Byzantium's Crown Read online

  As scribe and account-slave, Nicephorus was kept within the house. Marric missed his serenity, his quiet faith that there was a purpose to the scant food, the hard labor in someone else's fields, and the daily, odious sight of Sutekh stalking in front of the sweating labor gangs, whip at the ready.

  Once the major-domo had sent Nicephorus out into the yard to fetch a slave to move some heavy chests.

  "You!" Sutekh had bellowed at Marric. "The bather! Clean yourself so you do not pollute the house."

  The day had been so hot that the big crocodiles basking on the dried mud of the shore would probably be too torpid to move fast. At least Marric hoped so. He dived into the water, savoring the short minutes it caressed his dried-out skin, then stood dripping before the overseer and Nicephorus. Too quickly the sun dried him, and he followed his friend toward the house.

  "How does it go, Mor?"

  "I live."

  "You are thinner." Nicephorus' concern made Marric feel more human than he had since he was sold. He was thinner, lean and muscular as he had never been despite his life as a field officer. "But still you endure—"

  "All for a purpose?" Marric's mockery was gentle.

  "Aye, whether or not you want to believe me. I but wish—" A man in a clean gray robe glided by, almost as if he were trying to avoid being seen. Marric stopped short. A druid? In Alexandria? The grayrobe glanced at Marric, and Nicephorus urged him on.

  "Nico," he said. "That man. Surely he is—"

  "This way," Nicephorus interrupted. "The Lady Heptephras has decided that certain chests and heavy tables must be moved immediately. And they are beyond the strength of the house staff."

  Nicephorus led the way down a corridor toward the mistress' suite. The founder of the house had built in the Egyptian fashion, with the women's quarters in the secluded inner court, the coolest part of the villa. Some mediocre wall paintings adorned the hall. Rough tesserae of simple mosaics alternating with stonework provided cool footing.

  "Does Sutekh trouble you, Mor?"

  "Not beyond what I can stand—yet." From the moment of Marric's purchase, he had had an enemy in the overseer with the ill-omened name, and he had hated him in return. Hatred—except of Irene—was a new lesson for Marric. Few men had ever dared to show him anything but smiles, however forced. And he had always managed to transfer men he disliked out of his sight. But standing silent under abuse, taking orders—alien though they were to him—taught him more self-control daily.

  Sutekh had the power of any freedman over slaves. More than that, he was the overseer. He relished his power and exploited it. Marric would not have tolerated such a man in the army training recruits. Sensing this, Sutekh seemed to find Marric, who carried himself soldier-straight, a challenge far more satisfying than the easily towed fellahin or the brutish Northerner.

  As Marric and Nicephorus entered the room, Lady Heptephras looked up. Nicephorus bowed to her. She gestured with pretty, plump fingers at the tables and chests she wished moved, then glided out into the court where a rippling fountain in a lotus-strewn pool provided a haven Marric might almost have traded his next day's meals for. He stood blinking in the shadows until his eyes adjusted to the room's dimness.

  All he could see of the woman who came up to Nicephorus was a shape in white. She looked young, and her grace awakened memories that could only break a slave's heart. That last night Alexa too had worn a white gown—

  "Nico," the newcomer said, her voice soft but with overtones of humor, "my lady has told me where your companion must place the new chests."

  "This is Mor." Nicephorus nodded at Marric. "He will move them . . . for once and for all, I hope."

  The woman laughed softly. "So do I, but I doubt it. Mor, thank you for your help."

  "It is my pleasure to serve you." The old, courtly words slipped from him. The woman stepped closer, her eyes flashing in surprise to Nicephorus.

  "I told you of this one, Stephana. He kept the men on the ship from stealing my rations." Clearly Nicephorus liked and trusted this woman, who must be the lady's personal attendant. "He fights like a pirate, and speaks . . . like a prince."

  Now that Marric could see better, he noticed that the woman wore the delicate silver collar of a pampered body-slave. She was quite pale, a sign that she kept within the shaded courtyard, and her white dress was very clean, draped gracefully over a slender frame. But the most arresting thing about the woman—had Nicephorus called her Stephana?—was her hair, which was wound in a heavy coil. Once it had been a soft brown. Now it was heavily silvered, and it caught what light there was in the room, twisting it into an ornament. Stephana meant "the crowned one"; and indeed, she walked with light shining on her hair like a diadem.

  Stephana met Marric's eyes with the same measurement that the Osiris priest had used in the market. Marric felt the same stirring of awareness he had felt then. But it subsided as ripples in a pool subside after the lotus has fallen from its stalk into the water. Stephana's eyes were the blue of just such a flower. Dreamer's eyes, like Nico's, eyes that saw too deeply, held too much power. As if suddenly aware of his thoughts, she looked away.

  "Stephana?" Outside, Heptephras clapped her hands. The slave woman hastened to attend her.

  "A friend?" Marric asked Nicephorus before he lifted a sandalwood chest to its new place.

  "Nothing like that. She is a wise, very gentle girl," Nicephorus said, "and one who has endured much." In a much lower voice he added, "And she is an adept—" He broke off as Stephana, this time accompanied by her mistress, came back into the room. Before the lady was appeased, Marric had to move first the sandalwood chest, and then the others, three times.

  After that Marric had little chance to speak with his friend. But he saw him quite often. It was almost as if Nicephorus were watching out for him. He saw Stephana only once. She rarely ventured into the slave quarters, which was prudent of her. And he never again saw the druid, though he looked for him, or felt some curious power probe his thoughts.

  Druids. By Osiris, did they rove the empire as they wished? They never came to court; they would not have been welcome. Should Irene meet them—here he broke off his thoughts, welcoming even the grueling field labor as release from the familiar anguish of his failed coup. Thinking of Irene was dangerous. It filled him with rage for which he had no release but folly.

  He had been fool enough for a lifetime already.

  But what were druids doing in Alexandria? Marric had a brief, mad vision of gray-robed sages studying in a rebuilt library—assuming they would he allowed inside. The way Nico avoided mentioning the man after they had seen him made Marric wonder if people throughout the empire protected them. Such people—hadn't Nicephorus called them "adepts"?—had away of seeking one another out. Look how Nico had recognized the maid Stephana.

  Why could they control magic when he, a prince, could not? Master of no man, least of all yourself. The priest's rebuke still stung.

  Would such control make his slavery any more bearable? He laughed without mirth.

  "What are you laughing at, slave? Need more work?" Sutekh came up behind him.

  Day by day he pressed Marric toward a confrontation that would mean only disaster. He tried to show that he meant no challenge, yet his very presence, enslaved and yet unconquered, was in itself a challenge: silent defiance of a man used to beating the spirit out of those under his orders.

  Ultimately it was just such men who were Marric's undoing.

  As the year turned toward high summer, the days grew hotter and hotter. Sunlight battered the water as a blacksmith pounds iron. The ground scorched even the slaves' toughened feet. The dust of the walks roiled and drifted like boiling water. In the house cisterns the water level sank. Not even moonrise brought any coolness to the slave barracks.

  Marric had never thought of himself as squeamish, but he found the combination of slavery and imprisonment in the hovel utterly unbearable. The foulness of so many penned-in bodies cost him sleep until, one day, he cou
ld scarcely rise after the noon break. And, as Sutekh told him, he was lucky to be let off with a light beating from a rod: the overseer wanted him healthy. The next time, however, he promised he would use his whip. Sutekh had woven lead weights in with the leather thongs. The whip was a mankiller.

  Then Marric discovered that the bar sealing the barracks door might be lifted from within. As long as no one caught him, he could slip out at night and sleep under the stars, return at dawn, and rebar the door. He didn't think of escape. He had no place to run and no plans made. Since the other men slept like mummies from the instant that their bodies hit their pallets, he was safe enough. The nights of unbroken sleep in clean air strengthened Marric, and there were no more beatings.

  One night, blessed and unexpected rain had settled the dust. Marric slipped out to wash. He had become passionately concerned with cleanliness, as if he could somehow wash off his slavehood. As it dripped on the overhang of the barracks, the rain soothed him. Marric dreamt that he lay in his tent, troops camped in safe, orderly rows about him . . . or that he rested comfortably in the palace secure in his father's care, a boy again.

  A blow shattered Marric's dreams and enraged him. Who dared kick the imperial heir? Then he remembered where he was, and that angered him more. He reached out and caught the bare, callused foot as it kicked him again. He twisted it and brought down the hulking Gepid. He fell half on top of him, half into the mud of the courtyard.

  The Gepid bellowed and raised a fist the size of a club. Marric dodged and rolled away. The blow splashed down into the mud. With another wordless shout the man hurled himself at Marric again. This time he had gained his feet. He crouched in a fighter's stance, his eyes alert to his enemy's movements, years and place fell away; he stood once more with his agemates in the fighting ring, awaiting the arms-master's command, "Palê! Fight?"

  But this time Marric dared not close and wrestle with the man, whose heavy arms could crush the life out of him. Marric must use speed and guile, weapons that the heavier, stupider Gepid lacked. He darted in under the man's defenses and punched, then danced away. As the barbarian lunged forward, Marric brought joined fists up into his belly and followed that blow with a chop to the Gepid's neck that almost broke his hand.

  The barbarian reeled and crashed against some empty cases before he fell. The boxes toppled down upon him. Amazingly, he picked himself up and started toward Marric again.

  By now all the slaves had left the barracks to watch the fight. They formed a ring about the two fighters and screamed jeers and encouragement indiscriminately.

  Bruises and blood stained the bodies of both fighters.

  "Mor!"

  Marric turned for one second too long. The big Gepid's fist sent him sprawling. A yell went up, as if a wolf pack watched two members fight for rule, and tine had fallen. The bright dawn sky whirled and roared about his head, and Marric clung to consciousness. Again and again someone shouted his name. Nicephorus? He had no place here. Where was the voice coming from?

  Watch out!

  As the Gepid hurled himself at Marric again, he took the mental warning, brought up both feet, and pitted them in the man's belly, When he thrust back, the barbarian crashed down. Then Marric was on him, kneeling on his chest, raining down blow after blow until his knuckles split and bled.

  Sutekh hauled Marric off his victim and shook him. Marric dashed a hand across his stained face and spat blood. Though the Gepid lay unconscious at his feet, he felt no triumph. For an instant Marric met Nicephorus' gaze. He jerked his head for Nico to get away, but he refused.

  "Quite the hero!" the overseer commented, his voice deceptively quiet. He bent over the senseless man.

  "The savage isn't dead, but he'll be useless around here now. Might as well get rid of him. Hero, you need to be taught a lesson. So do all you other slaves. Fighting around here—as long as you win, it's all right by me. But losers—losers deserve to lose everything. So now you'll just pick up this carrion, hero, and throw it to the crocodiles."

  Marric stared at Sutekh, appalled. He would have killed the Gepid to save his own life. The death didn't bother him; meeting the overseer's eyes did. All their long suppressed hatred suddenly kindled.

  Marric turned on his heel and began to walk off.

  "I gave you an order, slave." Sutekh grabbed Marric's shoulder.

  He could not swear allegiance to the pirates. He could not obey now, could not serve as Sutekh's private butcher assassin. So the choice had returned to what it was in Byzantium: live foul or die clean. Well, he might as well be thorough about it. He chose his words with care, and with the insolence he thought he had abandoned. If they were his last, he was going to enjoy them.

  "Shove your order, you fellah!"

  The blow that toppled him was no surprise. Neither was the agony of Sutekh's pet whip. The only thing that surprised Marric was the appalling length of time between blows.

  "All right, you bastards, watch this!" the overseer shouted.

  Each time he struck, Marric felt as if Greek fire consumed his back. He choked back vomit and scrabbled in the dust, searching for something, anything to hold onto. I will not scream, he vowed.

  "Set curse you, lay off!" The command drowned out the torrent in his ears. Strymon's voice? "I warned you, Sutekh!"

  A torrent of explanations followed. "He made Mor mad—"

  "—kicked him—"

  "The overseer ordered him to throw the big one in the lake—"

  "Beat him, he did, in fair fight."

  "—toss him to the lizards—"

  "I warned you, Sutekh! If you've killed that man—" the major-domo repeated his rebuke. Marric braced himself for a blow that never came.

  "Mor, Mor, come back now. It's over." Marric flinched under Nicephorus' hands. Nico must have seen the quarrel and fetched Strymon to save Marric's life. If you could call this life. Marric was floating above his pain, above his battered body. There seemed a vast distance between him and the bloodstained, trampled ground where agitated slaves milled about.

  Pain ground into his body from a new source, drawing his attention by its unexpectedness.

  "By all the gods, Mor, you shall not die!" Nicephorus' voice took on an edge, a power Marric would have sworn the little man lacked. "By your blood, by your unfinished tasks, I call you back!"

  And back Marric came, entering a body so torn by metal and leather that even drawing breath forced a moan from him.

  "Osiris' death, you men, don't turn him onto his back!" Strymon snapped. "You two, lift him. Gently. Gently now. Take him to the old shed by the stables. I'll have medicines—"

  Wasn't Marric valuable property? Strymon ought to take care of him.

  "Steady, brother." Nicephorus was helping the others lift Marric onto a crude stretcher. The movement forced a cry from him. Tears of pain ran over his face, and Nicephorus wiped them tenderly away.

  "The priest," Marric moaned. "He knew, he knew . . . Father, why? Oh gods, I hurt, Nico . . . don't let me scream . . . "

  Mercifully Nicephorus reached out and pressed a spot behind Marric's ear.

  Chapter Seven

  Marric lay in a shed that smelled comfortingly of horses. He watched the sunlight squeezing through the cracks in the walls with drowsy pleasure. The day was dying, and he was dying with it.

  As the sunlight faded to a violet afterglow, the pain faded, too. Marric had observed this numbing many times after battles. First the pain lessened. Then consciousness dimmed, and death, when it came, was peaceful. How many men had he seen die thus?

  No! All Marric's youth, strength, his desire to make his father proud, rose up to fight the numbness. He longed for the earlier torment; at least it meant he was still alive and fighting. With that, pain surged up in him like a fire on which fresh fuel had been heaped, and he moaned.

  "Steady, Mor."

  Strymon had let Nicephorus sit by him. His friend's voice was hoarse, as if he had been talking for a long, long time. Marric could not answer. And no
w the numbness was coming back.

  "Send for Taran."

  "You don't give me orders, Nicephorus."

  "Then, Master Strymon, you lose a valuable slave." Marric heard footsteps and the sound of a door shutting. Nicephorus must have won his point. Marric began to drift again. Why had he feared the numbness? There were more footsteps. He brushed them out of his thoughts.

  "I reset the wards," said a woman's voice. "Strymon won't be back. He doesn't want to know what we do."

  "I think he's dying," Nicephorus told whomever had come in. "Can you bring him back?"

  "Perhaps." The voice that answered was older, and it possessed an accent that teased at Marric's fading consciousness. What did it remind him of? There was no reason to remember now. Marric let his eyes drop open. The shed was very dark.

  Abruptly his pain ceased, and Marric's spirit detached from the battered flesh he had always called "himself." His attention, then his spirit, followed the waning light to the horizon. The squalid little shed in which his body lay surrounded by strangers was left behind. Now the evening star drew Marric's attention: beautiful, welcoming. Was this magic? Was it for him? It could do no harm to admit he found it beautiful. Nicephorus said he was dying. He drifted closer.

  And suddenly he was driving toward it in a chariot pulled by two winged horses, one black and fiery, the other white and docile. Distance and time fell away; his chariot and horses seemed to travel inside a gigantic pearl. The chariot vanished, and Marric stood upright. Curious, he tried to touch the wall of the pearl, but found no surface. Even his feet moved without actually touching anything he could think of as "ground."

  An enormous hawk came, flying toward him, its feathers jewel-bright, its hunting call somehow more poignant in this strange air. The hawk dropped lower to stare at him. Its eyes were not those of an ordinary raptor. They contained an intelligence so keen that Marric dropped his own gaze, abashed.