Thomas Harlan - The shadow of Ararat

"Give here," Aurelian said, rolling over on the bed and taking the amphora from his brother. "You don't drink much, and never bring your own, so it must be very serious. Who is she?"

"Huh!" Maxian laughed, while his brother took a long swallow. "Not a woman like that. A friend died and I took it harder than I should have. It has taken me awhile to shake it off-I must apologize again-you needed my help and I didn't give it."

"Oh, I'll live." Aurelian smiled, his cheerful disposition beginning to show through the weariness. "I'll occupy my spare hours thinking of ways for you to pay me back."

Maxian nodded ruefully; he was sure that Aurelian would devise some particularly fitting revenge for this dereliction of duty. He scratched his forehead.

"I have work to do," Maxian said, meeting his brother's eye with equanimity, though his stomach was fluttering. "Galen's work. This business with the Duchess… do you remember?"

Aurelian nodded, putting his hands behind his head.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I see her every day-every day, my brother-and she scares me and impresses me at the same time. She seems to know everything that goes on. Never once have I put a question to her that she could not answer."

Aurelian got up, rubbing his nose and taking another swallow from the amphora. "I have no idea whether she tells me the truth or not, piglet. She could be concealing anything behind those dusky violet eyes. Each day I have to rely on her more, and that makes me very nervous. I know… I know-that Father trusted her implicitly. She and Mother were close… but, by the gods, I cannot bring myself to do the same."

Aurelian stopped, looking a little surprised at the depths of his feeling. Maxian nodded and took the amphora back, popping the cork back into the spout.

"I'll have to disappear for a while," he said, stowing the jug. "I'm watched all the time now, you know, just like you are. A month or two should do it-when I resurface, I should have some alternative sources of information for you and Galen."

The acting Emperor looked up at his younger brother, a half smile on his broad, bearded face. Maxian drew his cloak on and stepped to the window.

"I know," Aurelian said. "You've always made us very proud."

Maxian stopped, his hand on the shutter.

"Max, the day you came home from school with that caduceus on your cloak, that was about the happiest day of Mother's life. Pater was fit to bust too. I'm sorry Galen and I have to ask this of you now, but-well, you know how it is."

"I know, Ars," Maxian said, still looking away. "I hope you'll be proud of this too."

The shutter clattered on the frame and the young Prince was gone.

The Port of Theodosius, Constantinople

Dwyrin scrambled aside from the bulk of a ship crane. Men shouted around him as a great siege engine swung out over the dock, ropes and cables straining to control the weight of the iron-and-wood machine. Thirty men leaned into the lines that guided the engine down into the hold of the great merchantman. The day was clear and the sky a brilliant blue. A crisp wind off the waters of the Propontis cut the heat on the deck of the ship. Dwyrin climbed up into the rigging, his bare feet and hands quick on the tarred ropes.

From his new vantage he could see much of the harbor under the city walls. Hundreds of ships were jammed into the dockside and the quays of the military harbor. The dockside was a multicolored swarm of soldiers, sutlers, engineers, heavily burdened laborers, and officers. It seemed that the two sloping roads that led down from the towering walls of the city were crammed shoulder to shoulder with an endless stream of men, horses, and wagons. Mules and horses raised their voices in protest, filling the air with a great noise. The transport to which Dwyrin had been assigned also held two companies of siege engineers and one of auxillia. The Gothic mercenaries were helping the engineers load, their broad-muscled backs gleaming with sweat under the bright sun. Their long pigtails were wrapped around their heads like blond crowns. The engineer centurion bellowed orders through a bronze horn. The engine slowly descended into the darkness of the hold.

Dwyrin climbed higher and found a spar to sit upon. His bare legs, finally browned rather than burned by the sun, dangled over the deck thirty feet below. His right arm still throbbed with the pain of the Legion brand. He gingerly fingered it. The pain had been incredible, though now he felt an odd sense of security and belonging. This troubled him, as he had not even met any of his fellow legionnaires. He had been passed from hand to hand until an optio of the quartermaster's corps had dumped him on this ship with his papers and kit. All he knew was that the ship would leave tonight, and in days or weeks it would reach a place called Edessa, and he would find his unit.

The breeze tousled his pale-red hair, grown even longer now that he was escaped from the strictures of the school. For some reason the Legion had not demanded that he adopt the short cut of the legionnaires that he saw on the deck of the ship or on the quayside. He hooked one leg around a rope to steady himself and began braiding his hair back. Around him, the great port of Theodosius continued to swarm with activity like a kicked-over anthill.

– |"Get your backs into it, you lazy whoresons! Pull, you bastards, pull!"

Thyatis stalked up the line of sun-bronzed sweating men. The tan linen tunic and kilt that she favored clung to her, soaked with perspiration. Her temper was foul, and had been for days since the disaster at the Valach's house. Nikos, Timur, and the other men hauled for all they were worth. The wagon, laden with supplies and heavy iron-bound chests, creaked slowly up the ramp onto the ship. Thyatis cracked her baton on the side of the wagon, inches from Jochi's head. The sharp sound galvanized the men.

They shouted. "Heave! Ho!"

The wagon advanced another inch.

"Pull, you mangy bitches! Pull!" Thyatis' voice cut the air like a whip.

"Heave! Ho!"

The wagon advanced again, two inches this time. The front wheel crunched into the lip of the ramp. The men shouted again, muscles bunching and straining.

"Ball-less priests! You are weak! Pull!"

"Heave!" came the answering shout. "Ho!"

The front wheel trembled against the lip of the ramp, then there was a groaning sound and it tipped up and over. The wagon rolled forward onto the deck. Men ran up and slid chocks under the front wheel to keep it from rolling forward into the gaping maw of the open hold. Thyatis stepped up onto a giant wooden block that formed part of the main mast. The rest of her detachment, now expanded to two tent parties, or twelve men, hustled onto the ship to secure the wagon. Only two more to go. She slapped her thigh with the heavy baton, ignoring the stab of pain.

The day after the debacle of the raid, she had been summoned to the personal quarters of the Western Emperor. She had sat in a low chair in the center of his study, back straight, eyes front. Though she was consumed with anger at the failure of her mission, her face was a carefully composed mask. This much, at least, the ladies in the House of de'Orelio had taught her. The Emperor, Galen, had met her privately, with only a young Eastern Empire officer in attendance. He was short, but broad-shouldered, with the look of a cavalryman about him. She remembered him from the staff meeting-Theodore was his name. The rest of the face clicked into place; he was the younger brother of the Eastern Emperor.

"So, Centurion, two of your men dead, four injured. A block of the city lost to fire, and the traitors, whoever they were, escaped. To balance this, you recovered an Imperial recruit who was being held captive in the house."