Shards of Empire

by Susan Shwartz

  Another held the reins of Meletios’ horse, sheltering the monk behind his shield. Theodoulos, facing close-in battle for the first time in his short life, hung back. Then, at a gesture from young Ioannes, half hidden behind his father's shield, Theodoulos rode forward, his jaw set. Ioannes leapt forward, as if to bring him in.

  In the moment he left himself uncovered, an archer fired—and his father hurled himself across his son to take the arrow in his eye. Ioannes cried out in shock, then stood still.

  “Give me his sword!” screamed Theodoulos. “Give it to me!”

  His scream woke the dead man's son from his trance of horror. Scooping up his father's sword, he tossed it to the other boy. Together they advanced ...

  ... and two at once attacked Leo. He had all he could handle, and then some. His arm ached from the clash of swords against his shield, dropping somewhat as an arrow glanced off his mail. He could feel the point go in: no harm, he told himself, and forced his shield back up. Meanwhile his swordarm wove a deadly, shining shield before him. Before him, guarding him, Nordbriht swung his axe. He was singing. Enough blood had splashed him that he seemed again to be clad in a Varangian's proper red.

  A rasping voice tried to scream and tried again. With horror, Leo heard it for his own. His was the only voice to scream the battle-cry: the others had all fallen silent.

  “They can be killed!” he shouted. "Nike!" The word had blood in it, as it always did. His voice broke into a racking cough.

  Over by Ioannes, Theodoulos sank to his knees, to retch, rather than to pray. Ioannes the younger threw his shield aside and hurled himself upon the body of his father, who had died for him.

  “Wait till they're all dead!” Nordbriht shouted. He swung his axe above the supine body of an archer. The man's eyes bulged in terror before it embedded itself in his chest. Nordbriht pulled it free and cleaned the blade.

  The horses stopped, trembling. No one shouted. No one moved. After a moment or two of utter silence, insects began to chirp, scraping their wings, buzzing overhead. The stink of blood and ordure drew them.

  Leo dismounted. To his shock, the ground did not give way beneath his feet: no, that was the weakness in his knees. He clung an instant longer to his saddle.

  “The wounded...” He gestured. “And if any horses are too badly wounded...”

  Drawing his knife, a slinger approached a horse that rolled in pain, his foreleg snapped and useless.

  Meletios edged his horse forward despite Leo's order to his guard to keep the monk away.

  “I hear boys’ voices,” he said. “They are weeping. Bring me to them.”

  Meletios dismounted by the grieving boys. His voice, sere and sure and oddly beautiful, floated over the bloodied land. “Your father lives in you. Do you remember the words of the Psalmist? ‘Oh Absalom, my son, my son. Would God I had died for thee!’ It is the way of things that son outlives his father. You must not despise the gift of life he gave you—that he gave you twice. There, my son, there. Cry it out now, then never again. How do you hope to rule your family, fill your father's role, if you cannot rule yourself? You, Theodoulos, fetch him water.”

  Leo walked about the tiny battlefield. They would have to move quickly: these raiders they had killed were too small a party to be the only Turks for miles around. Others would seek them out; by that time, they must be long gone.

  Manzikert, he thought, had inured him to carnage. This was Manzikert in miniature; and he was not inured. At least, the wounded horses were all still now. No one cried out. But a flutter of cloth, spied from the corner of his eye, drew Leo around, and he strode toward a Turk who lay half pinned beneath the body of one of the sturdy steppe ponies.

  His mouth was shadowed with pain—small, his horse might be, but it still was far from light—and blood from a bloody lip smeared his face. But as Leo approached, the man looked up, blinked, then stared at him more closely.

  “Allah be praised, it is my lion's cub.”

  Leo looked down into the face of the gulam, the soldier slave, who, upon the day the world seemed to blacken, brought the Emperor of all the Romans before Alp Arslan as his prisoner.

  “Kemal,” Leo said. “By all that's holy.”

  The Turk moved his head from side to side. “Nothing is holy about this horse lying on me...”

  Leo's bark of laughter brought the others’ heads around to see their leader talking to a wounded Turk. Laughing at the sight of him as if he were a friend, not some demon-spawn from off the steppes. They'll lock you away. You'll never see Asherah again.

  “If I ever deserved well of you, young Ducas,” Kemal said in his atrocious, stilted Greek, “heave this carcass off my legs. It grows too heavy to be borne with ease.”

  “Kemal,” Leo groaned. “Must everything slip through your fingers? Wealth, freedom...”

  “My horse's reins...”

  “Didn't you get enough gold for taking the Emperor to make you rich? One day you were a hero. But now, here you are, riding with the Turkmen, not even your own people. Did your master lose favor with the winners? Or did you lose him, too?”

  “My sultan died,” Kemal said. “I had no wish for a lesser master, and none trusted me. You should understand that.”

  Better a tail to lions than a head to foxes; and Alp Arslan had been a mighty lion indeed.

  At Leo's nod, Kemal flicked dust from his hand into the wind. What had happened was what was written; it was past, and now one waited for what else was written to reveal itself. Leo knew that was all the answer he would ever get from the man. He sighed.

  Having unburdened himself, in spirit, if not from the horse lying upon him, Kemal made himself grin, showing white teeth between split lips. Leo found himself grinning back.

  An enemy, a captor had proved to be a likable man, and far more to be trusted than his own kin. They both could think that, Leo realized.

  “We have to get out of here,” Leo said. “I assume you came with more of a force than these...”

  “My cub grows wise with power,” said Kemal, committing himself to nothing. “I may no longer be a hero, but I do not betray those who fed me.”

  They might not be his kin, but the Turkmen were Muslim, therefore his brothers. Leo found himself laughing helplessly on the edge of ruin. They would have to bury or burn the bodies of Greeks and Turks alike, or at least, lay them out decently, then flee this place with a blind monk, a lame servant, exhausted horses, and now, of all things, a wounded Turk; and here he was, matching wits with a man who had saved his life when he had sought only to toss it away.

  The laughter brought young Ioannes's head up from where he grieved beside the body of his father. “There's a Turk left—kill him for my father!” he screamed and launched himself from the bloody ground toward Leo and Kemal.

  “His father died saving his life,” Leo muttered. To his shock, the words came out almost apologetically.

  “We all lose our fathers,” said Kemal. “I lost mine before I was born. Not that I ever knew for certain who he was. But my sultan ... and yours, my cub. I was sorry to hear...”

  Leo laid a hand on the gulam's shoulder. “And I, about Alp Arslan. But you must be my prisoner now. It is the only way to save your life.”

  “That is,” said Kemal, “as Allah wills. Still, if He does not object, I do not complain if you serve as Allah's aide. It is, I think, a promotion from serving an Emperor ... ahhhh! easy, cubling, I am not made of wood!”

  “Can you slide your leg aside?” Leo asked.

  Nordbriht crouched beside them, lending a shoulder to Kemal to lean on as Leo probed his leg. Ioannes leapt at Kemal with his bloody knife, and Nordbriht thrust him off almost casually. He hunched a shoulder, fending off Ioannes and his bloody knife.

  “Why do you try to save him?” Ioannes screamed. Tears cleaned his face in streaks.

  “He saved my life,” Leo replied. “He saved the Emperor's life—your fellow countryman, remember. And, besides, we may prevail upon him to tell us of the
other raiders...”

  “A traitor and a filthy Turk!”

  “Leo,” murmured Kemal, “this child needs his clouts changed, or a good whipping.”

  Leo sighed. Try again. “They brought us before the Sultan in chains. This man, who found us, had the chains struck off and presented us to Alp Arslan. He treated Romanus like a guest and a brother, more kindly than his brother Christians—and my kin.”

  Ioannes’ face twisted. He looked absurdly young and anguished to contain such rage.

  Leo wound strips of cloth about Kemal's leg, splinting it with the remnants of a spear that was not too badly hacked.

  He was shaking now with reaction from the battle and the pure shock of finding Kemal, too unstrung to be politic.

  “You want him dead?” Leo asked Ioannes. “Fine. You kill him. Let's see you try.”

  Kemal's black eyes shot pure fury at him, then glittered with malicious humor, even at his own impending death.

  He took hold of the ground, as if bracing himself and his courage for the deathblow and met the boy's eyes.

  “Another cub,” he muttered. “After all my kindness to you, was it too much trouble for you to procure me a warrior's death?”

  Leo shook his head. You're not going to die. Careful footsteps, a blind man and a limping boy, were coming their way; and Nordbriht knelt at hand. But it were as well to see how Ioannes, his grief fresh, the power to kill handed to him, would behave.

  Ioannes had stopped weeping. His knifehand had become unnaturally steady. He raised it, paused, raised it further, and launched himself forward, to stab repeatedly at the earth, sobbing as he stabbed.

  “I'm a coward!” wept Ioannes. “Kill me too!”

  Meletios knelt. “To kill in the heat of battle is bad enough. To kill in cold blood ... if we lose our decency, we are not men, not Christians at all. May the Blessed Mother of God bless you, my child, for your mercy.”

  Kemal drew a deep breath. “You had best be getting moving,” he told Leo. “They will miss us and send out more riders. And I do not think they will be pleased with you.”

  "We move,” said Leo. “I told you, this time, you are my prisoner. We'll get you to a physician.”

  “Not one of your Christian butchers!” Fear, much more than he had shown in battle or facing Ioannes’ desire for blood, rang in Kemal's voice.

  Leo found himself laughing again. He choked it off, hearing the low-voiced rumble of Meletios's prayers, first blessing young Ioannes, then blessing the dead. He would bring Kemal to Joachim: hardly the most politic or the kindest infliction upon a man whom he wanted as his father-in-law. But Leo specialized, it seemed, in insulting family; and Joachim would know how to deal with it, if he were half the man Leo thought he was.

  What had Asherah told him about their time spent in the caves?

  And if her father could not cure Kemal, Asherah would, though her presence might make Kemal expire from fright.

  Leo wanted to be around to see that. And to let Kemal know that the lady was to be treated with respect.

  “Lad,” Nordbriht's voice rumbled behind Leo. “By now, you're empty inside. If you think you're done heaving, I want your help.”

  Theodoulos muttered something.

  “I tell you, you did fine. You brought us word in time, you didn't run, you waited till things were over—even comforted Ioannes before you were sick. You didn't even foul yourself. Now, I have to help load the prisoner. You lie there and listen for riders. You'll hear them through the earth, long before anyone could see.”

  It would help, Leo thought, if Kemal would tell him what kind of force they might expect. He gestured for his men to mount. There were enough horses now for all of them, even the reinforcements—assuming two men did not mind riding Turkish-style, and Ioannes would consent to ride with the priest's boy.

  “Hear anything?” Nordbriht asked. He wiped his hands down his filthy tunic. His offer to tie Kemal to the saddle had been rejected with a hot display of offended pride.

  “Thunder under the earth,” murmured Theodoulos. “Over and over. Thunder.”

  “They're coming,” said the Northman. “Damn! I hoped we'd have more time.”

  Kemal shrugged. “It is the will of Allah,” he said. “The storm will come, not this battle perhaps, but one that will make the battle where we met look like a rainshower. As for these men, if they listen, I will say you saved my life.”

  “We'll run as far as we can,” Leo decided.

  “And them?” Ioannes gestured at the dead, including his father. Leo knew he was half a moment from refusing to leave his body.

  “Load them on the remounts. They are ours; we do not leave them or our decency, as the holy father said. We'll bring your father home, lad.”

  He turned to Meletios, reaching out to take his reins, as Nordbriht took Kemal's. “I wish we had Joachim here. He and Asherah saved my life one night.”

  Her name tasted sweet on his cracked lips, salving the dryness, the sickness, and the fear. Such a lady should not be named by outsiders, the Jews in Pera had said. She was a secret, a garden, a hidden treasure. God grant Leo saw her again. He remembered her valor and the lights that wreathed her and her father the night they struck at his assassins.

  The lights.

  “Father,” Leo leaned forward, “have you and Joachim ever discussed...”

  Under the color that the desert sun had seared into his flesh, Meletios blanched.

  “You have,” Leo stated. “You know what sort of disciplines he's learned. You probably know them too, those that are permitted to Christians, and, I'd stake my life on it, even some forbidden ones.”

  He would have to stake his life on it. Heaven only send the priest did not curse him and refuse to ride further in his presence.

  Meletios went silent. Despite his blindness, he had always managed to seem as if his eyes met Leo's, as if they kindled with agreement or compassion. Now, they went as dead as they were in truth.

  “Can you tell me, Father, on your faith, on your immortal soul, ‘No, I know nothing of such powers'? Remember, silence is also an answer of sorts, and I have spent most of my life among liars.”

  Meletios flinched. His face dropped. A sighted man would have looked away.

  “You are our prophet. You will get us home.”

  “My son, we might be better off cleanly dead. They will hear. They will answer.”

  Leo rose in his saddle. Nothing lay ahead save rock and scrub—nothing he could see. Nordbriht waved at Theodoulos, who pointed. The “thunder in the earth,” as he called it, came from behind them. It might be better to disperse and let each man or youth take his chances—so the Turkmen could hunt them down, as if in sport?

  No. The time for flight was gone. He remembered Romanus’ retreats overmountain, losing men and hope at every step.

  “We could use some answers, Father.”

  “These are answers no one wants!” cried the priest. “God knows, I do not, I never sought them when I was given the valley as my charge.”

  Leo's hand tightened on the reins of Meletios’ horse. He was an old man, a frightened man, holy and blind besides: and would Leo really shake the truth from him?

  “I want those answers,” he repeated.

  Father Meletios shook his head. “This much I will say: this is an old land. Nation after nation has marched across it, bringing their arms and their false gods. The land itself cries out underfoot.”

  A tremor shook the earth for less than the blink of an eye. One of the horses shied and cried out shrilly. An armsman struck it. The Turks might hear such noise.

  “I want us safely home. So long as I get that, I don't care what your answers are, at least not for now. Can you help us, Father?”

  The old man was trembling. Leo lowered his voice. To think how sure he had been the old priest could assuage his nightmares. What a fragile reed he seemed now to rest their lives on!

  “They're getting closer,” Nordbriht warned. The sky was darkening, and N
ordbriht's other senses kindled with the coming of the night.

  Kemal's eyes flickered, then closed in on themselves, giving nothing away.

  “In God's name,” Leo pleaded with the priest.

  “Joachim warded you. Set up defenses so that you could walk unnoticed through the valley of the shadow of death.”

  “Can you do that? Apart,” Leo's mouth twisted, “from your role as priest?”

  “I wish now you had been one of my monks. I would have put you under obedience. Yes, I can allow you to pass by, hidden from the sight of Turks. But from those others...”

  Meletios shook his head.

  “Upon my head be it,” said Leo.

  “You had best beg God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, if you have not abandoned them, that such judgment not fall upon your head. But...” Meletios sighed. He drew himself upright and breathed deeply, as if drawing sustenance from the earth up the column of his spine and into head and heart.

  “In my father's house, there are many mansions,” Leo quoted. “You dwell in one, Joachim in another. Now, for God's sake, get us to one of them or to the other!”

  “You had best tie me to the saddle,” Meletios commanded, his voice already remote.

  Leo obeyed, perhaps a little too briskly at first. As his hand touched the priest, he suppressed an instinct to pull it back: heat seemed to shimmer off the man's sun-darkened skin, as if he were stone left out too long in the desert sun.

  “In the name of God, priest, pray for us,” came a voice, thickened by pain, out of the growing darkness: one of the men at arms, riding by a dead man, draped across a tired horse. “I can hear them now. They are coming closer, riding fast.”

  Leo reached for his sword. Probably, he should cut Kemal free, give him a chance at such life as he might have, lacking fortune, kin, or lordship. The last of the daylight reddened, then turned darker. Long violet shadows stretched across the hardened dunes.

  Nordbriht keened, a beast longing to hunt.