"Don't bother," Shahr-Baraz said with a decisive tone. "Within the week we'll have looted everything but the bathtubs. You'll have all those barges and the other boats we captured-you can flit across the water to safety! We don't need to hold this place, though it warms my heart to stand in the house of our enemies."
The older general made a face, but he knew the Boar's temper and did not press the matter. The King of Kings did not need to worry about the lading of boats and turnaround times for troops loading and unloading on the further shore. That was Khadames' business and-quite to his own disgust-he found himself unexpectedly skilled in such matters. If he must evacuate the city, then he would, and that was all that mattered.
The lines of men hauling loot continued to trudge past, loading wagons carrying the treasure of an empire down to the docks. Khadames and the Boar sat, letting the fading afternoon sun warm their bones, and dreamed quiet, simple dreams of the things they would do with such wealth, when at last they were home again.
A blustery dawn wind came up out of the north, carrying the smell of rain down from the Sea of Darkness. The massed fleet of the Arabs and Palmyrenes rode at anchor in the Military Harbor, preparing to cast off and begin the journey south as soon as full light settled on the waters. At the end of one long stone quay, a sleek-lined merchantman-a Palmyrene ship with broad sails and a high prow-was loading a great number of wooden crates and wicker hods holding amphorae in latticed, straw-stuffed containers. Torches hung in the rigging, casting a fitful light. The name of the ship had once been Jibril, but its new owner replaced the fluid Arabic cursive with blocky letters in an ancient script. To the learned, who might chance to decipher the spiky characters, the name now read Asura.
The tramp of booted feet echoed on the quay and a strong force of armored men appeared, swords bared and glittering in the lamplight. The sailors and longshoremen crept aside, for a jackal-headed man preceded the little procession and the appearance of the uncanny figure presaged the arrival of something worse from the darkness.
Behind the jackal, thirty heavy-set barbarians-long hair led in queues behind their heads, faces scored with tattoos and half-healed scars-labored under the weight of a heavy iron box, incised with thousands of signs and symbols on every surface.
Beside it, tanned fingers resting lightly on the solid metal, walked the lady Zoe, dressed not in her habitual armor, but in a clinging silk gown shimmering like a flame, raven hair swept back behind her head, jewels winking at her throat. Many of the Arab seamen looked away, startled and embarrassed by the plunging neckline of the dress. In previous times, before the dreadful and unexpected death of the lord Mohammed, the young Queen had never exposed herself in such a way. Even the Palmyrene sailors goggled, for they had never seen such a wanton display either. At least, not upon a noble lady…
Many of the Sahaba-those who had been the companions, in life, of the Teacher-muttered among themselves and felt great unease. Things had changed since the great, glorious victory before the Roman city. They still reeled from the death of the kindly man, the one-who-listened, their friend and teacher, Mohammed, lord of the Quraysh. Now even Zoe-whose fierce, martial demeanor gained the loyalty of many a soldier-was changed, transformed. Those watching in the dim light drew away, ashamed and afraid. From the corner of her eye, the Queen marked their furtive movement, and found some small consolation in their guilt.
The iron box was carefully carried up, onto the ship, and then fitted with hooks from a crane. In the damp air, the box steamed and smoked with frost. The barbarians lowered it with much grunting and straining into the hold of the ship. When the sarcophagus was secured below, Zoe climbed to the rear deck of the ship and looked to the east. The sun had risen fully over the distant shore, flaring up through low-lying mist and clouds. In the pearly gray light, she saw a flash of light, blazing from a ruined window in Chalcedon.
So our master took wing with velvet night, and we stoop to carry his baggage. The Queen looked to the hold, her heart filled with disgust and bilious fear. So do slaves serve.
"Set sail," she commanded, voice sharp and assured. The captain-a Palmyrene-jerked at the sound, staring around in astonishment. He started to say something, but Zoe glared at him, her expression icy, and he quailed and slunk away. The jackal looked up at the Queen from the deck below, as motionless and silent as ever. The Queen ignored him, for the moment, her head canted as if listening, then called out in a clear voice: "Signal the fleet! We sail. The winds will speed us."
By midday, the fleet cut through the dark waters of the Hellespont, heading south onto the placid waters of the Mare Aegeum. White spray blew from the prow of the Asura and her sails bellied full with a fresh northerly wind. Behind the flagship, the wings of the fleet spread wide across the green waters. The morning clouds had thickened into stray white puffs, casting intermittent shadows on the low waves.
The Queen stood near the prow, one tanned, muscular hand on a cable, staring out over the sea. A hundred yards away, a pod of dolphins leapt among sparkling, brilliant waves, pacing the ship. Their slick gray backs flashed, catching the sun, and spumes of water leapt up as they plunged again into the azure water.
"My lady?" The jackal's voice was hollow, ringing metallically from within the mask. The woman did not turn, though her face tightened. The man made to touch her shoulder, but the stiffness in her body warned him from such familiarity.
"Go away," she said, closing her eyes, hand tightening on the cable. "Our master is far away, rushing through the rarer air, but his thought is still upon us, even now. I will not speak to you, save at his command and about his business." The Queen's voice was hoarse and barely intelligible.
The jackal raised a hand, fingers touching the enameled metal shrouding his face. Then his fist clenched. "Do I offend?"
"Go away!" The Queen hissed, half turning, the sea wind blowing tangled, thick hair around her face. "Isn't it enough, that we are his chattels? Let us not be actors on this foul stage, amusing him with our desperate thoughts. I may be a slave, but I will not please him!"
The jackal flinched back from the bitter anger in the Queen's voice, then bowed jerkily and moved away, across the smooth pine planks. The Queen leaned heavily on the cable, fixing her gaze upon the leaping dolphins, trying to ignore the so-familiar smell of the man's body. She willed her heart not to race, and after a time, it settled and she felt a calm sense of distance enter her.
As it did, her eyes clouded, and soft brown spilled in, occluding the sky blue. Yet the loss and pain on the face of the Queen did not relent, though her expression softened, seemingly younger than it had been before.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Curia Julia, Roma Mater
Maxian, youngest brother of the reigning Emperor of the West, Galen Atreus, halted at the threshold of the Senate House. A great wave of noise met him-the voices of more than a thousand senators, all packed into the hot, close confines of the ancient building-a chattering roar echoing from the vaulted ceiling like angry gulls. On either side of the prince, burly Praetorians in gleaming golden armor halted as well, spears held sideways to hold back the crowd. Maxian was sweating, the heavy formal toga chafing his neck and arms. The wool trapped heat close to his skin and he blinked, feeling his eyes sting. Despite the presence of the legionaries, he felt a knot of tension in his gut. The prince had never formally addressed the Senate before.