by Mia Marlowe
The admiral had pulled rowers from the starboard side and spread them thinly on both sides of the Imperial drommond, but the ship still moved sluggishly toward its berth. He marshaled a return volley of arrows toward the lion, but Erik saw that the counterattack didn't slow the advance of the other vessel by a single oar stroke.
He maneuvered the dhow into the path of the oncoming drommond and called to the emperor's craft. “Row for all you're worth! We'll be your rearguard.”
The emperor, who'd recently tried to separate Erik's head from his shoulders, nodded gravely to him, then took charge of the drommond’s escape. Erik's spirit lifted despite the desperateness of his situation.
“Bend your bows, men,” he bellowed.
The Varangians sent a hail of arrows toward the lion ship and screams carried across the water when some of them found a mark. A thin trail of smoke rose from Leo's drommond as its crew scurried about like ants on an upset hill.
“Look, Captain. She's on fire.”
“No,” Erik said as his last hope died. “She's preparing to make fire.”
* * *
Valdis watched from the top of the seawall as flames belched from the lion toward the dhow. Greek Fire danced across the waves, snaking ever closer to the smaller craft. The dhow writhed on the water, tacking and reefing to steer clear of the deadly flames. Behind Erik's ship, the Imperial vessel had won clear of the fight. Another fiery blast issued from the lion, and this time the dhow's sail flared like a candle. Smoke engulfed the harbor and Erik's vessel was lost to her sight.
But the sulfurous wind carried the screams of the dying to her ears.
Valdis covered her mouth with her hand to keep from crying out. No, it couldn't be so. Erik could not be dead. Surely the sun would cease sparkling on the water in a world where Erik was no more. Iron bands tightened around her ribs and she couldn't draw a breath.
It was her evil dream, come to life. The lion and the eagle sparred with each other. Then when the dragon appeared to separate them, the lion roared fire on him and the dragon sank in the boiling sea.
Her vision tunneled and before the darkness consumed her, one coherent thought raced through her brainpan.
She had the Sight, after all.
“A man’s heart is ever unpredictable. Who can know it?”
—from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus
Chapter 27
* * *
News of the disastrous reenactment swept like a firestorm through the great city. The tale was on every pair of lips and it grew larger and gorier with each telling. Those who'd been unable to secure a place on the seawall to watch would lament it for years.
Everyone agreed it was the most realistic battle spectacle every produced, and though there were casualties— pity about the Varangians, but they did deviate from the original battle plan, didn't they?—at least the emperor and his valiant nephew escaped unhurt.
There was confusion in some quarters for a time. The leader of the cotton-mongers guild insisted it seemed Leo Porphyrogenito was attacking the emperor's flagship at first instead of the barbaroi dhow. But Habib Ibn Mahomet, powerful magnate of the silk guild, put the lie to that notion.
“The eye can play tricks on a man. The emperor lives and the crewmen of the dhow are dead,” he said, spreading his hands in a self-effacing shrug. “If the emperor had been the target—May Allah the Merciful forbid!—then he would have joined the Varangian crew at the bottom of the harbor. When does the mighty Byzantine navy incinerate a ship by mistake?”
Meanwhile, the emperor made discreet inquiries about the intentions of his nephew. Even Basil II had to tread softly, for his nephew was gaining popularity by the week as he continued to give bread to the multitudes at the Hippodrome on a regular basis. The Imperial investigators found that Leo was not in command of the lion ship, as the citizenry supposed. According to reliable sources, he watched in fascinated horror from the rooftop of the palace with his clique of courtiers as his uncle battled for his life in the Harbor of Theodosius. To a man, they all swore that Leo wrung his hands in despair over the fact that he wasn't in a position to come to the Bulgar-Slayers aid.
In fact, if Leo could only locate the captain of his flagship, he'd happily turn the man over to the untender mercies of the Imperial Ministers of Truth for interrogation in the bowels of the Studion prison. The captain was nowhere to be found.
Some said they'd seen him lowered over the landwall in a basket near the church of the Virgin of Blanchernai.
But they didn't say it very loudly.
Valdis longed to stop the whispering voices altogether. The cataclysmic scene played over in her head often enough without hearing someone else's recollection of the events. She tormented herself with her own knife-sharp memories.
And with guilt.
If only she hadn't told Mahomet that there would be a surprise at the reenactment, perhaps the evil plot would never have been hatched. Erik would be out of her reach, but at least he'd still be alive.
She had no recollection of returning to the Arab's house after the disaster. Once the darkness of her sickness claimed her, no one had been able to wrest her from its grip. She learned that in the confusion, no sedan chairs could be found and Haukon, Erik's friend, had borne her home in his arms.
Concerned for his oracle, Mahomet called for Damian Aristarchus to come with his herbs to revive her. The chief eunuch stood watch over her bedside as her spirit wandered in deep darkness. When Valdis finally emerged from the fit, she couldn't speak at first and Damian counseled her not to try till she should gain her composure.
As if such a thing were possible.
She staggered through the days following that terrible one as if sleepwalking. Chloe had taught her to seize joy from every day, but there was none to be found. No light, no color, no sound could rouse her soul. All food and drink was bland and tasteless and every aromatic smell an affront to her senses.
How could she feel if Erik could not?
The one dim spot of hope was the fact that against all expectation, Mahomet not only allowed her to return to the Hagia Sophia, he encouraged it. After all, it was the site of her most recent vision. He reasoned that more would follow.
Every day, escorted by a gaggle of eunuchs, Valdis made the pilgrimage to her own personal shrine. She would pad softly through the massive basilica and up the ochre staircase to the gallery. There, with her forehead pressed against the runes Erik had carved, she wept till there were no more tears in her. Then she returned to the house of Mahomet, grateful to the once-hated burka she was forced to don for the way it covered her tear-washed face.
A spate of weeks passed, each day exactly like its predecessor. Every day, Mahomet would ask if she had received a new message and, despite Damian's warnings that she must think of something to satisfy her master, she reported that the spirit realm was silent. Damian dangled the promise of freedom before her, but that candle had dimmed to a mere glow in the distant future.
What would she do with freedom now?
There was still an hourglass of light left in this tedious day when she passed through the large gate of her master's home.
“The chief eunuch awaits your return,” the porter told her. “You'll find him on the roof. He's most anxious to see you. Seems he has a new herb for you to try.”
Valdis was too weary to protest, so she dutifully mounted the circular staircase that led to the lavish roof garden. She didn't particularly wish to see her old master. But slaves, even well-treated and coddled ones like herself, ultimately had no choices.
Except to choose joy, Chloe whispered in her mind.
No, there is no joy to choose .
Chloe's sparkling eyes and rasping laugh came back to taunt her. Then you are not as strong as you look. Her teacher's sibilant tones were clearly audible.
Valdis shook her head. She was hearing voices now. Perhaps she was sliding into madness. She was nearly past caring.
The roof garden at the top of Mahomet's splendid house c
overed one entire side of the square. There the silent gardeners coaxed orchids and hibiscus into perpetual bloom. Poppies nodded in clumps and several trees in gigantic pots graced the garden with shade and provided a home for the bright canaries that roosted in their limbs. It was calm and orderly and the only place in her palatial prison where Valdis cared to spend time.
Usually, she had to share the space with all of Mahomet's other women, listening to their gossip and vicious backbiting. The fact that Landina had yet to be found was a source of constant irritation. None of them sympathized with the unhappy Frank in the least.
Valdis noticed only Fatima, she of toothless fame, refrained from joining the chorus of praise for their master.
Valdis took comfort in Landina's continued freedom, but she feared it would be short-lived. Not only were Publius's henchmen still prowling by every city gate and harbor, she'd heard him tell Mahomet that riders had been dispatched on every trade route with descriptions of the missing girl, along with the offer of a lavish reward for information leading to her return.
Mahomet didn't need Landina. He had more women than days in the month and, if Valdis could credit the rumors, the silk merchant kept other harems in the many cities where he did business. Landina's escape wasn't a wound to his heart, but it was an affront to his authority. He wouldn't rest until she was once again in his power.
Valdis looked around the roof garden, pleased to see it deserted. She should have expected as much. As evening drew near, all the women engaged in beautification regimens in the hope of being chosen by the master.
It was an honor Valdis hoped never to win again.
She found Damian seated on one of the marble benches that dotted the garden. His olive skin was stippled by the shade of a tamarind tree. He must have visited Valdis’s chambers, for he had her slim volume of poetry in his hand. Damian was straining to read by the fading light of the setting sun. He glanced up and then slid over to make room for her beside him.
“Excellent poet, this Dionysus,” he commented before reading a passage aloud.
“The delights of a thousand dreams await within,
Yet I stand rooted outside your window,
Trembling like a tamarind in the breeze.
Unable to move,
Unable to breathe,
Hoping for one flutter of your curtain.”
Valdis bit her lower lip. Erik had recited those words for her.
“There is great longing in this verse,” Damian said. “How perfectly the poet has captured the way a heart strains toward an unobtainable prize.”
As her heart still strained toward Erik. Valdis thought her cup of tears drained dry, but a fresh spring welled up. She tried to hold them in. Once the first drop tumbled over her lower lid, the floodgates would open.
The crimson sun hurt her eyes and Valdis squeezed them shut, but the tears still flowed. Convulsing sobs started in her chest, but she swallowed back the cry that clawed at the back of her throat. Only a tiny moan escaped her lips.
Then all at once Damian's arms were around her, cradling her head to his chest and patting her shoulder softly. All the while he murmured soft words that must have been meant to comfort her, but her mind refused to make sense of the sound. Finally, she stilled in his arms.
“For the pain you bear,” he said in a whisper, “I am more sorry than I can say.”
She was surprised to hear sympathy in his voice. Damian's dislike of Erik and the bristling antipathy between them had been obvious almost from the first. Now in an unguarded moment, her old master shared her grief.
“It wasn't your fault,” she said, feeling strangely comforted by his embrace. “The blame is mine. I should never have mentioned the spectacle to Mahomet.”
“No, Valdis, you mustn't reproach yourself, because it proved that your master and Leo are in collusion. Still, it's a pity about the Varangian.”
A tremor shuddered through her. To her amazement, he slid a finger under her chin and tipped her head back. Then he did something she least expected from her former master.
Damian kissed her.
“If I allowed myself to feel guilt over the things I have done in defense of the Empire, I should never accomplish anything."
—from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus
Chapter 28
* * *
On the rickety rooftop of the poorest monastery in the Studion, the foulest section of the great city, the Varangian growled in disgust. He lowered the ocular device that allowed him to watch the couple on the rooftop several blocks away, wincing at the pain the sudden movement cost him.
“Careful, my brother,” the toothless monk at his side said. “Your burns are not yet healed. The skin is fragile at this stage, but God is good. It appears you will live.”
“But I'll never look like anything again,” he said softly.
The monk smiled at him, the expression one of almost childlike sweetness. “It matters not, Air-ryck.” He struggled to force the percussive foreign name through his inwardly curved lips. “To the eyes of the Almighty, we all look the same.”
Erik glanced once more toward Habib Ibn Mahomet's rooftop. Even without the looking glass, he could see that Valdis and the eunuch were no longer there.
It was just as well. Seeing the woman he loved in another's arms would only eat away at his heart the way the cursed Greek Fire had gnawed his flesh. Memories of the spectacle-turned-disaster churned in his gut.
Once he’d seen that the dhow couldn't outrun the flames, he did the only thing he could do. Erik bellowed to his crew to abandon ship.
Better to die by water than fire.
Erik had filled his lungs with a precious gasp just before the scorching breath of the Greek weapon filled the air around him with cinders. He hit the water like a stone, his shining armor bearing him into the depths of the harbor. He struggled to rid himself of the greaves and breastplate, clawing at the leather bindings. Panic wrapped its tentacles around his throat. Then he remembered his knife. He pulled out the horn-handled dirk and slashed the remaining leather to free himself.
His ears ached as the water pressure mounted, but even so he heard the muffled shrieks of those caught in the fire. Around him, his crew floundered, trying in vain to flee from the sickly orange glow illuminating the surface above them. In the ghastly light, he saw several men give up the struggle, their frenetic movements winding down like the clockwork birds that surrounded the emperor's throne.
Once Erik freed himself of the weight of armor, he kicked toward the surface. His path was still blocked by flames. Part of the truly diabolical nature of Greek Fire was its affinity to water. It spread across the surface without abating one whit, as if water were its natural fuel.
Erik allowed a few bubbles of air to escape the corners of his mouth as he searched for an opening, any place he could grab a quick breath. He spotted a patch of open water above the foundering dhow and swam through the charred wreckage as she sank in pieces.
He surfaced and dragged in a deep breath. The smoke seared his lungs and the fire ringing the space closed on him with lightening speed, bubbling the skin on one side of his face with heat. He dived for safety.
His ability to hold his breath for long periods of time had won him several bets in the Northlands. Now it was his salvation. How many times Erik repeated the process of snagging a quick breath and submerging again, he couldn't remember. He only knew he wasn't always able to avoid the glowing Greek monster.
His right shoulder was burned. Scarred flesh pebbled up his neck and across one cheek. Fire claimed one ear, sizzled away his beard and much of his hair on the right side, but at least it left both his eyes intact.
Finally, Erik dragged himself up on the spit of land near the mouth of the harbor and lay there panting for what seemed like an eternity. Pain screamed to his brainpan as he staggered to his feet. All the attention in the harbor was on the safe recovery of the emperor, so no one spared him a second glance until Brother Nestor. The monk saw his
stunned agony and took him by the hand as if he were a little boy.
Erik didn't ask any questions. He just followed the monk, putting one weary foot before the other in mute suffering. The delirium of fever descended on him and he couldn't remember reaching the monastery where he now resided. Erik suspected he lost consciousness somewhere along the way and Nestor and some of his fellow monks carried his dead weight the rest of the distance.
“Your thoughts are troubled, brother,” the monk said. “A peaceful heart will help your flesh mend sooner.”
“Believe me, Nestor, my flesh will be whole before my heart will.”
The monk cast a glance toward the silk merchant's grand house. “The woman is beautiful, without doubt. But be warned by the story of King David. No good can come of gazing at a woman on another man's rooftop.”
Erik smiled wryly. Almost as soon as Erik had regained consciousness, Nestor began telling him stories to help the time pass more quickly. It eased his suffering to listen to the monk's lisping voice as he related tales of wise kings who behaved foolishly and pillars of fire and sons who squandered their inheritance in a far country before finally deciding to come home.
Lately, Erik suspected Nestor told him stories not to keep him amused and distracted from the pain, but to woo him gently into the monk's faith. There was little chance of that. The Christian's god was weak and powerless. What kind of god let himself be killed without lifting a finger in protest? A god that puny, who couldn't even save himself, couldn't be counted on to come to the aid of his devotees either.
“Who is Olaf?” Nestor asked.
Erik looked at him sharply. He was sure he'd never mentioned his brother to Nestor. “What are you? Some kind of diviner?”
“No, just one who listens, friend.” Nestor stood and began pruning the vines growing on the monastery roof. The grapes produced there weren't the best quality, but they served for making the homely house's communion wine. “When you were in the throes of fever, you called out the name. Many times. It seemed to give you as much pain as the burn.”