The Gate of Fire

Book Two of

The Oath of Empire

Dramatis Personae

Thyatis Julia Clodia, Agent of the Western Empire

Dwyrin MacDonald, Thaumaturge of the Eastern Empire

Maxian Atreus, Caesar of the Western Empire

Nicholas of Roskilde, Agent of the Eastern Empire

Shirin, Princess of Khazaria, Empress of Persia

Krista, a Slave

Odenathus, Prince of Palmyra

Zoe, Queen of Palmyra

Dahak, a Persian Sorcerer

Mohammed, a Merchant Prince of Mekkah

Galen Atreus, Augustus and God of the Western Empire

Heraclius, Avtokrator of the Eastern Empire

Anastasia d'Orelio, Duchess of Parma, Spymaster

Khadames, General of the Persian Empire

Notes on Nomenclature

The Roman mile is approximately nine-tenths of an

English mile.

A league is approximately three Roman miles in distance.

The Shrine at Delphi, Achaea, 710 Ab Urbe Condita (31 B.C.)

The sun beat down, hot, on the narrow courtyard between the house of the Oracle and the columns of the Place of Waiting. The woman stumbled a little on the steps of the house- the stones were deeply grooved from the passage of tens of thousands, and the footing was tricky in her elegant shoes. Guardsmen caught her arms and held her up. She smiled, though her face was bleak, and rewarded them with a light touch on their bronzed shoulders. After the smoky darkness of the Oracle's residence, the brilliant sun and the shining, colorfully painted walls of the temple complex stabbed at her eyes. She drew a veil of dark red silk over her face and walked, slowly, toward the end of the courtyard that faced the south.

There, a line of graceful columns framed a long view of the mountainside plunging down to a gleaming blue limb of the sea. Far below, the water sparkled like a coat of silvered iron. The air seemed tremendously clear to her as she leaned against one of the columns, her hand resting on the dark orchre surface. Paint crumbled away under her touch, leaving a tiny smear of pigment on her fingertip. She felt worn and old; tired- attenuated- by the long struggle. Unseen by her guards, or the servants that had crept out from the House of Waiting to join her, tears seeped from the edges of her kohl-rimmed eyes. She blinked and looked to the west, down the long tongue of water that led to the Middle Sea.

At the edge of vision, smoke rose, curling and dark, the breath of wood and tar and canvas.

The release of our dreams, she thought, Apollo and Ra have called them back to the heavens.

The tears cut narrow tracks through the artfully applied paints and powders that subtly accented her strong beauty. She stood away from the pillar and turned toward the captain of her guardsmen.

"Rufus, we must: " She paused, seeing the servants part. A small figure waddled through the crowd of women, each tiny hand held by a smiling maid. Her heart caught, seeing the wide eyes and beatific, innocent face. The guard captain stepped back, his black eyes flitting over the crowd. One scarred hand rested lightly on the copper pommel of his short sword. The Queen knelt, forgetting to keep the veil across her face.

"Oh, beautiful boy: " She held out her arms and her son climbed into them. She stood, swinging him to rest on her hip.

One dream remains on earth, she thought, and the lines on her face smoothed and an iron spark returned to her eyes. I will have victory yet!

Constantinople, Capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, 1378 Ab Urbe Condita(623 A.D.)

Make way! Citizens, make way for the Legion!" The lean, brown-haired man stepped aside, into the shelter of a deep doorway, as a long line of armed men rattled past. The Roman soldiers were clad in patched red cloaks over worn and pitted armor. Their iron helms, snugged taut under their chins with leather straps, were dented and scratched. The rings and scales of their mail were corroded and irregular, patched with rawhide strips. Some had only partial armor, their arms and legs protected by boiled leather bracings over heavy woolen trousers. Their faces matched their gear- worn by months of struggle on the walls of the city. Still, they jogged past with a certain air- something cold and cruel like the winter sky above, certain of victory.

The man settled his shoulder against the doorpost, flicking a dark green woolen cloak around his knees. Droplets of chill water spattered against heavy black boots. The snow that had fallen during the night was melting in the trapped heat of the city, leaving the streets filled with a foul brown slush. A heavy leather baldric was slung over one shoulder, holding a long hand-and-a-half sword in a sheath at his back. Under the cloak the glint of metal scales revealed an iron shirt.

At the end of the double column of men, an ouragos- a file-closer in the tongue of the Eastern Empire- passed, his eyes sweeping over the man, seeing the sharp Latin features, a medium height, the trim waist and broad shoulders, and the jutting points of his waxed mustache. The soldier kept an eye on the Westerner as he jogged past, his armor jingling in the cold morning air.

Nicholas kept from smiling and showing his teeth. The cold look in the soldier's eye put him on edge, but there was absolutely no need for a street brawl at this time.

It's the mustache, he thought smugly. Every man envies what he cannot have.

Winter had taken its time coming to the Eastern capital. Only after an autumn filled with fits and starts of cold weather, after warm, balmy days and sudden chill winds, had it settled in to stay. Each night, fresh snow settled on the roofs of the temples and insulae, covering the grime and filth of too many people packed into a city that had been under siege, off and on, for almost eight years. Nicholas took a long step over cracked marble paving stones. Steam drifted up from the jagged opening- a sewer ran under the street and the smell was thick. His narrow nose barely twitched at the stench- he had arrived in the city during the summer, when it had been far, far worse. At the end of the street were huge piles of rubble- crumbling clay bricks and broken roofing tiles- blocking the way.

He clambered up over the loose, shifting, snow-covered debris. His hood fell back, revealing a long narrow head with close-set ears. The sun gleamed through heavy clouds, causing him to shade his eyes- an odd dark shade of violet that had gained him the attention of more than one woman- with a gloved hand. Beyond the rubble a boulevard had been forcibly cleared behind the great outer wall of the city. The houses and shops that had grown up under the shadow of the Wall had been smashed down with picks and hammers five years before, when the Emperor Heraclius had first arrived in the city. The space behind the Wall was filled with men, horses, wagons, and all the accoutrements of war.

Nicholas picked his way down the impromptu hill onto the military street. He walked carefully, avoiding the notice of the masons and engineers that were coming and going under the shadow of the massive walls. He looked up, watching the movements of soldiers atop the forty-foot-high edifice. They seemed unconcerned, even nonchalant. This was the inner wall, which had never been breached by an enemy. Great square towers rose along it at regular intervals. The barbarian turned left at the base of the rampart and walked a little way before he came to a gate set into the cliff of stones. More soldiers on horses were filing through the arch, which was deep and narrow, faced with two massive ironbound doors. A grimy statue of a man in an archaic toga and crown of laurels was perched at the apex, a weatherworn hand raised in benediction.