Heraclius looked away quickly. It did not seem possible that his feet were these shiny distended bags of flesh. He could not even feel them, or really anything below his knees. He closed his eyes again, trying to drive the image away. They look like fish, he thought, and then shuddered. Dead fish.
"Do you know how to cure this?" That was Rufio's voice, rumbling like a heavy wagon on a rocky road.
"Ja, if I can find the proper ingredients. Mein mama vould make a hot drink of juniper berries and parsley seeds- mein unkles vould drink gallons uf it! This will pass, then, as it did for them:"
Heraclius tried to sit up, but the weakness in his legs seemed to have infected his arms as well. He could barely raise his head. It occurred to him that he could not feel his fingers well. He felt nauseous with fear.
"Juniper berries?" Theodore's voice intruded harshly, and the sharp clacking sound of his boots on the stone floor could be heard as he stormed into the room. "A woman's drink, to drive away the bad humors of childbirth!"
"Lord Prince," Rufio growled warningly, "this man is well respected among his people:."
"And our own physicians? The Emperor's priests of Asklepios?" Theodore's voice rose almost to a shout. "You ignore and belittle their skills? They are civilized men- men who have studied in Pergamum and Alexandria! Do you follow their advice? No! You bring in this barbarian to give our Emperor a woman's potion!"
"It iss not a voman's drink!" The young man's voice began to rise in anger. "It vill cure the altjaarl!"
Heraclius struggled with his left arm and managed to inch it out from under the quilts. He was terribly tired, even with this little exertion. His mouth was very dry, and he tried to speak, to ask for wine, but he could not make his tongue work. Then he saw his fingers, peeking out from under the quilt. They were swollen, all gray and shiny like fresh sausages. His fingernails were almost hidden by puffy flesh. He gulped.
The Emperor turned his head away from his ruined hand. In his mind, he was gibbering in complete panic. Unable to help himself, he moaned aloud in fear.
"Out!" came a distant shout, then a scuffling sound and more men shouting.
"Get everyone out of here!" Theodore had taken command at last. " Bring my physician!"
This is an ill omen.
Theodore, Prince of the Eastern Empire, commander of the left wing of the host of the Avtokrator of the Romans, ran a hand nervously through his hair. The physicians- his own men, adepts from the temples of Asklepios in glorious Egypt- had gone. A draught of wine, laced with medicinal powders, had been forced down the Emperor's throat, giving him sleep. Theodore fidgeted, tapping his fingers on the badly carved headboard of the canopied bed. His brother, the strong, powerful figure of his youth, was lying under blankets and quilts, a pasty gray color, helpless.
The priests had labored over him throughout the day, bending their hidden powers to defeat this enemy that had come so swiftly upon the Emperor. They had failed. Theodore almost laughed aloud, thinking of the surprise apparent on their features. Rarely did a disease or wound last, if one of the true priests of the Asklepion could be summoned.
Something beyond their skill within the Emperor had gone awry. In the end, all they could say was that he must need rest.
If he dies: I could rule the Empire:.
The thought was chilling, settling in his bones like ice. Theodore had never consciously considered the matter before. Heraclius was like a mountain, or the sky- indestructible and omnipotent. Heraclius had two sons, but they had not quite come of age yet. There was still a little time before they could don the Purple. In that space, Theodore would have to rule.
No: he is strong. He will beat this illness and stand once more, strong and hale, the Empress at his side:.
Theodore scowled at the thought of the Lady Martina. Heraclius' breath was ragged and made a bubbling sound from time to time. The smell and the sound drove Theodore to the window. The casement was deep and notched, sealed by a wooden shutter. The Prince undid the latch, feeling the rusting iron bite at his fingers. He pushed the panel open, and a rush of cold, wet air flooded into the room. Gasping in relief, he leaned his arms on the stones to either side, letting the mountain air drive back the miasma.
The frown had not left his face. The thought that Martina should be the Empress-Mother galled him. She is our close cousin by the Red Bull! Such a match never should have been made, much less acclaimed by the people or countenanced by the temples. Theodore's face settled into grim lines. There had been heated words between the brothers over that matter. Marrying a second or third cousin- that was acceptable, but your own mother's sister's daughter? That challenged the gods. The Prince never had liked little sly Martina. She had always set him on edge, making him feel small and provincial.
She has eyes like that Western prig, Galen. All filled with secret knowledge and pride.
Theodore turned away from the window, wiping his face with one hand. He felt anger build in him, but he pushed it down, burying it. He considered the days to come. It would be very difficult to carry through with the Emperor's plan to visit the cities and towns of Lycia and Asia on the way back to Constantinople. They would have to send him on by sea, and quickly, too, so that he could find succor among the wise men of the capital.
The Prince banged out of the chamber, his face still set in a grimace. His guardsmen, seeing that one of his moods was upon him, wisely stayed out of his way.
The Ruins of the Ka'ba, Near Mekkah
A fine fire," Khalid commented to his lieutenants as they picked their way through the smoking rubble of the old black-walled temple. " It seems to have done a merry job of clearing away the debris in this place."
The Persian officer laughed, though the other man- a Circassian from the north- did not show any expression at all at the jest. Khalid smiled inwardly. His men were simple enough to understand and they understood him and what he expected of them very well indeed. Khalid stepped over a charred cedar log that had been, when it had supported the roof of the temple, thicker than a man's waist. Now it was a crumbling log of blackened debris. Smoke rose all around them in thin wisps, marking where pockets of fire still smoldered.
The temple had burned for three days, while the Lord Mohammed had lain in the House of the Ben-Sarid. At last, even as the fires were guttering down, Mohammed had roused himself and been taken off to his household. The Ben-Sarid had gone, too, eager to return to their own business in Mekkah. Some of the Tanukh had stayed behind to take command of the policing of the temples and the precincts of the sacred well. Khalid and his men had stayed, too, though he was sure that no one had really marked their arrival beyond the Ben-Sarid chief, who was now quite busy. One of his men now carried the green war banner of the Quryash, though no one had actually granted Khalid the right to bear such a sigil.
"Round up the priests," he said to the Persian, "and see that all this rubble is cleared away. If they find any trinkets of their old gods, let them carry them away. We have no quarrel with them yet."
Khalid stopped, feeling the dull throb of heat seeping through the soles of his boots. One thing remained at the heart of the burned building. A wall of ancient, weathered stone rose out of the tumbled ash and burned logs and fire-cracked rock. It was no more than twenty feet high, but the upper course showed deep grooves that had once supported the upper reaches of a wall and perhaps a roof pillar. The blocks of stone that comprised the wall were five or six feet high and formed of some close-grained rock. Khalid ran a hand along the middle course, feeling them alive with warmth retained from the fire. His fingers came away black with soot. "All this," he said over his shoulder, "should be washed down and space cleared around it."