Wind blew into the tiny room far beneath the earth. Outside, in the hidden corridor, one of their torches flared up, then into darkness, heavy with the smell of smoke.
They clung to each other in the thickening shadows. Leo's eyes were as dark and wild as Asherah's own. Instinctively, and as one, they both pulled back. Leo slid his hand over her hip, up to her breast again, but they had lost whatever urgency had compelled them into each other's arms. Her eyes filled, and he kissed the tears away. They had lost the moment. What had they gained?
“I should have stopped before,” he whispered. “This isn't how...”
Had he wanted her, dreamed of her? Her heart leapt beneath his hand, and he fondled her again.
“I didn't want you to stop.”
His arms tightened around her, but she knew that he had turned his head and was staring out into the corridor. The pulsing in the air had stilled; smoke from the burnt-out torch annihilated the scent of incense; and the music in the air was drowned out by fear of the growing dark. It was one thing for them to take each other in the heat of the moment, another now that the wind—wherever it had come from—had snuffed out one of their torches.
What had possessed them might be worship, but it was not her way. Still, she put up her hand to his cheek and turned his face back to hers. She offered her lips to be kissed again and again lost the power to speak.
When his mouth reluctantly left hers, she smiled. “Leo?”
He still caressed her, affectionate now, rather than intent upon possessing her. “Do you know, Asherah, how tempting you are when you welcome me like this?”
Again, he kissed her. “When shall we finish what we've begun? Now?”
The ache in her core was beginning again, but she pushed at his shoulders. “Leo, listen to me.”
He raised his head, watching her with a smile that pleased her even more than his touch. “Tell me.”
“Leo,” she said. “I do not think you are cut out to be a priest.”
She had a sudden, intense memory of the way his body had pressed against hers. Not cut at all, thank God. She could still feel him, hard against her, even though her clothing—and that unexpected draft—had preserved her virginity. The memory brought with it a spasm of regret.
He laughed merrily.
Do you hear that? she asked the shadows. Not just passion. Not just worship of whatever kind you demand. Two people together who like each other. And who laugh together.
“They all tell me that. But you are the best argument of all. Asherah, unless you tell me ‘no,’ I want to talk to your father. Ask him for you.”
“The laws against Christians wedding Jews are strict,” she ventured. If she did not control herself now, as the surprise and exultation leapt within her, she would disgrace herself; and then he would reject her and go away.
“Meaning that there have been many such. How could anyone not prize you? Say I may speak to Joachim.” He kissed her breathless, eager as a boy. “Say it.”
“You may change your mind. As you did about being a priest.” Don't tempt fate, came the wise, somewhat cynical female voice within her brain she had heard once or twice, but tended to disregard. I want him honorably and wholly, she argued with it, or not at all. There will be no tricks.
Not even whatever ancient tricks lingered in these passageways.
“Not this time,” Leo told her.
Asherah shut her eyes. Let the rocks bury them now or the storm sweep over them. She had this moment, and in it, she had everything. And, in her next words, she gave herself away.
“He will make a merchant prince of you.”
Leo laughed. “You are my princess.”
Reluctantly, he moved away from her and sat up, awkwardly, before putting up a hand to raise her. For a moment, they clung, unwilling to separate.
“We must go back now.” She did not know who said it.
“Separately?” It was almost a test: would he involve her in intrigue, seek to meet her here again, enjoy her entirely—or would he go honorably to Joachim as soon as possible?
“I have been your father's guest,” Leo said, kissing her hair lightly. “And yours. I found you underground alone, and brought you back in safety. What could be proper, more natural?”
The way their bodies had almost fused, Asherah thought, though that was hardly proper. Best not to think of that for now.
One torch burning, they retraced their footsteps past the goddess, who seemed to watch them from the corners of her long eyes, through the breach in the wall, and back into the rough-hewn ways of the city that they knew. Both knelt and heaped up the shattered rock: a temporary barrier they hoped would escape notice.
They threaded their way through the maze of corridors and chambers. Their torch flared and sputtered as the gusts from air shafts blew this way and that through what teemed now with agitated men, women, children, and even, God help them if they planned to spend some weeks down here, goats. Armed men pushed through files of children carrying small parcels or parcels not so small. Women sorted and stored supplies, talking even more rapidly than their hands moved. Some of the children pushed and shoved while others had already taken on that preternaturally still look that meant too early and too great acquaintance with fear.
Asherah felt her own stomach clench. In returning to the world, she returned to consciousness of danger, danger in the upper air. Still, she spared a secret smile at Leo as she saw a woman fitting sheepskins into an alcove like the one they had warmed.
Up into the waning light of day. The rain had fallen and dried. For now, the air was clear. The wind blew, though, forcing wailing notes from the rock chimneys that studded the blasted land, a dirge Asherah could hear even over the crowd outside the caves.
Herdsmen and shepherds led flocks off the road into hiding. Lines of villagers awaited their turns to carry their few valuables into the caves.
And there, calm, instead of fretting as was her way in times when nothing was wrong, stood her own servant, accompanied by one, two, no, four of her father's guards. That very number alarmed her. What was more, it meant Leo would have no excuse to guide her to her father's house. Another test: see if he would keep his word. God knows, she wanted to believe he would; God knew equally well, however, that a harsh school had taught her wariness.
“That's Theodoulos!” Leo pointed at the youth, who pushed forward despite his withered leg and the tall, black-clad women who tried to steady him. Had the boy ridden all the way out from the gorge? In another life, Leo would have said it was a miracle that some raiding party hadn't picked him off; in this one, he thought it very probably had been.
Nordbriht shoved past some of the local notables, past men who bore the unmistakable impress—and scars—of veterans. Some were nobles, even more heavily armed than usual; some were farmers or herders who had grabbed up spears or knives or slings, or even their scythes, and followed their headmen here. Leo even saw one or two of the Armenians who had resettled here less than a century back and who were therefore still outsiders. They pressed forward, but Nordbriht blocked their way not just with sheer size (and the horses) but by his immense presence. Exiled, he might be, and bearing a curse. But he bore a letter that carried heavy seals; and in that moment, he was still a Varangian of Byzantium.
He handed Leo a letter. “You wrote the City, asking for reinforcements. Here's your reply.”
Leo eyed him. The seals were unbroken. He split them and read, Asherah staring shamelessly at the cultivated Greek hand.
“Cut off, by God the Father. Cut off!” he hissed. “Alyattes blinded, no troops sent ... That damnable Psellus—he throws away a whole region to...”
Asherah dared lay a hand upon his arm. “Not to rid himself of you. This is Romanus’ land. It suits Psellus and his puppet well to throw it to the Turks. They have no desire to see us defend ourselves.”
“Well,” said Leo, “I cannot say I am surprised. Enraged, yes. Surprised ... ?”
Asherah pressed his arm, pursi
ng her lips in a signal for him to be silent. “Don't let them know,” she whispered. “They may hate the City, but your tie with it—perhaps you can use it with these people.”
Leo blinked at her, then grinned. “Lady, your wisdom shames us all.” Perhaps it might. But now, she knew, she had to withdraw before she was pulled away by her father's people. Where men fought was no place for her. She let herself be drawn from Leo's side. He would not miss her. Please God, he would come in search of her, as soon as he could. If he could.
Nordbriht held his ground, his face unwontedly severe. Clearly, he expected an Imperial to show more sense than Leo had, at this moment.
“This isn't all that makes you hover like a storm crow, is it, man?” he finally managed to ask.
Nordbriht shook his head. The wind swirled about him, and his eyes glowed so fiercely that Asherah glanced quickly up to see whether the moon was full. Hoofbeats pounded upon the dried land like the thunder she had heard that afternoon: all that was left of the force of Cappadocia—in its prime, nineteen fortresses and four thousand men—now discarded. Instead of an army, they had shards; and they would have to make do with them.
“There's been another raid,” Nordbriht told his master. His eyes gleamed almost as redly as under the full moon, when the Change came upon him.
“They sent me from town to guard the priestling here.” He jerked his chin at Theodoulos, who flashed a white grin out of a dusty face while a black-robed woman glared at such disrespect.
“He rode in just a few hours ago, long enough to snatch a meal and close his eyes. Father Meletios sent him. Armed only in his own faith—” Nordbriht snorted. “—which is not how I'd treat a lad under my care. I'm afraid the holy father is looking for you too. Theodoulos, lad, come here!”
The boy limped up. Leo fought not to put out a hand to catch him as he wavered. Mostly, he had washed—or had washed for him—the grime from his face. Watered wine and a good meal had put some color back into his face. His eyes were still ringed with exhaustion, but they shone.
“Father Meletios told me to bring you to him. He has had a vision. The wind is rising fast, he says, and this storm could wreck us all.”
Nordbriht led up Leo's horse, loaded with the arms he had hoped never to have to wear in battle again. The men clustering tightly around him muttered to each other and exchanged significant glances. It was going to be a damnably long ride, most of it in the dark.
How many times had Leo warned Nordbriht that he wasn't Leo's swordbearer! More to the point, Leo realized with an even bigger chill at the belly than he had felt before, he wasn't the Acolyte, the Varangian whose privilege it was to follow the Emperor most closely.
He feared how the men of Cappadocia might interpret what they saw. A Ducas in Cappadocia, home of Romanus, served by a Varangian; local nobles killed; a battle to come—he would pray, he thought as he wrestled with his armor, that Meletios was right and that the City's writ no longer ran here.
It could endanger Asherah, he thought, in sudden terror. An Imperial, allied to a Jew. Perhaps you might fear to strike at the Imperial, but the Jew—Leo might be fair game; but Asherah was easy prey. He looked frantically about for her, but two of the local nobles blocked her from his sight.
Leo raised an ironic brow at the Northerner. “You think I ought to go out there and see what he means?”
"We go,” said Nordbriht. “Take the boy back to his master. Find out what the old man meant.”
“Bring him back!” cried one of the farmers, glaring at a noble who thought to frown him into silence. “Bring all the monks into the city where we can protect them!”
“A prophecy! We have to hear this,” shouted the oldest of the Armenians, whose harness and arms looked older by far than he.
“Ioannes, you've ridden on pilgrimage to Peristrema, remember?” a burly man asked his son. Leo had seen them in town: minor nobility. Neither precisely well-off nor inclined to tell tales of woe, they lived contentedly on their land with old horses and their grandfathers’ arms, as much the backbone of this country as the footsoldier was the backbone of the Emperor's army.
“But, sir, isn't leaving the monks there just the same as staking out a lamb for wild beasts?” his son ventured. So much for the armor of faith!
The boy found other men's eyes upon him and flushed.
Leo gestured, “Go on,” at him. The boy flushed more deeply: Christ save us, he thinks I'm a prince.
“Bring them among us and ... and...” He drew a deep breath and, seeing his father more beaming than displeased (although embarrassed), then continued more boldly. “We could protect them, and we would have the blessing of their presence and the wisdom of their counsel!”
That drew shouts of approval. Ioannes's father blushed with pride and flung an arm about him.
“My boy got his sense from his mother, God reward her,” he announced. He blessed himself, and the others followed. Even Nordbriht touched his chest. The wind piped about the rocks. It was not a good day to go unblessed.
“Who'll go with us to fetch the monks?” Ioannes the elder asked.
Swords beat on battered shields. Nordbriht grimaced. “They're even more drunk on glory than recruits. Heaven spare us all.
“At this point,” he muttered to Leo, “Father Meletios, blind as he is, will see us coming with a whole damned army, and he'll probably have us struck down with plague for crowding in upon his prayers. That is, if the Turks don't get us first.”
Do something, his blue eyes told Leo. They were cold now, the way they got when it looked like Nordbriht might have a fight on his hands.
Leo signed. Once again, he must be a Ducas. A leader. “I'll go,” he said. “Holy Meletios asked for me. I don't want a whole troop with me—we can move faster and safer with a few good men, riders with some experience, maybe even some practice fighting Turks.”
He turned to the noble and his son, the Armenian leader, and the other headmen. “Sirs, you know these men far better than I. May I hear your suggestions?”
By the time Leo mounted and exchanged shouts that, in a saner world, might have passed for advice and plans about the remounts that ran with them, the guards, being met outside the valley, reinforcements, and regular patrols with half the headmen in the area and at least ten of their wives, Asherah had long since disappeared. No doubt, her father's servants had swept her into such safety as might be from the oncoming storm: they had aspects of being a defending army as well as a caravan. He would have liked to see her once more, even if he could not hold her fully against him as he longed to do, and to have her eyes assure him that what had passed between them, far beneath the surface of the world, was not a mistake she already regretted.
No use regretting what would not be. If a battle came, Joachim would pack her out of Cappadocia to wherever might be safe for the moment. In that case, he would never see her again, unless a kinder fate than ever had been his decreed that he would be allowed to seek her out. It was not likely. Even if he survived the coming years, her own people would protect her from even being named. Still, he would know, at the very least, that she was well.
And that would be enough, Leo told himself, knowing that he lied. He wanted peace. He wanted to be back in the hidden passageways with Asherah, feeling her tremble under his hands and mouth as she surrendered fully to him. He wanted his son in her arms and long years with her at his side.
But at this moment, he must be grateful simply to live past the next minute. And if, to do that, he had had to play on these men's belief that he had yet some influence with his kin plus their old Emperor's voice and should therefore command them, so be it.
His horse broke into a trot, then surged into a gallop. Outriders, heavily armed with weapons plundered from armies of at least three generations, flanked them. Ioannes and his son, yielding to the argument that they knew the land and the men on it better than any townsman, rode off to speak to the veterans who had turned farmer when they left the army, but who were still of fighti
ng age and strength.
Leo felt Ioannes's eyes on his back, coveting his horse, his guardsman, and, no doubt, his mail, as they rode off.
Be careful what you want, boy.
For banners, they had the sunset, beginning to flare at the horizon. He glanced over his shoulder: to Leo's relief, Theodoulos rode better than he walked. He would not need to be nursed all the way to the valley.
What a liar you are, he told himself. It was not enough to know Asherah was safe, even from him and his perilous family quarrels. It was not even enough to see her, or to hold her and exult in the discovery that he could love a woman, and that she would not flee him as she would a madman, capering and leering on the street.
What would be enough? He shifted painfully in the saddle. Not merely to possess her, though he still ached with wanting her so that riding was a torment. That would subside. “Enough” was a life with her at his side, her wildness and her wisdom balancing his need.
His heart pounding with joy and fear, he rode toward Ihlara. If this were a normal day, Leo would be happy enough to allow Father Meletios the victory of laughter at Leo's dream of a vocation. He loved, which was a blessing. But he loved a Jewish lady, and he dreaded what the monk would say to that. He wondered what, after the initial horror, his mother would make of Asherah and her wit. Or the redoubtable Anna Dalassena. It was probably just as well he would never find out: he had enough to do with a coming war and with worrying what Asherah's father might think of him.
He knew what they would say at home. But it was not, however, as if he were going home.
My home is here! he told himself. That is, if the Turks, sweeping over the Empire in a wave, left anything of “here.” And if Asherah remained.
If he survived today, he would speak to Joachim and plead to wed his daughter quickly, quietly.
As the night engulfed the day, Leo slipped into the trance that made long rides or marches survivable. The miles fleeted by under the stars. Turks did not attack by night, he remembered: all night at Manzikert, he had lain beneath the stars as they wheeled and formed patterns that would have held meaning for him, had he only skill enough to read them. Once again, he saw faces in the darkness; and one of them was Asherah's.
Shards of Empire Page 27
