Artabanus nodded, scratching his ear. The coin, now gold, appeared in his hand. "The messenger, a very peculiar-looking fellow with jaundiced eyes, said you needed to get to Memphis, or perhaps further south, to Saqqara."
Shahin nodded minutely. The owner of the hostel clattered down the stairs from the upper floor, his arms heavy with blankets. Nodding genially, he passed out onto the street. Shahin licked the last of his porridge from the spoon, then pushed the wooden bowl aside. "I have a drawing."
The mage nodded, raising an eyebrow when the papyrus was placed before him. For a time, the man examined the paper itself, then he muttered his way through the letters partially visible on the decaying sheet. Finally, he looked up again and sighed.
"This is very incomplete," he said, "I can only make out bits and pieces. Do you know anything more about this machine?" A well-trimmed thumb indicated the interlocking wheels and gears.
"A little." Shahin rubbed his nose. "It was named to me as the duradarshan. The device is made of bronze and gold and likely affixed to a block of jade the size of a chest." The Persian indicated the reputed size with his arms.
"Better..." Artabanus rolled the coin across his knuckles, back and forth, then made it disappear again. "In different times, I would go across the street, to the matron of the temple of Artemis. She is a font of old knowledge—a true Egyptian, I believe, not a half-Greek mongrel like the rest—but I don't think the king's purpose would be served by consulting her, do you?"
"No." Shahin growled, eyes narrowing. "You are friends with this Egyptian woman?"
"We've known each other for a long time, my lord." When he spoke, it was with long-held fondness. "Penelope is pleasant company and very well read. Also—rare for this fractious, theological city—she can see both sides, or more, of an argument. Besides, we are in the same business. Not so strange, not here, not in Alexandria."
"What is your business?" Shahin asked, sounding more suspicious than he intended.
"You mean," Artabanus said, looking around with a comically guilty expression, "beyond being a spy? I am the custodian of the fire temple—now closed, as you may have seen. Like Dame Penelope, I watch over a disused and mostly forgotten residence of the god. Sadly, there have been no riots, no protests by the common people over this outrageous act of the provincial government! And very little for me to do anymore..."
Shahin gave the man a quelling, gimlet stare. "The prince felt you could lead me to the device. Can you?"
"Perhaps..." Artabanus considered the scrap of papyrus again. His brows narrowed and Shahin was relieved to see the man was concentrating on the matter at hand. "This is an ancient form of the Old Kingdom's writing. The name you mentioned—the far-seeing-eye—is in an equally ancient tongue. The writing shown in the sketch is older still. If memory serves, the oldest ruins are found at Memphis, where the Nile divides and enters the delta, and further upriver, at Saqqara." Artabanus frowned, pursing his mouth as if he tasted something foul. "Saqqara has a bad reputation—we should avoid the slumped pyramid, I think."
Artabanus examined the papyrus again, then sighed. "There is a scholar I know... his name is Hecataeus; he works in the Imperial Library. He knows everything about Old Egypt. He might have seen such a device mentioned."
The big Persian raised an eyebrow, glaring at the mage. Artabanus coughed.
"Not such a good idea, I suppose... he might mention our questions to the Roman authorities! I can take you to Memphis, if you desire, and we can see what might be found among the ruins of the old city."
Shahin rubbed his nose, thinking. Such a faint track to follow... but what else do we have? "I was told," he said, eyeing the mage suspiciously again, "you could lead me to this thing, and swiftly too. You do not seem sure of yourself."
Artabanus shrugged. "I am honored by the king's confidence and I am learned in these matters... but what have you brought me? Little more than the shadow of a memory out of ancient times. Yet Egypt is filled with old mysteries and some still live today. There are books I can consult, and friendly priests upriver with whom we can speak." The mage grinned. "Rome is not loved here and we will be welcomed in some houses with wine and honey, where Rome receives only millet."
"Very well," Shahin said. "We will leave as soon as you are ready."
Artabanus smiled, spreading five Roman coins, all alike, on the tabletop. "As I said, son of the house of Suren, I have little to do. We can leave today, if you like."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Palatine Hill
The Emperor pressed a short note into his tablet, reed stylus cutting into gray wax. His narrow face was smudged with exhaustion—dark circles under his eyes, a febrile quality to his skin. Anastasia thought he was falling ill. The others in the library were silent, waiting for him to finish. A muted scratching from the back of the room mixed with the tapping sound of fans rotating slowly overhead.
"How long until your flying machines are complete?" Galen put down the reed.
"Another four months." Prince Maxian, equally worn, young face made old by sleeplessness, slouched in a heavy chair opposite his brother. The table between them was strewn with fine Chin porcelain, half-empty cups of wine, bits and pieces of glazed duck, bread rounds, scraps of cheese and half-eaten apples. "But I have installed the fire heart in each steed. The foundry foremen in Florentia can complete the rest of the work without me—at least until my final invocations are required."
"And then?" Galen's expression was pinched. Despite considerable discussion, he was uneasy with these new weapons his brother promised. Mechanical devices—toys, he thought—were Aurelian's passion. The big redheaded horse should be here keeping an eye on Maxian, not in Egypt facing down the Persians. He would love this project: all gears, metal, pneuma and spiritus. "Each... steed... will need a thaumaturge to make it fly?"
"No." The prince sighed, knuckling his eyebrows. "That is what has taken so long. The fire-drake can accept the guidance of anyone—well, anyone the drake is directed to obey. These new ones will not be quite so fast, or so strong as the first one, but they will serve."
"Why aren't they as fast?" Galen squinted. The corner of his left eye was twitching. The Duchess hid a wry expression of compassion. A headache was stealing up on her as well.
Maxian breathed out in a long, irritated hiss. "Because, brother, when I built the first one, I was a student, following the direction of a master... and now, I can't remember everything old Abdmachus told me. At the time I was rushed... I wasn't paying close enough attention." The prince bit angrily at his thumb. "But they are far beyond anything Persia has... these young drakes cannot reach Albania in two days of flight, but they will be able to reach Egypt in four."
"Can they fight? Are they worth two Legions of troops?" The Emperor stared at parchment sheets laid out on the table, obviously tabulating the ever-rising expense of Maxian's project. "We could fit out a dozen heavy galleys for this cost."
"A single fire-drake is worth a dozen galleys." The prince tried to keep his voice level. "A fire-drake can fly against the wind, over storms, even through hail! From such a height, a man can see hundreds of miles, spying the enemy at a great distance. A fire-drake can—"
"I've heard all of this before." Galen glared at his brother. "Very well, press ahead. You'll need more money, I suppose..." He pinched his nose, eyes squeezed shut. When they opened, everything was the same. The Emperor swallowed, tasting something bitter at the back of his throat. "Duchess?"
Anastasia stirred, sitting up straight. She was tired too. "We have done well with the telecast, my lord. The work is draining for the thaumaturges assisting us, but the results are spectacular." She made a wry smile, clasping her hands. "Though the visions do not always show us what we desire to see. Not all the time, at least. First—the comes Alexandros has advanced within sight of Constantinople—and it seems, if we count fire pits and tents aright, the armies of the Avar khagan have decamped. They are probably already back in Moesia by now."
"
Really?" Galen sat up straighter himself. "How can you tell?"
Anastasia tried to maintain a neutral expression, but it was very difficult to keep a smirk from her lips. She inclined her head towards Gaius Julius, who was sitting quietly beside the prince, being unobtrusive. "A famous Roman historian once described the encampment practices of the barbarians, finding them as unique to a people—between, say, the noble Carnutes and the savage Belgae—as costume or language. In my experience this holds true for the camps of the Romans—unmistakably orderly when viewed from above—the Persians and even the Avars. A Persian army is encamped within the ruins of Constantinople and Alexandros' without. There are no Avar camps—distinguished, I must say, by admirable efficiency and professionalism, as well as a peculiar ringed shape—within a hundred miles."
The old Roman did not respond. He did not even blink at the gibe.
"And Egypt?" Galen leaned forward, his fingers toying with the reed stylus.
"Prince Aurelian's defenses are being tested," Anastasia said, pursing her full lips. Today they were lightly brushed with a dark madder hue. The powders and paints around her eyes were very light, barely disguising puffy skin and incipient wrinkles. Indeed, her clothing was very restrained, even somber. Yet she had discarded the cloak of mourning and a subtle gleam of fine gold shone at her neck and adorned her hair. "The Persians have advanced across the desert of Sinai with great speed. A fleet—actually, two fleets—accompany them. One flotilla of galleys stands offshore at a distance, watching for our own ships. A large number of barges or large rafts are drawn up on the beaches."
"Supplies?" Gaius Julius spoke for the first time. "Water?"
"Yes." The Duchess nodded. "Prince Aurelian built his line of defense to deny an attacker access to fresh water. The swamps, bogs and streams in front of his fortifications have been drained. Yet, the Persians foresaw this—they are shipping barrels of water down from Gazzah on their barges. They will be thirsty, but they will not perish."
Galen nodded, smoothing his hair back. "Unfortunately, they are professionals. Have you found the army that fought at Constantinople?"
"No." Anastasia shrugged. "The telecast can only see one thing at a time. The world is vast. Since we know it does not face Alexandros in Thrace, and cannot have fit on their fleet, I believe the 'missing' army is crossing Anatolia overland, heading back to Persia." She looked at the Emperor, who seemed as displeased as ever. "We think, from what we see, the army before Pelusium is mostly composed of the rebellious Greeks, their Arab allies and new contingents from the east. I think—and this is only a conjecture, my lord—the Persians have emptied their treasury, hiring large numbers of Turks, Sogdians and Indians to supplement their forces."
"Have you informed Aurelian of this?" The reed tapped rapidly on the tabletop.
"We have," Anastasia said, smiling at the absurdity of the situation, "dispatched a courier from Ostia with all this news. With good winds, the ship will be in Pelusium port in three weeks, more likely four. What we see today, he will know in a month. Unless, of course, he learns at spearpoint..."
"Ahhh..." Galen snarled and the reed snapped in half in his fist. "Don't we have any faster way to send him this news?" The Emperor glared at Maxian. "Can a thaumaturge in Rome send a message to one in Pelusium, or Alexandria, today?"
"Yes..." Maxian smirked a little. "A fire-drake could carry the message swiftly!" The prince ducked as another stylus flipped past his head. "Peace, brother! Peace! I believe the Legion thaumaturges have a mechanism of their own, whereby two mages, each known to the other, with matching scrying bowls, can communicate."
"Like the telecast pairs?" Galen raised an eyebrow. "Could we make another telecast? Place one in Egypt with Aurelian? Speak with him as if he stood in this room?"
"That is impossible—" Anastasia began, teeth clenched.
"Wait," Maxian said, raising a hand to interrupt her. A faint smile played upon his lips. Anastasia was suddenly sure the prince had been waiting for this turn in the conversation. "There is something... Gaius, hand me my bag."
The old Roman grunted, lifting up a battered old leather bag still marked with the caduceus of the Asklepion. The prince dug around inside, rustling papers and bits of metal. Then, with a triumphant smile, he drew out a torn, frayed section of papyrus. Part of a diagram was sketched on the paper in faded ink. Anastasia felt a chill steal over her, seeing the delicate way the prince held the ancient page. The design seemed familiar to her. Oh goddess, curse these men with forgetfulness, strike sight from their eyes...
"Yes," Maxian said smugly, smoothing out the papyrus. "Martina found this in a collection of broken, incomplete scrolls sent back to Rome during the time of the Divine Augustus. I've had her going through everything about the ancients we could find, trying to find some mention of that Persian sorcerer. Something useful, you know..." The prince set the scrap of paper on the tabletop, squinting down at lines of ancient symbols. "This caught her eye, the design, the wheels within wheels. It's old Egyptian, almost unreadable, just the part of a page included in another scroll written by one of the notorious Kleopatra's secretaries."
Maxian looked up, grinning, and the exhaustion in his face was gone, swept away by a merry sparkle in his eyes. "But I know a trick." He pressed his palms together over the papyrus, closing his eyes. Then he opened his hands slowly, palm to palm. Wind tugged at Anastasia's hair and a cloud of dust hissed together over the tabletop. Sighing, dust and dirt, even one of the apple cores, leapt between the prince's hands. There was a soft flash and when Anastasia blinked tears away, the sheet of papyrus lay on the tabletop, crisp and new, complete, shining with black ink.
"There," Maxian said, lifting the roll by the corners. Perfectly clear in the center of the paper was an intricate drawing of a device, wheels within wheels, with gears and arcing sections. The Duchess felt very cold, looking upon a well-drawn picture of a telecast. She held her breath, wondering what disastrous secrets were written on the reborn page.
"'In Nemathapi's name,'" the prince read, slowly, puzzling out the hieroglyphs. He squinted, though the symbols were very clear. "'I, Menes, scribe of the—must be kingdom—write these words. Here I have drawn a—um—picture.'" Maxian paused, leaning back. For a moment, watching him, Anastasia was struck by an impression the prince was listening to something. "'A picture of the king's guardian,'" Maxian began again, and now his voice was assured and the translation swift. "'Uraeus, the eye of Horus the Avenger. Even as the god was hewn into pieces by his enemy, so is the eye divided into seven parts.'"
Anastasia controlled herself, keeping from flinching or gasping aloud only by digging her nails into her palm. Surely there would be a line of sharp bruises in the morning. Fragmentary thoughts flashed wildly through her mind, then she quelled them all. Without moving her head, she marked the places of each man in the room. I could kill Galen, she realized with a sick, helpless feeling. But Gaius is already dead and Maxian beyond my power to harm. Then the Praetorians would rush in and my life spill out on the tile.
Oblivious, Maxian continued reading. "'By the king's command, one eye has been sent to Abydos in the south, that his wisdom may oversee all lands under his sway. The other remains here, in Memphis, where all wisdom flows from the king and god and defender, Kha'sekhem, lord of the upper lands and the lower, protector of the earth.'"
The Duchess allowed herself to breathe. Thank you, goddess! Only two!
The prince laid down the papyrus, his head cocked to one side. "Hmm..."
"Too bad," Galen said, finding another stylus and turning back to his ledgers. "The other five are lost, then, and we have one, while the other was destroyed in Constantinople."
"No..." Maxian turned the papyrus over, looking at the design from another angle. "This diagram does not depict our telecast, nor, if memory serves, does it describe its lost companion. See—" His finger traced a line of spiky symbols on one of the outer rings of the device. "These are quite different." Maxian raised an eyebrow, smiling at his
brother.
"Where did Emperor Heraclius find his? Where did we find ours?" Galen scowled at Anastasia, who blinked at him in surprise, then marshaled herself. Luckily, Helena had once told her—though the Emperor should have remembered for himself. But he is tired and there are many other, far more pressing concerns to distract him, thank the fates!
"Builders excavating a new foundation for the temple of Zeus Skyfather, in Pergamum, uncovered the device lost in Constantinople. Builders in... Spain, near the Pillars of Hercules, found the one we possess." Anastasia indicated the papyrus with an idle finger. "If the prince's memory serves, then there was at least one more, in the distant past."
"We can find it," Maxian stated, nodding to himself. "Even if the remains are broken or scattered."
"We can?" Gaius Julius said, raising a white eyebrow. "How?"
The prince grinned again. "I know another trick... I can make a talisman, an... echo of the telecast we have here. Someone can go to Egypt with my amulet. If they are close to the sister device, the talisman will guide them. Time-consuming, but Martina believes at least one telecast was in the hands of the Ptolemies. If so, then the device was probably moved to Alexandria."
Anastasia looked to the Emperor, eyebrow raised. "Lord and God, if the prince can make such a talisman, it will be on our fastest ship within hours... a cohort of Praetorians aboard, with reliable guides."
"A ship?" Maxian rose in his chair, looking at the Duchess as if she were a simpleton. "For another telecast, I will go myself! Pegasus will have me in Egypt in two days. A ship, indeed!"
The Duchess' jaw tightened as she bit down on intemperate words. He is the prince, fool girl!
"Maxian, are you ready to fight the dark man?" Galen was watching them both, fist to his mouth, eyes narrowed. "If you go to Egypt on your steed of iron, he cannot help but know you are there."
"How?" Maxian turned on his brother, almost sneering. "We fly by night, we keep to the desert... the Persian army is trapped before Pelusium. They will not be able to interfere. He cannot fly over them!"
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