The Storm of Heaven (110 page)

The seated statue of Venus, draped in frozen folds of marble cloth, was undisturbed, the holy flame burning before her as it had done for over a thousand years. Geminus bit his lip, his face screwed up into a grimace.
Something was wrong!

His gaze lit on an alcove set off the main nave of the temple. A lamp burned there as well—not so large as the one before the Venus—set in a golden bowl and provided with only the finest-quality Egyptian oil. Geminus padded towards the little shrine. A wooden barrier kept the curious back from the shrine, but the priest pushed it roughly aside. The trouble in his heart peaked and he glanced around the alcove in alarm.

Everything was there. A Cassertan marble statue of Emperor Galen stood on a plain white pedestal, the face holding a hint of his quick intelligence, the sculptor careful to suggest the wayward lock of hair that always seemed to fall over his high forehead. Offerings of fruit and corn and silver were still sitting in their porcelain bowls.

Geminus blinked, looking at the statue. There was something missing. There should be a second figure, smaller than the Emperor, but still honored and standing at his right hand. He could almost see it...
Was it Hermes? The figure was cloaked like a senator, like a patrician, but his feet were bare, with winged heels. A staff was in one hand, surmounted by a golden disk. His other hand was open, raised, and a pair of intertwined snakes crowned him, rising up in an entablature behind his head. It was a young man, with an open, smiling face. But it was not Hermes the god, the messenger.

Geminus shook his head, trying to clear the vision away. It persisted and the priest knew that in the morning, as soon as gray light had broken in the east, he would hasten to the sculptors and artisans who maintained the temples and their statuary. A new figure must be put in place, and quickly too. There could be no delay.

Bawling horns and shouting drew Jusuf's attention and he urged his horse to greater speed. The midday sun was hot, making him sweat freely under the iron and leather and felt. The column of lancers following him picked up the pace. Among these open fields and rolling hills, two grassy riding paths paralleled the flagstoned highway. Jusuf made swift time on the grass, his horse flying along the cleared, level track. On the road, marching legionaries slowed, staring back, their faces grim and pinched under their helmets. Each man bent under heavy bundles of equipment: spare armor, casks of water, twine bags of bread. Within a few grains, Jusuf reached the rear of the army.

In the chaos of their retreat, the Roman army had become thoroughly disordered. One entire legion, the Eighth Gallica, had failed to stand fast, but had fled down the highway towards the port of Perinthus. Many of the raw recruits in the Western ranks had simply thrown aside their arms and armor, bolting for the hills. During the first night, as stray cohorts and maniples staggered in through the Khazar pickets, Dahvos and Jusuf were informed that the
dux
Dagobert had abandoned his Legions and fled with his household.

Dahvos and Jusuf shared a look, then the
khagan
said, "Whatever happened to falling on your sword?" A grim jest for a bleak night.

This news caused a fresh round of panic before Dahvos seized control of the camp and began executing deserters. The veterans of the Third Augusta argued for defending the camp. Dahvos agreed, but the other Western officers—fresh to command—demanded that the army fall back to Perinthus. Without the troops to compel their obedience, Dahvos had been forced to let them go. Two days later, a sharp Persian attack drove the Khazars and the remains of the Third out of the hills overlooking the city.

Now the Khazars and the Third retreated in good order west along the highway. As he rode up, Jusuf saw a force of Arab horsemen attacking the screen of Khazars covering the marching infantry. The rebels were not heavily armed or armored, but they showed a disconcerting, reckless ferocity. They did not fear death. The Khazar drew his sword and urged his horse forward. The mare clattered up onto the road. The Legion rear guard turned in place as the Arabs burst out of the trees. Even now, showing good discipline, they formed a double line, shields raised, the men in the second rank readying their javelins.

Jusuf nodded to the centurion at his end of the line of shields. "We'll drive them off."

"Maybe," the Roman grunted, "but we'll hold our position here for a bit and see how you do."

Jusuf laughed, though he saw the Arabs, shrieking war cries and a repeated chant of
Mohammed! Mohammed!
charging pell-mell into the Khazar skirmishers, scattering the lightly armed horsemen. Some of the attackers loosed arrows as they rode, showing great skill and horsemanship. The Khazar screen wheeled away, clods of earth flying up from their hooves, shooting half twisted in the saddle. Jusuf looked left and then right, checking the order of his men. The Khazar and Sarmatian
cataphracts
shook out into a line across the road, lances ready. The lighter horse archers thundered through their line and turned behind the legionaries. Jusuf shouted at them as they galloped past.

"Turn, form and fire! Bows!" The light horse began to regroup.

Arab arrows hissed through the air. Jusuf took hold of his shield, settling it on his arm, and gauged the distance between his
banda
and the oncoming Arabs. "Ready!" He raised his sword, signaling the lancers. "At a walk!"

The line of
cataphracts
began to walk forward, their lances couched and leveled. The horse archers behind them began to shoot overhead, lofting arrows into the rushing swarm of Arabs. Jusuf couldn't tell if they were hitting anyone; his attention was focused on the enemy that loomed rapidly before him.

"Charge!" He spurred the mare and she leapt forward, iron plates sewn to heavy leather barding rattling. On either side of him, the Khazars raised a great shout as they charged forward.

Ah-yah-yah-yah-yah!
Jusuf felt the wind rush in his hair, keening in his helmet. Then the Khazars slammed into the Arab line with a
crash
and a
clang
of iron and steel and he was parrying an Arab sword, the bright blade flickering in the air. Sparks snapped away from the shock of contact and Jusuf felt his arm shudder, taking the blow. The Arab was screaming, raining blows on the Khazar. Jusuf blocked an overhand cut, then had to swing his horse around, interposing his shield. The wood splintered, ringing, as another Arab joined in, raining blows on his guard.

The Khazar charge faltered, locked in a fierce melee. The desert tribesmen were filled with an enormous mad strength. They were relentless, always pushing forward, ignoring wounds, cuts, even the slaughter of their fellows. Waves of chanting in their unknown tongue rolled over Jusuf. Each Arab seemed to live, fight and die with a prayer on his lips. Each time the Arabs attacked the rear guard, they suffered terrible losses, but they did not seem to care.

Jusuf took a blow on the side of his helmet and nearly fell out of his saddle, stunned.

"Strange..." Nicholas peered out at the fields before the city, his brown eyes narrowed. The sun was full in the sky, the day verging on hot, the usual northerly wind died down to a paltry zephyr. Even the huge granite slabs comprising the wall facing were beginning to warm. Despite the pleasant weather, a sick feeling of impending disaster curdled in his gut like rotten milk. The northerner leaned out, bracing one hand on the nearest merlon, and looked off to the south along the wall. "They've not buried the dead or taken them away."

Vladimir, also leaning on the embrasure, grunted. His nose wrinkled. "Perhaps they'll let the stink drive us out."

"It's very strange." Nicholas looked around again, then stepped down onto the stone walkway that ran just under the lip of the outer wall of the city. "The Persians are professionals—they should police up the field, finding their own dead for proper burial, throwing the corpses of their enemies into a burning pit. At least, they should gather up the arrows, spears, shields, all the useful things let fall in battle."

Vladimir nodded. He had lost his helmet in the bitter struggle between the Arab wall and the city moat. Luckily, the Imperial armory was well supplied. Some Persian out there, he supposed, might be wearing his helmet. "What do you think it means?"

Nicholas shook his head, puzzled. "Sometimes... if men die of plague or disease, a besieging army will fling the bodies into the town, hoping that the pest will spread... but we've had no rumors of plague or pox. There's no reason to just let them lie where they fell."

Vladimir leaned a mailed arm on the wall, scratching his nose. From their vantage on the Great Gate, he could see corpses scattered in clumps and bunches near the raised highway. The dead lay in drifts, like the wrack along the seashore after a storm. That tide had crested in the graveyards that lined the highway, among the broken-down tombs and abandoned shrines. Sunlight glinted from abandoned helms and armor, making the muddy fields sparkle. "A pity we can't harvest them ourselves..."

Nicholas grunted, arms folded over his chest. The Persians had occupied the Arab circumvallation after the big battle and passed the time sniping at Roman sentries on the walls and anyone that tried to leave the gates. "They dumped the bodies out of the Arab fortification, though... I guess they're happy to let them lie, but not lie with them!"

The northerner let his weary eyes rest on the looming gray mass of the second wall. Between the outer works and the inner was a fifty-foot section of cleared ground serving as a military road along the length of the city. Today it was deserted, with only a few men slouching about on errands between the massive towers of the inner wall and the outer. Everyone was exhausted, both in body and in spirit. Of all the Eastern troops that had rushed out of the city to support the Emperor's standard, only the Faithful Guard and the Sixth Ferrata could hold their heads high. They had smashed the Avar assault against the highway, wreaking terrible losses on the nomads and their subject tribes.

The same could not be said of the
cataphracts
of the Second Thracia or the legionaries of the Twelfth Asiatica. The Persians had soundly beaten both legions, inflicting heavy losses on their cohorts and capturing some of their banners and standards. Nicholas had seen their soldiers in the city, heads hung low, spiritless. Even the men who had stayed in the city, standing guard on the walls and towers, seemed disconsolate. Nicholas hated the thought, but the unexpected death of Prince Theodore had sapped the fighting spirit of the entire city. Who would command the defense of the city? The senators? Not likely!

Vladimir suddenly turned away from his idle observation of the plain, his ears pricking up.

"What is it?" Nicholas stood away from the wall, hand on
Brunhilde's
hilt.

"Men are shouting in the city." Vladimir strode away from the parapet, clattering down a narrow stairway leading into the bowels of the Great Gate. Nicholas hurried after his friend, fingers checking to see that he still had a helmet hung from a strap at his waist, that his armor was snug and tight across his chest, that nothing hung loose.
A riot?
He was worrying again.

They descended four flights of narrow spiral stairs, their boots squeaking on well-worn stone, and then they found a great crowd of soldiers in the courtyard at the center of the Gate. The red-cloaked Faithful were mixed with
cataphracts
in their white tunics and a motley lot of city militia. Everyone was making a great noise, shouting and laughing. Nicholas was surprised, even stunned, to see grim smiles and grins on the faces of these men. Only an hour before, when he had come down to join Vladimir, the courtyard had been a cold and dreary place, filled with spiritless men. Now their mood matched the faultless blue sky.

"What has happened?" Vladimir shouted over the din. His powerful arms plowed forward through the press of men. Nicholas squeezed through after him, buffeted by the soldiers talking loudly and slapping one another on the arm.

"The Emperor! The Emperor is coming!" One of the Faithful turned towards Nicholas, smiling hugely, his gap-toothed grin broad and yellow in the thicket of his dark brown beard. "He is coming!"

Nicholas was frozen for just an instant, digesting this news, and then he grabbed Vladimir by the shoulder. "Lift me up!" he barked. Vlad immediately turned, knocking down one of the city militiamen with his broad shoulder, and made a stirrup for Nicholas with his broad hands. Stepping into the rest, Nicholas found himself suddenly above the crowd, one hand on Vlad's shoulder for support. "Attention!" he bawled. "Form ranks! Form ranks! Faithful Guard to the front, everyone else behind. Right now, you loafers! Centurions! Find your men, parade order, now!"

The men, accustomed to the sound of command, immediately began to accrete in groups around their file leaders. Nicholas jumped down from Vladimir's shoulder. Already, as he ran, the bellow of centurions and under-officers was filling the air. More men were spilling out of the various barracks and chambers ringing the courtyard. Someone found a Legion standard and carried it out, the red flag dancing in the air, gold trim swinging. Nick felt himself smiling, though all this could be nothing but a market rumor.

He reached the inner gate and found the tunnel filled with curious soldiers and buskers selling bread rolls, rolled honey sweets and wine from bags slung around their waists.

"Clear the gate!" Nicholas' voice rang like a trumpet. "All civilians out of the gate! Form ranks!"

The merchants scattered like startled doves from the centurion's bellow. The soldiers darted to the walls, forming parade ranks in the vaulted tunnel. Nicholas stalked through the confusion, barking orders. Out on the street, in the warm afternoon sun, a crowd was beginning to gather. Excited children were running down the avenue that led into the heart of the city. Women were beginning to appear at the windows of the houses that leaned out over the street. Nicholas looked around, seeing many legionaries were craning their necks, staring out of the gate.