—|—
The garden was filled with pale, diffuse light. Thin drapes hid the sky, breaking up the harsh summer sun. Anastasia sat delicately on a pink marble bench, screened from the main garden by a trellis covered with flowering vines. Subtle perfume hung in the air and the sound of water chuckling over stones added an air of peace and contemplation. Helena also sat, placing the bowl between them. Betia had disappeared, though the sounds of children laughing hung in the air. Anastasia parted green leaves, looking into the grassy bowl at the center of her house.
"A cheerful child," the Duchess said, face lighting with a smile. "His colic is gone?"
"Yes." Warmth seeped into Helena's voice. "Sometimes he even sleeps through the night."
A baby boy was crawling on the soft grass, head covered with dark, flat hair. Another little boy, blond, perhaps two years old, was rooting about in the stream. His arms and face were covered with mud. Watching over both of them was a young girl of five or six, amber colored eyes watching the infant's every move. There was an air of sharp attention around her. She was dressed in a pale gold tunic, indigo hair spilling over thin shoulders. In the afternoon glow, her tresses gleamed like spilled ink.
"They seem to get along well," Anastasia said, a catch in her voice. There should be another little boy on the grass... "Who is the girl?"
"Koré," Helena said, sounding both pleased and possessive. "A refugee from the East. She served in the Bucoleon and escaped with Empress Martina. I found her on the Palatine, lost and crying. She is very diligent. They don't get away with anything!"
"I'm glad." The Duchess turned away, blinking to clear her eyes. "I'm glad you came today."
"Really?" Helena made a disbelieving face. "Were you going to tell me about this little plot of yours?"
"Yes," Anastasia said, nodding. "I need your help."
"Against my husband? I think not!" The Empress twitched her gown into line across her knees. "You had better have a good reason just for me to ignore what I heard today!"
"I do. Listen, Helena, I owe you a great deal, but I must ask another favor."
"I'm listening." An eyebrow rose skeptically. The Empress popped another grape into her mouth.
Anastasia fell quiet, clasping her hands. She stared off into the distance, across the garden, oblivious to the marble columns, the brilliant paintings on the walls, the unobtrusive servants waiting in the shadows, just out of earshot. Finally, she said, "My heart is troubled, Helena. I thought things were difficult enough, stepping back into this nest of snakes, taking up my old responsibilities." She shot a glance at the Empress, who had curled her feet up and was leaning back, stuffing grapes into her mouth. "You wanted me to cast aside the mourning cloak! You wanted me to bend my wiles upon the enemies of the Empire again! This is all your fault."
Helena made a muffled sound, and waved her hand in a get-on-with-it motion.
"Listen... you are a dear friend, and I am loath to keep secrets from you, particularly ones so involved with your husband's affairs. But... these telecasts are more than just a convenient window, more than just a toy. They are dangerous." Anastasia bit her thumb, worrying. How much to tell? "I wish... I wish we did not even have this one. By itself it is mostly harmless... but see how these men want another, and then another? There's the danger. In greed, and the desire for power... for a weapon to solve all their problems."
"So?" Helena wiped her mouth. She sounded vexed. "We need power, we need strength, we need an advantage! Persia presses us hard—you know how desperate our situation is. Aren't you loyal? The Empire needs every scrap of help it can get."
"I am loyal," Anastasia said mournfully. "To the Empire, to your husband—who is the Empire. To you, and your son. But... there are some things we should not disturb! There are—ah, I don't know what to say to convince you!"
"Huh. You're eloquent today." Helena curled a lock around her fingertip, closely examining each shining brown hair. "Let me try."
The Duchess gave the Empress a jaundiced look, but lifted her hands in surrender.
"Very well." Helena rubbed her nose. "First, there is more to you, my dear, than meets the eye, which is saying quite a bit since you are our master of spies and informers. Oh, don't look so shocked... anyone with half a wit can see the number of exceptionally fit young women passing through your house. No one believes they're your playthings—you are too partial to boys! I was watching Betia today, before you came. She and Thyatis were sparring. The little one is quick, very quick... where do they learn to fight like that?"
Helena laughed softly, watching the pained expression on Anastasia's face. "Don't tell me, silly. I don't need to know. But it is very beautiful, calming even, like watching water reeds bend in the wind. So, you are obviously mixed up in some kind of mystery cult, like half the women in Rome..."
The Empress ticked off a finger. "Unlike those idlers, however, you are probably in charge, or close to being in charge." A second finger rose. "This brings you privy knowledge and your cult is ancient, isn't it... old and powerful, investing so much in these young women, over countless generations. Just watching Thyatis move opens such a vista of possibilities..." A third finger rose.
"And because of this, you know secret things. Real secrets. Not gossip, not rumor, not stupid little lies about common, stupid people." Helena's face fell and sadness leaked into her eyes. Anastasia realized the Empress was speaking about herself and her correspondence.
"Helena..." The Duchess took her friend's hand. "I can't tell you these things..."
"I know." A bitter light flashed in Empress' eyes, but then softened. "Real secrets have to be kept, don't they? Not passed from hand to hand like an unwanted birthday present. So—there's something more to this telecast than just an ancient wizard's toy. Something dangerous. Dangerous to the Empire, or dangerous to your... friends?"
Anastasia's jaw stiffened and a bleak, exhausted look entered her face. "Dangerous to the world, Helena. Dangerous to everything that lives."
The Empress drew back a little. "Really?"
"Yes." Anastasia felt her stomach roil, even with such a sideways, oblique admission.
Helena took another grape—fat and juicy, red skin stretched taut over a ripe interior—and rolled it between her fingers. "You're not worried about Galen, are you? He has no time for these 'diversions' and 'toys.'" The Empress managed a reasonable imitation of her husband. "You're worried about Gaius Julius and his spidery old fingers."
No, Anastasia thought, I'm worried about your little brother-in-law and his reckless, blind hubris. But she said, "Do you want him to have even one atom more power and influence than he has today?"
"Not at all." Helena shook her head, drawing the stole around her shoulders as if the garden had grown cold. "I do not like the way he looks at me." The Empress stared out at the garden again, where little Theodosius and his babysitter were rolling on the grass, squealing with laughter. Her face was very still. "Each day, Anastasia, I pray Maxian remains without child."
The Duchess closed her eyes, turning pale. But Helena was looking the other way.
"If that day comes," Helena continued, voice cold as a German forest, "either the child or the prince will have to die. You may think me foolish—you may say Aurelian has a squalling brood—but the red-beard is not under the influence of that man." The Empress turned back to Anastasia. "I do not want to murder an innocent," she said, "but I will. So, I understand you and your fear."
Anastasia nodded. "My agents watch Gaius Julius every moment. His agents watch me and they watch you. So far, nothing untoward has happened, but it is a distraction. He is ambitious."
"My husband," the Empress said, voice lightening, "is very pleased with Gaius. He seems amused by the man, and impressed by his ability to solve problems, to deal with the minutiae of the Imperial process. Galen needs such an aide, an ally."
"Has Galen told you who Gaius is?" Anastasia was curious.
"Yes." The Empress' mouth thinned to a hard line. "He wa
s excited, happy even. He is so pleased. You'd think Maxian conjured him up as a name-day present!" Helena realized her hands were clenched to fists. She forced them open, staring down at thin, half-moon bruises on her palms. "He wants to discuss literature, the histories, all the politics of the old Republic. Every day I have to come up with a new excuse to keep the snake from my dinner table. I'm sure he'd try for my bed next."
"Oh." Anastasia felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. "How nice." How Roman.
The Empress looked at Anastasia with a calculating, appraising expression. "We need each other more than I thought, Duchess."
"Yes..." Anastasia met her gaze. "We do. Secrets for secrets, then."
The Empress nodded, watching her son again. The little dark-haired girl looked up, saw them and waved. Helena waved back, her fierce expression starting to fade.
"I will keep yours," the Empress said. "And you will help me get rid of a troublesome counselor. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Anastasia said, though she felt a little odd. The little girl was watching them. She seemed familiar. The Duchess narrowed her eyes. Where have I seen her before? The girl turned away, just in time to pluck young Heracleonas from the stream, where he was trying to be a fish and breathe water.
—|—
"Lord and God?"
Galen did not respond. He was sitting at his desk in the workroom on the second floor of the Tiberian Palace, staring out one of the high, rectangular windows. The day was passing, blue sky beginning to shade towards evening. The city was busy—he could hear the dull murmur of voices, hammers, lowing cattle, sacred geese honking—unmindful of his splitting headache. The Emperor refused to cry out, though he could barely stand up. A shimmering wash of sparkling lights clouded half his vision, pulsing in time to the throb of his pulse and the crushing pain behind his right eye.
"Master? Are you well?"
Galen closed his eyes, though the piercing light remained. He licked his lips. They were dry. Maxian's anger had not abated, not even with Galen spending an hour—or two—in further, fruitless argument. Our course is so clear. At last the prince threw up his hands, shouting he "agreed" before storming out. Galen's headache split open then, like Zeus erupting from the groin of Chronos, and the Emperor was barely able to walk down the hall to his office.
Nilos and the other scribes, of course, were waiting, along with an endless supply of scrolls to review, edicts to sign, documents to approve. Barely able to see, the Emperor ordered them all out, producing a flurry of activity and then the too-loud trampling of many feet as his scribes and clerks vacated the office. The resulting quiet had not helped.
"Master?"
Galen opened his eyes, focusing on the worried, thin face of his head clerk. "What is it?" he whispered.
"My lord, perhaps you should go home. You seem... tired."
"That's very polite of you, Nilos." The Emperor exhaled with difficulty. "I have a headache with a name—the worst kind. Is there anything pressing?"
The Greek seemed uneasy and did not respond. Galen noticed the man had a stack of legal documents in his hands, wrapped with the dark red string the Palace staff used to denote manuscripts for the Emperor's attention. "What is this?"
"Nothing pressing, Lord and God," Nilos said, clutching the wooden folders to his chest. "You know... my cousin sometimes suffers from terrible headaches. He says it's like a vise crushing his temples."
"This feels that bad," Galen grated, squinting. "What does he do?"
"Goes to see a prostitute," Nilos said with a straight face. "Or eats Axumite beans."
"What is an Axumite bean?" Galen pointed at the documents. The motion made him feel queasy, but focusing on something other than his brother's pigheadedness was a welcome distraction. "That is a senatorial will, isn't it?"
"An Axumite bean," Nilos said, moving away and putting the stack of parchments on the far end of the marble-topped table, "is a little red bean from a green bush. If you chew them, many pains are banished. He says they help if you have a very bad headache."
Galen stood up and moved along the desk, supporting himself on the cool marble. "They help more than a prostitute? Do you have any?" He reached for the top folder.
"I know some," Nilos said, snatching the folders away from the Emperor. "But you should visit your beautiful wife. A most efficacious cure for many maladies! These things will wait until tomorrow. Or the day after."
"Give me the folder," Galen growled. "Or I will have you cut into tiny pieces by the guards. If this were Egypt, there would be crocodiles to clean up the mess, but I'm sure the circus is well stocked with hungry lions..."
"Yes, master." Nilos said, relinquishing his hold on the documents. He looked a little ill himself. "Should I find you some Axumite beans?"
"Wait a moment," Galen said, opening the folder and squinting at the closely-set lines of handwritten text within. It was a will. He flipped through several pages of declarations and invocations to the gods for a just and swift disbursement of the inheritance. "This is the will of Gregorius Auricus."
"Yes, Lord and God." Nilos clasped both hands behind his back and focused on a point above the Emperor's shoulder.
Galen's brow furrowed and the pain behind his right eye abated, driven out by intense irritation. His finger paused on the signatures at the bottom of the last page. "This was prepared by the very Gaius Julius who is familiar to us?"
Nilos nodded, though his mouth puckered up like a quince.
The Emperor considered the date of preparation and announcement in the Forum. "This is a revised will, replacing an earlier draft?"
The Greek nodded again.
"Does a copy of the previous will exist?"
"Yes," Nilos said slowly, obviously hesitant. Galen raised an eyebrow.
"Have you seen the previous will?" Another nod. "The benefactor was—"
"Lord and God, there were several..." Nilos' voice trailed off, then—faced with growing anger in the Emperor's face—he rallied and was able to say, "...temples devoted to good works, master. The Vestals, the Asklepian hospital on the Isla Tiberis, the funeral clubs for soldiers without families..."
Galen looked down at the document again. His entire body became still and quiet. "'All estates, lands, monies, investments, partnerships and shares previously owned by the senator,'" he read aloud, "'are now the sole property of one Maxian Julius Atreus, son of Galen the elder, an adult Roman male without living father.'" The Emperor paused, then continued in a stiff voice. "'To be administered and executed by his agent, Gaius Julius.'"
The clerk blanched a little at the tone, but nodded again. "Properly filed, master."
"Was it?" Galen closed the folder. "Yet all senatorial inheritances, particularly those without heirs of the body, must be approved by the Emperor. By me," he snapped. "Has my brother taken possession of this fortune, these estates?"
"Well... no, Lord and God." Nilos gained some heart. "But Master Gaius was already the senator's administrator and aide. He is already responsible for everything."
"Not now," Galen said with a sharp tone in his voice. "I deny this claim." He handed the folders back to Nilos, who was staring at the Emperor in surprise. "These properties are declared the property of the Imperial Household. All managers and foremen will be immediately replaced and an audit will be conducted to ensure the previous administrator has properly maintained the patrimony of the Emperor's beloved friend, Gregorius Auricus."
Nilos turned a little green.
"Do you understand?" The Emperor's poor humor disappeared, replaced by unsubtle anger.
"Yes, Lord and God." The clerk bowed, then crept out of the room. Galen did not notice his departure, for the Emperor was staring out the window again, across the massive buildings of the Forum. The city sprawled away to the edge of sight, a jumble of red-roofed apartments, shining temples and the imposing bulk of the Antonine Baths. He felt better, much better.
I am the Emperor of Rome, he thought, finding solace in the statement. I am the
Empire.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Near Iblis
Moisture brushed against Mohammed's face and he came awake. There was water, real water, cold and wet. Without thinking, he opened his lips. Something stiff pressed against his cheek, and water spilled into his mouth. He opened his eyes, startled. Take nothing from this place, he thought wildly. A shape knelt over him, blocking out the perfect blue sky, silhouetted by the round, motionless sun. He blinked, feeling his eyelids crack. "No..." he gasped out, trying to raise a hand. The motion was very slow, so weak his limbs had become.
"You need to drink," said a voice; a familiar, beloved voice. A woman's voice. "Or you will die."
"Zoë?" Mohammed tried to push himself up. Again, his muscles could not respond. Firm hands caught his shoulders and helped him lie back against the trunk of the fig. Mohammed smelled familiar perfume, felt comfortable fingers brush back his white hair. The shape moved out of the sun's path.
"Hello, husband." Khadijah knelt before him on one knee, head tilted to one side, a white scarf of Indian cotton binding back her graying hair. She smiled, the corners of her eyes wrinkling up. Mohammed grunted, speechless, the sight of her face—so familiar, as if they had never been parted, even for an hour—looking back at him, just as he imagined his long-delayed homecoming. "You must drink."
In her hands was a leaf, a fig leaf, brimming with clear silvery water.
"How..." Mohammed managed to raise his arm, holding the makeshift cup away from his lips. He felt a heavy pain in his chest, as if his heart were being ground in the wheels of an oil press. The kind, accepting expression on her face made everything worse. "You must be a phantom, a spirit of this place... leave me be."
"You are stubborn as ever," Khadijah said, fingers closing around his hand. Mohammed's eyes widened. Her arm was insubstantial, colorful yet transparent, like excellent glass. The fig leaf was startlingly solid, the water like mercury. "I am myself, but I am dead. Now, drink. The water is from this tree, which shelters you from the sun with its branches, which supports your weary head with its roots. I gathered dew from these same leaves."
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