"Martina, daughter, have you set aside your child's dress?"
Martina smiled back and the Emperor was gladdened to see a spark of happiness in her eyes. The petulant, depressed young woman who had fled the destruction of her city seemed to be a fragment of the past. The Eastern Empress had gained confidence in the passing months. Perhaps this is worth it, then, Galen thought, grasping for some beneficent omen.
"I have, Father," she answered. "I have put my toys aside."
"So," Galen said, raising his voice so all might hear, "go forth, as one, and stand fast together the length of your days." He lowered his hands.
Maxian, grinning like a loon, took Martina in his arms and kissed her soundly. The Empress squeaked, hand clutching the floral wreath, then pressed herself against him. Galen watched, filled with unexpected sadness. His own wedding day seemed very long ago. Then he turned away, leaving the circle of torches. Well-wishers converged on the bride and groom from all sides, laughing and shouting. Gaius Julius was among them, though his eyes followed the Emperor with interest.
"Ho! See the bride, see the groom!" A great shout rose from the men in the crowd and they hoisted Maxian on their shoulders, then Martina as well. Someone began to sing and the whole group congealed into a procession winding around the garden and out into the dining hall. Torches bobbed above the heads of the revelers. Laughing, the young Empress flung her crown of flowers out into a thicket of grasping hands.
—|—
Again, Galen stood in quiet darkness, face shrouded by the folds of his toga, watching men and women dancing in the great hall of the villa. He felt unaccountably cold, though the summer night was close and almost hot. Maxian and Martina had taken three turns on the freshly tiled floor, swirling past his vantage to the lively rattle of drums and the wail of pipes and horns. At the moment, the prince was dancing with a young girl—one of the senatorial daughters, whose head barely reached his waist, her hair bound up with ribbons and posies. Empress Martina sat at the edge of the floor, face flushed, laughing in delight. A heavy golden cup wavered in her hand. Galen tensed, then breathed out in relief as Gaius Julius—sitting beside the Empress—caught the goblet as it tipped.
"Husband?"
Galen turned, startled and pleased. Helena approached, walking quickly down the pillared hall. She was dressed plainly, a heavy scarf around her neck, pulling gloves from her hands. A courier's satchel was slung across her chest, riding under her breast like a suckling child. Two Praetorians hung back behind her, then faded into the shadows when they caught sight of the Emperor. Galen thought they were wearing riding leathers, but couldn't be sure.
"Helena! I thought you weren't coming." His mood lifted, buoyed by her simple presence.
"There is news," she said in a clipped, emotionless tone. Galen felt an almost physical shock, seeing her face in the light. More than simple fatigue, or a hard ride up from the port, lit her eyes with such a grim flame. "From Egypt," she continued.
Galen looked around, shedding the ceremonial drape with a shrug. There was no one within earshot. The cloth, forgotten, fell to the floor in an untidy tangle. "Tell me."
Helena breathed deep and the Emperor saw she had ridden swiftly, her hair tangled, high cheeks flushed with effort. Even her accustomed makeup was sketchy and old. "The thaumaturges watching the telecast sent me word the day before yesterday. They had turned their attentions to Egypt. They found the defenses at Pelusium abandoned, the Persian army and fleet decamped."
"What?" Galen rocked back on his heels. "Where is Aurelian?"
"At Bousiris," Helena said, opening the satchel. She tried to smile grimly, but failed. "Anastasia has always warned our all-seeing eye can only look one place at a time... it took the thaumaturges an hour of casting about to find the Legions. They are digging furiously on the western bank of the main Nile channel, building a rampart from Bousiris north. The Persians are busy across the river too." Helena drew a sheaf of papers from the pouch, then knelt on the floor. Galen knelt as well, watching in growing cold nausea as she spread out hasty drawings—maps—on hexagonal tile.
"We looked for signs of the Persian advance." Her slender fingers shifted two of the pages, and a crude diagram of the Nile delta became recognizable. "Their foraging parties have struck as far south as Boubastis. This much we see from the smoke clouding the sky and roads clogged with fleeing peasants."
"Where is their fleet?" Galen bit out, furious with himself. Of course, he raged silently, there is nothing to be done, not by me, not now... not when we are so far away, and our arm so slow to reach the enemy. "Can they cross the Nile?"
Helena looked across at him, over the scattered papers, in the dim hallway. The music from the dancing echoed faintly from the ceiling, coupled with the laughter of the guests. "Yes," she said quietly. "They have a great fleet of barges. They are moored along the Boutikos canal, in a long array."
The Emperor closed his eyes, marshalling his thoughts. The Boutikos sliced across the delta from Pelusium in the east to the main Nile channel just north of Bousiris, then jogged west to reach the second channel, the Kanobikos, above Alexandria. In better days, the broad canal flowed with commerce, carrying the lifeblood of Egypt and the Empire across the endless paddies and fields of lower Egypt. He bit his thumb, considering. Now the waterway was a lunging spear, aimed right at the heart of the Roman province. Galen felt a familiar pricking begin behind his left eye.
"They were ready to fight on the water, in the swamps and mire." His voice was level, contemplative. "Supplies, water, arms, wounded men—all can be swiftly moved on the canal." He took a breath, feeling certainty congeal his thoughts into a discrete pattern. What must be done, must be done. "Do you have a writing tablet?"
"Yes." Helena settled into a tailor's crouch, drawing a wooden tablet from the courier bag. Individual sheets of thin wood, faced with wax, were bound together with copper wire. The Empress looked up, a stylus poised in one hand. Galen tried to smile, but the bleak look in her eyes matched his own temper. He looked down at the maps, disheartened.
"Have we heard from Aurelian directly?"
The Empress nodded, scrabbling in the papers and producing a sheet of papyrus. "This came while we were trying to find the army. Aurelian sent a dispatch three weeks ago—he had been attacked at Pelusium by the Persian army and a 'burning giant.' His thaumaturges were unable to hold back the enemy..."
Galen's palm hit the floor with a sharp crack! "The sorcerer."
Helena nodded again, offering the letter. Galen shook his head sharply in refusal, running both hands through his thin hair.
"He's put everything in this one throw... But why Egypt..." He bit his lip, thinking again.
"Grain? Wealth?" Helena looked at him quizzically. "Does it really matter?"
"It matters. Something drives the enemy to his current path..." Galen looked out through the pillars, into the dining hall. Maxian and Martina were dancing again, this time to a gentle, melodic tune. The guests were stamping their feet in slow, measured time. "What of the situation in Thrace? Constantinople?"
"Good news," Helena said, lip curling at the sight of the young couple moving in unison. "The comes Alexandros has retaken the city and the Persians are in flight across the strait. We observed Khazar horsemen crossing the Propontis on ferry barges. Groups of riders—perhaps the Persians, or their mercenaries—are scattering east into Anatolia."
Galen drew a relieved breath. Something... something positive in this wreckage. But what does this sorcerer want in Egypt? For the first time, the Emperor felt himself lost, groping in darkness for some fragile light of truth. He knew why Shahr-Baraz would desire Egypt—taxes, wealth, abundant grain and denying Rome these same things—but the same could be said for Constantinople and the rich fields of Thrace. But a sorcerer? Why abandon one prize and strike at the other? Tantalizing fragments taunted him, but he could not make them gel into a reasoned whole. He shook his head angrily.
"Very well, we will send the fleet—now regro
uped at Ostiaport and reinforced with our squadrons from Hispania and Britannia—to Constantinople in all haste. Whatever thaumaturges can be spared are to be aboard, with these mirrored bowls Maxian spoke of—we may need immediate speech with their admiral! Let them take Alexandros' army aboard and straightaway to Egypt. Together, Alexandros and Aurelian can crush these Persians before the walls of Alexandria."
Helena had begun to write, but now she stopped, staring at her husband. "And Maxian? You'll be sending him, won't you?"
The Emperor stared through the pillars again, stricken with gut-wrenching despair. He started to speak, then stopped. Helena waited, stylus tapping impatiently on the edge of the tablet.
"He must go," Helena said, when she could keep her peace no longer. "If the Perisan monster is striving against Aurelian, he will not be able to hold Egypt! Maxian will have to go, if we hope to hold Alexandria and the delta."
Still the Emperor said nothing. In the dining hall, men raised their cups in a toast to the young couple and the prince's face glowed with delight. Galen remembered times now lost, when they were all children, brawling in the kitchen, running in the grassy fields above Narbo, Aurelian daring Maxian to cross the aqueduct vaulting the swift-flowing Atax. His mother silhouetted in the doorway of their room, watching the boys sleeping by firelight. Does it come to this? he thought, mournful again. A young man sent out to war on his wedding night? What about my promise?
"Husband?"
A thought occurred to him, whispered by some unseen messenger and Galen let relief hiss out in a long breath. "No, not yet. Iron Pegasus can carry him to Egypt in the space of a week. The fleet will take..." He paused, calculating distances and time. "...two weeks to gather and reach Constantinople. Another five days to load Alexandros' army aboard, then a week to reach Alexandria." A very faint smile creased his lips and he felt lighter, relieved. "Time enough for him to enjoy a taste of marriage, I think. We will wait until Alexandros is in position, then send him forth. By then, his flight of iron drakes may be hatched and ready to wing—that will give Persia pause, I think!"
He looked back to his wife and saw she had gone deathly still.
"What is it?" Galen was afraid to ask, but felt compelled. Tears sparkled at the corner of Helena's eyes, creeping through kohl already smudged by her nighttime ride. Swallowing, she wiped them away, leaving trailing black streaks on her cheeks.
"I always loved that big horse," she said in a choked voice. "It's not right."
The Emperor nodded, understanding her reaction all too well. There was a tight constriction around his heart. "He's a soldier, Helena. Always has been, always will be. Aurelian will understand."
"Will Famia? What about his boys? They're so worried already..."
Galen could think of nothing to say. What came to pass, would come to pass.
—|—
Waves hissed against across empty sand, foam glittering in faint moonlight. Luna, a thin sliver, rose over the mountains in the east, shedding barely enough light to challenge the jewel-bright stars. Maxian, his toga and tunic a pale flare of white against the dark shore, splashed into the surf. The water rushing past his ankles was still warm from the day's heat.
"Where are we going?" Martina said sleepily, arms curled around his neck, tousled head nestled against his chest. The Empress' elaborate gown was rumpled and sweat-stained from a long night of dancing, feasting and drinking. Maxian waded deeper into the bay, bare feet sinking into heavy, soft sand. Waves lapped around him, rising to his waist. Foam touched Martina's bare feet and she squeaked in surprise. "That's wet! Where are..."
Maxian raised his chin, pointing, and the Empress turned, eyes widening in surprise.
A boat rode at anchor, not more than a dozen yards away. Long-prowed, with gilded figureheads of rampant gods at fore and aft and shallow sides chased with gold. An awning of muslin suspended from wooden arches sheltered the deck, barely visible in the moonlight.
"Oh," Martina said, then she hissed as the warm water rose up around her. Maxian smiled in the darkness, feeling her cling tight to him. "Are there sharks?" she whispered, still half-asleep.
"Not in this cove," he said. "A barrier net closes the entrance and nothing enters that might spoil an Empress' wedding night."
"That's comfort—eek! That's cold!" Maxian waded to a ladder hanging from the rear deck, water swirling around his chest. Martina, her head still above the waves, was completely immersed.
"Hold tight now," he said, letting her legs fall free in the water. Her grip tightened on his neck like a vise. With his free hand Maxian grasped the rope, setting one bare foot to the lowest rung of the ladder. Then he swung himself and Martina out of the water in a smooth motion onto the deck. Water sluiced from their sodden clothes, spilling away on polished teak planks. In the moonlight, a very pale, indistinct radiance touched the awning ropes, the railings, even the piled cushions and quilts on the deck. The deck rolled softly under their feet, the motion barely noticeable, yet giving the impression of yielding, infinite depth.
"I'm freezing," Martina said in the darkness. The heavy, saturated wool of her gown sent streams of water spilling down her legs. Maxian let his own garment fall to the deck. "Why is it so dark?"
"Here," Maxian said. "Let me show you." He drew her close, hands peeling the sodden gown away. The Empress shuddered, then let out a gasp as he caressed the skin of her shoulders, her upper arms. Warmth spilled from his touch. His palms slid over the curve of her breasts, her round stomach, her flanks. The gown fell away and then she was dry. Martina pressed herself against the prince, finding his smooth chest bare under her fingertips.
"You're so warm," she breathed, her body conforming greedily to his. She turned up her face, lips parted. Maxian smiled down and above his head, the tracery of wires suspending the translucent awning began to wink to life, fluttering with pale blue, yellow and carnelian. Unnoticed by the Empress, the ship had begun to move, the ladder lifted from the sea by invisible hands. Now the tiller shifted and the sea hissed past under the prow. In darkness, the ghost-barque turned to the cove's entrance, passing between towering black pinnacles. Ahead, the open sea waited.
"Are... are they the fey?" Martina turned, feeling delightfully smooth skin sliding against her back, the Prince's arm curled between her breasts, his fingers against the side of her neck. Looking forward, she saw pale lights trace the length of the ship, throwing a soft, intimate light over couches, bedding, silken pillows. "It's so beautiful..."
"All of this," the prince whispered, his breath hot on her neck, "is for you."
Jewels blazed in the awning and the deck shone like molten gold. A comfortable, encompassing warmth folded around her, made all the more delicious by the sea's cool grasp, so recently released. Maxian picked her up, then settled among the cushions, deep quilts yielding to his knees. Laughing softly, he dropped Martina to the deck, then smiled as she bounced—startled—on the deep pile.
"Ah, this feels wonderful..." She stretched, luxuriating in the glassy sensation of Chin silk. "You are very... ah!... naughty!" Maxian slid his knees inside hers, parting her legs. Martina's eyes grew large in the dim light, seeing him bend over her. Long, dark hair trailed on either side of his face, spilling across her white breasts. Seeing him in this glamour, Martina realized how beautiful he had become, his face lean with high cheekbones, his body trim and muscled like an acrobat, long, powerful legs illuminated by the subtle light.
He bent to kiss her, but she suddenly stiffened, turning away.
"What is wrong?" he said softly, moving to look at her face. She was biting her lip, eyes squeezed shut. "Martina?"
"Don't look at me," she hissed, tears pearling from her eyes. "Please make the lights go out."
Maxian sat up, head tilted to one side, sun-browned hands on her waist. "You don't like the lights?"
"They are very nice," she said tightly, curling away from him, drawing her legs up to her stomach. "Please put them out."
"Why? I want to see you...
"
"Don't!" The Empress compressed herself to a tight ball, hiding her face in her arms. "You don't want to see me—I'm fat and round—not beautiful like you and your family. Please, make it dark again."
"Oh." Maxian knelt beside her, trying to stroke her hair. Martina flinched away. "You're not happy with your body?"
"No!" The Empress raised her head, tears streaming through caked kohl. "Are you stupid? I'm short and round and I have a fat stomach—not like cold Helena, who is so perfect and slim and elegant! Or even Anastasia, though she's nice to me at least, but she's got so much beautiful hair, and striking eyes and her breasts don't point down because she hasn't had any babies and she can wear fashionable clothes and if I try them they look horrible or cheap and everyone laughs behind their hands when they think I'm not looking!"
She punched him, tears streaming freely. He barely felt the blow against the hard, flat muscle of his chest. Maxian caught the fist, then spread her fingers against his breast. "Shhh..." he whispered. "Hush. I've gift, a groom's gift—and not scissors or a paring knife—for a bride on her wedding night. Let me take these cares away..." Again, he bent to kiss her, but Martina buried her face in the pleated quilts, sobbing.
Maxian drew back, letting her lie shuddering in exhaustion. A troubled look crossed his face, followed by an attitude of listening, then a slow, broad smile. He nodded thanks to the air, then settled his hands on the crown of Martina's head.
"Don't touch me!" she hissed, trying to strike his hands away.
"Shhh..." he said, closing his eyes. "Behold."
Martina started to struggle, but a warm, liquid glow spilled from his hands and her eyes rolled up. Mouth parted in a soft aaah, her back arched as she stiffened, caught in the glamour. Sweat beaded on bare skin and her fingers dug into the quilts. Slowly, with infinite care, Maxian drew his hands through her hair, which thickened, grew, spilling into soft, chestnut waves. Spreading her tresses across the pillows he lay alongside her, hands firm upon her face and neck, cupping her breasts, smoothing the skin of her stomach, circling her thighs, fingers running down to her toes in gentle, irresistible progress. The shimmering glow seeped into skin, rendering her flesh pliable, adding muscle, stealing fat, lengthening bone.
The Dark Lord Page 49