his golden throne.
"Avtokrator," said the interpreter, a nobleman from Tarsus that had joined the army at the behest of Prince Theodore, in heavily accented Greek. "The headman blesses your house and your sons and welcomes you to the land of the Armenes. He says, too, that the Persians have many men, many thousands of men in the city. But he knows that the arms of the Rhomanoi are the strongest and that all the land will soon be free of the blight of the Iron Hats."
Heraclius nodded and smoothed his beard. He was weary; the day had been very long. "Tell him, good Proculus, that the Emperor is pleased to receive his friendship. Tell him that he and the other headmen hereabouts will receive many fine gifts from my hand if they are good friends to us. Ask him if he knows who commands the defense of the city across the river, and—more to the point—if there are any other bridges across the river than the one at the city."
The Tarsian nobleman related this in turn to the old Armenian and then the two dickered back and forth for a time, until Heraclius raised an eyebrow at Proculus and the noble bowed deeply to him in apology.
"Great Lord, pardon me. The headman says that it is said that the Persian general known as the Boar commands the defense of the city, and that the men who stand upon its walls wear coats of red and gold. By this I take it that they are Immortals."
Galen looked up at this; he had been listening with half an ear while he made notes for his lieutenants to deploy the men and begin building a fortified camp. The other Eastern officers had stiffened at the mention of the Boar. Pursing his lips, Galen wracked his brain and then remembered: The Boar was the nickname of the foremost Persian general, Shahr-Baraz, a giant of a man who was rumored to have never lost a battle or a fight. The Roman remembered, too, that Heraclius had sent three great armies against the Persians when Chrosoes had begun this war and that the Boar had smashed each in turn. Galen rubbed his jaw, feeling sandpapery stubble under his fingers. How do these Easterners manage with those beards? he wondered. The name of the Boar was something to conjure with for the Easterners: the enemy who had never been defeated by their arms.
"Ask the headman," Heraclius said, "if any new men have come to the city of late or have left. Ask him if he has seen General Baraz or if he has only heard that he commands here."
Another long session of muttering went back and forth, then Proculus said: "Great Lord, the headman says that three seven-days ago, many of the horsemen left for the south in haste, but that the Boar was not with them. He says that the Boar has been seen often, stalking the battlements of the city with his banner men. He says that he has seen this with his own eyes. No other men have left the city, save for strong bands of the Iron Hats to punish the villages around the city."
Galen looked over at Heraclius at this last. The Eastern Emperor stopped drumming his fingers on the armrest of the throne. "Punish the villages? What occurred that they had to be punished?"
Proculus spread his hands in dismay. "The headman does not know, only that two seven-days ago there was a great clamor in the city. The next morning the Iron Hats rode out in strong companies and raided all of the villages in the valley. Many of the villagers had fled already, hearing strange rumors from their kinsmen in the city, but those who remained were taken hostage and their dwellings burned."
Heraclius raised an eyebrow at this and glanced over at Galen, who shook his head a little.
"Since that time the Iron Hats make a foray each day and take prisoner any of those who are foolish enough to be caught in the open. The headman says that nearly all of the villagers have fled into the hills. No word comes from the gates of Tauris."
Galen frowned and scratched off a line on his wax tablet that read: native laborers?
The Emperor of the East listened for a little while longer and then dismissed the headman, though the old man was given many gifts of cloth and jewels. Heraclius stood, groaning, and divested himself of the heavy jeweled robe and crown. His servants took these things away.
"What do you think?" Heraclius asked.
Galen looked up and then put his tablets and notes to one side. "I think that my engineers can put a bridge across the river in five or six days, one strong enough to carry horses and wagons. If we're lucky, there's a solid footing well away from the city walls, outside the shot of a heavy engine. The Khazars can cross the river and we can ignore the city."
Heraclius rubbed his nose and frowned at the suggestion. "That would leave a Persian garrison right on top of our line of retreat. They would play Hades with our communications back to Constantinople."
Galen nodded.
"If we have to take the city, brother," he said, "we'll have to build a bridge anyway, to move the army to the other side of the river so that we can invest the walls and begin siege works. That will take even more time, and as you've doubtless noticed, the nights are beginning to chill."
>
Heraclius sighed and pursed his lips in thought. He signaled to one of his servants for wine.
"The Persians," he said slowly, "built a fine stone bridge across the river, with a bed of bricks and mortar."
The Western Emperor scowled at the Eastern Emperor. Heraclius gratefully accepted a brass cup filled with dusky red wine.
"A fine stone bridge," Galen said, "that runs into a double towered gate at the center of a city occupied by several thousand veteran men as well as militia, and perhaps—just perhaps—this general who has taken down your breeches and given you a whipping three times before. If—if, mind you—we were to try to take the bridge and the gates by assault, it would be my men who would bleed for it."
Heraclius nodded somberly and drained his cup.
"You've the heavy infantry," he said, raising the empty cup in salute, "and the experience. How soon can we make the attempt?"
Galen settled back in his chair and thought. Heraclius downed another cup. The Western Emperor sat forward again and began making notes on his tablets. "I'll need six days to prepare. Then we'll see. I shall need all the men you can give me, or find, for the preparations."
There was a note in his voice that made Heraclius look at him quizzically. Galen arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. A predatory look had entered his eyes. He had the beginnings of a plan. He pulled one of the tablets over to him and made a quick notation, grease.
—|—
"The rumors are true," Nikos said, sitting on the edge of one of the rough stone crypts. "A Roman army is on the south side of the Talkeh, and it seems to be digging in to stay. At least, they've gone beyond a night camp. From the top of the grain silo, I could make out some kind of big effort east of the city, up the river. I'd guess a bridge, or maybe some kind of diversion canal to lower the waters."
Thyatis nodded and turned around slowly in the circle of space in front of the crypt wall. She met the eyes of the assembled Bulgars, Armenians, and townsfolk one by one. In the wake of the disappearance, the Persians had enforced a very strict martial law upon the city. No one was allowed out after nightfall, and gatherings of more than two people during the day were forbidden. Twenty or thirty people were crammed into the lower vault of the crypt of the Sesain family. It was the only hidden place left that was large enough for them to meet in.
"The Roman army is very fond of siegework," she said, stopping next to Nikos. "In other circumstances, they would bridge the river and surround the city with an earthen rampart on all sides so no one could break out. Then they would really get to work. This army is in a hurry, so I fear that they have a more drastic effort in mind."
Thyatis reached behind her and dug around in the open coffin. Some of the Armenians began muttering among themselves, but Jusuf and Sahul, who were standing by the trapezoidal doorway, glared at them and the locals quieted down. Thyatis pulled out a handful of bones and two skulls, hooked on her fingers through the eye sockets. Nikos brushed aside some of the dust on the floor with his boot.
"The key to the city, to the whole situation, is the bridge over the Talkeh."
She laid a pair of thigh bones in parallel and then two femurs across them at right angles. "Wide enough for two wagons, and the only crossing in the area. It runs into the center of this city, through two octagonal towers." She placed the two skulls at the end of the femurs and laid a forearm splinter across the crowns. "Behind the two outer towers is a courtyard, and then two more towers. There are three gates, one at each end and a gate of iron bars in the middle."
Ribs were placed behind the skulls to mark the inner walls, and then shattered jawbones the gates.
"Most of the Immortals remaining in the city are in that bastion. Our work in the sewers tells us it has its own water gate, so unless the Roman army diverts or poisons the river, they'll have plenty to drink. Doubtless there are food and arms as well. Inside the inner towers..."
Another pair of skulls, these markedly smaller than the first, were placed to mark the final two towers.
"...is another open yard. Right now it gets used as the winter market and to hold caravans when they are assembling to go south. A fine use, but in this siege, it's fifty feet of open pavement between the nearest building"—Thyatis moved Nikos' boot over to demonstrate—"and the inside wall. The bridge has only a low retaining wall on either side, the plaza is wide open. Each is a fine place to die, skewered by a Persian arrow."
She stood, sighing, and brushed her hands off on the long dark dress she had recently taken to wearing, along with the headdress and veil. Jusuf had finally had to appeal to Sahul to convince her that she had to hide her looks. The Persians were offering a heavy bag of royals for the heads of those responsible for the disappearance.
"The Roman army only has one option that I can see—to launch an assault across the river in boats or rafts and try to scale the walls in a rush. If they can seize the rest of the city, then they can bring up siege engines and hammer the bastion to rubble. We must be ready when that day comes. You have all said that you will fight Persia."
There was a muttering of agreement. The harsh policies of the Boar had made him no friends, and since the Disappearance, the threat against the families of these men had faded. Thyatis had been listening to the Armenians while they talked at night, in the darkness, and knew that they counted Rome's presence in these high and distant valleys to be brief, like a summer snow. If the Persians were driven out, they would be the kings of their own land again. She noted that Sahul and Jusuf listened too, and she wondered how the Khazars would like to trade their snowy lands in the north for more temperate valleys closer to the sun. But she said nothing; her mission was simple and straightforward.
"Well," she continued, "we will see our fill of battle. My plan is this to split our men into two forces. One force, which friend Jusuf has volunteered to command, will hide close to the Dastevan, or northern, gate. When the Romans attack, he and his men will rush the gate even as the Romans reach it. With luck, Jusuf will be able to open the gate and the Romans can enter. The second, larger force, which I will command, will see about the southern bastion."
Thyatis smiled in the gloom, her eyes bright in the light of the few flickering candles. "Friend Jusuf has expressed to me his concern about my chances of capturing the bastion. I will tell you, as I told him, that I have sworn to deliver the city to my Emperor, and I will."
Nikos eyed her surreptitiously. His commander was growing very bold.
—|—
Full night was passing, stealing away into the west at the rumor of the sun. Two Persian soldiers, Immortals, in their gold and red cloaks, stood on the southeastern tower of the city wall. The river gurgled at the foot of the tower, washing against the stones. The land was still covered with darkness, but the air began to change a little with the hidden touch of the rising sun. The older of the two soldiers, his head covered with a furry leather cap with long ear flaps, stared out into the darkness. The land around the city was desolate and swathed in midnight. His companion shuffled his feet, holding his hands out to the lantern that illuminated the wall below their post.
"Quit doing that," said the older man, his voice muffled by the woolen scarf he had wrapped around his lower face. "You'll ruin your night vision."
"Huh. What is there to see out there? Nothing. Not even the light of a farm."
The older soldier shook his head and returned to watching the river.
Almost invisibly, a chill mist rose, curling off of the water like steam, then climbing the banks. The older soldier, for all his vigilance, did not notice it until the first wisp obscured the lantern. Then he cursed, for the cold had grown worse. He turned away from the battlement and stomped across the icy flagstones of the rampart to the brazier filled with coals. His companion was already there, rubbing his hands over the little fire. They did not see the mist creep along the wall, rising higher and higher like a tide, until it spilled through the firing slits and embrasures of the battlement like pale water. The mist was
heavy and where it drifted the sounds of night faded.
—|—
Zoë crouched in the bow of the skiff, her fighting staff laid in the bottom of the boat, peering out from under the sycamore branches that hung down almost to the water. The mist had thickened into a soupy fog, reducing vision to only a few strides. Eric and Dwyrin were at the back of the boat, their hands resting lightly on the poles that would drive the skiff across the river. Odenathus lay in the bottom of the boat, wrapped in woolen blankets and a mangy hide that Eric had stolen out of the tents of one of the Gothic auxillia.
He was breathing shallowly, though his eyes twitched back and forth. Zoë raised her right hand and clenched it into a fist.
Dwyrin and Eric picked up their poles and rose up into a crouching stance. The skiff rocked gently from side to side. Somewhere out in the darkness there was a signal and Zoë dropped her hand. The two boys dug the poles into the muddy bottom of the little inlet and the skiff, soundless, darted out into the river. They poled furiously, feeling the bottom drop away unevenly under their poles. The skiff slid out over the water, turning first a little to the left and then to the right as they alternated strokes. In the bow, Zoë stood up, her staff held crossways to her chest, her legs braced against either side of the little boat.
Dwyrin kept a weather eye ahead and slackened his stroke as the bottom vanished entirely. He kept the pole in the water long enough for the drag to keep them on course when Eric staggered, his strongly thrust pole finding nothing. Dwyrin grabbed the collar of his tunic in time to keep him from falling into the river. For all the imperfections that Zoë found in him, Dwyrin had grown up in fens and marshes. A boat like this was second nature to him. Eric, trembling from the effort, sat down in the back of the boat. Dwyrin remained standing as they slipped through walls of fog. Zoë looked back at one point and Dwyrin met her eyes with a smile.
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