The Dark Lord (18 page)

Shirin paused, thirsty, and drank from her cup. When she looked up, she saw more men had come out of the darkness and squatted or stood around the little circle of light from the candle lantern. No one spoke while she drank again and settled herself more comfortably on the deck.

"They would have died in that cruel winter, both the prince and the Boar, if they had not been found by a hunting party of the Khazar people, who rule those lands. Now, know this—the Persians and the Khazars are old enemies, who long fought over the land called Albania, and there was long enmity between them. Yet, know this as well; there have never been two braver men than Shahr-Baraz and Khusro. The two were taken to the camps of the Khazar kagan and made his guests and they spent a long winter there, in peak-roofed Itil, on the banks of the black-watered Rha. Khusro was without fear and he put his case to the kagan and asked him for help to reclaim the throne, which had been stolen from him by the Wooden King.

"Now, in those days, the Khazar people were ruled by a kagan whose name was Sahul Ziebil and despite his short years, he was very wise. Sahul saw Khusro was a man of honor, with a great heart, and—perhaps—peace might be struck between the two nations. Sahul himself was not without daring and when spring came he sent a strong party of riders to guide the prince, and Shahr-Baraz, to the Roman port of Chersonessos. With them went a letter, for the Khazars and the Eastern Empire long maintained a correspondence, particularly in regards to matters of Persia, their common foe.

"So it was that Prince Khusro and his champion, Shahr-Baraz, came to Constantinople, the city of gold, and met in secret with Emperor Maurice. The Emperor was astonished—he had thought to be meeting a Khazar delegation—not the lost king of Persia! Yet he treated Khusro with honor and as an equal, placing a seat at his side for the young prince. All three realms were exhausted by endless war and longed for peace. Maurice and Chrosoes made a pledge that summer in Constantinople and Maurice sealed the pact with the marriage of his daughter, Maria, to the young prince. An Eastern army, and Maurice's aid, were her dowry. Khusro would yet be king of Persia."

Shirin stopped speaking, her voice grown hoarse. It had been years since she told such a long story. The crowd of young Romans had grown again and some sailors hung from the rigging to listen. She smiled at Florus and Marcus. "Your pardon, I am tired and my voice is failing. I will finish the story tomorrow."

With that she stood and left the circle of faces. In the darkness outside of the lantern light, Florus stopped her, his face shadowed and indistinct. Shirin stiffened, wondering if he would try and overpower her. The iron knife was in her hand, hidden under the robe.

"That was well told," Florus said gruffly. "Takes their mind off this cursed voyage. Here."

Shirin felt something thick and woolen press into her hands and she took the blanket. "Thank you."

The centurion mumbled something, then padded off into the darkness on his bare feet. The centurion looked a little bilious in the poor light. Shirin curled up among the crates, glad to lie out under a starry sky, in the open air, the blanket folded under her head as a pillow. Sleep stole over her gently, and for the first time since she woke on the
Pride of Cos
to a vast rumbling sound, like giants banging on a bronze gong, she slept without nightmares.

Shirin settled on the deck, at the edge of a rough circle made by Florus' soldiers. Marcus, blushing a little and ignoring the comments of his fellows, passed her a blanket for a cushion. Shirin was a little disappointed the great crowd of soldiers and sailors who listened the previous night were nowhere to be seen. But, really, it didn't matter. The group of young soldiers fed her again and she felt pleasantly full. That was welcome change enough!

"So," she began, "Prince Khusro invaded Persia at the head of a Roman army, accompanied not only by his boon companion Shahr-Baraz, but by his father-in-law Emperor Maurice and many other Persian exiles. The Wooden King was not well loved and as Khusro marched against Ctesiphon from the west, many lords who loved his father flocked to his banner. There were battles in the land between the two rivers and Bahram Choban was defeated, his supporters scattered, and Khusro set upon the Peacock Throne, adorned with gold and pearl.

"There was peace too, between Persia and Rome—for Khusro found a new father in Emperor Maurice—and between Persia and the Khazars, who had rendered him such timely aid. Khusro became a great king—he restored order and law to the Persian lands—and he defeated the T'u-chüeh who so plagued his father. He was happy with his wives and Empress Maria bore him a son. The wise men of the court named him 'Anushirwan'—he of the great soul. In all things, it seemed the young king would preside over a glorious age of peace."

Shirin's face darkened, and she stopped, taking a drink from her copper cup. There was a sour taste in her mouth.

"One day, a messenger arrived in haste from the West. The man brought terrible news—Empress Maria's father, Emperor Maurice, had been overthrown and murdered, along with his entire family. A base-born centurion named Phocas seized the Eastern purple. Khusro was outraged—a man he honored as a father was dead—and Maria was distraught. Her own brothers and sisters strangled, her mother hacked to bits on the highway, their heads displayed in the Forum. She demanded Khusro punish the murderer Phocas. He demurred—there was a treaty, an honorable peace... Maria did not care, she wanted vengeance and more, she wanted her son Kavadh-Siroes to sit on her father's throne."

A stir went through the circle of Romans and Shirin heard them hiss in surprise.

"Yes," she said softly, "the boy was heir to the Eastern throne, the grandson of an Emperor, son of the king of kings. In him, by blood, both Persia and the Eastern Empire united. Yet Khusro heeded his advisors, who counseled peace. Shahr-Baraz was first among them, urging his oath brother to abide by the treaty. Phocas, as fate revealed, was a cruel and rapacious man and quite mad. Shahr-Baraz believed the Romans would soon overthrow him. Then, said the Boar, when Phocas was dead—Kavadh-Siroes might be welcomed as Emperor.

"So Khusro waited and watched events in the west, and Maria became angrier and angrier. One day she was walking in the Imperial gardens, which stretch along the Euphrates for miles, filled with every kind of flower and tree and glorious bird, and she found a young man sitting under a tree. He seemed very familiar to her, but he introduced himself as a stranger, and said his name was Rustam. He said he was a priest and he could help her avenge her father's death."

Shirin took a breath, and made a sign before her, a warding against evil. She looked around at the tense faces of the young soldiers and her face settled into grim lines.

"You are young, but you must know there are gods not spoken of by pious men. There are monstrous powers who act in opposition to the great gods in heaven. The old Greeks called them the Titans. In Persia they name the king of darkness Ahriman. And he is locked in eternal battle with the lord of light, Ormaz. Now this young man speaking to Empress Maria in the garden was a priest of this same Ahriman and a vessel of dark powers. He was not a priest, as you might think of them, but a sorcerer instead.

"Rustam lived in secret in the palace for some time, while Maria accepted his instruction in the dark arts. Khusro at last relented in this matter of the war against Rome—Shahr-Baraz was sent west to raise an army and test the frontier defenses. Heraclius, who had been nothing but the son of a provincial governor, overthrew Phocas. Khusro wrote to the young general, urging him to accept Kavadh-Siroes as his Emperor, as was proper."

The Khazar woman essayed a small smile, seeing incomprehension on the faces of the soldiers.

"You must understand," she said, "that in Persian lands, the king's descent of blood must be pure. The usurpation of Bahram Choban—who was not of the Imperial line—had caused great outrage. Khusro knew this, as he knew his own lineage for thirty generations. For him, to see a base-born man ascend to the Roman throne, when his
own son
was the rightful ruler, was a grave insult. Heraclius denied the boy's claim and Khusro determined to see Kavadh-Siroes rule on his grandfather's throne.

"Shahr-Baraz smashed the Eastern armies and broke through the frontier like a maddened bull. He drove on to Constantinople, only halted by the Imperial fleet in the straits of the Propontis. Despite his victories, however, Maria was not satisfied. The sorcerer filled her thoughts with poison, and she conspired with the dark man to raise a terrible spirit, a winged shade to cross the leagues to Constantinople and murder Heraclius. Maria did not think the new Emperor any better than the murderer Phocas.

"She and Rustam set about their blasphemous ceremony in secret, in the old River Palace, but they had not counted upon the sudden appearance of Khusro himself, who had been warned trouble was afoot. The ceremony went awry and there was a great fire. Maria perished and Khusro himself was nearly blinded, his face disfigured and burned. Rustam the sorcerer escaped, carrying the king of kings out of the inferno. Then, gasping for breath in the gardens, as pillars and towers shattered in the tremendous heat, Khusro looked upon the face of his rescuer—whom he had never seen before that moment—and saw his long-lost younger brother yet lived.

"Yes, Rustam the sorcerer was the missing prince, Khusro's own brother, who had vanished so long ago. The king of kings was filled with despair and delight in equal turns. No one knows what passed between the two men that night, but thereafter the king of kings possessed a weapon no ruler had ever dared wield—a sorcerer unbounded by conscience or fear of the gods—a dark spirit to do the king's bidding without thought of remorse or mercy. In this way, my friends, the Persians gained a terrible weapon."

A hiss of breath met Shirin's last words and the soldiers shrank back from her and from the light of the candle lantern.

"But," Marcus whispered, "Chrosoes, king of kings, was killed, slain by his own men in his own house... We've never heard of a brother... surely he was killed too?"

Shirin raised a hand and halted his words. "Men who taste the power of the dark one will not set the draught aside. It is said Chrosoes himself came to rely more and more upon his brother's power. It is like the lotus—one taste and a man thinks of nothing else. Shahr-Baraz may be king of kings in name, but I think Rustam is at his elbow."

"That is bad news," grumbled Florus from the darkness. "If this Rustam is what broke into Constantinople. How can we stop a sorcerer?"

"Bravery," Shirin answered and a strange feeling came over her, a hot flush flooding her chest as if she plunged into steaming water. She looked down, distracted. Distantly she heard herself saying: "Men can stop such horrors, if they do not yield to fear."

Between the smooth olive curve of her breasts, the jewel was glowing softly, shining red like a rising star.

"What is this?"

Alexandros of Macedon,
comes
of the Western Empire and commander of the Legions in Thrace, stopped abruptly, his leather boots sinking into soft, muddy ground. Without waiting for his train of aides and bodyguards to stop, he seized the bowstave of the nearest soldier between his thumbs. The soldier, an archer and swordsman in Alexandros' Gothic legion, stiffened in fear. Alexandros ignored the man, his entire attention on the heavy laminate of horn and wood and glue comprising the long limb of the bow. As he had passed a discoloration in the cream-colored horn caught his eye. The Macedonian's thumbs ground at the thick laminate and suddenly the glue gave way and cracked and the long arm of the bow toppled over, hitting the soldier on the head.

Alexandros hissed in anger, one hand brushing unruly hair out of his face. He wrenched the remains of the bow out of the man's wooden bow case and split it lengthwise with ease. All of the glue was rotten and the bone turned a sickly green. Mold was growing in the laminate. Anger washed across the Macedonian's cleanshaven face, then vanished.

"Syntagmarch!" Alexandros' voice was a harsh, deep shout. The Macedonian had an unpleasant voice, but it carried clearly across a battlefield. A tall, thin man at the end of the column turned sharply and jogged down the line of legionaries to Alexandros. The file-commander loomed over Alexandros, but he seemed pale and uncertain. "Your name is Valamer. You are responsible for this syntagma?"

The Goth nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight. Alexandros' face was a blank, eyes snapping with anger. "I want to see every man's bow and arms. Now."

Valamer nodded, then turned to face the syntagma. Four ranks of forty men stood in a rough rectangle along the side of the road. Their attendants were clustered behind them, holding horses and pack mules and sitting on the biscuit wagons. Valamer took a deep breath, then bellowed out: "All ranks! Present arms for inspection!"

Alexandros watched the legionaries carefully, seeing hesitation in their movements as they set their bow cases on the ground. Many of the men looked sick, or ill, and one young Goth, long blond hair hanging on either side of his face in braids, was trembling as he drew out his bow and laid it on a cloth. Others seemed more composed, drawing longswords from their scabbards and laying them out.

Behind the Macedonian, his aides clumped up, puzzled. The road through the camp was clear for the moment, but men from other syntagma would soon pass by. Rumor flickered through the sprawling camp like a fire in dry grass and soldiers were more curious than cats. Keeping his face entirely impassive, Alexandros paced to the beginning of the first row of men. He was already displeased, just seeing the fear in their faces. At the same time, there was a cool sense of relief in his stomach—he could already guess how things were and he would take appropriate measures immediately, and then—
perhaps
—such a problem would not recur. He took his time, walking slowly, letting the men fidget and sweat.

A dozen soldiers from other units were loitering in front of the log buildings the army had thrown up in the fields around Perinthus. More were coming and Alexandros wanted everyone to see what happened. By the time he reached the head of the first line of men, at least two-dozen curious onlookers were watching.