"Good," Khalid said, feeling his gloomy mood lift. "They can command the Sahaba in my absence. I… I was thinking to leave them all here, all of the men who came up from Mekkah and the Nabateans and most of the Palmyrenes, save those we need to pilot and steer and crew the ships." The younger man's voice almost trembled and he realized he was on the verge of begging.
"I agree," Shahr-Baraz said softly, clapping Khalid on the shoulder. "The Queen has already seen to the assignments and ordering of our fleet and army. She has some experience in these matters." He leaned close. "The Serpent will take his Huns and that wolf C'hu-lo to command them in battle and his cold servants and I will take certain picked men of the pushtigbahn and those we must, but I am sending most of the younger men home, and others will garrison here and there, out of harm's way."
The young Eagle's eyes widened and his hand moved in an abortive sign against ill luck. Despite the fallacy of keeping anything secret if the Serpent turned his attention directly upon them, Khalid's voice fell to a whisper. "You… you and the Queen think we will lose?"
Shahr-Baraz's face twisted into a rueful grimace. He tilted his head to one side. "What if we win? Would that be any better? In the end, all that matters is for the Serpent to live as long as possible. I am growing tired of seeing my men die in his service."
The king looked up at the huge white disk of the sun, shading his eyes with one hand. He sighed, feeling the warmth flood his bones and settle into his chest. Motion in the upper air caught his eye and he squinted, lifting his chin. "Look."
Khalid stared upwards as well, relieved to look away from the wagons rattling past below, each heaped high with rope-bound bodies and gleaming white skulls. An irregular V of birds drifted on the upper air, heading south. At this distance, they were pale cream against a cerulean sky.
"Cranes," Shahr-Baraz said. "The first to head south for the mountains of Axum and Ethiop. Soon, there will be thousands upon thousands. The seasons turn, lad, regardless of what we do."
"Yes," Khalid said, finding no solace in the sight of the glossy, white creatures. "I suppose."
Shahr-Baraz tossed his head, letting heavy black curls shot with gray fall over his shoulder. "Your mood will lift, I think. See-here is a man whose ugly face will cheer you." The king pointed down the steps with his chin.
Khalid turned and saw a tall Persian climbing the stairs, armor gray under tattered desert robes, solemn face creased by the smallest possible smile. "Patik!" Khalid stepped forward, clasping forearms with the big Persian soldier. "Or Prince Shahin, I suppose I should say."
"Patik is better," the diquan replied, crushing the Arab's arm with a powerful grip. "The Serpent Lord is no longer pleased with the great prince Suren-Pahlavi."
"What happened?" Khalid looked to the king in alarm and found the Boar nodding in dour agreement.
"I failed to find our sorcerer his ancient trinket." Patik rubbed his neck. "Though I believe I caught a glimpse of the cursed thing once, at distance."
"Too bad," Khalid said, trying not to grin in delight to find his old friend still alive. "What about your men?"
Patik shook his head dolefully. The young Arab sighed. "I'm sorry."
"Another failed hunt," Patik said, bowing politely to Shahr-Baraz. "Your pardon, Great Lord."
The greeting drew a sharp bark of laughter from the king. Shahin's new sense of humility was far preferable to his old hauteur, which had only gained him contempt. "You look well, Shahin, and I am glad you live, though I begrudge even the deaths of your flea-bitten desert jackals. Particularly in Rustam's service."
"Thank you, my lord." Patik looked out at the fleet. "The Queen sent me to find you. She says everything is in readiness, waiting only upon the wind and tide."
Shahr-Baraz stepped away from the wall, settling the leather harness and straps holding his diverse weapons. Swords, maces and dagger clanked against each other. The king squinted at the eastern sky, then to the south. "The fishermen say there will be a morning breeze as this dust cloud turns and we will make good headway out of the harbor." He looked to the west, his expression hardening. "And we shall see the mountains of Sicilia in a week, or ten days at the most."
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Roma Mater
"Mistress, you must wake up!" A small, firm hand gripped Anastasia's shoulder and a flare of candlelight fell across her sleepy face. The Duchess blinked, recognized alarm in the girl's voice and struggled to clear her mind of sleep. Yawning, she sat up, throwing back a light sheet. She had slept poorly-the night was too warm for comfort.
"What has happened?"
Constantia ducked her head nervously, a candle bobbing in one small hand, the other holding back gauzy netting draped around the couch. The maid was half-dressed in her nightgown and the sleeping porch was entirely dark. Anastasia made a face, seeing the waning moon high in the sky. What time is it?
"One of your watchers came to the garden gate," Constantia said, words tumbling over one another in a rush. "The Praetorians have marched out of their camp without horns or trumpets, weapons muffled in cloth, cloaks drawn over their faces."
The Duchess came entirely awake, the fog of sleep blown away. The cantonment of the Imperial Guard was on the northern edge of the city. No more than two hours march from the Forum. "What about the Urban Cohorts?"
Constantia licked pale, pink lips. "Another runner came-the Urban Prefect sent his men home last night, their barracks are locked and deserted."
"Oh, black day," Anastasia grunted, rising from the couch. "Get me clothing-quickly now, child! And boots, not slippers. And a watchman's lantern. Maxentia!" The Duchess' clear voice rang through the pillars and halls. "Where are you?"
Without waiting for her maids, Anastasia hurried across an octagonal gazebo redolent with orange blossoms and into the villa itself. By the time she reached her winter bedroom, both girls had returned and the cook stuck her head in one of the doors, holding a lantern high.
"Good," the Duchess said, seeing the older woman. "There will be trouble in the city today," she said briskly, "and perhaps riots. Mallia, everyone must get out of the house before the sun rises-scatter the slaves to our farms, and everyone else should go stay with their relatives. Everyone should discard any token of service to this house, or to the Archer! Constantia, where is my purse?"
The maid pressed a heavy leather bag lined with silk into Anastasia's hands. She considered the weight of metal, wondering how badly things would go. "Maxentia, dress for travel and take one of the horses down to Ostia port before the city gates are closed to all traffic-which will be soon! Tell my agent in the port to close his shop and warn off any of our ships making landfall. Anyone in port should go to… to…" She scowled, failing to think of a safe harbor. "…to safety!"
The Duchess sat, tying back a cloud of unruly hair, her legs sticking straight out. Constantia buckled riding boots onto her mistress' small feet. Anastasia glared at the cook and the other maid. "Go! Now! There is no time to waste. Not today."
Wiggling her feet into the boots, the Duchess nodded. "Good enough. Now, Constantia, there are many papers in my study and I have to leave immediately. You must take everything marked with blue twine away to the house on the Ianiculan Hill-I will meet you there later-and all other correspondence must be burned and the ashes sifted. In particular, you must destroy all of the pay records. Do you understand?"
The girl swallowed nervously, but nodded. Anastasia fixed her with a steady glare, plush lips tightening in consideration. Will she do this properly? I hope so. There's not time for a more thorough evacuation… and Betia is not here. Curse the snip of a girl for haring off on some useless adventure!