Shadow of Ararat

THE VIA APPIA, SOUTH OF ROME H

The moon rode lower now, a great orange melon in the sky. Clouds obscured part of its face and cast the road into a deep gloom. Maxian nudged his horse forward to keep up with the lead rider. The clip-clop of the horses hooves echoed from the metaled surface of the Via Appia, but the sound was swallowed by the hedgerows that bounded the road on either side. Beyond the hedges, unkempt fields were scattered with small buildings and raised mounds. Almost three miles behind the Prince, the guard-towers of the city wall at the Porta Appia could barely be made out, marked by gleaming lanterns and torches. The guide halted and raised his lantern. A black opening yawned on the right side of the road, marked by two pale white columns. The lantern lowered as the man leaned down from his horse to make out the inscription on the pillar.

An owl hooted softly in a nearby tree, then there was a rustle of leaves as it took flight.

Maxian, his face shrouded by a deep hood, fingered a gold coin. It was a double aureus, with the face of his brother on one side. Freshly minted, almost sharp-edged. He sighed and put the coin back in the pocket of his tunic. At his side, the old Nabatean laughed softly.

“Soon, soon, my lord, you shall have the lever that you need:”

Maxian had rapped sharply on the overhung door with the head of his walking stick. Late afternoon was sliding quickly to night, and the narrow streets of the trans-Tiburtina were growing dim. People were walking quicker, trying to get home before full dark. The sky, what of it could be seen, was a deep purple streaked with rose-colored clouds. Maxian rapped again, faintly hearing movement within the residence. The door was unremarkable, marked only with a small sigil of two raised horns around a trap-ezoid. He had come here, to a stinking alley in the “foreign” district, on the recommendation of the last wizard he had visited. Though he had begun his search for assistance with a grim determination, now he was bone tired and ready to give up and go home.

The sorcerers and wizards he had approached, particularly those on the Street of the Magi in the Forum Boarium, had either refused to speak to him outright or had sent him away when he began to explain that the city was infused with some terrible power that could kill men or corrode metal. The last, a Jewish numerologist, had listened patiently to him for over an hour, then spread his hands and said that he had no experience in such matters. But, he continued, there was a man known to him, a Nabatean, who might be able to help.?

And so Maxian was here, at this darkened oak door, at nightfall.

The sound of a sliding bolt rasped through the thickness of the door, then another noise, like a pin being drawn out of a metal socket. The door creaked open a crack, and a startling blue eye gleamed out at the Prince.

“Good evening,” Maxian said in a very polite voice. “I seek the wise man, Abdmachus, who lives here. I am Maxian Atreus. I seek assistance in a delicate matter.”

The eye disappeared and the door opened the rest of the way, revealing a short, thin man with a wisp of white hair showing from underneath a small felt cap. The fellow was dressed in a trailing robe of narrow blue-and-white stripes, bound at his waist with a dark-green sash.

“Come in, young master. I am Abdmachus. Welcome to my house.”

The house of the Nabatean was long and narrow in its plan, wedged between two larger buildings. The tiny front room was bare with a tile floor. A second, heavy door led from the atrium into the rest of the house. It had no lock, but Maxian felt a tugging sensation as he passed through it. Beyond that portal there was a sitting room with a small fire in a brazier. Unlike the homes of the poor, the smoke was well behaved, swirling into a corner of the ceiling and vanishing up a partially exposed pipe of fired clay. The floor was thick with heavy rugs, all in muted browns and reds. Two low couches faced each other, making a triangle with the brazier at the head of each.

Abdmachus gestured Maxian to the rightmost couch and settled himself on the other. Maxian chose to sit rather than recline. The olive-skinned foreigner continued to regard him steadily.

Maxian coughed, clearing his throat. “Sir, I am in need of assistance. I understand from a fellow I met yesterday that you may be able to help me. Are you familiar with the, well, the unseen?”

Abdmachus cocked his head to one side, regarding the young man.

“If you mean,” said the old man, “am I of the magi, then yes, I am experienced with the unseen world. I am confused, however, by your coming to me. You show unmis takable signs of being possessed of power as well, of the ability to see the unseen. I can feel the pattern of defense you have raised around you even now. Why have you come to me?“

Maxian raised an eyebrow; the elderly man was no fool, and well skilled to boot.

“I am not a sorcerer,” he said in reply, “I am a priest of Asklepios. I have found something, however, that is far too strong for me to affect with.my own powers. I need the advice, perhaps the help, of someone more… experienced.”

Abdmachus smiled, showing small white teeth.

“Ah, experience I have,” the old man said, “I no longer have the strength ‘of youth such as you possess. But I do know a trick or two that gets me by in my dotage. I am no longer as strong as I once was-but as the Greek said, with a long-enough lever one might move the world! Now, this thing that you have found-it is a dangerous thing, and something that you have come across in your work? But if you are a priest of the healing art and you have not been able to defeat it, it must not be a disease, but something… something that causes disease?”

Maxian spread his hands, his face even grimmer than before. “Master Abdmachus, I beg you to hear me out fully before you make up your mind. I have gone to other wizards before you, and all of them, save Simon the Numer-ologist, have turned me away or told me that I am insane. There is an affliction upon this city that only I, as best I can tell, can see. A corruption and a bane that brings disease, death, insanity upon the inhabitants. Now that I have perceived it, I see it everywhere-in the broken stones of the street, upon the faces of the people in the markets, all around us. I know this sounds absurd, but it is as if a terrible curse has been laid upon the city of Rome.”

The old man, much to Maxian’s surprise, laughed softly, his eyes twinkling. Maxian’s face clouded with anger; he had expected better of the Nabatean. He stood up.

The old man stopped laughing and held up a wizened hand.

“Wait, wait, my impetuous guest. I am not laughing at your theory. I am laughing at myself, for wasting so much time of my own. I believe you. I think that I know what you speak of. Sit, sit.”

Maxian returned to the couch, not sure that he believed the old man.

“What you see,” the old man said, “is like a tide of dark power, one that pervades the city, all unseen, almost unnoticed unless one knows what to look for. It is subtle and powerful, and it is so prevalent that to one raised here, or a long-term resident, it would seem… natural. Yes?”

Maxian nodded. “Yes, but it is inimical, deadly. Do you know what curse has spawned it?”

Abdmachus laughed again and shook his head slowly.

“It is no curse, young master, it is a blessing, a boon to Rome.”

“How can you say this?” Maxian sputtered. “It has caused the deaths of eleven people that I know of! I have seen its ability to destroy, to erode and deform even metal, with my own eyes!”

Abdmachus shook his head again and stood up, going to the opposite wall of the room. There he passed his hand over a section of the brickwork, and it folded silently out to reveal a hidden space. From this space, he took a leather bag of coins. He returned to the couch and carefully removed a single golden coin from the bag.

“Look, young sir. This is a coin I accepted in payment yesterday from a noble of the city, a patrician, an officer of the state. Only now have I touched it, and only long enough to show it to you and to place it here.”

The old man placed the coin on the small table that lay between the two couches. The pale gold gleamed in the firelight.

‘The last man to touch it was this officer, who came to me seeking a favor. He is still close to the coin and it is still close to him. It is freshly minted, so almost entirely clean of the impressions of others, only his shape is upon it. Do you understand my meaning?“

Maxian nodded. The school in Pergamum had touched upon the theories of contagion and similarity, though more in the light of mending broken limbs and curing fevers than working power upon a hale person.

Abdmachus put the bag of coins behind his couch and leaned over the single coin. He looked closely at Maxian. “Now, I know that maintaining the pattern of defense is draining, so I shall make a new one, one that encompasses both of us. When I am done, please lower your own so that they do not interfere with one another.”

Maxian nodded and almost without thought his sight expanded to fill the room. Now he could see the trembling aura around the old man, a stolid, burnished bronze color. The rest of the room was a tracery of fine blue lines of fire. His own shield glittered in the air between him and the Nabatean. The old man too was still and quiet. For a moment nothing happened, and then the blue fire began to wick up into the air. The brazier sputtered and went out, though Maxian could still see clearly in the darkness. The walls, floor and ceiling gave up their energy to a coalescing sphere that spun out, slowly, from the figure of the old man to pass over Maxian and then halt just beyond him. The blue fires slid, glutinously, to the sphere and at last it was complete.

The Prince relaxed for the first time in days, and his own shield flared and went out. He slumped backward on the couch, the low-level headache that he had been fighting while the shield was up passing away.

“Better, is it not?” the old man whispered, his eyes still closed in concentration. “Now I will show you the blessing of Rome… but be prepared to raise your pattern again at an instant. This will be quite dangerous.”

The Nabatean reached out a thin hand and plucked at the air above the gold coin. Bidden by his hand, it rose up to spin slowly in the air between the old man and the prince.

“By the shape of the man who held this coin, I can influence him for good or ill. I can harm him, so…”

The old man twisted his hand in the air, and a virulent crimson tendril sparked in the air in front of him. Maxian sat up straighter, his own hand raised in an involuntary ward. The tendril of fire crept through the air and twisted around the coin. The air around the coin flexed, becoming cloudy, and for a moment the image of a stern, patrician, face appeared around the coin.

“Easy, easy, young master, I will not actually harm the officer, but look, beyond the pattern of defense…”

Maxian turned his attention outward and his face froze at the sight beyond the pale-blue barrier. Acidic darkness surged against the blue sphere, filled with deep-purple fire and an eye-dizzying eddy of contorting shapes. The power that lay throughout the city, in the stones, in the air, in the war, englobed them and hissed and spit against the blue wall.

“You see the blessing? As I raise evil intent against a steward of the state, against an officer who is a very pillar of the Empire, the blessing moves against me. The pressure upon the pattern is incredible… even here, in a place where I have lived for many years and invested much power, it is almost enough to overcome me. I withdraw the threat.”

The crimson tendril faded away and the coin spun gently down to rattle on the tabletop. Abdmachus opened his eyes, breathing heavily. Beyond the flickering blue wall, the darkness surged and spun about, beating against the invisible wall. Then slowly, inch by inch, it receded and flowed back into the walls, into the air, into the earth. Maxian let out a long slow breath when the last vestiges were gone.

The old man also slumped against the back of the divan in exhaustion, but his eyes were still bright. “It has always puzzled me that no Roman mage has written of this effect, or that the Empire has not trumpeted its protection to the four corners of the world. But seeing you here, now, with an equally puzzled expression tells me that no Roman has ever come athwart it and lived to tell of it to another.“

Maxian pursed his lips and slowly nodded.

“Any who provoked the power,” the Prince said, “would be destroyed were they not ready. No one would know…” He looked up sharply at the old man. “Then how did I survive discovering it? How did you survive discovering it?”

Abdmachus ignored the question for a moment, wearily levering himself up from the couch and disappearing behind a curtain at the back of the room. He returned in a few moments with jugs of wine and water and two broad-mouthed cups. He poured the heavy wine and then added a liberal dose of water to each. After he had drained the cup, he spoke.

“When I first came to the city, I was… so to say… not officially welcomed. I sought no license to practice my craft and I did not make myself well known. I took these rooms and set about assiduously minding my own business. I was younger, but still careful, so when first I essayed a commission such as I just demonstrated, I took many extra precautions.”

He paused and poured another cup of wine, motioning to Maxian to drink himself. The Prince sniffed the wine and put forth a small fraction of his ability to see if it was safe. It was, and so he drank.

“It is common knowledge among the practitioners of the craft, at least it is outside of Rome, that the Empire is all but inviolate to sorcery and magic of all kinds. The widespread presumption is that the Imperial thaumaturges are so powerful that they detect or repel all attempts to do ill to the state. But my time here in the city has told me otherwise. Your sorcerers are strong, true, but they could not do this.

“Has it never struck you, or any other Roman, that your enemies have not slain your Kings or Emperors by magic?

That the priest-kings of Persia or the witch-men of the Germans have not shriven your armies to ruin in the field of battle? These enemies can summon horrific powers and, I assure you, have done so in the past. But their efforts were for nothing. Such an attempt is a sure path to ruin for the practitioner. And this, what we have seen this evening, is why.“

Maxian put the empty cup down. By parts he was greatly relieved that he had found someone who not only believed him but had considered the same problem himself. The perspective that he brought, however, was disquieting. He rubbed his face again, trying to urge his mind to motion. Abdmachus saw this and smiled again, though the young man did not see.

“Young master, you are gravely tired. There is nothing that can be done tonight about this. If you would care to, you may sleep here tonight. Here, at least, you can sleep free of troubling dreams and the effects of the power.”

Great cypress trees folded over the top of the lane as they turned off the Via Appia. A suffocating darkness surrounded Maxian, and he shivered though the summer night was still warm. He could smell the richness of the fields on either side of the hedgerows. The lane descended and then turned to the left. The lantern ahead jogged to the right and the horsemen entered a small clearing.

The moon had passed through the clouds and now loomed large over a small temple on the far side of the clearing. Silver light lay upon the stones at the entrance to the tomb. Abdmachus swung spryly down from his horse, as did the two attendants who had led them to this place. Maxian looked around, surprised that the burial place of the Julians would seem so insignificant. Then he too dismounted. The Nabatean stepped to his side, carrying one of the two hooded lanterns they had brought.

“Light your lantern,” he said, his voice low.

Maxian nodded and lifted the heavy bundle from the sad dlebag on his horse. Praetor whickered at him and nudged his shoulder with a great soft nose. Maxian smiled in the darkness and dug in his pocket for a carrot. The stallion accepted the bribe with a gracious air and allowed himself to be tied off to a tree near the entrance to the temple. This done, Maxian unwrapped the lantern and sparked the wick to light with a snap of his fingers. Abdmachus had lighted his as well. The Nabatean turned to the two attendants and bade them sit in the cover of the trees and watch the entrance of the tomb and the lane.

“You’ve the other tools?” Abdmachus asked, turning back to the Prince.

Maxian hefted the leather bag he had slung over his shoulder; there was a clank of metal from within. In the moonlight, the Nabatean’s head bobbed in acknowledgment.

“Then let us go,” he said, his voice still low.

The door to the temple was a heavy iron grate, ornamented with a heavy cruciform lock. The bars were closely set and very thick. Abdmachus knelt next to the lock and carefully felt it with his fingertips. After a moment he began chanting in a very low voice, almost inaudible, yet Maxian could feel the shape of the words clearly. The air around the two men changed, becoming oppressively heavy, then there was the sound of rusted gears and rods scraping and the lock clicked open. Abdmachus stood and breathed out a shuddering breath. He wiped his forehead, then pushed the door gingerly open.

“It’s been too long since I practiced that,” the Nabatean said, his voice wry.

Within, a long narrow room led to the back of the building. The walls on either side were lined with deep-set niches, each holding a portrait bust. At the end of the room was a curved wall and a small altar. Behind the altar stood the mossy statue of a woman. Maxian stepped close and could barely make out the visage of a grim-faced goddess.

Minerva, he thought to himself. Behind him, the Nabatean was rooting about in the heavy bag.

“Here,” Abdmachus whispered, “there should be a circular hole in the side of the altar.” He handed Maxian an iron rod, sixteen inches in length, with a handle at the end. The Prince knelt by the side of the marble block that comprised the altar. He felt along the side in the gloom; the lanterns were almost completely shuttered to prevent their lights from betraying them to passersby. His fingers found a smooth-sided hole, and he guided the bolt into the receptacle. On the other side of the block, Abdmachus had done the same. The Nabatean peeked up over the stone.

“Are you ready?” he asked. Maxian nodded. “Then on the count of two.”

“One, then two… heave!”

The Prince grunted as he put his shoulder into dragging at the handle. Between the two of them, they managed to dislodge the block, revealing a dark opening under the altar and a draft of icy air. A smell of dampness and decay rose from the pit as well. Abdmachus shifted the hood on his lantern and peered down into the darkness.

“Excellent!” he breathed. “There is still a ladder.”

Maxian laughed softly.

“You’ve done this before, I see,” he said to his companion.

Abdmachus’ white teeth flashed in the light of the lantern. “My family was poor, and the hills around my home city of Petra are riddled with the tombs of the nobility… sometimes an apprentice magi must make do with what he has. It has been some time, but one does remember some things.”

The Nabatean tied off a line on the handle of his lantern, then leaned over the pit and lowered it slowly down. When it rested at the bottom of the pit, he swung his legs over the lip and onto the first rung of the ladder. Maxian watched while the old man’s head disappeared into the shaft, then took one last look around. The empty eyes of the ancient heads gazed curiously back at him from the funereal niches. He shook his head in amazement at the desecration he and the old man were about to perform. No matter, he thought, the dead care nothing. I need a tool, and many who would die will live because of what we do.

Maxian had fallen asleep within moments of his head hitting the thin pillow. The little storeroom behind the sitting room was crowded with bags of herbs and odd-smelling boxes, but the Prince had paid no notice. He was snoring within a minute, the thin blanket pulled tight around him.

Abdmachus stood in the doorway for a little while, his hands warmed by the “copper lantern he held before him. The old Nabatean considered the young man carefully. The Roman was exhausted and emotionally drained.

Why, after all these years, should such an opportunity fall to me? he wondered. He had come to enjoy living in the barbarian city, even if his dress was mocked by the laborers who frequented the taverna on the corner. His brow furrowed in concentration and he raised a single finger, quickly tracing the glyph for friend in the air before him.

On the cot, Maxian moaned a little and turned over, hiding his face.

The tunnels of the catacombs were narrow and low-roofed. Abdmachus led the way with his lantern, now unhooded, while Maxian carried the bag of tools and the other light. The air was fresh and a soft breeze blew into his face as they clambered through chambers strewn with bones, skulls, and decaying burial goods. After fifteen minutes the Prince realized that they were tending downward. Tunnel after tunnel branched off to the side of their path. A huge warren of narrow holes, pits, and cavities filled with skulls had been dug under the tomb of the Julians. A fine drift of finger bones crunched under his boots as they walked.

“Master Abdmachus, how big is this place?” Maxian asked at last as they descended another ladder.

The Nabatean laughed and stopped at the bottom of a corroded wooden ladder, steadying it as the Roman came down. “This valley has been the burial place of Rome for over a thousand years, my young friend. All of those millions of bodies have to go somewhere. Worry not, we are almost there.”

At the bottom of another ladder, unaccountably, the tunnel veered sharply left and climbed steeply. Maxian scrambled in the loose dirt to climb up, then caught hold of a firm edge of stone. He pulled himself up and found that it was a marble step. A staircase now ascended, and the light of Abdmachus’ lantern“ was far ahead. It was easier going than the loose dirt but still difficult as the steps were tilted sharply to the left. After a moment they joined a wall with a smooth marble facing. Maxian paused, staring in amazement at the bas-relief carved into the marble. A Roman family sat around a table, raising wine-cups in the blessing of the fall harvest. The face of Bacchus was graven above them, laughing from a wreath of holly leaves.

“Come, my friend.” Abdmachus’ voice echoed from ahead. “This is the place.”

At the top of the tilted staircase, Maxian crawled out into a large chamber. High above, a rough earth ceiling showed the twisted roots of trees. The floor was uneven and loosely packed with gravel and dirt. By the light of the two lanterns, three tomb-houses jutted from the floor and walls. Dirt spilled around their marble doorways, but they were unmistakably of the vintage of the temple they had entered through. The Prince stared around in amazement.

“How…?” His voice faltered.

Abdmachus looked up from where he was squatting by the door of the middle tomb-house. “As I said, young master, the people of the city have been burying their dead here for over a thousand years-once the valley that we rode through was not flat and level, but a long, low, swale running south from the city. Hundreds of tombs like these dotted that valley. There was, if Cassius Dio is to be believed, a Temple of the Magna Mater, not too far from where we entered. Then, when during the glory of the Republic it was decided that the Via Appia should be built, the Claudians filled in the valley, burying all of those tombs, temples, and monuments. Like these…“

Abdmachus turned back to the door of the tomb-house. His long fingers traced an inscription cut into the door, brushing dirt away. He grunted noncommittally as Maxian leaned close with the other lantern. The inscription was shallow and hard to read.

“I think that this is the one. The patterns coalesce around it in the right way.”

The Nabatean looked up at the Prince, his eyes shadowed in the lantern-light. “The door is sealed in such a way that I cannot open it. You must, and it will be difficult.. The body within was lain here after a long journey, and the men who buried it feared that it would not rest well-not unexpected from a man foully murdered by his supposed friends. A working was laid on this tomb, particularly upon this door, and it has only grown stronger with age, not weaker. It will take plain force to overcome it in the time available to us.”

Maxian nodded and laid the bag of tools down at his side. Abdmachus moved aside, and the Prince knelt in the loamy dirt before the door with his hands on his thighs. He calmed himself and then silently chanted the Opening of Hermes. After taking a circlet of twisted yew branches from the bag, Abdmachus settled the crown on the Prince’s head. The darkness of the cavern seemed to close in on Maxian for a moment, but then his sight blossomed.

The door to the tomb-house was a deep viridian abyss. Trickling currents of fire crawled across the marble facing and descended into unguessable depths. For a moment he quailed before the strength of the door ward. Then he centered again and reached out to draw power from the crusty loam of the floor and the tree roots high above.

There was an instant of emptiness as the Prince drew on the fabric of the unseen world around him, then a stunning rush of power burst to him from the walls, the floor, from the litter of bones that were scattered about the cavern. Blinding white-hot energy coursed through the corridors of his mind.

In the dark cavern, Abdmachus had closed down all of his othersight and sat, cross-legged, at the side of the young man, his fingertips laid lightly on the pulse at Maxian’s neck. The body of the Prince stiffened suddenly, and Abdmachus struggled to keep from laughing out loud in triumph. The boy twitched and his body convulsed, but his pulse-though it began to race-stayed strong. The Na-batean began a low chant, placing his fingertips lightly on either temple of the Prince. Around him, the detritus of bones trembled in the ground and then each femur, skull, and scapula began to twist itself free of the earth. Finger bones scrabbled in the dirt, then began to rise into the air. Clavicles rose and joined the slowly spinning array of bones. The door of the tomb-house began to flicker with a tremendously deep blue, almost black.

One of the skulls, already missing a quarter of the forehead, suddenly disintegrated in midair with a loud crack as the power Maxian was drawing from the remains of the dead took its physical integrity. There was a rapid popping sound as the smaller fibula and ribs pulverized. The other remains began to erode as an invisible wind lashed across them, spinning them faster and faster around the old man and the Prince.

Maxian felt and saw and heard none of this. His attention was utterly filled by the snarling whirlwind of power that had rushed into him like a mountain torrent. Something in the back of his mind gibbered in fear at the sleeting fire that channeled through his body. But his intellect was soaring on a godlike wave of ability. He directed his will against the tomb door and the ancient ward rang like a porcelain plate as the vast power smote it. The viridian abyss flexed under the assault and then deformed, suddenly becoming an almost silver mirror, throwing back a contorted reflection of the Prince. Then it broke apart in a shower of tiny green flecks. Maxian’s intellect stormed into the tomb-house, greedily swallowing up the long-dormant energies of those buried within. At the center of the tomb, his rush slowed and then.stopped. The body of a man lay on a simple bier. The body, long decayed and shriveled to a bundle of dry sticks, was dressed in the tattered remains of a formal white toga. Once leather-bound sandals had attired his feet, but they were only scraps now.

Maxian struggled to stop the avalanche of power that his initial attempts to draw on the rocks and stones had precipitated. At the edge of his perception, he could sense that the roof of the tomb, the walls, even the floor was beginning to erode. If he did not halt the effect, even the body before him, the lever that Abdmachus had promised him, would be destroyed. Grimly he tried to recenter his thought, and after a seemingly endless period of raging against the dissolution that was tearing at him, he succeeded. Though he could no longer feel it, his body was soaked with sweat and had collapsed in Abdmachus’ arms.

Maxian’s spirit hovered over the ancient body. His shape body was filled with what seemed to be an almost infinite, power, burning white-hot at the core of his form. Mentally he flexed his healing talent and found that it had subtly changed. Before it was a delicate skein, capable of settling with utmost precision into damaged flesh or a wounded organ. Now it throbbed with a visceral power, capable of reforming shattered bones from chips, of reconstructing whole bodies. He wondered with delight at the vision of transformation it showed him. His thought turned back to the body. This will work! he exulted.

He placed his hands, shimmering in and out of mortal sight, on the withered body. He muttered a low chant and dust puffed from the floor into a great cloud that filled the chamber. He spoke again, strange inhuman words, and the dust congealed into the visage of a dull red heart suspended over the body of the dead man. Stiff fingers sank into the chest of the corpse, peeling back dry leathery skin to expose the corroded organs. The dust-heart began to beat, stiffly at first, but then filling with blood. The organ steamed and smoked. Maxian seized it from the air and crushed it in his invisible fingers. Hot blood, almost boiling, spurted between his fingers and flooded into the exposed cavity.

Maxian steeled himself, bringing the words of an old spell to his mind. Abdmachus had shown him the crumbling parchment and he had labored to make out the words, crudely scribed in the tongue of ancient Thessaly, but now they were clear and bright in his mind. Ghostly lips moved, saying:

“O Furies and horrors of hell! Dread Chaos, eager to destroy countless worlds! O Ruler of the underworld, who suffers for endless centuries because the death of the gods above cannot come too soon! Persephone, who hates and reviles her own mother in heaven! Hecate, goodness of the dark moon, who grants me silent speech with the dead! O Custodian, who feeds the snake-crowned Dog with human flesh! Ancient ferryman who labors to bring souls back to me on his ship of bones! Heed my prayer!”

The blood, steaming and hot, settled in the inner cavity of the body, soaking into long-closed arteries and veins. A sucking sound filled the dank chamber and the corpse trembled, filling with the burning liquid.

“If these lips of mine that call you have been tainted enough with hideous crimes, if I have always eaten human flesh before chanting such spells, if I have cut open the breasts of new mothers and washed them out with warm brains, if any baby could have lived, once his head and organs were placed in your temple-grant me my desire!”

The corpse, its lips flushed a pale rose by the blood curdling within it, did not move.

“Tisiphone and Megara! Are you listening to me? Will you not use your savage whips, studded with hooks and teeth, to drive this ancient wretch from the wasteland of Erebus? Shall I conjure your true names to call you forth into dreadful light? Shall I follow you over graves and burial grounds, driving you away from every tomb and urn? You, Hecate, shall I drag you before the gods in heaven and show them your true aspect, pale and morbid, always hidden behind artifice? Shall I tell the gods, O Persephone, what kind of dear food it is that keeps you under the earth, what bond of love unites you with the gloomy king of night, what defilement you welcomed that makes your mother deny you?“

The stones of the tomb echoed with the violence in Maxian’s shout. The air crawled with strange lights and shuddering darkness. Still, the body on the slab did not move, though now wisps of steam and smoke issued forth from its eyes and mouth.

“Upon you, you lowest rulers of the world, shall I focus the sun-breaking open your caves-and daylight shall strike you. Will you obey my will? Or must I call him who makes the earth tremble when his name is invoked, who can look upon the Gorgon unveiled, who lashes a frightened Fury with her own whip, who dwells in the depth of Tartarus that is hidden even from your view, for whom you are the ‘gods above,’ who commits perjury in the name of Styx?”

The clotted blood, thick and viscous in the open pounds of the body, suddenly boiled up again. The limbs of the corpse twitched as it circulated, reaching the extremities. Flooded with the black liquid, the tissues in the cold breast began to vibrate, new life stealing into organs long unaccustomed to it, struggling with death. Every limb began to shake, the sinews stretching, the tendons popping. Eyelids flickered open, revealing dead white orbs. Stiff lips twitched and the chest, its gaping wounds closed and puckered, heaved with breath.

Maxian was giddy with triumph, seeing life and vitality flow throughout his creation. His head began to spin and he clutched at the stone lip of the table. His ghostly fingers fell through the platform.

In the cavern, Abdmachus stared up at the ceiling with near terror. The whirlwind of bones was gone, all of the remains consumed by the young master. The roots that anchored the roof were gone as well, and a steady trickle of gravel and stones rained down onto the floor of the chamber. The tomb door was gone, dissolved into dust, and a strange wind now blew into the open tomb. For all his long years scrabbling in the earth of graveyards, ossuaries and among the remains of the dead, the Nabatean harbored a carefully concealed fear of close spaces. The earth groaned around him as abused stones shifted. He cowered over the body of the young man, his own talents extended to the utmost to hold up the pattern of protection that kept him from being consumed.

The body of the young Roman twitched in his hands, and suddenly a scraping sound came from the open door of the tomb. The Nabatean twitched around to face the opening, his mind gibbering to him of cold-eyed ghouls and the other denizens of the dead places. In the ruddy orange light of the remaining lantern, the hand that suddenly came out of the darkness and gripped the door frame was smeared with red blood. Abdmachus flinched back and scuttled away from the body of the Prince. Another hand joined the first, and then the naked body of an elderly man heaved itself out of the doorway. He was almost bald, with thinning gray hair and a strong, patrician nose. His body was well muscled yet showing age despite an active life. A welter of scars marked his chest and the side of his neck. The dead man sneered, seeing the little oriental cowering in the dirt before him.

“Get up,” the man snarled in an archaic accent. “Bring me clothing.”

Abdmachus crept across the floor to the bag of tools and began rummaging in it, one eye on the dead man. The corpse pushed away from the wall and shook its head like a dog shedding water. It raised its hands and turned them over, seeing their pale flesh. It felt its chest and traced the scars and old wounds. At last it looked down on the unconscious body of the Prince.

“This is the one who has given me life again?” the dead man rasped.

Abdmachus looked up from the tunic, boots, undershirt, and cowled robe that he had removed from the tool bag. “Yes,” he said, “he is your master now.”

The dead man snorted and dust puffed from his nose. Puzzled, he dug a bony finger into each nostril and dragged out dirt and the desiccated remains of worms.

“Pfaugh!” The dead man cursed and tried to spit. A fine cloud of white powder drifted out of his open mouth. “Have you any wine?” it asked in a querulous voice.

“No,” answered Abdmachus, handing the corpse the undershirt. “Put this on.”

The corpse dragged the cotton shirt over his head and patted it down. It looked down at the Prince lying- at its feet. “I could break his neck right now, while he sleeps. Then I would be my own master.”

Abdmachus shook his head slowly, saying “If he dies, you go back to the worms. While he lives, and wills it, you live.”

The corpse accepted the tunic with a wry smile. Its dead eyes turned to Abdmachus.

“Then he should live a long time, shouldn’t he… Persian?”

[aOMOMQHQH(M)HQHOWOMW)HOWQMQHOHQMQWQWQHQHnwOWQfl THE CISTERNS OF THEODOSIUS, CONSTANTINOPLE

The slow gurgle of water slid past under the bow of the long boat. Thyatis crouched in darkness, her head just above the lip of the hull. She could barely hear the soft sounds of men breathing at her side or the faint swish of oars in water. Like Nikos and the two Turks that were rowing, she was clad in loose-fitting black robes with soot blackening her face and hair. The darkness around them was only fitfully broken by the light of a shuttered lantern that danced over the water ahead of them.

Thyatis squinted, trying to make out the features of the men they were following. It was too dark and the light of the lantern too intermittent. She bit at her lip nervously. The chase was long and slow, wearing on her nerves. At first it had seemed it would be an easy operation-follow two of the Eastern lords who had slipped out of the Great Palace to their presumed meeting with Persian spies, then swoop down and bag the whole lot. She had not expected the quarry to descend into the depths of the half-abandoned cistern system that burrowed under the hill holding the palaces.

The sound of the oars of the other boat echoed off the high ceiling. Intermittently, the murmur of a man speaking carried to Thyatis, but she could not make out the words. Behind her own craft, two more shallow-drafted boats carried the rest of her men.

Around them, great pillars rose out of the cold waters, passing overhead like the branches of great stone trees. The air was chill, for the waters were fresh from springs in the hills beyond the city. Despite the Avar “siege” of the city, the aqueducts that fed the great public cisterns remained open and full. Nikos gently touched Thyatis’ elbow. The boat ahead had pulled up to a jetty of stone jutting from one wall of the vast chamber. The distant lantern brightened as the man carrying it slid the hood aside and a set of steps were revealed, leading up into darkness. The thump of the boat coming to the jetty slithered across the water.

Thyatis held up her hand and the two Turks gently backed their oars. The other two boats glided silently to a stop in the partial cover of one of the towering pillars. The Roman girl watched and waited as two men got out of the boat at the jetty and climbed up the stairs, leaving one man in the boat with a second lantern. After a few minutes there was a distant clang of metal and the last traces of the lantern the two men were carrying disappeared from the steps. Thyatis turned and her hand flickered in quiet-talk to Nikos. Go, she signed, quietly and take the boat.

Nikos nodded and shed his cloak and shirt. Barefoot, he eased over the side of the boat. Thyatis and the two Turks subtly adjusted their seating so that the boat did not rock and make a noise as the Illyrian slipped into the dark water. Taking a long breath, he submerged and the water closed over him with barely a ripple.

For a time, the men and woman in the three boats waited. Thyatis sat, still and quiet, watching, feeling the air around her and the breathing of her men. At last she felt the soft breath of Jochi as he breathed in and pushed his bow away from him, bringing the string taut. Ahead, in the pale light of the lantern on the jetty, she saw the dark waters part near the end of the boat and a lithe, stocky figure emerge. Nikos’ hand blurred and the boatman’s throat was suddenly crushed by iron fingers. The knife in the other hand slid through cloth and flesh with a whisper, and the body of the boatman jerked. There was no sound, but the boatman crumpled into the bottom of the boat. Nikos crouched over him, staring up the stairs.

No sound came, no shouts of alarm. Nikos climbed out of the water onto the jetty. Moving quickly, he picked up the lantern and moved it to the bottom of the steps, pointing upward. On the lead boat, Thyatis motioned her men forward. Jochi reslung his bow and took up his oar. The three boats slid forward over the dark water to the dock.

Dwyrin was curled into as small a space as he could manage, well back in the little recess on the side of the chamber of candles. He practiced being invisible, his breathing faint, his thoughts concentrated on stone, rock, and tile. In the chamber, the dead man Khiron was sitting quietly, staring at the little table and the items upon it. From time to time he would reach out a gray hand and shuffle the items about, making little tinkling sounds. So he had been since Dwyrin had awoken. The air in the chamber seemed close and heavy. The dead man had not taunted the boy, or brought him any food or water. The ache in Dwyrin’s stomach was growing, but there was nothing to be done about it. Dwyrin watched the dead man out of the corner of his eye.

Suddenly Khiron stood, brushing his long cloak back from the little chair. He strode to the heavy doorway that led outside, to the long corridor, and paused as if listening. When he turned back, his face was drawn and grim. Then suddenly it stretched into the rictus of a smile.

“An arrangement has been made for you, boy,” he said, his voice gravelly.

A tremor of fear rippled through Dwyrin and his eyes began to smart with tears. He scrunched himself smaller and pressed against the rough stone at the back of the recess. Khiron ignored this and unlocked the grate, reaching in and dragging the boy out with a long arm/ He stood the Hibernian up and dusted him off.

“I will miss you, little mouse,” the dead man said, his voice light, like flayed skin flapping in the wind.

“Come, it is time to meet your new master.”

At the top of the long flight of stairs from the cistern, Nikos and Thyatis stood on opposite sides of the iron-bound door that closed off the top of the steps. One of the men, Ulfgar, stood before the door, carefully attired in the garb of the dead boatman. Anagathios had finished daubing color on his face and carefully smearing it to make an even surface. Done, the Syrian packed his small wooden case with precise, unhurried motions and then slipped back down the stairs. Thyatis nodded at Ulfgar and then quietly unshipped her shortsword from the sheath slung over her back. With the blade free in her left hand, she drew the fine-meshed silk veil of her hood over her face with her right. On the other side of the door, Nikos shook out a length of wire that had been threaded through a medium-length copper tube with knurled ends. His head, too, was shrouded in a hood of fine black silk.

Ulfgar swallowed and then rapped sharply on the door. There was no answer. He rapped again, louder. A few grains passed and then there was a metallic scraping sound beyond the door and a small window swung open. A smoky yellow light shone through and Ulfgar raised his own lantern, illuminating his face.

“What is it?” a heavy voice snarled in Walach. Through the edge of the small window, Thyatis could see part of a small room, lit by more than one lantern. A murmur of voices echoed off the walls-two, perhaps three more men.

“Let me in,” Ulfgar said, his voice sounding tired and worn. “I’m tired of sitting in this cold pit.”

The man in the window sneered and rubbed the top of his bald head, saying: “Too bad for you. You’re supposed to stay with the boat.”

Ulfgar scratched the side of his eye with a finger of the hand holding the lantern and raised an amphora.of wine with the other.

“I’d rather not drink this alone,” he said, mouth twisted to the side in a half grin. The eyebrows of the guard inside raised. Some kind of thought pattered through his head and he came to a decision.

“Pass that through and we’ll take care of it,” he said, smiling.

Ulfgar snorted and tucked the amphora under his arm. “Alone and cold I may be, but I’m not stupid.” He turned and began making his way down the steps. The guard in the window looked after him and sighed.

“All right!” he called, laughing after the retreating back of the Saxon. “You and your wine are welcome!” There was a sliding sound of metal on metal, then the door opened a crack and the guard inside stepped partway out into the little landing at the top of the stairs.

Nikos was quick, like a snake, and the wire loop was over the guard’s head, around his throat, and being dragged savagely tight before the Walach could as much as take a breath. Nikos held the copper tube in one hand and had yanked the end of the wire, which was wrapped around a short crosspiece of old oak, with the other. Thyatis blurred past the choking guard with the crushed trachea and the blood bubbling out of his nose and was into the guardroom before the three men seated around the stone table could more than look up in mild amusement at the antics of their friend.

The nearest one was looking over his shoulder at the doorway. His eyes widened as she rushed in. Her short-sword speared through his half-open mouth, cracked its point through the back of his skull, and then whipped back out like a bloody snake. He was still sliding sideways out of his chair, his spinal cord cut neatly in half and his mouth in ruins, when she ran past the man seated on the right side of the table and rotated her torso. The blade, spattering blood and white bits of bone across the room, rotated with her and sheared through the throat of the second man, carrying him and his chair over backward to sprawl across the floor with a clatter of wood.

The third man had sprung up out of his campstool and had lunged toward the spears on a wooden rack next to the rear door of the guardroom. Thyatis, nearly turned all the way to her right by the follow-through of her swordstroke, plucked a throwing knife from the bandoleer at her belt with her free right hand, cocked and threw in one smooth, effortless motion. The heavy-tipped blade sank into his back below his right shoulder, hilt deep, even as two black-fletched arrows, fired through the doorway, punched into the side of his chest from the opposite angle. He crashed into the wooden frame holding the spears and other gear. It collapsed with a great clatter of wood and metal.

Thyatis leapt over the body at her feet and to the far door. It was bolted on her side, which gave her pause for a thousandth of a second, and then she slammed the bolt open and rolled out into the passageway beyond. It was dark, and broad, with a musty smell. She glanced each direction and saw and heard nothing. The two Turks scuttled through the doorway behind her and took up positions facing each direction. Thyatis stepped back inside the guardroom.

Anagathios and one of the Greeks were dragging the bodies of the dead guardsmen out of the room as she entered. Nikos had cleaned off his strangling loop and had slid the copper tube back into the holder slung over his back.

Anything! he signed.

No, she answered, also in finger-talk, a crossways corridor, empty and dark. We must be in the cellars of the building. Take your team and find the roof or a window. Alert the Imperials and then head for the fighting. I’ll take my team into the main part of the building and find the Persian agent.

Nikos nodded and then gathered the three Greeks, Anagathios, and Ulfgar to him. After a moment of silent discussion they faded off into the corridor outside and headed off to the left. Thyatis took stock of the room and then joined her team, comprised of the two Turks, a Yueh-Chu exile named Timur, and a hulking Goth named Fredric.

Can you smell a kitchen? she signed at Jochi.

The Turk smiled broadly, revealing a mouth filled with snaggly yellow teeth under a lank black mustache. He pointed to the right and up.

Let’s go, she gestured. The two Turks led off, their bows out and arrows on the string. Thyatis followed, with Timur behind her and Fredric at the rear. They trotted up the corridor.

This time, when Khiron dragged the foul-smelling leather bag off Dwyrin’s head, they were not in the study. Instead they stood on a raised wooden deck that overlooked a garden of pale-white flowers and dark bushes with long narrow leaves. Above them arched a roof of iron slats with mottled glass between each support. A huge yellow-green moon wavered down through the glass. A heady scent filled the air. Dwyrin knelt on a thick rug. Sitting in wicker-backed chairs were the Bygar, the whiskered man, and the dark thing in flesh. Again, Khiron stood just behind Dwyrin and to one side, the fingers of one hand resting lightly on the boy’s shoulder.

The remains of a meal lay between the Bygar and Whiskers. The Lord Dahak had only a partially full glass of wine in front of him. The smell of roast lamb, chickpeas, fresh bread, and resinated wine tickled at Dwyrin’s nose. His hunger began to wake up, clawing at his stomach. It grumbled, loudly, and Whiskers laughed at the sound.

The Easterner turned to the Bygar. “Ai, friend, do not deliver merchandise in such poor condition! At least a scrap of bread for the boy. He is thin enough already.”

The Bygar smiled and made a little half bow in his chair.

“I fear that my servant may have forgotten his charge,” said the Walach.

Khiron knelt on one knee, his head low. “Forgive me, master, I did forget. Shall I call for the servants to bring him a meal?”

The Bygar glanced at Dahak, who was observing Dwyrin with lidded eyes. The Eastern sorcerer looked back and shrugged. It was of little import to him. The Valach nodded to Khiron, saying, “Yes, the boy should eat before he leaves my house for his new home.”

Dwyrin quailed at the implication and sank lower on the rug. Fear filled his mind at the thought of departing from even the minimal sanctuary of Khiron’s chambers to be with this… Creature. Dahak smoothed back his long hair and stood, pacing over to the Hibernian. Khiron slunk away at the approach of the Easterner and then went off through the moon-flowers and bushes to find a servant. The sorcerer ran his hand just over Dwyrin’s head, and the closeness of his touch was like standing in a frost-gale. Dwyrin shuddered and collapsed into a tightly curled ball on the floor.

Dahak laughed, and the moon-flowers wilted and closed at the sound of his voice. “Your pardon, Bygar. I did not mean to spoil the display of your flowers.”

The Easterner bowed to his host. While he did so, there was a sudden fall of light through the windows in the roof. White and orange sparkled in the sky for a moment, and the shadows danced across the deck. The Bygar looked up with puzzlement, but Whiskers stood quickly and dragged his cape, hat, and a longsword encased in battered leather wrapping from behind his chair.

“An Imperial signal rocket,” Whiskers rasped as he jammed the hat onto his head. “It is time to leave, my lords.”

Dahak spun slowly around on his heel, his brow furrowed in mild concentration. Dwyrin was forgotten at his feet.

“There is nothing outside…” he began, then he rocked back as a black-fletched arrow sunk into his chest with a meaty thwack. For just an instant the Easterner stared down in puzzlement at the long shaft of the bolt, his hand raised to touch it. Then two more feathered into him, and he fell backward with a grunting sound.

Dwyrin rolled away from the falling sorcerer and off the decking. He fell heavily into a moon-flower bush by the side of the deck, crying out as thorns in the underbrush tore at him. There was a sound of running feet as a group of men charged out of the dimness. The Bygar shouted an alarm and then vaulted over the back of the deck and into the darkness of the garden. Whiskers, on the other hand, snatched up his cloak and spun it around his left arm. His right held a gleaming three-foot blade that had seemingly materialized there. He too shouted and sprang down the steps of the deck and into the midst of the charging men.

To Whiskers’s great surprise, his lopping overhand stroke was parried by a flicker-bright length of steel in the hands of the lead attacker. He danced back as the assailant, dressed from head to toe in black, lashed out at him, nearly catching the elbow of his left arm. He lunged back in and for a moment the air was a flutter of steel in the moonlight and the spark of clanging arms. The other two attackers split off, the largest bounding up onto the deck itself, while the other dashed left into the brush of the garden.

Dwyrin rolled over and clawed at the thin metal chain around his neck. It flashed cold and seemed to constrict around his throat, but this time he knew what would happen and fought to open his mind to the othersight. Then, suddenly, there was a huge booming sound and the assailant who had charged up onto the deck was blown backward by a gout of white-hot lightning. The attacker sailed back across the garden and smashed into a wooden wall, breaking the timbers even as every bone in the man’s body was crushed to a pulp of blood and bone meal. The nimbus of the lightning stroke hung in the air, etching a blast that arced across the great chamber.

On the deck, Dahak staggered to his feet, a halo of blue-white sparks leaping from his flesh and the remains of his clothing. The wooden shafts of the three arrows caught fire and smoked as they were consumed. Thunder boomed and echoed through the enclosed space like the rampage of the gods. High above, the glass panes shattered as the shock wave of the blast struck them and they came raining down in a thousand fragments.

Dwyrin had been blown back as well, but the rush of power in the garden had torn at the ban around his neck as well and now he ripped it from his neck. His othersight flooded in and the great space of the room was a maelstrom of unleashed energies. The creature Dahak stood at the center of a vortex of rippling lighting and fire. The lines of force that crisscrossed the great city began to give up their power to the Easterner and a wall of lightning suddenly rushed out from him.

To Thyatis, the world suddenly went pure white and there was a sound so large that it smashed into her like a wave. Her sword fight with the whiskered man was forgotten as she was flung backward into the ornamental pool of the garden. The foreigner was blown forward too, and he tumbled into the shallow water beside her. Distantly, part of Thyatis’ brain was screaming sorcerer sorcerer] Still stunned, she stared at the ceiling above her in amazement as the thousands of glass fragments that had been raining down into the garden were thrown back into the sky like tiny comets. The wooden walls of the garden chamber caught fire.

Dwyrin staggered up, the pearly white of a Shield of Athena glittering in the air around him. The powers uncorked in the room were flooding into him as well, for he had no training to hold them out. Instinctively his mind grasped at the flames and the burning red torrent that surged in the earth under his feet. Fire lit from his hands and he turned sideways to throw it. Like a live thing, it leapt from his hands to tear at the flickering sphere of lightning around the creature hiding in human flesh.

Dahak staggered as a white-hot bolt of flame savaged the lightning wall he had raised around himself. He whirled and saw through the inferno that the firebringing power in the boy was running wild. Desperately the Easterner drew down the latent energy in the stormclouds hanging over the city and wove a tighter wall of defense before him. The building was fully aflame now, and choking smoke was filling the garden. In the distance, there were more screams and the sound of fighting. Dahak cursed and cast around for his companion. The Boar was crawling away from the. firestorm, his sopping-wet cloak thrown over his body.

Three arrows suddenly flared into ash in front of Dahak, burned to a crisp by the flames raging against the lightning wall. More of the attackers were coming and trying to bring him down. Enough, he swore at himself, we must leave. He summoned wind and suddenly rose into the air.

Thyatis, who had scrambled out of the pool even as the wash of flames from the maelstrom around the deck swept across it, bolted for the doorway to the kitchens. Jochi and the other Turk were there, firing their bows as quickly as they could into the raging fire and lightning storm behind her.

“Save it,” she barked at them as she dashed through the door. “No arrow will get through that.”

The roof above them groaned and Thyatis realized that the entire building was now afire.

“Out! Out!” she shouted at the two Turks. “Get everybody out of here.”

Behind her, there was a terrible roar and the roof above the garden collapsed in a gout of flame, coming down with a crash. Dust and smoke billowed out of the door, and Thyatis and the remainder of her men fled into the hallway.

Dahak soared through the storm clouds, ringed by thunder and the ghosts of lightning. Power burned in him, his body failing, ravaged by the forces it conducted. The Boar, clutched close in his wiry arms, screamed as the electrical surges that coursed through Dahak’s body tore at his nervous system. Below them the house of the Bygar collapsed in a great pyre of flame. Smoke and soot billowed up hundreds of feet to lick at the low clouds. The streets around the old brick building were swarming with Imperial guardsmen, firemen, and the citizens of the neighborhood. Rain had begun to fall, but bucket brigades were in full force, trying to save the warehouses on either side of the old mansion.

Dahak cared nothing for this, bending all of his will to reaching safety on the far side of the Propontis. They hurtled low over the wavetops of the waterway. The sorcerer could barely make out the far shore. The last spark of static electricity fled him, and for a moment the two of them rushed through the night air, then the dark waters suddenly snatched up at them, catching Dahak’s trailing foot. The water was icy cold and a sharp shock as it smashed into them, then swallowed them up. The sorcerer straggled in the surging water for a moment, then consciousness left him and there was only the weight of the Boar, dragging him down.

Dwyrin sat on a narrow stone bench in a narrow little hallway, fidgeting. He picked at the scabs on the side of his face and his lower arms. The rosebush had torn him up pretty badly when he fell off the decking in the garden room. The Illyrian, Nikos, who was sitting on his left, nudged him to keep still. To his right, Timur, who seemed to be Turkish or Sarmatian, was sleeping, or pretending to sleep. The hallway was hot and filled with clerks, soldiers, and couriers, who pushed past the three sitting on the bench. Dwyrin tugged at the bandage over his right ear. It itched.

The last thing Dwyrin had seen in the house of the Bygar had been the blossoming flame of his own fire-cast raging against the swirling blue-white wall of lightning. The voice of the Eastern sorcerer had been huge, like a thunderstorm filling the sky, but then there had been fire and smoke. Strong arms, wiry and corded with muscle, had scooped him up and dragged him out of the burning building. Dwyrin had passed out, his throat filled with the bite of woodsmoke. He had woken in a crowded barracks, lying on a thin pallet of straw behind a great heap of barrels. Overhead, a series of stone ribs held up a soot-stained brick ceiling. An evil face with sallow skin, pinched eyes, and long, greasy, mustaches had been crouched over him. Dwyrin had stared back in astonishment, but the man had smiled and given him bread, cheese, and weak wine.

Dwyrin gathered that Timur was a soldier, though not a legionnaire. A mercenary drawn to the service of Rome by the smell of gold, doubtless. He and his fellows were a footloose band that was living in a basement of one of the lesser palaces. Their chief seemed to be the Illyrian, Nikos, who had looked the battered Dwyrin over after the boy was strong enough to sit.

“You say you had papers, lad?”

Dwyrin nodded. He remembered the master of the school pressing them into his hands. Where they were now? Who knew? But he did remember his purpose.

“They were orders to report to the prefecture in Alexandria, to enter the Thaumaturgic Legion. To serve the Emperor in the great war.”

Nikos had shaken his head in disgust at the thought of the young boy before him being drawn into the toils of the Imperial military machine. It was bad enough that he had fallen afoul of slavers, but the Legion? Timur, leaning against the nearest wicker crate, had chuckled at the expression on Nikos’ face.

“Are you sure of this, lad? Being a twenty-year man is no light load. You’ll be gray when you get out, mark me.” Nikos jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the crowd of men playing dice at the entrance to the area claimed by the other members of his squad. “Look at these fellows. With your training, you could take up a soft life in the city, become rich. Have servants.”

Dwyrin had shaken his head. He had given old Nephet his word that he would carry out the task set him. His honor depended on it. Nikos and Timur had argued with him for another hour, but it was to no avail. So, the next morning, they had trooped with the boy up to the quartermaster’s billet in the “new” palace.

A door opened in the hallway and a slightly built clerk with a frizz of white hair looked out.

“Dwyrin MacDonald, enlistee?” The man’s voice was devoid of emotion, but it carried to where the three were sitting.

Dwyrin jerked awake and stood up.

Nikos stood as well and tousled his hair. The stocky Illyrian smiled, his stubbly square face lighting for an instant. “Be careful, lad. Don’t take any extra duty and never, ever volunteer. Remember that!”

Timur stood as well, easing up on his bad leg, and fingered his mustaches. He looked down at the boy for a long moment, his face a mask. Then he smiled a little too and pressed a worn leather knife scabbard into the boy’s hand. It was grimy and nicked, and the hilt of the knife was wrapped in leather so black with age and sweat that it seemed like obsidian. Dwyrin smiled back and bowed, taking the leave-present. He turned and entered the room set aside for the oathtaking.

Outside, Nikos glared at the closed door. Timur leaned against the wall at his side.

“We should have convinced him to stay with us,” Nikos said, his voice tight with disappointment. Timur snickered.

“He’s too young for you, optio.” Nikos ignored him.

“The centurion will skin me for letting a fire-caster get away,” he continued. Timur shrugged. The boy was gone. Nikos stalked off down the hallway, ignoring the clerks and bureaucrats who got in his way. Timur followed close after, though his leg was hurting him again.

In the room, there was only a desk with a camp stool behind it. On the stool sat a lean-faced man with dark brown hair. He wore the tunic, short cloak, and leggings of a senior centurion. At his right breast, a small golden eagle was pinned to hold back the folds of his cloak. He had a muster roll open on the desk in front of him. The clerk, having shown Dwyrin in, retreated to the wall by the door. The centurion did not smile and looked the Hibernian up and down, his lips pursed in disapproval.

“Name?” he asked.

“Dwyrin MacDonald, sir.”

The centurion carefully checked through the roll. At last, he shook his head slightly.

“There is no record of your levy, MacDonald,” he said.

Dwyrin nodded, saying, “I was supposed to report to the prefect in Alexandria, sir, but I became sick and was sold to slavers. During that time I lost my travel and assignment papers, sir.”

The centurion continued to regard him, his light-brown eyes cold. “Do you know which unit, or legion, you were assigned to, MacDonald?”

“Yes, sir, the Third Ars Magica.”

An eyelid of the senior centurion flickered. He put the main muster roll aside and unfolded a smaller one. He checked through it, his long fingers rustling through the rolls of papyrus. He looked up. “Here you are. You are to report to a unit that was to muster at Alexandria. Have you taken the oath of enlistment?”

“No, sir.”

The senior centurion sighed and gestured to the servant at the back of the room. The white-haired man crossed to another door and returned with a tall wooden pole surmounted by a bronze eagle with downswept wings. Beneath the eagle were two cross-plates, each inscribed with letters. The servant knelt and held the standard in a firm grip. Another servant entered through the same door, with a smoking copper brazier and a wooden-handled object. The senior centurion and the new servant fussed with the brazier. Finally it was ready. The centurion turned and motioned for Dwyrin to kneel.

“Take off your tunic,” he said, his voice level. Dwyrin obeyed. The centurion stood over hirn. Dwyrin stared at the floor, wondering what the oath entailed.

“You are Dwyrin MacDonald, of the house MacDonald. Son of Aeren.”

“I am,” the boy answered.

“You pledge yourself to the service, in war, of the people and the Senate and the Emperor of the city of Rome?”

“I do,” Dwyrin answered.

“Do you swear to uphold the state with your very life, under the auspices of the gods?”

“I do,” Dwyrin said. Now an odd feeling stole over him, a prickling along his skin. For a moment he was tempted to assume the entrance of Hermes and see if some fey power had entered the room,‘all invisible. But he did not. The centurion continued to speak, his voice rising.

“I so swear,” Dwyrin finished. The centurion pulled the wooden-handled rod out of the fire in the brazier. Before Dwyrin could flinch away, the two servants seized his arms and bent them back. The centurion, his eyes glinting in the reflection of the fire, pressed the white-hot brand against the pale white shoulder of the boy.

At the top of the steps at the far end of the corridor that led away from the quartermaster’s offices, Timur heard the echoing wail of pain. He smoothed his mustaches and his hand slid into the light shirt he wore. His fingers ran lightly over the ritual scarring that decorated his chest and abdomen. He smiled and then made his way down the stairs. They were narrow and steep and well worn by the passage of thousands of feet. llPMOMQMQMQHOHQMQHOMOHOWOHQMOMOWQMOMQMQHQHOMQl^i] THE SUBURA DISTRICT, ROME

Gods, what a pit!“ The dead man sneered, his leathery face twisted into a grimace. He and Abdmachus rode down a narrow way behind the Forum. The alley was choked with garbage, broken furniture, and the rotting corpses of dead animals. The little Persian led, while the dead man had the young Prince thrown over the front of his saddle. A gray cape had been added to the clothes Abdmachus had given him in the tomb. The motheaten hood was pulled forward, shading the man’s extremely pale complexion. The Persian nudged his horse right and they turned into a little courtyard behind the brick edifice of a four-story insula. The dead man looked around carefully, his face a mask, while the Persian swung off his horse and made his way up a flight of broken steps to bang on the door at the back of the block of flats.

A sound rose, echoing from the pale brick faces of the buildings, a great murmur like the sea against a steep shore. The dead man turned around on his horse, looking for the source of the noise. Off to the south he saw a great cliff of marble rising over the red tile roofs. A forest of banners and pennons surmounted it. Smoke rose around it, curdling against the soaring wall and collecting in the arched openings that ringed the top of the edifice. He scratched his nose, then held his hand up in the morning light. It seemed odd for it to be so bleached and pale, very like the belly of a fish.

A man in a dirty yellow smock opened the door and nodded to the Persian. Abdmachus stumbled down the steps and came up to his horse.

“What is that?” The dead man pointed at the building looming over the rooftops.

Abdmachus turned, his fingers busy untying the straps that held the Prince to the horse. He squinted into the sun.

“Oh,” the Persian said, “it’s the Colosseum. There must be games today.”

They had entered the city through the Porta Ostiensis gate, by the river, at dawn. A great throng of merchants and draymen had already clogged the artery leading into the city from the southwest. The Persian had shown his papers to the overworked guards at the gate, and they had entered without incident. The dead man was, by turns, troubled at the- wan pallor evident on the faces of the people and stunned by the vast size of the city and the crumbling monuments therein. Cutting across the city toward the bowl of the Subura, they had passed through ancient gates, triumphal ways, and skirted the palace-clogged magnificence of the Palatine. As they rode through the thronging crowds, the Persian could hear the dead man muttering to himself.

The Prince owned an insulae on the southern side of the Subura, and the Persian and the dead man carried his body up the steps, down a rank hallway, and through a stout wooden door into a bare apartment. Only a few sticks of furniture were about, but there was a bed made of pine boards and crisscrossed leather straps. They lay him there and the Persian bustled off to find water and make an infusion. The dead man crossed the bare dusty room to the windows set into the south wall and, putting his shoulder to them, opened the shutters. Brilliant sunlight flooded the room, cutting long sparkling trails through the dusty air.

“Ai, no strength in these limbs,” the dead man mused to himself. He clenched his fists and frowned at the sound of muscles cracking.

Beyond the windows, the temples and pillars of the Forum rose up over the tiled roofs of the buildings across the street. The way below was crowded with morning shoppers. The little door fronts were crammed with goods: fruits, slabs of meat, bushels of grain, carefully bundled feathers. The noise from the street echoed off the roof in the apartment. The dead man half closed the shutters. Abdmachus returned to the room with a steaming pot of water. The sharp smell of mint and sage rose from it.

“What is that great cylinder?” the dead man asked, pointing out the window.

Abdmachus glanced up, then said, “The triumph of Trajan. A long bas-relief depicts his conquest of the Dacians.”

The dead man snorted and rubbed the side of his long face. Dust and grit came off under his fingers. He smiled.

“Dacia… always troublesome. How long was I in the ground, Persian?”

Abdmachus tipped the lip of the pot to Maxian’s lips and spilled a little of the brew. The young man twitched and the Persian managed to get more of the brew down him. The Prince groaned and his eyelids fluttered.

“Over six centuries,” the Persian answered absently, his attention focused on the pulse and color of the Prince.

“Six centuries and the Republic winds up looking like a pigsty?” The dead man came to the other side of the bed and gazed down on the long-limbed youth who lay between them. “Six centuries and the city is a crumbling ruin, filled with plague victims and lepers? Is there no order? I see that the administrative skills of the Senate have not improved…”

Abdmachus looked up briefly but said nothing. The Prince stirred, his eyes opening.

“Are we in the city?” Maxian’s voice was faint.

The Persian rolled back each of the young man’s eyelids and pursed his lips in concern. “Lie still, lad, you’re still shaken up. The effects of the spell were rather stronger than I expected.”

Maxian smiled weakly. “Feels like my skin has been scrubbed off and then put back on, wet.”

With a great effort he turned his head to look at the dead man. “Welcome back to the land of living.”

The dead man scowled and looked over his shoulder at the partial view of the city from the window. “Not much to see. How many have died from the plague?”

The Persian and the Prince exchanged puzzled glances. Abdmachus cleared his throat. “My lord, this is twice you’ve referred to the plague. We don’t understand.”

The dead man stared at each of them in turn, his face a picture of incredulity.

“Out there”-he pointed out the window-“the people on the street. They look ghastly… the only time I’ve seen such deprivation in an unbesieged city was during the outbreak of the plague in Thapsos when I was a young man.”

Maxian coughed, then managed to clear his throat. “It is no plague, my friend, it is the common state of the Roman citizen in these days. Those men and women are as healthy as they’re liable to get.”

The dead man shook his head in disbelief, then took quick steps to the window. He looked out for a long time. Then he said: ‘They are like the walking dead. Each face is cut with terrible weariness and pain. The citizens are… diminished, frail almost.“

Abdmachus exchanged a knowing glance with the prince, then said: “It is why we have brought you back, my lord. There is a… a curse upon the city. We need your help to break it. But be warned, it is very strong. We believe that it is, in part, the doing of your nephew.”

“Who?” The dead man was puzzled. His face creased in thought. “I have-/ had-no nephews. All of my children are dead.” •

Maxian struggled to rise and managed to get up far enough to lean against the plaster wall. “The Histories say that he was adopted by you, made your heir. He used your name, in part, to make himself Dictator of the city. You must remember him-Gaius Octavius. Your sister’s daughter’s son.”

The dead man stared at Maxian with something like shock on his face. He rubbed the back of his head, then turned around and paced to the window. There he turned back again, his hands on his hips. “Octavian? That mousy little sycophant claimed to be my heir? A colorless, mewling senatorial lickspittle? All he did was follow around on my heels, snooping. I surely left no will naming him my heir…”

Abdmachus laughed. The dead man was beside himself with disgust. Maxian was more serious. The dead man continued to curse luridly, until at last he ran out of epithets.

“Whether you made out that will or not, it was presented to the Senate in your name. After a civil war he became Emperor,” the Prince continued with a weak voice. “The first of many. Under his supreme rule, the Republic became a shell, and the Empire came to rule the world. It was in his time that this curse that you see reflected on the faces of the citizens began. We think, Abdmachus and I, that it was intended to protect and sustain the state and that for a long time it did. But the world is changing and the state, because of this curse, cannot change with it. The people are the ones who are suffering. The state remains, but it is becoming more and more rotten. Great changes must be made to cure this ill.”

The dead man had barely heard anything that Maxian had said. “But what happened to Marcus Antonius? What happened to my supporters? Marcus should have followed me as Dictator-he was well beloved of the people! The Senate would not stand for an Emperor… did the wars continue, did Rome bleed still more?”

Maxian sighed. It was going to take a long time to bring the dead man up to date on the doings of the city and the Empire… If only his head did not feel like it was being crushed in a vise. The dead man began pacing restlessly. The nervous energy in that spare frame only made the pain in the Prince’s head worse.

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