Andrades nodded glumly, seeing the truth of it. More troubles had come from Roman fighting Roman over the past thirty years than from the invasions of the Avars or the Persians. More trouble could come of it now.
“Avtokrator, who will command the defense of the city while you are gone?”
Heraclius frowned. This was a thorny issue that he had been struggling with himself. He had found no good answer. Any lord he left behind would be well tempted to seize the Empire for himself if things went awry for the army in the field. Heraclius had sent armies against the Persians twice before; each had been soundly defeated. This was his last throw of the dice.
Seeing no answer from the Emperor, Andrades cleared his throat. “A suggestion, if you would not take it ill. The priest Bonus, of the temple of Sol Invictus, is a man of good character and wit. He was, if I remember rightly, a centurion in his youth before entering the temple, so he knows the way of war. The people would support him, and as a priest of the god, I doubt that he would want the Purple.”
Heraclius considered, biting his lower lip. Galen, now sitting beside him, nodded in agreement with the drunga-ros. The Eastern Emperor nodded as well. “A good suggestion. So it shall be.”
THE HOUSE OF DRACUL, NEAR THE HIPPODROME, CONSTANTINOPLE
Dwyrin was thrown to a tiled floor, landing heavily. The bag over his head was untied and pulled off with ungentle fingers, allowing fresh air, at last, to reach him. He gagged and tried to spit to clear his mouth, but there was no moisture left in him. The tiles under his hands were small and worked into a mosaic. The sharp scent of incense came to him, though the pain of his right wrist was overriding all other senses. A clammy hand dragged him up by the scruff of his neck. A warm white light from a hundred candles filled the room, banishing even the smallest of shadows. Dwyrin knelt at the edge of a great rug; an opulent room surrounded him, filled with rich lacquers and wood, hung with silk and brocade. A sizable wooden desk was set a little off to one side, and before it sat a sturdy-looking man in a light-colored shirt and dark breeches.
The man bent forward a little and gestured to Khiron to bring Dwyrin closer. The dead man hoisted the boy up by his arms and dragged him forward, dropping him on the carpet at the end of the desk.
“Now, Khiron, don’t be harsh to the boy. He’s young. Not used to rough treatment.”
The voice was thick with the burr of an accent, but not one that Dwyrin had heard before. Still queasy at Khiron’s touch, Dwyrin looked up, meeting the eyes of his owner. They were a merry blue, twinkling in the light of the lanterns. The man’s face was broad and rather plain, but creased with the beginnings of a smile. A light-blond beard edged his chin, and he showed the signs of incipient fat.
His whole body was broad, like a cart, as were his hands. A gentle finger brushed Dwyrin’s forehead, tracing the line of his forebraid.
“Pretty young thing, isn’t he?” The voice was cheerful, but despite all appearances Dwyrin shrank from the man. For all his jollity, this was Khiron’s master. The time with the dead man was still a blur of horror and despair. Even this place, wherever it was, was better than the boat with Khiron and his captives.
“Oh, aye, master. The very paradigm of vitality. Does he please you?”
The rich voice laughed again, saying “Well, not yet! But there is promise here. How did you come by him, dear Khiron?”
“In my travels, master, I came by chance to Delos and decided to take to shore to acquire provisions for my voyage. While perusing the cattle, I was approached by a nervous Egyptian slavemaster who said he had something special to sell. I am not unknown on Delos, so I presumed that it was some exotic frippery. Instead, there was this sweet boy, all drugged and beaten. But I could smell the power in him, so I purchased him for a pittance, sure that he could find some use here, in your house.”
The stout man laughed, a deep bubbling sound, like a spring in the mountains.
“He has the Power, does he? Have you seen it? What expression of that art does he own?”
Khiron placed a thin-fingered hand on Dwyrin’s shoulder. “Master, he brings forth fire by the tale of the slave-master, who lost one of his men when the boy attempted to escape from the slave ship in the waters off of Alexandria. The man, by the account, was utterly consumed while leaving not so much as a char mark on the decking.”
A talonlike fingertip hooked under the thin metal chain that ran around Dwyrin’s neck.
“As you see, I have a ban upon him so that I do not suffer a similar fate… The fire is strong in him, though, like water building behind a dam.“
“A fire-bringer.” The stout man’s voice oozed with pleasure. “Many uses for such a talented young man. You wound me, Khiron, bringing me such a pleasant dinner companion and then telling me this! Stand him up.”
Hands like iron set Dwyrin upright. The stout man stood as well, and Dwyrin was surprised to see that he was only a little taller. The stout man placed his hands on his hips and stared into the Hibernian’s eyes. Dwyrin sagged against Khiron’s claw-grip but fought to match the stout man gaze for gaze. Lanterns hissed quietly in the background, then the stout man blinked and looked away.
“Know, young man, that I am the Bygar Dracul, the master of this house and all that exist within it. You are my property now, a slave. If you serve me well, you will be treated well. Otherwise, there are more torments than the lash to be found here. Khiron, take him below, into the pits, and see that he is safely put away. But he is to be kept whole, until I call for him again.”
The dead man took Dwyrin from the office of the Bygar and down through a maze of corridors, all lit by lantern or lamp. Dwyrin dimly sensed that they were now below-ground. The rock walls were no longer covered with tapestries and hangings. They descended a long flight of stairs that doubled back upon themselves once, then twice. Now the walls were damp with seepage. They passed through a solid oak door, which Khiron carefully closed behind them, muttering the while. Now the corridor was dark and ill lit. Only one fitful lamp guttered in an invisible breeze. A strange tang filled the air, like rotten lemon. Khiron drew his cloak back from his shoulders and pushed Dwyrin ahead of him.
“Walk, boy, and stay at the center of the corridor.” The dead man’s voice was thready and low, like a whisper caught in the wind.
So they walked for a time. Dwyrin felt the grade of the corridor descend again, and now dark spaces opened on either side of them. Some of the openings seemed to have worked lintels and walls, others were gouged from the raw stone. A cold exhalation crept from most of them. At last they came to another door, though this one was of iron, and studded with bolts and spikes. Khiron reached over Dwyrin’s shoulder, though so quietly that Dwyrin had to focus hard to see his hand in the gloom. There was a clicking sound, and the door suddenly split in the middle. Golden light spilled out, blinding the boy. Khiron pushed him ahead, again, into the room.
The cell was small, and lit only by the reflected brilliance of the lamps and candles that Khiron maintained in his own chamber. A sturdy door of iron bars separated Dwyrin and his tiny space from the rest of the dead man’s domain. Dwyrin spent his time curled up with his back against the smooth stone wall of the cell. There was a thin blanket of scratchy wool to lie upon and a ewer of water to drink from. Beyond the bars, Khiron paced restlessly in a room filled with lamps and candles, such that no corner was cast in shadow, no wall darkened by the lack of light. A narrow cot and a small stand completed the furnishings. The cot was covered with another blanket and a straw tick, but Khiron lay on only it rarely. Though Dwyrin woke, slept, woke, and slept again, the dead man only paced endlessly around the lighted room.