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Her heart was still racing, and her mouth had gone dry, so she pretended to a calmness she did not feel as she sat back on her heels and wiped her forehead as well as she could with her wrists manacled. “I thank you, Sergeant.”
He raised one eyebrow, then pointed behind her with the quirt. “I didn’t come for you. See, there. General Lord Alexandros waters his horses.”
They marched these days through dry, hilly countryside devoid of habitation. This stream poured out of a ravine. Except at this ford, its banks were too steep for horses to drink. Muttering, the soldiers headed back to camp.
“Up!” Sergeant Bysantius grabbed her elbow and pulled her upright. “Out of the way.”
She shook her arm out of his grasp before he could lead her away. The chain that bound her ankles allowed her to walk but not run, and she was unable to avoid the rush of horses brought to the stream by the general’s grooms. Alexandros himself rode a chestnut mare with a pale gold coat. His entire string had chestnut coats, most pale and a few richly dark in shade. He pulled up, dismounted, and tossed his reins to a groom before walking over to Sergeant Bysantius.
“Sergeant, bring the Eagle to me at my tent.”
“Yes, my lord general.”
He strode away with a dozen men swarming in attendance.
“He has no need to crawl for a taste of water as the rest of us do,” she said bitterly to the sergeant. “He has wine to drink while his soldiers go thirsty.”
Bysantius scratched his cheek. “He has earned his rank and his privileges. He’s no better born than half these men.”
She laughed. “How can that be? He is a lord.”
“A man who commands an army is likely to be addressed as ‘lord,’ I’m thinking. Even by those who were born under a canopy boasting the imperial star. Especially if they need the men and weapons he can bring to their cause.”
“The exalted Lady Eudokia needs him in order to raise her nephew to become emperor?”
He shrugged. “A strong hand rules where weaker hands sow only chaos. Come.”
She followed up along the dusty ground on the trail of the lord general, now vanished into the glut of wagons, horses, milling troops, and canvas tents that marked the camp. Every night the camp was set up in the exact same order, every tent sited in relation to the emperor’s tent according to its inhabitants’ rank, position, and importance to the royal child. This night, they had halted in the middle of what had once been a village.
Three brick hovels stood in the midst of a dozen ancient olive trees, but the tiny hamlet appeared abandoned, perhaps yesterday, perhaps one hundred years ago. In this dry country it was impossible to tell.
Bysantius paced himself so as not to get ahead of her. Over the last ten or so days she had accustomed herself to the chains so that she could walk without stumbling.
“I thank you,” she repeated.
“For what kindness?” he asked, almost laughing.
“For saving me from whatever unkindness I might have suffered from those soldiers.”
“The general wants you unharmed. You’re no use to him dead.”
She was, apparently, no use to him living, but she forbore to say it, knowing it foolish to remind her captors that they might be better off saving for their own men the bit of food they fed to her each day. “Is it true of all of you, that you serve the lord general and not the exalted lady?”
Now he did laugh. “The priests teach us that we serve God, is that not so? God served humankind by walking among us for a time so He could lead us into the Light.”
“That is a heresy.”
“Nay, you Darrens are the heretics. You say that the blessed Daisan was only a man like you and me.” He spoke without heat. He was not, apparently, a man made passionate by religious matters.
“The deacons of my own land taught me that the blessed Daisan prayed for seven days and nights and was lifted up to the Chamber of Light by the Mother and Father of Life. You don’t believe the tales of his martyrdom, do you?”
“No, not his martyrdom.” Yet he frowned. “The blessed Daisan holds two natures within him, for how else could he have been translated into the Chamber of Light while still living? Still, folk do talk of this martyrdom, how his skin was flayed from his body.”
“I’ve met more than one person in the west who whispers the heresy of the Redemption. I didn’t know folk spoke of it here, too.”
He slapped his quirt against his thigh and glanced first left, then right, as they made their way through camp. Exhausted, men sat on the ground or reclined on blankets or cloaks. “Anyone might hear. The Patriarch has spies among the troops.”
If that were so, it must mean that the Patriarch feared the power of the heresy. Why spy out what you did not fear? Yet surely the heresy Ivar professed had come from somewhere. Why not from the east? It was the most likely story. Despite what Bysantius said, they were heretics here anyway with their talk of “two natures.” Once that door was opened, as Deacon Fortensia used to say in Heart’s Rest, any shameless layabout could creep in and pretend to be a holy saint.
