“Tonight,” he began, “there can be a pair of horses here, with water and food and supplies. The riding horse will have a bag of Persian eagles on the saddle. Five or six hundred aureus worth, I guess. I borrowed an invocation from Abdmachus-the shoes of the horses will leave no trace in the sand. These are my gift for you, this and one other thing.”
He reached into his robes and drew out a heavy roll of parchment, sealed with rich purple wax. He held it out to her, and after a moment Krista took it.
“You are a free woman now, free of any obligation to the Duchess. This is an Imperial writ with the stamp of the Emperor upon it expressing that in no uncertain terms.”
“Why?” Krista’s voice was even, though her mind was afire with concerns and questions.
Maxian smiled, a brief, wan expression that quickly fled his face.
“This business of the city of the magi,” he said, “will be a cruel one. I see myself embarking on a path edged with darkness. The excision of this corruption… it will require blood to be spilled. I would not see you on that same path, regardless of how much I might desire you at my side. Go east, to Taporobane or Serica. Build a new life for yourself, free of the past, free of the curse, free of me.”
“It is a kind gesture, Lord Prince.”
“Then you will take it?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “I would not care to give the white witch the satisfaction.”
Maxian’s eyebrow quirked up. “Jealous?”
“Competitive,” she said with a slow smile. “I have seen enough to know that you may be right. My mistress’ duty my duty-is to sustain the Empire in the face of constant disaster. So I will stay.“
Maxian stared at her for a long time, his face troubled. He wondered, briefly, if she knew of his excursions into the night in the company of the Valach woman. Finally he stood up and brushed the sand out of his kilt. “So… very well. Thank you.”
She shook her head, saying: “Thank me when this is done, if you are still alive.”
|g()MQM0MQH0M0WQH0M0’HOMMM)H0H0W(HQHOWQM0WOHOHOgi|
THE KERENOS RIVER, ALBANIA
H
Surrounded by a thick wall of red-haired Varangians, their round shields turned outward, the three Emperors conferred. Beyond the stolid Germans and Scandians, tens of thousands of men were marching past, raising a choking cloud of clay dust from the dry road. Eastern and Western regiments jostled on the road, trying to keep their order of march open. Galen had dispensed with his servants, bidding them remain in the camp five miles behind them. Three of the Western Emperor’s staff officers clustered at his back. The Khazar, Ziebil, as was his wont, was alone. Heraclius, half clad in his battle armor-a solid breastplate of welded iron with a pair of eagles emblazoned on the chest-had ten or twelve servants, officers, and dispatch riders crowded around.
“Augustus Galen, your Legions have the center.”
Heraclius gestured toward the open fields to the south of where they stood. The Romans pouring past on the road were fanning out into the rocky flat by cohort and century.
Their standards jogged up and down as the bearers trotted across the field. Only one good road ran south from the camp across the river and into this dry upland. Ziebil’s scouts had returned the previous night from their latest foray south of the river with news that the Persian army was, at last, in striking range. The Romans had broken camp well before dawn, the Khazars riding out in complete darkness to secure the road and the northern edge of the plain.
“Khan Ziebil, your horsemen are on the left, though keep a strong reserve behind the line of battle. The woods are thick there, and I fear the Persians may try to send men through the brush to attack the flank.”
It was almost noon now, and the majority of the army was still backed up on the road, trying to reach the flats. Galen’s Western legions had made the best time, forming up in the camp on schedule and marching out in orderly fashion. The Sixth Gemina had reached the field at sunrise and had deployed to screen the arrival of the following elements. Galen, pushing his horse and his guardsmen, had arrived soon after dawn to find the legionnaires loitering around under the trees. There had been no Persians in sight.
“Theodore.” Heraclius turned to his brother, attired much like him, down to the red boots, in heavy armor and chain mail under the solid plate. “You and I will command the right, with the Eastern knights and the Anatolikon thematic troops as reserve. Once we-have shaken the line out and there is proper spacing between the tagmata, we will attack. If the Persians are still in confusion, we will advance along the entire front and drive them back into the trees. If they have formed a good line, then the Khazars”-Heraclius nodded to Ziebil-“will feint on the left and then we shall attack on the right.”
The Western Legions were on the field by ten o’clock. The archers and slingers Galen had sent forward to screen the assembling legions had reported back that an enormous Persian army had begun to spill out of the tree line on the southern edge of the fields. The Khazars began arriving in bands and companies, generally congregating to the left of the Roman positions, and the Eastern knights were still clogging the road from the camp. After receiving reports that estimated the size of the Persian army in excess of a hundred thousand men, Galen had ridden forward himself and stared in awe at the multitude of Persians on the southern side of the plain.
Thousands of banners already fluttered in the morning breeze and still more bands of men were coming out of the forest. The enemy army was a riot of color-yellow banners and green, red surcoats on some mounted men and bright blue on others. Each band seemed to have a different garb, or even different styles of dress. It was hard to tell at this range.
At eleven o’clock there had easily been a hundred twenty thousand men in the enemy lines, jostling and milling about in apparent confusion. If the reports of the Khazar scouts were to be believed, the enemy forces who had reached the field were peasant levies armed with wicker shields, spears, and other light arms. While he watched, some contingents of horsemen in furry vests and round caps had arrived, trotting out in front of the ragged Persian line. Galen had shaken his head and ridden back to his own troops, who had taken orderly positions and were standing ready, leaning on their spears and swords, waiting.
“Any questions?” Heraclius glanced at Galen, who had a pensive look on his face. “Augustus Galen?”
“Yes… it seems that we are likely to be outnumbered by almost two to one at the rate that the Persians reinforcements keep arriving. The enemy seems confused, however. I propose sending our thaumaturges forward to attack the enemy formations with sorcery while they are attempting to form up. The longer they stay at the tree line, the more room we will have to maneuver.”
Heraclius scowled, for Galen had not discussed this notion with him the previous night when the plan of battle was laid out. He glanced at his officers, one of whom was a wizard himself. “Demosthenes?”
The elderly man coughed in surprise and rubbed his long nose. “Avtokmtor, the primary role of thaumaturges in battle has always been one of defense, to protect the army from the sendings of the enemy. The will and sinew of men has always been the deciding factor for Roman armies, not the strength of our magicians. Speaking plainly, my lord, my brothers and I are not skilled in the arts of attack, not like the Persians are. Now, a siege…” ?Heraclius cut him off with a look. The Eastern Emperor glared at Galen.
“Some of my wizards,” Galen said, calmly, “are skilled in the arts of attack. I will send them forward with the skirmishers to disrupt the enemy ranks. It will buy us a little more time to deploy.”