"Palmyra the Golden will rise again," Maxian said, brow furrowing slightly. "White towers will rise and countless gardens bloom. Silver will fill her coffers and her ships will ply the wide sea, holds filled with silk, spices and every luxury. All will look upon your beauty and rejoice!"
Zenobia did not respond, the corners of her mouth tightening. Sweat beaded her neck. The Emperor waited, remaining entirely still. She swayed, then straightened. Long fingers stiffened and her oval face became pale. Maxian remained still, watching her, implacable and irresistible. The Queen gasped, staggered and fell.
The Emperor caught her with gentle hands and he bent close, whispering. White fingers clutched tight on his arm and he stood while she knelt in homage.
"Now," Maxian said, "there will be order in all the world, and peace."
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Somewhere on the Coast of Sicilia
A single star burned bright in the eastern sky, the first to spring alight with the passing day, and cool light shone down upon a rocky shore. Twin headlands jutted out, enclosing a sheltered cove where the violent sea had passed, leaving wrack piled high among glistening black rocks. Mohammed crawled from the sea, foam streaming from his chest and thighs, long white beard plastered to a muscular body blessed with powerful arms and mighty thews. Spitting brine, he used a staff to aid his tired feet and climbed up, out of the rocky strand to a shelf thick with olives and dwarf pine.
"A welcoming cave?" the man said aloud, testing his ragged voice. "Dank with sea mist..."
A faint, attenuated rumbling drew his attention and Mohammed turned, keen eyes piercing the night, looking out to the north across the long sweep of Catania's broad gulf, where of late so many ships had perished, swallowed by the vengeful sea. Night was full upon the waters and great clouds and storms rode the upper air. Yet despite all these obscuring veils, the Quraysh saw flame shining in the darkness.
He leaned against the staff, his head bent in weariness. The night wind moved among the trees, making their soft leaves rustle and shake and the sea sighed against the headland shore. When Mohammed lifted his face, letting the pale stars gleam upon him, determination and knowledge filled him with a clear light.
"Now," he said, "all powers are unmasked and a daunting task set before me. But I will not turn away."
Yes, came a voice from the clear air. Your purpose is revealed. There is your enemy, shining dark, a deadly sun. Here is your great test, for which destiny has chosen you.
The Quraysh leaned against his staff, long white beard luffed by the sea wind. "I accept this fate," he said to the night, and the stars, "I submit myself to the will of the lord of the world. But I am not ready, not yet..."
No, answered the voice, but you will be.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Roma Mater
Gaius Julius scowled, his fists knuckling on either side of a stack of tattered parchment sheets. They had been touched by fire, the edges charred and split by heat. Columns of figures—payments, he thought, striving to clear his mind of grief—and names filled each page. "These were all your men found?"
"Yes, sir. The Duchess' servants had set the rest afire." Nicholas stood opposite, hands clasped behind his back, narrow face tight with ill-concealed tension. The man's armor was spotted with blood, his leathers creased and worn, dark with sweat. Gaius Julius nodded absently.
"These names," the old Roman said, "will lead us to others. Gather your men and set them upon the trail—question these... traitors... closely, but do not use them up." Gaius flashed a hard glance at the man and Nicholas nodded stiffly. "They serve our purpose best by leading to more interesting prey." His fingers traced the shortened, abbreviated names in the left-hand column. "Bait, Nicholas, bait. Find me a larger fish."
The Latin bowed his head in understanding, though the old Roman could see his angry thoughts clearly enough: Why coddle traitors and conspirators? Why not purge the city of their taint, root and branch alike? But he would obey. In time, Gaius hoped, he will learn some circumspection. Perhaps even forethought. An endless vista of labor stretched before them.
"Has Vladimir returned?"
Nicholas nodded, though his lip twitched in something like disgust. "He has."
Gaius Julius raised a gray eyebrow in response. The Latin squared his shoulders. "The child escaped with... two others. One, at least, was the Empress Helena's maid, a child named Koré. They entered the sewers on the Ianiculian hill, thwarting our Walach's sense of smell. I have the Urban Cohorts searching every mile of every adit, channel and tunnel. Boats filled with our men patrol the river, and the city gates are closed."
Nicholas paused and Gaius saw he wanted to say more, but restrained himself. The play of half-hidden emotions made an interesting play on his narrow face.
"Vladimir found nothing in the tunnels?"
The Latin shook his head sharply. "No, my lord. Nothing at all."
The old Roman regarded Nicholas with a considering, prolonged stare. After a time, Gaius Julius made a dismissive motion with his hand. The Latin strode out, obviously relieved to have escaped without hearing his master's opinion of the night's events.
Well, Gaius thought, leaning on the desk again. He was very tired—his body did not yearn for sleep, but his mind was exhausted by the relentless passage of events—and longed to sit somewhere, undisturbed for hours or days, watching the sun pass in the heavens. I shall find a dead boy of the proper age and features and bury him beside Galen and Helena. The old Roman nodded to himself, finding the solution at least practical. Should Theodosius turn up again... he will be an impostor, a rogue, a false pretender. Such things have happened before.
He bent, scribbling a note with a fine brush. "One more thing to do," he grumbled.
"My lord?" A breathless voice accompanied the clatter of boots in the doorway. Gaius Julius looked up. One of his Praetorians stood in the entrance, wiping sweat from his brow. "There is a... a dragon landing in the gardens of Domitian!"
Our master? Gaius Julius straightened, feeling the air in the palace change subtly, as if a stone had fallen into a still pool. "Send an honor guard to meet the Emperor," he snapped, looking down in disgust at his soiled robes. "I will be there in a moment."
—|—
A phalanx of legionaries, breastplates shining silver, their horsetail helmet plumes stiff, lined the top of the staircase. Gaius Julius climbed swiftly, looking neither right nor left, and entered a tall, vaulted hallway on the upper floor. Niches lined the walls, each one holding an Emperor's bust. The old Roman ignored them, even the smug face of Octavian, and paced down a long Indian carpet to a half-open door.
Knocking softly, Gaius Julius heard a strange voice say "enter."
Maxian stood on a balcony, wooden doors swung wide to either side. The city lay before him, lights sparkling yellow in the darkness, the long oval of the Circus Maximum barely visible below, outlined by lamps set around the periphery of the track. Beyond the racecourse, the Aventine loomed as a dark mass and the sky behind the hill was thick with smoke. Countless fires lit the slowly billowing clouds with a ruddy, red light.
The funeral pits, Gaius thought as he entered the chamber. He had attended many meetings here, while Galen was Emperor of Rome, and he had never felt such a chill, disturbing air in the room as he did now. A handful of legionaries stood against the walls, their faces sallow with fear. The old Roman frowned, feeling icy drafts swirl around his ankles.
Then he caught sight of a thing standing in the shadows just inside the balcony doors. A tall, stooped figure clad in long dark robes. Firelight gleamed on an elongated, inhuman skull. Long-fingered hands, tipped with glittering black nails, peeked from the cloak. Gaius' heart thudded in alarm and he slowed, dragging his feet. A chaos of thoughts raged, foremost among them the overriding desire to draw the sword hanging from his belt and thrown himself upon the abomination, striking until there was no strength in his arms and the thing lay dead. And cast the remains into fire!
His
fingers twitched towards the hilt, but Maxian raised a hand from the balustrade. Gaius Julius froze, feeling his master's displeasure. He moved his hand away from the blade, though he could not bring himself to look upon the grinning charnel face of the creature standing in the shadows.
"My lord?" The old Roman found it difficult to speak. His flesh was crawling with suppressed horror.
"We are victorious," Maxian said, continuing to look out upon the city and the distant charnel fires. "The Persian fleet has been destroyed. Their king, their generals..." The hand moved, indicating the creature. "...even their overlord have bowed down before me. Order is restored throughout the world, and there will be a Roman peace from the pillars of Hercules to the gates of India. Alexandros has taken charge of matters in Sicilia, though I have brought loyal Dahak home with me. I am sure you will become great friends."
Sickeningly, the thing in the shadows bared needle-like teeth at Gaius Julius and the old Roman knew—he could not say how, but the truth struck at his heart like a well-flung javelin—he had been replaced by a new favorite. The world tilted on its axis, but Gaius had not survived the collapse of the old Republic without a canny mind and a quick tongue.
"Hail Caesar," Gaius said, his mouth dry as dust. A dreadful pressure seemed to fill the room, pressing in on him from all sides. Without thinking, he knelt, bending his forehead to the floor. As he did so, he caught sight of the Praetorians also kneeling, as did the creature in the shadows. Words hissed from his mouth, unbidden but undeniable. "Hail Maxian Atreus, Augustus Romanorum, Emperor and God, Protector of the Romans, Master of the World."
Maxian turned, the fires burning beyond the city glowing against the cloudy, dark sky behind him. His face was in shadow, but Gaius could see a faint, pale light reflecting in the man's eyes. The Emperor stirred, a hand shrugging his cloak into a clean line.
"Yes," Maxian said, softly, in final, full awareness of himself and the world. "I am a god."
Table of Contents
MAPS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE ROMANS AND THEIR ALLIES
THE PERSIANS
THE SAHABA
THE KHAZARS
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
The Dark Lord Page 87