Thomas Harlan - The shadow of Ararat

"Ave, Augustus. The citadel has been secured and the city as well. Most of the Persians are dead, though many surrendered and are being held in the square beyond the gate."

"Good," Heraclius said, his sharp eyes roving over the others who stood behind the tribune. None of them was familiar to him. "And these men?"

"Our… allies, Augustus. They broke through to the middle gate when my men were trapped in the central courtyard. If they had not driven the Persian archers off of the wall, we would have all been dead men."

Heraclius nodded sharply. The assault on the gate, even with the destruction wreaked by the thaumaturges, had been a near disaster. Though the cohorts of the Third Augusta had rushed past the first gate, the inner yard was a trap, covered on all sides by Persian archers. Over four hundred men had died in a struggling mass, unable to retreat due to the pressure of new cohorts crossing the bridge. The Eastern troops had failed to carry either of the outer walls, suffering heavy casualties in the attempt. Only the unexpected appearance of friends had broken the trap.

"Good work, men," the Eastern Emperor said to the soot-stained and bedraggled men who stood behind the tribune. Their armor was battered and dented. Their swords were nicked and dull. All five were coated with black ash and the ragged remains of cloaks and leather armor. None seemed to have escaped injury. Heraclius' eyes narrowed, focusing on the leader, the tall red-haired man in the middle. There was something familiar about him…

The red-haired man stepped forward, favoring his left leg, and made a military salute. Heraclius' eyebrows raised, for the man had faced Galen, to his right.

"Ave, Augustus Galen. Thyatis Clodia of the Sixth Victrix reporting as ordered. I am sad to report that nearly all of my men perished in the effort, but the objective was secured."

Galen, keeping a smile to himself, returned the salute. "Well done, centurion."

The red-haired man turned smartly to face Heraclius and saluted as well. "Augustus Heraclius. If I may, it is my pleasure to present to you our ally, the Prince of Tauris, Tarik Bagratuni. Without the aid of his clansmen, our effort would have failed."

Heraclius frowned at the short man who stepped forward, his chain mail torn from many blows. The little man grinned, his teeth bright in the sooty darkness of his face. The Armenian bowed and hitched his thumbs into the broad leather belt that supported a profusion of knives and a stabbing sword.

"Well met, Bagratuni. We shall have to speak…"

Thyatis turned back to the Emperor of the West. He was smiling lopsidedly, his hair cropped shorter than she remembered. His armor was immaculate, the gilded eagle emblazoned on the front glittering in the sun. Germans with great swords and suspicious eyes crowded behind him. He reached out a gloved hand and wiped some of the grime from the side of her face.

"I did not think to see you again, Clodia. I am sorry about your men. Get cleaned up and a messenger will come and fetch you to my tent. We have things to discuss."

The Western Emperor surveyed Nikos and Jusuf and Dahvos. They looked worse than Thyatis, ground down and exhausted from fifteen hours of battle. Nikos had taken an arrow in the arm and was nursing a slowly clotting wound. The Bulgars looked like they had crawled out of a muddy sewer behind a butcher's shop. Dahvos looked particularly good; his right eye was oozing yellow pus from between crude stitches.

"Centurion!" Galen shouted back through the hovering ranks of his guardsmen. "Take these men to the baths and then the healer. See that they are well treated."

Thyatis sagged into the wall, and the Emperor was there, holding her up.

"I am very proud," he said quietly to her. "I will not forget your service."

The gruff-voiced centurion bustled up with several men in tow. Thyatis allowed herself to be led away, through the shattered gates and across the bridge. It was fouled with reddish-brown mud that clung to their boots, and fogs and mists still hung over the river. Behind her parts of the city were still burning, filling the sky with trails of black smoke.

– |Steam hissed out of a copper pipe, filling the wooden bathhouse with a delicious fog. Thyatis sank into the water with a groan of pure pleasure. A Greek manservant stood by, carrying a kettle filled with hot water. She motioned for him to add more to the tub. He tipped the kettle and very hot water joined the steaming water in the wooden-sided bath. She closed her eyes and submerged, luxuriating in the clean water. The manservant left the kettle and some soap behind, along with a curved bronze strigil. She spent an hour in the bath, scraping herself clean.

There were towels too, though the cotton weave was a little bare. It did not matter to her; to be clean and have her hair free of grease for once was reward enough. She sat in the little wooden room for a long time, toying with the strigil and thinking of the dead. In the steaming room, no one could tell, should they enter, that she was crying.

Finally there was a polite knock on the door and Thyatis looked up. She sniffled and blew her nose, then scrubbed her face vigorously with the towel.

"Come in," she said, wrapping the towel around her thighs.

Jusuf ducked into the room, then saw her, naked from the waist up, and blushed a bright red.

"Pardon." He gasped and stepped back out hastily, closing the door. Outside he slumped back against the wall of the bath, his breath a white puff in the chilly air. He closed his eyes, still flushed with the sight of Thyatis almost naked, and then they snapped open again. He ground his fist into the wooden planks of the wall. Whenever he closed his eyes she was there, her breasts dewed with steam, rich red-gold hair tumbling around her pale freckled shoulders.

"Well?" Thyatis' voice was querulous from inside the bathhouse. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry, my lady, I had no idea you were naked. My apologies for barging in."

Thyatis laughed and poked her head out of the door. Her hair, undone, fell in a long cascade almost to the ground. In the cold air, it began to steam and wisps of white vapor curled up around her. "I'm not naked," she said, still laughing, "I have a towel on."

Jusuf looked away, out over the canvas awnings and tent poles. The trees the camp was set among were beginning to turn color. Soon snow would fill the mountain passes. "My lady, among my people it is customary for women to remain fully clothed unless in the presence of their husband. I meant no disrespect."

Thyatis frowned and closed the door. Her good humor was fading slightly in the face of this barbarian's peculiar customs. "You'll have to wait, then, until I'm properly dressed. Tell me. Did they fix Dahvos' eye?"

Jusuf swallowed and turned to face the wall, arms outstretched, palms flat against it.

"Yes," he said, "they fixed his eye, he can see out of it again. He says that it's blurry, but he'll still be a whole man. He can still… he's fine. The others are gating now, and everyone we could find is fine. There's only one man still unaccounted for. My lady, I don't…"

Thyatis stepped out of the bathhouse; her hair tied back with a green ribbon, in dark-gray leggings with laced-up leather boots and a heavy woolen shirt dyed a cobalt blue. Her belt, sword, sheath, and knife hung over one shoulder. She eyed him from under her bangs while she finished tying her Hair back. "Who is missing, Jusuf?"

He turned, seeing her face set and grim. "Sahul is gone, my lady. I can't find him anywhere. No body, nothing. He always stays with us, save if he needs to go-then he would tell at least me! Or Dahvos-someone!"

Thyatis nodded, her face a mask, but she was stunned. The thought of the quiet older brother gone was numbing. He was so reliable that she had begun to take him for granted. "He was with you at the northern gate? When did you see him last?"