Authors: Thomas Harlan
An arrow shattered on ancient stone beside Frontius' waist and he yelped. On the opposite bank, one of the Arab archers crawling through the underbrush had seen him. Without sound, neck bulging and arms twisted with agony, he heaved himself up, out of the canal, now running close to the top of the bank, and clawed his way into the sumac and thornbush lining the old canal. Arrows whipped past, hissing through leaves and clattering off the trees.
Frontius crawled away, shaking with effort.
Sextus will pay for this! I'm sure his dice are loaded.
Roman legionaries in grimy, mud-spattered armor appeared on the western bank of the canal, heavy rectangular shields forming a solid wall. Golden eagles shimmered in the heavy afternoon air, rising above rows of iron helms. Clouded blades licked down, stabbing at Arabs still clinging to the sandy bank. Javelins plunged down into the mass of men and horses trapped in the canal. Wounded and dying, the bodies were shoved off into the rushing stream. On the eastern bank, the Arabs fell back, their arrows suddenly intermittent, darting only occasionally out of the murky white sky. Their horns blew, sounding a general retreat.
"Caesar, a courier from Pelusium!"
Aurelian looked up from his field desk, covered with rolls of papyrus bound in black twine and stacks of fresh parchment. The walls of the tent had been raised as the day lengthened, extending welcome shade against the brassy glare of the late afternoon sun. Dozens of scribes, couriers and soldiers waited nearby, squatting or sitting on the hard-packed earth. The big Roman ran a scarred hand through his beard, smoothing thick red curls, and motioned for the man to approach. Shaking a cramp out of his fingers, Aurelian set down his quill and handed the parchment—covered with an intricate drawing in fine black lines—to one of the scribes. The man, an Egyptian like most of the imperial staff, whisked the drawing away to be dried and then copied.
"Ave, Caesar!" The messenger was young and drenched in sweat, lank yellow hair plastered to an angular skull. He shrugged a leather courier bag from his shoulder and removed a kidskin packet. Aurelian nodded in thanks, then unwrapped the message and quickly read the letter. As he did, his bluff, open face grew long and when he finished intense irritation sparked in his eyes. "Lad, how old is this news?"
"Two days only, Caesar," panted the soldier. "I left as soon as the Greek attack broke."
Aurelian made a sharp motion with his finger, and one of the scribes was immediately at his side with a waxed tablet and stylus. The powerfully built Western prince, the second brother of the Emperor of the West, bent his head a little towards the brown, shaven-headed scribe. "Here are my words," he growled, "for the attention of the Legate Cestius Florus, who commands at Pelusium. Sir, you will hold your line and prevent incursions of the barbarians into the delta by any means at your disposal
save
that of flooding, or the use of dams or prepared canals. These directions have already been given to you, you
will
follow them, or you will be replaced."
The scratching sound of the stylus in the wax continued for a moment, then ended. The scribe, knowing his master's desire, held up the tablet for Aurelian to read. The red-beard was not a scholar, but he owned a handy grasp of Latin, Greek and some Persian. Aurelian nodded, then motioned the scribe away. "Lad, go with Phranes here—he is my aide—and get something to eat and drink. I will send you back to Cestius, with my reply, and I hope you will take great haste in reaching him."
The soldier nodded, then saluted. Phranes led the boy away, calling for food, for watered wine, for a place in the shade. Aurelian did not return to his working table, moving instead to the eastern side of the tent and staring out, glowering at distant Pelusium, across leagues of field and farm and canals and the distant bright ribbon of the Nile itself. The air was thick and gray here in the humid lowlands. Vast flocks of birds rose and fell like living smoke above the slaughter yards and granaries surrounding Alexandria. The prince's camp sat atop an ancient tell rising from the depressingly flat plain of the delta. Old columns, bricks and shattered slabs of paving stone crunched under his feet.
At the base of the ancient mound, thousands of men labored in the sun, digging with spades and mattocks in the dark earth. They made a line arcing around to the north and west, running along a low ridge marking the eastern border of the sprawling, profligate metropolis of Alexandria. In the time of the Ptolemies—the Greek dynasty that ruled Egypt before the coming of Rome—the city itself had boasted a wall of sandstone and marble. The intervening centuries, under an enduring Roman peace, saw the ancient wall engulfed by the city, then demolished block by block for building material. Now there was no rampart, no bastion, no powerful towers to hedge the city in. Only miles of villas and shops and warehouses and little gardens. There was only one gate of any size, completely surrounded by a dyer's district, and entirely useless for defense.
Aurelian had levied sixty thousand laborers to build a line of fortifications from Pelusium at the eastern edge of the Nile delta south to the edge of the Reed Sea. Though the Roman had every confidence in his men, he was also cautious. The enemy
might
break through the defenses sixty miles to the east. Alexandria
might
be threatened.
So nearly a hundred thousand men sweated in the blistering sun before the provincial capital, with two full Legions of Western troops to guide them. A wide ditch was being gouged from the earth, from Lake Mareotis a mile south to the shore of the Mare Internum a mile north. The earth from the excavation was being hauled in cloth bags—one to a man—up to a wide, heavy berm behind the ditch, along the crest of the ridge. A rampart thirty feet high would loom over the ditch, and it would be faced by a thicket of stakes and fitted stone. A fighting wall twelve feet high would run along the length of the rampart, with square towers jutting up every half mile.
All the land for a half-mile before and behind the wall was being cleared; the villas knocked down, the houses broken into brick and timber, the shops emptied and demolished. Brick, mortar, stone, cut timber—Aurelian's enterprise swallowed building materials at a prodigious rate.
The eastern horizon was a flat green line, shrouded with haze curving up into a simmering blue-gray sky. Somewhere out there, four Roman Legions were squared off against the Greek rebels and their Arab auxiliaries. Aurelian did not expect there to be a battle—the enemy army was far too small to force its way past the fortifications spidering out from Pelusium. He did not want his hand to be tipped, though, and this fool Cestius may have done just that.
"Lord Caesar?" Aurelian turned, and sighed, seeing another messenger arrive, this one in the armor, cloak and sigils of the Eastern Empire's fleet.
"What news?" The Western prince had little hope it was good. Then he saw the messenger's face, and felt a chill steal over him. The man was haggard, worn to the bone, with badly healed wounds on his face and arm. In his eyes, Aurelian saw a reflection of horror.
"Phranes! Bring a
medikus
!" The prince took the sailor's arm and led him to a chair. The Easterner moved like a puppet, jerkily, without life or animation. Aurelian prised the message packet from his fingers. The man did not seem to notice. When one of the priests of Asklepius arrived, the sailor was carried away without complaint. Aurelian paid no mind, squatting on the ground, ignoring the surprised expressions on the faces of his staff. He took his time reading each page, cribbed in a scrawl, tightly spaced, obviously written in great haste.
When he was done, Aurelian rose, shaking out a cramp in his leg. The sun was beginning to set, a vast bloated red sphere wallowing down through the haze and murk. Already the east was drenched in deep purple and blue as night advanced. The prince gestured for his Centurion of Engineers, then waited until old Scortius had come close enough to hear a low voice.
"How many feet of water are behind the Reed Sea dam?" Aurelian turned away from the crowd of people waiting in the tent. Scortius raised a white eyebrow, but answered in a low voice. "Thirty feet, lord Caesar. As you planned and, frankly, the best we can manage in this flat country!"
"Good." Aurelian's face was tight and controlled, odd for a man usually open and expressive in all his dealings. "You must be at the dam tomorrow. Take four centuries of the best men you can find—no one is to trouble our project there, no one! Let nothing—not a bird, not a dog,
nothing
—within sight. I will signal you, when I am ready."
Scortius nodded, chilled by the venom in the prince's voice. Where was the affable commander? The big cheerful red bear, so beloved of his troops? "Aye, my lord. We will leave immediately."
Aurelian turned away, striding back to his field desk. As he did, the eyes of every man in the tent turned to follow him, poised and waiting for his command. The Western prince stared down at the diagrams and notes scattered across the wooden table. Then he began putting them away—the bottles of ink, the rulers, the stacks of designs and diagrams, the small wooden models. Scribes crept up around him and took each thing away. Busy in his own mind, and concentrating on the simple task, Aurelian barely noticed them. When the field table was clear, the prince looked up.
"Bring the priests of every temple and thaumaturgic school within a day's ride of Alexandria. I will speak with them at noon tomorrow. If a man refuses my command, which is given with the voice of the Emperor, then that man is to be slain. His second, or heir, will come instead. Do this now!"
Thin high clouds and an oppressive pressure in the air marked the following day. Aurelian rose before dawn and spent the morning standing at the edge of the tell, watching the fortifications rising below him with relentless speed. Slabs of basalt in twelve-by-eight-foot sections—looted from an abandoned temple on the outskirts of the city—were being placed along the fighting wall and driven home with padded mallets. The sight gave him no ease, for he could feel the wind turning to come out of the east. Phranes had forced him to choke down some food, but now the flat bread and boiled grain lay in his stomach like a ballast weight.
"Lord Caesar?" It was Phranes again, venturing out from the great tent. "The priests have come, as you commanded. The Legion commanders are here, too."
Aurelian did not turn around. "Has the commander of the Fleet arrived?"
"Yes, my lord, as well as the senior captain of the Eastern ships in the harbor."
The prince nodded, then turned and climbed back up to the tent. The space under the awnings was full, priests and soldiers and clerks packed shoulder to shoulder. Though the day was cloudy, the sun seemed much hotter than usual, making the air simmer. Slaves moved through the tight mass of men, filling cups and passing trays of pastry and cured meat. Only the space directly behind the field desk was open, and Aurelian passed through the press of men slowly, meeting the eyes of many, speaking softly to others.
By his command, a map of the delta, carefully inked on sheets of parchment, lay open on the table.
"I have news," he began, without preamble, looking out over the sea of faces. Everyone was sweating, even the Egyptians. "It is poor. Constantinople has fallen to Persia."
The murmur of men speaking in low voices stilled. There was only a faint creaking of ropes and canvas. Aurelian nodded, looking from face to face.
"This news came last night, by sea. The Eastern capital has been destroyed. The Persians, with their Greek and Avar allies, have overthrown its walls and slaughtered—yes, I say slaughtered—its citizens. The army of the East has been broken and can no longer be accounted upon the field of battle." Aurelian paused and bowed his head, placing his palms flat upon the table.
"The Emperor Heraclius... the Emperor is dead, and his brother, the great prince Theodore, has also fallen. The Eastern fleet has been scattered and only the remains of the Western Legions, supported by Khazar and Gothic
auxillia
, stand between the Persian army and Greater Greece."
Aurelian looked up and saw a cold, stunned silence had fallen over the gathering. Even the priests of the temples—usually a stoic and sullen lot—seemed surprised, even fearful. They were, however, listening very closely. The prince did not smile, though he was pleased to see that his harsh words had woken them to attentiveness. "There is more. The Persians have employed the foulest sorcery to—"
"Rubbish!" One of the priests made a loud snorting noise, sticking out his chin pugnaciously. "Roman lies! The
mobehedan
serve the lord of light, they would never—"
Aurelian made a slight motion and one of the legionaries in the crowd slammed the butt of his spear into the priest's back, knocking him to the ground, gasping for breath.
"There is no time for discussion," the prince barked at the crowd. "By the eyewitness account of soldiers and priests within the city, it is all too clear the Persians have brought a monstrous power against us. The great gates of Constantinople were toppled by something which cannot be described." He picked up the parchment and read aloud: "
A storm of darkness, writhing with obscene movement
—and within the city the soldiers were overwhelmed by hosts of the risen dead. Yes, the Persians own a necromancer among their number."
Aurelian paused, letting his words hang in the air. The priests stirred, incredulous, and began to speak, their voices rising up like a flock of gulls.
"Be quiet." The prince did not repeat himself. The priests fell silent, cowering under the stern visage of the legionaries among them. "You may read the accounts yourself, when I have finished, but I have not misled you. Know this—the Eastern Empire has fallen, its emperor dead, its army scattered, its fleet broken. Emperor Galen, Lord of the West, has placed all Eastern lands under his direct authority. You may dispute my conclusion, but I
know
the enemy will turn upon Egypt, and we will be sorely pressed to withstand him."