The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Constantinople

"The latest dispatches, my lord." Alexandros nodded to the messenger-a Gothic youth, his tunic damp with sweat-and took the leather bag with mingled interest and dismay. The morning's appearance of a sail in the straits had caused great excitement in the city, but now the Macedonian stared at the bundle of letters with mounting disgust.

Over the past two weeks, he'd received a string of missives from Rome, invariably carried in Imperial dispatch pouches, one set from Emperor Galen and one set from Gaius Julius. Alexandros wondered-he often wondered, sitting up drinking with his officers-if the two men were aware of the effect their conflicting commands had on the soldiers out on the sharp end of the war.

"I don't think they have any idea which end is the business end," Alexandros muttered, sitting back in a leather camp chair. The long arcade along the seaward side of the Buchion palace was very cool and dim, the air stirred by a constant breeze out of the north and the Macedonian had moved his command staff, servants, equipment and messengers into the undamaged buildings.

He cut the dark red twine sealing the first packet with his boot knife.

"So, what does Galen have to say today…" Alexandros began to read, then shook his head. The fleet gathering at Tarentum was still delayed, but the Emperor expected them to leave port for Constantinople within the week of his writing. Two weeks ago, the Macedonian thought, checking Galen's scribbled date at the end of the missive. "And this one?"

Gaius Julius' note was not under an Imperial cover, but the parchment was of similar fine quality and the ink was even darker-must be a better grade of octopus, Alexandros noted in amusement. The old Roman's strong, clear hand urged the Macedonian to immediately march his men west along the old highway running across Thrace and into the mountains of Epirus, to Dyrrachium on the coast of the Mare Adriaticum.

I've been that way before, Alexandros thought, idly tugging at a lock of hair dangling across his forehead. But not on such a fine road as these Romans build. "Demetrios! A moment of your time…"

The Eastern officer hurried over, rubbing ink-stained fingers on his tunic. "Yes, comes?"

"Fetch out a way map of the Via Egnatia, if we have one."

The Greek raised an eyebrow in surprise. "We're marching west now?" He sounded incredulous, which greatly mirrored how Alexandros felt about the whole matter.

"It seems so," Alexandros said, gritting his teeth. "Round up the quartermasters as well-we'll have to steal all those wagons, mules and horses back!"

Stupid Romans, he thought savagely, feeling ill-restrained temper rise. March east, march west, sail south, march west again… the war will be lost by the time we find the enemy!