Byzantium's Crown (14 page)

But the priest had gone to the door only to summon an attendant. Shortly afterward, the acolyte ushered Taran the druid into the room.

"You never wondered how I knew so much about you?"

Marric shrugged. There was no point in attempting to learn how priests—or druids—knew anything.

"Are the druids your spies?"

"Hardly," Taran said. "But the Goddess has many faces. In the land where I studied, she is Modron. You of the East call her Isis. But she is the same goddess. The God? He too has many faces. And their servants work together . . . Prince."

"Then help me serve them, too. My city is falling. Irene cannot hold it." He realized why these men were watching him so closely. Certainly the empire needed an intermediary between gods and land, but it needed the right one. "I can protect the land; she cannot."

"Can you?" asked Taran. "Are you sure? When I first worked with you, you lay near death. Stephana had to call you a coward to keep life within you at all. And then you threatened to kill her. And now, look at you, protector! Covered with blood again."

"I was helping save a child." Marric felt oddly apologetic. "It was Nico's idea. Else I might have run free." All his longing went into that last word. What was free, though? If Marric were truly free, he'd be riding the borders now with his sworn men or toward World's End.

Taran stood beside Marric. His face went gentle in a way that the priest of Osiris could not be.

"You will be free, Prince. But not yet, and not alone. Your life is bound up not just with thrones and armies but with individuals. Imhotep here concurs."

"You may come back," said Imhotep, "when you understand fully that you must accept your fate without rebelling. When you are fit."

Testing, testing, always testing—like that bleached crow ruling the temple in Byzantium.

"You say I am not fit," accused Marric, "but when I lay imprisoned, Irene sent a . . . a thing, like a black cloud, to make me despair. She tainted my sister's mind with evil magic. Now she would use them to poison the whole empire. Am I less fit than she—or have you another claimant for Empire?"

"You cannot survive a fight with her yet," Imhotep said. "She would consume you as flame consumes chaff. Initiation into the mysteries would help, but you are impatient, too impatient to present yourself for training and submit yourself to our disciplines. And you are afraid."

Marric's eyes flashed. Then his head sank.

"There are many paths to freedom, Prince. You must discover your own. When you do, return to me. I shall not turn you away."

The empire was rotting at his feet, and all the priests could do was lecture him. Marric thought he would strike them if he remained a moment longer.

"All I hear are reasons why I must remain a slave. I am my city's rightful heir, so I should guard it. What else I might want, that does not matter. And I accept that. I try to do my best. But you speak to me only of unworthiness." To his shame his voice went ragged, but it did not fail him, not quite. "I am not an initiate, nor—as you point out—am I likely to be. I am only Mor the slave who will be beaten if he does not return to help Nico with the wagon. Excuse me, my masters. I will leave you to your wise talk. It is too high for slaves."

He found Nicephorus waiting outside the temple with a loaded wagon and an empty purse. Relief lay ill-concealed on his face. At his side, tapping fingers impatiently on his sword hilt, was the young cavalry officer. Watching your kinswoman' s property, are you?

"You took your time, Mor," the captain said. "One of my troopers had to do slave's labor. Hurry. The gates will close soon."

Marric nodded and fell back into the character of Mor: strong and sullen. "The boy would not be comforted. When he consented, finally, to being tended, I asked the healer to bind my shoulder. Then I left."

He mounted the wagon and took the reins. The officer moved his horse alongside.

"My widowed aunt sends slaves into the city who tell me that they buy grain against a famine of which no one has spoken. Even before I do, they know of the movement of armies. I'm coming with you."

He brought four troopers and their tetrarch with him. At least he had not brought his entire force! But now Marric would not be able to escape for as long as the men stayed at the villa.

The drive back was long and quiet. Mist laid the dust to rest. The moon had begun to cut its way, a gleaming sickle, through the field of stars. A breeze from the river soothed Marric's eyes but did not cleanse him of his resentment.

The quiet night made the cavalry officer talkative. He was like so many junior officers Marric had commanded. Named Djehutimes in the old language, he had recently adopted the Hellenic form of the name: Thutmosis. Once again Hellene and Egyptian blended together. It would be a shame if the Berbers destroyed that for once and for all. Thutmosis—the Pentekontarch Thutmosis, Marric cautioned himself—was still talking. He had never been to Byzantium. He had heard that it was magnificent and that the last emperor's consort ruled now. No one knew what had become of the prince. Of course, it was noised about that he had died in Cherson, the turbulent province he had governed too laxly. Thutmosis would have ruled differently. Of course.

He had heard that the prince had governed Cherson so ill that the Huns who dwelt there on imperial sufferance had grown so arrogant that they had moved their camps to the western edge of the Euxine, scarcely a day's ride from the city.

Archers firing from the wall as the infantry retreats. Now comes the sortie. The horns sound and the Tagmata ride out, even their horses heavily armored. But the Huns' ponies and light armored archers will skewer them. Byzantine troops had speed, but the steppe archers would feather them long before they could bring their twelve-foot kontoi into play. Against bows, lances were useless.

Gods, Marric prayed. Holy Gods, save my city.

Behind the walls the citizens would panic. Some would flee to boats, some to villas. The Guard would stand firm; they valued honor and would die to a man to protect the ruler. But Irene? Marric would wager that if the city fell, she would escape, treasure-laden, into Syria where her family would shelter her.

My Byzantium in flames.

"I asked, 'Are you ill, Mor?'" Thutmosis' voice was sharp.

"No, I thank you, master. I but thought of the wars."

"Do you wish to serve under me? You are strong and, from the look of you, a fighter. I could use an orderly."

"That will be as the mistress commands."

"Aye, that is the way of it." Clearly, Thutmosis had all but forgotten.

That might be a way back to power: start as orderly to this young man, maneuver him, subtly guide him . . . Marric let the reins slacken on the oxen's backs. He would be only as powerful as his tool, however, and Thutmosis—more callow than Marric could ever remember being—did not strike him as a sure road to power.

Slave thinking. Manipulate the master and rise. But Horus, he was desperate enough to snatch at any offer of escape.

After Marric drove the wagon into the yard, he helped the outdoor slaves at their work. Suddenly the endless routine of heavy labor struck him as an escape from his thoughts.

When Strymon sent a slave to roust Marric out of the tiny cubicle he had made his own (he was constantly grateful that his reputation made it unnecessary to fight to keep it), he suspected that Lady Heptephras had summoned him on account of Thutmosis.

A doting aunt: so she was willing not only to house her spruce young kinsman and his troops, make him an allowance (Marric knew the signs), but also to lose a slave? Marric pulled on his clean tunic and followed the child down the hall. As always he looked away from the mosaics—inferior work. It was a shame that Alexandria could afford no better. But the polycandelon that lit the so-called art was handsome and—as he knew well—brilliantly polished.

Heptephras' reception room was more Egyptian than Greek. A few pieces of claw-carved and gilded furniture were elegantly arranged in the airy room that opened onto the lotus courtyard. Beyond the fountain bubbling there stretched a view of the low villa walls. Beyond them the crescent moon was reflected in Lake Mareotis. The crocodiles were silent.

Thutmosis sat at his ease. His armor had been replaced by cool white linen. Stephana hovered discreetly near her mistress, assuring them both that the rainbow-tinted wine ewers were filled. A fine frost dulled the glassware's subtle interplay of color and misted the matching goblets. Burning cressets cast shadows in the corner, which danced as Stephana moved about the room. As she finished her tasks and went to stand quietly in the shadows, the play of light on her hair subsided. When Marric entered the room, she met his eyes, then quickly glanced away.

The lady of the house and her nephew were deep in talk.

"Why must you leave home now?"

"The empress needs all loyal men to defend the empire against invaders. The Huns and, from down the rivers, the men of Jomsborg—"

"Don't speak of them!" Heptephras threw up her soft hands. She drank and set her goblet down too near the edge of the delicate table where faience animals rollicked. Stephana stepped forward and steadied the glass, then retreated once more.

"Lady, they must be spoken of," Thutmosis declared. With the assurance of a man new to command, he began to reassure his aunt.

Marric's eyes sought out Stephana. Her prophecies had warned them all of the danger that lay before Alexandria. How rare she was! Even in the twilight the woman seemed to draw light to her, wisps of silver hair gleaming like dew-sprinkled cobwebs about her. Her eyes were as large, blue, and unreadable as those of the cat who lounged at Heptephras' feet. As if sharing its mistress' agitation, it stretched and leapt elegantly away, its tail quivering as it headed for the garden. Stephana turned to follow it, but her mistress forestalled her with an upraised hand.

"I do not wish to speak of such things. What will become of us here on the Delta?"

"Certain regiments of the guard will be kept in reserve."

It would be a skeleton army, Marric thought, too weak to defend the city against raiders.

"And the grain prices." Heptephras was worrying on. "Only today Strymon asked leave to send slaves into town to purchase grain."

"That was Mor's idea," Strymon spoke. Until that moment Marric hadn't realized that he was in the room.

"Mor," said Heptephras. "The one you transferred into house service after a fight, is it?"

"Aye, lady. He awaits your attention."

Marric stepped forward and bowed. Thutmosis motioned him closer.

"Why did you fight?"

"A barbarian kicked me, lady. I kicked back harder."

"And then?"

"The overseer wanted the slave thrown into the lake as an example to other brawlers," said Strymon. "Mor refused. Very properly. After he had survived a beating for disobedience—which I must say was overly severe—I assigned him work indoors."

Heptephras shrank back a trifle. Thutmosis seemed pleased.

"A fighter and a man who thinks. I like that. Tell me, Mor, have you considered my plan to take you to Byzantium with me?"

"I will warrant you, young sir, he has been a soldier," Strymon put in.

"I can see. Well, man?"

"There are times when it is best that a man escape his last," Marric began obliquely. He might be noticed, captured—and then he had another thought. Who would notice one orderly among the thousands in an army? He must seize this chance!

"If he has been a soldier," Lady Heptephras interrupted, "then I want him here to protect this house. One orderly more or less will not matter to the empress—"

"Every man matters! As a subject of Her Imperial Majesty, you are asked to part with but one slave . . . "

"Some day," Heptephras replied calmly, "this estate will be yours. I have no other heirs. How much can I give you now without wasting your inheritance? Let this . . . this man Mor stay here and defend it."

Idealism and shrewdness warred in the young man's face. He looked into his goblet as if an answer lay there, swirled its contents in the glass, and drank it off. He clearly understood his aunt well enough to know when he was defeated.

Thutmosis saluted her with the empty goblet and waved away a refill.

"What say you, Mor?"

"My will is my owner's," Marric answered. The words came too easily. He had heard slaves say them all his life. But until this moment he had never realized how bitter they were.

"A pity. Guard my aunt well."

And your inheritance too?

Stephana moved forward to refill Thutmosis' cup. He drank haft and held the goblet up again. When she would have withdrawn, leaving the wine near him, he caught her wrist.

"At first I could not tell if this one was young or old," he remarked to his aunt. Clearly, Stephana was a useful change of subject. "It is her hair: see, it is all silvered. Come into the light, pretty one." He pulled her forward and almost upset her across his lap. "Have you owned this girl long, Aunt?"

"Since last flood time," Heptephras said. "You have not seen her before, have you? Perhaps you should visit me more often?" She laughed at him, watching indulgently as he raised Stephana's chin in his fingers. Stephana shuddered, and Marric clenched his fists.

"Do you like her? If you do, it is such a simple thing to assign her to you for your stay."

Stephana's eyes filled. Marric felt her effort not to break reflected in his own helpless rage. She was just a slave to be traded and humiliated by a mistress who was kindly in her own way, but who regretted having to deny a favored nephew his request.

Stephana's eyes met Marric's imploringly. He realized that she feared for him, feared that he would unleash the rash temper that already meant that he would walk scarred of back for the rest of his days.

Not for me, Mor. No more anger. No violence.

Marric formed his own emotions into a message he hoped Stephana would understand: grief for her humiliation, acceptance of her. I wish I might spare you this. A tear rolled down her cheek and touched Thutmosis' fingers. He wiped it away as Marric would gladly have done. Then he rose and kissed her on the mouth.