Shirin stopped, looking up at the sliver of the moon and the thick wash of stars carpeting the heavens. It was very dark between the glittering lights. The Romans were silent, the pale glow of the candle lantern shining in their eyes, Florus setting down his tools and oily cloth as they watched her, as she once watched her father sitting under a Khazar sky, telling the old stories of the people.
"Many years ago, before you were born, the king of kings—the shahanshah—of the Persians was growing old. He endured a troubled reign, much plagued by barbarians called the T'u-chüeh who raided and burned and caused much grief along the northern frontier. At last the old king rode out against them with a great army, and in the way of such things, fell into a trap, and was slain. He left two sons, but they were still very young, and neither was yet a man. The greatest of the old king's generals was a stiff sort of fellow named Bahram, and his enemies called him choban, which means 'made of wood', when they thought he could not hear them, and behind his back.
"Bahram seized the throne of Persia and claimed he ruled in the name of the eldest of the two boys, whose name was Khusro—in Roman lands, you call him 'Chrosoes.' But no one saw the young prince, or heard him speak, for the Wooden King sent him away, to live in exile in a fortress, far from the eyes of the court and the great nobles. The younger son vanished completely and everyone was sure he had been murdered. Bahram was not a good king, but he was greatly feared, though in all matters the realm grew weak and filled with petty evil.
"Young Khusro was imprisoned in a castle set high on a mountain, near the northern frontier, and in the custody of an old and very loyal diquan—you would call him a knight. The old knight was loyal to a fault and he'd sworn an oath to the Wooden King and, by all the gods, he intended to keep his word. In the castle, however, lived a strapping, powerful young man—his grandson—and this boy would one day be known as Shahr-Baraz."
A low whistle went up from the legionaries. They did not set any stock by the heroes or kings of other lands, not and be Romans, but this was a name they knew and respected, for the Royal Boar was legendary even in Rome, where few barbarians gained such renown. No enemy had ever won so many victories against the Empire.
"Yes, you know him for his famous beard. The Boar was still young then, and green as spring grass, but he was restless in his grandfather's castle and yearned to see what lay beyond the barren fields and the desolate hills. Too, there was this other young man, also trapped, also eager to make his way in the wide world. This was prince Khusro, the son of the dead king, a prisoner in the old keep. They became fast friends and practiced constantly in the fighting yard, growing stronger and faster with each day. Never have there been two friends like these—each strove to best the other in all things—and each swore mighty and secret oaths they would escape their dull prison and restore Khusro to his rightful throne.
"Winter approached, one bleak year, and the old diquan fell ill and died. A messenger was sent to Ctesiphon to bring this news to the Wooden King. The Boar, however, did not wait for the royal courier to return. He had, as yet, sworn no oath to the king of kings on his distant throne. Instead, with a boldness that has only grown with age, he bent his knee and neck to his friend, Prince Khusro and called him king of kings and made himself the prince's sworn man. Now Khusro set himself against his regent and Shahr-Baraz was a rebel lord.
"Together they fled from the drafty old fort and made their way south and west by secret ways, into the great central plateau of Persia, where all her true riches lie—for there among wide plains and grazing fields are the domains of the diquans and their knights and the very strength of Persia. Khusro intended to find support amongst old friends of his father and raise an army to reclaim his throne. But the prince, though brave, was still young and Bahram was old and sly with treachery. Some of the great nobles rose up for the young king, but more joined the armies of the Wooden King and the prince's revolt was violently suppressed.
"Khusro escaped, and lived, only because there was no man upon that field, or on any other, who could match Shahr-Baraz with lance or sword or spear. The Boar hewed his way from the melee, slaughtering hundreds, and the two rebels escaped into the mountains. This time, the Wooden King found a body resembling the prince and carried the dead boy back to Ctesiphon in a great funeral procession. That boy was buried, as if Prince Khusro had died, and Bahram Choban made himself truly king of kings. Everyone wept, thinking the young prince had fallen.
"Secretly Bahram's men searched everywhere, quartering the mountains and the hills, urgent to find the Boar and the prince. By luck and skill, they failed, and the Boar took the prince north, beyond the mountains of Persia and into the great grasslands surrounding the Salt Sea, where terrible savages roam and the winter is nine months long."
Shirin paused, thirsty, and drank from her cup. When she looked up, she saw more men had come out of the darkness and squatted or stood around the little circle of light from the candle lantern. No one spoke while she drank again and settled herself more comfortably on the deck.
"They would have died in that cruel winter, both the prince and the Boar, if they had not been found by a hunting party of the Khazar people, who rule those lands. Now, know this—the Persians and the Khazars are old enemies, who long fought over the land called Albania, and there was long enmity between them. Yet, know this as well; there have never been two braver men than Shahr-Baraz and Khusro. The two were taken to the camps of the Khazar kagan and made his guests and they spent a long winter there, in peak-roofed Itil, on the banks of the black-watered Rha. Khusro was without fear and he put his case to the kagan and asked him for help to reclaim the throne, which had been stolen from him by the Wooden King.
"Now, in those days, the Khazar people were ruled by a kagan whose name was Sahul Ziebil and despite his short years, he was very wise. Sahul saw Khusro was a man of honor, with a great heart, and—perhaps—peace might be struck between the two nations. Sahul himself was not without daring and when spring came he sent a strong party of riders to guide the prince, and Shahr-Baraz, to the Roman port of Chersonessos. With them went a letter, for the Khazars and the Eastern Empire long maintained a correspondence, particularly in regards to matters of Persia, their common foe.
"So it was that Prince Khusro and his champion, Shahr-Baraz, came to Constantinople, the city of gold, and met in secret with Emperor Maurice. The Emperor was astonished—he had thought to be meeting a Khazar delegation—not the lost king of Persia! Yet he treated Khusro with honor and as an equal, placing a seat at his side for the young prince. All three realms were exhausted by endless war and longed for peace. Maurice and Chrosoes made a pledge that summer in Constantinople and Maurice sealed the pact with the marriage of his daughter, Maria, to the young prince. An Eastern army, and Maurice's aid, were her dowry. Khusro would yet be king of Persia."
Shirin stopped speaking, her voice grown hoarse. It had been years since she told such a long story. The crowd of young Romans had grown again and some sailors hung from the rigging to listen. She smiled at Florus and Marcus. "Your pardon, I am tired and my voice is failing. I will finish the story tomorrow."
With that she stood and left the circle of faces. In the darkness outside of the lantern light, Florus stopped her, his face shadowed and indistinct. Shirin stiffened, wondering if he would try and overpower her. The iron knife was in her hand, hidden under the robe.
"That was well told," Florus said gruffly. "Takes their mind off this cursed voyage. Here."
Shirin felt something thick and woolen press into her hands and she took the blanket. "Thank you."
The centurion mumbled something, then padded off into the darkness on his bare feet. The centurion looked a little bilious in the poor light. Shirin curled up among the crates, glad to lie out under a starry sky, in the open air, the blanket folded under her head as a pillow. Sleep stole over her gently, and for the first time since she woke on the Pride of Cos to a vast rumbling sound, like giants banging on a bronze gong, she slept without nightmares.
—|—
Shirin settled on the deck, at the edge of a rough circle made by Florus' soldiers. Marcus, blushing a little and ignoring the comments of his fellows, passed her a blanket for a cushion. Shirin was a little disappointed the great crowd of soldiers and sailors who listened the previous night were nowhere to be seen. But, really, it didn't matter. The group of young soldiers fed her again and she felt pleasantly full. That was welcome change enough!
"So," she began, "Prince Khusro invaded Persia at the head of a Roman army, accompanied not only by his boon companion Shahr-Baraz, but by his father-in-law Emperor Maurice and many other Persian exiles. The Wooden King was not well loved and as Khusro marched against Ctesiphon from the west, many lords who loved his father flocked to his banner. There were battles in the land between the two rivers and Bahram Choban was defeated, his supporters scattered, and Khusro set upon the Peacock Throne, adorned with gold and pearl.
"There was peace too, between Persia and Rome—for Khusro found a new father in Emperor Maurice—and between Persia and the Khazars, who had rendered him such timely aid. Khusro became a great king—he restored order and law to the Persian lands—and he defeated the T'u-chüeh who so plagued his father. He was happy with his wives and Empress Maria bore him a son. The wise men of the court named him 'Anushirwan'—he of the great soul. In all things, it seemed the young king would preside over a glorious age of peace."
Shirin's face darkened, and she stopped, taking a drink from her copper cup. There was a sour taste in her mouth.
"One day, a messenger arrived in haste from the West. The man brought terrible news—Empress Maria's father, Emperor Maurice, had been overthrown and murdered, along with his entire family. A base-born centurion named Phocas seized the Eastern purple. Khusro was outraged—a man he honored as a father was dead—and Maria was distraught. Her own brothers and sisters strangled, her mother hacked to bits on the highway, their heads displayed in the Forum. She demanded Khusro punish the murderer Phocas. He demurred—there was a treaty, an honorable peace... Maria did not care, she wanted vengeance and more, she wanted her son Kavadh-Siroes to sit on her father's throne."
A stir went through the circle of Romans and Shirin heard them hiss in surprise.
"Yes," she said softly, "the boy was heir to the Eastern throne, the grandson of an Emperor, son of the king of kings. In him, by blood, both Persia and the Eastern Empire united. Yet Khusro heeded his advisors, who counseled peace. Shahr-Baraz was first among them, urging his oath brother to abide by the treaty. Phocas, as fate revealed, was a cruel and rapacious man and quite mad. Shahr-Baraz believed the Romans would soon overthrow him. Then, said the Boar, when Phocas was dead—Kavadh-Siroes might be welcomed as Emperor.
"So Khusro waited and watched events in the west, and Maria became angrier and angrier. One day she was walking in the Imperial gardens, which stretch along the Euphrates for miles, filled with every kind of flower and tree and glorious bird, and she found a young man sitting under a tree. He seemed very familiar to her, but he introduced himself as a stranger, and said his name was Rustam. He said he was a priest and he could help her avenge her father's death."
Shirin took a breath, and made a sign before her, a warding against evil. She looked around at the tense faces of the young soldiers and her face settled into grim lines.
"You are young, but you must know there are gods not spoken of by pious men. There are monstrous powers who act in opposition to the great gods in heaven. The old Greeks called them the Titans. In Persia they name the king of darkness Ahriman. And he is locked in eternal battle with the lord of light, Ormaz. Now this young man speaking to Empress Maria in the garden was a priest of this same Ahriman and a vessel of dark powers. He was not a priest, as you might think of them, but a sorcerer instead.
"Rustam lived in secret in the palace for some time, while Maria accepted his instruction in the dark arts. Khusro at last relented in this matter of the war against Rome—Shahr-Baraz was sent west to raise an army and test the frontier defenses. Heraclius, who had been nothing but the son of a provincial governor, overthrew Phocas. Khusro wrote to the young general, urging him to accept Kavadh-Siroes as his Emperor, as was proper."
The Khazar woman essayed a small smile, seeing incomprehension on the faces of the soldiers.
"You must understand," she said, "that in Persian lands, the king's descent of blood must be pure. The usurpation of Bahram Choban—who was not of the Imperial line—had caused great outrage. Khusro knew this, as he knew his own lineage for thirty generations. For him, to see a base-born man ascend to the Roman throne, when his own son was the rightful ruler, was a grave insult. Heraclius denied the boy's claim and Khusro determined to see Kavadh-Siroes rule on his grandfather's throne.
"Shahr-Baraz smashed the Eastern armies and broke through the frontier like a maddened bull. He drove on to Constantinople, only halted by the Imperial fleet in the straits of the Propontis. Despite his victories, however, Maria was not satisfied. The sorcerer filled her thoughts with poison, and she conspired with the dark man to raise a terrible spirit, a winged shade to cross the leagues to Constantinople and murder Heraclius. Maria did not think the new Emperor any better than the murderer Phocas.
"She and Rustam set about their blasphemous ceremony in secret, in the old River Palace, but they had not counted upon the sudden appearance of Khusro himself, who had been warned trouble was afoot. The ceremony went awry and there was a great fire. Maria perished and Khusro himself was nearly blinded, his face disfigured and burned. Rustam the sorcerer escaped, carrying the king of kings out of the inferno. Then, gasping for breath in the gardens, as pillars and towers shattered in the tremendous heat, Khusro looked upon the face of his rescuer—whom he had never seen before that moment—and saw his long-lost younger brother yet lived.
"Yes, Rustam the sorcerer was the missing prince, Khusro's own brother, who had vanished so long ago. The king of kings was filled with despair and delight in equal turns. No one knows what passed between the two men that night, but thereafter the king of kings possessed a weapon no ruler had ever dared wield—a sorcerer unbounded by conscience or fear of the gods—a dark spirit to do the king's bidding without thought of remorse or mercy. In this way, my friends, the Persians gained a terrible weapon."
A hiss of breath met Shirin's last words and the soldiers shrank back from her and from the light of the candle lantern.
"But," Marcus whispered, "Chrosoes, king of kings, was killed, slain by his own men in his own house... We've never heard of a brother... surely he was killed too?"
Shirin raised a hand and halted his words. "Men who taste the power of the dark one will not set the draught aside. It is said Chrosoes himself came to rely more and more upon his brother's power. It is like the lotus—one taste and a man thinks of nothing else. Shahr-Baraz may be king of kings in name, but I think Rustam is at his elbow."
"That is bad news," grumbled Florus from the darkness. "If this Rustam is what broke into Constantinople. How can we stop a sorcerer?"
"Bravery," Shirin answered and a strange feeling came over her, a hot flush flooding her chest as if she plunged into steaming water. She looked down, distracted. Distantly she heard herself saying: "Men can stop such horrors, if they do not yield to fear."
Between the smooth olive curve of her breasts, the jewel was glowing softly, shining red like a rising star.
CHAPTER TEN
Perinthus, On the Coast of Thrace
"What is this?"
Alexandros of Macedon, comes of the Western Empire and commander of the Legions in Thrace, stopped abruptly, his leather boots sinking into soft, muddy ground. Without waiting for his train of aides and bodyguards to stop, he seized the bowstave of the nearest soldier between his thumbs. The soldier, an archer and swordsman in Alexandros' Gothic legion, stiffened in fear. Alexandros ignored the man, his entire attention on the heavy laminate of horn and wood and glue comprising the long limb of the bow. As he had passed a discoloration in the cream-colored horn caught his eye. The Macedonian's thumbs ground at the thick laminate and suddenly the glue gave way and cracked and the long arm of the bow toppled over, hitting the soldier on the head.
Alexandros hissed in anger, one hand brushing unruly hair out of his face. He wrenched the remains of the bow out of the man's wooden bow case and split it lengthwise with ease. All of the glue was rotten and the bone turned a sickly green. Mold was growing in the laminate. Anger washed across the Macedonian's cleanshaven face, then vanished.
"Syntagmarch!" Alexandros' voice was a harsh, deep shout. The Macedonian had an unpleasant voice, but it carried clearly across a battlefield. A tall, thin man at the end of the column turned sharply and jogged down the line of legionaries to Alexandros. The file-commander loomed over Alexandros, but he seemed pale and uncertain. "Your name is Valamer. You are responsible for this syntagma?"
The Goth nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight. Alexandros' face was a blank, eyes snapping with anger. "I want to see every man's bow and arms. Now."