The Dark Lord

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Imperial Apartments, The Palatine Hill

Pale yellow candles luffed, their flame bending in the draft of an opening door. Shadows fled across a painted wall, briefly illuminating a mottled shepherd leading his flock across a plastered Elysian hillside. The door creaked closed, the helmeted face of a guard disappearing behind the panel. Galen Atreus, Emperor of Rome, set a stack of parchment and papyrus sheets down on an iron table beside the entry. The candles settled and a steady, warm light returned. Marble and heavy drapes of muslin soaked up the pale glow.

"Galen?" A sleepy voice called from another room. The Emperor grimaced, pressing the back of his hand to a throbbing forehead. Beads of sweat shone behind his ear. "Husband?"

Helena stood in the further door, her hair unbound, falling long and straight beside her face, lapping across delicate collarbones. Galen tried to smile, but managed only a grimace. He started to undo the heavy brooch holding his cape at the shoulder. He was still fumbling with the catch when she took his hand.

"Let me." The Empress' nose wrinkled up as she concentrated and the clasp clicked open. "No," she said firmly when he tried to help, her voice soft. "Just stand still."

Helena put his cape aside, then the formal toga and a gem-studded belt. After just a moment, Galen was able to breathe deeply, constricting clothes gone, the insistent pounding in his head easing to a mild hammering. The Empress knelt, untying his sandals. "There," she said, taking his hand. "Now come and sit with me."

The night was warm enough to sit on the terrace and Helena led him to a couch piled high with quilts and pillows. Thin columns framed a balcony wound with ivy, looking to the south, over the high walls of the Circus. Torches burned around the obelisk at the center of the spina. More lamps illuminated the white portico of the temple of Victoria. Beyond the high walls, the southern districts of the city were sleeping. In the late hour, the houses and apartments were hidden in darkness, only faintly marked by scattered lights.

"You're writing?" Galen eased himself down onto the couch, feeling dizzy. A hooded lamp sat on a table, shedding a yellow glow on parchments, ink, quills, two half-opened scrolls. "Is Theo asleep?"

"Yes," Helena said, sliding down beside him. He lay back, resting the back of his head on the padded arm of the couch. Her thigh was very warm on his. Galen twitched when her thin-fingered hand brushed across his forehead. "He's right here."

Galen turned, though his head felt heavy, heavy as a lead ballast. His son was curled up among the quilts, thumb in his mouth, drool damp on the covers. A fleece was tucked around him, partially obscuring a round face mussed with dirt and grass stains. Gently, the Emperor caressed the boy's cheek with the back of his fingers. Theodosius squirmed away, burying his little face in the covers. Galen smiled, feeling the ache in his bones abate. "He's had a big day…"

"Yes," Helena whispered, curling in beside him, her arm over his. Galen slumped back, resting his head on her shoulder. "Like his father. Have you eaten?"

"Something." Galen said wearily. "My guardsmen were sitting to supper when I left the offices."

The Empress leaned over, smelling his breath. Her nose wrinkled up again and she rubbed it smartly. "Peh! Sardines, elderly olives, rude cheese, all in a fish must. How fine…"

"Their wine was good," Galen said, turning his head to kiss her ear. She shivered. "And you?"

"Something," she said, chin raised imperiously. "Theo and young Heracleonas entertained me as their guest, in state and luxury as befits an Empress. We had bread and sweetened water and bits of sausage. Then they fell asleep and I fought hard to stay awake, to welcome my lord and husband at his homecoming."

Galen closed his eyes, his arm sliding under hers. He held her very tight, drawing a faint squeak. "A royal feast," he mumbled faintly, feeling sleep stealing over him. "Fit for a queen…"

"Husband…" Helena brushed hair out of his face again. "My arm will cramp if you fall asleep like that. Raise up a little." Grumbling, Galen lifted his head, letting her escape. She sat up, clapping her hands softly. A little girl padded out of the darkness, shining dark hair tied back in a silver ribbon. She was carrying a fluted glass pitcher, a pair of copper cups and a basket.

"Thank you, Kore, just put them there." Helena smiled at the girl, who dimpled, bowing.

"Shall I take the young master away to bed?" Kore's voice was soft and velvety.

"Not yet." Helena turned back a cloth laid over the basket. Steam rose up, carrying the smell of fresh bread. "Let his father see him for a moment."

The girl bowed, then disappeared back through the pillars on silent feet.

"What did you do today?" Galen's hands slid around Helena's waist and under her gown.

"Ah!" She said, giving him a look. "Your hands are cold."

"You're warm," he said, sleepy again. She tore bread from the loaf, dipped it in honey and stuffed the resulting gooey, sweet mess into his mouth. Obediently, he chewed.

"Eat, Lord and God," she said, pursing her lips at him. "I took the young princes about town, to the baths, to the Forum, to the gardens, to amuse and tire them out, so they'll sleep. Which they are, quite soundly. I saw and was seen. Gossip and rumor flowed over me, cascading from low to high. I wrote, I read, I wrote again. I was entertained by these young men."

"A good day," Galen said, throat tight. Will I ever see my son for more than brief moments? Will I look up from my desk some day, years from now, and see him grown, bearded?

"Yours?" She turned, drawing a quilt of red-and-green squares over them. She ate a little bread herself. Galen took a filled cup of wine, drained it, then another. Helena put the cups away.

"Poor," he said, the headache throbbing up again behind a smoky veil of alcohol. "A courier came from Britain. The situation there has grown worse. More Scandian raiders have come in their long ships. There was a battle-a skirmish really-and they defeated the regional militia. So, a Legion must be sent." He squeezed his eyes hard, hoping to drive the grainy pressure away. "I have no Legions to send. A message came from Augusta Vendelicorum too, on the Rhine. There is trouble across the river. The king of the Franks has died and his sons are quarrelling. The governor is worried the Frankish nobles in the Empire will get involved, on one side or the other. Gods! It never ends…"

"Shhhh." Helena cradled his head to her chest. "Never mind. Tell me later. Tell me later."

"No," he said, drawing away a little. "I want to send Aurelian a letter. A fast ship is leaving in the morning, a courier to Egypt with the Duchess' men. Gaius' man Nicholas is with them-he'll carry a message to Aurelian. Will you write it out for me?"

"Me?" Helena took his pale, drawn face in her hands. "You always write your own letters."

"I want you to write it out," Galen said. He was sweating.

Helena, disturbed, nodded. "Of course." She stepped carefully past their son, still asleep, and gathered up her writing tablet and quill. "What do you want to say?"

"'Aurelian,'" he began, eyes shut tight. "'I hope you are well, and not taken with the sun…'"

The Empress wrote, her hand steady, though she watched her husband's face with growing apprehension. There was something desperate about him. She had never seen him this way before, not even during the civil war. Yet the letter was light, even pleasant in tone, and filled with nothing of any importance.

The quill scratched a final line across fresh, cream-colored parchment, then stopped. A sharp, precise jab spiraled into a blocky G and J. Flicking ink from the end of the pen, Gaius Julius lifted the page and fluttered it gently. In this humid night, the ink was slow to dry. Whistling softly to himself, pleased with the way the draft edict had flowed into life from his pen, the old Roman laid the sheet out on the side table. Dozens of other letters were drying, arranged in neat rows.

Gaius rubbed his hands together and looked across his work table for the next item needing his attention. "Ah," he said, spying a lengthy request for tax relief. "The letter from Britain! Excellent." He was reaching for the top sheet when he heard a soft tapping at the door.

Gaius rose, motions smooth and assured. A long knife, mirror-edged, ostensibly for cutting quills, was conveniently placed at the end of the table. His gnarled fingers slid around the hilt, feeling welcome heft in his hand. "Enter," he called.

It was very late at night, past the third watch. Only a few lamps burned in his rooms, their thin smoke coiling away towards the ceiling. Very few men would be out on the streets at this hour. Even the inns and drinking shops were closed. By now, even the bordellos would be slowing down, the customers steeped in wine, exhausted, paying an extra denarius for the overnight.

The door opened and a thin, stooped figure entered, heavily cowled in a long robe. Expensive sandals peeked out from the bottom. Gaius set the knife down and turned away to a cupboard set against the wall. "Hello, Master Temrys. Would you like some wine? Or something stronger?"

Gaius' cheerful tone was met with a hiss as the man slumped into a chair. Gaius turned back, eyebrow raised, a pair of cups in one hand, and a dark blue glass bottle in the other. "Here's something from India, recently washed up in the Mercantile arcade… soma, I believe."

The visitor, his face already red with drink, stared at Gaius with open loathing. The man was well dressed under the heavy cloak and hood, his pockmarked face habitually sullen. "I heard something interesting today," he said.

"Of course." Gaius sat, the blue bottle on the table between them. Temrys' eyes flicked to the bottle, then away again. The old Roman smiled in a genial way. "Do you need some spending money? I can loan you as much as you'd like… no need to barter."

"This isn't about spending money," the Greek said, lips twisting into a sallow grin. Gaius Julius' eyes narrowed. The man was not drunk with despair. He actually seemed happy. That was very disturbing. The Palace chamberlain was notorious for his poor humor. Delight would require something particularly foul.

"What then?" Gaius affected disinterest, uncorking the bottle. A pungent, harsh odor wafted out. The old Roman poured a finger's worth of shining golden liquid into each cup. "Come now, tell! You're bursting to share, I see. It must be quite the most interesting thing I'll hear all day."

"It is," Temrys said, clasping his hands together under the tabletop. He blinked furiously. "A notice of audit came across my desk today, all wrapped in Tyrian twine, stamped and double-stamped with the Emperor's signet."

"Really?" Gaius Julius felt a little tickle. Something bad was in the offing. "Who is the lucky fellow?"

"To audit?" Temrys said, grinning, the tight flesh on his scalp wrinkling up, lips drawing back from yellowed teeth. "Or to be audited?"

The old Roman watched him over the lip of the cup. Golden fluid burned against his lips, but he knew better than to drink. Even the dead would find this vintage rough. "Either," he replied. "Does it matter?"

"There was a will attached," the chamberlain said, wiping his mouth. The cup in front of him shimmered in the light of the lamps. "It was a senator's will. It had been denied. By the Emperor himself."

Gaius set down his cup, looking sharply at his night visitor. "I see."

"Yes," Temrys said, picking up the cup. "I expect you do. Your name appeared in the will. But, strangely, your name was not on the auditing request. Now, why would that be?"

"I don't understand," Gaius said, thinking furiously. What happened? How could the Emperor deny his brother… oh, curse that fool child! He's been arguing about the war again! And those stupid telecasts… Galen slaps him on the wrist, reminding the boy who is Emperor. The old Roman sighed. "I suppose the estate managers are being audited directly, one by one." A process that might take years… while casting no overt blame on dear little brother, or myself. Very nice.

"Oh yes," the chamberlain said, still grinning. He tipped the cup to his lips, then paused. "The estate of the late Senator Gregorius Auricus, of course, has been directly expropriated to the Imperial Household. I hear the Emperor was not pleased to see it go to his brother, who has other, more pressing, matters to attend to. Why burden our wise custos with matters of farm and field, of harvests and commerce?"

Gaius choked back a vulgar word. He felt his stomach churn, then settle. My loans… everything I planned… wrecked! Damn that boy, damn him!

"I thought you'd find this interesting," Temrys said, gloating, his throat pulsing with soma rush. His eyes dilated and he slumped back in his chair. "Very… interesting…"

Gaius Julius rose, looming over the chamberlain. The man was snoring already, struck numb by the powerful liqueur. He looked at the knife, gleaming in the lamplight, then shook his head. "No… that would be petty." The old Roman sighed, lips quirking into a wry smile. "And I am not petty. I forgive and I forget. Always." Gently, he lifted the chamberlain under the arms and carried him to the bed. Brown woolen covers covered him and Gaius peeled back an eyelid to make sure the man was still alive. He was.

"Well." Gaius Julius sat down again, picking up the letter from Britain. "Tax relief. Huh! I think not! We are all in dire straits, I think." He began penning a response, the quill scratching over smooth parchment in a clean, strong, swift hand.

The old Roman spent only the least thought on the letter; no was simple enough to relate. Instead, his thoughts worried and fretted about the damage the prince's recalcitrance had done to the delicate fabric of loans and bribes and gifts he had spun from the gold represented in Gregorius' estates. Well, there's no more money for Alexandros army, then, and the end of those plays and feasts I planned… stupid, stupid prince!