Someone had to catch all those fish. Shirin started looking for the fisher-women and their harborage.
– |Shirin reached a long, narrow slot in the rock. It thinned to nothingness a dozen feet above her head, but below her it widened out. Down at the base, where the cleft plunged into the water, it caught the spume of the waves and shot them upward like a millrace. Shirin snarled in effort and reached around the edge of the crevice, her fingers stretching for the far side. It was just narrow enough. Her fingertips brushed across the smooth black stone. Nodding to herself, she pulled her hand back and got a good grip on the edge of the cleft. Grunting, she hooked her right leg around the edge and felt about for a ledge or crevice. A foot down, she found one. Hoping against hope that it would hold her weight, she swung around the edge and into the crevice itself.
The little ledge held, and she braced her back against the wall of the slot, breathing heavily. Her arms burned from the effort of carrying herself and the bag of tools and rope down the face of the cliff. But now, supported by the leverage of her own weight, she could rest for a moment. She pulled the bag into her lap and let the top fall open. After flexing her fingers to get some sensation back in them, she dug around in the bag and pulled out a mallet and a flat-headed iron spike. There were dozens of spidery cracks in the black rock already; all she had to do was find one that would take the anchor and not come loose when she put her weight on it.
– |A trail ran along the height of the cliffs that girded the island. It was rocky and ill-defined, but the ephebes sometimes ran along it at midday. Mikele was fond of strenuous physical exercise. The trail made a course three miles in length as it wound around the crown of the island, rising and falling, climbing cliffs and plunging down into narrow ravines. When Shirin had taken to running the trail at dawn and at sunset, the teacher had seemed pleased.
Shirin knew little of a fisher-woman's life, but she had heard that they went out at dawn or before, and returned before nightfall. The mindless exertion of the trail and the effort it put on her muscular legs was good, too, for it took her mind off the aching in her heart. Each day she woke possessed of a nagging fear that she would forget what the faces of her children looked like.
Two weeks had passed before she caught sight of a fishing ketch slipping through the waves below the cliff tops. She had skidded to a halt and crawled to the edge of the cliff, peering down. The longboat had a triangular keel and sharply pointed bows. It was painted a sea-green on the sides and blue from above. Against the surface of the Mare Aegeum, it was almost invisible. On this day, a sparkle like the sun catching on an Immortal's shield caught her eye. The boat was heavily laden with the catch of the day; some large fish with skin like shining mail. Two of the Sisters drove it through the water with leaf-bladed oars, cutting deftly between towering pillars of black stone that jutted from the sea.
They had disappeared into the cliff below her, and Shirin knew that there must be a sea cave. Pressing her cheek and ear to the ground, she could feel a hollow booming sound echoing in the rocks.
– |Shirin worked her way down the cleft, her feet against one wall, her back pressed against the other. As she descended, the rope in the bag spooled out. One end was tied under her armpits in a crude harness; the other was looped around a series of iron spikes driven into the rock fifty feet above her head. The roar of the sea hammered at her. Though the water just before the sea cave only showed a slight chop, the cleft magnified the sound reverberating through the rock. She stopped. The crevice had grown large enough that she was about to lose the friction that kept her up. Shirin leaned out, craning her head around the edge of the cleft, looking to see how far she was from the sea cave.
A black mouth yawned up from the waterline only a dozen feet away. The rock face between her and the cave was thick with barnacles and encrusted salt. She reached out and grabbed at the nearest handhold. The white stone crumbled under her fingers. The sea was wearing away at the island, a finger's width at a time. The Khazar woman cursed luridly. The sea heaved underneath her, its shining green surface only feet away. She licked her lips. This was not going well. It seemed to have risen during her slow, agonizing crawl down the cliff. Perhaps the tide was rising?
Oh, curse me for a steppe girl! What do I know of the tide? Panic trickled in her mind, threatening to overcome her. An image of children intruded, and her face became still and grim. They need me, she snarled at herself. Bracing with her legs, she twisted around and leaned around the corner of the cleft, the mallet in her hand. The corroded rock gave under her first blow, the sound of the hammer ringing on the rock lost in the rush and roar of the surf. A foothold formed with gratifying speed.
Minutes later, she clambered out of the cleft and onto the open face. There were still a few iron spikes left to her, and they sank into the crumbling rock with ease. She crabbed sideways to the edge of the sea cave. Heedless of the possibility of a watch, she swung around the corner, feeling the cold bite of the water as it rose up around her ankles. It was dark inside the cavern, and she pressed herself against the wall, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
When they did, she found herself at the mouth of a half circle. A long ramp of worked stone rose out of the water and ran to the back of the cave. A wall of fitted stones blocked off the back of the cavern. There were no boats in evidence, but the ramp had two long grooves cut in it, grooves that were spilling water down them as the waves lapped in and out of the cave. With a gulp, Shirin untied the rope under her arms with one hand. She had reached the end of the tether.
It fell away and the water caught the line, spinning it out of the cave mouth. She moved along the wall, finding it slow going until she reached the edge of the ramp. The stones were slippery under her feet and she felt utterly exhausted. Despite a ferocious desire to lay down on the damp stone, she made herself climb the ramp and look over the wall. The thick smell of fish greeted her.
Two sturdy-looking fishing boats stood on heels of stone, but beside them, gleaming in the wavering light that reflected on the roof of the cavern from the bright sea outside, was a skiff with a folding mast and a sail of sea-green canvas. Shirin's eyes widened, and she scuttled to the side of the little craft.
Spiky Greek letters gave it a name, Hector, and carefully painted eyes of red and gold gave it spirit. It was light enough for her to push off of the mooring block, too, after she had thrown the bag with her supplies of food and clothing into it.
The sea waited, surging at the mouth of the cave, as she struggled to climb into the boat. It danced on the water like a skittish horse, slipping and sliding this way and that. Shirin grinned-part of the training of the ephebes was to handle small craft in the lagoon of the island. She shipped an oar of polished oak with a leaf-shaped blade and a painted handle. Hector darted forward. Shirin's hair lifted behind her in a dark wave.
The sky was bright as a mirror as the little ship cut through the water.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Palace of Justinian, Constantinople
The sharp rap of knuckles on the doorframe of his room woke Dwyrin. His eyes opened slowly, not because he was deeply asleep, but because his whole body seemed weary, even his eyelids. The Hibernian rolled out of his cot and stood, letting his hair-still tangled and mussed by the thin pillow-hang lankly around his shoulders. A man of medium height and thin, with a narrow waist and broad shoulders, was standing in the doorway. Dwyrin blinked and made out a serviceable dark blue tunic, leather cavalryman's leggings, a pair of dark-colored belts at his waist, and the scabbard of a long, straight sword slung over his back on a baldric of black leather.
"You'd be Dwyrin MacDonald, late of the Ars Magica of the Third Cyrenaica?"
Dwyrin blinked in surprised. The man's voice carried the burr of the northern seas, and he'd even managed to pronounce his name correctly. The youth straightened and ran a hand though his hair. "Aye, sir." He tried to stand, but a fierce headache intervened and he had to lean against the wooden frame of the bunk.
The man stepped into the room and turned a little to the side so that he could stand comfortably. It was not a large room. Dwyrin could make out his features for the first time. He was thin faced, with a narrow nose and dark brown hair. A pair of mustaches jutted from his lip, the ends waxed to sharp points. It was hard to make out his eyes in the poor light, but they seemed a strange violet color.
"Nicholas of Roskilde, centurion on detached duty," the man said, and extended a hand in greeting. Dwyrin took it, gripping the other man's wrist. The fellow was strong-his forearms were thick and muscled like a wrestler-but he felt no need to try to crush Dwyrin's grip in his. "You've been assigned to my cohort."
"I have?" Dwyrin was surprised. The last time that he had trudged across the complex of government buildings to the offices, there had been nothing for him. Of course, when he tried to remember what he had done the day before or the day before that, it was all a sort of pine-rosin tinted haze. These Greeks brewed some fierce wine. Dwyrin rubbed his face and grimaced to find it spiky with stubble. He had only begun to grow a beard and now it felt like a rat's nest stuck to his face. "Where are we going?"
The man nodded to himself and looked around the little room. It was part of a warren of cubicles in the basement of the "old" palace that housed soldiers in transit through the Eastern capital. The room was small and mean and almost filled by four bunks of splintery pine boards and musty straw pallets. "Come on," the man said briskly. "Get your gear and let's get on the road. We've got a boat to catch."
Dwyrin blinked again and rummaged under his bunk, pulling out two leather bags of gear that held his mess tin, his short Spanish-style sword, a saw, some wheat cakes, salted bacon, and other accoutrements. He slung them on a stout wooden pole that doubled as a tent post and hoisted that onto his shoulder. The man was already striding down the hallway, his head bent to one side to avoid striking his forehead on the low arches.
Dwyrin hurried after him. Well, he thought, at least I'm going somewhere!
– |"Lord Prince?"
Theodore turned, his face still damp with sweat from his morning ride. The arches of the Imperial stables rose over his head, framing small square windows that let down bars of dusty yellow light. He rubbed his chin, feeling the stiffness of his beard. He would need a bath soon. His guardsmen loitered close, checking their horses' hooves and rattling about with their saddles and tack. "What ails you, Colos? You look like you've eaten a raw quince."
The man, short and balding, with thin arms and a long, narrow nose, shook his head. Theodore had met him before, many times. Colos was the scroll-pusher in charge of works within the city. Heraclius had always accorded him considerable respect, listening attentively to the man and his endless descriptions of wall repairs, sewer cleanings, aqueduct extensions, and so on. Theodore squared his shoulders and worked up a pleasant expression. Colos looked about and frowned at the number of groomsmen, guards, and other layabouts in evidence.
"Lord Prince, may I speak with you a moment, outside?"
"Surely." Theodore motioned to the stable boys to take his horse. It was bright outside, with the sun shining down out of a sky empty of clouds. The air had been nippy when Theodore had left the city in the predawn darkness, but now it promised to be an exceptional day. The bureaucrat turned left as they left the stables, and they passed through an arched passage. Beyond lay a small garden, filled with vines and spindly looking trees with white flowers.
"What goes?" Theodore turned, leaning against a wall.
Colos squinted in the sunlight, fidgeting. Now that they had some privacy, he seemed even more loathe to speak. The Prince cocked his head, eyeing the man. Something must be afoot, he thought with interest. This fellow is about to wet his pants…
"Ah… there is a delicate matter, Lord Prince. It… ah… it involves your immediate family."
Theodore frowned, his eyebrows crawling together. A dangerous light entered his eyes. "Which members of my family?"
Colos flinched, but he continued. Now that he had managed to force out the first words, the rest came much easier. "Lord Prince, some matters concerning the Emperor had sought his attention. Of course, since he is ill, he has little time for the business of state! Yet these things must needs be done… I took the matters in my own hands and went to see the Emperor's secretary."
Theodore nodded. Heraclius was barely cognizant of his surroundings for more than an hour or two a day. It made the simple business of government very difficult. Still, the matter had not caught Theodore's particular attention before.
"Again, I was told that the Emperor would see me later." Colos' voice rose a little as he spoke. "I pleaded with the clerks to, at least, let me leave the edicts, petitions, and proposals for his consideration at a later date. At first they refused me, but then she came out."
Theodore looked up from where he had been picking at some dirt under one of his nails. "She?"
"Yes." Colos nodded, his mouth twisted a little on one side. "The Empress and her maids came out of the inner audience chamber. She asked what I desired, and I told her. She said… she took the papers from me, saying she would see that the Emperor saw to them. I did not know what else to do, so I acceded to her demand."
The Prince pushed away from the wall, his face stiff. He stared at Colos, and the man stared back. "What happened, then?" Theodore's voice was soft. He realized with a sudden cold certainty that the enjoyable time he had spent riding with his friends in the hills of Thrace, or hunting in the forests of his estates in Bithnia, had been sorely wasted. "Were these items seen to?"
"They were, Lord Prince." Colos' expression changed, becoming, if possible, even more sour looking. "Documents were signed with the Emperor's seal and edicts approved, military dispositions were made and taxes levied. All very neat and tidy and properly done."
Theodore regarded the man, seeing him in a new light. Such words would not come out of Colos' mouth unless the man were sure of himself. Sure that he was supported by the other ministers and bureaucrats within the palace. Sure that the Prince would understand what he was implying. "So… despite this proper procedure, you do not feel that the papers and edicts and writs were, in fact, properly issued? You think, you suspect, that perhaps the Emperor did not pay overmuch attention to them? That, perhaps, some other person, familiar with the doings of these offices, might have taken it upon themselves to act in the Emperor's stead?"
Despite the menace inherent in the Prince's words, Colos nodded simply. "Lord Prince," he said, "the best-governed household is one where the father is honored. If the father is away, then the eldest son must bear the burden of providing proper guidance and direction to all."
Theodore nodded, though he felt a faint pang for the riding and hunting that would be lost to him. "I understand," he said, smiling. "I will see that proper direction is provided to the Emperor's household while he is ill." The Prince's face was cut by a feral grin. This could be better than hawking!
– |Summer had finally come to Constantinople, and the chill of winter had passed. Today, as Nicholas and Dwyrin tramped through the streets of the city, there was a clear blue sky overhead. The morning haze that had clung to the docks and low-lying brick buildings had burned away in the bright sun. Even the bitter wood smoke of the Avar encampments beyond the walls was gone. The great Prince Theodore had sortied with the Imperial Army a month ago, after the soldiers had recovered from the week-long revel that had accompanied their return to the capital, and the Avars had scattered. The great Khan's morale had been broken by his failure to carry the walls and by the destruction of the Persian fleet. The latest word that Nicholas had heard in the senior centurion's mess was that the Avars were already abandoning Thrace and falling back behind the mountains of Moesia. Within the year he expected that Macedonia and Moesia Inferior would be recovered as well.
Nicholas whistled a lilting tune as he walked, long legs eating up the distance between the old palace and the military harbor. He would be glad to leave the narrow, twisting stree
ts of the city and the unrelenting noise and crowds. The youth dogged along at his side, his shorter legs scrambling to keep up. Nicholas looked down, measuring the unshaven face with its fuzz of red whiskers and the nonregulation hair that was a tangle behind the boy's head. Nicholas had been rather surprised when he had looked over the roster of his command and found that it contained a thaumaturge detached from a frontier unit. His experience in working for the Office of Barbarians had always been marked by a penurious atmosphere.
Now, seeing the boy and the bleary eyes and the shuffle that marked a particularly tremendous hangover, he wondered whether he hadn't gotten shorted again. Of course, the locals were fond of very strong wine, spiked with pine rosin to "give it flavor," as he had once been told.
"So, lad, where have you been? What experience have you?"
Dwyrin looked up blearily and opened his mouth, then closed it again. They walked a distance before the Hibernian could muster enough brainpower to put one word after another. In his current fog, it took a lot of effort to put one foot in front of the other.
"I was with the army in Persia, Centurion. I was at Tauris and Kerenos and Ctesiphon."
Nicholas whistled in appreciation. The boy had seen some action then. Perhaps he had gotten a good draw after all. Not that this job needed it really. "How long have you been in the thaumaturges, MacDonald? Which circle have you attained?"
Dwyrin smiled grimly. He got that question a lot, more so since Zoe and Odenathus had abandoned him at Antioch. "Just about a year, sir. I'm still first circle."
Nicholas raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Back to getting the short stick. Still, an inexperienced hell-caster was better than none, right?
"Sir?"
Nicholas nodded for the boy to go on.
"Where are we going?"
"In a minute, lad. Once we're on the boat and have met the rest of our little crew I'll fill you in."
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