The Dragon Waiting Page 5

  The rest of the game was simple. The workmen were the black wizard's enchanted guards, who had basilisk eyes; if the Kings were spotted they were dead. The Governor's Office was the wizard's sanctum; if they could reach that alive, then good Damascus steel, the broadsword and the scimitar, would slay the fiend.

  They moved down and across the slope, stepping over wooden falsework and discarded tools, freezing at the sound of a voice or a shadow across their path. A stairway had been left unguarded, and silently they descended, kings in soft-soled boots.

  "Now, Yusuf my brother," Dimi whispered, "we must part, lest we be slain together this near our goal."

  "Oui, Coeur-de-Lion." It was not Arabic, but that scarcely mattered now; and Charles's hair was dark enough for a Turk's, dark as Dimi's own. "Your hand, my brother of the West?"

  Dimi took Charles's hand. They were really quite alike, he thought. Charles had been hurt by the denial of the Mysteries, but it had not separated them. Richard Lionheart worshipped Apollo, and Yusuf Sala-ud-Din was the bounty of Ormazd's faith, yet they had lived and warred and died together as brothers in glory.

  Their hands parted and they moved off, Charles left, Dimi right.

  Dimi crept along the wall. The ground was soft, and the smell of wet grass was sweet and strong. He flicked stone dust from beneath his fingernails.

  Just ahead, the wall turned away from him, and the ground fell away. Around the corner would be the office's bay window. There was a small side window, just another step to the right.

  No, he thought, King Richard would not use side windows, like a thief. Dimi moved on around the corner, to the angle of the bay. A shape moved up ahead. Now, before the guard's eyes struck him dead. He put a hand on the sill and vaulted through the high opening.

  Charles came through the other side of the bay in just the same fashion; the two of them landed on the bare floor within in the same ready crouch. They pointed fingers, said as one, "I thought you were—" and fell back laughing.

  Charles sprang to his feet. "Ah, wizard of the black country, the Kings of East and West are come to end your vile reign! After you, Coeur-de'Lion."

  Dimi mimed drawing a broadsword. He paused. "Together."

  Charles smiled, drew his curved sword. Dimi could see the patterned blade as clearly as he saw his own. "Now."

  Dimitrios thrust to the vitals. Charles sliced off the head. They raised swords in salute, cleaned them on the sorcerer's cloak, and sheathed them, their tongues providing the snick of blade into scabbard.

  Charles said "Mon ami Coeur-de-Lion..."

  "Yes, O King of Jerusalem?"

  "Don't wizards curse their killers?"

  Dimitrios looked down at the imaginary corpse. "I'd forgotten about that. Maybe it's not true."

  They heard voices, steps approaching.

  "It's true," Dimi said.

  "The window?"

  "Maybe they'll go on past." The two boys moved a little toward the door, flattened themselves against the wall, and listened.

  "It's my father," Dimi said. "And—"

  "The wall's moving," said Charles.

  Where they leaned, a stone panel, blended with the rest of the surface, swung away on hidden hinges.

  Charles and Dimi looked at each other for barely a heartbeat before going through.

  It was quite dark within. Dimi's foot moved back, felt no floor behind him; he put his hands against the wall to steady himself. Then his eyes began to adjust; there was a little light from narrow slits overhead. He saw a staircase leading down into darkness.

  "A dungeon?" Charles whispered.

  "I don't think so—the dungeons should be on the other side of the building. It could be... a Mithraeum."

  "Then I shouldn't go down."

  "Then neither should I. But we can't stay here. And besides, it can't be ready yet, whatever it is."

  They descended, silently except for a faint shuffling and the rush of blood in their ears.

  "I think it turns," Dimi said.

  But it did not turn; the stairway ended in blank walls to all sides. "A trap," Charles said, breathless. "As the pyramid-builders made for robbers. Do you suppose stones fall to crush us, or smother...?”

  "There's light, and air," Dimi said, pointing at the slits in the ceiling. But pyramids made him think of Lucian, and he realized what else could come through those openings.

  Above, there was a bright flare of lanternlight, and voices. The light washed the walls, dazzling the boys. Dimi heard his father's voice again, and that of Tertullian the engineer.

  "What—"Cosmas said, echoing. "Tully, someone's down there."

  "Sir?" Tertullian took a step, playing his lantern. He drew his shortsword and advanced down the steps.

  Dimitrios felt as if he were choking as the two men came into view.

  "What in the name of the Bull and the Dog," said Cosmas Ducas, "are you two doing in here?" There was something like anger in his voice, and something like bewilderment.

  "I ordered Charles to come with me," Dimi said. "He's not responsible."

  "Please, General sir, I am," said Charles, in excellent barracks Greek. "We are marching behind the same ass."

  Dimitrios thought he was going to die. The Governor's eyebrows rose. Dimi said, "We didn't mean to be trapped"—Tertullian barked a laugh—"We'll go now, if you will please let us out."

  Cosmas Ducas looked very stern, yet thoughtful, as Apollo must have looked when Hermes stole his cattle. Dimi only hoped they got away as lightly.

  "Tertullian," Cosmas said, in a chilling voice, "this passage was to be our secret alone, was it not?"

  "Till now it was, General."

  Cosmas nodded slowly. "Tertullian... make sure they keep the secret."

  "General." The engineer advanced on the boys, holding his sword straight out at waist height. Dimi looked at the blade, then at his father's face, and saw no pity in either.

  Dimi stepped back and to the side, standing in front of Charles. "Non," his friend said, and they stood side by side against the wall.

  Tertullian's sword thrust into a crack in the stone wall. He lifted the blade, and there was a faint click from within the stones.

  Another panel, like the one overhead, swung inward.

  "Go on, Castor, Pollux," Cosmas said, laughing almost too hard to speak.

  Charles and Dimi bowed slightly and dashed through the door, into an unfinished lower gallery, and out of the palace.

  Not a word of what had happened was spoken over dinner, but Cosmas Ducas was voluble and pleased-looking, talking of plans for the winter and spring to come among the French. He called them that; not Gauli but Franciscoi. And the look that he gave to Dimitrios across the room was like the sun after a month of rain.

  "The bull must die," said the voice in darkness.

  Dimitrios stood entirely still, suppressing the urge to shiver. A strip of red silk had been wound around his eyes, blocking out every scrap of sight; then hands had stripped him, bound his hands behind his back with soft, tough gut. He was lifted, carried, put on his feet again, on cold stone... but where he was he did not know, except that they had gone down stairs. The places of the Mysteries were always subterranean.

  "But who shall kill the bull?" another voice said. Dimi could not identify the voices, though he knew they must be men he knew; his concentration was hurt by trying to remain still, to keep his balance with his hands tied.

  "Mithras," said the first voice. "Mithras is the friend to all cattle; he shall kill the bull."

  "Shall he kill his friend?" said the second man. "He will not do it."

  Heat bathed Dimitrios from all sides, flames thundering very close. He smelled sulfur and naphtha. Sweat started all over his body, the drops drying in moments, leaving the skin stiff. He was in the presence of the Sun.

  "Mithras will kill the bull," said the voice of the Sun; the punishing heat seemed to pulse with the words. "For it is at my order, and he is a soldier who obeys.... Where is the Raven?"
>
  "Here, O Sun," Dimitrios said, trying not to gulp the furnace air.

  "You must take this order to Mithras, on the Earth below us," said the Sun. "He must slay the bull, for without a little death there can be no new life. Will you take this order?"

  "I will."

  "Then, Raven, spread your wings."

  There was a touch of fire at Dimi's wrists, and his hands were freed. He raised his arms, arched them above his head.

  "Raven, you are the lord of the upper air. Wings bear you truly, down to the Earth."

  The fires went out with a whoosh. Then wind struck Dimitrios, cold air, burning cold.

  He shifted a foot; his toes felt nothing but air blasting upward. He spread his arms and moved with the currents, not knowing how deep the void might be. The wind made him deaf and dizzy, and the cold was worse than the fires had been, drawing and searing his skin. Somewhere it was December, he knew, somewhere above him in the ordinary world.

  The wind died down. Dimitrios felt himself swaying, but he had lost all other-orientation, even of one limb to another. Hermes, you protect the Raven, he thought, aid me now; but in his ringing ears he heard only the laughter of the trickster-god.

  A hand touched his shoulder; a strong hand, a warrior's hand, thick with the calluses a sword-hilt makes. "Raven, I see you have come on a ray of light from the Sun himself; why do you come to me?"

  For a terrible, weak-kneed instant Dimi thought he would not be able to speak, but the strength came. "You are Mithras, and you must slay the bull."

  The hand held firm. "Who says this? Are you a messenger of Ahriman, who would have the bull destroyed?"

  "I bring orders from the Sun," Dimitrios said. "He says the bull must die."

  "Then it is done," said the voice of Mithras, and though Dimi had been taught the legend well, still he was surprised by the anguish in the Lord's words.

  The hand left Dimi's shoulder, and he stood for a moment again naked and alone. Then a robe was tossed over his shoulders, his feet were guided into slippers. The cloth was unwound from his eyes, and he blinked in firelight.

  He stood at one end of a long vaulted hall, with a hearth at each end and pillars down the sides; between the pillars, the initiates reclined on couches, as if at dinner.

  One group wore black belted gowns and black feathered hoods with beaks shading their eyes. Two of these Ravens stood by Dimitrios, tying his gown, lowering a beaked cowl onto his head.

  The Father stood nearby, in his red gown and curled Phrygian cap; he put a hand on the sickle in his belt and struck his staff on the floor. "Chaire, hieros carax!" said the Father of all those gathered, and the brothers answered as one: "Hail, divine Raven!" The Ravens attending Dimitrios led him to a couch with the others, and the next initiation began.

  Dimitrios watched the mechanisms in the dais with fascination: vents in the floor blew first Greek fire, then cold air, around the supplicant. The platform that had seemed so dizzyingly high was less than a handsbreadth from the floor when fully raised.

  Two potential Ravens failed, one losing his balance during the passage of air, one fainting in the Sun's presence. The fires went out instantly as the boy toppled toward them. Both supplicants were picked up, still blindfolded, by two initiates of the third, Soldier, rank, and carried out without a word being spoken. They would have another chance in a year's time, if they so wished. The Mysteries were for those brave enough.

  When all were admitted and seated, the sacred meal was served; the flesh of the slain bull, roasted on long daggers, and the bull's blood to drink, followed by a strong red wine.

  It was the day of brotherhood, the day Mithras was born to bring new life to all men; the twenty-fifth day of December, Year of the City 1139.

  August, Year of the City 1140, 305th Year of Partition.

  Cosmas Ducas stared at the bedroom ceiling with eyes that were dull as pebbles; his hair was matted and his cheeks were hollow, and the hand that clutched the sheet showed vein and bone right through the skin.

  It was not possible, Dimitrios thought, even as he looked at the man in the bed; this could not be the Lion of Mithras, and Apollo was immortal.

  But the doctors had been with Cosmas Ducas, and poked him and listened to his body sounds and stared for hours at vials of his fluids, and all they said was that the end would be soon. Dimitrios thought that, if there could be no recovery, he hoped they were right; and he hated himself for the thought.

  There were spice-smelling candles lighted in the corners of the room day and night, warding against evil magic; charms hung at doors and windows to prevent the entry of killing spirits. Iphigenia had spent a fortune on the town apothecaries' entire stock of alicorn; a pinch went into all the food Cosmas ate, all the wine he drank. At that rate their supply would last a century. Dimitrios thought it was no wonder that one never saw a living unicorn, not at the price their horns brought in a poisonous world.

  Last week a young man claiming to be a wizard had passed through Alesia; he promised a cure, for gold and the use of a servant girl in a midnight ritual. Cosmas's sickness did not ease. Caractacus's light cavalry caught the sorcerer and brought him back. He was still splashed with the girl's blood.

  Just one month ago... the workmen were fitting glass to the new palace windows, Cosmas directing them from the side of the hill. Dimitrios was coming across the slope, and called to his father; Cosmas turned... and held his head... and sank down, down, kneeling to some Invisible....

  They thought it was just a touch of sun, the Governor working too long, dressed too closely in the summer day. But he could not speak. Shortly he could not stand, and then not sit up. Now only his eyes could move, and when Dimitrios saw them staring at him he felt something was being demanded of him.

  There was a scream outside. Dimi looked out the window; two soldiers were dragging the wizard away from where Tertullian stood, holding a fire-heated dagger. One more person who would never be Emperor of Byzantium.

  Dimitrios went out of the room just as his mother came in. She led his sisters. Zoe carried a little tambourine, Livia a silver cymbal, and Dimi knew they had come from the temple of Cybele. He hoped something had been said for the servant girl's soul.

  Out in the hall, alone, he reached within his shirt, touched the silver medallion that hung around his neck; he felt the Raven and Caduceus. The disc felt cold, as if it were only a piece of metal.

  Mithras was eternal, they said, and all who worshipped Him were touched with eternity. Last December, in fire and air, there had seemed to be such a thing as eternity; now it was August, in damp heat and the smell of sickness, and if Cosmas Ducas was dying then so could any other god.

  Dimi went downstairs, looked in the library for Lucian. But Uncle Philip was there instead, going over the only two books Dimi had ever known him to read: Michael Psellus's Chronographia, with its glowing word-portraits of the Ducas Emperors Constantine X and Michael VII, and the epic poem Digenes Akritas, five hundred years old, in which the son of a Ducas woman and a Syrian king conquered armies of barbarians and founded a magical princedom on the Euphrates River.

  Dimitrios went outside. A group of men was dismounting at the palace gates: French nobles from town. Some of them were his friends' fathers. Dimi looked around.

  Sure enough, Charles and Jean-Luc and the Remys and the rest were approaching; Dimi waved and walked to them. Somehow he didn't feel like running today. Perhaps it was the sun.

  "Good day, bonjour, good to see you, men."

  "Our fathers got the Governor's message," Alain Remy said. "Is he much better, Dimi?"

  Jean-Luc said "We made an offering to Sequana for him. All of us, together."

  Dimitrios had no idea what to say. "You mean... a message came from Lucian."

  "Not the deputy," Charles said. "I saw the letter, and it said 'Ducas, strategos.' The script was very shaky, but we knew of course that the Governor was sick."

  "I don't... understand." Dimi turned back toward the house, trying to
think. Cosmas Ducas could not lift a pen to sign his name, however shakily. Lucian had authority of his own. Who then would have presumed to the power, pleonektis— Philip.

  "Wait for me," Dimi said, and started toward the house. As he reached the steps, his mother came stumbling out the door, onto the portico. She clutched her cap in her hands, and her hair hung loose. Dimitrios ran to her, horrified. "Mother," he said, "come inside—where's Uncle Philip, Mother?"

  "Busy," she said unevenly, "in men's affairs, with the trousered lords of Gaulish hell Are these your barbarian friends?" She had been crying, and was starting again. She did not smell of wine. "Ask them—" She raised her head, shouted "You! Gauls!" She pushed past Dimi, walking toward the boys; Dimi reached toward her but was afraid to touch her.

  Iphigenia said loudly, "I want a vampire."

  There was no movement at all. The dust in the air hung still, smelling of dung.

  "Well, are you deaf? Do you not understand language? Dimi, translate; tell them I need a vampire, and will pay in gold coin of the Empire."

  "Mother, what are you saying?"

  She turned on him, the cap crumpled in her fingers, her eyes dripping. "Is your head made of wood? Your father is dying. Will you let him die, or will you help me to save him?"

  "By Ahrimaris Serpent?" Dimi said, gasping.

  Iphigenia slapped him. It did not hurt, but he stared at her, his cheek and eyes stinging, knowing that if he blinked he would begin to cry.

  Dimitrios walked past her to his men. Quietly he said, in French, "Do any of you know of... a diseased one?"

  They were all very quiet for a moment. Then Charles said, "Near Seigny. Up the Imperial road."

  Dimi nodded. "All right." He looked around at his Praetorian Guard. "No one has to follow me—"

  "We're going," Jean-Luc said. No one disagreed. Charles just drew the purple sash from inside his shirt and tied it across his shoulder and chest.

  They rode without speaking, up the valley to the northwest, horseshoes striking sparks from the Roman paving. Riding like demons, Dimi thought, tasting irony on his tongue.