"I would prefer a human foe," said Marcellinus. "I shall rejoin my regiment at the gates."
"No killing!" Marric ordered. "Not unless you have no other choice." They were coming into the central parts of the palace now. The cut stone of the foundations was overlaid now by marble and travertine. Soon they would approach the royal suites. "Get moving," Marric ordered the commander.
"I'll send you reinforcements, my prince."
Marcellinus saluted, then left quickly. Now they hastened past an arcade that opened onto a garden. The east began to glow. After the stink of the underground ways, the air was very sweet. Overhead hovered the giant hawk. As the rising sun struck it, the hawk shimmered and altered shape. Now it was a phoenix, symbol of rebirth and a new age.
Now the doors through which they passed were silver. Lamps hung from jeweled chains, and the floors they crossed were gem-bright mosaics or Parian marble. Marric knew these halls well. He had spent his childhood in them. Near the shrine on the left, closer to the throne room down the hall—as a boy, Marric had particularly liked it because of its mechanical lions—was the suite his parents had shared. At least his father had never brought Irene to these rooms: her quarters, which were even more lavish, lay farther on. They were nearing them.
Slaves stationed nearby fled as the small company approached and they recognized Marric. They came to the door of Irene's suite. A soldier flung the door open, and Marric walked past him into the audience chamber.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The silver doors were balanced so delicately that Daphne could shut them, and did, before Marric had time to think of barring her entrance. This was no place for the child.
In arrogant declaration of Irene's usurped title, she had had the walls of her presence chamber newly faced with porphyry. It glowed crimson in the light of a tarnished polycandelon. On a massive table lay implements—a curiously shaped knife, its hilt wound with black and scarlet cords, candles wrought in forms Marric refused to do more than glance at, a goblet, and several books bound in yellowing ivory and old leather. He hoped it was simply leather. Behind him Nicephorus hissed in distaste and made warding off gestures.
Turning from that sinister table, Marric faced the woman who sat in an immense porphyry throne cushioned with scarlet. As he had seen her the night men had dragged him from his dungeon, Irene was garbed with imperial splendor. She wore an unbelted silk robe. Her long, lustrous hair hung down her back like a lavish cloak. On it rested the imperial crown, a gemmed circlet with fillets hanging from it. Marric longed to seize it off that unworthy head.
Irene's face was very pale. She sat immobile, as if the force of her tremendous will alone held some terrible shock in check. If she was countering the backlash of her deflected necromancies, she concealed her struggle superbly. Her eyes, black and far too bright, gazed out vacantly like an icon of a fallen goddess. Only her hands moved. They twisted a ruined collar of rubies and gold. The last time Marric had been in the same room as Irene, she had lashed him across the face with it.
Her immobility stripped the moment of anger or of triumph. Marric stopped at a distance from her.
"Irene."
Gradually awareness returned to the usurper's dark eyes. She withdrew from the trance she had entered to block their passage through the underground ways. She had been very beautiful once, Marric remembered. Now her olive skin was ashen, the full red mouth too dark, too bitter, and twisted from her night's failures.
"So you have come for revenge. Emperor, you call yourself." Her voice was pure vitriol. "And don't you just look it."
Marric's silken garments were marked with sweat and blood, and with grime from the passages. His cloak too was bloodstained and scorched by the fires through which he had run.
"Not for vengeance," he said, remembering Audun Bear-master. "I come for law."
Marric stood straight, almost at attention. When he had last been in this room, men had forced him to his knees before Irene. She had stood so close to him that he could smell the musk of her perfumes. As she had intended, he had trembled in hateful, involuntary response. Now as he looked at her, he felt nothing. He had passed through bloodshed, heartbreak, flame, and even triumph. Now remained only what must be done.
He was emperor. He must pronounce judgment.
"So righteous, are you not, with the blood on your hands?" Irene taunted him. "Or do you think that simply because you're a competent general, you can hold onto the empire? That takes more than strength of arms. Its enemies—"
"Your enemies." Marric cut through her words. "My father—whose memory you betray—held our neighbors in check. You outraged them and turned allies into enemies. You cannot hold what you stole, Irene. Give it up!"
"Before you snatch it from me? The empire needs far more than armies. It needs magic, which I possess. Test my strength, Marric. Come here and take the crown from me. If you dare."
Marric took a step forward, then paused. Irene looked drained of power. But it might be an act to make him approach her, touch her, and be blasted by the fires she could summon. He had diverted death by fire or falling in the arena, death by treachery or open attack tonight, and then run a magical barrage.
And I am no priest, he thought.
"Take off the crown," he ordered.
Irene laughed.
"Stand up!" ordered the armsman who had come with Marric, angered at hearing her defy his lord.
"No!" Marric shouted. "Don't touch her. She is dangerous, and once she was my father's consort."
Defying both men, Irene rose and came toward them. Worn and defeated she might be, but her body still possessed a sinuous grace she could use as a weapon.
"I should have an axe," she taunted Marric. "Or perhaps I could merely open my robe and lay claims of parentage upon you like some vulgar Clytemnestra. But I think it as well that you remain the only actor in the family. Such cheap theatrics, playing Apollo before the screaming mob. Will you shed my blood now? Beware, lest I summon furies of my own to strike you down!"
"You are not Clytemnestra. And I am not Orestes," said Marric. "Take off the crown."
"And then what? There is a mob outside. Of your rousing, no doubt. Will you give me to them?"
In a way Irene would accept that, would welcome a savage death as a sign of his failure to control himself. There were punishments for lack of control. He had felt them. If he failed now, he would pay later.
"Always destruction," he answered. "That is your way. The Varangians who might have held loyal to you and the crown you still wear are imprisoned by your orders. Now you have nothing beyond the choices I make for you."
He turned to Nicephorus. "Find physicians. This will not be a murder but an execution. For all the gods' sakes, Irene, you have been a queen. Die like one!"
"As your father died? How did your father die, Prince? Do you know?" Did you contrive his death too?" Marric had often tortured himself with that very question. This is for you too, my father.
Irene seemed to grow in stature. Then, as if the effort were too great, she dwindled. "I never came first with him, not I or my son. There was always the empire, or his love for you and that sister of yours. Even the memory of your dull mother."
Alexander had married her to keep watch on a treacherous minor sept of the imperial line. He had been right. He had paid for his rightness with his life. Then, maddened by her son's death, Irene had become like the tigress who kills a man once and then craves more and more human blood. And at the last, she had sought not love but worship. Her passions had destroyed her as surely as venom had slain his father. And the worship she gained was the terror men accord beings whose ways are incomprehensible, swift, and terrible.
"I killed your wench myself, you know," she said. "That mewling piece of sanctity tried to fight. She lacked the courage to kill."
His Stephana, dying in his arms. For an instant, anger rose in Marric's blood. Irene smiled, white teeth shining.
"That hurt you, didn't it? But you and Alexa mu
rdered my son, didn't you? A life for a life."
Behind them the doors swung open. Nicephorus entered with two palace physicians. They hesitated, not knowing whether to acknowledge Marric or prostrate themselves before Irene. A guard gestured at them with a sheathed dagger.
"Poison," Marric ordered. "See that it is quick acting, and painless," A physician bowed, then started toward Irene's ritual vessels. "Stay clear! Those are hers. You cannot trust them."
"Get me a cup of wine," the man ordered Daphne. As she obeyed, they all stood waiting silently, except Irene.
"Another slave girl, Marric?" she goaded him again. "Whatever do you see in them? And when you could have had me."
"Alexa lives," he said. "As our father and mother intended, we shall rule together and heal this land."
Daphne brought cup and wine to Marric for approval, then presented them to the physicians. Stephana had taught her that courtesy. Even as the physicians unstopped tiny phials and poured their contents into the dark wine, Marcellinus entered, a troop of soldiers at his back.
"The crowd disperses, my emperor," he reported, saluting. "I detached some of my regiment to free the Varangians."
Nicephorus walked about the audience chamber, pushing aside heavy draperies. Dawn flooded the room, and Irene winced at the bright light. She seemed to age and diminish before Marric's eyes. She had failed with his father, with Marric and his sister, even with her son. She had failed with the empire. Her magic had only served to drain her. Now she was weary of life and magic both: her defenses were only the struggles of a demonic spirit in its final moment before the priest exorcises it.
"Give her the cup," Marric ordered the physicians.
The men brought it to her carefully. They feared that she might dash its contents in their faces. Two of Marcellinus' officers moved in.
"These men will conduct you to your bedchamber," said Marric. "I assume you wish to meet your death with dignity. Lady, take up the cup."
Irene lifted the goblet. It was a plain silver thing. As her hands folded around it, the metal began to tarnish. She raised the cup in an ironic salute.
"I will not drink to your health, Emperor. So you will wear my crown after my death: what of it? With it, take my curse: as long as you wear this crown, you will never know peace."
Several of the soldiers clutched amulets or made the sign against evil.
Irene turned on her heel and walked into the inner room. Her robes swayed with a desolate grace.
"If you only knew," Marric whispered to the doors as they shut behind her, "your curse comes too late."
There had remained little enough of Irene to execute. He adjusted the soiled grandeur of the imperial cloak about his shoulders to protect him against the chill of dawn or of some premonition.
Then the doors of Irene's chamber opened. The physicians emerged. Draped over one man's hands was a purple cloth. On it rested the imperial crown.
At a sign from Marric he laid it on the porphyry throne. Then the physicians left.
"Guard the crown, Caius," Marric ordered. "Let no one touch it until the high priest comes from the temple to purify, it."
Soon the embalmers would come, and Marric had no desire to linger.
He left the audience chamber, ignoring the fact that everyone in the room bowed. More soldiers and innumerable priests thronged the hall. They too bowed—except for the high priest himself. He came to Marric and placed an arm about his shoulders, offering him support he had not realized he needed.
The enormous strain of his performance in the Hippodrome, of Stephana's death, and the long night of straggle, purgation, and execution made him stagger. The priest guided him back down the hall toward the emperor's suite. It had always been his father's place. Now it was his.
But duties still remained before he could collapse into the sleep that mind and body demanded.
"If the Varangian officers are fit for duty, let them be briefed. You should also send an embassy out to Audun. Tell him"—Marric smiled—"tell him I want my bear. He can deliver it himself. I want messengers sent to Ellac and Uldin: perhaps they will attend my coronation. There is a captain at the West Gate . . . an Alexandrian, very reliable. Send him."
In years to come, stories would be made, he supposed, of Marric, the emperor who had been a slave. He might as well give the historians material to work with, or the singers would invent some for him. In his fashion Thutmosis had tried to be kind. And the youth was loyal and capable, worthy of preferment.
When he came to the last obligation he could think of, his voice was only a hoarse whisper. "Daphne," he called.
Marric brought Daphne to kneel before him. She regarded him trustfully. For her, he supposed, he was still a man, not some half-divine representation of order. Empire will be lonely, Marric thought, looking down at Daphne's pretty, weary face. It would be so simple, so simple. The girl already idolized him. But a man who had been loved by Stephana could not mistake worship for love. That had been Irene's fatal error.
"What would you do now, Daphne?' he asked, raising her. "No." He shook his head gently. "The palace is no place for you. Not without her.
"You have several choices, Daphne. When I bring Princess Alexa back, you may serve her. Or, after it is rebuilt, you may enter the Temple of Isis. Do you wish to marry? I will see you have a good dowry, and Nicephorus will help you choose a husband who can take care of you."
"As if she were my own daughter or sister," Nicephorus promised. "You will live with my family, won't you, Daphne? My wife Ariadne will be glad of you."
"That family of yours, Nico," said Marric. "I want to meet them."
"After you have rested," Nicephorus said. He grinned apologetically at the idea of commanding his emperor.
"Daphne?"
"Sire, I wish . . . I wish to live quietly," Daphne said. "I do not want power, not like this. Not as a priestess either. I would always remind you of—" Her eyes filled and she turned away for a minute. "But a house, children. Please, I would like the dowry."
"You shall have it." Marric bent and kissed her forehead. "Take her home with you, Nico. When you have rested, come back. I need you with me."
Nicephorus bowed, then left. The distance between Marric and the rest of the world increased.
I must find Alexa soon, soon. They had shared their childhood; Alexa was as royal as he, would not impose that hurtful distance upon him.
The high priest guided him into his father's room. At his orders servants produced hot water, a silken robe, and food and wine. Marric waved it aside.
"You should eat."
"I should also see the Varangians, quiet the city, and tend to the Huns. And I need rest, as Nicephorus pointed out. But there is not time for me to do all of that now. So I will trust Marcellinus to keep awake just a little longer, and I will go to sleep. Someone get these lights out of here!"
The bed looked very soft, very rich. Heavy curtains—I am going to become mortally weary of Tyrian purple—turned the light of dawn into a comforting dusk. Marric waved the servants away. Still the high priest lingered. Marric wondered why he didn't withdraw. Surely he had duties that called him: a crown to purify, ceremonies of acclamation and coronation to arrange so that people might know that their ruler had returned to guide them out of turmoil and dark sorceries.
"Your father, my prince," said the priest. "He would have been . . . most gratified." He too bowed and left the room.
Marric glanced up at his retreating form, startled. He knew that Alexander had always loved him, that he had even, in a way, taken pride in him. But to satisfy his father, to please him—ah, he had never dreamed he would do that.
He lay down. He had no one to share the bed with. No empress yet occupied Antonia's apartments. I must bring Alexa home. Probably he had already had as much of companionship, of love, as any man deserved in one lifetime. But it would be good to have Alexa near as a sister, a companion, a lover.
Gods, he was tired. And lonely. Still, Alexander was gratifie
d. The priest had said so. Marric sighed.
His memories of Stephana rose up to engulf him. The acerbic voice that had taunted him back to life in Alexandria, the frightened woman of whom he had demanded not only love but the conquest of fear. Now that Marric had a moment to himself, it would be good if he could weep.
His eyes started to burn. He lay on his back, hoping for the relief of tears, but none came. After a time he gave up. He had been right when he said he could either rest or grieve. Sleep hit him like an undertow and dragged him down.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"The emperor sleeps! Save your stories of what the barbarians said, or that ten thousand loaves are waiting to be filled with coins until he rises. Get out!" That was old Valerius Marcellinus' voice. It woke Marric to the awareness that Irene was dead and he was emperor. He felt no exultation. Since he had conquered his emotions in the underground ways, he had felt nothing at all.
Food was brought in, and he ate far more than he thought he could. The imperial servants said little to him about the coming triumph or about anything else. Despite his feeling of isolation, he was thankful for their silence. When they finally bowed themselves out backwards toward the door, Marric went to the window. The gardens were heavy with the odors of jasmine, iris, and roses. He would never again be able to see a rose without recalling how Stephana had loved them. The scent of the roses mingled with the salt of the sea, borne to him on the evening winds, and made him melancholy. His weariness returned, and he went back to bed. He could count on the Marcellini, father and grandson, to manage.
Marric slept. He had a strange and wonderful dream. He was walking in the gardens below his windows when suddenly the gardens of the palace shifted and fused with the tiny, exquisite garden of the safe house. The nightingale sang, and water splashed into the white basin.
Toward him, over a pleasant lawn Stephana walked. Marric's heart almost burst with joy as he rushed toward her, arms outstretched. Then he noticed the strangeness. No wind rustled her garments. Her feet did not quite rest on the ground. And when he flung his arms about her, they closed on nothing.
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