The Storm of Heaven (76 page)

A sigh of relief passed through the room. Goth would fight beside Goth in the line of battle, and everyone would see their deeds. Their glory would not be lost, forgotten amongst the Romans.

"There is more. Various disasters have occurred in the East, where rebellious men threaten the Eastern Emperor. The
Augustus
Galen, invincible and wise, has resolved to support his brother emperor. Four Western legions are sailing to Constantinople to join the Eastern army in repelling these invaders. We, the Gothic Legion, are to meet them there, traveling overland."

Ermanerich was grinning, fit to burst, and even the usually morose Chlothar began to smile. The other subcaptains were pleased in a grim way. Alexandros raised a hand before they could begin congratulating themselves. "This is not all."

He paused, tapping the end of the message tube with his fingertip. "Theodoric, your
reik
has the settlement of who and how many will go. He directs me thus in this letter:"

Alexandros cleared his throat, summoning up the words from memory.

"It has come to the ear of the King," he quoted, "that many Gothic men, even those barred from service under the
Comes
Alexandros, have joined the band gathered at Aquincum. Too, many barbarians and outlanders, even Franks and Gepids, have sworn themselves to the banner of the
comes
. In this way, the band has grown large, larger than the
reik
intended. This both pleases and displeases the
reik
. In the matter of the Emperor's will, the
reik
directs only those men who are not of noble Gothic blood to follow the
comes
to battle in the East."

Alexandros looked around again, the hint of a smile on his lips. There was stunned silence. "Those men," he continued, "who do not go into the East will return to Siscia to serve the
reik
himself, as his own
thegns
."

Ermanerich, beside himself, growled in outrage. "Curse him! What is this? We cannot go to war? We cannot fight?"

"Some of us," Alexandros gestured to Chlothar and the other outlander captains, "will go to war. The
reik
will keep his own men close to hand. You most of all, I think."

"But..." The Goth was speechless.

"It means more than half of the Companions will not go," Chlothar rumbled, heavy face composed in thought. "But the rest of the army, it may march. There are few princelings among the Peltasts or scouts. He is clever, this King of the Goths."

"How? He insults us, he insults me, his own son!" Ermanerich was turning a dark red color. "Are we children? Babies? Do we need shelter, hiding behind our mothers' skirts?"

Alexandros put a hand on the youth's shoulder, his face grim and set. "You are a soldier, Prince Ermanerich. You will obey the orders of your
reik
as if they were orders from me. If the
reik
wishes the noblemen in this army to stand by his side, they will." The Macedonian raised his voice so that everyone in the hall could hear him. "I will abide by the orders of Theodoric,
reik
of the Goths, as will any man—
any
man—who serves under me."

Alexandros held their gaze, his eyes glittering, until each man nodded in agreement. Ermanerich was the last and the angriest, but in the end, he too bent his head. "Very well. Bring the roster. We must adapt to this circumstance."

Krythos already had the mustering book opened on the table. Alexandros hooked a chair with his foot, then sat. After a pause, his captains did so as well. The Macedonian was in an unexpectedly good humor. He could feel fate, turning like a fulcrum, in the air around him.

Alexandros lifted a sword from its bedding of raw wool and straw and turned it over in his hands. It was new, fresh, unstained by rust or blood. He tested the grip, feeling the slickness of the wire-wrapped hilt, and extended his arm, letting the blade hang in the air at right angles to his body. The sword was heavy, as it should be, but not too heavy for a man to wield in battle. The edge seemed good, too, though some work with a whetstone would be needed to finish it properly.

"This seems suitable. How are the rest?"

The swordsmith shrugged, kicking the side of the clapboard wooden crate the swords had come in. "Not bad work, for a job lot, soulless, banged out of some
fabrica
in Mediolanum." The Goth's voice simmered with professional distaste. Alexandros understood the man—he was a craftsman, used to building each weapon to order, for a specific owner. These swords, churned out of some slave-run factory in northern Italia, had no soul. They were empty. No good for winning glory, in his view.

"Check them carefully. We've gotten good service from Theodelinda's agents so far, but I'd not trust them with my life."

The smith nodded, his black eyes examining the blade that Alexandros handed him. The Macedonian lacked a strong network of artisans and craftsmen in Aquincum—the town was too small and exposed for that—but he had taken care to import some skilled men to check the equipment that came, in fits and starts, from the Empire. Gaius Julius was still working hard, in Rome, sending more gold, more men, more arms and armor, to Alexandros. Most days, it didn't seem like much at all, but Alexandros had fought with less before.

Oh, father,
he mused,
what a glorious gift you left me. Each day, I treasure it more.

Alexandros had hated his father for his entire adult life, but now, with the abyss of centuries between them, he was beginning to feel something like fondness for the drunken old lecher. Each week spent trying to beat this army of castoffs, vagabonds and reckless younger sons into shape made him praise the experienced, veteran, superbly trained army that old Phillip had left him. These men were willing, but it took so long!

The Macedonian stomped out of the smithy, scowling, in a suddenly foul humor. He needed a drink, maybe more than one.

"How," he muttered, "will I conquer the world with this rabble?"

"Alexandros?"

Ermanerich was waiting, wrapped in a dirty gray cloak, sitting under the porch of the outbuilding. A chill had come on the air overnight, making the day gray and filled with fitful breezes. Everyone was on edge as a result. The Goth looked sick, sallow-faced and squinting.

"Hello, lad, what ails you this morning?"

"My father." Ermanerich stood, wrapping the cloak around his shoulders like a blanket. Alexandros guessed the boy had not slept. "Has he no honor? His words cut at my heart! Everything that you have built, he tears down."

Alexandros nodded amiably, starting to walk up the path of split logs that led to the main part of the camp. Here along the Danuvius it rained constantly. Mud plagued the whole camp, all the time, getting into everything, fouling the horses, making their lives miserable. Alexandros, following the Roman custom, had sent woodcutters out into the forest to bring back logs to pave the streets of the camp. It was only a partial answer, but it helped.

Ermanerich followed automatically, still bitter. "Half of your officers torn away! Most of our most experienced men taken... he cripples us."

"Yes," Alexandros suppressed a smile. The boy's humor was poor—it wouldn't do to tweak him at a time like this. "Just as he intended all along, and as I expected."

"What? You knew all along?" An angry hand clutched at the Macedonian's shoulder and he was spun around. Ermanerich was a very strong young man, when he chose to exert himself. Alexandros' face darkened and he met the Goth's anger with his own, sudden and hot.

"I did." Alexandros struck aside the hand, stepping in close, his face grim in Ermanerich's. "It was the only thing for a
king
to do. Now, quell your anger, or I will do it for you."

"I will not take such words!" Ermanerich's teeth were bared and he swung at the Macedonian, his fists bunched like sledges. "You dishonor us!"

Alexandros dodged one punch, then staggered back, rocked by the other. His foot slipped on the uneven planking and he went down hard on the walkway. Ermanerich, shouting, lunged forward, hands wide to grab the Macedonian. Alexandros rolled back and up, gaining a series of splinters in his thigh for the trouble. He woofed, taking another punch in the stomach, then hit back, sharply. Ermanerich, still swinging, took the blow right on the nose with a sharp
crack!
He staggered, then Alexandros, his face very cold and still, kicked him in the groin. The boy crumpled, gasping for breath. The Macedonian dragged him up, then kicked him into the street.

Ermanerich hit a big pool of stagnant water with a splash. Alexandros waded in, ignoring the mud on his kilt and tunic. The boy was sputtering, thrashing about with his arms.

"Get up." Alexandros' voice was still very cold, tremendous anger clear on his face. "Now."

Alexandros dragged him up, one hand wrapped in the collar of the boy's tunic, across the street and down the hill towards the river. The Goth was coated with mud from head to foot. A few soldiers, off duty, stared after the pair, but they—wisely—did not follow and went back inside, pretending they had seen nothing. The
comes
Alexandros always seemed an affable fellow, but there was tremendous violence hiding behind the smiling face. It was unwise to anger a tiger.

Ermanerich yelped, then hit the cold dark water of the Danuvius with a despairing cry. White foam splashed up around him and then he was gone, swallowed up. Alexandros watched for a moment, standing, arms akimbo, at the edge of the river. There was a place with a bit of gravelly beach where the grooms took the horses to wash. It didn't seem too deep. Ermanerich resurfaced, his eyes wide in fear, arms and legs windmilling. With a great effort, he managed to claw his way back to the shore, hair tangled with water-vines.

Alexandros sat on a nearby log, looking out over the broad swift surface of the river. The Danuvius delineated the Roman frontier for over two thousand miles, from Augusta Vendelicorum in the northwest to Troesemis in the far southeast, right on the Sea of Darkness. For most of its length, it was a natural artery of trade and commerce, carrying uncounted barges, skiffs, lugs and trading boats. Here, where Magna Gothica ran up hard against the Draculis domain, it usually made an excellent defense. Today, it was mostly cold.

"A soldier that strikes his commander, generally speaking, is killed in full view of the troops." Alexandros commented, the anger gone from his voice. "But you're a rash youth, so I will let this pass, once."

Ermanerich spit weeds out of his mouth, shivering. He hung his head.

"You're going to go back to your father," Alexandros was still looking out over the water. "With the best of the
hetairoi
and the
hoplites
and everyone else. I see his mind, I think. You will train another new army, using those men, and this time—without an interfering foreigner—he will let you have his household troops and those of the great clans. And I... I will go to the east, with the dregs and outcastes, to fight in the Emperor's war."

"That is abominable." Ermanerich could barely speak, his teeth chattering with cold, fingers digging into the gravel.

Alexandros smiled, turning to look at him at last. The Macedonian's eyes were very cold. "That is what a
king
would do. That is what
I
would do. Get up, prince of the Goths."

Ermanerich stood, wincing and touching the tips of his fingers to his nose. It was broken.

"Listen to me. This has been very romantic, so far, filled with adventure and the taint of glory. This is not how war is, not how being a
king
is. Go back to your father, take the men that we have discussed... you will learn a great deal in his court. Pay attention! Watch how he manipulates the nobles and the clan chiefs—they will not like this new way of fighting, they will resist change. Some blood will be spilt, I think. Learn from him, for you will be king, soon."

"What?" The boy's face paled. Alexandros nodded, smirking at him in a knowing way.

"Your father is old, but he will not die in bed. You must be very careful. Theodelinda was a queen once, and ruled a strong nation. That is a sweet taste impossible to forget. If your father dies, then your uncle will be king, if you are not careful. And if Geofric does not watch his own cup, he will be under the cold ground soon, too. Then Theodelinda might be Queen."

Ermanerich looked sick, but he remained standing and Alexandros saw that the boy was drawing strength from within himself.
Good!
He thought.

"Do you love me?" Alexandros watched the play of emotions on Ermanerich's face. The question had been unexpected, but the boy was not startled by the concept.

"Yes, like a brother." The words seemed to put resolve in the Gothic prince. "You have treated me as a man, shown me how to command, opened my eyes to a new way of war. We are friends, I think."

"Perhaps." Alexandros was familiar with 'friendship'. By his memory, he owned exactly two true friends in the whole length of his life. This boy was not one of them.
But he could be,
whispered a stray thought,
as Hephaestus was, once before.
"When you return to your father, he will demand an accounting of the numbers of men trained, the weapons stored, the wagons, horses, equipment. Take him the mustering book that Krythos has prepared. If he presses you, stand by its numbers. Keep your captains' tongues leashed."

Ermanerich's eyes narrowed and he looked, involuntarily, up the hill at the rows of barracks, the orderly sets of tents, the foundries, the workshops, the stables. "How many men have you reported to him?"

Alexandros grinned, his face lighting up like a small boy with a sweet. "Not so many as might have sweated on the practice fields, or marched before us, raising their helms in salute."

"Half as many?" The Goth seemed outraged at such a simple ploy. "A third?"

Alexandros waggled his hand from side to side. "Perhaps half... a little less."

The Goth rubbed his jaw, wincing at the bruise he found on his cheek.

"The day will come, Ermanerich, when you are
reik
of the Goths. On that day, all of these things will become perfectly clear to you and you will understand them, and me, and your father. I hope, on that day, that we will still be friends."