By the time he reached the plaza he was smiling. Jusuf was waiting astride a slate-colored mare, her mane twined with ribbons and feathers, holding Dahvos' own mount. A troop of his own lancers stood ready, their gear and armor packed, lances polished, bows securely cased in painted leather cases, quivers packed with newly fletched arrows.
"We're going home," the kagan said, swinging up onto his horse. The dappled gray snorted, pawing the ground. She wanted grass and raw earth under her hooves, not streets of painful cobblestones and cracked marble. "To the camps, then to the port."
The city sprawled untidily around them as they rode west, towards the shattered towers of the Charisian Gate, mile after mile of blackened, brick-faced buildings crowding the avenue. In many places, the buildings had been completely consumed by fire, reduced to shattered piles of rubble. Solitary arches of an aqueduct loomed against the sky, the watercourse fallen in ruin. The sound of hooves on stone rang and echoed from empty doorways and gaping windows. They trotted past work gangs digging in the destruction, clearing the entrances to the baths and public cisterns.
Life was returning the city, in fits and starts. The arrival of Alexandros' army had drawn some survivors from their hiding places, but not all. Strange rumors circulated in the camps-mysterious cook fires had been found, littered with cracked bone-haggard shapes glimpsed at night by patrols, flitting from shadow to shadow, or eyes gleaming from the darkness beyond the watch fires. Dahvos would be glad to leave this place.
"No," Alexandros said, shaking his head at Chlothar's angry suggestion. "Let him go."
"But, my lord! The Persians have scattered, we can-"
The Macedonian raised an eyebrow at the Frank's outburst and the big man closed his mouth with a snap. Alexandros looked down at the table again, allowing himself a heartfelt sigh. A letter-delivered only the hour before-lay unfolded atop a map of the city and the strait, new parchment covered with a swift, sure hand in blue-black ink. He read the terse directive again, then set the paper aside. The maps of Asia taunted him, showing a monstrous network of roads-good roads too, he thought, well-drained and surfaced, which do not mire with mud or rain, or become impassible with the winter snow-and thriving cities. Rome had been busy all the long centuries while he slept.
Once, he had led an army across these lands-through wilderness and trackless ways, on paths marked by no more than piled stones-and even then his advance had been a bolt of lightning, a thunderstoke… He traced a path on the map with his fingertips, reading tiny names inked beside carefully drawn cities. Nicomedia, he read. Germa, Tyana, Antioch… then the door to Persia and Babylon. An empire… my empire.
Longing stabbed in his gut, a tight fist twisting his entrails. Alexandros bit the inside of his lip and closed his eyes. After a moment, the spasm passed. "Chlothar…"
"My lord?" The Frank was watching him, worry etched on his long face.
"We have received new orders," Alexandros said, tasting bile at the back of his mouth. "Let the Khazars go-they will do us no harm and they will keep the Persians across the water occupied." He gestured for his officers to gather around the table. "The trouble in Egypt has grown worse. The King of Kings Shahr-Baraz is there, with a powerful army. The Caesar Aurelian is hard-pressed. By now, he may be besieged in Alexandria itself."
The officers, Goth and Roman alike, blanched at the Macedonian's even, emotionless words.
"The Emperor Galen bids us take ship for Egypt with all speed, with every man we can put aboard." Alexandros flashed the men a cheerful smile. "Of course, there is no fleet to take us to Egypt. Not yet. My latest report relates the Western fleet is at Tarentum in southern Italia, refitting and being reinforced by squadrons from Gaul and Britannia." The smile shaded into a half-grin and the Macedonian tugged ruefully at his chin. "The quartermasters will be pleased, I'm sure, to learn our hard-won levy of wagons and draft animals and fodder will now go for naught."
Another sharp pain, this one of raw disgust, throbbed in Alexandros' chest. He had prepared meticulously, for months, for a land campaign in Asia and Syria. His own Legion had swollen to nearly twenty-five thousand men-more Goths, more barbarians from over the border, expatriate Huns, Germans and even a smattering of Avars cut loose from their defeated army-and nearly every man had a horse to ride, or a mule to carry his baggage. Six thousand wagons had been secured or made. A hundred thousand arrows, countless spears, horseshoes, rope by the mile, barrels and baskets, sword flats and iron plate. The one Western Legion he had held back from the Egyptian campaign, the veteran Third Augusta-Faithful Pegasus-was once more at full strength. Hundreds of deserters from the Legions shattered before Constantinople had filtered back out of the hills. Shamed men had begged to serve again, regaining their honor. One in ten had paid the price for cowardice, while the others were carefully scattered among reliable units. Those men fought under the eagle again, but each started afresh, no more than the lowliest legionary, no matter if they had been officers before.
The standards of two Eastern Legions had been recovered from the Persian camp in the old palace. Beneath them, Alexandros had organized the motley collection of Eastern cataphracts and individual soldiers who had survived the siege and the destruction of the city. Fourth Parthica-Capricornus-and Sixth Ferrata-Old Ironclad-were each nearly at full roster and eager to prove themselves, though the Macedonian did not trust them to the crucible of battle, not quite yet. Soon, though.
"We will not be crossing into Asia," he said. The words had a bitter, bitter taste. "Demetrios, I will leave you the Fourth and the Sixth with these orders: to hold Constantinople and these lands around, to restore order in Thrace and Macedon. Be cautious, but do not hide in the city. Ensure the people can return to their homes, that the aqueducts are repaired, the cisterns opened. The strait is open and trade will resume, as it always does. You must clear the harbor and the docks of wreck and ruin. Commerce must find a home here again. The city will live, though she has been sorely wounded." Alexandros caught the man's eyes and held them fiercely. "You hold this place in trust for the young Emperor. Know he will return to judge your stewardship! I hold you to the same measure."
Demetrios swallowed, then nodded sharply. The nobleman's prickly anger and pride had worn away during their campaign to reclaim the city. He had seen the skill and bravery of the Goths and the Western legionaries. In the beginning, his own men had not fared so well, but now they had heart. They had tasted victory again and served under their own standards and banners. Such things gave men a sense of place and surety.
"I will, Lord Alexandros." Demetrios bowed to the Macedonian. Alexandros could see the man's thoughts turn to the mighty task set before him and smiled as the Greek's face became somber. There is hope for one of them, at least. While he is willing to think, and to listen.
"Chlothar…" Alexandros stopped himself from sighing again. There was work to be done and no time for laments. "Prepare our men, and the Third Augusta, for transport by sea. Lord Demetrios will win custody of our wagons and horse. Tarentum is… two weeks away, by sea? We will have no more time than that, I'm sure."