The Dark Lord (91 page)

His reptilian face twisting in despair, Dahak pressed his fingers against the fresco, slowly tracing yellow-painted lines, a round solar disk flanked by spreading hawk wings, rich fields of corn and wheat. A strange sound echoed in the chamber, throbbing among the roof arches. Dahak started, staring around, one hand raised in the beginnings of a pattern sign.

There was no one in the funerary temple. He was alone.

What was that?
The prince's eyes slid closed, one transparent lid sliding over another. Even in the hidden world, there was nothing around him, no invisible adversary, no spy, no secret watcher.
Was that someone crying?

The prince looked back to the painting and his jaw tightened. The sun in the middle of the composition mocked him, so perfectly round, fulfilling and sustaining the world of men. Dahak turned his face toward the ceiling, letting his sight peel away the stone arches, the tiled roof, then a sea of air, the thin white clouds so far above the curve of the earth, then an abyss of distant fire and the cold, dead moon.

I do not need to see this,
Dahak thought, wrenching his attention away from the void.
The Hyades have not risen and Al-Debaran still hides behind the world. There is still time.
His hand, still resting upon the wall, convulsed, iron-hard nails digging through plaster into the stone below.
But not much, no... not much. Not even as men measure the hours.

"Row!" A Praetorian, long blond hair wild around his head, screamed at a dozen soldiers. The men shied away from the barbarian, but their hands already wrapped around the long, polished pine handle of a huge oar. Sextus caught a glimpse of the men straining, faces red with effort, as he staggered up the gangway. Frontius flopped on his back like a marlin, drooling vomit on his shoulder. The wounded engineer was not doing well.

Two legionaries at the top of the gangway seized both of them with rough hands and threw them bodily onto the boarding deck of the grain hauler. Moments later, axes thudded into hawsers and the entire wooden ramp plunged into dirty brown water. Sextus rolled over, groaning, his hip twinging with sharp, stabbing pain. "What..."

Four enormous oars bit into the water and the grain hauler—despite her mass—jerked away from the dockside. Her holds were empty, making her surprisingly light on the water. The engineer bounded up, panic driving away the throbbing in his hip. "What are you doing?" Sextus threw himself to the railing, staring down at the dock. The two legionaries were busy lashing a wooden panel across the opening, closing off the space where the gangplank had laid.

Two men splashed in the water below, hands groping against the smooth marble facing of the harbor wall. A crowd pressed against a stone balustrade above them, staring at the ship with wild, wide eyes. Everyone ignored the men—stonemasons by the colored cords twisted into their tunics—as they struggled helplessly in the water. A guttural moan of despair rose from the mob, though no single person seemed to have raised their voice in a shout.

Sextus grabbed the nearest legionary's shoulder. "We can't leave," he hissed, pointing down the harborside. The crowd was beginning to mill, disturbed by some commotion. Light flashed on metal, though the sun had grown very dim, shrinking to a pale disc hidden in heavy viridian clouds. "There are still Romans trapped ashore!"

"Get away from me." The legionary turned on Sextus, shoving his hand away. He looked sick, face sallow behind a stiff black beard. He clutched the axe with both hands, knuckles white against the close-grained wood.

"Those are
our
tent mates," Sextus said, voice rising in horror. "We don't leave them behind!"

"Get away!" The man shouted, pushing Sextus back with the axe handle.

On the deck, Frontius stared up, lips nearly white with pain. "Sextus..."

"Look at them," the engineer shouted, turning on the other soldiers standing by the railing. He waved at a band of men in armor pushing through the mob. Other men pursued, swords and spears hacking and stabbing, striking down men and women packed so closely together they could not flee. "They need us! Stop rowing! Turn the ship!"

The sweeps continued to dip into the harbor and the massive ship inched away from the dock a yard at a time. A good twenty feet of open water now separated the hull from the marble facing. One of the stonemasons had vanished under the slowly roiling brown surface. The other managed to dig his fingers into a mossy crevice between two stones. He was shouting weakly, begging for help.

The crowd ignored him, staring at the grain hauler. Aboard, the legionaries at the railing stared back. No one spoke, and the oars dipped again, opening the distance another yard.

"Ho, the ship!"

A strong, familiar voice rang out. A tall man with a singular red beard shoved through the crowd to the retaining wall. Barely a half-dozen men still fought at his side, several of them sorely wounded. Only yards away, through the mob, Sextus saw the Arabs pressing, blades rising and falling in fierce, brutal cuts. People were screaming now and the entire mob seemed to wake with a start. It moved, a herd surging, spooked by summer thunder. Twenty or thirty people—those jammed closest to the water—were shoved into the harbor with a mighty splash. Sextus jerked as if struck with a whip.

"Throw them ropes," he shouted, turning again to the other legionaries. They stared back, faces blank. "Fools!" the engineer snarled at them, then ran along the railing. He found a heavy rope knotted at intervals and snatched up the coil. He ran back, screaming curses at the other men on the ship.

He reached the gangway and knelt, hands quick as they wound the rope into a heavy bolt stapled to the deck. Sextus braced his foot, standing, and hurled the coil into the water. On the dock, the legionaries turned at bay, forming a too-small circle with their shields. The engineer leaned out, screaming at the top of his lungs—"Here! Here! Swim to the ship!"

The red-bearded man looked back over his shoulder, a
spatha
bare in his hand. Sextus recognized him at last. "Lord Aurelian! Here, Lord Prince, here!"

Shrieking, the mob parted, men and women trampling those too slow to flee. The Arabs pushed through behind a thicket of spears. The legionaries on the wharf locked shields and the ring and clatter of steel on steel drifted across the water. Sextus bit his thumb, silently begging the prince to leap into the water. Instead, his powerful head was clearly visible among the others, his long blade flashing, driving back the first rush of the enemy.

Oars rose, shedding brown, silty water, and the ship crabbed out into the harbor. Two burly legionaries bent to the steering oars on the rear deck, trying to turn the grain hauler to catch the wind. The sails—huge squares of stitched canvas—luffed as the ship turned. For a moment, forward motion ceased, though all four oars dug deep into brown water, the crews on the sweeps groaning with effort.

"Here, my lord," Sextus screamed again, beckoning.

A towering Arab clashed with the prince and the two men—each head and shoulders above his companions—exchanged a fierce series of cuts and slashes. The ringing
clang
of blade on blade was clear even on shipboard. The prince held his own, then advanced, whirling the
spatha
in a driving attack. The Arabs fell back, stabbing at his feet and head with their spears. A clear space emerged, though in the brief interlude, two more of the legionaries—already wounded—had been stricken down.

More green turbans pushed through the crowd and the engineer realized the avenues leading down to the docks were now filling with a rustling, shuffling mob far different from the panicked citizens who had first rushed down to the shore.

"My lord," Sextus wailed, hand hanging in the air. "Please!"

The Arabs rushed forward, shouting a sharp, high cry. Aurelian met their attack head-on, smashing one man to the ground, then slashing his blade back, catching another behind the head. The Arab toppled, helmet smashed down over his eyes, spine bared white to the sky. The others jostled, trying to get at the prince. Spinning, Aurelian took two, long racing steps and leapt over the retaining wall. His trim, powerful body speared into the water with a sharp splash.

Sextus shouted in relief, leaning over the side to grasp the knotted rope, flipping it out towards the shore. The Arabs rushed forward, the last legionnaire slumping back against the marble wall, four or five spears grinding into his chest, his neck, his armpit. Blood splashed across white stone. A young man with a sharp face and neat, coal-black beard leapt atop the wall.

The engineer threw the rope again, though he could not see Aurelian beneath the turgid surface, not yet.

A forest of green-and-tan crowded at the wall. The young Arab shouted, pointing. Aurelian's head burst from the waters, more than halfway between the ship and shore. He took his bearings, then struck out for the hull, swimming strongly. Sextus felt a chill, realizing the prince was still in full armor.
The strength of ten!
his mind gibbered, calculating the weight of metal and leather. "Here, a rope!"

The knotted line flew out again, splashing into the water only yards from the prince. Aurelian caught sight of the rope and turned, muscular arms cleaving through the low waves.

On the retaining wall, the young Arab was arguing with his soldiers, gesturing violently toward the man swimming in the water. Two of them—older men with heavy beards—shouted back. The sound of defiance in their voices drew Sextus' attention. One, a tall, hook-nosed man carrying a long, curved bow shook his head sharply in refusal. The young Arab turned away, face twisted in fury, and snatched a spear from one of his fellows.

"Dive, my lord!" Sextus screamed at the prince, seeing the Arab take a hurling stance, shoulder sliding back, the iron head of the spear poised at his chin. "Dive!"

Aurelian doubled his pace, surging through the water. The rope was only feet away. The Arab whipped around, spear leaping from his fingers, arcing into the sky. Aurelian grasped the rope and slid under the waves, the weight of his armor dragging him down. Sextus hauled, feeling the line stiffen and spring out of the water. Other hands grasped hold, a whole crowd of men around him, and they pulled for all they were worth.

The prince's head shot from the water, his arm tangled in the line, and a wake foamed around his shoulders. Glittering, the spear flashed down. Sextus shouted again, though there were no comprehensible words. Aurelian twisted, flinging himself away from the missile. The spear plunged into the water, only a hand span away. On the ship, a hundred legionaries cheered lustily in relief. Sextus continued to haul, rope burning between his fingers. A moment later, as more spears plunged into the water, Aurelian was dragged against the side of the ship. Arrows flashed past the prince's head, burying themselves in the oaken planks of the ship with a meaty
thack!

A dozen hands reached down, dragging Aurelian up to the railing. The knotted rope wound tight around his arm and shoulder, biting deep into bruised flesh. Sextus grasped hold of the prince's shoulder strap, hauling him—clanking, water spilling from his armor—over the side. Everyone collapsed to the deck in a sodden heap, Aurelian's pale, drained face framed by wet iron and glistening leather.

"My lord," Sextus cried, tears streaming down his grimy face. "You live!"

Aurelian grimaced, bluish lips drawing back from clenched teeth. His fingers clutched Sextus' hair. "Do I?" the prince gasped, shuddering, and Sextus looked down. Blood flooded from Aurelian's side. A long gash tore open his lower stomach, some unseen blow severing the prince's armored skirt. His belt was missing and the lower edge of the
lorica
was twisted and bent.

"No!" Sextus pressed desperately against the wound, feeling gelatinous, coiled tubes squirm away under his fingers. "No! We saved you, my lord, we saved you!"

Aurelian's face drained of color, though someone was trying to force the nipple of a wineskin into his mouth and his body shook with a racking cough. Blood covered Sextus' forearms and the prince died, there on the deck of the ship as she wallowed out into the harbor, away from the fallen city.

"Oh no." Frontius leaned over the prince, his face gone ashy white. The other men drew back, and a mutter of despair coursed from dozens of lips. Sextus, his arms washed red, laid the prince down, taking care his head did not crack against the planks. Still kneeling, the engineer turned to stare back at the docks. The hosts of the enemy crowded the wharfs, and even at this distance Sextus could see the young captain and the two older men.

They raised their spears and swords in salute, a bright forest of flashing steel. A great basso shout rang out over the turgid waters and a thousand naked blades thrust to the sky in a single, sharp movement. Frontius stepped to the railing, staring in incomprehension. Again the blades flashed, and the roar of sound rolled out. The sound seemed to fill the air, driving back the heavy pressure that had grown over the city. Then again, as the Roman ship reached the long sandstone breakwater.

"What are they doing?" Frontius looked back at Sextus. The engineer stood, thin streams of blood spilling from his arms.

"They praise a brave man," Sextus said, though his voice was nearly unrecognizable. "As we will praise him. As he deserves." The engineer turned to the crowd of legionaries crowding the deck. Every man seemed as one dead—eyes hollow, faces caked with soot and sweat, armor dotted with blood—yet their gaze turned to him as he raised a hand.

"Bring a priest—if any survives among us—and a winding shroud. We will not burn our lord Aurelian at sea, but upon our homecoming. For him, we will spill the blood of beasts, of men. For him we will spill wine, and send a great smoke to the heavens. He will not go into the dark alone, without servants, without grain, without wine.
He
will not suffer in darkness, for we—the Legion—will always remember him!"

There was a stir among the crowd and the men parted, letting a white-haired centurion approach. Sextus was greatly relieved. Here was a priest of Mars Ultor, come to give a soldier a soldier's rites. Frontius gripped his shoulder. "Father Wolf," Sextus called, kneeling again beside the prince. "Give our comrade a blessing grace, to carry him across the Dark River. You men—where are the eagle standards, the golden plaque, where is the name of the city? Here is a son of Rome—its bravest son—and he needs know we pray for him, the city prays for him, that he is not alone in the cold darkness."