Perinthus, The Coast of Thrace
"Oh, now, what fresh torment is this?" Nicholas hung out over the railing of the galley, staring ahead in disgust. Roman galleys and merchantmen crowded the harbor, making a forest of masts and rigging. Clouds of dust rose into hot sky over the town. Full summer had decided to weigh in on the Thracian hills and a white haze cloaked wooded ridges above the port. "Another delay!"
The northerner swung down from the rail, bare chest gleaming in the midday sun. The heat had driven all of them to strip down, even Vladimir, though both he and the Hibernian wound white cloths around their heads in Judean style. Nicholas didn't like having his head covered, but they claimed that it was cooler this way. He was happy to sweat.
"You're in a rush to fight, then?" Dwyrin lounged in the shade of a sail section, feet up on a coil of tarred rope. Nicholas sat down next to him, sighing with relief to enter the invisible field of cool air around the boy. "We can't get into the city, so we'll have to wait while the army unravels the mess."
"We're-I'm-supposed to report to the tribune…" Nicholas groused, chin on his knees, staring moodily out at the acres of ships trying to enter Perinthus. In addition to swarms of war galleys, there were a multitude of fishing boats, merchantmen, coastal lugs and, worst of all, huge Egyptian grain haulers, pressed into service to move the Western army. "…as soon as possible. I don't like being late or disobeying orders."
"Well," Vladimir drawled, his accent thicker than usual, "you are trying hard to get there! We've even the Caesar's writ to smooth our passage."
Nicholas flicked a barnacle at the Walach, who ducked, laughing. Neither he nor the boy viewed the current delay as anything but extra vacation from work. Nicholas, unfortunately, could not shake the feeling that they should already be in Constantinople, not mired here, waiting for a berth at the docks of this backwater. He stood again, nervous, and went to the railing.
Two of the huge grain ships, each three or four stories tall, lumbered into the docks, guided by dozens of longboats filled with sweaty men bending hard on their sweeps. The railings of the grain ships were thronged with soldiers, waving and shouting encouragement at the rowers below. Beyond, the docks themselves were crowded with wagons, shouting centurions, confused soldiers and a few harried townspeople trying to buy fish for their dinner. Nicholas kicked at the deck in disgust-they had been sitting offshore for three days now, waiting.
"Wine! Pomegranates! Wine!" A young voice called across the water. Nicholas looked up and saw a brown-skinned boy, maybe eight years old, poling a skiff towards them. The front of the boat was filled with baskets of fruit and amphorae of wine in wicker and straw holders. "Honeycomb!"
"Boy! Over here!" Nicholas waved his hand. The youth, spying him, turned the skiff with ease and darted across the water towards the galley. "You slugs, get our gear, right away!"
Dwyrin and Vladimir each opened one eye, glared at Nicholas, then shut them again. The Hibernian had the cheek to start snoring. Nicholas jumped back from the rail and gave each of them a good kick in the feet. "Ow!"
"Get up, we're leaving." Nicholas leaned back over the railing, smiling at the youth. "Lad, how much to take three of us to shore?"
"Five sesterces!" The water bandit raised a tar-stained hand, fingers outstretched. "Luggage is extra!"
"How much extra? We've got legionaries' kits." Nicholas was fingering a solidus in his belt pouch. Caesar Aurelian had sent them off stuffed with good food, clutching a travel pass with his name on it, and some coin to ease their passage. The northerner had been very impressed by the Western Prince, who seemed a man after his own heart.
"An extra sesterces per man! But not too heavy," the youth rocked the skiff from side to side with his bare feet, "or you'll swim!"
"We'll take it." Nicholas swung easily over the rail, surprised to see Dwyrin get up and scrounge their gear out of the hold. The northerner dropped down into the skiff, landing easily and immediately finding his balance. Feeling the galley pull against the sea on their passage up from Egypt had felt good, but this little boat was better, since it was taking them somewhere! "Hand me the packs."
Dwyrin leaned over the rail and passed down the first bundle of equipment and carrying poles. Nicholas caught and stowed the gear in one smooth motion. Vladimir handed down the next and within ten grains they were crowded into the skiff, sliding across the water towards the port.
Galleys and quinqueremes rose up around them on all sides, draped with flags and colored awnings. Bored soldiers stared down at them from the railings. Equally bored sailors watched idly from the rigging. The boy was quick and sure with his oar, sending them gliding under hawsers and the sterns of massive ships. The air was filled with the caw of gulls and terns, the rattle of tackle and rope, the ever-present bellowing of centurions trying to get their fumble-kneed charges safely on land.
"How long has this been going on?" Nicholas looked up, watching with concern as a crane swung a military reda overhead at the end of a pair of cables. A shadow passed over the boat as the wagon occluded the sun, swaying from side to side. Despite the creaking of the ropes and a great deal of shouting, the reda reached the eager hands of its owning maniple safely.
"Almost a week," the boy chattered, smooth brown arms twisting the oar to guide them around an anchor rope. "The big boats just keep coming and coming. Plenty of business for me!"
The skiff darted out of the shadow of a grain hauler and up to a stone staircase plunging into the water at the dockside. "You pay now!" The boy stuck out a hand black with tar.
Nicholas gave the boy two solidii, slightly more than the eight sesterces he demanded. Then he hopped ashore, hobnailed boots scraping on wet stone. The bottom step was eroded by the sea and slick with moss, making the footing tricky. Despite that, and a small crowd of buskers and children gathered at the top of the stairway, they managed to get ashore only half drenched and with all of their gear. Dwyrin settled a straw sun hat on his head and, sighing, let the sphere of cool air around them fade away.
Vladimir groaned, but Nicholas just shook his head. "We don't want someone noticing us. It'll be trouble enough to just get through this mess in town without being commandeered into Western service. Get used to the heat again."
Dwyrin patted Vlad on the shoulder. "Sorry."
"Why did I agree to come back here?" Vlad looked morose, already sweating. "I daren't go into the city, you know. The Queen will be waiting."
"I know." Nicholas began to push through the crowd of children and beggars. "We'll figure it out later-after we report in!"
Vladimir glared at the beggars touching his arms, then bared his teeth. They backed off, eyes white with fear. "You always say that…" He was growling.
– |Thick dust clouded the side of the road, painting Dwyrin's face a tannish yellow. Cloth covered his mouth and nose, but he still blinked furiously. A troop of armored horsemen had just clattered past and this particular road was not the traditional Legion road, with a hard surface and drainage ditches on either side. It was more a shallow trench filled with very fine, well-churned dust. The three friends were slogging up out of the broad low valley holding Perinthus at its mouth. Cohort after cohort of legionaries passed them. Each time, they scrambled out of the way and took advantage of whatever shade was offered. This part of Thrace was very rich and lush, which made it easy to pass the time under peach or apple trees.
A rolling series of hills lay around them, stretching into the blue haze of the north. None of them had ever come this way before, but Constantinople could not be far off.
"Gahhh! It's getting under my fur." Vladimir banged his hat against his arm, trying to shake off the dust. "This is so much better than sitting on that ship, sleeping or stuffing ourselves with grilled fish."
Nicholas ignored the Walach and his whining, peering ahead, one brown hand shading his eyes. They had come out of a belt of trees and were at the edge of fields sloping down into some kind of valley. "Look at this…"
Dwyrin looked up, waving a hand in front of his face to clear the dust.
A hundred yards away was a farmhouse surrounded by a cluster of Legion standards and tents. Cavalrymen were milling around under a stand of olive trees. Many of the trees were only stumps and the house itself was blackened ruins. Beyond that, bands of men were sitting and standing under more trees. Thin trails of white smoke rose from their cookfires. The road turned left at the farmhouse, then ran down into the valley beyond. Dwyrin guessed that they had found the main part of the army.
Across the valley, which was very shallow, a city rose up into the haze, vast and gray, with walls stretching out in either direction, both to the north and to the south. Dwyrin swallowed a whistle, seeing rampart after rampart rising up into the sky. He knew the place, though he had only been there briefly. Constantinople, the greatest city in the world, capital of the Eastern Empire.
"What's the matter? We'll be in the city this afternoon." Vladimir cheered up, then sneezed. "That can't be more than five miles as the crow flies. Come on!"
Nicholas shook his head and pushed his hat back. For a moment he chewed his lip, then spat on the ground. Dwyrin and Vladimir looked at him curiously, then at each other.
"What is it?" Dwyrin scratched the back of his neck. A long line of infantry, once-shining armor caked with dust, sandals squeaking in the dirt, swung past, water flasks banging at each hip. A brace of javelins and a carrying pole were over each shoulder. More dust puffed up. They were not singing, as the Legion usually did on a march. Even their standards, proudly carried before the lead men, hung limp in the still air. Dwyrin sympathized. He had done his share of marching. "Nicholas?"
"Look, there, down in the valley. Do you see a dark line?"
Dwyrin turned, raising his hands in front of his face, thumb to thumb and forefinger to forefinger. The air between his fingers shimmered and shifted, then suddenly sprang clear and distinct, showing him a magnified image of the valley floor. The dark line was a rampart of earth, faced with sharpened stakes and surmounted by a palisade of cut logs. Men in cloth headdresses labored along it, digging and hauling earth in woven baskets. Officers moved among them, exhorting them to greater efforts. Men in armor stood guard, watching the hills with arrows laid across their bows. In front of the rampart was a steep-sided ditch, and the ground before it was cleared of brush and trees.
"It's the Arab army!" Dwyrin was dumbfounded. They seemed to have come so far from Aelia Capitolina, escaping the rebels, and here they were again. "They've built a wall along the valley."
Nicholas nodded, then picked up his bag and pole, slinging them onto his shoulder. "They have. My eyesight isn't as good as your trick there, but I'd venture to say that it stretches all the way around the city, one wall facing out and one in."
Vladimir hurried to catch up and Dwyrin stumbled after, dispersing the pattern he had formed from the air. "Why would they want to do that?"
"It's an old Roman trick. One wall keeps the people in the city penned up, the other keeps their friends on the outside from getting in to help them. The first Caesar did the same thing once, at a Gaulish town called Alesia."
"We can't get into the city, then?" Dwyrin looked down into the valley again. His power might be able to make them an entrance. Logs could burn, and even stone and earth could crack in the heat, if the fire was hot enough. "Are we going to try?"
"Perhaps." Nicholas looked over his shoulder. "First I'm going to see if I can find someone who can tell us what's going on."
– |"You men! You're Eastern troops, aren't you?"
Nicholas looked behind him, then back to the Western centurion walking quickly towards him. The three friends had been angling towards the cookfires set up by the farmhouse. Nick figured the cooks would know all the latest news. "Me, sir?"
"You." The centurion was scowling already, but Nicholas waited with a placid expression on his face. "You're not one of our troopers-and that boy is wearing the caduceus and lightning flash. What's your name and rank?"
"Nicholas of Roskilde, sir, centurion of the Eastern army. These are Vladimir and Dwyrin." Nicholas turned towards them, motioning with his hand. "But we're on assignment already. Official business, if you know what I mean."
"Too bad," the centurion growled, brown eyes narrowing. "The legate wants to know where in Hades the Eastern army is and what's going on!"
"Sir." Nicholas kept his voice even, but he matched the Western officer's glare. "We just got here, we don't know what is going on. I can't help you right now."
"Really?" The officer sneered. "Let me see your transit papers."
Nicholas sighed but made a shushing motion at Dwyrin, who was starting to get a mischievous look in his eye. The boy's confidence had improved a thousandfold since they escaped Aelia Capitolina. His color was better, he was cheerful, even the small exercises of his power seemed ably done. Best, he no longer drifted into the dream state afflicting him during the siege. However, he was becoming fond of using his skill to make trouble. Nicholas drew out the pass Caesar Aurelian had provided, though he was loath to do so. Unfortunately, he had no other papers to hand. "Here. Read it carefully, centurion."
The Western officer unfolded the parchment. His face, which could not be called pretty in the best of times, grew forbidding as he read. When he was done, he nodded, then jerked his thumb towards the command tent. "You're free to go, centurion, but I'd appreciate it if you took a minute with the legate."
"Fine." Nicholas nodded at Dwyrin and Vladimir. "Can my friends get a bite to eat while they wait?"
The Western centurion nodded sharply, then turned on his heel and walked back up the hill towards the farmhouse. Nicholas let out a slow hiss of breath, shaking his head. "Vlad, Dwyrin-don't talk to anyone, understand? And hide that damned badge."
Dwyrin nodded guiltily and unclasped the bronze snakes-and-lightning from his tunic, slipping it into his bag.
"I'll be back soon."
– |True to form, Nicholas was left to sit, sweating in the afternoon sun. The Western centurion stormed off, on "important business," and did not return. Messengers came and went; officers wandered by, deep in conversation with one another. Servants hurried into the tent with food and drink but didn't offer Nicholas any. The northerner fumed and tried to find some shade. Two hours passed and the sun began to set. At last, as he was about to give up and leave, the centurion suddenly reappeared.
"Legate Dagobert has time for you now." Nicholas considered punching the man. His tone implied Nicholas had been making a nuisance of himself. "Inside."
Like most command tents, the pavilion was large and crowded at the same time. Clerks sat on the floor, writing desks on their laps. Couriers loitered against the walls, trying to be helpfully unobtrusive. Two staff officers eyed Nicholas as he walked in, then ignored him. A portable field desk dominated the northern wall of the shelter, occupied by a tall man with long hair. Nicholas raised an eyebrow at this, seeing that the commander of the Western army was a Frankish barbarian, and probably a noble to boot.
"Nicholas of Roskilde, centurion, assigned to the Eastern Office of the Barbarians." Nicholas followed his terse delivery with a sharp salute, arm raised to his shoulder. "Reporting as ordered, legate."
The man turned, pale gold eyebrows raised, and nodded to the centurion. The soldier sidled off. "You've come from Aurelian, in Egypt?"
Nicholas nodded soberly, taking his measure of the man. The barbarian was stoutly built, with fine-boned features. His armor was serviceable and lacking the usual silver wash and filigree sometimes afflicting Eastern officers. His eyes were mournful. Nicholas didn't know if this was the man's usual countenance, or if he had suffered some recent calamity.
"You've a thaumaturge in your care?" Nicholas nodded again. "Aurelian directs you be given all aid in reaching Constantinople so you can rejoin your unit. In particular, I see he is being a stickler about this sorcerer of yours-they are supposed to be under direct Eastern command. You wouldn't happen to know where the Eastern army is, do you?"
"Ah… no, legate, we've just arrived in these parts." Nicholas was nonplussed. What kind of question is that?
The legate nodded, though more to himself than to Nicholas. "Things in the capital seem to be… confused. I expected to sail into Constantinople itself, but I find an enemy fleet blockading the approaches. We advance on land and find our way contested by the enemy, again. He has matched his seaborne efforts with the same on land. Have you seen their circumvallation?"
Nicholas nodded again, mustering the courage to ask, "Does it go all the way round, sir?"
The legate nodded, long face looking even more mournful than before. "My scouts tell me it does, though the northern end is still under construction-but there they found the Persian army, in all its numbers."
"The… Persians, sir?" Nicholas felt the news like a blow to his stomach. Through the three years the city had been besieged before, the Persians had never been able to get across the Propontis. Of course, he cursed silently, they hadn't had a real fleet in the strait, either. "How many Persians?"
The legate shook his head. "We've no idea, centurion. There has been some fighting between our scouting parties and their light horse. Now, this business of your travel pass-I'm not going to ignore Caesar Aurelian's directive, of course, but I can't help you go any farther. Indeed, it would be unwise of me to let you try yourself, as this precious thaumaturge might be killed."
Nicholas kept his face still, though he had the usual feeling of nausea that accompanied meddling from on high. The legate shuffled some papers on his desk, then drew one out, looked it over and put it back.
"By my order, you and this sorcerer are temporarily attached to the third cohort of the Ars Magica, attached to the Tenth Legion. You'll report to their mess and get acquainted. When we have cleared our way to the city, of course, you're free to report to your own commander." The legate laughed, in an irritating sort of way. "This thaumaturge can help us across that ditch and wall. It must be fate."