The priests of Osiris had provided a litter for Stephana and horses for the men; no one of rank walked the filthy lower streets willingly. Beggars on the wharf cried out to the priests. As they disembarked, the harbor guards drove the beggars away with the flats of their swords. Marric winced, and mounted.
Feigning difficulty with his stirrup, he bent and listened to an altercation between Phlebas and the prefect.
So taxes had been raised. Irene had developed the habit of confiscating the goods even of suspect nobles and criminals. Merikare strolled over to listen. Had she moved against the temples yet? Judging from how Merikare overawed the prefect of the harbor, Marric thought not. So the temples would afford him protection for a time, at least.
The priests conducted them to a house they claimed was safely held. Built of stone, two floors high, it was far enough away from the Mese to be obscure. With thick walls and narrow windows that appeared to turn in on themselves, it was the sort of place a man might pass every day for years without noticing. The men who served in it were soldiers, who accepted the guise of slaves in devout service to the gods. Marric would give a good deal to know how the priests inspired that sort of loyalty.
Within the house Marric found more luxury than he had known since his days in Tmutorakan: cool, well-lit rooms opened onto an arcade that enclosed a small, exquisite garden. In its center was a fountain more beautiful than any he had seen outside the palace.
Marric was surprised when Nicephorus refused to have his family notified of his safe return. Ariadne would be safer this way, he said.
They sat in this new-found comfort drinking chilled wine and listening to Theophilus, a thin, intense priest whom the temple had sent to brief them.
"Irene woos and threatens the people according to her whims," said the priest. "One day she looses soldiers on them in the Hippodrome. The very next she declares that she will revive the festivals of the dying and reviving god."
"The old Dionysia?" Nicephorus asked. "How does the temple regard that, Theophilus?"
"The god has a thousand forms. Regardless of the names we use, our prayers—assuming they are sincere—rise to the same power."
"She is losing control," Stephana said unexpectedly. "Look, she seems to act at random and tries one thing after another. Now, the Dionysia."
It had not been celebrated in almost fifteen years. Marric could remember the last one. But it might be of use. Like the games in the hippodrome, such a sacred festival could be manipulated by ambitious people. But Marric's hand closed on what was of more use to him: the roll of names that Theophilus had entrusted to him, names of officers known to uphold the old warriors' oath, civil servants discreetly critical of Irene's heavy taxes, some nobles.
For now Marric would concentrate on the officers stationed in the city. Chief among them was Caius Marcellinus, a man whose house was so ancient that it proudly used Roman rather than Byzantine names. Marcellinus was domestikos or commander, of the Scholae, the decorative but highly competent regiment that Marric himself had started out in. Marric remembered him somewhat ruefully as a strict disciplinarian who had despaired of the imperial prince—or who would have, if he hadn't decided that it was disloyal. For Marric's father's sake, perhaps, he would hear him out.
Meetings with other key officials could be arranged, Theophilus assured Marric, in the safe house, or the temple, or even the cautious silence of the military compound.
Tired, Stephana withdrew. Shortly afterward (Marric assumed by her orders) more food was brought in.
"I can imagine her deciding that we mustn't plot unfed," said Nicephorus. "Ariadne would do the same thing. But she is safer where she is. Let be, Mor."
Marric ate then, unaware of the foods placed before him or even of the sunset reflected in the waters of the Golden Horn. Hours later Nicephorus disappeared. Lamps flickered as their oil burnt low, and still Marric spoke with the priest.
All the temples—from the great ones of Isis and Osiris by the palace down to the smallest shrines—would know of Marric's return, Theophilus promised. The only ones to be left out would be those cults hostile to any god but their own and, of course, the dark adepts. They had, in any case, already isolated themselves.
While grateful for the priests' assistance, indebted to them for life itself, Marric would have preferred less contact with magic and more with the warriors he knew how to move. And then he thought of his friends. Stephana was as much a priestess as any temple dweller. And her magic didn't distress him. Nor did Nicephorus'.
"In case Irene's dark adepts seek you out, Prince, this house is warded," Theophilus assured Marric. He was reassured.
When he finally left, Marric walked out into the tiny garden and dashed water from the fountain over his face. Above him the night sky paled; the violet glimmerings of a fair dawn quivered between sea and sky. He stretched. Suddenly moved, he turned the gesture into an invocation of the gods, brief thanksgiving for his success thus far. The wind caressed his face.
Climbing to the roof terrace, Marric gazed out over his city. Soon it would reerupt into its raucous daily routines: for now it slept. Gradually torches began to flicker as workers started out toward their tasks. Out in the harbor, sails bellied in the wind. All Byzantium stirred beneath Marric's loving gaze like a child faintly aware that its father watches over it in its sleep, wondering what it will become and swearing to help make it grow strong.
The rising sun touched Marric's brow. His excitement draining from him, he yawned.
I will heal you, he promised the sleeping city. He might be strong enough now. Two years ago he would never have believed that given the choice he might pick slavery over honorable death in battle, patience over conflict. Marric-that-was could never have become a channel for the gods' power. It was well that he was gone.
Theophilus had been impressed with the story of how the Elder Gods had come at Marric's call. "An adept-emperor, working as a conscious focus of power," he said, "would restore the empire to heights it has not enjoyed for centuries."
They would take my humanity from me, Marric thought. He remembered the pain of the burning as the Elder Gods used him and waterspouts crushed the Arab ships. Irene had such power and was corrupted by it. Their line was very old. Perhaps, as such dynasties tended to be, it had become unsound.
Maybe Alexander, Marric's father, had feared the wrong things.
But if initiation meant life and health for the empire, Marric had to consider it. Which, damn it all, the priests were counting on. He would think of it later. Now his head ached and his hands shook as they usually did after all-night strategy sessions.
He went looking for Stephana. She would heal him. He found her asleep in the silken, quiet refuge he had longed to share with her since their first night together. How many Stephanas, gentle like her, slaves such as she had been, had died, or fought despair with their generous hearts to comfort others in pain? He could not help them. Not yet. He had freed Daphne, certainly. But freeing one girl was not enough. He would never be able to do enough.
With grief he thought of the line of chained soldiers. Each of them was a Marric unjustly doomed to the slavery only Stephana's love had changed from living deaths.
He pulled off tunic and hosae. Time was when he planned with his staff all night and then fought the next day. But this was a much harder campaign than any of his others.
Marric lay down beside Stephana. Her lips parted as if she spoke in her dreams. Her face shone in the dawn light like an icon of the Goddess. Beneath her heavy lashes and high, arched eyelids, her gaze shifted as if the vistas she saw in her dreams altered moment by moment.
What do you see, beloved? Stephana's visions manifested themselves where and when they would: they were merciless. For a brief moment Marric resented the power that used Stephana so harshly. Then he bent to kiss her. She smiled and murmured against his lips like any other woman with no magic beyond that of her love. Her touch sent peace flowing into Marric. He rested his cheek against her hai
r and closed his eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
Riding toward the gate that pierced the city's defensive walls, Marric practiced the breathing exercises he had learned in the Temple of Osiris. Draw breath through the nostrils down the body, they said. Imagine different colored lights at head, throat, chest, loins and feet. He could almost see them. Make them glow, and let that glow serve as a protection.
He would need such protection when he reached the gate. If guards loyal to Irene were on duty, he was finished. If he passed beyond the walls safely, he would face the Huns with only the barest formality of an armed escort. And he wasn't risking just himself. Stephana and Nicephorus rode with him. Their skills made them too valuable to risk, but Marric could not do without them.
His party looked simply like a senior officer accompanied by ten horsemen, their dekarch, and two civilians. One of the civilians was a woman choosing somewhat unconventionally to ride rather than to be conveyed in a litter; the second was small and slight. It seemed a small result for weeks of scheming, of persuading and coordinating nobles, soldiers, and foreign-born auxiliaries.
Caius Marcellinus, the regimental commander, had been frank with Marric. "Prince," he had saluted him. "One look tells me that you are Alexander's son—may he dwell in Glory beyond the horizon. But the gods help me: if I am taken as a traitor, my grandfather, my wife, my children—Irene will kill them all. I never thought to say this, but my family—I must place them before . . . "
Marric shut his eyes in pain. Marcellinus misinterpreted the gesture.
"I am no coward!" he snarled, smacking his fist down on the table that separated him from Marric. The goblets on it danced.
"Of course you're not a coward!" Marric's fist banged down beside Marcellinus'. "Who ever heard of a Marcellinus turning coward? And aside from my father's blood," he added with a sly grin, "you have no real reason to trust me. I may be just as unstable as Irene."
There had been the time during Marric's arms training that he had painted a number of obscene slogans on the senior officers' horses. Marcellinus, because he was in charge of the cadets, shared their punishment. He had not been amused. Now the general looked up, a surprising plea for understanding in his eyes.
"I know, man," Marric said. "I've a few I'd hate to lose myself. And you're one of them. Look, Marcellinus, I honor you. I had the choice between dying and wearing a slave's collar to keep alive, and I chose the collar because that way I might get a chance to keep on fighting. I don't think that makes me a coward any more than your doubts make you one. Stop this!" He had never given Marcellinus as direct an order before.
The general caught Marric's hand in both of his and kissed it, then dropped it quickly.
"You heard what happened to Antinous, didn't you? Some cargo"—he stressed the word—"went awry, and Irene had him put to silence."
Marric grimaced. While he held no love for the man whose ship had carried him into slavery, Antinous had been well-born. He deserved at least the dignity of a swift death.
"The priests can deliver you the old nobility, Prince. But the Tagmata regiments: you will need their support." Marcellinus was thinking fast. "By all the gods, this much I can do for you right now. Irene hasn't reviewed the troops in mouths, and the mercenaries arc wondering when they'll be paid. There have been many newcomers: imperials, mind you, none of these barbarians from the outer themes. But they're not likely to be under her eye. Give me a week, prince, and I can have names, duty rosters—"
If Marcellinus' information failed, if a hostile officer watched at the gate, Marric could expect that phosphorescent cell far below ground again and the lash of Irene's scarlet flames on his body.
Marric glanced behind him and reined in his horse, waiting for his companions to catch up. It was unsafe to ride alone here. Even at this early hour a rabble of beggars, some mutilated in war, others beneath a beggarmaster's knife, squatted in the streets. The morning mists made riders, beggars, and passersby look like figures out of a dream that he longed to wake from. At any point, for the worth of horse and armor, such people might turn on him.
"Alms, alms, great lady, for the Mother's sake!" Urged on by their ragged mother, a hag with no teeth and a bulging belly, children shrilled up at Stephana and clustered around her horse. It shied, but even as Marric spurred toward her, she had the beast firmly under control. Marric guided his horse with his knees and grasped her mount's bridle.
"Let the lady pass!" he cried. "Come on," he urged in a lower voice, "let's get out of here."
Stephana had opened a tiny purse and was scattering small coins.
"Here, sir," said one of Marric's escort. "Let me lead her horse for you. We haven't time for this."
"We haven't time for anything else!" Stephana cried. "Look at these people. Oh, Mor, how could I leave them without—"
Mor.
"Later," Marric promised. When he was emperor, Stephana might organize all the charities she wished. He would bless her for it. But they must get past the gate before the watch changed.
"Please go," she implored the children. They were risking their lives by clinging to her horse. "You will be hurt." Her voice shook with pity; her entreaty succeeded where the officers' commands failed.
The horses minced clear of the beggars. Marric waved his party on, urging speed. At least this episode showed him how his people would react to Huns. Undoubtedly Nicephorus would observe them, the soldiers would follow orders, and Stephana—probably the Huns would want to adopt her. She had the gift of winning hearts and courage enough to lead armies. He glanced over at her. Her deep blue cloak had fallen back, and the dawn light touched the silver in her hair with fire.
Looming up before them was one of the three gates they had to pass. Its towers rose a hundred feet above their heads, and slingers stood ready upon them.
Their horses' hooves echoed as they rode underneath an arch that was more like a tunnel. The innermost wall was almost twenty-five feet thick. Torches in iron holders set into the dressed stone cast smoky light. At the end of the tunnel stood soldiers.
Varangians! Marric steadied his breathing. He had always suffered from battle jitters. Aillel, his first teacher, had said that they would make him a better soldier. He had been a Varangian too.
Marric thought of the guards he had spoken with in the Mangana.
"Never in our years of serving Miklagard have we betrayed our oaths," one officer had said. "We will not begin now."
"Then you will not betray me either," Marric said.
The Varangian lifted his ax, and Marric tensed. But he laid it over a map of the city that was spread out on the table.
"You are of the blood of Miklagard too. We will no more betray you to Irene than we will betray her to you. She rules as empress—"
"And pays you—"
"Well enough."
"What if she pays you in the blood of kinsmen?" Marric asked. "The bearmaster lodges outside the city. What will you do if he sends the Aescir against you?"
The Varangian looked down at his ax. "We are soldiers; so are our brothers. The bearmaster and the jarls—they understand."
"All I ask is to be your messenger," said Marric. "Since your oath binds you, do not aid me. But by the white bear of Hropt himself, do not hinder me. Just allow me safe passage."
The Varangians closed in at the gate and escorted Marric's party silently along the winding road. At the second gate archers leaned from the tower. They held their fire. Above the archers' heads Marric saw the blunt muzzles of engines that could spray fire down on any invaders who penetrated this far. Not even Irene's magic could hurt worse than that burning.
Outside the second gate the Varangians left them. Between it and the outermost gate lay a bridge over a wide, deep moat. Beyond that lay a no man's land between the city and the enemy camps. Marric touched heels to his horse's flanks. How like Irene to let him get this far and, just as he scented success, have him hauled back.
Stephana rode up beside him and laid a hand on
his. I should not have let her come, Marric thought, then dismissed his fear. Among the Huns, shamans accompanied warriors. If Marric brought his own seeress, he demonstrated respect for the Huns' customs.
The dekarch of Marric's guard rode to her side. Marric sensed his disgust at having to detach one of his men to send a timid woman—for so he thought her—back to her soft nest.
"I can ride alone," Stephana told the man. "I would speak with you," she whispered to Marric. Her blue eyes were uncharacteristically bleak.
Loving the intimacy of the contact, even if it were magical, Marric steadied himself to speak mind-to-mind.
My love has only to ask.
Feelings of love and reassurance. Marric, the captain at the last gate. Look closely.
A shadow waited at the end of the tunnel, beckoning to them. Marric narrowed his eyes and wished for the vision of the hawk.
"Snuff the torches."
The gloom allowed him to see more clearly. The man was—By Horus, it is Thutmosis, the young Alexandrian captain!
As an outsider he had probably been told only that, by the general's orders, a party must be permitted beyond the walls. Once outside the city, their welfare was out of his jurisdiction. What if he knew that three in the party were his aunt's former slaves? The man was young and zealous. Which way would his loyalties go? He had entered Irene's service with ail the zest of a man choosing his first mistress.
Thutmosis' voice echoed in the passage. "What do you?" A scrape and glint of metal revealed that he had drawn his sword.
Can you delude him? Marric asked Stephana. He had a vivid recollection of standing as a focus of power on a ship's deck.
Stephana paused. Her small teeth gnawed at her underlip. She looked like a lady hesitating over embroidery silks: this purple thread or that one to work in next to the gold? Marric suppressed a smile.
"Take my reins," she whispered to the dekarch. She needed her hands free to work a spell.
Byzantium's Crown Page 17