The Gate of Fire (34 page)

Heraclius looked away quickly. It did not seem possible that his feet were these shiny distended bags of flesh. He could not even feel them, or really anything below his knees. He closed his eyes again, trying to drive the image away.
They look like fish
, he thought, and then shuddered.
Dead fish
.

"Do you know how to cure this?" That was Rufio's voice, rumbling like a heavy wagon on a rocky road.

"Ja, if I can find the proper ingredients. Mein mama vould make a hot drink of juniper berries and parsley seeds—mein unkles vould drink gallons uf it! This will pass, then, as it did for them..."

Heraclius tried to sit up, but the weakness in his legs seemed to have infected his arms as well. He could barely raise his head. It occurred to him that he could not feel his fingers well. He felt nauseous with fear.

"Juniper berries?" Theodore's voice intruded harshly, and the sharp clacking sound of his boots on the stone floor could be heard as he stormed into the room. "A woman's drink, to drive away the bad humors of childbirth!"

"Lord Prince," Rufio growled warningly, "this man is well respected among his people..."

"And our own physicians? The Emperor's priests of Asklepius?" Theodore's voice rose almost to a shout. "You ignore and belittle their skills? They are civilized men—men who have studied in Pergamum and Alexandria! Do you follow their advice? No! You bring in this barbarian to give our Emperor a woman's potion!"

"It iss not a voman's drink!" The young man's voice began to rise in anger. "It vill cure the
altjaarl!
"

Heraclius struggled with his left arm and managed to inch it out from under the quilts. He was terribly tired, even with this little exertion. His mouth was very dry, and he tried to speak, to ask for wine, but he could not make his tongue work. Then he saw his fingers, peeking out from under the quilt. They were swollen, all gray and shiny like fresh sausages. His fingernails were almost hidden by puffy flesh. He gulped.

The Emperor turned his head away from his ruined hand. In his mind, he was gibbering in complete panic. Unable to help himself, he moaned aloud in fear.

"Out!" came a distant shout, then a scuffling sound and more men shouting.

"Get everyone out of here!" Theodore had taken command at last. "Bring my physician!"

This is an ill omen
.

Theodore, Prince of the Eastern Empire, commander of the left wing of the host of the
Avtokrator
of the Romans, ran a hand nervously through his hair. The physicians—his own men, adepts from the temples of Asklepius in glorious Egypt—had gone. A draught of wine, laced with medicinal powders, had been forced down the Emperor's throat, giving him sleep. Theodore fidgeted, tapping his fingers on the badly carved headboard of the canopied bed. His brother, the strong, powerful figure of his youth, was lying under blankets and quilts, a pasty gray color, helpless.

The priests had labored over him throughout the day, bending their hidden powers to defeat this enemy that had come so swiftly upon the Emperor. They had failed. Theodore almost laughed aloud, thinking of the surprise apparent on their features. Rarely did a disease or wound last, if one of the true priests of the Asklepius could be summoned.

Something beyond their skill within the Emperor had gone awry. In the end, all they could say was that he must need rest.

If he dies... I could rule the Empire
...

The thought was chilling, settling in his bones like ice. Theodore had never consciously considered the matter before. Heraclius was like a mountain, or the sky—indestructible and omnipotent. Heraclius had two sons, but they had not quite come of age yet. There was still a little time before they could don the Purple. In that space, Theodore would have to rule.

No... he is strong. He will beat this illness and stand once more, strong and hale, the Empress at his side
...

Theodore scowled at the thought of Lady Martina. Heraclius' breath was ragged and made a bubbling sound from time to time. The smell and the sound drove Theodore to the window. The casement was deep and notched, sealed by a wooden shutter. The Prince undid the latch, feeling the rusting iron bite at his fingers. He pushed the panel open, and a rush of cold, wet air flooded into the room. Gasping in relief, he leaned his arms on the stones to either side, letting the mountain air drive back the miasma.

The frown had not left his face. The thought that Martina should be the Empress-Mother galled him.
She is our close cousin by the Red Bull!
Such a match never should have been made, much less acclaimed by the people or countenanced by the temples. Theodore's face settled into grim lines. There had been heated words between the brothers over that matter. Marrying a second or third cousin—that was acceptable, but your own mother's sister's daughter? That challenged the gods. The Prince never had liked little sly Martina. She had always set him on edge, making him feel small and provincial.

She has eyes like that Western prig, Galen. All filled with secret knowledge and pride
.

Theodore turned away from the window, wiping his face with one hand. He felt anger build in him, but he pushed it down, burying it. He considered the days to come. It would be very difficult to carry through with the Emperor's plan to visit the cities and towns of Lycia and Asia on the way back to Constantinople. They would have to send him on by sea, and quickly, too, so that he could find succor among the wise men of the capital.

The Prince banged out of the chamber, his face still set in a grimace. His guardsmen, seeing that one of his moods was upon him, wisely stayed out of his way.

"A fine fire," Khalid commented to his lieutenants as they picked their way through the smoking rubble of the old black-walled temple. "It seems to have done a merry job of clearing away the debris in this place."

The Persian officer laughed, though the other man—a Circassian from the north—did not show any expression at all at the jest. Khalid smiled inwardly. His men were simple enough to understand and they understood
him
and what he expected of them very well indeed. Khalid stepped over a charred cedar log that had been, when it had supported the roof of the temple, thicker than a man's waist. Now it was a crumbling log of blackened debris. Smoke rose all around them in thin wisps, marking where pockets of fire still smoldered.

The temple had burned for three days, while Lord Mohammed had lain in the House of the Ben-Sarid. At last, even as the fires were guttering down, Mohammed had roused himself and been taken off to his household. The Ben-Sarid had gone, too, eager to return to their own business in Mekkah. Some of the Tanukh had stayed behind to take command of the policing of the temples and the precincts of the sacred well. Khalid and his men had stayed, too, though he was sure that no one had really marked their arrival beyond the Ben-Sarid chief, who was now quite busy. One of his men now carried the green war banner of the Quraysh, though no one had actually granted Khalid the right to bear such a sigil.

"Round up the priests," he said to the Persian, "and see that all this rubble is cleared away. If they find any trinkets of their old gods, let them carry them away. We have no quarrel with them yet."

Khalid stopped, feeling the dull throb of heat seeping through the soles of his boots. One thing remained at the heart of the burned building. A wall of ancient, weathered stone rose out of the tumbled ash and burned logs and fire-cracked rock. It was no more than twenty feet high, but the upper course showed deep grooves that had once supported the upper reaches of a wall and perhaps a roof pillar. The blocks of stone that comprised the wall were five or six feet high and formed of some close-grained rock. Khalid ran a hand along the middle course, feeling them alive with warmth retained from the fire. His fingers came away black with soot. "All this," he said over his shoulder, "should be washed down and space cleared around it."

At the center of the wall was a recess, a space carved from the massive blocks. Khalid squatted in front of it, peering inside. His brow furrowed in concern, seeing that it appeared to be empty. He drew a pearl-handled knife from his belt and poked around in the hole. Caked ash crumbled away from the tip of the dagger in eggshell-like sheets. Khalid grimaced and put the strength of his arm into it. More ash was dug away and then the dagger tip hit something hard.

"Ah," he breathed, and began breaking away the congealed mass of ash and debris. There was something underneath it, something black and shining. A grin began to creep across his face.

"
Sheykh
, what about those statues?"

Khalid looked up, scowling at the interruption. The Circassian was pointing at the remaining two statues that had survived the inferno of the temple. Each was the rough form of a woman and they stood at either end of the ancient wall. Khalid's eyes narrowed, seeing the rounded, fat stomachs and the crudely carved beadwork that lined their heads. They were not tall statues—each only two or three feet high—but they had been chiseled from some dark green stone that had resisted the heat. Khalid pursed his lips, thinking, and then remembered something he had learned as a small boy. "Those gods have no followers anymore, my lads. Once, they stood at either hand of a statue of the great god Allah, whose sacred place this is. They were his consorts—I forget their names—but he has no need of them anymore. Besides, did not Lord Mohammed say that a god cannot be captured in stone or wood? Bring some of the mules and drag them away. Perhaps someone will purchase them for garden ornaments! See to it now, in fact."

Laughing, the young man turned back to the little recess. A surface of shining black glass had been revealed, just as he had remembered from long ago. The dagger tip cleared away the last of the ash around the stone embedded in the wall. After a moment, the Circassian shrugged and tromped off through the ruins to find his soldiers. The Persian stayed, waiting quietly.

"There, my pretty. You are still here and none the worse for this house-cleaning..."

Khalid reached out a hand and brushed away the rest of the soot. Something tinkled under his fingers and then rattled out to fall on the ground. "Ouch!" Khalid drew back his hand, seeing a thin new cut seeping blood on his forefinger. He stuck his finger in his mouth. On the ground lay three thin wafers of black glassy stone. They caught the sun and gleamed around the edges, but nothing escaped from their murky depths. "Careful, my lad..." breathed Khalid to himself, bending over the fragments lying in the dust. Delicately, he picked up one wafer with his thumb and forefinger. It seemed fragile, but the edge was razor-sharp. His thumb was still seeping blood from the cut he had received.

"Now this," Khalid mused aloud, "will make a fine gift."

"Those paltry things? A gift?" The Persian
dihqan
sounded almost insulted.

Khalid grinned and pulled a scarf of dark blue Chin silk out of his belt. He wrapped each wafer individually in the scarf and then wrapped it around them, making a thickly padded package. This he put into a leather pouch that he wore around his neck.

"Long ago, Patik, my father, demanded that I learn from the holy priests of these temple grounds. Such was a fate visited upon all the youth of my tribe—our schooling as it were. So I came here often." He waved a hand airily around, indicating the tumbled ruins of the temple. "I sat in these stifling rooms, listening to old men ramble about the history of the world and the doings of the fathers of fathers of men. Do you know what that was like, my Persian friend?"

Patik shook his head, his thickly bearded face revealing little emotion. He was a stolid one, was Patik, steady and sure. Khalid did not think he had an ounce of imagination. Still, he was a useful fellow to have about. He was quick and ruthless with men and he could ride and fight like a demon. Khalid had welcomed him when the Persian walked out of the wasteland and into the light of the Arab's campfire. Patik knew many of the tongues of the eastern lands—and by the chance of war, Khalid accounted more than one Easterner in his little band. These were uneasy times, and many a lion lay down with a wolf for safety.

"It was dreadful," Khalid continued, looking away at the clear blue sky, seeing something out of memory before him. "Boring and dull and useless... all save one old man who actually tried to teach us something interesting. Do you know who that old man was, Patik?"

Patik made a face and shook his head again. All of this made no difference to him.

Khalid spread his hands in resignation. "No matter. Of all the boring old men who have tried to shape my life, only he made some small dent in my thick head! But these little trinkets, they are going to become something larger than themselves—even as we are now larger than just men, Patik. Did you know, O reliable one, that you are walking at the edge of legend?"

"What? Here?" Patik said, looking around at the barren square and the piled rubble and the crews of men working in the sweltering heat of day to move stone and wood. Tanukh guards loitered in the shade of the pillared arcade and the entrances to the other temples. It seemed a quiet enough scene.

Khalid laughed again. "Never mind, my friend. Come, let us find a sword-smith—that should cheer you up."

Thunder muttered over the hills to the east, showing brief flashes of yellow lightning in a wall of dark gray clouds that had been gathering since morning. To the west, in contrast, the sky was still clear and blue, though the permanent haze rising over the city of Rome turned the setting sun into a huge orange ball of fire. Krista sniffed, smelling the odd lightning odor that always seemed to taint the air around the villa. She was warmly dressed for late spring, in a long gown of heavy charcoal gray wool. Her hair, usually unbound, was carefully pinned up in a bundle behind her head, and a shawl rode on her shoulders. She stood quietly beside one of the pillars on the western side of the house, watching the golden afternoon light creep down the walls of the portico. In that magical light the fading paint on the walls seemed to restore itself, showing again the brilliant frescoes of dancers and acrobats, of bulls and Minotaurs, which had once graced the long western face of the house. In earlier times this had been one of her favorite parts of the day—the sun almost setting, its slanting light burnishing everything with a warm golden aura, the air quiet, waiting for darkness to fall.