The Storm of Heaven (75 page)

Akhshunwaz had been slain by the Persian king in a great battle near Balkh on the Oxus. In the aftermath of that war, the Hepthalite tribes had been scattered to the four winds, not only by Persia, but by the rising power of the T'u-chüeh. C'hu-lo's grandfather had been an
umen
commander of the war against the Hepthalites, winning much praise from the
yabghu
for his fierce pursuit of the defeated enemy. Many of the Hepthalites had fled to the west, crossing over the steppes north of the
Mare Caspium
and then down into the grasslands of southern Sarmatia. In time, after recovering their numbers and subjugating the Slavic tribes that lived in those lands, the Hepthalites had grown powerful once more, conquering both Moesia Inferior and Superior from the Romans. In these latter days, they were called the Avars.

This Avar
khagan
Bayan, he was the great-grandson of the dead Akhshunwaz. The bowcase was the perfect greeting gift. C'hu-lo grinned inside, hiding his amusement behind a stoic face, as he stepped onto the wooden platform itself. It seemed unlikely that Bayan would recognize the token. C'hu-lo appreciated the sly humor in the offering.

"Hail," he called, his voice clear and strong. "Hail, Bayan, son of Jubudei,
khagan
of the Avars, master of the Slavs and the Romans!"

C'hu-lo bent one knee, making the sign of greeting, his neck exposed between his oily black hair and the top of his laminated armor. The Avar
khagan
snorted, turning from his place at the edge of the platform. "Rise, emissary of the Persians."

The T'u-chüeh stood, his temper leashed. The
khagan
was in a foul mood, as were his advisors, a grizzled set of older men that stood close by. They glowered at C'hu-lo, fingering their weapons. Persia was no longer a friend of the Avars, not after the disasters of the previous spring.

"Great lord, my master sends you warm greetings, offering you gifts and tokens of his friendship." C'hu-lo pulled the
gorytos
from his back in a smooth motion, laying it down on the rough-hewn planks. In the bright sunlight the bowcase gleamed a rich dark red. The horsehide had been carefully treated, rubbed with preserving oils, the nap of fine hair arranged just so. Leather edging surrounded the mottled red and white hide, punched with signs representing the sky, the wind, the gods, the horses and the people. Skilled craftsmen in the court of the king of kings had repaired some small abrasions and nicks that the bowcase had endured over the years. "The king of kings thinks you will find this small gift, the least of gifts, pleasing."

Bayan did not even bother to look at the case, his face dark with anger. The
khagan
was a stout man, shorter than his advisors, with one arm hidden in the folds of his fur vest. His other hand, his left, tugged at a thin patchy beard. Like his captains and advisors, he was wearing a long peaked cap, made of green felt, and a fur-lined cape. Armor of riveted iron rings covered his barrel-like chest and hung down past his waist. His features echoed C'hu-lo's own—a flattened nose, high cheekbones, a slant to his eyes. To the Eastern eye, there were subtle differences; the Avar
khagan
wore his long black hair in two plaits, where the T'u-chüeh favored one. C'hu-lo thought his own features were sharper, cleaner, not so round, and decidedly more handsome. "You are not pleased, Lord of Men? Has the king of kings given offense in some way?"

The Avar advisors growled, bristling and one of them drew his curving cavalry sword. C'hu-lo ignored the dogs that yapped at the feet of this man. Below the platform, at the bottom of the hill, stood two of the Shanzdah and while they were within a bird's call, C'hu-lo feared no one. If the
khagan
attacked the embassy of the king of kings, he would find that he had overreached himself.

"What is the cost of Persian friendship?" Bayan turned and looked down upon C'hu-lo, who remained kneeling on the pine planks. "You offer a single bow and the swords of the Romans will take ten thousand of my subjects. You offer fine words and promises of victory, but the Romans deliver fire and death. Three years we strove against the walls of the City. We had nothing for it but windrows of the dead. Where is the glory there? The prizes? The slaves? Cold and rotting in the ground with my sons, with the sons of my sons."

C'hu-lo remained impassive; though the fury and hatred in the man's voice was hot enough to set wood alight. In response, he unhooked the three clasps that held the bowcase closed. Deftly, he opened the case, revealing the bow and arrows within to the sky. C'hu-lo was looking down, intent on his hands, so it was easy to hide a smile when the men around him hissed in surprise. That was enough success already—that one or more of these men would see what was in the case and desire the weapon.

The bowstave was a sleek dark wood on the inner face, then glossy bone on the outer. It was of a full length, the 'man' bow of the Huns, with a long curving topstave and a short, thick foundation. Coiled strings, shining with oil, sat in leather holders on the inside of the case. A sheaf of arrows, the shafts painted in blue, the fletching white and gray goose, filled the other half of the case. C'hu-lo stood, holding it in his hands. "This is the bow of a king, a mighty weapon."

Bayan's face darkened, turning a muddy red color. C'hu-lo matched his stare, wondering if the Avar would burst his heart and die, even as everyone watched. There would be a struggle on the platform then! The Shanzdah were waiting for just such an outcome. "Here, Lord of Men, take it, draw it, set your sight upon a pleasing target."

Bayan could not even speak, so enraged was he. The man's right arm, hidden in his vest, slipped out. It was withered, scored by a long curling scar that lapped over the elbow. C'hu-lo took the moment—the advisors had averted their eyes from their
khagan's
shame—and stepped close, looking slightly down on the man. "Lord Bayan," he whispered, "put your hands upon this weapon, feel the power in it! The king of kings offers you not insult, but a great gift."

The
khagan
glared up at him, but then paused, seeing the urging in C'hu-lo's eyes.

"My arm is too weak," whispered the
khagan
. "You insult me before my men!"

"No, great lord," C'hu-lo's voice was low and urgent. "Here is the string, well waxed, a shaft, straight and true. Do as your fathers have done, string, draw, loose! Trust me and you will be delivered from shame."

Bucephalos tossed his big square head, flipping his glossy black mane at Alexandros' face. The Macedonian moved his head to the side with the ease of long experience. The horse stared at him mournfully with one large brown eye. Alexandros ignored the entreaty, continuing to brush the flanks and back in even, strong movements. He had a curry brush of wood and ivory strapped to one hand. He was taking his time, letting his thoughts wander far away from his daily effort of routine and discipline and instruction.

"Vittam croceam ea circum crinem flavum gestavit

In vere cum nove Maia gestavit."

Sound from five hundred throats, a little breathless from running, filled the late-afternoon air. Oak and pine crowded the fringes of the field of Mars. Out on the uneven ground,
syntagmas
of men were drilling. Two trembling rectangles of motion, each two hundred and fifty-six men, sixteen rows of sixteen, jogged across the field. Their long spears were held straight up over their heads like a thicket of newly planted saplings. They jogged at half-time, up and down the field, file leaders growling and barking like hunting dogs. The men ignored the threats and curses, concentrating on their marching cadence and step.

Alexandros smiled. Weeks had passed since anyone had fouled a
sarissa
in simple marching practice. There was progress, but it was very slow. They were far better at singing, which pleased the Macedonian, for he loved the sound of men's voices raised in rough harmony. Only this glorious Draculis horse and the prospect of power pleased him more.

"Et si rogasses pro quo gereres

dixisset pro milite suis gestare

quo absit procul et longe

procul et longe

procul et longe.

Gestavit pro milite suis quo absit procul et longe!"

Bucephalos whinnied and bumped Alexandros' shoulder heavily.

"No," said Alexandros, his voice light. "No apples or biscuit for you yet. I have to get these burrs out."

In the darkness before the sun, Alexandros had rousted out his Companion cavalry and made them dash five Legion miles to the outpost at Castra and then back again, all without warning. The run woke him up, set his blood in motion, though he was sure the Goths were sound asleep, sprawled on the floor of their long house. He continued to brush, taking his time.

"Curiam infantis ea circum insulam in urbe tulit

In vere cum nove Maia tulit.

Et si rogasses pro quo tulisset

dixisset pro milite suis impellere

quo absit procul et longe

procul et longe

procul et longe.

Tulit pro milite suis absit procul et longe!"

One of the
syntagmas
shifted step and the cadence rose, now sounding very hoarse. The men in this group had been marching for almost three hours. When the drill was done, Alexandros expected many of them to collapse on the ground, exhausted, arms and legs burning. The rectangle stopped with a faint rattle of
sarissa
on
sarissa
, then grounded the butts of their sixteen-foot weapons. A centurion, the
syntagmatarch
, shouted more commands and, as one, the men angled their long spears forward. Alexandros stopped brushing for a moment, tangling his hand in the stallion's mane so it couldn't eat his shirt. If the men kept individual distance, when they angled their
sarissa
, they should make a solid front of iron and ash, impervious to cavalry.

"Floras pulchras ea circum sepulcrum posuit.

In vere cum nove Maia posuit.

Et si rogasses pro quo possuisset

dixisset pro milite suis ponere"

The spear points lowered
en masse
. At the right edge of the formation, some of the
sarissa
tangled, knocking against one another. Men struggled to keep formation and clear their fouled weapons. There was some success. Alexandros spilled wine and grain on the altar of Skyfather Zeus each day, thankful the Gothic race was endowed with great strength and endurance. Handling the
sarissa
took raw strength. The pale-faced Romans, short of stature and weak-limbed, would never have managed.

"quo absit procul et longe

procul et longe

procul et longe.

Posuit pro milite suis quo absit procul et longe!"

The Macedonian thought the city-dwelling Latins had been very clever, fielding an army which relied on maneuvers, precision and skill to fight rather than raw strength. These Romans were sometimes wise, knowing where they excelled and where they lacked. Alexandros sighed, turning away. The centurions were kicking and shouting at the men who failed to keep formation.

"Wretch!" Bucephalos had snaked his huge soft nose into Alexandros' shirt, snaring an apple. The horse grinned, whuffling a cloud of moist, horsey breath into the Macedonian's face. "Ah! That is foul..." Alexandros buried his head in the stallion's mane, drinking in the clean smell, letting himself dream—just for an instant—of home. Not the home of his youth, not violent, fratricidal Pella, but his ever-victorious army. There was safety there, a chance to rest.
My brothers walk in golden fields,
he thought mournfully,
and I am all alone.

"
Comes
Alexandros?" A pained look passed over the Macedonian's face, but when he turned, his face was open and welcoming. Krythos, subcaptain of the scouts, jogged up. "Lord Ermanerich says a messenger has come from the
reik
in Siscia."

Alexandros raised an eyebrow. Perhaps his impatience was driven by the Fates. "Good," he said, "are Chlothar and the others in the longhouse?"

Krythos nodded sharply. The man had been very close mouthed since the battle with the Draculis raiders, which had earned him Alexandros' approval and a promotion. The scout seemed to be a canny man, well traveled and skilled in the woods. Such men, used to spending long periods of time alone, perhaps in enemy country, were naturally circumspect. Alexandros was pleased.

"Feel like running?" The scout nodded and together they ran swiftly back across the green field towards the
praetorium
and the regularly spaced buildings of the camp.

A messenger had come, a tired-looking Goth already snoring on one of the sleeping benches by the time Alexandros and Krythos reached the
praetorium
. As always, a crowd loitered around, hungry for news. Soldiers were worse than horses. Ermanerich and Chlothar were waiting, too. The big Frank was stuffing his face, digging spoonfuls of grain mash and honey out of a bowl. The Gothic prince was almost beside himself with fidgeting. Alexandros grinned at them, then picked up the message tube from the praetor's desk. He unscrewed one end, then unrolled the parchments inside.

There were letters inside, one open, one sealed. The sealed letter was from Gaius Julius in Rome. The other, a missive from the Gothic
reik
, Theodoric. When he was done, Alexandros rolled them up again, thinking, and put them back in the tube. Then, dragging the moment out, he called for a jug of wine. The slaves, who had been keeping out of the way, dashed forward, deposited the red clay amphora and then scuttled away again. Alexandros looked around at the faces of his men, measuring them with his eyes. He poured unmixed wine into a shallow cup. Putting the cup to his lips, he drank. The wine was bitter, a poor local vintage.

"Word has come," he said at last, "from the Emperor of the West, Galen. He calls upon the Gothic people to come forth to aid Rome in war. He has sent an edict to Theodoric, stating the
feodorate
may put a wholly Gothic army into the field."