“You are not welcome here, dead man.” The booming voice emanated from the ziggurat, filling the square and echoing off the blank faces of the buildings. “Begone.”
Gaius Julius hooked his thumbs into his belt and squinted up at the elderly man.
“My master bade me come,” he shouted back, his voice clear and strong, though not the overpowering volume of the other, “and I came, doing him honor and you as well. My master bears you no ill will. He does not come with armies or with fire. He comes openly, seeking knowledge.
Will you admit him to your precincts? Will you treat him with hospitality?“
The elderly man did not respond, the hot wind ruffling his robes out to the side. Two more men appeared, one on either side. They seemed equally ancient.
“No,” came the booming voice. “We felt the passage of your master in the night. He is not welcome here, as you are not welcome, corpse man.”
Gaius Julius, having taken the measure of the empty town and the men on the ziggurat, bowed deeply, held the pose for a beat, and then turned on his heel. Alias and Khiron fell in behind him. The wind escorted them out of the city, whistling through empty doorways and barren windows. The watching eyes followed them too, until they were well past the gates. On the first dune ridge, the old Roman turned, his eyes measuring distances and elevations.
“What is it, Gaius?” Alais’ voice was sweet and only for his ear, not that Khiron had the slightest interest. He turned and his mouth stretched in a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “Nothing, only a fancy. We must apprise the Prince of our welcome.”
Maxian nodded, unsurprised at the news. He stood in the shade cast by one of the wings of the engine. It made a broad canopy, though it cast an odd jagged shadow on the ground. Krista stood at one shoulder and Alais at the other. Gaius Julius and Khiron leaned against one of the massive iron claws that dug into the sand. The Valach boys squatted on the ground under the curve of the belly. Beyond the shade, the sun beat harshly on the sand.
“Khiron, what did you feel?”
The eyes of the homunculus opened and turned to the Prince^ swiveling like the turret of a siege engine. “Master, three men we saw, standing on the platform of the ziggurat, but others watched us in secret. Some were not men, though none were as I or as Gaius Julius is. Nor the Lady Alais. I smelled fifteen or twenty in the buildings. They were afraid.“
“Alais?” The Prince barely turned, keeping the old Roman in his sight.
The blond woman moved forward and curtseyed deeply, as was her wont. “My lord, all the town stank of abandonment. It is the residence only of dogs and crows. Only in the ziggurat are there living men. Too, my eyes saw vents high on the side of the pyramid, vents that billowed hot air. My thought leads me to suspect that the domain, the residences, of the magi are beneath the ziggurat.”
Maxian turned to Abdmachus, who alone among them all was sweating heavily in the heat. “My friend?”
“Master,” the little Persian choked, “it has been so long… I barely remember any details!”
Khiron moved at some unseen gesture from the Prince, swift as a snake, and his mottled hands were at the Persian’s throat in an instant. Abdmachus gobbled in fear as the cold fingers tightened around his larynx. Maxian smiled pleasantly. Behind him Krista frowned slightly.
“Abdmachus, please, this is important to me. Khiron and Gaius Julius will help you remember. Alais, assist them. Make sure that we have as good a map as can be drawn.”
The three escorted the little Persian, gently but inexorably, into the belly of the engine. Alais’ white face appeared in the doorway for a moment as she swung the hatch closed. Maxian looked away and sighed. Krista remained in the shadow, her face a serene mask. He went to her and bowed slightly, drawing a small frown.
“My lady, would you care to join me on a short walk?” His phrasing was very formal.
She nodded and drew part of her scarf over her head. The sun was fierce.
The Prince led the way, up over the huge dune that rose above their little camp. On the other side, the slope fell steeply away and it was slow going to descend. Beyond it there was an area of rippled sand and-incongruous among the wasteland-a ruined circle of marble pillars, fluted, and crowned with acanthus capitals, rose from the sand. The Prince led Krista there and sat down on one of the fallen pillars. Krista remained standing, her hands demurely clasped in front of her, looking down upon him.
“Tonight,” he began, “there can be a pair of horses here, with water and food and supplies. The riding horse will have a bag of Persian eagles on the saddle. Five or six hundred aureus worth, I guess. I borrowed an invocation from Abdmachus-the shoes of the horses will leave no trace in the sand. These are my gift for you, this and one other thing.”
He reached into his robes and drew out a heavy roll of parchment, sealed with rich purple wax. He held it out to her, and after a moment Krista took it.
“You are a free woman now, free of any obligation to the Duchess. This is an Imperial writ with the stamp of the Emperor upon it expressing that in no uncertain terms.”
“Why?” Krista’s voice was even, though her mind was afire with concerns and questions.
Maxian smiled, a brief, wan expression that quickly fled his face.
“This business of the city of the magi,” he said, “will be a cruel one. I see myself embarking on a path edged with darkness. The excision of this corruption… it will require blood to be spilled. I would not see you on that same path, regardless of how much I might desire you at my side. Go east, to Taporobane or Serica. Build a new life for yourself, free of the past, free of the curse, free of me.”
“It is a kind gesture, Lord Prince.”
“Then you will take it?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “I would not care to give the white witch the satisfaction.”
Maxian’s eyebrow quirked up. “Jealous?”
“Competitive,” she said with a slow smile. “I have seen enough to know that you may be right. My mistress’ duty my duty-is to sustain the Empire in the face of constant disaster. So I will stay.“
Maxian stared at her for a long time, his face troubled. He wondered, briefly, if she knew of his excursions into the night in the company of the Valach woman. Finally he stood up and brushed the sand out of his kilt. “So… very well. Thank you.”
She shook her head, saying: “Thank me when this is done, if you are still alive.”
|g()MQM0MQH0M0WQH0M0’HOMMM)H0H0W(HQHOWQM0WOHOHOgi|
THE KERENOS RIVER, ALBANIA
H
Surrounded by a thick wall of red-haired Varangians, their round shields turned outward, the three Emperors conferred. Beyond the stolid Germans and Scandians, tens of thousands of men were marching past, raising a choking cloud of clay dust from the dry road. Eastern and Western regiments jostled on the road, trying to keep their order of march open. Galen had dispensed with his servants, bidding them remain in the camp five miles behind them. Three of the Western Emperor’s staff officers clustered at his back. The Khazar, Ziebil, as was his wont, was alone. Heraclius, half clad in his battle armor-a solid breastplate of welded iron with a pair of eagles emblazoned on the chest-had ten or twelve servants, officers, and dispatch riders crowded around.
“Augustus Galen, your Legions have the center.”
Heraclius gestured toward the open fields to the south of where they stood. The Romans pouring past on the road were fanning out into the rocky flat by cohort and century.
Their standards jogged up and down as the bearers trotted across the field. Only one good road ran south from the camp across the river and into this dry upland. Ziebil’s scouts had returned the previous night from their latest foray south of the river with news that the Persian army was, at last, in striking range. The Romans had broken camp well before dawn, the Khazars riding out in complete darkness to secure the road and the northern edge of the plain.