The Storm of Heaven (120 page)

Nicholas felt heartsick, forced to kill fellow citizens, but he wanted to live more than he wanted to die. The sword licked out again, stabbing through the throat of an enormously fat man, his tunic blazoned with the crest of the bakers' guild. Nicholas crawled over his shuddering body, Vladimir and the others right behind him. Suddenly there was an empty space in front of him.

A line of soldiers, their shields overlapping, blocked the way. Grim eyes stared back at Nicholas over the top of the
scuta
,
pilum
held at the ready to stab anyone that came too close.

"Nicholas of Roskilde, undercaptain of the Faithful Guard," he gasped. Vladimir and the other Scandians were still pushing up behind him and Nicholas tried to hold them back. A thicket of spears was right in front of him, only inches from his abdomen. "We're Legion! We're Legion!"

The wailing around them changed in pitch. The galley at the end of the pier pulled away from the stone dock, oars flashing as they dug into the black water. The chorus of despair changed, becoming even more hopeless, if that were possible. The centurion in charge of the shield wall shouted something and four of the men stepped back, making a narrow opening. Nicholas darted into it, sheathing
Brunhilde
as he ran. Vladimir muttered some prayer behind him, holding his ax, still slick with blood, close to his chest.

Slowly, in bunches, the Faithful filed through the opening in the shield wall. Nicholas looked around, utterly exhausted. Groups of other soldiers were standing or lying in the open space. The surface of the dock was wet with a slime of blood and urine and greasy fat. Gathering his remaining strength, Nicholas turned back, catching Vladimir's eyes.

"Form everyone up and count off. I want to know who lives and is with us. I'll report to the commander here and get orders."

The Walach stared back with dead eyes, his face slack. The last two hours seemed to have drained everything from him. Nicholas turned away, shutting the ever-present sound of the mob pleading for life from his mind. He caught sight of the commander, a tall familiar-looking man in unfamiliar armor. Not a Roman, he thought dazedly, walking carefully, winding his way through men lying asleep on the dock, their armor stained and pitted, their hands clutching spears and swords. They did not seem to mind that they lay in blood and offal.

The muted, crackling roar of the burning city continued unabated.

In a black humor, Maxian pushed open the door to the musty room deep beneath the palace. The shimmering green light had faded in his absence, though the disks still spun, hissing, in the air. The young priest was waiting, facing the door, his hand raised in a sign. When he saw that it was the Prince, he breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his hand. Maxian slammed the door behind him, then sketched a sign on the wooden panels. The oak shivered, growing out from the edges, filling the doorway from side to side. Leaves sprouted from the ancient surface and roots crawled across the floor, digging into the cracks between the flooring tiles.

"Go through," Maxian snapped, glaring at the priest for no good reason. The library on the other side of the ring of fire seemed crowded. There were Praetorians with drawn swords, the Empress, two more of the Western thaumaturges, even some Eastern officials. Everyone was staring back at him, dismay writ large on their features. "Go!"

The young priest clambered up onto the table, then stepped swiftly through the translucent disk. It shuddered, fracturing his image, and then he was through, stepping down into the hands of the legionaries. Maxian looked around the room, seeing row after row of ancient, moldy books, tattered parchments, rat-eaten scrolls. His anger shifted a little, away from his own recklessness to the poor treatment given these works.

Then he shook his head and sprang up onto the table. He paused, muttering, his head bent towards his chest. His left hand began to glow, shining with a deep reddish color. His fingers opened, revealing a shining glyph that shed a flickering radiance. The Prince bent, placing the sign on the tabletop. The glowing character faded into the stone. Then, without looking back, Maxian stepped through the wavering oval, feeling his hair rise and everything twist for an instant.

A dull crump shook the foundations of the temple of Hecate, rattling the statuary lining the roof and the triangular pediment. In the empty courtyard below, wind gusted between the pillars, blowing scraps of parchment across the tinted flagstones. Within the fane of the temple, the sacrificial fires were dead, the offerings covered with frost. The black sky had sapped the heat from everything within the walls.

The Dark Queen ghosted between the columns, her hood framing a pale, drawn face. She was exhausted, barely able to move, groping from shadow to shadow. A bitter taste of burning lime hung in the air, biting at her eyes and tongue. The violence in the ground beneath her feet faded away and she knew—even without casting her thought—that her old friend's library was buried under tons of rubble.

The whelp of a Prince,
she thought savagely.
What a fool. Like he can cover his tracks now...

The Queen reached a deep well that sheltered under the eaves of the temple. Thin steam rose from the black pit, warm air rising from the tunnels under the city and striking the frozen air. She swung her leg over the edge, then spidered down the sides. When only her head remained above the stone lip, she snarled at the west, thin arms trembling to hold her up. The dark power was still there, gloating outside the city.

Laugh, monster. This is my city.
My
city! You will never have it.

Then her pale eyes blinked and she was gone, vanished into the bosom of the earth.

Drums boomed, marking a slow, steady beat. Alexandros, one hand light on the reins of Bucephalos, trotted along the raised, metaled road that led into the city. The gates stood wide, the entrance tunnel through the walls bright with lanterns and torches. Bucephalos swung his head, tossing a thick black mane woven with ribbons, and snorted, smelling other horses. Lines of men in Western armor, legionaries, stood in ranks along the road. Their standards and banners fluttered in the light breeze off the sea. Alexandros raised a hand in salute, letting the sun sparkle from his mailed gauntlet.

Behind him, advancing at a steady, measured pace, marched thirty thousand Goths. Their long
sarissa
dipped and swung like a metronome, their booted feet crashing down as one. An impressive sight, thought the Macedonian, turning his horse in the shadow of the city gate. The first
syntagma
tramped past, entering the gate with a shout. Each man turned as he passed, their heads swinging in unison, their helmets gleaming with the afternoon sun.

"Alexandros!" they boomed, a thousand men with one voice. "Victory!"

Then they were past, and another regiment passed, and then another.

The Macedonian sat on his horse, smiling slightly, thinking of another day, long ago.

Men marched past, bearded men, with their helmets plumed with horsetails, their oval shields shining with the sunburst of Macedon. A great fleet waited on the shore, waiting to cross into Asia. Persia lay beyond, the mightiest empire in the world, endless, its armies without number. Waiting for him. As the gods had promised.

"
Comes
Alexandros?" A man with long blond hair rode up on a spirited gray horse. He looked tired, his face worn and shadowed by the fringe of a beard. He was not a Roman. "I am Dahvos,
khagan
of the Khazars. There are two legions here, the Third Augusta and another, which is currently nameless. I have letters for you, from Rome. They say that you are to take command of all of us—my men, the Legions, your own. Emperor Galen expresses great confidence in you."

Alexandros nodded, clasping hands with the man. The Khazar's eyes were haunted, as if he had looked upon an abyss. The Macedonian looked at him for a long moment, then smiled.

"Well met,
khagan
Dahvos. I have heard your nation is a brave and noble one."

Dahvos did not answer, turning away, his face stiff. "I will show you the city."

Alexandros nodded, then turned Bucephalos to follow. The Goths continued to march into the city, tramping through the tunnel. Within the stone walls, there seemed to be only soldiers. A city stripped for war, then. Alexandros grinned to himself, urging the stallion ahead. There was a heady smell in the air, a tension that spoke of battle and coming glory.

He could even see the Asian shore, if he climbed the walls.

And there are Persians!
he exulted.
Within the reach of my lance, my eye, my spear!

Zoë yawned, waking from dreamless sleep. She felt blessedly relaxed, heavy quilts lying on top of her. She wiggled her toes, finding a cool spot under the covers. Her eyes opened, seeing the light of morning shining through the canvas of the tent above her. Distant, muted noise reached her ears, speaking of men moving about the camp. The bitter taste of burning pine and juniper logs was in the air. Satisfied that all was well, she turned over, reaching across the bed.

There was no one beside her, the space cold and empty.

"Ah, how late have I slept?" she wondered aloud, sitting up, stretching. The black mane of her hair fell in front of her eyes and she brushed it back behind her ears.

"Not too late," said a familiar voice. "There is still some breakfast left."

Zoë turned, smiling, and climbed out of bed. Her sleeping tunic was mussed, but she smoothed it down. "Auntie! I didn't know you were here."

Zenobia smiled back, her glorious blue-black hair sweeping over a pale shoulder. She was dressed as befitted a queen, in glowing white silk, with a collar of emerald and pearl around her elegant neck. The jewels nestled between the curves of her bosom, half hidden in shadow. Silver bracelets girdled her arms and there were rings of gold on her fingers.

"I'm always here for you, daughter. Where else would I be?"

Zoë laughed, perfectly happy, and reached down, taking her aunt's hand. It was warm and strong, exactly as she remembered.

During revisions of this work, a number of chapters were wholly removed from the text. The author bears every responsibility for exceeding the stipulated manuscript length. Those who are interested in the missing portions can find them online, at this URL: (www.throneworld.com/oathofempire/en/storm_deletions.html)

The marching song of the Gothic pikemen drilling in their camp at Aquincum is:

Around her hair she wore a yellow ribbon

She wore it in the springtime, in the early month of May

And if you asked her why the heck she wore it

She'd say she wore it for her soldier who was far, far away

Far away

Far away

She wore it for her soldier who was far, far away

Around the block she carried a baby swaddled

She carried it in the springtime, in the early month of May

And if you asked her why the heck she carried it

She'd say she pushed it for her soldier who was far, far away

Far away

Far away

She carried it for her soldier who was far, far away

Around his grave she laid the pretty flowers

She laid them in the springtime, in the early month of May

And if you asked her why the heck she laid them

She'd say she laid them for her soldier who was far, far away

Far away

Far away

She laid them for her soldier who was far, far away

The marching song of the Gothic troops on the Field of Black Birds is:

The grand old dux of Eboracum,

He had ten thousand men;

He marched them up the hill,

And marched them down again.

Now when they were up they were up,

And when they were down they were down,

And when they were only half way up,

They were neither up nor down.