The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The House of Gregorius Auricus, Roma Mater

Late afternoon sun slanted across a broad desktop of close-grained wood. The entire surface was covered with neatly arranged piles of parchment, separated by wooden dividers and interspersed with jars of colored ink. Gaius Julius bent over a marble writing surface, quill busy in his hand, while he listened to an elderly Greek reading a dispatch from Gothica.

"'…our forces have pursued the Gepids into remote fastnesses where our horse cannot go and our columns are disordered if they advance. Because of this, the enemy continues to resist, though any attacks made by them are repulsed at high cost and with few casualties to our own soldiers.'"

The Greek paused, raising a neatly plucked white eyebrow at the back of the old Roman's head. Gaius, continuing to write, nodded impatiently for the man to continue. The secretary sighed, wishing for the days when he served the elderly Gregorius-who did not keep such long hours! — and took a breath to resume his recitation.

The door to the study banged open and a tall, dark-haired woman swept into the room. Gaius Julius looked up in irritation. "There'd better be-" The old Roman stuttered, caught by complete surprise. "Kri-" He paused again, gathering his wits, eyes narrowing in recognition. "My lady Martina, I had no idea you and the prince had returned to the city. Has something happened?"

"No, Master Gaius, not at all." The Empress Martina glided up to the table and perched herself on the corner, daintily setting aside the papers lying there. She smiled down at the old man, a dazzling display of perfect white teeth and bit her lower lip, dimpling at him.

Gaius Julius set down his quill, careful to keep ink from spilling on the letter, and shook out the sleeves of his toga. Then, watching the Empress from under half-lidded eyes, he bowed graciously. A chill wash of fear and surprise trembled in his arms and legs, but he had faced worse before and he showed nothing of his consternation in face or attitude.

"My lady, you look well," he said in a very dry voice. "Marriage must agree with you."

Martina laughed, a gay, ringing sound, and stretched luxuriously. Firm, full breasts pressed against cream-colored silk and a wavy cascade of dark, auburn hair spilled down her arched back. A slow, hot smile burned in a classic face. She stepped away from the desk. "Do you think so?"

The Empress raised her arms, turning, letting the heavy silk cling to her thighs and flat stomach as she twirled. Golden bracelets fit snugly on round, white arms and silver rings flashed on slim, tapering fingers. Laughing again, a full merry sound, she came to a halt, faintly flushed.

Gaius remained impassive, watching the woman's face, searching her dark brown eyes with a faint frown.

"You don't like my new look?" Martina pouted. "I do."

"The prince's… wedding gift?" Gaius Julius hazarded, driving his tumultuous thoughts to ordered, quiet calm. He stepped around the desk, looking the Empress of the East up and down with a critical eye. Martina preened, enjoying his attention.

She looks like Krista, the old Roman thought, stomach clenching with troubled memories, but… improved. He struggled to suppress his frown, to keep clear disgust from his face. A boy's dream-larger breasts, more perfect features, longer hair, more… everything. Gaius smiled, summoning cheer into his seamed old face. Resentment flickered at the back of his thoughts, but this too he drove away without mercy. The prince favors who he will…

"Are you happy?" Gaius asked, returning to his seat. He felt better with the wide desk between the two of them. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes!" Martina stared at him in open astonishment. "Of course! I hated my old body and now the loathsome fat thing is gone, cast away like a snake's skin, and I am… new!"

She giggled again, taking two gliding, dancing steps to the windows. The garden at the center of the prince's town house was not large, but old Gregorius' gardeners were both dedicated and patient. Cherry and lemon trees shaded a pool filled with delicate golden fish. She put her hands on the window frame, breathing deep of the scented air.

"I cannot wait to see Helena's face," she said, looking over her shoulder with a mischievous expression. "She'll wrinkle up like a prune!"

"She will not be pleased, no." Gaius considered saying more, but held his tongue. Would this transformed creature even care? The old Martina might have… but now? I think not. "Did you enjoy Capri? The island is very beautiful."

"Is it?" Martina turned to face him, leaning back against the window. A dreamy, distracted expression filled her face. "I didn't notice." She bit her lip, grinning, eyes sparkling with remembered delight. Her hands smoothed pleated fabric down over her stomach. "We were very busy, you know. But I remember smelling hyacinths and roses and jasmine outside the windows." She made a slight move. "I didn't want to leave."

"Why did you come back?" Gaius rearranged his papers idly.

"Oh, he was troubled by bad dreams." Martina made a disparaging gesture. "He had to come back, quick as can be…" A thought came to her, and the Empress' expression brightened. "He's gone off to bother the Emperor, which means I'm free to entertain myself in the shops." She gave Gaius Julius a calculating look, then shook her head, making tiny silver beads set among her curls chime softly. "You'll never do! You're old, and have so much important work to do."

Gaius Julius could not help but scowl. The Empress' eyes glittered in response, and she clapped her hands together.

"Ah! You are still a little vain, aren't you? Even being so old." She came closer with little dancing steps. The mischievous twinkle was back in her eyes. Laughter bubbled in her voice. "Do you want to know a secret?"

"What would that be?" Gaius Julius held his ground, though instinct urged him to back away or run. The Empress took his hand, sliding his long fingers over the rich, luxurious fabric covering her hip. The old Roman's nostrils flared, involuntarily taking in a cloud of soft perfume-a dozen dizzying scents wrapped around a spicy core-and he became very still. Martina pursed her lips, fingers tracing his cheeks, the wrinkles under his eyes, passing over the thinning fringe of hair clinging stubbornly around his ears. She leaned close, resting her forehead against his cheek.

"Haven't you guessed," she whispered and the sound of her laughter made another cold chill trickle along his spine. "You've known the prince longer than I! You see what he can do with me, with nothing." Martina pulled away, holding both of Gaius' hands. A look of triumph wreathed her perfect face, and her eyes glittered with a cold, victorious light.

"The prince will never die," she said softly. "Nor will I, or you, or Alexandros, or any of his favorites. Look at me! I will be this way, forever!"

Gaius Julius' jaw clenched and he forced down a choking sensation. His body held no bile to flood the back of his throat, for which he was grateful. "Yes," he said after a pause. "While the prince lives, he may heal all our hurts, tend all our diseases. We will live while he endures."

"Endures?" Martina made a face, the pink tip of her tongue flashing between snowy teeth. "We will not endure, we will rejoice in limitless days! We will be free from death, disease, age… every plague and plight of men. Forever."

The old Roman said nothing, watching her preen and laugh, filled with the prospect of endless joy. The Empress' face glowed with a vast, consuming delight and he felt old, very old. At the same time, he suppressed a shudder of atavistic fear.

Why did our prince fashion a new Alais from the clay of shy Martina?

— |-

Galen, Emperor of the West, protector of the East, ran both hands through lank, dark hair. His usually sharp brown eyes were dull with fatigue. Tiny flames reflected in each pupil and his skin shone a sickly green in the radiance of the telecast. He leaned on a narrow table, staring into the depths of the whirling device, attention wholly upon flickering, shrike-quick visions passing before him.

Two scribeswomen watched by his side, one sketching the revealed scene on papyrus sheets with a hard stick of charcoal, the other scribbling notes as fast as she could.

"There." Galen coughed, pressing the back of a hand across his lips. He gestured to a pair of thaumaturges sitting beside the telecast, faces tense with effort. "There beside the road, there is a bivouac… magnify those tents."

The disk of fire flared, point of view swinging wildly from on high-where the outline of a great city was revealed on a peninsula dappled with shadow and the failing light of the sun-down past towering clouds of smoke, over battlements and ramparts strewn with the dead and wounded, past a sandstone tower blackened by fire and across trampled pastures. Tents swelled in the gleaming disk, and Galen looked down upon cohorts of men sprawled in exhaustion across stubbled fields and farmyards. Cook fires shone against encroaching night, cooks busy filling kettles of grain mash. Then tents appeared, glowing softly by lamplight. Banners stood limp in humid night air, but the Emperor saw a brace of black chargers pawing the earth, eager for grain.

"Yes," Galen hissed in satisfaction. "The largest tent, show me inside!"

"My lord! We dare not!" Beside the massive block of stone holding the telecast, one of the thaumaturges guiding the device looked up, long old face white with strain. "He is nearby."

Galen looked back to the disc, frowning, then saw the faint outlines of men crouched outside the tent, nearly invisible in the falling twilight. Their long pigtails and flat, sharp cheekbones could still be made out. "Huns." The Emperor cursed. "The sorcerer's bodyguards. Very well, draw back and show me the army camps instead."

Again, the vision changed, rushing back into the darkening air. A vast array of tents, campfires, wagons, men marching along muddy roads filled his vision. "Steady there," Galen said, turning to the clerks at his side. "Can you make a count of the campfires and tents, while light remains?"

The women nodded, though their faces were puffy with fatigue and dark circles smudged their eyes. "Yes, Lord and God."

"Thank you." He squeezed the gray-haired one's shoulder. "When does your relief-"

The double doors to the old library swung wide, hinges groaning in protest. Galen looked up, surprised, his heart sinking in anticipation of dreadful news-was there any other kind? — then he breathed a sigh of relief. "Maxian!" He stepped towards his brother. "How was Capri?"

"What has happened?" The prince's face was taut with fear as he brushed his brother's welcoming hand aside. Maxian stared into the wavering vision burning inside the ring of the telecast. "Is this Egypt? Why is it so dark?"

Galen turned, caught short by Maxian's angry demands. "Yes, this is Egypt," he said in a measured voice. "The sun is setting."

The prince did not look at his brother, all attention focused on pinpoints of light scattered in deep shadow. Sunlight still gleamed on a few spires rising from the smoke-fogged warren of Alexandria. The Nile channels gleamed pewter, beginning to catch starlight in their waters.

"Show me Caesar Aurelian," Maxian commanded, raising a hand. A faint sound, like a ringing bell, hung in the air. The two thaumaturges yelped in alarm, starting wild-eyed from their couches. The disk blazed blue-white, flooding the room, forcing Galen to turn his head, gritting his teeth in pain. Both of the scribes cried out in surprise.

The Emperor blinked, then opened his eyes to a suddenly darkened room. He whistled in surprise. The telecast looked upon Aurelian, his red beard tangled and shining with sweat, mouth moving soundlessly. The stocky prince was in a tent hung with lamps, new wrinkles around his eyes, hands moving in sharp gestures. A crowd of Roman officers stood around a campaign table littered with maps. Aurelian turned, fist clenched, his face blazing with purpose.

"He lives," Maxian said, relief plain in his voice. He brushed sweat from his brow.

"He does." Galen waved the clerks out of the room. Both women tiptoed away. The thaumaturges looked to the Emperor for guidance and he tilted his head towards the door. They fled. "Maxian, our Horse is fine. There was a battle today, but-all things considered-it went well. Very well."

Maxian turned to his brother, a ghastly expression on his face. "I dreamed… I dreamed he was dead. His face was pale, blood streaked the water, lapping over him…"

"Nothing has happened to our Horse," Galen said firmly, taking Maxian's shoulders in hand. "Nothing."

Shoulders slumping in relief, Maxian sat heavily on the table. Behind him, the vision of his brother continued to declaim, now indicating the maps with a stubby finger. The officers leaned close, faces intent on the diagrams.

"I couldn't sleep," Maxian said softly, avoiding Galen's eyes. His right hand batted at the air beside his ear. "Voices were whispering, telling me things-they said Horse was dead, cut down, lungs filling with water-and I could do nothing. Everything was in ruins…"

"It's not true," Galen said, managing a very tired smile. "But I have the same dreams, when I try to sleep, filled with disaster and calamity." He rubbed his eyes. "In truth, this battle today was the first good news in weeks."

"I should be there," Maxian said, sitting up straighter. He glared at his brother. "The Persian sorcerer is there, isn't he?" The prince turned to the telecast, taking obvious comfort from the sight of Aurelian in good health. "Show me the enemy," he said in a commanding voice.

"No!" Galen lunged forward, then pulled himself up short. I can't control the cursed thing with my fists… "Maxian-if we can see him, he can see us!"

The scene shifted with dizzying speed, flashing over flat-roofed buildings-a towering wall-men marching along a rampart studded with stakes and towers, winging over trampled grass and boggy ground. Maxian grimaced, looking pained. Galen made a halfhearted gesture at the disc. The Persian camp swelled into view, tired, curly-bearded faces flashing past.

"Please, Max, they don't know we can watch them!"

Growling in disgust, Maxian sketched a sign in the air and the disk abruptly went dark. A whining hum skittered down, then bronze clattered on stone as the sphere of fire hissed into silence. A low, ringing tone bounced and jangled from the ceiling as the last, innermost gear rattled from side to side, then lay still.

"Your secret is safe." Maxian's voice was surly and the prince drew himself up, lips curled in almost a snarl. "And I am safe too, trapped here in Rome, while our soldiers bleed in some Egyptian field, and my brother tries to hold back sorcery with nothing but mortal bone and muscle!"

"Maxian." Galen's voice was cold and held a quelling edge. He matched angry glares with his brother. This time, Maxian did not relent or look away. Instead, Galen did. The Emperor sat down on the edge of the table, bone-deep exhaustion flooding back, stealing the last fragment of hope he'd clawed from the ruin of the Persian attack. "Listen. Today the Persian army made four full-scale assaults on the defenses of Alexandria. They did not stint themselves-I watched your Persian sorcerer rage for the better part of a day, trying to throw down the rampart and those towers-and they failed."

The Emperor opened his eyes, giving his brother a frank and appraising look. "You were not there. Our best guess is Aurelian managed to save a few thaumaturges from the wreck of Pelusium, and they are holding on, working only to defend, not to attack. The Persians were forced to strike directly into our fortifications, man-to-man, steel against steel. Our old Horse and his men held and made the Persians-and their Greek and Arab allies-pay dearly."

Maxian's tight, angry expression softened a little. "But…"

"Listen to me, just for a moment. Then you'll have your say." Galen paused, struggling to arrange his thoughts, to remember everything he held in play. His memory was beginning to fail, battered by too little sleep and too much to do.

The prince almost spoke, then gestured sharply for the Emperor to continue.

"The Persians are far from home," Galen managed to say, after two deep breaths. "Their numbers are limited and by our count, only half-again Aurelian's strength. But we hold a strong position. The harbor remains open, for they are loath to commit their fleet for fear of ours, so Alexandria will not starve. I have sent letters to the comes Alexandros in Constantinople. In another week, perhaps two, the remains of our fleet will be able to shift his army to Egypt. Then we will outnumber the Persians by two to one."

Maxian's eyes blazed. "I can be in Egypt in three days," he cried.

Galen did not respond and the prince flushed, stung by his brother's icy demeanor, then sat down again.

"When our fleet approaches the Nile mouth," the Emperor said in an even, steady voice, "the Persians will sortie to destroy them. On another day, I would gladly accept a sea battle-our fleet would be packed to the railings with legionaries-and victory would be likely. But on this day… We have been watching the battle closely and you should know the Persian sorcerer is no longer alone."

"I know," Maxian said sharply, "a dog-headed man fought beside him at Constantinople, though I thought it destroyed…"

Galen's lips twitched into a wintry smile. "The Jackal lives. There are two others, apparently equal in strength."

"Two more?" Maxian stared in surprise.

Galen nodded, rubbing the back of a knuckle against his eyebrows. He squeezed his left eye shut, trying to quell the tap-tap-tap chipping away at his concentration. "Yes. A man and a woman. Their faces are shadowed and indistinct, but we think they are Greeks." The Emperor shook his head, sighing. "The city of Palmyra had a great school and many learned sons and daughters. I wonder… no matter. No matter."

"There are four of them?" Maxian sounded ill. He sat down.

"Four." Galen's face was grim. "Can you defeat four sorcerers?"

"I… Perhaps." The prince swallowed, rubbing his temples. "How many Legion thaumaturges can accompany me?"

Galen did not answer for a moment. His eyes narrowed in calculation. "Tell me this, brother. Can you protect our fleet against them, if you stand one against four?"

"Of course-" Maxian paused, then turned his head to listen. His expression twisted into frustrated anger. "No, no, I cannot. Not if the Serpent engages my attention-then the others will savage our fleet. Each ship will require a thaumaturge aboard, to see to its defense."

"We account barely twenty Legion thaumaturges still in the West." Galen's voice was heavy.

"Only twenty?" Maxian's eyes widened in shock and a taint of despair crept into his voice.

"Twenty. Aurelian had a round dozen with him and they are dead or pressed to the limit in Alexandria. More died before Constantinople and Alexandros' Gothic Legion, for all his valor and their skill, accounts none among their number." Galen spread his hands. "The Eastern Empire's wizards are scattered, slain or fled. So… I have you, and these twenty."

"How many ships are in the fleet?" Maxian bit his thumb, staring into an unguessable distance.

"Two hundred, large and small, and they will be stretched to the limit to carry Alexandros' army."

The prince took on a pickled look, grinding his fist against his teeth. After a moment, he gave his brother a sick, exhausted look. "I can't protect so many. If these Persians can handle fire, they will wreck half the fleet, or more, before we can make harbor."

Galen nodded. "I thought as much." He essayed a smile, but knew the expression was no better than a death's head. "I am not a wizard, yet I can listen and learn and count as well as any man. This is not easy to say, but…" Then he stopped, grimacing at a bitter taste in his mouth. "We are outmatched for the moment. We need to buy time."

"Time for what?" Maxian's voice rose, frustrated and angry. "What difference will a week make, save the Persians may find a way into Alexandria and our brother and thousands of Roman soldiers will be dead?"

"Be quiet and listen!" Galen snapped back, his patience eroding. "I have been following the reports from your workshops in Florentia very closely. In three weeks, the first of your flying machines will be complete. In four, they will all be ready to fly." He raised a finger sharply. "When they are ready, you will take them to Egypt. The fleet will arrive at roughly the same time. With the long eyes of your iron drakes, we will be able to spy the Persian fleet long before they can see us-I hope to reinforce the city before the enemy can respond. And when he does…"

"I will be waiting, in the sky." Maxian's lips stretched in a feral grin. "Their fleet will be helpless against an attack from above."

"Even so," Galen said, showing a little of his own satisfaction. "The odds will shift in our favor, I think."

Maxian's exhaustion faded, bunching his fists eagerly. His spirits revived, then worry clouded his face again. "Four weeks…" He stared at the quiet, still telecast, then back at Galen. "What if our Horse can't hold the city that long? What then?"

Galen shook his head sadly. "He has to hold on, piglet. We don't have another option."

"That's not good enough!" Maxian's anger flared again. "Let me go! I can land Iron Pegasus on sand or sea and snatch him away if things go poorly."

"No," Galen said, stiffening. "He must stay. If he leaves, the defense will collapse. You saw those faces in the telecast-the men are weary, driven to the edge, but they believe in him-his confidence holds them together. Aurelian must stay in Alexandria until we can relieve him." A finger stabbed at the prince. "And you must make ready. You have to be in Florentia in three weeks to complete the sorcery binding the iron drakes. Without them, we've no chance to salvaging the situation in Egypt."

"But-"

"Are you ready to face this monster?" Galen's voice cracked like a whip, making Maxian flinch. The Emperor advanced on his younger brother, eyes glittering. "You'll only get one throw in this game, one toss, one set of bones rattling in the cup. The next time you face the Serpent, you must win."

Maxian snarled back, a guttural, unintelligible sound. He raised a hand, naked fury in the choppy motion. "I will be ready!" he shouted. "I am ready now!"

"I don't think you are," Galen barked in a cold, cutting voice. "Rested, yes. Focused, no! I've given you all the time I can, but your idle youth is now past. Now you must fight and win and there is no margin for failure!"

"Idle youth?" Maxian goggled at his brother. "Idle youth! I've not been idle, you arrogant bastard! I've been working without a pause for-" His mouth snapped shut. With obvious effort, Maxian mastered himself. "I will be ready," he snarled.

Galen held up four fingers in response. Maxian's jaw clenched, but he said nothing, turning on his heel and stalking out. The doors groaned as he passed, then slammed shut, driven by invisible hands.

In the quiet, deserted room, the Emperor slumped back against the table, palms pressed against burning eyes, a sick, queasy feeling roiling in his stomach. After a moment, he sighed again and pushed away from the table. He was very tired.

He'll be ready now, the Emperor thought, a very terror, raging to crash into the midst of the enemy and savage them. Galen made a weighing motion with his hands, then shook his head at the bargain he'd made with his heart and the Empire. I hate this. I have two brothers… but the Empire needs victory more than one general, or even a Legion.

Gaius Julius released the Empress' hands, stepping to the windows himself. He did not look down upon the shady trees and cool green lawn below, but out over the red-tile roof and white walls of the villa. He lifted his chin, pointing at the Palatine Hill sweltering in summer heat. "Do you think Helena will let you live so long?"

The old Roman turned, amusement gleaming in his eyes. Martina's face was a frozen mask.

"She is not a jealous woman," he continued, "but she has eyes to see and a mind quick enough to grasp the implications of your new… body. Oh, the prince could cast a glamour upon you, making you seem your old, familiar self. But would wearing such a guise please you, my lady, when you have such fine new plumage to show?"

"It would not!" Martina made a striking motion with one hand; her firm, muscular arm cutting the air. "I want to see shock in her face and envy and raw jealousy! I want every head to turn to me and leave her standing alone and ignored at the edge of the room, while the great lords and ladies fawn at my feet. I want-"

"You want to be the Empress," Gaius said, deftly interrupting her tirade. "You wish to rule."

Martina's nostrils flared and she fell silent, rosebud lips moving, silently tasting the words. Gaius Julius watched and considered while the girl thought. Nervous tension made his right hand tremble, but he stilled the offending limb, forcing quiet upon muscle and bone by sheer will. He had prepared for this moment for some time, laying plans, making friends among his enemies, assuring himself of a means of retreat and advance alike, securing his flanks, sending out emissaries to neighboring nations to measure their interest and enmity. Yet despite all this-a patient, measured approach learned at the foot of Mars through long years of war-there was still a tight, brittle tension in the moment before action broke, in the quiet space before spears clashed against shields and men roared their war cries, rushing forward onto the field.

So Gaius Julius waited, watching the woman think, seeing a flush rise in her breast, seeing her eyes brighten, her features draw tight with predatory sharpness. The old general remembered another woman, one with coal-dark hair, alabaster skin, piercing eyes like the sea in morning light, and he felt a pang in his heart, realizing he missed Kleopatra terribly.

You are not her, child, he thought sadly. Though your physical charms surpass hers, you will never have her wit or quicksilver mind, a hawk soaring on summer air… will I ever see such a light in human flesh again?

A memory tugged at his thought and Gaius' quick mind focused for an instant. Who have I seen who struck me in just such a way… there was someone, a girl with gray eyes…

"Yes," Martina pronounced, straightening, lifting her head. "I want to be the first woman in Rome, without equal or rival."

Gaius forced himself to concentrate on the moment at hand. "And your son? What do you wish for him?"

"An empire," Martina answered sharply. "A single, undivided empire."

The old Roman flashed a tight little smile, feeling his pulse quicken. The distracting memory was set aside. "What of your benefactor, your protector, the Emperor Galen? He has made many honorable pledges to you…"

"Oh." Sorrow and guilt flared in Martina's face, but she shook the shadow away in a cascade of shining curls. "He is weary-let him retire, as Emperors have done before and live out his waning days in a garden by the sea, tending his cabbages."

Gaius Julius laughed softly, raising an eyebrow in appreciation. "Do you think he will agree as readily as Diocletian did?"

Annoyance and irritation replaced the sorrow in the woman's face. "He should! Even he must see how the world has changed. And if not… then wiser heads may prevail and save everyone such grief."

"And his son?" The old Roman tucked his hands into the folds of his toga, leaning back against the cool stone of the wall. "Will your Heracleonas miss his playmate?"

"I will not miss him or his mother!" Martina said, sharp delight spreading across her face. "Let her go into retirement as well, and the boy-he may suffer any sickness of the young-as she has pointed out herself!"

Gaius' gaze lingered on the woman's breasts, taut against the silk gown, and the curve of her shoulders, shining now with a faint sheen of sweat. He met her eyes with a cool glance and they were glistening dark, pupils swollen into the iris. So quickly is the mild, bookish girl overthrown by a heady taste… he thought sadly. Gaius stepped to her, holding out a broad, flat hand.

"We are agreed, then, my lady?"

Her soft, damp hand settled over his and she nodded fiercely. "We are agreed."

"Then," Gaius said, recovering his hand and bowing deeply to her. "I suggest we leave our common master, the prince, out of any deliberations or discussion." The old Roman essayed a thin smile. "He has much on his mind, for the war in Egypt goes poorly. Soon, I fear, he will be forced to take the field against the Persian mage. The gods of Rome give him strength for that contest!"

"He will win." Martina's confidence shone in her eyes like sun blazing from a raised shield.

"I pray so," Gaius said, keeping his own counsel in the matter. He pressed dry lips against the inside of her wrist, drawing a breathy giggle. "Then you shall have your heart's desire."

Martina laughed again and sat up on the windowsill, looking out upon the city with greedy eyes. Gaius Julius turned politely away, returning to his desk while the woman began talking softly to herself, white arm raised to indicate this temple or palace on the further hills.

"…there will be a garden, filled with statues of all the great poets…"

The letter lay on his blotter, lacking only a signature. Gaius Julius read it over carefully, then-scowling at the lost effort-set it aside in a pile marked for speedy destruction in fire. He drew a freshly-cut sheet from a waiting stack and settled himself on the curule chair to write.

Dear Alexandros, he began, quill scratching across smooth lambskin, as you have doubtless learned from the Emperor's courier, the Imperial fleet is almost ready to carry you to battle. Do not wait for their white sails, but march your army west by the Via Egnatia to Dyrrachium on the Epirote coast, where ships will be waiting for you…

Maxian heard singing and gay laughter. Disturbed from meditation, his thoughts rose from a still pool, breaching invisible waters. He sat, legs crossed in the Persian style, at the center of a small room adjoining the bedroom he shared with Martina in the house of Gregorius Auricus. Once, the chamber had held the old senator's desk and bookcases and personal items. Such things had been quietly removed by the servants and Maxian was content with a bare, polished floor and empty walls. A chatter of jays rose in the outer rooms as Martina's maids entered.

She is up to something, whispered a patrician voice in the prince's ear. Listen to her tone, like a wolf speaking sweetly to the lamb!

"Be quiet," Maxian said, lips barely moving. The sensation of a man-an old, white-haired gentleman with ink-stained fingers-faded. The prince bent a tiny fraction of his will against wood and metal. The door between the two rooms swung closed, bolts sliding into iron hasps with a sharp clunk. "I need to think."

The chamber grew dim, the light from the windows fading. Slowly, one by one, faint lights sprang into visibility in the air around the prince. Each varied in color and hue and speed, a restless cloud of sparks swinging around the seated man, each in their own orbit. Many were barely visible, only the faintest drifting streak of light, while others blazed bright, almost a candle flame in the darkness. They cast a wavering, golden glow across Maxian's sharp features.

He closed his eyes, letting thoughts settle, letting his mind grow calm and clear, his hands at rest upon muscular thighs, palms open.

I need more strength, he thought, considering his enemy. The Oath is weak in Egypt. The Dark Queen will not be at my side. My enemy has gained allies, while I have none.

Impressions of the Persian sorcerer unfolded in his memory, coming to life for his inner eye. Again, he relived the battle in the streets of Constantinople and his fear was far away, confined and controlled. Maxian watched carefully, gauging the strength of his opponent. This time he paid close attention to the jackal-headed man, watching the creature crawl from shattered icy stone, iron mask smoking dull-red with heat. When the opponents parted, each retiring undefeated, Maxian let the vision begin again. This time, he focused upon the powers roiling and shuddering in the hidden world, flowing around the prince, the sorcerer, the Dark Queen and the Jackal, like a storm-driven tide.

The Jackal, Maxian thought deliberately, is a slave, held by a noose of power. The creature wields its own power-not inconsiderable! — yet is a pawn, an extension of the Serpent's will.

Intrigued, the prince studied the shining matrices shifting and distorting around the two Persians. Maxian had placed a mark of servitude on a man before-he had even roughly grasped control of Alexandros once, when the need pressed him-but those efforts were crude in comparison to the chains binding the jackal to its inhuman master. Maxian felt fear of his enemies' skill eddy up again, but repressed the emotion.

You are powerful and skilled, the prince thought, holding an image of the Persian in his thoughts, yet so am I. You are ancient and steeped in lost knowledge, but I learn swiftly. Perhaps… Maxian shook his head, wishing yet again he'd kept his temper and the Nabatean wizard Abdmachus were still alive to guide him. I miss the old fool, he thought ruefully. I need his skills-hard-won through years of effort-I've no time to spend in diligent study to gain them…

A thought occurred to the prince and he turned to the glowing air spinning around him.

"Columella!" Maxian commanded, "show yourself!"

One spark, brighter than the rest, dipped and dodged among their multitude, speeding to rest before the prince. Maxian moved a finger and the mote blazed with light, swelling rapidly into the half-transparent shape of a man. An old man, with a fine Latin nose, hunched shoulders and thinning white hair. Behind the image, another spark-a sullen green-slowed to a halt, hanging behind the ghostly shoulder, light dimming into near invisibility.

"Old man," Maxian said curiously, "you whisper advice in my ear, lend me your knowledge of ancient tongues, watch over me while I sleep. Why?"

Columella's seamed and wrinkled face twisted into a rueful grin, hands raised in a shrug.

I live in you, Maxian heard as a faint whisper, though you murdered me while I sat reading.

Maxian flinched a little, but his brother's acid voice echoed in memory and he knew there was no time for guilt or second thoughts about the past. Only the future remained, clouded by onrushing disaster. "What did you do in life?"

I was a scholar, the old man answered dreamily. I read, I wrote… I plundered the past for poetry, for stories, for anecdotes to make my patron laugh at dinner parties. Some accounted me an expert in matters of the vine. I never guessed learning the signs of the ancients would prove such a fruitful business!

"You have helped me," Maxian said, considering the cloud of light spinning around him. "You have skills I lack… What of these others? What do they know?"

Faint, thready laughter answered him. Columella's ghost shook its head. What do you wish? There are entire cities here, lord prince! Bakers, fishermen, soldiers, prostitutes… who do you think guided your hands, your lips, when you lay with the Empress? They are eager, you know, eager to taste a little life again, through you.

"Are they?" Maxian smiled in amusement, holding up his hands. Swarms of sparks crowded around his fingers, and now he could hear individual voices, pleading, praising, begging for an instant of his attention. He started to feel dizzy, then scowled furiously, closing his hands. "Enough! There is no time for this."

The sparks fled from his anger, whirling away in the air. He felt great relief as their voices fell silent. "Better," Maxian allowed, turning his attention again to the old scholar. Columella had grown faint in the passing moment, but now his image strengthened, becoming almost solid.

"Are there any among your number," the prince asked, keeping a firm tone in his voice, "who know aught of thaumaturgy or the matter of wizards?"

The cloud of light stirred, drifting this way and that, then parted. A feeble spark limped into view, barely a smudge of pearl against the dark air. Maxian focused upon the mote, willing it to spring to fullness before him. Radiance swelled, filling a withered, hunched frame and dull, nearly lifeless eyes.

"Who is this?" Maxian turned to Columella again.

This is Quintus Metelus Pius, the scholar answered. He served in the Legions as a thaumaturge for much of his life. He was retired to Oplontis with his pension, living in a little villa by the sea, with hyacinths in the-

"Enough." Maxian focused upon the dim spark, willing it to flare with life, with fullness, to show him the old man's face. He sent a thread of power into the failing, weak consciousness. "Let him speak for himself."

A flare of dull copper lit the room and the mote rushed into a man's shape. Maxian stared in surprise-this was no old man! — this was a Legion officer in full health…

Quintus struck, ghostly face transformed by rage, will brilliant with desire. A ghostly fist slammed against the prince's face. Maxian staggered, rolling back on the floor, blood flying from a suddenly broken nose. Power flickered in the air, accompanied by a grumbling, low rumble. Maxian's hair stirred, driven by an unseen wind.

Now! screamed thousands of voices. Smash him! Crush him! Set us free!

The legionary leapt forward, fire blazing from his hands. Maxian shouted in fear, fingers leaping into a sign of defense. A glittering, blue-white shield sprang into the air. Quintus struck with both fists, a coruscating dodecahedron pattern crashing into the prince's ward. Angles intersected, clashing violently and Maxian's pattern splintered. Glassy blue-white fragments smoked in the air. The prince struck the wall, feeling bones creak. Quintus swelled in size as countless sparks flooded to him, guttering out in headlong sacrifice. Lightning rippled along the ceiling, burning the stones black with soot. The legionary slashed his hand down, eyes alive with fire, and Maxian staggered, a long, red wound lashed open in his neck and chest. Stabbing pain flooded his mind and the pattern binding self to self began to fray. A chorus of exalted screams rocked the air.

Tasting bitter iron in his mouth, Maxian groped to raise his shield again. A multitude of sparks swarmed around him, each tiny, angry will beating at his consciousness. The prince's face stilled as he concentrated, ignoring the frenzy around him. The Oath was waiting, surging around the room, vast and implacable, the combined will and thought and memory of millions of loyal Romans. Maxian seized hold, letting the black tide roar through him. The room seemed to compress and he looked down from a great height, seeing the entire city spread out below him like a mosaic. He reached down, finger stabbing at a single, shining spark.

Quintus' shape wavered and a vast wailing shrieked in the air. The legionnaire shattered, the frail, weak pattern of his ghost-mind smashed aside by Maxian's unleashed power. There was a flare and the prince felt screaming despair flood into his bones. Half-consciously, he sensed the ghost trying to flee and reached out, seizing the man's guttering, nearly exhausted will in an icy pattern of interlocking diamonds.

"Treachery earns destruction," Maxian grated, staggering away from the wall. He closed his fist and felt the Legion thaumaturge's will shatter, pinned between irresistible forces. "But you are not yet discharged from my service."

His face a cold mask, the prince enveloped the fragments, drinking them into his consciousness. Memories flooded into his thoughts, memories and smells and sensations and skill like a draught of crisp Caucinian taken from a freshly broached amphora. Remorseless, his pride and honor stung by the thaumaturge's ambush, Maxian winnowed out the man's training from the freshet of other memories and emotions. Shields and wards, he saw, patterns and tricks, every kind of subtle skill…

The prince opened his eyes and saw the world through sharper eyes. The ghost of Columella remained, one eye burning green, though the radiant cloud had dimmed tremendously. Maxian felt a little sick, though the exercise of such power no longer wore against him, but elevated his mind.

You should not be surprised, my lord, Columella said, shaking his head sadly. There are many among your attendants who wished you ill. They were young, still in love with life, and they resented such abrupt cessation.

"But you do not?" Maxian strode to the center of the room, translucent armor glittering around him in the hidden world, his power licking along the floor like a burning red sea. The ghost bowed, shaking his head.

As I said before, even this half-life is better than oblivion.

Maxian laughed hoarsely. "You do not believe in Elysium?"

I see only darkness, my lord.

"Very well," the prince said, turning his attention to the slowly shifting cloud of sparks. "My mind is upon you now, little spirits, and you must choose." Maxian's face drew intent, eyes darkening, an odd, bluish light flickering around him in a gossamer shroud. "The loyal will remain, the treacherous will find true oblivion waiting for them. I have no time and no patience to coddle you…"

Rippling ultraviolet shaded through the room as the prince bent to his task, face a grim mask. The wailing roared up again, though no human ear could perceive the shrieks and moans of the tortured spirits. Columella turned away, his face against the wall. He could not bear to see such a judgement, though his withered old heart exalted to find another crumb of existence on his plate. The greenish light in his eye dimmed, flickering down to nothing, no more than the faintest spark of hate. Waiting patiently, hidden among the ghostly pattern of the old scholar.