Nicholas stumbled backwards, blinded by a stuttering roar, and tripped over the body of one of the Persian soldiers. His head smashed against tile and he felt the room spin, then vanish in a billowing cloud of gray-black smoke. He coughed weakly, unable to rise. Someone ran past him, but he couldn't see who it was. Smoke burned in his throat and pinched a flood of tears from his eyes. Flames roared closer, the heat beating at his face like a hammer.
The sight of Thyatis fleeing the hall, hand in hand with the desert woman, abandoning him, was all too clear in his memory. He wept in frustration, rolling over, head throbbing with dull, thudding pain. He'd dropped Brunhilde again. Blinded, he groped wildly on the floor, searching for her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Temple of Zeus Pankrator, Constantinople
Dahvos mounted a broad flight of steps with a swift pace, noon sun gilding his wheat-colored hair. Full summer rendered the day hot and bright, hazing with steadily rising humidity. He did not pause on the threshold of the high doorway, though a moment passed before his eyes adjusted to the dimness within. Guardsmen-attired in full Legion armor and bearing the sunburst flash of the comes Alexandros-drew back, seeing a grim, fixed expression on the Khazar's face. The easterner's riding boots rang sharply on dimpled marble flooring as he entered, drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the vast hall.
Clerks and captains alike looked up and a frustrated looking priest started towards Jusuf, hand raised in admonition, then halted, seeing the glitter in the khagan's eyes. Like the lesser temples in the city, the house of Zeus was a long rectangle, but it beggared all others for sheer size. The central nave was nearly five hundred feet from end to end, and each aisle of pillars was of gargantuan size, for they supported two decks of galleries overlooking the main floor.
High above, a series of vast circular windows piercing the walls, once filled with colored glass, had been reduced to spiderwebs of copper and iron-allowing thick, dust-sparkling beams of sunlight to fall in brilliant pools on the floor below. In the harsh light, much of the temple interior was in deep shadow and the domed ceilings-ornamented with lavish golden mosaics-were hidden from the casual eye.
At the far end of the nave, in a circle of sunlight, the comes Alexandros hunched over a trestle table covered with papers, maps, cups and wooden ledgers. A block of heavy, plain stone rose behind the Macedonian, draped with irregular dark cloth. Dahvos approached, alone, without his customary escort or the constant shadow of his half-brother. Alexandros did not look up, an expression of complete concentration on his shadowed face.
One of the Goths arrayed around the table turned at the unexpected noise, squinting out of the pool of sunlight. Dahvos brushed past him without a word and the northerner darkened in rage at the affront. "Here now," he growled, beard bristling out.
He reached to lay a meaty hand on the Khazar's shoulder. Dahvos turned, fixing the man with a basilisk stare. His face was a mask of light and dark, but the Goth saw something in glittering blue eyes and lowered his hand. "Pardon, my lord…" he stammered.
Dahvos' nostrils flared minutely, then he turned to the shorter, lither man still standing, staring at the maps and charts laid out before him on the table. "Lord Alexandros."
"Kagan Dahvos," the Macedonian replied without looking up.
The Khazar expressed no obvious reaction at the slight, though the angry gleam in his eyes deepened. Instead, he drew a parchment packet from his belt and laid the cream-colored paper on the table. "These… orders… arrived in my encampment last night. You sent them?"
Alexandros glanced up, raised an eyebrow, then returned his attention to the maps. "Yes."
A faint, wintry smile glanced across Dahvos' lips, then vanished again. "The Roman army has completed preparations for a campaign across the Propontis? You have sufficient supplies? Enough shipping, wagons, pack animals, servants?"
Alexandros nodded, finally looking up from the letter he had been reading, eyes flickering around the circle of men waiting at the edge of the light. "So the orders said, kagan."
Dahvos folded back the first page of the packet with his finger. "'You command my… auxillia… to cross in advance of your main body,'" he read, "'to secure the opposite shore and disperse any Persian resistance in the neighborhood of Chalcedon. The Roman army will follow the subsequent day.'" The Khazar looked up, lips thinning in a humorless smile.
Alexandros nodded in agreement. "That is correct."
"Ships are mentioned-merchant ships and barges-which will provide transport for the crossing. Many are named, as are their captains." Dahvos' forefinger transfixed a second sheet in the packet.
"Yes." Alexandros stood up straight, his face filled with weary resignation. "They were."
Dahvos met his eyes and Alexandros blinked, all too aware of the furious anger boiling behind the Khazar's bland, controlled expression. The kagan bared his teeth in a tight smile. "These ships you mention, comes, are in my direct employ. They were-they are-hired to provide my army with supplies, hospital and transport." Dahvos' voice began to rise, a sharp tone coloring his words. "My men, my cataphracts, lancers, bowmen, scouts, sutlers, blacksmiths… they are my men. Under my command."
Alexandros raised a hand in a sharp motion. "Kagan Dahvos, I under-"
"My nation," Dahvos snapped, overriding the Macedonian, "is a Roman ally, not a subject." He looked around at the officers and captains watching with wide eyes, then back to Alexandros with a long-toothed grin. "We are not sworn to the Emperor, we are not feodus. We came to fight beside our friends, against the Persians." The Khazar picked up the packet with the tips of his thumb and forefinger, dangling the papers in the air. "Allies are consulted, not ordered. Allies are equals, not servants."
The packet fell, clattering on the tabletop, papers spilling awry among the cups and inkstones.
Alexandros stiffened, hand brushing a wayward lock of hair from his high forehead, eyes narrowing. His jaw tightened for a moment, then anger receded, driven down by an almost visible effort of will. "Then I will ask, Kagan Dahvos-will you cross the Propontis, to clear the way into Asia?"
Dahvos said nothing, watching the Macedonian from shadowed eyes. Alexandros stared back, at perfect ease. The moment stretched, grains tumbling from an invisible clock. At last, Dahvos stirred, saying: "I will cross the strait with my fleet and my army. If there are Persians lurking among the summer houses and villas, we will drive them out. This much, we will do for the memory of Heraclius, who was my uncle's friend."
Pursing his lips, Alexandros considered the kagan. He waited, but there were no further words. "Your… fleet… will not return?"
Dahvos shook his head slowly; face mask-like in the slanting sunlight. "On the second day and after, we will press on, into the east. The army of Khazaria will make its way home along the shore of the Sea of Darkness, through Paphlagonia and Colchis. If the Persians or their servants bar our way, we will strike them down." He paused, looking around the circle. "But we will not do your bidding. You can find your own way across the Propontis."
With a barely polite nod, Dahvos turned away and strode away across the vast floor. He did not look back, though his keen ears heard a scuffle, men muttering and a sharp, commanding voice call for quiet. At the doorway, Dahvos paused, running a hand along the marble frame. Panels of tiny figures surrounded the portal, showing men and women at daily tasks, marvelous in their diverse array. He bit his lip, took a heavy breath and then went out, clattering down the steps with a steadily lifting mood. He wiped soot-blackened fingers on his riding trousers.