Debt of Ages (2 page)

"I got back as quickly as I could," Ecdicius said, sobering. "I wouldn't have left the Danube a fortnight ago, except that he seemed to be getting better and insisted that I not let it disrupt my schedule. Of course, when I heard he had taken a turn for the worse . . ." He indicated his dusty, travel-worn clothes. "How is he?" Without waiting for an answer, he abruptly started in the direction of the Imperial apartments. Sidonius placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"Sleeping now. You can't get in to see him, so you may as well change and rest." Ecdidius nodded, but continued to move, pacing as though to vent his excess vitality. Sidonius couldn't swear that he had
ever
seen Ecdicius hold still, and it was no different now that he was in his late forties.

"Come with me to the Daphne Palace," Sidonius continued, gesturing at the garden vista outside the window and to the right, toward the residence that had been placed at the disposal of the Pope and his entourage. "We can dine . . . and we need to talk. Acacius has been hovering like a circling vulture. I fear that he and his supporters are planning some move after Artorius is . . ." He let the sentence die.

Ecdicius's face grew stormcloud-dark, and he unconsciously gripped the hilt of the cavalry
spatha
that never left his side. "I can't imagine what he thinks he'll be able to pull off, after I assume the purple. Maybe he hopes to take advantage of a confused transition."

"Well, then, we must assure that the transition is a smooth one," Sidonius declared as the two of them descended the stairs. There was still just enough light to see by, and the spring night was warm. So they didn't wait to summon lantern bearers but proceeded toward the Daphne unescorted, through gardens that the dusk transformed into a realm of pagan enchantment and mystery, its deepening shadows inhabited by nameless dangers. . . .

Ridiculous!
Sidonius chided himself.
What danger can there be in the grounds of the Sacred Palace?
But for once he felt no inclination to ask Ecdicius to slow his pace in deference to the papal dignity and years.

Ecdicius seemed oblivious to the
frisson
Sidonius felt, for he alternated between brooding and talking. "What can Acacius and his lot possibly hope for?" he wondered aloud. "Maybe they think they can persuade me to inaugurate my reign by calling a new Council, where they can do even more harm than was done at the last one. . . ." He cut himself off. "I know, Sidonius. I shouldn't speak ill of him, at this of all times. But we wouldn't be worrying now if he hadn't made that snake Patriarch of Constantinople again! And some of his other appointments . . . !" Bewilderment entered Ecdicius's voice. "Why, Sidonius? What's happened to him over the last few years?"

"Well," Sidonius spoke in the conciliatory tones of lifelong habit, "we can hardly blame him for the Council of Chalcedon. It was in 451, when he wasn't even High King of the Britons yet. That was where the great mistake was made, declaring the See of Constantinople equal to that of Rome, even though our Lord expressly delivered the keys of the Kingdom into the hands of Peter. . . ." Exertion overcame indignation, and he had to pause for a gasping breath as he tried to talk and keep up with Ecdidius at the same time. "Well, at least they did one thing right at Chalcedon by rejecting the Monophysite heresy. But later it came back to haunt the East."

"Yes . . . with Acacius carrying its standard! I tell you, Sidonius, I can't understand it! That devil-begotten 'Declaration of Union' Acacius drew up in 482 was one of the reasons for Artorius's final break with Zeno, Acacius's patron. After he'd won, Artorius tore it up and deposed Acacius as Patriarch. So why, just four years later, did he restore the goat-bugger to the Patriarchate?"

Sidonius frowned. A prelate of Holy Church—even Acacius!—was entitled to a certain respect. He was framing a stern admonition when the four darkly-cloaked figures stepped from the bushes ahead of them and deployed across the pathway.

Ecdicius wordlessly motioned Sidonius back and laid his hand on the hilt of his
spatha
. He cast a glance backward and Sidonius, following it, saw that three more strangers had blocked the path behind them.

One of the quartet to their front stepped forward and spoke in cultivated Latin. "Noblissimus, a plot against you, and against the sacred person of the Augustus, has been uncovered. I must ask that you accompany us to a place of safety."

" 'Uncovered' by whom?" Ecdicius inquired as he unobtrusively twirled his cloak around his left forearm. He did not draw his weapon—none of the strangers had—but he stood in a fighting stance that was as relaxed-seeming as his voice, and measured distances with his eyes. "Who are you, and who sent you?"

"That is immaterial, Noblissimus. For the safety of the Empire and Holy Church I'm afraid I must insist that you cooperate." He gestured to his followers, and swords appeared with a scrape of metal.

Sheer, flabbergasted outrage brought Sidonius out of shock. He stepped forward to stand beside Ecdicius. "How dare you?" he thundered—or intended to thunder, but it came out closer to a gasp. "As you hope for salvation, I command you to let us pass!"

They evidently recognized him. Blades wavered, and one of the men turned to the leader and muttered something. Sidonius couldn't understand it, but he recognized the bastard Greek of Constantinople's slums. The leader snarled back in a Greek that was educated enough for Sidonius to follow. "You cowardly dung-eaters! Take both of them!"

Ecdicius exploded into action, shoving Sidonius back into the bushes with one hand as he drew his
spatha
with the other. He was of only average size, but his body had lost little of its whipcord toughness to middle age. Positioning himself to shield Sidonius, he held the three-and-a-half-foot cavalry sword at the ready as the six bravos closed in with their shorter weapons. Two of them moved to flank him while two others leapt in.

Ecdicius's response was too quick for Sidonius to follow, as he suspected it would have been even in bright daylight. Almost simultaneously with a quick clang of blades, one bravo was on the ground gurgling his life out through a slashed throat and Ecdicius was grappling with another who had gotten in under his long sword. With a vicious move, he dislocated the bravo's shoulder and sent him staggering sideways into his companion who was moving in from the right. That was all the time it took the bravo from the left to grab him from behind, as the remaining two moved in.

Sidonius had never encountered physical violence in his entire adult life, and it was as though he moved through a world of unreality with the rock he couldn't remember picking up. He brought it down on the head of the bravo holding Ecdicius. At the same time, the latter kicked out with both feet, sending the two new arrivals staggering backwards, then fell in a heap with the unconscious man who had grasped him. He rolled free in time to grab Sidonius, who was staring openmouthed at the blood-smeared rock he still held, and haul him back against a thick shrub, then turn to face their attackers once more.

Things began to register on Sidonius. Ecdicius still had his
spatha
. Three bravos were out of action, but the other three had picked themselves up. Now, in company with their employer—who was holding his sword as though he knew how to use it—they were closing in warily. They'd make no more mistakes. And—final detail—Ecdicius was bleeding from a superficial but doubtless painful wound in his left side.

Sidonius managed to form words. "Guards ho!" he croaked. "To me!"

"Save your breath, Sidonius," Ecdicius said quietly. "They must have made certain no one would be in earshot. Otherwise somebody would have heard this fight."

The leader of their assailants gave an unpleasant smile that provided confirmation. His face still wore the smile as he started forward . . . but then went blank as he crumpled, without fuss, to the ground.

Sidonius became aware of a strange buzzing sound, not really like the swarming of bees. He wondered what it could be, with a small part of his reeling mind, as he watched the three bravos collapse.

He and Ecdicius looked at each other.

Two men stepped from the shadows.

Sidonius and Ecdicius started, and the latter raised his
spatha
again. The new arrivals halted, and the shorter of them—they were both big men—spoke in the Latin of the army with an accent not unlike that of the Augustus.

"Relax, Noblissimus! We're here to save you." He indicated the motionless forms of their erstwhile attackers. "Sorry we didn't arrive sooner—although you weren't doing so badly yourself! And you, Your Holiness—you're pretty handy with that thing. Have you considered you may be in the wrong line of work?"

Sidonius dropped the rock like a red-hot cinder and tried to draw a cloak of dignity around his brutalized sense of reality. "Who are you, my son? Step closer so I may see you."

The pair did so. They wore nondescript civilian garb. Oddly enough, for men supposedly embarked on a rescue, they were unarmed. Instead, each held a short metal rod of no apparent function—and yet, in an undefinable way, they carried the useless-seeming objects like weapons.

The man who had spoken was very dark considering the British origin his accent suggested, but his features and his blue eyes were not inconsistent with it. The other, aside from his robust size, could have passed unnoticed in the streets of Constantinople. Sidonius spared him barely a glance. He could only stare at the Briton—for such he seemed to be—and try to decide where he had seen him before, where he had heard that voice. For he was morally certain that he had met the man.

Ecdicius spoke without preamble. "How did you do that to them . . . with those?" he indicated the little metal rods. Sidonius felt his eyebrows rise; what could make Ecdicius think the strangers had incapacitated the would-be kidnappers with
those
things? It was manifestly impossible. And yet . . . what else
could
they have done it with? And Ecdicius and the Briton were gazing intently at each other, with a look that went beyond mutual respect, though that was very much present.

"Noblissimus," the other stranger spoke, "I know you have many questions, but we haven't time to answer them. This city isn't safe for you—nor for you, Holy Father. Your only hope of safety is to follow us down to the Boucoleon Harbor." He gestured toward the darkling waters of the Sea of Marmara, barely visible through the trees. "We have a ship ready to take you to Italy."

"Italy?!" Ecdicius blurted. "I can't just run away from Constantinople in the night like some footpad! The Augustus needs me. And Faustina, and—"

"Noblissimus," the big stranger cut in, "the Augustus is going to be beyond your help, or anyone's, very soon. And your wife and children are already on our ship."

"And," the Briton added, "you can accomplish nothing by staying here. Ah . . . here comes someone you know, Holiness. I think he may be able to persuade you."

A man emerged from the darkness. He was middle-aged, very tall, with features and coloring that must draw glances in even so cosmopolitan a place as Constantinople. . . .

"Tertullian," Sidonius breathed.

Ecdicius shot him a glance. "You know this man, Sidonius?"

Sidonius nodded. He heard his voice answer for him. "He was my secretary, long ago, before the Battle of Bourges. He was never heard of after the battle. We all assumed he had been killed."

"Well, Your Holiness, as you can see I'm very much alive. I regret that I had to leave your employ so abruptly. But there's no time for apologies now. This man—" he indicated the Briton "—is absolutely correct. The Noblissimus Ecdicius will not be allowed to live to assume the purple. You must both take refuge in the West, where support for his claim—and for the true Catholic faith—is concentrated."

Sidonius barely heard the last two sentences, for recognition had smote him again. "You!" He stared at the Briton. "I remember you now. You're that mercenary Tertullian hired as a bodyguard while he was travelling with Artorius. What was your name . . . ?"

"Bedwyr, Your Holiness. And my comrade here is Andronicus. And now can we
please
go?" His eyes met Ecdidcius's again, and he raised, ever so slightly, the metallic rod he held.

For a heartbeat their eyes locked. Then Ecdicius's face broke into the familiar devil-may-care grin. "Lead on, then! I never was much good with my books—isn't that so, Sidonius?—but I like to think I can tell a good man when I see one."

"But Ecdicius," Sidonius stammered, feeling the solidly-built structure of his life begin to pitch and heave like the deck of the ship these impossible people were leading them toward. "We can't . . . How do we know . . . ?"

"Ah, come on, Sidonius!" Ecdicius slapped the pontifical shoulder. "Is life really worth so much worrying?" And he was off behind the strangers, again the wiry, restless boy in the Arvernian villa.

Afterwards Sidonius could never remember much of the scramble through the darkened gardens, illuminated by the lighthouse to their right, down to the Boucoleon Harbor with its semicircular artificial mole. How these people had gotten access to the private imperial harbor was the least of the impossibilities that swirled through his mind. But underneath it all there seemed to lurk something very prosaic and obvious, something he should have noticed. Even as he stumbled over tree roots and half-slid down the final slope to the quay, he couldn't stop worrying about it.

Then they were approaching a ship, and Ecdicius was rushing ahead to embrace his wife and children, and Tertullian was conferring with a strongly-built man on the quayside . . . and it finally came to Sidonius. Tertullian didn't look a day older than he had when Sidonius had last seen him. Bedwyr was somewhat older-looking, but not as much so as he should have been after twenty-two years. He stepped forward to ask Tertullian about it.

Then the strongly-built man turned to face him, and the question fled his mind, along with everything else.

Tertullian must have seen his expression. "Ah . . . Your Holiness, I'm afraid I haven't been entirely candid with you."