"Then how will you direct my troops?" Theodore's voice gained a patronizing edge. "Some of my officers may remember some schoolboy Latin, but not all. You will have to rely on me and my staff, I fear. So there is no reason to make the arrangement top heavy."
Dagobert bit back a curse, his eyes thinning to slits. "Sufficient courier riders who speak both Latin and Greek, Lord Prince, can be found to carry messages from me to the cohorts. I do not think there will be a problem."
"That is unacceptable." Theodore turned away with the air of a man who has been patient with an impossible situation. "There is far too much room for error in such translations. We will be in battle against a canny and powerful foe! We cannot afford a misunderstood order."
"Very well." Dagobert seemed to have made up his mind during the Prince's speech. "The Western army and the Khazars will deal with the Persians. We would appreciate it if you would remain inside the city with your army, Prince Theodore, so that no orders are misunderstood."
Nicholas swallowed a whistle, feeling the cold tension in Rufio. Nervous, the northerner looked around, counting the number of Eastern guardsmen along the walls. As he did so, a glint of light from one of the wall panels behind him caught his eye. An elaborate hunting scene had been carved into it, leaving deep, shadowy recesses between the figures of horses and dogs and rearing stags. Something had been there for an instant. But it was gone now. The sensation of being watched remained.
"Do you think you can defeat the Persians without me?" Theodore's voice dripped with sarcasm. "With your raw troops and these ragged barbarians?"
"Any army," Dagobert replied, face stiff, "fighting as one can defeat an enemy fighting as three. Do I have your word your forces will remain inside the city?"
"You do not!" Theodore barked angrily. "You presume a great deal to order me, barbarian!"
"When your emperor is well," Dagobert snapped, "ask him what he would have you do. I do not think that you will like the answer."
Theodore stepped forward, his motion violent, but brought himself up short before he struck the Frank. The two men exchanged a long and pregnant glare, then Dagobert smiled icily, bowed and turned away. "Good day, Lord Prince. Please extend my best wishes to the Emperor, when you see him next."
Rufio touched Nicholas' shoulder and they retired, quietly, through the door they had come in through. Theodore was already raging, his voice low and vehement, behind them as they slipped out. "Both of those men are fools," Rufio said quietly as they hurried down the hallway. "Things are worse than I expected. Turn here, we can catch up with them before they leave."
Nicholas followed as Rufio ducked through a series of interconnected rooms, mostly filled with boxes and hampers of indefinable baggage. They came out into a high domed hallway filled with a pleasant green light slanting down from above. Windows of close-set colored glass studded the domes, providing a soft and diffuse illumination. Statues of ancient emperors and heroes lined the walls. The Western and Khazar officers were hurrying past, their boots making a loud rattle on the tiled floor.
"Legate, Khagan. May I have a moment of your time?" Rufio pitched his voice to carry, but not far. Dagobert paused, frowning, but then caught sight of Nicholas standing behind the captain's shoulder.
"Ah, the missing agent! And you are?"
"Rufio, captain of the Faithful Guard, my lords." Rufio bowed, both to the Frank and to the Khazar. "I believe we can speak in this room undisturbed for a moment."
Dagobert glanced over his shoulder. "Very well."
Rufio led them into a small alcove set with benches on all sides and ornate stone carving on the three facing walls. The stone was painted to resemble vines and roses. A circular glass window filled the ceiling, shedding a faint greenish light onto the five men. Nicholas took up a position by the door, keeping an eye on the hall outside.
"Do you speak for the Emperor?" Dagobert seemed aggrieved and distracted. The two Khazars were watching the byplay intently. Nicholas guessed that they were brothers.
"I fear, my lord, no one can truly speak for the Emperor at this time." Rufio sounded both sad and professional. "He is in the grip of a serious illness. Despite all our efforts, he refuses to become well. You cannot count on his aid or assistance in these matters. I do, however, speak for Empress Martina. She supports the Western Emperor's plan, though her power in the city is, currently, severely circumscribed."
"Theodore controls the army, then? I understood he was under house arrest."
Rufio shrugged. Some things could not be helped. "Theodore has gained the support of nearly all of the Legion commanders and his house arrest was never enforceable. Are you going to attack the Persians?"
Dagobert shared a glance with Prince Dahvos. The Khazar, at last, spoke in a pleasant, barely accented voice. "Even with the addition of our horsemen, master Rufio, we do not outnumber the enemy. It would be madness to attack them in their camp. They have a strong position behind the stream and the hills."
"Then there is a stalemate, unless Theodore brings his army out of the city."
"Yes." Dagobert's face became morose again. "Unless the Persians are lured out of their encampments…" The Frank tugged at his long nose, thinking. "Their supplies must come across the strait, on the Arab fleet?"
Rufio nodded, his arms crossed. "If our combined fleet defeats theirs, they will be trapped. Soon they would run short of food. They would have to come out of their encampments to search for supplies, and the Khazar horse could harry their foraging parties. That would force a battle. Also, we can wait."
"For what?" Dahvos seemed interested, handsome face lighting with speculation.
"While the Perinthus road is open," Rufio said, "food can enter the city. They have no chance of reducing us by blockade and starvation. To take the city, they would have to close the road again. That will bring them out."
"And if they come?" Dagobert said in a sour tone. "Then we are outnumbered! Dare we give battle against the Boar?"
Rufio snickered, rubbing his pox-scarred jaw. "Even the West fears him! Listen, if there is battle in the offing, Theodore cannot remain in the city. He will lose face among his supporters. These Arabs have already beaten him once; he must be itching for a rematch. If he knows that you are going to give battle, he must join you."
"But he refuses to be under my command!" Dagobert frowned. "That would be a disaster."
"Is there another option? Without the Eastern troops, you may well be defeated and driven back. With them, there is a chance for victory."
The Frank mulled this over, slowly stroking his mustaches. While he did so, Rufio turned to the Khazar Prince. "Khagan Dahvos, my condolences for the death of Sahul. He was a wise king and a mighty warrior."
"Thank you." Dahvos smiled, clasping forearms with Rufio. "You were with Heraclius in the campaign at Kerenos, weren't you?"
Rufio nodded sharply. "Yes, lord. Though we never spoke at the time. I am greatly relieved to see you and your men here, though I am surprised-I had not heard someone had sent a messenger to Khazaria requesting your aid. Surely Theodore didn't?"
"No." Dahvos' expression changed subtly, becoming guarded. "We heard that there was trouble and guessed that our aid would be welcome. A long journey, master Rufio, if you don't come by sea!"
"Ah." Rufio glanced sideways at the Western legate, who looked like he had bitten into a sour melon. "It does not matter how you came. I will not flaunt the goodwill of the gods! Legate? We do not have much more time-Theodore's guardsmen will come looking for you soon."
"We can press the Persians, try to get them to come out of their hole." Dagobert's words were abrupt. "But I won't do that unless you can guarantee the Eastern army will sortie from the city to support us." A thought seemed to occur suddenly to the Frank. "With the boy!"
Rufio bit his lip, looking back and forth between the Romans and the Khazars. "I cannot guarantee the entire Eastern army will come forth-it would not be wise, in fact, to leave the city unguarded-but I think most will. And, of course, t
he boy will come."
"The boy?" Dahvos looked amused. "Which boy?"
"The firecaster." Dagobert was visibly relieved. "He got us through the wall, perhaps he can overmatch the Persian magi."
"Don't rely on him!" Rufio stepped close to the Frank, a grim, fixed look in his eyes. "Putting your trust in a wizard is like trusting the gods! They are not reliable. Cold steel and the courage of men, those can be relied on, not these fickle powers."
Dagobert did not step away. Instead an avaricious gleam entered his eyes. "But you will bring him forth?"
"Yes," Rufio growled, the tone of his voice sending a chill down Nicholas' back. "He will come forth."
The Frank nodded and left the room, gathering up his officers. The two Khazars stayed behind for a moment, the black-haired one joining Nicholas at the arched doorway. Dahvos was reaching into his belt for something.
"I am Jusuf," he said, extending a hand. Nicholas clasped it, then saluted.
"I am Nicholas of Roskilde, centurion of the Faithful Guard. Well met."
The Khazar cocked his head, staring at the northerner. "Your eyes… they are an odd color, if I may say so without giving offense. Are you from Rome?"
"No!" Nicholas laughed, blushing a little. "Well, I don't know that. I may be, but I was orphaned and don't remember my birthplace. I was raised among the Dann, in Scandia."
Jusuf nodded, distracted by his own thoughts. "Of course."
Dahvos and Rufio finished their conversation and the blond Khazar strode up, his eyes sparkling with delight. The khagan nodded to Nicholas. "Jusuf, we'd better hurry or the legate will think we're plotting against him. Gentlemen, we will see you on the field of battle."
Nicholas kept silent while Rufio stepped back into the room and went to one of the corners where the benches left a cleared space. "Follow me." The captain pressed on a section of carved thorns and the corner folded back, making a sudden opening. There was an outraged squeak from the darkness, then Rufio entered. "Don't wait for the sun to set" floated back out of the darkness.
Ducking his head down to enter the low tunnel, Nicholas followed. A heavy smell of dust and mouse droppings and hyacinth perfume met him, but he took a breath and then hurried after the receding tread of the captain. He was suddenly very worried. How the Hel am I going to get Brunhilde back?
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The Circus Maximus, Roma Mater
Leaning over the side of her chariot, Thyatis gave Ila a fierce hug. Around them, dozens of slaves and attendants swarmed among the horses and chariots, oiling axles, testing tack and harness, fitting tall feather plumes into the bronze headdresses of the animals. "You must hide, little mouse," Thyatis whispered into the girl's ear. "There will be a great deal of confusion today; you might be able to get away."
Ila nodded, her eyes wide. The girl was both worried and disgusted. "Why did they have to choose a four-horse, single-driver race? Why can't I drive in your place?"
Thyatis managed a half-smile, though the despair in Ila's face struck at her heart. "Narses arranged this, Mouse. The people want to see me and Hamilcar race. I'm sorry."
"Oh, I'll never get to race! No one wants to see me! Only you."
"Ila!" The mousy girl blinked back tears, but she held Thyatis' hand tightly in both of hers. "If I win today, or even survive the race, it will be because you taught me how to drive one of these things. If I win, you win, for you trained me."
"Maybe." Ila pressed her forehead to Thyatis' hand, then let go, a sad look on her face. "Watch the turns! It's a rare race that doesn't see a driver killed or crippled. Do you hear the crowd?"
Thyatis nodded. From the starting gates she could see part of the long sweep of the circus. The seats were a sea of people in a festive mood, wearing their holiday best. Everyone who could cram into the stadium was here today, making a brilliant display of gold and purple and white and cream and blue. Only an hour ago, the Emperor had ascended to the temple of Victoria and watched while the priests sacrificed nine sheep and nine goats to the Fates. The animals were then burned in the Greek style. Curls of smoke rose from the white pillars of the temple. The crowd noise sounded like an enormous flock of angry birds.
"I do," Thyatis said, wrapping the reins around her left hand. "They are eager for sport."
"For blood, you mean." Ila looked around, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "The slaves whisper-they say everyone expects either you or the fat cat to die today."
"I know." Thyatis fitted a bronze helmet onto her head. "It would be a proper sacrifice if it were me, but I would not want to give that oiled panderer the satisfaction."
"Don't you dare die!" Ila scowled up at her, one little hand on the curving rail of the chariot. "You have to see me race my horses."
"Very well." Thyatis grinned down. A simple tunic of blue cloth covered her body from shoulder to thigh. Despite the weight it added, she managed to work herself into a corselet of close-fitting iron rings. The horses wouldn't be happy, but she was going into battle. Leather straps covered her arms from wrist to elbow, and high boots ran up to her knees. The helmet sported a pair of stylish backswept wings, but she had broken the copper off with her bare hands. She wondered why Amazons were supposed to have huge, unwieldy wings on their helmets. Was it traditional? No wonder they nearly became extinct!
Cornets and bucinas winded, a brave, glad ringing sound. The slaves and grooms in the starting gates flooded away, carrying their bags and boxes and ladders with them. Ila padded off, waving good-bye. The Roman woman turned, snugging her helmet strap tight. She tested her balance on the chariot, rolling from side to side. It was very light, made of wicker and pine, with scenes of the ancient gods painted on the sides. The horses looked over their shoulders at her, rolling their eyes and blowing. They were a matched set of dark brown Parthian mares. Two grooms remained with each chariot, holding the leads for the teams. The horses were eager to run, tossing their heads. The long ostrich feathers danced in the air.
Thyatis tightened the reins around her hand, staring straight ahead at the brilliant white sand. The blood fire was beginning to hiss in her veins, making the world slow down and become preternaturally distinct. A hush fell over the drivers and teams in the starting gate.
– |His cane rapping on the marble steps, Narses climbed into the viewing box of the Prasina faction. The entryway was draped with dark green swags and all of the slaves were clad in light green tunics. The lanista swallowed a laugh, seeing the way the Prasina were strutting about in their holiday best, all in various shades of viridian. Today, in deference to his hosts, the old gladiator was wearing a sprig of holly at his shoulder.
"Narses! So good to see you. Come and sit." The mentor of the Prasina, an overweight cheerful iron merchant named Sebastianus, waved to Narses, who grimaced but acceded to the request. "You were right! I should never have doubted you."
Sebastianus clapped the lanista on the shoulder and tried to help him into one of the winged chairs next to the balcony. Narses considered tripping the merchant with his cane, but then thought the better of it. Who knew when he might do business with the Greens again? Better to stay on good terms. The racing faction had grown powerful in the city. "Right about what?"
"The crowd!" The Green waved grandly at the vast sweep of the Circus. Every seat, it seemed, was filled and on the upper decks many people were standing. "Gate receipts have never been higher."
Narses nodded sagely, though inside he was shaking his head at the man. This was the last day of the greatest games that Rome had seen in over a century. Even if the race card had donkeys and dwarfs on it, the citizens would have turned out. All of the games, plays, pantomimes, tragedies and foot races had been very well attended. In retrospect, the Emperor's decision to delay the munera and to starve the populace of his or her accustomed entertainments had heightened everyone's anticipation. The lanista tapped the head of the cane against his chin. Too many sweets spoil the taste. Hmm…
"I'm glad that you accepted my proposal."
>
Sebastianus giggled, pressing his thick fingers against the lanista's shoulder. "An equitable arrangement for both of us!"
"I hope so." Narses clasped his hands on the cane. "It should be a good race."
The lanista fought to keep from smiling. Once he had approached the various factions with Gaius Julius' plan to race both Hamilcar and Diana, the mentors had fallen over each other to fill his hands with gold. Of course, only the Greens and their hated rivals the Blues had the coin to meet his price. Just that part of the transaction had netted him several million sesterces. A small, though doubtless weighty, portion of the gate receipts would flow into the school as well.
The real money would come from the betting. Narses kept himself out of the frenzy, letting the patricians and the merchants and the various Imperial officers beggar themselves with ever more daring wagers. However, before he had even spoken a word of this to the mentors, Narses had made arrangements with the criminal cartels who controlled the betting. A very small percentage of the total wagers would come into his hands, less than one percent, but in exchange Narses had promised that there would be a fair race between his two entrants.
Of late, the cartels had found that corruption of the races was so widespread-and well known-that betting had fallen off. In particular, before the Emperor's abeyance, the Greens had won the last twelve major races. Who wanted to bet or give odds under those circumstances? When the various touts and bookmakers had circulated the word that, in honor of the dead of Campania, the race today would be straight up-no fixed chariots, no bribed drivers, no mysteriously lamed horses-the gamblers had come swarming out of the woodwork. The lanista expected to rake in another ten to fifteen million sesterces just from his percentage of the wagers.
Visions of a real villa had begun to trouble his waking thoughts, replete with acres of garden and vineyards and fruitful orchards. A singular vision of a white wall covering with golden wisteria and small red flowers occupied his thoughts.
Sebastianus' chortling was lost in a sudden roar from the crowd. The chariots had come forth from the starting gates, the horses stepping smartly, their plumes dancing in the bright sun. In a careful line, the twelve teams walked out, making a long slow circuit of the stadium, letting everyone see them, their glossy coats and the smart-looking chariots. A cohort of musicians marched behind the drivers, their tubas, trumpets and bucinas winding out a long stentorian dirge. Before them, carried on platforms held up by poles and a hundred slaves apiece, preceded garlanded images of Jupiter and Juno and Minerva. Each driver rode easily, one arm raised in salute to the crowd and to the Emperor. Narses could see that Galen and his family had returned to the pulvinar on the far side of the stadium. The racing factions maintained their boxes beneath a tall tower in the southwestern corner of the Circus, conveniently close to the starting gates and the stables. The location was also in shade the entirety of the day.
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