"Eyes are watching us," the homunculus said. Its voice was still raspy and harsh. Even great quantities of pig and calf blood had not restored it to full health. Gaius Julius nodded absently. He felt a familiar tickling sensation at the back of his mind. A brief memory surfaced: a deep-green forest and blue-painted warriors creeping, their long red hair thick with grease and mud. The others made to move forward and mount the flight of steps that led up the imposing side of the ziggurat, but he raised a hand and they stopped.
Gaius Julius stood, waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes narrow slits against the light. Khiron, as was his wont when action was not required, froze into immobility. Alais drifted closer to the dead man, close enough for him to smell her perfume. It was a bitter scent, reminding him of rose petals that had withered and died still on the thorn.
A man appeared on the second level of the ziggurat. He was elderly, with a long white beard and bushy eyebrows. His skin was very dark and shone like a polished walnut burl. Gaius could feel the power in him. The man was wearing a long dark-blue robe and leaned heavily on a tall staff. His head was bare, allowing his snowy mane of hair to flow behind him.
"You are not welcome here, dead man." The booming voice emanated from the ziggurat, filling the square and echoing off the blank faces of the buildings. "Begone."
Gaius Julius hooked his thumbs into his belt and squinted up at the elderly man.
"My master bade me come," he shouted back, his voice clear and strong, though not the overpowering volume of the other, "and I came, doing him honor and you as well. My master bears you no ill will. He does not come with armies or with fire. He comes openly, seeking knowledge. Will you admit him to your precincts? Will you treat him with hospitality?"
The elderly man did not respond, the hot wind ruffling his robes out to the side. Two more men appeared, one on either side. They seemed equally ancient.
"No," came the booming voice. "We felt the passage of your master in the night. He is not welcome here, as you are not welcome, corpse man."
Gaius Julius, having taken the measure of the empty town and the men on the ziggurat, bowed deeply, held the pose for a beat, and then turned on his heel. Alias and Khiron fell in behind him. The wind escorted them out of the city, whistling through empty doorways and barren windows. The watching eyes followed them too, until they were well past the gates. On the first dune ridge, the old Roman turned, his eyes measuring distances and elevations.
"What is it, Gaius?" Alais' voice was sweet and only for his ear, not that Khiron had the slightest interest. He turned and his mouth stretched in a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. "Nothing, only a fancy. We must apprise the Prince of our welcome."
—|—
Maxian nodded, unsurprised at the news. He stood in the shade cast by one of the wings of the engine. It made a broad canopy, though it cast an odd jagged shadow on the ground. Krista stood at one shoulder and Alais at the other. Gaius Julius and Khiron leaned against one of the massive iron claws that dug into the sand. The Walach boys squatted on the ground under the curve of the engine's belly. Beyond the shade, the sun beat harshly on the sand.
"Khiron, what did you feel?"
The eyes of the homunculus opened and turned to the Prince swiveling like the turret of a siege engine. "Master, three men we saw, standing on the platform of the ziggurat, but others watched us in secret. Some were not men, though none were as I or as Gaius Julius is. Nor Lady Alais. I smelled fifteen or twenty in the buildings. They were afraid."
"Alais?" The Prince barely turned, keeping the old Roman in his sight.
The blond woman moved forward and curtseyed deeply, as was her wont. "My lord, all the town stank of abandonment. It is the residence only of dogs and crows. Only in the ziggurat are there living men. Too, my eyes saw vents high on the side of the pyramid, vents that billowed hot air. My thought leads me to suspect that the domain, the residences, of the magi are beneath the ziggurat."
Maxian turned to Abdmachus, who alone among them all was sweating heavily in the heat. "My friend?"
"Master," the little Persian choked, "it has been so long... I barely remember any details!"
Khiron moved at some unseen gesture from the Prince, swift as a snake, and his mottled hands were at the Persian's throat in an instant. Abdmachus gobbled in fear as the cold fingers tightened around his larynx. Maxian smiled pleasantly. Behind him Krista frowned slightly.
"Abdmachus, please, this is important to me. Khiron and Gaius Julius will help you remember. Alais, assist them. Make sure that we have as good a map as can be drawn."
The three escorted the little Persian, gently but inexorably, into the belly of the engine. Alais' white face appeared in the doorway for a moment as she swung the hatch closed. Maxian looked away and sighed. Krista remained in the shadow, her face a serene mask. He went to her and bowed slightly, drawing a small frown.
"My lady, would you care to join me on a short walk?" His phrasing was very formal.
She nodded and drew part of her scarf over her head. The sun was fierce.
—|—
The Prince led the way, up over the huge dune that rose above their little camp. On the other side, the slope fell steeply away and it was slow going to descend. Beyond it there was an area of rippled sand and—incongruous among the wasteland—a ruined circle of marble pillars, fluted, and crowned with acanthus capitals, rose from the sand. The Prince led Krista there and sat down on one of the fallen pillars. Krista remained standing, her hands demurely clasped in front of her, looking down upon him.
"Tonight," he began, "there can be a pair of horses here, with water and food and supplies. The riding horse will have a bag of Persian eagles on the saddle. Five or six hundred aureus worth, I guess. I borrowed an invocation from Abdmachus—the shoes of the horses will leave no trace in the sand. These are my gift for you, this and one other thing."
He reached into his robes and drew out a heavy roll of parchment, sealed with rich purple wax. He held it out to her, and after a moment Krista took it.
"You are a free woman now, free of any obligation to the Duchess. This is an Imperial writ with the stamp of the Emperor upon it expressing that in no uncertain terms."
"Why?" Krista's voice was even, though her mind was afire with concerns and questions.
Maxian smiled, a brief, wan expression that quickly fled his face.
"This business of the city of the magi," he said, "will be a cruel one. I see myself embarking on a path edged with darkness. The excision of this corruption... it will require blood to be spilled. I would not see you on that same path, regardless of how much I might desire you at my side. Go east, to Taporobane or Serica. Build a new life for yourself, free of the past, free of the curse, free of me."
"It is a kind gesture, Lord Prince."
"Then you will take it?"
"Perhaps," she said. "I would not care to give the white witch the satisfaction."
Maxian's eyebrow quirked up. "Jealous?"
"Competitive," she said with a slow smile. "I have seen enough to know that you may be right. My mistress' duty—my duty—is to sustain the Empire in the face of constant disaster. So I will stay."
Maxian stared at her for a long time, his face troubled. He wondered, briefly, if she knew of his excursions into the night in the company of the Walach woman. Finally he stood up and brushed the sand out of his kilt. "So... very well. Thank you."
She shook her head, saying: "Thank me when this is done, if you are still alive."
CHAPTER SEVENTY
The Kerenos River, Albania
Surrounded by a thick wall of red-haired Varangians, their round shields turned outward, the three Emperors conferred. Beyond the stolid Germans and Scandians, tens of thousands of men were marching past, raising a choking cloud of clay dust from the dry road. Eastern and Western regiments jostled on the road, trying to keep their order of march open. Galen had dispensed with his servants, bidding them remain in the camp five miles behind th
em. Three of the Western Emperor's staff officers clustered at his back. The Khazar, Ziebil, as was his wont, was alone. Heraclius, half clad in his battle armor—a solid breastplate of welded iron with a pair of eagles emblazoned on the chest—had ten or twelve servants, officers, and dispatch riders crowded around.
"Augustus Galen, your Legions have the center."
Heraclius gestured toward the open fields to the south of where they stood. The Romans pouring past on the road were fanning out into the rocky flat by cohort and century.
Their standards jogged up and down as the bearers trotted across the field. Only one good road ran south from the camp across the river and into this dry upland. Ziebil's scouts had returned the previous night from their latest foray south of the river with news that the Persian army was, at last, in striking range. The Romans had broken camp well before dawn, the Khazars riding out in complete darkness to secure the road and the northern edge of the plain.
"Khan Ziebil, your horsemen are on the left, though keep a strong reserve behind the line of battle. The woods are thick there, and I fear the Persians may try to send men through the brush to attack the flank."
It was almost noon now, and the majority of the army was still backed up on the road, trying to reach the flats. Galen's Western legions had made the best time, forming up in the camp on schedule and marching out in orderly fashion. The Sixth Gemina had reached the field at sunrise and had deployed to screen the arrival of the following elements. Galen, pushing his horse and his guardsmen, had arrived soon after dawn to find the legionnaires loitering around under the trees. There had been no Persians in sight.
"Theodore." Heraclius turned to his brother, attired much like him, down to the red boots, in heavy armor and chain mail under the solid plate. "You and I will command the right, with the Eastern knights and the Anatolikon thematic troops as reserve. Once we have shaken the line out and there is proper spacing between the tagmata, we will attack. If the Persians are still in confusion, we will advance along the entire front and drive them back into the trees. If they have formed a good line, then the Khazars"—Heraclius nodded to Ziebil—"will feint on the left and then we shall attack on the right."
The Western Legions were on the field by ten o'clock. The archers and slingers Galen had sent forward to screen the assembling legions had reported back that an enormous Persian army had begun to spill out of the tree line on the southern edge of the fields. The Khazars began arriving in bands and companies, generally congregating to the left of the Roman positions, and the Eastern knights were still clogging the road from the camp. After receiving reports that estimated the size of the Persian army in excess of a hundred thousand men, Galen had ridden forward himself and stared in awe at the multitude of Persians on the southern side of the plain.
Thousands of banners already fluttered in the morning breeze and still more bands of men were coming out of the forest. The enemy army was a riot of color—yellow banners and green, red surcoats on some mounted men and bright blue on others. Each band seemed to have a different garb, or even different styles of dress. It was hard to tell at this range.
At eleven o'clock there had easily been a hundred twenty thousand men in the enemy lines, jostling and milling about in apparent confusion. If the reports of the Khazar scouts were to be believed, the enemy forces who had reached the field were peasant levies armed with wicker shields, spears, and other light arms. While he watched, some contingents of horsemen in furry vests and round caps had arrived, trotting out in front of the ragged Persian line. Galen had shaken his head and ridden back to his own troops, who had taken orderly positions and were standing ready, leaning on their spears and swords, waiting.
"Any questions?" Heraclius glanced at Galen, who had a pensive look on his face. "Augustus Galen?"
"Yes... it seems that we are likely to be outnumbered by almost two to one at the rate that the Persians reinforcements keep arriving. The enemy seems confused, however. I propose sending our thaumaturges forward to attack the enemy formations with sorcery while they are attempting to form up. The longer they stay at the tree line, the more room we will have to maneuver."
Heraclius scowled, for Galen had not discussed this notion with him the previous night when the plan of battle was laid out. He glanced at his officers, one of whom was a wizard himself. "Demosthenes?"
The elderly man coughed in surprise and rubbed his long nose. "Avtokrator, the primary role of thaumaturges in battle has always been one of defense, to protect the army from the sendings of the enemy. The will and sinew of men has always been the deciding factor for Roman armies, not the strength of our magicians. Speaking plainly, my lord, my brothers and I are not skilled in the arts of attack, not like the Persians are. Now, a siege..."
Heraclius cut him off with a look. The Eastern Emperor glared at Galen.
"Some of my wizards," Galen said, calmly, "are skilled in the arts of attack. I will send them forward with the skirmishers to disrupt the enemy ranks. It will buy us a little more time to deploy."
"Very well," Heraclius snapped. "They are your men, use them as you see fit. Gentlemen, to your commands. We will have victory this day, or perish."
Khan Ziebil yawned and pushed his way through the crowd of men. His horse, a sleek lustrous black creature, was waiting. He vaulted easily into the saddle and kneed her forward, disappearing, into the flow of men and horses on the road. Galen looked after him, a puzzled look on his face.
"What is it?" Prince Theodore had come up alongside the Western Emperor, his young face flushed with the anticipation of battle.
"I still fail to understand why the Khazars stand with us this day. This is little affair of theirs. The risk of defeat is far higher than the reward of looting some hill towns."
Theodore laughed and slapped Galen on the shoulder. "My brother is a shrewd bargainer. He offered the khan many fine gifts, not least his own daughter in marriage. And, the Khazars will gain much booty from this and the friendship of Constantinople. Friendship in gold and arms and training for their men weigh heavily with the khan."
"His daughter?" Galen was outraged—he had heard nothing of this, but he had met Epiphania while in the Eastern capital. She was a shy girl with long dark hair and an interest more in music and books than politics. She and Empress Martina got along very well, though Galen was not sure if Martina had replaced Epiphania's dead mother or had merely become an unlooked-for older sister.
"Oh, yes." Theodore's eyes twinkled in delight at the discomfiture apparent on the stern face of the Western Emperor. "My brother always used to carry a picture of her with him in a cameo. He sent it to the khan months ago with the first embassy. Apparently the old man was quite taken with her."
Galen turned away in disgust. To his Western sensibilities, it was revolting. He mounted up, pulling his helmet on. His own guardsmen gathered around him in a solid block, keeping a space clear in the mob of men that were milling around behind the lines. Theodore rode off to the right wing of the army with his coterie of young nobles thronging around him. Galen surveyed the ranks of his men. For just a moment he allowed himself to wish for Aurelian at his side and to wonder where Maxian had fled to.
Are you over there? he thought, feeling sick at the prospect. Did Persia listen to you?
—|—
"Lord Baraz! Your banner, Great Lord!"
The Boar turned in his saddle, seeing that one of the dispatch riders had managed to make his way through the ocean of infantrymen that had surged around them. The boy was carrying a furled banner across his saddle, though it was hard work keeping it from fouling in the thicket of spears and wicker shields milling past.
"Oh, Ahriman take that damned thing." Baraz spat, his patience at an end. "The King of King's standard is well enough for me. Get rid of it."
The boy blanched at the naked fury in the lord general's voice and turned away. Baraz did not give him a second thought, turning back to trying to force his own way through the press of feudal levies that hemmed him
in on every side. Over the heads of the press of men, he could see a river of knights, their lances a waving steel forest, and beyond them the banner of Lord Rhazames. He spurred his horse and it surged forward, pushing men aside. Cries of outrage rang out around him, but he did not care.
After the turmoil of the past five days, Baraz remembered his time in Syria with fondness. There, despite the poor leadership of the Great Prince Shahin, he had commanded an army of experienced men. Many of them had served with him before and knew how to march and fight. This mob was another matter. When Chrosoes had sent Gundarnasp out to raise the "greatest army in the world" they had taken him to mean numbers, not quality. Every landowner with a spear and a nag from Nisibis to Tokharistan was jammed onto this road, along with a vast number of wagons, mules, and men on foot. Baraz managed to break out of the stream of men clogging the road and sent his horse up the side of a low embankment.
The general guessed that the army numbered almost two hundred fifty thousand men. Yet feared that for all its size, it was near useless. The ten thousand Immortals he had commanded for so long were the only reliable troops in the entire vast host. They, at least, would follow command and advance or retreat as he directed. The rest... He shook his head in dismay. For the first time since Chrosoes had launched his war of revenge nine years before, Baraz was afraid that he faced a hopeless fight.
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