The midwife nodded, bowing, and tucked the baby into Anastasia's arms. "You'll wait at least until the tenth day, won't you? He needs a name before he goes out into the world."
Anastasia looked down at the little creature cradled in her arms. Every muscle was dead sore and tired, but she still managed to lift her hand and caress his soft hair. "He will have a name," the Duchess said, smiling down, "but it will not come from my hand. We cannot wait until the dekate."
The midwife shook her head in dismay at flouted convention, but turned away and began to bundle up the cloths and bowls and jars. The two girls had been busy, too, scrubbing up the blood spilled on the floor and lighting scented candles to drive away the miasma attendant upon birth. Anastasia turned her head a little and lifted her chin. The attendant who had held her during her labor glided into view. This woman was old and bent, but her arms and shoulders were broad and strong from decades of kneading bread in the kitchens of the House of de'Orelio. The Duchess sighed, looking at her old face and calm, ancient eyes. The pistrix had seen so much!
"Maga, bring the Islander to me. There are things that must be done."
– |The obstetrix bowed and went out, her purse heavier by a dozen gold aureae. Anastasia stared after her with narrowed eyes, thinking upon the damage that a chance comment might wreak upon her plans for the future. She would have to see that the midwife was carefully watched for some time. She pursed her lips and managed to run a hand through her hair. The lush curls were in complete disarray, and damp with sweat and the sacred water that the girls had laved her with. She felt light-headed. An apprentice to learn the art of the obstetrix, the Duchess thought. Someone who has the patience to watch and listen for ten or twelve years…
She shook her head and laughed at herself. Even now, half blinded by pain and exhaustion, she was planning and calculating!
Tros entered the room, ducking under the six-foot-high lintel of the door. As always, his massive shoulders and broad chest seemed to make the chamber shrink. She smiled, feeling greatly relieved that he was here. His dark eyes flitted around the room, checking to see if anyone was lurking behind the curtains at the windows or under the raised bed. This done, he bowed his head and knelt at her side. Sighing, she reached out and ran a hand through his unruly black mop. Tonight he was wearing a headband of bronze links, but even this sturdy ornament could not control his hair.
"You see, great ruffian, I live, and so does my son." She turned a little in the chair, showing him the tiny package bundled into the curve of her arms. "I must send this child away, far away, and you are the only one I trust him with."
Tros looked up, his broad, handsome face filled with astonishment. "I?" he rumbled. "You are too cunning by half, my lady. This is a task beyond my simple skill."
Anastasia laughed, saying, "You underestimate yourself, Islander. You will make a fine nursemaid with a nanny goat close to hand. You are not used to sleeping, anyway. You will make the perfect mater."
Tros smiled, his black eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Where shall I take him?" he asked, his voice troubled. "Beyond Italy? Beyond Gaul? Where will he be safe?"
The Duchess's face saddened, for she was thinking of the long journey and the dangers that would swirl around her baby boy like the currents of Charybdis. Safety was not counted in leagues, but in a hundred days' travel. Too, Tros would be gone, and it was very likely that she would never see him again. Her face grew longer. "Farther than Gaul, dear Tros. Do you remember where we first met?"
Tros's eyes widened, and for the first time that she could remember, he frowned. His great black eyebrows bunched together and something like anger drifted into his face. "I do not forget those days, my lady. It was a near thing, there in the tlachtecatl… I did not expect to live, or see the green hills of Rome again."
"Yes," she said, "but it is far enough away, and entirely outside the power of the Empire… This child will be safe there, I think, among our old friends. You will have to go with him and you will have to stay…" Her voice faltered, and she covered her mouth with one hand. The rush of emotion was so hard to control. She had not expected it to be this painful. The thought of spending the rest of her days without the comfortable presence of the Islander always within call was suddenly bleak. She settled back in the chair, letting the riot of her hair fall over her face. "You will have to stay there, dear Tros, until he is fourteen years old. You must teach him all the arts at your command. Then, when he is ready to become a man, you will bring him to me."
Tros' face grew grim, for he knew the daily danger that the Duchess placed herself in. Fourteen years could well eclipse her, leaving the boy without any family at all. "When shall I go?"
Anastasia continued to hide her face in her hair, clutching the baby to her breast. "You must go tonight."
Tros looked away. The Duchess was crying again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Cilician Gates, on the Road to Tyana
The tramp of thousands of booted feet echoed off high, slate-colored cliffs. Dwyrin walked with his head low, his dull red cloak pulled tight around him. The road climbed slowly up the flank of a mountain, rising by inches above a steep-sided gorge. Below, in the mist that drifted in the canyon, a swift stream thundered over black rocks. Above, the sky was thick with fat, gray clouds heavy with rain. Thin drizzle spiraled down out of the sky, but the mountain peaks were not yet completely obscured. The legions marched west, up the long, slow, twisty road from the Plain of Tauris, through the ancient pass of the gates, and then-in another week-down into the hot plains around Tyana. Dwyrin continued walking, seeing only the tips of his boots and the legs of the man in front of him.
Since the army had decamped from Antioch for the long road by land west to the Eastern Capital, he had lost any interest in the world at large. He marched when told to march, he took his turn at camp duties, and beyond that he coveted the wine jug and the isolation of his tent. Sometimes, when the centurion had a free moment, he would tutor Dwyrin in the arts, but those times were irregular. Blanco had his own business to take care of. Dwyrin, exhausted from marching, no longer looked ahead or at the sky.
The Legions tramped under mossy cliffs and past narrow ravines filled with rushing white water. These mountains were rugged and sheer-sided, with desolate summits white with stone. Narrow valleys cleaved them, arrowing toward the sea, filled with pine and cypress. With little margin the road was narrow, just wider than a wagon, and the long steel snake of the army had unwound to its greatest length. Even now, while the Third Cyrenaica was laboring up the pitch to the first gate, lead elements of the Emperor's army had already passed out of the juniper woodlands on the western side of the mountains. Dwyrin did not care; he only cared to keep dry and to put one muddy boot in front of the other until the centurion told him to stop at the end of the day.
The clouds parted a little, spilling pale sunlight down through drifting mist. The cliffs brightened, showing sprays of gold and red flowers in the nooks and crannies of the mountainside. Above the marching line of men, the road climbed and then turned, passing under an outthrust pinnacle of rock. There, on the dark stones, a square tower rose. This was the first gate. The sloping roof gleamed in the sunlight and the banners of the garrison flapped in the breeze rising from the canyon far below. Cruel battlements leaned out over the road, which passed into a broad gateway and a covered tunnel.
Ravens flew up from the top of the tower, disturbed by a ringing of trumpets as a party of riders in crimson and purple entered the gate. On the road below, Dwyrin heard the noise but he did not look up.
– |"Arrrh!" Heraclius fell heavily on the wet cobblestones. Intense pain flashed in his right knee as it took the brunt of his weight. For a moment he felt completely weak, unable to move his legs. He tried to raise himself, but the rain on the cobbles made it difficult to find purchase. His feet throbbed terribly. The clouds that had parted overhead closed again, now dropping down to enshroud the tower of the first gate in a cold clinging mist.
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"Avtokrator!" One of the Varangians knelt hurriedly at his side. The man's broad, blond face was marked by worry. The Northman slid his arm under the Emperor's and lifted gently. Heraclius felt his face flush with embarrassment. He was a tall, strong man-he should not need any help standing or getting off a horse. Others of the Imperial Guard clustered around him, facing outward with hands on their weapons. Heraclius stood, feeling the weakness in his right leg. He tried to stand on his own, but fierce pain ripped through his feet and lower legs, and he had to take the blond Northman's arm again.
"Let's go inside," he gasped, fighting to keep upright. "I need to take off my boots."
The Varangians began moving, forming a circle around him. The blond man and two others supported the Emperor to the ironbound door of the tower. The soldiers assigned to the tower parted-at first slowly, but then quickly when the purple cloak and golden armor of the Emperor were seen. Heraclius ducked through the door and felt himself lifted up and carried bodily up a wide flight of stairs. At the top, a vaulted hallway ran deeper into the tower. More soldiers, some of them with badges of rank, parted before the Imperials. They turned through a door, the blond Northman turning sideways to carry the Emperor through in his arms. The room beyond was small, with a domed roof and a fire in a grate on the inner wall. There was a desk and a low chair. A surprised man with short-cropped white hair looked up from where he had been writing at the desk.
The two lead guardsmen grasped the man by the shoulders and arms and threw him out into the hallway. The man shouted in anger and fear, but the other guardsmen ran him off. The others took up guard positions outside the door. The quills and ink blocks and paper on the desk were brushed off, clattering to the floor. The blond man lowered Heraclius onto the tabletop.
"Ahhhhh!" With the pressure relieved from his feet and legs, there was a sudden blessed ebbing of pain. Heraclius lay back on the table in relief. Above him, he saw that the roof of the chamber was dark with soot.
"What has happened?" A basso shout echoed in the passageway. Heraclius summoned enough energy to grin a little. His brother had heard something dire had befallen the Emperor and was quick on the wing to hunt it down. "Where is my brother?"
Heraclius levered himself up on one elbow. He waved a hand weakly at the Northman who was still at his side. "Take off my boots," the Emperor hissed. "They feel too tight."
The Northman nodded and began tugging at the laces of the high red boots.
"Brother!" Theodore stormed into the room, his own equites in full armor at his back. The Varangians bristled and moved to block the door. Theodore pulled up short, confronted by the half-drawn swords of four burly men in heavy mail. The Prince's hand moved reflexively to the hilt of his own spatha, but the growl from the Northmen brought him up short. For a moment the Prince bristled and locked gazes with the captain of the Varangians. The captain, quite sure of his place and the long, bloody history of the Imperial Guard, gave a wintry smile and stepped closer to Theodore. The Prince gave ground. Even the brother of the Emperor did not command the Varangians, particularly when their fur was ruffled. Their captain, a squat, thickly muscled black-haired veteran with a pox-scarred face was notorious for his personal loyalty to the Emperor and his rough methods. Theodore had tried to befriend him before and had been coldly rebuffed.
"Brother," Theodore called, "are you well? What happened?"
"Be calm, Theo, I am… ayyy!" Heraclius flinched as the blond Northman tugged one of the laces of his boots free. It dragged in the copper grommets, pulling tight for a moment. The Emperor swayed and then lay back down on the table again. The sooty roof seemed very distant compared to the pain that rippled up his legs and into his arms. "Cut them… cut them off," he managed to blurt out.
The blond Northman frowned and looked to his captain for guidance. The captain nodded, keeping most of his attention on the Prince, who was still poised in the doorway. The blond man pulled a curved knife from a wooden sheath on his belt and carefully slipped the needlelike tip under the laces. The silk cords parted easily, and in a moment the boots had been reduced to brightly colored strips. Heraclius felt like his legs had been released from iron clamps. He breathed easily, almost normally, and was giddy with release. "Ah-I can think! Centurion Rufio, send my brother in."
Theodore bent at his brother's side, his face a mask of concern. Heraclius took his shoulder and sat up again. Now, with the pinching boots gone, he felt almost normal. His feet were still a little numb, though. He looked down and was shocked to see that his toes and feet were unexpectedly swollen.
"What is this?" Heraclius grimaced in disgust. Each foot was a pale gray color and puffy. No wonder he had nearly fainted trying to walk in boots. He felt queasy seeing that the skin was becoming stretched and almost glassy around the ankles.
"I don't know," Theodore said slowly, his eyes lingering on his brother's feet. "I should send for a physician immediately! There is one I trust among my followers. He studied in Egypt and knows many medicinal arts. Pray, brother, let me send for him."
Before Heraclius could speak, the Varangian captain shook his head curtly. "The Emperor has his own physicians, Prince. One of my men will fetch them from the baggage train." Rufio's voice was a gravelly rumble, long ruined by screaming orders over the din of battle. "No other man will tend to the person of the Emperor save them."
Theodore glared back at the Northman, but Rufio's face was an icy crag, admitting no other counsel to its discussions. Heraclius lay back again and stared at the ceiling, ignoring his brother's questioning look. In comparison to the evil-looking cast to his lower legs, the soot-blackened bricks seemed a welcome sight.
"So be it," Theodore said petulantly. "I will see to getting the army past the gate, then." The Prince stalked out without saying anything to his brother, but Heraclius did not notice; he was too busy trying to calm his breathing. His heart had begun to race as his mind began to catalog the ailments and diseases that might be afflicting him. He felt faint again and chided himself for letting his imagination run out of control. Someone leaned over his legs, and Heraclius peered over his stomach. It was Rufio and one of the other veterans. They were muttering to one another.
"Avtokrator," Rufio said presently, turning to face the Emperor. "We will bring you a chair on poles so that we can carry you to a better room. It will only be a moment."
Heraclius nodded and folded his hands on his chest, resigned to waiting.
– |A single candle glowed, marking a small yellow circle in darkness. Heraclius could hear the sound of rushing water somewhere, perhaps through a window. He lay in a soft bed, covered by many quilts. Somewhere nearby, but beyond a door or a hanging, he could hear people arguing. He thought it was his brother and Emperor Galen-but that was impossible: The Western Emperor had departed their company weeks ago. His legs still felt numb, but he was very tired, and he slept.
– |Galen had been standing at the base of a loading ramp, shading his eyes from the glare off the water in the harbor at Seleucia Piera. Dozens of great naves onerariae were tied to the quays, filling with men and supplies and wagons and mules as the Legions of the Western Empire had been preparing to depart from the East. Heraclius had been on his horse, watching in ill-disguised envy as the Western troops bustled about in practiced efficiency, seeing to the thousands of details attendant on their voyage. The huge, dark ships were filling in a steady, unhurried stream. His own army was still snarled up on the roads leading into Antioch. It would take weeks for them to get straightened out, then more weeks while they exhausted themselves in sport in the city.
"Are the omens good?" Theodore had asked from his own horse, voice edged with spite. "No bad dreams or signs of black goats? Surely you've not dreamed of dark clouds or sharks?"
Galen had smiled back in his faintly superior way. The Western Emperor knew that the Prince hated him, but he did not care. Was he not Emperor? And, unless something dreadful happened, Theodore would never don the Purple. Heraclius had two almost grown
sons and a third just born. His dynasty was assured. The younger brother would never see the crown of golden laurels placed on his head.
"No," Galen had said. "The fates smile upon me this day. The sun shines, the wind is right, and soon I will return to Rome and a worthy triumph for my men. A celebration as the great city has not seen in three hundred years!"
Heraclius watched the two men sparring. The Western Emperor was thin, nervous-looking, and phenomenally bright. His lank black hair clung to his scalp like a wet rag, but the mind that dwelled behind the dark brown eyes was unmatched. In comparison, the handsome and broad-chested Theodore seemed a brash red hound, constantly befuddled by the wily fox.
"Why rush so?" Theodore was smirking. "Afraid that your men will lose themselves in the fleshy pleasures of Antioch? Afraid that you might be delayed yourself? In a hurry to get home?"
Galen laughed and ran a thin, tanned hand through his hair, scratching the back of his scalp with his habitual tic. Heraclius knew from these last months' experience with the man that he was considering trying to explain something complicated to Theodore. It rarely worked.
"It is best," Heraclius interjected, giving Theodore a stern glance, "if we are about the business of the day."
The Eastern Emperor swung down lightly from his warhorse and looked around, rubbing his neatly trimmed beard before speaking. As he watched, two cohorts of legionaries were using a ship-borne crane to lift two of the sturdily built wagons used by the Western Empire into the cargo hold of the great ship. Heraclius sighed quietly, mentally comparing the efficient and fluid motions of the Western troopers to the snarl that his own men would have spawned by now.
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