[ Now the city is under furious assault. Heraclius visits his dead brother, laid out in the nave of the Temple of Zeus Pankrator. This section goes between "you look as poorly as he does." and "BOOM!" ]
Heraclius climbed the altar steps
wearily. Even that much effort began to tire him. He could not afford the luxury
of a chair and bearers today! On the marble slab, laid out, arms tucked in at
his sides, was Theodore’s corpse. The face was covered with a golden cloth,
hiding the ruined eye and savaged throat. The Boatman, Heraclius supposed, knew
each man’s face, as he was supposed to know the names of all the dead. The
Emperor was still unsettled by the injuries. A dull feeling of dread pressed on
him, filling the air. Some sorcery was at work, overwhelming the ancient wards
and patterns that had defended Constantinople for the last four centuries.
Looking down at the cold pale body of his brother, Heraclius was filled with
confused outrage.
“You are the younger man,” he
whispered to himself, brow furrowed in despair. “You should be alive. I was
the one dying and crippled. You were strong… Fool, fool of a boy. Riding out
in armor of gold, like it was a parade! Reckless child!”
Heraclius put his hand over his
brothers’, feeling the cold clammy flesh. There was no life left here, only a
cast aside husk. “In the songs, they will praise you, brother. I will keep the
memory of your failures, your stupidity, your misguided chauvinistic loyalty, to
myself. History will only remember that you died in battle, a hero, leading a
doomed army bravely in a doomed cause. Maidens, I think, will swoon at your
legend, leaving roses and love-notes on your tomb.”
At the same time that he bent
down, kissing the cloth of gold and his brother’s forehead, Heraclius felt a
curious relief. The tension that had marred his relationship with Martina would
fade, now, and the hatred between the niece and the uncle would be a thing of
the past. Even his estranged son Constantius
would return to him, freed of the envy and malice that Theodore had inculcated
in him.
“All we must do,” Heraclius
said, stepping back from the altar, saluting the dead, “is win.”
(end)