The Gate of Fire (23 page)

"See," Odenathus whispered, "Eric's is lost, but our leader-of-five still carries hers. Lead us on, O thoughtful hound!"

Dwyrin drew his tile away, slowly, as did Odenathus. The two ghostly fragments hung in the air for a moment, then the fourth—that which had died with poor Eric in the dark cold of a river before the Persian city of Tauris—vanished, and the third: It spun in the air and then darted away. The Hibernian laughed, for they would have to run to catch it. Behind him, Odenathus cursed vilely. He hated running.

A dim flicker of dawn was showing in the east and it was cold on the docks, but the broad-shouldered man seemed impervious to the chill. A cutting spring wind came out of the mountains behind the port, but even with bare arms and shins the man remained on the pier. His guardsman loitered a dozen paces behind him. Wrapped in their own furs and armor, they doubtless thought the cold spring predawn to be refreshing, but then they were Scandians and Rus to a man and used to far worse than this. Beyond the end of the stone pier the massive shape of an Imperial galley pulled slowly away. Its great sail was still furled, and a dozen longboats crowded around it. Hawsers stretched from the backs of the longboats, and the rattle of their oars and the rhythmic chanting of the rowers carried easily over the open water. The
quinquireme
Juno Claudius
would take almost two hours to make it out of the harbor to the open sea. Its decks were awash with light from sea lanterns, too, and the man on the dock could make out a small figure on the rear deck.

The man raised a hand in farewell, his stern face creased for a moment by a smile. He waved, and the small figure on the deck waved back, her pale white face showing for a moment. On the distant ship she moved and held up a warmly wrapped bundle so that he could look upon the face, tiny and indistinct, of his child again. His hand dropped, and he tugged the hood of the cloak over his head and its blond curls. He turned, hearing the rattle of boots on the dock behind him.

"Royal brother! The Empress is safely away?"

Heraclius, Emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire,
Avtokrator
and Augustus of the Greeks and Romans, turned to face his younger brother. The open, guileless smile was gone, and now his face was stern, the face of the ruler of half the known world. He raised his hand and clasped his younger brother's fist in his own.

"Greetings, Prince of Persia. Yes, Martina and my son are safely away. They will reach Constantinople and the luxurious refuge of the Imperial Court within a week. While we, dear brother, will still be here sorting out men and cargo and loot and assignment..."

Theodore smiled broadly at the sound of the
loot
, his teeth gleaming white in the thicket of his red beard. Where Heraclius was tall and broad, his younger brother was thick and stout, but each showed an echo of their father's pugnacious nose and blunt personality. The Prince was clad, as was his wont, in cavalryman's leather and half-armor, with a long blade slung over his back and riding boots. While the Emperor's cloak was a thick red woolen with purple thread and ermine edging around the hood, the Prince affected a shorter, Oriental-style cloak with a fur lining and a silk outer layer. Heraclius had considered mentioning to his sib that though Theodore was Prince of Persia in name, he need not ape its fashion—but he had held his tongue.

"Have you eaten yet? My servants are already up and making breakfast..."

Heraclius shook his head, no, and began walking along the pier. His brother fell in beside him, as he had done for twenty years, and the guardsmen shook themselves out into a loose cordon around the two. Some of the hulking Northerners went ahead, while others trailed behind. Their cold blue eyes watched everything, even the dark water, and their hands rested easily on the hilts of their swords.

"I have summoned the Legion commanders to join us just after full light," Heraclius said, "and we will begin deciding which cohorts and regiments will return to the capital, or to Egypt, and which will stay. Many of the men will need to return to their farms or cities in the provinces—some will stay, and new recruits will need to be trained and integrated into the existing cohorts. Too, we must decide what to do with the two Western Legions that my brother Emperor left with us."

"Garrison duty!" Theodore scoffed, sneering. "Over-the-hill infantry and engineers! If we were besieging something, we would bless them, but now? We have little use for them at all. He would have done better by us by leaving all those fine Sarmatian knights whom he brought with him."

Heraclius eyed his younger brother carefully; the rash youth who worshiped the horse-god and the romance of the
equites
was showing strongly. For a moment he reconsidered placing his brother in charge of the newly won Persian provinces, but then pushed the thought aside.
I need someone I can trust there
, he thought.
He will have able advisors and cooler heads to counsel him
.

"Emperor Galen left us something we are sorely lacking, dear brother—experienced infantry and specialists. They will be pure gold to train the four new legions of recruits that will be debarking here within the next six months. You will need more than cavalry to—"

Rashly, Theodore interrupted his brother. "I don't need
infantry
to rule Persia! I need horsemen and lots of them! Persia is vast and lightly populated. I need
cataphracts
to garrison and rule and patrol. Infantry works here, in Syria and Egypt and Asia, but there?" He pointed east, past where the slopes of Mount Silpius were tinged with pale dawn. "There I need cavalry, and four legions of it will not be enough."

Heraclius caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Theodore closed his still-open mouth. "I have considered this," Heraclius said after a moment. "I have been considering a massive change in the way the provincial armies work, both within the Empire and in the newly won provinces. In fact, I want to revise the way we raise armed men for war and support them in the field. You know I have made some changes already... well, that is only the beginning of this. The current provinces will be reapportioned into themes..."

The Emperor and his brother left the dock, deep in discussion, and the guardsmen drifted with them, a silent wall around the two men. Dawn continued to swell in the east, and light grew on the stone quays and docks of Seleucia. Hundreds of ships rode at anchor there, fat-bellied transports and massive galleys. The streets began to fill with dockworkers and draymen. Too, long lines of Western Imperial troops—not able by their archaic-seeming armor and ready discipline on the march—began to file out of the town, directed by bull-voiced centurions to their ships. They were the last to leave, following their Emperor, who had put to sea the day before.

The ghost of the broken tile faded away, touched by the sun, and Dwyrin came to a halt. The finder had led them on a merry chase through darkened streets and empty plazas, across public gardens and bridges. Finally it came to the eastern gate, the same that Dwyrin had passed through on the great road the day before. The gate was closed for the night, and the torches of the guard post were guttering low. Still, with the dawn coming, there was enough light to see.

"Where now?" wheezed Odenathus from behind him. The Palmyrene was flushed and panting hard.

"I don't... wait. There she is."

A huddled figure was curled up at the base of the gate, just by the guardhouse door. Even in the poor light, Dwyrin could pick out the red cloak and dark boots. He ran up, his heart in his mouth, suddenly stricken by unexpected fear.
What if someone had attacked her? Taken her by surprise with a knife?

"Zoë?" His voice sounded harsh in the still air. He crouched down, Odenathus at his shoulder. There was a sour smell of far too much wine and something else, a bitter aftertaste hanging in the air. "Leader-of-five?" He touched her shoulder.

The figure lay still for a moment, then twitched away from his hand. Dwyrin sighed, smelling the wine, and motioned with his head for Odenathus to take her other arm. Together they dragged her up. The hood fell away, and Zoë's head lolled to one side. Her front was covered with dried vomit and other less recognizable stains. A cheap pottery jug fell out of her hand; she had been wrapped around it. The jug cracked on the pavement, but it was empty. Only a dark trickle, like sap, oozed out of it.

"Oh, that is a fine smell," Odenathus gasped. "What was she drinking?"

"What was she thinking, you mean. So much for finding us soft beds and a hot bath!"

Zoë's eyes twitched open, and she snarled at the light. One weak hand raised, trying to shield her eyes from the dawn. The two lads dragged her away from the gate, into the shade of a nearby shop awning. Soon the street would be thick with peasants coming into the city with wagonloads of vegetables and goods to barter or sell. Dwyrin lowered the girl to the steps in front of the shop, carefully holding her head so that it did not bang on the wall.

"Zoë?" Odenathus said, crouching down next to her, his lean face worried. "Do you know us?"

The leader-of-five lay back against the door of the shop, her hair in a tangle around her head. Odenathus held one hand in his own. The other moved feebly to her face and brushed the hair away. Slowly, her eyes came open, but only to a narrow slit. Even the pale dawn was too much light for her head.

"Odenathus?" Her voice was weak and raspy. Dwyrin realized that Zoë had been crying for a long time at some point. He looked around, hoping to spy a well. There was a public fountain at the side of the little square behind the massive construction of the gate. He jogged to it, pulling a wine cup out of his carryall. It only took a moment to fill the cup with water and hurry back to the front of the shop.

He stopped, hard, when he reached the two Palmyrenes. Odenathus was staring up at him with the face of a dead man, bleached almost white, his eyes stunned. The young man sat down heavily, staring sightlessly at Dwyrin. The Hibernian turned, his mouth half open in surprise, and flinched back from the pure brilliant hatred in Zoë's eyes.

The young woman staggered up, one hand against the wall, the other curled into a claw. "Bastard Roman!" Her voice cut the early dawn stillness like a knife digging into flesh. "Your blessed Empire has destroyed us, every single one of us!"

"What?" Dwyrin managed to blurt before Zoë crossed the space between them and slammed her fist into the side of his head with all her strength. Pain blossomed from his ear, and he staggered back.

"Filth-eating Roman pig!" Another punch slammed into his throat and he rolled, gasping for breath. She pounced on him, fists raining down, cracking against his ribs. He scrambled away, breaking free, and sprang up, his face flushed with anger, his own fists raised. Zoë circled, howling insults at him, her entire body electric with rage. She jumped in and Dwyrin blocked her strike frantically, pushing her away. She spun, kicking at his knee and he barely skipped back in time.

"
Irrumator!
I will kill you and everyone who looks like you, you... urk!"

Odenathus, tears streaming down his face, tackled his cousin from behind, and they crashed to the cobblestones together.

"Help me!" Odenathus shouted at Dwyrin as Zoë thrashed and squirmed like a marsh eel under him. Dwyrin piled on, trying to pin the woman's legs. There was a flurry of arms and knees and a searing pain as she bit him. Dwyrin managed to push a wad of cloth between her teeth, and then they had her pinned down. Odenathus was gasping for air, barely able to speak for the tears that were dripping from his face.

"What... what is it?" Dwyrin was winded, too, and his head was still ringing like a temple gong.

"Oh, my friend, I cannot believe it... our city has been destroyed."

Dwyrin stared at the shock and horror on his friend's face, barely comprehending what he was saying. "Destroyed? How—I mean, who? The Persians? Not the Empire!"

"I don't know, that was all that she said—but I saw it in her face; everyone is dead: my mother, my father, my sisters, everyone I grew up with, or knew..." Odenathus began crying then, and Dwyrin could only hold his friend tightly, while all the pain in the world seemed to pour into them from the open sky.

It was night again, as seemed fitting. Dwyrin sat alone in front of the tent. The wagon loomed over him on one side, and the little oil lamp gleamed, shedding a wan circle of light that included him and the edge of one of the big wagon wheels. He had stopped crying with the help of nearly a gallon of wine. The rest of the cohort was in the city, spending their Persian loot and indulging in whatever desire or pleasure they harbored. The night felt very cold and empty. Both of his friends were gone. Zoë had left the same day that they had found her at the gate. Odenathus had tried to convince her to stay, if only for a few days, but she had refused to listen and had stalked out the eastern gate of the city, alone and on foot. After their brief struggle in the plaza, she had refused to look at Dwyrin, and even Odenathus seemed only marginally acceptable to her. Dwyrin had stood in the midday heat of the gate, watching her figure dwindle into the distance. Watching her go, he felt cold, even with the Syrian sun burning down on him.

Dwyrin raised his cup to his lips. The wine didn't even taste like anything anymore. The open hatred that Zoë had shown him had left its mark; he felt stunned and wounded. But there was no blood to stanch or any wound to close up. Some of the grape dribbled down his chin to stain his tunic, but he did not notice.

Odenathus had left only a few minutes ago. He had been crushed by the news, too, but had managed to struggle through and process his paperwork to leave the Imperial Army. Given the confusion in the city, it had not taken that long—only four days of waiting in the stifling heat of the government offices. He had taken his cash-out with a grim face, weighing the heavy gold coins in his hand for a long time before he turned away from the tribune's field desk. He had taken his things and Zoë's from the wagon and loaded them onto a string of heavily laden camels he had purchased in the agora of the city. Dwyrin had watched him dully, already drunk and lying in the shade of their tent. Odenathus had said nothing to him, though Dwyrin hoped that the easy-going Palmyrene did not bear him the same virulent hatred that Zoë had conceived.