The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  "What are you." Thyatis could barely speak.

  Your guardian, sister, your patron, a guide in these dark places. Listen, as the Crooked One once listened to me. Closely, for my words are wisdom, winged from the heavens. You must keep hope, child, and tend it in your heart. While you have that hope, you will win. Victory will come, though the seas break and storms swallow the world. You, of all women, must keep hope you will come home again, through torment and illusion and betrayal. Ignore these qualms in your heart.

  There is no truth in fear.

  "Wait!" The figure grew dim, the brilliant eyes fading. "Does she live? Does Shirin live?"

  The figure smiled, though it was more felt than seen. Thyatis turned away, her mind racing. What if Shirin had fled the island, come to Rome? What if she had taken ship, some coaster or merchant lug from Athens? It would beat up the coast, fat sails filled with wind, coming under the shadow of the mountain. Many ships that made for Rome harbored in Misenum overnight… such a ship, Shirin aboard, might have laid to in the wide bay at Neapolis on a warm summer evening. In the night, the mountain would wake, raising tumult in the sea, flinging meteors, a rain of burning ash.

  "O you cursed gods, you have taken everything from me! Everything!"

  Thyatis fell to the floor, nails digging into the tile, weeping uncontrollably. She had driven her body to its limits the past days, training while light remained in the sky, pressing herself and Ila harder than they had ever been pressed. She had lamed horses, smashed chariots, feverish to master the skills she would need to beat the smirking African on the raceway. At night, when visions tormented her, she drank until her pain was dulled and she could find some rest in the arms of gentle Morpheus. Now that failed too, and she shuddered uncontrollably.

  Not everything is taken from you, the gray-eyed voice whispered, faint, as if from a great distance. Not everything. Open your eyes.

  Thyatis woke, hot sun beating down upon her back. Puzzled, she rose, arms heavy with armor. She looked around, her face lighting with awe. The heavy gown and robes were gone. She wore high-strapped boots, a tunic of linen clasped at one shoulder, iron bracelets. Her other shoulder and bicep were covered with fitted bronze. A helmet rode on her head, heavy and tight. A sword lay on the ground at her feet and she knelt to pick it up. A hilt of bone ran into a half-moon guard, set with an eight-rayed star. The blade swelled towards the tip, making it point-heavy, but the edge was keen and a thick tang ran down the center line. Her hand fit perfectly.

  A temple rose around her, glowing in brilliant hot sunlight. Huge round columns rose up in a stone forest on all sides. Thyatis stood at the intersection of two colonnades. Before her, the columns opened out into a half-circle. Enormous stone lions rose up, flanking a monumental doorway. The great beasts stared down at her, dead eyes rimmed with flaking paint. Long beards curled from their chins. Every surface on that rising doorway was covered with carvings. Plaster clung to the sandstone, holding the remains of bright colors on a white background.

  Thyatis gulped, then gripped the sword tightly and advanced. A thin, dry wind blew past her, whirling sand across her path. Everything seemed ancient and abandoned. Distantly, at the edge of the temple complex, she knew an army was waiting. The darkness within the doorway loomed, growing deeper as she approached. All light seemed to fail at the boundary. Broad, flat steps led up, and she ascended with a sinking heart. She stopped in the portal, one foot touching the darkness, her body in the light.

  Within, she could see nothing. Great dread seized her. There was something waiting just inside, waiting to tear into her, shedding her life. Her foot moved back into the light. The wind moaned among the pillars, making a ghostly sound.

  Thyatis jumped, startled, and then settled her nerves.

  She would enter the darkness. The sword raised in her hand, she slid into the gloom like a snake's tongue. For a moment it glowed, passing from light to dark, and she saw a vast statue within, rising up fifty or sixty feet above her head. Empty stone eyes stared down at her from the seated king. Thyatis entered, feeling the heat of the sun fade from her back. It was very dark.

  Enter, my son. The voice was enormous, ringing back from the sky like a striking gong.

  – |"Aah!" She started awake at a light touch. Thyatis stared around a poorly lit room. Someone was seated at the side of her bed, tiny hands pressing her down. "Oh. Ila, what is it?"

  "You cried out." The mouse girl shifted and lamplight showed her face pinched with worry. "You sounded afraid. I thought you were having nightmares again."

  "I was…" Thyatis groped for the memory. Titanic voices had been ringing around her, telling her things, important things. Her heart was hammering and a chill sweat dripped from her as if she were a cold jug on a hot day. "I was wearing armor. There was a helm of snakes… Oh, it's all gone now." Thyatis glared at the mouse girl, who sidled away, shamefaced.

  "Bad mouse. No cheese for you." Then Thyatis laughed and Ila climbed back onto the bed, grinning. "How do you feel, Ila?"

  "Tired!" The girl raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you?"

  "No." Thyatis sat up, brushing back her hair. Something poked her in the eye. Frowning, she opened her hand. A lock of gleaming dark hair lay in it, folded over like a keepsake. Thyatis held it up to the light in wonder. "I'm not tired."

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  The Hall of the Faithful Guard, The Bucoleon, Constantinople

  Sweating, Nicholas stepped back, raising his blade in salute to the Scandian. "Well struck, Olaf!" The axe man nodded his big head, wild beard jutting from his chin like the prow of a ship. Nicholas turned away, picking up a towel from the bench at the edge of the fighting square. All around him was a constant murmur of gruff voices. Many of the Faithful spent their free time in the hall, sparring and drinking. The sounds and smells made him feel at home. These Scandians were all from the eastern lands, but their dialect was still close to that of the Dann: a comfortable sound, coupled with the familiar smell of oiled metal and mead and roasted meat. The Faithful Guard were well kept by the Emperor, with plenty to eat and drink.

  "Centurion." Nicholas pulled a tunic over his head, then turned. Rufio approached, nodding to some of the men, clasping forearms with another. "I understand you speak Scandian?"

  "Yes, sir." Nicholas did not know what proper rank the captain of the Faithful Guard held, but the black-haired Greek seemed to deserve immediate respect. "The Dann dialect, but it's close enough…"

  "Good." Something like a smile crossed Rufio's thin lips. "Traditionally, the Faithful are commanded by Greek officers, but I think you'll fit in, even if you're a Latin."

  Nicholas was surprised. Very few people ever realized he was a Latin Roman, and not the northern barbarian indicated by his dress and accent. "Not many people notice, sir. It doesn't matter to me if it doesn't matter to you."

  "No." Rufio handed him a golden clasp worked in the shape of a dragon biting its own tail. "Here's your flash. I've put you on the list just below me. When things come to blows, you'll have the Hibernian, your pet Walach and half the men. I will command the left, you the right."

  Nicholas donned his cloak, replacing an iron clasp he had picked up in Aelia Capitolina with the golden one. Then he strapped his baldric on, making sure Brunhilde was snug in her sheath.

  "A fine blade," Rufio nodded at the hand-and-a-half sword. "Scandian make?"

  "Yes."

  Rufio smiled, turning a little so that he was between the nearest of the Faithful and Nicholas. His voice was soft, barely carrying past Nicholas' ear. "You should keep it sheathed until the men are comfortable with you. Olaf is as dense as a stone, but one of the others might mark what you've got there. Then they might be minded to ask where a Roman was getting a runesword."

  "She was a gift." Nicholas felt very uncomfortable talking about this. Brunhilde began to tremble at his waist and he clamped his hand down on her hilts. Rufio raised a thick black eyebrow at the motion.

  "I'll not try and take it from you, l
ad. If you won it in fair battle, it's yours."

  "I was given her," Nicholas said, voice rising a little. Rufio met his look with perfect calm in his black eyes. Nicholas flushed. "I understand, sir. I'll spar with another weapon."

  "Good. Now listen, events are beginning to move. Now you're my staff officer, you get to come with me and watch the powers that be bicker like old hens in the farmyard."

  "What happened?"

  Rufio gave a half-smile, jerking his head. "A new player has entered the game."

  – |The Bucoleon, Nicholas found, was actually composed of many palaces and buildings, all intertwined in a confusing maze of levels, halls and chambers. Rufio walked swiftly, though he was slightly shorter than Nicholas. They passed quickly through rooms filled with intricate mosaic designs on the floor and stunning paintings-now peeling or sagging with age-on the walls.

  "The Western legate entered the city again, with some new friends." Rufio was using his briefing voice, which amused Nicholas, since it was clipped and quick and leaned heavily on some kind of regional Greek accent. Luckily, Nicholas had a good ear for dialects. "I have heard, from the commander of the number-six gate, that Western scouts have been watching the Persians and their allies. Another five or six thousand Avars have filtered in from the north. Of course, I wouldn't even know this much save Sergius is working overtime, visiting old friends."

  Nicholas nodded, wondering how much the captain of the Faithful knew about Sergius and the Office of the Barbarians. With the current struggle in the city, it seemed unlikely that Prince Theodore knew who Sergius really worked for-otherwise the white-haired tribune would have lost his head. Nicholas was a Latin, sent by the Western Office to help Sergius with his messier problems. The Western Office had taken great pains, over the last twelve years, to secure control of the Eastern office. It was an old game, made more interesting at the moment by the Prince's play for power.

  "We-a term I use loosely-are guessing the Persians and Arabs field nearly eighty thousand men. With another twenty thousand Avars and Slavs, they are well over our own strength. You think Dagobert brought four legions?"

  "Yes, I saw their standards and flags myself." Nicholas nodded. "One veteran, three fresh, all full strength-so perhaps forty thousand or a little more."

  "After Theodore's little debacle in Syria, there are perhaps thirty thousand Eastern troops mustered here."

  "Not good odds, seventy to a hundred."

  "No." Rufio shook his head. "But this has changed. A report came in last night from a man selling wine to the Western troops in the forts. He says a great host of barbarians-not Turks but some other horse-people-arrived out of the north and have joined Dagobert."

  "Who?" Nicholas stared at the Greek in surprise. The Avars controlled everything north of the mountains dividing Thrace from Moesia Inferior. But there were scattered bands of Sarmatians, Slavs and Walachs in the vast Rus forest. "Another Western army?"

  "No." Rufio was smirking. "The wine merchant did not know the banners, but I recognized them from his description. They are Khazars, from the lands far to the east around the Mare Caspium. Their khan Ziebil aided Heraclius and Galen in their war against the Persians."

  "How did they get here?" Nicholas was nonplussed.

  "I don't know, but we might find out. Their commander is coming into the city with Dagobert, to try and meet with Theodore."

  "Not the Emperor?"

  Rufio shook his head and Nicholas saw the weariness in the man again. It was easy to miss behind his confident expression. There was something else, too.

  "How long have you served Heraclius?"

  "All his life, the brat." Rufio's face brightened, weariness falling away like a dropped cloth. "His father hired me, when young Heraclius came of age, to be his bodyguard. We were in Africa then, at Carthage. The old man-he was governor-decided to take a hand in Imperial politics. Everything was in chaos then. A right bastard named Phocas was wearing the Purple. We did him in, though. A long time, I suppose."

  Nicholas nodded. That tells me where Rufio's placed his coin!

  "Why did you want us in the Guard?"

  A brief smug flicker crossed Rufio's face. "I don't know if you've seen it, but the boy's effort to break the Arab wall woke up every priest, wizard and hedgewitch in the city. I gather, from their whispers and complaints, no one has ever cut loose with that kind of display before, at least not in their memory, which is liable to be short." The captain snorted dismissively. "When Sergius said that you'd reported in, I convinced him that you needed to be near the Emperor, to protect him."

  "Is that true?"

  "Not at all! I've been around a bit, Nicholas. I know exactly what kind of disaster a young man with incredible power can be. My job, my only job, is to protect the life of the Emperor and his family. Having you and the boy under my eye means one less thing to worry about."

  Frowning, Nicholas said, "You think the boy is a threat to the Emperor?"

  Rufio shrugged his shoulders. "I think he is a threat to every person in the city and the immediate surroundings. He's young, Nicholas, very young. I've seen his face, how he is with you and Vladimir; he has no conception of what the exercise of his strength might do, what it might cost him."

  Nicholas whistled, remembering the siege in the desert. "I see your point."

  "Good. Now, we're going to be observers at this meeting, so just keep your trap shut."

  "Yes, sir!"

  – |Prince Theodore had taken over a building at the margin of the Bucoleon complex, near the old Acropolis of the city. Rufio and Nicholas entered through a passage from the main palace and were immediately stopped by armed legionaries. Six cavalrymen watched the entrance. Rufio smiled pleasantly, then turned over his gladius and a knife from his belt.

  "The Prince feeling well today?" The soldiers did not rise to the bait, keeping their faces neutral. "Nicholas, you should give them your sword."

  The northerner felt physically ill at the thought, but he pressed Brunhilde's plain leather sheath into the man's hand. "Take good care of that," he said in a tight voice. "It was my father's."

  Shrugging, the legionary put the long sword against the wall behind the guardpost. Nicholas marked the place, glared at the other men on watch and then hurried after Rufio. The captain of the Faithful seemed quite content to go unarmed into the lair of the enemy. When Nicholas caught up with him, the captain clapped him on the shoulder.

  "Don't worry," he said softly. "Thirty of the Faithful are within call of us, even in here. Try to stop sweating so much. Eventually, even the Prince will notice."

  Nicholas hadn't managed to calm down by the time they entered the main hall of the building. Wooden panels lined the walls and there was a long table in the center of the room. Prince Theodore, flanked by some of his staff, stood near the head of the table. The Eastern officers had their heads close in conversation. Rufio stopped within polite distance and folded his arms, observing the scene. Theodore glanced up, frowned to see the captain, then resumed his conversation. Nicholas tried to be invisible, hiding behind Rufio.

  A grain or two passed, then the guardsman at the end of the hall cleared his throat. "The Western legate, Dagobert, the King of the Khazars, Dahvos, and his staff."

  The newcomers entered, dressed in field armor, though they were weaponless. The same two Goths accompanied Dagobert. The Khazars were a pair of tall men with curly hair and short, neat beards. Nicholas looked them over, seeing muscular, lean horsemen. They were clad in scale mail and weather-worn, patched cloaks. Their boots, though recently cleaned, were scuffed and mended. Both of them were very tan and Nicholas sensed they had been on the move for a long time.

  "Greetings!" Theodore turned to them, flashing an instant smile. "Please, sit. Would you like wine or refreshment?"

  "No, thank you, Prince Theodore." Dagobert did not sit and the others in his party followed his lead, standing at the third point of a triangle made by the Eastern officers, Rufio and the Westerners. "I have brought
the khagan Dahvos to join us, as his army has joined ours, to discuss driving the Persians and their allies away and lifting the siege."

  "An excellent plan." Theodore seemed intent on being as friendly as possible. Nicholas felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There was an odd feeling in the air, but more than the tension between the various parties, it felt like someone was watching him. He tried not to fidget.

  "I received your dispatch this morning," the Prince continued, showing his teeth. "Our numbers now exceed those of the enemy. I am currently adjusting the disposition of my forces in the city, but when that is done, we shall advance together and destroy them."

  Nicholas, listening, translated the Prince's words into. When I've managed to get all of the cohort commanders to follow me, or replaced those that won't, I'll dare to poke my nose out of the city.

  Dagobert raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You agree to lead the Eastern troops under my command, then?"

  "Well…" Theodore shrugged. "I think we can all work together, Legate. There's no need to force change upon our lieutenants at this time."

  The Frank stepped forward, eyes glinting. "Our emperors have already agreed to a working arrangement, and proved its efficacy, Prince Theodore. I will command the combined army. You and your officers will follow my directives. The three of us, and our staff, will devise a plan of attack together, but we will execute it under my authority."

  "That is not necessary," Theodore snapped, temper fraying. "If we agree to a plan, the Eastern Empire will stick to it."

  Dagobert's face darkened and he smoothed his mustaches down with a sharp movement. "Without a single guiding will, we will not be able to use our army effectively. Three commanders are worse than none."

  "This could be," Theodore said in an offhand way, "but you are not used to the capabilities of our troops, our way of fighting. There are differences between our Legions. By the way, do you speak Greek?"

  "No," the Frank grated out, anger beginning to rise in his sad-looking eyes. "I do not."