The Gate of Fire (33 page)

The two lead guardsmen grasped the man by the shoulders and arms and threw him out into the hallway. The man shouted in anger and fear, but the other guardsmen ran him off. The others took up guard positions outside the door. The quills and ink blocks and paper on the desk were brushed off, clattering to the floor. The blond man lowered Heraclius onto the tabletop.

"Ahhhhh!" With the pressure relieved from his feet and legs, there was a sudden blessed ebbing of pain. Heraclius lay back on the table in relief. Above him, he saw that the roof of the chamber was dark with soot.

"What has happened?" A basso shout echoed in the passageway. Heraclius summoned enough energy to grin a little. His brother had heard something dire had befallen the Emperor and was quick on the wing to hunt it down. "Where is my brother?"

Heraclius levered himself up on one elbow. He waved a hand weakly at the Northman who was still at his side. "Take off my boots," the Emperor hissed. "They feel too tight."

The Northman nodded and began tugging at the laces of the high red boots.

"Brother!" Theodore stormed into the room, his own
equites
in full armor at his back. The Varangians bristled and moved to block the door. Theodore pulled up short, confronted by the half-drawn swords of four burly men in heavy mail. The Prince's hand moved reflexively to the hilt of his own
spatha
, but the growl from the Northmen brought him up short. For a moment the Prince bristled and locked gazes with the captain of the Varangians. The captain, quite sure of his place and the long, bloody history of the Imperial Guard, gave a wintry smile and stepped closer to Theodore. The Prince gave ground. Even the brother of the Emperor did not command the Varangians, particularly when their fur was ruffled. Their captain, a squat, thickly muscled black-haired veteran with a pox-scarred face was notorious for his personal loyalty to the Emperor and his rough methods. Theodore had tried to befriend him before and had been coldly rebuffed.

"Brother," Theodore called, "are you well? What happened?"

"Be calm, Theo, I am... ayyy!" Heraclius flinched as the blond Northman tugged one of the laces of his boots free. It dragged in the copper grommets, pulling tight for a moment. The Emperor swayed and then lay back down on the table again. The sooty roof seemed very distant compared to the pain that rippled up his legs and into his arms. "Cut them... cut them off," he managed to blurt out.

The blond Northman frowned and looked to his captain for guidance. The captain nodded, keeping most of his attention on the Prince, who was still poised in the doorway. The blond man pulled a curved knife from a wooden sheath on his belt and carefully slipped the needlelike tip under the laces. The silk cords parted easily, and in a moment the boots had been reduced to brightly colored strips. Heraclius felt like his legs had been released from iron clamps. He breathed easily, almost normally, and was giddy with release. "Ah—I can think! Centurion Rufio, send my brother in."

Theodore bent at his brother's side, his face a mask of concern. Heraclius took his shoulder and sat up again. Now, with the pinching boots gone, he felt almost normal. His feet were still a little numb, though. He looked down and was shocked to see that his toes and feet were unexpectedly swollen.

"What is this?" Heraclius grimaced in disgust. Each foot was a pale gray color and puffy. No wonder he had nearly fainted trying to walk in boots. He felt queasy seeing that the skin was becoming stretched and almost glassy around the ankles.

"I don't know," Theodore said slowly, his eyes lingering on his brother's feet. "I should send for a physician immediately! There is one I trust among my followers. He studied in Egypt and knows many medicinal arts. Pray, brother, let me send for him."

Before Heraclius could speak, the Varangian captain shook his head curtly. "The Emperor has his own physicians, Prince. One of my men will fetch them from the baggage train." Rufio's voice was a gravelly rumble, long ruined by screaming orders over the din of battle. "No other man will tend to the person of the Emperor save them."

Theodore glared back at the Northman, but Rufio's face was an icy crag, admitting no other counsel to its discussions. Heraclius lay back again and stared at the ceiling, ignoring his brother's questioning look. In comparison to the evil-looking cast to his lower legs, the soot-blackened bricks seemed a welcome sight.

"So be it," Theodore said petulantly. "I will see to getting the army past the gate, then." The Prince stalked out without saying anything to his brother, but Heraclius did not notice; he was too busy trying to calm his breathing. His heart had begun to race as his mind began to catalog the ailments and diseases that might be afflicting him. He felt faint again and chided himself for letting his imagination run out of control. Someone leaned over his legs, and Heraclius peered over his stomach. It was Rufio and one of the other veterans. They were muttering to one another.

"
Avtokrator
," Rufio said presently, turning to face the Emperor. "We will bring you a chair on poles so that we can carry you to a better room. It will only be a moment."

Heraclius nodded and folded his hands on his chest, resigned to waiting.

A single candle glowed, marking a small yellow circle in darkness. Heraclius could hear the sound of rushing water somewhere, perhaps through a window. He lay in a soft bed, covered by many quilts. Somewhere nearby, but beyond a door or a hanging, he could hear people arguing. He thought it was his brother and Emperor Galen—but that was impossible: The Western Emperor had departed their company weeks ago. His legs still felt numb, but he was very tired, and he slept.

Galen had been standing at the base of a loading ramp, shading his eyes from the glare off the water in the harbor at Seleucia Piera. Dozens of great
naves onerariae
were tied to the quays, filling with men and supplies and wagons and mules as the Legions of the Western Empire had been preparing to depart from the East. Heraclius had been on his horse, watching in ill-disguised envy as the Western troops bustled about in practiced efficiency, seeing to the thousands of details attendant on their voyage. The huge, dark ships were filling in a steady, unhurried stream. His own army was still snarled up on the roads leading into Antioch. It would take weeks for them to get straightened out, then more weeks while they exhausted themselves in sport in the city.

"Are the omens good?" Theodore had asked from his own horse, voice edged with spite. "No bad dreams or signs of black goats? Surely you've not dreamed of dark clouds or sharks?"

Galen had smiled back in his faintly superior way. The Western Emperor knew that the Prince hated him, but he did not care. Was he not Emperor? And, unless something dreadful happened, Theodore would never don the Purple. Heraclius had two almost grown sons and a third just born. His dynasty was assured. The younger brother would never see the crown of golden laurels placed on his head.

"No," Galen had said. "The fates smile upon me this day. The sun shines, the wind is right, and soon I will return to Rome and a worthy triumph for my men. A celebration as the great city has not seen in three hundred years!"

Heraclius watched the two men sparring. The Western Emperor was thin, nervous-looking, and phenomenally bright. His lank black hair clung to his scalp like a wet rag, but the mind that dwelled behind the dark brown eyes was unmatched. In comparison, the handsome and broad-chested Theodore seemed a brash red hound, constantly befuddled by the wily fox.

"Why rush so?" Theodore was smirking. "Afraid that your men will lose themselves in the fleshy pleasures of Antioch? Afraid that you might be delayed yourself? In a hurry to get home?"

Galen laughed and ran a thin, tanned hand through his hair, scratching the back of his scalp with his habitual tic. Heraclius knew from these last months' experience with the man that he was considering trying to explain something complicated to Theodore. It rarely worked.

"It is best," Heraclius interjected, giving Theodore a stern glance, "if we are about the business of the day."

The Eastern Emperor swung down lightly from his warhorse and looked around, rubbing his neatly trimmed beard before speaking. As he watched, two cohorts of legionaries were using a ship-borne crane to lift two of the sturdily built wagons used by the Western Empire into the cargo hold of the great ship. Heraclius sighed quietly, mentally comparing the efficient and fluid motions of the Western troopers to the snarl that his own men would have spawned by now.

At least
, he thought,
my fleet is by far their master
. The Western army had come in a fleet of bulk corn haulers—nearly half of the yearly Egyptian grain fleet had been rerouted to move the sixty thousand men Galen had brought into the east. That was possible because the Eastern navy controlled the sea. Heraclius' swift
triremes
and
liburnae
ruled the eastern Mediterranean. Even when they had possessed some port cities along the coast of Bithnia or Lydia during the recent war, the Persians had not tried to wrest control of the sea from him.
And so I live and triumph,
thought Heraclius smugly,
and Chosroes, King of Kings, lies rotting in a common grave
.

"Do you find my proposal an agreeable one, brother?" Heraclius looked around and saw that Galen was speaking to him. "The Western Empire shall undertake the administration, policing, and defense of the coastal provinces of Judaea, Syria, and Egypt so that your own governors and their staffs may move farther east?"

Heraclius nodded, ignoring the petulant look on Theodore's face. "Yes," he said, holding out a hand to the Western Emperor. "The devastation wrought by the Persians and Avars has cost me too many skilled men. It will take decades to restore the administrative corpus of the east, even with my new organizational plan. Those cohorts and scribes and clerks will better serve in the new provinces. My brother has a weighty task ahead of him and he will need all the good men he can get."

"Even so," Galen said, glancing sidelong at Theodore and smiling crookedly, "if I can help in any way, do not hesitate to summon me to the
telecast
."

Heraclius nodded. He had forgotten the odd device that his wizards had found in the ruined library at Pergamum. Normally an interlocking plate of bronze half circles, the telecast could be brought to life by a skilled thaumaturge, and once it was at speed it could show places and people far away. The Eastern Emperor distrusted the device, but Galen swore by its powers. Heraclius allowed that it was sometimes convenient.

"I will," Heraclius replied. "When can we expect the first of your governors and their staffs?"

"Within three months," Galen said briskly. "Lucius Nerethres should be sailing from Carthago Nova in Hispania even now."

This was a man who was well acquainted with the travel plans, locations, and dispositions of his governors. Another thing that Heraclius envied. While the disasters of the past decade had all but eradicated the ancient professional bureaucracy from the East, it still survived in the West. Where Heraclius grappled on a daily basis with a foment of regional warlords,
thematic
dukes, and unruly priests, Galen presided over a long-established and far-flung network of well-maintained roads, appointed professional officials, regular postal service, and steady tax collection. So it had been for nearly seven centuries.

Heraclius shook his head, dispelling the growing jealousy that threatened to turn his thought. This was why he would return by land to Constantinople. There were towns and even cities in the provinces of Anatolia, Bithnia, and Cilicia that had not seen the standards of the Emperor in decades. The Imperial order must be restored. His passage home would see to that.

Galen had continued speaking, though more to Theodore than to the Eastern Emperor. "Use these engineers well, Lord Prince. They will serve you very well in the plains between the Two Rivers. You saw, I am sure, the extensive damage to the fields due to flooding as we marched back from Ctesiphon? These men can repair the dikes and canals and ensure it does not happen again. You will be well received, I think, if you can rescue Persia from famine!"

"Let them starve," Theodore snarled. "It will leave more land for Roman settlers! A land empty of Persians and Medes is a peaceful land. I would be better pleased, O Caesar, if you left me those regiments of Sarmatian heavy horse. That would be a princely gift, in truth!"

"Really?" Galen's voice was light, but the light in his eyes grew bitter and cold. "You've not had enough of my hospitality and familial affection?"

Theodore stopped, his mouth open, and one hand moved unconsciously to his cheek. The blood that had spattered there from the dying Persian boy, Kavadh-Siroes, was long washed away with scented oils and waters, but the sting to Theodore's pride remained fresh. Galen had wielded that knife with swift assurance, resolving a potentially damaging political issue and sending the last competing heir to the Eastern Roman throne into the outer darkness. In some ways, Theodore owed Galen a great deal, but the Prince saw only the patronizing smile and pointed wit. Heraclius coughed, drawing both of their attentions.

"We have much to be about, as well, my brother. I know you are anxious to be home. May your voyage be safe and swift."

Galen clasped hands with the Eastern Emperor and nodded in thanks. The great ships would leave soon, first for Egypt on the southerly winds, and then out across the deep blue Mediterranean to Rome.

"Ja, Centurion, I haff seen it before! Mein unkles often suffered from this when they were at sea for a long time. The svelling."

Heraclius roused himself from dream slowly, hearing an odd voice speaking. He tugged at the quilts that lay over him. They seemed very heavy, but then his hand was moving so slowly, too.

"Martina?" Someone was asking for his wife. It took a moment to realize that it must be his own voice. He opened his eyes.

Tall, narrow windows let thin slats of light into a dim room. A charcoal brazier stood at the foot of the bed, vainly trying to banish the chill that hung in the air. There was a scattering of tallow candles smoking in the corners of the room, but on the whole it was dark and dank.
Just like every other frontier outpost
, thought Heraclius wryly.
Cold beds, cold food, cold women
. Rufio was standing at the foot of the bed with another Varangian, a muscular young man of no more than twenty, with long blond hair in braids that hung down on his chest. The guard captain had turned back the bottom quilts from the Emperor's feet.