The Dark Lord (99 page)

Maxian supposed he should feel a little guilty, thinking of the binding he'd placed on Martina, but his husband's heart was eased to know she would not—could not—stray while he was gone.
She is terribly efficient,
he thought, pleased with his solution,
and now entirely delightful company. Everything I could desire.

The prince rode in darkness for a time, enjoying the solitude, waving genially to those few pedestrians he passed, walking quickly along the canted surface of the Appia with paper lanterns hung on long poles. A mile out from the city, he was alone with a soft breeze and the distant lights of scattered farmhouses. The mare did not mind the dark, following her nose along the horse path.

Thoughts of Martina and Gaius and his brother and the whole irritating business of war had grown quite remote by the time he reached a crossroads and found a man standing beside the road. Here, the paving stones of the highway were heavily grown over with grass, making a circle of green turf under overhanging cypresses. A tall milestone gleamed softly in the moonlight, covered with ivy and climbing vines. The single numeral II was chiseled into the smooth face of the stone. Maxian reined the horse to a halt, though she did not want to stop, and nodded in greeting.

"Ave," Maxian said, leaning on his saddle horn.

The soldier saluted, his mouth moving silently. He was young, with barely a fringe of beard lining a strong chin. His hair glowed in the moonlight, ruffled by quiet night wind. Like the legionaries of his day, a long pole lay across his shoulderblades, kit bag hanging from pinewood. A single, solid metal plate embraced his chest, the rounded surface catching a reflection of the moon. His shield was oval and carried over the back, a pot-shaped helmet secured by a strap at his shoulder. Maxian could see the outline of the paving stones through the dark pits of his eyes and mouth.

"Well met, Lucius Papirius," Maxian answered. "I ride with the writ of the Senate—there is war in the south and every Latin is needed to drive back the invader. Will you join me?"

The young legionnaire nodded, grinning, and stooped to gather up his javelins and stabbing spear from the ground. Maxian turned the horse in a circle, watching the night. Faint lights gleamed in the orchards and woods all around.

"Rome needs you," he called out, raising the ivory staff of a tribune above his head. "The Senate and the People are in danger, our ancient traditions threatened, our honorable name blackened by defeat. I am riding to war, men of Rome. Will you ride with me?"

Without waiting for a response, the prince turned the mare to the southern road and let her take an easy trot. Behind him, the young legionnaire jogged after, easily falling into the steady, ground-eating pace of the professional soldier. The stars shone on his shield and the moon wavered in the ghostly firmament of his hair. Maxian did not think he would tire, no, not even if they marched without a halt to the world sea beyond the horizon.

Again, the prince's thoughts turned far away and he barely noticed when a second man was waiting beside the highway and then another and then three brothers, oval shields scarred by axe and fire. Like the young soldier, they proved tireless and they marched south under a vast, star-filled sky, soundless voices raised in a marching song to while away the miles.

"The latest dispatches, my lord." Alexandros nodded to the messenger—a Gothic youth, his tunic damp with sweat—and took the leather bag with mingled interest and dismay. The morning's appearance of a sail in the straits had caused great excitement in the city, but now the Macedonian stared at the bundle of letters with mounting disgust.

Over the past two weeks, he'd received a string of missives from Rome, invariably carried in Imperial dispatch pouches, one set from Emperor Galen and one set from Gaius Julius. Alexandros wondered—he often wondered, sitting up drinking with his officers—if the two men were aware of the effect their conflicting commands had on the soldiers out on the sharp end of the war.

"I don't think they have any idea which end is the business end," Alexandros muttered, sitting back in a leather camp chair. The long arcade along the seaward side of the Buchion palace was very cool and dim, the air stirred by a constant breeze out of the north and the Macedonian had moved his command staff, servants, equipment and messengers into the undamaged buildings.

He cut the dark red twine sealing the first packet with his boot knife.

"So, what does Galen have to say today..." Alexandros began to read, then shook his head. The fleet gathering at Tarentum was still delayed, but the Emperor expected them to leave port for Constantinople within the week of his writing.
Two weeks ago,
the Macedonian thought, checking Galen's scribbled date at the end of the missive. "And this one?"

Gaius Julius' note was not under an Imperial cover, but the parchment was of similar fine quality and the ink was even darker—
must be a better grade of octopus,
Alexandros noted in amusement. The old Roman's strong, clear hand urged the Macedonian to immediately march his men west along the old highway running across Thrace and into the mountains of Epirus, to Dyrrachium on the coast of the Mare Adriaticum.

I've been that way before,
Alexandros thought, idly tugging at a lock of hair dangling across his forehead.
But not on such a fine road as these Romans build.
"Demetrios! A moment of your time..."

The Eastern officer hurried over, rubbing ink-stained fingers on his tunic. "Yes,
comes
?"

"Fetch out a way map of the Via Egnatia, if we have one."

The Greek raised an eyebrow in surprise. "We're marching west now?" He sounded incredulous, which greatly mirrored how Alexandros felt about the whole matter.

"It seems so," Alexandros said, gritting his teeth. "Round up the quartermasters as well—we'll have to steal all those wagons, mules and horses back!"

Stupid Romans,
he thought savagely, feeling ill-restrained temper rise.
March east, march west, sail south, march west again... the war will be lost by the time we find the enemy!

Heavy yellow dust smeared across the sky, borne by some zephyr turning across leagues of desert. Khalid al'Walid strode purposefully along the harbor road, most of his tanned face covered by the wing of his
kaffiyeh
. Flying grit stung his face, but the Arab's long lashes kept most of the dust and sand from his eyes. In any case, he was used to such weather, though the Egyptian workers laboring in the port complained bitterly. The Eagle passed rank after rank of mule-drawn wagons, each cart stacked high with the dusty, withered remains of the dead. Thankfully, these were old, dry corpses scavenged from tombs scattered at the edge of the desert and they exuded only a faint, spicy smell.

Not every corpse—even those stirred to unnatural life for the attack on the city—would suit this new endeavor. Each body, as Khalid was now far too aware, needed to have a certain... composition... to allow stowage in the holds of the fleet. The corpses of those freshly slain still maintained cohesion, if they had not been torn limb from limb or gnawed to the bone. The ancient dead—almost petrified by ages in the dry air—were equally suitable. The rest, threatening to spread disease to the living and foul the air with rampant putrefaction, had been consigned to enormous fiery pits dug outside the city walls. The ditch in front of the Roman wall had proved very suitable.

Khalid struggled against a constant, inner chill when he focused on anything beyond his own booted feet. The fall of a city usually generated plenty of captives—officers to be ransomed, men to be recruited or repatriated in exchange for one's own prisoners taken by the enemy, hapless merchants caught taking the wrong coin, mercenaries eager for new contracts. But not this time. Instead, the animate dead—the
gaatasuun
—had been driven by a whip-like will to hunt down and kill every legionnaire.

Dangerous, very dangerous. How will the Romans treat us, if we fall into their hands?
Khalid thought to himself, though at the same time he grasped the cold, calculated reality of the act. The bodies of the Romans had been carefully gathered, reunited with their arms and armor—weapons tied to the corpse-limbs with hempen twine, helmets nailed to rotting scalps—and sent aboard the fleet. The young Arab trotted up a ramp of broad sandstone steps and found the man he had been seeking.

"My lord," Khalid called to the hulking, powerful shape of Shahr-Baraz. The King of Kings turned, raising a bushy eyebrow at the young man.

"Lord Khalid, what brings you to the port today?"

"Good news, I suppose," the Eagle answered. He failed to banish a sickly, pained expression from his face. "The last of the... the harrows are filled and ready to load onto the fleet." Khalid made a vague gesture encompassing the sweep of the harbor, the outer breakwater, the enormous towering shape of the Pharos and the busy docks. The waters, shimmering almost white in the full summer sun, were crowded with countless ships. Their sails furled, the fleet made a confusing forest of polished masts, rigging and canvas shades suspended over open decks. Odenathus' latest count placed their number at just over two hundred vessels considered reliable for the open sea.

The King of Kings nodded, his own expression ambivalent. He scratched the base of his chin thoughtfully and Khalid gained a distinct impression of a man struggling with unwelcome duty. "Will loading the
kameredha
be complete today?"

Khalid nodded, focusing on the shining, white-marble sides of the lighthouse. Heat rising from the water made the building—only a mile distant—shimmer in slow, rolling waves. "By nightfall, I hope. I do not think the longshoremen will work after the sun sets."

"Nor will this cargo be disturbed by thieves... Our living crews will go aboard tomorrow morning." Shahr-Baraz fixed the young Arab with a piercing, considering stare. "You seem out of sorts, young general." The Persian did not smile, though a faint amusement sparkled in his deep-set eyes. "I must say, for myself, I never expected to command a
Roman
army in my life. But the lord of the world is not without his own grave humor."

Khalid started, turning pale at the jest. "Do you find this amusing?"

Shahr-Baraz nodded, hooking his thumbs into a broad, tooled leather belt. He sat up on the stone railing around the observation platform. "You're young, al'Walid. The enmity between Rome and Persia must seem eternal to you. When I was young, I fought alongside men of the Eastern Empire in our war against the usurper and legionaries marched in the streets of Ctesiphon with flowers wound in their helmets as the common people cheered them as saviors. That, young Eagle, was an odd circumstance."

Khalid nodded jerkily, his forearms resting on the warm, smooth stone. "I have heard the stories. I just... this war of sorcery is not... what I wanted, when we set out from Mekkah."

"What did you want?" Shahr-Baraz's rumbling voice was almost quiet. "Honor? Clean glory, won over a lance or sword, in fair, open struggle? Two champions facing one another over dusty ground—and victory turning on the outcome of a single passage at arms?"

Khalid looked away, unable to meet the older man's too-understanding gaze. "I guess... I did."

"Like in a song or story. I had those dreams myself, long ago. But this is the way of things—you chase a half-glimpsed hind and find only sticky, painful reality in your hands." The Boar chuckled. "But
our
deeds will be a song—if not already—all the smell and stink and sleeplessness and terror winnowed out, never to trouble the thoughts of the young."

"Yes." Khalid felt his heart shrink to agree and a pit opened in his stomach at the prospect of such a cruel end to his dreams of glory. With an effort, he turned his thoughts away from the ruin wrought by circumstance. "How many living men are we taking?"

"As few as I can manage," the king said, one big scarred hand tugging gently at his long nose. "The ship's crews and longshoremen, my own guards, ourselves. I am thinking—the Queen agrees—but you should know, to leave Jalal and Shadin in command of the Egyptian garrison. They are reliable old dogs from what I've seen, and they will not lack for work in our absence."

"Good," Khalid said, feeling his gloomy mood lift. "They can command the Sahaba in my absence. I... I was thinking to leave them all here, all of the men who came up from Mekkah and the Nabateans and most of the Palmyrenes, save those we need to pilot and steer and crew the ships." The younger man's voice almost trembled and he realized he was on the verge of begging.

"I agree," Shahr-Baraz said softly, clapping Khalid on the shoulder. "The Queen has already seen to the assignments and ordering of our fleet and army. She has some experience in these matters." He leaned close. "The Serpent will take his Huns and that wolf C'hu-lo to command them in battle and his cold servants and I will take certain picked men of the
pushtigbahn
and those we must, but I am sending most of the younger men home, and others will garrison here and there, out of harm's way."

The young Eagle's eyes widened and his hand moved in an abortive sign against ill luck. Despite the fallacy of keeping anything secret if the Serpent turned his attention directly upon them, Khalid's voice fell to a whisper. "You... you and the Queen think we will lose?"

Shahr-Baraz's face twisted into a rueful grimace. He tilted his head to one side. "What if we win? Would that be any better? In the end, all that matters is for the Serpent to live as long as possible. I am growing tired of seeing my men die in his service."

The king looked up at the huge white disk of the sun, shading his eyes with one hand. He sighed, feeling the warmth flood his bones and settle into his chest. Motion in the upper air caught his eye and he squinted, lifting his chin. "Look."

Khalid stared upwards as well, relieved to look away from the wagons rattling past below, each heaped high with rope-bound bodies and gleaming white skulls. An irregular V of birds drifted on the upper air, heading south. At this distance, they were pale cream against a cerulean sky.