The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  "Rufio?" The querulous sound of his voice echoed from the bare walls. "Attend me."

  The guard captain entered the room; his face an impassive mask as he slid his arm under Heraclius. Another man of the Faithful Guard entered as well. Heraclius looked away from the Northerner; he could not stand to see the pity in the Scandian's eyes. Rufio grunted a little, but the Emperor rose with some assistance and smoothed his robe down with a trembling hand.

  "Take me to the balcony. There is work to be done today."

  The dark-haired guard captain nodded and motioned to the other guardsmen to precede them down the hallway. With the help of one of the Scandians-the blond one with long braids-Rufio helped the Emperor into his chair. It was more a sling that supported Heraclius under his arms and midsection, and left his bloated legs to rest on a fabric of silk straps. Four of the guardsmen lifted it with oaken handles. When the Emperor moved in his palace now, all other men and women were sent away. Only stoic Rufio, the Faithful Guard, and the Emperor's brother were allowed to look upon him. Rooms and chambers would be cleared as he moved. The vast warren of the Bucoleon now seemed a dead and empty place to Heraclius and he often gazed about in confusion as he was carried from room to room. Where has everyone gone?

  He saw that it was a cloudy day as the guardsmen carried him out onto the balcony. This was the one place that he could look at the sky; a third-floor terrace that looked north upon the towering dome of the Temple of Zeus Pankrator. Small trees rooted in wooden boxes surrounded the terrace and it could not be seen from the ground or the windows of the palace. Most importantly, it did not look upon the sea.

  Since the swelling in his legs had begun, the sight of water filled Heraclius with unreasoning fear. He knew it was madness, but could not bring himself to look upon the dark blue waters of Propontis or even the marble-lined tub of a bath. When he looked upon water, he thought of the clear fluid that bulged under the distended skin of his legs and he shuddered. He thirsted constantly, but could barely bring himself to drink. Only resinated wine, or perhaps the juice of some sweet berries, could pass his lips.

  A host of fluffy white clouds thronged the sky, passing in front of the sun in endless procession. When they parted, the sun shone down bright and clear. Heraclius sighed, feeling the warmth on his face. Here in the protected little garden, surrounded only by trusted friends, he felt almost well. The guardsmen put his chair down carefully at an ornamented wooden table set underneath a pair of flowering lemon trees. A number of papers were laid out on the table, along with quills and ink and a sand block.

  "What," gasped Heraclius, feeling a twinge in his legs as he settled, "is the business of the day?"

  Rufio nodded to the guardsmen, who withdrew to the edges of the terrace, becoming invisible among the planters and trees and ornamental bushes. The scarred guard captain stood at ease beside the table, his hands clasped behind his back.

  "Avtokrator, the first item is the setting of the Imperial rate. Each province within your realm has reported that it has completed the initial census. Each governor and legate now awaits your decision about the rate of taxation that they will apply."

  Heraclius smiled wanly, feeling pain trickling through his legs. Despite it, he picked up the first of the papers and read the summaries compiled by his clerks.

  "Good. We shall surprise them then, good Rufio. I am reducing the rate."

  He picked up a quill, wetted it in the inkpot, and then wrote as strongly as he could the edict that would go out to tax the world. He ignored the surprised look that flickered across the guard captain's face. Let them be astonished at my generosity! We shall make the shortfall back, and more, from the new lands under my demesne. When he was done, Heraclius looked up and handed the paper to the man.

  "Sand this," he said, his voice quavering. Heraclius leaned back in the chair, breathing heavily. "See that copies are made for each governor by the end of the day and check them to see that they are copied dutifully. Then…" He paused, catching his breath. Even this little effort was exhausting. "Then, send copies forth by Imperial courier to each town and city. This edict is to be posted in every forum and agora, in a plain and public place. Each and every citizen within my realm is to know, before the month is out, what is expected of him."

  Rufio bowed and walked to one of the terrace doors. In the room beyond, Heraclius knew, there were a clutch of sallow-faced clerks, scribes, ministers, and copyists waiting about for him to deal with the matters of state. He had always disliked them-conniving men with small minds and a greedy penchant for bribes. Now he had every excuse to ban them from his presence. It was a carefully hoarded spot of joy.

  When the guard captain returned, the Emperor motioned to him weakly.

  "What is the second item?"

  Rufio's face became even more impassive and still. Even his dark eyes seemed to shrink into immobility. The guard captain removed two parchment sheets, folded letters, with purple edging on one side. Heraclius stiffened and his mouth twisted into a grimace. Such papers were reserved for petitions from the Imperial family. He tried to raise a hand and wave them away, but Rufio spoke regardless.

  "Avtokrator… your wife requests an audience with you. She wishes to show you your son."

  Heraclius flinched as if struck by a mailed glove. Before this torment he had not thought that Rufio possessed even the faintest hint of a conscience or sympathy or love, but even with his voice as cold and even as a gravestone, the Emperor could hear the entreaty in the man's words. Heraclius thought of his wife, his niece-young and beautiful, filled with a lively wit and an unquenchable desire for knowledge-and the pain was worse than that from his tortured legs and lower body. If she saw me, she would flinch away and those gorgeous brown eyes would fill with the most dreadful fear…

  "Is… is my son healthy? Is he strong?"

  Rufio remained immobile, staring into the space above the Emperor's head. He said nothing.

  "Answer me!" Heraclius hissed in rage, his hand scrabbling on the tabletop, seeking a weapon.

  "He lives," said Rufio at last, after a long silence. "There is every hope that he will grow strong and hale and straight."

  "Enough…" Heraclius looked away. Even my blood is corrupt. I am cursed by the gods.

  "I will see the Empress on another day," said the Emperor, and put the letter aside, unread. "What is this other?"

  Rufio unfolded the letter and placed it before the Emperor. Heraclius frowned, seeing the stiffness in the man's fingers. Where the first petition had inspired love, this one roused disgust or hate in his guard captain. Heraclius caught Rufio's eye and cocked his head in question.

  "What is this?"

  "Lord Theodore," said Rufio, his jaw clenched. "requests your permission to send another physician to attend you. This one is a master of the Order of Asklepius."

  "How has this transpired?" Heraclius was outraged. "What is he still doing within the city? He should be on his way to take up residence in Ctesiphon by now." The Emperor's hand was shaking and he pressed it firmly on the tabletop, trying to make it stop.

  Rufio nodded stiffly, then said, "So you directed him, my lord, but he has refused to go. He claims that he loves you too much to abandon you here, while you are still sick." The guard captain seemed about to say more, but did not.

  "Foolishness! If he waits here, the Persian dihquans will gather themselves together and reestablish order and control over the land between the two rivers. Bring him to me immediately."

  Rufio nodded, then turned and strode to the nearest guardsmen. Heraclius gnawed on his knuckle, his thoughts occupied with incipient fury. Sometimes his reckless brother taxed him too much. Something was going on behind his back, too. He was not so far gone to miss the unspoken meaning in Rufio's words. If the Prince were loitering about the capital while his brother lay sick, Theodore would be prey to all kinds of conniving sycophants and intriguers. It had been far too long since the Emperor had appeared in public. Rumors would be rife in the markets and am
ong the padded seats in the Hippodrome that he was dead, or mad, or worse. An ambitious and healthy brother could easily see an opportunity in such a time.

  And, growled Heraclius to himself, he cannot stand Martina… I must do something.

  – |"You will take yourself immediately to Tyre on the coast of Phoenicia with the greater part of the fleet and four Legions. There is already a Legion at Damascus that can join you."

  Heraclius bit out the words, glowering at his brother, who stood before him on the terrace, a little stunned. The Emperor did not fail to note that Theodore was looking very smart today in a crisp red robe with purple edging, golden boots, and a polished breastplate worked with eagles and a laurel crown. He had trimmed his beard close to his jaw and his hair was carefully arranged. A striking image of a modern officer fresh from victory. Very Western, too. And so strong looking on those fit tan legs…

  "With these men at your command, plus those local auxiliaries that prove trustworthy, you will establish direct Imperial control over those lands that had previously been the domain of the rulers of Palmyra and Nabatea. You will place garrisons in each city and provide administrators, governors, and judges in replacement of those that are already there."

  Theodore blanched at the cold tone in the Emperor's voice.

  "But…" He stammered, then paused and gained control of his voice. "I was to go to Persia? What about all our plans to rebuild Ctesiphon as the capital of a Roman Asia?"

  Heraclius looked over at Rufio, though it cost him blinding pain to do so.

  "Who…" He gasped. "Who now stands in command of the army at Antioch?"

  "Vahan, my lord. The Armenian."

  "I remember him." Heraclius thought for a moment. "Send new orders to him. He is to take the five Legions under his command east to ensure that we retain control of the roads to Ctesiphon and the lands thereabout. My brother, after securing the cities of the Arabian frontier, may join him. Vahan will be proclaimed governor of Persia for the nonce."

  Theodore made an abortive half-bleat of outrage. He had just been demoted from the prize he had so greedily accepted, replaced by a mercenary from a barbarian nation. The Prince made to speak again. The Emperor turned, his face bilious with fatigue. He jabbed a gray finger at his brother.

  "You. You will see that the Empire directly taxes the cities of the Decapolis. Their armies were shattered at Emesa or ground to meal-paste at Palmyra, so most of your work is already done. Be quick about it, too. You will leave the capital within the week."

  "But…" Theodore spread his hands in an entreaty. "I've brought another physician…"

  "Out," snarled Heraclius and he turned away, breathing heavily, and refused to look at his brother. "I've enough of your charlatans." Seven times the mummers had leaned over him, their fat faces sweating, using their powers to heal him. Seven times they had failed. Who could stand against the displeasure of the gods?

  – |Rufio took the Prince by the arm, gently, and escorted him to the arched doorway that led into the palace. After a moment, Theodore shook his arm free and glared at the scarred guard captain. Rufio met his gaze with equanimity and after a moment the Prince stormed off, his cloak snapping in the air behind him. When he was gone, Rufio pursed his lips in thought. The Emperor was very tired and would need to be taken to bed soon. It was hurting the State for him to be so weak.

  "Sviod, come here."

  The strapping young Scandian with long blond braids who had helped carry the Emperor was standing in the hallway, talking in low tones with a middle-aged man with a thick gray beard and the robes of one of the Achaean priest-hoods. Sviod bowed to the priest and then stepped to Rufio's side. Unlike many of his fellows, Sviod spoke good Greek. Rufio leaned close, one eye on the Emperor, who was staring at the sky.

  "Find the Empress and see if she will grant an audience today. Then find me. Most likely I will be with the Emperor in his quarters."

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The Quirinal Hill, Roma Mater

  Thyatis puffed air from her cheeks, watching the frosty cloud dissipate in the air in front of her. The weather had turned cold, startling the citizens who had decided that summer had come for good, and putting a chill on the flowers in the Duchess's garden. Petro the gardener had been beside himself, cursing the fickle gods, and driving his assistants to cover everything with burlap and cheese cloth. In the hour before dawn, as Thyatis stood in the stable yard of the house on the Quirinal, it seemed even colder.

  "Why does it always seem colder now, when day approaches?" Despite a thick German-style cloak with a fur lining, Thyatis had her hands in her armpits, hoping that they would warm up. She always had cold hands and this was worse, since she had gotten very little sleep. She felt grainy and irritable. The yard was filled with muffled sounds of men moving about, checking their weapons and preparing to leave. "Night is almost done, it should be warmer."

  "It's not that cold," said Nikos as he walked past with a bundle of long boar-spears on his shoulder. He was only wearing a light shirt and woolen breeches. Thyatis threw a glare in his direction, but the Illyrian ignored her. She entertained dark thoughts, watching him swing the heavy load into the back of their wagon. Centuries of forebears who had culled their living from the cold Adriaticum in open skiffs had thickened his blood. And his skull, she thought in disgust. Nikos loved the cold. But then, he liked it when it was hot, too. Thyatis found this very disturbing. The world, she thought, should be an even temperature all year round.

  "My lady." Thyatis turned and saw that Jusuf had come down the steps from the house. Lanterns faced with panes of cut crystal had been put out to shed some light on the preparations. The Khazar's long face was half cast in shadow. Thyatis smiled in greeting; she had not had much chance to catch up with the Prince since her return.

  "You will be leaving today?"

  Jusuf nodded. He fingered his tunic. It was a dark indigo with subtle red edging in stitched silk and a faintly military cut. A cape of heavy green wool like the shade under forest trees hung from his shoulders. Thin bracelets of gold were clasped around his wrists. The Khazar seemed astonished at the soft nap of the fabric. He kept rubbing it between his broad fingertips.

  "I will, but first I am to speak with this Emperor of yours. Anas' tells me that he was one of the last men to speak with Sahul, before he was killed. We will discuss 'friendship' between our peoples and give the embassy of the Eastern Court apoplexy."

  Thyatis felt a strange sense of disassociation at the Prince's words. Everything seemed turned about and a giddy sensation of being outside of herself, looking down and seeing her body from above, overcame her. Thoughts tumbled like stones in a millrace; the Duchess referred to as an intimate, the lanky barbarian in exquisite clothes, the reminder of her old friend's death. She blinked, feeling choked up, and coughed, covering her mouth.

  "You've come a little way since I met you crawling about in that thicket." Thyatis smiled sadly.

  "Yes," he said, allowing his own grief to show in the shadow behind his eyes. "You have led me astray."

  "Not as far as some, I see." Thyatis blushed at the tart sound of her words. "I'm sorry!"

  "No need," said Jusuf quietly, looking down. Thyatis craned her neck and saw that he was blushing. "I will have a daredevil tale to tell when I return. I feel foolish… I was difficult and pigheaded for months while you drove us into the heart of Persia and then brought us out again."

  Thyatis laughed softly, frost puffing from her mouth, and laid a gloved hand on his arm. He covered it with his own. "I could not have succeeded without you. I would never have met Shirin. Her children would have been quietly strangled by now and she a jeweled captive in the Eastern Court."

  "So true. You've given my family and me a great deal, Thyatis. Even when I have returned to the open grasslands of Scythia and sit once more among the councils of our people, I will not forget you."

  "You should not," said Thyatis, raising a haughty eyebrow. "We will be coming to visit you as soon as we
can-Shirin and I and the children. When it is safer, we will sail to Tanais and come overland. If you have forgotten me when I arrive, I will be forced to thrash you soundly…"

  Jusuf blushed again, and stood back, making the Roman salute. "Until we meet again, my friend."

  "Yes," said Thyatis and she turned away, her thoughts already intent upon the business at hand.

  – |The Duchess had culled her secret enterprises for men who could answer the unexpected with violence. There had been a short and bitter discussion between Thyatis and her patron about the composition of the team that would go to the south. Thyatis had balked at the addition of more fighting men-ones that she did not know and had not worked with before-but Anastasia had been insistent. The stakes were too high in this endeavor to arrive with too few men. There had been discussion of Krista and her place in the enterprise. Again, Thyatis had refused to take the girl. This time, with a wan face, Anastasia had relented and agreed. The dark-haired servant had not been seen since, though Thyatis knew that she was still in the house somewhere.

  Seven more men had been added to the core group composed of Thyatis, Nikos, Efraim, Kahrmi, and Anagathios. They were Legion twenty-year men, scarred by fierce service, and patient as hunters. Thyatis had worked long hours to spar with each man in the gymnasium. As she expected, they were superbly skilled with their chosen weapons and quick as vipers. In particular, four of them were experts with the long hunting spear. The other three were archers of repute. There were still rough edges on the team, but she thought that she could make it work. As ever, she relied most on Nikos and the Khazars. The loss of her original team in the ambush at Van still rankled-it would take years to rebuild a maniple like that.

  There was a sharp whistle in the courtyard and the mercenaries drew back from the wagon. They had piled the last of the arcuballista and bundles of arrows into the reda and laid a thick covering of thatch over the gear. Over that they had put two layers of blankets to make a soft cushion. Nikos and Anagathios came out of one of the half-buried storerooms that lined the courtyard. With the Duchess's villa sitting on the crest of the Quirinal, some of its rooms were cut into the slope of the hill. Each man carried a small oaken barrel, bound with straps of iron. They walked carefully, watching for loose paving stones or slippery places. It would not do for either of these items to be jarred sharply or fall.