The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  Martina nodded, hand moving quickly over the paper.

  "There is another matter as well—Gaius Julius will be able to help, I think—we are using more iron ore, copper, coal, tin and lumber than the harbor facilities at Pisae can easily support. Moreover, a great deal of our raw materials come from Illyria and Gothica." Maxian sketched an arc in the air before him. "Which means the ships must sail all the way round Italia to reach our port at the mouth of the Arnus. Now, there is currently a half-surfaced road over the mountains to the north of the city, which goes to Bonnonia on the Po river. I want you to arrange a levy to widen and repair the road and prepare for the movement of goods, men and supplies directly from Illyria through the port at Arminum."

  Martina continued to write, now continuing on to a second page. Maxian scratched the edge of his jaw idly, thinking. "We will need to expand the foundries and put in more workshops as well. There are several blocks of flats and tenements to the north of our current fabrica. Have them all torn down to make way for new buildings."

  The Empress looked up in concern. "What about the people living in the apartments?"

  "Build them new ones," Maxian said, frowning. "On those hills south of the river. They can double-bunk in the workers' dormitories until then."

  Martina nodded in agreement and continued writing, her head tilted to one side.

  —|—

  Galen entered his private rooms, closing the heavy ironbound door behind him. The Praetorians in the hallway nodded good night, wary eyes watching the hallway for assassins. The Emperor—who usually shook his head in dismay at their paranoia—took a little solace from their vigilance tonight. The prospect of a knife stabbing from the dark, or a sudden rush of feet in the avenues of the city, now seemed quite likely.

  Once he would have left such matters in the care of his Praetorians, trusting Anastasia to watch them in turn. Now—with the Duchess and Gaius Julius each plotting against one another, and losing valuable magical devices over what he was sure was a personal dispute—he didn't trust anyone. We could have used another telecast, he thought, though his mood was much improved. But I do not think the Persians gained from our loss.

  A number of candles burned in his study and in the bedroom, each wick fluttering in a cylinder of bubbled glass. They cast a warm, watery light on the domed ceilings. Galen kicked off his sandals, letting his weary feet find solace in the deep piles of carpets covering the floors. With a conscious effort, he set aside thoughts of his office.

  "Husband?" Helena did not look up from her writing desk. "Where have you been?"

  "In the room of the telecast," he said, shrugging his heavy toga to the floor.

  "You spend too much time watching that... thing," Helena said as she looked up. Her dark eyes widened in pleased surprise. "What happened to you? You look... you look well!"

  Galen laughed, feeling the last of his cares driven away by the perplexed expression on her face. He collapsed on the bed, head towards her. She rose from her desk and sat beside him, thin fingers tracing the line of his face and neck. "I feel refreshed," he said, and in truth he felt almost giddy.

  He had walked through the winding hallways of the Palatine with a spring in his step, greeting surprised clerks and ministers with a cheery wave and smile. Some of the men had shrunk away from this glad apparition, scarcely able to believe the evidence of eyes and ears. Galen slid his arm around Helena's waist, drawing her close with a sudden, pleased squeak.

  "Husband! What are you—mmmpph..." The Empress found herself drawn down into a lasting embrace and kiss, Galen's hands sliding up under her blouse. "Galen..." Helena found her attention occupied again and was delightfully forced to momentary silence.

  Some time later, the Emperor propped his head up on a pillow, watching his wife rooting around among a great deal of discarded clothing, searching for her earrings and bracelets. Somehow, they had been stripped from her arms and neck and rolled away under the writing table, the bed, even into a side room where the privy seat stopped one particular bauble from complete escape.

  Feeling his gaze, Helena looked over her shoulder with a coy expression. She fluttered her eyelashes. "Yes? Is there something you want?"

  "Not right now," he said in a lazy, satisfied voice. "In a glass or two, I might find the strength to rise again."

  The Empress flipped her hair, flipping shining auburn hair over her bare shoulders. "Oh," she said, "I doubt that!"

  Galen smiled, but the thoughts of the day intruded and he groaned in disgust. I should forbid all thoughts of the State within these four walls! But could I follow my own rule?

  "Don't start," Helena said, groping under the bed for her slippers. "I'd prefer this strange interlude to last as long as possible."

  "Have I been so foul?" Galen made a face, guessing the answer.

  The Empress' head rose up over the edge of the bed with one eyebrow eloquently raised. "Have you? I am shocked to get anything from you today but grunts and an aura of exhaustion so complete, budding flowers wilt as you pass by. What happened to... ah... perk you up? Is there good news?"

  "No." The Emperor laughed, smoothing back his hair. "In fact, the Persians are not stopping. They are coming right at us with a fleet and an army." He sighed. "Send a letter to Marcellus tomorrow, telling him to empty your summer house and move everything up into the hills."

  "What?" Helena found her blouse and tugged the fine linen over her head. "Why?"

  "The Persians plan to land their army at Catania," Galen said in a wry, almost disbelieving voice. "No more than a mile from your villa. I think the gardens will be fairly trampled, if not outright destroyed."

  "Ah!" The Empress made a foul, disgusted face. "And you're happy?"

  "Not about that, no." Galen felt the giddy edge to his thoughts fade. Even the warm, happy afterglow of tumbling his wife was fast receding. He scratched his left eyebrow, feeling an old, familiar pain hovering. "Nothing about the war pleases me. I would gladly trade the villa at Odyssea Akra for peace, but... I think the house will just be destroyed, like so many other things. But we can rebuild a house. I feel good because—because Maxian used his power to banish my exhaustion and fatigue." The Emperor nodded to himself in wonder, sitting up.

  "He did what?" Helena unraveled sweaty knots in her hair, staring at him in surprise.

  Galen spread his hands. "A green flash—and weeks of little sleep and too many worries are a distant memory. At least for a moment."

  "Hmmm." The Empress' eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I suppose he'll be making you more muscular next, with a better nose..."

  "Hah!" Galen started to laugh, then raised his fingers to his eyes. "Oh. He did fix something..."

  "What?" Helena made a horrified face. "I thought you seemed... larger... but that is just unnatural!"

  "No!" The Emperor swatted her thigh. "My eyesight was shortening—I didn't even notice—but now I can see the faces of the senators on the steps of the Curia from my office."

  The Empress shook her head, regarding him with a wary, suspicious glare. "I would not trust your brother's judgment, husband. You see what he's done to poor Martina... she's... she's artificial! And I don't think she remembers a difference between how she was and how she is."

  "She's happier," Galen said, chewing his lower lip. A black thought disturbed his momentary contentment. What could our piglet do, if he put his mind to mischief? "Or, at least, she seems so."

  "I don't think," Helena said in a sharp voice, "he asked her first."

  The Emperor shook his head. He had no idea. "Helena... I need you to do something for me."

  "Again?" she said with an arch look, running her hand up his thigh. "I thought you needed another glass to recover..."

  Galen caught her hand and raised her palm to his lips. "Not that," he said, feeling grim reality assert itself and she sighed, seeing his face change. "I want you to take Theodosius and his nurse and your maids and leave the city. Tonight, if you can, and secretly. Tell no one—in fact, take only
little Koré—you can find a new wet nurse in—"

  "No," Helena said softly, pressing her fingers to his lips. Her eyes were very large. "I won't abandon you here among these wolves."

  "Please," he started to say, but she stopped him again.

  "I will not," the Empress said firmly. "The Persians will not reach the city. They will be defeated—and I will not stay away again, distant from the battle, wondering and waiting, listening for the sound of a courier's horse to bring me the news of victory or defeat." Her lip began to tremble and Galen took her in his arms, holding her close.

  "Helena, I'm not worried about the Persians. We have enemies in the city."

  The Empress stiffened in the circle of his arms, raising her head. "Who?"

  Galen shook his head. "I've only suspicions, love. I know nothing yet. But I want you away from here, and somewhere safe. Narbo, perhaps..."

  "I won't," she said, pushing him away. Grudgingly, the Emperor let her go. Helena wiped the corner of her eye, leaving a black smudge on her temple. "You're saying there is a plot against you. Some overmighty lord desiring the red boots?"

  Galen managed a barely perceptible nod. She responded with another icy glare.

  "Well, then, husband, you can have me gagged and bound and bundled away in a sack to Narbo to sit—in chains!—in your drafty old house where there is nothing to read and holes in the ceiling and then—and then—you can worry these conspirators have crept up and kidnapped me at the other end of the Empire, where you'll have no idea if I'm well or sick or dead or having an affair—and don't think I won't if I find a strapping young shepherd lad—and I could be here, in your own apartments, where you can find me each night, waiting patiently for you to come home, and rubbing your feet and making you feel better—and you would know that I am safe, and our son is safe and everything is all right with the world." She finished with a sniff and looked away, arms crossed over her breast.

  Galen stared at her for a moment, opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Well..."

  Helena turned her head, eyes bare burning slits and gave him such a venomous look the Emperor said nothing, then or later.

  —|—

  A long time since I've ridden this road. Maxian let the horse set her own pace, trotting along the grassy riding path beside the Via Appia Antica. The road struck south from the city, regular as a mason's rule. His spirits lifted as the spotted mare ambled along. The moon was rising, casting deep shadows below the rows of cypress and poplars lining the highway. Fields and farmyards stretched away on either hand, quiet under the night sky. Even the temperature was pleasant, the heat of the day fading and cool winds tousled his long hair.

  The simple act of leaving Rome lifted his spirits. The city was close and hot and filled with sullen, dispirited people. Maxian made a conscious effort to ignore the voices whispering from the air. They wore on his temper. Gaius Julius can fend for himself, the prince thought, for a time. He certainly doesn't need me looking over his shoulder. And what would I see? Ledgers, accounts, long litanies of works and favors and debts. Bah!

  Maxian supposed he should feel a little guilty, thinking of the binding he'd placed on Martina, but his husband's heart was eased to know she would not—could not—stray while he was gone. She is terribly efficient, he thought, pleased with his solution, and now entirely delightful company. Everything I could desire.

  The prince rode in darkness for a time, enjoying the solitude, waving genially to those few pedestrians he passed, walking quickly along the canted surface of the Appia with paper lanterns hung on long poles. A mile out from the city, he was alone with a soft breeze and the distant lights of scattered farmhouses. The mare did not mind the dark, following her nose along the horse path.

  Thoughts of Martina and Gaius and his brother and the whole irritating business of war had grown quite remote by the time he reached a crossroads and found a man standing beside the road. Here, the paving stones of the highway were heavily grown over with grass, making a circle of green turf under overhanging cypresses. A tall milestone gleamed softly in the moonlight, covered with ivy and climbing vines. The single numeral II was chiseled into the smooth face of the stone. Maxian reined the horse to a halt, though she did not want to stop, and nodded in greeting.

  "Ave," Maxian said, leaning on his saddle horn.

  The soldier saluted, his mouth moving silently. He was young, with barely a fringe of beard lining a strong chin. His hair glowed in the moonlight, ruffled by quiet night wind. Like the legionaries of his day, a long pole lay across his shoulderblades, kit bag hanging from pinewood. A single, solid metal plate embraced his chest, the rounded surface catching a reflection of the moon. His shield was oval and carried over the back, a pot-shaped helmet secured by a strap at his shoulder. Maxian could see the outline of the paving stones through the dark pits of his eyes and mouth.

  "Well met, Lucius Papirius," Maxian answered. "I ride with the writ of the Senate—there is war in the south and every Latin is needed to drive back the invader. Will you join me?"

  The young legionnaire nodded, grinning, and stooped to gather up his javelins and stabbing spear from the ground. Maxian turned the horse in a circle, watching the night. Faint lights gleamed in the orchards and woods all around.

  "Rome needs you," he called out, raising the ivory staff of a tribune above his head. "The Senate and the People are in danger, our ancient traditions threatened, our honorable name blackened by defeat. I am riding to war, men of Rome. Will you ride with me?"

  Without waiting for a response, the prince turned the mare to the southern road and let her take an easy trot. Behind him, the young legionnaire jogged after, easily falling into the steady, ground-eating pace of the professional soldier. The stars shone on his shield and the moon wavered in the ghostly firmament of his hair. Maxian did not think he would tire, no, not even if they marched without a halt to the world sea beyond the horizon.

  Again, the prince's thoughts turned far away and he barely noticed when a second man was waiting beside the highway and then another and then three brothers, oval shields scarred by axe and fire. Like the young soldier, they proved tireless and they marched south under a vast, star-filled sky, soundless voices raised in a marching song to while away the miles.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Constantinople

  "The latest dispatches, my lord." Alexandros nodded to the messenger—a Gothic youth, his tunic damp with sweat—and took the leather bag with mingled interest and dismay. The morning's appearance of a sail in the straits had caused great excitement in the city, but now the Macedonian stared at the bundle of letters with mounting disgust.

  Over the past two weeks, he'd received a string of missives from Rome, invariably carried in Imperial dispatch pouches, one set from Emperor Galen and one set from Gaius Julius. Alexandros wondered—he often wondered, sitting up drinking with his officers—if the two men were aware of the effect their conflicting commands had on the soldiers out on the sharp end of the war.

  "I don't think they have any idea which end is the business end," Alexandros muttered, sitting back in a leather camp chair. The long arcade along the seaward side of the Buchion palace was very cool and dim, the air stirred by a constant breeze out of the north and the Macedonian had moved his command staff, servants, equipment and messengers into the undamaged buildings.

  He cut the dark red twine sealing the first packet with his boot knife.

  "So, what does Galen have to say today..." Alexandros began to read, then shook his head. The fleet gathering at Tarentum was still delayed, but the Emperor expected them to leave port for Constantinople within the week of his writing. Two weeks ago, the Macedonian thought, checking Galen's scribbled date at the end of the missive. "And this one?"

  Gaius Julius' note was not under an Imperial cover, but the parchment was of similar fine quality and the ink was even darker—must be a better grade of octopus, Alexandros noted in amusement. The old Roman's strong, clear hand urged the Macedonian to imme
diately march his men west along the old highway running across Thrace and into the mountains of Epirus, to Dyrrachium on the coast of the Mare Adriaticum.

  I've been that way before, Alexandros thought, idly tugging at a lock of hair dangling across his forehead. But not on such a fine road as these Romans build. "Demetrios! A moment of your time..."

  The Eastern officer hurried over, rubbing ink-stained fingers on his tunic. "Yes, comes?"

  "Fetch out a way map of the Via Egnatia, if we have one."

  The Greek raised an eyebrow in surprise. "We're marching west now?" He sounded incredulous, which greatly mirrored how Alexandros felt about the whole matter.

  "It seems so," Alexandros said, gritting his teeth. "Round up the quartermasters as well—we'll have to steal all those wagons, mules and horses back!"

  Stupid Romans, he thought savagely, feeling ill-restrained temper rise. March east, march west, sail south, march west again... the war will be lost by the time we find the enemy!

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The Portus Magnus, Alexandria

  Heavy yellow dust smeared across the sky, borne by some zephyr turning across leagues of desert. Khalid al'Walid strode purposefully along the harbor road, most of his tanned face covered by the wing of his kaffiyeh. Flying grit stung his face, but the Arab's long lashes kept most of the dust and sand from his eyes. In any case, he was used to such weather, though the Egyptian workers laboring in the port complained bitterly. The Eagle passed rank after rank of mule-drawn wagons, each cart stacked high with the dusty, withered remains of the dead. Thankfully, these were old, dry corpses scavenged from tombs scattered at the edge of the desert and they exuded only a faint, spicy smell.