In the reeds, Shirin breathed out a long, slow gasp of relief. Her arms were trembling, on the verge of cramping, and her shoulders rippled with disgust. I hate mosquitoes, she thought viciously. Lord of my fathers, strike them all down! Shuddering again, the Khazar woman crushed the carpet of midges and gnats on her arms with her palms, leaving a smeared, greasy, red-streaked paste. For the moment, she ignored the bugs rustling in her hair and slipped through the forest of reeds to the edge of the lake. A tiny trail of flattened mud led off along the shore.
Keeping a wary eye out for crocodiles and snapping turtles, Shirin padded towards the next break in the reeds. Something had happened and she suspected the Romans would be moving soon. Where are you going? Shirin wondered, the image of the redheaded woman clear as crystal in her memory; Thyatis' face framed by the half-closed gate, a curl of red-gold hair fallen over gray eyes. Did the Egyptian woman tell you something useful? Her full lips twisted into a frown. What was the sleek, dangerous man doing while you were talking to her? Perhaps the other Roman had found something in the archives. Still moving cautiously, she turned onto another path between the huge, softly trembling reeds and moved inland. I think I'll need a horse... no—a camel for heavy sand or sharp stones.
—|—
Veils of falling rain swept across the surface of the lake, alternately revealing and obscuring whitewashed houses along the shoreline. The growl and crack of thunder rolled among the clouds, though the storm itself had moved away to the north. Squatting in the bottom of a long canal boat, Patik waited quietly, water streaming from the brim of his leather hat. Artabanus crouched behind him, coughing softly in the damp, wrapped in a woolen cloak and a conical hat made of straw. Two more of the Persian soldiers were behind him, asleep, or nearly so, under their cloaks.
A hundred yards away, the edge of a stone wall reached down to the water's edge. Patik was watching the opening, waiting patiently in cover. Somewhere to the west, the clouds parted, letting the sun blaze down across the rainy sky. The Persian commander blinked, dipping the brim of his hat to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. Coruscating rainbows shimmered across the falling rain, gilding the reeds and the brassy surface of the lake.
"There!" The little Egyptian woman in the prow of the boat pointed with a thin, bird-like hand. A blunt-nosed boat edged out from behind the crumbling wall. Patik tensed, one hand sliding along the haft of his oar. The curator turned, grinning brightly at him. Her glossy, water-charged hair was plastered to a narrow skull. As far as the Persian could tell, the woman hadn't even noticed the torrential downpour. "Do you see her?"
Patik nodded, eyes narrowing. One of the figures poling the heavy barge was a woman, bright hair bound up behind her head. She and a huge African were pushing the boat away from the shore. Six or seven Egyptians in straw hats and dun-colored robes helped with paddles. A pair of camels stood uneasily in the center of the barge, hemmed in by piled supplies. "I see her. She's a Roman agent?"
Eyes glinting mischievously, Sheshet nodded. "They know where the tomb is. Follow them and you'll have your prize. Now—give me the rest of my money."
The corner of the big Persian's left eye gained a slight tic at the avaricious expression in the little Egyptian's face, but he drew a purse from his belt and scrupulously counted out five heavy silver coins. The curator examined each one, turning the disks over in her hands, holding them up to the light—fading now as the clouds rolled on, obscuring the sun. Artabanus' fingers moved to a knife at his side, but Patik shook his head slightly and the mage subsided. "Satisfied?"
Sheshet nodded, looking up at the Persian with a queer, knowing expression. "You're an honorable man, aren't you?" Her voice was very soft, almost drowned by the renewed patter of rain on the water and the sides of the boat. Patik did not respond, though the line of his mouth tightened a fraction. "You are. A hard-won lesson, I think."
Shaking her head in compassion, she caught his hand, squeezed it gently, then scrambled the length of the boat, hopping over Asha and Mihr, and then to shore. Both of the soldiers lifted the brims of their hats, peering curiously at Patik.
"Let's go," he said, ignoring the questioning expression on Artabanus' face.
All four bent to their oars and the long skiff slipped out from the reeds, surging across the open water. Ahead, nearly obscured by mists rising from the blood-warm water of the lake, the Roman barge plowed steadily west. A moment later, a second boat, this one holding Tishtrya, Amur and their own supplies, followed, gliding out from the reed forest like a ghost.
—|—
A door panel shuddered under a powerful blow. Hinges creaked and a stout wooden bar twisted in its braces. Outside, a harsh voice spoke sharply. The door slammed open, bar shattered, hinges torn from the mud-brick wall. With a loud bang, the panel flew across the room and crashed into a wicker screen. A tall, powerfully built figure ducked under the lintel. Features obscured by a deep hood, the intruder strode noiselessly through the house. The room darkened as it passed. A long cavalry blade, etched with spidery runes, gleamed in one hand. A second figure, much like the first, followed. Neither spoke as they quartered the dwelling, finding the remains of a hasty meal and evidence of a recent departure.
A rear door, standing open, led them out onto a grassy sward leading down to the lakeshore. The taller of the two bent beside the muddy verge, examining trampled turf and boot prints. An aura of anger radiated from the creature as it stood, face still in shadow. The rain had tapered off, though the dark woolen cloaks of the two figures were glossy with lanolin, easily shedding what moisture dripped from the leaden sky.
"They go upon the waters," the taller figure said in a hollow, cold voice.
The other nodded, turning to reenter the house. "We shall go around," it said. "But swiftly."
"As the spirits quarter the land," answered the first, anger curdling in its terrible voice. "Beyond the light of the sun."
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Summer House, At Cumae
Galen, Emperor of the West, stood beneath an arbor trellis, the light from hanging lanterns glinting in his hair. Not far away, the rippling shake of tambourines and lilting flutes lent a merry sound to the night air. People were dancing on a lawn of fresh-cut turf, under barren, ghostly trees. Beyond them, the roofs of the villa rose above a bleak landscape. Drifts of ash and pumice covered the hills. A forest of pine and cedar surrounding the house had been stripped down to bare trunks, the skin of the trees burned white or dark by fiery circumstance.
The sea below the cliffs was dark, waves silent on a windless night, and the sound of the musicians carried a great distance, echoing in the desolation beneath Vesuvius. The arbor vaulting above the Emperor's head, the green lawn, and the fragrant rosebushes were all newly planted—only days ago—for the prince's celebration. Luckily, a low ridge rose between the scattered buildings and the crumpled cone of Vesuvius. The lee of the ridge had protected the villa from the explosion's initial shockwave, but did nothing to prevent a cloud of fire from consuming the house, blackening the plaster and setting the roof timbers alight.
Like the other revelers, the Emperor was dressed in his finest tunic, toga, boots, and a length of Tyrian purple cloth plunging almost to his feet. Nervously, he measured the length of the cloth with his fingers, over and over. He was nervous, being even three days' swift ride from Rome. Yet, he could not gainsay his brother the Emperor's presence and blessing.
"Gales?" Maxian's voice carried easily from the edge of the lawn. There were no leaves, no brush, no foliage to absorb the sound.
"Here," Galen said. His brother approached, silhouetted against the bright windows of the villa, which blazed with crystalline lamps. The radiance of the thaumaturgic devices was like the sun, though without King Sol's beneficent heat. "How do you feel? Nervous?"
Maxian laughed and Galen could hear bone-deep weariness in his brother's voice.
"I'm too tired to feel nervous. I'm glad you let us use this place—a ceremony in Rome would
be overwhelming. There are more guests here than I know!"
Galen nodded, avoiding his brother's eyes, and sat down on the marble bench under the arbor. The stone felt odd under his hands; freshly cut, still grainy from the carving saw. Brand new, Galen thought, distracted. Like everything else here. How strange... the villa seems so hollow without the patina of ages on the stone and wood.
"Is something wrong?" Maxian sat as well, peering curiously at the Emperor. "Do... do you approve of this match?"
Suppressing a wry grimace, Galen looked at his brother. "There are difficulties associated," he said, trying to keep his own weariness from showing. "Tell me the truth, piglet, are you sure of this course?" Before Maxian could answer, the Emperor raised a hand. "Wait a moment. Let me say on."
The prince nodded dubiously, a hint of anger gleaming in his eyes.
"Two men sit before you; your brother and your Emperor. Each is troubled tonight, yet each holds a different council. Your brother wishes you only happiness, for you to follow your heart, to find peace, to live a long, untroubled life. Your brother looks upon the lady Martina and sees a quiet soul, used to books, to pursuits of the mind. Your brother thinks she is a likely match! Her family is beyond rebuke, her lineage old and honorable. Your brother sees her look upon you and sees love." Galen smiled, forcing his hands to lie still on his knees. His palms were sweating.
"Your Emperor... well, he is a cranky fellow, filled with suspicions and fears. He worries, this Emperor, and he frets about the state and the people." Galen laughed hollowly at himself. The prince's eyes narrowed, thinking his brother was laughing at him. "There is some humor here, piglet. The Emperor is not worried about you, he is worried about Martina."
Maxian sat up straighter, surprised. Galen smiled mischievously at him, then brushed back the fall of thin hair from his forehead. "What a look you give me! Listen, men and women in Rome are minded to treat marriage lightly—they may join and un-join by common consent, without permission, without trial. For anyone else, if this match should fail—then set it aside! If you cannot live with her, or she with you, then you may amicably part, each retaining the properties and wealth of your personal estate. In Rome, the patricians and nobles swirl in a constant dance of alliance and arrangement." The Emperor paused, looking out over the lawn, keen eyes searching among the dancers and revelers drinking and feasting at long tables.
"See there?" he pointed. Maxian's eyes followed, though a shade of incipient anger still haunted his face. "There is the Senator Pertinax. He has been married and divorced seven times." Galen smiled genially, thin lips quirked in amusement. "Each time he swore the marriage would be his last... yet each pairing ended and in a confusing variety of ways." The Emperor looked to his brother again and frowned.
"Not so in the East. They take such matters seriously among the grandees of the Eastern Empire. If you marry Martina, her cousins, her people, the great lords will presume you do so for life, in a binding of man to woman, forever. Is this your intent?"
Maxian's poor humor had not improved. For a moment, he said nothing, then: "Oh, I've leave to speak now? Are you finished lecturing? You expect me to cast her aside then, when my fancy inevitably passes to another?"
"It does not matter," Galen said quietly, ignoring Maxian's sarcasm, "what you intend. The future is uncertain and many things may happen. Can you see what will come now, with your power?"
"No," Maxian said, biting back harsher words. "I cannot. I will take the days as they come."
"Very wise!" Galen said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "I had no idea what trouble I was getting into when I married Helena! Lovely, dear trouble. But I would not change my mind, if given the chance again. Do you love her?"
Maxian started to answer, then paused, staring at his brother. A perplexed expression flitted across his face, then settled into a rueful grimace. "I... don't know. It seems... proper... we should be together. Her son needs a father. I... I don't want to be alone. Must I love her, to marry her? I am following my heart, if you must know. Why are you so concerned?"
Gritting his teeth, Galen suppressed a sigh of despair. Why can't Father be alive to deal with this sort of thing? I must have angered the gods somehow... "Your brother wishes you only happiness. Your Emperor suffers an ulcer thinking of what might happen if you and she part in anger."
"Oh." Maxian made a face like he'd bitten into a rotten lemon. "Cold-blooded, aren't you?"
"The Emperor must be," Galen answered ruefully. "Your happy marriage seals the alliance between East and West in your conjoined bodies. A divorce... splits us when we cannot afford any division." The Emperor grimaced, grinding his teeth. "There is another matter..."
The prince's face fell, hearing the tension in his brother's voice. However, before Galen could speak, a great clamor rose from the house and a troop of Legion officers clattered out onto the portico lining the seaward side of the villa. Galen could see their faces shining with sweat, boldly illuminated by flaring, sputtering brands held high. Voices loud in rough, drunken harmony, they shouted:
Inspired by this joyful day
Sing wedding songs
With your glad voices
And shake the ground with your dancing,
And in your hand brandish a pine torch!
The dancers on the lawn and the people among the tables laughed and rose—if they had been sitting—to respond. Maxian also stood, though Galen tried to hold him back with a hand on the hem of his toga. Those on the lawn, equally drunken, gathered, arm in arm, and made the proper, traditional reply:
For—as Venus
Once approached Paris
Now Martina approaches
Maxian; a good maiden
Will marry with good omens
The soldiers, breath restored by the pause, turned to the house, now joined by a crowd of men and women and children who had been inside. They parted, the officers' hands on each man's shoulder, making a corridor before the main doors of the villa.
Come forward, new bride!
Don't be afraid. Hear our glad words.
See! Our torches
Burn like golden hair.
Come forward new bride!
Gaius Julius appeared in the doorway and bowed to the assembled crowd. He raised his head, looking out across the lawn. Galen finally rose, feeling duty settle on him with a heavy weight. The Empress Martina's father was long dead, her male relatives lost in the destruction of Constantinople. There was no one else of proper rank to present the bride. He raised his hand, catching Gaius Julius' eye. Maxian also waved, but before he could stride away across the lawn, Galen caught his hand.
"Wait, there is one more thing we must discuss. It's about Heracleonas."
"What about him?" Maxian turned back, a quizzical expression on his face.
Galen took a deep breath, suddenly changing his mind. Abrupt, honest words were set aside. His brother looked so young, as a man should be—nearly innocent—on his wedding day. There is no need to trouble him with the dire thoughts tonight, Galen decided. I will strike a temperate course. "His birthday approaches, as does Theodosius', and I thought to make a proclamation on the happy day, declaring to the people of Rome and to the world, Theo my heir and Caesar-presumptive to the Western throne. At the same time, Heracleonas will be proclaimed the heir to the East, under my protection, and yours, as his new father."
"Very well," Maxian said, shrugging his shoulders. "It matters little, with so many years to pass before they may take the red boots and white rod."
"True," Galen said, hiding a breath of relief at the prince's easy acceptance. "But the people will be pleased, I think, and such statements will set the minds of many lords at ease." The people should be pleased! Games, donatives, corn tokens cast to the crowd... and the restive dukes and governors will be set on notice the Emperor has not forgotten the matter of succession!
Maxian nodded in agreement, then turned away. Gaius Julius approached, bearing the glossy white raiment of the groom. Inside,
Galen saw the women gathering in a great crowd. Martina would be there, her hair bound up in six locks, parted by a bent spear, anointed and oiled, prepared for the sponsalia. Swallowing rising disquiet at his own evasion and dissembling, the Emperor followed his brother into the house. Despite his best efforts and the glad day, he found a bitter taste lingering in his mouth. A poor omen, he thought bitterly, if I cannot speak openly with my own brother.
—|—
The main courtyard of the villa had been transformed—the smoke blackening scoured away, the shattered roof tiles replaced, dead shrubs and flowers rooted out and replaced with new, fresh plantings. Galen took his place at one side, standing on marble tiling. Pine torches sputtered and blazed around him in a great circle and the bride and groom stood before him, as yet apart.
Some fathers might make a long speech, but Galen was already tired and the night promised to be long. He raised his hands to the crowd filling the courtyard and the colonnade. Everyone fell quiet, even the servants perched on the roof, who gained a better view with their daring than many of the patricians below.
"Here stand before you Maxian Atreus, son of Galen the Elder, and Martina, daughter of Martinus. They are from good families and of noble blood. As princeps of the State, I speak for Martina as paterfamilias, her guide and defense against the trials of the world."
Galen, face composed in a stern and commanding mein, turned to Maxian. The prince was trying not to grin broadly. Despite his obvious good humor, Maxian managed to speak in a suitably respectful voice. "Do you promise Martina, your daughter, to be given to me as a wife?"
"May the gods smile upon us," Galen answered formally. "I promise her to you."
"May the gods smile upon us." Maxian said, making a slight bow.
The Emperor smiled warmly at Martina, who was sweating a little in a heavy woolen gown. The night had grown warm. Fine, pure white cloth was pleated and cinched at her waist with a silken band, tied in an ornate knot. A flame-colored veil shrouded her shoulders. As Galen had expected, the girl's hair was done up in six plaits and crowned with fragrant blooms.
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