The storm of Heaven ooe-3
Page 56
It seemed very likely to him, on reflection, that he would have been beset and killed if he had approached the Imperial box. The Duchess, at least, would be watching for him. Maxian's head bent to his breast, his breathing slowing until it seemed that he did not breathe at all.
In his mind, a glorious panoply of forms unfolded and unfolded and unfolded…
– |Betia squeezed in beside the Duchess, breathless and sweating. The crowd was even more closely packed than before. A bald man with stiff white mustaches was crammed in tight behind their seats, shouting himself hoarse.
"Mistress!" Betia shouted in Anastasia's ear, though the older woman seemed to be crying, her hands covering her eyes. "Please, you must listen!"
Anastasia turned, her glorious violet eyes tinged with red. She snuffled, wiping her nose with the hem of her gown. "What is it?"
"What is wrong?" Betia suddenly registered the poor state of her mistress. "What happened?"
"Oh." Anastasia dabbed at her eye. "Nothing. Nothing. That wretched daughter of mine," the Duchess jabbed a finger at the arena, "nearly got herself killed two or three times! Dear, I think we should go home, this can't be good for my heart or my complexion." Anastasia flapped the edge of her veil, trying to cool herself.
"An excellent idea," Betia growled, grabbing one of the guardsmen. The two men were shouting lustily, waving their hats in the air. Everyone in the arena was doing the same. "It's too dangerous to stay here. He is here, on the upper course."
"He? Who do you mean?" Anastasia put her hand on the blond slave's shoulder.
"I mean," Betia looked around slowly, scanning the faces in the crowd, "Prince Maxian. I saw him, I'm sure of it, on the upper promenade."
Anastasia felt a chill, and then she stood up, fingers digging into Betia's shoulder for support. She drew the veil across her face, her eyes cold. Men and women were in motion all around her, crying and cheering, waving their hats or boards painted with racing slogans. The Duchess saw nothing of the Prince. "Come," she said, stepping down. "We must find the Empress immediately."
– |Thyatis staggered, pushed by one of the gray attendants. A carved wooden mask in the shape of a tusked demon hid his face. Its black eyes stared at her, huge and round.
"Move!" The mouth was a funnel, magnifying and distorting his voice.
She stumbled forward, utterly drained. The strophium at her chest oozed a thin red fluid when she moved. Candace held one arm, the nameless older woman the other. All three wore crowns of golden holly, studded with small gems. Waves of applause rolled over them, then slackened as they entered a tunnel. Slaves in black tunics were waiting with buckets of water. Thyatis collapsed against the wall as soon as she could, gasping for breath. The slaves doused her with water. Bloody froth swirled away on the floor around her feet.
"You did well." A smirking voice penetrated the drumming in her ears. Thyatis looked up and saw the boxer from the inn leaning against the wall, grinning. He was sleek and clean, clad in a red kilt and leather armbands. His skin gleamed with oil and his hair was a glossy black crown. Silver fish-scale armor covered his arm and shoulder. "You impress me. I admit I thought Narses mad when he bought you."
"Did you?" Thyatis turned away, taking a towel from one of the slaves. The fluid on her skin was oily and slick, untouched by the water. She began rubbing it from her arms and chest. "Does it matter?"
"No." Hamilcar shook his head sadly. "They posted the last of the matches today-we will not meet on holy ground. They've decided that you should not die until the last day and not by my hand."
With that, laughing, he strode away down the tunnel, gathering up his fellows as he passed. Thyatis ignored him, crouching down next to Candace and the older woman. They were both shivering with reaction. One of the slaves had bound up the Nubian girl's wound. Thyatis clasped both of their hands in hers.
"What is your name?" Her voice rasped like an awl on strong wood.
The older woman blinked and whispered: "Agrippina."
"Good. A strong name." Thyatis stood, before her knees locked up. "Now we are three."
– |"What do you mean," Anastasia bit out angrily, "I may not speak with Empress Helena?"
"I mean just that, madam." The Praetorian centurion's eyes glittered back, half hidden by the visor of his helmet. "The Imperial family is enjoying the games-they are not interested in seeing scarecrows or beggars today. The fifth day is set aside for such petitions; go see her on the Palatine with the rest!"
"I am not a beggar," Anastasia snarled, raising her hand and her voice. Betia fumbled at her arm, trying to restrain her. "I am an Imperial officer and a close friend of the Empress. She will see me."
The Praetorian shook his head, scarred face impassive. "You've not been given leave to see her. Now, if you don't go away quietly, my men will throw you out, Imperial officer or no."
Anastasia hissed in disgust, but she saw the man was determined. In these mourning clothes, all gray and black, without any makeup and half dead from the heat, she couldn't awe a street urchin. Helena had no idea she was here, and Anastasia wanted a private meeting, not a scene. "Very well. Good day."
The Duchess spun on her heel and stalked away through the crowd loitering in the passage behind the Imperial box. Various ambassadors and bureaucrats watched her with interest as she swept past. Her guardsmen peeled away from the walls to follow her and Betia hurried ahead, trying to remember where they'd left the litter bearers.
"Mistress?" Anastasia's head turned, her face filled with incipient fury. There was a solid-looking man, bald as a hen's egg, with a nervous expression on his face. "I don't mean to be a bother… but, I was sitting behind you in the crowd, and I heard… I heard your girl say you knew the redheaded woman fighting today?"
"Yes." Anastasia was suspicious. This fellow looked like a barbarian, a Gaul, in fact. There was something about him, though, something familiar. Could it be the long, tusklike mustaches? "Do I know you?"
"Oh, surely not," laughed the man, making a sketchy bow. He was very well built, almost like a wrestler, save with flatter muscles, rather than bulging round sinews. "I am a visitor to the city. My name is Vitellix. I am a very, very minor lanista."
Anastasia raised an eyebrow, though its usual daunting effect was lost on the self-effacing man. "You have met Thyatis before? In Persia, perhaps?" She made a sign to her guardsmen, who closed in around the man, their bodies sliding between her and this stranger.
"Oh, no," Vitellix said, starting to sweat again, though the passage was shady and cool. "I know nothing of any Persian business! She was with my troupe, for a little while, while her wounds mended! Please, my lady, I mean no disrespect or harm-it cuts at me to see her thrown to the dogs like this!"
"She is proving a wolf." Anastasia smiled grimly. "More than these curs can stomach. You will come with us, I think."
The Gaul blanched but did not resist when the guardsmen took hold of his elbows. Anastasia marched out of the tunnel, her mind, at last, waking to the chase.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Troesemis, Summer Capital of the Avar Khaganate, Moesia Inferior
A light breeze ruffled the horsetail standards, drawing a rattling sound from the skulls and copper bangles suspended from tall poles. It was such a familiar sound that C'hu-lo was unaware of it, the gentle flapping of flags and banners fading into the background. The T'u-chueh climbed a hill of green grass, following the line of skull-crowned poles. Atop the hill, surrounded by hundreds of men in armor, the khagan of the Avars was standing on a wooden platform, looking out over the marsh flats. The sky was a brilliant blue, streaked with puffy white clouds and the wind carried the smell of the sea.
C'hu-lo sprang up the steps, feeling gloriously alive. It was a perfect day. A day for racing horses, for feeling cold wind rushing in your hair as white hooves thundered on the short grass prairie. It was the kind of day when you could see the summits of the Rampart of Heaven, etched cold and white against the sky, even from the lowland plains
. The T'u-chueh carried a heavy wooden gorytos on his back, slung on a gorgeous dark brown leather strap. It was a fine piece of work, one that had come from the treasure houses of Ctesiphon. C'hu-lo felt odd carrying it-the bowcase had been a trophy of war, taken by the great Persian king Khusro the Just from the body of the Hepthalite khan Akhshunwaz over a hundred years before. C'hu-lo was sure that the Avar khagan would prize it highly.
Akhshunwaz had been slain by the Persian king in a great battle near Balkh on the Oxus. In the aftermath of that war, the Hepthalite tribes had been scattered to the four winds, not only by Persia, but by the rising power of the T'u-chueh. C'hu-lo's grandfather had been an umen commander of the war against the Hepthalites, winning much praise from the yabghu for his fierce pursuit of the defeated enemy. Many of the Hepthalites had fled to the west, crossing over the steppes north of the Mare Caspium and then down into the grasslands of southern Sarmatia. In time, after recovering their numbers and subjugating the Slavic tribes that lived in those lands, the Hepthalites had grown powerful once more, conquering both Moesia Inferior and Superior from the Romans. In these latter days, they were called the Avars.
This Avar khagan Bayan, he was the great-grandson of the dead Akhshunwaz. The bowcase was the perfect greeting gift. C'hu-lo grinned inside, hiding his amusement behind a stoic face, as he stepped onto the wooden platform itself. It seemed unlikely that Bayan would recognize the token. C'hu-lo appreciated the sly humor in the offering.
"Hail," he called, his voice clear and strong. "Hail, Bayan, son of Jubudei, khagan of the Avars, master of the Slavs and the Romans!"
C'hu-lo bent one knee, making the sign of greeting, his neck exposed between his oily black hair and the top of his laminated armor. The Avar khagan snorted, turning from his place at the edge of the platform. "Rise, emissary of the Persians."
The T'u-chueh stood, his temper leashed. The khagan was in a foul mood, as were his advisors, a grizzled set of older men that stood close by. They glowered at C'hu-lo, fingering their weapons. Persia was no longer a friend of the Avars, not after the disasters of the previous spring.
"Great lord, my master sends you warm greetings, offering you gifts and tokens of his friendship." C'hu-lo pulled the gorytos from his back in a smooth motion, laying it down on the rough-hewn planks. In the bright sunlight the bowcase gleamed a rich dark red. The horsehide had been carefully treated, rubbed with preserving oils, the nap of fine hair arranged just so. Leather edging surrounded the mottled red and white hide, punched with signs representing the sky, the wind, the gods, the horses and the people. Skilled craftsmen in the court of the king of kings had repaired some small abrasions and nicks that the bowcase had endured over the years. "The king of kings thinks you will find this small gift, the least of gifts, pleasing."
Bayan did not even bother to look at the case, his face dark with anger. The khagan was a stout man, shorter than his advisors, with one arm hidden in the folds of his fur vest. His other hand, his left, tugged at a thin patchy beard. Like his captains and advisors, he was wearing a long peaked cap, made of green felt, and a fur-lined cape. Armor of riveted iron rings covered his barrel-like chest and hung down past his waist. His features echoed C'hu-lo's own-a flattened nose, high cheekbones, a slant to his eyes. To the Eastern eye, there were subtle differences; the Avar khagan wore his long black hair in two plaits, where the T'u-chueh favored one. C'hu-lo thought his own features were sharper, cleaner, not so round, and decidedly more handsome. "You are not pleased, Lord of Men? Has the king of kings given offense in some way?"
The Avar advisors growled, bristling and one of them drew his curving cavalry sword. C'hu-lo ignored the dogs that yapped at the feet of this man. Below the platform, at the bottom of the hill, stood two of the Shanzdah and while they were within a bird's call, C'hu-lo feared no one. If the khagan attacked the embassy of the king of kings, he would find that he had overreached himself.
"What is the cost of Persian friendship?" Bayan turned and looked down upon C'hu-lo, who remained kneeling on the pine planks. "You offer a single bow and the swords of the Romans will take ten thousand of my subjects. You offer fine words and promises of victory, but the Romans deliver fire and death. Three years we strove against the walls of the City. We had nothing for it but windrows of the dead. Where is the glory there? The prizes? The slaves? Cold and rotting in the ground with my sons, with the sons of my sons."
C'hu-lo remained impassive; though the fury and hatred in the man's voice was hot enough to set wood alight. In response, he unhooked the three clasps that held the bowcase closed. Deftly, he opened the case, revealing the bow and arrows within to the sky. C'hu-lo was looking down, intent on his hands, so it was easy to hide a smile when the men around him hissed in surprise. That was enough success already-that one or more of these men would see what was in the case and desire the weapon.
The bowstave was a sleek dark wood on the inner face, then glossy bone on the outer. It was of a full length, the 'man' bow of the Huns, with a long curving topstave and a short, thick foundation. Coiled strings, shining with oil, sat in leather holders on the inside of the case. A sheaf of arrows, the shafts painted in blue, the fletching white and gray goose, filled the other half of the case. C'hu-lo stood, holding it in his hands. "This is the bow of a king, a mighty weapon."
Bayan's face darkened, turning a muddy red color. C'hu-lo matched his stare, wondering if the Avar would burst his heart and die, even as everyone watched. There would be a struggle on the platform then! The Shanzdah were waiting for just such an outcome. "Here, Lord of Men, take it, draw it, set your sight upon a pleasing target."
Bayan could not even speak, so enraged was he. The man's right arm, hidden in his vest, slipped out. It was withered, scored by a long curling scar that lapped over the elbow. C'hu-lo took the moment-the advisors had averted their eyes from their khagan's shame-and stepped close, looking slightly down on the man. "Lord Bayan," he whispered, "put your hands upon this weapon, feel the power in it! The king of kings offers you not insult, but a great gift."
The khagan glared up at him, but then paused, seeing the urging in C'hu-lo's eyes.
"My arm is too weak," whispered the khagan. "You insult me before my men!"
"No, great lord," C'hu-lo's voice was low and urgent. "Here is the string, well waxed, a shaft, straight and true. Do as your fathers have done, string, draw, loose! Trust me and you will be delivered from shame."
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The Old Camp of the Xth Legion, Aquincum, Magna Gothica
Bucephalos tossed his big square head, flipping his glossy black mane at Alexandros' face. The Macedonian moved his head to the side with the ease of long experience. The horse stared at him mournfully with one large brown eye. Alexandros ignored the entreaty, continuing to brush the flanks and back in even, strong movements. He had a curry brush of wood and ivory strapped to one hand. He was taking his time, letting his thoughts wander far away from his daily effort of routine and discipline and instruction.
"Vittam croceam ea circum crinem flavum gestavit
In vere cum nove Maia gestavit."
Sound from five hundred throats, a little breathless from running, filled the late-afternoon air. Oak and pine crowded the fringes of the field of Mars. Out on the uneven ground, syntagmas of men were drilling. Two trembling rectangles of motion, each two hundred and fifty-six men, sixteen rows of sixteen, jogged across the field. Their long spears were held straight up over their heads like a thicket of newly planted saplings. They jogged at half-time, up and down the field, file leaders growling and barking like hunting dogs. The men ignored the threats and curses, concentrating on their marching cadence and step.
Alexandros smiled. Weeks had passed since anyone had fouled a sarissa in simple marching practice. There was progress, but it was very slow. They were far better at singing, which pleased the Macedonian, for he loved the sound of men's voices raised in rough harmony. Only this glorious Draculis horse and the prospect of power pleased him more.
"Et si rogasses pro quo gereres
dixisset pro milite suis gestare
quo absit procul et longe
procul et longe
procul et longe.
Gestavit pro milite suis quo absit procul et longe!"
Bucephalos whinnied and bumped Alexandros' shoulder heavily.
"No," said Alexandros, his voice light. "No apples or biscuit for you yet. I have to get these burrs out."
In the darkness before the sun, Alexandros had rousted out his Companion cavalry and made them dash five Legion miles to the outpost at Castra and then back again, all without warning. The run woke him up, set his blood in motion, though he was sure the Goths were sound asleep, sprawled on the floor of their long house. He continued to brush, taking his time.
"Curiam infantis ea circum insulam in urbe tulit
In vere cum nove Maia tulit.
Et si rogasses pro quo tulisset
dixisset pro milite suis impellere
quo absit procul et longe
procul et longe
procul et longe.
Tulit pro milite suis absit procul et longe!"
One of the syntagmas shifted step and the cadence rose, now sounding very hoarse. The men in this group had been marching for almost three hours. When the drill was done, Alexandros expected many of them to collapse on the ground, exhausted, arms and legs burning. The rectangle stopped with a faint rattle of sarissa on sarissa, then grounded the butts of their sixteen-foot weapons. A centurion, the syntagmatarch, shouted more commands and, as one, the men angled their long spears forward. Alexandros stopped brushing for a moment, tangling his hand in the stallion's mane so it couldn't eat his shirt. If the men kept individual distance, when they angled their sarissa, they should make a solid front of iron and ash, impervious to cavalry.