The Storm of Heaven (13 page)

Helena smiled back, pleased that she had roused her friend to some semblance of life.

"But," said Anastasia, the momentary spark fading, "I cannot be your husband's spymaster. I have lost my taste for that game. He will find another—there are always men eager to work in secret, in the name of the Emperor." She made a dismissive motion with her hand, but even that was obviously an effort.

"No!" blurted Helena, squeezing the Duchess' hand. "He needs
you
, not one of these lackwits that infest the halls of the Palatine, maundering on about conspiracies and informers! It would take someone years to rebuild your organization—Galen has too many enemies to take such a risk."

Anastasia stood, brushing a hanging branch of silver willow away from her head. A servant, a young blond girl, appeared as if from thin air. Helena was taken aback for a moment. She had not noticed the slave at all. The girl was dressed in mournful brown and black as well, matching her mistress.

"Good-bye, Helena. Tell Galen that I appreciate his concern, but I will leave the city soon. There are only dead memories here."

With that, while Helena grasped for something to say, the two women departed, their steps slow. For a moment, Helena could see them, the girl helping the older woman, two stooped crows with blown wings, and then they passed into the trees and were gone.

Hades take this despair that grips us all!
Helena was enraged by the passivity suffocating the populace. The eruption of Vesuvius was a calamity and a disaster, true, but half the people in Rome, even in the Imperial government, even her husband, seemed to think it was the end of the world. It was past her comprehension. Many people seemed lifeless, or directionless, now that the first frantic burst of activity had passed. Bread and olives and salted meat went south in wagons, people with little more than the clothes on their back came north. Crowds of refugees gathered in the public forums, listless, barely capable of feeding themselves.

Even Galen and his younger brother Aurelian were gripped by the same malaise.

"We will see about that," she snorted, rising and gathering up her skirts so that the mud in the garden did not soil the edges. "If everyone is going to droop about like ugly boys at the feast-day dance, then I shall have to see about it myself."

Smoke curled up over the rooftops of Itil, merging with a twilit sky. A lean-faced rider cantered over the long wooden bridge crossing the Rha as the first stars of evening began to appear in the east. The river was low and slow moving, and moss clung to the pilings of the span. Jusuf clucked his tongue at that—someone should have rousted the boys out to scrape the thick, wooden poles down and put new copper plates on them. He came to a gate of stone, thirty feet high, that loomed at the eastern end of the bridge and reined in. Lamps burned under the eaves of the tower, and guardsmen were already coming forth to meet him.

"Salve, viator,"
called the first, his voice a basso rumble. Jusuf leaned forward on his saddle, an expression of surprise on his face.

"By the one god, Basir, you wound me with such ugly speech! Where is the glad greeting for a lost son, home at last?"

The guard captain drew up short, his head turned to one side in surprise. Jusuf grinned, seeing the curious expression on the man's face. The uneasy light of the lanterns and torches made it difficult to see in this gloom, but still... Basir stepped closer, his hand ready on his saber.

"Ay! What is this? Some beggar comes creeping in at dusk, hoping to pass the gate without paying?" Basir's voice rose as he spoke and he strode forward. A smile grew on his face, half hidden by a mighty beard and the cowl of his helmet. "Some young fool riding at night, not knowing mist devils and
surâpa
lie in wait for the unwary?"

Jusuf swung down easily, though the first days on his horse after the long sea voyage from Rome to Tanaïs had been rough going. He clasped hands with the old soldier and then crushed him into a fierce embrace.

"Ha! I saw nothing save some drunkards blinding themselves with lanterns by a gate!"

Basir met his hug and then stepped away, holding Jusuf's head in his hands.

"Oh, lad, you've grown old in these past years... look at you, such a neatly trimmed beard, such short hair! They'll not let you into the council of warriors now, not with this down on your chin." Basir rubbed Jusuf's cheekbones and the back of his head.

"What did you do? Get it all burned off?"

Jusuf shrugged and scratched behind his ear.

"It's nothing, Uncle. They have different ways down in Rumish lands. It's better to blend with the forest..."

"...than stand out for the lion." Basir nodded in appreciation, then he grinned and a sparkle came into his eye.

"Ho, now, what is this?"

Jusuf looked down, puzzled, and then blushed as Basir's thick fingers tugged a swatch of deep red cloth from beneath his jerkin. The other guardsmen, who had held back while the two met, came up in a cheerful, loud mob. Seeing the rich cloth, they whistled.

"Thunder! That's a fine silk tunic, Persian red, too!"

"What's her name? Say, she's pretty! Miss, will you have a drink with me?"

Jusuf snarled and made to draw his blade. The guardsmen jumped back, laughing, then closed around him, pounding him on the back and shoulders. Basir stepped back, letting the younger men greet the Prince. He smoothed his mustaches out, grinning fit to burst.

In a moment, when everyone had said hello, Jusuf shouldered his way to the older man's side.

"How's your back?" Basir put a trunklike arm around his nephew's shoulder, guiding him through the gate and into the city. Jusuf gave him a look.

"After that punishment? It's fine. How stand things here in the city?"

Basir sighed, his good humor gone. He stopped, standing in the shadow of the tower. The peaked shingled roofs of Itil rose up on either side of the street, making blocky shadows against the night. Small lamps hung before many of the houses, illuminating carved and painted doors. The street itself, as befitted the capital of a powerful nation, was surfaced with felled logs, planed smooth. In the spring and the fall even they would not keep the thick black mud of Scythia from oozing up and fouling the street, but it was better than nothing.

Jusuf took the lead of his horses from one of the guards, who clapped him on the shoulder again before returning to his post.

"Things are not well," he ventured, leaning towards the older man.

"No, no," said Basir gruffly, his voice catching. "There is no trouble, no strife amongst the people. There is... great sadness. I did not... no one expected Sahul to fall, to die far away, on some foreign field."

Jusuf bent his head to meet his uncle's, forehead to forehead, his own hands holding the older man.

"He died in battle, gloriously. Without him, without the lancers he led, the day would have gone ill for us. Persia and its mad king would have triumphed. The southerners would besiege Itil even now and the Rumish would have been put under the yoke."

Basir wiped his eye, looking away.

"I miss my brother, lad. He was a fine man. Sometimes, when the learned men chant... I think I can hear his voice, in the chorus."

Jusuf nodded. "Sahul had a fine voice, Uncle. But the length of his years came to an end."

"I know." Basir straightened and the old gruffness came back into his voice. "Each man must mark his own time on the cord. He chose ten lively years when the noose was on him, and so it was. Come, enough of this maudlin talk. You almost missed it, but the first feast of the straw is tonight."

"I'm not too late?" Jusuf blurted, his face lighting up. "I was sure the funeral would be long done by now... Is Dahvos in the city?"

"He is," barked Basir, his humor entirely restored. "Come, I will ride with you to the citadel. Many old friends are there, raising their cups to the memory of our king. That young scamp, too!"

A great wash of heat and noise rolled out the doors of the citadel as Jusuf walked in, his head high in delight, letting the thunder of the revels crash against him. Basir was at his side, urging him on, but the Prince halted just within the massive double doors, surveying the crowd. The great hall, the feasting hall, was a round building a hundred feet wide. It had a high domed roof, supported by long spars of pine that curved to meet at a central oculus. Smoke billowed there, thrown up by four great roasting fires that lay in stone-lined pits at the center of the room. Long rows of benches surrounded the room, thronged with men and women. The walls, paneled with polished beechwood, were covered with trophies. Jusuf looked upon them and knew, remembered in his heart, all of the stories, all of the tales told by the campfire, all of the songs that carried the meaning and the history of his people through these relics.

The great hall of Itil was a hall of memories and mighty deeds. Jusuf smiled, content in himself, and knew that his people were a great people. Tonight, in grief and loss, they feasted and raised their voices to the heavens in song. With Basir going before him, he entered the chamber with the cowl of his cloak half turned up. They moved among the throng, seeing the warriors and chieftains of the people in their scaled mail and brocaded shirts, hair hanging long in braids and plaits. Tonight every man had entered without his helm, leaving them in racks by the door. Tonight the god looked down through the wide hole in the roof, seeing each man, marking his face, counting the deeds of his life. They were not dead, these men of the People, and they took joy in it.

It was not the way of the Khazar people to lament the passing of their king in dour mourning. Tonight, each house in the city would blaze with light, every candle and lantern lit. Each family gathered, even as the sprawling, rambunctious house of Asena crowded the hall of feasting. In each house, no matter how poor, cups were raised and the elders would give forth the tale of their fathers' deeds. Children sat at every hearth, listening, their eyes bright. In the shadows, where the red gleam of the fires lit their cheeks, mothers would sit, holding their youngest, telling the true tale of what had happened when Great-grandfather Avrahan did battle with the boar in the canebrake.

In the great hall, in the house of Asena, there was no throne of gold that set the king above all other men, there was no crown of ruby fire and emerald marking their leader. But there was a chair, a single carved seat, with wood so dark with age it gleamed in the firelight like oil, which had come out of the east with the people on the great journey. This chair had been placed here by the first Khazar to look upon the black waters of the Rha and it marked the place where his first yurt had been raised. It was old—the singers could tell its tale, but it was a long one and better suited for winter nights.

Tonight the chair stood empty.

Jusuf paused, his hand on the shoulder of a cousin. That empty place, so obvious in this crowded, boisterous hall, struck at him. Basir halted too and bowed his head. Young men and women, not yet come of age, flooded past them, dressed in white and gold, their hair twined with bright blue flowers. They were dancing, making a great circuit of the hall, their faces flushed with exertion.

Before the empty seat, a plate of silver was laid, filled with meat and cheese and bread. A cup sat beside it, topped with wine.

Jusuf could not speak, his throat constricted, for he saw the memory of his uncle before him.

Sahul was shorter and stouter than other men, with streaks of gray in his sandy-blond hair, and watchful, watery-blue eyes. He was strong, with powerful shoulders that could lift a foundered horse. He rarely spoke, but his voice in song was a marvel. He lifted a young boy who had fallen from a pony and broken his leg. His eyes were compassionate and warm and the boy stifled his tears, for it did no honor to the People to be weak. He stood, his short beard ruffling in the wind, on a platform of cut logs, watching the army of the Roman emperors parade before him.

At either side of the empty chair, the great chiefs of the People sat. Here was old Yakov, his barrel chest straining at a brocaded shirt, his wise old wife, Rahel, at his side. There were the chiefs of the northern clans, there the clan-lords of the fishermen who plied the waters of the salty sea. Their clothes were rich, their jewels bright, for the People prospered in their kingdom.

He smiled in darkness, grinning at Jusuf through slow-falling dust. A tomb rose around them, vaulted arches lost in the gloom. Between them, a woman, her face intent, drew in the dust. She was clad in armor, fiery hair tucked up in a bun at the back of her head. Jusuf protested, but Sahul shook his head. They would follow the plan of the Roman huntress.

At the left hand of the empty chair, a young man sat, his hair a cascade of red-gold curls, his beard rich and carefully combed. Seeing him, alive, Jusuf smiled. The young man seemed strong, with powerful arms and the broad shoulders of his father. He wore a dark shirt of silk embroidered with flowers and ivy. A bracelet of silver was on his wrist. He bent his head low, laughing with a young woman at his side. Her hair was a dark, rich brown, like the wings of a kestrel. She was wearing green and gold. Over the din of the crowd, what they shared could not be heard a foot away.

Before the chair, beside the plate, a riding whip lay, waiting for a skilled hand to take it up.

Hooves thundered, shaking the earth, as the People wheeled, their horses surging under them. Sahul rose up in his stirrups, his face clear under the crown of his helm. He raised his voice, calling out to the riders. As one, they followed him, shouting his name. As one, they swept towards the lines of the Persians. Forty thousand of the People rushed forward.

Basir bulled ahead through the crowd, pushing his way through a flock of priests who were arguing amongst themselves, debating the words of the book. Jusuf followed, slowly, remembering.

The shock of contact shuddered through the mass of armored men. Horses screamed and men cried out in agony. Wood splintered on shields, maces rose and fell. The sky was dark with arrows. Sahul was at the center, his sword a bright blur in the air. A Persian champion stormed forward, armor glittering in the sun. Sahul took the first blow on his blade, then—swift!—stabbed, transfixing the man's eyeslit. Red blood gouted, staining the metal.