The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The Chamber of Sight, Palatine Hill

"Next window." Galen slumped sideways in his chair, face puffy with fatigue. "Next window."

The telecast shuddered and hummed, the rushing sound of spinning gears and wheels filling the room. The Emperor watched listlessly, forcing his mind to comprehend and classify each image as the device jumped and flickered. "Next…"

The scene suspended in the burning disk flashed and another section of sandstone wall came into view. Square windows bisected by iron bars drifted by. Galen could see people moving about within, sitting at low writing tables or shuffling baskets of scrolls from place to place. Business is business in Egypt, he thought glumly. Regardless of who sits on the throne of the Two Lands.

"Wait!" The Emperor squinted-this window was larger than most. A woman stood framed by a windowsill, swinging open a pair of wooden shutters. For an instant, it seemed she met the Emperor's eyes through the burning lens, but then she turned away. Galen frowned in surprise, seeing she wore an elegant, yet archaic costume, more reminiscent of old Egyptian statuary than any recent fashion he knew of. "Who is this?"

The two thaumaturges seated beside the device shook their heads slightly.

"Can you show me the room? Do you feel the Serpent close by?" The Emperor continued to watch the woman speaking-there was another figure, perhaps two, in the room-he could see an elbow and someone's hand gesticulating.

"He is not…" The elder of the two Roman thaumaturges concentrated. "Not that I can sense."

Galen bit his thumb, considering the Egyptian woman's striking profile. A Queen? Where did the Persians find a Queen of old Egypt? Hmm… is that the jeweled hilt of a Persian cavalry sword on a man's belt?

"Look inside," the Emperor decided. "Let us take a small risk."

"A risk of what?" A husky, tired voice intruded. Galen looked over his shoulder. Maxian stood in the doorway of the library, draped in gray and black, his hair unkempt and stringy.

"Max, come sit." Galen rose, shaking a cramp out of his leg. He took his brother's hand and led him to a couch against the wall. In the telecast, the mysterious woman continued her discussion, entirely ignorant of the distant, spying eye looking over her smooth white shoulder. Maxian sat with a sigh, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.

"Bring food," Galen said to one of the servants hovering outside the door. The Emperor turned to the thaumaturges and scribes. "Rest for a moment. Go down to the kitchens and get something to eat; cheese, kippers or oiled bread. There may be some minted goose or flamingo left."

Maxian seemed to have fallen asleep by the time everyone had shuffled out and Galen could turn to him again. The Emperor smiled faintly, feeling a great sense of compassion for his younger brother-who seemed so old, narrow face lined with fatigue, his hair a tumbled mass of oily strands, hands stained with rust and oil and countless tiny scratches. Galen sat thinking, forehead resting in his hands, trying to remember if he had ever been so exhausted in the Legion. There had been a time in Pannonia… I think not, he grumbled to himself. Marching and fighting was easy, compared to this slow death by tiny, pecking bites.

"What were you looking at?" Maxian spoke, eyes still closed.

"The palace of the governor of Egypt," Galen said, leaning back himself. The wall was blessedly cool against his back. "I believe the Persian commander has taken up residence there. We're peering in the windows to see if we can spy out what they intend to do next."

The prince laughed, an honest sound, filled with weary mirth. "Momma would whip your behind with a strap for such rude behavior, if she were alive to catch you."

"She would." Galen snorted. "How are you?"

Maxian grunted, raising a hand and making a dismissive motion. "I live. The work in Florentia is complete. Only interior fittings remain-chairs, windows, floors. There are three-dozen men eager to try their hand at flight." He opened his eyes, fixing Galen with a fierce stare. "We are almost ready."

"Good." The Emperor looked away, unable to meet the accusation in his brother's smudged brown eyes. "Good. The fleet is ready, Lord Alexandros is ready… there are other Legions coming, but I've not heard-yet-when they will reach Rome."

"Do we know which way the enemy will move?" Maxian rubbed a fine-boned hand across his face and the stubbled, patchy beard vanished. He smoothed back his hair and the grease and oil faded. Exhaustion dropped away, leaving him bright-eyed and alert. "What have you found?"

Galen watched his brother with open disgust as the younger man stepped lightly to the telecast. The prince did not bother to mutter or make an arcane sign-the disks and gears shuddered, blazing with hissing flame as the device sprang to life. "Show me the Bruchion," Maxian commanded, "and what we looked upon before."

The Emperor suppressed a start of surprise-the difference in clarity and acuity between Maxian's command of the device and the Legion thaumaturges was no less than night and day-staring into the distant room at a shallow angle. The Queen now sat in a swan-backed chair, legs curled under her, brilliant blue eyes sparkling as she watched a handful of men argue over a map.

"Sicilia!" Galen blurted, coming to his brother's side.

"Yes," Maxian agreed, shifting his hands. The telecast focused, showing a crumbling papyrus sheet marked with brown ink. The outline of the great island was plain to see, and a heavy, thick finger stabbed at icons of towns and villages sprinkled along the eastern coastline. "What are they looking at?"

"The bay of Catania," Galen growled, his grim face fluttering with broken sunlight streaming through from the Egyptian room. "They are arguing about landing their fleet at Syracuse-there to the south, where the island turns in a jagged horn-or at Catania, where the bay is broad and wide, and there are long, shallow beaches."

"Why there?" Maxian turned, frowning. "Won't they need a harbor to unload their ships?"

Galen shrugged. "Syracuse is strongly fortified, the harbors closed by a causeway and chain. Look!"

The finger jabbed at an inlet beneath the sketched sign of a great mountain, then moved inland and south, crossing into the mountains above the representation of Syracuse. A fist thumped on the table as a young, hawk-faced man in oddly-cut robes made a violent gesture. Galen watched their faces, lips pursed, frowning in concentration. Maxian, in turn, watched his brother in amusement.

"The young one thinks they should land close to the city," the Emperor said after a moment. "The others-the veterans-disagree. They think no one will resist the landing so far away, letting them unload in peace." Galen rubbed his chin. "Rash youth will be-ah!"

The man owning the thick fingers moved into the scene, a fierce beard curling from a jutting chin, deep-set eyes flashing as he spoke. The Emperor watched him greedily, drinking in details of his garments-a simple tunic over a mail shirt, with the hilts of a heavy sword and mace riding on his hip-and the movement of his lips.

"The King of Kings," Galen breathed, flashing his brother a wan smile. "Shahr-Baraz the Boar, greatest of the Persian generals. Not our most formidable enemy, but close, very close. Even without the sorcerer's help, he would test us fiercely." The Emperor pointed at the young, dark-complected man. "This must be the commander of the Arab mercenaries-he seems very reckless-the shahanshah will overrule his suggestion to land directly at Syracuse."

A moment later, the King of Kings shook his head, curls bouncing, and made a firm, final indication on the map.

"Catania, then," Maxian said slowly, thinking, his eyes comparing the ground shown on the map to a trove of memories from time spent at his sister-in-law's estate. "Under Aetna. Is their fleet ready to sail?" The prince's eyelid twitched and the scene dimmed, the view springing back over the rooftops of a city, which dwindled until only the blue-green orb of the earth swam in the fiery circle. A long wing of white cloud covered most of the Middle Sea.

"Soon enough," Galen said, biting his thumb. "We've been watching them work. It's odd, they've torn out all the rowing benches in their galleys to clear space. Every galley stepping a sail is being refitted and the civilian merchantmen are being stripped down. No comfortable journey for those men, by Poseidon! I'd say they can put ten thousand men ashore with the usual complement of supplies and gear." He flashed a grim smile. "Barring storms."

Maxian considered his brother, then said, "what if they brought nothing? No supplies, no horses, no tents, nothing but soldiers packed tight as cordwood?"

The Emperor made a disgusted face. "By the gods, Max, it's a full week's sail from Alexandria to Syracuse-half those men would be dead from heat and…" Galen's voice trailed off.

"Corpses packed below decks," Maxian said, a forbidding expression darkening his face, "do not feel the heat or cry out for water or even foul themselves in rough seas. Corpses can be efficiently stacked, laid one upon another in honeycombed rows and now they have so many fresh bodies to use…" A glint of something like hatred flared in the prince's eyes and the Emperor felt his flesh crawl, feeling the brunt of his brother's fury.

"Ah-that is foul." Galen grimaced. "But you're right again-and this means a good forty thousand dead men will swarm from those ships." He turned pale. "And every graveyard and tomb they pass…

"Will be filled with fresh recruits!" Maxian looked closely at his brother, as if for the first time. "You've been too long without sleep, Gales. You look terrible."

"Thanks-" The Emperor hissed in surprise as the prince caught his hand, pressing flat-tipped fingers against the inside of the Imperial wrist. A soft green light glowed, shining through flesh and blood and bone. "Yiiii!"

"Better?" Maxian's eyes crinkled up in amusement, though the dark core of each pupil seemed cold and remote. Galen shook himself, feeling a tingling rush from the bottoms of his feet to the crown of his head. The grainy, deep-set weariness he had been struggling through was gone. Even the room seemed brighter and the Emperor stared around in surprise. Details on the further walls were clear and sharp and he could pick out birds chirping in the trees outside the windows.

"Ay, my sight's been failing!" Galen rubbed his eyes, then looked again in wonder. "Well, bless me." He smiled at his brother, making a little bow. "Thank you."

"Huh." Maxian seemed embarrassed by the gratitude. "I wondered why your mind's become so slow of late." The prince shrugged. "I should have realized sooner."

"Better late…" Galen started to say, but stopped, thinking of Aurelian. "What do we do about Sicilia? Our fleet is at Dyrrachium, loading the comes Alexandros' Goths-but there are only thirty thousand of them and not prepared to fight the dead. Will the flying machines make enough of a difference?"

"Perhaps." Maxian's instant of good humor vanished and Galen could tell thoughts of Aurelian tormented him as well. Grief shadowed the prince's face, making him seem much older. "If we can catch their fleet at sea we will have a good chance. But I cannot guarantee anything-not against this foe."

"We must stack the odds, then," Galen said. "Our only advantage is knowing where they will come ashore. I will put every man in arms on the road to Sicilia. The fleet can ferry them across the strait at Messina. If the gods smile and old soldiers answer their Emperor's call, we can meet them with forty thousand legionaries."

Maxian started, then gave his brother a queer, measuring look. "I am going south tomorrow," he said abruptly. "A thought occurs to me and will take time to play out." He put his hand on Galen's shoulder, then wrapped his brother in a tight hug. "I hope to see you again."

"You too, piglet," Galen said, fighting to keep his eyes dry. "What do you intend?"

The prince ducked his head, avoiding the Emperor's searching gaze. "Nothing you would approve of," Maxian mumbled, walking quickly to the door. "But these things must be done, for victory."

"What did you say?" Galen reached the door only a step behind, but Maxian was already gone. The Emperor frowned, looking back at the disk. The green earth turned slowly in the shimmering orb of light. The sight made Galen raise an eyebrow in surprise. He had never seen the device operate by itself before. "Well, well… show me the bay of Catania."

Gaius Julius leaned against the wall of a small caupona at the foot of the Caelian hill, seamed old face plastered with a pleasant expression, a cup of wine in his hand. Like most of the other men crowded into the dim, smelly room he was clad in a tunic and long stonemason's apron. Everyone was glad to be out of the sun and done with another day's work on the restoration of the temple of the Divine Claudians. The old Roman was watching the door and narrow steps leading down from the street out of the corner of his eye.

While he waited, Gaius paged through a set of crumbling parchment sheets. He had not pillaged the Senatorial records in a long time-not since he'd been writing Praises of Hercules as a boy seeking to link the god's lineage to his own. The smell of decaying paper brought back fond memories and the sight of so many books had filled him with familiar avarice. These old rags, though, they held only part of what he had been seeking.

When he had walked the earth as a breathing man, the Clodians gens had been only one of a dozen rivals. The braggart Clodius Pulcher had employed gangs of thugs to terrorize the Senate, had cast aside his noble birth to be elected as a plebian, had used his delectable sister Clodia as a bribe to sway the senators and been a political opponent in every sense of the word. From this stock sprang our gray-eyed Diana? A wonder, if true. They seemed near collapse even in my day.

Gaius shook his head, running a well-trimmed nail down page after page of lineages, births, deaths, all matter of scandal, despair, joy and tumult disguised by dryly worded fact. At length, he found the family dwindled almost to nothing, only possessing a single estate in southern Latium, and then-twenty years past-nothing. No children, no legal records. A dying clan guttering out at last.

"Hmm." Gaius rubbed his nose. "Is she the last of a disgraced, bankrupt house?" He wondered who would know her antecedents-the Duchess, of course, but I cannot ask her! — and began to trace the linages backwards, through the contorted branches and leaves of a sprawling, often-intermarried family. He sighed, wondering how long he would have to wait in this hot, close place.

Evening advanced and an elderly man entered, a heavy basket of scrolls tucked under one arm. He pushed through the workmen, exchanging greetings with a few, to stand at the bar beside Gaius. The old Roman put away his papers. The woman behind the slab-shaped counter lifted her head in question.

"Pickle, fish sauce and nut custard, please." Nilos' voice was marked by a distinct "Palace" accent and tinged with exhaustion. Gaius felt a twinge of sympathy-the basket of scrolls was not for show, but the man's uncompleted work from the day, being taken home to be copied or reviewed by lamplight.

The woman nodded, spooning a gooey confection of pepper, cracked nuts, honey, rue and raisin wine in egg white into a hand-sized cup from a bowl built into the countertop. One of her assistants scurried off to draw pickles from a huge vat in the back of the shop and pluck a jar of Hispanian fish sauce from one of the shelves.

"What news from our father's house?" Gaius made the statement to the empty air, though his voice was low and barely audible among the bustle and chatter in the common room. The workmen saw each other every day and most lived within a block of each other, yet there was never any lack of conversation or dispute.

Nilos did not look at him, but gratefully accepted the bundle of custard and pickles wrapped in cheesecloth from the proprietress.

"Thirteen," she said, wiping her hands on a dirty gray rag. The secretary counted out a handful of copper coins and left them on the countertop. He nodded to Gaius in a friendly way as he turned, saying softly, "Some cousins are coming for a surprise visit, one Briton and three German."

"What?" Gaius Julius caught the man's eye, voice a bare, sharp whisper. "Our cousins are coming? We don't have a British cousin!"

Nilos shrugged, trying to push past, but Gaius caught his elbow in a tight grip. "Ay," hissed the Greek, still trying to ignore the Roman. "Leave go! That's all I know-the orders were cut today and are already gone by courier."

"Where does Pater expect to find an entire Legion in Britain?" Gaius turned the Greek bodily to face him, using the man's head to block sight of his lips. So far, no one in the caupona had paid any attention, even the woman behind the bar bustling off about her own business. "He's already stripped the garrison to the bone."

"I know!" Nilos' face flushed as he wrenched his arm free. "The province is on its own. He's recalling everyone, even the governor and his clerks."

Gaius Julius blanched, staring in open horror at the secretary. "What about Germania?"

"Almost the same," Nilos allowed, shrugging. "There are only five Legions along the entire Rhenus, and three will be here in four weeks, maybe less." The Greek slipped away while the old Roman was grappling with vivid, overwhelming visions of cataclysm.

Gaius Julius finished his wine abruptly-a poor vintage fouled with silt and bitter, clashing tones-and set the cup down on the counter. He left two coins before climbing up to the street. The sun was just setting and he blessed the architects who had raised such a bulk of marble and concrete atop the Palatine. The street in front of the temple of Claudius was already in shadow, allowing a minute fraction of the day's heat to recede.

Fool of a fool, Gaius thought, walking quickly north towards the vast marble cliff of the Colosseum. Did he hear nothing the prince said? He'll throw another four Legions-five with Alexandros' Goths-to the Persian butchers for nothing. He turned left in the plaza surrounding the amphitheatre, hearing a muted roar rumbling within. The evening games-nothing special, really, just tyro gladiators trying their skills-were already underway. We'll lose Britain and Germania and Gaul all in one useless, stupid throw of the dice…

Sunk in depression, he failed to note a young woman standing in one of the vendor's alcoves piercing the outer ring of the Colosseum. She, however, did not fail to notice him and after he had passed by she bundled up a knitted rug covered with charms and trinkets and followed him at a prudent distance.

The dying sun painted the walls of the bedroom with gorgeous streaks of orange and red and purple. Maxian stuffed a spare shirt and some tightly bound papyrus scrolls into his old medikus bag, squinting against the flare of light. He had changed his tunic, cloak and leggings-finally realizing they had acquired a particularly stiff aroma of molten iron, coal dust, marble grit and sweat. The prince supposed he could have made them new again, but the maids in the town house were forever slinking around, looking for things to clean and mend.

"I want to come with you," Martina said, fighting to keep a whine from her husky voice.

Maxian shook his head. "I've already told you what I intend. Though your company would be welcome, there's no need for you to spend weeks sleeping beside dusty roads on the way south." His hand searched among a collection of bronze and iron knives, finding an ancient dagger stained with a glossy green patina. As he touched the worn ivory hilt, he could feel a commanding shout ring from the iron and glimpsed a man in old-style Legion armor standing in a line of men under a brassy, bright sky. You will do, he thought, sliding the blade into a common leather sheath and stowing it in the bag.

"Fine," the Empress said, crawling onto the bed, silk rustling as she moved. Her feet were bare and her formal stole and veil were discarded carelessly on the floor. She grinned up at him, arching her back and wiggling her taut bottom from side to side. "Shouldn't you keep an eye on me, lest I get into trouble while you're gone?"

The prince looked at her quizzically, then a slight frown drew his lips down. The setting sun turned cold in his dark eyes. "You would never get into trouble," he said in a flat tone, turning his attention back to the odds and ends he had arranged on the bedspread. Martina flashed him an angry look, then her eyes widened and she stiffened. For a fraction of a grain, she was perfectly still, then she blinked and sighed again.

"I'll miss you," the Empress said, curling both feet under her. Tapering fingers plucked at the hem of her silken gown, rolling seed pearls and tiny golden pomegranates over her nails.

"I know," Maxian said, favoring her with a distracted half-smile. "There are some things I need you to do while I am away. Get your notebook."

Obediently, Martina padded from the bed to fetch a heavy wooden plaquette from her dressing table. The covers were edged with wear-blackened leather and sheets of parchment oozed from the sides. Opening the heavy book, she frowned prettily, searching for an empty page. Finding space to write, Martina drew a fine brush from the thicket of gleaming curls behind her ear. A small copper cup, plugged with wax, was affixed to the spine of the book. Dipping her brush, the Empress looked up, sleek hand poised to write.

"Nine of the iron drakes in the foundry at Florentia," Maxian began in a brisk, concise voice, "are ready to fly. Winnow the pilots down to eighteen and send them south to meet me in…" He paused to think. "Eleven days. Tell them to find me on Aetna-they shouldn't be able to miss the mountain if they can find Sicilia itself."

He closed the bag, snapping a clasp worked with the serpent and caduceus of his order. "You remember Cenni-our young artist? He's made some builder's drawings for me, when I could tear him away from casting scales and ever-more-frightening eye shields for our sky serpents." The prince laughed indulgently. "I want you to split the workshops into two projects-divide the artisans by skill, and set half and half to work-one group on the next set of iron drakes, the others on the 'turtles.' Cenni should take charge of the workshops and foundries-he knows my desire."

Martina nodded, hand moving quickly over the paper.

"There is another matter as well-Gaius Julius will be able to help, I think-we are using more iron ore, copper, coal, tin and lumber than the harbor facilities at Pisae can easily support. Moreover, a great deal of our raw materials come from Illyria and Gothica." Maxian sketched an arc in the air before him. "Which means the ships must sail all the way round Italia to reach our port at the mouth of the Arnus. Now, there is currently a half-surfaced road over the mountains to the north of the city, which goes to Bonnonia on the Po river. I want you to arrange a levy to widen and repair the road and prepare for the movement of goods, men and supplies directly from Illyria through the port at Arminum."

Martina continued to write, now continuing on to a second page. Maxian scratched the edge of his jaw idly, thinking. "We will need to expand the foundries and put in more workshops as well. There are several blocks of flats and tenements to the north of our current fabrica. Have them all torn down to make way for new buildings."

The Empress looked up in concern. "What about the people living in the apartments?"

"Build them new ones," Maxian said, frowning. "On those hills south of the river. They can double-bunk in the workers' dormitories until then."

Martina nodded in agreement and continued writing, her head tilted to one side.

Galen entered his private rooms, closing the heavy ironbound door behind him. The Praetorians in the hallway nodded good night, wary eyes watching the hallway for assassins. The Emperor-who usually shook his head in dismay at their paranoia-took a little solace from their vigilance tonight. The prospect of a knife stabbing from the dark, or a sudden rush of feet in the avenues of the city, now seemed quite likely.

Once he would have left such matters in the care of his Praetorians, trusting Anastasia to watch them in turn. Now-with the Duchess and Gaius Julius each plotting against one another, and losing valuable magical devices over what he was sure was a personal dispute-he didn't trust anyone. We could have used another telecast, he thought, though his mood was much improved. But I do not think the Persians gained from our loss.

A number of candles burned in his study and in the bedroom, each wick fluttering in a cylinder of bubbled glass. They cast a warm, watery light on the domed ceilings. Galen kicked off his sandals, letting his weary feet find solace in the deep piles of carpets covering the floors. With a conscious effort, he set aside thoughts of his office.

"Husband?" Helena did not look up from her writing desk. "Where have you been?"

"In the room of the telecast," he said, shrugging his heavy toga to the floor.

"You spend too much time watching that… thing," Helena said as she looked up. Her dark eyes widened in pleased surprise. "What happened to you? You look… you look well!"

Galen laughed, feeling the last of his cares driven away by the perplexed expression on her face. He collapsed on the bed, head towards her. She rose from her desk and sat beside him, thin fingers tracing the line of his face and neck. "I feel refreshed," he said, and in truth he felt almost giddy.

He had walked through the winding hallways of the Palatine with a spring in his step, greeting surprised clerks and ministers with a cheery wave and smile. Some of the men had shrunk away from this glad apparition, scarcely able to believe the evidence of eyes and ears. Galen slid his arm around Helena's waist, drawing her close with a sudden, pleased squeak.

"Husband! What are you-mmmpph…" The Empress found herself drawn down into a lasting embrace and kiss, Galen's hands sliding up under her blouse. "Galen…" Helena found her attention occupied again and was delightfully forced to momentary silence.

Some time later, the Emperor propped his head up on a pillow, watching his wife rooting around among a great deal of discarded clothing, searching for her earrings and bracelets. Somehow, they had been stripped from her arms and neck and rolled away under the writing table, the bed, even into a side room where the privy seat stopped one particular bauble from complete escape.

Feeling his gaze, Helena looked over her shoulder with a coy expression. She fluttered her eyelashes. "Yes? Is there something you want?"

"Not right now," he said in a lazy, satisfied voice. "In a glass or two, I might find the strength to rise again."

The Empress flipped her hair, flipping shining auburn hair over her bare shoulders. "Oh," she said, "I doubt that!"

Galen smiled, but the thoughts of the day intruded and he groaned in disgust. I should forbid all thoughts of the State within these four walls! But could I follow my own rule?

"Don't start," Helena said, groping under the bed for her slippers. "I'd prefer this strange interlude to last as long as possible."

"Have I been so foul?" Galen made a face, guessing the answer.

The Empress' head rose up over the edge of the bed with one eyebrow eloquently raised. "Have you? I am shocked to get anything from you today but grunts and an aura of exhaustion so complete, budding flowers wilt as you pass by. What happened to… ah… perk you up? Is there good news?"

"No." The Emperor laughed, smoothing back his hair. "In fact, the Persians are not stopping. They are coming right at us with a fleet and an army." He sighed. "Send a letter to Marcellus tomorrow, telling him to empty your summer house and move everything up into the hills."

"What?" Helena found her blouse and tugged the fine linen over her head. "Why?"

"The Persians plan to land their army at Catania," Galen said in a wry, almost disbelieving voice. "No more than a mile from your villa. I think the gardens will be fairly trampled, if not outright destroyed."

"Ah!" The Empress made a foul, disgusted face. "And you're happy?"

"Not about that, no." Galen felt the giddy edge to his thoughts fade. Even the warm, happy afterglow of tumbling his wife was fast receding. He scratched his left eyebrow, feeling an old, familiar pain hovering. "Nothing about the war pleases me. I would gladly trade the villa at Odyssea Akra for peace, but… I think the house will just be destroyed, like so many other things. But we can rebuild a house. I feel good because-because Maxian used his power to banish my exhaustion and fatigue." The Emperor nodded to himself in wonder, sitting up.

"He did what?" Helena unraveled sweaty knots in her hair, staring at him in surprise.

Galen spread his hands. "A green flash-and weeks of little sleep and too many worries are a distant memory. At least for a moment."

"Hmmm." The Empress' eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I suppose he'll be making you more muscular next, with a better nose…"

"Hah!" Galen started to laugh, then raised his fingers to his eyes. "Oh. He did fix something…"

"What?" Helena made a horrified face. "I thought you seemed… larger… but that is just unnatural!"

"No!" The Emperor swatted her thigh. "My eyesight was shortening-I didn't even notice-but now I can see the faces of the senators on the steps of the Curia from my office."

The Empress shook her head, regarding him with a wary, suspicious glare. "I would not trust your brother's judgment, husband. You see what he's done to poor Martina… she's… she's artificial! And I don't think she remembers a difference between how she was and how she is."

"She's happier," Galen said, chewing his lower lip. A black thought disturbed his momentary contentment. What could our piglet do, if he put his mind to mischief? "Or, at least, she seems so."

"I don't think," Helena said in a sharp voice, "he asked her first."

The Emperor shook his head. He had no idea. "Helena… I need you to do something for me."

"Again?" she said with an arch look, running her hand up his thigh. "I thought you needed another glass to recover…"

Galen caught her hand and raised her palm to his lips. "Not that," he said, feeling grim reality assert itself and she sighed, seeing his face change. "I want you to take Theodosius and his nurse and your maids and leave the city. Tonight, if you can, and secretly. Tell no one-in fact, take only little Kore-you can find a new wet nurse in-"

"No," Helena said softly, pressing her fingers to his lips. Her eyes were very large. "I won't abandon you here among these wolves."

"Please," he started to say, but she stopped him again.

"I will not," the Empress said firmly. "The Persians will not reach the city. They will be defeated-and I will not stay away again, distant from the battle, wondering and waiting, listening for the sound of a courier's horse to bring me the news of victory or defeat." Her lip began to tremble and Galen took her in his arms, holding her close.

"Helena, I'm not worried about the Persians. We have enemies in the city."

The Empress stiffened in the circle of his arms, raising her head. "Who?"

Galen shook his head. "I've only suspicions, love. I know nothing yet. But I want you away from here, and somewhere safe. Narbo, perhaps…"

"I won't," she said, pushing him away. Grudgingly, the Emperor let her go. Helena wiped the corner of her eye, leaving a black smudge on her temple. "You're saying there is a plot against you. Some overmighty lord desiring the red boots?"

Galen managed a barely perceptible nod. She responded with another icy glare.

"Well, then, husband, you can have me gagged and bound and bundled away in a sack to Narbo to sit-in chains! — in your drafty old house where there is nothing to read and holes in the ceiling and then-and then-you can worry these conspirators have crept up and kidnapped me at the other end of the Empire, where you'll have no idea if I'm well or sick or dead or having an affair-and don't think I won't if I find a strapping young shepherd lad-and I could be here, in your own apartments, where you can find me each night, waiting patiently for you to come home, and rubbing your feet and making you feel better-and you would know that I am safe, and our son is safe and everything is all right with the world." She finished with a sniff and looked away, arms crossed over her breast.

Galen stared at her for a moment, opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Well…"

Helena turned her head, eyes bare burning slits and gave him such a venomous look the Emperor said nothing, then or later.

A long time since I've ridden this road. Maxian let the horse set her own pace, trotting along the grassy riding path beside the Via Appia Antica. The road struck south from the city, regular as a mason's rule. His spirits lifted as the spotted mare ambled along. The moon was rising, casting deep shadows below the rows of cypress and poplars lining the highway. Fields and farmyards stretched away on either hand, quiet under the night sky. Even the temperature was pleasant, the heat of the day fading and cool winds tousled his long hair.

The simple act of leaving Rome lifted his spirits. The city was close and hot and filled with sullen, dispirited people. Maxian made a conscious effort to ignore the voices whispering from the air. They wore on his temper. Gaius Julius can fend for himself, the prince thought, for a time. He certainly doesn't need me looking over his shoulder. And what would I see? Ledgers, accounts, long litanies of works and favors and debts. Bah!

Maxian supposed he should feel a little guilty, thinking of the binding he'd placed on Martina, but his husband's heart was eased to know she would not-could not-stray while he was gone. She is terribly efficient, he thought, pleased with his solution, and now entirely delightful company. Everything I could desire.

The prince rode in darkness for a time, enjoying the solitude, waving genially to those few pedestrians he passed, walking quickly along the canted surface of the Appia with paper lanterns hung on long poles. A mile out from the city, he was alone with a soft breeze and the distant lights of scattered farmhouses. The mare did not mind the dark, following her nose along the horse path.

Thoughts of Martina and Gaius and his brother and the whole irritating business of war had grown quite remote by the time he reached a crossroads and found a man standing beside the road. Here, the paving stones of the highway were heavily grown over with grass, making a circle of green turf under overhanging cypresses. A tall milestone gleamed softly in the moonlight, covered with ivy and climbing vines. The single numeral II was chiseled into the smooth face of the stone. Maxian reined the horse to a halt, though she did not want to stop, and nodded in greeting.

"Ave," Maxian said, leaning on his saddle horn.

The soldier saluted, his mouth moving silently. He was young, with barely a fringe of beard lining a strong chin. His hair glowed in the moonlight, ruffled by quiet night wind. Like the legionaries of his day, a long pole lay across his shoulderblades, kit bag hanging from pinewood. A single, solid metal plate embraced his chest, the rounded surface catching a reflection of the moon. His shield was oval and carried over the back, a pot-shaped helmet secured by a strap at his shoulder. Maxian could see the outline of the paving stones through the dark pits of his eyes and mouth.

"Well met, Lucius Papirius," Maxian answered. "I ride with the writ of the Senate-there is war in the south and every Latin is needed to drive back the invader. Will you join me?"

The young legionnaire nodded, grinning, and stooped to gather up his javelins and stabbing spear from the ground. Maxian turned the horse in a circle, watching the night. Faint lights gleamed in the orchards and woods all around.

"Rome needs you," he called out, raising the ivory staff of a tribune above his head. "The Senate and the People are in danger, our ancient traditions threatened, our honorable name blackened by defeat. I am riding to war, men of Rome. Will you ride with me?"

Without waiting for a response, the prince turned the mare to the southern road and let her take an easy trot. Behind him, the young legionnaire jogged after, easily falling into the steady, ground-eating pace of the professional soldier. The stars shone on his shield and the moon wavered in the ghostly firmament of his hair. Maxian did not think he would tire, no, not even if they marched without a halt to the world sea beyond the horizon.

Again, the prince's thoughts turned far away and he barely noticed when a second man was waiting beside the highway and then another and then three brothers, oval shields scarred by axe and fire. Like the young soldier, they proved tireless and they marched south under a vast, star-filled sky, soundless voices raised in a marching song to while away the miles.