The Dark Lord

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 amali-their most noble tribesmen. A man used to command and assured by an ancient tradition of unquestioning obedience.

He knew the bows were ruined, the Macedonian thought, and could not bring himself to seek aid from the armorers, or from me. It was not the first time such a thing had happened. Caring for the bows was especially difficult in these humid lowlands-they needed to be stored, when not actually in use, in specially heated wooden boxes. A damp bow was useless.

"You have failed me, soldier," Alexandros said, his voice carrying into the ranks. "My father once said this to me, and to my half-brother: there are no bad legionaries, only bad officers. You are at fault here, for you knew your duty and you did not carry it out."

Alexandros gestured for the man's sword, and Valamer, face turning sickly gray, removed the spatha from its baldric and presented it to the general. The Macedonian hefted the sword in one hand, then removed it from the sheath in a quick, fluid movement. He raised it over his head.

"This man, Valamer, a Goth, has shown himself unworthy of being syntagmarch! Therefore, until he redeems himself by deeds, he shall be no more than a common soldier, an attendant, who will hold the horses and gear of other men, while they fight!"

The Goth blinked and breathed again, then his mouth settled into a tight line. In common course, only camp followers, or the wounded, or raw recruits held the horses of men in the line of battle. He was shamed, but he would not be killed out of hand. Alexandros did not return the sword, though he sheathed it again. The general did not look at Valamer and the Goth remained standing, swaying slightly, weaponless.

"Many of you," Alexandros continued, his voice still cold, "followed this poor example and have not kept your bows dry, your arms and armor clean. I know this discipline is new to you, for many of you have come from brave nations, but those nations are not Rome. You will, therefore, learn to keep those tools which sustain life and bring victory as if they were a dear child."

Alexandros' voice suddenly rose and his anger leaked through in a biting, acid tone.

"Each man whose kit has failed inspection will be provided with new weapons and armor from stores, but his pay will be docked to account for this waste. Further… men know how to follow orders and do their duty; but children, boys, are oft remiss, for they have not learned the ways of men. Therefore, each man who has failed his duty will have his hair shorn and his beard shaved. You have acted like boys, now you will look the part, until you have learned discipline!"

At these words, the soldiers gave out with a groan of fear. The Goths, Germans and particularly the Franks in the ranks were devastated. Some men, heedless, fell to their knees and began crying out, begging for forgiveness. Amid the tumult, Alexandros beckoned to Chlothar, the commander of all the Peltasts in the army. The big Frank's face was tight with anger and his liquid blue eyes were filled with pain. He too came into Alexandros' service with short, shorn hair-disgraced. The Macedonian saw the look in his eyes.

"Chlothar, put your best syntagmarch with this unit for a few months. He should carry this sword while he commands. It is too fine a weapon to be wasted on a common soldier." Alexandros paused, lips quirking in an almost-smile at Valamer. "Take heart, if this were truly Rome, then one man in ten would be put to death for such failure. Chlothar, send this man Valamer to your best syntagma. He must learn he is no longer a chief, but a Roman soldier."

Chlothar nodded, then beckoned over his under-officers. The wailing among the soldiers died down a little under his glare. The big Westerner enjoyed being forbidding and Alexandros encouraged him to be the "strong hand."

The comes did not look back, but continued on with his inspection. As ever, he walked swiftly, head held a little to the side, looking sideways at the rows of tents or log buildings. It would be a long day, for he intended to inspect not only his own troops, but each Khazar and Eastern Empire regiment as well. He commanded a polyglot army, parts of which had suffered a terrible defeat. The Easterners, in particular, were demoralized. Alexandros had drilled them relentlessly, hoping to restore their spirit, but it was slow going. Soon the combined army would take the field to drive the Persians back into Constantinople, or even beyond, and Alexandros was impatient to begin.

Dahvos, kagan of the Khazar people and bek of the war host fighting for the Emperor of the East, stared gloomily down at the harbor of Perinthus. His curly blond hair was tied back behind his head, though the damp air encouraged an untidy sprawl around his shoulders. Out of habit, even within the presumably safe confines of the town, he wore a heavy shirt of overlapping iron wedges over a thick felted shirt. He carried a round iron helmet with a tapered crown and ornamented chin guards under one muscular arm. A dark green cloak hung from broad, well-muscled shoulders and the worn bone hilts of a longsword hung from a leather baldric at his side.

Below the Khazar prince, the harbor was busy with barges and boats swarming around the flanks of square-sailed merchantmen. Lines of men crowded the docks, boarding amid a confusion of wagons and horses and longshoremen and bales of goods. Tall standards surmounted by golden eagles and wreaths of silver laurel were being carried aboard the ships. Clusters of red-cloaked officers huddled among the throngs of men, deep in conversation. Soon the motley fleet would put to sea for Egypt.

"What ails you, brother?"

Another Khazar, this man taller, older, leaner, with rumpled black hair, leaned against the wall. Merriment danced in his blue eyes. Dahvos grimaced at Jusuf, then turned his attention back to the port. "I see our strength fleeing, and I wonder what the boy-king Alexandros is thinking. With the departure of the Western troops, only these Goths, our lancers and the Eastern Legions remain. Barely half the strength just defeated before Constantinople."

Jusuf nodded, though he did not seem as disturbed as his half-brother. "You heard what those fishermen said-the Persian fleet left the city, and many soldiers crowded the decks of their ships. Don't you think most of the Persians have left as well? Even the Eastern officers seem convinced the dreadful Boar has turned his attention elsewhere."

"Perhaps. But why? They have the upper hand here-Shahr-Baraz could tusk his way into Greece with ease. Even with the boy-king's touted Goths, I wonder if we could stop a determined attack. Where is the wisdom in letting a wounded enemy live?"

Jusuf raised an eyebrow and tried to keep from laughing, but mostly failed. "You're not smitten with our young comes and his battle wisdom, are you? You call him a boy-yet he's older than you! What sets you on edge about him?"

Dahvos' expression contorted into a grimace and then a snarl. The subject of Alexandros did not lie easy with him. He failed to note the mischief in his half-brother's eyes. "I don't know, but I dislike this Alexandros as much as any man I've ever met. He is ill luck for us, Jusuf. He is a bent arrow."

"Hmm. Well, with the pace of foraging and scouting, I'd say he intends to march against the Persians within the month."

"Yes." Dahvos' expression grew ever more sour. "The comes desires to see the mettle of the Persians for himself-to foray up the Imperial highway to Selymbria or beyond-to see if the enemy will come out of his camps at Constantinople. This-with only his own troops, untried and untested in battle, with these Easterners, whose spirits are as low as a grave, and as muddy, with our own horse-by which, he tells me, he sets great store."

"We have given a good account of ourselves," Jusuf said quietly. "But we will suffer if the enemy has kept his heavy horse in Thrace. Our arms, our armor, the weight of our horses, are not a match for the Persian diquans. But our men are game for the chase-they will not shy away from battle."

"No, they will not! Not when the memory of defeat is so fresh!" Dahvos turned away from the port, eyes glittering in anger. "But the Eastern cataphracts have been ground up and spit out already and our men are the only ones with the nuts to match the Persians-so we will pay a heavy price to reclaim lost honor."

"What about the Gothic spear wall?" Jusuf raised his chin in challenge, then turned and motioned out beyond the roofs of the town, towards the outer wall and the camps covering the countryside above the port. "Lord Alexandros never fails to express confidence they can stand against any cavalry charge in the world."

"Have you seen them stand in battle?" Dahvos walked along the wall, cloak thrown behind him. The day was cloudy and a constant wet haze lay over the rumpled green hills and the flat, dark waters of the narrow sea. With summer far advanced, it was far too hot. The eastern horizon was a gray line marking the shore of Chalcedon. "I have puzzled through the old books-Hieronomyus of Cardia's Historia and Polybius-and once upon a time the Greek phalanx could withstand any cavalry charge, and break it, drenching the field with blood. Now? Those Goths can barely find a privy pit to piss in… much less march in order and keep those pig-stickers straight."

"They are getting better." Jusuf tried to keep his tone level. "Their skill improves daily and even the Eastern troops are starting to regain their color. I doubt the Eastern foot has been drilled so fiercely in generations!"

"Fine." Dahvos made a sharp motion with his hand. He was still very angry. "What about their cataphracts? Do they drill? No-they mope about the camps, drinking until they fall down, cursing the gods-as if the lord of heaven had anything to do with Great Prince Theodore's idiocy on the Plain of Mars-and acting the lackwit. Listen to me, Jusuf, if we meet the Persians again in full battle, those Eastern knights will break like a rotten trace and spill us all on the cold ground."

Jusuf rubbed his long nose in response, and tapped his chin with his knuckles. "Do you think that the next battle will be decided by the actions of cataphract and clibanarus?"

"Yes," Dahvos snapped, "how else?"

Jusuf shrugged, then leaned an elbow on the battlement again. "I wonder… I think our new commander, this same comes Alexandros you dislike so much, smells the wind changing. The heavy horseman with lance, mace or striking sword in hand, girded in armor from head to tail, his horse likewise barded all about with heavy padding or even iron, has ruled the Eastern battlefield for what? Three centuries?"

"Since Emperor Valens bled out like a trussed pig at Adrianopolis," Dahvos grunted, scowling. "A little less than three hundred years…"

"Yet," Jusuf interjected smoothly, hooking a thumb down at the busy chaos in the harbor, "in the West, Rome has ridden out shock after shock, losing whole provinces and then wresting them back from the barbarians. Where are their clouds of horsemen, their cohorts of knights? They have kept their traditional Legions-oh, supplemented by barbarian horse, surely-but the core of their armies, which have been victorious for more than seven hundred years, remains the foot soldier with his shield, his stabbing sword, his weighted javelins."

"What does this have to do with Alexandros and his Goths?" Dahvos winced, hearing a surly whine creeping into his voice. "He's brought a mishmash of men on foot, men that ride then fight afoot, archers, that bastardized outdated phalanx, lancers…"

"More than that," Jusuf said, laughing, bending close. "Did you know Alexandros has appropriated all those loose horses we gathered up during the retreat from Constantinople? His quartermaster levied every wagon he can find in Thrace. He even stole all the mules that should be going with those Western troops-said they didn't have enough hulls to carry them away."

Dahvos' scowl faded, slowly replaced by a considering look. "How many horses and mules does he need?"

"Enough," Jusuf said, grinning at the audacity, "to put every man in his army on horseback, and all their biscuit, gear and arrows on mule or wagon. He marched down here from Magna Gothica with half his men on horseback and it took them two months. I was breaking bread with that big moose tarkhan of his-Clothar Shortbeard-and he guesses they could make the return trip in half the time."

"Huh." Dahvos' eyelid twitched. He did not seem impressed. "But can they… no, can he fight?"

"He can." Jusuf seemed very sure. "If that is your worry, set it aside."

"You're so sure? Why?"

"You'll see." Jusuf was still grinning. "You will see."

Dahvos didn't see how his half-brother could be so sure, but Jusuf was so confident he let the matter drop. The kagan had enough work of his own to do, getting his own troops ready to take the field. Jusuf, on the other hand, seemed to be looking forward to a battle.

Jusuf was letting his mare trot along at an easy pace, enjoying clear blue skies and a warm summer day, when battle presented itself. Five weeks had passed since the conversation on the town wall, and true to his word, Alexandros marched his army-ready or not-out of their camps at Perinthus and up the northeast highway towards Constantinople. The Goths and Khazars broke camp with admirable efficiency and got underway the first morning. The Eastern troops struggled manfully for most of the day, finally being forced to march by torchlight into late evening to catch up with the rest of the army. Jusuf had been out watching with the picket when they straggled into the main camp. As he expected, the Eastern infantry arrived in good order, wagons packed, gear stowed and kit in fighting trim. The cavalry had not, in fact, arrived until the next day, heads low and banners furled.

Alexandros had not been pleased, but despite everyone's expectation, he did not punish the cavalry officers. Instead, the army had been roused the following day by horns and bucina-call before dawn and they marched for three straight days at what amounted to breakneck speed for the legionaries. Forced to keep up with everyone else, the Eastern horse shrugged off their ill-humor. Faced with obvious loss of face to some mud-footed infantry, the cataphracts rose to the occasion. The Khazars, laughing behind their hands, tried not to jeer the Eastern horsemen, but it was difficult. The Eastern legionaries and Gothic foot had shown no such restraint.

This morning, Alexandros had deployed the Khazar light horse under Jusuf's command in a wide-ranging screen in front of his main advance. Everyone expected to reach the large town of Selymbria today, through which they had fled in such haste four months before. Jusuf's memory of the place was poor-rain, exhaustion and a wagon hanging from the road, wheels spinning uselessly in the mud. He remembered straining, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with a dozen other men, pushing it back onto the road while rain bit his eyes and his boots slurped into clinging black mud.

A shout of alarm and the peculiar whistling sound of arrows plunging from a high shot roused Jusuf from his memories. His riders were turning, swinging away from the road and into a field of wheat stubble. Other men-in darker clothing, with tubular, trailing dragon banners-appeared across the lot, pouring out of two lanes cutting through thatch-roofed houses. Jusuf clucked at the mare and she picked up the pace, high-stepping down the bank. Black arrows flickered in the air and one of them struck the road a wagon's length away, then sprang back up, flipping end for end, before rattling onto the paving stones.

"Avars!" Shouted one of Jusuf's men, wheeling his horse around to face the tarkhan.

"Quite a number of them," Jusuf said, shading his eyes with a hand. The crowd of Avar horsemen was growing bigger. Now some had appeared on the main road and they spilled out into line on either side of the highway. A few of the stronger Avar archers were shooting high, hoping for a lucky hit. Jusuf nudged his horse to the side. She whickered at him questioningly, then skipped away as a black-fletched shaft sank into the earth inches from her fetlocks. "Ride back and find Alexandros," he said, watching the Avars pour around the farm buildings like water from an opened sluice. "Tell him we've found about, oh, six thousand Avars-mostly light horse, but a goodly proportion of their knights."

The man rode off in haste, kicking up a cloud of dust. Jusuf moved himself under the shade of a big willow standing beside the road above a culvert. He was pleased to see his riders spread out into a skirmish line, loosing long shots from their bows when they spied an interesting target. Three couriers found him under the tree, riding up with their young horses streaked with sweat.

The Avars continued to arrive. Now Jusuf spied tall horse tail banners and golden horns and a thick cluster of men in bulkier armor. He whistled, standing in his stirrups, peering at the enemy.

"Avi, you ride back and find comes Alexandros and tell him the Avar khagan-or at least his household guard-is on the road in front of us."

The boy bolted off, like a good courier, and Jusuf called to his signaller to blow retreat in good order, which produced the skirling wail peculiar to Khazar horns. More arrows lofted into the air, the sun glittering from their points and Jusuf and his command cantered away, back towards the line of trees on the southern side of the stubbled field. The Roman army will arrive soon, he thought.

Behind the retreating Khazars, the Avar columns continued to spread out, slowly forming a solid body across the road, and two heavy wings stretching across the fields. Despite the poor quality of their Slavic allies-well, subjects really; a motley aggregation of Croats, Moravians and Sklavenoi-the Avar officers were excellent and they did not brook disobedience from their vassals.

Despite Alexandros' eagerness to test himself against the Persians, Jusuf spent the rest of the day falling back field by field, keeping the Avars busy while waiting for the Roman army to arrive. The skirmishing was desultory, since the Khazars easily kept at long bowshot, save when they fell back through an orchard or woodlot. All of the land around Selymbria was heavily built up, filled with farmhouses and fieldstone walls. By nightfall, Jusuf had lost only a dozen men, and at least two of those might have gotten lost in the maze of tracks and lanes. As soon as the sun dipped behind the western hills, the Avars halted their advance.

Jusuf told off his men to keep a picket line across the main road and through the trees and brambles on either side. He let his horse rest, browsing on thin yellow grass under the olives. His courier riders squatted down among the gnarled trees and ate some legion biscuit-a hard, flat bread like a meal cake and as solid as old leather-and washed it down with wine they had appropriated from one of the farmhouses. Jusuf had been surprised, as the long day unwound, at the absence of any farmers, or stock, or even chickens. He wondered how the locals knew to flee. The absence of men among such signs of their industry-for these Romans were industrious, if nothing else, and Jusuf felt a little trapped to be in such a close, cluttered landscape-lent everything an ominous air.

"Ho! Tarkhan!" Jusuf looked up and his guards relaxed a little, lowering their bows. One of the courier riders assigned to Dahvos rode up, ducking his head under low-lying branches. His horse seemed rested and filled with mischief-it bit at Jusuf's mare, earning a wall-eyed glare in return. "Comes Alexandros wishes to speak with you."

"Fine." Jusuf levered himself from the ground, grunting, and took one of the fresh horses. "If anything happens, send two riders to find me and don't lose track of the enemy," he said to the men still squatting under the trees. "Otherwise, I will be back before dawn."

It was full dark by the time Jusuf passed through a picket of legionaries on the road and reached the main camp. The comes followed standard Eastern practice, choosing a big triangular section of waste ground filled with brambles and Scythian thistle between a road junction and two fields filled with ripening melons. Despite the irregular space, the Easterners were busy, digging a long ditch first facing the road, crossed by two earthen ramps, and then around the other two sides of the camp. As was customary, the army engineers marked the boundaries with ropes strung on stakes. The ditch lay on one side of the boundary rope and a palisade of sharpened stakes and cut logs on the other. Where there had been insufficient time to build the fence, army wagons were lined up to close the gaps.

Bonfires burned cheerfully at each gate and along the avenues leading into the camp. Some men were awake, either on guard duty, or just sitting in front of their tents, as Jusuf rode through to the praetorium at the center of the encampment. Everyone else seemed to be asleep, or at least pretending to sleep. Jusuf had heard many soldiers boast of being able to doze anywhere, but most men, he knew, would be praying, or thinking of home. There would be battle soon and only the lord of heaven knew who might live and who might die.

Grooms ran out to take his horse as Jusuf dismounted and he smelled stew bubbling on the fire and lamb and mutton roasting. The air was filled with the soft sound of thousands of horses munching oats and grass. All the stable tie-lines were set at the center of the camp, within a protective shield of infantry cohorts. Alexandros was still awake, which came as little surprise to the Khazar. When did the general ever sleep? He ducked into the tent.

"Tarkhan Jusuf, welcome." Alexandros was sitting on a backless, tripodal chair. A large rug covered the floor of the tent, and the other commanders-Chlothar Shortbeard, Dahvos, an Easterner named Valentinius who commanded the Roman foot, and lord Demetrios, who was responsible for the rabble of Eastern cataphracts-were arrayed on either side. Jusuf nodded to them, then hooked over a camp stool and sat down.

"Comes Alexandros," he said in greeting.

Alexandros smiled, brushing a long lock of hair out of his face. It was a habit and Jusuf saw the Macedonian was in good humor. "I received your messages by rider, Jusuf, as to the advance of the enemy and their encampment for the night. Is there anything else? Have you seen any Persian troops afield, or only Avars?"

"No, comes," Jusuf answered, seeing that a fuller report was expected. "We've seen a large number of Avar horse-both light horse-archer and knights-as well as, late in the day, a quantity of Slavic foot on the main road. They were bringing up wagons at dusk and laagering-as the Goths would say-about a mile from our positions. With the addition of the Slavs, there must be at least twelve thousand men. I saw the khagan's banners and his guardsmen, though I did not set eyes upon Bayan himself."

"You know him by sight?" Alexandros leaned forward, quite interested.

"Yes," Jusuf said. "As a youth I was sent to the Avar court as a hostage. I know the khagan Bayan well."

"Excellent." Alexandros slapped his knee. "Tell me about him. What kind of man is he? Does he favor one hand over the other?"

Jusuf paused, marshalling his thoughts. His time among the Avars now seemed quite distant, though less than a decade had passed since he'd been sent to live among them. There had been talk of an alliance then, between peak-roofed Itil and the hring-the triple-walled Avar capital at Serdica in Moesia-but nothing came of the matter. In the old days, the T'u-chueh would have forbidden such an alliance-they despised the Avars and called them slaves-but the T'u-chueh empire had lately fallen into disrepair.

"My lord," Jusuf said at last, having summoned up old memories and arranged them to his liking, "this khagan is named Bayan, after his grandfather. Unlike his father Jubudei, he is neither patient nor wise; he is reckless and given to bold maneuvers. Bayan is stout, shorter than most of his kind. He hides his right arm-an arrow cut the elbow in a border skirmish, making the limb weak. So he fights with his left hand. When he was a young man, he won many victories over the Gepids in the west, over the Bulgars and the Slavs. Even the Blue Huns pay him tribute."

"Do you think he will lead in battle himself?"

"No, comes, not with a weak arm. He will stay back, and let his umen commanders handle the line of battle."

"Good." Alexandros' curiosity was satisfied. "Tomorrow we may fight, if the enemy has the stomach for battle. All of you have seen the ground-very poor for horses, filled with streams and fields and orchards. If we fight here, matters will be decided by our infantry in close quarters."

The Macedonian smiled broadly and stood, filled with nervous energy. He paced the circumference of the tent, harsh voice ringing. "I cannot think of a better place to fight this enemy. Our men, on foot, are the match for two, three, even four times their number in these barbarians. It may be the Avar khagan has tired of sitting at Constantinople and has taken the field to loot, to pillage, to forage for his men. Therefore, we will rise up before dawn and attack, straight up the road. My Goths will lead, and your men, Valentinius, will follow close behind. When we come upon the Avars, you shall deploy on either flank."

"And my men?" Demetrios wore a remarkably foul expression on his face. "What shall we do-hold your horses?"

Jusuf raised a mental eyebrow at the man's truculence, though his face remained impassive.

"You, Demetrios, will be waiting on our far left wing, waiting for the kagan Dahvos here and his lancers to draw the attention of the enemy. They will cover the left flank of the legionaries, as they advance. You will wait for certain news to reach you."

"What news?" The cataphract's ill temper did not abate, a purplish flush rising at his throat. Jusuf watched with interest, wondering if the man might burst a vessel right there in the tent and expire. The Eastern nobleman was certainly choleric enough…

"You will wait," Alexandros said in a genial tone, "for the Avar knights to try and swing wide to our left, around the brawl that will inevitably develop in the center, and then you will fall upon them like Zeus' own thunderbolt and destroy them."

Demetrios blinked, then sat back, rendered speechless. He had not expected to be given a place in the line of battle.

"But you must wait," Alexandros continued, "until the enemy-goaded beyond anger by our slaughter in the middle-unleashes all his dogs, not just a few, and they are intent upon their prey. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Demetrios said, choking, suddenly aware of the fierce look on the Macedonian's face and the way Alexandros loomed over him. "We will wait until the moment is right."

"Good." Alexandros' face was very hard and Jusuf wondered if the comes had been drinking. There was something about the quicksilver change in his emotions that brought the grape to mind. "If you charge too soon, or not at all, indeed-if you fail to perform adequately, Demetrios, then you will find yourself unable to perform at all."

Sweating with fear, Bayan, son of Jubudei, khagan of the Avar nation, woke in darkness. Heavy quilts lay across his body and silken pillows cushioned his head. Concubines, comfortably warm, curled on either side of the Avar. In the gloom, he could hear the girls breathing softly, deep in sleep. The khagan's face twitched and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep from crying out. Though the night covered his right arm, Bayan could feel the limb lying stiff beside him, the flesh cold and inert. Grunting with an effort, he groped across the quilts with his good arm.

Beside his bed, on a folding lacquered table, his fingertips brushed across a bow stave of horn and springy wood. Something like a hot, bright spark flashed in the darkness. Bayan gasped, and felt a hot, warm rush of strength flood his body. Ignoring the sleepy complaints of the two girls, the khagan threw back the quilts and rolled out of the bed. Outside, lanterns hanging from the eaves of his great tent shed a faint illumination.

Bayan watched his right arm, streaked by pale bands of light, and the limb trembled with suddenly flowing blood, with the flush of life, and then stringy muscles swelled and firmed with visible speed. The khagan felt joy fill him, even as his arm grew stronger and stronger. He clasped the tall bow, glittering and dark in the faint light, to his breast. His right hand clenched into a fist.

"What a gift!" He breathed, barely audible even to himself. "What a gift."

Even the bearer had been delightful, the perfect emissary to catch Bayan's attention…

The T'u-chueh bent one knee, neck exposed between his oily black hair and the top of his laminated armor. Bayan snorted, turning from his place at the edge of the raised wooden platform. He did not deign to look fully upon the ambassador. "Rise, Persian slave."

The T'u-chueh stood, his temper admirably leashed. Bayan was in a foul mood, as were his advisors, a grizzled set of older men standing close by. They glowered at C'hu-lo, fingering their weapons. Persia was no longer a friend of the Avars, not after the disasters of the previous spring. Sending one of the eastern lords to treat with them was daring-had not the Avar broken free of the T'u-chueh yoke a hundred years before? Didn't the eastern Turks call the Avars "slave" and "beast"? But Bayan acknowledged, silently, the sight of the single-braid kneeling before him was pleasant.

"Great lord, my master sends you warm greetings, offering you gifts and tokens of his friendship." C'hu-lo pulled a gorytos from his back in a smooth motion, laying the bow case down on the rough-hewn planks. In the bright sunlight the case gleamed a rich dark red. The horsehide was carefully treated, rubbed with preserving oils, the nap of fine hair arranged just so. Leather edging surrounded the mottled red-and-white hide, punched with signs representing the sky, the wind, the gods, the horses and the people. "The king of kings thinks you will find this small gift, the least of gifts, pleasing."

Bayan did not look at the case, his face turning dark with anger. The khagan was a stout man, shorter than his advisors, with one arm hidden in the folds of his fur vest. His other hand, his left, tugged at a thin patchy beard. Like his captains and advisors, he was wearing a long peaked cap of green felt and a fur-lined cape. Armor of riveted iron rings covered his barrel-like chest and hung down past his waist. His features echoed C'hu-lo's own-a flattened nose, high cheekbones, a slant to his eyes. To the Eastern eye, there were subtle differences; the Avar khagan wore his long black hair in two plaits, where the T'u-chueh favored one.

"You are not pleased, lord of men? Has the king of kings given offense in some way?"

The Avar advisors growled, bristling, and one of them drew his curving cavalry sword. The T'u-chueh did not respond, watching Bayan with a patient, stoic expression, one hand flat on the platform.

"What is the cost of Persian friendship?" Bayan looked down upon C'hu-lo. "You offer a single bow and the swords of the Romans will take ten thousand of my subjects. You offer fine words and promises of victory, but the Romans will deliver fire and death. Three years we strove against the walls of the City. We took nothing but windrows of the dead. Where is the glory there? The prizes? The slaves? Cold and rotting in the ground with my sons, with the sons of my sons."

C'hu-lo remained impassive; though the fury and hatred in Bayan's voice was hot enough to set wood alight. In response, he unhooked three clasps holding the bow case closed. Deftly, he opened the case, revealing the bow and arrows within to the sky. The Avars surrounding him hissed in surprise.

The bowstave was a sleek dark wood on the inner face, then glossy bone on the outer. It was of a full length, the "man" bow of the Huns, with a long curving topstave and a shorter, thicker foundation. Coiled strings, shining with oil, sat in leather holders on the inside of the case. A sheaf of arrows, the shafts painted in blue, the fletching white-and-gray goose, filled the other half of the case. C'hu-lo stood, holding the weapon in his hands. "This is the bow of a king, of a hero."

Bayan's face darkened, turning a muddy red color. C'hu-lo matched his stare. Bayan thought his heart might burst, so fiercely did it hammer in his chest. "Here, lord of men, take it, draw it, set your sight upon a pleasing target."

Bayan could not bring himself to speak. His right arm, hidden in the vest, slipped out. The limb was withered, scored by a long curling scar lapping over the elbow. C'hu-lo took the moment-the advisors averted their eyes from the khagan's shame-and stepped close, looking slightly down on the man. "Lord Bayan," he whispered, "put your hands upon this weapon, feel the power! The king of kings offers you not insult, but a great gift."

Bayan glared up at him, but then paused, seeing a strange pleading in C'hu-lo's eyes.

"My arm is too weak," the khagan whispered. "You insult me before my men!"

"No, great lord," C'hu-lo's voice was low and urgent. "Here is the string, well waxed, a shaft, straight and true. Do as your fathers have done, string, draw, loose! Trust me and you will be delivered from shame."

Bayan shook his head, refusing to touch the weapon. C'hu-lo knelt again, holding the bow above his head. "If you do not find the weapon sufficient, great lord, then strike off my head."

C'hu-lo thrust the bow into Bayan's hands, forcing the man to take the stave, lest the weapon drop. No T'u-chueh, or Avar, would allow such treatment of a bow. The T'u-chueh bent his head to the planks, dragging aside his hair with one hand, exposing a tanned neck. His voice muffled, he said, "This thing is in your heart, great khagan-your ancestors look down. See the pride in their eyes!"

Bayan grimaced, but the bow felt good in his hands. He looked around, seeing his advisors-the lords of the Avar clans, the chiefs of the towns under his sway, his kinsmen, the friends of his youth-still looking away in embarrassment. Among their people, it defied the gods for the khagan to be crippled or flawed in the body. But Bayan's affliction came late in life, well after he had established himself and sired many strong sons. Each day he cursed the chance Roman arrow. It had been such an insignificant skirmish in the depths of winter too. There had been many victories in his youth and his legend was strong among the yurts and campfires of the people. His recent failures ate at him like a cancer. The Romans would be his slaves!

The khagan looked out on the marshlands, squinting into the sun. The land was green and verdant, filled with stands of aspen and willow, cut by hundreds of channels, sparkling bright under the sun. Egrets and herons filled the air, sweeping and darting in numberless flocks. This was a rich land, filled with game. It pleased the khagan to know true men hunted in these willow breaks and fished in these plentiful streams. In the distance, there was a thundering of wings and a flock of geese suddenly bolted into the sky. Doubtless one of the wild cats hunting in the estuaries startled them up.

Bayan swallowed, then put the bow to his knee. A leather pad was sewn into his legging for just such a purpose. His fingers remembered what to do, at least, and he slipped the tightly wound string loop under the base of the bowstave. The other end hooked over the top and the wood of the stave began to flex. Despite gnawing fear, Bayan put the arrow to the stave, then-in a sudden hush-pushed the string away from him, drawing, sighting, seeing the geese climbing into the summer sky, leading the first bird, then-snap! — the arrow was away, lofting into the sky.

The khagan shuddered, feeling nauseated, but the arrow rose and rose and then, reaching the top of its arc, fell gently, piercing the goose through the center of its great white-and-gray body. There was a burst of feathers and the bird fell, plummeting, into the marsh below. Bayan's mouth was open in surprise. He could not bring words to his lips.

"See," C'hu-lo whispered, rising and leaning close, "the king of kings is mighty. His strength flows to your arms from his heart. In this way, all his friends are exalted."

Bayan watched as half-naked boys ran out from the base of the hill, leaping amongst the pools, running between tall stands of green cane. Soon they would bring him his kill, the first of the season, and it would roast over a stone pit, a delicacy for all the warriors thronging to his tent.

"Feel your arm, lord of men, is it strong?"

Bayan nodded, flexing the fingers of his right hand. The bowstave felt good in his hands, right and proper. His hand seemed powerful, not so weak and pale. Strong, like the Avar nation.

"Hey-yup!" Jusuf pointed with his lance, rear strap wrapped around his arm, through the crowd of legionaries jogging along the road, and the column of light horse following him swerved like a flock of birds turning over a lake. The mare whickered, found the footing on the side of the road suitable and half-trotted, half-slid down the bank into high grass. Jusuf let the horse find her own way. He turned in the saddle and watched his men pick their way down the slope.

On the road, long lines of Eastern infantry moved north at step-and-a-half time. A column of nearly a hundred men tramped past, long rust-colored tunics hanging down to their knees, broad-toed boots ringing on the paving stones. Each man had a leather quiver slung on his back, heavy with arrows, his bow in hand, half-strung. A small, round wooden shield-painted a solid color and bossed with iron-bounced on his shoulder. Most of the archers carried axes thrust into broad leather belts, or short swords hung from a strap. In the Eastern manner, their hair-most of them were bareheaded, though some sported straw hats against the sun-was cropped short in a style the Khazar heard called "leonine," though they looked nothing like any species of lion Jusuf had ever seen.

The Khazar light horse trotted through high grass, stirring up a drifting cloud of dust and seeds to hang in the air, glowing in the early morning light. The entire Roman army had started moving before dawn, and Jusuf was hurrying, trying to get into position before the battle started. Dahvos and the main body of the Khazar horse were somewhere behind him, held up on the road or trying to pick their way through the maze of farm tracks paralleling the highway. The high grass suddenly fell away and the mare splashed through a shallow stream and up a stony bank. Almost immediately, Jusuf shouted to his trumpeters to sound a warning call.

"Time to cut wood," he said, chuckling to his aides.

Long wide-mouthed horns of beaten bronze wailed.

A hundred yards away the Avar camp was awake and alarmed, with men pouring out of a farmhouse and leaping up from the ground like ants disturbed from a nest. A huge crowd of Slavs spread out across the open fields, hair hanging lank around tattooed shoulders, the rising sun winking on iron caps and the points of their spears.

"Deploy in loose order!" Jusuf shouted, turning and riding towards the highway on his right. The Khazar lancers advanced to the left of the Eastern infantry, providing an appetizing target for the Avar knights. All around Jusuf, his men rode up out of the stream in a steady wave, lances unlimbered or bows laid across their saddles. A hundred feet away, as Jusuf trotted to the end of the line, a cohort of Eastern Empire heavy infantry splashed across the stream as well. Between the stream and the houses was a long section of open, flat ground. They advanced with a measured step, heavy oval shields facing the enemy. Each man marched forward with a long spear angled up and ahead, steel helmet shining, a tuft of cloth-matching the color of his shield-dancing at the point. The tramp of their boots boomed in time with a shouted cadence.

Beyond them, barely visible against the bright eastern sky, ranks of Goths filled the main road. Jusuf ignored them for a moment and cantered up to the edge of the Roman infantry. A dozen paces from the edge of the formation, a grizzled-looking veteran was walking backwards, his red cape swirling around his legs, watching the alignment of the men.

"Centurion!" Jusuf called as he rode up. "Good day!"

The officer looked up, scowling, then made a face to see some barbarian looming over him. "What do you want?"

"To wish you and your men good luck," Jusuf said, leaning on his saddle horn. He felt a little giddy with battle imminent, and the air was clear and sharp and the morning birds were singing. With luck the day would be gloriously clear, though at the moment a haze drifted among the trees. "We'll watch your back."

The Roman officer stared at him for a moment, walking backwards, one eye gauging his men's advance. Then the man grunted and waved in acknowledgement.

"Good hunting!" Jusuf shouted, saluting to the men in the ranks, some of whom were looking over at him curiously. Then he clucked at the mare and turned back to see to his lines. The Khazars had crossed the streambed and fanned out in an easy trot. Across the fields-studded with individual trees and piles of stones gathered by farmers-the Avars were pouring out of their encampment in a black flood. Horns blew and drums beat furiously. Jusuf looked off to his left and frowned. There was no sign of the Eastern cataphracts lurking among the brush and trees.

"Signal advance at a walk!" Jusuf signaled to his banner and trumpet men. Flags fluttered in the air and there was more wailing and honking. Mindful of Dahvos' warning to stay out of trouble, Jusuf tossed his lance to one of the couriers behind him, then drew his striking sword. "Advance!"

"My lord! The Romans…"

"I can hear them." Bayan was watching the morning sky, chin raised while servants bustled around him, strapping greaves and armored plates to his legs, his arms. A light fog was dissipating, leaving the sky a clear blue. A few thin clouds streaked the face of Tengri's heaven. A broad leather belt was cinched at his waist and he lowered his arms, letting the armorers slide a back-and-breast of laminated iron strips over his arms. The khagan pursed his lips, finally considering the umen commanders kneeling before him. "What do you see?"

The young man kept his face impassive, though Bayan could see a vein throbbing on the side of his neck. "A Roman army, lord of the world… a large force of infantry is astride the road, while cavalry is forming up on either wing."

"Their numbers?" Bayan shifted his bow from one hand to the other, allowing the armorers to secure the straps on his right arm and slide an armored glove over his fingers. The khagan flexed his fingers in the glove, finding the mesh of iron rings firm. He nodded absently to one of the servants, who opened a small box and took out a steel ring, incised with interlocking geometric shapes. The thumb ring fit snugly over the armored glove and Bayan turned the ring slightly, ensuring the smooth inner surface sat under his thumb.

"Three thousand foot in the middle, my lord. Four thousand Khazars on the right, and another four thousand Roman horse on the left." The umen commander made a face at his mention of Roman horse. Bayan understood-the men of the Stone City might have a rich empire, but they were not horsemen. At least the Khazars could draw, loose and ride at the same time. "But more men are still coming out of the woods."

Bayan scratched his beard, thinking. The color of the sky promised a beautiful, clear day. Even the damp closeness of the woods and fields did not weigh on him as it usually did. "I will command the right wing," the khagan said briskly. "My household guard and the heavy horse will be under my banner. The Sklavenoi and Slavs and other lesser men will hold the center, among the buildings. Place Jujen and his umen on the left, to screen the flank. I doubt the Roman horsemen will be able to dislodge him!"

The umen commanders laughed, rising and bowing to their khagan. Bayan was pleased to see their faces filled with eagerness for battle and honorable glory. The sky father would bless them today!

An hour passed with Jusuf keeping a weather eye on the Roman lines. His riders wheeled and darted towards the slowly assembling Avar lines, loosing clouds of arrows into the Slavic spearmen. This drew shouts of rage and occasional warriors burst from the ranks of their fellows, running out to hurl a spear or a javelin at the Khazar riders, who danced away, laughing. The enemy maintained his line, though Jusuf saw at least a dozen Slavs-wild white hair, thick with grease and clay, barely armored in leather jerkins or woad-blue tattoos-cut down by their Avar officers.

Jusuf bit his thumb nervously. Those Avar beki jegun are good. They'll kill a hundred men to keep the rest in good order…

The huge mass of the Slavs was being reinforced by troops of Avar horse-glinting mail and horsetail plumes and tall spears-and moving forward. There were a lot of Slavs on the field today, and behind them, half-hidden by the mass of spear- and axe-men and the cloud of dust they raised, bands of cavalry were forming up. Jusuf began to get a feeling the full weight of the Avar nation had come down the road from Constantinople.

He suddenly felt foolish. His appreciation of the comes Alexandros' tactics had blinded him. Soon enough, the Avars were going to storm right into his line and try their best to kill him and his men. Jusuf shook himself, like a soft-mouthed Charka hound rising from some prairie lake. A trickle of fear pulsed through the Khazar and he took a firm grip on his sword-hilt.

Then a shrill of bucinas and a thunderous kettledrum roar sounded from the center of the Roman line. Without Jusuf noticing, his portion of the line had carried forward beyond the axis of the Roman advance and now, looking off to his right, he could see back into the center. The lines of round Eastern shields had parted, folding back like a clockwork, and a great host of men advanced up the highway, pikes swaying above like young saplings. The Goths advanced on the Avar center with a deep basso shout and the tramp-tramp-tramp of their hobnailed boots.

The haze shrouding the field faded and Jusuf wheeled his horse, riding back, shouting for his banner commanders. "Fall back! Re-form on the Roman line!"

Down on the road, the Goths deployed with surprising ease, flooding out across the highway and falling into twelve deep ranks. The drums continued to beat, shivering the air, and Jusuf saw a stillness fall across the Avar front. Every man was staring at the apparition emerging from the Roman lines. The Gothic ranks continued to deploy, pikes upright, swaying almost in unison as the men below marched forward. At the edges of the phalanx, more Goths ran forward, a mixture of armored men with bows and some with swords and maces.

Horns wailed and the phalanx rippled like a snakeskin, the long spears dipping as one and suddenly the Avars were faced with a solid wall of iron points. The first five ranks held their spears low, underarm, while those behind remained raised. The maneuver developed effortlessly and the phalanx swept forward without so much as a missed step.

From his vantage, Jusuf suddenly felt a chill and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Oh, lord of heaven, his mind raced, Anastasia was right-this is no actor playing the king of kings, this is the very man himself!

Moments later, the phalanx ground into the center of the Avar line at a swift walk and there was a resounding crash of metal on wood and flesh. The Avar host reeled back from the shock and Jusuf could see men screaming, dying, pierced through by eighteen-foot spears. The Goths stabbed overhand, leaf-shaped points licking into throats and chests. The first three ranks stood their ground, holding the Slavs back with a thicket of iron. A drum boomed, a single deep note, and the phalanx advanced a step.

Terrible confusion gripped the Avar center. The phalanx was hungry and it ate into the crowd of barbarians-armed with axes, short spears, javelins, swords-who could not come to grips with the iron-faced men in the twelve ranks. At the same time, the flanks of the Roman advance filled with lines of Peltasts, running up with their great bows to take a shooting stance.

A deep roar brewed up from the center, mingled screams and battle cries and the ceaseless stab-stab-stab of the phalanx grinding forward, a step at a time, into the enemy. Avar officers ran out on the sides, lashing the Slavs and drawing their own weapons. The black mass of the enemy began to draw away from the forest of spears and rush forward on either side.

The first rank of archers loosed, the snap of their bows singing across the field. Jusuf flinched as if he had been struck himself. The air was suddenly dark with arrows. The Avar advance staggered and there were more screams. Dozens of men fell, pierced through by yard-long shafts. The second rank of Peltasts loosed hard on the heels of the first and the Slavic line staggered. Then the third rank loosed, shooting high, lofting a black hungry cloud over the heads of their fellows. The first rank had already plucked a fresh arrow, drawn, sighted and loosed again.

The Avar officers screamed, urging their men to stand, but the lightly armored Slavs were being forced back by a constant rain of arrows, loosed at point-blank range. The wicker shields were thick with shafts. Their own archers were trying to shoot back, but everything was in chaos, with men surging back, trying to flee, and more men hurrying up.

The phalanx continued to advance, step by step.

Jusuf tore his attention away from the slaughter. "Stand ready!" His own men formed up, readying arrows. Any moment now the wings of the Avar host would come into play… Jusuf looked back and saw, to his great relief, Dahvos and the heavy Khazar horse surging up out of the streambed, banners snapping in the breeze, their own standards flashing in the morning sun. The Khazar wheeled his horse, surveying his lines and seeing that there wasn't enough space for Dahvos' umens to deploy on this side of the streambed.

Need to clear some room to maneuver, he thought.

"Lancers!" he shouted, voice booming across the field. "With me!"

Surrounded by a thick crowd of nobles on horseback, Bayan rode through a stand of evenly-spaced lemon trees. Thick, glossy leaves brushed his helmet and plucked at his lance. Dappled sunlight fell on dark gray armor under by a shining silk coat printed with a pattern of russet leaves. The khagan felt light, almost exalted. The rumble of four thousand hooves, the creaking of armor and the mutter of men praying or talking surrounded him. The royal guard swept out of the orchard and into the confusion behind the line of battle.

"Clear the way," shouted Bayan's outriders, spurring their horses forward, lances lowered. Crowds of Sklavenoi parted before them, the mountain barbarians staring at the khagan as he passed. Many of the blond and redheaded men watched Bayan pass with ill-disguised anger. The khagan ignored them, for they lived in huts of wattle and daub in the high mountain valleys. Though they were sometimes brave, they could not withstand the practiced efficiency of Avar soldiers.

Horns blew, ringing in the air, and the royal guardsmen began to form up by rank and file, shifting around Bayan like a cloud of dark birds. The hring banner came forward and the khagan raised a hand in salute. Other banners-long dragon-mouthed tubes of cloth, or square blazons holding images of the sun and the lightning-surrounded him.

Ahead, beyond clumped umens of spearmen and axemen, Bayan heard the sound of battle. The earth quivered and he could see arrows in the air, flashing bright as they fell.

"The Khazars," he said, caressing the stave of the bow laid across his saddle horn. "Are they attacking in earnest, or only flourishing before our lines?"

"They harass the foot soldiers," barked one of the beki jegun, quilted armor spattered with dust. The man's voice echoed from behind a full face mask. "Like Huns themselves."

"Very well." Bayan raised the black bow and every man within sight focused on him, their eye drawn-willing or no-to his face. "Form wedge and prepare to attack! We will drive off these slaves of the T'u-chueh and show them how real men fight! You, messenger, inform the commanders of foot we will be moving up. They will clear a lane through their mob for us!"

Men wheeled their horses, eager to do his bidding. Bayan smiled, then laughed aloud.

The day was perfect. His quiver was filled with arrows, fletched with gray goose, and each shaft, he knew, would find destiny in a Khazar heart.

Jusuf slashed his arm down, pointing with the sword, and his line of horsemen bolted forward, hooves drumming on the stubble. The Khazars swung out, riding hard at the Avar line and clumps of high grass, isolated trees and marshy wet ground flashed past. Jusuf held his mare back a bit, letting the first wave of lancers sweep on. A clot of couriers, young faces gleaming with sweat and wild grins, swerved with him and his own bannermen and trumpeters held themselves close, hands tight on their standards and horns, mounts guided by knee pressure.

The lancers swept diagonally across the front of the milling Slavic infantry. There was a great angry shout and the mass of spearmen lunged forward, breaking ranks. The Khazar riders loosed at the gallop, bows singing and arrows flashed down into the ranks of the enemy. Another, angrier, roar smote the air. The lancers nipped in, stabbing overhand, and men toppled backwards along the frontage, faces and chests smeared with blood. Jusuf grinned in delight, letting the mare course across the ground. The Khazars wheeled away, throwing clods and dust into the faces of the Slavs. The Avar infantry ran forward, disintegrating into a mob, screaming and shouting. Even the Avar beki jegun were charging, swords whipping around their heads.

Jusuf turned, letting the dust drift past, then his hand shot up and the flagmen tensed. The Slavic roar was building, growing louder and louder. Out of the corner of his eye, Jusuf saw his lancers swing back and regroup, forming around their umen banners, checking their armor, binding wounds and drawing new weapons to replace those they had lost.

"Again!" Jusuf shouted and his bannermen dipped their flags. The trumpeters winded, sending up a hair-raising noise. The lancers began to trot forward. Dust settled out of the air, and Jusuf felt an almost physical shock. The Slavic infantry was still screaming and shouting, raising a huge noise, banging spears on shields and yelping like a vast pack of demented wolves. But they had not continued their pell-mell, mindless charge. Instead the beki jegun checked their wild rush and the entire mass of the enemy split open like a melon.

A solid mass of horsemen-armor gleaming, twin queues bouncing on armored shoulders, lances glittering like stars, their tube banners stiff in the air-was advancing at a quickening trot, straight for Jusuf and his couriers.

The Khazar's heart stuttered and his mouth went dry. The Avar heavy horse-two, maybe three thousand men in full armor of iron scales sewn to leather and backed with felt, mounts likewise protected on head, neck and forequarters, helms flared and throats protected by an iron gorget-thundered towards him. They were perhaps a hundred yards away, erupting from the mass of infantry with frightening speed.

Dahvos, he gibbered to himself, will only need a moment, just a grain of time…

"Charge!" Jusuf howled, spurring his mare forward. All thought of keeping himself safe fled, and the couriers and bannermen leapt forward with him. In an instant, in a cloud of dust filled with the war cries of a thousand men, the Khazar lancers sprinted forward, spears leveled. Jusuf cursed leaving his lance behind and spared a half-grain to wrap a strap around his wrist and through the hilts of his sword. He shrugged his left arm, feeling the shield strapped there. Wind keened in his helmet and everything became terribly clear.

The Avars spurred forward as well, voices raised in a single huge shout, and the tiny distance between the two lines of men vanished in the blink of an eye.

Jusuf staggered, feeling a wrenching blow on his left arm, and his mare jinked to the side. An Avar lance sheared across the shield, ripping through the first layer of wood and tearing away the iron boss. The Khazar turned hard in the saddle, hacking down with his sword. The lance flicked away as the Avar knight flipped his weapon out of harm's way. Jusuf reversed his blow and blocked desperately with the shield. The lance stabbed past his head, missing his left eye by inches. Shouting, Jusuf slammed his shield out, knocking the long spear away. The Avar's horse, a nimble black creature, snapped at the mare's head and she shied, dancing back. Jusuf cursed again. He needed a lance of his own.

Arrows whistled overhead. A great din stormed at his ears, deafening him with the roars and shouts of men, the whinnying of horses, the clang of metal on metal and on wood. Jusuf spurred, and the mare responded, leaping forward. The Avar knight was already trading blows with another Khazar and Jusuf rushed past, stabbing across his body. The triangular tip of his sword plunged into the man's armpit and came back slick with blood.

There was no time to see if the wound was mortal. More arrows sleeted out of the sky. A Khazar within Jusuf's field of vision jerked and then slid from his saddle, leaving a wide smear of red across mottled gray horsehide. Three arrows jutted from his chest. Jusuf tried to turn, trying to see what was happening, then furiously parried an Avar mace. The blow rocked him against the rear saddle plate, but he wrenched the mare's head around, turning the whole horse and the mace slithered away along his blade. Without thinking, Jusuf punched the Avar knight in the face, his metal-studded glove sparking on a bronzed metal face mask. Pain jolted up to his elbow. The Avar clawed at his mask, trying to adjust his helmet.

Jusuf whipped his sword sideways, cutting into the man's hand and then, as tendons popped and finger bones split under the blow, into his throat. The sword belled, ringing back from an iron gorget around the Avar's neck. The Khazar cursed, laying in another heavy blow. This time the man jerked back, still blind, and the sword blade wedged between chest plate and helm. Another arrow smashed into the shield on Jusuf's left arm, punching through the laminated wood.

The Khazar cursed, blood turning cold, and tried to wrench his sword free. The blade was stuck. He pulled with both hands. The Avar got one eye lined up with an eyehole and it went wide. The man scrambled to draw a sword from a sheath at the side of his saddle. Jusuf abandoned his stuck blade and smashed the Avar full in the face with his shield. As he did, he leaned far over, falling almost off his horse, and across the neck of the Avar stallion.

A gray-fletched arrow flashed above him and cracked through the armor of one of the Khazar bannermen fighting through the press to aid his commander. The boy's eyes went wide, he spat blood and toppled backwards. Jusuf caught the death from the corner of his eye and scrambled back up into his own saddle, the Avar's sword in his left hand. The enemy knight fell out of his saddle and hung upside down, shouting for help.

Jusuf wrenched his horse around, the mare snorting in anger at such rough handling. Another arrow blurred past and another of the Khazar bannermen jerked violently in the saddle. Jusuf blinked, staring across the riot of the battlefield. He was only peripherally aware of the Avar charge smashing through the lancers, scattering them, then swinging with full force into the oncoming ranks of Dahvos' umens.

A hundred feet away, khagan Bayan was sitting easily on horseback, face serene and untroubled. Jusuf blinked and saw the Avar prince raise his bow-a gorgeous black horn-bow nearly five feet high, gleaming in the sunlight-draw, sight and loose in one fluid, powerful motion. The Khazar's eye could barely follow the flight of the arrow, though his head snapped around instantly, and he saw one of the umen commanders in Dahvos' ranks stagger, pierced through by the shot. Jusuf looked back, aghast, and felt a terrible chill.

His arm was ruined! Jusuf's mind struggled to reconcile present sight and past memory. I saw it, all withered and weak! This is impossible.

Bayan plucked another arrow from a quiver slung at his knee and fitted it to the string. The movement was very clear to Jusuf and he could see the powerful fingers of that right arm curling around the grip on the bowstave.

A wave of pigtailed horsemen charged past, long banners fluttering, and Jusuf lost sight of the khagan. Seconds later, he was furiously engaged, trading blows with two Avar knights coming at him from either side. His broken shield took another hammer-blow and shattered, shedding splinters and fragments of wood. Jusuf threw the remains at the man on his left side, then barely blocked a thrust at his leg from the right. The tide of battle swept around him, pushing him away from the khagan.

Another gray arrow flashed through the melee, and another Khazar died.

Chlothar Shortbeard, Alexandros' commander of the phalanx, cursed, pulling off his helmet. The heavy iron bucket spilled sweat and the Frank gasped in relief to be able to breathe. Without thinking, he flipped the leather strap around his saddle horn, letting the spangenhelm bounce against his thigh. It was dangerous to go bareheaded, but he needed to be able to see. The day was getting hotter and he felt he was swimming in this dreadfully hot, wet air. In the last thirty minutes, the center of the slowly expanding battle had congealed. Chlothar snarled for his standard-bearer to come up, and the man did, urging his own horse forward, wither-to-wither with the Frankish captain's.

The main body of the phalanx continued to advance up the road at a steady walk, but they were running out of open ground. Now they were on the verge of the Avar's overnight encampment-a scattering of farmhouses-thatch-roofed, plastered walls over withes or a timber framework-and scattered high-sided Avar wagons. Thankfully, the Slavic infantry had disintegrated and the barbarians were fleeing in a mob through the leather tents and bundles of sleeping hides. A scattering of bodies lay on the road and the embankment.

"Sound halt and re-form!" Chlothar rubbed his chin in disgust, feeling short prickly hairs under his fingers. Beside him, the bucinators immediately began blatting out a stentorian wail. The ranks of the phalanx began to halt, their file leaders howling commands and using rattan canes freely on any man failing to follow the halting drill. The rear ranks stopped first, squaring themselves and shifting their pikes back, out of fouling distance of those ahead. Within a minute the entire mass slid to a halt. Chlothar didn't watch, knowing someone would foul up.

There was a mighty rattle of wood on wood, and then yelps as unfortunate hoplites caught it from their file leaders. Chlothar turned his horse away and trotted along the rear ranks. The Frank stared through the spears, hand shading his eyes against the brilliant sun. The Avars were regrouping among the farmhouses and behind scattered wagons. Some of the Slavs stopped running and Chlothar cursed again, seeing a solid line of shorter men, in darker, heavier armor, appear among the buildings. Brightly colored square banners flapped in the air above them. The Slavs stopped, then turned, shouting defiantly at the Romans.

"Peltasts forward on either side of the road," Chlothar bellowed. "Keep them from forming up!"

Couriers dashed off from the cluster of men around the Frank. Chlothar rose up in his stirrups, straining to see the left and right wings of the army. To the left, there was only a huge, confused, swirling mass of men on horses. Banners jutted up from the field in every direction and the swirl and surge of cavalry in battle was raising a huge cloud of dust. What he could see, however, indicated the Eastern infantry on his flanks holding steady. A distance of at least fifty feet separated them from the Avars, and the opposing lines were staring at each other, waiting for someone to break ranks and attack. The Roman line matched the left edge of the phalanx. Just as it should.

Impressive, the Frank allowed, grudgingly and only in the privacy of his thoughts. The Eastern Legions-the infantry at least-seemed to be every bit as professional as the Western armies. Personally, he was praying desperately to keep from making some irretrievable mistake-Chlothar had only risen to command the hoplites when Prince Ermanerich had been forced to remain in Magna Gothica. He'd felt sick all day.

To the right, however, both armies had collided, with the Eastern foot soldiers engaged in a sparking brawl with the Slavic spear- and axe-men. There the barbarians were stiffened by many Avar knights fighting on foot with longswords or heavy spears. Beyond the melee, where the comes Alexandros and the Companion cavalry were supposed to be in action, Chlothar could see nothing but treetops. Grunting, he turned back to observe the Avars on the road. Given a moment's respite, they were busily dragging wagons across the paved surface of the highway and making an impromptu barricade. Men behind the wagons exchanged bow shots with the Peltasts as they ran forward.

About half of the Peltasts had unslung their oval shields and stood armed with sword, mace or axe. The rest continued to wield the big recurved bow and were shooting at any target of opportunity. Most of the buildings were on fire and smoke billowed up in white clouds from the damp thatch. The Frank shook his head in dismay. Soldiers and fire! Those buildings must be empty by now.

Figuring he had seen enough, Chlothar raised his hand. The runners and signal flagmen tensed. Avar arrows hissed down out of the sky as more of the nomads crowded up to the barricade. Now they were shooting high, trying to hit the men in the phalanx or behind. Their own horse bows could easily make the range.

Chlothar raised his own shield, not a moment too soon. Arrows shattered on the road around him and one of his lieutenants took one in the throat. The Goth choked to death as his companions tried to pull him from the horse and cut it out of his neck. Men died in the phalanx too, but the rest held their ground. Behind the wagon laager, the Avars jeered the approaching Romans. Chlothar ignored them, watching the Peltasts dodge forward through the buildings. In moments the sword and shieldmen would be at the wagon barricade. Arrows continued to flick down out of the smoke. Two of the Frank's big bodyguards moved forward, screening him with long, oval shields.

"Sound advance!" Chlothar barked at the bucina-men and the runners. "Attack!"

Horns bellowed and the file leaders began a marching chant. The phalanx rippled, pikes lowering from rest position and the men began to walk forward. Chlothar watched them uneasily, a sick feeling percolating in his stomach. The comes had once mentioned, in an offhand way, he hoped the hoplites would be able to move at a jog soon, but Chlothar couldn't see them getting up to much more than a fast walk. Not today, anyway. The pikes lowered again in a rippling, rustling motion, which reminded the Frank of trees bending in a high wind.

The phalanx ground forward, flowing inexorably down the road. More arrows flicked out of the smoke. The Avar archers could see them moving, even through the smoke.

Jusuf leaned wearily on the front of his high, four-cornered saddle. His arms felt like lead and sweat streamed out of his helmet and gloves. His left hand burned with pain and he was afraid he'd shattered a knuckle on the Avar's face mask. By some chance, the swirl of battle moved away from him, leaving a cluster of Khazar lancers panting in the drifting clouds of smoke. Most of the men he'd led into the teeth of the Avar charge were dead or scattered across the field, but Dahvos' heavier knights had piled in and were currently locked in a ferocious melee to his left.

Shaking his head to try and clear away the fog of exhaustion, Jusuf stared in disgust at the leather straps hanging on his left arm. The shield was long gone. He needed another.

"Keep an eye out," he said to the lancers on either side of him. Clambering down from his horse was a slow, painful process, but Jusuf spied a fallen shield only a few feet away, spattered with mud and crimson streaks. He oofed when his feet hit the ground-his abused thighs flashed with needle-points of pain-but he managed to reach down and drag the round, iron-bossed shield out of the muck. He flipped it over and muttered a curse. One of the straps was missing.

"Useless!" He cast about for another and saw with surprise he was on the far side of the village. The village itself was now burning merrily, sending long, wispy trails of smoke curling across the battlefield. Somehow, in the struggle, he and his men had cut their way through the original enemy line. Disturbed, Jusuf grabbed onto his saddle and managed-by luck-to get the point of his boot into the stirrup.

"Tarkhan!" One of the lancers pointed back the way they'd come. "The kagan is coming this way."

Jusuf stared at the sight of his half-brother trotting towards him, then clambered up into the saddle. Dahvos was at the head of at least a hundred guardsmen-their armor made in the Persian style, with conical backswept helms and a full mail coat from neck to thighs, with sleeves and leggings of overlapping iron lozenges. Each man wore a green surcoat as well, the linen or wool sticking to the metal in the damp air. A flutter of banners and standards completed a martial picture.

"My lord!" Jusuf called out and urged his horse to move. The mare was very tired, but game, and she managed to amble forward. Dahvos heard the call and turned towards him, raising a hand in greeting. Jusuf waved, feeling some of his exhaustion lift-the kagan would take charge now, and tell them all what to do. Just the sight of his commander was a relief.

Something gray flashed past the tips of Jusuf's fingers.

Dahvos caught the blurring passage of the arrow out of the corner of his eye. His shield swung up, covering his face, and then cracked with a pealing ring as the bolt shattered wood and twisted the iron strap around the rim. The kagan toppled backwards, face wild in surprise at the power of the blow. Two guardsmen caught him before he could fall out of the saddle. Jusuf saw a smear of blood on Dahvos' surcoat, but he was already wheeling his horse towards the enemy.

"Bayan!" he screamed, the shrill sound rising above the tumult of battle. His lancers moved with him, almost as one, and their war cry rang out loud and clear. To the east, the melee among the heavy horse broke open and a thick mass of Avar knights swept free, turning towards Jusuf. Among the riders, the Khazar caught sight of Bayan in his dark gray armor and saw two banners flapping behind the khagan-one was the hring banner of the Avars, three golden rings on slate-and the other was new to him-a mottled red circle on a black field.

"We must kill the man in gray," he shouted to his lancers. The horses surged forward, though their poor hearts were close to bursting. Jusuf ignored the trembling in the mount under him and urged her to leap a marshy section of ground. Arrows flashed past overhead, falling among the Avars, and the enemy shot back. Jusuf's standard-bearer cried out in anguish, but the Khazar couldn't spare a glance sideways. Instead, he thrust the captured sword forward as if it were a spear, thundering into the midst of the Avar knights. Two of his lancers rushed forward, stirrup to stirrup with him.

A wall of Avar knights loomed up, lance tips burning with sunlight. Jusuf's mare continued at the gallop and then she swerved violently, nipping past the first of the Avars. The nomad thrust with his lance and Jusuf flung himself sideways, swinging behind the mare's body, clinging with one hand to the saddle horn. The lance slashed overhead and there was a tremendous crash as one of the Khazar lancers slammed his own spear into the Avar's exposed chest. Jusuf swung back up, slashing sideways at another Avar charging past. The tip of the blade sparked from the man's shoulder plate, but did not penetrate the heavy iron.

The mare continued to gallop forward and Jusuf passed a wild moment as she bolted through another crowd of Avars. Two of the enemy hacked at him-he could only block one blow, and the other bit into the mailed sleeve on his left arm-but then he burst past them as well. Blood slicked his arm where the stroke drove iron links through the woolen shirt and leather into muscle. Blood roared in his ears and the sky faded to gray.

Bayan was only yards away, smiling serenely into the melee swirling around him. He held the black bow high, the top stave well over his head. The khagan drew another gray-fletched arrow to the string. Jusuf spurred the mare and she gave one last, game effort, spurting forward. Jusuf ignored the crowd of Avar guardsmen turning their horses towards him, their arrows flashing through the air, the scream of battle rising steadily on all sides. He even ignored the blowing horns in the distance and the trembling in the ground as thousands of hooves beat the earth.

"Bayan the cripple! Face me, coward!" Jusuf's voice boomed, distorted by the helmet, but the khagan's head snapped around, bow swiveling and his dark eyes widened in recognition. All this, Jusuf saw in a blur as the mare plowed heedlessly, blind from exhaustion, into the flank of the khagan's horse. The Avar steed leapt back, surprised, and kicked violently. The mare reeled drunkenly, stunned by the impact of running headlong into the larger horse's armor and she collapsed, whinnying in pain.

Jusuf leapt free, dragging a dagger from his belt and left hand clutching his sword. Bayan had not fallen-he was far too good a horseman to be thrown by his own horse-but he was forced to seize the reins and bring the big black under control. Gray-fletched arrows littered the sandy ground. Jusuf dodged in as the Avar horse swung towards him and rolled nimbly under the foam-flecked chest. Bayan shouted for his guards, but when the Khazar came up from his roll the saddle strap parted neatly and the khagan slid helplessly to the ground.

Bayan came up furious, eyes glittering. The bow was still clenched in his right hand, but a long single-bladed saber rasped from his sheath with the ease of long practice. Jusuf did not wait for stirring words, or even an insult, but leapt in, slashing at the gleaming black bow with the point of his blade.

The khagan shrieked in fear, snatching the bow back from danger, and Jusuf stabbed with the dagger at the man's face. Unlike his guardsmen, Bayan was wearing an open-faced helmet, which gave him good vision but lacked the full-face protection of their iron masks. The Avar flinched away from the blow and the tip of the dagger scored across his cheek. Face streaming with blood, Bayan blocked wildly. The curved blade of his sword jarred against Jusuf's dagger hilt. For a moment, they swayed back and forth-strength pitted against strength-then the Khazar jumped back, letting his dagger drag, binding along the blade for an instant, and he whipped the longsword in a flat cut at Bayan's head.

With his right hand clutching the precious bow, Bayan could only leap back himself. The tip of Jusuf's sword blurred past his nose. The Khazar swarmed in, his enemy out of balance, smashing heavily at the khagan's guard. Bayan parried furiously, sliding backwards on the soft ground, blocking one stroke, then two. Jusuf drew back, panting, and the Avar got his feet under him. Bayan said nothing, gasping for breath himself, but Jusuf could see undiluted hatred and recognition flare in the khagan's eyes.

I should have left him to die in the snow, the Khazar thought in a still, motionless moment. I had my chance.

Bayan's eyes flickered sideways-searching for his guards-mouth opening to shout, and Jusuf struck. He lunged, the longsword shearing the air beside the khagan's left ear, then slashed down, turning his whole body into the blow as Bayan threw himself to the side. Jusuf's blade bit into the khagan's wrist and ripped through muscle, flesh and bone with a cracking sound. The black bow flew away into the grass and Bayan screamed like a lost child. A long wailing sound, filled with utter despair.

Jusuf stepped in over the khagan his sword flicking up, the sun burning on droplets of blood spilling from the edge.

"Drink, my friend, and tell me what you saw."

Alexandros pressed a leather water bottle into Krythos' hands, tipping up the heavy bag, letting water mixed with vinegar spill into the scout's mouth. The Macedonian waited patiently while Krythos drank. One of the Companions took the bottle when he was done. A ring of men clad in iron surrounded the general, their helmets doffed and held at their saddle horns. The Companion cavalry was armed and armored in the Eastern fashion, with long coats of mail and numerous heavy arms hanging from their saddles. Most of them favored a flanged mace for close combat and lances for the first shock of battle. Most swords would not penetrate the laminated, overlapping armor favored by their traditional enemies.

Like the scouts he commanded, Krythos was clad only in a light shirt of iron rings and his cloak and tunic were mottled, streaked with gray and brown. The scout jerked his chin, pointing back to the middle of the field. A haze of smoke and dust hung over everything. Within the white mist, flames leapt up from a cluster of buildings. Alexandros and his heavy horse stood at the far right end of the Roman line, well beyond the knots of struggling men and the clash of arms where the Eastern infantry drove their enemies back near the center.

"The phalanx," Krythos said, "is fighting among the buildings, in the smoke. The Avars have made a barricade of wagons and the hoplites and Peltasts are trying to break through. The situation is confused. There was too much smoke for me to see who was winning."

Alexandros frowned, eyes thinning to disgusted slits. "That fool Chlothar! The phalanx will be disordered among so many obstructions. What of the Romans on the wings?"

Krythos shrugged. "They advance steadily on this side of the buildings. On the other, they were not fighting, nor was the enemy. The Khazars are locked in furious combat with the Avar right."

"But Chlothar holds the enemy's attention, from all you have seen?"

"Yes, lord. Many Avar banners were clustered at the center."

"Good." Alexandros lifted up his helmet and fitted it over golden curls. "Banners only, no horns! We will attack their flank, with all speed and power. Once we break through, curl to the left. We will drive these barbarians like sheep in the pasture!"

The Companion battle flags dipped and the commanders-of-one-hundred began to move, rounding up their men and the entire mass of horses and riders began to congeal. Fifty feet or so in front of the Companions, a screen of light horse was also in motion, keeping their horses moving in a constant, distracting swirl. Alexandros tugged the chin strap of his helmet tight, then hoisted his lance, finding a good grip on the cornel-wood shaft. The Companions fell into place on either side, forming a wedge trailing back to the left and to the right. The bannermen at the head of each cohort held their flags at an angle, keeping them low.

"Prepare!" Alexandros shouted, and lances rose up all around him, leaf-bladed tips shining. "Ready at the walk!" He nudged his horse and Bucephalas pranced forward, eager, big black head tossing, mane sliding like silk over a powerful neck. At the signal, the ranks of the Companions shifted and began to move forward. The wedge rippled forward as men adjusted their spacing and the horses picked their way over the tufted grass.

"My lord…" Krythos ran alongside Alexandros, his hand on the general's left boot. "You must stay back."

"What?" The Macedonian stared down in surprise-Krythos had never taken such a tone with him before. The scout's brown eyes were filled with worry.

"You're thinking you'll lead the wedge into the enemy." Krythos shook his head in bemusement. "You think you'll crash into them like a hammer, blade and lance drinking blood like some ancient hero." The scout's eyes narrowed and Alexandros was shocked to see amusement flicker across the man's face. "Like Achilles."

"I…" The Macedonian paused, leaning down towards the man. "I will prevail," he bit out, angry at such impertinence. "You've seen me fight-there's no Avar who could withstand my sword."

"I know, I know," Krythos said, nodding in agreement. His fingers curled around the stirrup strap. "I saw you fight the Draculis lord, remember? I saw you take a wound that would have sundered any other man. Aye, and a fine price you exacted from him…"

Alexandros leaned back a little, remembering. Yes, Krythos had been at his side when the lamia had run him through, then lost his head in return. Suspicion darted through his thoughts-what did Krythos think of that strange event? — but he pushed it aside. Time was fleeting, even for men who did not feel death hurrying up behind them. The Avar noyan minghan in command of the facing wing was sure to notice their movement at any moment.

"Then rest easy and take your hand away-I must attack. The moment is right. I can feel it in the air."

"No, my lord. You are not Achilles, slayer of men. You are our general. You must stay out of the fray, watch over the battle and see-like a god looking down from on high-what men locked in combat cannot."

"Take your hand from my stirrup," Alexandros hissed, suddenly furious. His carefully cultivated patience frayed and then he cast it aside entirely. The Macedonian had never accepted any guidance save his own. The man's advice-no doubt well intentioned-goaded his pride like a hot brand. Krythos flinched back from the black look on the general's face, jerking his hand away from the stirrup.

"Hai!" Alexandros spurred the black stallion and the horse bolted away. As he moved, so did the assembled mass of Companions and suddenly they thundered across the grassy field, banners and horse manes streaming in the wind of their passage. Alexandros raced ahead of them, gripped by petulant anger, his face terrible and he bore down upon the Avar flank guards like a lightning bolt.

Krythos stared after him, rubbing his right hand as if burned. Then he shook himself and looked around. His scouts had ridden up and were looking at him with interest.

"What do we do now?" Semfronius asked, stringy black beard jutting out at an angle from under his helmet. Krythos ignored him for a moment while he swung up onto his horse. The scout could feel the earth trembling a little. As he turned his horse, there was a burst of noise-shouting, screams, the wild screaming of an injured horse, the clash and rattle of metal on metal. Krythos didn't bother to look-he had seen men fight before-and waved his hand at the edge of the field.

"Spread out," he called to his soldiers. "We'll cover the far edge of Lord Alexandros' attack, to make sure no one is sneaking about in the orchards. The comes will take care of his own business, I'm sure."

Clouds covered the sun by the time Jusuf limped up to the field hospital. He was glad to see the canvas awning and the bustle of men in priestly robes working among the wounded. There was a thick smell, but the Khazar was used to death, and the stench of drying blood and flesh no longer provoked stomach-churning nausea. A ring of tall willow-wands surrounded the hospital and there was a subtle change in the air as Jusuf passed between them. Inside the invisible barrier, he noted at once there were no flies or insects. Men lay in long rows on the ground, wrapped in woolen blankets. Most of the soldiers were bandaged on the arms or chest, a few in the leg. Some peered up at the gray sky through linen wrappings on their faces. Jusuf knew how they felt; he had lost part of an ear once, in a border skirmish with the T'u-chueh. Any kind of a head wound bled furiously.

He accounted the Eastern troops very lucky. Among the Khazars, priests with the healing arts were rare and highly prized and no one thought of gathering them together and sending them out with the army. The Romans, however, had an efficient and well-regulated medikus traveling with each Legion. The rare priests of Asklepius were supplemented by a large number of orderlies-brawny men easily capable of carrying a wounded man on their shoulders-who gathered the fallen from the field of battle and tended to their simple wounds.

"Jusuf!" Dahvos, kagan of the Khazar people, sat under a lemon tree at the edge of the medikus' encampment, his arm tightly bound to his chest. Jusuf smiled broadly and jogged up to his half-brother. Two heavy bundles, one long and one short, banged against his hip. Dahvos did not get up; content to sit with his back to the tree, in the shade. "You look… battered," the kagan said in a tired voice.

"There was some dispute over the field," Jusuf replied in a nonchalant tone, squatting down beside Dahvos and laying down his packages. "How is your arm?"

"It was bad," Dahvos said, frowning down at the bandaged limb, "but the priest laid his hands on and now he says it will mend properly. Did you see me fall? That shot destroyed my shield like a stone falling from heaven! The point tore clear through my mailed sleeve too." Dahvos shook his head in dismay.

"I saw you fall," Jusuf admitted, running dirty fingers through his hair. His helmet was tied to the back of his belt. The rest of him was stained with soot, mud and ground-in dirt. "I saw blood and thought you'd been killed."

Dahvos nodded, eyes hooded by the close passage of death. He fingered his chest, tracing the outline of an enormous bruise. "I thought I was too! But my luck held and an iron strap blunted the arrow's flight. Did you see whose arm drove such a bolt of lightning?"

"Yes." Jusuf ran his hand over the silk-wrapped bundle on the ground. His fingers brushed over embroidered leaves, rusty with fall colors and tinted with gold. "I saw the man shoot, more than once. He killed many men-most of them our umen commanders."

Dahvos frowned, seeing a strange look in his half-brother's eyes. "Who was it?"

"It was Bayan himself." Jusuf did not look up and his voice was soft. "But I rushed him with my lancers and brought the dog to sword strokes before he could take a shot at me. I killed him, Dahvos, with my own hand and took his head as your prize."

Jusuf picked up the smaller package-not bound in silk, but in rough woolens, now matted and dark-and untied the simple knot. The cloth fell away and the crown of a head was revealed. Blood and bits of bone were interspersed with stringy black hair. Pale skin, now the color of yellowed parchment, was revealed and then the face, frozen in a look of horror and surprise, as Jusuf rolled the skull over. Dahvos looked down with cold eyes, then reached out and turned the head so that he could look carefully upon the cold features.

"You knew him," the kagan stated absently. "I remember, you were sent away as a hostage."

"Yes." Jusuf's voice was flat. "I was."

"You're sure, then? Wasn't he supposed to be crippled?" Dahvos looked up and Jusuf nodded. The kagan smiled. "Well done."

"My duty, kagan." Jusuf wrapped up the head again. They might need it later, to parade before the army. "Did you see the end of the battle?"

"No." Dahvos grinned ruefully. "I saw some blue sky and my guardsmen carrying me from the field."

"The comes Alexandros crashed into their left about the same time I cut down Bayan. I think our Macedonian expected to rout them himself-but then, he's never fought the Avars before… The Avar wing held, his charge was repulsed with loss, and the enemy withdrew in good order."

"Their casualties?" Dahvos scowled, thinking of his own dead.

"Many of their allies perished in the center-but they are only spear- or axe-men. Slav or Sklavenoi vassals… no real loss." Jusuf tugged at his chin, thinking. "Of his heavy horse, perhaps one or two thousand men fell. Their true casualty was Bayan."

"Yes." Dahvos squinted at the trees beyond the medikus. "Both the khagan and time-they will have to retire to Serdica and the hring, to quarrel and discuss and ultimately elect a new khagan to lead them. The rest of the year, at least, will be wasted in quarrels and feuds. The great families will need to decide which whelp of Bayan's rises to the throne."

"His eldest sons are dead…" Jusuf mused. Then he felt a sharp stab of elation. That will be a vigorous discussion! And I killed him and set them in confusion!

"What is this?" Dahvos poked the long bundle with a finger. "That's beautiful cloth."

"Nothing," Jusuf snapped, drawing the bundle away from his half-brother. "The khagan's tunic and my weapons."

"Good enough," Dahvos said, giving Jusuf a considering look. The tarkhan stood abruptly, looking down at Dahvos.

"I am going to round up the men," Jusuf said, feeling strangely skittish. "And number our losses. I fear we bled freely today. Will you be here?"

"No," Dahvos grunted and levered himself up from the ground. "I will be with the comes Alexandros, I think. We need to decide what to do next. I have things I wish to say to him, about his conduct in this… battle."

Jusuf nodded abruptly and then walked quickly away, the long bundle held tightly across his chest. Dahvos stared after him, a little unsettled.