Constantinople
The tramp and clatter of hobnailed boots rang through the Great Gate. The ancient towers were blackened, scarred and scorched by the impact of stones and bolts. Constantinople had endured far too much in the last five years. Nicholas marched through shadow, Dwyrin right behind him, Vladimir bringing up the rear. They marched in the legionary cohort assigned to guard the Western legate, Dagobert, as he entered the city.
A crowd was waiting inside the gate, held back by the leveled spears of Eastern troops. The people stared at the foreigners with dead eyes and wan faces. No one seemed happy to see them. Noting the grim Eastern troops standing in the gatehouse, Nicholas wondered what had happened. These men looked defeated. Odd, considering the Arab army had been driven off into the fortifications held by the Persians north of the Golden Horn.
The Western legions held the Perinthus road, as well as most of the Arab works. The enemy, in fact, no longer directly threatened the city. The long, watery tongue of the Golden Horn thrust between the opposing armies. A stream fed into the Horn from the west, making a border between the Roman pickets and the Arab and Persian scouts. The mass of Constantinople lay south of the Horn on its own peninsula. Nicholas expected that once the Western and Eastern commanders put their heads together, a massed attack on the Persian camp would be launched, supported by a concerted effort by the Western and Eastern fleets to smash or drive off the Arab squadrons blockading the city.
In the aftermath of the dawn attack, Nicholas found himself and his two friends welcome guests of the legate himself, who seemed both appalled and overjoyed to have such a powerful weapon at hand. Nicholas watched the Western officers fawning over Dwyrin with growing disgust. The hatred and envy in the faces of the thaumaturges was worse. His gut told him to get the boy into the city as quickly as possible. Nicholas had pressed the legate to abide by the treaty. Dagobert wanted to demur, but he was not bold enough to imprison them. Thus, they entered the city under his protection, though they did not feel particularly safe.
"The Dux Dagobert, Son of Lothair, Tribune of the West, Commander of the Legions!" A bull-voiced guardsman crashed the butt of a heavy double-bitted ax on the floor. Dagobert entered, Nicholas, Vladimir and Dwyrin at his back. Two of his staff officers followed.
A man turned, face flushed with anger, from the table at the center of the room. Nicholas raised an eyebrow, seeing Dagobert stiffen. The easterner was tall and broad shouldered, with a neatly trimmed red-gold beard. He was wearing full cavalry armor and boots with a red stripe along the seam. Ah, Nicholas thought, taking the measure of the man, this is Prince Theodore, of whom so much was expected and so little delivered. Five or six Imperial officers, their silver-washed armor gleaming and burnished, their cloaks made of fine wool and silk, stood around the table. Each man pretended to ignore the interruption.
"Pardon me, my lord," Dagobert said stiffly. "I have come to speak with Emperor Heraclius about driving these Persians from his land."
"Have you? Well, then, long-hair, you will speak with me! I am Theodore, Caesar of the Eastern Empire and commander of the Imperial army. When I have time, I will discuss the disposition of your forces."
"Is Emperor Heraclius dead?" Dagobert's voice rose a little, putting a sharp emphasis on the word Emperor. "Are you his heir?"
Theodore's lip curled a little and he finally faced the Frank squarely. "Dead? No, he is not dead! He is ill, but I command the Legions in the city and am his royal brother. Listen, tribune, you are most welcome, but I do not have time for you right now. Return to your camp and I will speak with you in the morning!"
Nicholas could see that the tribune's temper was fraying. The plain dismissal in the Eastern Prince's voice was an iron goad. Nicholas motioned with his head and Vladimir and Dwyrin, both wide-eyed, began to inch back out of the room. The Western staff officers moved up, smirking.
"Lord Theodore, Emperor Galen has declared me magister militatis of the Western Empire." Dagobert drew out a short ivory rod capped with gold. He held it up, light from the high, narrow windows catching on the bright metal. "By treaty, within the confines of the Eastern Empire, while I am here, I outrank all other officers in the Legion save the Eastern Emperor. This includes you. Now, where is Emperor Heraclius? I need to speak with him immediately!"
"The Emperor," Theodore snapped, face growing red, "is not here!"
Nicholas reached the door just as the Prince started to shout and eased it open. The two burly red-beards on either side looked down at him with interest, but he smiled and made a little wave with his fingers before slipping out.
"Nicholas! That was interesting! Why leave?" Dwyrin pressed his ear against the door, a sly look on his face. "Wait-I can still hear them. They're shouting."
"We can all hear them," Vladimir said dryly, cleaning out one ear with his finger. "I think everyone in the palace can hear them."
Nicholas rolled his eyes. "Come on. Let's find my tribune and report-then he can hide us somewhere! Bickering generals are nothing but trouble."
The northerner turned to go, but found himself face-to-face with a very angry young woman. She was short, richly dressed and blessed with a tousled head of brown hair. At the moment, she seemed ready to chew iron pigs and spit nails. A brace of very large men in armor were behind her. More of the Faithful Guard, though they were wearing closed helmets and their hands were tight on their weapons. "Out of my way, centurion!"
"Of course, milady!" Nicholas backed up, running into Dwyrin and Vladimir, who were trying to see what was going on. "Martina?" Dwyrin sounded surprised and embarrassed at the same time. He hurriedly tried to smooth his hair back and tug his tunic straight.
The woman paused, hand on the door, squinting at the Hibernian. "Oh, you're the boy from the stream. Hello! I'm sorry, I haven't a moment." Then she slammed the door open and stalked in, already spoiling for a fight. "Dear Prince Theodore! Why, I'm surprised to see you out and about. Weren't you under house arrest?"
Nicholas closed the door gently, grimacing, and then the three of them hurried away down the corridor. Luckily, Nicholas knew the palace fairly well and they were able to escape before something else happened.
– |The fires on the plain died down at last, letting the air clear. Nicholas and Dwyrin walked along the upper battlements at the far-northwestern end of the city. From their vantage, they could see across the Golden Horn, into the Galata suburbs and the Persian camp. Evening was close, drawing a dark gray blanket across the land. The only lights to be seen were the cookfires of the Persians and the Arabs. Sometimes, lanterns winked on the galleys patrolling the waters of the Horn. Nicholas drew a breath, taking joy in the clean, cold air. Their barracks were in one of the old palaces down in the lower city. They were cramped and crowded and filled with vermin and lice. Vladimir refused to go out after dark, leaving Nicholas to squire Dwyrin around. The lad had taken an active, even ghoulish interest in the campaign.
Such as it was. Despite the passage of a full day and a night, the Western troops remained outside of the city, still in their encampments on the Perinthus road and in the wreckage of the Arab limes. Rumor in the barracks and the markets said Dagobert and his staff had left the city empty-handed, without so much as a glimpse of Heraclius. What was clear was Prince Theodore's open disobedience. Despite his presumed arrest, he was widely seen in the city, speaking earnestly with the various Legion commanders and the cohort tribunes. Nothing came out of the Bucoleon but silence.
Nicholas leaned on the wall, one shoulder resting against a smooth granite merlon. An arrow slit opened out beside him, giving him a good view of the last touch of the sun on the Propontis. A haze had come up with sunset, covering the water and the land. A few lights flickered, but even the stars in the east seemed dim. Dwyrin put up a booted foot on the embrasure, staring fixedly out at the Galatan shore.
"What do you see?" Nicholas was curious. The boy wanted to walk the walls all day, but they only just managed to get out of the barracks a glass or two ago. Now the Hibernian had a look about him.
"There is a great army moving in the darkness." Dwyrin's voice was distant. "The fire-priests are trying to hide them. Fools, I am inside their pattern! Look, do you see the starlight on their spears?"
Nicholas peered out into the gloom, but he could see nothing. "You've the witch-sight, lad, not I."
"Here." Dwyrin put his hands over Nicholas' eyes, then bent his head. A low muttering followed, while Nicholas blinked in the darkness. At his side, Brunhilde trembled, woken by some current in the hidden world. Nicholas laid his hand across her hilt and she quieted. "Now. See?"
Nicholas opened his eyes and gasped in surprise. The shroud of night parted, leaving the rising hills of Galata illuminated by a directionless clear light. Every tree, every wall, the houses, the barns and temples seemed perfectly distinct. Nicholas tried to blink but he could not. There was movement, there among the rolling hills. Endless lines of lancers were winding their way down out of the northeast, the white fetlocks of their horses splashing through the stream that fed the Horn. Nicholas squinted, then staggered. Dwyrin caught him, firm hands on his shoulders. When he narrowed his vision, the scene leapt dramatically closer. Now he could see the men-flat Asiatic faces, like those of Huns or Turks, with long mustaches and pointed metal helms fringed with mail. Horsetail banners flapped at the head of each column and their long kontos glittered like a forest of steel reeds. Many of the riders were wearing long red and black coats with bowcases slung at their hips. Huge mobs of brown- and blond-haired men crowded the sides of the road, marching in loose order, with spears and painted oval shields slung across their backs.
"The Avars," Nicholas hissed. He had spent months fighting them during the last siege. "Khagan Bayan has returned… ten or fifteen thousand of them, it looks like." He blinked suddenly, his eyes watering furiously. "Ahh! That hurts!"
"Sorry!" Dwyrin dabbed at Nicholas' eyes with the edge of his tunic. "I don't know how it feels for someone else."
"Tyr!" Nicholas sat down, squeezing his eyes shut. They were burning like someone had ground a red-hot ember into each socket. "Ahh!"
Dwyrin left, then returned with a wooden cup. Gently, he laved Nicholas' eyes with the cool water and the pain receded. Nicholas' eyesight sparkled with drifting white motes for a time but then cleared. It was full dark, though the mist had cleared away, leaving a brilliant wash of stars in the heavens. The Hibernian was squatting opposite him, a chagrined look on his face.
"Sorry! I wasn't thinking… we used to practice that sort of thing in my old five. But you've no training for the witch-sight."
"No matter, lad. I can see at least. Come on, we've got to make a report. Those idiots in command will need to know this right away." Nicholas stood up, finding his balance returned.
"Do you think we'll attack them?" Dwyrin sounded positively eager.
"Hey, now, don't rush ahead, lad. You proved yourself in the wall attack, but those Persians will have more than one wizard on their side. The next time we go up against them, they'll be ready for you."
"Maybe." The boy sounded smug. "But I'll be ready for them."
Nicholas raised an eyebrow, but the confidence of young men was eternal and boundless, like the tide and the sun rising. "That's a good trick, with the farseeing. We make a good team, you know, the three of us."
"Thanks." Dwyrin sounded like he was blushing, but Nicholas said nothing.
– |Mohammed ducked through the tent door, his face filled with disgust. Outside, it was raining, and he flipped back the hood of his cloak. He sat down heavily in one of the camp chairs, then put his head in both hands.
"What was all the commotion?" Zoe put down her brush, a delicate ivory-backed antique she had recovered from the palace in Palmyra. Her thick hair was down and loose, falling around her tan shoulders in a dark cloud. "It sounded like an army banging around out there."
"It was." Mohammed remained deep in thought.
"Mohammed?" Zoe rose, gathering her shirt, and knelt by his side. A bandage covered her wounded ear; the battle in the dark had added bruises on her arm and thigh. "What happened?"
"An army is arriving, under cover of darkness. They are the Avars, from north of the Roman frontier. I believe the Persian priests are trying to hide the sound of their movement from the Romans, much as they attempted to deceive you. That is what Shahr-Baraz has told me, anyway."
"Ah." Zoe took his weathered old head in her hands, smoothing his wrinkled brow with her thumbs. She pursed her lips, considering his words. "No one told you they were coming to join us? I certainly did not hear of it."
"No. I have spent the better part of a week in constant argument with the King of Kings, urging him to join us in driving the Western army from the Perinthus road. Each day he has said wait. Now I know why, and I am very uneasy about his reticence."
Zoe nodded, then turned and sat against his knees, handing him the brush. "Tell me, but you have to brush my hair."
Making a snorting sound that passed for laughter, Mohammed took the brush, holding it up for a moment. The silver back was smooth and reflected his face, inverted. Even upside down, he seemed old and tired, with deep shadows around his eyes. Where is the young man who rode to Damascus with a pack train of fine plates and goblets?
"Don't sigh. Tell me what you are thinking." Zoe glowered up at him.
"Ah, I don't know where to begin." Mohammed gathered the young woman's hair, exposing the sleek line of her neck, then began to work the brush through the violent curls with a slow, even motion. Long ago, when he first married Khadijah, he had done the same for her. Little rituals like this were easy to fall into. They occupied the hands while the mind was disturbed. "I do not like these Persians. Shahr-Baraz and Heraclius are far too alike in my mind for him to win my trust. He and Khalid are close, too. I have seen them talking."
Zoe grunted. "Did you know," she said, "Khalid served in the Persian army as a youngster, before he joined you? He was a scout. He was at Palmyra."
"Yes, I remember." Mohammed began working through a tangle, keeping the hair slack so that the brush did not pull. "He seems quite devoted to our cause, but I wonder… Your cousin and he are thick as thieves. They are constantly larking about."
Sniffing, Zoe raised a hand, critically examining her nails. "Odenathus is a lout sometimes. Some days it seems he has grown up, then he'll be an… an ox again! He plagues me! Khalid is a bad influence on everyone. What will you do about him?"
"Do? I'm not sure that I need to do anything. Not yet. Shahr-Baraz, Khagan Bayan and I will have words again tomorrow. The Boar says that he has a plan for taking the city, which I am interested in hearing. If it seems likely to work, we should make the effort. Otherwise, we must put our heads together and think of something else."
"I will come." Zoe made her pronouncement, complete with a regal snap of authority. "I am Queen of Palmyra and command half our forces. I will have my say in this. You men will make a mess of it, I'm sure."
Mohammed ran the brush through the last of her hair, smoothing it out across his thigh. "As you command, O Queen." His voice was very dry. "You and Shahr-Baraz at odds will be amusing, at least."
"Amusing?" Zoe stood, drawing her shirt close and narrowing her eyes. "Do you think that I am amusing?"
"No." Mohammed stood as well, his expression gentle. "Thank you. I will be glad of your company."
Zoe frowned, then relented, letting her brief anger flow away like a desert storm. She met his eyes, drinking in his calm, ineffable strength. "The end of this is close at hand, my friend. Our long road leads to this gate of stone and this ancient city. Can you feel it in the air?"
"Yes." Mohammed was suddenly calm, his expression distant. "The voice from the clear air is quiet. I think that means that we have come, at last, to the hinge of fate."
– |"Nicholas." The door to the barracks room swung open and two men entered. Nicholas stood, arm stiff in salute. Vladimir rolled out of bed, grabbing up a shirt to cover his pelt. Dwyrin, poring over a book he had found in the market, looked up, puzzled. The third watch had just passed and the three friends were preparing to bed down. The rest of the maniple quartered in the high-ceilinged, drafty, rat-infested room was out on watch duty, pacing the miles of wall protecting the city. "Well met."
"Tribune Sergius! I hadn't thought you were still in the city." Nicholas clasped the heavyset officer's forearm in greeting. "I am glad to see you!"
Sergius smiled, short-cropped white hair gleaming in the lantern light. "I'm glad you weren't killed in the desert. There is little time-I've read your report of the movements in the Galata hills. I've brought someone that wants to talk to you."
The man behind Sergius stepped forward, coming into the circle of light. He was thick-set, with short, oily black hair and a craggy, grim-looking face. Everything about him, from his thick wrists and knuckles to the small scars on his neck said soldier to Nicholas. A very experienced professional. The northerner straightened, seeing a killer's look in the man's eyes.
"This is Rufio," Sergius continued, "the commander of the Faithful Guard."
"Oh." Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "Well met, sir, but why are you here?"
"I'm here for the boy." The man's voice was cold and direct, like ice grinding through the flanks of a ship caught in the floes off Gronland. "I'm here to take you under my wing. Sergius and I, given the political situation, have come to common cause. We need each other, I think. Get your kit, we're moving you to the Bucoleon itself, close to the Emperor."
"The Emperor?" Dwyrin squeaked, but hurried to gather up his gear.
"Yes. The situation is rushing to a violent conclusion." An edge of great weariness leaked into Rufio's voice, but Nicholas saw that the man was in complete command of himself. An aura of effortless competence surrounded the officer. Nicholas liked to think that he was a professional, but this man was an exemplar. "I need you where you can do some good."
Nicholas shoved the last of his equipment into its carry sack, then checked to make sure that Vladimir and Dwyrin had left nothing behind. Sergius had moved to the door and was watching the corridor. "We're ready."
Rufio didn't waste any words but moved swiftly down the hall. A pair of the Faithful were lurking at the junction of the main hall and a cross corridor. The two Scandians fell in behind them. Nicholas guessed that they were pure-blood Svenska, from north of the Gray Sea. Old and implacable enemies of the Dann lords, though he didn't suppose that mattered here, in the south. There was plenty of everything to go around, not like in the icy wastes.
"What is the political situation?" Nicholas picked up his pace, matching Rufio's.
The captain of the Faithful gave him a sideways glance, then said, "You know the Emperor is ill?"
"I heard. There are some wild rumors about."
Rufio nodded absently. They passed into a kitchen, filled with steam and the smell of baking bread. Behind the ranks of cone-shaped ovens was a staircase leading down. Rufio took the steps two and three at a time.
"The Emperor is slowly recovering," Rufio said in a low voice. "But Theodore and Martina have been at each other's throats for months. They hate each other and Theodore has scored two coups in recent days-first, the Emperor's first son, Constantius, has taken refuge in his uncle's residence. That gives the Prince an heir to control. Second, the commanders of the Legions in the city have agreed to let Theodore command them in battle. Martina cannot even appeal to the people or the circus factions for help-her marriage has turned the priests against her."
Nicholas stopped, eyes narrowing. "Where do you stand, Captain?"
"I am with the Empress." Rufio turned in the narrow space. The stairwell continued to plunge downwards. Nicholas was sure they had passed below street level and were entering the catacombs and tunnels honeycombing the city. "The Emperor's desire is known to me and he would not want his brother in command. Unfortunately, his illness has progressed to such a point that he is delirious most of the time. I have been forced to take extraordinary steps."
"Won't Theodore win?" Nicholas held up a hand, causing Vladimir and the others to stop. "You say he has the support of the army and the priests and the people. What does the Empress have, then?"
"She has me." Rufio turned away and continued down the stairs. "She has Sergius and the Office of the Barbarians. Even one of the logothetes supports her."
"Will that be enough?" Nicholas called down the stairs, voice filled with dismay.
"Perhaps," Rufio's voice echoed up from below, out of the darkness.