The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  Nicholas looked down, saw something on the sand and realized there was a nervous white mouse sitting between Thyatis' bare feet. A bit of twine made a collar and a lead running to the Roman woman's ankle. The little creature lifted its paws, brushing a tiny, pink nose. The cobra's mouth opened in a silent hiss, sensing the motion, then uncoiled in a fantastically quick burst of gleaming scales and thick, corded muscle. Nicholas grunted, a flat-bladed knife flicking from his hand. The metal spun once, then the leather hilt smacked into Thyatis' reaching palm. With the same motion, she reversed the blade and flipped it lazily back to Nicholas.

  The Latin caught the blade from the air, mouth open in surprise. There was a strangled hissing, and the box rattled violently as the cobra writhed, head caught between Thyatis' feet. The quivering throat of the snake was firmly clasped in the space beside each big toe. Unconcerned, the albino mouse continued to clean its face, twine drawn almost taut by the movement of the woman's ankle.

  "Enough games for today, my friends," Thyatis said. The children scrambled up, speaking in whispers. Most of them were staring with equal fascination at the mouse, the snake, and Thyatis' smooth ankles. One boy approached the cobra, slipped a noose on the end of a stick around the head, then unceremoniously stuffed the reptile back into the box. The snake hissed furiously, body lashing back and forth, but could do nothing. Another child retrieved the mouse, slipping the little fellow into her grubby shirt. Thyatis stood up, rolling from one foot to the other, then bowed gravely to the assembled audience.

  The children bowed back, then the eldest—his face twisted into a terrible, tortured grimace—pressed a collection of silver coins into the Roman woman's palm.

  "Not a bad day's work," Thyatis said, grinning at Nicholas as she counted the coins into a pocket of her tunic.

  Nicholas swallowed, sucked on his teeth, then said: "You're fast with that trick. Do it before, somewhere?"

  "The knife, the snake, or the betting?" Thyatis gathered up her sandals, carry bag and sheathed longsword.

  "Either—no, the snake. I've never seen one so... large."

  "I have." Thyatis' good humor faltered, the corners of her mouth tightening. "There was only one this time." She grinned again. "The game is much easier when you can see them. The naga are from Taprobane, I think. Have any luck finding your friend?"

  "Some." Nicholas grimaced, feeling queasy again at the news from the governor's palace. "Have you found a house for us?"

  Thyatis nodded, noting his circumspection. Twilight filled the recesses of the gate and lamps were beginning to sparkle in the heavy, dark water of the canal. Soon the massive portals would be closed for the night, but while a smudge of light remained in the western sky a constant stream of dusty laborers, shopkeepers, priests and slaves flowed past, only inches away. She tilted her head, indicating the road leading out into the suburbs of the city. "I have. It's not far."

  Beyond the gate, a flat plain stretched away to the south, crowded with gardens and single-story houses. An encompassing tropical gloom quickly engulfed them as they walked, barely disturbed by the intermittent lights of outlying buildings. Only a steady stream of workers trudging homeward into the city lit the road—every fourth or fifth man carried a pitch torch or lamp. No one else was heading out from the gate.

  After ten grains, Thyatis turned into a side lane. Ahead, Nicholas saw the glitter of water and smelled the pungent, rancid aroma of cooling mud, rotting cane and birds.

  "I found a place on the lakeshore," Thyatis said, voice smiling in the darkness. "Not very popular in the summer, I gather. Too many mosquitoes and flies. But there is a place to tie up a shallow-draft boat and a high wall with plenty of trees."

  "Sounds private." Nicholas nodded in appreciation. He slowed his pace a little—the road was rapidly devolving into a muddy track. "I found two of my... ah... friends. One of them told me the Persians have broken through the defenses at Pelusium. The Caesar Aurelian is trying to stop them at Bousiris, on the main channel of the Nile."

  He paused, waiting for Thyatis to comment, but she did not. "The other says there is a man at the Museum who knows everything about the Egypt of the old Pharaohs. Particularly those who ruled before the Greeks came. His name is Hecataeus, a Cypriot. I'm told he's a poet, but I find that hard to believe..."

  "Hmm. The Museum holds the greatest library in the world." Thyatis' voice was soft in the darkness. She stopped. Nicholas could make out the bare outline of an arched whitewashed gate. "The others are already inside. Does this poet know any of the ancient languages?"

  "Supposedly he's the best. Even with really old carvings." Nicholas shrugged, thinking of the restored parchment and the indecipherable glyphs ringing the wheels within wheels of the telecast. "Do you want to show him the... ah... the device?"

  "No!" Thyatis chuckled, reaching over the gate to lift the locking bar. "We show no one what we're looking for." Her voice turned wry. "We probably shouldn't know what it looks like ourselves."

  —|—

  Keeping her fingers from shaking by an act of complete concentration, Betia unfolded the paper. The room hidden under the temple of Artemis was very old. Blackened stones matched the cutwork of the obscure entrance and the arch over the door only a pair of tilted slabs. She was sweating, moisture beading in tiny, shining drops on her neck, though the air in the room was cool, almost chill.

  "This, my lady," Betia said, keeping her eyes focused on the parchment, "is what we have been sent to secure." The drawing of the telecast was stark in the lamplight, resting in a pool of light surrounded by darkness. "'The Emperor Galen, Augustus of the West, has determined one, perhaps two of these devices once dwelt in Egypt, possessed by the pharaoh...'"

  "'...Nemathapi, long may his name be cursed.'" The words were clipped, each one given full weight by exacting pronunciation. A withered hand, heavy with rings of lapis and garnet, moved at the edge of the light and one of the sisters of the temple moved the parchment to the far edge of the stone table. The light, spilling from a hooded lantern, moved to keep the diagram illuminated. "A vapid little man, like all his kind, who wished only to live forever. And he will, for we will not soon forget him or his treachery."

  Betia remained silent, kneeling on the cold floor, head bent. The time spent in service with the Duchess now seemed very pleasant, her training on the Island a fondly remembered idyll. Her cheek stung from where a brawny sister had clubbed her to the floor of the atrium. Apparently the daughters of the Huntress in Alexandria were no friends of Rome. The cold, forbidding voice in the darkness filled her with dread, for this was Egypt and some things here, she heard, had learned to walk, when they should rightly crawl.

  "But you do not serve the Emperor Galen, do you child? Not if you bring me this foul news."

  "No, my lady," Betia squeaked. "The task of finding the telecasts was entrusted to my mistress, the Duchess De'Orelio and she has sent her agent, Lady Thyatis, to see the device does not fall into the hands of the Emperor."

  Dry, papery laughter echoed in the darkness. "De'Orelio? How droll. Yet you said sent to secure—your mistress Thyatis owns two masters? Has she come in the company of the Emperor's men, a guide, an advisor, a bed companion for their captain?"

  "No." Betia stiffened and almost looked up. A powerful, calloused hand caught her neck and shoved her down. The girl bit her lip, mastering her anger and let herself breathe in, then out. A strange odor tickled her nose, but she ignored the slow pricking of gooseflesh on her arms. "She leads the Emperor's company—we are five: Thyatis, myself, an African, an Eastern soldier and a Walach. We arrived today, aboard the Paris, straightaway from Ostia port."

  A lengthy silence followed her words and Betia became uncomfortably aware of silvery trails of sweat purling down her arms as she knelt.

  At last the voice resumed, though a thread of anger suffused the clipped voice with growing heat. "The Duchess intends a game of shells, then, where your precious Thyatis vigorously searches, yet never finds. Or, perhaps, you
expect us to conjure up some likely-seeming bits and pieces, a token for the Emperor, so the Duchess may claim success in her so-dutiful task?"

  Swallowing to clear a dry throat, Betia said, "My lady, all my mistress bids me say is this: you should know what Lady Thyatis seeks, and do whatever is necessary to ensure she does not find the device! She does not wish to know where it might truly lie! A false trail could be laid, leading Lady Thyatis astray..."

  Again, the silence dragged. Betia felt her calves begin to cramp, and shifted her weight subtly, pressing her heels against the smooth, glassy stone floor until the spasm passed.

  "There is slight merit in such a suggestion," the voice said, simmering with anger. "What she does not know, she cannot reveal. Still, by my memory both Eyes are intact and well hidden." A whispering sigh followed. "Yet, where is the honor of noble Khem? Lost—corrupted long ago by foreign blood, by men seeking power and ancient secrets—and nothing built by human hands can remain hidden forever."

  Cloth rustled and from the corner of her eye, Betia saw a withered hand enter the pool of lamplight and lift up the parchment. In the darkness beyond, the voice was only a dark, indistinct shape. "Child, listen. I wish, as do the old in their dotage, the duradarshan had been destroyed long ago or cast into the sea or shattered in Ptah's forge. Yet, they were not. Both Eyes are intact, whole, unmarked, unblemished. Nemathapi was not the only ruler to desire them—even though men had forgotten their true use and power—for even in his degenerate age they were, they are, a sign and symbol of the first kingdom."

  The hand shifted, turning the parchment. Rubies and cabochons blazed on ancient fingers. "There are those in the city, even today, who might know where the Eyes came to rest. Tell your mistress—this formidable Thyatis you love so much—we shall send a swift party to move the Eyes to a place of greater safety. Too, my daughters will set a watch on those who might know the provenance of old Egypt's treasures."

  The dim coal of anger grew stronger with each word. "This much," the dry voice said, almost spitting, "we will do for the Queen of Day."

  Betia remained kneeling while the priestesses filed out of the room, carrying a litter and the woman hidden within. Some time after they were gone, she dared raise her head. The parchment remained on the table, glowing softly in the light of the single lamp. Tentatively, she picked it up. Across one corner, where a nail might lie while reading, there was a sharp new cut as if a swordblade had been drawn across the parchment.

  The chill in the air did not abate and Betia left as quickly as she could.

  —|—

  A fragment of half-familiar sound caught Shirin's attention; some tone of voice or remembered trick of phrasing reaching her ear through the din and racket of the street. Cautiously, she looked up from her hamper, one hand checking the lace veil across her nose. The Khazar woman was sitting on the top step of a triumphal entryway into the Museion, a long, rectangular building within the greater royal district of the Bruchion. Dozens of other people loitered on the staircase, reading scrolls, eating their lunch, declaiming about religion and politics. Among them, she was happily anonymous, just another woman of the city with a bag of fresh vegetables, watching the constant parade of humanity passing in the avenue below. The top step allowed her to sit half in shadow, her feet in the hot sun.

  Two figures were climbing the worn sandstone steps in haste, voices low.

  Shirin expected to see the big Persian and his smaller, older accomplice. By luck, she had caught sight of the two men three days previous as they entered the Museion. Unhappily, they had vanished into the sprawling complex before she could follow. Her vigil since then, in as wide a variety of clothing and appearance as she could manage, had been fruitless. Unwilling to openly question the clerks and scribes working inside, she had settled in to wait and watch, hoping they would return.

  She had not expected to look up, attention drawn by a carrying voice and see Thyatis almost in arm's reach. Shirin froze in surprise, hand still covering half of her face, eyes flitting away from the tall, broad-shouldered woman in traditional garments. The man at her side was shorter, whipcord lean, his tanned face distinguished by a pair of particularly sharp mustaches. Still muttering to one another, they swept past. As they did, Shirin heard a soft clink of metal and leather from beneath Thyatis' cloak and stole.

  A sword or other blade, part of Shirin's mind commented casually. The Khazar woman turned, watching the two Romans disappear into the dim vault of the atrium. Colossal columns rose up on either side, framing the entrance into the outer courtyard. Shirin shook her head, blinking away surprise. "Get up, brainless fool!"

  Gathering up her basket and tucking the veil behind one ear, she hurried into the dim corridor. Ahead, she caught sight of Thyatis' red-gold hair gleaming in the sunlight as she and her companion crossed a wide, marble-paved court where the booksellers plied a busy trade. The Romans weaved their way through hundreds of stalls and rugs, piled with all variety of artifacts and musty age-worn tomes. Determined to keep them in sight, Shirin matched her pace to theirs, though she cursed Thyatis' long stride and not for the first time.

  —|—

  "Well, my lord, perhaps we can do some business." Smiling broadly, the Cypriot stepped around his worktable, bowing politely to Nicholas. Despite the stifling heat, the scholar was dressed in a heavy Greek-style himation and tunic. The pervasive smell of mold and rotting papyrus throughout the Museion was held at bay by incense and a sluggish breeze from two tall, open windows. Citrus trees crowded the openings and glossy leaves brushed against the sill. "I am familiar with the name of Nemathapi," the reputed poet continued. "Do you have a... picture... of what you seek?"

  "Perhaps," Nicholas said, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You've studied him, then?"

  "Of course." Hecataeus' smile crystallized into a predatory grin. "I am accounted an expert in the old dynasties. I have learned to read the old forms of the traditional glyphs. You have something, don't you? I cannot conjure knowledge from the thin air! There is also the matter of compensation..."

  Thyatis could feel the tension in Nicholas' back like heat from a fire. As before, she was dressed conservatively, pretending to be his wife or servant. Ignoring their bickering over money for a moment, she let her eyes drift over honey-combed racks—each square niche filled with a papyrus or parchment scroll. The shelves covered each wall from floor to ceiling and the table was piled high with more documents, unrolled for easy perusal, held down by a variety of statuettes. Quietly, she drifted away from the low argument between the two men, hands clasped inside her cloak.

  Each scroll was labeled in Greek with a neat hand. Thyatis raised an eyebrow, seeing the vigorous slant of the letters and the careful precision of each parchment tag. She turned at the corner of the room, looking over the desk again. There were day-old, ring-shaped stains on the unfinished wood and a plate with moldy crumbs. A glossy surfaced cup sat beside the remains of breakfast, half filled with wine. Badly trimmed quills and goose feathers littered the floor. Nicholas had produced a paper while her back was turned, filled with a transcription of the glyphs and markings shown in the original depiction of Nemathapi's device. He and Hecataeus bent over the writing.

  "...ah, only a fragment, I'm afraid. Still, I should be able to make some sense of this..." The poet's voice was very smug and Thyatis frowned. Something in the room was out of place—the dissonance bothered her, setting her teeth on edge. She continued her slow circuit, attention drawn again to the table. There were some fresh parchments laid out, the ink still newly dark. Hecataeus moved them aside as she watched, clearing a space to examine Nicholas' paper. Her nostrils flared a little, seeing the set of his hands, and ink smudged on his right index finger.

  "Ah, now," the poet said, settling into his chair. "Some of these symbols are familiar to me..."

  Thyatis stepped out of the room. The hallway was high-ceilinged and dark, spaced with unadorned pillars. Scroll racks filled every possible space, rising two and three times the hei
ght of a man. More small offices opened out between each pair of columns, though most of the doorways were crowded with hemp baskets filled with tightly rolled scrolls. An inordinate number of cats lazed about, sleeping on the papers or cleaning themselves on the windowsills. Humming tunelessly, Thyatis began to poke through the books, finding some of the papers so old they were glued together by the humidity. She rattled a basket experimentally, then extracted one particularly decrepit looking manuscript. Dust scattered, making Thyatis sneeze.

  "What are you doing? Put that down!" A small hand seized Thyatis' wrist and the Roman woman looked down with interest at a tiny, dark-skinned woman hanging on her arm. "Guests are not allowed to touch the books!"

  "I think," Thyatis said, lifting the little woman from the ground with one hand, feeling a flush of satisfaction at the smooth, powerful movement of her muscles, "this particular book is long gone. My name is Diana. What is yours?"

  The little brown woman kicked Thyatis in the thigh with a sandaled foot. More dust puffed from her shoe. The Roman woman suppressed a smile. "Here," Thyatis said in a placating tone. "I've put the book back. And I'll set you down. Now, tell me your name."

  Scowling furiously, the woman bounced back, then darted in to check the placement of the manuscript. Satisfied the document was back in its proper place, she squinted up at Thyatis, her hair a tangle of russet curls around a sharp, triangular face. "I am Sheshet, a curator of the Museum! Who let you in? What are you doing here?"

  "Let me see your fingers," Thyatis said in reply, catching the woman's left hand with a quick movement. Sheshet yelped in surprise, but the Roman woman released her hand as quickly as it had been seized. "You labeled the scrolls in Master Hecataeus' office?"

  "Yes..." The quick anger in the little woman's expression faded, replaced by a penetrating, considering stare. "You've come to see the Cypriot, then? An ode for your lover, I suppose." Sheshet sniffed insultingly. "He can be amusing, sometimes."