The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  "Come on, my young friend," the old Roman chaffed, grasping the saddle horn of Ermanerich's horse. "This nag will take two riders!"

  Shaking his head, the Gothic prince led the horse from of the gate, letting the column of troops jog by, then mounted, reaching down to pull Gaius up. As he did, Ermanerich leaned close. "Where are these troops from? From Germania? How many are here?"

  "Not so many as I feared, thank the gods," Gaius answered, settling in behind the Goth. "I managed to convince two of the Legion tribunes to turn around and march back north. These men are part of the lead elements of the Eight."

  Ermanerich glanced over his shoulder in surprise. "Who watches the Rhenus, then?"

  "No one," Gaius Julius answered, his face bleak. "No one at all."

  —|—

  Her skirts clutched in one hand, Anastasia bolted up a flight of stairs, taking them two and three at a time. The way was dark and very narrow, forcing her to turn sideways at each turn, a sputtering lamp burning her hand. The top of the passage was closed by a door and the Duchess paused, catching her breath. No time for subtlety, she thought, measuring the ancient termite-carved wood. She braced herself, then slammed a shoulder into the panel.

  Old plaster moldings squealed and cracked, shattering and spraying dust and paint across a tiled floor. Anastasia kicked the splintered boards clear, thankful again for taking proper cavalry boots reinforced with iron strips in the uppers and soles. Bending down, she squeezed through the opening into a short, richly appointed hallway. To her right, a painted, carved door swung open.

  The Duchess darted forward, catching the edge of the door and stepped inside. The woman opening the door cried out in alarm and staggered back. Empress Helena—like Anastasia before her—was still waking up, barely clad in night-clothes. The Duchess slammed the door behind her and threw the locking bar.

  "Get dressed," she snapped at the Empress, who was staring at her in befuddlement. "Go on!"

  The Duchess leaned against the door, concentrating, listening for alarms or noise. Grimacing, she drew the knife from her girdle and settled the heavy bone hilt in her hand.

  "What—what is happening?" Helena found a quilt and wrapped the patterned cloth around her thin shoulders. Anastasia, seeing her bare feet, became very irritable.

  "Put on some shoes," the Duchess hissed, casting around the room for something suitable. "Good ones, not those flimsy slippers you're always wearing." Her eye lit upon a pair of stoutly built sandals. Anastasia snatched them up and threw them to the Empress, who fumbled the catch but then managed to gather them up. "Where is your son?"

  Helena pointed wordlessly at a connecting door as the Duchess' grim tone and bared weapon finally registered. Anastasia eased the side door open, hearing a warning hiss. She stepped back, pushing the door wide with her boot. The nursery seemed empty and dark, but the lamplight from the bedroom picked out a pair of blazing green eyes crouched under little Theodosius' bed.

  "Come, we'll have to leave quickly." The Duchess made a sharp gesture, her tone brooking nothing less than obedience. The eyes blinked, then a little girl—no more than six—darted out, unkempt black hair falling glossy around scrawny shoulders. Koré held Theodosius on her back, his round fingers clutched about her neck. The boy was almost as large as the girl, but the maid had no difficulty carrying him. "Do you need shoes?"

  Koré shook her head, sidling along the wall towards the door. Helena caught her hand, white feet dwarfed by the pair of sandals. Anastasia realized they must be Galen's. "There's no time to do anything but run," she whispered, striding to the outer door. "Where is the Emperor?"

  "I don't know," Helena replied, her voice tight with fear. "He left a little while ago—there was an urgent message..."

  "Put out the lamp." Anastasia could hear a commotion through the door.

  Darkness folded around the three women, Helena shaking soot from her fingers.

  —|—

  Grunting with effort, Ermanerich ground his spear into the Roman's chest, iron scales snapping under the pressure, blood oozing between armor plates. The Praetorian gasped, crimson flooding from his mouth and the light in his eyes died. A cavalry spatha clattered from his nerveless fingers. The blade was nicked and chipped, ornamented with a long streak of red. Silence suddenly replaced the clash and din of men grappling in combat. Gaius Julius stepped into the chamber, waving back two German legionaries poised with javelins at his side.

  "These are the last of the traitors, I think," the old Roman pronounced gravely. Making a show of careful consideration, he stepped among the bodies of the dead, turning some over with his boot. "We were just in time," Gaius Julius said to the men crowded into the doorway of the Emperor's study. The corpse at his feet had long, dark hair and sun-bronzed features. "This was Motrius himself, now sent to Tartarus as he deserves."

  Ermanerich wrenched his spear from the dead Praetorian against the door, letting the body slump down the gold-chased panel. The thrust had scored the wood, leaving a dark smudge. Gaius Julius tested the latch, finding it solidly closed.

  "They did not have time to break in," he said, waving back the Germans. Two of their officers were staring around in awe—at the busts of past Emperors and philosophers, at two grand paintings on wooden panels held up by bronze tracks on the facing wall. Gaius was fond of them too—one showed the triumph of Aëtius the Great over the Huns in vibrant, almost living color, the other diabolical Odysseus before the shattered walls of Troy, accepting the surrender of Priam and his noble house. "Carex, take your men and search the floor for survivors—some of the traitors may have escaped. Phalas, your maniple should go downstairs and secure the main hall. The servants and slaves will be in a panic, I'm sure. Calm them down. Tell them order has been restored."

  Both officers nodded, then rousted their men out of the hallway and outer rooms. Somehow, a great deal of damage had been done in the brief melee, with crockery shattered on the floor, and tapestries and drapes torn down. Gaius watched them depart and was sure every man had managed to scoop up something valuable in the brief confusion.

  "No use counting the silverware," Ermanerich said ruefully, watching the closed door, his spear held lightly in both hands. "They'll be carting out the statuary next."

  "They won't have a chance," Gaius said, keeping his voice low. He was carrying a gladius, still sheathed, in his hand. He had not drawn a weapon in anger for a long time, but believed in the healthy exercise of caution. "My men will escort them back out of the city within the hour and see they're well supplied with food, wine and women." The old Roman smiled tightly. "Their pockets will be heavy enough with the Emperor's gold, in gratitude."

  Ermanerich nodded absently, still watching the door. Alexandros had warned him to beware the Romans and their politics. The young Goth felt much, much better to have a weapon in hand and the prospect of a solid, material enemy to fight. "Is there another way out of here?"

  "Perhaps." Gaius Julius shrugged. "This mausoleum must be riddled with hidden passages. Every Emperor wants to keep his secrets." He tested the latch, then raised an eyebrow at the Goth. Ermanerich nodded in agreement, then both men set themselves and slammed into the door together.

  Wood splintered with a crack and the panel gave way. The door bounced back from the wall, and Gaius Julius stepped into a darkened passage. Broken bits of wood crunched under his feet. Ahead, lamplight glowed in a richly appointed chamber, and a familiar man was standing at the foot of a bed heaped high with pillows and silken quilts.

  "Master Gaius," the Emperor said, drawing his own sword with a soft rasp. "And... you must be Prince Ermanerich of the Gothic nation."

  —|—

  Pale smears of light streaked the eastern sky as Anastasia crept from behind a hedge. She listened carefully, but heard nothing but the distant crash and rumble of delivery carts on the city streets and the thin squeaking of bats fluttering through the stone arches of an aqueduct rising a hundred feet to her left.

  "Quickly now," she whi
spered to the two women behind her. Koré crouched at her knee, little Theodosius swaddled in a rug and pressed tight to her breast. Helena knelt behind the maid, short hair loose around her neck and hanging in her eyes. Anastasia glanced around again, then hurried down a path between long ranks of cypresses. Their feet crunched on gravel and then padded on dirt. The path descended steeply, running down a long strip of garden flanked by the monumental platform of the Severan Palace on the right and an insula of exclusive flats on the left.

  "Where is my husband?" Helena's voice sounded drained, coming from the darkness like a ghost's cry. "Where are we going?"

  "Somewhere safe, I hope." Anastasia slowed, searching with her hands along the wall to the left. After a moment, she found the outline of a door and pushed. Old leather hinges creaked and she smelled lye and soap and hot water. "Galen will have to find his own sanctuary, I fear."

  Koré ducked past the Duchess and into the dark passage. Helena stood on the path, her face a barely visible oval delicately touched by the first reflection of dawn. Anastasia beckoned. "Helena! We must get away from here quickly before events sweep you and your son away. If you are taken, Galen will be a captive to your safety even if he remains free."

  "Who did this?" The Empress' voice was hoarse. "Is this mutiny?"

  "Conspiracy," the Duchess answered, tugging at Helena's sleeve. "Which may have failed by now—I sent warning to the right people, I think—but we'll not risk being seen until I know how things have played out."

  Stumbling and listless, the Empress let herself be led into the passage and Anastasia shoved the door closed behind them, hoping no one had marked their hasty exit from the palace.

  —|—

  Ermanerich stepped lightly into the bedchamber, automatically drifting to the left to clear the door, while Gaius Julius stepped to the right, giving the Goth room for his spear. The Emperor watched them with a faint smile on his thin face. His habitual nervousness had dropped away like chaff. For his part, the young Goth felt even more at sea than before. The flurry of events following his arrival in the city had left him dizzy. Only the steady, solid presence of Master Gaius—a man whom Alexandros had said he could trust, absolutely, in all things—kept Ermanerich from fleeing in terror. He'd never been on the Palatine before, not without his father in attendance. Everything was so... huge.

  "We discussed," Gaius said, thumbing the loop away from the hilt of his gladius, "sending you into exile, to tend a plot in some remote province, far from Rome and the centers of power."

  "Cabbages?" Galen turned slightly, tension draining from his shoulders as the air in the room grew sharp. "I detest them, fresh or boiled, though I appreciate the thought." The Emperor tilted his head slightly, watching Gaius Julius directly, though Ermanerich remained in his peripheral vision.

  "There is an air of tradition to such a fate," the old Roman said, sliding his blade from the sheath. "But I am afraid simple mutilation would not keep you from trying to reclaim all..." Gaius swept the gladius around in a sharp arc, "...this. We cannot afford any disorder, not now."

  "What is this treachery, then, but chaos unbound?" The Emperor's voice was sharp. "Do you expect mutiny and murder to save you from the Persians? To reclaim our lost provinces?"

  "This is already over," Gaius Julius replied, trying to keep his voice level. "You, sir, though a noble Roman and a fine gentleman, are too blind and shortsighted to be allowed to rule. You have sent the State rushing toward oblivion by appalling judgment. Our only hope to succor the Empire is to set you aside!"

  The Emperor laughed, unable to believe his ears. "And you—the new Emperor, I'm sure!—will conjure victory? How? Where are your armies?" Galen made a violent motion with his sword and Gaius and Ermanerich both stepped back in alarm. "You will grapple with the same constraints of men, time, ships, taxes... every burden that has weighed upon me, will weigh on you threefold. The Legions will not accept you as Augustus and God, dead man, and there will be civil war. Then how will you keep the Persians from marching through the Forum in triumph?"

  Gaius sighed, casting a sidelong glance at Ermanerich. "There will be no civil war," Gaius said, turning his attention back to Galen. Now the old Roman felt tired—drained by the rush of events—and he was in no mood to explain himself. Yet, he thought, I do owe this man something for his courtesy and trust. "Within the hour, there will be a new Emperor, acclaimed by the Senate and accepted by the army. Life will go on. Taxes will be collected, tribute given to the gods... all as it was, and shall be."

  Galen started to speak, but Gaius Julius moved—quickly!—and his blade was at the Emperor's throat, the shining tip pressed against the side of Galen's carotid. Ermanerich flinched, his spear rising reflexively, but then the iron point wavered.

  "What is going on?" he asked plaintively. "Who is this man?"

  "I wanted to wait," Gaius Julius said, ignoring the Goth's question. "There seemed no reason to rush—twenty years could pass without inconveniencing me—but you..." Trembling anger finally cracked the old Roman's controlled tone. "...you have become such a dangerous, meddling fool! You've stripped the German frontier bare, abandoned an entire province to the Gaels and Picts! What in Hades were you thinking? To send more Legions to the butcher's mill down in Sicilia? To give the enemy more corpse-soldiers!" A finger stabbed at Ermanerich, who almost flinched in reaction. "You ordered the Gothic Legion to Catania, to oppose the Persian invasion. Are you mad?"

  Understanding flared in the Emperor's eyes. "I did not summon the Rhenus Legions to Rome to fight the Persians, you ass!" A sneer curled across his face. "The Goths were ordered to Messina, to stand in reserve in case the Persian fleet broke past Maxian and his flying machines! I hoped they would be reliable in the face of the enemy, giving my brother support on the land if his efforts in the air failed."

  Gaius Julius blinked. The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "The Rhenus Legions were called home because I feared a conspiracy—and now I can guess whom you suborned on my staff..." Galen spit on the floor. "Bastard of a Greek... I freed him myself. A pity I didn't know the Eighth was already here or our situations would be reversed." He sighed. "I should have listened to Anastasia."

  "You ordered those Legions to Rome to suppress... me?" Gaius Julius licked his lips. The point of his gladius dropped away from the Emperor's neck.

  "I should," Galen said in a brittle voice, "have had you and Alexandros killed as soon as I knew of your existence." The Emperor nodded politely to the young Goth, who had stiffened at the threat to his friend and sword-brother. "Your pardon, Prince Ermanerich. I fear you've fallen into the company of traitors..."

  "Why didn't you?" Gaius Julius feel a queer pressure in his temples and tiny black dots swam in the corners of his vision. He felt unaccountably grainy, as if the air itself were wearing against him. "The Duchess, at least, must have told you who I was if you'd not guessed yourself."

  The Emperor's face changed, revealing deep melancholy. "You were my heroes," he said, voice thick with emotion, "Daydreams of youth remain even with the old, and you are both here—giants out of history—throwing down all enemies, conquering nations, driving back the darkness of barbarism. When I learned who you were, Gaius, I was... so pleased. Here is my idol in living flesh, and I can speak with him; discuss literature, history, politics! What a joy!"

  A faint, bemused smile flickered across the Emperor's haggard face. "No greater surety has a king, than knowing Alexander of Macedon commands his armies in the field. I worried about Aurelian every day, but never about the Gothic Legion, never! My faith was unshakable, for he is Alexander!"

  Gaius Julius started to speak, then felt a trembling at his chest. His hand clutched on the prince's amulet, still on a silver chain around his neck and found the metal burning hot. "Ah!" He stared around the room, suddenly cognizant of a black mist filling the corners and darkening the shadows. "The Oath!"

  Ermanerich's eyes were quick, darting from the old Roman slumping towards the floor to the Emperor to the spread
ing discoloration on the floor around Gaius' feet. Sorcery! his mind screamed, flooding with fear.

  Without thinking, the Goth lunged forward, powerful arms thrusting and the leaf-bladed spear plunged into Galen's side. The Emperor gasped, face draining of color, and Ermanerich felt the spear point scrape between bone. For a moment, everyone was transfixed, a tight little tableau of a dying man and two murderers looking on. Then, with a sigh, the Emperor slipped from the spear and crumpled to the floor at the foot of his bed. A thin stream of blood fluted from the spear point.

  Gaius Julius staggered, clawing at the air, then fell down himself. The Goth leaned over him in concern—nothing seemed to have touched the old Roman—but his face and hands and neck were withered with age. A hot, bright spark glowed on his chest and smoke curled up from the prince's amulet. Ermanerich's fingers moved towards the peculiar object, then jerked away.

  "It's burning!" he blurted, stunned. Reflexively, the Goth made a sign against evil.

  A grain passed, then two. A cough wracked the old Roman's body and his eyes fluttered open. "Ermanerich..." he wheezed. "Carry me to the Senate building, to the Curia. There is work to be done."

  "Not dead, are you?" The young Goth approached Gaius Julius cautiously and prodded him with the tip of his boot. "What happened?"

  "Help me up!" The old Roman tried to lift a hand and failed. He closed his eyes. "While we were each certain of our cause, the Oath let us settle things ourselves and neither Galen nor I intended anything but the best for Rome." Gaius coughed wetly, scowling at fresh spots of blood on his sleeve. "By the gods, he nearly had me with pretty speech... I'd almost changed my mind."

  Ermanerich lifted the old man. He was very light, barely skin and bones. "Watch your head." Turning sideways to get through the door, the Goth edged down the hallway and into the study. A group of heavily armed men loitered in the outer room, though none were legionaries. Each wore, however, a dolphin sigil in silver on his breast.