The Dark Lord (21 page)

"Do you think he will lead in battle himself?"

"No,
comes
, not with a weak arm. He will stay back, and let his
umen
commanders handle the line of battle."

"Good." Alexandros' curiosity was satisfied. "Tomorrow we may fight, if the enemy has the stomach for battle. All of you have seen the ground—very poor for horses, filled with streams and fields and orchards. If we fight here, matters will be decided by our infantry in close quarters."

The Macedonian smiled broadly and stood, filled with nervous energy. He paced the circumference of the tent, harsh voice ringing. "I cannot think of a better place to fight this enemy. Our men, on foot, are the match for two, three, even four times their number in these barbarians. It may be the Avar khagan has tired of sitting at Constantinople and has taken the field to loot, to pillage, to forage for his men. Therefore, we will rise up before dawn and attack, straight up the road. My Goths will lead, and your men, Valentinius, will follow close behind. When we come upon the Avars, you shall deploy on either flank."

"And my men?" Demetrios wore a remarkably foul expression on his face. "What shall we do—hold your horses?"

Jusuf raised a mental eyebrow at the man's truculence, though his face remained impassive.

"You, Demetrios, will be waiting on our far left wing, waiting for the kagan Dahvos here and his lancers to draw the attention of the enemy. They will cover the left flank of the legionaries, as they advance. You will wait for certain news to reach you."

"What news?" The
cataphract's
ill temper did not abate, a purplish flush rising at his throat. Jusuf watched with interest, wondering if the man might burst a vessel right there in the tent and expire. The Eastern nobleman was certainly choleric enough...

"You will wait," Alexandros said in a genial tone, "for the Avar knights to try and swing wide to our left, around the brawl that will inevitably develop in the center, and then you will fall upon them like Zeus' own thunderbolt and destroy them."

Demetrios blinked, then sat back, rendered speechless. He had not expected to be given a place in the line of battle.

"But you
must wait
," Alexandros continued, "until the enemy—goaded beyond anger by our slaughter in the middle—unleashes all his dogs, not just a few, and they are intent upon their prey. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Demetrios said, choking, suddenly aware of the fierce look on the Macedonian's face and the way Alexandros loomed over him. "We will wait until the moment is right."

"Good." Alexandros' face was very hard and Jusuf wondered if the
comes
had been drinking. There was something about the quicksilver change in his emotions that brought the grape to mind. "If you charge too soon, or not at all, indeed—if you fail to perform adequately, Demetrios, then you will find yourself unable to perform at all."

Sweating with fear, Bayan, son of Jubudei, khagan of the Avar nation, woke in darkness. Heavy quilts lay across his body and silken pillows cushioned his head. Concubines, comfortably warm, curled on either side of the Avar. In the gloom, he could hear the girls breathing softly, deep in sleep. The khagan's face twitched and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep from crying out. Though the night covered his right arm, Bayan could feel the limb lying stiff beside him, the flesh cold and inert. Grunting with an effort, he groped across the quilts with his good arm.

Beside his bed, on a folding lacquered table, his fingertips brushed across a bow stave of horn and springy wood. Something like a hot, bright spark flashed in the darkness. Bayan gasped, and felt a hot, warm rush of strength flood his body. Ignoring the sleepy complaints of the two girls, the khagan threw back the quilts and rolled out of the bed. Outside, lanterns hanging from the eaves of his great tent shed a faint illumination.

Bayan watched his right arm, streaked by pale bands of light, and the limb trembled with suddenly flowing blood, with the flush of life, and then stringy muscles swelled and firmed with visible speed. The khagan felt joy fill him, even as his arm grew stronger and stronger. He clasped the tall bow, glittering and dark in the faint light, to his breast. His right hand clenched into a fist.

"What a gift!" He breathed, barely audible even to himself. "What a gift."

Even the bearer had been delightful, the perfect emissary to catch Bayan's attention...

The T'u-chüeh bent one knee, neck exposed between his oily black hair and the top of his laminated armor. Bayan snorted, turning from his place at the edge of the raised wooden platform. He did not deign to look fully upon the ambassador. "Rise, Persian slave."

The T'u-chüeh stood, his temper admirably leashed. Bayan was in a foul mood, as were his advisors, a grizzled set of older men standing close by. They glowered at C'hu-lo, fingering their weapons. Persia was no longer a friend of the Avars, not after the disasters of the previous spring. Sending one of the eastern lords to treat with them was daring—had not the Avar broken free of the T'u-chüeh yoke a hundred years before? Didn't the eastern Turks call the Avars "slave" and "beast"? But Bayan acknowledged, silently, the sight of the single-braid kneeling before him was pleasant.

"Great lord, my master sends you warm greetings, offering you gifts and tokens of his friendship." C'hu-lo pulled a
gorytos
from his back in a smooth motion, laying the bow case down on the rough-hewn planks. In the bright sunlight the case gleamed a rich dark red. The horsehide was carefully treated, rubbed with preserving oils, the nap of fine hair arranged just so. Leather edging surrounded the mottled red-and-white hide, punched with signs representing the sky, the wind, the gods, the horses and the people. "The king of kings thinks you will find this small gift, the least of gifts, pleasing."

Bayan did not look at the case, his face turning dark with anger. The khagan was a stout man, shorter than his advisors, with one arm hidden in the folds of his fur vest. His other hand, his left, tugged at a thin patchy beard. Like his captains and advisors, he was wearing a long peaked cap of green felt and a fur-lined cape. Armor of riveted iron rings covered his barrel-like chest and hung down past his waist. His features echoed C'hu-lo's own—a flattened nose, high cheekbones, a slant to his eyes. To the Eastern eye, there were subtle differences; the Avar khagan wore his long black hair in two plaits, where the T'u-chüeh favored one.

"You are not pleased, lord of men? Has the king of kings given offense in some way?"

The Avar advisors growled, bristling, and one of them drew his curving cavalry sword. The T'u-chüeh did not respond, watching Bayan with a patient, stoic expression, one hand flat on the platform.

"What is the cost of Persian friendship?" Bayan looked down upon C'hu-lo. "You offer a single bow and the swords of the Romans will take ten thousand of my subjects. You offer fine words and promises of victory, but the Romans will deliver fire and death. Three years we strove against the walls of the City. We took nothing but windrows of the dead. Where is the glory there? The prizes? The slaves? Cold and rotting in the ground with my sons, with the sons of my sons."

C'hu-lo remained impassive; though the fury and hatred in Bayan's voice was hot enough to set wood alight. In response, he unhooked three clasps holding the bow case closed. Deftly, he opened the case, revealing the bow and arrows within to the sky. The Avars surrounding him hissed in surprise.

The bowstave was a sleek dark wood on the inner face, then glossy bone on the outer. It was of a full length, the "man" bow of the Huns, with a long curving topstave and a shorter, thicker foundation. Coiled strings, shining with oil, sat in leather holders on the inside of the case. A sheaf of arrows, the shafts painted in blue, the fletching white-and-gray goose, filled the other half of the case. C'hu-lo stood, holding the weapon in his hands. "This is the bow of a king, of a hero."

Bayan's face darkened, turning a muddy red color. C'hu-lo matched his stare. Bayan thought his heart might burst, so fiercely did it hammer in his chest. "Here, lord of men, take it, draw it, set your sight upon a pleasing target."

Bayan could not bring himself to speak. His right arm, hidden in the vest, slipped out. The limb was withered, scored by a long curling scar lapping over the elbow. C'hu-lo took the moment—the advisors averted their eyes from the khagan's shame—and stepped close, looking slightly down on the man. "Lord Bayan," he whispered, "put your hands upon this weapon, feel the power! The king of kings offers you not insult, but a great gift."

Bayan glared up at him, but then paused, seeing a strange pleading in C'hu-lo's eyes.

"My arm is too weak," the khagan whispered. "You insult me before my men!"

"No, great lord," C'hu-lo's voice was low and urgent. "Here is the string, well waxed, a shaft, straight and true. Do as your fathers have done, string, draw, loose! Trust me and you will be delivered from shame."

Bayan shook his head, refusing to touch the weapon. C'hu-lo knelt again, holding the bow above his head. "If you do not find the weapon sufficient, great lord, then strike off my head."

C'hu-lo thrust the bow into Bayan's hands, forcing the man to take the stave, lest the weapon drop. No T'u-chüeh, or Avar, would allow such treatment of a bow. The T'u-chüeh bent his head to the planks, dragging aside his hair with one hand, exposing a tanned neck. His voice muffled, he said, "This thing is in your heart, great khagan—your ancestors look down. See the pride in their eyes!"

Bayan grimaced, but the bow felt good in his hands. He looked around, seeing his advisors—the lords of the Avar clans, the chiefs of the towns under his sway, his kinsmen, the friends of his youth—still looking away in embarrassment. Among their people, it defied the gods for the khagan to be crippled or flawed in the body. But Bayan's affliction came late in life, well after he had established himself and sired many strong sons. Each day he cursed the chance Roman arrow. It had been such an insignificant skirmish in the depths of winter too. There had been many victories in his youth and his legend was strong among the yurts and campfires of the people. His recent failures ate at him like a cancer.
The Romans would be his slaves!

The khagan looked out on the marshlands, squinting into the sun. The land was green and verdant, filled with stands of aspen and willow, cut by hundreds of channels, sparkling bright under the sun. Egrets and herons filled the air, sweeping and darting in numberless flocks. This was a rich land, filled with game. It pleased the khagan to know true men hunted in these willow breaks and fished in these plentiful streams. In the distance, there was a thundering of wings and a flock of geese suddenly bolted into the sky. Doubtless one of the wild cats hunting in the estuaries startled them up.

Bayan swallowed, then put the bow to his knee. A leather pad was sewn into his legging for just such a purpose. His fingers remembered what to do, at least, and he slipped the tightly wound string loop under the base of the bowstave. The other end hooked over the top and the wood of the stave began to flex. Despite gnawing fear, Bayan put the arrow to the stave, then—in a sudden hush—pushed the string away from him, drawing, sighting, seeing the geese climbing into the summer sky, leading the first bird, then—
snap!
—the arrow was away, lofting into the sky.

The khagan shuddered, feeling nauseated, but the arrow rose and rose and then, reaching the top of its arc, fell gently, piercing the goose through the center of its great white-and-gray body. There was a burst of feathers and the bird fell, plummeting, into the marsh below. Bayan's mouth was open in surprise. He could not bring words to his lips.

"See," C'hu-lo whispered, rising and leaning close, "the king of kings is mighty. His strength flows to your arms from his heart. In this way, all his friends are exalted."

Bayan watched as half-naked boys ran out from the base of the hill, leaping amongst the pools, running between tall stands of green cane. Soon they would bring him his kill, the first of the season, and it would roast over a stone pit, a delicacy for all the warriors thronging to his tent.

"Feel your arm, lord of men, is it strong?"

Bayan nodded, flexing the fingers of his right hand. The bowstave felt good in his hands, right and proper. His hand seemed powerful, not so weak and pale. Strong, like the Avar nation.

"Hey-yup!" Jusuf pointed with his lance, rear strap wrapped around his arm, through the crowd of legionaries jogging along the road, and the column of light horse following him swerved like a flock of birds turning over a lake. The mare whickered, found the footing on the side of the road suitable and half-trotted, half-slid down the bank into high grass. Jusuf let the horse find her own way. He turned in the saddle and watched his men pick their way down the slope.

On the road, long lines of Eastern infantry moved north at step-and-a-half time. A column of nearly a hundred men tramped past, long rust-colored tunics hanging down to their knees, broad-toed boots ringing on the paving stones. Each man had a leather quiver slung on his back, heavy with arrows, his bow in hand, half-strung. A small, round wooden shield—painted a solid color and bossed with iron—bounced on his shoulder. Most of the archers carried axes thrust into broad leather belts, or short swords hung from a strap. In the Eastern manner, their hair—most of them were bareheaded, though some sported straw hats against the sun—was cropped short in a style the Khazar heard called "leonine," though they looked nothing like any species of lion Jusuf had ever seen.

The Khazar light horse trotted through high grass, stirring up a drifting cloud of dust and seeds to hang in the air, glowing in the early morning light. The entire Roman army had started moving before dawn, and Jusuf was hurrying, trying to get into position before the battle started. Dahvos and the main body of the Khazar horse were somewhere behind him, held up on the road or trying to pick their way through the maze of farm tracks paralleling the highway. The high grass suddenly fell away and the mare splashed through a shallow stream and up a stony bank. Almost immediately, Jusuf shouted to his trumpeters to sound a warning call.