The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  A rotten fig flew out of the crowd and spattered against the side of his chariot. Hamilcar looked down, stunned, then up again. Hundreds of people were swarming down out of the stands, shouting in rage. The sound of the crowd had turned ugly. The African vaulted nimbly out of the chariot car, then cut one of the blacks out of the team with his boot knife. The arch of Titus was two hundred yards away, over the glimmering sand. Perhaps he could find safety there.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  The Bucoleon, Constantinople

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  Martina, Empress of the Eastern Empire, strode into the vault with her head high and a glint in her eye. Arsinoe followed, hurrying to keep up, with little Heracleonas on her hip. The Empress was not disheveled as usual, having let her maids have their way with her. She had been bathed, scrubbed, oiled, scraped, her hair piled on top of her head in an artful way. Tiny golden pins held the curled mass in place. Subtle paints and powders accented her round face. A stiff, brocaded dress was fixed around her body with a sleek train of silk.

  Rufio, captain of the Faithful Guard, turned, black eyes taking in the scene. The vault was buried in one of the oldest sections of the palace, only reachable from the main floors by a hidden flight of stairs. Four of his men were busy lifting a huge golden blazon down from the wall of the room. "Empress. I'm surprised to see you down here in the dark."

  Martina stopped, her lips drawn into a thin line. "You are not allowed to touch that, not without my husband's permission."

  Rufio nodded, his grim expression unwavering. "I know."

  The guardsmen lowered the icon to the ground, their movements slow and controlled.

  "Put it back." Martina strode to the captain's side, her face filled with growing horror. "This is treason, to take the Emperor's standard! Have you gone mad?" Her white hand clutched his forearm.

  Rufio looked down, then gently took her hand in his own. "Touching the body of the Empress," he said softly, "is also treason."

  "So it is!" Martina jerked her hand back, scowling. "What are you going to do with the icon?"

  Rufio motioned for the guardsmen to take the standard away. They did, two men on each pole, gripping it by the carrying handles welded onto the iron. When they were gone, Rufio looked back, then frowned at Arsinoe. "Girl, you should take the boy back to the nursery."

  "You will not!" Martina threw a glance over her shoulder and the African girl paled, clutching Heracleonas to her chest. "Stay right there. Captain, you will tell me what you are doing."

  "There will be fighting soon," Rufio said, though it was not clear whether he was answering her question. "Your uncle, Prince Theodore, has decided to place Legion cohorts that are loyal to him around the palace-to 'secure the safety of the Emperor.' Your husband is too sick to move, so I am removing these things"-he gestured at the bare wall and a number of high wardrobes whose doors stood open-"to a place where Theodore cannot lay hands upon them."

  Martina stepped back, stunned. "You are going to leave?"

  "No." Rufio said, his voice level and quiet. "I will be back. I am leaving half of the Guard with you, under that Latin officer, Nicholas. We will fall back, quietly, into the suite of rooms around Heraclius' bedchamber and barricade them. Even if Theodore attempts to force his way in, they can be held for a day or more."

  "Held! For a day? What are you talking about?" Martina's fists clenched and unclenched convulsively.

  Rufio nodded, black eyes flickering to Arsinoe's terrified face and then back to Martina. "Your uncle is preparing to seize the palace and declare himself regent for his nephew Constantius. He will need to possess Heraclius' body for this, either alive to sign a will, or dead to show that the Purple must be passed on. Our hourglass is down to the last grain."

  "Impossible!" Martina shook her head violently. "I would know if this had transpired! He just spends all of his time bickering with the cohort commanders and trying on his brother's clothes…" The Empress paused, eyes widening at the expression on Rufio's face.

  "How do you know that?" The guard captain cocked his head, taking a half step towards her. "How did you know that we were moving the regalia? Were you hiding in the walls again?"

  "No." Martina quailed away from the fierce expression on his face. "I wasn't! You have no right to question me!" She rallied, jutting out her chin and matching his growing fury with her own. "I am the Empress! You are a guard captain! You must obey me!"

  "Must I?" Rufio's voice was still very calm and level, but she could feel his anger building like storm clouds over the Propontis. "Do you have a spy in his camp? A woman? One of the slaves?"

  "No." Martina gave him a disgusted look. Then she smiled. "I have my ways."

  "Do your ways tell you what is happening in the Persian camp?"

  "No. Why would I watch them?" Martina flipped her hand in dismissal. "They're boring and safely on the other side of the walls, digging and rooting about in the mud."

  A look of contemplation crossed Rufio's face, then he stepped back, making a sketchy bow. "Empress, my apologies. I spoke out of turn. What are your orders?"

  "Well." Martina straightened her stole and the pleats of her gown. "That's better. You think Theodore will try and capture these things?"

  "Yes, Empress. They are being moved to a safe place." Rufio's expression cleared, becoming its usual stoic mask.

  "He will try and seize my husband?" Martina's brown eyes were thoughtful.

  "I believe so."

  "Your treason is forgiven, Captain. But I require your assistance today."

  "Of course, Empress. How may I serve?"

  Martina gave him a look, daring him to mock her. Rufio clasped his hands behind his back and met her eyes. She almost sneered, but then gave it up. "I am going to take Heracleonas to see his father. You must order the guards to let me into the bedchamber."

  One of Rufio's eyebrows rose. "Is that wise? He has banned you from his presence. If he is angry, I would have to imprison or exile you."

  "I know." Martina sighed. "But if those two foul priests were right, then his fear is killing him. I will show him his son-his healthy son-before he goes into that darkness. Now, take us there."

  Rufio nodded, though he was torn. He needed to catch up with the men carrying the regalia and the standard. They might encounter difficulties in the tunnels. He had no margin in his plan for a delay like this. Martina was still staring at him, her chin raised. Inwardly, he sighed, and then strode through the door. "This way, Empress."

  Martina swept after him, Arsinoe hurrying to catch up. The baby was almost asleep, drooling on her shoulder.

  – |"Husband?" The Empress pushed open a heavy door. Although it was midday, the room was dark, the high windows covered with black drapes. A single dim candle burned on a table near the door. "Heraclius?"

  Martina wrinkled up her nose, trying not to breathe. The fetor in the room was heavy as oil. She pinched her nose and advanced into the darkness. The bed loomed out of the gloom, thick with quilts and tangled sheets. Her outstretched hand touched a bedpost. "Husband, where are you?"

  Arsinoe and Rufio stood guard in the doorway. The captain had sent the guards away to join their fellows in the outer ring of rooms. Martina looked to Rufio, who shrugged in puzzlement. The Empress circled the bed and found the blankets thrown aside in a tangled mass. Hiking up her dress she crept onto the bed. Her small white hand searched among the covers, finding them cold with sweat. Martina shuddered and rubbed her palm hurriedly on the quilts. The Emperor was gone.

  The smell clung even when Martina wiped her hand repeatedly on the blanket. Shuddering, she stepped away. Her heart was beating faster and a sense of disaster was growing on her. Had Theodore already struck, stealing her husband's body? Was he dead? The Empress stepped to the nearest window, feeling for the casement in the darkness. She found the heavy fall of a drape and yanked the cloth aside. Dust puffed out, filling the air. A thin slat of pale sunlight appeared, striking through the darkness, making
the dust sparkle and shine. Martina blinked. In this gloom the pale gleam seemed very bright.

  A muffled thumping came from behind her. She spun, trembling. Something was there in the darkness. "Rufio!" Her voice quavered. "There's something there!"

  The guard captain was across the room in a blur, bare metal gleaming in his hand. He crouched, sidling towards the corner. Martina stepped out of the beam of sunlight and saw, as her eyes adjusted, a huge armoire standing against the wall, faced with two doors each the height of a man. The corner itself was empty. Rufio shifted his body, his sword arm pressing Martina back behind him. The Empress clung to his hard, muscular shoulder with relief, pressing against the solidity of his back. Blood thudded in her ears and she felt faint. The captain eased the wardrobe open, revealing a mass of robes and tunics. A foot twitched in the light, greasy and gray and covered with sores.

  "Husband?" Martina gasped, palm pressed over her mouth. The foot twitched as if the light burned the flesh, then drew back under the shadow of the robes. "Heraclius? Please, it's Martina, please come out."

  Gathering herself, the Empress motioned for Arsinoe to join her. The maid scuttled forward, the baby pressed to her chest. "Give him to me."

  Martina took Heracleonas in her arms. Then she knelt down in front of the wardrobe. The little boy made a burping sound and immediately squirmed out of her arms. Despite her simmering hatred of all priests, and those of Asklepius in particular, Martina was forced to admit changing her child's wet nurse had made a big difference.

  "Go away…" A bubbling wheeze issued from the robes. Martina steeled herself, composing her features, then reached in and pushed the clothes aside. "Ahhh!"

  Heraclius cowered away from the dim light, arms raised, body contorted to fit into the tiny space. For a moment, all she could see was a pasty-white thigh covered with sores and dead gray skin. Then she made out his head, long red-blond hair clinging wetly to his scalp.

  "Husband! Oh, my love…" Martina squeezed herself into the wardrobe, ignoring the mess made of her delicately pinned hair and the gown. Her hands touched his face, finding it wet with tears. "Come out of this place," she whispered, sliding her arm under his. "See your son? Yes, this is Heracleonas, strong and healthy. Look at him!"

  "No." The word was slurred, almost unintelligible. Weakly, the Emperor tried to pull away from Martina. She caught his hand and put it against her cheek. "My son… is… corrupt. Cursed!"

  "Look at him!" Martina's voice caught a tone of command and she turned his head. Heracleonas stood at the edge of the wardrobe, fat little fingers clutching the tunics. He was smiling. "See his bright face? He is a terror, always getting into trouble."

  Heraclius stared at his son, face puffy and gray, but he could still see and he blinked. Tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes. "He can stand." Now Martina could make out the words. "He's standing."

  "Come, love." Martina squeezed out of the wardrobe, then bent and took her husband under the arms and lifted. She grunted, bracing her right foot against the lip of the wardrobe. "Arsinoe, get Heracleonas. I don't… grunt… want to trample him."

  The maid ducked in, face averted from the naked, swollen body of the Emperor, and snatched Heracleonas away. Rufio disappeared out the door. Martina managed to help Heraclius up, carrying most of his weight with her shoulder. He had lost weight while he was bedridden, even though his legs and abdomen were swollen. His skin squeaked as he moved, and bubbles of clear fluid moved under the surface.

  "Can you stand?" Martina panted with effort.

  "No." Heraclius wept. "It hurts, it hurts!"

  A disgusted look flickered across the Empress' face and she staggered towards the bed. At the edge of the mountain of quilts, her left hand seized the bedpost. "You can stand," she gasped, "your body is not corrupt. We are not cursed for our marriage."

  Martina stepped back, suddenly leaving Heraclius on his own. He cried out in fear, staggered forward a step, then caught himself weakly on the edge of the bed. "You see," she said, brushing the wild fall of hair out of his face. "It's not so bad."

  "My feet, my legs… are useless." Tears were streaming down Heraclius' face. "I'm a cripple. Unfit to be Emperor."

  "You have two legs, two arms, a nose, both eyes!" Martina took Heracleonas from the maid, then stepped close to the Emperor. "Like your son. Look at his face. Look at my face."

  Heraclius, Emperor of the East, looked up, his blue eyes bloodshot and red. Martina met them with her own and smiled, putting the child in his arms. "I love you. Don't fear me."

  The Emperor clutched the boy to his chest, staring down at the round smiling face. His swollen fingers gently brushed back the child's thin blond hair.

  "Da-da!" Chortled Heracleonas and grabbed his father's nose in his tiny fingers. "Poopy!"

  Heraclius coughed, then sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his son. Martina and Arsinoe were immediately at his side, keeping him upright. "Yes… son… I am."

  Rufio paused at the door, Sviod and Nicholas at his side. Both men were carrying ceramic jars of the juniper tea. The captain of the guard took in the tableau before him, then motioned for the other two men to step back.

  "Do you feel the air?" Rufio looked at Nicholas, who nodded. There was a tension, a bitter smell, something half heard, only felt. "Battle is coming. There's no time for a slow cure. Nicholas, there are two priests of Asklepius at their temple, named Tarsus and Hipponax. They can't have gotten out of the city. Get them here immediately. He's ready to be helped."

  Nicholas nodded sharply and took off at a run. Sviod looked down at his jug, then he raised it solemnly to the north.

  "Well," the Scandian youth said, "I guess Grandma was right about those juniper berries!"

  Rufio did not answer immediately, black eyes bare slits. Martina stood over her husband, a shaft of sunlight falling on her, sparkling in the tumble of brown hair cascading down around her shoulders. She seemed very beautiful. She was smiling at her husband and her son.

  "Your grandmother was a wise woman, Sviod. A wise woman."

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  The Plain of Mars, Before Constantinople

  Wake! You are at the balance of fate.

  Mohammed's eyes opened, at first seeing nothing but darkness. Then a glimmer of firelight appeared, illuminating the roof of his tent with orange and gold. He lay still, feeling the warmth of his bed, the heaviness of the horse blanket lying over him. The world outside was cold and dark. Men passed by outside with torches. He felt the motion of the earth and knew the time to rise had come. Throwing back the blanket, Mohammed stood, his head bent to the south.

  O Lord of the World, you have guided me to this day in all ways. I have believed and I have been delivered. Give me the strength to throw down your enemies, to free the world, and I will yield up blood, bone and heart in your service.

  "There is no god but Allah," he said aloud to the darkness. He was awake and alert. Stepping to the door of the tent, he looked out. Torches and lanterns dimly lighted the tents of the Sahaba, but the men were rising, breath puffing white in the cold air. The two guards in front of his tent were awake and looking up at him.

  "Bring something hot to drink," he said. One of the men rose, armor clinking softly, and went off in the direction of the cook tents. Mohammed went back inside. His hand found an oil lamp on the folding table by the head of his bed. A moment's effort with flint and steel had the wick lit and a soft yellow glow filling the tent.

  "Zoe, it is time." Mohammed put the back of his hand against the Palmyrene woman's cheek. Her wounds had healed well, leaving only tiny, glassy scars around her ear and the side of her throat. In this soft light, they were almost invisible. Her hair lay across the folded quilt like a glossy black fan. She woke silently, eyes flickering open, then turned towards him. A warm hand emerged from the blankets and covered his, pressing it against her cheek.

  "Hello." Her voice was very soft and filled with sleep. "It's cold."

  "I've sent for someth
ing hot to drink." Mohammed smiled, kneeling on the heavy carpets covering the floor of the tent. "You have to get up. Today is the day."

  "Oh." Zoe slid deeper under the blankets, leaving only her dark brown eyes visible. "Is everyone else up?"

  "No." Mohammed tried to keep from laughing but failed. "You have to get up now."

  "It's cold." Zoe's forehead creased in a frown.

  "Yes, it is."

  "But I have to get up, even though I can see your breath in the air?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, very well." Zoe made a face but sat up, pulling the blankets around her shoulders. Her bare feet poked out from under the covers, then slid hastily back. "It's very cold."

  Mohammed was saved from having to answer by a soft whistle at the door. The guard handed the Quraysh two copper flagons. Steam rose from the surface of the liquid they held. Mohammed sniffed it, then wrinkled his nose. "Hot mare's milk with honey."

  Zoe took her cup with a wary look. "Who drinks milk? It'll spoil."

  "Not in this cold," said Mohammed, draining his flagon. "The Avars make it, I think. Not bad."

  Ignoring Zoe's foul look, Mohammed stripped off his sleeping robe. His body was firm and muscular, the benefit of years in the saddle and unstinting physical labor both in war and peace. He had put on some muscle since escaping from Palmyra. The Sahaba ate far better than they had during the siege! Rummaging in one of the soft bags at the foot of his bed, he drew out a pair of woolen pantaloons and tugged them on. A thick tunic followed, then a stained felt vest. By this time, Zoe had managed to finish her drink. She helped him pull a shirt of heavy iron links over his head, his beard tucked out of the way. Her hands clasped a leather belt around his trim waist and drew it snug. The weight of the iron felt good on his shoulders, comfortable and familiar. Thick pads were sewn into the inside of the shirt, protecting his neck and upper chest. He sat on the blankets and began to wrap lengths of fleece around his feet.

  Zoe retrieved his boots from near the door and helped him tug them on. They were heavy, with three layers of leather stitched together. Vertical iron slats were fitted between the layers, reinforcing the sides of the boots and protecting the tops of his feet and his shins. Standing again, he wiggled his feet around until they seemed to fit. A dark green surcoat went over the mail shirt. Zoe straightened it in the back, then held up his djellabah. Arms extended behind him, Mohammed stepped into the desert robe. Another belt secured it and he untangled the hood before laying it flat on his shoulders and back.