Byzantium's Crown (20 page)

"How could you forget?" Stephana asked. Tears spilled down her face. Before Marric could reach her, Daphne flung both arms about Stephana's waist, and they were consoling one another. As Stephana promised that no one would ever hurt her, and Daphne protested that she would be happy to belong to her, Marric stood astounded. Then Stephana explained how sorry she was and—embarrassingly—how her lord had simply forgotten her hatred of slavery. Daphne glanced at him, so much taller than she, terrifyingly male, as if . . . What does she think? that I would rape a child? That was what had happened to Stephana. He could understand it now: the older women awaiting sale, seeing him, envious of the child, determined to terrify her.

Ashamed of his forgetfulness, Marric walked over to the weeping women and raised Daphne. A pretty, healthy girl, she had light-brown hair that curled freely down her back, a high complexion made pinker by tears, and amber eyes.

"I did forget one thing," he said. He was aware that Stephana watched him closely. He snapped the girl's collar between strong fingers. "Be free, Daphne. I will register it tomorrow. But please, serve my lady well. She is worthy of all you can give her."

He would never be sure how he found himself embracing his lover and her serving maid or why his eyes stung.

Now, standing on the deck with Daphne watching him, Marric recalled himself to the present. Daphne was waiting for an answer. He smiled at her absently, and she flushed. "I'm not going to fast any longer at all," he said. "I'll come now." Nodding to the sailors and the ship's captain, he went below.

Quarters on a merchantman were spacious, far better than anything he had had on a warship. And there was no comparison to his last voyage in the hold of a slaver. Remembering slave ships had sobered them all for the first three days of their voyage.

On Stephana's lap lay one of the ship's cats. Lean, scarred, a veteran, the cat spurned all the crew and passengers except for Stephana. Marric had requested that it not bring her rats and not sleep with them; he had scratches from enforcing this rule. Now Stephana stroked the cat while Marric watched her and coveted that touch for himself.

When she saw Marric, she slipped to her feet. The cat glared balefully at him, then leapt past and skittered around the corner toward the hold.

"You adjust well to the sea," he observed.

Stephana laced her arm through his and drew him to join Nicephorus.

"I'm coast-bred, Marric, and not a fragile lady: I am used to much less than we enjoy here. This is luxury."

"I have been telling Stephana," said Nicephorus, "that one never steps in the same river twice, or the same sea. One day you are a slave, the next a prince's lady wearing silks. How do you maintain equilibrium in the midst of all this flux, Stephana my dear?"

Stephana went suddenly tense. "Just for now," she said, "I float with it. Just for now, for the time we are in transition. I want to pretend, just for now, that we are . . . free of the Wheel. Let me, please, Nico." Her voice became sad and earnest. "I want to be simply a woman, not a seeress. For just this little time, is that so dreadful?"

"Have you seen danger?"

"Let it be, Nico."

Marric never envied his friend his place in Stephana's confidence, his sharing of her secrets of power. But now for the first time, he wished that he understood better what they meant. The priests had taught him a few tricks of meditation; Marric still used their teachings to compose himself for sleep.

More useful were other kinds of knowledge: friendship, for example. Nicephorus' friendship had survived the discovery of Marric's identity. And Marric, freed from plotting, struggling to survive, and—just for now—danger, could relax and enjoy a new luxury: unfeigned friendship.

"Have done with your dreary metaphysics," he teased Nicephorus. "Drink up. How, that's a good fellow. The day is fine and you skulk here, babbling about your precious Heraclitus. Save your gloom for sleepless nights."

"When he has no one to share it," Stephana cut in acidly. She rested her hand briefly on Marric's shoulder. Looking at her, who would not have thought of her as a carefully reared Byzantine maid of good family?

Daphne served them all and disappeared to allow them privacy. She had become devoted to Stephana. When the meal was over, Nicephorus rose and stretched, then went up on deck.

"I never really had such a friend before," Marric said.

"Your sister?"

"I entered training so early," Marric explained, "that we never were really close once we were out of babyhood. Besides, I think that even during our childhoods we knew that what mattered was the empire, not our own lives. We always knew that."

"Has Nico turned you melancholy?" Stephana asked. "I wish he had not." She slid her arms about Marric's neck and kissed him, while lingeringly her hands rubbed the tension out of his arms and shoulders. Rose fragrance mingled with the scent of the sea teased his senses. Marric pulled her close.

"You make me dizzy," she said.

"Not the wine?"

"You. You're so alive," she said and ran her hands up his back. "Even when we bound your spirit within your flesh because we feared you might die in the night."

"I returned from the place of my own will."

"Your gift is for life, Marric. Remember that. Love, if I died tomorrow, I would still bless you for having shared it with me. I had given up."

"You don't have to think of it." Marric wanted to promise her extravagant gifts—love, honor, safety, wealth—for her whole life. She asked only a brief time of peace.

He kissed her, letting his hands rove over her slender body for the sheer delight of her response. Footsteps approached and they released each other with a start.

"I think you had best come on deck," called Nicephorus.

"What's wrong?" Marric asked. Stephana snatched up a cloak and followed the men outside.

The convoy was tacking into defensive position. The fleet was making good headway; the winds favored them. But fortune, it seemed, did not. Coming toward them—too many to evade or to fight—were dromonds clearly armed for war. And the banners flying from their masts were green and charged with the crescent moon.

"Pirates again," Nicephorus said grimly.

"Not pirates this time," Marric answered. "The emir's fleet. Gods, does the whole world hate the empire?"

If I died tomorrow, Stephana had said. She might die today, and Nicephorus with her, and it would be his fault.

"Get below," he told her. At least he could spare her the sight of battle. "Send the boy for my—" He caught himself before he finished giving the order. He was Alexandros the merchant, not a warrior; he had no place among the ship's fighters. Slamming a fist onto the deck rail in frustration, Marric observed just where the Arab fleet would intercept the convoy.

"War or not," Stephana pointed out, "they will surely want the grain. And grain ships carry passengers who can pay ransom. I foresaw a knife's edge for us; now we balance on it."

"Imhotep would ransom us," Nicephorus said.

"It's jihad," Marric reminded him bleakly. "The emir would not deal with the temple. Stephana, you remember that dagger I gave you? Get it. Promise you will not let them take you, beloved."

She whispered the promise. With a rustle of skirt and cloak she was gone.

"I swear to you, Nicephorus, I will not be sold again."

The captain, navigator, and commander of marines clustered by the helm, and Marric longed to join them. "If we sacrificed three ships to engage them, we could make a run for it," he calculated.

"Hard on the ships that were chosen," Nicephorus observed. "Would you start your reign with a massacre?"

"What if we used sea fire before they could'?." Marric asked. Sea fire would give the convoy a chance to defeat the larger fleet, but there were too many risks in this business already! Was it another test? Marric dared not fight, yet by training, birth, and inclination he was not only a fighter but the rightful leader here.

"A test," Marric muttered. "These powers Imhotep gabbles on about . . . " The acceptance he had learned in the temple dropped from him, and he cursed captious priests, the Wheel of fate they nagged about, and the Arab fleet that some malignant chance had made their instrument.

The wind was freshening, tossing a light spume upon the waves. Far to the west lay the crumpled shadows of storm clouds. Phlebas, the Pride of Isis' captain, already had the ship on a heading northeastward, trying to widen the distance between the convoy and the emir's fleet. But even if Phlebas added oars to sails and burst the hearts of all the rowers with exertion, the heavily laden grain ship could never outrun the enemy dromonds.

"Clear the decks!" Phlebas roared out orders while the marines prepared their defenses. Twice Marric moved to let them set up the catapults.

Then the priests came up on deck, and Phlebas did not dare protest. Merikare, one of the senior priests, approached Marric. "You are a general," he said in an undertone. "What do you see here?"

"Trouble," Marric said. "Phlebas cannot outrun them. Sooner or later he'll have to turn and fight. And we're overmatched."

Was it for this I trusted you? he wanted to ask the priest.

Merikare gazed at the horizon where the storm clouds loomed. He licked a finger to test the wind's direction. "Still thinking only of men and battles? There are other ways of fighting . . . " The priest eyed Marric narrowly, and the prince braced himself for the next words. "There is another way to vanquish such a fleet."

"How? If we lose this battle, the whole empire loses. Not for myself . . . no, though I want to live. I am the shepherd of Empire and the flail of its enemies. But I must get home to take up my power. And there is another thing. Once I lay in slavers' hands and swore to rid myself of them. I'll die rather than be sold again."

Merikare glanced out. "The distance between the ships is widening."

"They're coming about. Once they do, they'll close fast. See, now they begin to turn. Priest, if you know a thing to do, I suggest you do it now. Or go pray."

The ship's seventy marines ran by, skins of vinegar ready to pour over the thick leather shields that were so inadequate protection against seafire. The catapults stood ready at the ship's prow.

"Clouds," said Merikare. "Nun, god of lightning, and Tefnut, goddess of rain, might aid us in this desert of tossing water. And the eldest gods might help us to destroy our enemies—"

"Then call them."

"They would not answer me. But you are the son of Osiris. They might heed you."

Silence fell between them and lengthened.

Marric stepped back, alarmed. He had seen how the rituals drained the adepts through whom the gods spoke once they had been abandoned to their humanity again. "I have no powers."

"You have the potential. Open yourself as a channel for power. Let it flow through you. If it does not teach you how to entreat the Elder Gods, we are all lost."

Marric bowed his head more to hide his face than to collect his thoughts. He clenched his fists to hide the trembling of his hands. So it had finally come to just what he feared: the priests would use him, claim him for their own. Pray Horus he would not be a weapon to turn upon them. Another priest handed a cup to Marric, who drank and tasted the heavy sweetness of some unknown drug. He felt his limbs go numb. His mind became keener and he perceived the ship and the people on board as desperate nets of energy, appetites to go on living. He saw the Arab fleet as a scarlet hunger, a fire he ached to put out. Involuntarily his arms raised and his hands spread out in rejection. He was Horus-on-Earth and he would forbid the ships to approach.

They would be within bowshot soon. He should step back, he thought idly. But the drug removed his fear of a lucky arrow. He was not a target; he was a weapon.

Behind him sistrums rattled, and the priests began to chant. "Summon for me the all-seeing eye, with Shu, Tefnut, Nun, Geb, and all the fathers and mothers who lay with Re in the primeval water."

"Let Nun himself come with all his court."

"Ancient gods, hear us."

"Behold, mankind, which comes from you, has achieved against you. Let your water be poured out."

"Let the flood devour them."

"Let the opener of the skies approach and grant life to his people."

"Let the powers come, let the gods send water to aid their people."

As the chanting grew more feverish, Marric's spirit struggled within his body. His flesh was inadequate to contain the energies the priest summoned, and he shuddered convulsively. Would the priests kill him? He felt an instant of wild fear. The power hurt as it flooded into the channels it wished to use in him. He had no escape except outward, out of the mere flesh. And then his spirit lifted out of his body and looked back at it—tall, sea-tanned, but paling under the strain of the powers coursing through it. Then his spirit took the shape of a giant hawk that screamed with rage and swooped down to attack. Arrows, and then sea fire, burned against its golden plumage. The hawk landed on the flagship's rigging. Flames spurted up around its pinions. Again and again the hawk darted from ship to ship, and the burning followed it.

It looked down upon its dazzling reflection in the tossing sea, mantled its wings, and screamed defiance at the emir's ships. Then it returned to the body it had abandoned.

As if from a great distance, Marric could hear Phlebas and the other ships' captains shouting orders, tacking, increasing the stretch of open water that lay between their ships and their astounded enemies.

Once again Marric was buffeted by the force of the priests' wills, the carefully constructed mnemonics of their chants. He raised his arms, letting the power evoked by the ritual swell through him in a rising tide. It was easier this time. Light crackled from his fingertips toward a darkening sky.

As the priests began a final invocation to the gods of lightning and waste places, the power erupted. Lightning danced from Marric's fingers to the skies. It hurt like Sutekh's whip.