Steve White - The Disinherited 03 - Debt of Ages

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Debt of Ages by Steve White

PROLOGUE - 491 A.D.2

The Restorer was dying.

I knew him for the Restorer at the moment I first met him, thought

Sidonius Apollinaris, known to the world these past eight years as His

Holiness Gaius II, keeper of the keys of Saint Peter.

Behind him stood most of the Consistory, filling the incense-heavy air

with that sense of numb disbelief with which the entire Sacred Palace, the

entire City of Constantine around it, and the whole of Rome's reunified

and expanded empire beyond that awaited the passing of him who had

brought it all back from the edge of the abyss. But Sidonius was aware of

none of the overdressed dignitaries with whom he shared the Imperial

bedchamber. He stood over the bed and looked down into his old friends

face, worn down by war, the cares of empire and sixty-four winters, as well

as by the sickness that was killing him.

The dark eyes fluttered open, glittering with recognition as much as

with fever. "Sidonius," he said in a dry whisper to which he still managed

to give a kind of firmness.

"Yes, Augustus, I am here."

The shockingly aged face formed the famous grin whose boyishness had

never seemed incongruous and still didn't.

"There you go again, Sidonius! I never persuaded you to stop

addressing me as 'Riothamus' even though I kept telling you we Britons

only used the title on formal occasions. And after that it's always been

'Augustus'! Will you let me go to my grave still refusing to call me by my

name, at least in private?"

All at once, Sidonius was no longer in the ornate room that the doctors

insisted on keeping so stifling. He was on a beach at the mouth of the

Loire twenty-two years before, standing in the chill salt wind with the

men—all dead now, besides him—who had awaited the arrival of the High

King of the Britons whose army was the Western Empires last hope

against the Visigoths.

I can still see the afternoon sun blazing forth through the first break

in that day's overcast as he stepped from the boat, silhouetting him

against the divine fire. But that fire burned even more strongly within

him, burned with a force that could snatch back that which had been

consigned to the irrecoverable past and defy the Fates themselves (as

always, Sidonius automatically chided himself for his lifelong weakness for

pagan mythology). Yes, he had known that the British ruler with whom he

had corresponded was destined to restore the Empire. He had known it

with a simple, absolute certainty that, he guiltily acknowledged, not even

the Church's doctrines could inspire in him.

That moment had remained with Sidonius through all the tumultuous,

unbelievable years that had followed. His certainty had faltered that very

winter when he had learned of the treason of the Praetorian Prefect of

Gaul, whom he had once called friend. (What had his name been? Oh, yes:

Arvandus.) But the Restorers destiny was not to be deflected by betrayal,

and the matter had been forgotten in the jubilation following the great

victory at Bourges. That victory had banished the terrifying Visigothic

threat to the realm of old nightmares from which one had awakened. And

then had come a potentially disastrous digression, with rebellion calling

the High King back to Britain. But he had returned to the continent

somehow strengthened by his campaigning in the islands wild western

hills. After that, events had moved with the seeming inevitability of a

rivers journey to the sea.

The Restorer had never ceased to insist that he had not sought even the

Emperorship of the West, much less of a reunited Roman Empire.

Sidonius was inclined to believe him. Looking back, it was hard to see how

he could have avoided any one of the steps he had taken, or how each of

those steps could have failed to lead to the step that had followed. After his

ally the Western Emperor Anthemius had been murdered, Odoacer—who

had succeeded Ricimer as Master of Soldiers at Rome—had moved against

him. With no alternative save extinction, the Restorer had advanced into

Italy, where on the victorious field of Pavia his British and Gallic and

Frankish troops had proclaimed him Augustus of the West. That had been

in 474, the year the Eastern Emperor Leo had died; his successor Zeno

had never acknowledged that he had a legitimate fellow in the West, and

after six years of uneasy coexistence had come the inevitable clash.

Thinking back, Sidonius wondered how he could ever have doubted its

outcome. Me and most of the world, he reflected, which always made him

feel a little better. But if his confidence had wavered, his loyalty never had.

And when old Pope Simplicius had died in 483, the ruler of the

miraculously reunified Empire had let it be known that in his opinion the

churchmen and citizenry of Rome could make no better choice for their

new bishop than his old friend and supporter, that noted prelate and man

of letters Bishop Sidonius of Clermont. For some odd reason they had

agreed.

No, he could never forget those years. Nothing could dim their luster in

his memory—not even the uncomprehending hurt and disappointment he

had felt all too often during the years that had followed. And he heard

himself form the same words he had spoken on that windy beach

twenty-two years before, when it had all begun. "Very well… Artorius."

The Restorer smiled again. "Better! There may be hope for you yet,

Sidonius!" Then he raised a hand from the bed and grasped the papal

forearm with surprising strength. When he spoke, the whisper was fainter

than before, but not with the faintness of failing strength. No, it was

deliberate—these words were for the two of them alone.

"Sidonius, you will see me again."

"Why, of course, Augustus." Sidonius reverted to formality in his

puzzlement. "There can be no doubt of it. We will see each other again,

before the throne of God, when—"

"No!" The grip tightened on his arm, and the whisper took on a

compelling urgency. "I don't mean that. I mean in this life! I'm telling you

this because I want you to be prepared, and not doubt your sanity nor fear

for your soul. You must dismiss all thoughts of the black arts, and accept

what your eyes and ears and mind and heart tell you…"

The whisper faded to nothing and the grip went slack, for the effort had

been too much. Damasius the Syrian stepped forward and examined his

imperial patient with that look of sharp concentration which all

physicians cultivated, a mask behind which yawned bottomless ignorance.

"He must rest now, Your Holiness. I fear he has exhausted himself."

Sidonius nodded and stepped back from the bedside. Whatever was he

talking about? he wondered. Nothing, probably. His mind is going, and

he can no longer command it to reason. Not even the force of will which

hauled back the outgoing tide of history can hinder death in its work of

dissolution.

"Remember," he told the physician, "I am to be notified when the end is

at hand." Then he turned from the bed and looked around the room, so

very Greek in its massive, mosaic-encrusted sombreness. Equally Greek

were most of the men and eunuchs in the room, the high officials of state

and church. Then he saw a new face, and he froze.

It seemed amazing that Acacius could have entered the room silently,

moving under the weighty vestments of the Patriarch of Constantinople.

Even more amazing was his audacity in being here at all, knowing that the

Pope of Rome, his bitterest enemy, was bound to be present. Well,

Sidonius thought, his habitual good nature reasserting itself, perhaps he

feels sincere affection for this dying man. Hp certainly has every reason

to. And I will not create a scene here!

He nodded stiffly to the Patriarch, who acknowledged with what he had

to admit was probably superior grace. Then he turned and left the room,

moving with that natural stateliness that people assured him he had

acquired by virtue of the weight he had put on in recent decades. I hope

that's true, he thought as he made his way along corridors and past the

occasional statue-like figures of white-uniformed Scholarian Guards. It

would be good to have some recompense in exchange for wind and vigor!

But I mustn't complain. At fifty-nine I should be thanking God that I'm

still alive, not whining to Him about the loss of youth.

He reached the top of the marble stairs that led down from the imperial

apartments to the first floor. Here hp paused, and gazed out the wide

windows that gave light to the landing. They gave little light now, for it

was approaching twilight. Sidonius looked out at the terraced gardens

that sloped down to the Sea of Marmara, where lights were winking to life

on passing ships. He liked this view, for the palace itself and the adjacent

hippodrome blocked from sight the teeming hive that was Constantinople.

At one time I dared hope that he'd move the principal Imperial

residence back to Rome, where it was in the great days before the world

began to go wrong, when the first Augustus ruled as Princeps among his

fellow citizens, not as an Asiatic god-emperor inhabiting a world of

ceremony and splendor far above his subjects' cringing heads. But Rome

was always hopeless as a location for the Imperial capital, from the

military standpoint. The logistics were all wrong. And, of course, most of

our wealth and people—and our most dangerous enemies—are in the

East All of this was as true for Artorius as it had been for Constantine. As

in everything else, he made the only possible choice.

Later, though...

At first Artorius had been a breath of fresh air in this place. But then

the wind had settled, and everything had been as before: the eunuchs, and

the ceremonies and hierarchies they had devised and eternally elaborated

(A substitute for what they've lost? Sidonius wondered); and the clerks

and notaries who did the everyday business of the state with an

inefficiency they defended with a stubbornness fit to shame the Saxons,

for any change could only be to their disadvantage. There's no way the

empire can function without them, Sidonius reflected bleakly. No one else

knows how to play the games they themselves have invented for the

purpose of making themselves indispensable.

He sighed and shook his head. He shouldn't complain about the way

the restored empire was governed. It's like my advancing age, he

reminded himself. Consider the alternative! No, the decisions that had

wedged him and his old friend apart over the last few years had concerned

not the things of Man but those of God… "Sidonius! Your Holiness, I

meant to say!" Sidonius turned and smiled at the man bounding up the

staircase. The clouds lifted from his mind for the moment. It was

impossible to stay depressed around Ecdicius.

"Noblissimus," he greeted, using the proper form of address for the heir

to the Empire.

"Well, now that we've got all that out of the way— greetings!" Ecdicius

reached the landing, not even breathing hard after an ascent that would

have reduced Sidonius to a state of gasping exhaustion, and clasped

forearms with his brother-in-law. Ecdicius flashed the smile that

transfigured his engagingly ugly face, and Sidonius reflected as always on

how much he was like his adoptive father the Augustus.

Ecdicius had not yet reached adolescence when the twenty-year-old

Sidonius, scion of another of the aristocratic Gallo-Roman families of

their set, had come to seek the hand of his older sister Papianilla. Sidonius

still thought of him as the wiry, restlessly energetic boy for whom the villa

in the Auvergne had seemed too confining. God, what a brat he was, he

recalled, in the wake of every man who ever courted a girl with a younger

brother. But that boy had survived the whirlwind of events that had soon

followed—his father Avitus' brief reign as Augustus of the West and

subsequent murder, and the "Marcelliana" conspiracy in which Sidonius

had almost been implicated. And later, in his mid-twenties but already

grown into the kind of man that other men instinctively follow, he had

raised a private cavalry unit that had distinguished itself at the Battle of

Bourges. He had subsequently become one of Artorius' leading cavalry

officers, with a reputation for taking hair-raising risks and emerging alive

through sheer dash. When the childless Restorer had found it politic to

adopt an heir, he hadn't found the choice a difficult one.

"I got back as quickly as I could," Ecdicius said, sobering. "I wouldn't

have left for the Danube a fortnight ago, except that he seemed to be

getting better and insisted that I not let it disrupt my schedule. Of course,

when I heard he had taken a turn for the worse…" He indicated his dusty,

travel-worn clothes. "How is he?" Without waiting for an answer, he

abruptly started in the direction of the imperial apartments. Sidonius

placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"Sleeping now. You can't get in to see him, so you may as well change

and rest." Ecdicius nodded, but continued to move, pacing as though to

vent his excess vitality.

Sidonius couldn't swear that he had ever seen Ecdicius hold still, and it

was no different now that he was in his late forties.

"Come with me to the Daphne Palace," Sidonius continued, gesturing

at the garden vista outside the window and to the right, toward the

residence that had been placed at the disposal of the Pope and his

entourage. "We can dine… and we need to talk. Acacius has been hovering

like a circling vulture. I fear that he and his supporters are planning some

move after Artorius is…" He let the sentence die.

Ecdicius' face grew stormcloud-dark, and he unconsciously gripped the

hilt of the cavalry spatha that never left his side. "I can't imagine what he

thinks hell be able to pull off, after I assume the purple. Maybe he hopes to

take advantage of a confused transition."

"Well, then, we must assure that the transition is a smooth one,"

Sidonius declared as the two of them descended the stairs. There was still

just enough light to see by, and the spring night was warm. So they didn't

wait to summon lantern bearers but proceeded toward the Daphne

unescorted, through gardens that the dusk transformed into a realm of

pagan enchantment and mystery, its deepening shadows inhabited by

nameless dangers…

Ridiculous! Sidonius chided himself. What danger can there be in the

grounds of the Sacred Palace? But for once he felt no inclination to ask

Ecdicius to slow his pace in deference to the papal dignity and years.

Ecdicius seemed oblivious to the frisson Sidonius felt, for he alternated

between brooding and talking. "What can Acacius and his lot possibly

hope for?" he wondered aloud. "Maybe they think they can persuade me to

inaugurate my reign by calling a new Council, where they can do even

more harm than was done at the last one…" He cut himself off. "I know,

Sidonius. I shouldn't speak ill of him, at this of all times. But we wouldn't

be worrying now if he hadn't made that snake Patriarch of Constantinople

again! And some of his other appointments… !" Bewilderment entered

Ecdicius' voice. "Why, Sidonius? What's happened to him over the last few

years?"

"Well," Sidonius spoke in the conciliatory tones of lifelong habit, "we

can hardly blame him for the Council of Chalcedon. It was in 451, when he

wasn't even High King of the Britons yet That was where the great mistake

was made, declaring the See of Constantinople equal to that of Rome, even

though our Lord expressly delivered the keys of the Kingdom into the

hands of Peter…" Exertion overcame indignation, and he had to pause for

a gasping breath as he tried to talk and keep up with Ecdidius at the same

time. "Well, at least they did one thing right at Chalcedon by rejecting the

Monophysite heresy But later it came back to haunt the East."

"Yes… with Acacius carrying its standard! I tell you, Sidonius, I can't

understand it! That devil-begotten 'Declaration of Union' Acacius drew up

in 482 was one of the reasons for Artorius' final break with Zeno, Acacius'

patron. After he'd won, Artorius tore it up and deposed Acacius as

Patriarch. So why, just four years later, did he restore the goat-bugger to

the Patriarchate?"

Sidonius frowned. A prelate of Holy Church—even Acacius!—was

entitled to a certain respect. He was framing a stern admonition when the

four darkly cloaked figures stepped from the bushes ahead of them and

deployed across the pathway.

Ecdicius wordlessly motioned Sidonius back and laid his hand on the

hilt of his spatha. He cast a glance backward and Sidonius, following it,

saw that three more strangers had blocked the path behind them.

One of the quartet to their front stepped forward and spoke in

cultivated Latin. "Noblissimus, a plot against you, and against the sacred

person of the Augustus, has been uncovered. I must ask that you

accompany us to a place of safety."

" 'Uncovered' by whom?" Ecdicius inquired as he unobtrusively twirled

his cloak around his left forearm. He did not draw his weapon—none of

the strangers had— but he stood in a fighting stance that was as

relaxed-seeming as his voice, and measured distances with his eyes. "Who

are you, and who sent you?"

"That is immaterial, Noblissimus. For the safety of the Empire and

Holy Church I'm afraid I must insist that you cooperate." He gestured to

his followers, and swords appeared with a scrape of metal.

Sheer, flabbergasted outrage brought Sidonius out of shock. He stepped

forward to stand beside Ecdicius. "How dare you?" he thundered—or

intended to thunder, but it came out closer to a gasp. "As you hope for

salvation, I command you to let us pass!"

They evidently recognized him. Blades wavered, and one of the men

turned to the leader and muttered something. Sidonius couldn't

understand it, but he recognized the bastard Greek of Constantinople's

slums. The leader snarled back in a Greek that was educated enough for

Sidonius to follow. "You cowardly dung-eaters! Take both of them!"

Ecdicius exploded into action, shoving Sidonius back into the bushes

with one hand as he drew his spatha with the other. He was of only

average size, but his body had lost little of its whipcord toughness to

middle age. Positioning himself to shield Sidonius, he held the

three-and-a-half-foot cavalry sword at the ready as the six bravos closed in

with their shorter weapons. Two of them moved to flank him while two

others leapt in.

Ecdicius' response was too quick for Sidonius to follow, as he suspected

it would have been even in bright daylight. Almost simultaneously with a

quick clang of blades, one bravo was on the ground gurgling his life out

through a slashed throat and Ecdicius was grappling with another who

had gotten in under his long sword. With a vicious move, he dislocated the

bravos shoulder and sent him staggering sideways into his companion

who was moving in from the right. That was all the time it took the bravo

from the left to grab him from behind, as the remaining two moved in.

Sidonius had never encountered physical violence in his entire adult

life, and it was as though he moved through a world of unreality with the

rock he couldn't remember picking up. He brought it down on the head of

the bravo holding Ecdicius. At the same time, the latter kicked out with

both feet, sending the two new arrivals staggering backwards, then fell in

a heap with the unconscious man who had grasped him. He rolled free in

time to grab Sidonius, who was staring openmouthed at the

blood-smeared rock he still held, and haul him back against a thick shrub,

then turn to face their attackers once more.

Things began to register on Sidonius. Ecdicius still had his spatha.

Three bravos were out of action, but the other three had picked

themselves up. Now, in company with their employer—who was holding

his sword as though he knew how to use it—they were closing in warily.

They'd make no more mistakes. And—final detail—Ecdicius was bleeding

from a superficial but doubtless painful wound in his left side.

Sidonius managed to form words. "Guards ho!" he croaked. "To me!"

"Save your breath, Sidonius," Ecdicius said quietly. 'They must have

made certain no one would be in earshot. Otherwise somebody would have

heard this fight."

The leader of their assailants gave an unpleasant smile that provided

confirmation. His face still wore the smile as he started forward… but then

went blank as he crumpled, without fuss, to the ground.

Sidonius became aware of a strange buzzing sound, not really like the

swarming of bees. He wondered what it could be, with a small part of his

reeling mind, as he watched the three bravos collapse.

He and Ecdicius looked at each other.

Two men stepped from the shadows.

Sidonius and Ecdicius started, and the latter raised his spatha again.

The new arrivals halted, and the shorter of them—they were both big

men—spoke in the Latin of the army with an accent not unlike that of the

Augustus.

"Relax, Noblissimus! We're here to save you." He indicated the

motionless forms of their erstwhile attackers. "Sorry we didn't arrive

sooner—although you weren't doing so badly yourself! And you, Your

Holiness—you're pretty handy with that thing. Have you considered you

may be in the wrong line of work?"

Sidonius dropped the rock like a red-hot cinder and tried to draw a

cloak of dignity around his brutalized sense of reality. "Who are you, my

son? Step closer so I may see you."

The pair did so. They wore nondescript civilian garb. Oddly enough, for

men supposedly embarked on a rescue, they were unarmed. Instead, each

held a short metal rod of no apparent function—and yet, in an undefinable

way, they carried the useless-seeming objects like weapons.

The man who had spoken was very dark considering the British origin

his accent suggested, but his features and his blue eyes were not

inconsistent with it. The other, aside from his robust size, could have

passed unnoticed in the streets of Constantinople. Sidonius spared him

barely a glance. He could only stare at the Briton—for such he seemed to

be—and try to decide where he had seen him before, where he had heard

that voice. For he was morally certain that he had met the man.

Ecdicius spoke without preamble. "How did you do that to them… with

those?" he indicated the little metal rods. Sidonius felt his eyebrows rise;

what could make Ecdicius think the strangers had incapacitated the

would-be kidnappers with those things? It was manifestly impossible. And

yet… what else could they have done it with? And Ecdicius and the Briton

were gazing intently at each other, with a look that went beyond mutual

respect, though that was very much present.

"Noblissimus," the other stranger spoke, "I know you have many

questions, but we haven't time to answer them. This city isn't safe for

you—nor for you, Holy Father. Your only hope of safety is to follow us

down to the Boucoleon Harbor." He gestured toward the darkling waters

of the Sea of Marmara, barely visible through the trees. "We have a ship

ready to take you to Italy."

Steve White - The Disinherited 03 - Debt of Ages

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