The Dark Lord

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Curia Julia, Roma Mater

Maxian, youngest brother of the reigning Emperor of the West, Galen Atreus, halted at the threshold of the Senate House. A great wave of noise met him-the voices of more than a thousand senators, all packed into the hot, close confines of the ancient building-a chattering roar echoing from the vaulted ceiling like angry gulls. On either side of the prince, burly Praetorians in gleaming golden armor halted as well, spears held sideways to hold back the crowd. Maxian was sweating, the heavy formal toga chafing his neck and arms. The wool trapped heat close to his skin and he blinked, feeling his eyes sting. Despite the presence of the legionaries, he felt a knot of tension in his gut. The prince had never formally addressed the Senate before.

An elderly man, his long face pinched and sour, pushed his way through the crowd of citizens to the edge of the Praetorians. Maxian stepped forward, schooling his face to polite impassivity. His brother Galen tended a careful relationship with the Senate, while Maxian had always taken pains to avoid the actual mechanisms of Imperial rule. Everyone knew the Senate was a snake pit of awesome proportions, filled with sly and cunning men, where treachery suckled fat on corruption and vice.

"Caesar Maxian," the clerk growled, squinting in the sunlight gleaming from the marble porticoes of the Forum buildings. "You wish to address the Senate?" The man's tone of voice made it seem Maxian was nothing but a lowly petitioner, little more than a barbarian or slave. The prince's nostrils flared, but he remembered Galen's parting admonition.

Be polite, piglet. The Senate has been grumpy for a thousand years… putting up with a day of their airs will not harm you. They do not rule, but they do annoy!

"Yes, a matter concerning me will be discussed today." Maxian kept his voice level.

"Very well," the clerk sniffed, looking at the Praetorians. "You and your clerk may enter. Unarmed."

This was expected and the Praetorians stepped aside, opening one side of their ring of spears allowing the prince to enter the Curia itself. The long rectangular hall was illuminated by light streaming down from tall windows set just under the eaves. Colored marble and stone patterned the walls where they were not streaked with soot from lantern sconces. The center of the long room was cleared of chairs or seats; a patterned mosaic of the world, a huge map of the lands surrounding the Inner Sea, covering the floor. The map was relatively new-added in the time of Diocletian the Great. During his reign, a fire had swept the Forum, damaging or destroying many buildings.

Diocletian had rebuilt everything on a grand scale, and in the case of the Curia, the Senate hall had been expanded. In his time, the Senate had grown so large there were no longer enough seats for everyone, so the Emperor widened the hall, installed deep ranks of stepped wooden benches on either side, with a gallery rising behind them supported by marble columns. Alcoves were spaced along the gallery, holding statues of the gods, dressed in fine linens and garlanded with flowers. Only senators and select petitioners were allowed on the ground floor. Aides, ambassadors and guests contented themselves with the gallery, where they stood in a great crowd behind a screen of carved, pierced marble.

The hubbub did not die down as the prince entered-indeed he wasn't even noticed-just one more young patrician come to see about the doings of the Empire. Maxian took his time, moving slowly forward, through and around groups of men, young and old alike. He heard every kind of accent-Hispanian, Gaulish, Briton, even Greek-and all of their words, flowing around him in a muttering river, were of gold and power and land and trade. The prince became amused-no one here knew him-though they would have flocked around his brothers like bees to water in the desert.

"Lord Prince!"

Maxian turned at the sound and smiled warmly in greeting. An old friend, leaning heavily on a cane, approached and the other senators parted before him like the sea wave before the prow of a ship. Maxian extended his hands, clasping the old man's. The terse knot in his stomach began to ease. "Gregorius Magnus! It's good to see you."

"And you, my lord." Gregorius dipped his head, smiling through his neatly-trimmed white beard. "You too, Master Gaius, though we see enough of each other already, I think."

At the prince's side, his lean, gray-haired shadow bowed deeply to the senator. Gaius Julius was very simply dressed in a plain toga, unadorned with gold or silver edging or any kind of flash. With his thinning silver hair and patrician nose, he seemed no more and no less than a man of the city, one among thousands filling the Forum each day.

"Senator, time spent in your company is never wasted." Gaius Julius' voice was a rich baritone, trained and schooled in this very arena. When he spoke, men listened. Gregorius nodded amiably, waving the compliment away with a frail hand.

"Lord Prince, come and sit with me and I will speak for you to this august assembly." The old senator's eyes were twinkling and Maxian felt his apprehension fade away. With Gaius Julius at his side-even half-invisible-and Gregorius to speak for him, Maxian was sure the petition would go well.

Gregorius led them to the front row of the wooden seats. As they approached the end of the room, a wave passed through the crowds of talking men, and many turned to look at them. Then, at some unknown, unseen signal, the Senators began to take their seats. Gregorius sat down on a small cushion set at the end of the first row of seats, very close to the podium dominating the far end of the room.

On the podium was a simple folding stool, quite plain and very old, made of yellowed ivory. Two men stood on either side, dressed in archaic-looking garments, holding bundles of bound rods in the crook of their arms. An axe blade jutted from each bundle. The seat was currently empty. Maxian sat next to Gregorius, in a place held by one of the other senior senators. That man-an ally of Gregorius', Maxian supposed-moved aside, smiling in greeting. A shuffling went down the row as each senator on the bench was forced to move over.

Somewhere a junior senator would be forced off the benches to stand against the rear wall. Gaius Julius disappeared into the crowd-he was no senator now! — and Maxian supposed he would secure himself a good vantage. The old Roman was very good at that kind of thing. Maxian found the seat hard and uncomfortable.

"They are supposed to be that way," Gregorius whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "So some business gets done each day and we hurry home!"

The room quieted, even the chattiest of the senators at last getting the word to shut up, though the sound of so many men breathing and rustling in their heavy robes seemed very loud. Maxian felt nervous again, but Gregorius' heavy, solid presence beside him was a great comfort. A banging sound suddenly came from the entrance doors off to his left. Everyone turned, some craning their heads to see. Outside there was a faint roaring sound and the beating of drums.

"The princeps wishes to sit among his peers, the Senate of Rome." The clerk's voice boomed through the quiet room, echoing back from the vaulted ceiling. "Is he given leave to enter?"

"Aye!" Gregorius said, his old voice-once powerful-carrying in the still, hot air. "Let the princeps enter and sit with the Senate of Rome."

A huge chorus of "Aye!" followed, along with more rustling and shuffling. Maxian saw sour expressions on the faces of the men seated across the walkway from him, but in all everyone seemed to welcome the presence of the Emperor. The center of the room was now clear and after a moment, the swift rapping of a man in boots echoed around them and then the Emperor of the West appeared, striding purposefully along the length of the chamber.

Galen Atreus was a thin, nervous-looking man with a cap of dark hair hanging down over a high forehead. The Emperor looked very businesslike, smiling tightly to his enemies in the seats, nodding to his friends. Today he was wearing a dark cloak and toga, with deep maroon edging. A gold clasp held his cloak at the shoulder and his laced boots were red. This was a new part of the Imperial regalia, added in the past month, as the Emperor of the West had declared himself the Avtokrator of the East. Maxian frowned slightly, seeing the pinched, tired look on his brother's face.

Too many disasters and too little time to react to them, Maxian thought mournfully.

Galen reached the podium and turned, seating himself on the lone chair. He looked out over the huge crowd of senators and nodded, as if to himself. "Senators. I thank you for allowing me to sit among you, in such a noble company. I will not waste your time in idle chatter…"

So don't waste mine, Maxian continued the thought with amusement. His brother was notoriously brisk.

"…are there matters in which the princeps may advise the Senate?"

For a moment there was silence, with Galen sitting at ease in the chair, and the senators eyeing each other with interest. Then Gregorius stood, knuckles whitening on the cane, and cleared his throat. Everyone looked at him and the Emperor raised his chin in acknowledgement.

"Princeps," Gregorius said, bowing, "you honor us with your presence. A matter has arisen, a petition to fill an ancient and noble post, long left vacant. This is not a trivial matter and I think the Senate should consider the situation carefully. Your wisdom and guidance in this matter, my lord, would be of great use…" Gregorius turned, ancient eyes sharp, and the cane made a sharp rapping sound on the mosaic floor. "Fellow senators, you have all heard of the disasters in the East. You have all heard rumors and wild tales from the refugees who daily enter the city or crowd the southern ports, fleeing the advance of the Persian armies. You have all heard a great evil has risen among the Medes, and this foe bends its dark will against Rome."

Gregorius' statement was met with scattered laughter and a general murmuring. Maxian felt a chill, realizing many of the senators did not believe the stories. The prince made to rise, intending to deal sharply with these fools, but the older men on either side of him caught his elbows and held him firmly in the seat. Gregorius did not notice and continued to speak.

"There are poor omens all around us-some say the eruption of Vesuvius heralds a time in which the gods will turn their faces from Rome. Calamities and signs trouble both the heavens and the earth. You are all learned men, you have heard, as I have, of these unmistakable portents: an ape entered the very temple of Ceres in the midst of ceremony and caused great confusion; an owl-in broad day-flew into first the temple of Concord and then the Capitolium, evading all efforts at capture and restraint. The blessed chariot of Jupiter that once graced the Circus Maximus with its golden splendor, has recently been destroyed amid the troubles and riots. Coupled with these distressing signs, a flaming torch has creased the eastern heavens, hanging over Greece like a fiery brand. Even in the south, where Mount Aetna smokes and fumes, the earth has been restless, crying out with the voices of the uneasy dead."

As Gregorius spoke, he moved across the surface of the map, indicating each place in turn.

"Our Legions have been defeated before Constantinople, tens of thousands of our citizens have perished in ash and fire, entire cities in Campania are tenanted only by corpses! Men have reported to me, swearing by the twelve tablets and by the great gods themselves, that a two-headed serpent of no less than eighty feet in length has lately appeared in Etruria and caused great harm, ere lightning struck it down. The serpent's husk now journeys to Rome, so all may look upon the omen for themselves.

"Now, Egypt is threatened by our enemy and with it the corn supply for Rome. Yes! I see your doubting faces-I speak truly, my friends-we are faced with a powerful enemy and one wielding inhuman powers."

There was another murmuring and many of the senators looked at each other in disbelief. A few scattered shouts of "lies!" and "impossible" were heard.

"This the truth!" Gregorius barked sharply, widening the eyes of many senators. They had not seen him so animated or so grim in years. "Rome has slept for a long time, ignorant of the malefic power Persia has harnessed. The nature of our enemy, my friends, has changed and not for the better. For a very long time, the Persian mobehedan served a power they call Ahura-Madza, a deity of light! I assure you they no longer turn their faces to the sun in worship. No, our great victories two years past have made them desperate."

Gregorius paused, catching his breath. A disbelieving murmur rose in the quiet, then fell away again as the old senator glared at his fellows. It was clear to Maxian many of the older men were beginning to wonder what the point of all this was. The younger senators simply did not believe the warning. Why should they? Maxian realized. They've not seen these things for themselves.

Gregorius began to pace along the length of the hall, glaring at individual senators as he moved. Few men met his gaze and none could hold it.

"We have all heard rumors-as children or as adults-of demonic powers who oppose the great gods, Jupiter and Minerva and Juno. Over the centuries our philosophers have claimed these gods do not exist, that they are the superstitions of a credulous, ignorant people. Some men point to the abilities of wizards and sorcerers and say; 'there are your gods of old, the men who first wielded such power.' We have been blind, my friends."

The walking cane rapped sharply, punctuating his words. The senators did not stir, bending all their attention upon the old man.

"There are dark powers, things that should remain nameless, deities desiring only destruction and the enslavement of all human life. I do not know if the great gods exist, or if they will help us, but I do know we are locked in a struggle to the death with the servants of darkness. Rome has never-I say never-faced a more terrible enemy, even in the war against the Egyptian Queen."

Gregorius turned to the Emperor, face filled with foreboding. "Augustus Galen, you are the protector of the state and the Senate and the people. Above all, you are the bulwark of civilization, both against the barbarian tribes and against impious darkness. We are embattled, matching our mortal strength against this supernal power-I beg you, in the name of the people, to raise a shield, an aegis, against these enemies."

Galen stirred, sharp eyes flickering across the crowd. "What more would you have me do, Senator? The Legions and the Thaumaturges are already upon the field of battle, striving to turn back the Persian tide. There are no more men to call up, no more armies to raise…"

"There is an Imperial post, princeps, which has never been filled. I beg you to fill it now."

Maxian was surprised-he knew full well what Gregorius had in mind-yet now he felt his throat constrict. A complete silence fell upon the assembly, and many of the senators tensed, staring at Gregorius as if the old man had become a monster himself. Maxian's eyes drifted over them and he saw calculation and ambition alike shining in their faces. For a moment, he felt sick, filled with revulsion at their reaction.

Where is your love for Rome, the wise city who nurtured you? he cried to himself, heartsick. You see only opportunity and a chance for greater wealth, power, fame… Is this the Rome of my fathers?

"It is," a cultured voice said in his ear. Maxian started, but he did not turn. Instead he berated himself for speaking aloud, or wearing his thought so openly on his face. "These are only men, not gods," whispered the voice.

"What is this post?" Galen leaned forward, intent upon Gregorius, and Maxian swallowed a laugh. Both the old senator and the Emperor had gone over their little speeches to the Senate in past days, yet now, in this electric atmosphere, it seemed each word was new, wrung from circumstance for the first time. "How may a single man aid us in this desperate strait?"

"Princeps, in the first days of the principate, the Divine Augustus in his wisdom established the sacred and honorable post of custos magus imperium, intending for the greatest of the Thaumaturges to not only defend Rome on the battlefield, but to serve as a protection for the Empire as a whole. The magus was to defend the Empire from those threats that come unseen, as the Legions defend the frontier, and the Emperor oversees all, guiding the people as a wise father. My lord, I beg you to fill this post now, for we have great need of such a man, and such a bulwark against the sorcery of the Persians."

In the silence that followed, eager voices began to rise, but Galen raised a hand sharply and everyone subsided. The Emperor remained sitting in the chair, seemingly deep in thought. The moment stretched and Maxian began to fidget, but again the men on either side of him held him in place. Finally, Galen raised his head and looked upon the Senate with a grim expression.

"I am loath to fill such a post," he said, frowning, "for Rome has never placed its faith in wizards or anything but our strong arm, iron will and the blessing of the gods. In this way Rome brought civilization to many benighted countries and raised up a great Empire. The men and women of Rome have always placed their faith in things that can be seen and done by eye and hand." Galen stood up, his face severe, and stepped down onto the open floor.

Maxian suddenly felt a foreboding chill, fearing Galen had decided against the plan without informing his brother or Gregorius or anyone. But we must take this step!

"Fellow senators," Galen's voice was low, but it carried to every ear. "If a wizard is raised to the magus imperium then we will have changed Rome forever. We will turn down a path traveled by the nations of the east-where long ago god-kings and sorcerers ruled over men. This is dangerous, for who can say what a man will do, if given such power?"

Galen turned, seemingly staring right at Maxian. The prince stiffened, but the Emperor's eyes traveled over him without stopping. "This is a desperate measure, but the esteemed Gregorius has spoken truthfully. We are overmatched in the east. Our Thaumaturges cannot stand against the dark powers the Persians have unleashed. We must consider new weapons if we are to defeat them. I fear Rome has slept too long, ignorant of these matters, relying on our Thaumaturges, yet not giving them rein enough to develop the strength we are now desperate for."

"Understand!" Galen reached the far end of the hall, by the entry doors, and his voice boomed loud from the ceiling as he turned to face the distant chair. "We must find a man, a wizard of great strength. We must give him more power if he is to repel this foe. Many old traditions will be overturned and our Thaumaturgic Legion will be vastly changed. We cannot know where this path will lead, but…" The Emperor paused and Maxian perceived enormous weariness in the line of his body, in his face, in the tenor of his voice. A great rush of fear threatened the prince and again he nearly leapt up to run to his brother, who suddenly seemed so old. Galen shook his head, throwing off the fatigue with a visible effort and stood up straight. "…we must do something. This path, perhaps, offers a hope of victory."

"Is there such a man?" A voice called out from the crowd of senators, though Maxian could not see who spoke.

"If there is," Galen responded, drawing the cloak over his chest. "I will not name him. This is a critical matter, and one that I lay at your feet, Senators." The Emperor looked around again, then walked slowly to the outer doors of the hall. "I will abide by your wishes in this matter. I pray you choose wisely."

Galen stepped up into the threshold of the bronze doors and they opened, flooding the chamber with brilliant sunlight. A solid rank of Praetorians closed around the Emperor and then he was gone, swallowed by the noon sun. The doors swung closed again with a dull boom.

Everyone began to speak at once, in a rush of excited noise and shouting and general clamor. Maxian remained sitting, realizing he was sweating, and found Gregorius sitting beside him once again, smiling quietly, his bushy white beard spilling over both hands clasped on the head of his cane.

"Rest your feet, young prince," the old senator said, "this will take some time."

Gaius Julius stepped away from the marble screen, quite pleased with himself. Part of him wished he had delivered the little speeches, but his conscious mind-which learned at least one lesson in his abruptly interrupted life-was content to remain unknown and unremarked. The gallery was crowded with all manner of citizens, though slightly oily-looking men with particularly sharp togas and tunics predominated. There were large numbers of provincial and city representatives-a dizzying array of Nubians and Goths and Gauls and even some Britons-milling about in traditional costume. It all made a colorful scene, but Gaius was not interested in rural politics, not today. With the ease of long practice, he weaved through the crowd and found a man selling wine. The old Roman pressed a few copper coins into the peddler's hand and took a cup. With the chipped clay in his hand, he wandered slowly the length of the gallery, idly watching the discussion on the floor of the Curia.

After a moment he stopped and stepped sideways behind a cluster of Axumite merchants. Their tall feather headdresses made suitable cover and he took another drink from the cup, eyes narrowed over the rim. A woman he recognized entered the gallery and he felt a certain trepidation in being seen by her. They had never exchanged more than a few words; in his guise of a hardworking patrician bureaucrat there was little reason for him to engage in lengthy discourse with an Empress. Helena might not recognize him, but approaching her now was reckless.

Unfortunately, he found her particularly attractive. He knew from palace gossip she was strong-willed, sharp-minded and carried on a voluminous correspondence. Once or twice, he managed to overhear her conversations and she wielded a dagger wit with aplomb. Gaius Julius checked the drape of his toga, then mentally ground down on his ambition.

This is not the time for seduction! He wanted her though, and vivid imagination yielded up delightful, tempting vignettes. He started to step forward, desire convincing his limbs it would be perfectly reasonable for him to go up and speak with her, breathe in the air around her, look into sparkling dark eyes, bandy wit and wordplay with her. Gaius Julius caught himself and turned away, forcing himself to look down onto the Senate floor again.

The senators had gotten themselves into a furious argument. From the raised voices reaching the gallery, Gaius saw the awareness of the possible patronage and graft attendant upon an important new Imperial post was spreading through the white-haired old men like blood on the sea. Gaius suppressed a grin, unconsciously flicking his robes into an even straighter line and checking his hair. The smell of fear and power in the air was heady and he felt his pulse quicken.

Stop this. You're getting jittery. Gaius paused by one of the pillars and took a moment to calm down. He craved this-the lunge and parry and brutal verbal combat of the Curia and the Senate. He wanted to step down on the floor-as was his right! — and set his mind to the influence and control of others. There was a physical pain in his gut, like a rat was squirming among his organs. Against this desire, thoughts of Helena disappeared. Impossible, you old fool! You must be patient. Quiet. Like a mouse.

Gaius breathed out, slowly, and looked around, avoiding the flushed, sweaty faces of the men talking and exclaiming on all sides. He was not sure he approved of the renovations to the Curia-he had taken pains, in his breathing days, to see the building was just small enough. This gallery was new and there were more seats than he remembered below. Gaius frowned, counting rows of benches. There must be room for almost fifteen hundred senators. That, he thought, was too many. Even in his day-so long ago now! — he had ordered the architects and builders to make the Senate house just a little smaller than it needed to be.

The old Roman grinned, forgetting his own advice to remain impassive. With a constant shortage of seats, the junior senators stood in the back of the hall, or even outside. That kept them helpfully out of the debate, and gave them incentive to compromise so they could move inside. Now this expansion had made a muddle of everything, and this too-convenient gallery allowed anyone to watch the Senate at work. How… republican…

"Master Gaius?"

The old Roman turned, smiling genially. Three men approached him out of the crowd and the middle one-a stocky, balding white-haired "twenty-year man," if ever Gaius Julius had seen a Legion veteran trying to be inconspicuous in civilian clothes-was also carrying a krater of wine. The man's pockmarked face seemed habitually grim and his attention was in constant motion, watching the crowd for enemies. Gaius guessed the man was forty or fifty years old.

"I am Gaius Julius. Welcome to Rome. You must be Sergius."

The soldier nodded, flashing a bit of a wintry smile. "You're welcome sir. It was good to hear from you."

Gaius nodded, turning his attention to the other two men. Both of them were young and alert, with the air of those used to violent action. "This would be Nicholas and Vladimir?"

Sergius nodded, motioning the other two forward. "They are. A pair of right rascals, but I was never gladder than to find them alive after our disaster." The old soldier shook his head in dismay.

Gaius clasped wrists with the thinner one, a whipcord-lean man with dark brown hair and peculiar mauve eyes. The lad had powerful wrists, well-used and corded with muscle. Like his companion, he was wearing a nondescript military cloak over a tunic and some kind of armored shirt. The hilts of a heavy, spatha-style longsword rode at his trim waist. Nicholas grinned, matching Gaius' gaze, and made a little bow. The young man's mustaches were very sharp, twisted to points beside a thin nose. Gaius nodded in welcome. "Nicholas. Where are you from?"

"I don't know, sir. I was raised a slave in the Dannmark."

"But you are surely a Latin-taken in a raid by the Scandians?"

The young man shrugged. "I don't remember any of that, Master Gaius. My first memory is of a gray sky, and ravens crying, and then entering the fortress of Roskilde." His expression changed, growing feral. "Everything after that is rather cruel. At least, until I entered the service of Rome."

Sergius nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. "True enough, Master Gaius, and we've had good service of young Nicholas. He and Vladimir have gone into and come out of some tight places in the name of the Empire."

"So I have heard." Gaius maintained a lengthy correspondence with Sergius. The old centurion was a field officer for the Eastern Empire's Office of Barbarians. Over the years, Sergius had decided a close relationship was needed between-specifically-himself and the Western Office. Some small-minded men might have termed the stoutly built centurion a traitor, but Gaius thought of him as a man who could tell which side the loaf was going to fall on.

Before Gaius Julius involved himself in such matters, a woman-a beautiful, powerful woman named Anastasia De'Orelio-had been the secret master of the Western Office. Over a year ago, however, she abandoned her post and Gaius Julius-at something of loose ends at the time-took the opportunity to gather up some of the responsibilities she let fall. In fact, the small-minded might also accuse Gaius of theft and outright falsehood. Some privy letters, he allowed, might have gone astray, but if they did-well, the world was filled with troubles-and one of those letters led him to Sergius and then, in the full course of time, to these two admirable young men.

"You are Vladimir, then, the Walach." The corners of Gaius Julius' eyes crinkled up and he clasped wrists with the young barbarian. The Walach-a riot of dark curly hair, a creamy white complexion over rippling muscle, brilliant dark eyes-took his hand tentatively and Gaius could see the boy's nostrils flare. "We are all friends here, Vladimir, do not worry."

Ah, but I must smell strange to him, Gaius thought. I should not have met them here, in this public place… in private, I might allay their fears with honest words.

"Master… Gaius." Vladimir looked down, unwilling to meet Gaius' direct gaze. "Thank you for your patronage and support."

"My assistance," Gaius said, "is only what you deserve, for such loyal service."

All three men nodded and Gaius saw honest appreciation in their faces. With the collapse of the Eastern Empire, a huge flood of refugees hurried west. Rome was crowded with out-of-work ministers, logothetes, clerks and their families. The soldiers were immediately incorporated into the Western Legions, but everyone else was having a difficult time just finding food to eat and a place to sleep. As it happened, Gaius Julius had recently invested in blocks of apartments, warehouses, taverns, smithies, brick factories and all manner of other businesses. He could easily find lodgings for a few dozen Easterners at loose ends. Better, he had plenty of work for men like these three.

Gaius clapped a hand on Sergius' shoulder and looked down into the main hall of the Curia. "As it happens, my friends, I have great need for men who are swift and alert. Do you see that young man-the dark-haired fellow in the first row-sitting by the graybeard?"

Both Nicholas and Vladimir peered down through the screen.

"Yes," Nicholas said, squinting between the marble legs of a titan wrestling a giant serpent. "Thin-faced, long hair tied back, looks like he hasn't sleep in a week?"

"The very fellow." Gaius said. "His name is Maxian Atreus, the youngest brother of the Emperor Galen. He is a… powerful… young man, but not in the way most people think. He is also my patron, even my friend." Gaius Julius stopped, thinking about what he had just said. Is that true? Sometimes it seems that the boy is barely aware of me, as if I were a chair or a table. Does it matter? I am alive!

"As you might imagine, he has enemies." Gaius chuckled suddenly. "Some of them are very beautiful. He needs bodyguards and I think the two of you will do well in such a post."

"Bodyguards?" Vladimir's nose wrinkled up and he ran long sharp nails through his beard. The Walach seemed displeased by the prospect. "Don't the Praetorians handle such things? As the Faithful Guard did in the East? This sounds like a lot of standing around inside…"

"Sometimes." Gaius spread his hands, indicating things were different in the West. "I will surely sleep sounder at night if I know he has guardian spirits to watch over him. He has been attacked at least once before, and came close to death. Things would turn poorly for everyone if he were to die now."

Nicholas looked intrigued, thumbs hooked in his belt. "What kind of beautiful enemies does he have?"

Down on the floor of the Curia, Gregorius rose and spoke to the crowd. The other senators took the cue to sit and listen. Gaius Julius felt the pang of regret again-why couldn't he be the one to speak? The one to stand at the center of all attention, the world turning on the lever of his actions? He stifled the feeling, contenting himself with being the playwright, not the pantomime.

"Watch," Gaius Julius said, his expression changing subtly. All life seemed to leach out of him. "You will see more than you desire. Not all our enemies are fair to look upon."

Maxian felt his gut twist at the realization he would have to stand and speak. He didn't expect to be so nervous, but this was the Senate! The faces in the hall blurred into a mass of indistinguishable white ovals. Why can't Galen do this? He's the Emperor…

Suddenly a memory swam up out of the past and into waking thought. He was in the great teaching hall of the Asklepion, below the hill of old Pergamum, and a stocky, brown-bearded priest was speaking. Tarsus-his old friend, his teacher-was explaining a simple process all his students were to learn, a mnemonic pattern to induce a settled, focused mind. Maxian felt calm flow over him, just remembering the voice like a soft murmur in his ears. The words and the mental pattern became clear in his thoughts and the prince felt his anxiety fall away.

"Fellow senators," Gregorius said, looking about with a stiff, grim expression. "We must agree, and swiftly, to give a man the power of the custos magus imperium. This man must be a powerful wizard and we, the Senate, as guardians of the people, must trust him to defend Rome." The old man's voice rose sharply and some of the younger men in the back rows, who had been falling asleep in the heat, jerked awake in surprise.

"In a simpler time, we would summon the magister magorum of the Thaumaturgic Legion before us and anoint him with this post. But these times are not simple. I have already spoken with old Gordius and he has declined this duty. A new man must be elevated to the custos."

Gregorius paused, leaning on his cane, drawing a breath. He was tiring rapidly with the effort of trying to convince so many, all at once. "Is there a man we can trust with this task? A man strong enough in the hidden arts to pit himself-with hope of victory! — against the darkness Persia has summoned up?"

One of the older senators stood up abruptly, disgusted. "Get on with it, Gregorius! We've listened and listened, while you wend and weave-get to the point! If you've a candidate, set him before us!"

Gregorius smiled genially and waved for the senator to sit down. "There is something you must see first, my friends." The old man turned, his white beard bristling out. He made a sharp motion to the Praetorians loitering at the back of the hall. "Close the doors! Clear the gallery! What now transpires is for the Senate alone."

There was a commotion in the vestibule where a huge crowd of clerks and aides lolled about, eating sausage rolls heavy with garlic and oil, chatting in low tones while the senators declaimed in the main hall. The Praetorians herded everyone out with the butts of their spears and the main doors were closed with a dull thud. More soldiers cleared the gallery; the complaints and cries of protest were muted by the marble screen. When, at last, silence had fallen and the centurion in charge of the guard detail signed to Gregorius that everyone had been herded out, the old senator turned to Maxian.

"Fellow senators, I have brought a young man before you. He has seen our true enemy and he has, by his own skill and power, lived to bring us warning. This-for those of you who have not gotten out of your wine cups enough to know-is the Caesar Maxian Atreus. My lord, would you tell us what you faced in the ruins of Constantinople?"

Maxian stood up and the unsteady roiling sensation in his stomach was gone. He felt rather light-headed and perfectly calm. At the edge of his vision was a storm of color, like blowing snowflakes in every imaginable hue and shade. With an effort, he focused on the physical reality around him, allowing the faces of the senators to become solid again.

"I will do better than tell, good Gregorius, I will show you." The prince raised his hand and at the center of the hall a mote of light sprang up over the mosaic plains and mountains of Anatolia. For a moment the little ball spun and hissed, lighting the dark corners of the Curia and throwing long shadows behind the senators. A mutter of fear and surprise rose from the assembly.

"I entered Constantinople, Senators, even as the great gates fell, broken by a power far beyond anything I have ever felt before. Something rose up out of the earth, under a baleful sky, and tore down the gates and sundered the walls. I raced across the city, hoping to forestall the doom rushing over the city, but I was too late."

The glow swelled and then passed away, leaving the hall dark. Even the light of the late afternoon sun, which should have fallen in long, slanting beams through the high windows, was absent. Only a faint spark remained, drifting over the map on the floor, illuminating-by turns-mermaids and ships and cities and mountains. The slow movement ceased, spinning slowly over the coast of Morea, and then the light unfolded, growing huge, and in its depths; fire and smoke and the distant, muted screams of the dying and the dead.

"I came into the forum of Constantine, from which the Easterners count the miles, and there, clad in night, I saw…"

…a deserted street under a black and starless sky.

Maxian steeled himself, his face settling into a tight mask as visions of defeat welled up in the light and his shadow image struggled in the broken city against an unimaginable enemy.

"…this was how I left Constantinople, in ruins, a broken wasteland." Maxian dropped his hand and the phantasm passed, light streaming in once more from the windows. A thousand throats gasped for air, for every man had been holding his breath in horror, and a complete, stunned silence filled the hall.

Maxian sat down, sweating again, his pulse racing. Even the simulacrum of his battle against the Persian was far too real. Again, he summoned up the calming meditation and settled his mind. When he was aware again, Gregorius was standing in the open space, leaning on his cane, watching the assembly slowly regain its color. A few servants were moving along the benches with wine. Not a single senator refused the offered cup, or failed to drain the thick, unwatered contents.

"That is our enemy," Gregorius said at last, when he judged his words would be understood. "This young man, our own prince Maxian, is the only wizard within the reunited Empire strong enough to confront him. I say we invest Caesar Maxian with the powers and duties of the custos magus imperium, so he might be our shield against this Persian monster."

There was no immediate response and many of the senators stared at Maxian with new interest and naked calculation. The prince sat up straight, meeting their gaze. Gregorius was silent as well, waiting. He seemed content to wait forever, frail old body leaning on the cane, eyes in shadow, neatly trimmed beard covering his hands. Maxian forced himself to sit patiently.

"Can we defeat this enemy?" The senator who had spoken before rose to his feet. He seemed haggard, drained, but his eyes were sharp with an indomitable will. "The prince failed to destroy it in the vision…"

"I was unprepared, Senator." Maxian stood and-again-all fear and concern faded away. "Before that instant, I had never seen our great foe, or felt his power. I was lucky to escape alive. But their advantage is lost. When next we meet, I will be ready."

"Will you?" The senator's tone was pure curiosity, but he waved the question away even as it crossed his lips. "Senator Gregorius, in truth, do we have any other choice? Ours is not a nation of sorcerers, we are not the Chaldees of old, or even Egypt in its time of power. Is this young man our best chance of victory?"

"He is, Livius," Gregorius said, nodding, though his hand was trembling and he barely squeaked out the words. Maxian moved to catch his elbow, but the old man steadied himself.

"Then," Livius said, spreading his hands in acceptance, "we must seize this reed, though it seems terribly frail… shall there be a vote?"

A rumbling chorus of "aye" answered him.

Maxian helped Gregorius sit down, filled with great relief, though a sense of inevitability seemed to surround the event. The old senator was trembling. The prince thought of his work in the hidden world, and of the grim king on the throne of stone, and an unassailable feeling of rightness came over him. This is what is supposed to be.

The rear doors of the Curia opened, grinding loudly on ancient hinges, and a flood of haggard-looking senators poured out, clogging the steps down into the old Forum. Gaius Julius, with Nicholas and Vladimir in tow, waited patiently while the patricians streamed past. The old Roman was openly smirking, enjoying the deflated, defeated looks on the faces of the "powerful."

"They've seen something today," he muttered, "they won't soon forget."

Neither Nicholas nor Vladimir said anything. In Gaius' company, they had remained in the gallery and seen the prince's little show. Both men were rather pale themselves, with a pinched look around the eyes and mouth, but Gaius Julius was impressed with their reaction. Unlike many of the senators, they had not cried out or been reduced to weeping. A party of slaves with litters ran up the steps and entered the Senate hall.

"Follow me." Gaius Julius stepped in, nodding to the Praetorians standing back from the door. The guardsmen nodded in recognition-Gaius had recently struck up a profitable friendship with the two prefects of the Praetorian Cohort over the matter of some vineyards in the south whose owners had died in the eruption of Vesuvius-and let the three men pass. Inside, there was a peculiar chill in the air and the hall still seemed quite dark, though the high windows remained open.

Prince Maxian knelt at the end of the benches on the right-hand side of the hall, his young face filled with dismay. Lying on the bench, hands clasped on his chest, was Gregorius. Gaius Julius hurried forward, sandals slapping on the mosaic, and felt a growing dread.

"What happened, my lord?" Gaius bent down, eyes searching the old man's face. Gregorius met his searching gaze with a faint, weak smile. The old senator's color was very poor, and Gaius was disturbed to see the blue veins showing so clearly through the skin. "You are not well."

"I am not," Gregorius whispered. "I was… unprepared for such terrible sights and sounds. Ah!" The senator's hands trembled with a palsy, and he jerked forward. Gaius, speechless, pressed him gently back onto the bench. Nicholas, standing close, handed the old Roman his cloak, folded into a pillow. Gaius nodded in thanks, tucking the pad under Gregorius' head.

"Sir, I can help you!" Maxian's voice was a harsh whisper, and Gaius-looking sidelong at his master-saw fear and dismay and guilt war in the prince's face. "Let me exert my power upon you. I can restore your heart, your lungs… all the vital humors."

Gregorius shook his head slowly. His left hand fluttered like a bird and Maxian grasped the cold fingers. The prince was as pale as death himself. The senator tried to smile, but stiffened with pain instead.

"Lord prince," he whispered after the spasm passed, "do not anger the gods. I am very old. I should have died years ago. If nothing else, the plague should have taken me. I have done enough, I think, for any man…" Another spasm rippled across his chest and throat, muscles jumping. Maxian laid a hand on the senator's forehead, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"No," Gregorius said, batting weakly at Maxian's hand. "Listen to me, Caesar, you must accept the finality of death. Not everyone… can be saved." The old man's eyes fluttered and then, suddenly, he lay still.

The prince, with a ghastly expression on his face, stared down at his old friend, and there was a trembling in the air, some musical note just past hearing. Gaius Julius jerked back, staring around. Many voices were singing, filling the hall with a beautiful harmony. Nicholas and Vladimir stared at Gaius in alarm. The lean northerner's blade was half-drawn from the scabbard. The old Roman shook his head in puzzlement. The hall was filled only with the muted laughter of slaves lifting those senators who fainted onto litters.

"My lord?" Gaius knelt next to Maxian, his voice low and fervent. "You must bring him back."

"I cannot." Maxian's hands moved gently on the old man's face, smoothing back the white hairs, pressing stiffening eyelids down over dead, clouded eyes. Both wrinkled hands were carefully crossed on the sunken chest. The prince was crying, though he seemed unaware of the tears streaking his cheeks. "He has already crossed over the Black River."

"My lord, we need him." Gaius Julius gripped the prince's shoulder. "Without his support in the Senate, our efforts will be stymied in discussion and argument at every turn. You saw how they are today? Can't you bring him back like… well… like…"

"Abdmachus?" Maxian turned, eyes glinting with anger. "As a puppet? As a shape without life, but something to recite the words you devise?"

"Yes," Gaius Julius said, jutting out his chin. "Please, my lord! He is the most powerful man in the Senate; a leader, your friend and your brother's staunchest supporter. His death means the Empire is weakened-the Emperor will have to work even harder, take more on his shoulders-which we cannot afford, not with the Persians bearing down on Egypt like a storm."

Maxian grimaced, thinking, and pushed Gaius Julius' hand away. The old Roman moved away, staring at the prince with a determined expression, but he said nothing. Maxian stood, his whole attention fixed on Gregorius' body. After a moment, he raised his hand in the beginning of a gesture, then shook his head abruptly and turned away.

"He is gone," Maxian said to Gaius Julius with a fierce look. "Do you understand?"

The old Roman started to speak, trying to marshal a new argument. Maxian continued to glare at him, and finally Gaius raised his hands in surrender. "I'll not mention it again, Lord Prince."

"Good," the prince said, smiling thinly. "Who are these men?"

Gaius rubbed his bald crown, still shaken by the unexpected death of his one-time patron. "My lord, this is Nicholas of Roskilde and Vladimir, a Walach. They are soldiers from the Eastern Empire. They too were in Constantinople… I have taken them into your service."

"My service?" Maxian was taken aback and looked at Gaius in open amusement. "What on earth do I need them for?" The prince turned to Nicholas, embarrassed. "Your pardon, Master Nicholas, and you too, Master Vladimir. I mean you no disrespect. Gaius…"

"My lord," the old Roman interjected firmly, "these men will be your bodyguards."

"My what?" Maxian seemed nonplussed, but Gaius plunged on, keeping his voice low.

"Lord Prince, you have many enemies. Have you forgotten how close you've come to death before?" Gaius paused, searching the boy's face. Maxian made to speak, then paused and Gaius sighed in relief, seeing his patron was at last thinking about his situation. "Yes, my lord, you have enemies-some of them, I am sure, are still in Rome. And what of the Persians? What of the thing you confronted in Constantinople? It will be looking for you too, and I am sure he will not balk from poison or murder sent in the night!"

"No…" The prince's face screwed up into a grimace, as if he had bitten into a rotten olive. "We know the shahanshah has spies in Rome. And there is the… ah… our beautiful friend…"

Gaius Julius nodded somberly. "Will you accept their service, my lord?" The old Roman drew a copper chain out of his tunic, letting the prince's eye catch on the flat black amulet dangling from the end. Maxian's eyes widened, but he nodded, understanding.

Ah, Gaius thought, a single ray of hope… The old Roman took a moment each day to mentally thank Alexandros for discovering those in Gaius' peculiar state did not need sleep or food. Having those extra hours in each day meant all the difference when you had to clean up behind a rash young man like Prince Maxian.

Maxian touched the amulet and there was a faint, muted spark. "Nicholas, Vladimir. I see from your expressions that you are new to this idea of bodyguarding too."

"Yes, Caesar," Nicholas said, the set of his mouth speaking volumes. The Walach looked even less comfortable with the idea. "We're not professionals… not in that way. We've always, ah…"

"— worked outdoors," Vladimir put in, his Latin thick with an indefinable accent. "Keeping an eye on things, you know, or quieting troublesome people."

"I understand." Maxian said. "I don't like being cooped up either." The prince peered at Nicholas' sword for a moment. Then he managed a half-smile, eyes shadowed by unruly hair. "You're on good terms with your blade? You have some skill?"

"Yes." Nicholas answered the smile with a grin, fingertips resting on the hilt of the blade. "I do."

"Good." Maxian glanced at Gaius with a considering air. "We'll need larger quarters."

The old Roman nodded. "Already secured, my lord. A quiet little place on the Cispian Hill."

"Really?" Maxian looked very dubious. "I suppose I will have to see it for myself."

The prince smoothed back his hair and looked over his shoulder at Gregorius' corpse. Sadness washed over his face, making him seem much younger. "I am going to tell Galen what has happened. See the body is taken up, in a state befitting a great and noble Roman, and placed in the vestibule of the temple of the Divine Julius. Inform his family immediately. I will pay the expenses of his funeral myself."

"Of course, my lord." Gaius swallowed a groan. Those are my hard-earned sesterces you're throwing about, my lad! But he said nothing, only bowing and motioning for Nicholas and Vladimir to follow him. The thought of entering the Temple of the Divine Julius made him feel a little ill. Gaius made a sign to avert evil fortune, his quick mind already distracted by the delightful prospect of writing Gregorius' funeral oration. Sadly, he supposed the prince would deliver the speech, though Gaius Julius could make sure he had an excellent text.

"Nicholas, Vladimir. I will speak with you tomorrow. There are things you need to know." With that, the prince strode away, heading for the main doors to the Curia and the swiftest path through the crowds of the Forum to the Palatine and his brother.

Vladimir jogged along a narrow street plunging down the side of the Caelian Hill, feeling his skin prickle and grow damp as each step took him closer to the heart of the city and deeper into the fetid close heat pooling among the brick buildings. He wiped his face, sweating furiously, and cursed-not for the first time, or for the last-this business of cities and buildings and putting so many people cheek by jowl. The Walach did not like Rome at all, and he did not bother to disguise the fact.

As he passed, matrons walking with their children flinched away and men in doorways scowled. Vladimir ignored them, tugging restlessly at the tunic's tight collar. The house servants had taken away the loose linen shirt and checked pantaloons he favored and he was sure he would never see them again. In return, he had these city clothes-no more than a tunic and undershirt-and a funny-smelling bronze dolphin amulet on a leather cord around his neck. The prince had given him the signet, telling the Walach it would "keep him out of trouble."

Nicholas seemed impressed by the cool halls and high ceilings of the villa, but Vladimir preferred forest and glen and a high mountainside, wet with summer rain.

At the bottom of the hill, the street twisted into a maze of ramshackle buildings set even closer together and now there were people everywhere, shoulder to shoulder, pressing and pushing. The low roaring became a din of shouting voices, ringing metal on metal, the creak and growl of machines, singing, cook fires, boiling steam, the lowing of cattle. Vladimir winced, ducking under laundry hanging across the street, and clamped a thumb and forefinger firmly over his nose.

The smell of Rome was the worst, a stew of unwashed bodies, sweat, fear, mucus, urine, offal and rotting flyblown meat. Head down, Vladimir plowed his way through the crowds of the Subura, ignoring angry shouts and glares from the citizens. All he cared about was reaching someplace open and clean where he could see the sky. He looked up, hopeful, but found cliffs of soot-stained brick and plaster looming over the street. Lines hung with wash, curing hams, plucked chickens and pigeons, lengths of dyed wool, obstructed any possible view of clouds or even the sun.

At the edge of the Subura, the crowds grew thicker as the street approached a deep gate set in a mammoth wall of brick. Vladimir accounted himself a strong man, with thickly muscled forearms and broad shoulders, but in this mass of people all he could do was inch forward. The sides of the road were lined by burned out, wrecked buildings. Vladimir could see people sleeping or sitting in the ruins. Others were selling trinkets, amulets, little copper idols from the steps of the burned houses. Close to the gate, crews of slaves were busily clearing the wreckage, hauling bricks, rotted corpses and charred lumber out hand over hand. The Walach frowned, seeing the labor overseers wearing Gaius Julius' dolphin blazon.

The dead man has been busy… clearing the ruins, building new blocks of flats, offering reasonable loans…

It took nearly a half hour to pass through the tunnel, where cold-eyed soldiers watched the mob with bared weapons. The brickwork facing of the gate was black from the fire that had swept away the blocks of apartments. Beyond the gate tunnel, Vladimir sighed in relief, though he was half-blinded by the sun glittering off the vast sweep of the Forum. He crossed a huge plaza thronged with well-to-do men in long cloaks or togas, lined with monumental buildings faced with marble and brightly painted plaster. The glare hurt his eyes, as did the gilding on the myriad statues standing before the temples. He hurried on, hoping to get into some shade as soon as he could. The Roman summer leached moisture straight from his skin.

Following the directions given by the prince's majordomo, Vladimir passed between a small temple on his right, filled with chanting priests, and a long columned passage on his left. Through the columns, he could see some kind of a garden or park. The sight of trees and grass trapped in the middle of this huge hive made him feel a little ill but he did not stop. Instead, he continued on, across a paved courtyard and through a vaulted hall the size of a whole village and three stories high. Hundreds of men and women were standing around in the gloom, examining goods set out on tables. Huge bundles of wicker cages stood on poles, holding pigeons, sparrows and rabbits. The trestle tables were groaning under the weight of cured sausage and bags of millet and wheat and rounds of cheese.

Beyond the market, Vladimir finally caught sight of his destination, another hill completely obscured by more enormous buildings. These were rather plain, though as he approached he saw they were solidly built and utilitarian. His lips twitched into something like a smile when he noticed there were no windows on the first and second floors. He spied a gate to his left and approached. The crowds petered out, leaving only a brace of very large and well-armored legionaries in the shadow of the gatehouse.

"Ave," Vladimir said, coming to a halt. "I am looking for the Office of the Legions."

The centurion in charge of the guard detail stepped away from the wall, flipping a half-eaten apple into the street. "Papers," he grunted, still chewing.

Vladimir produced a letter from Gaius Julius-won rather easily, the Walach thought, but it was of no matter to the dead man, he supposed-and handed over the paper. The soldier cracked the seal and glanced over the writing inside, then nodded. "Fourth building up, barbarian, with crossed spears over the door."

The Walach nodded and recovered the letter. He pressed coins into the soldier's hand and stepped inside. The centurion grinned, then settled back against the wall. His mates clustered around, eyeing the money.

Vladimir didn't expect much, but he was disappointed to find the Office of the Legions very small and cramped and filled with pale, round little men smelling of ink, dry sweat and unwashed feet. He thought about pinching his nose closed again, but decided they might be insulted. The clerk sitting in the vestibule was reading his letter of introduction for the fourth time. Vladimir tried to keep still, but he only managed to keep from clawing furiously at the door. Large brown water stains marked all four walls and a ceiling thick with spiderwebs. A brief fantasy of seizing the spindly little man by the neck and squeezing until his eyes burst, spilling red, and Vladimir having bit through his throat distracted the Walach for a moment, and then passed.

"I see your master has a sense of humor," the clerk said, holding up the letter with an approving air. "He perfectly captures the Great Caesar's brisk efficiency and clarity of thought." The clerk stared at Vladimir, who bared his teeth, and then sighed in regret. "Never mind. You want to find the whereabouts of an Eastern soldier-one Dwyrin MacDonald? Attached to the Eastern Thaumaturgic Corps, in Constantinople?"

"Yes," Vladimir nodded eagerly. "Is he alive?"

"How, may I ask, would we know?" The clerk made a face. "All of the Eastern records were destroyed, or lost, and the most we've received are partial reports of men who have survived and fled with the fleet to Athens. It would take weeks just to sort through those!"

The Walach squatted down, so that he was on the same level as the clerk. The man inched back, surprised at the swift motion. "Will you look?" Vladimir tried not to growl, but the words rumbled back from the walls. "I will pay you."

The clerk made another face, then threw up his hands. "You're not supposed to bribe me! Not yet. That's for later, after we've dickered for a bit-urk!"

Vladimir dragged the man up, claws digging through his tunic. "My friend is missing," the Walach rumbled. "If you look through your bits of paper, and find out if he lives or not, I will pay you." Vladimir's nostrils flared and he leaned close, sniffing the clerk's ears. "I will come back later."

Then he leaned the man against the wall. There were some coins left in his purse. Vladimir placed them carefully on the writing desk, then went out. The smell of dusty paper set him on edge. He hurried out, hoping the prince would decide to leave the city soon.