The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  "When there is trouble," the girl continued, "or the Emperor needs gold, lists are posted of those who have committed crimes against the state. They must defend themselves in court, which costs money of course, or they are executed out of hand and their properties confiscated. But nothing like this has happened for decades."

  Thyatis felt grief welling and clamped down hard on the useless emotion. "Not since Galen became Emperor," she bit out, though she'd had no intention of speaking.

  Betia nodded, her own face shadowed. Shirin kept quiet, though she'd seen the black bands on the arms of the legionaries in the port and at the city gates. Even the temples they'd passed had been silent and in the rare occasion they met someone on the street, no greetings were exchanged and the passersby avoided eye contact, hurrying on as fast as their feet allowed.

  "We need to get into the house," Thyatis said, forcing herself to action. "If only to see if it is empty. The Duchess may have fled elsewhere and left a sign."

  "How?" Shirin looked up at her friend, and Betia frowned also. "The street..."

  "Up. We're on the same side of the street, right?" Thyatis said, stepping to the heavy, four-paneled doorway behind her. Her fist tested the latch and found the door barred. She felt around the edge, pressing at the cheap wood with powerful fingers. "Keep an eye out," she said over her shoulder, one hand reaching under her woolen cloak.

  Shirin backed up, biting her thumb. Thyatis produced a iron pry bar and sighted one end—fitted with a shovel-like spike—just above the latch mechanism. "Anyone coming?" she muttered.

  "No," Betia said. Thyatis swung the bar in a short, controlled blow. Wood thumped and screeched as she bent her shoulder into the bar, twisting the iron down and sideways. Splinters screwed away from the wood and Thyatis grunted. There was a popping sound, and she levered the bar down. Something went clunk in the passage.

  Smiling faintly, Thyatis pushed the door open. The corridor beyond was quiet and dark. She stepped inside.

  —|—

  Leading with the point of her spatha, Thyatis glided across a plain tile floor, flitting from doorway to doorway. Despite a heavy, encompassing quiet, the house did not feel empty to her. Frightened to silence, but not untenanted. Shirin followed, her feet bare and then Betia, a dark gray ghost who barely disturbed the air with her passage.

  Thyatis paused at the head of a stairwell leading down to the cellars and her long nose twitched. She jerked her head towards the opening and the other two faded into the gloom of a nearby alcove. The tiny statue of Pan did not mind their proximity and Thyatis crept down the stairs, feeling the slowly building tic-tic-tic of bloodfire coursing in her veins.

  A moment later, her head appeared on the stairs and she beckoned her companions down.

  —|—

  "Hello, mother," Thyatis said softly, stepping between two stout pillars streaked with brown water stains. Anastasia's head jerked up as if she'd sat on a nettle and an incredulous, glad smile bloomed in her tired, pale face. The redhead grinned broadly, making a sketchy bow towards the other woman lying on a cot against the wall.

  "You..." Anastasia squeaked, crushed in a powerful hug. Thyatis held the Duchess close for a long moment, her eyes stinging. "...I can't breathe!" Anastasia managed, though her own embrace was just as tight.

  "Sorry." Thyatis let go, holding the Duchess at arm's length. Her face settled into a concerned, grim mask. "I'm sorry we're late. The winds were against us for the return voyage from Alexandria."

  Anastasia tried to tuck back her hair—grown entirely matted and snarled—then gave up. "I had hoped you wouldn't come here," she said, dabbing at the corners of bloodshot, violet eyes, indicating the house, the city, Italia. "But I'm glad you're alive." The Duchess peered around Thyatis and then she did start to sniffle. "Oh, Betia—you're here too—and you must be... Shirin." Anastasia put her hands over her face and sat down abruptly, only managing to gasp for breath between uncontrollable tears. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

  "Empress?" Thyatis knelt beside the still, quiet shape on the cot. Helena did not respond, though her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. The redheaded woman turned, saw Betia and Shirin sitting on either side of Anastasia, trying to give her a handkerchief, arms around her, heads bent together. "I heard about the Emperor," Thyatis said softly, taking the Empress' hand. The fingers were very cold and clammy, like a fresh-caught fish. "I'm sorry he is dead. He was a fine man."

  Helena's eyes moved, tracking slowly, and she mustered a breath, though the effort seemed enormous. She met Thyatis' troubled gaze with her own and the younger woman stiffened. There was such a depth of sorrow and grief in the dark brown eyes, she could barely stand to meet them herself.

  "Hello," the Empress said, the sound rising from a great, unguessed depth. "You are Diana, aren't you?" Her attention seemed to focus, though again the effort was slow. "You were filled with rage... and sorrow. I remember you, in a garish room clouded with lotus smoke and scented oil."

  Wordlessly, Thyatis nodded, remembering a wild, desperately lonely night.

  "You must take my son," Helena said, a feeble gleam of light sparking in her dead eyes. "You were swift on the bright sand, striking down your enemies like a whirlwind. You can take him away from all... this."

  Thyatis half-turned, searching for the Duchess. Anastasia met her eyes and nodded, lifting her hand. "Little Theodosius is here." She beckoned with the damp handkerchief. A young girl appeared from the gloom, tiny, sharp hands on the shoulders of a toddler, guiding his steps over the uneven paving stones. "But we are all who have survived, so far."

  "What about the servants in the villa of Swans?" Betia's young face seemed old and grim.

  "Gone." Anastasia made a motion with her hand—casting grain upon the waters. "Some safe, I'm sure, but others... there have been many executions." Her voice faltered. "The morgues are too full to hold them all," she said in a despairing voice. "Wagons fill the streets, jumbled with the dead. They are burning them in the fields south of the city. In the rubbish dumps." The Duchess stopped, unable to continue.

  "Who is doing this?" Thyatis clasped her hands over the Empress' cold fingers.

  "The dead make more of their own," Helena answered and the tiny bit of strength in her voice grew. "The histories say he was ever generous to his enemies and openhanded and rescinded every edict of banishment, pardoning all crimes—real and imagined." She managed a hollow laugh, holding only the bare memory of her cutting peal. "Sulla or Tiberius never made Rome bleed as he does..."

  "A man named Gaius Julius rules the city, in the new Emperor's name," Anastasia said quietly. "He has the support of the Praetorians, the crime syndicates, the Urban Prefect, even the Senate. Yet he is being thorough, ensuring no living enemy will oppose his rule."

  "Who... who is the new Emperor? What happened to Aurelian and Maxian?" Thyatis shook her head in disbelief.

  The Duchess' lips quirked into a cold smile. "Aurelian lies dead in Egypt and Maxian is our Lord and God—though I doubt he knows yet. The young Emperor, who we once seemed to know so well has gone south to Sicilia. We have heard..." Anastasia shrugged her shoulders. "...he has gone to deal with the Persians 'once and for all.' Or so the gazette says, if anyone will dare the Forum to read what is written there."

  "Sicilia?" Thyatis and Shirin exchanged a puzzled glance. "The Paris passed Messina only days ago—there was no sign of battle or war." The redheaded woman scratched her ear. "Though there were many galleys in the port."

  "Rumors," Anastasia said. "My networks of informers and spies have been devastated by Gaius' purges—one of the reasons, I'm sure, he's being so brutal. He must be searching for me, for us, with every man he can trust."

  "How long have you been here?" Thyatis let go of the Empress' hand and stood up.

  "Too long." Anastasia sighed, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling. "It took us a good two days to get here from the Palatine—the streets are thick with informers and patrols—and we had to rest.
So four days in all." She smiled at the little girl, who had settled beside Helena, letting the sleepy little boy crawl into his mother's arms. "Only Koré had the strength to get over the wall and let us in."

  "We had better leave," Shirin said, rising from the cot. "They're already going house to house in this district."

  Thyatis nodded, considering both Helena and Anastasia with a worried expression. "We'll go as soon as it gets dark. Koré seems to have the boy in hand, Betia can scout, and you, Empress, I will carry on my own back."

  "No," Helena said, clutching her son to her breast, one hand slowly stroking his hair. "I am not well. I've never been an athlete and these last two days have used me up. I barely have strength to rise from this bed, much less manage flight. But my son—you will him get out of the city and out of Italia." The Empress raised her head, fixing Anastasia with a fierce glare. "The Duchess knows a safe place, I think. One far from Rome where a little boy will be safe from his enemies. Send him there."

  Anastasia stiffened, face pale as bone. She said nothing, only staring aghast at Helena. Her expression brought an almost-normal laugh from the Empress, who laid her head back down afterwards, exhausted.

  Thyatis looked from one woman to the other, but neither said a word. She turned to Betia and Shirin, who shrugged. They didn't follow the aside either. "Right," muttered Thyatis, poking at some pots and pans filled with cold oatmeal. "Let's find a place to make a hot meal before we go. Never know when you might get one again, eh?"

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Off Sicilia

  Freezing winds roared and lashed around the vast shape of a byakhee, forcing Dahak to crouch low against the stupendous body. A forest of black, frond-like tentacles gripped him on either side, keeping the sorcerer from being flung from the monster's back as it turned, bifurcate wings cleaving the air in a sweeping arc over a glimmering bay. The sight of so much water—so much seawater—wheeling below him made Dahak's lean fingers dig deeper into plush, thorny fur.

  The placid, sun-dappled face of annihilation yawned up at him, stretching from horizon to horizon, a sheet of sparkling glass. Only the enormous, sloped cone of Aetna offered him any hope of survival. The mountain dominated the island landscape, rising thousands of feet above the rumpled hills and sharp ravines spread at its foot. No other mountain on Sicilia, or even in Italia, matched the height of the volcano. Snow covered the truncated crown, white mixed with streaks of dark gray. Steam boiled away from the summit, though the throb of the mountain's heart—perceptible even here, at such a great height—was steady and quiet.

  Down, the sorcerer commanded and the byakhee slewed sideways with terrific speed, plunging towards the curving tan line of a beach barely visible below. Dahak swallowed a scream, worming his way into the living, writhing fur, shutting his eyes against the blaze of the setting sun upon the water.

  The creature boomed across the bay, wheeling like a kite, and landed on a broad, white beach. Sand billowed up in a great cloud and a line of trees a hundred yards back from the surf line creaked and bent, battered by a tremendous gale. Talons crunched in loose gravel and a dark mist of tendrils descended onto hard-packed sand, searching for food.

  Staggering and weak with reaction, Dahak tumbled from the monster's back and fell heavily onto the hot sand. Long shadows stretched from the nearest trees and the air took on a golden quality as the sun settled towards the western rim of the world. Shaking himself, Dahak turned away from the waves lapping on the shore and staggered into the cover of a thicket of witch hazel.

  "Go," he growled at the byakhee, which had found a colony of clams under damp sand below the high tide line. Thin, prehensile tubes distended from the rugose, insectile body, digging into the beach. A wave of dull hatred radiated from the thing's mind at Dahak's command—hunger... eat—yet it could not disobey his will or the compelling sign he raised in the hidden world. With a vast rushing sound, the ground trembled and a whirlwind of grit and sand and gravel clattered against the trees. The servitor leapt into the sky and was quickly gone, only a dark speck against a cerulean sky and then nothing.

  Hiding in the thicket, glossy green leaves tickling his neck, the sorcerer waited, his own rage and fear simmering. He did not like this place. But then he turned his attention to the bright sea and calm relief fell over him. The bay was filled with white and cream and brown sails. The Persian fleet arrived, driven by unseasonable winds, covering the sea from shore to shore. They could not miss their landfall, not with the vast cone of Aetna rising towards the heavens, visible for a hundred miles in clear weather.

  The lead wave of galleys surged towards the shore, white spume leaping from their bows, sails taut with vigorous zephyrs. Three enormous grain haulers advanced in the center of the fleet, dwarfing their companions as a bear might tower over her cubs, black hulls rising like mountains from the blue sea. Already, as the sorcerer watched, the lead merchantmen were lowering longboats filled with men.

  My Huns and faithful C'hu-lo, Dahak saw with relief, recognizing their top-knots and darker skin, their black armor and furred cloaks. He remained in hiding, tense and alert. For the moment, it seemed, he was alone on the beach, but Roman patrols—if there were any on this placid stretch of agricultural coastline—would not have missed the thunderous arrival of the byakhee. Or my great fleet, he thought smugly. Sleek galleys nosed towards the shore, brilliant eyes shining in the setting sun; round-bellied merchantmen leaned with the wind, anchor chains rattling into the deep, sailors shouting commands as they turned painted sails; everywhere there was busy industry as the fleet entered the broad, white bay.

  —|—

  A high deck rode above gleaming green water, the depths below thronged with striped fish, then shining white sand and fluttering strands of kelp and sea grass. The sun was almost on the mountaintop, letting the last lucid rays plunge down into the beckoning sea, brilliant on burnished shields and helms, casting a forest of stars against the darkening shore. Two great chairs were moored to the deck under a canvas shade, and a terrible king sat in one, a beautiful queen in the other, flowers and gold wound in her raven hair.

  Every eye aboard was turned to the shore, a long band of white between deepening blue and the lush green and brown of the forest. Water meadows glinted beyond the foaming strand, filled with vineyards and planted fields ripe with summer grain. Stands of black poplar clustered along streams rushing down from white-capped mountains and even at sea, on the great-hulled ships, the lowing of kine and the bleating of countless goats carried on the evening wind.

  A rich, lush smell reached out from the shore and those living men on the ship were minded of home and family and the turning of the seasons.

  No one marked the jackal-headed king's cloak—gray on gray, fine linen and silk—sprawling loose across the arms of his chair. The jackal himself sat with his bronzed arms on the seat, his mask staring at the shore. A pocket in the fabric jumped and twitched, yielding a square of gleaming black cloth that fell onto the deck behind the throne. For a moment, the material lay still, then—with dizzying speed—the square unfolded into a rectangle, then again, then again, then again. Man-shaped, the dark, lustrous material soaked up the last rays of the setting sun and split open, head to toe, a powerful hand wrenching the cloth aside.

  Mohammed sat up from darkness, then rose from the deck, naked save for a tall staff of fig wood held in one hand. Wind gusting from the white-capped sea tangled the glossy cloth into an unruly wad. Fluttering, the scrap of black silk lifted from the deck, whirled past the feet of the Queen's guardsmen and disappeared over the side of the ship.

  The Arab, chest covered by a flowing white beard, took in the vista of ships and sea and mountain, keen eyes counting masts, gauging the seaworthiness of the fleet. He saw many ships flying the twin-palmed flag of Palmyra and more with a familiar green banner snapping in the wind. He saw two thrones facing away from him, surrounded by hard-faced men in desert robes. No one was looking in his direction and Mohammed regretted the fate
that had brought him here. I am among the enemy, he realized, though many names and faces are familiar to me.

  Someone called from the foredeck and Mohammed's eyes flickered in recognition. Our young Eagle.

  Turning, he stepped to the railing, looked down into the darkening sea, and dove—pale body flashing into the water with an abrupt slap—and he was gone. Ceaseless waves rolled past, obscuring the trace of his passage.

  Wind tangled in the Queen's hair, rattling jewels and gold. The Asura pitched in a heavy sea, her rigging and mast creaking in gusting wind. She turned her head to look upon the dark, still shape of the Jackal sitting beside her in gray and gray, with a torc of silver around his neck and iron bracelets upon well-muscled arms.

  "My lord?" she said quietly. The passage of time and many days spent in close company—both in Pharoah's court and upon the fleet beating up from Egypt to this abandoned shore—had dulled a little of the pain his visage brought, but not all. The Queen found the jutting ears, the snarling muzzle entirely repulsive, the mockery of a man lacerating her heart. But now the signal had come from the shore—hundreds of Huns arrayed on the beach, the black banner rippling with ringed serpents raised high—their master had reached the isle and commanded their presence. "We must go ashore."

  Her entreaty was met with silence and a strange, half-felt emptiness. Forcing herself, the Queen touched the jackal's hand and found the brown flesh cold and inert. She stiffened, rising halfway from her seat and a fierce young voice spoke sharply in her thoughts.

  Let me see him! Zoë surged forward, swelling in Zenobia's suddenly crippled thoughts.

  The girl forced white hands to touch the cold, mottled iron of the mask, then press against a broad, muscular chest. The scars and puckered wounds under her fingers yielded nothing, neither life nor the dreadful semblance imparted by the sorcerer's will.

  He is gone, Zoë said, voice sighing in wonder. He has escaped!