The Gate of Fire (49 page)

Old age I traded for fame
, he mused, standing the darkness, alert and wary.
Yet here I am again, young, and—now, perhaps—eternal
. He almost laughed, but then remembered his duty and remained silent, watching the night.

Anastasia rubbed her eyes, which were burning with fatigue. Sighing, she laid aside the reports from her man in Aquileia. The return of the Emperor to the capital had not eased her burden, for now he had to be brought up to speed on the thousand and one details of what had happened in the Western Empire in his absence. The Duchess looked out the window, seeing dawn rising over the mountains in the east. The city was still sleeping, but she had yet to taste the comfort of her bed. Betia, at least, was curled up under a blanket on the couch by the window, sound asleep. Anastasia smiled and rose stiffly, feeling the night chill in her bones. She pulled a woven linen stole from the back of her chair and draped it around her shoulders. Around her, the house was quiet and still, without even the rattle of the cooks in the kitchen.

Soon
, she thought,
all will rise and the house will come alive with music and noise and the chatter of my servants
. She closed the door to the study quietly, letting Betia sleep. The floor of the hallway was cold on her bare feet, but she did not have the energy to put on her sandals. She went downstairs, moving like a pale ghost through the dark house, passing the rooms where Jusuf and the other Khazars were sleeping—the rattle of their snoring bringing a smile to her face. At the door of the children's room she paused, opening the door and looking in. They were all piled together on one bed, a softly snoring heap of arms and legs and tousled dark hair.

What beauties
, she thought, a warm, unaffected smile growing in her face.
Their mother must be stunning
.

The kitchen was almost dark, but a dim glow came from the roasting oven and she bent to it, igniting a punk from the embers.

She lit one lantern by the carving table and yawned. These long nights were wearing her down, but she had become lax during Aurelian's time as ruler of the West. He did not push her like Galen did; he accepted what she gave him without dispute or comment.
It was too much for him
, she thought as she poured wine into a copper cup.
He was not ready for the weight of the burden
. Still, the middle brother had not done badly in his time, though if it came to his ascending the Purple for true, she would have such a struggle on her hands.

She rooted around in the bins and wicker baskets hung from hooks along the preparation tables and found a brace of pears and some bread that had not gone moldy yet.
Hah, what would my cooks think
, she thought to herself in weary amusement,
to see me making a muss of their kitchen at such an hour
? There was still butter in a chilled urn by the rear door. With her breakfast bundled in a napkin, she climbed the stairs again. They seemed much steeper this morning than last night when she had come home—her nerves fired with the echo of the terror she had felt when Maxian had appeared in the Emperor's dining chamber. "To think," she said aloud, "that I thought him such a nice young man only last year..."

At the top of the stairs she turned, hearing a soft knocking sound echo from the front hallway. She paused, hand on the banister, looking back down into the sweep of the front hallway. She could hear, magnified by the smooth marble floor, the sound of her watchmen rousing themselves and the rattle of a bolt being withdrawn from the spy hole set in the door. She bent her head, listening.

The mutter of voices came, and then the sound of the door opening. Anastasia turned and descended the steps. When she reached the entryway, she found that three of her guardsmen, still blinking sleep from their eyes, had admitted a swarthy and nervous young man. The Duchess frowned, but saw that two of the guardsmen had their weapons drawn and that the other had locked the heavy door behind the visitor.

"Who are you, lad? What brings you to my house at this hour?"

The barbarian boy looked up, and she felt a strange crawling sensation in her back and shoulders. His eyes seemed huge and luminous; when he blinked, the feeling passed. He had long, unruly hair, black as squid ink and possessed of a shine that caught the light of the lamps set beside the door. He wore an embroidered vest and a thick white cotton shirt under it. His feet were bare, though he did not seem to mind the cold and his legs were clad in the rough woolen pantaloons favored by the Goths or Germans.

"I am Anatol," he said in a thick accent. "I bring a message from our mistress, Lady Krista. She bade me hurry—please, I must make my way swiftly before anyone notices that I am gone."

Hearing him speak, Anastasia knew that he was very young, perhaps only thirteen or so. Her mind considered and discarded a dozen replies before settling for the simplest one. She would investigate this matter of
Lady Krista
at a later date. "We will not keep you," she said, touching the boy's hand. "What is the message?"

Anatol ducked his head nervously and drew a scrap of parchment from a pocket of his vest. He pressed it into her hand, and she felt his long nails, tapered and sharp, press into her wrist. She met his eyes again, smiling, and inclined her head. "Tell Lady Krista that I think of her often, and miss her company." She nodded to the guardsmen. "Open the door and let the boy go. He must hurry."

"Thank you, noble lady." Then he was gone, slithering out the door like a black streak, and she could hear him running, his feet soft on the stones of the street. Anastasia turned from the door, unrolling the scrap of paper. A vague foreboding threatened, inchoate fears and worry clouding around her.

My lady
, said the paper in the brisk angular letters that Krista favored.
I am with the Prince, who has returned to the city. We will be leaving soon for the South. He says Cumae, but I do not believe it. He is dangerous, but you must tread carefully, for he has powerful servants. He will not abandon his purpose
.

Anastasia hissed, feeling a deadly weight settle around her heart. The stairs to her study seemed even steeper now, and she felt terribly alone. Krista, Tros, Thyatis—all were gone, and she felt the weight of their absence keenly.

Nicholas pushed through the crowd, a garland of flowers twisted around his head. The thunder of the mob of people in the Forum of Constantine rolled over him like the sea. He had never seen so many people in one place before in his life. The energy of the crowd—its delirious good humor and relief—was infectious, filling him like the finest wine. Vladimir, his dark face grinning fit to burst, pushed along behind him. The Northerner had a blonde on his shoulders; her pale, plump legs tucked in his armpits. She was laughing, wine spilling down her chin and soaking her blouse. Nicholas had a girl too, but she was pressed close to his back, her slim hands in his belt. The crowd surged around them like a riptide, pushing them away from the line of columns that ringed the Forum.

Nicholas looked over his shoulder, catching Vladimir's eye. The Northerner's hands were curled around the blonde's smooth white thighs. Nicholas jerked his head, shouting, and Vladimir grinned back, mouthing,
I can't hear you!
Waves of sound battered them, drowning all else. Somewhere, across the vast circle of the Forum, lines of victorious soldiers were marching, their armor bright and shining, their heads held high, their spears and lances sparkling in the sun.

Of all days, the gods had blessed this one. The dreary clouds of winter and the haze of the campfires of the Avars had been blown away by a southern wind. The sun rode high, shining down upon a jubilant city, summoning the populace to the greatest revel that anyone had ever seen. The Emperor, crowned in majesty and favored by victory, would enter the city this day to be greeted by his people in unrestrained joy. The army, hardened by war and laden with loot, had been unloading from the fleet for three days. The civil authorities, however, had begged the Emperor to delay his entrance until they could prepare.

Now he entered, and the city met him with open arms.

Nicholas squeezed around the side of a heavy cart filled with jugs of wine. The merchant was selling them out of the back of the wagon in job lots, passing them over the heads of the crowd that thronged about him. Coins sparkled in the air, cast by thirsty citizens. The merchant was laughing, his face red and flushed, while his assistants—two scrawny boys—scrambled to catch the
denarii
. Nicholas reached a wall, marked with the painted sign of a tailor's shop, and turned, taking the redhead in his arms. She smiled up at him, her full lips moving, saying something. Nicholas smiled back and shrugged. Over the din of a hundred thousand people shouting, singing, releasing all the pent-up joy and jubilation at their delivery from their enemies, he couldn't make out a word anyone said. He kissed her, instead, feeling her press tight against his body, her breasts firm and round against his chest. She dug her hands into his hair, dragging him down to lose himself in her sweet lips.

Vladimir banged into him, pressing his mouth close to Nicholas' ear. "This one says she does not live so far away!" the Northerner was shouting at the top of his voice.

Nicholas nodded, his hands under the redhead's tunic, warm on her bare skin.

Vladimir turned away, the blonde pointing down the street and waving the wineskin like a banner.

Reluctantly, Nicholas followed, pushing the redhead in front of him, though he kept his hands on her stomach. Leg in leg, they squeezed forward through the crowd.

Flowers and a blizzard of cut colored paper rained down from the balconies above, along with the ringing of bells and gongs and the stentorian wail of trumpets and bucinas. Constantinople would not sleep tonight.

"Please, my lord, you must come out and greet the crowds—you must make the sacrifice of the bull. The gods are watching!"

Heraclius flinched, seeing the round face of priest Bonus peering in at him. The Emperor slid back to the other side of the litter, even that simple movement bringing tears of pain to his eyes. Outside the wicker-and-gold conveyance, he could hear the rolling shouts of a mighty assembly. He knew, even though he had passed into the city closed in the darkness of the litter, borne by twenty of his guardsmen on a great platform, that a vast throng crowded the Forum. The thought of stepping out, of feeling the terrible pain in his legs, of feeling the dreadful weakness shoot through his body, unmanned him. The Emperor of the East bit at his hand, trying to keep from crying out in rage and fear at his helplessness. The knuckles were scarred already.

"
Avtokrator
." Rufio's blunt, scarred face replaced the worried visage of the priest. The centurion was well used to this by now, having carried the Emperor by force of will from Cilicia and the high pass of the gates. "I will be at your side, as will the faithful guard. We will see that you do not fall."

The centurion's black eyes were fierce. Heraclius grimaced, seeing the challenge there. He almost wept, feeling the fear of pain clawing at his will. This should have been the greatest of days, his redemption for the long years of struggle and disaster that had followed his overthrow of the madman Phocas. Instead, he cowered in a litter, afraid to step out into the sunlight. Afraid, though he did not admit it, to be seen by Bonus or any other man. His lower body was distended, swollen with this malignant edema. He could barely walk and could no longer suffer anything but the softest fabric upon his skin. His legs were a gruesome parody of the firm, muscular shape of his youth. Gray and stretched, ballooned out like overstuffed sausages.

But this was the day of days
, he railed at his mind, at the fear.
This is my triumph, as no emperor of Rome has ever held! Persia is thrown down, after centuries of struggle! This is my day, my blessed day!

Rufio, snarling under his breath, half climbed into the litter and wedged a thick muscled arm behind the Emperor. Heraclius cried out, whimpering, and the centurion, his face a mask, bodily lifted him out of the litter. The sun was westering, and the slanting light fell on the face of the Emperor as he emerged, here in the great open space of the temple atrium. Marble pillars faced with gold towered around them, a forest of majesty. They stood on the steps of the Temple of Sol Invictus, that which had once been—in the youth of the city—the abode of Zeus Pankrator. It stretched before them, arcades of marble a hundred feet on a side. Within, in the rectangular apse of the temple, the brilliant disc of the god shone in the late afternoon sun. Thousands of noblemen, their wives, the priests, embassies from the tribes beyond the Empire stood waiting, crowded behind ranks of iron-chested guardsmen. All were silent.

Heraclius put down his feet, swallowing a gasp of pain. From the litter at the entrance to the temple to the gleaming marble altar below the sun disc was a distance of 120 feet. A thick purple carpet, edged with golden thread, lay before him. He took a step, the guardsmen close behind him, Rufio's left hand under his arm, unobtrusive and strong as a bar of steel. He leaned into it, trying to take the weight off of his legs. Even so, the pain was blinding. He took another step, unable to even feel the rich luxurious pile of the carpet. His eyes watered, and a thin trail of tears seeped down his cheek.
This is my day!
he shouted in his mind, trying to override the pain.
My day
.

He took another step.

Her face shrouded in a dark veil of silk, a woman stood at the peak of the little Temple of Hecate Victrix, looking down upon the murmuring crowd below. Though the rays of the sun fell upon her, gilding the dark rich fabrics that she wore, painting golden stripes on the black and gray and charcoal of her raiment, she felt wry amusement. The
a'ha-tri'tsu
children thronged the precincts of the old Acropolis and the grounds of the temples of the young gods, but none marked her, high above them. They were often a blind people. Statues of the goddess lined the roof of the Temple of Hecate, affording the woman cover as she stood quietly, watching their ceremonies.