Shadow of Ararat

THE OFFICES, THE PALATINE HILL, ROMA MATER

Unlike the isolated detachment of the Summer House in Cumae, the Offices of the Palace were crowded shoulder to shoulder with bureaucrats, lictors, patrons of all sizes and shapes, Imperial officers, Praetorians in their red cloaks, foreigners and hundreds of slaves.

Maxian stood for a moment on the steps of what had once been the Temple of the Black Stone, built off of the north side of the Palatine Hill on a great raised platform. Now the temple was the venue of the various embassies, both from foreign states and from cities and provinces within the Empire. A constant stream of people swarmed up and down the steps, hurrying across the narrow way to the vaulted arch and gate that led into the Imperial Offices themselves. The young healer, dressed in a nondescript cloak and tunic, leaned back into the tiny bit of shade the column provided him. The air was heavy and hot, thick with the miasma of thousands of sweaty people going about their business in a great hurry. He continued to peer over the heads of those on the lower steps, looking for the man he had come to see. Though armed with a good descrip tion-tall, sandy blond hair, crooked nose-he still failed to pick him out.

The heat of the day did not better his temper, which had been worn of late. Dreams of the night in Ostia continued to haunt him, now intertwined with memories of the vision he had experienced in the little temple at Cumae. A recurring sense of familiarity linked the two events, and he had been spending long, and late, hours in the Imperial Archives to try find out what could have caused the deaths of Dromio and his whole family in such a way. Too, he still held serious reservations about his brother’s plan to aid the Eastern Empire. He rubbed tired eyes with an ink-stained hand. Where was this Briton?

Old Petronus, at the library tucked into the back of the Baths of Caracalla, had suggested this foreigner to him and had, supposedly, arranged this meeting. Odd that the Briton, Mordius, required a meeting in a public square-it would have been far more comfortable to meet in an inn or banquet house. No matter, the Prince thought, if he has answers…

“My lord?” Maxian looked up. A tall northerner stood on the step below his, though his height easily raised him to an equal eye level with Maxian. Sure enough, he had a nose once broken and now crooked, long blond hair tied back in braids, and he was dressed in trousers and a light cotton shirt. A small, neat beard completed the picture.

Maxian squinted at him. “You are Mordius? A Briton?”

The man smiled. “Aye, my lord, the very same. Petronus sent a message that I should meet a young, tired-looking

Roman with long dark hair here. Are you he?“

Maxian smiled back. “I am. Let us go someplace dark and cool, with wine…”

An hour later, in the recesses of a tavern in a narrow street just north of the Coliseum, Maxian thought he had a good mark on this barbarian. As Mordius had explained over an amphora and a half of middling Tibertinan wine, he was a man sent to Rome to make money for his investors in distant Londoinium. He had been in the city for six years, first to handle shipments of ceramics and glass back north to Britain, then handling a growing traffic of wool, lumber, amber, iron, coal, and tin from the icy northern islands to the ever-hungry markets of Italia. He was married to a Roman woman now and had a young son. Two of his cousins had come to join him; they handled the warehousing and traffic of goods. Mordius had a new objective-to make more money with the money that he controlled in Rome itself.

None of this surprised Maxian. Foreigners had been coming to the Eternal City for centuries, looking for work, looking for riches. Some few found it; many more failed and went home or became refuse in the streets of the Subura. Others passed onward, always looking for a new Elysium. This one, however, had stuck and from the restrained richness of his clothes, from his accent and his bearing, the Prince thought that had become successful.

“It is impossible to be successful in Rome if one does not follow proper custom,” Mordius was saying. “One requires a patron, both to represent your interests in the courts and to help you navigate the intricacies of the State and the will of the people. I account myself lucky to have made the acquaintance, even the friendship, of Gregorius Auri-cus.”

Maxian looked up in surprise. “The one they call Gregorius Magnus? He is a powerful man in the Senate and the city.”

Mordius bowed his head in assent. “Just so. Without his friendship, all of my efforts here would be dust. I would doubtless be back in Britain, digging stumps out of fields.” He paused and raised the earthenware cup he was drinking from. “Even this poor vintage would be acclaimed throughout Londonium as an exemplar of the vintners’ art. I drink to Rome, the Roman sun, and fine wine.” He drained the cup. Maxian joined him, then put the cup down on the table between them. “Petronus, at the baths, said that you had encountered a difficulty with a business deal. He told me this after I had related to him a problem that I had with a business arrangement of my own. It seems, and I say seems, that the two troubles might be related.”

Mordius refilled his cup, then offered the amphora to Maxian, who declined, turning his cup over. It joined a confusion of old wine stains on the tabletop.

“A difficulty, yes,” the Briton said, his face growing still and grim. “Almost seventy thousand sesterces in investment, gone. A man who had become a good friend, gone. Nothing to indicate an enemy, a business rival. All ashes within a day.”

“A fire?” Maxian asked, disappointed. Petronus had hinted at more than that.

“The fire came after,” Mordius replied. “Joseph and his family were dead before then. I will tell you what I know, what I heard, what I saw.” The Briton sat up a little straighter in on the bench and the cadence of his voice changed. Maxian wondered if the man had trained as an orator in his youth.

“Two of the businesses that I represent are the importation of lumber, which is cut into planks for building in the city, and wool, particularly to be made into heavy cloaks. As such I see the foremen of both the lumber mills and the weavers on a daily basis. Five months ago each man told me an odd story about a silversmith, a Jew, who had come to them to ask them for their refuse. To the mill he had come and asked for the dust that comes from the saws when they are cutting the logs. To the weaver he had asked for their old scraps of linen. This intrigued me, for I can smell business, particularly new business, from miles away. I asked around, spent a few coppers, and found the silversmith. His name was Joseph and his shop was down in the Alsienita, across the Tiber. A poor neighborhood, but cheap enough for him to afford a workshop without too many bribes.

“The day that I went in to talk to Joseph about his sawdust and linen rags he was despondent. He had been spending all of his time on his new project, and his wife was beside herself at the state of their jewelry business. His sons and daughters were spending all of their time making a terrible mess in the back of the shop with his oddments, while customers went waiting at the door, and then did not come at all.

“Needless to say, it seemed a reasonable business opportunity-not as if I were setting his house afire and then buying it from him in the street… I had some silver in my bag and I gladly pressed it into his hand in exchange for his story. He looked hopeful, and I know that he was more open with me, a fellow foreigner, than with some-pardon me, my lord-snobbish Roman. So he told me the tale and it pricked my ears right up.

“Joseph had a brother, Menacius, who was a scribe and made a good living in the shops down behind the Portica Aemilla copying scrolls and letters and what-not. I know the kind of living a good scribe makes, I’ve paid my share of gold to them. Still, this Menacius was very successful, for he was blessed with three sons, all with good eyes and steady hands. The three of them were like peas in a pod and this suited Menacius very well, for their letters were all but indistinguishable from one another. He could set all three of them to one book and each would take a section. Three working instead of one makes quick work. The sesterces were wheeling themselves up to the door-that’s how good it was. Now, like most good things, this came to an end.

“One of the sons fell sick, and then another ran off with a snake-dancer from Liburnium. To make things worse for Menacius, he had just caught a deal with the Office of the Mint for no less than seventy copies of the Regulation of the Coinage. A very good sum he stood to make from that too, no doubt, but to win the deal he had to agree to a tight delivery schedule. Now, with only one scribe, he was in a terrible state. Being a man of family, he had gone to see Joseph and poured out his tale of woe. Joseph, who was a fellow good with his hands and clever to boot, thought about it for a time and then struck upon a solution.

“If there were not three sons, then make one son do the work of three. Their strength came from their handwriting being steady, firm, and clear. So he struck, so to say, upon this.” Mordius opened a small leather bag and removed a tiny object, pressing into the Prince’s hand.

Maxian turned over the little piece of lead in his hand. A square bolt, no more than a little finger’s bone in length. Flat at one end with two notches, one on each side, bumpy on the other. He looked tip in puzzlement at the Briton, who was grinning broadly.

“A bit of lead?” Maxian asked. The Briton nodded, taking it back. With one scarred hand, he cleared a space on. the tabletop. Then he carefully took the bit of lead and dipped it in his wine cup. Even more carefully, he then pressed the bumpy end into the tabletop.

“Look,” Mordius said, moving his hand away. Maxian leaned over and squinted down at the table in the poor light. “An alpha,” he said. A tiny, almost perfect, letter was scribed on the tabletop in dark wine. The Briton nodded.

“Joseph and his sons made hundreds of them from lead scrap, all of the letters of the alphabet, even all the numbers. Each little peg was scored at the flat base, so that they could slide into a copper slat to hold them straight. Seventy slats per frame, each frame made of wood with a backing. Each frame a whole page of printing.” The Briton paused a moment, watching Maxian’s face closely.

Maxian stared at him in dumbfounded astonishment. After just a moment fear replaced astonishment, and then a universe of possibilities unfolded before him. He sat back stunned, unable to speak. Mordius reached out, turned over the wine-cup, and then filled it. The Briton pushed it toward

Maxian’s hand, which of itself moved, took the cup, and brought it to his lips.

After a time, Maxian could speak. “And then what happened then?”

The Briton shrugged. “There were troubles, of course. Papyrus was no good to use with the frames; the scrolls kept splitting when they were pressed against it. None of the inks used with a brush or quill would stick right to the lead and they smeared anyway. The frames were awkward and really no faster than a trained scribe to use. Joseph and Menacius and their families labored for weeks to solve the problems. That was what had led Joseph to the mill and the weavers. He was looking, for something that would make a better writing surface than papyrus. His sons had found that there were fine-grained woods that would hold the ink and fine linens that were flexible enough not to split when the frames were pressed upon them.

“By this time I was a partner in the enterprise, though they kept the details to themselves. The deal that I struck was for the right to use the frame-scribe for my own business and to export books made with it to the north. A scroll is like gold there, there are so few, so I knew that my fortune was assured. One copy of Plato or Sophocles could become a thousand copies, each easy to transport and worth a hundred times its own weight in silver.

“Only a month ago one of Joseph’s sons came to me at the warehouse and bade me come and visit the shop that night. His father had finally solved the last puzzle. They were determined to make a clean copy of the Regulations that very night and do the rest of the lot over the following days. The deadline was very close and I know they must have been overjoyed.

“But when I arrived that night, the shop was shuttered and dark. I knocked and knocked, but no one came to the door. At last a neighbor saw me in the street and told me that they had all gathered for a late-afternoon meal and none had gone out. Fearing that something was wrong, I forced the door-no easy task at a jeweler’s shop!-and went inside. I was back out again in minutes, gagging at the smell and the sights I saw within. They, of course, were all dead amid the clutter of their meal.“

Maxian, unbidden, felt a great pressure upon him, seemingly from the air all around him. For a moment he was back in the dim kitchen in Ostia, dragging Dromio onto the table, pleading for his friend to hold on just a little longer. Trembling, he drank again from his cup. The eyes of the Briton, hooded, were on him. ‘ -

“I have seen much the same,” the Prince said, his voice weak. “Like loaves of bread.”

“The neighbor saw me, of course,” Mordius continued, “and ran out of his house. I gasped something about them all being dead and the smell. He thought it was the plague and ran off shouting. Within minutes half of the neighborhood was in the street with buckets and torches. The vigiles came, but could not reach the house for the press of the crowd. The shout of plague,, plague was like a drumbeat. They burned it, the whole house and the ones on either side, to keep the plague from them. I fled, knowing that I would be next on that pyre.

“I went back a few days ago. There was nothing left, only the burned-out shell of the house and, in the ashes, a few of those, unmelted. I took that one as a souvenir, but nothing else. I account myself lucky that my visits were few and I knew little of their work. I am alive.”

Maxian stared at the little lead token on the table. He scratched his beard. That odd feeling was back, tickling at the edge of his perception. “No one else now, save you and I, know of what they had devised. No other scribes, no officials?”

Mordius nodded. “I thought the same thing. But these Jews are a secretive lot and they do not talk to strangers, particularly Roman ones. Someone killed them, but who I cannot say. There would have been many who cursed their r names, if they had been successful, but now they are unknown.“

“What are you going to do?”

The Briton snorted, putting his cup down. “Leave. Go back to Britain and dig in the fields, I suppose. Fight with my father and my half brothers. The city has a cold feeling to it now, more so that I’ve told you. No good will come of this, I fear. Thank you for the wine.” The gangly foreigner stood up, bending his head to avoid the low timbers of the ceiling.

“Thank you for telling me this,” Maxian said, standing up straight. He dug in his purse and brought out two solidi, which he pressed into the Briton’s hand. Mordius raised an eyebrow at the weight of the coins, then bowed. “My lord.” Then he was gone, out into the sunshine in the street. Maxian stood by the table for a long time, looking down at the little lead slug. Finally, he picked it up and put it in his purse before going out himself.

As Maxian entered the great suite of rooms that formed the office of the Emperor of the West, an unaccustomed sound echoed over his head. The courtiers and supplicants who crowded the chambers arranged in front of the octagonal chamber that housed the secretary were nervous, shuffling their feet and talking in low tones. Passing by the pair of Praetorians at the doors of the octagonal room, he was startled to realize that one of the voices, raised in anger, was that of his brother, the Emperor. In the octagon, the Secretary was absent and all of the scribes were warily watching the half-open set of double doors that led into the inner chambers.

“ Maxian stopped and made a half turn. The nearest of the Praetorians turned his head a fraction, his eyes questioning. Maxian nodded at the doors to the waiting rooms. The two guards immediately closed them with a heavy thud. At this the scribes looked up, then hurried to resume work. Maxian walked among them, idly looking over the papers and scrolls that littered their desks. After a moment he found the senior man. Dredging at his memory, he recovered the man’s name.

“Prixus, everyone here can take a break to the triniculum and get a late meal. Go on.”

Prixus bobbed his head and began putting away his pens, ink stone and other assorted items. The other scribes, seeing him, began to do likewise. Maxian continued to the double doors, quietly closing them behind him after he had entered. Within, a cluster of men blocked his view of the apartment that Galen used as his office, but another voice, strong and clear, had joined the argument.

“Caesar, I disagree. This policy of recruitment is open to abuse at all levels. Here before you stand loyal men who can raise as many legionnaires as this levy at half the cost, and these men are already trained in war.”

Maxian edged around the back of the room. At least twenty men, all senators or knights crowded the chamber, and many were officers in the Legions. This was unexpected-after seven centuries the ban remained, barring the Legions from the precincts of the capital. In the middle of the room stood an elderly figure: Gregorious Auricus, the man known as “the Great.” Garbed in a clean white toga of fine wool, the magnate looked every inch the Senator that he was by right of birth. A mane of fine white hair was combed behind his head, and his craggy face was calm and composed. Across the green Tarpetian marble desk from him, Galen stood as well, his face clouded with anger. The Emperor had chosen to wear the light garb of a Legion commander, a deep-maroon tunic with gold edging, Iaced-up boots, and a worn leather belt. The gladius that usually hung from that belt was on the desk, pushed to one side by a great collection of scrolls, counting tokens, and pens.

“What you propose, Gregorious, is against the laws of the Empire, the Senate, and the people.” Galen’s words were clipped and short-a sure sign of anger. “The relation of the Empire to ihefedorat? is well defined, and they are used only as auxillia, not as Legion-strength units. It has never been the practice of the Empire, nor will it be mine, to bring foreign armies, whole, into the service of the state. Further, you have stated, here and on the floor of the Senate, your opposition to the levy. I respect your position, but it is the will of the Empire to proceed in this manner.“

Gregorious shook his head, turning to declaim to the nobles and officers who looked on from the edges of the room. “My friends, colleagues. This levy is a dangerous act. Its offer of manumission to any able-bodied slave or foreigner in the Empire in exchange for a mere ten years of service is a blow to the very foundations of the state. There are other ways to provide for the defense of the Empire in this dangerous time. I urge you to support me in pursuing these other means.”

Galen stepped around the desk, and Gregorious stepped back, halting his incipient oration. The Emperor slowly surveyed the faces of all those assembled in the room. If he spied Maxian at the back of the room, he made no sign of it. At last, he turned back to the magnate, who had been a firm supporter of his rule since that blustery day in Sagun-tum nine years before. The two men locked gazes, and the tension in the room built a little higher.

Maxian continued to work his way around the periphery, for he had finally made out his brother Aurelian standing in a doorway on the far side. Galen began speaking again; “We are here, Senators and officers, to discuss an expedition that has already been set in motion, to plan, to prepare for victory. The Senate has already voted to allocate funds for the relief of the Eastern Empire. This expedition is crucial, not only to the beleaguered East, but to ourselves as well.”

A mutter went up in the back of the room, though Maxian only caught a fragment: “… the East rot!”

Galen heard the whole statement, and his face darkened further.

“We speak of a Roman East, fool. Half the extent of our great Empire, the half that holds nearly two-thirds of the citizens of our realm. It is easy for us in the West to forget the long watch the East has kept, holding back the Persians and their allies, providing grain to the great cities of Italia. While we struggled in the West to drive back the Franks and the Germans, the East stood by us. Gold, men, and arms came to us. Now they are at the precipice. Persia seeks not just tribute but conquest, to drive their frontier to the Mare Internum, to seize Egypt itself.“

Another murmur rose, this one at the edge of laughter. Galen slapped his hand on the green tabletop, the sound echoing like a slingshot.

“Do you venerate the memories of your fathers? Do you sacrifice to the gods of your household?” He turned, his gaze baleful and filled with venom. “You dismiss the Persians as ‘trouser-wearing sybarites,’ unfit to take the field of honor against a Roman army. You do not think they threaten us. You are twice the fools to count a man a coward and a weakling because he wears pants of silk. The Persian has smashed four Roman armies in the past three years. He stands at the brink of success, all brought by his strength of arms.

“But I think he has heard your insults. Yes, even in the East, the nonsensical maundering of the Senate is dissected and considered. Our enemy has found new friends to help him against us. The King of Persia accounts necromancers, sorcerers, dead-talkers, and alchemists among the tools that he raises against us.”

The room suddenly grew very quiet. Maxian paused. He had never heard this before.

“Yes,” Galen said, a grim smile on his face. “This time, when the Persian comes, he will come with dark powers at his command. Ever before the Persian Kings acted with honor, eschewing the malignant tools of the magi. Now he cares only for one thing-victory and the defeat of Rome. The tombs of your fathers will be despoiled and broken open. You will fight against your dead brothers, and their cold hands will clutch at your throat…“

Maxian tuned out the polemic of his brother, finally shouldering his way past two pasty-faced regional governors to reach Aurelian’s side. His brother clapped him fondly on the shoulder and nodded toward the closed door that stood behind him. Maxian nodded in agreement and the two slipped through into the private chamber. The door, a heavy oak panel carved with a two-part scene of the victory of Septimus Severus over the Arabs, closed with a muffled thud. Blessedly, it cut off the angry rhetoric from the council room.

“Ah!” Aurelian sighed in delight, collapsing into a pile of cushions and pillows on the couch against the opposite wall of the little room. “Is there any wine left in that basket?” he asked. Maxian poked through the wicker basket set on the little marble ledge inside the door. Afternoon light slanted through the triangular panes of the high window set into the wall to the right.

“No, only some bread, cheese, and a sausage.” While he talked, Maxian’s nimble fingers had found a knife and were cutting a circular hole in the end of the loaf. Cheese followed, and chunks of sausage, to fill up the cavity he gouged out. When he was done, he cut the loaf in half and tossed the lesser piece to his brother on the couch.

“Piglet!” Aurelian laughed. “You’ve taken the larger.”

Maxian nodded, though his mouth was too busy biting the end off of the loaf to speak.. He felt exhausted and hungry, though he had eaten several hours before, when he had left his apartment in the palace on the southern side of the hill. Despite this, Aurelian was licking crumbs off his fingers before Maxian was even half done. Finished at last and thirsty, Maxian stood up and walked to a bronze flute that stood up from the floor near the door. He uncapped the end and shouted down it, “Wine!” When the flute-pipe made an unintelligible muttering back at him, he recapped it. Then he took up the other couch, opposite Aurelian.

“So,” Aurelian said, with a knowing look on his face, “I hear from reliable sources that you spent the night, not so long ago, with a certain raven-haired Duchess. Was she as magnificent as all reports indicate?”

Maxian stared at his brother for a moment, digesting this statement, then he laughed.

“After the party at Orelio’s? She was quite entertaining that night, true, but I did not sample her myself. The wine was of exceptional quality and I arrived tired, so a slave helped me to bed and to sleep. The Duchess and I have gone over that ground before-though I mean no disrespect to the Lady, she is really too old for my taste.”

“You slept?” Aurelian asked in disgust. “The reports in the Forum are far more entertaining than you, piglet. By the account of reliable, sober and upstanding Senators, you were engaged in an orgiastic celebration with no less than the Duchess, her ward, and a tangle of every other lad, lass, and goat in the villa. Why, old Stefronius assured me that the decadence of the notorious Anagathios was as nothing compared to your soldiering among the youth of the city…”

Aurelian was laughing so hard that he could not even dodge the heavy pillow that Maxian threw at him. Maxian sighed and leaned back on the couch.

“What is Galen arguing with Gregorius about?” he asked, hoping to divert the gossip-hungry Aurelian from the subject at hand.

“Oh, the levy, the supplies for the expedition to Constantinople, the weather, everything. They’ve been at it for three hours now. Neither is willing to budge a finger’s worth-and worse, each is absolutely sure that he is in the right.”

“Why not just issue the edicts and be done with it? The Emperor has proposed, the Senate has voted…”

Aurelian threw the pillow back, though Maxian neatly caught it with one hand and tucked it behind his head. His brother fluffed his beard with one hand, thinking a moment. Then:

“Galen, despite the good state of the fisc, does not want to bear the cost of the expedition solely from the coffers of the state. He summoned all those ‘well-respected’ men out there to extort from them the coin, the bread, the arms, the armor, and most important, the ships to carry his sixty thousand veterans to the East. Gregorious knows that, and knows that as he is the richest man in Rome, if he refuses to pay then Galen is in a tight spot. He wants an arrangement, but it is not one that Galen will give.”

Maxian looked perplexed, saying “Gregorious has always supported us, he was a friend of father’s, for Apollo’s sake. What would he want that Galen cannot give?”

“Not ‘cannot,’ piglet, but ‘will not.’ Gregorious wants to arrange grants of citizenship for some of his clients-the ones who have made him so rich. He also wants to ‘help’ out with the expedition by mustering his own Legions, six of them to be exact, from those same clients. He is even, in his graciousness, willing to arm, equip, and train the lot of them.”

Now Maxian was even more amazed than he had been earlier in the afternoon.

“Gregorious has enough money to field almost fifty thousand legionnaires?” He sputtered. “Where in Hades did he find that many able men in the Empire? Galen has had to hatch this dubious levy to get that many in arms!”

Aurelian nodded slowly then said, “Gregorious is not considering just men in the Empire.”

Maxian’s head snapped up, a look of suspicion on his face. “And where does he intend to get these men?”

Aurelian nodded to the north, past the pale-green reeds and marsh-doves painted on the walls. “From the tribes still beyond the border, those that have not settled in their own principates, towns, cities, and duchies. To join their fellows will live among us now.”

“The Goths? Maxian found himself on his feet, shout ing. Aurelian remained recumbent on the sofa, nodding. “And the Lombards, and Franks, and a bevy of other footless bands, all looking for a slice off of the big wheel of cheese. Gregorious argues, and here it is hard to fault him, that the Goths are staunch friends and allies of the state. They have fought at our side for almost a hundred years, but by the same treaties that bind them to us, and we to them, they are not Roman citizens. They hold lands in the name of the Emperor, but they are a subject state. Many of the Gothic Princes are welcomed at Gregorious’ house and they repay him, and his patronage in the city, with an easy way beyond the frontier. Gregorious Magnus did not become as rich as he is by ignoring opportunities, but I think, as does Galen, that he is beginning to run out of favors to pay them off with. Now they want to become citizens, and this is one way for them to get that.”

“They could serve, individually, in the Legions and gain the same status,” out Maxian pointed.

“Many do, but more want to serve together, which has been against the law for over eight hundred years. And if fifty thousand of them showed up at once, we wouldn’t be recruiting them, we’d be fighting them and Gregorious would be Emperor instead of our beloved brother. Gregorious thinks that together they are invincible in battle.”

Maxian sniffed at that, but Aurelian held up an admonishing finger. “Check the rolls of the Legion sometime, piglet. Almost half of our current soldiers are German or Gothic. They are fierce fighters and they can be very loyal.”

“The Legions have always been loyal to the state,” Maxian shot back.

“True. But Galen does not want to test that proverb. That is another reason why he wants to install the levy-to gain more legionnaires who are not German.”

Maxian’s retort was lost in the oak door opening and a slave entering with the wine. A pretty brunette in a short tunic, she placed the amphora on the marble ledge and took the wicker basket away. After she was gone, Maxian realized that his brother was laughing again.

“You need a wife, or better, a bevy of concubines, piglet. I’d swear that you didn’t hear a single word I.said while she was in this room.”

Maxian blushed and snarled something unintelligible at his brother. He got up and poured two goblets of wine, this a dusky red Neapolitan by the smell. He swirled the grape in the goblet and tasted it-excellent! He passed the other glass to Aurelian, who drank it straight off. Maxian sighed at the indifference of his brother to the subtlety of the vintage. The door opened again, and this time Galen entered, slamming the heavy panel behind him. The two younger brothers watched in silence as the Emperor paced icily from one end of the little room to the other. Finally, after almost ten minutes, he looked up and seemed surprised to find the two of them in the chamber with him.

“Oh. I wondered where the two of you had gotten to. My apologies. Is there any wine?”

Maxian poured another glass and handed it over to his brother. Galen’s high temper was visibly ebbing as he finally sat down and drank the wine in two short swallows. Maxian and Aurelian both continued to sit, their faces impassive as the Emperor sorted through his thoughts in the quiet.

Galen put the glass back on the ledge, turning to Aurelian. “Aurelian, as we had discussed before, the Senate is voting you to hold the office of Consul while I am gone. Nerva Licius Commodus, who is holding the other consular office, will be going with me, so we shall fill the other with Maxian here. I trust both of you, though not necessarily anyone else in the city, so be careful. The Senators are a little restless over this campaign in the East and will doubtless bend the ears of both of you while I am gone.”

Aurelian nodded in agreement, though his open face showed how pleased he was at the prospect.

Galen smiled, a little tight smile, and ran a hand through his short hair. “Maxian, you are the linchpin of this whole effort in the East. I had considered taking you with me- a campaign would be beneficial to your education-but someone has to maintain the telecast here so that I can be informed of any developments in the West. The device will be brought up from the Summer House within the next week, in secret, and installed in the library. Aurelian will handle the day-to-day business, but you need to keep an eye on the men who were in that room with me.”

Maxian rubbed his face, feeling the beard stubble. He did not like his brother’s emphasis on the word education, for it implied that his long period of freedom was at an end. For the last six years, since they had come to the city in triumph, his brothers had carefully excluded him from the business of the state. This had been the wish of both their mother and their father, who saw for him a different path, that of the healer-priest. With Galen in the East, such liberty was at an end. Oddly, he did not feel outraged or angry at the presumption of his brother, but rather more comfortable, like a familiar cloak had been draped, at last, around his shoulders.

“Brother, if I do not mistake you, you want me to take over the network of informers and spies maintained by the Offices? Is this not the domain of the Duchess de’Orelio?”

Galen looked at his younger brother for a moment, his face pensive. “De’Orelio has always supported us, little brother, as has Gregorious and the other nobles. But in times such as these, when great events are in motion, the solid earth may be sand, the old friend an enemy. Given these things, I desire that you should begin assembling a separate set of informers and spies loyal to us.”

Maxian bowed his head in acceptance. Galen continued to brood, his face grim and his manner distant.

“Within the month,” he said, “the Legions in Spain and southern Gaul will arrive at Ostia Maxima and I will join them. I shall sail east with them, and join the others at

Constantinople. Then Heraclius and I will begin our expedition. We shall have victoryr and peace.“

Maxian shook his head in puzzlement, saying “Again you mention that peace shall come of this, brother. You are taking a great gamble, to throw yourself and the Emperor of the East into the heart of Persia. Even with this great army you may still be defeated. You may die. Both halves of the Empire may lose their Emperors. This will not be peace but civil war again, and the barbarians will still storm against the walls of Constantinople. Would it not be more prudent to clear the invaders from Thrace, Greece, and Macedonia? Then the full weight of the Empire could turn against the Persians in Syria and Palestine.”

Galen laughed and his eyes were bright with some secret knowledge. “Cautious! So cautious, piglet. You are right, such a campaign would restore the borders of the Empire and drive the enemy back. But that is what the ‘cautious’ Emperors of Rome have done since the time of the Divine Augustus. None of their efforts has brought peace, only a little delay in the next war. The great Emperors-Julius Caesar, Trajan, Septimus Severus-they won peace by the destruction of their enemies. We will do them one better, we will take nearly a hundred thousand Romans into the heart of our ancient enemy and destroy not only their capital but their state. Persia, all of Persia, will become a Roman domain, not just an edge of it, but all. Then, then there will be a true peace in the East and over the whole of the world.”

Galen paused, and now he seemed refreshed, even ebullient again. The grim and distant manner was gone; instead he poured more wine for all three of them.

“Nike!” he said, raising his cup to the goddess of victory. “And a Roman peace.”

Maxian drained his cup, but there was no peace in his heart.

Though he had lived in the sprawling maze of the Palatine for six years, Maxian was still unable to find the offices of the Duchess, though he thought that they were somewhere in one of the buildings on the northern face of the hill. At last, having wound up again in the sunken garden on the eastern side of the hill, he approached one of the gardeners laboring over the replacement of tiles. The garden, built over five hundred years ago by the reviled emperor Do-mitian, was laid out in the shape of a race course. Great bushes, carefully tended, were crafted into the shape of rearing horses and chariots. At the north end there was a pool and around it ancient tiles, now cracked. The gardener, dressed in a muddy tunic and laced-up cotton leggings, was half in and half out of the pool, wrestling a replacement tile into the place. Maxian paused and bent down at the edge of the tile border. The gardener, grunting, heaved at his pry bar and the tile, backed with concrete, at last shifted with a grinding sound and slid into place. The workman leaned heavily on the length of iron and looked up, his eyes shrouded by bushy white eyebrows.

“Friend, if you have a moment, I’ve a question,” the Prince said. “I’m seeking the offices of the Duchess de’Orelio.”

The gardener frowned and spit into the pool. “You’re far off course,” he said. “The Duchess, though a generous woman to the less fortunate, is of a questionable position in the offices. Though she visits often, she has tio ‘place’ here. If you wish to speak to her, you’ll have to go to her townhouse over by the Aquae Virgo. Do you know the way?”

Maxian stood up, brushing leaves and dirt from his knees. “I do,” he said. “Many thanks.”

Back in the maze of hallways, Maxian made his way south, finally reaching the long curving arcade that ran along the southern face of the Palatine. Here the way was thronged with officials, scribes, and slaves. Here too was the office of the chamberlain of the palace, and Maxian strode in with a confident air. Of all of the palace officials, Temrys knew him by sight. Apparently, so did the chamberlain’s secretary, who paused in his instruction to two other scribes at the appearance of the Prince.

“Milord! Do you need to see the chamberlain?” The secretary’s face was a study in surprise and not a little apprehension. Inwardly, this evidence of power cheered Maxian.

“If he is not overly busy,” Maxian said, clasping his hands behind his back.

“One moment, sir.” The secretary bustled away, back into the maze of cubicles and tiny rooms that were the warren and domain of Temrys and his minions. The two junior scribes, at last making out the profile of the visitor and the cut of his garb, sidled away and disappeared. Maxian smiled after them. A moment later the secretary reappeared and bowed to the Prince, indicating the way into the. rear rooms.

Temrys’ private office was only twice the size of that of his subordinates, though he had it to himself rather than sharing as they did. The chamberlain rose as the secretary showed Maxian into the low-ceilinged room. Of middling height and lean in body, the Greek was most notable for his pockmarked face and general air of sullen resignation. Today, Maxian noted, he was dressed in a dark-gray and charcoal-black tunic with a muddy brown belt and boots. Coupled with thinning gray hair and narrow lips, he did not make a dashing figure.

“Lord Prince,” the chamberlain muttered, gesturing to a low backless chair that sat at the side of his desk. Temrys sat, hunching in his own curule chair, his face blank.

Maxian removed a pile of scrolls and placed them on the floor. He too sat, smiling genially at the older man. “Chamberlain Temrys. My esteemed eldest brother has directed me to assist my older brother in the governance of the state during the coming absence of the Emperor. I find that I do not have the facilities, that is-an office and a secretary-to undertake these tasks. So I come to you, the most knowl edgeable and experienced of the civil service to provide these things to me.“

Temry’s frown deepened for a moment, then, unaccountably, lightened. He straightened up a little in his chair, cocking his head at the Prince. “An office? Space can certainly be provided to you. I am puzzled, however, that your brother, the Caesar Aurelian, will not be using the Augus-torum and you, in turn, his own offices. They come well equipped, I assure you, with scribes, secretaries, slaves, messengers, all manner of staff.”

“I know! I need something more… private. Something out of the way, where things are quieter and more at ease.”

Temrys almost smiled at that, but the mask of his face did not slip. “Of course, my lord, it will be done at once. I know the perfect place. It will take some days to prepare. Shall I send a messenger to you when it is ready?”

Maxian stood, smiling again, and bowed very slightly to the chamberlain.

“That would be perfect,” he said. “Thank you.”

Walking out, with the now-unctuous Chamberlain at his elbow, Maxian noted the sidelong glances of the secretaries and scribes in the warren of rooms. How can anyone work in such a place, he wondered to himself, with every eye watching you at all times?

He stopped at the door, thanking Temrys, and then strode off down the hallway. His lips quirked in amusement. / will never use those offices, he thought, but it will divert attention for a little while.

Cool water closed with a sharp splash over Maxian’s head as he dove into the great pool that graced the open-air no-tatio. Dolphinlike he darted through the water, turning over and seeing, for a moment, the wavering light of the sun far above, through the water. The cunningly tiled floor of the pool flashed past as well, all porpoises and mermaids in blue and green and pale yellow. A moment later his head broke the surface at the far end of the pool. He climbed out, exhilarated. Around him, dozens of other swimmers splashed in the cool blue waters or sat talking on the benches under the arches. He stood, dripping, on the mosaic floor and pondered whether to return to the pool and swim laps or to seek a masseuse for a scrape and a rubdown.

“Sir?” One of the balanei had come up. Maxian nodded in greeting at the boy, seeing that he was dressed in the attire of the bath attendants.

“A distinguished gentleman begs a moment of your time, if you will join him in the steam room?”

“All right,” Maxian said, a little wary. “Can you summon a tractator to join us as well? My shoulders are still sore and tight.”

The slave bowed and hurried off. Maxian made his way to the caldarium across the great vaulting central chamber of the bath building. Above him doves and wrens flitted in the vast open space under the roof of the cella soliaris. He passed through an atrium occupied by arguing Greeks and their attendants. Within, the air was thick with moisture and heat. He paused for a moment in the dimness. The huge room, barrel shaped, soared above him. The air was filled with billowing steam, making it almost impossible to see.

“Over here,” came a voice from the back of the room. Maxian descended the short flight of steps onto the raised wooden floor. Steam hissed up from the floor below as water flowed in from pipes under the platform. The heat felt delightful after the chilly pool. Sitting on a bare step at the back of the chamber was a familiar figure, even wreathed in steam. A conspicuous space had been cleared around the old man, though the caldarium was so large that there was no lack of benches.

“Ave, Gregorius Auricus,” Maxian said, settling into the warm seat.

“Ave, Maxian Caesar,” the magnate replied, dipping his head in greeting. Maxian frowned at the honorific. Gregorius, his eyes bright even in the gloom, nodded. “It is one of your titles now, you will have to get used to it.”?

“I suppose. It does not seem to be right, somehow, that I should bear the titles of my brothers. Not fitting, in a way.”

Gregorious sighed, rubbing his thin arms. “Your brothers have taken a great deal of trouble, over the past years, to follow the wishes of your mother. They have carried the burden of the Empire themselves, letting you follow the path that your gifts led you on.” He reached out and took Maxian’s hand, turning it over, running his callused old fingers over the Prince’s young, smooth palm and thumb.

“If Lucian Pius Augustus had not been stricken by the plague, you would be the most revered member of your family today. And you would still be in Narbonensis, doubtless spending your days walking from mountain village to mountain village, tending to the sick and the poor, as your mother hoped.”

Maxian smiled at the pastoral image. “I would like that,” he said.

Gregorius shook his head, saying “You will never see it. You have a different purpose now. I caught sight of you the other day, when your esteemed brother and I were arguing in the Offices. I heard afterward that the Senate had acclaimed you Caesar and Consul, to rule at your brother Aurelian’s side while the Augustus Martius Galen is away, in the East.”

“It is so,” Maxian said slowly, wondering what favor or proposition the old man would put to him now.

Gregorius smiled slowly at him. “You must learn to guard your expression more closely, young Caesar, I can all but read the thought in your look. No, I do not want anything from you today. What I want is but a moment of your time. I have known you, your brothers, your family, for many years. I do not know if you remember, but when you were young and your father came to the city, he would ofttime stay with me in my family’s house on the Coelian Hill. On at least one occasion, he brought you to see the Circus, I believe. The ostriches frightened you. Your father was a friend of mine, and you know well that I supported your brother in his campaign against the pretenders.

“I say this to you not to gain your favor but to show you that I have always supported your family, your father, your brother. Martius Galen is a good Emperor. Perhaps the best we have been blessed with in the West since the Divine Constantine. He is cautious in his policies, frugal with the assets of the state. He is just and, impartial in his judgments. He appoints with an eye to merit and not to wealth or personal gain. He does not confiscate the estates or possessions of the Senators. In all, a most able and practical ruler. The temples are well blessed with his presence.”

Gregorius paused, sighing deeply. His old face was lined with concern. “Yet at the same time, he is a man, and men are often blind in some manner. I know that you must have remarked yourself from time to time on the precariousness of the Western Empire. Our population is scant following the plague. Our own people are weak, given to idleness and sloth. Have you not noticed, in your work, how frail our people seem, in comparison to the German, the Briton, or the Goth?” Gregorius waved at the mist and the other men taking their ease in the baths.

“In a crowd of a hundred, you can tell each man’s nation by his appearance-the Roman is short, with poor skin and an unhealthy pallor. The Briton is tall and fair, abrim with health. The German the same, the Goth another, save gifted with great strength. I have many clients, as you doubtless know. They come to me to discuss their troubles and their successes. First among the lament of the Roman is the death of his children, his heirs, from disease, or weakness or accident. The Goth deplores the state of his finances but rejoices in the strong children born to him. It is a terrible shame, but I have had to repopulate whole farms, or fabri-cae here in the city, with freedmen of Briton or German blood.”

Maxian stared at him in undisguised horror. The blood lines of the rural patricians were as jealously guarded as the Vestals.

“Yes, I see the look on your face-yet there was no other way! The blood of my cousins had grown too weak to sustain itself. It pained my senatorial heart to adopt these people from beyond Italy as my sons and daughters. I am old and I have seen a great deal in my life, but this frightens me the most, the deterioration of the Roman people. The state cannot hope to stand when there are none to support it. New blood must be inducted to the body of the people, to sustain the Empire. Is this not so in the East?

“There are many different nations given citizenship there. Here the boon of citizenship is so carefully guarded… What I have asked of your brother is nothing less than accepting the Gothic people, and the friendly Germans, and the loyal Britons, into our state as equals. I have spoken to many, many of their dukes, headmen and chiefs. They are a loyal people-have they not fought beside Rome for the last three centuries? They should be rewarded for that, at least.”

Maxian pursed his lips, considering the issue. Gregorius had a valid point. At last he said, “Each man may seek his own way into the service of the Empire and thence to citizenship. Such has it been for a long time.”

Gregorius nodded in acknowledgment but replied, “So it has always been, but that is no longer«a suitable response. What of the carpenter who labors for the statd? What of the matron whose husband has died, yet she struggles on, raising ten children by herself? The children in turn may serve the state and become citizens, yet she cannot. Is there justice in this? When the Romans were a strong people, it made good sense; now it does not. I know that I cannot convince your brother of this, and rest easy, I shall give him the ships, the money, the supplies that he needs. I agree that the Eastern Empire must be aided. There will always be disagreements, even among friends.”

The tractator arrived and Maxian signaled to him. Turn ing to the Senator, he said: “Thank you for your words, and thank you for supporting our family in the past. It means a great deal to me, as it did to my father. So that you understand clearly, I do not always agree with my brother, but I will always support him. Good day, sir.”

Gregorious nodded, with a little smile on his face, resting his hands on the head of his walking stick.

“A good day to you as well, young Maxian. Oh, one thing before you go. A client of mine, a Briton named Mor-dius Arthyrrson, came to see me yesterday. He said that he was returning home arid giving up his share of his family’s business here in the city. This was troubling to me, though I wished him well. He was a fellow of good promise. He also said that he had talked to you about what had happened. I did not press him about it, for other of my men had told me the tale already. I think that you should know that this is not the first time that this sort of thing has happened.”

Maxian stared at the old man for a moment, then nodded and went out.