Byzantium's Crown

by Susan Shwartz

  "Yes. I will rejoin the other slaves." Marric felt only a great weariness.

  "That is your loss. Akbar, Auda, take him and bind him!"

  The two men hustled Marric off the ship. He clung to whatever dignity he had left and to a fragile hope that as long as he lived, he could hope to escape and, at least, take vengeance for himself and his sister. But the blood was flowing from his wounds, and he felt as heartsick as if he had fought a losing battle, and then knelt beneath the yoke of his worst enemy.

  Sea water stung in Marric's wounds. His skin felt too tight from fever. Despite the heat below decks, the water on his skin made him start to shiver again. Nicephorus tried to steady him and offered him drink.

  "Easy, Mor. Come back to us." Marric heard chanting, thought he saw soft lights. He slept fitfully after that. In his dreams he fled from black clouds, from an accusing figure who wore a crown and stood in judgment above a dead girl. Then he saw a face that drew him—and opened his eyes.

  The gloom of the hold hurt to look at. A face, pale and fine-featured, but not the face he dreamt of, hovered over him.

  "Nico . . . ."

  "Quiet, Mor." The scholar eased Marric's head against his shoulder. To Marric's surprise, when he smoothed his hair back, none of the slaves hooted.

  "How long . . . "

  "Two days, I think. Fine scholar I am, losing track of the time."

  "On board the . . . other ship, there . . . that man had fever . . . and they flung him over." Marric's tongue was thick.

  "Yes. The Greeks drowned him. But these pirates have decided that you will fetch a good price, should you live. So they have given you the chance to try—and all the water you need." The arm steadying Marric tightened. Not for a moment did he believe Nicephorus about the water.

  "No . . . need now."

  "You are still weak. But at least, praise Isis, you no longer rave."

  "What . . . ?" Oh gods, what had he betrayed?

  "Mor, you enlivened our days and our nights here by claiming all kinds of outrageous things." Nicephorus laughed tolerantly. "Even after your voice gave out, you still whispered! Be at peace: who ever listens to a wounded man's ravings? And among these, who has the will to care?"

  Marric looked at Nicephorus, then at the other slaves. Most were apathetic or asleep. A few watched him with the rough-and-ready sympathy unfortunates sometimes have for people in even worse plights. Nicephorus was right. Truly, none of them cared. He could have claimed to be Osiris in Glory (and perhaps he had), and no one would have listened. That was a humbling development. Just as well: the Arabs would have murdered a prince of Byzantium. Marric sighed and sank back into Nicephorus' arms.

  "I . . . my thanks," he began. "And anything I can ever—"

  "Be well," said Nicephorus. "Just be well. The rest is in the hands of the gods. If you do not pay me, you will pay another. And if not in this life, then in some other. Now, Mor, rest quiet."

  But Marric had one last question before he surrendered to the true, healing sleep which his body craved. "Where are we bound?"

  "Still Alexandria."

  Marric bit back the laughter that might have hurled him into madness. Bound for the city of Alexander, first Horus-on-Earth of Marric's line, and he would arrive in chains.

  * * *

  The waters of the Delta cast the ferocious sunlight back at the slaves. They squinted and shuffled unsteadily off the dromond onto the dock toward the holding pens.

  No one asked in this part of Alexandria whether a ship were Arab or imperial. What mattered were goods to sell and the gold to buy them.

  Marric tried to shield his eyes. His upraised arms tightened the other slaves' chains and they swore at him. The slash of a whip distracted him from the pain of the glare. His feet shrank from the wharf's heat, then scuffed in hot, soft dust.

  Tears ran down Nicephorus' contorted face as he grimaced at the light. It was doubly painful to his weakened eyes after the darkness of the slave hold. Nevertheless, he gazed eagerly about.

  "So much gone," he mourned. "I'd hoped to see the Pharos, but of course, we were below decks. And the library—a sad day for Empire when the pirates sacked the city. Oh, Antony Philadelphus could rebuild the lighthouse and the causeway, but all that learning gone. I would have given my eyes to have it untouched."

  "And how should you study then?" Marric asked. "The last emperor promised to have it restored but—"

  "Like all else. Libraries are not as important as better ships, faster horses for the Hippodrome, flashier trappings and finer weapons for the Tagmata regiments . . . and for Irene herself—"

  "Silence!"

  The lash curled about Nicephorus' shoulders but did not cut too deeply. The Arabs clearly wanted their wares undamaged to attract better prices. But Marric's healing scars would only give him a character for fierce strength: useful should someone want a bodyguard or a fighter, an interesting challenge for a master who wanted to try his hand at slave breaking.

  Alexandria's harbor was almost bare of grain barges. The water level was low, and beggars hunching against the old warehouses looked even thinner and more ragged than normal.

  Alexandria had been tossed from allegiance to allegiance so many times that it seemed to be neither Arab nor Byzantine. Had it any loyalties at all? Marric sensed in Alexander's city the same aura of loss, corruption, and sinister pleasures that had disquieted him the night of his disastrous return to Byzantium. Languorous Alexandria might be, but it sheltered a secret excitement. Marric felt his blood begin to stir, but be marched forward, eyes on the whip.

  Several times he nearly felt it on his back for turning to stare at the harbor. His ancestress Cleopatra might have stopped right there, he imagined, when she came to Antony dressed as the Goddess.

  Nicephorus too kept turning to look at the city. Finally they were shoved along twisted streets shadowed by overhanging houses, their plaster cracking and their narrow windows barred. From time to time the file of slaves had to give place to a troop of cataphracts who thundered down the crowded streets with total unconcern for the dust their horses kicked up—or the people the horses kicked.

  In the Apostases, the warehouses where pottery, wine, and cheeses were stored, Arabs jostled Hellenes. No one thought it strange, least of all the native Egyptians, poorest of the city dwellers. They had outlasted pharaohs, caliphs, and emperors already. Imperial Alexandria had sunk to the level of a thieves' market.

  "The Temple of Osiris." Nicephorus jerked his chin at a huge and imposing building. "A great one, they say, though a greater yet lies down the Nile at Heliopolis."

  The City of the Sun! So long ago Heliopholis' priests had taught his ancestors to revere Horus, Isis, and Osiris in the undying lands and to use their powers well. What powers? Marric thought bitterly. He had none—or had he?

  Chains, fall from me, he commanded silently. Then he chuckled. Power might exist . . . did. He had had stern proof of it. It was a pity he didn't possess it, or was it? He might abuse it, too.

  "You laugh, Mor?" Nicephorus asked. "By Horus, you give me courage. I hope we are sold together." The scholar reached out to touch his taller friend's shoulder. Then, as a man gestured threateningly with his whipstock, he shrank back.

  A warmth very different from fever or the merciless sun filled Marric. As a prince he had tended to have associates, servants, officers. But no friends. Especially not for him, because of the daily treacheries in his life. But here was friendship given him for the man he was, not for any imperial favors. Or did Nicephorus, with that sight of his, know who Marric really was?

  It hardly mattered either way.

  Overseers and hired swords herded the coffle into a warehouse where the factor entered into loud, anguished bargaining. Finally, the slave dealers allowed the slaves to be fed and watered like the rest of the livestock. One man tossed Marric a flask of cloudy oil. He worked it into his skin thoroughly, easing the aching stripes and wounds on his body. It would also serve to make his body gleam so t
hat he would draw a higher price, perhaps from some wealthy lady bored with too many long, idle afternoons. But he could not cavil: to be clean, fed, and out of the foul slave hold and savage streets were blessings for which slaves quickly learned to thank the gods.

  Marric watched them lead Nicephorus to the block and the thought made him feel sick. He had seen death, and had not shrunk from causing it. But this casual sale of a friend, reducing the scholar, the magician, the all-but-brother to sinew and muscle—if he retched here, they would beat him. He almost didn't care.

  And since when, Marric, did you get so sensitive about slaves? You've owned enough of them, a voice commented inside his skull.

  Since I became one. He grinned mirthlessly and forced himself to watch the transaction as if it meant little to him.

  The bidding rose high. Professional counters translated prices in ingots, dirhans, even gold armlets into their worth in imperial solidi. Nicephorus' skills as a scribe found a ready market.

  Finally, the bidding narrowed to two people: a priest and a freedman who was obviously the major-domo of some villa. The priest had his skull shaven and wore only a kalasiris of fine pleated linen in the archaic fashion. But his eyes caught and held first Nicephorus' gaze, then Marric's. He raised the major-domo's bid, then looked back at Marric.

  "Can he handle accounts?" shouted another bidder from the crowd.

  "You! Can you figure?" the auctioneer asked Nicephorus. He nodded. Despite the resignation he professed, he looked afraid. The new bidder topped the priest's offer.

  The priest's eyes seemed to expand, engulfing Marric's consciousness. Under their commanding gaze Marric felt simultaneously lighter and more aware. And then he became the priest, who seemed outwardly only to examine a sturdy slave.

  So that is the missing prince, thought the priest of Osiris.

  Marric was stunned. He had known people were said to speak mind-to-mind, but had never believed it.

  Tall, shoulders muscular from racing his chariot and reining in horses. Definitely a warrior: harsh tempered, stubbornly loyal, angry at the world and at himself. Those scars are healing well. Holds his head high, with the very falcon's pride. Is he a ruler yet, fit to be consecrated? The high priest ordered that he be tested . . .

  The priest glanced aside, and Marric knew he had been examined, judged, and dismissed. Though that was no more than he expected, crushed hopes made him strike back. I am Marric, Alexander's son! he shouted inside his mind until his eyes ached. I am emperor, Horus-on-Earth! Listen to me, priest! By your loyalty to my father, aid his son. I am master here!

  Priests. You could never make sense of them, like that old shavenpoll back in Byzantium. He had thought, though, that you could trust them. Now it seemed as if even the high priest knew of his plight and spurned him. He would never have believed that Irene could prevail with that one: his father had trusted him with his soul.

  This priest stared at Marric. Master of no man, least of yourself. And thus, a slave.

  He broke the contact. When the auctioneer appealed to him for a higher bid on Nicephorus, he shook his head. Then he and his entourage swept from the market.

  Nicephorus was knocked down to the major-domo. A pity for Nico: he might have liked temple service. Then Marric clenched his fists, fighting the twin follies of cursing a priest or hurling himself after one. A push at the small of his back sent him stumbling onto the block. He breathed deeply to control his rage. Disgust rose like bile in his mouth. The auctioneer saw that and praised his chest expansion.

  Set take you, I'm not a war-horse! Marric turned on the man, murder in his eyes. The audience gasped. Men with spears pointed them at him.

  "Spirited," the auctioneer recovered his ready patter of encouragement to the crowd, "but high tempered as he is, he is biddable. Watch this, my masters!"

  Holding Marric's eyes with his own the way Marric had trained horses, he slapped his face. Marric's head jerked to one side, and his eyes dimmed with shame.

  Master of no man, least of yourself.

  It wasn't just his line that was unsound. He himself was disastrously flawed, and Alexander had known it. His father had taught Marric that the priests of Osiris never did anything by chance. So Marric's enslavement must be ordained as surely as the Nile's next flood. Even if he escaped, though, Alexa was dead.

  Marric fixed his eyes above the heads of the dealers, owners, agents, and passersby who stared at him. A big man hurled an overripe fruit at him, and it spattered over his face and chest. Marric started forward. As the spearsmen raised their weapons, he froze, but just barely.

  "Did I not tell you?" the man said to the major-domo who had bought Nicephorus. His voice had a piercing quality that Marric could not shut out.

  "The slave is dangerous."

  "Of course he's dangerous. That's the challenge. But he could be broken, molded by a better man. Ahhh, Strymon, just let me work him over during the summer, and you'll have a slave-guard worth twice as much as he'll go for now. We could resell him." He grinned and poked the major-domo, an austere freedman, in the ribs.

  "What d'ye say, Strymon? The mistress gets pleased by the profits, and maybe she splits it with us. Or maybe you and that new scribe juggle—"

  Strymon raised a hand, increasing his bid for Marric.

  "—juggle the accounts and she never—"

  Again Strymon's hand went up.

  "—guesses. And if he doesn't take to . . . training, why then, he isn't going for that much more than a field worker. Even after the sea crossing, look at the muscles on him."

  "Do I hear another bid? You, sir? You, my lady?" A leer from the auctioneer set the audience laughing raucously. "No? Your loss then, on those long, dull evenings. Going once, going twice—"

  Strymon raised his hand again. No one matched his bid.

  "Sold!"

  "Sutekh," Strymon told the bigger man, "I'm buying him not for your reasons, but because we can get good labor out of him—that is, we'll be able to assuming you're half the overseer you claim to be. But when you school this one, take care. Lose our mistress her investment again, and Maat witness I'll have you on that block yourself to pay her back. Am I quite understood? Do you want me to repeat it more slowly?"

  Sutekh the overseer nodded, though his blockish face reddened under its shenti, and the muscles straining his coarse tunic swelled as he fought down anger at the threat. He glared over at Marric. And Marric realized that he had been sold for the price of a good cavalry remount into a household where the overseer already resented him.

  Chapter Six

  Marric trudged with the other newly acquired outdoor slaves toward their barracks. The household for which he had been purchased was no great one. While the main villa seemed substantial enough, its looks might have been improved by a new wash of paint on the outer walls. The outbuildings showed that the owners and Strymon (now riding in a wagon with the more valuable indoor slaves) took decent care of the estate's livestock, animal and human.

  Probably a regimental officer garrisoned in Alexandria had decided to retire here and had taken land outside the city walls fronting Lake Mareotis. Sensible of him, Marric thought. The man's descendants had obviously shared his good sense by tending the land, buying more, and adding a new wing onto the original house. As a general, Marric would have prized such an officer.

  Master of no man, least of yourself. The Osiris priest's rebuke came continually to mind. Would Marric indeed have valued such a man?

  The overseer, Sutekh, stalked past the line of slaves and pointed to the barracks with the whip he seemed to use as a badge of office. Given the number of men crowding into it, the long room was as clean as might be expected. Marric had seen soldiers housed in worse quarters and had shared them.

  But the sun beating down on the lake and the breathless heat of the day would make the place not just stuffy but suffocating. Doors and windows might let a breeze in at night, but the windows wore set so high that Marric didn't think they would do much good. Not
even brimstone would cleanse the place of the reek of too many bodies.

  He turned quickly from the thin pallet beneath one of the windows and glanced about. Surely a household of this size provided bathing facilities for its slaves.

  Deliberately Sutekh stepped into his path. Though the overseer was shorter than Marric, he was far stockier. He had the body development of a man who had overtrained solely to win at wrestling, not to achieve the all-around coordination of the charioteer that was the Byzantine ideal. Sutekh's powerful arms and chest would make him a nasty adversary. Marric examined him. The skull under the reddish headcloth would be quite as hard as the jaw that the man thrust out.

  "Looking for a bath, are you?" Sutekh anticipated Marric's question with more shrewdness than he had expected. He laughed, as if Marric had told him a ribald tale. "There, slave!"

  He pointed lakeward with his whip.

  "Just don't let the crocodiles eat you. Around here, slaves who are too clean don't live long. But any time that you have time, go right ahead and risk a bath. Just don't expect me to come with a spear to pry you out of the crocs' jaws."

  Marric returned to the barracks. He would watch the more experienced slaves and do as they did. Most of them seemed to avoid Sutekh. They stepped out of his path and looked down whenever his eyes swept over them.

  At nightfall the slaves were fed: bread, onions, and thin, sour beer. Marric had eaten worse on campaign. He would simply have to think of this as one more battle to win.

  * * *

  In the days and weeks that followed, Marric found his resolve to survive and escape tested sorely. His barracks mates were none of them the sort of men he was used to. Whenever he had walked among soldiers they had been rough, cheerfully obscene, and wily with the craft of men who knew that if they survived this campaign, they would have money in their purses and the thanks of their officer. Most of his companions were spirit-broken fellahin. There were a few exotics from the Upper Cataracts, sold into slavery down in the Delta for reasons Marric never learned. There was even one Northerner—one of the Gepidae, Marric thought—who grunted incomprehensible hostilities at any attempt to speak to him. Like the others, he seemed only to understand the whip.