Post by Gaios Porcios Dento on Jun 27, 2012 22:35:38 GMT -5
The Color of Dried Bone
Bethaminael
It was late afternoon when Gaios Porcios Dento crested a small rise and was faced with a sight he had not seen in over ten years, and had hope never to see again: Bethaminael. Clinging to a hillside above the mostly dried Oued Douar, the city's walls and buildings were the color of dried bone. Over Bethaminael's southern quarter fluttered a hundred cerulean banners, proclaiming the location of the Aminael's sacred precinct within the city.
Heat rose in waves from the countryside, the humid air still and stifling with with no cool breeze to stir it. Only nightfall would bring some relief, but sunset was a long time off. Beneath his filigreed cuirass and silken tunic, Gaios Porcios Dento was sweating like a pig.
He snapped his fingers. "Water." The slave riding behind him handed a full waterskin to Dento, who drank greedily. "Remind me to have you whipped when we return home, Demetrios, for suggesting I wear this thing."
"Whatever you think proper, dominos," Demetrios placidly replied. Both he and Dento knew the threat to be hollow; the slave's suggestion to don armor before traveling the last few miles to Bethaminael had been a sound idea, since an arrival in full regalia at the head of an armed column would suitably impress the Ismaeans. An impressive reception would hopefully save Dento a great deal of misery later on, but at the moment it was difficult for him to imagine how he could get more miserable.
"I reckon they've seen us, sir," decided Quintos Vasarios, captain of Dento's bucellarii. Brave, stolid, and loyal, Vasarios was a barrel-chested man of old Amoraean stock whose sword had seen ample use in nine years of service for his master.
The bucellarios's observation was true enough, for Dento could see figures gathering on the walls. Though he could not see them, he knew hundreds of pairs of eyes were staring at him from across the green valley of the Oued Douar. "They'll be wondering if we're friend or foe," Vasarios said.
"Then let's have them wonder no more," Dento replied. With a tap of his heels he urged his horse down the slope. Two hundred and fifty riders followed: a hundred of Dento's bucellarii, another hundred of equites sagittarii from the garrison at Nafur, and the remaining horsemen Dento's servants and retainers. Horns blared as the riders splashed through the reedy pools of water, and as he rode Dento could hear the answering call of trumpets from atop the walls.
The nearest gate -- the Gate of Ships, Dento recalled -- was open now, and out of it poured two dozen riders with banners streaming behind them. On cue Dento's own standard-bearers hoisted their own colors: the Ianos Head sigil of the Porcii, the official Diocesan banner, standards for Iopiter and a half-dozen other gods, and even three Iesinorene and episcopal banners carried by a trio of monks.
Among the group of other riders Dento could spot several of the same banners, but the rest were of Ismaean design: rampant lions, snarling sand wyverns, diving desert hawks; some he half-recognized, but others were completely alien to him. I've been gone from this place too long, he thought.
The two parties halted in the shadow of Bethaminael's walls, and a hush fell as each group sized the other up. Among the riders from Bethaminael Dento saw a few in Amoraean armor, but most were in the robes and turbans of Ismaea. Taking a deep breath, he was about to speak when one of the Ismaean riders urged his mount forward and spoke in clear Amoraean, "Hail, Vicarios! The praeside of Ismaea welcomes you to Bethaminael!"
Dento's eyes widened. "Is that you, Rabbah?" he asked, coming forward as well. "You've gone native."
Titos Duros Rabbah, praeses of Ismaea and a round-faced man some five years' Dento's junior, only shrugged. "I value my comfort," he said, then smiled. "I certainly don't envy you in all that armor."
The look on Dento's face caused the praeses' smile to falter, and Rabbah made a quick bow in his saddle. "My apologies, vicarios, perhaps I spoke too familiarly. It gives me great pleasure to have your esteemed self as an honored guest." He gestured to one of the riders waiting behind him. "And might I have the additional pleasure of introducing--"
"There's no need, praeses Rabbah," interrupted the rider, advancing his own horse so that he was beside Rabbah. "The vicarios and I have known each other a long time."
"Joseph, son of Saul," Dento said with a nod. "You god has favored you with good health, I see." Unfortunately so, he silently added.
"A fact that must disappoint you greatly," replied Joseph, son of Saul, his Amoraean betraying only the hint of an accent. The last time he and Dento had seen each other, Joseph had been trim older man with a vulpine face, a clever gaze, and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. That had been nearly twelve years ago when Dento had still been the praeses of Ismaea, and although his beard was now completely white Joseph's odd golden eyes had lost none of their spark. As chief elder of the House of Ansari --masters of Bethaminael and Shieldbearers to the Aminael for over three hundred years-- Joseph had been Dento's biggest ally as well as his most dangerous enemy. Both the Amoraean and the Ismaean had spent their time together in endless manuever and intrigue, constantly testing each other for some small advantage in their competition for power. Without modesty Dento judged himself the ultimate winner of their endless contests, but knew better than let down his guard in Joseph's presence.
The Ismaean leaned over the neck of his horse at Dento's entourage. "You've brought many soldiers, vicarios. Have you come to make war upon Bethaminael?"
"Will that be necessary for me?" Dento replied, eyebrow raised.
"Of course not!" Rabbah interjected. "Our gates are open to you, vicarios." Joseph said nothing, but instead only smiled.
Further introductions were made: several other elders of the House of Ansari and other Bethaminael notables, the senior Presbyter of the Iesinorene church, and a shovel-faced pilos prior named Marcos Flaccos who commanded the cohort of comitatenses garrisoning the city. Flaccos had not gone native, Dento noted, but instead also sweated beneath an Amoraean helmet and lorica hamata. Once the formalities concluded, the two parties of horsemen merged into a single large group which slowly filed through the Gate of Ships into Bethaminael. A company of legionarii manned the gate, but as he passed beneath the arch Dento was disturbed to see their numbers matched by Ismaean soldiers with the device of the House of Ansari upon their shields. Joseph had been busy in the time since he had left, Dento reflected.
It was strange returning to Bethaminael after all these years, riding through the same heat and filth and noise of its crowded streets that had changed not all since a much younger Dento had been a mere ambitious praeses. These streets were treacherous to those with ambition, but Dento had survived and taken himself to Phoedetis Novapolis and the diocesan seat. Bethaminael favored him, it seemed; perhaps it would now favor him again.