The Dark Lord

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

In the Roman Garrison at Pelusium, Lower Egypt

Aurelian woke in darkness, skin crawling with alarm. The room was quiet, the lights low-barely a gleam against plastered walls. He could hear the steady footfall of a guard outside, pacing the hallway. The Roman kept still, heart racing with wild fear. He was certain a figure had stood over him, looking down with pale eyes. Trembling fingers grasped the hilt of a knife beside the cot. He listened. There was nothing-no sound of hushed breath, no half-felt vibration of hostile intent.

A dream, he thought, but it fades… A vision lingered; a vast city of cyclopean buildings, windows crowded with cheering people, flowers raining down on his face, the sun breaking through white, fluffy clouds, blazing on white-fronted temples. He remembered the smell of stallions, the creak of chariot under his feet as he rode through the crowded streets. A weight on his brow. Soldiers lined the avenue, holding back a boisterous, surging crowd with leveled spears. Rome, my homecoming, but with a diadem of gold.

The prince sat up, sweating despite a chill hanging in the air. He released the knife, shaking out his fingers. They cramped and bruised from gripping the hilt. His strength had compressed the wire wrapping into the iron tongue.

A thought came, unbidden. If I returned home with these Legions under my command, I would be Emperor. Aurelian snorted at the thought, shaking his head like a horse with flies tickling its ears.

"Madness!" He stood up, throwing aside the sheet. The Egyptian night was usually very warm here in the delta lowlands. The days were getting hotter too as summer dragged on. His tunic stuck to a broad, tanned chest, damp and clammy with night sweat. Aurelian paced to the door and pushed the panel open. The guard in the hallway started, swinging around in surprise, sword rasping free in his hand.

"Halt!" The boy was young, one of the new recruits. His face was pinched and beaded with sweat. The point of the blade aimed steadily at the prince's breastbone.

"Easy, lad," Aurelian said. He didn't feel so easy himself. The air in the hallway seemed stiflingly close. "Put your blade away."

The boy stared at him, teeth gritted, for a long moment. Then he squinted, seemed to recognize Aurelian, and returned the stabbing sword to its wooden sheath. "Something wrong, Caesar?"

"No." Aurelian shook his head. The momentary dream was gone, fading in the warm light of the oil lamps. "Just restless. Anyone been about? Hear anything?"

"No, my lord. Quiet as a tomb." The boy chuckled, straightening his helmet.

"Good." Aurelian considered returning to bed, but his stomach had woken up too. Familiar pangs drove the last of his dreams away. "I'm going to get a bite from the kettle."

The bottom floor of the old Ptolemaic palace was given over to kitchens and a mess hall filled with rough, wooden tables and long benches. A scattering of lamps provided faint illumination. Servants, kitchen slaves and thin, mangy dogs slept between the tables, filling the air with a groaning dissonant chorus. A low fire burned in the huge grate, enough to keep the night kettle warm and the porridge from solidifying into glue. Aurelian scooped grain and raisin mash into a wooden bowl. Crystallized honey from a nearby tub followed, ground in with a copper spoon. Stepping over the cooks, sprawled in rows near the fire, the Roman found an empty stone step against the wall.

"Who would believe me in the marketplace," a soft voice said from the shadows. "Caesar himself eating worker's gruel with a bent spoon? Impossible."

Aurelian swallowed, then licked the spoon clean. A cloaked, hooded figure leaned against the wall, back bent against the weathered feet of an enormous ibex-headed man. Cracked paintings crawled up into darkness, interleaved with old red-painted pillars and vertical columns of blocky hieroglyphs. "Men must eat," Aurelian said, pointing at the figure with his spoon. "Master Nephet."

A thin hand, burnished dark mahogany, drew back the hood, revealing a hawk-nosed silhouette and weary, piercing eyes. "Lord Caesar, I am flattered you recall my name, much less my voice."

"I have a good memory," the Roman said, scooping more porridge out of the bowl. The grain was barely milled, the raisins going sour, but he didn't care. The bowl was soon empty and the prince picked through his beard for crumbs. "You are up at an odd hour."

"The air is heavy tonight." The priest settled back against the wall again, face obscured, hands clasped on his chest, a staff held in the crook of his arm. "Do you feel the pressure?"

Aurelian nodded, putting down the empty bowl. He did not look at the priest. "I dreamed of Rome and a triumph. I was wearing a crown of gold. A king's crown."

"Rome has no king," Nephet said softly, bright eyes watching the prince. "The Senate and the people rule… isn't that what your banners say? No king, only an Emperor, the greatest of lordly men."

"Yes," Aurelian said, memory bright before his eyes again. He found it hard to look away. At the edge of vision, he caught a glimpse of his wife, their children… everyone was smiling and waving. "My brother is… Emperor." The Roman stopped, throat tight. A sense of loss welled up, reminding him of how far he was from home, how long it had been since he tousled the hair of his sons or kissed his wife. How strange and alien this flat, heat-baked land was.

"They will come against us soon," Nephet said. "Are the men ready?"

Aurelian took a deep breath. The Persians. He thought of the long walls, the dry rivers he had gouged from the mud and sand, the miles of rampart and barrier. His men were waiting, shields bright, banners standing proudly before each Legion. "We are ready," he said. The memories faded again, his mind rousing itself from something like sleep. "Do you foresee the day they will attack?"

Nephet laughed, but it was a soft sound, without malice, night wind rushing through palms. "Each day the pressure in the air will be worse, my lord. When we cannot endure it any longer, then they will attack."

Aurelian looked sideways at the old Egyptian. "They attack our will to fight," he stated. As the words left his lips, he knew they were true, felt something pressing at his mind, some taint in the air fouling his thoughts. "Are the other thaumaturges aware of this?"

Nephet nodded, eyes glinting in the shadow of his hood. "We can all feel this. Some of us, I'm sure, are afflicted with unquiet dreams. Those who are weak will hear the voices in the air more clearly." The Egyptian managed a grim smile. "Some will never hear the voices at all."

"That is fine for you to say," Aurelian growled. "What about my men? They cannot protect themselves. Can you drive these phantoms back? Strike at the magi plaguing us?"

"By myself?" Nephet shook his head. "No. This attack is subtle. The enemy is being cautious, even sly, taking his time. We would have to bind a pattern of resistance along the whole length of the defense!"

Aurelian stood, tossing the wooden bowl into the fire on the grate. He felt anger build, gnawing at his stomach like a fox. This is my fault. I should have thought of this long ago. "Yes, you will. Send messengers among the camps-the high priest of every temple will be here by noon. You have been idle, priest, but no longer!"

Nephet stiffened at the bitter tone in the Roman's voice. "What do you mean?"

"You will bind a 'pattern' into the ramparts, the walls, the gates. Every inch of stone, earth and wood from the sea to the marshes." Aurelian crushed the soft copper spoon in his hand, completely furious with himself. "We should have begun months ago!"

The Egyptian priest swallowed, shrinking back against the wall. I suppose we should have, he thought, a sick feeling creeping over him. And why not? We knew what was coming… Nephet felt his skin grow clammy, the close damp air prickling. Have we chosen to sleep-or been lulled there by quiet voices?