The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  "So Khusro waited and watched events in the west, and Maria became angrier and angrier. One day she was walking in the Imperial gardens, which stretch along the Euphrates for miles, filled with every kind of flower and tree and glorious bird, and she found a young man sitting under a tree. He seemed very familiar to her, but he introduced himself as a stranger, and said his name was Rustam. He said he was a priest and he could help her avenge her father's death."

  Shirin took a breath, and made a sign before her, a warding against evil. She looked around at the tense faces of the young soldiers and her face settled into grim lines.

  "You are young, but you must know there are gods not spoken of by pious men. There are monstrous powers who act in opposition to the great gods in heaven. The old Greeks called them the Titans. In Persia they name the king of darkness Ahriman. And he is locked in eternal battle with the lord of light, Ormaz. Now this young man speaking to Empress Maria in the garden was a priest of this same Ahriman and a vessel of dark powers. He was not a priest, as you might think of them, but a sorcerer instead.

  "Rustam lived in secret in the palace for some time, while Maria accepted his instruction in the dark arts. Khusro at last relented in this matter of the war against Rome—Shahr-Baraz was sent west to raise an army and test the frontier defenses. Heraclius, who had been nothing but the son of a provincial governor, overthrew Phocas. Khusro wrote to the young general, urging him to accept Kavadh-Siroes as his Emperor, as was proper."

  The Khazar woman essayed a small smile, seeing incomprehension on the faces of the soldiers.

  "You must understand," she said, "that in Persian lands, the king's descent of blood must be pure. The usurpation of Bahram Choban—who was not of the Imperial line—had caused great outrage. Khusro knew this, as he knew his own lineage for thirty generations. For him, to see a base-born man ascend to the Roman throne, when his own son was the rightful ruler, was a grave insult. Heraclius denied the boy's claim and Khusro determined to see Kavadh-Siroes rule on his grandfather's throne.

  "Shahr-Baraz smashed the Eastern armies and broke through the frontier like a maddened bull. He drove on to Constantinople, only halted by the Imperial fleet in the straits of the Propontis. Despite his victories, however, Maria was not satisfied. The sorcerer filled her thoughts with poison, and she conspired with the dark man to raise a terrible spirit, a winged shade to cross the leagues to Constantinople and murder Heraclius. Maria did not think the new Emperor any better than the murderer Phocas.

  "She and Rustam set about their blasphemous ceremony in secret, in the old River Palace, but they had not counted upon the sudden appearance of Khusro himself, who had been warned trouble was afoot. The ceremony went awry and there was a great fire. Maria perished and Khusro himself was nearly blinded, his face disfigured and burned. Rustam the sorcerer escaped, carrying the king of kings out of the inferno. Then, gasping for breath in the gardens, as pillars and towers shattered in the tremendous heat, Khusro looked upon the face of his rescuer—whom he had never seen before that moment—and saw his long-lost younger brother yet lived.

  "Yes, Rustam the sorcerer was the missing prince, Khusro's own brother, who had vanished so long ago. The king of kings was filled with despair and delight in equal turns. No one knows what passed between the two men that night, but thereafter the king of kings possessed a weapon no ruler had ever dared wield—a sorcerer unbounded by conscience or fear of the gods—a dark spirit to do the king's bidding without thought of remorse or mercy. In this way, my friends, the Persians gained a terrible weapon."

  A hiss of breath met Shirin's last words and the soldiers shrank back from her and from the light of the candle lantern.

  "But," Marcus whispered, "Chrosoes, king of kings, was killed, slain by his own men in his own house... We've never heard of a brother... surely he was killed too?"

  Shirin raised a hand and halted his words. "Men who taste the power of the dark one will not set the draught aside. It is said Chrosoes himself came to rely more and more upon his brother's power. It is like the lotus—one taste and a man thinks of nothing else. Shahr-Baraz may be king of kings in name, but I think Rustam is at his elbow."

  "That is bad news," grumbled Florus from the darkness. "If this Rustam is what broke into Constantinople. How can we stop a sorcerer?"

  "Bravery," Shirin answered and a strange feeling came over her, a hot flush flooding her chest as if she plunged into steaming water. She looked down, distracted. Distantly she heard herself saying: "Men can stop such horrors, if they do not yield to fear."

  Between the smooth olive curve of her breasts, the jewel was glowing softly, shining red like a rising star.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Perinthus, On the Coast of Thrace

  "What is this?"

  Alexandros of Macedon, comes of the Western Empire and commander of the Legions in Thrace, stopped abruptly, his leather boots sinking into soft, muddy ground. Without waiting for his train of aides and bodyguards to stop, he seized the bowstave of the nearest soldier between his thumbs. The soldier, an archer and swordsman in Alexandros' Gothic legion, stiffened in fear. Alexandros ignored the man, his entire attention on the heavy laminate of horn and wood and glue comprising the long limb of the bow. As he had passed a discoloration in the cream-colored horn caught his eye. The Macedonian's thumbs ground at the thick laminate and suddenly the glue gave way and cracked and the long arm of the bow toppled over, hitting the soldier on the head.

  Alexandros hissed in anger, one hand brushing unruly hair out of his face. He wrenched the remains of the bow out of the man's wooden bow case and split it lengthwise with ease. All of the glue was rotten and the bone turned a sickly green. Mold was growing in the laminate. Anger washed across the Macedonian's cleanshaven face, then vanished.

  "Syntagmarch!" Alexandros' voice was a harsh, deep shout. The Macedonian had an unpleasant voice, but it carried clearly across a battlefield. A tall, thin man at the end of the column turned sharply and jogged down the line of legionaries to Alexandros. The file-commander loomed over Alexandros, but he seemed pale and uncertain. "Your name is Valamer. You are responsible for this syntagma?"

  The Goth nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight. Alexandros' face was a blank, eyes snapping with anger. "I want to see every man's bow and arms. Now."

  Valamer nodded, then turned to face the syntagma. Four ranks of forty men stood in a rough rectangle along the side of the road. Their attendants were clustered behind them, holding horses and pack mules and sitting on the biscuit wagons. Valamer took a deep breath, then bellowed out: "All ranks! Present arms for inspection!"

  Alexandros watched the legionaries carefully, seeing hesitation in their movements as they set their bow cases on the ground. Many of the men looked sick, or ill, and one young Goth, long blond hair hanging on either side of his face in braids, was trembling as he drew out his bow and laid it on a cloth. Others seemed more composed, drawing longswords from their scabbards and laying them out.

  Behind the Macedonian, his aides clumped up, puzzled. The road through the camp was clear for the moment, but men from other syntagma would soon pass by. Rumor flickered through the sprawling camp like a fire in dry grass and soldiers were more curious than cats. Keeping his face entirely impassive, Alexandros paced to the beginning of the first row of men. He was already displeased, just seeing the fear in their faces. At the same time, there was a cool sense of relief in his stomach—he could already guess how things were and he would take appropriate measures immediately, and then—perhaps—such a problem would not recur. He took his time, walking slowly, letting the men fidget and sweat.

  A dozen soldiers from other units were loitering in front of the log buildings the army had thrown up in the fields around Perinthus. More were coming and Alexandros wanted everyone to see what happened. By the time he reached the head of the first line of men, at least two-dozen curious onlookers were watching.

  "Soldier," he growled, "show me your bow."

  The l
ead man—a senior noncommissioned officer, what the Western army would call an optimate—held out a long, curved bow in stiff hands. Alexandros took the weapon, and ran a hand along the smooth upper limb, tracing the S-curve and digging the corner of a nail into the thin lines of glue holding the bone and willow laminate together.

  The weapon was modeled on the Hunnic horse bow, but heavier and faster to produce. The "Alexandrine" bow was not designed for use from horseback, but rather while standing in serried ranks. The Macedonian knew, from stolen books, a trained man could loose six shafts within a minute's time. An arrow flung from this recurved bow, driven by a strong man's shoulder and arm, could punch straight through the heavy pine laminate shields favored by the Legions or even the overlapping iron armor of the Persian or Roman heavy horse. Alexandros imagined a battle line of nearly a thousand Peltasts supporting his main body of pikemen. Arranged in three or four ranks, the Peltasts fill the air with an unceasing, constant rain of arrows. Should an enemy cavalry charge manage to break through the arrow storm, they would face the hoplites and their eighteen-foot spears, also arrayed in ranks.

  Alexandros knew, from long experience, the phalanx was unbreakable if composed of disciplined, veteran, properly trained men. He was also sadly aware a gulf of nearly seven hundred years separated him from the last true phalanx army. Rome had eclipsed the Greek city-states and their armies of hoplites. This little army was a ghost of the power he once employed. Still, he would do what he could with the time and materials at hand.

  He finished his inspection of the bow. The glue and laminate seemed sound. The centurion's sword was well oiled and free from rust. Alexandros grunted, gave the man his weapons back, then moved on to the next soldier in line. This time, as he bent the bow in his hands, he heard a creaking sound, and—sure enough—the laminate was cracking, warped by moisture. Alexandros made no comment, returning the shaking, pale-faced soldier his weapon. So he went along the lines of men, testing each bow with his own hands, examining their armor, sword and dagger. Some men carried axes or maces as well, and these weapons were also subjected to a close scrutiny.

  "You men," he shouted, at last, when he stood before them, "are soldiers in the army of the Republic of Rome. You have sworn oaths to the Emperor, to serve faithfully, to stand your ground, to obey the orders of your superior officers."

  The sun had climbed far into the sky, and the day was hot and very humid. Standing at inspection, in their mailed shirts and leather bracings, the men sweated furiously and some looked rather wilted. Alexandros, himself, did not feel the burning sun and many of his men had remarked, quietly, and only to close companions, the general seemed tireless and it was widely known he rarely slept.

  "You are not children," Alexandros barked, cold voice ringing in their ears. "More than half of your weapons are useless, pitted with rust or split in this damp climate. Your armor is likewise rusted, with loose or rotted straps. You have failed to follow my direct orders: that each man's kit be spotless, that his arms and armor be kept in readiness, clean and free of rust, at all times, that he draw a heavy bow sixty times a day in practice, that by every third day each man should loose ten times forty arrows against a target."

  The cold dispassionate tone struck each man like a physical blow. In the back ranks, one of the younger men—a Gepid by the look of his wild red hair—staggered and nearly fell.

  "The lives of every man in this army are placed in peril by your failure. There must be a punishment, for I will not have men's lives spent uselessly. Syntagmarch Valamer, step forward!"

  The syntagmarch stepped away from the line, his face a mask, and stood before the Macedonian. Alexandros saw the man's weapons and armor were in moderate condition, though his sword hilt was chased with gold and his tunic was of fine-quality linen. Pride struggled with fear in the Goth's face and Alexandros remembered something of his history. Valamer was a chieftain, one of the Gothic amali—their most noble tribesmen. A man used to command and assured by an ancient tradition of unquestioning obedience.

  He knew the bows were ruined, the Macedonian thought, and could not bring himself to seek aid from the armorers, or from me. It was not the first time such a thing had happened. Caring for the bows was especially difficult in these humid lowlands—they needed to be stored, when not actually in use, in specially heated wooden boxes. A damp bow was useless.

  "You have failed me, soldier," Alexandros said, his voice carrying into the ranks. "My father once said this to me, and to my half-brother: there are no bad legionaries, only bad officers. You are at fault here, for you knew your duty and you did not carry it out."

  Alexandros gestured for the man's sword, and Valamer, face turning sickly gray, removed the spatha from its baldric and presented it to the general. The Macedonian hefted the sword in one hand, then removed it from the sheath in a quick, fluid movement. He raised it over his head.

  "This man, Valamer, a Goth, has shown himself unworthy of being syntagmarch! Therefore, until he redeems himself by deeds, he shall be no more than a common soldier, an attendant, who will hold the horses and gear of other men, while they fight!"

  The Goth blinked and breathed again, then his mouth settled into a tight line. In common course, only camp followers, or the wounded, or raw recruits held the horses of men in the line of battle. He was shamed, but he would not be killed out of hand. Alexandros did not return the sword, though he sheathed it again. The general did not look at Valamer and the Goth remained standing, swaying slightly, weaponless.

  "Many of you," Alexandros continued, his voice still cold, "followed this poor example and have not kept your bows dry, your arms and armor clean. I know this discipline is new to you, for many of you have come from brave nations, but those nations are not Rome. You will, therefore, learn to keep those tools which sustain life and bring victory as if they were a dear child."

  Alexandros' voice suddenly rose and his anger leaked through in a biting, acid tone.

  "Each man whose kit has failed inspection will be provided with new weapons and armor from stores, but his pay will be docked to account for this waste. Further... men know how to follow orders and do their duty; but children, boys, are oft remiss, for they have not learned the ways of men. Therefore, each man who has failed his duty will have his hair shorn and his beard shaved. You have acted like boys, now you will look the part, until you have learned discipline!"

  At these words, the soldiers gave out with a groan of fear. The Goths, Germans and particularly the Franks in the ranks were devastated. Some men, heedless, fell to their knees and began crying out, begging for forgiveness. Amid the tumult, Alexandros beckoned to Chlothar, the commander of all the Peltasts in the army. The big Frank's face was tight with anger and his liquid blue eyes were filled with pain. He too came into Alexandros' service with short, shorn hair—disgraced. The Macedonian saw the look in his eyes.

  "Chlothar, put your best syntagmarch with this unit for a few months. He should carry this sword while he commands. It is too fine a weapon to be wasted on a common soldier." Alexandros paused, lips quirking in an almost-smile at Valamer. "Take heart, if this were truly Rome, then one man in ten would be put to death for such failure. Chlothar, send this man Valamer to your best syntagma. He must learn he is no longer a chief, but a Roman soldier."

  Chlothar nodded, then beckoned over his under-officers. The wailing among the soldiers died down a little under his glare. The big Westerner enjoyed being forbidding and Alexandros encouraged him to be the "strong hand."

  The comes did not look back, but continued on with his inspection. As ever, he walked swiftly, head held a little to the side, looking sideways at the rows of tents or log buildings. It would be a long day, for he intended to inspect not only his own troops, but each Khazar and Eastern Empire regiment as well. He commanded a polyglot army, parts of which had suffered a terrible defeat. The Easterners, in particular, were demoralized. Alexandros had drilled them relentlessly, hoping to restore their spirit, but it was slow going. Soon
the combined army would take the field to drive the Persians back into Constantinople, or even beyond, and Alexandros was impatient to begin.

  —|—

  Dahvos, kagan of the Khazar people and bek of the war host fighting for the Emperor of the East, stared gloomily down at the harbor of Perinthus. His curly blond hair was tied back behind his head, though the damp air encouraged an untidy sprawl around his shoulders. Out of habit, even within the presumably safe confines of the town, he wore a heavy shirt of overlapping iron wedges over a thick felted shirt. He carried a round iron helmet with a tapered crown and ornamented chin guards under one muscular arm. A dark green cloak hung from broad, well-muscled shoulders and the worn bone hilts of a longsword hung from a leather baldric at his side.

  Below the Khazar prince, the harbor was busy with barges and boats swarming around the flanks of square-sailed merchantmen. Lines of men crowded the docks, boarding amid a confusion of wagons and horses and longshoremen and bales of goods. Tall standards surmounted by golden eagles and wreaths of silver laurel were being carried aboard the ships. Clusters of red-cloaked officers huddled among the throngs of men, deep in conversation. Soon the motley fleet would put to sea for Egypt.

  "What ails you, brother?"

  Another Khazar, this man taller, older, leaner, with rumpled black hair, leaned against the wall. Merriment danced in his blue eyes. Dahvos grimaced at Jusuf, then turned his attention back to the port. "I see our strength fleeing, and I wonder what the boy-king Alexandros is thinking. With the departure of the Western troops, only these Goths, our lancers and the Eastern Legions remain. Barely half the strength just defeated before Constantinople."

  Jusuf nodded, though he did not seem as disturbed as his half-brother. "You heard what those fishermen said—the Persian fleet left the city, and many soldiers crowded the decks of their ships. Don't you think most of the Persians have left as well? Even the Eastern officers seem convinced the dreadful Boar has turned his attention elsewhere."