“Within the month,” he said, “the Legions in Spain and southern Gaul will arrive at Ostia Maxima and I will join them. I shall sail east with them, and join the others at
Constantinople. Then Heraclius and I will begin our expedition. We shall have victoryr and peace.“
Maxian shook his head in puzzlement, saying “Again you mention that peace shall come of this, brother. You are taking a great gamble, to throw yourself and the Emperor of the East into the heart of Persia. Even with this great army you may still be defeated. You may die. Both halves of the Empire may lose their Emperors. This will not be peace but civil war again, and the barbarians will still storm against the walls of Constantinople. Would it not be more prudent to clear the invaders from Thrace, Greece, and Macedonia? Then the full weight of the Empire could turn against the Persians in Syria and Palestine.”
Galen laughed and his eyes were bright with some secret knowledge. “Cautious! So cautious, piglet. You are right, such a campaign would restore the borders of the Empire and drive the enemy back. But that is what the ‘cautious’ Emperors of Rome have done since the time of the Divine Augustus. None of their efforts has brought peace, only a little delay in the next war. The great Emperors-Julius Caesar, Trajan, Septimus Severus-they won peace by the destruction of their enemies. We will do them one better, we will take nearly a hundred thousand Romans into the heart of our ancient enemy and destroy not only their capital but their state. Persia, all of Persia, will become a Roman domain, not just an edge of it, but all. Then, then there will be a true peace in the East and over the whole of the world.”
Galen paused, and now he seemed refreshed, even ebullient again. The grim and distant manner was gone; instead he poured more wine for all three of them.
“Nike!” he said, raising his cup to the goddess of victory. “And a Roman peace.”
Maxian drained his cup, but there was no peace in his heart.
Though he had lived in the sprawling maze of the Palatine for six years, Maxian was still unable to find the offices of the Duchess, though he thought that they were somewhere in one of the buildings on the northern face of the hill. At last, having wound up again in the sunken garden on the eastern side of the hill, he approached one of the gardeners laboring over the replacement of tiles. The garden, built over five hundred years ago by the reviled emperor Do-mitian, was laid out in the shape of a race course. Great bushes, carefully tended, were crafted into the shape of rearing horses and chariots. At the north end there was a pool and around it ancient tiles, now cracked. The gardener, dressed in a muddy tunic and laced-up cotton leggings, was half in and half out of the pool, wrestling a replacement tile into the place. Maxian paused and bent down at the edge of the tile border. The gardener, grunting, heaved at his pry bar and the tile, backed with concrete, at last shifted with a grinding sound and slid into place. The workman leaned heavily on the length of iron and looked up, his eyes shrouded by bushy white eyebrows.
“Friend, if you have a moment, I’ve a question,” the Prince said. “I’m seeking the offices of the Duchess de’Orelio.”
The gardener frowned and spit into the pool. “You’re far off course,” he said. “The Duchess, though a generous woman to the less fortunate, is of a questionable position in the offices. Though she visits often, she has tio ‘place’ here. If you wish to speak to her, you’ll have to go to her townhouse over by the Aquae Virgo. Do you know the way?”
Maxian stood up, brushing leaves and dirt from his knees. “I do,” he said. “Many thanks.”
Back in the maze of hallways, Maxian made his way south, finally reaching the long curving arcade that ran along the southern face of the Palatine. Here the way was thronged with officials, scribes, and slaves. Here too was the office of the chamberlain of the palace, and Maxian strode in with a confident air. Of all of the palace officials, Temrys knew him by sight. Apparently, so did the chamberlain’s secretary, who paused in his instruction to two other scribes at the appearance of the Prince.
“Milord! Do you need to see the chamberlain?” The secretary’s face was a study in surprise and not a little apprehension. Inwardly, this evidence of power cheered Maxian.
“If he is not overly busy,” Maxian said, clasping his hands behind his back.
“One moment, sir.” The secretary bustled away, back into the maze of cubicles and tiny rooms that were the warren and domain of Temrys and his minions. The two junior scribes, at last making out the profile of the visitor and the cut of his garb, sidled away and disappeared. Maxian smiled after them. A moment later the secretary reappeared and bowed to the Prince, indicating the way into the. rear rooms.
Temrys’ private office was only twice the size of that of his subordinates, though he had it to himself rather than sharing as they did. The chamberlain rose as the secretary showed Maxian into the low-ceilinged room. Of middling height and lean in body, the Greek was most notable for his pockmarked face and general air of sullen resignation. Today, Maxian noted, he was dressed in a dark-gray and charcoal-black tunic with a muddy brown belt and boots. Coupled with thinning gray hair and narrow lips, he did not make a dashing figure.
“Lord Prince,” the chamberlain muttered, gesturing to a low backless chair that sat at the side of his desk. Temrys sat, hunching in his own curule chair, his face blank.
Maxian removed a pile of scrolls and placed them on the floor. He too sat, smiling genially at the older man. “Chamberlain Temrys. My esteemed eldest brother has directed me to assist my older brother in the governance of the state during the coming absence of the Emperor. I find that I do not have the facilities, that is-an office and a secretary-to undertake these tasks. So I come to you, the most knowl edgeable and experienced of the civil service to provide these things to me.“
Temry’s frown deepened for a moment, then, unaccountably, lightened. He straightened up a little in his chair, cocking his head at the Prince. “An office? Space can certainly be provided to you. I am puzzled, however, that your brother, the Caesar Aurelian, will not be using the Augus-torum and you, in turn, his own offices. They come well equipped, I assure you, with scribes, secretaries, slaves, messengers, all manner of staff.”
“I know! I need something more… private. Something out of the way, where things are quieter and more at ease.”
Temrys almost smiled at that, but the mask of his face did not slip. “Of course, my lord, it will be done at once. I know the perfect place. It will take some days to prepare. Shall I send a messenger to you when it is ready?”
Maxian stood, smiling again, and bowed very slightly to the chamberlain.
“That would be perfect,” he said. “Thank you.”
Walking out, with the now-unctuous Chamberlain at his elbow, Maxian noted the sidelong glances of the secretaries and scribes in the warren of rooms. How can anyone work in such a place, he wondered to himself, with every eye watching you at all times?
He stopped at the door, thanking Temrys, and then strode off down the hallway. His lips quirked in amusement. / will never use those offices, he thought, but it will divert attention for a little while.
Cool water closed with a sharp splash over Maxian’s head as he dove into the great pool that graced the open-air no-tatio. Dolphinlike he darted through the water, turning over and seeing, for a moment, the wavering light of the sun far above, through the water. The cunningly tiled floor of the pool flashed past as well, all porpoises and mermaids in blue and green and pale yellow. A moment later his head broke the surface at the far end of the pool. He climbed out, exhilarated. Around him, dozens of other swimmers splashed in the cool blue waters or sat talking on the benches under the arches. He stood, dripping, on the mosaic floor and pondered whether to return to the pool and swim laps or to seek a masseuse for a scrape and a rubdown.
“Sir?” One of the balanei had come up. Maxian nodded in greeting at the boy, seeing that he was dressed in the attire of the bath attendants.
“A distinguished gentleman begs a moment of your
time, if you will join him in the steam room?”
“All right,” Maxian said, a little wary. “Can you summon a tractator to join us as well? My shoulders are still sore and tight.”
The slave bowed and hurried off. Maxian made his way to the caldarium across the great vaulting central chamber of the bath building. Above him doves and wrens flitted in the vast open space under the roof of the cella soliaris. He passed through an atrium occupied by arguing Greeks and their attendants. Within, the air was thick with moisture and heat. He paused for a moment in the dimness. The huge room, barrel shaped, soared above him. The air was filled with billowing steam, making it almost impossible to see.
“Over here,” came a voice from the back of the room. Maxian descended the short flight of steps onto the raised wooden floor. Steam hissed up from the floor below as water flowed in from pipes under the platform. The heat felt delightful after the chilly pool. Sitting on a bare step at the back of the chamber was a familiar figure, even wreathed in steam. A conspicuous space had been cleared around the old man, though the caldarium was so large that there was no lack of benches.
“Ave, Gregorius Auricus,” Maxian said, settling into the warm seat.
“Ave, Maxian Caesar,” the magnate replied, dipping his head in greeting. Maxian frowned at the honorific. Gregorius, his eyes bright even in the gloom, nodded. “It is one of your titles now, you will have to get used to it.”?
“I suppose. It does not seem to be right, somehow, that I should bear the titles of my brothers. Not fitting, in a way.”
Gregorious sighed, rubbing his thin arms. “Your brothers have taken a great deal of trouble, over the past years, to follow the wishes of your mother. They have carried the burden of the Empire themselves, letting you follow the path that your gifts led you on.” He reached out and took Maxian’s hand, turning it over, running his callused old fingers over the Prince’s young, smooth palm and thumb.
“If Lucian Pius Augustus had not been stricken by the plague, you would be the most revered member of your family today. And you would still be in Narbonensis, doubtless spending your days walking from mountain village to mountain village, tending to the sick and the poor, as your mother hoped.”
Maxian smiled at the pastoral image. “I would like that,” he said.
Gregorius shook his head, saying “You will never see it. You have a different purpose now. I caught sight of you the other day, when your esteemed brother and I were arguing in the Offices. I heard afterward that the Senate had acclaimed you Caesar and Consul, to rule at your brother Aurelian’s side while the Augustus Martius Galen is away, in the East.”
“It is so,” Maxian said slowly, wondering what favor or proposition the old man would put to him now.
Gregorius smiled slowly at him. “You must learn to guard your expression more closely, young Caesar, I can all but read the thought in your look. No, I do not want anything from you today. What I want is but a moment of your time. I have known you, your brothers, your family, for many years. I do not know if you remember, but when you were young and your father came to the city, he would ofttime stay with me in my family’s house on the Coelian Hill. On at least one occasion, he brought you to see the Circus, I believe. The ostriches frightened you. Your father was a friend of mine, and you know well that I supported your brother in his campaign against the pretenders.
“I say this to you not to gain your favor but to show you that I have always supported your family, your father, your brother. Martius Galen is a good Emperor. Perhaps the best we have been blessed with in the West since the Divine Constantine. He is cautious in his policies, frugal with the assets of the state. He is just and, impartial in his judgments. He appoints with an eye to merit and not to wealth or personal gain. He does not confiscate the estates or possessions of the Senators. In all, a most able and practical ruler. The temples are well blessed with his presence.”
Gregorius paused, sighing deeply. His old face was lined with concern. “Yet at the same time, he is a man, and men are often blind in some manner. I know that you must have remarked yourself from time to time on the precariousness of the Western Empire. Our population is scant following the plague. Our own people are weak, given to idleness and sloth. Have you not noticed, in your work, how frail our people seem, in comparison to the German, the Briton, or the Goth?” Gregorius waved at the mist and the other men taking their ease in the baths.
“In a crowd of a hundred, you can tell each man’s nation by his appearance-the Roman is short, with poor skin and an unhealthy pallor. The Briton is tall and fair, abrim with health. The German the same, the Goth another, save gifted with great strength. I have many clients, as you doubtless know. They come to me to discuss their troubles and their successes. First among the lament of the Roman is the death of his children, his heirs, from disease, or weakness or accident. The Goth deplores the state of his finances but rejoices in the strong children born to him. It is a terrible shame, but I have had to repopulate whole farms, or fabri-cae here in the city, with freedmen of Briton or German blood.”
Maxian stared at him in undisguised horror. The blood lines of the rural patricians were as jealously guarded as the Vestals.
“Yes, I see the look on your face-yet there was no other way! The blood of my cousins had grown too weak to sustain itself. It pained my senatorial heart to adopt these people from beyond Italy as my sons and daughters. I am old and I have seen a great deal in my life, but this frightens me the most, the deterioration of the Roman people. The state cannot hope to stand when there are none to support it. New blood must be inducted to the body of the people, to sustain the Empire. Is this not so in the East?
“There are many different nations given citizenship there. Here the boon of citizenship is so carefully guarded… What I have asked of your brother is nothing less than accepting the Gothic people, and the friendly Germans, and the loyal Britons, into our state as equals. I have spoken to many, many of their dukes, headmen and chiefs. They are a loyal people-have they not fought beside Rome for the last three centuries? They should be rewarded for that, at least.”
Maxian pursed his lips, considering the issue. Gregorius had a valid point. At last he said, “Each man may seek his own way into the service of the Empire and thence to citizenship. Such has it been for a long time.”
Gregorius nodded in acknowledgment but replied, “So it has always been, but that is no longer«a suitable response. What of the carpenter who labors for the statd? What of the matron whose husband has died, yet she struggles on, raising ten children by herself? The children in turn may serve the state and become citizens, yet she cannot. Is there justice in this? When the Romans were a strong people, it made good sense; now it does not. I know that I cannot convince your brother of this, and rest easy, I shall give him the ships, the money, the supplies that he needs. I agree that the Eastern Empire must be aided. There will always be disagreements, even among friends.”
The tractator arrived and Maxian signaled to him. Turn ing to the Senator, he said: “Thank you for your words, and thank you for supporting our family in the past. It means a great deal to me, as it did to my father. So that you understand clearly, I do not always agree with my brother, but I will always support him. Good day, sir.”
Gregorious nodded, with a little smile on his face, resting his hands on the head of his walking stick.
“A good day to you as well, young Maxian. Oh, one thing before you go. A client of mine, a Briton named Mor-dius Arthyrrson, came to see me yesterday. He said that he was returning home arid giving up his share of his family’s business here in the city. This was troubling to me, though I wished him well. He was a fellow of good promise. He also said that he had talked to you about what had happened. I did not press him about it, for other of my men had told me the tale already. I think that you should know that this is not the first time that this sort of thing has happened.”
Maxian stared at the old man for a moment, then nodded and went out.
OSTIA MAXIMA, THE COAST OF LATIUM
The staccato of drums echoed off the brick buildings facing the great harbor of Trajan. Thyatis turned, shading her eyes against the late-afternoon sun as it slanted in golden beams through the remains of the rainclouds. Hundreds of ships, riding at anchor in the mile-wide hexagon of the Imperial Harbor, lit up, their colored sails gleaming in the perfect light. Seagulls circled overhead in the cool rain-washed air, cawing. Apollo and his chariot were preparing to descend beyond the western rim of the world in glorious display. The rainclouds were lit with purple and gold and reds in a thousand hues. A fresh breeze had sprung up, carrying the deep smell of the sea to her. The funk of the harbor was blown away, and with it the stinks of the city behind her.
“A beautiful sunset,” Anastasia said from the comfort of her litter.
“It is,” Thyatis said as she knelt on the pier next to her patron. She fingered the hilt of her sword, thinking of the endless leagues that would soon be between her and her patron. Beyond the handful of men that she was taking with her, she would be entirely alone in the East. She looked up, seeing the calm violet eyes of her mistress. Only confidence and strength were reflected there. Thyatis’ spirits rose and a core of determination began to accrete within her.
“Your supplies are already loaded?” the Duchess asked.
“Yes, milady, everything that Nikos and I could think of, plus more besides. The men are already aboard, most sleeping or reading.”
Anastasia smiled. “They are soldiers, after all.”
Gently she took the hand of the young woman. Seeing her now, clad in dull raiment, a heavy cloak, and worn boots, with her hair tied back and with no makeup, Anastasia realized that she had begun to grow attached to her ward. This troubled her greatly, for she had long considered the last daughter of the Clodians to be only a possibly useful tool. The remnants of her anger over the failure of her stratagem to ensnare the youngest Atrean Prince passed away. Laughing a little, she let go of Thyatis’ hand.
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