The Hall of the Faithful Guard, The Bucoleon, Constantinople
Sweating, Nicholas stepped back, raising his blade in salute to the Scandian. "Well struck, Olaf!" The axe man nodded his big head, wild beard jutting from his chin like the prow of a ship. Nicholas turned away, picking up a towel from the bench at the edge of the fighting square. All around him was a constant murmur of gruff voices. Many of the Faithful spent their free time in the hall, sparring and drinking. The sounds and smells made him feel at home. These Scandians were all from the eastern lands, but their dialect was still close to that of the Dann: a comfortable sound, coupled with the familiar smell of oiled metal and mead and roasted meat. The Faithful Guard were well kept by the Emperor, with plenty to eat and drink.
"Centurion." Nicholas pulled a tunic over his head, then turned. Rufio approached, nodding to some of the men, clasping forearms with another. "I understand you speak Scandian?"
"Yes, sir." Nicholas did not know what proper rank the captain of the Faithful Guard held, but the black-haired Greek seemed to deserve immediate respect. "The Dann dialect, but it's close enough…"
"Good." Something like a smile crossed Rufio's thin lips. "Traditionally, the Faithful are commanded by Greek officers, but I think you'll fit in, even if you're a Latin."
Nicholas was surprised. Very few people ever realized he was a Latin Roman, and not the northern barbarian indicated by his dress and accent. "Not many people notice, sir. It doesn't matter to me if it doesn't matter to you."
"No." Rufio handed him a golden clasp worked in the shape of a dragon biting its own tail. "Here's your flash. I've put you on the list just below me. When things come to blows, you'll have the Hibernian, your pet Walach and half the men. I will command the left, you the right."
Nicholas donned his cloak, replacing an iron clasp he had picked up in Aelia Capitolina with the golden one. Then he strapped his baldric on, making sure Brunhilde was snug in her sheath.
"A fine blade," Rufio nodded at the hand-and-a-half sword. "Scandian make?"
"Yes."
Rufio smiled, turning a little so that he was between the nearest of the Faithful and Nicholas. His voice was soft, barely carrying past Nicholas' ear. "You should keep it sheathed until the men are comfortable with you. Olaf is as dense as a stone, but one of the others might mark what you've got there. Then they might be minded to ask where a Roman was getting a runesword."
"She was a gift." Nicholas felt very uncomfortable talking about this. Brunhilde began to tremble at his waist and he clamped his hand down on her hilts. Rufio raised a thick black eyebrow at the motion.
"I'll not try and take it from you, lad. If you won it in fair battle, it's yours."
"I was given her," Nicholas said, voice rising a little. Rufio met his look with perfect calm in his black eyes. Nicholas flushed. "I understand, sir. I'll spar with another weapon."
"Good. Now listen, events are beginning to move. Now you're my staff officer, you get to come with me and watch the powers that be bicker like old hens in the farmyard."
"What happened?"
Rufio gave a half-smile, jerking his head. "A new player has entered the game."
– |The Bucoleon, Nicholas found, was actually composed of many palaces and buildings, all intertwined in a confusing maze of levels, halls and chambers. Rufio walked swiftly, though he was slightly shorter than Nicholas. They passed quickly through rooms filled with intricate mosaic designs on the floor and stunning paintings-now peeling or sagging with age-on the walls.
"The Western legate entered the city again, with some new friends." Rufio was using his briefing voice, which amused Nicholas, since it was clipped and quick and leaned heavily on some kind of regional Greek accent. Luckily, Nicholas had a good ear for dialects. "I have heard, from the commander of the number-six gate, that Western scouts have been watching the Persians and their allies. Another five or six thousand Avars have filtered in from the north. Of course, I wouldn't even know this much save Sergius is working overtime, visiting old friends."
Nicholas nodded, wondering how much the captain of the Faithful knew about Sergius and the Office of the Barbarians. With the current struggle in the city, it seemed unlikely that Prince Theodore knew who Sergius really worked for-otherwise the white-haired tribune would have lost his head. Nicholas was a Latin, sent by the Western Office to help Sergius with his messier problems. The Western Office had taken great pains, over the last twelve years, to secure control of the Eastern office. It was an old game, made more interesting at the moment by the Prince's play for power.
"We-a term I use loosely-are guessing the Persians and Arabs field nearly eighty thousand men. With another twenty thousand Avars and Slavs, they are well over our own strength. You think Dagobert brought four legions?"
"Yes, I saw their standards and flags myself." Nicholas nodded. "One veteran, three fresh, all full strength-so perhaps forty thousand or a little more."
"After Theodore's little debacle in Syria, there are perhaps thirty thousand Eastern troops mustered here."
"Not good odds, seventy to a hundred."
"No." Rufio shook his head. "But this has changed. A report came in last night from a man selling wine to the Western troops in the forts. He says a great host of barbarians-not Turks but some other horse-people-arrived out of the north and have joined Dagobert."
"Who?" Nicholas stared at the Greek in surprise. The Avars controlled everything north of the mountains dividing Thrace from Moesia Inferior. But there were scattered bands of Sarmatians, Slavs and Walachs in the vast Rus forest. "Another Western army?"
"No." Rufio was smirking. "The wine merchant did not know the banners, but I recognized them from his description. They are Khazars, from the lands far to the east around the Mare Caspium. Their khan Ziebil aided Heraclius and Galen in their war against the Persians."
"How did they get here?" Nicholas was nonplussed.
"I don't know, but we might find out. Their commander is coming into the city with Dagobert, to try and meet with Theodore."
"Not the Emperor?"
Rufio shook his head and Nicholas saw the weariness in the man again. It was easy to miss behind his confident expression. There was something else, too.
"How long have you served Heraclius?"
"All his life, the brat." Rufio's face brightened, weariness falling away like a dropped cloth. "His father hired me, when young Heraclius came of age, to be his bodyguard. We were in Africa then, at Carthage. The old man-he was governor-decided to take a hand in Imperial politics. Everything was in chaos then. A right bastard named Phocas was wearing the Purple. We did him in, though. A long time, I suppose."
Nicholas nodded. That tells me where Rufio's placed his coin!
"Why did you want us in the Guard?"
A brief smug flicker crossed Rufio's face. "I don't know if you've seen it, but the boy's effort to break the Arab wall woke up every priest, wizard and hedgewitch in the city. I gather, from their whispers and complaints, no one has ever cut loose with that kind of display before, at least not in their memory, which is liable to be short." The captain snorted dismissively. "When Sergius said that you'd reported in, I convinced him that you needed to be near the Emperor, to protect him."
"Is that true?"
"Not at all! I've been around a bit, Nicholas. I know exactly what kind of disaster a young man with incredible power can be. My job, my only job, is to protect the life of the Emperor and his family. Having you and the boy under my eye means one less thing to worry about."
Frowning, Nicholas said, "You think the boy is a threat to the Emperor?"
Rufio shrugged his shoulders. "I think he is a threat to every person in the city and the immediate surroundings. He's young, Nicholas, very young. I've seen his face, how he is with you and Vladimir; he has no conception of what the exercise of his strength might do, what it might cost him."
Nicholas whistled, remembering the siege in the desert. "I see your point."
"Good. Now, we're going to be observers at this meeting, so just keep your trap shut."
"Yes, sir!"
– |Prince Theodore had taken over a building at the margin of the Bucoleon complex, near the old Acropolis of the city. Rufio and Nicholas entered through a passage from the main palace and were immediately stopped by armed legionaries. Six cavalrymen watched the entrance. Rufio smiled pleasantly, then turned over his gladius and a knife from his belt.
"The Prince feeling well today?" The soldiers did not rise to the bait, keeping their faces neutral. "Nicholas, you should give them your sword."
The northerner felt physically ill at the thought, but he pressed Brunhilde's plain leather sheath into the man's hand. "Take good care of that," he said in a tight voice. "It was my father's."
Shrugging, the legionary put the long sword against the wall behind the guardpost. Nicholas marked the place, glared at the other men on watch and then hurried after Rufio. The captain of the Faithful seemed quite content to go unarmed into the lair of the enemy. When Nicholas caught up with him, the captain clapped him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry," he said softly. "Thirty of the Faithful are within call of us, even in here. Try to stop sweating so much. Eventually, even the Prince will notice."
Nicholas hadn't managed to calm down by the time they entered the main hall of the building. Wooden panels lined the walls and there was a long table in the center of the room. Prince Theodore, flanked by some of his staff, stood near the head of the table. The Eastern officers had their heads close in conversation. Rufio stopped within polite distance and folded his arms, observing the scene. Theodore glanced up, frowned to see the captain, then resumed his conversation. Nicholas tried to be invisible, hiding behind Rufio.
A grain or two passed, then the guardsman at the end of the hall cleared his throat. "The Western legate, Dagobert, the King of the Khazars, Dahvos, and his staff."
The newcomers entered, dressed in field armor, though they were weaponless. The same two Goths accompanied Dagobert. The Khazars were a pair of tall men with curly hair and short, neat beards. Nicholas looked them over, seeing muscular, lean horsemen. They were clad in scale mail and weather-worn, patched cloaks. Their boots, though recently cleaned, were scuffed and mended. Both of them were very tan and Nicholas sensed they had been on the move for a long time.
"Greetings!" Theodore turned to them, flashing an instant smile. "Please, sit. Would you like wine or refreshment?"
"No, thank you, Prince Theodore." Dagobert did not sit and the others in his party followed his lead, standing at the third point of a triangle made by the Eastern officers, Rufio and the Westerners. "I have brought the khagan Dahvos to join us, as his army has joined ours, to discuss driving the Persians and their allies away and lifting the siege."
"An excellent plan." Theodore seemed intent on being as friendly as possible. Nicholas felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There was an odd feeling in the air, but more than the tension between the various parties, it felt like someone was watching him. He tried not to fidget.
"I received your dispatch this morning," the Prince continued, showing his teeth. "Our numbers now exceed those of the enemy. I am currently adjusting the disposition of my forces in the city, but when that is done, we shall advance together and destroy them."
Nicholas, listening, translated the Prince's words into. When I've managed to get all of the cohort commanders to follow me, or replaced those that won't, I'll dare to poke my nose out of the city.
Dagobert raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You agree to lead the Eastern troops under my command, then?"
"Well…" Theodore shrugged. "I think we can all work together, Legate. There's no need to force change upon our lieutenants at this time."
The Frank stepped forward, eyes glinting. "Our emperors have already agreed to a working arrangement, and proved its efficacy, Prince Theodore. I will command the combined army. You and your officers will follow my directives. The three of us, and our staff, will devise a plan of attack together, but we will execute it under my authority."
"That is not necessary," Theodore snapped, temper fraying. "If we agree to a plan, the Eastern Empire will stick to it."
Dagobert's face darkened and he smoothed his mustaches down with a sharp movement. "Without a single guiding will, we will not be able to use our army effectively. Three commanders are worse than none."
"This could be," Theodore said in an offhand way, "but you are not used to the capabilities of our troops, our way of fighting. There are differences between our Legions. By the way, do you speak Greek?"
"No," the Frank grated out, anger beginning to rise in his sad-looking eyes. "I do not."
"Then how will you direct my troops?" Theodore's voice gained a patronizing edge. "Some of my officers may remember some schoolboy Latin, but not all. You will have to rely on me and my staff, I fear. So there is no reason to make the arrangement top heavy."
Dagobert bit back a curse, his eyes thinning to slits. "Sufficient courier riders who speak both Latin and Greek, Lord Prince, can be found to carry messages from me to the cohorts. I do not think there will be a problem."
"That is unacceptable." Theodore turned away with the air of a man who has been patient with an impossible situation. "There is far too much room for error in such translations. We will be in battle against a canny and powerful foe! We cannot afford a misunderstood order."
"Very well." Dagobert seemed to have made up his mind during the Prince's speech. "The Western army and the Khazars will deal with the Persians. We would appreciate it if you would remain inside the city with your army, Prince Theodore, so that no orders are misunderstood."
Nicholas swallowed a whistle, feeling the cold tension in Rufio. Nervous, the northerner looked around, counting the number of Eastern guardsmen along the walls. As he did so, a glint of light from one of the wall panels behind him caught his eye. An elaborate hunting scene had been carved into it, leaving deep, shadowy recesses between the figures of horses and dogs and rearing stags. Something had been there for an instant. But it was gone now. The sensation of being watched remained.
"Do you think you can defeat the Persians without me?" Theodore's voice dripped with sarcasm. "With your raw troops and these ragged barbarians?"
"Any army," Dagobert replied, face stiff, "fighting as one can defeat an enemy fighting as three. Do I have your word your forces will remain inside the city?"
"You do not!" Theodore barked angrily. "You presume a great deal to order me, barbarian!"
"When your emperor is well," Dagobert snapped, "ask him what he would have you do. I do not think that you will like the answer."
Theodore stepped forward, his motion violent, but brought himself up short before he struck the Frank. The two men exchanged a long and pregnant glare, then Dagobert smiled icily, bowed and turned away. "Good day, Lord Prince. Please extend my best wishes to the Emperor, when you see him next."
Rufio touched Nicholas' shoulder and they retired, quietly, through the door they had come in through. Theodore was already raging, his voice low and vehement, behind them as they slipped out. "Both of those men are fools," Rufio said quietly as they hurried down the hallway. "Things are worse than I expected. Turn here, we can catch up with them before they leave."
Nicholas followed as Rufio ducked through a series of interconnected rooms, mostly filled with boxes and hampers of indefinable baggage. They came out into a high domed hallway filled with a pleasant green light slanting down from above. Windows of close-set colored glass studded the domes, providing a soft and diffuse illumination. Statues of ancient emperors and heroes lined the walls. The Western and Khazar officers were hurrying past, their boots making a loud rattle on the tiled floor.
"Legate, Khagan. May I have a moment of your time?" Rufio pitched his voice to carry, but not far. Dagobert paused, frowning, but then caught sight of Nicholas standing behind the captain's shoulder.
"Ah, the missing agent! And you are?"
"Rufio, captain of the Faithful Guard, my lords." Rufio bowed, both to the Frank and to the Khazar. "I believe we can speak in this room undisturbed for a moment."
Dagobert glanced over his shoulder. "Very well."
Rufio led them into a small alcove set with benches on all sides and ornate stone carving on the three facing walls. The stone was painted to resemble vines and roses. A circular glass window filled the ceiling, shedding a faint greenish light onto the five men. Nicholas took up a position by the door, keeping an eye on the hall outside.
"Do you speak for the Emperor?" Dagobert seemed aggrieved and distracted. The two Khazars were watching the byplay intently. Nicholas guessed that they were brothers.
"I fear, my lord, no one can truly speak for the Emperor at this time." Rufio sounded both sad and professional. "He is in the grip of a serious illness. Despite all our efforts, he refuses to become well. You cannot count on his aid or assistance in these matters. I do, however, speak for Empress Martina. She supports the Western Emperor's plan, though her power in the city is, currently, severely circumscribed."
"Theodore controls the army, then? I understood he was under house arrest."
Rufio shrugged. Some things could not be helped. "Theodore has gained the support of nearly all of the Legion commanders and his house arrest was never enforceable. Are you going to attack the Persians?"
Dagobert shared a glance with Prince Dahvos. The Khazar, at last, spoke in a pleasant, barely accented voice. "Even with the addition of our horsemen, master Rufio, we do not outnumber the enemy. It would be madness to attack them in their camp. They have a strong position behind the stream and the hills."
"Then there is a stalemate, unless Theodore brings his army out of the city."
"Yes." Dagobert's face became morose again. "Unless the Persians are lured out of their encampments…" The Frank tugged at his long nose, thinking. "Their supplies must come across the strait, on the Arab fleet?"
Rufio nodded, his arms crossed. "If our combined fleet defeats theirs, they will be trapped. Soon they would run short of food. They would have to come out of their encampments to search for supplies, and the Khazar horse could harry their foraging parties. That would force a battle. Also, we can wait."
"For what?" Dahvos seemed interested, handsome face lighting with speculation.
"While the Perinthus road is open," Rufio said, "food can enter the city. They have no chance of reducing us by blockade and starvation. To take the city, they would have to close the road again. That will bring them out."
"And if they come?" Dagobert said in a sour tone. "Then we are outnumbered! Dare we give battle against the Boar?"
Rufio snickered, rubbing his pox-scarred jaw. "Even the West fears him! Listen, if there is battle in the offing, Theodore cannot remain in the city. He will lose face among his supporters. These Arabs have already beaten him once; he must be itching for a rematch. If he knows that you are going to give battle, he must join you."
"But he refuses to be under my command!" Dagobert frowned. "That would be a disaster."
"Is there another option? Without the Eastern troops, you may well be defeated and driven back. With them, there is a chance for victory."
The Frank mulled this over, slowly stroking his mustaches. While he did so, Rufio turned to the Khazar Prince. "Khagan Dahvos, my condolences for the death of Sahul. He was a wise king and a mighty warrior."
"Thank you." Dahvos smiled, clasping forearms with Rufio. "You were with Heraclius in the campaign at Kerenos, weren't you?"
Rufio nodded sharply. "Yes, lord. Though we never spoke at the time. I am greatly relieved to see you and your men here, though I am surprised-I had not heard someone had sent a messenger to Khazaria requesting your aid. Surely Theodore didn't?"
"No." Dahvos' expression changed subtly, becoming guarded. "We heard that there was trouble and guessed that our aid would be welcome. A long journey, master Rufio, if you don't come by sea!"
"Ah." Rufio glanced sideways at the Western legate, who looked like he had bitten into a sour melon. "It does not matter how you came. I will not flaunt the goodwill of the gods! Legate? We do not have much more time-Theodore's guardsmen will come looking for you soon."
"We can press the Persians, try to get them to come out of their hole." Dagobert's words were abrupt. "But I won't do that unless you can guarantee the Eastern army will sortie from the city to support us." A thought seemed to occur suddenly to the Frank. "With the boy!"
Rufio bit his lip, looking back and forth between the Romans and the Khazars. "I cannot guarantee the entire Eastern army will come forth-it would not be wise, in fact, to leave the city unguarded-but I think most will. And, of course, the boy will come."
"The boy?" Dahvos looked amused. "Which boy?"
"The firecaster." Dagobert was visibly relieved. "He got us through the wall, perhaps he can overmatch the Persian magi."
"Don't rely on him!" Rufio stepped close to the Frank, a grim, fixed look in his eyes. "Putting your trust in a wizard is like trusting the gods! They are not reliable. Cold steel and the courage of men, those can be relied on, not these fickle powers."
Dagobert did not step away. Instead an avaricious gleam entered his eyes. "But you will bring him forth?"
"Yes," Rufio growled, the tone of his voice sending a chill down Nicholas' back. "He will come forth."
The Frank nodded and left the room, gathering up his officers. The two Khazars stayed behind for a moment, the black-haired one joining Nicholas at the arched doorway. Dahvos was reaching into his belt for something.
"I am Jusuf," he said, extending a hand. Nicholas clasped it, then saluted.
"I am Nicholas of Roskilde, centurion of the Faithful Guard. Well met."
The Khazar cocked his head, staring at the northerner. "Your eyes… they are an odd color, if I may say so without giving offense. Are you from Rome?"
"No!" Nicholas laughed, blushing a little. "Well, I don't know that. I may be, but I was orphaned and don't remember my birthplace. I was raised among the Dann, in Scandia."
Jusuf nodded, distracted by his own thoughts. "Of course."
Dahvos and Rufio finished their conversation and the blond Khazar strode up, his eyes sparkling with delight. The khagan nodded to Nicholas. "Jusuf, we'd better hurry or the legate will think we're plotting against him. Gentlemen, we will see you on the field of battle."
Nicholas kept silent while Rufio stepped back into the room and went to one of the corners where the benches left a cleared space. "Follow me." The captain pressed on a section of carved thorns and the corner folded back, making a sudden opening. There was an outraged squeak from the darkness, then Rufio entered. "Don't wait for the sun to set" floated back out of the darkness.
Ducking his head down to enter the low tunnel, Nicholas followed. A heavy smell of dust and mouse droppings and hyacinth perfume met him, but he took a breath and then hurried after the receding tread of the captain. He was suddenly very worried. How the Hel am I going to get Brunhilde back?