Shadow of Ararat ки-1

by Thomas Harlan

  Nikos paled. The prospect of hobnobbing with more than a hundred officers, nearly all of them of noble birth, filled him with dread. Better a thousand screaming woad-blue Picts charging your position than a general staff meeting. Thyatis was still smiling though, so it couldn’t be that bad.

  “Settle down,” she said, pulling a knife from her belt and spinning the blade around its point on the top of the crate. “I disagreed, politely, and promised to be unobtrusive. There seems to be trouble brewing between the two armies. He doesn’t want to rock the galley right now.”

  Nikos rubbed his nose, thinking.

  “How are you going to avoid notice?” he asked, thinking of her with her looks and hair and attitude among the bearded nobles of the East or the stiff-backed Western officers. There was surely going to be trouble of it. The word that the Legion commanders were at each other’s throats was all over the city. Brawling between the soldiers only one incident away. Though neither Heraclius nor Galen had affected to notice it yet did not make it go away.

  Much of the problem sprang from the simple fact that while the Western Empire had clung tenaciously to the mil itary organization of the early Empire, the East had not. Where the Western forces were in the numerical minority, they had a clearly defined chain of command. The Eastern army that was gathering was more a collection of personal retainers, each under its own warlord, than a professional army. The Western officers expected there to be a single overall commander, preferably their own Emperor, while the Eastern lords all demanded a voice in the course of the expedition. The Western troops and officers spoke Latin, the Easterners Greek or Aramaic. This was just the beginning of the difficulties, mused Nikos, watching his commander with a worried eye.

  How will they accept her? he wondered. We accept her, even though she is younger than most of us, save Tycho, and a woman besides. Why is that? he questioned himself. We follow her without question, she is our commander, yet by no precedent should that be so…He shook the thought away. It was not germane to the situation. She was his commander. Even when he had first met her, it seemed only natural that she should lead and he should follow. Her shoulders are broad enough to carry us, he thought, and nodded to himself.

  Thyatis had turned away from her lieutenant and threw an apple core at the crowd of gamblers in the corner. It bounced off the partially turbaned head of a Syrian. The Syrian looked up, scandalized, but his handsome face cleared when he saw who had thrown it.

  “Anagathios, get your perfumed buttocks over here. I’ve a question.”

  The Syrian gathered up the pile of coin in front of him, pocketed the dice, and sauntered over to the little desk. He knelt on the floor next to Thyatis and prostrated himself with a great flourish.

  Thyatis grinned but cuffed him on the side of his head. “Stop trying to look up my dress, I’m not wearing one.” She grabbed on his ears and dragged his head up. He put on a pained expression, and his mouth dragged down in a doleful grimace. He spread his hands wide in supplication.

  Thyatis leaned close. “Do you still have your box of mummers’ paints?”

  Anagathios nodded in the affirmative and pointed off into the pile of bedrolls and kit.

  “Go get it,” she said, slapping the side of his head affectionately. “I’ve work for you to do before evening comes.”

  The Syrian sprang up from his crouch and then fairly bounded away into the gloom to the rows of packs. Thyatis shook her head in amusement. She turned back to Nikos, but her face was concerned now. He knew that face. It was the mission face.

  “Do we have anyone that speaks Valach well? I mean really well.”

  Heraclius, Augustus Caesar Oriens, looked down the long marble table with something akin to disgust in his heart. Though his impassive face showed none of the growing rage within him, his eyes were beginning to betray his temper. Theodore, sitting at his side and a little lower, nudged his arm gently and shook his head. Heraclius sighed; his impetuous younger brother was the one he was supposed to keep in check, not the other way around. To his left hand, in watchful silence, sat the Western Emperor, Galen, his Legion commanders, and a few underofficers and couriers. To his right, in loud confusion, milled the thematic commanders, their aides, in two cases their concubines, and a constant procession of underlings. Of them, only Mikos Andrades, the drungaros of the fleet, showed any sign of organization or respect.

  At last, Heraclius rose, his face carefully ordered, and tapped loudly on the tabletop with the hilt of his dagger. The sharp sound rang off the marble and through the whole long chamber. Some of the Eastern commanders looked around and, grudgingly, began seating themselves. After almost ten minutes there was something approaching quiet in the room. Heraclius looked them over slowly.

  The comparison between the richly attired and bejeweled Eastern commanders, each a Duke or better, commanding thematic provinces from Egypt to Anatolia, with their beards and long curled hair, and the little collection of Romans on the opposite side of the table grated on Heraclius. The Eastern Empire had not been ravaged with plague, invasion, and civil war like the West, yet for all the robust survival of the East, the Western officers carried themselves better, were politer, and more… Roman… than the rabble that Heraclius had struggled to lead for the last five years.

  “Gentlemen,” he said at last, “today we are to discuss the planning and execution of the greatest Roman military expedition in almost two hundred years. The specifics of our intent have been discussed with all of you separately, either in person or by letter, so I will not belabor them.

  “I will, however, formally- introduce my counterpart in the west, the Augustus Martius Galen Atreus, who stands together with me today as no Emperors of East and West have done since the time of Constantine the Great. We are of like mind, we see that a bold stroke is necessary to resolve the threats to the Eastern Empire…”

  This was too much for one of the Dukes, and Theoplanes surged to his feet, shouting.

  “Bold! Reckless and suicidal is more like it! What of Thrace and Achaea, which lie under the Avar yoke? What of the army of barbarians that besiege this city? What of the Persian army encamped within sight of this palace, across the waters in Chalcedon? You have had bold plans before, Augustus.Caesar, but they have been failures, expensive failures!”

  Heraclius surveyed the crowd of nobles and officers, ignoring the ranting of the Thracian duke for the moment. Theophanes was right; past efforts to drive back both the Persians and the Avars had been disasters. In his heart, Heraclius wondered if the entire Eastern Empire was cursed, or if, at least, he was. His support among the remaining nobles was very slim, which was only one of many reasons that he was very glad that Galen and the Westerners were in the city. Not only did Galen’s Legions give him troops that would support him personally, but also they showed the citizens of the city, as well as the nobles, that he was still Emperor.

  “Lord Theophanes, sit. I know what has happened before. I know the setbacks we have suffered. But the state of affairs remains this: The Avars cannot take the city unless they can bring a fleet against us. They have neither the skills nor the facilities to build ships to match ours. This means that the only way they can take the city is if the Persians are able to cross the Propontis. The only way to cross the Propontis is if the Persians have a fleet. Though the Royal Boar sits in Chalcedon in my Summer Palace, eating figs from my orchards and drinking wine from my vinyards, he does not have a fleet. If, however, the Persians take Antioch, or Tyre, or Alexandria from us, then they could build one. So, the Persians are the true enemy. If they are defeated, then we can turn against the Avars and run them back into Dacia with their tails between their legs.”

  Theophanes was still standing, but the vehemence in Heraclius’ voice had stilled him, and his courtiers, in low whispers, urged him back to his seat. Eventually, with the air of bestowing a great favor, he did so. Well, Heraclius thought sourly, that is past at least… He tapped Theodore on the shoulder. The Prince rose, bowed to the Western
Emperor, nodded to the Legion officers and ignored the Eastern nobles. With the assistance of one of his aides, he unfolded a long parchment map on a wooden frame, then took his place beside it.

  “My lords, this is the eastern half of the Empire, from Pontus Polemoniacus in the north on the Sea of Darkness to Arabia Felix in the south on the Sinus Arabicus. As my brother has alluded, the Persians have thrown their armies forward to Chalcedon in the west and Antioch in the south. By good fortune their advance south against Palestina and thence to Egypt has been halted for the past nine months by the presence of the Shahr-Baraz here, beyond the Propontis. We expect, however, for this to change soon. Luckily for the continued grain supply of the city, the approaches to Egypt are blocked by our allies, the kingdoms of Palmyra and Nabatea.“

  Theodore paused and glanced aside at his brother. Her-aclius shook his head minusculely and the Prince skipped forward over that part of the plan. “Our forces have almost completed gathering here, in the western end of the Eastern Empire. Once the muster is complete, we will leave the city by ship under the cover of darkness. Now, our spies in Chalcedon and the ports of the East have circulated that our intent is to sail an expedition north, into the Sea of Darkness, past Sinope, to Trapezus. From there, this purported expedition will march south, gathering the support of the Armenians and cutting off the Persian armies that are still to the west of this line of advance. By this means we could force the Persians to abandon all of Anatolia and Cilicia.”

  The Eastern lords were abuzz now, for this very plan had already been related to them by their spies as well as by various officers of the Imperial Court. It had made good sense, and for this reason they had agreed to meet with the Emperor. Now, however, it seemed that the plan would be changed. None stood, however, to put the question to the Prince.

  Theodore waited until they subsided before continuing. “This will not be our plan. Despite the long alliances that the Empire has held with the kingdoms of Armenia and Lazica, they are unwilling to join us in this campaign. The state, frankly, is too poor to bribe them, and we do not have the men to spare in fighting our way through the mountains. We will use a different axis of attack. Both Emperors are united in the belief that only way to defeat the Persians is to strike against their heartland, the provinces between the city of their.capital at Rayy and Ctesiphon. It is not enough to defeat their armies, though we will surely have to do that as well, but we must capture their centers of religious and political power.“

  Theodore turned again to Heraclius, who now stood‘. He surveyed the assembled nobles and officers with a gimlet eye. He needed these men, their troops and their gold, to carry out his plan. In a moment of odd clarity, he understood that they were as surely his enemies as the Persians or the Avars, the more dangerous because he had to rely on them. In their faces he saw, in varying degrees, treachery in the desire for power, for gold, for dominance over their fellow men. For the moment, and only for the moment, he was their master. Slowly he took a battered iron dagger out of the folds of his brocaded robe and placed it on the ta-bletop.

  “This is the blade of my father,” he said. “What you will now be told must remain in strict confidence among those assembled in this room. The plan that my brother has outlined is what we desire the Persians to learn, but what he will now tell you is what they must not learn. The betrayal of this confidence will earn you death, by my hand, by this blade. Do you swear secrecy in this?”

  There was a moment of silence, and then the Western Emperor rose, his face stern, like a statue cut from Minoan marble. His men rose at his back.

  “I, Martius Galen Atreus, Augustus Caesar Occidens, so swear.”

  His men, as one voice, echoed their master. The Western contingent sat. Heraclius turned his gaze to the easterners. They were eyeing one another, uncertain of this new tack. At last, the drungaros of the fleet stood. He was a thick-bodied man with a thick black beard and beetling eyebrows. His garb was plain, a cotton tunic with the emblem of the fleet upon it, a mail shirt underneath. Alone among the commanders of the East, he had been elevated to his position by means of ability and skill. He turned to Heraclius.

  “I, Mikos Andrades, drungaros of the fleet of the Eastern Empire, so swear.”

  With some reluctance, the other nobles swore as well, finally sitting.

  Theodore resumed.

  “The fleet will sail south, rather than north, first to Cyprus and then to the port of Tarsus. We know that the Persians hold Tarsus only lightly, and the army will seize it. From this port the army will disembark the fleet and then march with good speed northeast to Samosata on the old border with the province of Osrhoene. If our reports are to the good, the Persian army that had been encamped at An-tioch will have already marched away south, to capture He-liopolis and then Damascus on its way to Egypt. Engaged as it is against the Palmyrenes and Nabateans, this army will then be unable to prevent the movement of our force deep into southern Armenia, to the Persian city of Tauris, beyond Lake Thospitis.

  “At or before Tauris, our armies shall meet our allies in this expedition, the forces of the Khazar Kagan. From Tauris we shall strike farther east, towards Rayy in Tabar-istan, before turning south to come down upon Ecbatana and Khermanshah before striking at Ctesiphon not from the west, as we have always done, but from the* north. In this way the Persians will be cut off from their traditional retreat into the highlands. Their capital shall fall and their Empire with it.”

  The Eastern lords looked on with a variety of sour expressions. Heraclius could see that they felt the plan far too ambitious. No matter, he thought, we will win this time or the East will fall into the same darkness that almost consumed the West.

  Theophanes rose again, with a considering look upon his face. The Thracian glanced up and down the eastern side of the table speculatively. “Now, Avtokrator, this is a bold plan indeed, and I can see that there is both the possibility of victory as well as the possibility of considerable loot to be had. No Roman army has ever gone beyond Ctesiphon; the lands beyond it must be rich indeed. The Khazars are well feared for their horsemen. I agree that this is the plan to follow. I have only one small question.“

  Heraclius sat up a little in his seat; he suspected what the Thracian would ask next, and inwardly he smiled in anticipation. He motioned for Theophanes to go ahead.

  “Who will lead this expedition? Which general, which lord will carry out your plan?”

  The shouting began immediately and Heraclius settled back in his high-backed chair to watch with interest as the great lords bickered with one another. On the left side of the table the Westerners, who already knew what Heraclius had decided, had called for wine and something to eat. It was going to take awhile at this rate. The Eastern Emperor let them argue among themselves for a time, carefully gauging who thought himself the strongest, who had the alliance of whom. At last he tired of the game and rapped on the tabletop again. He was ignored, so he nodded to Theodore. Theodore stood, took a breath, and then thundered, in his best battlefield voice:

  “The Emperor would speak!”

  Echoes died and the lords of the Eastern Empire slowly turned to their nominal master. Remaining seated, Heraclius toyed with the dagger for a moment, then he said simply: “I will take personal command of the expedition.”

  For more than a mere moment, silence absolute reigned around the table. The faces of the thematic lords were studies in puzzlement, alarm, and outright fear. No Emperor had essayed to lead the armies of the Eastern Empire to battle in over two hundred thirty years. The very thought that the Emperor should stand on the field of battle at the side of the fighting men was unthinkable. Heraclius glanced over at Galen, who smiled a little, and spoke again.

  ‘These are desperate times, as has been repeatedly pointed out. The legionnaires, the people, expect their Emperor to defend them and their families. I can think of no better way to show that I mean nothing but victory than to go myself. It also resolves the question of who will lead, for Galen and I will comma
nd the armies of the Empire, as it was in the beginning.“

  Behind Galen, the Western underofficers stood forward from the wall, raising their arms in salute. “Ave! Ave Caesar! Thou conquerest!” The Eastern lords stared back at them in puzzlement; in some the sense that a new and unexpected factor was forcing itself upon them began to grow. Theodore rolled up his map and, with his aides in tow, departed the room. The other lords milled about but then began to disperse as well. Heraclius continued to sit, watching their faces as they left. At his side, Andrades remained until all of the others were gone save the Western Emperor and two of his aides. The room was quiet and a servant entered and began blowing the lamps out.

  “Avtokrator,” Andrades said quietly, “your oath was stirring, but I doubt that these words will stay in confidence for more than a day or pair of days.”

  Heraclius nodded and looked to Galen and the two young men who stood behind him. The Western Emperor smiled. “Drungaros Andrades, sometimes it is necessary to set bait to find the fox. So we have done tonight. My hunters”-he gestured at the blond youth with only a trace of beard on his left-“are waiting to see what is flushed.”

  Andrades stroked his beard, still lush though now shot with streaks of white, considering the poised young man at the western Emperor’s side. Then he eyed Heraclius. “A risk, Avtokrator. What if the Persians get wind of it? What if someone escapes the net? The Boar has at least one sorcerer in his camp across the water. They could send a message to Chrosoes in Ctesiphon and a new army could be raised to meet you in the highlands as you march to Tauris. There would be nowhere1 to retreat to.”

  “The Persians will know sooner or later,” Heraclius answered. “Our ploy here is to see who in the city is in the pay of the Avars or their Persian allies. Despite the speed of a wizard, Shahr-Baraz still has to march himself and his men back to Syria. Our fleet is vastly faster. We can beat him to any location on the coast that he tries to reach. I am more concerned with treachery here, at home, than with the Persian army.“