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True Successor
A Novel of the New Roman Empire
By Joseph H. Levie iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2013 Joseph H. Levie
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-7069-2
CHAPTER 1
Mikail
The young political officer had a girl in the village. He had met Karita a year ago when he had visited Sapoda to talk to the headman about smuggling. Close to the main road running through the neutral zone between the Roman and Mongol empires and only ten miles from the Mongol border, the village of Sapoda was a natural way-station for smugglers. Mikail had been spending most of his time on smuggling cases for no better reason than that his chief thought them important. No one else did; the Zone had always been a haven for smugglers.
The Sapoda headman was also the local man of substance. He owned the mill, some other property, and The Blonde Horseman, the only tavern in the village. His daughter Karita, a very young widow, was not on good terms with her stepmother; she managed the tavern and lived on the second floor. When the headman housed him there, Mikail had noticed the petite blonde waiting on him when her clever hands made a show out of deboning his fish. He spent the evening flirting with her. For her part, Karita seemed to like what she saw. Mikail de Ruyter was six- feet tall with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a trim little mustache anchoring his sunburned face. He had given his dinner order in Ukrainian, the language of the western provinces of the Mongol Empire, and she came over to his table, bringing a bottle of wine. She surprised him, first by sitting down, then by unexpectedly speaking Latin. "The Inn's very best," she said with a friendly smile, uncorking the bottle. Surprised and delighted, he showed it by smiling and thanking her for the wine in the courtliest Latin he could command, adding, "I could listen to you all night. I had almost forgotten how lovely my own language sounds until I heard you speaking it. How did a girl like you get here?"
"I was born here," she said. "My parents moved to Imponza when I was a baby. When I was seven, my mother died, and we moved back. Father remarried, but my stepmother and I do not like each other. We all agreed I would be happier with my uncle and aunt in Imponza, on the other side of the river. I went to school there in the Empire and came back here to get married. My husband died within a year, and I've been running the tavern ever since."
"My sympathy on your husband's death," Mikail said.
"It was an arranged marriage. My father thought he was doing the right thing, but it was a terrible mistake." She paused and studied his uniform, "What brings you here, red jacket?"
Mikail laughed, "Your father and my uniform. I'm here to talk about the smuggling problem with the headman of Sapoda while I drink his sour Dragonhead leaf tea, because I hope to be a diplomat some day. The smuggling is upsetting my chief, and I can't see why. If you live here, you have to know that everybody in the Zone is involved. Yet, your father insists with a straight face, there is no smuggling here."
Karita made her face look angelic. "Smuggling? Here? How could that ever happen?"
"Besides making my day a lot brighter, whatever are you doing in Sapoda?"
"I really don't know," she sighed, "although making your day brighter sounds like a good idea."
The bottle of wine had launched his best evening in a very long time. She so obviously enjoyed stretching her spirit's limits and showing how pleased she was with their encounter, that he found himself talking to her seriously. There were plenty of blonde beauties in the Zone villages, but no lively, articulate girls. He told her how lonely and bored he was, how his chief's patronizing ways irritated him, and how uncomfortable he was about his prospects for advancement. Officers of the Political Department were supposed to collect information and increase Roman influence, if they wished for promotion to the elite Diplomatic Service. He had liked George Hoffman, his sector officer, but George had unkindly returned the favor by dead-ending Mikail at a desk, fussing over trivia. That was no way to build a record for transfer to the Diplomatic Service.
As Mikail opened up to her, Karita responded. She felt that she had been nowhere and done nothing since her schooling had ended. Her brief, arranged marriage with a rich old man from the next village had ended after a year when his horse had fallen on him. Karita did not miss her husband, but she was lonely. She hadn't grown up in Sapoda and didn't have a single friend there. The men were clods, and the Blonde Horseman bored her. Her stepmother was a figure out of a nasty fairy tale. She yearned for a better life in a bigger world.
He commiserated. She was too pretty and vivacious for a small town in the neutral zone between Rome and Mongolia. After three hours, Mikail felt happier than he had been for a long time and told her so before he finally dragged himself upstairs.
Not long after, there was a knock on his door, and in she slipped, pink and blushing, barefoot in a lacy white chemise. When morning came, Karita went downstairs to make a hot breakfast and brought it to him. Afterwards, they sat on the bed, arms around one another, and talked for hours. Mikail marveled; this girl was a laughing brook in a stony desert.
As he left, she stood on tiptoe to tell him with her parting kiss, "Thank God you came, I was going to run away next week. I had already started to pack."
That had been exactly a year ago. Since then, he had seen her as often as he could get to Sapoda.
He had written Karita to say he would stop by on Thursday and stay over before going on to his monthly meeting with his sector officer, but here he was on Tuesday, two days early, to surprise her with a one-year anniversary present, a turquoise necklace that echoed the color of her eyes. Mikail wasn't at all sure what her father knew (and if he did, whether he wanted others to know) about his daughter's lover. So rather than wearing his uniform, he was dressed in a peddler's hooded coat that cast his sharp features into shadow, a costume he often had occasion to wear; not everyone in the Zone wanted to be seen talking with the Emperor's political officers.
Mikail put the necklace into his pack, tied up his horse in the woods a mile from the tavern, and sauntered down the road, enjoying the hundred shades of green in the first blush of the Moldavian Spring. He began to think about putting the necklace around her smooth lovely neck that night. He would wait until she was naked to have the pleasure of seeing it hanging between her generous breasts. The thought of bedding her caused him to whistle in anticipation. Certainly, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he kept thinking ahead to the night's pleasures, but—a dash of cold water—it had to come to an end. The Political Service might ignore an officer's affair with a Zonian—its junior officers were young, unmarried men with healthy appetites and that was how the Service liked them—but Karita was an extreme conflict of interest made lovely flesh.
Nor would his family be of any help. His father was long dead, and Lucas, his ambitious older brother, was head of the family. Lucas loved Mikail, mentored him, had gotten him this job, and still was his most important supporter, but he insisted so often and so vehemently that he was not a stuffed shirt that he ended up proving the contrary. Worse, Lucas and his wife, especially his wife, would consider Karita an embarrassment to Lucas's own career. As the head of a Roman family, Lucas had a legal right to prevent an unsuitable marriage. Still, Mikail felt that he and Karita could go on for the present with clear consciences. Karita had no one else, at least that he knew of. He wouldn't stand in her way if something better came along, would he? He had told her so, and they were both of age, weren't they? As if to prove he was right, the sun came out from behind the small cloud that had hidden it.
He emerged from his daydream smiling and looked around. A few hundred yards before the tavern a tannery and smithy huddled near the stone bridge over a small, fast flowing stream two hundred yards down from a water-driven mill. Together they comprised Sapoda's tiny industrial district. The tannery's stench and the smithy's fire kept them away from Sapoda's reed-thatched wooden houses. Approaching the two establishments, still glowing with love, Mikail couldn't believe what he saw. Not fifty yards away, riding down from the village towards the smithy, were three uniformed Mongol cavalrymen and a string of horses trotting on a lead held by a middle-aged sergeant with a grizzled mustache. The two soldiers riding behind the sergeant looked very young, probably recruits. A Mongol cavalry detail was as out of place on this country road as a line of spangled circus elephants, yet there was nothing clandestine about these riders. They sat in their saddles as if they knew exactly where they were going and belonged there.
The three turned off the road towards the smithy. The instant he saw their backs, Mikail slipped into the woods and crouched between the broad trunk of an old oak and a boulder to observe them. The smith's helper came out of the shed, and the sergeant bawled at him, "Hey, Fydor, send out big-muscles-and-tiny-brain. I have paying work." The sergeant's Ukrainian had an accent, but was not bad. He's been here before and done this, Mikail thought. Sure enough, the blacksmith was already standing in the door, primed to return fire by telling his helper, "Fydor, ask the horse's ass on that horse's ass what brings the great Khan's worst sorrow here to honor us."
One of the troopers started to snicker, but as the sergeant began to turn in the saddle, he quickly changed his expression.
The sergeant retained his dignity by pretending not to have heard the insult. "Horses need reshoe," he told the smith. "We pay same as last time. How long you take?"
"Easy enough," the smith answered. "You in a hurry?"
"Yes," the Mongol said, "We have job to do on somebody here Thursday. Then must rejoin our tuman fast as can ride. Big operation on the way, probably next week. Our big man wants us, buttons shiny, ready to go."
"Then take your men to the tavern for an hour," said the smith. "Have a drink, and when you come back, I can tell you how long I'll take. But do me a favor, Jelem. Don't force yourself on that pretty little blonde. The last time was ugly. She's has a hard enough life, and right now she's probably crying her eyes out in the kitchen because we both know who's going to get hurt by that little job that brings you to Sapoda."
Those soldiers are looking for me, Mikail thought. Looking for me and no one else. Why else would Karita be crying? They knew when to expect me. I've been betrayed. Crouched behind his rock he was very frightened. Political officers lived and worked in foreign territory without diplomatic immunity. Why had the Mongols singled him out? The idea of falling into their hands was terrifying. The Mongols had a reputation for cruelty and torture.
A sense of urgency that was close to panic overwhelmed him. I can't stay here, I'll be killed. My duty is to warn the Emperor that an invasion is coming. The Mongols will be over the border, raping, pillaging, and burning our cities as they did in the past. I'm the only one who knows!
He realized he had to get back to his horse, his maps and his weapon. A compass in his pack would enable him to go cross-country through the woods. Move now! Move now! He'd get rid of his uniform and clean out his saddlebags so he could pass a checkpoint. But what about my silver card identifying me as a political officer? I'll have to find a way to hide it. I'd better be well away before tomorrow. They'll be sending out parties to watch the roads. Move! Don't wait! Move!
He pushed down rising terror and took out the compass. Once the Mongols were out of sight, and the smith and his helper returned to their smithy, he ducked into the woods and started back, carefully watching where he stepped. He worked his way through the woods, carefully keeping under cover and parallel to the road. Move now! Move now. Now! Now!
Twenty minutes later he found his horse and started to breathe normally. He poured the contents of his saddlebags out onto the ground and hastily sorted through them. His correspondence, a Latin-Ukrainian dictionary, a pocket copy of Virgil, Galilean binoculars, the manuals stamped with the Emperor's portrait or the Imperial Political Department seal and anything else that might shriek ROMAN! and made a small pile. He added his uniform to the heap and carried it into the woods, scratched a shallow hole in the ground with his short sword and covered it with a flimsy layer of dirt, leaves and sticks held down by small rocks. They'd be found, but by then it shouldn't matter. He checked his weapons, a standard short sword (really only a long dagger) and a crossbow covered in a cloth sheath, along with two-dozen spare bolts. They would not attract attention; most travelers carried a weapon. The crossbow was only good for a single shot before reloading, but the bolt it fired could kill within two hundred feet.
Not much of a believer, Mikail said two Paternosters and tried to remember the right formula to commend his soul to God. He could not recollect the exact words and hoped God would accept the heartfelt intensity of his feelings. He started to put distance between himself and the village, carefully keeping to a moderate pace that would not attract attention and trying not to let the horse feel his anxiety. Not, he reflected, that there was much chance of his mare's pace drawing unwanted attention. George did not believe in buying good horseflesh for his junior officers. He liked to say in a droll way that that fancy horseflesh gave a junior officer an improper perception of his importance. George's own mount, of course, was another story.
It was almost ten a.m. Concentrated thinking now would distract him as he traveled. He could consider his position when he stopped to water the horse or let it graze. Survival tactics had been part of his training in Trier and in the annual refresher course. His instructors had preached over and over against the dangers of inattention. By half- past one, after the few people he passed had barely looked at him, he began to feel better. Finally, he spotted a small stream next to a grassy clearing and turned the mare's head towards it. His teachers had insisted that once you were out of immediate danger, you should do exercises to calm your mind and then take time to consider what to do next. While his horse grazed, Mikail settled down to think.
Although he had come down this very road just a few hours before, he could hear the instructor's voice saying, "Careful, careful, take nothing for granted," as he took out his map. It revealed that in a few miles the road would fork, with the right turning towards the official border between the zone and Roman territory, the Velina, a narrow river less than a hundred feet wide, thirty miles away. Once across it, there was another thirty-five miles to the Pruj, a much broader river. The space between the two rivers was Roman territory but empty countryside in which the only sign of Roman presence was a military road constructed long ago to move troops up to the border when necessary. The area was uninhabited, except for smugglers and a few fishermen. It would not be safe. Mongol patrols might already be roaming it.
To reach safety Mikail had two rivers and over seventy miles to cross. His three-year-old mount would be tired long before he was safe. He had a good head start but the Mongols had numbers, experience, and plenty of remounts. His horse could ford the Velina, and afterwards, the Roman highway offered easy traveling, but it would not be safe, especially where it ran through open countryside and swamp. He might risk the forested road by daylight, but once out in the open, he would be too visible. When he finally arrived at the Pruj he would need a way to cross the big river.
As he rode he kept alert. It would be wise to replenish his supply of food, if only to keep his mind unclouded by hunger. It was too early in the year for berries or fruit, and he didn't have time to grub for edible roots or ferns, but a peddler could bargain for a few loaves of bread without being conspicuous. The first town after the fork was Gadowa, but he would not pass through it because it was on the wrong side of the fork in the road. Gadawa held a fair every Friday. If a farmwife asked him, he would say he was going to the fair. But wouldn't a peddler with nothing to sell be suspicious? He would say that his partner was already in Gadowa with their trade goods, and he wanted something to eat in the saddle as he rushed to catch up with him. Before he reached the fork he stopped at a wooden farmhouse in front of a large grove of linden trees, which meant the farmer kept bees. Near the house he found himself enjoying the early spring flowers and colorful blossoms on the bushes while listening to a goldfinch sing before he remembered that men were hunting him.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from True Successor by Joseph H. Levie. Copyright © 2013 Joseph H. Levie. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc..
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