The Storm of Heaven (15 page)

Jusuf let out a long hiss of dismay as he reached the end of the page.

"What is it?" Dahvos felt the change in his brother's demeanor. The cheerful good humor of the afternoon had fallen away.

"There has been a battle," Jusuf said, beginning to read the letter again. "The Imperial Army of the Great Prince Theodore has been decisively defeated at a place called Yarmuk in Roman Syria. The cities of the Decapolis rose up in revolt over taxation, then were joined by the Nabateans and some unknown number of Arab and Palmyrene mercenaries. Theodore cornered them at this place and then lost badly in a stand-up fight. Forty thousand Roman troops were bested by half their number. Theodore has fallen back to Damascus, but his army has scattered."

Dahvos whistled, considering the professionalism of the Roman army, its skill, the power and weapons at its command. Even under poor generals, a Roman army could usually thrash twice its number in provincial levies, tribesmen and barbarian sell-swords.

"What happened?"

Jusuf read the last sentence again, shook his head and then put the paper back in the dispatch pouch.

"Sorcery. The Petrans whistled up a sandstorm to plow over the Romans, breaking their morale. Then a flank charge by Arab lancers cracked them wide open."

Dahvos shook his head in admiration. He had served alongside the Romans in their common war with Persia and he knew them to be brave fighters. Still, he had crossed paths with Prince Theodore too and the thought of the man forced to flee, his dreams of empire in ruin, brought a faint smile to Dahvos' face.

"What does this mean?"

Jusuf considered, staring off into the bright blue sky over the river and the towers of the city. Itil was a wooden city, but the Khazars and their Slav craftsmen were fond of curlicues and ornaments. Nearly every house had a carved roofline, wild with fantastic creatures and stylized, interlocking plants. The temples of the god in the city were brightly painted, too. Thin pillars of smoke marked the cookfires, forges and workshops in the city.

"It means more war, dear brother. Despite our victory over the Persians, the Eastern Empire is very weak. Heraclius was counting on a time of peace, with his enemies humbled, for him to restore trade and commerce and those border provinces ruined by Chrosoes' war. Now he will not get it. Too, his policies in the Decapolis have lost him two valuable allies—Petra and Palmyra—as well as the riches of the Indian and Serican trade."

Dahvos scratched his nose, watching his brother.

"Will they need our help?"

Jusuf turned, puzzled. "Our help? Why would they ask for that? Even this disaster is only a local setback. Heraclius will return his main army from Constantinople and suppress the revolt. Without some kind of patron—some great power—these rebels have little chance. In the old days, this would be a grievous situation, for the Persians would already be invading. But Persia..."

"Is in ruins," sighed Dahvos. "I guess there will be no letters begging our help then, no embassies heavy with gold and gifts."

Jusuf laughed. "You have become quite mercenary, little brother! Has Sahul taught you this lesson? What did you hope to gain—
more
glory, more feats of arms to swell your
engorged
legend?"

Dahvos, unexpectedly, blushed and turned away. Jusuf cocked his head, even more puzzled.

"What... You
were
hoping to extort something from the Romans! What is it?"

Intrigued, Jusuf stepped around his brother and stared hard at him, hands on his hips.

"Tell me. Come, we're brothers. If you have set yourself on something, tell me and I will help you get it."

In answer, Dahvos reached into his shirt and took out a small enameled gold locket. Jusuf had seen such things before, in the markets of Van and Chersonesos. Inside would be an engraving, or a cameo of...
a woman?

"May I?" Dahvos still refused to meet his eyes, but he handed the locket over. Jusuf, his fingers gentle, worked the little clasp and opened it. Within, set in ivory, was a tiny painting, a miniature, of a young Greek woman with dark brown hair and a thoughtful, pensive face. She seemed very young. Jusuf looked up, meeting his brother's eyes with a questioning expression.

"And the young lady is?"

Dahvos muttered something, looking down at his feet. Jusuf coughed and then smiled when his brother looked up.

"Sorry, I couldn't hear you."

Dahvos scratched the back of his head, then said, "Her name is Epiphania."

"A good name. A good Greek name, a good
Roman
name. Did she give you this token?"

Dahvos shook his head, finally standing up straight and sighing. "No, Sahul gave it to me, the night before Kerenos River. He said I should keep it for him. He said... he said that Emperor Heraclius was offering her in marriage to seal the alliance between the Eastern Empire and our realm. Sahul thought she was a little young for him..."

Jusuf made a clucking sound, thinking on his uncle's thoughtful nature and eye for the long ride, rather than the sprint. He turned the cameo over in his hands. It was magnificently made, the product, no doubt, of one of the Imperial workshops in Constantinople itself.

"A relative of the Emperor's? A niece?"

Swallowing, Dahvos shook his head. "No, she's his daughter from his first marriage."

Now Jusuf whistled and raised an eyebrow at his brother. "You've no lack of ambition behind that charming blond face, do you?"

Dahvos blushed again.

"You will be the next
khagan
, so much I know from the elders," continued Jusuf, his tone serious. "You have yet to take a wife. The daughter of the Eastern Emperor would be a bold victory, if you could secure her. A strong alliance with a powerful ally and a bond with her family, who, if memory serves, are rich and well connected within the Empire. Even greater glory than
khagan
of the Khazars might be within your reach—or if not yours, then your son's."

Nodding, Dahvos met his brother's eyes. "But Sahul is dead," he said, voicing Jusuf's question as well. "There is no formal treaty, no nuptial arrangements. Everything was private between Heraclius and our uncle. Now, we might have to start over..."

Jusuf waited. It was clear that Dahvos had given this a great deal of thought.

"I thought," continued the younger man, after a strained pause, "that we might strike the same bargain again, if the moment arose. With this war in the Levant, I hoped—"

"It is not impossible," Jusuf said, interrupting, "for such a thing to come to pass. But it will take some doing, and hard riding, to be in the right place at the right time."

Spreading his hands in question, Dahvos returned the raised eyebrow. Jusuf laughed.

"Have you taken note, dear brother, of the way the young men of the People hang on your every word? How they plague us for tales of our adventures in the Persian campaign? Do you think that they have neglected to notice the fine jewels, the gold, the cloth, the
loot
that your troops were laden with on their return?"

Jusuf, smirking, laughed again and put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Consider, if you will, what will transpire if you let it be known that you intend to take an army to the aid of the Eastern Empire in their war against these rebels. Why, it would not surprise me if more than a few young fellows, barely come into their beards, might follow you. Even some veterans might agree to come, just to keep the youngsters out of trouble."

"You are wise, brother." Dahvos bowed, but he was still worried. "But where do we go?"

Jusuf wagged a finger, saying, "Not the Levant, if that is what you are thinking. No, for this matter, we must go to Constantinople. The Emperor will muster any response to this disaster from there. He is a man that believes in central control. He will want, particularly now that his brother has failed him, to make sure that things are done right. Besides, the Eastern Empire possesses a large fleet. Let us put it to work."

Understanding dawned in Dahvos' eyes. He knew the lands about the Khazar realm as well as any man. "Chersonesos? Or Tanaïs? We could barge everyone up the Rha to the Khazarim Way, ride the portage road, then down past Sarkel on riverboats. That would be fastest. We could be to Tanaïs in a month, Chersonesos in two, even if we had to ride overland from the mouth of the Don."

"You have the right of it, brother." Jusuf was pleased, both with the initiative of his brother and the prospect of returning to Roman lands. There was a dark-haired woman that he found he missed, even here, amongst his people. Constantinople was still far from Rome, but it was closer than Itil! Something occurred to him, and he caught Dahvos' shoulder.

"One thing, if you do not take it amiss. Don't fall in love with this woman, pretty as she is, until you've actually made her acquaintance."

The woman turned her head, revealing glassy scars on her neck. Gently, Ila ran a straight razor down the side of her head, shaving away the last tufts of red-gold hair. Her eyes distant, the woman bent her head down obediently, letting the mousy-haired girl shave the nape of her neck. When she was done, Ila laved the woman's head with scented oil.

"There, dear, now it'll grow out even." Ila wiped her hands on an old cloth, then tucked her own ragged mop of hair behind her ears and squatted on the ground. Her quick hands arranged the razors and combs of bone and bronze strigil. The tools fit into a neat leather carrying case. The woman watched, distant and uninterested.

The wagons stood in a stand of quince trees, a hundred yards from the nearest road. The baldheaded master, Vitellix, had made an arrangement with the local estate manager. He said, as he left that morning, they would stay a few days. It was cool and shady in the orchard. Goats and sheep wandered under them, cropping the grass short and clearing out the weeds. The woman, now bald, her pate shining with oil, sat on a three-legged stool on the grass.

The side of the wagon was not ornamented, showing weather-beaten gray wood and peeling paint. Nothing suggested the delicate carving and amusing paintings ornamenting the interior.

"What's your name?"

"I don't remember," the woman said in her smoke-hoarsened voice. "What is your name?"

Ila smiled, showing crooked teeth in her nut-brown face. She was young, perhaps only fifteen. "Silly! I've told you before. I am Ila. I ride the horses."

"Of course," the woman said, but her eyes were vague. Sometimes, when she tried to remember what had happened before she woke up in the wagon, her fists could clench until the nails scored her flesh.

"You must have a name," Ila mused, brown eyes squinting up as she thought. "Perhaps we should name you Lump or Mossy."

The woman frowned at the girl's laughter. "I do not want to be named Lump or Mossy. You are a mean girl."

Ila laughed, seeing a spark of life in the woman's eyes.

"But all you do is sit!" Ila put her hands on her waist, bending close. "Like a stone, or a loaf of bread fresh from the oven... so, you shall be called Lump."

The woman stood angrily, but her body swayed and there was a rushing sound in her ears. "Oh. This feels strange."

"It is called standing up," said Ila, her voice filled with mousy laughter. "Sometimes, when people are not pretending to be stones in a streambed, they try it."

The woman tried to turn, one hand splayed against the wall of the wagon. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at the girl.

"I... can... stand," she said weakly. Her legs were trembling, but the dizziness passed. The world seemed different from her higher vantage point. She saw that the mouse-girl was quite short-bodied and deeply tanned. "I am not a
lump
."

"Yes, you are," Ila said, skipping back on the grass, hands clasped behind her back. "You're just a little taller than most lumps! You can't even walk or stand without a wagon holding you up. You're lucky it's a friendly wagon or it would let you fall down."

The fury in the woman's eyes burned a little brighter and she pushed away from the wagon. Her legs felt gelid and weak and she took three quick steps, trying to get her balance. Ila drifted away, laughing and covering her mouth with a hand. The woman stopped, taking a half-step, regaining her balance. One of her legs, still bandaged, was throbbing furiously. Blood pounded in her head.

"I can stand," she bit out, though her arms were wobbling as she tried to stay upright. "And walk."

"Can you?" Ila stepped in quickly and poked the woman in the chest. The woman's left arm made a weak movement to block Ila's hand, but it was far too slow. She fell backwards and struck the ground hard. Breath chuffed out of her and a blinding pain jolted up her spine.

"See?" Ila's voice came out of the haze, "a
lump
."

The woman staggered up, her face turning red with effort. The pain in her legs and her arm faded, replaced by a burning sensation. She lunged for the girl. Ila stepped aside, clapping in delight. The woman, unable to stop herself, ran into the side of the wagon. Soaked with sweat and panting, the woman clung to the rough wood. Tears streamed down her face.

"Leave me alone..." she managed to choke out. Despite a furious effort, she slipped down to the ground, limbs trembling.

"That is not necessary," Vitellix said, stepping out from behind the wagon. "Otho, Franco, help her up, back to the chair."

The woman groaned as the two brothers appeared and gently lifted her up. Their muscles rippled hard and distinct under smooth brown flesh. They carried her to the chair and placed her in it without breathing heavily or even feeling the effort. Vitellix crouched down beside her.

"You are still weak," he said gently, strong, thick fingers probing the line of her bandaged leg. She barely hissed when he kneaded her shin and squeezed her toes. "But you are healing quickly. You were very strong before you fell. I think that you will be strong again, but you must try."

"How... how can you be so sure?" Vitellix met the woman's eyes, seeing pain and confusion in sea-gray depths. Sometimes her eyes were green or even blue, depending on the light of the day. He smiled gently at her, rolling back her eyelids with a practiced thumb.