The Storm of Heaven (91 page)

Anastasia met his eyes and he felt enormous compassion for her, for there was such desolation and loss in them. Despite this, he knew she would never surrender her purpose, even if the weight of it crushed the life from her body.

"I will set my men to watch the house of Gregorious Auricus," Anastasia said. "We will find this dead man and the Prince. Please, if you will, see if you can speak with Thyatis and Ila. Narses may extend you that courtesy. He certainly will have nothing to do with me! If necessary, I will have them kidnapped so we can discover what Thyatis knows of the Prince. Also, I will speak with the Emperor and the Empress about this. Strenuous steps must be taken if the Prince is to be captured."

Vitellix nodded, his round face sad. He had hoped to leave this life behind long ago.

The tramp and clatter of hobnailed boots rang through the Great Gate. The ancient towers were blackened, scarred and scorched by the impact of stones and bolts. Constantinople had endured far too much in the last five years. Nicholas marched through shadow, Dwyrin right behind him, Vladimir bringing up the rear. They marched in the legionary cohort assigned to guard the Western legate, Dagobert, as he entered the city.

A crowd was waiting inside the gate, held back by the leveled spears of Eastern troops. The people stared at the foreigners with dead eyes and wan faces. No one seemed happy to see them. Noting the grim Eastern troops standing in the gatehouse, Nicholas wondered what had happened. These men looked defeated. Odd, considering the Arab army had been driven off into the fortifications held by the Persians north of the Golden Horn.

The Western legions held the Perinthus road, as well as most of the Arab works. The enemy, in fact, no longer directly threatened the city. The long, watery tongue of the Golden Horn thrust between the opposing armies. A stream fed into the Horn from the west, making a border between the Roman pickets and the Arab and Persian scouts. The mass of Constantinople lay south of the Horn on its own peninsula. Nicholas expected that once the Western and Eastern commanders put their heads together, a massed attack on the Persian camp would be launched, supported by a concerted effort by the Western and Eastern fleets to smash or drive off the Arab squadrons blockading the city.

In the aftermath of the dawn attack, Nicholas found himself and his two friends welcome guests of the legate himself, who seemed both appalled and overjoyed to have such a powerful weapon at hand. Nicholas watched the Western officers fawning over Dwyrin with growing disgust. The hatred and envy in the faces of the thaumaturges was worse. His gut told him to get the boy into the city as quickly as possible. Nicholas had pressed the legate to abide by the treaty. Dagobert wanted to demur, but he was not bold enough to imprison them. Thus, they entered the city under his protection, though they did not feel particularly safe.

"The
Dux
Dagobert, Son of Lothair, Tribune of the West, Commander of the Legions!" A bull-voiced guardsman crashed the butt of a heavy double-bitted ax on the floor. Dagobert entered, Nicholas, Vladimir and Dwyrin at his back. Two of his staff officers followed.

A man turned, face flushed with anger, from the table at the center of the room. Nicholas raised an eyebrow, seeing Dagobert stiffen. The easterner was tall and broad shouldered, with a neatly trimmed red-gold beard. He was wearing full cavalry armor and boots with a red stripe along the seam.
Ah,
Nicholas thought, taking the measure of the man,
this is Prince Theodore, of whom so much was expected and so little delivered.
Five or six Imperial officers, their silver-washed armor gleaming and burnished, their cloaks made of fine wool and silk, stood around the table. Each man pretended to ignore the interruption.

"Pardon me, my lord," Dagobert said stiffly. "I have come to speak with Emperor Heraclius about driving these Persians from his land."

"Have you? Well, then, long-hair, you will speak with me! I am Theodore,
Caesar
of the Eastern Empire and commander of the Imperial army. When I have time, I will discuss the disposition of your forces."

"Is Emperor Heraclius dead?" Dagobert's voice rose a little, putting a sharp emphasis on the word
Emperor
. "Are you his heir?"

Theodore's lip curled a little and he finally faced the Frank squarely. "Dead? No, he is not dead! He is ill, but I command the Legions in the city and am his royal brother. Listen, tribune, you are most welcome, but I do not have time for you right now. Return to your camp and I will speak with you in the morning!"

Nicholas could see that the tribune's temper was fraying. The plain dismissal in the Eastern Prince's voice was an iron goad. Nicholas motioned with his head and Vladimir and Dwyrin, both wide-eyed, began to inch back out of the room. The Western staff officers moved up, smirking.

"Lord Theodore, Emperor Galen has declared me
magister militatis
of the Western Empire." Dagobert drew out a short ivory rod capped with gold. He held it up, light from the high, narrow windows catching on the bright metal. "By treaty, within the confines of the Eastern Empire, while I am here, I outrank all other officers in the Legion save the Eastern Emperor. This includes you. Now, where is Emperor Heraclius? I need to speak with him immediately!"

"The Emperor," Theodore snapped, face growing red, "is not here!"

Nicholas reached the door just as the Prince started to shout and eased it open. The two burly red-beards on either side looked down at him with interest, but he smiled and made a little wave with his fingers before slipping out.

"Nicholas! That was interesting! Why leave?" Dwyrin pressed his ear against the door, a sly look on his face. "Wait—I can still hear them. They're shouting."

"We can all hear them," Vladimir said dryly, cleaning out one ear with his finger. "I think everyone in the palace can hear them."

Nicholas rolled his eyes. "Come on. Let's find my tribune and report—then he can hide us somewhere! Bickering generals are nothing but trouble."

The northerner turned to go, but found himself face-to-face with a very angry young woman. She was short, richly dressed and blessed with a tousled head of brown hair. At the moment, she seemed ready to chew iron pigs and spit nails. A brace of very large men in armor were behind her. More of the Faithful Guard, though they were wearing closed helmets and their hands were tight on their weapons. "Out of my way, centurion!"

"Of course, milady!" Nicholas backed up, running into Dwyrin and Vladimir, who were trying to see what was going on. "Martina?" Dwyrin sounded surprised and embarrassed at the same time. He hurriedly tried to smooth his hair back and tug his tunic straight.

The woman paused, hand on the door, squinting at the Hibernian. "Oh, you're the boy from the stream. Hello! I'm sorry, I haven't a moment." Then she slammed the door open and stalked in, already spoiling for a fight. "Dear Prince Theodore! Why, I'm surprised to see you out and about. Weren't you under house arrest?"

Nicholas closed the door gently, grimacing, and then the three of them hurried away down the corridor. Luckily, Nicholas knew the palace fairly well and they were able to escape before something else happened.

The fires on the plain died down at last, letting the air clear. Nicholas and Dwyrin walked along the upper battlements at the far-northwestern end of the city. From their vantage, they could see across the Golden Horn, into the Galata suburbs and the Persian camp. Evening was close, drawing a dark gray blanket across the land. The only lights to be seen were the cookfires of the Persians and the Arabs. Sometimes, lanterns winked on the galleys patrolling the waters of the Horn. Nicholas drew a breath, taking joy in the clean, cold air. Their barracks were in one of the old palaces down in the lower city. They were cramped and crowded and filled with vermin and lice. Vladimir refused to go out after dark, leaving Nicholas to squire Dwyrin around. The lad had taken an active, even ghoulish interest in the campaign.

Such as it was. Despite the passage of a full day and a night, the Western troops remained outside of the city, still in their encampments on the Perinthus road and in the wreckage of the Arab
limes
. Rumor in the barracks and the markets said Dagobert and his staff had left the city empty-handed, without so much as a glimpse of Heraclius. What
was
clear was Prince Theodore's open disobedience. Despite his presumed arrest, he was widely seen in the city, speaking earnestly with the various Legion commanders and the cohort tribunes. Nothing came out of the Bucoleon but silence.

Nicholas leaned on the wall, one shoulder resting against a smooth granite merlon. An arrow slit opened out beside him, giving him a good view of the last touch of the sun on the Propontis. A haze had come up with sunset, covering the water and the land. A few lights flickered, but even the stars in the east seemed dim. Dwyrin put up a booted foot on the embrasure, staring fixedly out at the Galatan shore.

"What do you see?" Nicholas was curious. The boy wanted to walk the walls all day, but they only just managed to get out of the barracks a glass or two ago. Now the Hibernian had a look about him.

"There is a great army moving in the darkness." Dwyrin's voice was distant. "The fire-priests are trying to hide them. Fools, I am inside their pattern! Look, do you see the starlight on their spears?"

Nicholas peered out into the gloom, but he could see nothing. "You've the witch-sight, lad, not I."

"Here." Dwyrin put his hands over Nicholas' eyes, then bent his head. A low muttering followed, while Nicholas blinked in the darkness. At his side,
Brunhilde
trembled, woken by some current in the hidden world. Nicholas laid his hand across her hilt and she quieted. "Now. See?"

Nicholas opened his eyes and gasped in surprise. The shroud of night parted, leaving the rising hills of Galata illuminated by a directionless clear light. Every tree, every wall, the houses, the barns and temples seemed perfectly distinct. Nicholas tried to blink but he could not. There
was
movement, there among the rolling hills. Endless lines of lancers were winding their way down out of the northeast, the white fetlocks of their horses splashing through the stream that fed the Horn. Nicholas squinted, then staggered. Dwyrin caught him, firm hands on his shoulders. When he narrowed his vision, the scene leapt dramatically closer. Now he could see the men—flat Asiatic faces, like those of Huns or Turks, with long mustaches and pointed metal helms fringed with mail. Horsetail banners flapped at the head of each column and their long
kontos
glittered like a forest of steel reeds. Many of the riders were wearing long red and black coats with bowcases slung at their hips. Huge mobs of brown- and blond-haired men crowded the sides of the road, marching in loose order, with spears and painted oval shields slung across their backs.

"The Avars," Nicholas hissed. He had spent months fighting them during the last siege. "
Khagan
Bayan has returned... ten or fifteen thousand of them, it looks like." He blinked suddenly, his eyes watering furiously. "Ahh! That hurts!"

"Sorry!" Dwyrin dabbed at Nicholas' eyes with the edge of his tunic. "I don't know how it feels for someone else."

"Tyr!" Nicholas sat down, squeezing his eyes shut. They were burning like someone had ground a red-hot ember into each socket. "Ahh!"

Dwyrin left, then returned with a wooden cup. Gently, he laved Nicholas' eyes with the cool water and the pain receded. Nicholas' eyesight sparkled with drifting white motes for a time but then cleared. It was full dark, though the mist had cleared away, leaving a brilliant wash of stars in the heavens. The Hibernian was squatting opposite him, a chagrined look on his face.

"Sorry! I wasn't thinking... we used to practice that sort of thing in my old five. But you've no training for the witch-sight."

"No matter, lad. I can see at least. Come on, we've got to make a report. Those idiots in command will need to know this right away." Nicholas stood up, finding his balance returned.

"Do you think we'll attack them?" Dwyrin sounded positively eager.

"Hey, now, don't rush ahead, lad. You proved yourself in the wall attack, but those Persians will have more than one wizard on their side. The next time we go up against them, they'll be ready for you."

"Maybe." The boy sounded smug. "But I'll be ready for them."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, but the confidence of young men was eternal and boundless, like the tide and the sun rising. "That's a good trick, with the farseeing. We make a good team, you know, the three of us."

"Thanks." Dwyrin sounded like he was blushing, but Nicholas said nothing.

Mohammed ducked through the tent door, his face filled with disgust. Outside, it was raining, and he flipped back the hood of his cloak. He sat down heavily in one of the camp chairs, then put his head in both hands.

"What was all the commotion?" Zoë put down her brush, a delicate ivory-backed antique she had recovered from the palace in Palmyra. Her thick hair was down and loose, falling around her tan shoulders in a dark cloud. "It sounded like an army banging around out there."

"It was." Mohammed remained deep in thought.

"Mohammed?" Zoë rose, gathering her shirt, and knelt by his side. A bandage covered her wounded ear; the battle in the dark had added bruises on her arm and thigh. "What happened?"

"An army is arriving, under cover of darkness. They are the Avars, from north of the Roman frontier. I believe the Persian priests are trying to hide the sound of their movement from the Romans, much as they attempted to deceive you. That is what Shahr-Baraz has told me, anyway."

"Ah." Zoë took his weathered old head in her hands, smoothing his wrinkled brow with her thumbs. She pursed her lips, considering his words. "No one told you they were coming to join us? I certainly did not hear of it."

"No. I have spent the better part of a week in constant argument with the King of Kings, urging him to join us in driving the Western army from the Perinthus road. Each day he has said
wait
. Now I know why, and I am very uneasy about his reticence."