Not every corpse—even those stirred to unnatural life for the attack on the city—would suit this new endeavor. Each body, as Khalid was now far too aware, needed to have a certain... composition... to allow stowage in the holds of the fleet. The corpses of those freshly slain still maintained cohesion, if they had not been torn limb from limb or gnawed to the bone. The ancient dead—almost petrified by ages in the dry air—were equally suitable. The rest, threatening to spread disease to the living and foul the air with rampant putrefaction, had been consigned to enormous fiery pits dug outside the city walls. The ditch in front of the Roman wall had proved very suitable.
Khalid struggled against a constant, inner chill when he focused on anything beyond his own booted feet. The fall of a city usually generated plenty of captives—officers to be ransomed, men to be recruited or repatriated in exchange for one's own prisoners taken by the enemy, hapless merchants caught taking the wrong coin, mercenaries eager for new contracts. But not this time. Instead, the animate dead—the gaatasuun—had been driven by a whip-like will to hunt down and kill every legionnaire.
Dangerous, very dangerous. How will the Romans treat us, if we fall into their hands? Khalid thought to himself, though at the same time he grasped the cold, calculated reality of the act. The bodies of the Romans had been carefully gathered, reunited with their arms and armor—weapons tied to the corpse-limbs with hempen twine, helmets nailed to rotting scalps—and sent aboard the fleet. The young Arab trotted up a ramp of broad sandstone steps and found the man he had been seeking.
"My lord," Khalid called to the hulking, powerful shape of Shahr-Baraz. The King of Kings turned, raising a bushy eyebrow at the young man.
"Lord Khalid, what brings you to the port today?"
"Good news, I suppose," the Eagle answered. He failed to banish a sickly, pained expression from his face. "The last of the... the harrows are filled and ready to load onto the fleet." Khalid made a vague gesture encompassing the sweep of the harbor, the outer breakwater, the enormous towering shape of the Pharos and the busy docks. The waters, shimmering almost white in the full summer sun, were crowded with countless ships. Their sails furled, the fleet made a confusing forest of polished masts, rigging and canvas shades suspended over open decks. Odenathus' latest count placed their number at just over two hundred vessels considered reliable for the open sea.
The King of Kings nodded, his own expression ambivalent. He scratched the base of his chin thoughtfully and Khalid gained a distinct impression of a man struggling with unwelcome duty. "Will loading the kameredha be complete today?"
Khalid nodded, focusing on the shining, white-marble sides of the lighthouse. Heat rising from the water made the building—only a mile distant—shimmer in slow, rolling waves. "By nightfall, I hope. I do not think the longshoremen will work after the sun sets."
"Nor will this cargo be disturbed by thieves... Our living crews will go aboard tomorrow morning." Shahr-Baraz fixed the young Arab with a piercing, considering stare. "You seem out of sorts, young general." The Persian did not smile, though a faint amusement sparkled in his deep-set eyes. "I must say, for myself, I never expected to command a Roman army in my life. But the lord of the world is not without his own grave humor."
Khalid started, turning pale at the jest. "Do you find this amusing?"
Shahr-Baraz nodded, hooking his thumbs into a broad, tooled leather belt. He sat up on the stone railing around the observation platform. "You're young, al'Walid. The enmity between Rome and Persia must seem eternal to you. When I was young, I fought alongside men of the Eastern Empire in our war against the usurper and legionaries marched in the streets of Ctesiphon with flowers wound in their helmets as the common people cheered them as saviors. That, young Eagle, was an odd circumstance."
Khalid nodded jerkily, his forearms resting on the warm, smooth stone. "I have heard the stories. I just... this war of sorcery is not... what I wanted, when we set out from Mekkah."
"What did you want?" Shahr-Baraz's rumbling voice was almost quiet. "Honor? Clean glory, won over a lance or sword, in fair, open struggle? Two champions facing one another over dusty ground—and victory turning on the outcome of a single passage at arms?"
Khalid looked away, unable to meet the older man's too-understanding gaze. "I guess... I did."
"Like in a song or story. I had those dreams myself, long ago. But this is the way of things—you chase a half-glimpsed hind and find only sticky, painful reality in your hands." The Boar chuckled. "But our deeds will be a song—if not already—all the smell and stink and sleeplessness and terror winnowed out, never to trouble the thoughts of the young."
"Yes." Khalid felt his heart shrink to agree and a pit opened in his stomach at the prospect of such a cruel end to his dreams of glory. With an effort, he turned his thoughts away from the ruin wrought by circumstance. "How many living men are we taking?"
"As few as I can manage," the king said, one big scarred hand tugging gently at his long nose. "The ship's crews and longshoremen, my own guards, ourselves. I am thinking—the Queen agrees—but you should know, to leave Jalal and Shadin in command of the Egyptian garrison. They are reliable old dogs from what I've seen, and they will not lack for work in our absence."
"Good," Khalid said, feeling his gloomy mood lift. "They can command the Sahaba in my absence. I... I was thinking to leave them all here, all of the men who came up from Mekkah and the Nabateans and most of the Palmyrenes, save those we need to pilot and steer and crew the ships." The younger man's voice almost trembled and he realized he was on the verge of begging.
"I agree," Shahr-Baraz said softly, clapping Khalid on the shoulder. "The Queen has already seen to the assignments and ordering of our fleet and army. She has some experience in these matters." He leaned close. "The Serpent will take his Huns and that wolf C'hu-lo to command them in battle and his cold servants and I will take certain picked men of the pushtigbahn and those we must, but I am sending most of the younger men home, and others will garrison here and there, out of harm's way."
The young Eagle's eyes widened and his hand moved in an abortive sign against ill luck. Despite the fallacy of keeping anything secret if the Serpent turned his attention directly upon them, Khalid's voice fell to a whisper. "You... you and the Queen think we will lose?"
Shahr-Baraz's face twisted into a rueful grimace. He tilted his head to one side. "What if we win? Would that be any better? In the end, all that matters is for the Serpent to live as long as possible. I am growing tired of seeing my men die in his service."
The king looked up at the huge white disk of the sun, shading his eyes with one hand. He sighed, feeling the warmth flood his bones and settle into his chest. Motion in the upper air caught his eye and he squinted, lifting his chin. "Look."
Khalid stared upwards as well, relieved to look away from the wagons rattling past below, each heaped high with rope-bound bodies and gleaming white skulls. An irregular V of birds drifted on the upper air, heading south. At this distance, they were pale cream against a cerulean sky.
"Cranes," Shahr-Baraz said. "The first to head south for the mountains of Axum and Ethiop. Soon, there will be thousands upon thousands. The seasons turn, lad, regardless of what we do."
"Yes," Khalid said, finding no solace in the sight of the glossy, white creatures. "I suppose."
Shahr-Baraz tossed his head, letting heavy black curls shot with gray fall over his shoulder. "Your mood will lift, I think. See—here is a man whose ugly face will cheer you." The king pointed down the steps with his chin.
Khalid turned and saw a tall Persian climbing the stairs, armor gray under tattered desert robes, solemn face creased by the smallest possible smile. "Patik!" Khalid stepped forward, clasping forearms with the big Persian soldier. "Or Prince Shahin, I suppose I should say."
"Patik is better," the diquan replied, crushing the Arab's arm with a powerful grip. "The Serpent Lord is no longer pleased with the great prince Suren-Pahlavi."
"What happened
?" Khalid looked to the king in alarm and found the Boar nodding in dour agreement.
"I failed to find our sorcerer his ancient trinket." Patik rubbed his neck. "Though I believe I caught a glimpse of the cursed thing once, at distance."
"Too bad," Khalid said, trying not to grin in delight to find his old friend still alive. "What about your men?"
Patik shook his head dolefully. The young Arab sighed. "I'm sorry."
"Another failed hunt," Patik said, bowing politely to Shahr-Baraz. "Your pardon, Great Lord."
The greeting drew a sharp bark of laughter from the king. Shahin's new sense of humility was far preferable to his old hauteur, which had only gained him contempt. "You look well, Shahin, and I am glad you live, though I begrudge even the deaths of your flea-bitten desert jackals. Particularly in Rustam's service."
"Thank you, my lord." Patik looked out at the fleet. "The Queen sent me to find you. She says everything is in readiness, waiting only upon the wind and tide."
Shahr-Baraz stepped away from the wall, settling the leather harness and straps holding his diverse weapons. Swords, maces and dagger clanked against each other. The king squinted at the eastern sky, then to the south. "The fishermen say there will be a morning breeze as this dust cloud turns and we will make good headway out of the harbor." He looked to the west, his expression hardening. "And we shall see the mountains of Sicilia in a week, or ten days at the most."
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Roma Mater
"Mistress, you must wake up!" A small, firm hand gripped Anastasia's shoulder and a flare of candlelight fell across her sleepy face. The Duchess blinked, recognized alarm in the girl's voice and struggled to clear her mind of sleep. Yawning, she sat up, throwing back a light sheet. She had slept poorly—the night was too warm for comfort.
"What has happened?"
Constantia ducked her head nervously, a candle bobbing in one small hand, the other holding back gauzy netting draped around the couch. The maid was half-dressed in her nightgown and the sleeping porch was entirely dark. Anastasia made a face, seeing the waning moon high in the sky. What time is it?
"One of your watchers came to the garden gate," Constantia said, words tumbling over one another in a rush. "The Praetorians have marched out of their camp without horns or trumpets, weapons muffled in cloth, cloaks drawn over their faces."
The Duchess came entirely awake, the fog of sleep blown away. The cantonment of the Imperial Guard was on the northern edge of the city. No more than two hours march from the Forum. "What about the Urban Cohorts?"
Constantia licked pale, pink lips. "Another runner came—the Urban Prefect sent his men home last night, their barracks are locked and deserted."
"Oh, black day," Anastasia grunted, rising from the couch. "Get me clothing—quickly now, child! And boots, not slippers. And a watchman's lantern. Maxentia!" The Duchess' clear voice rang through the pillars and halls. "Where are you?"
Without waiting for her maids, Anastasia hurried across an octagonal gazebo redolent with orange blossoms and into the villa itself. By the time she reached her winter bedroom, both girls had returned and the cook stuck her head in one of the doors, holding a lantern high.
"Good," the Duchess said, seeing the older woman. "There will be trouble in the city today," she said briskly, "and perhaps riots. Mallia, everyone must get out of the house before the sun rises—scatter the slaves to our farms, and everyone else should go stay with their relatives. Everyone should discard any token of service to this house, or to the Archer! Constantia, where is my purse?"
The maid pressed a heavy leather bag lined with silk into Anastasia's hands. She considered the weight of metal, wondering how badly things would go. "Maxentia, dress for travel and take one of the horses down to Ostia port before the city gates are closed to all traffic—which will be soon! Tell my agent in the port to close his shop and warn off any of our ships making landfall. Anyone in port should go to... to..." She scowled, failing to think of a safe harbor. "...to safety!"
The Duchess sat, tying back a cloud of unruly hair, her legs sticking straight out. Constantia buckled riding boots onto her mistress' small feet. Anastasia glared at the cook and the other maid. "Go! Now! There is no time to waste. Not today."
Wiggling her feet into the boots, the Duchess nodded. "Good enough. Now, Constantia, there are many papers in my study and I have to leave immediately. You must take everything marked with blue twine away to the house on the Ianiculan Hill—I will meet you there later—and all other correspondence must be burned and the ashes sifted. In particular, you must destroy all of the pay records. Do you understand?"
The girl swallowed nervously, but nodded. Anastasia fixed her with a steady glare, plush lips tightening in consideration. Will she do this properly? I hope so. There's not time for a more thorough evacuation... and Betia is not here. Curse the snip of a girl for haring off on some useless adventure!
"I will be back later," the Duchess said, waving Constantia away. "Get busy, child!"
When the maid had run off down the hallway, Anastasia knelt and dragged a heavy wooden box from under her bed. Inside, she found a sheathed knife and the leather and wire apparatus of a spring-gun. Gritting her teeth, the Duchess hid the knife in the girdle of her tunic and stola. The oiled leather arm brace of the spring-gun still fit on her left arm—which surprised her, so long had it been since she donned the weapon—and the release ring fit snug to her thumb.
The glass is spilling too fast, Anastasia thought as she pushed the garden gate closed. The sky was still dark, without even a hint of the sun behind the eastern mountains. Hushed voices and the clatter of men and women moving baggage followed her down the narrow alley.
—|—
"Halt! Who goes there?" A rough shout filled the night. A young man on a well-traveled horse reined in, letting the stallion puff and paw on the street pavers. Torches flared, casting a wayward red glow on the faces of soldiers barring the gate. The young man pulled back the hood of his riding cloak, revealing rugged features and light brown hair.
"My name is Ermanerich," he called to the legionaries milling about in the courtyard of the house of Gregorius Auricus. "I've just arrived from the north with messages for Master Gaius Julius. Is he here?"
"He is!" boomed a commanding, glad voice. "He is here, young prince!"
Gaius Julius himself pushed through the crowd of soldiers, face brimming with a smile. The Goth swung down from his horse and tentatively embraced the unfamiliar Roman. Gaius brushed dust from the prince's riding cloak and raised an eyebrow at Ermanerich's stubbled chin and vexed eye.
"Well met, my lord," Gaius Julius said, "a propitious night for you to come, but I'm surprised—"
"To see me?" Ermanerich glanced around, puzzled by the appearance of the legionaries standing at arms. They were dressed differently than the Easterner legionaries or even his own Goths. They were taller, stockier, with fur-lined cloaks entirely unsuitable for the Roman summer. He leaned close to the older man, still unsure why so many men would be out—armed and armored—at such an hour. "Alexandros bade me find you straightaway when we reached Rome... should I return at another time?"
The old Roman winked saucily, shaking his head. "Tonight, you need to be here with me, and I bless the gods who set your impatient feet on the road to Rome. What of your men?"
"Still a day's march away," the Goth growled, suddenly impatient. "I have received many letters from the Emperor, urging speed. Are we truly supposed to be in Messina now? Is it true the Persians are landing at Sicilia?"
Gaius Julius made a quieting gesture. "Pax! This time of year, you're only three days from landfall at Messina by sea. If your Goths need be there, I will arrange ships to carry you."
"Fine. Who are these men?" Ermanerich kept a hand on his horse's bridle—the stallion was tired, but still game, and the young Goth was not a man to mislay fine horseflesh. Particularly not among these Roman scoundrels. Everyone seemed on edge and there was a harsh, brittle smell
in the air, reminding him of the last hour before battle.
"These are men from the Legio Eight Augusta," Gaius said, moving towards the gate, his voice rising as he moved. "These Gallic Bulls have come down from Germany as reinforcements—and never more welcome than tonight!" The old Roman hopped up on a step just inside the wall. "Soldiers of Rome," he called out, drawing the attention of every man in the courtyard. "You've come to answer your Emperor's call to battle, ready to throw the Persians back and seize victory for the city, the Senate and the people. But tonight—as your officers and I have just learned—you've a more desperate task." Gaius looked around, resting one hand on Ermanerich's muscular shoulder. A hundred men, or more, looked back, tense and attentive. "We've learned there is a mutiny among the Praetorians in their camp beyond Tiburtina. Rebellious cohorts are marching on the Palatine, intending to murder the Emperor Galen and acclaim their own tribune, Motrius, as king instead!"
A hoarse shout and a growl of anger answered the bold words and Gaius Julius nodded, gauging the men's response. "Yes—a black act of treachery against the Senate and the people, against you, whom Galen has always favored, always supported. Who has seen your pay raised? Galen! Who has increased the size of the retirement allotments? Galen!"
The legionaries answered him with a fierce shout, some clashing their spears against breastplate or shield. The old Roman swung his arm, pointing south across the city. "But we will not let them spill the blood of the Princeps or his family—no! We march to the Palatine ourselves, with haste, and we will find these traitors and we will cut them down like dogs, scattering their weak limbs, their corrupt hearts as grain is cast upon the threshing floor!"
"Aye!" boomed the legionaries and their officers were among them, shouting for order and quiet and a column of twos. Gaius Julius hopped down, flashing a quick smile at Ermanerich, who gave him a suspicious look.
"What is this?" the Goth whispered, clutching the dispatch bag to his chest. Everything seemed to be losing focus, as if the earth under his feet turned unsteady. "What are you doing?"
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