Byzantium's Crown (21 page)

Now wind and wave were stilled, stunned by the unexpected thunder and lightning. The priests fell silent, too. Yet the demand of their wills still beat down upon Marric. He could feel his body tingling from the after shocks of the lightning.

This is too much power. What more do they want?

In a spasm of panic he straggled to break free, but sensed that that would be fatal. Was it for this that his father had ruled, this for which he had bled in the dungeons and delta marshes—to die because he feared to use the weapons at hand. The power coursed through him again, burning because he fought it. If he did not stop fighting and work with it, it would consume him.

Coward! He remembered Stephana's accusation. She was waiting below, and he knew that she would not hesitate to use her dagger as she had promised. The lightning crackled and lashed him again. How long could he take this punishment.

"Ha-k ir-i!" The ancient words of Osiris, trapped in his own death, ripped from his throat and chest like a spear pulled from a cloven heart. "Come down to me!" Come save me, heal the land, make an ending.

From the clear sky flooded Nun, the primeval ocean.

Walls of rain toppled, and the Pride of Isis' decks ran with water like the Nile at floodtime.

Waterspouts punched through the decks of three dromonds, and ropes, spars, and bodies whirled with them between sea and sky. Several other ships foundered, leaving only one to keel over. Its sails filled with water and, very slowly, it sank. Then a great whirlpool emerged from the face of the sea and sucked up first the refuse, then the rain that the last anguished scream of Marric's had drawn from the sky. Even in destruction the Elder Gods were clean.

The horizon itself shimmered and seemed to open.

"Father!" Marric gasped. He staggered and almost fell. Awe filled him, and he tightened his grasp on the rail, on consciousness itself. He could not lose his senses now! A golden bird, greater and brighter than his own hawk-sigil, circled above the merchant ship and perched on the topmast. It cast a healing, warming light, and the water pooling on the decks dried up. Marric felt restored. If he died in the next minute—and he still feared that he might—he would die of exaltation, not exhaustion.

Though the priests' arms were upholding him, Marric knew he would not fall. He released himself and stood clear. The air was sweet, as if it had newly been created. He took a few experimental steps. How strange the deck felt under his feet, yet he had walked it many times. The ship rolled, and he compensated for the motion automatically. What a wonder he was! He was aware of his body as a gift from the gods who had preserved it to do their will.

Sun shone in his eyes, drawing tears down his face. He turned and faced the priests.

Followed by the others, Merikare kissed earth before Marric in a form that had been old when Pithom and Ramses were in the building and Byzantium itself not yet even a dream. He lifted a hand, permitting them to rise. Yes, they might have used him. But now he was their master. He felt only a vast surprise. So this was what priesthood felt like. It was too much power for any man, let alone an emperor. He did not think he would dare it again.

Phlebas and his officers were hastening over to him, and he gathered his wits quickly.

"In truth, merchant, who are you?"

"Alexandros is my name," Marric told him huskily. "Among others. As you value your life, captain, do not press me for more."

Too many people thrust too much awe at him on deck. It made him feel very lonely. Even Nicephorus—a magician himself—had drawn a little apart from Marric. Empire, he thought, was isolation enough without this further barrier. I cannot bear this.

Marric held out his hand to the scholar.

"Help me," he whispered. "Get me away before I fall."

As Nicephorus supported him, Marric turned back once to look over the sea. The phoenix, had flown back to the horizon. The view was bare of everything except a great rainbow that arched over half the sky.

On the last day of the voyage, Marric and his companions stood at the ship's prow. Crew and officers hung back, allowing them the best vantage point. In the long, restful days since the battle at sea they had come to recognize that the merchant who traveled on priests' business was no mere merchant, and that they owed him their lives.

The grain convoy might provide Marric with the germ of the military support he would need to take his throne. If the ships' crews spread rumors of a new, supernaturally gifted warleader in the bazaars and taverns of Byzantium, and the soldiers told of a battle in which only enemies perished, Marric would also have access to the Mangana, Byzantium's military district. And it was near, very conveniently near, the imperial palace.

Marric strained for a first glimpse of his city. Water . . . clouds . . . there! At the outermost range of his vision, white and golden against the blue of the water and the paler blue of the sky, shone his home. It seemed so small from this distance that a god could hold it like a jeweled toy in the palm of his hand.

Surely no other city was so beautiful. The silhouette of gleaming roofs was utterly familiar and dear to him, calling him with an urgency he had no desire to resist. Tears blurred his sight of it. Osiris, protect the city; Horus, hover over it with Your wings; Isis, make it flourish.

His friends allowed him privacy to calm himself. Then they joined him at the rail. Nicephorus scanned the roofs for landmarks. Stephana grasped both men's arms and laughed, watching their joy. They interrupted one another pointing out things they recognized. It was all new to her; Marric would delight in showing the city to her, if only he might. But once they docked, they would have to return to tension, to weaving intricate plots that must enfold an entire empire.

"The triple walls," Marric pointed at the city's defenses. "Do you see that second tower? It marks the Golden Gate, the one emperors and victorious generals enter by, and—what's that?" He shook free of his friends and leaned out as far as he dared. Below the great walls clustered what looked like an invading army.

"It is the Huns," said Marric. "The Kutrigur, the Utrigur, even the minor clans. Just as you prophesied, Stephana."

She nodded matter-of-factly.

A small boat came about and a pilot climbed up on deck.

"I need to know what news this man brings," Marric decided. He joined Phlebas and heard the pilot conclude: " . . . On account of the Aescir ships, the Horn has been barred to nonmilitary traffic. Her Imperial Majesty has ordered the chain drawn across the Horn. I'll guide you in to Eleutherium."

"We come just in time," Stephana murmured.

"Pray Isis." Now that Marric saw what looked like the entire world ranged against the empire, he feared as he had never feared since he faced Irene's guards and expected death—at best. His jaw clenched. Irene's guards and Irene's magic! They were the same, to his mind. They would prevent him and Alexa from reaching Audun's ship; they would try to take them.

Stephana laid a hand on his arm, calming him.

Audun! If the bearmaster had joined the Aescir, perhaps Marric could reason with him.

"She must he half-mad," Nicephorus said. "The city appears tranquil enough."

"The Huns and Aescir bide their time. Sooner or later, someone will run out of patience. And Irene has an arsenal of dark powers—"

"Did you not summon the Elder Gods?" Stephana asked. "You return, as I told you, in good time."

As the Pride of Isis docked, Marric pulled the hood of his light cloak down over his eyes. Doubtless rumors were that he campaigned on the frontier, or died of a fever, or ran renegade—some convenient fiction, probably the last. Rumors: before he started his own whispers in this city of whispers, he must listen quietly to all that he could.

Near the dock hovered at least three entire files of soldiers. Their weapons looked too well-worn for Marric's liking. So Irene's security was so tightly drawn that guards would check incoming ships, even grain ships, for contraband? He leaned forward, drinking in the sights of the port.

A party of priests arrived. Doubtless the High Priest had sent his brothers an escort.

Then, lurching under the whips of overseers, a coffle of slaves was herded on board a nearby ship. Many of the slaves were wounded. All were too muscular to be anything but fighting men condemned to the collar and the block.

Clearing his throat to alert Marric, Phlebas the captain came up beside him. "The empress sent a regiment against demonstrators in the hippodrome recently. When it refused to butcher them, she ordered it decimated." He paused. "My . . . Alexandros, you know you have only to command me—or the rest of the convoy."

Seventy fighters on board each ship. Turned loose with a story or two, doubtless they would bring Marric even more followers.

"Would you serve me?" Marric asked. "For now, simply be my eyes and ears. And wait for my call." This was not the time for the fleet to herald his return. First he must speak with the priests and persuade the patricians and civil servants to support him for his father's sake, or because they hated Irene, or perhaps because they thought he might have the makings of an emperor. And he had to speak to his former allies now assembled outside the city walls.

"But you will employ us," Phlebas insisted.

"My word upon it." Marric suddenly thought of something. "Could an accident, let us say, hold that ship in harbor?" He pointed at the slaver being loaded with the betrayed regiment.

"Such accidents are frequent."

He would need the men that ship held, veterans of a crack imperial regiment. Emperors had been catapulted to the purple before by adroit manipulation of malcontents, soldiers, and slaves. I can win them and hold them. Do you see this, Father?

"I can be reached by a messenger to the temple of Osiris," Marric told Phlebas in a whisper and clasped his arm. Just in time the man prevented himself from making the full bow due his emperor.

The priests of Osiris had provided a litter for Stephana and horses for the men; no one of rank walked the filthy lower streets willingly. Beggars on the wharf cried out to the priests. As they disembarked, the harbor guards drove the beggars away with the flats of their swords. Marric winced, and mounted.

Feigning difficulty with his stirrup, he bent and listened to an altercation between Phlebas and the prefect.

So taxes had been raised. Irene had developed the habit of confiscating the goods even of suspect nobles and criminals. Merikare strolled over to listen. Had she moved against the temples yet? Judging from how Merikare overawed the prefect of the harbor, Marric thought not. So the temples would afford him protection for a time, at least.

The priests conducted them to a house they claimed was safely held. Built of stone, two floors high, it was far enough away from the Mese to be obscure. With thick walls and narrow windows that appeared to turn in on themselves, it was the sort of place a man might pass every day for years without noticing. The men who served in it were soldiers, who accepted the guise of slaves in devout service to the gods. Marric would give a good deal to know how the priests inspired that sort of loyalty.

Within the house Marric found more luxury than he had known since his days in Tmutorakan: cool, well-lit rooms opened onto an arcade that enclosed a small, exquisite garden. In its center was a fountain more beautiful than any he had seen outside the palace.

Marric was surprised when Nicephorus refused to have his family notified of his safe return. Ariadne would be safer this way, he said.

They sat in this new-found comfort drinking chilled wine and listening to Theophilus, a thin, intense priest whom the temple had sent to brief them.

"Irene woos and threatens the people according to her whims," said the priest. "One day she looses soldiers on them in the Hippodrome. The very next she declares that she will revive the festivals of the dying and reviving god."

"The old Dionysia?" Nicephorus asked. "How does the temple regard that, Theophilus?"

"The god has a thousand forms. Regardless of the names we use, our prayers—assuming they are sincere—rise to the same power."

"She is losing control," Stephana said unexpectedly. "Look, she seems to act at random and tries one thing after another. Now, the Dionysia."

It had not been celebrated in almost fifteen years. Marric could remember the last one. But it might be of use. Like the games in the hippodrome, such a sacred festival could be manipulated by ambitious people. But Marric's hand closed on what was of more use to him: the roll of names that Theophilus had entrusted to him, names of officers known to uphold the old warriors' oath, civil servants discreetly critical of Irene's heavy taxes, some nobles.

For now Marric would concentrate on the officers stationed in the city. Chief among them was Caius Marcellinus, a man whose house was so ancient that it proudly used Roman rather than Byzantine names. Marcellinus was domestikos or commander, of the Scholae, the decorative but highly competent regiment that Marric himself had started out in. Marric remembered him somewhat ruefully as a strict disciplinarian who had despaired of the imperial prince—or who would have, if he hadn't decided that it was disloyal. For Marric's father's sake, perhaps, he would hear him out.

Meetings with other key officials could be arranged, Theophilus assured Marric, in the safe house, or the temple, or even the cautious silence of the military compound.

Tired, Stephana withdrew. Shortly afterward (Marric assumed by her orders) more food was brought in.

"I can imagine her deciding that we mustn't plot unfed," said Nicephorus. "Ariadne would do the same thing. But she is safer where she is. Let be, Mor."

Marric ate then, unaware of the foods placed before him or even of the sunset reflected in the waters of the Golden Horn. Hours later Nicephorus disappeared. Lamps flickered as their oil burnt low, and still Marric spoke with the priest.

All the temples—from the great ones of Isis and Osiris by the palace down to the smallest shrines—would know of Marric's return, Theophilus promised. The only ones to be left out would be those cults hostile to any god but their own and, of course, the dark adepts. They had, in any case, already isolated themselves.