The Storm of Heaven (60 page)

"That army was destroyed," Khalid muttered, feeling ill used. Both Persia and Rome traditionally set the desert tribes against each other, using the Arabs as pawns in their ancient war. "They could not stand against the power of the Lord of the Wasteland."

"Or against your arms," Khadames said quietly. Khalid looked up, his face still.

"Yes," the Persian said. "We have many reports of the battle from captive Roman soldiers. Your army fought with great valor. You might have won even without the storm out of the desert."

"Perhaps," Khalid snapped, seeing hidden malice in the open face of the Persian general. "You would do well to mark that power, for if you desire to test yourself against it, you will lose."

Khadames raised a hand and waved away the hot words. "Khalid, you were only a scout when last I saw you, but no man in that cursed army was accounted braver than you. Twice you did Persia great service and showed yourself a man of honor. I will not bother to try and deceive you with pretty words. There is respect between us, I think, and the Great King hopes that from respect, friendship may grow."

"Friendship?" Khalid was incredulous. "Friendship with that... monster? You must be mad!"

Khadames cocked his head to one side, smiling slightly. He drew a cloth out of his belt and wiped his forehead, then laid it on the column next to him. "I would not call the Great King a monster," Khadames said at last, filled with secret amusement.

"I would!" Khalid said hotly. "You've seen the atrocities that come from his hand! Didn't you hear the shrieks of the Palmyrenes as their city was consumed? Didn't you feel the horror in the air?"

"Ah," Khadames said, affecting surprise. "You speak of Lord Dahak and his...
appetites
."

"I do," Khalid snapped. "Who do you speak of?"

"I speak of the Great King, Shahr-Baraz, King of Kings, Lord of the Persians and the Medes. A commander whom you, I believe, once respected as the greatest general in the world."

Khalid stopped, his face screwed up in a scowl. For a moment, he could not speak. "What?"

Khadames half turned where he sat and slipped a wooden shield from his back. It was small and round, barely enough to cover his bicep, three layers of laminated cross-bound oak faced with an iron boss. It was painted, too, with the likeness of a snarling boar, white fangs streaked with red. The Persian held it up to the young Arab.

"Six months ago, as they reckon it in Ctesiphon, the Great Lord Shahr-Baraz, the Royal Boar, adopted the twin daughters of the late emperor Chrosoes in great glory and splendor. He is the protector of the Twin Radiances, Azarmidukht and Purandokht, the glories of the East. From their loins will spring a new dynasty, joining the house of Sassan to his own ancient lineage. It is he, the best of us, who sits upon the Peacock Throne."

"What?" Khalid was stunned, his quick mind hurrying to reshape its view of the world.

"You said that before, I believe." Khadames was grinning fit to burst as he put the shield away. "Know this, lad, that the Great King remembers you and he remembers Lord Mohammed as well—did they not spar, lance to lance, on the field of Emesa and in the early days of that lamentable siege? Know too, the creature Dahak is his servant and his loathsome ways are bridled by the Great King's hand and will."

Khalid raised a hand for silence and thought for a moment. Looking up, he squinted at Khadames, sitting so easily on the ruined stones. "What do you want with us?"

"This is poor news," Dahvos said, toying with the gnawed remains of a lamb shank. "It seems we've come too late."

Master Nomes nodded, spreading thin, gnarled hands wide to show that such things were the will of the gods. A Greek from Trebizond, the old merchant controlled the business interests of the House of de'Orelio, here on the northern shore of the Sea of Darkness. Lank, stringy hair fell to his shoulders and he was lean to the point of cadaverousness. When he spoke, it was in a hurried, accented Greek punctuated with wet-sounding coughs. Jusuf had to listen closely to make out what he was saying.

"Young man," the merchant wheezed, "you're too late to hire any sizable number of hulls. The governor has already sent off all those ships that are rigged to carry horses or cohorts of men. This new trouble in the Syrian provinces is ruining commerce as usual." Nomes paused, hacking, and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. "At best, there are some coasters, each able to carry ten to fifteen fully grown horses, plus an equivalent number of men."

"That's not enough," Dahvos said in a remote tone. Jusuf saw the authority of a prince had come stealing over his brother like a graven mask. The carefree youth pranking and laughing on the road from Itil was gone, replaced by a stern young man, a leader. "We would need substantially more ships than a
few
coasters. The grain fleet will not return?"

Nomes shook his head sadly. Jusuf was sure the man saw considerable profits disappearing in the wake of the Crimean grain haulers, so recently recalled to the capital. The pinched look on the merchant's face indicated he felt the missed opportunity keenly. "Not until the summer harvest is in, my young friend. A ship could be dispatched, I—
cough!
—suppose, to carry word to the capital. But when the Imperial authorities might respond, I do not know. It could be months."

Dahvos mulled this over, sipping from a copper goblet filled with steaming spiced wine. Jusuf watched his brother with interest. This expedition might be his idea, but its execution was in the hands of the young
khagan
.

"Master Nomes," Jusuf ventured, while Dahvos was thinking. "Have you any news from Italia or Syria? The last message that reached me told of Theodore's defeat in southern Phoenicia."

The old merchant shook his head sadly. "No," he said. "Not so much as a scrap. All the news I've heard of late is bad, and out of the capital. There is a bitter struggle in the Imperial household, though none of it, I warrant, is in the streets yet. The factions are waiting for Heraclius to die."

Jusuf settled back in his wicker chair, disheartened. "Nothing new from Italia?"

Again, Nomes shook his head.

"Well," Dahvos said suddenly, "we will have to go around, then, if we cannot take ship directly to Constantinople. It will take some time, I'm sure, but the distance is not much greater than what we have already covered, if memory serves."

"Around? That's a long road through lands we've just crossed, and over two sizable mountain ranges to boot."

Dahvos wagged a finger at his brother. "Not east, dear Jusuf, west. Through southern Sarmatia, across the Danuvius and then down the coast into Roman Thrace."

Nomes guffawed. "To the west? Young sir, all that land is fine riding, but also the domain of the Avar khanate! They are ancient enemies of both Khazaria and Rome—you will have to fight your way through such a passage, and that will delay you for a long time indeed."

"I wonder," Dahvos said, with an unprincely twinkle in his eye. "The Avar
khan
was soundly beaten during the siege of Constantinople last year. His dependent chiefs will be restless, his own status debased. We are a strong force and we can move swiftly, with your help."

"My help?" Nomes squinted suspiciously at the young man. "How can I help you with this business of armies? I'm a simple merchant!"

"Yes," Dahvos smiled, "a merchant with numerous shallow-draft coasters and extensive contacts all along the coast of the Sea of Darkness. I think it would not tax your abilities too much to provide us with a following fleet."

"A what?" Nomes' lip curled up, gnarled hands wrapped around his walking cane.

"A fleet," Jusuf interjected in a dry voice, giving his little brother an arch look. "A fleet that will sail along the coast while our army rides on land—a fleet that can bring us fodder, food, supplies, news. A fleet to ferry us across the mouths of the Danuvius and other rivers barring our passage along the coast."

"Hmph." Nomes settled in his chair, wrinkled face filled with distrust. "And who will pay for this excursion? You?"

Jusuf looked to Dahvos, who raised an eyebrow, then withdrew a folded, sealed packet of parchment from his tunic. He placed the papers on the table between himself and the merchant.

"I am an agent of the house of de'Orelio," he said softly, so that the servants loitering in the alcoves around the dining room could not hear. "As are you. This is a draft upon the Duchess' account in Constantinople. I think you will find it covers your expenses in this matter."

Nomes raised an eyebrow, then poked at the edge of the parchment with a knobby finger. "Did the Queen of Day set you about this business, then?"

Jusuf wondered at the strange title, but nodded. "We have discussed it, she and I."

Nomes coughed again, suddenly seeming tired and very old. "Then I'd best help you, I suppose. But not tonight. I am tired."

Jusuf rose and bowed to the old man. Nomes ignored him and, helped by his servants, shuffled out of the hall. Dahvos also stood, pocketing some early apples from a tray on the table.

"A good idea."

Dahvos nodded amiably, saying, "I thought so. Your fault, really."

"How so?" Jusuf slung his cape around his shoulders. Rooms had been provided for them in the upper story of the merchant's house, but the Khazar was planning on spending the night in the stables with the horses. It promised to be cleaner, quieter and less infested with biting insects.

"All that hideous Greek you made me read when I was a stripling lad and didn't know any better."

Jusuf frowned at his brother. "What are you talking about?"

Dahvos sighed, shaking his head, then scooped the remainder of the lamb roast into a fold of his own cloak. Jusuf shuddered, thinking of the pungent smell the grease would leave after turning rancid on the inside of the heavy wool. Dogs would follow them for miles!

"Herodotus," the
khagan
chided. "Don't tell me that you didn't read it yourself?"

Shrugging, Jusuf strode out of the dining hall. "I wasn't the prince in waiting,
you
were! So what did this Herodotus say?"

Dahvos scowled and followed after, grumbling. "A fine brother you are! Can you even
read
Greek?"

"I can make do." Jusuf paused outside the doorway to the courtyard. The air was a little nippy, but quite pleasant. A breeze was coming down off the hills above the port. Above the flat roofs of the town, the stars were out and burning with a fierce brilliance. Jusuf felt a delicious anticipation—he had never ridden in the Sarmatian steppe or seen the snowcapped wall of the Dacian Alps rising on the horizon. The birds of the Danuvius' marshes were said to be extraordinary in their diversity. "Was this Herodotus a general?"

"No," Dahvos said, still disgusted. "He was a historian. A Persian, Xerxes the Great, invaded Greece long before Rome or even Alexander. He built a great fleet in Syria and used it to supply an enormous army. A force far larger than the land would allow, if they had to forage."

"Did he win?" Jusuf turned, interested.

"No," Dahvos allowed, breathing deep of the clean night air. "But we will."

"Everything is ruined," Martina wailed, her voice and image distorted in the fiery disk of the
telecast
. "The fleet is destroyed and old Andrades is dead! Everyone blames me for this, I can tell! I can see them, scheming and talking about me!"

Helena frowned in distaste, watching the girl's face grow streaked with tears. She had been in her solarium, detailing the latest scandal among the Vestals, when a runner had come from the "viewing room" upstairs. Generally, the
telecast
lay unused during the day, as experience had shown the device more reliable by night. The Emperor was out of the city, viewing the dredging work under way in the great hexagonal harbor of Portus at the mouth of the Tiber. The thaumaturge on duty, a large overdressed German named Gart, had dithered about for an hour before sending for her. Helena glanced sideways at him, viewing the side of his head—all sweaty under his red beard—with mild nausea.

"Dear, you must calm yourself." Helena stifled a sigh and pinched her nose. "Weeping and blubbering will gain you nothing in this business. Look, you've already ruined your eye powders. Martina!" She raised her voice and the Eastern Empress looked up, wiping her button nose. "One of the rules of being empress," Helena said sternly, "is that you do not cry, whimper or generally act like a spoilt child denied a sweet. Certainly not in public! That includes the young man there, who does such good and loyal service."

The image in the burning disk was poor and streaked with shuddering lines of blue and white, but Helena could see the Eastern Empress turn, staring at the portly young priest who was maintaining—with considerable effort—the operation of the mechanism. Some of the Western thaumaturges thought the influence of the sun was in opposition to the motive elements inherent in the disk. Martina turned back, obviously trying to muster herself.

"But things are impossible now! I've been placed under close watch by the Faithful; even Rufio is distant and cold. No one will listen to me at all—everyone knows I sent the fleet out to stop these bandits! It's not
my
fault they defeated that smelly old man!"

"Martina! You will stop whining." Helena's voice cut into the girl's tirade. "Tell me this; has any of the fleet returned?"

"Yes," Martina sniffled, blotting her nose again. "Some. Everyone says that most of the ships were destroyed or captured by the bandits."

Helena nodded. "I do not think," she said in an acerbic tone, "that these people are
bandits
anymore. I think they are a
nation
. But, be that as it may, tell me—where is the Imperial army?"

"I don't know!" Martina managed to stop crying. It was a small improvement, but it made Helena feel much better. Dealing with her colicky son and his noise was enough for her without some spoilt princess as well. "No one talks to me about those things. Rufio, he might know... but I can't even see him anymore."