The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The Palatine Hill

Galen slumped back with a groan, covering his face with both hands. The flickering, watery light of the telecast washed over him, throwing odd shadows into the corners of the chamber. No one spoke, leaving only the hissing buzz of the device to fill leaden silence. Grains passed, threatening to drag into a glass and the two ladies sitting at the writing table exchanged a slow, mute glance. They made no sound, but the Emperor stirred, absently brushing lank, dark hair from his high forehead.

"Turn it off." His voice was emotionless, thin face a flat mask. Even his eyes were shuttered and dim.

The thaumaturges on duty bent their heads, muttering softly, and the whirling fire dulled, wicking down to a faint radiance and then to nothing. The bronze disks spun out of the air-this time their descent was gentle-settling quietly into flattened rings. Their task done, both men rose, faces averted from the Emperor's grief and padded out of the room. A moment later, the two ladies followed, their quills and inks and stores of parchment tucked away in wicker baskets ornamented with colored ribbon.

The Emperor remained, staring straight ahead, hands on his knees. He said nothing. His eyes looked upon nothing save a bare, plastered wall.

Galen waited grimly while the members of his privy council entered the room. A pair of oil lamps hissed quietly, providing mellow illumination. Outside the open windows, a warm, windless summer night lay over the city. The hour was very late, deep into the third watch. Everyone was tense-even the usually unflappable Gaius Julius seemed on edge, darting a sideways look at the Emperor as he took a chair-and they were unexpectedly quiet.

The lady Anastasia entered last, sweeping through the doorway in a long, gray gown, her neck ablaze with pearls and glittering white stones. She bowed formally to the Emperor, then to Martina-who lounged beside an irritated Maxian, her hand tucked in his-and claimed a seat between Galen and Gaius Julius. She made no mention of the late hour or the abrupt summons received in the midst of a play. A pleasing scent of coriander and myrrh reached the Emperor's nostrils, but the sensation barely registered.

Galen stood, face impassive, hands flat on the table. "We have lost Egypt," he said in a quiet voice.

Everyone became very still and Maxian's head turned away from his wife to fall upon his brother with a palpable intensity.

"Alexandria has fallen," the Emperor continued, his eyes fixed on some point in the air above Martina's head. Galen took a breath, though his voice did not alter in tone or inflection. "Six full Legions have been destroyed. The entire province now lies open to the enemy. There are small garrisons at Elephantine and Luxor, but they will not be able to resist the Persians. I expect they will surrender and seek repatriation to Cyrenaicea, or employment in the ranks of the conquerors."

He fell silent. Gaius Julius and Anastasia eyed one another, wondering who would pose the first question and break the leaden, dead silence gripping the room. Only Maxian moved, slowly clenching his hand into a fist.

"The lord Aurelian." Galen stopped, nostrils flaring. Something flickered in his eyes, the first time they had shown any emotion at all. "My brother Aurelian, Caesar of the Western Empire, is dead. He suffered grievous wounds in the defense of the harbor and breathed his last while escaping the city aboard an Imperial grain transport."

Maxian started to speak, then stopped, staring at the Emperor with an accusing, anguished expression. The air between the two men seemed to tremble. Martina placed her hand on the prince's arm, speaking softly, and the young man's face closed tight, a shuttered house, with neither lights in the windows nor smoke curling from the chimney.

"We will soon know," Galen said, continuing as if nothing had happened, "what the Persians intend. There are some forces left to us-the army at Constantinople, the fleet, the iron drakes now reaching completion in Florentia. Despite this blow, we still stand. We will yet prevail."

Silence filled the room again and Galen picked up a wooden booklet. Out of long engrained habit, he opened the notebook, stared sightlessly at the page within, then closed the cover again. "That is all. We shall meet again tomorrow and discuss what must be done."

Anastasia rose, swaying slightly, and the others followed. She bowed to the Emperor, searching his face for some sign of life, finding nothing. Galen turned away without a word and walked slowly through the door. Helena-her face hidden by a deep hood, yet recognizable by jeweled bracelets on her thin arms-was waiting to take his hand. A cordon of Praetorians closed up behind them and the Imperial couple was gone.

The Duchess bent her head for a moment, taking a breath and saying a prayer. The others rustled, gathering up their cloaks and-in Gaius' case-a lantern of the type used by the night watch. He had come in haste from a villa on the outskirts of the city.

"My lord-my lady." Anastasia looked up at Maxian and Martina passed. The woman's face was very calm, her huge eyes sliding to meet the Duchess with a tranquil, untroubled gaze. Anastasia-who had not personally seen the Empress since her return from Capri-repressed a shudder. Her spies had reported the girl's transformation, but the languid, predatory gleam in her eyes was new and unexpected. Nothing seemed to remain of the shy, insecure woman glad of the Duchess' friendship. The prince looked at Anastasia, lips tight on bared teeth.

"What do you want?"

"I am sorry, my lord." Anastasia bowed again, looking away. Maxian's eyes were liquid with fury and grief in equal measure and the Duchess felt a chill steal over her, remembering the powers he held at his command. "If there is anything…"

Maxian brushed past and Martina laughed softly, looking back at the Duchess with a sly, pitying smile. Anastasia watched them depart with a heavy heart. Gaius Julius had already slipped out, leaving her alone in the room. Even the guardsmen were gone.

"Well," she said aloud, straightening the neckline of her gown. "What a delightful evening."

Gaius Julius ended his report and set aside a waxed tablet. The old Roman looked to the Emperor, who had been listening with a fist planted firmly against his chin, eyes closed. A dreadful pall hung over the room despite strong, bright sunlight streaming through the windows. Late summer in Rome now afflicted them with stupefying heat during the day and bathwater-warm nights. Blessedly, Gaius' new existence seemed to exempt him from these extremes in the same manner he escaped hunger, exhaustion, even the need to drink.

The Emperor opened his eyes and Gaius almost sighed to see the desolation lurking there. Galen controlled his face and attitude well, adopting a rigid, controlled manner. His voice did not quaver, but the old Roman knew heartbreak when he saw such dead eyes. I… we… should wait, he thought with unexpected compassion. There is still plenty of time for our plot to flourish. Years, in truth.

Twin weapons had placed themselves in Gaius' hands and every instinct urged him to strike now, while the iron blazed hot and the hammer rode high. The collapse of Egypt had wrenched the very heart from the Emperor, leaving him distracted and vulnerable. The unexpected arrival of young Nicholas and the Walach Vladimir two days previous had provided another sledge, not so great as the first, perhaps, but more suitable for delicate, precise work. Gaius wrestled with the problem as he sat down, weighing both options and finding neither entirely satisfactory.

This Emperor is a vexing creature, Gaius mused. I admire him and respect his keen mind. He is a brilliant administrator and an able leader-is there any Roman virtue he does not possess? Is there any reason not to serve him, and him alone, with vigor and piety? Yet…

His eyes drifted sideways, across the calm and composed face of the Duchess, sitting at the Emperor's left hand with her own notes, to the Empress Martina. A demure gown and stole failed to disguise her lush new body, but Martina was showing an unexpected talent for subtlety. She did not flaunt her charms, but hid them beneath expensive silk and linen, leaving her clean, raptor-like face unadorned by paint or powder. Instead, she let striking eyes and flawless skin carry her to victory over any observer. Gaius was sure no artful waxes made her rosebud lips so moist and soft-she had no need, now, or ever, of petty cosmetics. Not with our custos on the job, Gaius thought grimly, ever watchful for blemishes or sagging skin…

Yet, Maxian still overshadowed her with a lean, intense aura. Abiding anger suffused his movements, charging the sharp tilt of his head, the measured way he spoke and the fierce, hateful gaze he turned constantly upon his brother.

Gaius watched them both and here too his heart was heavy with bitter knowledge. Two brothers estranged over the third, he mused, when Rome needs them to stand together. Does my ambition reach too high? How dangerous are these Persians? The old Roman had been surprised by the loss of Egypt. His estimation-one shared by the Emperor, he knew-had been for Aurelian and his veterans to hold Alexandria almost indefinitely. The Legions were good at siegecraft and the Persians notoriously poor. Indeed, he-like the Emperor-had planned on the siege dragging on for months.

Now the other African provinces were in peril. Shahr-Baraz and his lancers could strike due west, rushing along the desert coast. There were no natural barriers to hold them back from reaching as far west as Carthage. More provinces lost, more revenues denied, more strength flowing to the enemy… Gaius quelled the wayward thoughts. They have reached the end of their tether, he reminded himself firmly. They may have taken the city by sorcery and a daring ruse, but they are still very far from home, without fresh armies or fleets. They have to stop! They must stop.

Galen had related the destruction of the Legions in the city in short, clipped sentences. Pressed, Maxian had responded, saying the manipulation of so many animate dead was dreadfully taxing. The enemy could not march them against Rome, not without exhausting himself utterly. Like a berserker's rush, Gaius took some faint hope from the thought. We will not have to fight a legion of the dead day upon day, only once in awhile, when the Persians have the time to prepare.

Everyone agreed the true stroke of genius had been to land an army on the island of the Pharos, splitting the defense. Even with his dead tone, Gaius had been able to see the anguish in the Emperor's heart as he spoke. His brother had been taken unawares, again, by the Persian general's reckless disregard for water barriers. The old Roman was impressed-he had led his own armies on the sea-but like most Imperial generals he saw a fleet as a means to go from port to port, not to flank a prepared position-not to wield with such elan!

Gaius Julius dithered-and was vastly annoyed to find himself in such a state. I am decisive! Bold! I act with considered, informed recklessness! He looked across the table, irritated, and met Martina's eyes. She looked back, a hidden smile playing on perfect bow-shaped lips and one sharp, ink-dark eyebrow rose in open challenge. Gaius felt blood surge in his loins and looked away to the Emperor, trying not to blush. No, he reminded himself, she is the impatient one, though her son cannot take his throne for decades! The old Roman decided to take a middle course and build, slowly, for the future. But, he realized, I can take one small step forward.

"Then, we are agreed," Galen said, beginning to gather his notes. The movement of his hands was sure and steady, but slow and lacking his usual brisk efficiency.

"Lord and God," Gaius heard himself say, "there is one more matter."

Galen's hands stopped and he set down an ivory stylus. "Yes?"

The old Roman straightened his shoulders and met the Emperor's eyes directly. The speed of our onset, Gaius recited to himself, drawing confidence from old, old memories, unnerved them suddenly and completely. There was time neither to plan, nor to take up arms, and they were too confused to know if they should stand or flee.

"My lord, our privy expedition has returned from Egypt."

Of the men and women seated at the table, only Martina did not start in surprise and she turned her head, looking out the nearest window in apparent boredom, letting Gaius' gaze linger on her fine neck and rising curve of her breast. Maxian's eyes, in particular, blazed with anticipation and a certain avaricious delight.

"Did they find at least one telecast?" The prince's voice was hoarse with anticipation.

"Yes, my lord, they did. One of our loyal soldiers bore it on his back to safety." Gaius turned to face the Emperor, straightening formally in his seat. "But the device was then lost and my agents have returned empty-handed. Lord and God," the old Roman inclined his head to the Emperor, "they beg your forgiveness for failure."

"What happened?" Galen stirred, frowning. Another dram of wretched news did not seem to tip his cup. His gaze was flat and cold, without amity or emotion of any kind, matching his brother's expression almost exactly. Gaius turned his head very slightly-just enough to catch a sense of the Duchess, who sat watching the discussion with intense interest.

"Our agents, Lord and God, both those supplied by the Duchess Anastasia and by myself, did find by diverse means a tomb of some repute, far out in the desert waste. Persian agents had also found the place and a struggle followed. Many perished and the Persians were driven away. One telecast-in form and shape much like our own-was recovered and moved to safety in nearby hills. Unfortunately…" Gaius' eyes slid sideways to the Duchess. She observed him with a cold, composed expression. The old Roman suppressed a smile. "…someone was watching and, when our man left the device to succor a friend trapped in a burning building, stole the telecast away."

The Emperor's lip twitched and he blinked slowly. "The Persians?"

"No, my lord," Gaius said with a relieved voice. He raised a hand in sign against ill luck. "Not the Persians! We can give thanks to the gods for that, at least. The only bright star in an otherwise dark firmament. No-the man who bore the telecast from the tomb is a Walach in Imperial employ."

The old Roman glanced around the table, nodding in a friendly way. Almost grinning, he laid a forefinger alongside his long nose. "For those who have not made their acquaintance, these Walachs are a swift, brutal people, more beast than man, given to transports of rage and excesses of bloody vengeance. Yet this one… while he has learned Roman virtue and drunk deep of our nobility and civilization… he retains-with his strength and speed-nares leves."

"What do you mean?" Galen made an impatient motion, a sharp, irritated anger beginning to prick in his face. "A fickle nose?"

"A discerning nose, I should say," Gaius replied. "He knew who took the device by their smell and taste in the dry air. Our expedition suffered many unexpected setbacks and maladies and on a cold desert night this man-this loyal Roman-divined the provenance of the thieves."

Gaius turned to look at Anastasia, raising one bristly gray eyebrow. The Duchess did not react, regarding him coolly, her hands entirely still on the tabletop.

"My lord, two members of our expedition did not return and I do not believe they perished in the desert, by fire, or sword, or the action of the enemy." Gaius Julius' voice took on a formal timbre, as though he stood before the Curia, speaking knowledgeably upon a matter of the law. "They are Thyatis Julia Clodia, a centurion in the Imperial service, and Betia, a maid in the household of Anastasia De'Orelio, Duchess of Parma. I believe they took the telecast and fled into the desert, seeking their own gain therefrom."

Anastasia blinked slowly, but her expression did not change by so much as an atom. Gaius Julius felt a warm glow of respect suffuse his cold, dead heart. Look at her! Caught in her own ploy and fairly exposed, yet she does not show fear, remorse, even panic. Ah… the world is filled with wonders!

"Duchess?" The Emperor stared at her in open dismay, brows furrowed. "What do you say to this?"

"I can say nothing, Lord and God," she replied quietly, challenge plain in her pale violet eyes. "This claim is as new to me as it is to you. Master Gaius, if only your own men have returned, who is to say they did not lead their companions to some unfortunate pass and contrive a tale to make them heroes and the unfortunate dead, villains?" A grim smile played on her lips. "Give me leave to speak with these men and we shall ascertain the truth."

"Of course," Gaius Julius said in an expansive tone. "They wait in the antechamber even now. Let us bring them in and you may put these questions to them yourself!"

"Do they?" Anastasia raised an eyebrow and Gaius thought he caught a flicker of surprise. Interesting, he purred to himself, she thought I was lying? But why? The women were her own agents… perhaps… perhaps they did steal the device for their own game, betraying the Empire and her, both. He started to frown, then caught himself.

"Enough of this." Galen spoke up, rising from his chair. He glared at the Duchess and Gaius Julius alike. "Another failure of our aims." He pointed abruptly at the Duchess. "These men will stay in Imperial custody and a truthsayer will be summoned. Then I will question them." He turned a forbidding expression on Gaius as well. "I will not countenance any dissent or distrust-particularly between the two of you-not in this dark hour. If I find either of you have been playing your own game, putting us all at risk, you'll find yourselves taking the view from the Tarpetian Rock!"

The Duchess stiffened, one white hand fluttering up from the tabletop, then forced down again. Gaius Julius made himself to nod in acquiescence, though the basilisk stare the Emperor turned upon him made his blood run colder still. "Of course, my lord."

The old Roman nodded politely to the Duchess. "My lady, perhaps I was hasty. My apologies."

She inclined her head, showing polite acceptance of his contrition, but Gaius was sure she would not forget his accusation. He hid a predatory smile-the look on the Emperor's face had been enough reward for today-if even the slightest seed of distrust grew between them…

Galen watched the Duchess and Master Gaius bristle at each other and forced down a sense of rising hopelessness. The "revelation" of the mission's failure had not taken him by surprise-the captain of the Urbes Brigantium had sent him a warning as soon as the Imperial galley docked at Portus. He was not surprised his two spymasters were at odds either-plotting and scheming against one another should be like breathing-but watching their faces and seeing their mutual animosity there was one more blow than his stomach could handle today. Why did I ever think two spies were better than one?

"Then we know where we stand," he said aloud, drawing everyone's attention. "It seems unlikely-given their overextension-the Persians will continue to attack into our territory for the rest of the year. They will have to digest their fat new conquest and they have wounded soldiers who must heal and recuperate." Galen did not bother to disguise the bitter tone in his voice.

"What we must decide," he continued, though Maxian's expression was growing darker by the word, "is if we will attempt a counterattack in the next month or two, before winter makes the seas too dangerous to essay with the fleet. The comes Alexandros and his Goths could be landed at one of the small ports on the Cyrenaicean coast, allowing them to march east to attack Egypt." Galen nodded to his brother. "Our new fleet of the air is almost ready-"

"Ha!" Maxian's laugh was a sharp, abrupt bark. Galen fell silent, surprised. The prince rose, lean face a pale streak against the dark colors of his cloak and tunic. "Would that be wise? Brother-you are my sworn Emperor and blood of my blood-but you are becoming witless in advanced age!"

Galen flinched from the cutting tone, then his face settled into granite. "What do you mean?"

"Egypt is lost!" Maxian's hand cut the air in a ferocious blow. "Consider the Persian sorcerer's skill-he cannot send his army of the dead a great distance-but nothing stops him from giving them life again if our army marches into his hands! You are counting living men, thinking we might muster equal numbers, but we cannot!" The prince's face twisted into such an expression of rage and disgust even old Gaius drew back. "You sacrificed fifty thousand men to buy a month's time-yet if we strike against Egypt-we will fight those same six Legions! Every fallen man is now a Persian soldier, one who does not need pay, food, wine, oil or even a centurion's boot up his backside to fight." Maxian stared around the table, contempt and grief mixing in equal measure on his young face. "We have entered a terrible new world and you will be lost if you try a familiar guide or map to find your way."

The Emperor grasped the back of the chair next to him, exhausted mind awhirl with hideous visions. "I… I had not thought of that." Galen's voice was a barely audible whisper.

"No," Maxian said, casting a pitying glare at his brother. "You had not. No one did."

"What… what do we do, then?" Anastasia managed to speak, though she too had grown pale. Only Martina remained unmoved, watching her husband with a sly smile on her face, long fingers playing in russet curls.

"The Persian sorcerer and his servants," Maxian said frankly, "must be destroyed as soon as possible. Without them, the Persian army will be only living men again and they our soldiers can defeat." He flashed a grim smile, holding his brother's eyes. "Our old Horse could not match them, save in the strength of his heart and indomitable will, but I will make good his sacrifice. We will watch the enemy with our hidden Eye and when the sorcerer moves away from Egypt-and he will, I am sure-I will be waiting."

"No…" Galen started to speak, but Maxian gave him such a quelling look the Emperor fell silent.

"I will find him and destroy him." The prince's voice cut like a flensing knife stripping meat from the fat. "I know what must be done. I have an idea of how it might be done. This is the business of the custos magus imperium and you all would do well to leave these matters to those who have some comprehension of the powers at work."

No one looked up as Galen entered his offices on the northern side of the Palatine. The Emperor paused inside the doorway, surveying rows of writing tables and clerks hunched industriously over them. A soft, pervasive scratching sound lent a familiar, comfortable air. Even Nilos pretended ignorance of his presence, though Galen was sure the first secretary had not missed the sound of boots marching in the hall or the heavy wooden panel creaking open. The Greek was concentrating furiously on some letter on his copying stand, keeping his eyes averted from the door and his master's face.

Galen could not manage a smile at their painful circumspection. Am I a ghost, then? Reduced to transparency, even in my own home? Ah, but I must look like a spirit-drawn, lifeless, haggard-with only torment hiding behind my poor mask of a face.

The Emperor crossed the room, finding the effort of walking almost too much to manage. Every muscle felt sore, as if he'd ridden for days over bad ground. He squeezed Nilos' shoulder in passing, then closed the inner doors behind him.

Two walls pierced by broad windows let in a flood of cool northern light. A marble-topped desk made an L-shape, though the smooth gray Cosian slab was invisible beneath such a confusion of parchments, scrolls, inkstands and quills that Galen wondered if the stone retained any of its subtle color. Back creaking, he lifted a fresh set of letters and edicts from his seat, dumping them among their disorderly fellows. Galen slumped in the camp chair, leaning his forehead-which seemed so hot, like the air simmering over the forum-against the back of his hand.

Maxian's voice rang harsh in his memories. Galen was not blind enough to deny the truth of his brother's words, though their disparaging tone cut him to the quick. I am lost, he thought, mood darkening as a shrill voice in his head recounted a litany of missteps and disasters. I do not grasp the abilities or strengths of our enemy-not well enough to overcome them. A loathing smile twitched on his lips. And dear old Gaius Julius does no better. We are both artifacts, out of our depth, passed by in the rush of time and events.

He missed Aurelian-not just for his solid, cheerful presence-but for the surety the big red beard gave Galen's world. A pillar, a mountain, a sure strength at his hand, someone to trust, someone to confide in… Maxian's sunny complement. But now only we two remain, he thought morosely, two brothers too much alike to keep their quick tongues to themselves, without the moderating influence of…

Galen pressed the palms of his hands over both eyes, trying to blot out beloved memories. The splitting pain of his headaches, at least, had receded, but now he was left with an enormous emptiness that captured every spare thought. "Enough of this," he said aloud, trying to force his mind onto a useful path. The Emperor squinted at the piles of papers.

"What to do?" Galen rubbed his jaw, realizing the muscles were tight as a drum. "Let us say my dear brother does have a way to defeat the Persian monster… then we will still have to fight Shahr-Baraz and his Immortals and these damned Arabs and Greeks." The Emperor looked at the southern wall of his office, where a stitched parchment sheet held a carefully drawn map of the Empire. His eye was drawn to Constantinople. A sense of neglected business tickled. "Ah-Alexandros had best not sail down to Egypt now! He'll put his head in the noose for sure. Nilos! Get in here!"

The door opened slowly, the Greek peeking with a wary expression on his face. Seeing a familiar, irritated expression on the Emperor's face, the secretary ventured a faint smile. "Yes, Lord and God."

Galen glared at the mess, scratching his head. "Help me find the latest reports from the fleet, and from comes Alexandros and his Legion."

"Here, sir." Nilos closed the door softly, then rummaged through the debris around the edge of the desk. After a moment, he excavated a packet of letters stamped with the seal of the cursus publicus and bound in dark green-and-red twine. The Greek dragged over a chair, setting a hamper filled with tax receipts on the floor. "This one-" he passed over a single sheet "-is from Alexandros, arrived just two days ago. And these-" A heavier packet, stained with some dark sauce, filled Galen's outstretched hand. "-arrived today from Tarentum."

"You've read them?" The Emperor raised an eyebrow, untying the fleet dispatch.

"No, Lord and God." Nilos managed a wry smile. "We've just been trying to keep things sorted."

Galen nodded absently, scanning through the listings of ships and men and supplies. He flipped to the last page, where a scrawled note occupied the bottom of the sheet. As he did, the Emperor's brow furrowed and he looked up at Nilos. "The fleet has moved to Dyrrachium in Epirus? Why?"

Nilos' eyebrows raised, and he shook his head. "I don't know, Lord and God. Who ordered them there?"

Galen looked back down at the page, brow darkening. "As per 'your orders,' this says. I sent no order… did you, or one of the tribunes?"

"No, my lord." Nilos looked perplexed. "Shall I find out who did?"

"Yes," Galen said slowly, setting the dispatch aside. He split the seal on the single sheet with the edge of his thumb. "But they've already set sail, so the best we can do is dispatch a courier to Dyrrachium and send them on to…" His eyes settled on the terse message, then widened in surprise. Galen flipped the paper over, nostrils flaring as he read the quickly scrawled destination on the front. The ink had smeared a little, obscuring the first line, leaving 'The Palatine' still readable. "…Constantinople."

"Master?" Nilos leaned forward in concern. Galen closed the letter abruptly and tucked the sheet into the pocket of his toga. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Galen looked up, an affable smile on his face. A hard glint was visible in his eyes. "Send round for two Legion couriers-strong riders both! — and write them up priority passes for the dispatch inns from here to Augusta Vendelicorum and Londonium."

Nilos nodded, though he expressed no comment at the need to send a message by all speed to Germania and Britannia. The secretary went out, leaving Galen alone in the office.

So. The Emperor pushed the fleet dispatch away with the tip of one finger. The Goths are already on the road to Dyrrachium and the Imperial fleet will be there waiting when they arrive. A bead of sweat slowly formed on his forehead, trickling into the sharp line of his brow. A swift passage to Italia, then, for thirty thousand men. Galen leaned back in his chair, wood and canvas creaking as he settled. A fast march up the Via Appia and they will be in Rome in a month's time.

The Emperor nodded to himself, remembering the shocked expression on old Gaius' face when he heard of the disaster in Egypt. We both agreed, didn't we? Aurelian could hold out for another month, perhaps two, or even longer. Long enough to let these Goths place their foot on my neck.

Galen could see the logic, though his heart twisted at the ramifications. Then the new Emperor turns to deal with the Persians, armed with the fleet of the air and all our remaining strength. A snarl transformed his face. He thinks himself so great a general then, to do what Aurelian could not? The bitter thought brought the Emperor up short, and a cold sense of revelation came over him. Why not? Old Gaius is an exemplary general and Alexandros even greater. Why shouldn't they risk all, to gain all? They have never been defeated-and my rule has proved of only marginal worth…

A terrible weight pressed down on Galen, forcing his head into his hands. He felt pinned, trapped by circumstance and fate, ground fine by the millstone of events. Oh, gods of Rome, why not let them rule? Then I will be free of all this…

The door creaked and Nilos entered, carrying two leather-bound packets. "Here are-my lord?"

The Emperor forced himself to raise his head. Bitter gall choked his throat and every motion was exhausting. "I will write a letter for each," he managed to croak. "These men must leave today."

Nilos bobbed his head and fled through the doorway. Galen fumbled for a quill, then spilled more than a little ink on the papers before he could force his hand to begin writing. There was still nearly a Legion's worth of troops in Britannia, scattered here and there, who could be wholly withdrawn to Germania. He hoped they would be enough to let three, perhaps four, of the Rhine Legions march south. Britannia can fend for herself, he thought bleakly, and I pray the Franks-Beyond-The-River continue their kinstrife over Guntram's inheritance and keep their eyes from Gaul and Noricum. Or I will lose more than just Rome and this office and this cursed, heavy crown of laurel. I need troops who will remember I am the Emperor!

"Ah, luxury!" Vladimir brushed aside a heavy curtain and looked with joy upon his own bed. The sheets and quilts were neatly pressed and tucked in-the house maids in the prince's home were nothing if not efficient-and he dumped his kit bag and stinking armor on the floor with a crash and clatter fit to wake the dead. "Ahhhh…" The Walach sprawled on the cot, feeling leather straps creak under the pallet. Goose-down pillows cradled his head and Vladimir felt the weariness of the road ease from his bones. He stretched, luxuriating.

"Aren't you barbarians supposed to take strength from sleeping on the cold ground?" Nicholas stepped into the room with less exuberance, his fine-boned face showing its own relief at coming home. "Living without restraint or habitation breeds a gigantic race…"

Vladimir made a rude gesture in response, then bent to dump his boots on the floor.

Nicholas laughed and set down his bags. As he did, he spied a letter on the table set against one wall. "Vlad," he said curiously, picking up the brown parchment, "you corresponding with some noble lady behind my back?"

The Walach made a quizzical, snuffling sound. "Nick, you know I can't read or write. Must be for you."

"No," Nicholas said, sitting down on the edge of his cot, "this is addressed to you from the Office of the Legions."

"Huh?" Vladimir shrugged, scratching behind his ear. "What does it say?"

Nicholas opened the page and screwed up his face, reading the tightly spaced lines with a frown. He owned some knowledge of letters, but not much, and the terse official language was hard to follow. After a moment, though, as Vladimir watched, his frown faded, replaced by a sigh of regret.

"What?" The Walach felt the thick dark hairs on his arms stir.

Nicholas looked up, shaking his head sadly. "Our missing lad is dead, Vlad. They found his body in the ruins of Constantinople, gaffed like a trout."

"No!" Vladimir sat up, horrified. "Not Dwyrin!"

"Yes," Nicholas said, handing across the parchment sheet. "They identified his body from the Legion brand and his signaculum. I'm sorry, Vlad."

"Poor cub." The Walach wiped a moist eye. "We should have stuck close to him, Nick, like herd dogs on a lame ewe. It's not right, a young lad like him accepting the crow-queen's embrace without even knowing a girl's kiss."

The Latin shook his head. He'd assumed the boy was dead long ago-the Empire would not let such a powerful wizard go astray-but held his tongue, seeing his friend's open grief. "No, I guess not. But death is never fair, though the walkure are always quick to stoop over the fallen."

Vladimir dragged his boots back out from under the cot. "I have to go out," he said gruffly.

Nicholas nodded in understanding, but did not follow. He had his own bitter thoughts to fill the time between weary consciousness and blessed, forgetful sleep.