Citron was at his side like an answered prayer. Her gauzy robe hid little more than her working costume had; the nipples were dark. Citron sat, bringing a mist of rose and pine with her. Her arm was smooth and cool around his neck, her breath hot on his ear. Another white arm drew her back.
So. Haraldr turned and met Maria’s eyes; it was she who had taken Citron away from him. Even with the herons fluttering in his head she was as detailed as one of the Empress’s jewel-like icons. The scroll of her lips, seemingly painted with blood; the slight flare of the delicate nostrils and the chiselled tip of her nose; the gull-wing brows. She did not flinch from his rapture, nor did her blue silk irises flare with jealousy. She stared at him for a moment and then her glistening lips descended on Citron’s ear, almost as if she, too, desired the lithe acrobat. But Maria only whispered something, then drew away. A eunuch bent to Maria, listened for a moment, and nodded to Citron.
Citron almost imperceptibly tilted her head. Then she wrapped Haraldr like a hot breeze, like cool marble, her fevered lips on his.
John Chimachus, Turmarch of the first Brigade of the Imperial Thematic Army of Antioch, waited alone in the darkness. He watched as the pearl-faced moon settled just above the eerily luminous crest of Mount Silpius. He did not like it on this side of the mountain, with Antioch hidden to the west. Silpius was the city’s great natural shield, and on this eastern slope of the peak he felt about as safe as he would were he advancing into battle with his shield behind his back.
Something rattled, and Chimachus gripped the pommel of his sword. He looked back at the skewing arms of the thick-trunked old tree, isolated in a rock-strewn pasture. The peasants had tied talismans in the branches, bits of cloth, bells, entire weather-shredded garments hanging like moss. To appease the djinn of the place, thought Chimachus. He wished there was some djinn he could appeal to; things had been so much easier when he was a mere koines in command of a vanda. Then he simply had to worry about fighting Saracens. Not about making deliveries to them in the djinn-haunted night.
Chimachus looked at the leather bags at his feet. His Strategus, Constantine, ran an army in a queer sort of way, all his letters and dispatches and sealed missives. And for the past two days, Theotokos! Four of the dispatch unit’s fastest horses were lame and a good messenger was even now being treated with St Gregory’s salt in the Brigade hospital. Of course something was up; why else would a Turmarch be standing alone in a Christ-forsaken pasture? But the Strategus who had ordered these strange things was very close to the Imperial Dignity. What he bade was done, and questions were a waste of time.
Good. He heard the hoofbeats. If they had wanted to come with stealth, he would have seen them first, and by then it would have been too late to outrun the Saracen horses. Then he saw the silhouettes as the horsemen rode over a slight ridge to east, just four of them. Four black horses. They do not like this night, thought Chimachus, and perhaps this errand, any more than I.
The horses wheezed, sweat lustrous on their necks and flanks. The black robes of their riders concealed all but black faces. White teeth, lit by the moon, appeared with frightening brilliance. ‘Yes?’ asked the black face from atop the largest horse.
‘Yes.’ The Turmarch grunted as he handed up the first bag. The other horsemen came forward in turn. After the fourth bag had been laboriously hoisted, the horseman who had spoken nodded, spurred his horse, and led the others galloping into the night.
The Turmarch returned to his own horse and gently soothed the beast’s sweat-crusted neck. A pack mule would have been better suited to this mission, he thought; fortunately the stallion hadn’t been lamed by the load. The Turmarch looked over his shoulder; he could no longer hear the riders, but he again saw their silhouettes on the ridge; in an instant they were gone. As considerable as that weight had been, it did not warrant the apprehension he still felt. The Turmarch decided he would walk his horse at first. Yes, that had been a great deal of gold. But the Turmarch was certain that it had not been the final payment.
In the darkness he felt silk on one cheek; something lighter, almost as fine, on the other. ‘Ar-eld?’ she whispered, her hair over him like a shroud. She burrowed beneath him like a silken otter, turning him on his side. It wasn’t dark, he realized as the shroud fell away. His Frey-spike was tempered as hard as Hunland steel, and her hand tightened around it. ‘Citron,’ he mumbled.
Her dark tresses receded down his gold-flecked, huge torso, her course as direct as it had been all last night. Kristr! Odin! And that had been only the prelude. Citron’s tongue had been insatiable, as if she were a hummingbird who could only take sustenance through that medium. Odin! Kristr! The things she had done with that tongue, he had never imagined. She was doing some of them again. Haraldr moaned and writhed, as if she were sucking the life from him. When she was done, he slept again.
He awoke. Light filtered around the brocade curtains. He vaguely recalled the room in the palace Citron had taken him to. She was standing by the window, wrapped in a green silk robe. She opened the curtains slightly and returned to him. She bent over and the dark hair fell and she brought her lips to his again. She reached within the sleeve of her robe and took out a white slip of Alexandrian paper and laid it on his chest. Then, springing as lightly as if she were once again cavorting high above the Great Hall, she danced to the door, slid it open, and vanished.
‘Citron . . .’ Haraldr lay back on the pillow and looked at the red wax seal. Who would be summoning him here? He decided not to prolong his anxiety and broke the seal.
The message was written in runes, in Gregory’s hand:
Sir,
We game with one another. Such pastimes are for girls like Anna. I hope Citron has reminded you that there are other games. Today we go to Daphne. You will be with me.
Maria
‘Daphne?’ Nicon Blymmedes could in no way believe what he was hearing. ‘You received none of my intelligence? Do you think I employ akrites and a kambidhouter and a mandator because they amuse me with their inventions?’ Blymmedes’s face was ripening rapidly. ‘The indications are unmistakable. We have evidence of very large movements to the west of Aleppo. And one of the brothers at St Symeon was blessed to elude a reconnaissance party.’
Constantine toyed with the large clamp used to stamp his seal in lead, absently snapping the iron jaws shut several times. Delightful, he thought, the way the birds had added their early-morning chorus to the melody of his fountains. ‘Domestic,’ he said insouciantly, ‘I am most impressed with the fashion in which your barbaric akrites can examine a pile of camel dung and from it deduce the size of the Caliph of Egypt’s army. However’ – Constantine rattled a sheaf of documents – ‘I have here my own intelligence, and it is considerably more eloquent than the carefully studied excrement your akrites offer us.’ He threw the papers down.
‘Assurances of safe passage from the Caliph of Egypt, as well as his vassal, the Emir of Tripoli.’
‘It is never safe to be careless!’ thundered Blymmedes. ‘All I am requesting is another day or two to send two light cavalry vanda west as far as Harim.’
‘Our Mother does not wish to wait a day or two. She wishes to leave for Daphne immediately. She does not wish to await the winter inclemencies while your cavalry collect more droppings to display to you.’
‘Fine,’ said Blymmedes, calming and searching for compromise. ‘We will leave today, but we will move quickly and set a proper camp for the night. Daphne is not defensible.’