The Dark Lord Page 8

  Six men staggered past, carrying a section of smooth-planed wood, painted with an intricate and detailed map of the land between the two rivers. The shahanshah snarled quietly at the sight—the map was loot from the old palace of the Persian kings at Ctesiphon—then laughed, a deep booming sound that startled the soldiers and slaves laboring in the huge forum. So is dead Chrosoes revenged, Shahr-Baraz thought, with his enemy thrown down, cursed Heraclius dead, his capital fallen, his people in chains...

  A fleet of barges and merchantmen toiled in the strait, hauling all the loot of the city across to the Asian side of the "cattle crossing." A powerful army—a loyal Persian army, not this Hun or Avar rabble!—stood watch over the treasure accumulating among the summer villas of Chalcedon. The King of Kings wanted to ensure the systematic and thorough sack of Constantinople was not wasted. The Romans had taken their time looting Ctesiphon, and he planned to return the favor fivefold. Footsteps echoed on the walkway behind him and the King of Kings looked up, smiling in greeting to the man that approached.

  "Hullo, Khadames." The Boar held out a handful of olives. "Hungry?"

  "No, my lord," the older man smiled, beard streaked white, face lined with age and care. Khadames, general of the armies of Persia, sat on the step beside his friend and ruler. "This Greek food is too rich for my taste... I'm still digesting last night's feast."

  Shahr-Baraz grinned and nodded, feeling remarkably content. It was a beautiful day and his enemies were scattered and in disarray. Old wrongs were avenged and he—the son of poor frontier nobility—was victorious ruler of the greatest Empire in the world. His grandfather would have approved; old Ohrmuz would not turn up his nose at so much good red gold, or so many slaves to work in the rocky fields below his drafty fort.

  A long way, grandfather, a long way... Shahr-Baraz felt great regret, thinking of all the old friends who had perished—from plague or spear or axe—in the decades since he had left home. Somewhere he possessed palaces vast enough to swallow grandfather's hall. He had never seen these palaces. They were far away and the Boar was a man who had no time for idleness.

  When the mantle of King of Kings had settled upon him, Shahr-Baraz had determined he would spend his reign—be it long or short—in the field, moving, under an open sky. Let these courtiers and ministers attend him! He would not mew himself up in some stifling palace. At one time he had known the name and face of every soldier, groom and ostler in his army. Such familiarity was impossible now, with the host of the King of Kings grown vast beyond counting, and there were the Serpent's allies and pawns to consider as well. Anger welled for a moment, but Shahr-Baraz admitted, at least to himself, the massive triple walls of Constantinople would not have been easily breached, save by the sorcerer's power.

  "Does his work leave a foul taste in your mouth, as it does in mine?" Khadames asked softly, looking at his king out of the corner of his eye. "Was it worth it, to pay such a price for victory?"

  "We have what we wanted," Shahr-Baraz sighed, rubbing his long face with muscular fingers. "That is what matters. We have broken the Eastern Empire and reclaimed all that Chrosoes had lost..."

  Khadames smiled faintly. "And now? What now, oh great king who bestrides the world? O modern Xerxes?"

  The Boar made a face at the mocking tone in the general's voice and turned to face Khadames. "We part ways, my friend. This victory must be secured with another—we now hold the Levantine coast from Gazzah to Antioch. Our army here in Constantinople is isolated from the rest of Great Persia by the breadth of Anatolia—provinces still nominally held by Rome—and supplied only by sea. Thanks to the strength of our Arab allies, we enjoy a fleet and the ability to move freely along the Asian coast. The Roman fleet is scattered or captured."

  "But this good fortune cannot last," Khadames said, nodding in thought. "Soon they will press us again—with fresh ships from the West—and this ruin will be a trap, if we cannot leave and cannot feed ourselves!"

  "Yes." Shahr-Baraz stabbed out his hands, miming the thrust of a blade. "The line of attack has changed, shifted south. To our west, Greece is still recovering from the Avar invasions, to the east, the Anatolian themes are little more than bickering princedoms. With this stroke, the Eastern Empire has been set at naught, but the West—ah, now—the West still has strength. Our seizure of Constantinople, of the Propontis, is a mighty blow. Roman trade and messengers cannot reach their allies in Khazaria, and we stand poised to drive—aided by our Avar friends—into Thrace and Greece. Yet the West still holds a dagger pressed hard against the Levantine coast."

  Against our strong arm, he growled to himself, all exposed, extended in the blow...

  "Egypt." Khadames said. "Where—if the lord Khalid's spies can be believed—there are no less than six Western Legions encamped, under the command of Prince Aurelian."

  "Even so." Shahr-Baraz nodded, a clenched fist against his jaw. "Consider this, Khadames..." The King of Kings sketched a swift diagram of the Mare Internum in the dust on the walkway. The eastern end of the middle sea made a fat U-shape running left-to-right, joined by a second U on the upper arm. At the crown of the second U, he placed a fat black olive. "Here we stand, at Constantinople, looking down upon the Mare Aegeum." He placed two more of the ripe fruits—one opposite the first, at the bottom of the first U—"and here is Egypt, and here Antioch." He placed the third in the upper depths of the first U, making a triangle of the three. "All our supply must either come, swiftly, by sea from Antioch, or slowly over two great mountain ranges and the interior plains of Anatolia. Our army, in turn, may sail back to Antioch in a month, perhaps two, while marching overland will take at least six. In the same time, the Western Legions in Egypt may strike north..." His blunt finger moved up the curve of the first U, towards Antioch, "reaching Antioch, easily, in three months."

  Khadames nodded, lips pursed. "There is an Arab force at Gazzah, on the Judean coast, but I believe it numbers no more than five or six thousand horsemen."

  "Lightly armored lancers and bowmen," Shahr-Baraz mused. "Against the Western Legions the Arabs could delay and harry and raid, but they will not be able to stop a concerted effort. Indeed, they would be hard-pressed to hold any of the coastal fortresses..." The Boar's finger stabbed in succession along the curve of the U. "...Gazzah, Caesarea, Akko, and then there is Tyre." Shahr-Baraz grinned ruefully. "...which is still held by a Roman garrison."

  "Our fleet?" Khadames raised a hopeful eyebrow. "It could strike behind the Roman line of advance, slowing them down?"

  Shahr-Baraz shook his head, troubled. "What is our fleet? Arab and Palmyrene crews in captured and refitted ships, a few more than a hundred of them. We have some war galleys, true, taken from the Empire, but our victories at sea—I think—have come with a great helping of luck. When the Western fleet comes at us again, it will be ready for the lady Zoë's sorcery and for all manner of tricks and stratagems."

  At the mention of the Palmyrene Queen's name, a shadow flickered across Khadames' face. Shahr-Baraz stopped, a questioning look on his face. "What is it?"

  "Nothing, my lord. Nothing worth speaking of here, at any rate."

  The Boar essayed a smile, but it did not touch his eyes. "You've marked the change, then? Some subtle difference in her voice, her gait, the way she holds her head?"

  Khadames nodded slightly, though he was wary and said nothing aloud.

  "Some of our allies," Shahr-Baraz said slowly, looking away, out across the oval space of the forum surrounding the blackened, shattered stump of a great marble column, "are not what we might wish, yet with them has come victory. For the moment, I am content to let these things be."

  "And in future?" Khadames ventured, trading on old friendship and a lifetime spent in campaign and battle beside his king. "Will the Peacock Throne be ever shadowed by the Serpent?"

  "I cannot say." Shahr-Baraz looked back, meeting Khadames' eyes with a rueful expression. "I cannot divine what will come. Can you?"

  "Perhaps," Khadames growled. "I hav
e looked upon Damawand, lord king, and you have not. That foul place—all smokes and fire and the roar of the forges—may be our future. There is a power growing at the lord Dahak's hand, something beyond the reach of kings. Do not think that he is your servant!"

  Shahr-Baraz nodded, though his expression was closed, and he looked down upon his crude map and sighed softly. "Our ways will part soon, my friend. I have decided to take the bulk of the army—the diquans, the Huns, the Arabs—south on the fleet, to Caesarea Maritima. I have sent letters, informing the governors of Antioch and Damascus and those further east, to direct our reinforcements to meet me there. You, I leave here, to hold this flank and keep the Romans penned in Thrace and Greece. You shall have a goodly portion of our heavy horse, those Armenian lancers, the whole of the Avars. This should suffice to fend off any Roman raids."

  "What about the infantry, the siege engineers?" Worry crept into Khadames' voice.

  "They will accompany the treasure train east, as guards. I do not think that there is anything in Egypt needful of their attentions—at last report the Roman fortifications there were lacking—and Dahak has promised he will bring forth his own strength against anything the West can raise."

  "How will I hold the city, then?" Khadames bit his thumb, measuring distances on the sketch map with his eyes. The thought of having to hold a position with more barbarians and mercenaries than Persians made his stomach turn queasy. "If the Romans press me, I may be driven back into the ruins. The Avars will be useless for that kind of work—I doubt the plainsmen would enter the city if driven with whips!—and I won't have enough men to cover the whole length of wall."

  "Don't bother," Shahr-Baraz said with a decisive tone. "Within the week we'll have looted everything but the bathtubs. You'll have all those barges and the other boats we captured—you can flit across the water to safety! We don't need to hold this place, though it warms my heart to stand in the house of our enemies."

  The older general made a face, but he knew the Boar's temper and did not press the matter. The King of Kings did not need to worry about the lading of boats and turnaround times for troops loading and unloading on the further shore. That was Khadames' business and—quite to his own disgust—he found himself unexpectedly skilled in such matters. If he must evacuate the city, then he would, and that was all that mattered.

  The lines of men hauling loot continued to trudge past, loading wagons carrying the treasure of an empire down to the docks. Khadames and the Boar sat, letting the fading afternoon sun warm their bones, and dreamed quiet, simple dreams of the things they would do with such wealth, when at last they were home again.

  —|—

  A blustery dawn wind came up out of the north, carrying the smell of rain down from the Sea of Darkness. The massed fleet of the Arabs and Palmyrenes rode at anchor in the Military Harbor, preparing to cast off and begin the journey south as soon as full light settled on the waters. At the end of one long stone quay, a sleek-lined merchantman—a Palmyrene ship with broad sails and a high prow—was loading a great number of wooden crates and wicker hods holding amphorae in latticed, straw-stuffed containers. Torches hung in the rigging, casting a fitful light. The name of the ship had once been Jibril, but its new owner replaced the fluid Arabic cursive with blocky letters in an ancient script. To the learned, who might chance to decipher the spiky characters, the name now read Asura.

  The tramp of booted feet echoed on the quay and a strong force of armored men appeared, swords bared and glittering in the lamplight. The sailors and longshoremen crept aside, for a jackal-headed man preceded the little procession and the appearance of the uncanny figure presaged the arrival of something worse from the darkness.

  Behind the jackal, thirty heavy-set barbarians—long hair led in queues behind their heads, faces scored with tattoos and half-healed scars—labored under the weight of a heavy iron box, incised with thousands of signs and symbols on every surface.

  Beside it, tanned fingers resting lightly on the solid metal, walked the lady Zoë, dressed not in her habitual armor, but in a clinging silk gown shimmering like a flame, raven hair swept back behind her head, jewels winking at her throat. Many of the Arab seamen looked away, startled and embarrassed by the plunging neckline of the dress. In previous times, before the dreadful and unexpected death of the lord Mohammed, the young Queen had never exposed herself in such a way. Even the Palmyrene sailors goggled, for they had never seen such a wanton display either. At least, not upon a noble lady...

  Many of the Sahaba—those who had been the companions, in life, of the Teacher—muttered among themselves and felt great unease. Things had changed since the great, glorious victory before the Roman city. They still reeled from the death of the kindly man, the one-who-listened, their friend and teacher, Mohammed, lord of the Quraysh. Now even Zoë—whose fierce, martial demeanor gained the loyalty of many a soldier—was changed, transformed. Those watching in the dim light drew away, ashamed and afraid. From the corner of her eye, the Queen marked their furtive movement, and found some small consolation in their guilt.

  The iron box was carefully carried up, onto the ship, and then fitted with hooks from a crane. In the damp air, the box steamed and smoked with frost. The barbarians lowered it with much grunting and straining into the hold of the ship. When the sarcophagus was secured below, Zoë climbed to the rear deck of the ship and looked to the east. The sun had risen fully over the distant shore, flaring up through low-lying mist and clouds. In the pearly gray light, she saw a flash of light, blazing from a ruined window in Chalcedon.

  So our master took wing with velvet night, and we stoop to carry his baggage. The Queen looked to the hold, her heart filled with disgust and bilious fear. So do slaves serve.

  "Set sail," she commanded, voice sharp and assured. The captain—a Palmyrene—jerked at the sound, staring around in astonishment. He started to say something, but Zoë glared at him, her expression icy, and he quailed and slunk away. The jackal looked up at the Queen from the deck below, as motionless and silent as ever. The Queen ignored him, for the moment, her head canted as if listening, then called out in a clear voice: "Signal the fleet! We sail. The winds will speed us."

  By midday, the fleet cut through the dark waters of the Hellespont, heading south onto the placid waters of the Mare Aegeum. White spray blew from the prow of the Asura and her sails bellied full with a fresh northerly wind. Behind the flagship, the wings of the fleet spread wide across the green waters. The morning clouds had thickened into stray white puffs, casting intermittent shadows on the low waves.

  The Queen stood near the prow, one tanned, muscular hand on a cable, staring out over the sea. A hundred yards away, a pod of dolphins leapt among sparkling, brilliant waves, pacing the ship. Their slick gray backs flashed, catching the sun, and spumes of water leapt up as they plunged again into the azure water.

  "My lady?" The jackal's voice was hollow, ringing metallically from within the mask. The woman did not turn, though her face tightened. The man made to touch her shoulder, but the stiffness in her body warned him from such familiarity.

  "Go away," she said, closing her eyes, hand tightening on the cable. "Our master is far away, rushing through the rarer air, but his thought is still upon us, even now. I will not speak to you, save at his command and about his business." The Queen's voice was hoarse and barely intelligible.

  The jackal raised a hand, fingers touching the enameled metal shrouding his face. Then his fist clenched. "Do I offend?"

  "Go away!" The Queen hissed, half turning, the sea wind blowing tangled, thick hair around her face. "Isn't it enough, that we are his chattels? Let us not be actors on this foul stage, amusing him with our desperate thoughts. I may be a slave, but I will not please him!"

  The jackal flinched back from the bitter anger in the Queen's voice, then bowed jerkily and moved away, across the smooth pine planks. The Queen leaned heavily on the cable, fixing her gaze upon the leaping dolphins, trying to ignore the so-familiar smell of the man's
body. She willed her heart not to race, and after a time, it settled and she felt a calm sense of distance enter her.

  As it did, her eyes clouded, and soft brown spilled in, occluding the sky blue. Yet the loss and pain on the face of the Queen did not relent, though her expression softened, seemingly younger than it had been before.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Curia Julia, Roma Mater

  Maxian, youngest brother of the reigning Emperor of the West, Galen Atreus, halted at the threshold of the Senate House. A great wave of noise met him—the voices of more than a thousand senators, all packed into the hot, close confines of the ancient building—a chattering roar echoing from the vaulted ceiling like angry gulls. On either side of the prince, burly Praetorians in gleaming golden armor halted as well, spears held sideways to hold back the crowd. Maxian was sweating, the heavy formal toga chafing his neck and arms. The wool trapped heat close to his skin and he blinked, feeling his eyes sting. Despite the presence of the legionaries, he felt a knot of tension in his gut. The prince had never formally addressed the Senate before.

  An elderly man, his long face pinched and sour, pushed his way through the crowd of citizens to the edge of the Praetorians. Maxian stepped forward, schooling his face to polite impassivity. His brother Galen tended a careful relationship with the Senate, while Maxian had always taken pains to avoid the actual mechanisms of Imperial rule. Everyone knew the Senate was a snake pit of awesome proportions, filled with sly and cunning men, where treachery suckled fat on corruption and vice.

  "Caesar Maxian," the clerk growled, squinting in the sunlight gleaming from the marble porticoes of the Forum buildings. "You wish to address the Senate?" The man's tone of voice made it seem Maxian was nothing but a lowly petitioner, little more than a barbarian or slave. The prince's nostrils flared, but he remembered Galen's parting admonition.