"Adorio!" the Romans boomed back, a colossal thundering sound, and the spear wall leapt forward with a glad cry. In the blink of an eye, the phalanx slammed into the Persian rush with a cracking, sharp clang. Khadames stiffened, seeing the front rank of his men stagger. The Roman pikes stabbed viciously, knocking the heavily armored diquans down. The Persians hacked madly at the ashwood spear hafts, trying to chop through the lacquered wood. Mercilessly, the second and third ranks of legionaries stabbed overhand. Heartsick, Khadames saw a diquan, his flowing beard streaked with blood, fall, pierced by two, then three, of the leaf-shaped blades. The man flailed wildly with his cavalry sword, but the enemy was still a dozen feet away, far outside his blows. Roman pikes ground the dying man into the street, then the blades licked back, bright with blood.
For an endless moment, the two masses of men struggled at the edge of the plaza, armor ringing with hammer blows, sergeants shouting hoarsely, the roar of men lost in the fury of combat welling up, reverberating from the walls of the empty houses. Then the Roman line took a step, then another, and the Persian front rank disintegrated. A carpet of dead men littered the octagonal stones of the plaza. The second and third lines of Persians shouted furiously and attacked again, surging forward. The legionary pikes fouled and some of the Armenians—eager to burnish tarnished honor—were among them, hacking wildly, shield to shield with the Romans. A pikeman went down, helmet caved in and the front rank of the phalanx began to erode into knots of struggling men.
"That's it," Khadames screamed, springing down the steps. He crammed the helmet onto his head, waving at the nearest men. "Forward, lads, into their flank!"
One of the runners, turning to see what the general wanted, shouted in alarm, pointing back behind Khadames. The general spun, suddenly off-balance, iron shoes skidding on paving worn smooth by centuries of pious traffic. Reflexively, his left arm came up, shield covering his face to his eyes. At the same time, he swung the mace back, ready to strike.
A big oval shield slammed into him, the reinforced iron boss smashing into his hip with a deep crunch. Khadames felt himself lifted from his feet, caught a brief glimpse of a blue-eyed man standing at least a head taller than him behind the Roman scutum, then the sky cartwheeled past and he crashed down on the paving. His helmet rang like a bell on stone, deafening him. Stunned and breathless, the old general gasped for air. A sharp, stabbing pain radiated out of his hip.
Wouldn't happen if I was on my horse, he thought blearily. Got to... get up.
Men with armored greaves on their legs ran past and the sharp ringing of steel on steel filled the air. Khadames pushed himself up on one arm. His mace was gone, wrenched from his hand by the blow. As he rolled over, the pain in his hip spiked and a gray haze washed across his vision. Numbly, he groped for the hilt of his sword. Ormazd take this damned thing...
The sword was trapped under his broken hip. Khadames, teeth gritted against a roaring pain in his head, rolled back, freeing the weapon. The sky blurred past again, partially obscured by rooftops and windows in a white-plastered wall. Heavy, clumsy fingers managed to curl around the wire-wrapped hilt of his blade. There!
A horsetail-plumed helmet obscured the buildings and the sky. Something heavy crunched down on Khadames' neck, metal scraping on metal, pinning him to the ground. Khadames tried to cry out, but only managed to force a gasp past the boot crushing his gorget. He dragged at the sword, feeling the yard length of steel slide free from the sheath. Sunlight flared from the head of a spiked axe, then the old general cried out as the blade whistled through the air. Steel rang on steel, and something crashed against his collarbone.
Bastard's just going to chop my head off! Khadames thought, trying to roll and knock the man from his feet. As he did, a sharp, stabbing pain crushed his chest. Choking, the Persian flailed with his sword. There was a curse and the boot disappeared from his throat. Khadames cut blindly with the sword again, but the edge caught only air. He tried to breathe, failed, and felt a gray tide wash over him. Wheezing, his head rattled back on the stones.
Battle swirled across him, the Persian knights counterattacking as the phalanx lost cohesion. One of the grivpani knelt beside Khadames, trying to help him rise. But the old general's eyes were dim and clouded, breath cold, his dutiful heart having failed at last.
—|—
One hand wrapped in Bucephalas' reins, Alexandros strode along the harborside. A broad Roman street lined the water, faced on one side by single-story warehouses—some now burning, others with doors hanging on broken hinges where the legionaries had broken them down to root out Persian stragglers—the other by the choppy, dark waters of the Golden Horn. To the east, where the sun—slanting through dark gray clouds—glittered on the waters of the Propontis, he could see the triangular shapes of tan-colored sails.
"Chlothar, how many escaped?" The Macedonian pointed with his chin at the distant ships. At least two merchantmen were burning in the harbor, cordage and sail billowing smoke, hulls settling lower in the water with each passing grain.
"Our watchers on the Galatan hill," the big Frank replied, "counted sixty ships of various sizes. Maybe six, seven thousand men in all—packed on the decks like herring. They must have left their mounts, wagons and supplies behind."
"Good. We can use all those things." Alexandros grinned, teeth white in a face dark with sweat, soot and spattered, dried blood. The Macedonian felt light, invigorated. He still held a spatha-style cavalry sword bare in his hand. The fighting on the docks had ended only moments before and the prospect of a few Persians hiding out among the abandoned buildings was very real. "The Persians are fine horsemen—they will not have slaughtered them. Send the Eastern troops to quarter the city, block by block, calling for their fellows to come out, and find me those horses."
The Frank nodded, long pigtails bouncing on armored shoulders. Like Alexandros, Chlothar was stained and battered, with long creases bent in his armored breastplate and links missing from the mail covering his arms and legs. His face was grim and set. "I wonder, comes, if anyone lives in this death house..."
"They do." Alexandros licked his lips—he felt thirst, which was rare in his current state—and looked up at the hills rising over the harbor. The sight of so many buildings, so closely packed together, filled him with amazement. This city rivaled Rome for the sheer mass of humanity once dwelling behind the gaping windows and blackened doors. "Even the windrows of dead we saw in the outer city cannot account for so many souls. More will be hiding, fearful, in cellars and hidden rooms or in the cisterns." He paused, remembering his father's men dragging prisoners in golden cloaks from secret chambers beneath the floors of a mighty palace. Persepolis, he thought, the scene as bright in his memory as if it had occurred yesterday. They thought to avoid my justice for their regicide. "They will have hidden from the Persians, thinking they would meet a horrific fate, but they will come out when they hear familiar voices calling."
The harbor district was battered, but the buildings still had roofs and walls and the courtyards were free of corpses and scattered bones. The outer wards of the city, between the great walls and the lesser, crumbling, ill-repaired old wall of Constantinople, were a different matter. The sights greeting his army once they entered the city proper had shaken even Alexandros, insulated as he was by the quirk of fate setting him beyond mortality. Entire districts along the Northern Road had been leveled, not a stone standing on stone, and the wizened corpses of the dead filled every space along the streets and byways. At one point, they had crossed a square where some colossal fire had raged out of control, shattering the paving stones, burning the lime from the buildings, leaving nothing but huge drifts of whitened bone and countless skulls.
Alexandros had never seen such devastation. Did the gods struggle here, on earth? Surely only the bolts of Zeus Thundershielded could yield such destruction!
"Where is the Khazar lord Dahvos?" The Macedonian turned back to Chlothar, wrenching his thoughts away from such a distressing conclusion. Unbidden, his eyes turned again to the east, squinting into the bright glare from the water at the distant shore of Chalcedon. "We must discuss our next campaign."
"Aye, comes." The Frank stepped away, calling for his household knights.
Alexandros climbed onto a low stone wall at the edge of the quay. Bucephalas bumped his leg with a heavy head, nose snuffling at the Macedonian's hand. "You'll eat soon, my friend," Alexandros laughed, rubbing the stallion's white forehead blaze. "Oats and apples, or a bit of carrot."
The eastern shoreline was obscured—the clouds over the strait were spilling dark wavering veils of rain—but he was sure he could pick out the glint of light reflecting from metal, from armor. Asia, he wondered, a sick hot feeling in his chest. Again, my enemies are on the further shore. He looked down and saw his right hand was shaking. Alexandros pressed the palm to his chest and found his heart racing like a hare.
"Not long," he promised himself, unable to repress a grin, "not long before I march on Persia again."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In the Bruchion, Alexandria, Roman Egypt
"Is this how things usually turn out for you?" Thyatis hitched both thumbs into her girdle. She and Nicholas stood in a small, low-ceilinged office in the vast, confusing sprawl of the Bruchion—the consolidated governor's office, public park, royal palace and military headquarters of Rome in lower Egypt. The ancient complex filled nearly a quarter of the original city. This particular room was littered with scraps of papyrus and parchment, ratty-looking wooden desks and the faint, pervasive odor of scented balm. A shutter on the single high narrow window was jammed shut with old scroll cases and a scattering of lemon peels in one corner showed an impressive array of mold. Fruiting bodies sprouted from white fuzz, dark purple tips rising in tiny crenellated towers. The condition of the room indicated no one had actually worked in the chamber for weeks, perhaps months.
Nicholas' eyelid twitched at Thyatis' question and his scowl deepened. "Last year, when I was here, the tribune in charge of the Egyptian Office worked here." Angrily, he kicked a pile of discolored parchment aside with his foot.
"Just as well," Thyatis said, turning slowly in a circle. The humidity in the room was stifling. She squinted out into the hallway. There was another cubicle opposite—indeed, there were dozens of equally small, cramped offices packed into the warren of the old Ptolemaic palace—and Thyatis realized she could see the air in the passage as a faint haze. "We really don't have time to chase down the local authorities."
Nicholas grimaced, automatically smoothing the sleek points of his mustache. "You don't believe these rumors running wild in the streets? This is Alexandria! Someone sees a two-headed snake in their garden and they think the gods have returned! The Persians will never reach the city—Caesar Aurelian has six Legions with him! You have no idea how massive the fortifications at the eastern edge of the delta are."
"Hmm." Thyatis turned over some of the papers on the desk. The tan-colored parchment was covered with blackish-gray spots the size of her thumbnail. "Every official we've seen in this maze is either petrified with fear or smug as a cat thinking he'll move up when the Persians arrive. The soldiers in the port were the same way—the Romans grim and all-too-efficient, the Egyptians taking it easy, thinking they'll all have a body slave each and hands filled with the King of King's gold."
"They're fools." Nicholas shrugged. His confidence in the Empire was unshaken. "The authorities will remember who was loyal and who was not, afterward." He grinned at the prospect. "Some of the Eastern network must still be intact—I'll root around and see if I can find anyone to help us."
"A good idea," Thyatis said, stepping into the corridor. Two clerks hurried past, avoiding her eyes. When they were out of earshot, she said: "Come. It's dangerous to remain here. The Persians will have their own spies busy in the city. I'll get the others from the ship and find someplace quiet to stay on the edge of town. Meet me by sunset at the Nile Canal gate."
"Huh!" Nicholas perked up. Thyatis hid a smile—her loyal ally had grown increasingly impatient as the day progressed. He had a message pouch held inside his tunic with a leather cord. She'd considered lifting the packet, but thought—upon reflection—she preferred to see who merited such swift delivery. Who do you need to report to, my friend? One of Gaius Julius' agents, doubtless, waiting with equal impatience for your delivery.
"A good idea," Nicholas continued, looking relieved. "I've an idea of where to look..."
Tossing off a Legion salute, though Thyatis doubted the man truly regarded her as his commanding officer, Nicholas strode off. Taking her time, the Roman woman followed. She was hot and sweaty under the properly demure stola, hooded cloak and undertunic of a Roman matron, but haste was never rewarded at times like these. The invisibility of the mundane and expected was her friend, a moving blind in the chaotic urban forest.
At the end of the hallway, she found one of the little offices occupied by an elderly Egyptian in priestly robes. He was carefully copying a papyrus scroll onto fresh parchment. A faint scratching sound followed the smooth, effortless motion of his quill. The squared, angular shapes of modern Egyptian appeared, glistening and dark on the cream-colored page.
"Holy father? May I have a moment?"
"Yes?" he said, looking up in irritation. "What do you want?"
"I am looking for my cousin," she said, making a small bow. "A Latin officer—he worked down the hall, wore too much hyacinth perfume, liked lemons?" She offered an engaging, commiserating smile. "Mother never liked the way he smelled."
The old priest snorted in laughter. "Your cousin is gone—I do not know where. He and the other Romans like him packed their bags a day or two ago and went off in wagons towards the port." A faint gleam of satisfaction surfaced in the man's dark eyes, then subsided again. "I believe," the priest continued, seeming to ponder, "they felt continuing to work here might become dangerous..."
"Holy father, do you think the Persians will conquer Egypt?" Thyatis let her voice quaver a little when she said Persians.
"Many things could happen, child. But I am sorry—I do not know where Curtius and his friends went." He frowned and Thyatis felt a flash of irritation as she realized his thoughts were veering towards a young woman abandoned by her male relations! How scandalous!
"Thank you, father," she said, stepping out of the room before he started trying to help her. A bustling crowd of nervous men and women in the hallway swallowed her up. Thyatis let the traffic carry her through a wooded park filled with riotous wildflowers and into another, more public section of the complex. The tang of fear in the air tickled her nose and she listened to passing conversation with interest—an undercurrent of dread was in every voice.
I smell defeat, Thyatis realized, one eyebrow creeping up. No one will speak the words aloud, but disaster looms. Frowning now herself, she began to walk quickly, weaving through the clusters and knots of worried people in the passages. A noose draws tight around our time, grains spilling from a hidden clock. Thyatis took the steps out of the main building, down into a crowded, loud street two and three at a time. She felt a swift rush of elation, the air suddenly clear and sharp, the sun bright, the roar and mutter of the crowd exciting rather than depressing. I'd forgotten how good the hunt feels!
—|—
Standing in the shade of a winged granite ram twenty feet high, Nicholas watched Thyatis bound down the steps in front of the Bruchion and into the crowded avenue. For a moment she was still visible, cowled head bobbing above the crowd, then she turned a corner and was gone. He cleared his throat, and tried to shake away his anger with a twist of his shoulders.
"You're a fool," he muttered to himself, nervous fingers brushing the hilt jutting over his shoulder. Brunhilde was slung Legion-style on a cloth strap over his shoulder. Some calm returned with the touch, but he was still strangely on edge. The message pouch was safe and sound in his belt. "It's odd to have a woman centurion... but not that odd. Vladimir is odder. He's a panther in a man's shape..."