Byzantium's Crown Page 16

  "I think you had best come on deck," called Nicephorus.

  "What's wrong?" Marric asked. Stephana snatched up a cloak and followed the men outside.

  The convoy was tacking into defensive position. The fleet was making good headway; the winds favored them. But fortune, it seemed, did not. Coming toward them—too many to evade or to fight—were dromonds clearly armed for war. And the banners flying from their masts were green and charged with the crescent moon.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Pirates again," Nicephorus said grimly.

  "Not pirates this time," Marric answered. "The emir's fleet. Gods, does the whole world hate the empire?"

  If I died tomorrow, Stephana had said. She might die today, and Nicephorus with her, and it would be his fault.

  "Get below," he told her. At least he could spare her the sight of battle. "Send the boy for my—" He caught himself before he finished giving the order. He was Alexandros the merchant, not a warrior; he had no place among the ship's fighters. Slamming a fist onto the deck rail in frustration, Marric observed just where the Arab fleet would intercept the convoy.

  "War or not," Stephana pointed out, "they will surely want the grain. And grain ships carry passengers who can pay ransom. I foresaw a knife's edge for us; now we balance on it."

  "Imhotep would ransom us," Nicephorus said.

  "It's jihad," Marric reminded him bleakly. "The emir would not deal with the temple. Stephana, you remember that dagger I gave you? Get it. Promise you will not let them take you, beloved."

  She whispered the promise. With a rustle of skirt and cloak she was gone.

  "I swear to you, Nicephorus, I will not be sold again."

  The captain, navigator, and commander of marines clustered by the helm, and Marric longed to join them. "If we sacrificed three ships to engage them, we could make a run for it," he calculated.

  "Hard on the ships that were chosen," Nicephorus observed. "Would you start your reign with a massacre?"

  "What if we used sea fire before they could'?." Marric asked. Sea fire would give the convoy a chance to defeat the larger fleet, but there were too many risks in this business already! Was it another test? Marric dared not fight, yet by training, birth, and inclination he was not only a fighter but the rightful leader here.

  "A test," Marric muttered. "These powers Imhotep gabbles on about . . . " The acceptance he had learned in the temple dropped from him, and he cursed captious priests, the Wheel of fate they nagged about, and the Arab fleet that some malignant chance had made their instrument.

  The wind was freshening, tossing a light spume upon the waves. Far to the west lay the crumpled shadows of storm clouds. Phlebas, the Pride of Isis' captain, already had the ship on a heading northeastward, trying to widen the distance between the convoy and the emir's fleet. But even if Phlebas added oars to sails and burst the hearts of all the rowers with exertion, the heavily laden grain ship could never outrun the enemy dromonds.

  "Clear the decks!" Phlebas roared out orders while the marines prepared their defenses. Twice Marric moved to let them set up the catapults.

  Then the priests came up on deck, and Phlebas did not dare protest. Merikare, one of the senior priests, approached Marric. "You are a general," he said in an undertone. "What do you see here?"

  "Trouble," Marric said. "Phlebas cannot outrun them. Sooner or later he'll have to turn and fight. And we're overmatched."

  Was it for this I trusted you? he wanted to ask the priest.

  Merikare gazed at the horizon where the storm clouds loomed. He licked a finger to test the wind's direction. "Still thinking only of men and battles? There are other ways of fighting . . . " The priest eyed Marric narrowly, and the prince braced himself for the next words. "There is another way to vanquish such a fleet."

  "How? If we lose this battle, the whole empire loses. Not for myself . . . no, though I want to live. I am the shepherd of Empire and the flail of its enemies. But I must get home to take up my power. And there is another thing. Once I lay in slavers' hands and swore to rid myself of them. I'll die rather than be sold again."

  Merikare glanced out. "The distance between the ships is widening."

  "They're coming about. Once they do, they'll close fast. See, now they begin to turn. Priest, if you know a thing to do, I suggest you do it now. Or go pray."

  The ship's seventy marines ran by, skins of vinegar ready to pour over the thick leather shields that were so inadequate protection against seafire. The catapults stood ready at the ship's prow.

  "Clouds," said Merikare. "Nun, god of lightning, and Tefnut, goddess of rain, might aid us in this desert of tossing water. And the eldest gods might help us to destroy our enemies—"

  "Then call them."

  "They would not answer me. But you are the son of Osiris. They might heed you."

  Silence fell between them and lengthened.

  Marric stepped back, alarmed. He had seen how the rituals drained the adepts through whom the gods spoke once they had been abandoned to their humanity again. "I have no powers."

  "You have the potential. Open yourself as a channel for power. Let it flow through you. If it does not teach you how to entreat the Elder Gods, we are all lost."

  Marric bowed his head more to hide his face than to collect his thoughts. He clenched his fists to hide the trembling of his hands. So it had finally come to just what he feared: the priests would use him, claim him for their own. Pray Horus he would not be a weapon to turn upon them. Another priest handed a cup to Marric, who drank and tasted the heavy sweetness of some unknown drug. He felt his limbs go numb. His mind became keener and he perceived the ship and the people on board as desperate nets of energy, appetites to go on living. He saw the Arab fleet as a scarlet hunger, a fire he ached to put out. Involuntarily his arms raised and his hands spread out in rejection. He was Horus-on-Earth and he would forbid the ships to approach.

  They would be within bowshot soon. He should step back, he thought idly. But the drug removed his fear of a lucky arrow. He was not a target; he was a weapon.

  Behind him sistrums rattled, and the priests began to chant. "Summon for me the all-seeing eye, with Shu, Tefnut, Nun, Geb, and all the fathers and mothers who lay with Re in the primeval water."

  "Let Nun himself come with all his court."

  "Ancient gods, hear us."

  "Behold, mankind, which comes from you, has achieved against you. Let your water be poured out."

  "Let the flood devour them."

  "Let the opener of the skies approach and grant life to his people."

  "Let the powers come, let the gods send water to aid their people."

  As the chanting grew more feverish, Marric's spirit struggled within his body. His flesh was inadequate to contain the energies the priest summoned, and he shuddered convulsively. Would the priests kill him? He felt an instant of wild fear. The power hurt as it flooded into the channels it wished to use in him. He had no escape except outward, out of the mere flesh. And then his spirit lifted out of his body and looked back at it—tall, sea-tanned, but paling under the strain of the powers coursing through it. Then his spirit took the shape of a giant hawk that screamed with rage and swooped down to attack. Arrows, and then sea fire, burned against its golden plumage. The hawk landed on the flagship's rigging. Flames spurted up around its pinions. Again and again the hawk darted from ship to ship, and the burning followed it.

  It looked down upon its dazzling reflection in the tossing sea, mantled its wings, and screamed defiance at the emir's ships. Then it returned to the body it had abandoned.

  As if from a great distance, Marric could hear Phlebas and the other ships' captains shouting orders, tacking, increasing the stretch of open water that lay between their ships and their astounded enemies.

  Once again Marric was buffeted by the force of the priests' wills, the carefully constructed mnemonics of their chants. He raised his arms, letting the power evoked by the ritual swell through him in a rising tide. It was eas
ier this time. Light crackled from his fingertips toward a darkening sky.

  As the priests began a final invocation to the gods of lightning and waste places, the power erupted. Lightning danced from Marric's fingers to the skies. It hurt like Sutekh's whip.

  Now wind and wave were stilled, stunned by the unexpected thunder and lightning. The priests fell silent, too. Yet the demand of their wills still beat down upon Marric. He could feel his body tingling from the after shocks of the lightning.

  This is too much power. What more do they want?

  In a spasm of panic he straggled to break free, but sensed that that would be fatal. Was it for this that his father had ruled, this for which he had bled in the dungeons and delta marshes—to die because he feared to use the weapons at hand. The power coursed through him again, burning because he fought it. If he did not stop fighting and work with it, it would consume him.

  Coward! He remembered Stephana's accusation. She was waiting below, and he knew that she would not hesitate to use her dagger as she had promised. The lightning crackled and lashed him again. How long could he take this punishment.

  "Ha-k ir-i!" The ancient words of Osiris, trapped in his own death, ripped from his throat and chest like a spear pulled from a cloven heart. "Come down to me!" Come save me, heal the land, make an ending.

  From the clear sky flooded Nun, the primeval ocean.

  Walls of rain toppled, and the Pride of Isis' decks ran with water like the Nile at floodtime.

  Waterspouts punched through the decks of three dromonds, and ropes, spars, and bodies whirled with them between sea and sky. Several other ships foundered, leaving only one to keel over. Its sails filled with water and, very slowly, it sank. Then a great whirlpool emerged from the face of the sea and sucked up first the refuse, then the rain that the last anguished scream of Marric's had drawn from the sky. Even in destruction the Elder Gods were clean.

  The horizon itself shimmered and seemed to open.

  "Father!" Marric gasped. He staggered and almost fell. Awe filled him, and he tightened his grasp on the rail, on consciousness itself. He could not lose his senses now! A golden bird, greater and brighter than his own hawk-sigil, circled above the merchant ship and perched on the topmast. It cast a healing, warming light, and the water pooling on the decks dried up. Marric felt restored. If he died in the next minute—and he still feared that he might—he would die of exaltation, not exhaustion.

  Though the priests' arms were upholding him, Marric knew he would not fall. He released himself and stood clear. The air was sweet, as if it had newly been created. He took a few experimental steps. How strange the deck felt under his feet, yet he had walked it many times. The ship rolled, and he compensated for the motion automatically. What a wonder he was! He was aware of his body as a gift from the gods who had preserved it to do their will.

  Sun shone in his eyes, drawing tears down his face. He turned and faced the priests.

  Followed by the others, Merikare kissed earth before Marric in a form that had been old when Pithom and Ramses were in the building and Byzantium itself not yet even a dream. He lifted a hand, permitting them to rise. Yes, they might have used him. But now he was their master. He felt only a vast surprise. So this was what priesthood felt like. It was too much power for any man, let alone an emperor. He did not think he would dare it again.

  Phlebas and his officers were hastening over to him, and he gathered his wits quickly.

  "In truth, merchant, who are you?"

  "Alexandros is my name," Marric told him huskily. "Among others. As you value your life, captain, do not press me for more."

  Too many people thrust too much awe at him on deck. It made him feel very lonely. Even Nicephorus—a magician himself—had drawn a little apart from Marric. Empire, he thought, was isolation enough without this further barrier. I cannot bear this.

  Marric held out his hand to the scholar.

  "Help me," he whispered. "Get me away before I fall."

  As Nicephorus supported him, Marric turned back once to look over the sea. The phoenix, had flown back to the horizon. The view was bare of everything except a great rainbow that arched over half the sky.

  Chapter Sixteen

  On the last day of the voyage, Marric and his companions stood at the ship's prow. Crew and officers hung back, allowing them the best vantage point. In the long, restful days since the battle at sea they had come to recognize that the merchant who traveled on priests' business was no mere merchant, and that they owed him their lives.

  The grain convoy might provide Marric with the germ of the military support he would need to take his throne. If the ships' crews spread rumors of a new, supernaturally gifted warleader in the bazaars and taverns of Byzantium, and the soldiers told of a battle in which only enemies perished, Marric would also have access to the Mangana, Byzantium's military district. And it was near, very conveniently near, the imperial palace.

  Marric strained for a first glimpse of his city. Water . . . clouds . . . there! At the outermost range of his vision, white and golden against the blue of the water and the paler blue of the sky, shone his home. It seemed so small from this distance that a god could hold it like a jeweled toy in the palm of his hand.

  Surely no other city was so beautiful. The silhouette of gleaming roofs was utterly familiar and dear to him, calling him with an urgency he had no desire to resist. Tears blurred his sight of it. Osiris, protect the city; Horus, hover over it with Your wings; Isis, make it flourish.

  His friends allowed him privacy to calm himself. Then they joined him at the rail. Nicephorus scanned the roofs for landmarks. Stephana grasped both men's arms and laughed, watching their joy. They interrupted one another pointing out things they recognized. It was all new to her; Marric would delight in showing the city to her, if only he might. But once they docked, they would have to return to tension, to weaving intricate plots that must enfold an entire empire.

  "The triple walls," Marric pointed at the city's defenses. "Do you see that second tower? It marks the Golden Gate, the one emperors and victorious generals enter by, and—what's that?" He shook free of his friends and leaned out as far as he dared. Below the great walls clustered what looked like an invading army.

  "It is the Huns," said Marric. "The Kutrigur, the Utrigur, even the minor clans. Just as you prophesied, Stephana."

  She nodded matter-of-factly.

  A small boat came about and a pilot climbed up on deck.

  "I need to know what news this man brings," Marric decided. He joined Phlebas and heard the pilot conclude: " . . . On account of the Aescir ships, the Horn has been barred to nonmilitary traffic. Her Imperial Majesty has ordered the chain drawn across the Horn. I'll guide you in to Eleutherium."

  "We come just in time," Stephana murmured.

  "Pray Isis." Now that Marric saw what looked like the entire world ranged against the empire, he feared as he had never feared since he faced Irene's guards and expected death—at best. His jaw clenched. Irene's guards and Irene's magic! They were the same, to his mind. They would prevent him and Alexa from reaching Audun's ship; they would try to take them.

  Stephana laid a hand on his arm, calming him.

  Audun! If the bearmaster had joined the Aescir, perhaps Marric could reason with him.

  "She must he half-mad," Nicephorus said. "The city appears tranquil enough."

  "The Huns and Aescir bide their time. Sooner or later, someone will run out of patience. And Irene has an arsenal of dark powers—"

  "Did you not summon the Elder Gods?" Stephana asked. "You return, as I told you, in good time."

  As the Pride of Isis docked, Marric pulled the hood of his light cloak down over his eyes. Doubtless rumors were that he campaigned on the frontier, or died of a fever, or ran renegade—some convenient fiction, probably the last. Rumors: before he started his own whispers in this city of whispers, he must listen quietly to all that he could.

  Near the dock hovered at least three entire files of sol
diers. Their weapons looked too well-worn for Marric's liking. So Irene's security was so tightly drawn that guards would check incoming ships, even grain ships, for contraband? He leaned forward, drinking in the sights of the port.

  A party of priests arrived. Doubtless the High Priest had sent his brothers an escort.

  Then, lurching under the whips of overseers, a coffle of slaves was herded on board a nearby ship. Many of the slaves were wounded. All were too muscular to be anything but fighting men condemned to the collar and the block.

  Clearing his throat to alert Marric, Phlebas the captain came up beside him. "The empress sent a regiment against demonstrators in the hippodrome recently. When it refused to butcher them, she ordered it decimated." He paused. "My . . . Alexandros, you know you have only to command me—or the rest of the convoy."

  Seventy fighters on board each ship. Turned loose with a story or two, doubtless they would bring Marric even more followers.

  "Would you serve me?" Marric asked. "For now, simply be my eyes and ears. And wait for my call." This was not the time for the fleet to herald his return. First he must speak with the priests and persuade the patricians and civil servants to support him for his father's sake, or because they hated Irene, or perhaps because they thought he might have the makings of an emperor. And he had to speak to his former allies now assembled outside the city walls.

  "But you will employ us," Phlebas insisted.

  "My word upon it." Marric suddenly thought of something. "Could an accident, let us say, hold that ship in harbor?" He pointed at the slaver being loaded with the betrayed regiment.

  "Such accidents are frequent."

  He would need the men that ship held, veterans of a crack imperial regiment. Emperors had been catapulted to the purple before by adroit manipulation of malcontents, soldiers, and slaves. I can win them and hold them. Do you see this, Father?

  "I can be reached by a messenger to the temple of Osiris," Marric told Phlebas in a whisper and clasped his arm. Just in time the man prevented himself from making the full bow due his emperor.