The Storm of Heaven (82 page)

Dwyrin patted Vlad on the shoulder. "Sorry."

"Why did I agree to come back here?" Vlad looked morose, already sweating. "I daren't go into the city, you know. The Queen will be waiting."

"I know." Nicholas began to push through the crowd of children and beggars. "We'll figure it out later—after we report in!"

Vladimir glared at the beggars touching his arms, then bared his teeth. They backed off, eyes white with fear. "You always say that..." He was growling.

Thick dust clouded the side of the road, painting Dwyrin's face a tannish yellow. Cloth covered his mouth and nose, but he still blinked furiously. A troop of armored horsemen had just clattered past and this particular road was not the traditional Legion road, with a hard surface and drainage ditches on either side. It was more a shallow trench filled with very fine, well-churned dust. The three friends were slogging up out of the broad low valley holding Perinthus at its mouth. Cohort after cohort of legionaries passed them. Each time, they scrambled out of the way and took advantage of whatever shade was offered. This part of Thrace was very rich and lush, which made it easy to pass the time under peach or apple trees.

A rolling series of hills lay around them, stretching into the blue haze of the north. None of them had ever come this way before, but Constantinople could not be far off.

"Gahhh! It's getting under my fur." Vladimir banged his hat against his arm, trying to shake off the dust. "This is
so
much better than sitting on that ship, sleeping or stuffing ourselves with grilled fish."

Nicholas ignored the Walach and his whining, peering ahead, one brown hand shading his eyes. They had come out of a belt of trees and were at the edge of fields sloping down into some kind of valley. "Look at this..."

Dwyrin looked up, waving a hand in front of his face to clear the dust.

A hundred yards away was a farmhouse surrounded by a cluster of Legion standards and tents. Cavalrymen were milling around under a stand of olive trees. Many of the trees were only stumps and the house itself was blackened ruins. Beyond that, bands of men were sitting and standing under more trees. Thin trails of white smoke rose from their cookfires. The road turned left at the farmhouse, then ran down into the valley beyond. Dwyrin guessed that they had found the main part of the army.

Across the valley, which was very shallow, a city rose up into the haze, vast and gray, with walls stretching out in either direction, both to the north and to the south. Dwyrin swallowed a whistle, seeing rampart after rampart rising up into the sky. He knew the place, though he had only been there briefly. Constantinople, the greatest city in the world, capital of the Eastern Empire.

"What's the matter? We'll be in the city this afternoon." Vladimir cheered up, then sneezed. "That can't be more than five miles as the crow flies. Come on!"

Nicholas shook his head and pushed his hat back. For a moment he chewed his lip, then spat on the ground. Dwyrin and Vladimir looked at him curiously, then at each other.

"What is it?" Dwyrin scratched the back of his neck. A long line of infantry, once-shining armor caked with dust, sandals squeaking in the dirt, swung past, water flasks banging at each hip. A brace of javelins and a carrying pole were over each shoulder. More dust puffed up. They were not singing, as the Legion usually did on a march. Even their standards, proudly carried before the lead men, hung limp in the still air. Dwyrin sympathized. He had done his share of marching. "Nicholas?"

"Look, there, down in the valley. Do you see a dark line?"

Dwyrin turned, raising his hands in front of his face, thumb to thumb and forefinger to forefinger. The air between his fingers shimmered and shifted, then suddenly sprang clear and distinct, showing him a magnified image of the valley floor. The dark line was a rampart of earth, faced with sharpened stakes and surmounted by a palisade of cut logs. Men in cloth headdresses labored along it, digging and hauling earth in woven baskets. Officers moved among them, exhorting them to greater efforts. Men in armor stood guard, watching the hills with arrows laid across their bows. In front of the rampart was a steep-sided ditch, and the ground before it was cleared of brush and trees.

"It's the Arab army!" Dwyrin was dumbfounded. They seemed to have come so far from Aelia Capitolina, escaping the rebels, and here they were again. "They've built a wall along the valley."

Nicholas nodded, then picked up his bag and pole, slinging them onto his shoulder. "They have. My eyesight isn't as good as your trick there, but I'd venture to say that it stretches all the way around the city, one wall facing out and one in."

Vladimir hurried to catch up and Dwyrin stumbled after, dispersing the pattern he had formed from the air. "Why would they want to do that?"

"It's an old Roman trick. One wall keeps the people in the city penned up, the other keeps their friends on the outside from getting in to help them. The first
Caesar
did the same thing once, at a Gaulish town called Alesia."

"We can't get into the city, then?" Dwyrin looked down into the valley again. His power might be able to make them an entrance. Logs could burn, and even stone and earth could crack in the heat, if the fire was hot enough. "Are we going to try?"

"Perhaps." Nicholas looked over his shoulder. "First I'm going to see if I can find someone who can tell us what's going on."

"You men! You're Eastern troops, aren't you?"

Nicholas looked behind him, then back to the Western centurion walking quickly towards him. The three friends had been angling towards the cookfires set up by the farmhouse. Nick figured the cooks would know all the latest news. "Me, sir?"

"You." The centurion was scowling already, but Nicholas waited with a placid expression on his face. "You're not one of our troopers—and that boy is wearing the caduceus and lightning flash. What's your name and rank?"

"Nicholas of Roskilde, sir, centurion of the Eastern army. These are Vladimir and Dwyrin." Nicholas turned towards them, motioning with his hand. "But we're on assignment already. Official business, if you know what I mean."

"Too bad," the centurion growled, brown eyes narrowing. "The legate wants to know where in Hades the Eastern army is and what's going on!"

"Sir." Nicholas kept his voice even, but he matched the Western officer's glare. "We just got here, we don't know what is going on. I can't help you right now."

"Really?" The officer sneered. "Let me see your transit papers."

Nicholas sighed but made a shushing motion at Dwyrin, who was starting to get a mischievous look in his eye. The boy's confidence had improved a thousandfold since they escaped Aelia Capitolina. His color was better, he was cheerful, even the small exercises of his power seemed ably done. Best, he no longer drifted into the dream state afflicting him during the siege. However, he was becoming fond of using his skill to make trouble. Nicholas drew out the pass
Caesar
Aurelian had provided, though he was loath to do so. Unfortunately, he had no other papers to hand. "Here. Read it carefully, centurion."

The Western officer unfolded the parchment. His face, which could not be called pretty in the best of times, grew forbidding as he read. When he was done, he nodded, then jerked his thumb towards the command tent. "You're free to go, centurion, but I'd appreciate it if you took a minute with the legate."

"Fine." Nicholas nodded at Dwyrin and Vladimir. "Can my friends get a bite to eat while they wait?"

The Western centurion nodded sharply, then turned on his heel and walked back up the hill towards the farmhouse. Nicholas let out a slow hiss of breath, shaking his head. "Vlad, Dwyrin—don't talk to anyone, understand? And hide that damned badge."

Dwyrin nodded guiltily and unclasped the bronze snakes-and-lightning from his tunic, slipping it into his bag.

"I'll be back soon."

True to form, Nicholas was left to sit, sweating in the afternoon sun. The Western centurion stormed off, on "important business," and did not return. Messengers came and went; officers wandered by, deep in conversation with one another. Servants hurried into the tent with food and drink but didn't offer Nicholas any. The northerner fumed and tried to find some shade. Two hours passed and the sun began to set. At last, as he was about to give up and leave, the centurion suddenly reappeared.

"Legate Dagobert has time for you now." Nicholas considered punching the man. His tone implied Nicholas had been making a nuisance of himself. "Inside."

Like most command tents, the pavilion was large and crowded at the same time. Clerks sat on the floor, writing desks on their laps. Couriers loitered against the walls, trying to be helpfully unobtrusive. Two staff officers eyed Nicholas as he walked in, then ignored him. A portable field desk dominated the northern wall of the shelter, occupied by a tall man with long hair. Nicholas raised an eyebrow at this, seeing that the commander of the Western army was a Frankish barbarian, and probably a noble to boot.

"Nicholas of Roskilde, centurion, assigned to the Eastern Office of the Barbarians." Nicholas followed his terse delivery with a sharp salute, arm raised to his shoulder. "Reporting as ordered, legate."

The man turned, pale gold eyebrows raised, and nodded to the centurion. The soldier sidled off. "You've come from Aurelian, in Egypt?"

Nicholas nodded soberly, taking his measure of the man. The barbarian was stoutly built, with fine-boned features. His armor was serviceable and lacking the usual silver wash and filigree sometimes afflicting Eastern officers. His eyes were mournful. Nicholas didn't know if this was the man's usual countenance, or if he had suffered some recent calamity.

"You've a thaumaturge in your care?" Nicholas nodded again. "Aurelian directs you be given all aid in reaching Constantinople so you can rejoin your unit. In particular, I see he is being a stickler about this sorcerer of yours—they are supposed to be under direct Eastern command. You wouldn't happen to know where the Eastern army is, do you?"

"Ah... no, legate, we've just arrived in these parts." Nicholas was nonplussed.
What kind of question is that?

The legate nodded, though more to himself than to Nicholas. "Things in the capital seem to be... confused. I expected to sail into Constantinople itself, but I find an enemy fleet blockading the approaches. We advance on land and find our way contested by the enemy, again. He has matched his seaborne efforts with the same on land. Have you seen their circumvallation?"

Nicholas nodded again, mustering the courage to ask, "Does it go all the way round, sir?"

The legate nodded, long face looking even more mournful than before. "My scouts tell me it does, though the northern end is still under construction—but there they found the Persian army, in all its numbers."

"The... Persians, sir?" Nicholas felt the news like a blow to his stomach. Through the three years the city had been besieged before, the Persians had never been able to get across the Propontis.
Of course,
he cursed silently,
they hadn't had a real fleet in the strait, either.
"How many Persians?"

The legate shook his head. "We've no idea, centurion. There has been some fighting between our scouting parties and their light horse. Now, this business of your travel pass—I'm not going to ignore
Caesar
Aurelian's directive, of course, but I can't help you go any farther. Indeed, it would be unwise of me to let you try yourself, as this precious thaumaturge might be killed."

Nicholas kept his face still, though he had the usual feeling of nausea that accompanied meddling from on high. The legate shuffled some papers on his desk, then drew one out, looked it over and put it back.

"By my order, you and this sorcerer are temporarily attached to the third cohort of the Ars Magica, attached to the Tenth Legion. You'll report to their mess and get acquainted. When we have cleared our way to the city, of course, you're free to report to your own commander." The legate laughed, in an irritating sort of way. "This thaumaturge can help us across that ditch and wall. It must be fate."

The Goths were singing as they marched in the rain, voices rising in rough harmony above close-packed pine and fir.

"Dux grandis vetusque Eboraci,

decem milia habuit!

quos ad summum collis

et rursus ad imum duxit!"

Alexandros turned Bucephalos off the road. The stallion was glad to get off the metaled surface—Legion roads were not built for horses, but for men in hobnailed boots. Traditionally, a horse path would have paralleled the main roadway. Here in this rough country, that had proved impossible; on the road was laid through high-sided cuts faced with local stone. The horse cantered up a steep grassy hill standing over the road. The Macedonian was wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak with a hood, though he didn't mind the rain and wind. Not as much as his men, anyway. Alexandros heeled the stallion around and swung down, boots crunching on the rocky soil.

"Cum eis ad summum, superpositi,

cum eis ad imum, depositi,

Sed cum eis in semicollem,

Nec ad summum nec ad imum fuerunt!"

Rumpled hills covered with thick dark forest stretched away in all directions. Isolated tors of barren slate rose out of the woodland, harboring eagles and great-winged hawks. Coupled with the heavy, low clouds, the forest was claustrophobic. The Macedonian felt his heart lift each day the army pressed south, winding down narrow roads and tracks, following the Imperial highway towards Greece and the sea. These highlands reminded him of home, with their lightly settled wilderness and staunch, proud people. He counted the centuries since he had seen green Macedonia. In his first life, he had reached India and the Hydaspes but had never returned to Pella and Macedon. Alexandros laughed, turning his face to the gray sky. Rain spiraled down, spattering on his face.

It felt good to be alive. So good. He held up his hand, catching the rain.