The knotted line flew out again, splashing into the water only yards from the prince. Aurelian caught sight of the rope and turned, muscular arms cleaving through the low waves.
On the retaining wall, the young Arab was arguing with his soldiers, gesturing violently toward the man swimming in the water. Two of them—older men with heavy beards—shouted back. The sound of defiance in their voices drew Sextus' attention. One, a tall, hook-nosed man carrying a long, curved bow shook his head sharply in refusal. The young Arab turned away, face twisted in fury, and snatched a spear from one of his fellows.
"Dive, my lord!" Sextus screamed at the prince, seeing the Arab take a hurling stance, shoulder sliding back, the iron head of the spear poised at his chin. "Dive!"
Aurelian doubled his pace, surging through the water. The rope was only feet away. The Arab whipped around, spear leaping from his fingers, arcing into the sky. Aurelian grasped the rope and slid under the waves, the weight of his armor dragging him down. Sextus hauled, feeling the line stiffen and spring out of the water. Other hands grasped hold, a whole crowd of men around him, and they pulled for all they were worth.
The prince's head shot from the water, his arm tangled in the line, and a wake foamed around his shoulders. Glittering, the spear flashed down. Sextus shouted again, though there were no comprehensible words. Aurelian twisted, flinging himself away from the missile. The spear plunged into the water, only a hand span away. On the ship, a hundred legionaries cheered lustily in relief. Sextus continued to haul, rope burning between his fingers. A moment later, as more spears plunged into the water, Aurelian was dragged against the side of the ship. Arrows flashed past the prince's head, burying themselves in the oaken planks of the ship with a meaty thack!
A dozen hands reached down, dragging Aurelian up to the railing. The knotted rope wound tight around his arm and shoulder, biting deep into bruised flesh. Sextus grasped hold of the prince's shoulder strap, hauling him—clanking, water spilling from his armor—over the side. Everyone collapsed to the deck in a sodden heap, Aurelian's pale, drained face framed by wet iron and glistening leather.
"My lord," Sextus cried, tears streaming down his grimy face. "You live!"
Aurelian grimaced, bluish lips drawing back from clenched teeth. His fingers clutched Sextus' hair. "Do I?" the prince gasped, shuddering, and Sextus looked down. Blood flooded from Aurelian's side. A long gash tore open his lower stomach, some unseen blow severing the prince's armored skirt. His belt was missing and the lower edge of the lorica was twisted and bent.
"No!" Sextus pressed desperately against the wound, feeling gelatinous, coiled tubes squirm away under his fingers. "No! We saved you, my lord, we saved you!"
Aurelian's face drained of color, though someone was trying to force the nipple of a wineskin into his mouth and his body shook with a racking cough. Blood covered Sextus' forearms and the prince died, there on the deck of the ship as she wallowed out into the harbor, away from the fallen city.
"Oh no." Frontius leaned over the prince, his face gone ashy white. The other men drew back, and a mutter of despair coursed from dozens of lips. Sextus, his arms washed red, laid the prince down, taking care his head did not crack against the planks. Still kneeling, the engineer turned to stare back at the docks. The hosts of the enemy crowded the wharfs, and even at this distance Sextus could see the young captain and the two older men.
They raised their spears and swords in salute, a bright forest of flashing steel. A great basso shout rang out over the turgid waters and a thousand naked blades thrust to the sky in a single, sharp movement. Frontius stepped to the railing, staring in incomprehension. Again the blades flashed, and the roar of sound rolled out. The sound seemed to fill the air, driving back the heavy pressure that had grown over the city. Then again, as the Roman ship reached the long sandstone breakwater.
"What are they doing?" Frontius looked back at Sextus. The engineer stood, thin streams of blood spilling from his arms.
"They praise a brave man," Sextus said, though his voice was nearly unrecognizable. "As we will praise him. As he deserves." The engineer turned to the crowd of legionaries crowding the deck. Every man seemed as one dead—eyes hollow, faces caked with soot and sweat, armor dotted with blood—yet their gaze turned to him as he raised a hand.
"Bring a priest—if any survives among us—and a winding shroud. We will not burn our lord Aurelian at sea, but upon our homecoming. For him, we will spill the blood of beasts, of men. For him we will spill wine, and send a great smoke to the heavens. He will not go into the dark alone, without servants, without grain, without wine. He will not suffer in darkness, for we—the Legion—will always remember him!"
There was a stir among the crowd and the men parted, letting a white-haired centurion approach. Sextus was greatly relieved. Here was a priest of Mars Ultor, come to give a soldier a soldier's rites. Frontius gripped his shoulder. "Father Wolf," Sextus called, kneeling again beside the prince. "Give our comrade a blessing grace, to carry him across the Dark River. You men—where are the eagle standards, the golden plaque, where is the name of the city? Here is a son of Rome—its bravest son—and he needs know we pray for him, the city prays for him, that he is not alone in the cold darkness."
Again the crowd on the deck parted and the banners and sigils of the Legion approached, passed hand to hand among the soldiers. The ship was beginning to roll, buffeted by northerly waves and the sails filled with wind, driving them west at a steady pace. Someone in the mass of men packed onto the deck began to beat a drum. Father Wolf bent down, seamed face pinched tight in grief. The priest of Mars reached down, as the legionaries began to chant the "passage of the fallen" and closed Aurelian's eyes for the last time.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Via Campana, Just West of Rome
Golden light slanted through a stand of willows surrounding the way station. Gaius Julius, carefully dressed as a patrician on holiday, tipped back his wide-brimmed straw hat and squinted with interest against the glow of late afternoon. Two men were riding hard towards him along the horse path paralleling the highway, cloaks billowing behind them, faces half-masked by scarves. Despite the dust and grime of travel, he recognized them immediately.
"Ho!" he shouted, stepping out of the shady trellis in front of the cistern. His guardsmen stood up as well, a round-dozen men in bulky tunics and ill-disguised weapons. "Master Nicholas! Hie too, my friends."
The two horsemen reined in, the thin, dark-haired man in the lead staring at Gaius in surprise. The old Roman saw both the Latin and the Walach had ridden hard—hair lank and greasy, clothes caked not only with good Roman dust but also salt and tar—and he forced a welcoming smile.
"Here," the old Roman said, lifting a wineskin. "Something to drink. And there is food inside, hot from the brazier."
Nicholas blinked, finally recognizing his employer and tension drained from him, leaving the young man slump-shouldered with weariness. Vladimir was no better, though he was quick to slide from the nervous horse. The Walach staggered into the shade of the arbor, barely able to walk.
Gaius Julius helped Nicholas down, then waited patiently while the man drank deep from the skin. A brisk, crunching sound filtered from inside the way station and when Gaius and Nicholas entered, they found Vladimir busily devouring a huge section of roasted mutton.
"Eat first," the old Roman said, guiding Nicholas to a stone bench. "Then we'll talk."
—|—
The last tinge of gold faded from the sky as servants moved through the vine-covered arbor, lighting copper lamps from long, smoking tapers. Gaius' guardsmen were outside, sitting with the horses, making sure no wayward travelers disturbed their master's conversation.
"...so the Urbes Brigantium landed at Portus today and we made haste up to the city." Nicholas stared at the old Roman with a hollow-eyed look. "How did you know to meet us?"
"There is a messenger relay from the port," Gaius said, lifting his head slightly to indicate the distant
coast. "The captain of the Brigantium sent a note ahead to the Palatine, which came to my hands from a friend. I left immediately, of course. But you did well to make such a fast passage from Africa."
"Bad news travels swiftly," Vladimir said, his head bent. The Walach refused to meet the old Roman's eyes. Nicholas seemed similarly despondent. "Have you heard anything of our... companions?"
"The traitors, you mean!" Nicholas roused himself, anger glittering in his pale eyes. "Curse Thyatis, her maid and her mistress! We had the telecast in our very hands and then we had nothing..."
Gaius Julius nodded, his quick mind burning with rage, anger, envy—deftly done, he allowed—and Nicholas' singular hatred of the Duchess' agent loomed large in his thoughts. "This Thyatis Julia Clodia... describe her more fully."
"Tall," Nicholas muttered, his face twisting with mingled distaste and admiration. "Gray-eyed, strong, quick—very quick—with a blade. A deadly opponent. A whirlwind of steel. I've never seen such a woman before."
"Because you were not in the City the last year," Gaius Julius said, feeling an unexpected, jarring rush of emotion, of relief and delight. She is alive! Diana is alive! "There were a series of games in the arena, and champion of these contests was a woman named 'Diana' who must be—cannot be anyone—but your 'Thyatis.' She is a marvel, indeed." His voice trailed off, as memories of their too-brief encounters surged up, fresh and sharp as if not a single day had passed between now and then.
"A marvel? More like a harpy!" Nicholas spat on the dusty ground. "A faithless friend..."
"No so," Vladimir said, very softly. "She saved our lives and we hers. There is a debt—"
"There is no debt!" Nicholas' voice rose sharply. "She betrayed us!"
Gaius turned away from the two men as they fell into a muttered, fierce argument. His disappointment at failing to secure the prince's toy faded, replaced by a strange lightness in his heart. Thyatis Julia Clodia... an odd name. Why would the Clodians name a daughter Julia? We were rarely friends when I was alive. Rivals, yes—sometimes allies if the wind turned from the proper quarter in the Senate—yet not even enemies. Marc Antony now, he kept a Clodian wife for a time... did he have a son by her? Gaius shook his head in amusement. His old head was filled with a marvelous array of useless facts. But things change, even in Rome, with all these centuries passed. The old Roman was pleased to learn his "Diana" was a daughter of Rome, even if she sprang from such dissolute remnants. Silently, he congratulated the Duchess on her choice of agent. Would I had her in my own quiver, he thought ruefully, watching the two younger men out of the corner of his eye. But these fellows, and others like them, must suffice.
"Come, my friends," Gaius said, gathering up his hat. "Do not quarrel. The heat of the day has passed and we've refreshed ourselves. Your news is welcome, for these 'friends' are revealed as our enemies. We may take a more leisurely pace as we return to the city."
Everyone clattered out of the way station, grooms and guardsmen milling about to bring up the horses. Gaius stood to one side, his thoughts still plagued by inconsequential questions.
"Who were her parents?" he wondered under his breath. "How did she come to serve the Duchess? And a Legion centurion! Unheard of... just unheard of." Gaius' old face was lit by a half-hidden smile. "Ah, I would like to see her again." Then he frowned, the thought leading to an inevitable conclusion. But there will be no glad meeting of friends long parted... not now.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The Palatine Hill
Galen slumped back with a groan, covering his face with both hands. The flickering, watery light of the telecast washed over him, throwing odd shadows into the corners of the chamber. No one spoke, leaving only the hissing buzz of the device to fill leaden silence. Grains passed, threatening to drag into a glass and the two ladies sitting at the writing table exchanged a slow, mute glance. They made no sound, but the Emperor stirred, absently brushing lank, dark hair from his high forehead.
"Turn it off." His voice was emotionless, thin face a flat mask. Even his eyes were shuttered and dim.
The thaumaturges on duty bent their heads, muttering softly, and the whirling fire dulled, wicking down to a faint radiance and then to nothing. The bronze disks spun out of the air—this time their descent was gentle—settling quietly into flattened rings. Their task done, both men rose, faces averted from the Emperor's grief and padded out of the room. A moment later, the two ladies followed, their quills and inks and stores of parchment tucked away in wicker baskets ornamented with colored ribbon.
The Emperor remained, staring straight ahead, hands on his knees. He said nothing. His eyes looked upon nothing save a bare, plastered wall.
—|—
Galen waited grimly while the members of his privy council entered the room. A pair of oil lamps hissed quietly, providing mellow illumination. Outside the open windows, a warm, windless summer night lay over the city. The hour was very late, deep into the third watch. Everyone was tense—even the usually unflappable Gaius Julius seemed on edge, darting a sideways look at the Emperor as he took a chair—and they were unexpectedly quiet.
The lady Anastasia entered last, sweeping through the doorway in a long, gray gown, her neck ablaze with pearls and glittering white stones. She bowed formally to the Emperor, then to Martina—who lounged beside an irritated Maxian, her hand tucked in his—and claimed a seat between Galen and Gaius Julius. She made no mention of the late hour or the abrupt summons received in the midst of a play. A pleasing scent of coriander and myrrh reached the Emperor's nostrils, but the sensation barely registered.
Galen stood, face impassive, hands flat on the table. "We have lost Egypt," he said in a quiet voice.
Everyone became very still and Maxian's head turned away from his wife to fall upon his brother with a palpable intensity.
"Alexandria has fallen," the Emperor continued, his eyes fixed on some point in the air above Martina's head. Galen took a breath, though his voice did not alter in tone or inflection. "Six full Legions have been destroyed. The entire province now lies open to the enemy. There are small garrisons at Elephantine and Luxor, but they will not be able to resist the Persians. I expect they will surrender and seek repatriation to Cyrenaicea, or employment in the ranks of the conquerors."
He fell silent. Gaius Julius and Anastasia eyed one another, wondering who would pose the first question and break the leaden, dead silence gripping the room. Only Maxian moved, slowly clenching his hand into a fist.
"The lord Aurelian." Galen stopped, nostrils flaring. Something flickered in his eyes, the first time they had shown any emotion at all. "My brother Aurelian, Caesar of the Western Empire, is dead. He suffered grievous wounds in the defense of the harbor and breathed his last while escaping the city aboard an Imperial grain transport."
Maxian started to speak, then stopped, staring at the Emperor with an accusing, anguished expression. The air between the two men seemed to tremble. Martina placed her hand on the prince's arm, speaking softly, and the young man's face closed tight, a shuttered house, with neither lights in the windows nor smoke curling from the chimney.
"We will soon know," Galen said, continuing as if nothing had happened, "what the Persians intend. There are some forces left to us—the army at Constantinople, the fleet, the iron drakes now reaching completion in Florentia. Despite this blow, we still stand. We will yet prevail."
Silence filled the room again and Galen picked up a wooden booklet. Out of long engrained habit, he opened the notebook, stared sightlessly at the page within, then closed the cover again. "That is all. We shall meet again tomorrow and discuss what must be done."
Anastasia rose, swaying slightly, and the others followed. She bowed to the Emperor, searching his face for some sign of life, finding nothing. Galen turned away without a word and walked slowly through the door. Helena—her face hidden by a deep hood, yet recognizable by jeweled bracelets on her thin arms—was waiting to take his hand. A cordon of Praetorians closed up behind them and the I
mperial couple was gone.
The Duchess bent her head for a moment, taking a breath and saying a prayer. The others rustled, gathering up their cloaks and—in Gaius' case—a lantern of the type used by the night watch. He had come in haste from a villa on the outskirts of the city.
"My lord—my lady." Anastasia looked up at Maxian and Martina passed. The woman's face was very calm, her huge eyes sliding to meet the Duchess with a tranquil, untroubled gaze. Anastasia—who had not personally seen the Empress since her return from Capri—repressed a shudder. Her spies had reported the girl's transformation, but the languid, predatory gleam in her eyes was new and unexpected. Nothing seemed to remain of the shy, insecure woman glad of the Duchess' friendship. The prince looked at Anastasia, lips tight on bared teeth.
"What do you want?"
"I am sorry, my lord." Anastasia bowed again, looking away. Maxian's eyes were liquid with fury and grief in equal measure and the Duchess felt a chill steal over her, remembering the powers he held at his command. "If there is anything..."
Maxian brushed past and Martina laughed softly, looking back at the Duchess with a sly, pitying smile. Anastasia watched them depart with a heavy heart. Gaius Julius had already slipped out, leaving her alone in the room. Even the guardsmen were gone.
"Well," she said aloud, straightening the neckline of her gown. "What a delightful evening."
—|—
Gaius Julius ended his report and set aside a waxed tablet. The old Roman looked to the Emperor, who had been listening with a fist planted firmly against his chin, eyes closed. A dreadful pall hung over the room despite strong, bright sunlight streaming through the windows. Late summer in Rome now afflicted them with stupefying heat during the day and bathwater-warm nights. Blessedly, Gaius' new existence seemed to exempt him from these extremes in the same manner he escaped hunger, exhaustion, even the need to drink.
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