The Dark Lord

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Villa of Swans, Roma Mater

Anastasia stood at the edge of her garden, watching one of the serving girls hurry down the steps from the kitchen, platters of spiced eggs balanced in either hand, weaving through a thick crowd of citizens and freedmen. The guests were lively, talking loudly, drinking heavily, taking full advantage of the liberal feast provided by the Duchess. The girl turned sideways, up on tiptoe, and slid between the enormous bulk of a grain merchant, his coterie of henna-haired "nieces" and a cluster of grim-faced Legion officers. The soldiers were drinking heavily, sitting glum and quiet on benches lining the colonnade around the heart of the villa.

The maid breezed past, through columns glowing with copper Hispanian lamps and strings of cut glass and down into the garden. The arbor was heavy with lanterns and the wooden bridge crossing the stream was lit from below with the flickering glow of dozens of candle boats. Even with the evening well advanced, the center of the house was filled with laughter and light. Despite the festive atmosphere, Anastasia was content to stand in the shadow of rowan trees hanging over the garden's edge; pale, perfect face stippled with distant lamplight, watching the ebb and flow of her guests. Her invitations-each hand delivered by a phalanx of slaves-had incited a huge response. The porters and door guards had been turning away eager guests at the morning meal, and by noon the front gates were closed and barred against an expectant crowd. Eager guests flooded into the house at the earliest opportunity-even before the bakers and cooks finished the first course of the evening-long dinner. Anastasia allowed herself a small smile-she may have been in mourning a long time, but she remembered how to entertain and Rome's fickle social memory had not yet forgotten her.

Today, I am novelty! she thought. Tomorrow? Day-old bread, a copper a loaf.

Rising voices in the great hall, eager, nervous and excited caught her ear. The Emperor? Anastasia checked her hair-flowing loose, in dark, glossy waves, only barely restrained by threads of pearl and gold-then her gown and stole. The dress was new and modest, as befitted such troubled times. Still, the slick fabric clung eagerly to her breasts and flowed over hip and thigh in a cascade of ultramarine Chin silk. The spark in men's eyes was reward enough, even if she felt positively demure.

Across the garden, a crowd of people in the main hall parted, some bowing. Anastasia's violet eyes narrowed and then she frowned. Not the Emperor. He's being fashionably late. She was disappointed. The so-current prince, and his… The Duchess scowled… consort? Companion? Private secretary?

Maxian entered, properly attired in a formal toga and tunic, only the traditional bare feet of the custos magicum departing from a patrician's ideal. Martina, hanging on his arm, hip pressed to his side, had not been limited by such social constraints. The Eastern Empress' usually plain brown hair was tightly curled and ornamented with brilliant jewels. Martina's gold-laced gown, silky transparent drape, her shoes-everything bespoke wealth and power. The Duchess grimaced, noting the possessive hand-studded with golden bracelets and glittering jewels-wrapped around Maxian's arm. The girl smiled brilliantly, and Anastasia's eyes narrowed. Bleached teeth? Where did she find a wizard to-where else? Ah, child-what am I to do with you?

Biting her thumb in annoyance, the Duchess strode out of the shadows and paused for a heartbeat at the top of the stairs. Not one head turned toward her. Everyone in the garden was focused on the prince and upon his too-brilliant companion. Schooling her face to genteel welcome, Anastasia descended to the grassy sward, the fingers of her left hand touching the edge of her scooped neckline.

"Lord Prince Maxian," she purred, gliding through the crowd of senators and their wives clogging the entrance to the main hall. "My lady, Empress Martina, welcome to my house." Anastasia caught the prince's eye, smiled warmly, then turned to the younger woman and bowed gracefully, taking her hand in greeting.

"Empress," she said, turning away from the prince and leading Martina forward, out of the clutch of sycophants crowding the girl, to the edge of the marble steps. "I hope my garden pleases you."

Martina answered her smile with a faint grimace of her own and Anastasia felt a sharp moment of satisfaction, seeing ill-disguised fear hiding behind the girl's kohl-ornamented eyes and lead-white face powders. "It's… beautiful," the Empress managed, trying to turn back, looking for Maxian. "The lamps are very pretty."

"They are," Anastasia said, squeezing Martina's hand and descending the steps. The Empress, unwilling to cast off her hostess' hand, followed. "Have you seen my stream before? A cistern above the house lets it flow and the water is recaptured below by a clever siphon." Anastasia leaned close to Martina as she spoke, as if they shared a confidence during temple services. Still unwilling to protest, though looking more and more startled with each moment, Martina found herself beside the stream, candlelight shining on her face.

Anastasia spared a sideways glance behind her and was pleased to see the prince entirely surrounded by a thick crowd of well-wishers and men in search of Imperial favor. Good, she thought, I've a few moments, then.

"The boats are very beautiful," Martina said, her fancy caught by the tiny manikins of boatmen and ladies placed around the paper cones holding the candles. Caught in the slow current of the stream, the little craft were slowly bumping and whirling as they passed down the stream. "What happens when they go out of the garden?"

"Shhh…" Anastasia bent close, finger to plum-colored lips, eyes twinkling. "We mustn't speak of such things or the illusion will be spoiled." Martina answered with her own faint smile. The Duchess squeezed her hand again, radiating warmth, the tilt of her head inviting secret confidence. "I hope you enjoy the party," she said softly. "I know you must be dying to dance or hear the musicians or do anything but toil through dusty scrolls…"

"You've no idea!" Martina said, surprised and pleased. For the first time, her face opened, losing the frightened mask. "Maxian is a dear-but he'll work until everyone is dead without notice or a care! I have to speak quite forcefully to him, sometimes."

"Good," Anastasia said in an approving voice. "Some young men need guidance or they'll ignore the house while it burns." She gestured to one of the maids, politely lurking just out of earshot. The girl hurried over with a pair of fluted, delicate glasses, half-filled with a sparkling golden draught. "Here, my dear," Anastasia said, deftly taking both glasses. "Try this-it will make you forget your cares! It's from Gaul."

Martina drank from hers, both small hands on the glass. She tasted, her nose wrinkled up, she sneezed, and then she laughed. "Oh dear! It has bubbles!" Embarrassed, the Empress covered her mouth.

"It does," Anastasia said, taking a sip. The liquor was sweet and sharp on her tongue. "There is a temple of Dionysos in Gallica Belgica, where the vines are blessed and the wine light and delightful. My late husband owned some shares…" She raised the glass, tipping it against Martina's in a toast. "…and I have reaped the bounty of his investment for many years." The Duchess smiled again, leaning close to Martina. "But I do not share it with just anyone."

Martina smiled back, eyes twinkling. "Well, thank you for your confidence, Duchess. I am glad to be out of hot foundry rooms and in clean, breathable air!"

Anastasia was about to reply when a peal of bronze-throated trumpets sounded, ringing back from the high, curved ceiling with a martial blast. Everyone froze, silent expectation settling over the crowd, then all turned as one. A brace of Praetorians, breastplates gleaming silver in the lamps, appeared in the main hall. The mob of senators and merchants and Legion officers parted.

Drat! fumed the Duchess, catching sight of Martina's open, happy face closing up, becoming suspicious and mask-like. Just another few minutes and we'd have been best friends…

The Emperor appeared at the top of the steps, his son settled on one hip, his wife's hand raised shoulder height in his own. He was clad in pure white linen, a circlet of golden holly imprisoning his habitually lank hair and dark red boots. Beside him, the Empress of the West was appropriately subdued, in a dark, velvety brown, highlighted with old red gold at her neck, wrists and around her thin waist.

"The Augustus and God," bawled one of the Praetorians, his voice booming through the garden, "Galen Atreus, Emperor of the West, Protector of the East! The noble Empress, Helena, and their son and heir, Theodosius!"

The trumpets pealed again, echoes ringing through the halls, then falling away into silence. Galen, looking down into the garden, saw Anastasia and smiled, inclining his head. The Duchess knelt in response, making a flourish. Out of the corner of her eye, Anastasia saw Martina twitch nervously, then make a polite half-bow.

"Lord and God," the Duchess called, her clear voice cutting through quiet air. "We are graced and honored by your presence." Capturing Martina's hand again, she ascended the steps, taking care to match her pace to Martina's-who lagged, feet dragging, nervous and out of her depth. "Please, partake of my house, the entertainments, anything you might desire."

"Thank you, it is our pleasure." Galen said, managing a tired smile. Up close, Anastasia fought to keep down a frown. The Emperor's eyes were smudged with fatigue, his skin a poor color even disguised by powders and crushed rose dust. "Hello, Martina. Are you and your son well?"

"Yes, Lord Galen," Martina responded, her voice tight with nervousness. "And yours?"

Galen looked down at Theodosius, who was staring around with interest, most of one hand stuffed into his mouth. Anastasia felt a pang, seeing a flicker of happiness pass in the Emperor's face as he looked upon his son. "He is very well, thank you."

"Empress," the Duchess said, bowing to Helena, "welcome to my house."

"Thank you, Duchess. I see you've invited everyone I'd forgotten existed," the Empress replied, inclining her head to Anastasia. The Duchess stiffened, seeing her old friend was in a particularly sharp mood. The cutting tone in the woman's voice seemed to touch Martina as well, and the Duchess felt the Eastern Empress' grip tighten. Trying to reassure the girl, Anastasia gave an answering squeeze.

"My lord, my lady," Anastasia said quickly, before Martina had to respond, "will you be presiding this evening? Or simply private citizens, at the house of an old friend?" At the same time, the Duchess tried to catch Helena's eye, but the Western Empress was looking Martina over with a particularly calculating gaze.

"We are just private citizens," Helena said, before Galen could respond. "The party is for our dear brother-in-law, Prince Maxian, isn't it? We wouldn't want to spoil his chances for a good time by hovering, or making people bow every time we walked by. Besides, things are formal enough in the palace. Don't you think so, husband?"

"Of course." Galen nodded, seemingly relieved. Theodosius grabbed for a sweetmeat from a passing tray and the Emperor captured a grubby hand before it spilled the platter. Distracted by his son, Galen failed to notice the tense air between the three women. "Ah, good, there's Gaius Julius! Excuse me, ladies…"

"Helena," Martina said into the silence as the Emperor departed. "Good evening."

The Western Empress' eyes narrowed and Anastasia realized Martina had neither bowed nor used an honorific in addressing the older woman. And why not, the Duchess thought despairingly, she's an Empress as well, and Helena's equal…

"Good evening," Helena said, one long, dark eyebrow inching up. "Martina. A lovely dress." She tilted her head a little to one side. "Is this the fashion in Constantinople?"

The Duchess felt the girl flinch at the Western Empress' turned lip. Helena, in comparison, was very plainly dressed, even austere. The younger woman's gown exposed too much cream-colored breast and her jewels and gold now seemed overdone-even crass-when measured against Helena's restrained antiques. Anastasia glared at Helena, but the Empress just raised her head, looking back at her friend with a cool expression.

"Thank you," Martina managed to say, swallowing the beginnings of a stutter.

"You're welcome," Helena said, eyes glittering. "How is your son? Still healthy, I hope. Little Theodosius would miss playing with him. You know he is welcome to stay with us at any time."

"Heracleonas is a strong, healthy boy," Martina said, an edge of anger creeping into her voice. "Theo's colic has passed, has it?"

"Oh, yes," Helena said, making a dismissive wave with a pale white hand. "Did you come with anyone tonight? I worry you've no one of your own station to attend such events with."

Anastasia felt her heart sink into her stomach. What has gotten into her tonight? The Western Empress looked around, as if she searched for one of the great nobles of the East. Why remind the girl her husband is dead?

"I came," Martina bit out, "with the prince Maxian." Her fingers slipped from Anastasia's, balling into fists. The Duchess saw some of the senatorial wives lingering, eyes bright with interest, sharp ears pricked. Anastasia turned, shielding the two women from prying eyes, a hand on either Empress' arm.

"You did?" Helena smiled, though the motion did not reach her eyes. "That was kind of him. He is busy these days… everyone is, I suppose, with such dreadful things happening."

For a moment, Martina seemed to freeze solid, a flush rising at her throat. Then she mastered herself, essayed a brittle smile, and said, "We are busy, Helena, there are many projects underway, all in the service of the Emperor and the State." Her green eyes narrowed. "We will need every advantage to destroy the Persians."

"Oh," Helena said, one tapered fingernail pressed to her chin in a pose of remembering. "I'd quite forgotten you work for the prince, collating the news of ancient days, searching for some fragment that might yield us victory." The Western Empress smiled, making a little bow. "This evening must be a welcome diversion, then."

Anastasia flinched inwardly and closed her eyes for the smallest moment. An image of Martina's face filling with fury at the word work remained. Then she took a deep breath and caught Helena's arm. "My dear, I must show you something new and marvelous in the glass hall…" With a despairing look over her shoulder at Martina, who was almost shaking with rage, face white, barely restrained fury glittering in her eyes, Anastasia hauled the Western Empress away by main force.

Helena laughed as they passed into the portico leading from the inner garden to the outer.

"Oh, dear," the Empress said, chuckling, "did you see her face?"

"What has gotten into you?" Anastasia's tone was frigid. Helena stopped short, surprised.

"Oh, don't tell me you and the little lost princess are friends now? What a horror!"

"A horror?" The Duchess pushed Helena into a side chamber, thankfully empty and ornamented with enormous vases and ostrich-feather plumes. "She's young, inexperienced, bereft and desperately lonely. Why are you being so cruel?"

"I don't know." Helena leaned back against the smooth marble of the nearest urn, a sulky expression on her face. "She's such a fat little brown mouse, all weepy-eyed and pitiful. I don't like her."

Anastasia restrained a groan of despair, then marshaled herself. "You, of all people, should understand how she feels-weren't you lonely when you first came to Rome? Didn't you hate the proud matrons and their cutting tongues? I remember how unhappy you were-"

"Oh, please!" Helena stood away from the urn, eyes flashing. "Galen had been Emperor only a month, with blood still on his boots! The little twit has been an Empress for nearly a decade. There's no reason she should mope about-so her husband is dead, her son still lives, and there is every chance Heracleonas will be restored to his throne. Galen certainly intends to see him there!" The Empress paused, a calculating look filling her face. "Though the young often die unexpectedly-"

"Be quiet!" Anastasia glared at Helena, fingers pressed against the Empress' lips. "Do not say such things-you've your own son-would you want others to wish him ill?"

"No, I suppose not." Helena batted away the Duchess' hand. "She grates on me and the way she looks at Maxian… I'll not have her as a sister-in-law!"

Anastasia gave her an arch look. "How would you prevent such a match? The boy needs a wife, she needs a husband, and marrying Martina would ensure the loyalty of the Eastern nobility."

"No," Helena spat, lips twisting, "I will not make a rival to my son and his demesne."

"The East is our ally!" Anastasia was horrified and let it show, staring in amazement at Helena. "Heracleonas is not a rival!"

"No?" The Western Empress' expression grew grim, swift as night falling on some barren plain. "I know how the little mouse thinks. She's already clawed her way out of one dynastic wreck-her stepson lies dead in the ruins of Constantinople. The brother who hated her is struck down, taking with him all organized opposition." Helena raised a finger, forestalling another outburst from Anastasia. The Empress' voice became quiet and serious. "Listen to me, Duchess. Now she is here, among us, with her eye on my brother-in-law. He may be powerful, but he is not paying attention to the currents moving around him. If she captures his fancy, inveigles him to marry her, then her son's future is assured. Heracleonas will sit on the throne of the East-and more, he would be heir to the West as well…"

"Only if something happens to Galen, and you, and Theodosius…" Anastasia looked over her shoulder, suddenly wary. "Why would that happen? Have you heard something?"

"I have." Helena's expression grew even colder. She stepped to the doorway, peering out. After a moment, she raised her hand. Anastasia drew back the edge of a draped tapestry, eyes following the Empress' pointing finger. "Who is the prince's wise councilor? His eyes, ears, mouth in the city?"

"Gaius Julius," Anastasia replied tiredly, seeing the man himself, standing tall among a crowd of the Palatine secretaries and officials, face beaming with a genial smile, his hands in sharp motion as he related some amusing story. The Duchess let the drape fall. She met Helena's eyes and found a mocking smile on the Empress' lips. "You're sure he-"

"Aren't you?" Helena shook her head in dismay. "Aren't you the master of intrigue? He is Caesar-the only sober man who ever tried to overthrow the Senate!"

Anastasia shrugged, checking her earrings. She felt tired and the night was still young. "I concede the point. There is, possibly, danger."

"And so?" Helena raised an eyebrow again. "What will you do about her?"

"Nothing violent!" Anastasia made a sign to avert evil fortune. "In any case, I was well on my way to making friends with her… before your heedless tongue spoiled everything."

"Huh." Helena looked out into the garden again, frowning. "She's hanging on him again, like… like a limpet, or a leech, or something equally slimy from some eastern bog."

"You are not helping." Anastasia stepped into the doorway, giving the Empress a sharp look. "If Martina is your friend, Gaius is denied a weapon, and the danger to your son all the less."

Helena made a sour face. Giving up for the moment, the Duchess hurried off. A hostess' work is never done.

"Hello, dear." Anastasia slipped up beside Martina, who had found refuge in the outside garden, at the edge of a maze of ivy hedges and stunted ornamental trees. The Eastern Empress barely looked up, her makeup smudged, her nose red. "I am sorry," the Duchess continued, settling onto the curving marble bench. "I've spoken sharply with the Empress Helena, minding her to keep a civil tongue in my house."

Martina laughed, a harsh bark, and turned, eyes filled with wounds. "It doesn't matter, Lady Anastasia. She'll hate me all the more, no matter what you might say. Don't place yourself in any danger on my account."

"Danger?" The Duchess brushed a blue-black curl away from her face. "Helena and I have known each other for a long time-we've quarreled before and I've come out none the worse." Anastasia sighed, making a polite show of despair. "But you and she… seem star-crossed, always at odds! Is there some history between you two, some old grudge?"

"No," Martina said, looking down at her feet. "She always yells at me and tells me I've done the wrong thing. She doesn't like my clothes, my jewels or the way I set my hair. I feel ugly when she looks at me."

"Dear, your hair is beautiful and your clothes exceptional." The Duchess moved closer, brushing wayward curls away from the girl's face. "The Emperor is your friend-and he will not forget you or your son. Look up, now." Anastasia raised Martina's chin, gently. The Duchess met a tearful gaze with a calm, determined expression. "You are still Empress of the East. You have no peer, save Helena, which-I think-is part of what sets her on edge. Go find the prince, stand with him, speak politely and with interest to anyone who speaks with you." Anastasia's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Stand straight and ignore the cold eyes and whispers. You are an Empress!"

"But I have no empire," Martina said mournfully, nervous fingers bunching up the train of her gown. The transparent drape was tangled in her jewelry. "I am in exile."

"You have powerful friends," the Duchess said, rescuing the silk and smoothing it back into proper shape with gentle fingers. "The prince Maxian not least of them…"

Martina started to answer, then fell silent, though her eyes lit with relief. Anastasia turned, hearing a whisper of bare feet on the grass.

"Lord Prince," the Duchess said, rising from the bench, so she might kneel properly. "Welcome again."

"Hello." Maxian came to a halt, looking down at the two women. Anastasia, eyes demurely downcast, noticed his pale feet were grass-stained and had to suppress a laugh.

"Martina-are you all right?" The prince knelt, one knee on the bench. "Gaius Julius said you seemed unhappy."

The Eastern Empress rubbed her nose in embarrassment. "It's nothing."

"Nothing?" The Duchess rose. She caught Maxian's eye. "Your dear sister-in-law does not think Martina's hair or dress are suitable for my party. I have spoken to her-but Helena is in a particularly foul mood this evening."

"I see." Maxian nodded, avoiding Anastasia's eyes. He took Martina's hand, then drew her to her feet. "I've been on the wrong end of her sharp tongue myself." The prince grinned, and the exhaustion and fatigue clouding his face faded a little. The Duchess was struck by how alike Maxian and Galen seemed-a particular hollow look, filled with a brittle energy pressing them to nervous action. They both seemed to be stretched. "Martina-her bad humor will pass. It always does. The next time you see her, she'll be the sun to tonight's moon."

Anastasia started a little, reminded of an errand by the prince's turn of phrase. "Oh, Lord Prince, may I-as hostess-ask you-as a guest-for a small favor?"

"Of course," the prince said, finally meeting her eyes. "What can I do?"

The Duchess stared for a moment, disturbed by vivid memories, and she squinted in the dim light. The prince's eyes seemed a different color than she remembered. Had they changed-were they sharper? Did they gleam with an inner light in this half-darkness? Too, his face seemed thinner, more angular. Wrinkles had begun to appear where once the flesh of youth had been taut and smooth. With a start, she saw single white hairs threaded through his dark brown hair. Where is the brash young man, so filled with the vigor of youth, who laughed in my bed? Swallowed, consumed, by the Empire and this endless war…

"Duchess?" Maxian canted his head to one side, concerned. "Do you feel faint?"

"No-no, I am fine. I was just thinking of how… old I feel, seeing you two. But no matter-later in the evening, there will be a performance. Acrobats, tumblers, that sort of thing-but I envision a fancy to make the entertainment special. Lord Prince, may I trouble you for a little magic?"

Maxian's face, which had grown still and quiet while she spoke-even suspicious-cleared and he laughed. "Of course, Duchess, I would be delighted to please your guests."

"Good. But later, my lord. Martina, please sit again, and I will send servants with wine and pastries. And I will make sure"-here the Duchess inclined her head, barely disguising a grin-"you are not disturbed by the sharp-tongued or the witless."

Martina nodded, clutching the prince's hand, but said nothing. Anastasia made to say more, seeing the girl's other hand knotting in her dress, but the prince clasped both his over Martina's. "Duchess, let me lend you my skill now-Martina, rest here a moment and I will be right back-and our evening may continue, uninterrupted."

"Thank you, my lord," Anastasia said, dimpling. "That is very kind."

The Duchess turned away and walked back toward the house. The prince followed, nervously tucking long straight hair behind his ears.

"This is a strange sight, an Empress alone amid such a splendid party."

Martina looked up into twinkling green eyes set in a noble face. "Master Gaius."

"May I sit with you for a moment?"

The Eastern Empress made a desultory gesture to the bench with her head, chin resting on both hands. "As you wish."

Gaius Julius sat, one thick-knuckled hand on his knee, the other gathering up his toga with the ease of long practice. In the light of so many candles, the pure white wool gleamed, and Martina thought the old man seemed younger, revitalized, far different from the serious, hard-working official attending the Emperor's council meetings.

"You do not seem happy tonight, my lady."

The Empress did not respond, continuing to stare at the ornamental trees and carefully pruned rosebushes. After waiting a moment, Gaius Julius nodded to himself, then sat quietly as well, eyes closed. The following silence dragged and at last the Empress turned her head, eyes narrowed to bare slits.

"I haven't given you proper thanks," she said, "for suggesting I help the prince with his research."

"You're welcome," Gaius Julius said, eyes still closed. "Is it interesting?"

"Hah!" Martina sat up straight. "The scraps of the past are interesting, in a dull numbers-and-lines sort of way. Too many documents reflecting the mundane, and too few filled with history. I have found almost nothing about our opponent-the old Greeks and Romans were more interested in themselves than in the doings of Persian and Parthian wizards."

Gaius Julius nodded in sympathy. "Have you found anything?"

"A hint," Martina said, scowling. "There is a letter, written by a Syrian merchant who traveled in old Parthia, before the rise of the house of Sassan. He relates a tale heard round a campfire in the north, while he was on the road from Roman Armenia to Ecbatana. He describes the rituals of priests dwelling in a great temple at a place called Gazaca. The merchant also describes the lord of light, Ahura-Madza, and his great enemy, Ahriman. He tells of an 'eternal' flame burning in the temple's heart and how this light holds back 'the night' and the might of Ahriman and his servants."

"Interesting," Gaius said. "I have always heard the Parthians and Persians followed a god of light-the more disturbing, now, as this enemy the prince fought is wholly of darkness."

"There is more," Martina said, gritting her teeth. "As you may know, I accompanied my husband on his campaign in Persia and Armenia three years ago. He wished to keep me close by, to ensure my safety from his enemies. During our journey, after the great victory at Kerenos River, he mentioned in passing the careful destruction of a Persian fire temple, a great one, at a town named Ganzak. He had sent his brother, the lamentable Theodore, to destroy the place-hoping to put the fear of Rome into the hearts of the Persians, to deny them the surety of faith and the comfort of their god's favor."

"Ah," Gaius said, running a hand over his balding pate. "The same town? The name distorted by time and changing dialect? In light of later events, you do not think that a wise decision."

"No." Martina bit her thumb, attention far away from the party and the glowing lanterns. "I think… I think the destruction of the temple let something enter the world. A dark spirit. A servant of Ahriman, perhaps…"

"But not the god itself?"

"Don't be a fool," Martina replied, giving the old Roman a quelling look. "If the Serpent Lord had burst into the world, we would all be dead, devoured by unquenchable hunger. No… I fear something less awesome escaped from the outer darkness. Some servant of the dark god-and the Persians have turned their faces from Ahura-Madza's light.

"You have not lived in the East, Master Gaius," she said, still chewing on a thumbnail. "The West is blessedly free of these dark spirits-but I know the Persians are aware of them, and believe. Their fortunes were abject after Ctesiphon and Chrosoes fell. I think they turned aside from the safe path, seeking victory and revenge at any cost. And look! Constantinople is theirs, Syria is theirs… Egypt besieged, our armies and fleets defeated."

Gaius Julius rubbed his temples, deep in thought. "Have you told the prince?"

"Yes," Martina said. "He agrees. He has redoubled his labors."

"Can he defeat a servant of Ahriman? A demigod?"

Martina managed a faint, weak smile. "He believes he can. He says victory will be a matter of 'arranging proper circumstance.'"

Gaius nodded approvingly. "Very wise. Has he told you what he intends?"

"No. He is being very secretive. I have not pressed him. I know he and Galen have argued about this matter, more than once. They are far from compromise on matters of sorcery. The Emperor refuses to believe such powers walk the earth."

"I know." The old Roman's face fell, revealing his own exhaustion and fear. "Things have changed-our Legions are no longer enough, our bravery and discipline are not enough-this has become a time of gods and monsters." Martina was startled to hear the weariness in the man's voice-ever before he had been calm and confident, always ready with a witty remark or a well-thought proposal.

The Empress realized, sitting on the bench beside the old man, she was not alone in her fear and uncertainty. She looked up and around, watching the faces of the nobles and courtesans and officers milling on the villa porch. Is everyone afraid, she wondered? Do we all feel a dreadful weight in the air and taste bitter defeat when we eat and drink?

Suddenly, she felt comfortable with the old man, and put her hand over his.

"Gaius, we have more than mortal soldiers to defend the Empire. We have have Maxian and his strength. Soon, the iron drakes will come forth from the forges of Florentina and Rome will rule the upper air. The world has changed, but Rome is changing too. Whatever comes from the east, we will match and overcome."

"Well spoken," Gaius said, looking up. A brilliant smile lit his face. "You cheer me, lady. So many troubles swirl around us, my confidence has been shaken. These intrigues and threats… they sap a man's strength, leave him morose, depressed, defeated before he even takes his place in the line of battle. There is no better antidote than swift, assured action."

"True enough." She paused, looking at him quizzically. "What intrigues depress you, Master Gaius?"

The old man snorted, looking around. His good humor sharpened and he pointed with his chin. "Rome is an old city, my dear, filled with all sorts of vipers. Our hostess, for example…"

"Anastasia? She has been kind to me, Master Gaius. Don't blacken her name!"

"She is kind," Gaius said, nodding sagely. He was quite cheerful now. "Don't you understand her role in all this? You've sat in the same councils I have… she is Galen's spymaster, his hunting hound, his judicious dagger. You mustn't trust her, Empress."

"Why not?"

"Because," he said, regarding her with an wistful expression, "she would have you murdered, and your son too, if Galen did not need you and little Heracleonas so badly. I am, I fear, in the same situation, as is the prince, whom we both love and serve."

Martina raised an eyebrow, but her color was improving as well. "Do you love the prince?"

"What recourse do I have?" Gaius laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "He is my patron and I his client. You may not know me well, my dear, but I am accounted generous and I do not forget my friends or those who have helped me. I am merciful to my enemies, open-handed to my allies and forgiving of those who do me wrong. Of all men, only young Maxian has won my unswerving, perfect, complete and unimpeachable loyalty. So-I do love him, as a man loves the finest friend of his heart."

The Empress clapped her hands together softly. "Well spoken, poet."

Gaius Julius blushed, running a broad hand over his bare crown, and looked away.

"Do you think the Duchess would have me and my son killed, or do you know this?"

The old Roman bit his lower lip, sighing. "It is what I would do, were our positions reversed. Indeed, she may be pressed to action by circumstance-or even ordered by the Emperor."

"The Emperor!" Shock flickered across Martina's face. "He has proved a good friend, Master Gaius. He has taken me in, afforded me every courtesy, shown me all respect. While I do not enjoy interminable meetings with him and his staff, he has not excluded me from anything touching upon my son's realm. I know him now, Gaius; he is the most honest and forthright of men."

"I know." Grief tinged the old Roman's soft words. "He is truly a noble Roman. Yet…"

"Yet, what?" Martina was becoming irritated.

"…he lies each night in the bed of a woman who looks upon you with hatred, my lady. Who watches your son with gimlet eyes, gauging the length of his life with her own measure."

"Sss…" Martina hissed reflexively, face tightening in anger. "Helena."

"I watch her, my lady, very carefully." Gaius paused, allowing himself a small chuckle. "I fancy she thinks I dote on her or harbor some unvoiced devotion. I must admit she is a beautiful woman-elegant, restrained, as purely Roman as her husband-with a sharp wit, an agile mind and a volcanic temper." The old Roman glanced sideways at Martina, seeing the girl quail inwardly, biting her lip.

"As I observe, Empress, I see her watching you and Prince Maxian. I see her eyes darken with anger, I see her lips draw back from shining teeth, I see her hands clutch as if she crushed the life from a weakling throat."

"She hates me so much?" Martina said, panic rising in her voice.

"Oh, no," Gaius said, voice settling to a whisper. The Empress leaned close. "She cares nothing for you. It is your son she fears and hates. Or any child that might spring from your womb and the prince's loins."

"Our child?" Martina drew back, blinking, surprised. Gaius shook his head at her in concern.

"Dear lady, you can account the begetting of Imperial sons as well as any. A child from your union would be heir to East and West alike, should anything happen to the young masters Heracleonas and Theodosius. Helena is not a stupid woman-she knows how to ensure her son's patrimony. Wouldn't you fear the same thing, for your son?"

Martina nodded, remembering another bleak time. "I have. Theodore tried to use my stepson Constantius against me. But-Galen would not allow her to harm me. Anastasia would argue my case, Maxian would protect me! All I desire is my son on his rightful throne, in our proper city!"

"I know." Gaius Julius caught her agitated hand and settled it on his knee. "While the prince retains his brother's favor, while the Duchess is our friend, there is little to fear. Helena and her spite will be held in check by their good counsel. So do not worry, there is only the promise of danger."

The Empress nodded absently, nibbling on the skin around her thumb. "This is dangerous," she said in a worried tone. "We cannot afford strife among ourselves, not now. We must all work together, as one, to guide the Empire and overmaster Ahriman's servants. Doesn't Helena understand this?"

Gaius Julius hid a sharp, quick grin. "I hope so," he replied. "Otherwise, our defeat is certain."

Helena drifted through a crowd of olive merchants and provincial senators, expression tight and composed, avoiding eye contact, smiling politely for the room and ignoring anyone who attempted to speak to her. The rustics-Gauls, Britons and Africans-parted before her, some bowing, others pretending to ignore the Empress. She ignored them in turn-an acceptable exchange, she thought-and moved on. Ahead, the statue of Poseidon loomed above a sea of chattering people, deep in inconsequential conversations, wrapped in gossip, involved in their own small intrigues and plots.

The Empress caught sight of her son, head and shoulders above the crowd. Theodosius was sitting on his father's shoulders, chubby hands wrapped around Galen's forehead. Despite his burden, the Emperor was deep in conversation. The boy watched everything with wide eyes, following the passage of a troupe of dusky-skinned dancers and tambourine players with interest. Ostrich and peacock plumes danced over their heads, making a waving forest above the carefully combed hairstyles of the Romans.

"Husband." Helana reached Galen's side, touching his arm. Theodosius looked down, saw his mother and reached out small round arms to her. The Empress took her son, sliding him to her hip. Galen smiled in greeting, while pulling his laurel wreath from a pocket inside his toga and putting it back on his head.

"Hello, Helena. How is the party?"

"Dull," she said in an acid tone, ignoring the tribunes and legates around her husband. The officers' attention flicked between Emperor and Empress, then most began moving away, disappointed, with eyes averted. The unmarried officers lingered a moment, hoping to keep Galen's attention. One tried to speak, but caught Helena's icy glare and swallowed his words. "Walk on the terrace with me."

Galen frowned in surprise and tried to catch her hand. Helena was already moving away, her son clutched in her arms, head high. Grimacing, the Emperor hurried after her, irritation mounting at her rude behavior. They passed through a pair of double-wide mahogany doors fitted with small rectangular clear-glass windows.

The cool night air flooded over Galen and he sighed in relief. He hadn't realized how hot and close the hall had become. He stretched tired arms, feeling his mood improve. Helena turned, pacing down the long, covered porch looking out over the ornamental gardens behind the villa. Galen followed, steps slowing as he took in the tracery of lights and lamps hung along the walls. Beyond the high walls, rooftops and temple domes glittered in starlight. The Emperor felt memory tug, then sighed in remorse. The white buildings, shining with marble, reminded him of Alpine crags under the moon, though not so grand or vast as the Helvetian mountains.

He realized he missed the high meadows, the glare from hanging ice, the rush of water over glossy stones, the smell of heather and bluebells on the slopes, the tang of pine burning in a fire. The silhouette of an eagle turning against a brilliant cerulean sky. He remembered a year spent in the high country; a young, inexperienced centurion, tramping narrow trails and snowbound passes, watching for bandits, rustlers, raiding Goths and Germans. His chest tightened, compressed by the crowded city. I miss the open air, sharp wind in my face, the creaking weight of my armor, the feel of sweat running down my back, even the food… gods, I hate this place!

Helena stopped, parking herself in shadow between two windows. She turned Theodosius' head to her shoulder, where he immediately went to sleep, arms tight around her neck. Galen reached for her free hand, finding it cold and stiff.

"What troubles you, love?"

"Would…" Helena paused, unsure of what to say. Galen was surprised-when did she ever lack for words? — and looked closely at her face, seeing a reflection of his own weariness, mixed with barely hidden anger. "Gales, if I asked you for something, something political, would you do it for me?"

"What kind of thing?" He felt a jolt-the moment of glad emotion, drawn from old memories, was cast aside-replaced by wariness. Long ago they had struck an arrangement to order their lives, making a house with two rooms-one for matters of state, and one for themselves, where the business of the Empire should not enter. Something political would cross the threshold between the two. Galen felt his right eye twitch and the tickle of an oncoming headache stir.

"I am…" She paused again, shaking her head. Her fingers tightened on his, nails biting into the flesh of his palm. "I am worried and I want to protect my-our-son. This may seem strange, but you must listen and consider my request seriously."

As Helena spoke, she straightened up, looking him in the eye. Galen settled back a little, nodding for her to go on. The Empress visibly gathered herself.

"Your brother-Maxian-is becoming involved with the Empress Martina. Did you know this?"

"I have eyes," Galen said, but there was no rancor in his tone. "This worries you?

"Yes," Helena nodded sharply. "Do you favor a match between them?"

Galen blinked, a little surprised. "Well, I hadn't really thought about it… but I see the Emperor must have an opinion." He sighed in understanding, shaking his head and looking out at the garden. "I have tried to stay out of my brother's personal life. Once, long ago, I promised our mother I would protect him-keep him out of trouble and out of Imperial service! Both Aurelian and I were already in the Legion then. She didn't want him to wind up like us, or our father. His talents had not yet revealed themselves. But now? He is our custos, by order of the Senate. My left hand, if Horse is my right." Galen looked at Helena, a sad half-smile barely touching his lips.

"I am distracted and busy, my love, but I think I see your fear. Should Martina and Maxian wed, their son would have a claim to the West, while ruling the East. It is an old dream-both here and in Constantinople-to reunite the Empire. Our current amity and alliance is newly born, barely six years old. Dreams might push a young man, new on his throne, flush with heady power, to grasp for both hanging fruit, rather than just the one."

Helena nodded, clutching her son tight to her chest. Theodosius made a happy, burbling sound.

"Maxian is his own man," Galen continued, musing softly, speaking almost to himself. "Our father is dead, making the three of us adults and heads of our own households. Martina is a suitable match-I cannot invoke some hoary old law, forbidding marriage by a patrician out of his class-and doing so would only insult the Eastern lords and cause an immediate rift between our two domains. Do you think they want to marry?"

"She will." Helena's voice was flat and emotionless. "She will think of her son."

"Two little boys," Galen said, trying to lighten the tone. "Rolling and playing in the mud at soldiers, as gladiators, the best of friends… you think they will grow to opposition, at each other's throat with bare steel?"

"I read," Helena replied, tears beginning to sparkle at the corners of her eyes. "I read of the past and see brother strangling brother, husbands drowning wives, children murdering their fathers, sending their mothers away into prison and exile. I read-and I see men reduced to pretending buffoonery so they might live amid slaughter, or prostituting their sisters, daughters and wives to win the favor of the Senate." The Empress' eyes grew brighter, but she fought back the tears and clear anger shone in her face instead. "Men will do anything to wear the laurel crown, don the red boots, lift the white rod."

"And women?" Helena looked so grief-stricken, disconsolate, her fingers digging into the child's arm. Galen felt his chest tighten again. "What would you do?"

"I will kill," Helena whispered, "to protect my son and see he lives."

The Emperor nodded, feeling a vast weight settle on his shoulders. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking refuge in soft darkness. "Very well. I will speak to Maxian, when next time and circumstance permit privacy. If he wishes to marry Martina, I will approve and applaud, but only on the condition he and his forswear their Latin patrimony."

Galen opened his eyes, brushing a hand over his son's thin hair. "Then I will claim Theodosius-even though he is but a child-as my official heir. Maxian's sons, if he is blessed with any, will rule only the East, not the West."

Helena made no response, pressing her lips to the boy's head. Galen watched her, waiting. A long time passed and then the Empress said in a hoarse, ghastly voice: "We cannot cast the East aside? Or impress our own rule upon them? Send Martina into exile, blinded, tongue slit-her son rendered harmless?"

"No!" Galen shook himself, shocked. "We are too weak and hard-pressed by Persia. I have no Legions spare to garrison the East, even if we could subdue the Eastern lords. If either Empire is to survive, we must fight together, in common accord."

"Compromise," Helena said, "digs a shallow grave for more than one."

"It is all we have." Galen took his wife's hand, pressing her cold fingers to his cheek. "My love, your son will live and he will grow strong. In time he will sit on my throne. You have my word. Maxian is my brother-and our friendship, our love, is strong. We disagree of late over tactics, not our family. What you fear will not come to pass. He is my brother!"

Helena's eyes were pooled darkness. "So said Agamemnon as he drowned, throat crushed in Aegisthus' brawny hands. I do not fear Maxian, but his son, or his son's son."

"Anything can happen, Helena! Such a dreadful path you see before us…"

"I watch your face while you sleep, husband," she replied, face drowned in shadow, only the pale hair of the boy revealed by the lamps. "Each day, your burden grows. These are dreadful times. Who is to say the future will be better?"

"I do." Galen stood straighter. "What other purpose do I have?" He gave Helena a sharp look. "Now-I will do as you ask, but you must do your part as well, for amity and goodwill. Regardless of what else happens, you must make peace with Martina-she is your sister empress-and our ally. Neither slight nor stifle her, but make her your friend, if you can."

Helena responded with a glare of her own, but Galen stood, waiting, until she-at last-nodded in agreement. He could tell she was not pleased and hid a sigh, knowing he would hear about this again, at length.

Bronze dolphin trumpets pealed, ringing bright and clear against the gilt satyrs and painted shepherdesses staring down from the domed ceilings. Quiet settled over the crowd, even near the banquet tables where the boards groaned under the weight of the Duchess' feast. A centurion, barrel-chested, throat like an oak root, stepped up onto a bench near the inner garden. "Citizens, guests, officers! Our hostess commands you attend her in the garden and look upon the heavens above, filled with wonder and delight!"

Obediently, everyone began to file into the center of the villa. Maxian, looking very pleased with himself, pressed through the crowd in the opposite direction. In the short hall between the inner court and the outer garden, he found the Eastern Empress and Gaius Julius. The young woman's face was grave and the two were deep in conversation.

"Martina, excellent! Gaius, you too, come and see. The Duchess has commanded a performance and I have done a small bit to make it livelier than usual." The prince was grinning.

"It's not a dancing bear, is it?" Martina looked sourly at the close, hot crowd filling the hallway. Everyone in front of her was markedly taller than the Empress. "I don't like bears."

"No, no," Maxian said, taking her hand and Gaius' arm. "Come through here."

A drape slid aside at a wave of the prince's hand, starting the hackles on Gaius' neck to life, revealing a servant's corridor. A moment later Maxian pushed open a low ironbound door and they stooped through, finding themselves at the back of the garden, behind a bower of rowans and white-barked elms. The prince put a finger to his lips, urging silence, and the three slipped through a cluster of quiet servants to a staircase leading up into the kitchens.

"Stand here," Maxian whispered, picking up Martina and setting her on the highest step. "Watch the sky."

Above the branches, framed by white pillars and terra-cotta eaves on three sides, the vault of heaven stood in bright array. The river of milk was a gossamer veil, here and there a star shining through. Martina shifted, her hand on Maxian's shoulder, and started to speak. "What-"

The lamps suddenly died and the candles flickered out. Complete darkness filled the garden and the halls on either side. In the unexpected gloom someone squealed and there was muted laughter. Martina fell silent. Maxian put his hand over hers and she settled against him, arms on either shoulder.

A harp began to play, a light, shimmering sound. The low soft beat of one drum joined in, carrying the sound of the strings up and up, as if they rose to the glittering stars. Then a second drum, even deeper voiced than the first, woke to life. Maxian, still grinning in the dark, closed his left hand and mist rose. The drums rattled up, beat quickening, speeding like a runner on desert sands. Still darkness filled the courtyard and the halls of the house.

Just when the watching people below began to stir, impatient, there was a soft twang and fluting pipes skirled, drowning the steady drums for a moment. Above, three figures appeared against the night sky, softly glowing, arms outstretched. Two girls and a boy, bare skin shining silver, long-colored ribbons wound through their hair. They ran across the sky, bare feet keeping close to some invisible track. The boy darted ahead, ribbons snapping behind as a comet's tail sweeps across the vault of night. Halfway across the courtyard, he sprang up, cartwheeling forward. The two girls followed close, only paces behind, and three whirling comets-shining silver, matching the stars, blazing ribbon flashing against sable firmament-rushed away into the darkness.

A gasp followed from below, as the crowd remembered to breathe.

The drums beat down to silence, the pipes falling to a breathy whisper. Everyone grew quiet. Again, the faint shivering twang fell from the air. The eastern sky brightened, flooding with a golden glow. Trumpets sounded, blaring a grand ovation. A man's head appeared, bent under an enormous, burning orb. He was muscled like a god and walked slowly on the air, toes splayed on either side of a barely visible cable. The sun rode on his back, a spherical lattice of fiercely blazing rods. The man strode across the sky, the orb shedding a cool, brilliant light upon the upturned faces below.

Behind the sun, as the bent man reached the halfway point, suddenly rushed the moon.

A pale sphere, glimmering, bouncing upon a lithe woman's outstretched hands. She sped across the sky, faster than the slow sun, springing in long bounds-the cable catching her on each landing, then springing back, wire singing like a blade, propelling her skyward-and the disk brightened and waned as she passed the sun, even as Luna changes in her courses.

Again, the cold moon vanished into the west, into gathering mist. Old Sol stumped on.

Those watching below began to clap, then fell silent. The burning sun guttered down, growing dim, radiance failing, leaving only a dim spark at the center of the lattice rods. The powerfully muscled man stopped, swaying slowly back and forth, shoulders slumped in weariness, his outstretched arms making small adjustments to keep in balance. Maxian heard a hiss of dismay from the crowd and Martina's fingers dug into his shoulders. He lifted his hands, palms towards the sky, and the mist responded, billowing out to swallow the sun. Now the west brightened, but this time with a sullen red glow. Sparks shot up from the rooftop, accompanied by a chaotic, rattling clamor of drums and tambourines and pipes. Burning motes streaked heavenward.

Everyone in the house groaned and at least one man cried out in rage.

The distinctive shape of Vesuvius appeared, outlined in flame, rising over the roof. The drums roared, a heavy, furious beat. Black mist flowed from half-seen vents, red worms writhing down night-shrouded slopes. The man holding the sun swayed, the last light failing. Darkness swallowed the scene, save the fitful glow of the burning mountain.

Maxian heard people crying in the darkness, though he was unmoved by the phantasm. Silently, he turned his palms toward one another and pressed them against the contained air, as if something stiff resisted him. Beyond the eastern roof, a sudden light flared, a shining white beam striking through the curdling mist, driving back the abyss of darkness. The sun-dead, cold, rods black as slate-was revealed. The muscled man continued to balance the orb on his back, swaying little by little from side to side. White light played across him, casting his face in sharp relief, his tense muscles growing huge under such scrutiny.

Four men of diverse races appeared from the east, backs arched, hands and toes gripping the cables. Bound to their backs was a four-square platform. With smooth grace, they scuttled forward, exemplary skill keeping the platform steady. Standing on their support, a man in white robes with a patrician face, bare ankles adorned by wings, wore a golden wreath on a high brow. He held aloft a crystal sphere, incandescent with white light. As he advanced, Maxian pushed his hands away from his chest and the mist and darkness boiled back. Vesuvius' refulgent glow dimmed, then vanished. The conical outline receded into mist and was gone.

The four crawling men scurried on until they came even with the sun. Now the muscled man rose, inch by inch, muscles straining, rolling the orb of the sun from his back and onto his hands. He stretched skyward, lifting the sphere of rods above his head. The noble Roman tossed the brilliant crystal into the air. The muscular man swayed, spinning the lattice and then deftly caught the flying crystal in a cup at the sphere's heart.

The sun blazed alight anew, flooding the courtyard and the sky with golden light. A cheer went up, torn from unwary throats, and everyone clapped furiously. No longer slow, the man bearing the sun ran off to the west along the cable, carrying the radiant orb away over the rooftop. Behind, the noble Roman bowed to the crowd gathered below, then the four bearers scuttled backward and in moments they too had vanished over the eastern roof.

Maxian snapped his fingers and every candle, lamp and torch in the house sprang alight.

A great clamor of glad voices rose, filling the air. The servants watching from the shadows of the arbor streamed away, chattering, their good humor restored. Even Gaius Julius was smiling.

"Nicely done," the old Roman said. "The winged feet were a good touch."

Maxian shrugged. "It was the Duchess' idea-I just added a little light."

"Hmph." Martina made a face, but seemed content to lean against the prince, hands clasped across his chest, her chin resting on the crown of his head. "No one can accuse her of subtlety-Rome lights the world, indeed!"

Gaius Julius gestured at the people crowding back into the hall, appetites restored, faces bright with cheer. "They needed something to revive their spirits. The Duchess invited everyone of importance in Rome and Latium-if their will flags, then the Empire suffers. Now they see their Emperor, see his son, their bellies are full, their senses replete. They are inspired-and tomorrow they will set to their tasks with greater vigor, with a lighter heart. I say again-well done!"

"Thank you, Gaius." Maxian made a small bow in reply. "But I did little. How passes your evening?"

The old Roman tilted his head to the Empress. "We have been talking, Martina and I. I thought you'd been working too hard-but she tells me what she's found about our enemy-"

Maxian raised an eyebrow, face going still, his expression becoming cold and forbidding.

"— and I cannot fault you! Is there anything else I can do to aid your search? I have no desire to live in a world ruled by a three-headed dragon that lives only to consume and torment the living." He paused, a catlike smile on this face. "Cicero as consul was bad enough."

The prince relaxed, nodding. "We need more of everything, Master Gaius. More time, more skilled workers, a better grade of iron ore, more money to pay them and purchase materials. I would appreciate the effort if you kept such concerns fresh in Galen's mind while we are up in Florentia."

"Of course." Gaius Julius rubbed his chin, feigning thought. "I am reminded of a note that lately crossed my desk-a bequest was made to you, Lord Prince, and the Emperor remanded the property to the Imperial Exchequer. I will remind him of your good and loyal service, urging him to use the bequest-through his hands, of course-to fuel your enterprises."

"What bequest was this?" Martina leaned over Maxian's shoulder, interest perked.

"A small matter," Gaius Julius smiled faintly. "An old friend made Lord Maxian his sole heir-as he had gone down to the halls of the dead without male issue-a suitable, princely sum!"

"Who was this?" The Empress flicked her fingers, bidding Gaius hurry with his revelation.

"The esteemed senator, Gregorius Auricus," the old Roman said, lowering his voice and making a sign to propitiate the gods. "Solely the richest man in Rome, save the Emperor himself. The master of vast estates, herds, flocks, wineries, oil presses, flour mills, merchant ship shares, bakeries-every possible source of wealth! All left for Maxian Atreus, without stipulation save 'to use for the good of Rome.'"

"Really?" Maxian was surprised and gratified. "How remarkable… but you say Galen refused to approve the inheritance?"

"Yes…" Gaius Julius made sort of a sickly smile. "The note-by the Emperor's hand-related the inheritance was being secured by the state, to finance the war and other… efforts."

Maxian laughed, with a little catch in his voice. Gaius Julius caught the change in tone, and hid another smile, though his eyes fairly gleamed. Martina, for her part, did not laugh at all.

"So," she said in an icy voice, "now the prince must petition for wealth rightly his? He must send polite notes, requesting his own revenues be released to himself? So he might continue his work, to strengthen the Empire and throw down these Persian monsters?"

"Yes-" Gaius started to say, but Maxian cut him off with a raised hand.

"This is within my brother's right-though I am puzzled by his decision. But, I will not argue the matter with him. That," the prince said with a smirk, "I leave to you, Gaius. Just get me the things I need." With that, the prince squeezed Martina's hand and stepped away. "I'm starving. Shall we eat?"

Martina did not answer. Instead, she gave Gaius Julius a look of such banked fury he stepped back in alarm. Ignoring them both, Maxian started off for the banquet tables.

"My lady?" the old Roman ventured quietly, as soon as the prince was out of earshot. She pursed her lips, obviously restraining a vigorous expression of disgust.

"Does the prince possess lands of his own, Master Gaius? His own livelihood?"

"Well…" Gaius Julius shrugged a little, clasping both hands behind his back. "Not to speak of-there are some small properties in his name; rundown apartment houses, a copper mine in Illyria; at one point he held a vineyard and estate on the slopes of unfortunate Vesuvius… nothing too large. Traditionally, the Emperor provides for his family-including any brothers or sisters."

"Does he?" The Eastern Empress' brown eyes narrowed. "Or rather, he keeps his brothers from accruing their own wealth, so as to protect his position." She paused, staring after the prince, who was following his nose to the food. "He doesn't care, does he?"

"Maxian? No-I don't think he does. It's not important to him."

Sympathy and anger warred in Martina's face for a moment, then her expression settled into a determined frown. "Then we will watch out for him," she said briskly. "To make sure he's not cheated again."

Anastasia was standing in an alcove just off the atrium of her house, when the water clock began to sound, signaling the seventh hour of the night. The party was winding down-more than half the guests had departed in small groups, escorted by link boys and armed slaves-and the chiming sound beat in her head like a hammer. Everyone else seemed determined to greet the rising sun over the ruins of her feast and many lesser lights were already asleep, curled up in corners or on the couches in the entertaining rooms.

The Duchess pressed the back of a thumb against her eyebrow, hoping to stave off an incipient and formidable migraine. In the brief instant, while her eyes were closed, she heard a murmur of voices and the clatter of boots and sandals on her tile floors. Someone is leaving, she thought, giddily. Oh good! Gathering herself, she stepped out into the hall and saw the departing guests were the prince, the Empress and the sly gray old shape of Master Gaius Julius.

"Lord Prince," Anastasia said, bowing slightly. "I am very pleased you came this evening. And thank you for your help. Without your 'additions,' I fear my little play would have fallen rather flat."

"My pleasure," Maxian said. He seemed very relaxed, his arm around Martina's waist, wine spots on his collar and sleeve. He smiled easily at her, as if they had always been old friends and never enemies. "Thank you, Duchess, for your hospitality. I'm glad our difference of opinion is in the past."

"Of course, my lord," she said, making a polite smile in return. With no desire to reopen old business-particularly with a happily drunk thaumaturge-she bowed to the Eastern Empress with a warm smile. "My lady Martina-I do hope your evening ended better than it began."

Martina, though she seemed quite content to lean her head on Maxian's chest, frowned at the Duchess. "You need," she said, in a slightly slurred voice, "to invite a better class of guests."

Anastasia felt her stomach-already brutalized by too much wine and too many salty olives-turn over queasily. And she's a mean drunk, the Duchess thought despairingly. At the same moment, she caught sight of Gaius Julius turning abruptly, looking behind him.

"My dear," Anastasia took Martina's hand. "I am so sorry-please, come again when you are in Rome, and we will sit together in private and have a wonderful, delightful time. I do not want your memory of my house to be distasteful."

"That would be nice," the Empress said, perking up. The Duchess saw her pupils were dilated and realized the young woman was half-asleep on her feet. "You have a nice house."

"Thank you." Stepping aside, Anastasia glanced over Martina's shoulder and saw, to her surprise, Gaius Julius deftly interposing himself between the prince, the Empress and an approaching Helena. The Western Empress was already clad in cloak and hood, her face tense. Oh, dear. "Come, I'll walk you out," she continued smoothly. "Your escort is waiting-alert and well-fed-I assure you!"

The porters were watching and the big door panels swung wide as they approached. The courtyard before the house was well-lit by torches and a bonfire. The warm night air flooded over them, carrying the sweet, heady smell of citrus and cooking smoke. Several Praetorians emerged, armor gleaming dully in the torchlight. They were alert, hands ready on the hilts of their swords, every other man carrying a lantern.

"My lord?" The centurion in charge of the detachment stepped up, saluting the prince. "Where bound tonight, Caesar?"

"Our house on the Cispian Hill," Maxian said, casting about for Gaius Julius. The older man appeared quickly, hurrying out of the house. As the old Roman passed Anastasia, he inclined his head and gave her a queer look, almost a wink or a nod. The Duchess did not respond, smiling politely, and kissed Martina on each cheek. The Empress smiled back, squeezing her hand.

"Good night," Anastasia said, watching them saunter out onto the street, surrounded by a moving wall of iron and bared steel. Despite the late hour and the prince's powers, his guardsmen were neither relaxed nor inattentive. The nighted streets of Rome were dangerous, even for members of the Imperial family.

"Well."

The Duchess turned, heart sinking, and found Helena waiting on the threshold, eyes glittering, watching the prince and his party disappearing down the street. "Helena, what-"

"What did I say to Gaius Julius or what did he say to me?"

Anastasia pursed her lips, registering the cold, even tone in her friend's voice. "What did you say?"

Helena drew up her hood. "I wished to speak with Empress Martina. I intended to apologize."

"And he said?" The Duchess looked down the street. Empty. Even the gleam of the torches on cobblestone was gone.

"He said the Empress was overtired and would be happy to speak with me at another time."

Anastasia closed her eyes again in relief, nodding to herself. Well done, old goat. Well done. "He was right, she was barely awake. Too much wine and food, I think."

"Really." The icy tone in the Empress' voice brought the Duchess around to face her again.

"Yes-I spoke with them both-she was barely intelligible." Anastasia stepped close to Helena, lowering her voice. "And she was drunk and irritable. Master Gaius did everyone a favor, I think, by keeping you apart."

Helena's lip twisted as she stepped away. "Should I send him a note in the morning, thanking him for insulting me?"

More Praetorians gathered inside and Anastasia heard the Emperor's voice raised in farewell.

"Listen to me," the Duchess hissed, drawing Helena into the shadows at the edge of the door. "You must know how delicate things are. I know Gaius is at work-my informers and spies are watching him every minute-and he is doing many things in the prince's name, not all of them known to our dear Maxian. This business of the Empress and her affection is just one of his plans."

Helena screwed up her face in a gruesome scowl. "So you want to win her away from him-not the prince him, but Gaius Julius him. With your own game and your own plans."

Anastasia nodded, watching the Empress' face intently. "Yes. You have to be civil to her, at least, if you cannot be friends."

Helena's scowl did not recede. "You watch him closely then, with an eagle's eye."

"Every moment," the Duchess replied. Then the Emperor was in the doorway, his son asleep on his shoulder, and everyone was bidding one another good night.