The Walach nodded and recovered the letter. He pressed coins into the soldier's hand and stepped inside. The centurion grinned, then settled back against the wall. His mates clustered around, eyeing the money.
—|—
Vladimir didn't expect much, but he was disappointed to find the Office of the Legions very small and cramped and filled with pale, round little men smelling of ink, dry sweat and unwashed feet. He thought about pinching his nose closed again, but decided they might be insulted. The clerk sitting in the vestibule was reading his letter of introduction for the fourth time. Vladimir tried to keep still, but he only managed to keep from clawing furiously at the door. Large brown water stains marked all four walls and a ceiling thick with spiderwebs. A brief fantasy of seizing the spindly little man by the neck and squeezing until his eyes burst, spilling red, and Vladimir having bit through his throat distracted the Walach for a moment, and then passed.
'I see your master has a sense of humor,' the clerk said, holding up the letter with an approving air. 'He perfectly captures the Great Caesar's brisk efficiency and clarity of thought.' The clerk stared at Vladimir, who bared his teeth, and then sighed in regret. 'Never mind. You want to find the whereabouts of an Eastern soldier— one Dwyrin MacDonald? Attached to the Eastern Thaumaturgic Corps, in Constantinople?'
'Yes,' Vladimir nodded eagerly. 'Is he alive?'
'How, may I ask, would we know?' The clerk made a face. 'All of the Eastern records were destroyed, or lost, and the most we've received are partial reports of men who have survived and fled with the fleet to Athens. It would take weeks just to sort through those!'
The Walach squatted down, so that he was on the same level as the clerk. The man inched back, surprised at the swift motion. 'Will you look?' Vladimir tried not to growl, but the words rumbled back from the walls. 'I will pay you.'
The clerk made another face, then threw up his hands. 'You're not supposed to bribe me! Not yet. That's for later, after we've dickered for a bit—
Vladimir dragged the man up, claws digging through his tunic. 'My friend is missing,' the Walach rumbled. 'If you look through your bits of paper, and find out if he lives or not, I will pay you.' Vladimir's nostrils flared and he leaned close, sniffing the clerk's ears. 'I will come back later.'
Then he leaned the man against the wall. There were some coins left in his purse. Vladimir placed them carefully on the writing desk, then went out. The smell of dusty paper set him on edge. He hurried out, hoping the prince would decide to leave the city soon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Glade, In an Orchard of Fruiting Trees
Mohammed struggled for a moment, then threw back a heavy cloth binding his face and arms. Flat, harsh sunlight struck his face and he turned away, eyes smarting. When, after a moment, he opened them again, he was lying on his back, staring up at a perfect blue sky, unmarred by clouds. The spreading branches of a tree obscured a quarter of his vision.
He tried to sit up, but found his arms weak and stabbing pains shot through his back. The merchant subsided, letting his head rest among the roots of the tree. He lay in the shade of the fig for some time, trying to gather his thoughts, but found a terrible, ripping hunger dominating his consciousness. Worse, his limbs were utterly drained of strength. With an effort, he raised his left hand and was shocked to see the flesh shriveled and tight on bone and sinew like some dry creeper clinging to ancient stone.
'How long did I sleep?' His voice rasped like a bellows and he felt his lips split with the motion. A drop of blood slowly oozed from the edge of his mouth.
'A long time,' a voice said, drawing Mohammed's attention. A man—dressed in a simple woolen tunic, flat, black hair brushed over his shoulders—was squatting nearby. 'Are you hungry?'
'Yes,' Mohammed whispered as he tried to sit up again. This time, by leaning against the trunk of the fig tree, he was able to ease up, though the pressure of the bark on his skin was painful. The leaves rattled a little and their shadowy pattern rippled across his face. Now Mohammed could see his legs. Like his hand, they were parched and gaunt, old leather stretched over knobby bones. The skin of his stomach was shrunken, as if it clove to his backbone, and his ribs pressed against pale, translucent flesh like the rafters of a dilapidated shed. 'Do you have something to eat?'
The man nodded, then pointed with a slim hand. 'There is food in the city.'
Mohammed's eyes followed the pointing, well-manicured finger.
The fig tree stood at the edge of a neat forest, filled with tall, slender trees, evenly spaced, with cleared ground and low grass between them. Beyond the trees was a grassy sward, cropped short, leading down to a long, low wall. The rampart seemed to glisten in the sun, shining a dark purple color. Mohammed raised an eyebrow. He had never seen so much porphyry in one place before. Domes and towers rose beyond the wall and the merchant was reminded of Mekkah, in the district around the temples and the holy well. A gate stood open in the city wall and he could see people bustling about their daily business.
'I am too weak,' Mohammed said, 'to walk so far.'
'Would you like me to help you?' The man stood up, moving with ease. He bent down, holding out a hand. 'I can carry you into the city.'
Mohammed raised a hand to grasp the offered wrist, but then he paused in surprise.
He had not noticed—over the gnawing pain in his gut and the terrible lassitude in his limbs—the silence pervading the park and the trees and the grass. There was no sound, save his own harsh, gasping breath. He turned his attention inward, clasping his hands on his chest. A prayer settled his nerves, and he let the common, simple words lull his mind to quiet, until even the stabbing hunger faded away. There, in the quiet in his heart, he sought out the voice from the clear air, which had guided and accompanied him for such a long time.
There was nothing. No invisible voice, ringing like a trumpet to welcome the rising sun.
Mohammed realized he was alone, and his eyes flickered open.
The man was still standing, waiting, a hand held out to lift him up. The city still beckoned from beyond the meadow, filled with fountains and tables—he was sure—groaning with food and drink and good company.
Mohammed, prince of the Quraysh, merchant of the city of Mekkah, realized he had been betrayed and captured by the enemy.
'Do you have a name?' he rasped at the man standing over him.
'Yes,' the man said, smiling cheerfully as he stepped away. Now he seemed very tall, his limbs in perfect proportion, his visage filled with strength. 'You may call me Moha, if that pleases you. Are you hungry or thirsty? I can bring you water.'
'No,' Mohammed said, lying back against the trunk of the fig and closing his eyes. 'I am not hungry or thirsty.'
'Do you wish to go into the city? There is a physician there and a soft bed. You could take your ease in comfort.'
'This bed is soft enough for me,' Mohammed said. One eye fluttered open a little and he looked up, at the flat, blue sky, undisturbed by clouds or wind. Only the leaves of the fig moved softly in the still air. 'I have enough comfort already.'
'Are you sure?' Moha knelt again, his beautiful face filled with concern. 'You are terribly thin, malnourished; your buttocks are like a buffalo's hoof; the pupils of your eyes seem sunk deep in their sockets like water shining at the bottom of a well; your scalp like a bitter gourd cut unripe becomes shriveled and shrunk by sun and wind; the hairs on your arms and legs rotting at the roots and falling away from your body.'
'I am content,' Mohammed said, closing his eyes again. 'I will abide here, waiting to see what may transpire.'
'Very well,' Moha said in a genial voice, rising. 'If you need anything, call my name and I will hear. I am always within earshot.'
Mohammed felt the man leave, though there was still no sound. He prayed and waited, lying under the tree, feeling its soft, wrinkled bark behind his head. The sun shone down upon him, but the light did not warm his withered flesh, and no breeze or wind stirred his hair.
CHAPTER NINE
The Port of Misenum, Campania
