The Dark Lord

Another sharp pain, this one of raw disgust, throbbed in Alexandros' chest. He had prepared meticulously, for months, for a land campaign in Asia and Syria. His own Legion had swollen to nearly twenty-five thousand men—more Goths, more barbarians from over the border, expatriate Huns, Germans and even a smattering of Avars cut loose from their defeated army—and nearly every man had a horse to ride, or a mule to carry his baggage. Six thousand wagons had been secured or made. A hundred thousand arrows, countless spears, horseshoes, rope by the mile, barrels and baskets, sword flats and iron plate. The one Western Legion he had held back from the Egyptian campaign, the veteran Third Augusta—Faithful Pegasus— was once more at full strength. Hundreds of deserters from the Legions shattered before Constantinople had filtered back out of the hills. Shamed men had begged to serve again, regaining their honor. One in ten had paid the price for cowardice, while the others were carefully scattered among reliable units. Those men fought under the eagle again, but each started afresh, no more than the lowliest legionary, no matter if they had been officers before.

The standards of two Eastern Legions had been recovered from the Persian camp in the old palace. Beneath them, Alexandros had organized the motley collection of Eastern cataphracts and individual soldiers who had survived the siege and the destruction of the city. Fourth Parthica— Capricornus—and Sixth Ferrata—Old Ironclad—were each nearly at full roster and eager to prove themselves, though the Macedonian did not trust them to the crucible of battle, not quite yet. Soon, though.

'We will not be crossing into Asia,' he said. The words had a bitter, bitter taste. 'Demetrios, I will leave you the Fourth and the Sixth with these orders: to hold Constantinople and these lands around, to restore order in Thrace and Macedon. Be cautious, but do not hide in the city. Ensure the people can return to their homes, that the aqueducts are repaired, the cisterns opened. The strait is open and trade will resume, as it always does. You must clear the harbor and the docks of wreck and ruin. Commerce must find a home here again. The city will live, though she has been sorely wounded.' Alexandros caught the man's eyes and held them fiercely. 'You hold this place in trust for the young Emperor. Know he will return to judge your stewardship! I hold you to the same measure.'

Demetrios swallowed, then nodded sharply. The nobleman's prickly anger and pride had worn away during their campaign to reclaim the city. He had seen the skill and bravery of the Goths and the Western legionaries. In the beginning, his own men had not fared so well, but now they had heart. They had tasted victory again and served under their own standards and banners. Such things gave men a sense of place and surety.

'I will, Lord Alexandros.' Demetrios bowed to the Macedonian. Alexandros could see the man's thoughts turn to the mighty task set before him and smiled as the Greek's face became somber. There is hope for one of them, at least. While he is willing to think, and to listen.

'Chlothar...' Alexandros stopped himself from sighing again. There was work to be done and no time for laments. 'Prepare our men, and the Third Augusta, for transport by sea. Lord Demetrios will win custody of our wagons and horse. Tarentum is... two weeks away, by sea? We will have no more time than that, I'm sure.'

The Frank's face screwed up like a puckered quince and Alexandros felt the same disgust. Months of heavy labor cast aside... their swift-mounted army would now ride, crammed like goats into a stinking hold, then walk to battle, wherever the wind had taken them.

—|—

Horses neighed angrily, struggling in their hoods. Grooms and cataphracts alike crowded around the lading ramp of the barge, hands seizing cables and ropes, others pressed against heavy, sweaty brown flanks. The first of the Khazar chargers kicked, splintering a wooden stay, knocking a man into the water. Spray fountained up and the plainsman struggled out, drenched, water lilies in his hair. Jusuf, watching from the shore, jogged down, bare feet squelching on the muddy beach.

The barge had been acquired the previous year in Chersonessos on the northern shore of the Sea of Darkness. Months of travel around the verge of the brackish sea had seen Khazar shipwrights cut away the bow to install a levered bridge that winched down on a beach or sloping shore, letting the horses carried within trot safely to land. Splashing out into the muddy water, he reached the end of the ramp. On this section of shoreline, the sea had proved shallower than expected.

For two miles in either direction, here opposite the great city, the Khazar army was unloading in a confused, riotous mass of men, ships, barges, boats, horses and wagons. Somewhere to the north, Kagan Dahvos and the main body were unloading at the port of Damalis, in a proper harbor, with lading cranes and winches. Here, two men pitched to and fro on the ramp, trying to hold it down by main strength. The horses could smell water in front of them and bucked, neighing in fear. Jusuf waded up, just as a fine-looking gelding clattered forward, long mane flying.

'Watch out!' shouted one of the men, a dark-haired Greek with shoulders like Atlas. Jusuf nimbly avoided a flying hoof, swinging up onto the ramp. With his added weight, the wood settled into the water and he caught a flying rein, pulling the horse's big square head close to his own. Hot breath whuffed in his face, and Jusuf grinned in delight.

'Easy, easy there.' The gelding shied away, pulling at the rein, but the Greek had climbed up as well and laid gentle hands on the horse's shoulder. Between the two men, they managed to coax the gelding into the water and then to dry land. Smelling one of their own safely ashore and hearing him chomp noisily on carrots and apples proffered by Jusuf from a leather sack at his waist, the rest of the horses followed in better humor.

The troop of cavalry—a jegun, as the T'u-chueh would say—gathered under a copse of trees an arrow's flight from the shore. Jusuf and his guardsmen had tethered their own horses in the shade. He passed among the cavalrymen, taking their measure, speaking to some he knew from the markets of Itil. They were southern Khazars, from Samandar the White beside the Salt Sea. Jusuf was pleased with their spirit—everyone was cheerful and eager to be home again. Some of the men cast covetous eyes on the rich, loamy soil and the hillsides covered with orchards and gardens. The plains of Khazaria were neither so rich nor so plentiful in their yield. Jusuf did not think any would stay in the warm south, though he allowed he could be mistaken. He missed the open sky and endless, rolling vistas of the steppe. This land was too hot, too close and too crowded.

Reaching his horse, the tarkhan's heart lifted to see a heavy enameled bow case still slung on the saddle. Two of his guardsmen had remained with their mounts while Jusuf had gone down to the shore. Horseflesh was highly prized, even among the dirt farmers. He ran a proprietary hand over the black case. The bow within was nestled in Roman cloth as soft as a woman's hair. Nervous to see the weapon so exposed, he turned a corner of the riding blanket over the painted wood.

'Ready, tarkhan?' His guardsmen were mounted and ready, each man on a different mount than he'd brought ashore in the morning. The army was preparing for a long march; soon they would be alternating walking and riding to spare the horses. Jusuf nodded absently, taking a last look around the grove of trees, measuring the faces of the men and the health of the horses in the jegun. As he did, his eye lit on the same dark-haired Greek cinching the bellyband of a Khazar horse, a scabbarded gladius and axe swinging from a strap over his shoulder. What is this? A Greek among us?

'Wait a moment.' Jusuf ran his hand gently across the bow case before striding off through the high grass. His guardsmen sighed, then settled in to wait. Who knew what these officers were doing? The kagan had declared the army would land and then march east along the main highway until they reached the town of Kosilaos, all in a single day. Twenty miles from the Chalcedonian shore, more or less. A late night's camp, they grumbled.

'What is your name, soldier?'

The Greek looked up and Jusuf slowed to a halt, struck by the man's odd dark eyes. This close, the Khazar was impressed by the scars—old and new—making a tracery on his exposed arms and neck. The broad shoulders were no illusion either, feeding powerful arms and wrists like tree roots. A legionary, Jusuf guessed. How odd.

'Ruf—no, call me Hippolytus, my lord,' the man answered. As he did, a peculiar expression of relief filled his face. 'Hippolytus,' he said again, taking his time with the word.

'You're a Roman soldier,' Jusuf said. 'Why do you ride with Bulan's jegun?'

The Greek offered a slight smile, causing a deep scar at the corner of his mouth to twist like a snake. 'I was a soldier for the old Emperor,' he said in a deep voice. 'Heraclius is dead, and his son taken into the west.' Hippolytus shrugged, making his mailed breastplate shimmer. 'There is nothing for me in the Empire anymore. I