The Dark Lord

candle lantern.

'But,' Marcus whispered, 'Chrosoes, king of kings, was killed, slain by his own men in his own house... We've never heard of a brother... surely he was killed too?'

Shirin raised a hand and halted his words. 'Men who taste the power of the dark one will not set the draught aside. It is said Chrosoes himself came to rely more and more upon his brother's power. It is like the lotus—one taste and a man thinks of nothing else. Shahr-Baraz may be king of kings in name, but I think Rustam is at his elbow.'

'That is bad news,' grumbled Florus from the darkness. 'If this Rustam is what broke into Constantinople. How can we stop a sorcerer?'

'Bravery,' Shirin answered and a strange feeling came over her, a hot flush flooding her chest as if she plunged into steaming water. She looked down, distracted. Distantly she heard herself saying: 'Men can stop such horrors, if they do not yield to fear.'

Between the smooth olive curve of her breasts, the jewel was glowing softly, shining red like a rising star.

CHAPTER TEN

Perinthus, On the Coast of Thrace

'What is this?'

Alexandros of Macedon, comes of the Western Empire and commander of the Legions in Thrace, stopped abruptly, his leather boots sinking into soft, muddy ground. Without waiting for his train of aides and bodyguards to stop, he seized the bowstave of the nearest soldier between his thumbs. The soldier, an archer and swordsman in Alexandros' Gothic legion, stiffened in fear. Alexandros ignored the man, his entire attention on the heavy laminate of horn and wood and glue comprising the long limb of the bow. As he had passed a discoloration in the cream-colored horn caught his eye. The Macedonian's thumbs ground at the thick laminate and suddenly the glue gave way and cracked and the long arm of the bow toppled over, hitting the soldier on the head.

Alexandros hissed in anger, one hand brushing unruly hair out of his face. He wrenched the remains of the bow out of the man's wooden bow case and split it lengthwise with ease. All of the glue was rotten and the bone turned a sickly green. Mold was growing in the laminate. Anger washed across the Macedonian's cleanshaven face, then vanished.

'Syntagmarch!' Alexandros' voice was a harsh, deep shout. The Macedonian had an unpleasant voice, but it carried clearly across a battlefield. A tall, thin man at the end of the column turned sharply and jogged down the line of legionaries to Alexandros. The file-commander loomed over Alexandros, but he seemed pale and uncertain. 'Your name is Valamer. You are responsible for this syntagma?'

The Goth nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight. Alexandros' face was a blank, eyes snapping with anger. 'I want to see every man's bow and arms. Now.'

Valamer nodded, then turned to face the syntagma. Four ranks of forty men stood in a rough rectangle along the side of the road. Their attendants were clustered behind them, holding horses and pack mules and sitting on the biscuit wagons. Valamer took a deep breath, then bellowed out: 'All ranks! Present arms for inspection!'

Alexandros watched the legionaries carefully, seeing hesitation in their movements as they set their bow cases on the ground. Many of the men looked sick, or ill, and one young Goth, long blond hair hanging on either side of his face in braids, was trembling as he drew out his bow and laid it on a cloth. Others seemed more composed, drawing longswords from their scabbards and laying them out.

Behind the Macedonian, his aides clumped up, puzzled. The road through the camp was clear for the moment, but men from other syntagma would soon pass by. Rumor flickered through the sprawling camp like a fire in dry grass and soldiers were more curious than cats. Keeping his face entirely impassive, Alexandros paced to the beginning of the first row of men. He was already displeased, just seeing the fear in their faces. At the same time, there was a cool sense of relief in his stomach—he could already guess how things were and he would take appropriate measures immediately, and then—perhaps—such a problem would not recur. He took his time, walking slowly, letting the men fidget and sweat.

A dozen soldiers from other units were loitering in front of the log buildings the army had thrown up in the fields around Perinthus. More were coming and Alexandros wanted everyone to see what happened. By the time he reached the head of the first line of men, at least two-dozen curious onlookers were watching.

'Soldier,' he growled, 'show me your bow.'

The lead man—a senior noncommissioned officer, what the Western army would call an optimate—held out a long, curved bow in stiff hands. Alexandros took the weapon, and ran a hand along the smooth upper limb, tracing the S-curve and digging the corner of a nail into the thin lines of glue holding the bone and willow laminate together.

The weapon was modeled on the Hunnic horse bow, but heavier and faster to produce. The 'Alexandrine' bow was not designed for use from horseback, but rather while standing in serried ranks. The Macedonian knew, from stolen books, a trained man could loose six shafts within a minute's time. An arrow flung from this recurved bow, driven by a strong man's shoulder and arm, could punch straight through the heavy pine laminate shields favored by the Legions or even the overlapping iron armor of the Persian or Roman heavy horse. Alexandros imagined a battle line of nearly a thousand Peltasts supporting his main body of pikemen. Arranged in three or four ranks, the Peltasts fill the air with an unceasing, constant rain of arrows. Should an enemy cavalry charge manage to break through the arrow storm, they would face the hoplites and their eighteen-foot spears, also arrayed in ranks.

Alexandros knew, from long experience, the phalanx was unbreakable if composed of disciplined, veteran, properly trained men. He was also sadly aware a gulf of nearly seven hundred years separated him from the last true phalanx army. Rome had eclipsed the Greek city-states and their armies of hoplites. This little army was a ghost of the power he once employed. Still, he would do what he could with the time and materials at hand.

He finished his inspection of the bow. The glue and laminate seemed sound. The centurion's sword was well oiled and free from rust. Alexandros grunted, gave the man his weapons back, then moved on to the next soldier in line. This time, as he bent the bow in his hands, he heard a creaking sound, and—sure enough—the laminate was cracking, warped by moisture. Alexandros made no comment, returning the shaking, pale-faced soldier his weapon. So he went along the lines of men, testing each bow with his own hands, examining their armor, sword and dagger. Some men carried axes or maces as well, and these weapons were also subjected to a close scrutiny.

'You men,' he shouted, at last, when he stood before them, 'are soldiers in the army of the Republic of Rome. You have sworn oaths to the Emperor, to serve faithfully, to stand your ground, to obey the orders of your superior officers.'

The sun had climbed far into the sky, and the day was hot and very humid. Standing at inspection, in their mailed shirts and leather bracings, the men sweated furiously and some looked rather wilted. Alexandros, himself, did not feel the burning sun and many of his men had remarked, quietly, and only to close companions, the general seemed tireless and it was widely known he rarely slept.

'You are not children,' Alexandros barked, cold voice ringing in their ears. 'More than half of your weapons are useless, pitted with rust or split in this damp climate. Your armor is likewise rusted, with loose or rotted straps. You have failed to follow my direct orders: that each man's kit be spotless, that his arms and armor be kept in readiness, clean and free of rust, at all times, that he draw a heavy bow sixty times a day in practice, that by every third day each man should loose ten times forty arrows against a target.'

The cold dispassionate tone struck each man like a physical blow. In the back ranks, one of the younger men—a Gepid by the look of his wild red hair—staggered and nearly fell.

'The lives of every man in this army are placed in peril by your failure. There must be a punishment, for I will not have men's lives spent uselessly. Syntagmarch Valamer, step forward!'

The syntagmarch stepped away from the line, his face a mask, and stood before the Macedonian. Alexandros saw the man's weapons and armor were in moderate condition, though his sword hilt was chased with gold and his tunic was of fine-quality linen. Pride struggled with fear in the Goth's face and Alexandros remembered something of his history. Valamer was a chieftain, one of the Gothic