Galen looked around, shedding the ceremonial drape with a shrug. There was no one within earshot. The cloth, forgotten, fell to the floor in an untidy tangle. "Tell me."
Helena breathed deep and the Emperor saw she had ridden swiftly, her hair tangled, high cheeks flushed with effort. Even her accustomed makeup was sketchy and old. "The thaumaturges watching the telecast sent me word the day before yesterday. They had turned their attentions to Egypt. They found the defenses at Pelusium abandoned, the Persian army and fleet decamped."
"What?" Galen rocked back on his heels. "Where is Aurelian?"
"At Bousiris," Helena said, opening the satchel. She tried to smile grimly, but failed. "Anastasia has always warned our all-seeing eye can only look one place at a time… it took the thaumaturges an hour of casting about to find the Legions. They are digging furiously on the western bank of the main Nile channel, building a rampart from Bousiris north. The Persians are busy across the river too." Helena drew a sheaf of papers from the pouch, then knelt on the floor. Galen knelt as well, watching in growing cold nausea as she spread out hasty drawings-maps-on hexagonal tile.
"We looked for signs of the Persian advance." Her slender fingers shifted two of the pages, and a crude diagram of the Nile delta became recognizable. "Their foraging parties have struck as far south as Boubastis. This much we see from the smoke clouding the sky and roads clogged with fleeing peasants."
"Where is their fleet?" Galen bit out, furious with himself. Of course, he raged silently, there is nothing to be done, not by me, not now… not when we are so far away, and our arm so slow to reach the enemy. "Can they cross the Nile?"
Helena looked across at him, over the scattered papers, in the dim hallway. The music from the dancing echoed faintly from the ceiling, coupled with the laughter of the guests. "Yes," she said quietly. "They have a great fleet of barges. They are moored along the Boutikos canal, in a long array."
The Emperor closed his eyes, marshalling his thoughts. The Boutikos sliced across the delta from Pelusium in the east to the main Nile channel just north of Bousiris, then jogged west to reach the second channel, the Kanobikos, above Alexandria. In better days, the broad canal flowed with commerce, carrying the lifeblood of Egypt and the Empire across the endless paddies and fields of lower Egypt. He bit his thumb, considering. Now the waterway was a lunging spear, aimed right at the heart of the Roman province. Galen felt a familiar pricking begin behind his left eye.
"They were ready to fight on the water, in the swamps and mire." His voice was level, contemplative. "Supplies, water, arms, wounded men-all can be swiftly moved on the canal." He took a breath, feeling certainty congeal his thoughts into a discrete pattern. What must be done, must be done. "Do you have a writing tablet?"
"Yes." Helena settled into a tailor's crouch, drawing a wooden tablet from the courier bag. Individual sheets of thin wood, faced with wax, were bound together with copper wire. The Empress looked up, a stylus poised in one hand. Galen tried to smile, but the bleak look in her eyes matched his own temper. He looked down at the maps, disheartened.
"Have we heard from Aurelian directly?"
The Empress nodded, scrabbling in the papers and producing a sheet of papyrus. "This came while we were trying to find the army. Aurelian sent a dispatch three weeks ago-he had been attacked at Pelusium by the Persian army and a 'burning giant.' His thaumaturges were unable to hold back the enemy…"
Galen's palm hit the floor with a sharp crack! "The sorcerer."
Helena nodded again, offering the letter. Galen shook his head sharply in refusal, running both hands through his thin hair.
"He's put everything in this one throw… But why Egypt…" He bit his lip, thinking again.
"Grain? Wealth?" Helena looked at him quizzically. "Does it really matter?"
"It matters. Something drives the enemy to his current path…" Galen looked out through the pillars, into the dining hall. Maxian and Martina were dancing again, this time to a gentle, melodic tune. The guests were stamping their feet in slow, measured time. "What of the situation in Thrace? Constantinople?"
"Good news," Helena said, lip curling at the sight of the young couple moving in unison. "The comes Alexandros has retaken the city and the Persians are in flight across the strait. We observed Khazar horsemen crossing the Propontis on ferry barges. Groups of riders-perhaps the Persians, or their mercenaries-are scattering east into Anatolia."
Galen drew a relieved breath. Something… something positive in this wreckage. But what does this sorcerer want in Egypt? For the first time, the Emperor felt himself lost, groping in darkness for some fragile light of truth. He knew why Shahr-Baraz would desire Egypt-taxes, wealth, abundant grain and denying Rome these same things-but the same could be said for Constantinople and the rich fields of Thrace. But a sorcerer? Why abandon one prize and strike at the other? Tantalizing fragments taunted him, but he could not make them gel into a reasoned whole. He shook his head angrily.
"Very well, we will send the fleet-now regrouped at Ostiaport and reinforced with our squadrons from Hispania and Britannia-to Constantinople in all haste. Whatever thaumaturges can be spared are to be aboard, with these mirrored bowls Maxian spoke of-we may need immediate speech with their admiral! Let them take Alexandros' army aboard and straightaway to Egypt. Together, Alexandros and Aurelian can crush these Persians before the walls of Alexandria."
Helena had begun to write, but now she stopped, staring at her husband. "And Maxian? You'll be sending him, won't you?"
The Emperor stared through the pillars again, stricken with gut-wrenching despair. He started to speak, then stopped. Helena waited, stylus tapping impatiently on the edge of the tablet.
"He must go," Helena said, when she could keep her peace no longer. "If the Perisan monster is striving against Aurelian, he will not be able to hold Egypt! Maxian will have to go, if we hope to hold Alexandria and the delta."
Still the Emperor said nothing. In the dining hall, men raised their cups in a toast to the young couple and the prince's face glowed with delight. Galen remembered times now lost, when they were all children, brawling in the kitchen, running in the grassy fields above Narbo, Aurelian daring Maxian to cross the aqueduct vaulting the swift-flowing Atax. His mother silhouetted in the doorway of their room, watching the boys sleeping by firelight. Does it come to this? he thought, mournful again. A young man sent out to war on his wedding night? What about my promise?
"Husband?"
A thought occurred to him, whispered by some unseen messenger and Galen let relief hiss out in a long breath. "No, not yet. Iron Pegasus can carry him to Egypt in the space of a week. The fleet will take…" He paused, calculating distances and time. "…two weeks to gather and reach Constantinople. Another five days to load Alexandros' army aboard, then a week to reach Alexandria." A very faint smile creased his lips and he felt lighter, relieved. "Time enough for him to enjoy a taste of marriage, I think. We will wait until Alexandros is in position, then send him forth. By then, his flight of iron drakes may be hatched and ready to wing-that will give Persia pause, I think!"
He looked back to his wife and saw she had gone deathly still.
"What is it?" Galen was afraid to ask, but felt compelled. Tears sparkled at the corner of Helena's eyes, creeping through kohl already smudged by her nighttime ride. Swallowing, she wiped them away, leaving trailing black streaks on her cheeks.
"I always loved that big horse," she said in a choked voice. "It's not right."
The Emperor nodded, understanding her reaction all too well. There was a tight constriction around his heart. "He's a soldier, Helena. Always has been, always will be. Aurelian will understand."
"Will Famia? What about his boys? They're so worried already…"
Galen could think of nothing to say. What came to pass, would come to pass.
Waves hissed against across empty sand, foam glittering in faint moonlight. Luna, a thin sliver, rose over the mountains in the east, shedding barely enough light to
challenge the jewel-bright stars. Maxian, his toga and tunic a pale flare of white against the dark shore, splashed into the surf. The water rushing past his ankles was still warm from the day's heat.
"Where are we going?" Martina said sleepily, arms curled around his neck, tousled head nestled against his chest. The Empress' elaborate gown was rumpled and sweat-stained from a long night of dancing, feasting and drinking. Maxian waded deeper into the bay, bare feet sinking into heavy, soft sand. Waves lapped around him, rising to his waist. Foam touched Martina's bare feet and she squeaked in surprise. "That's wet! Where are…"
Maxian raised his chin, pointing, and the Empress turned, eyes widening in surprise.
A boat rode at anchor, not more than a dozen yards away. Long-prowed, with gilded figureheads of rampant gods at fore and aft and shallow sides chased with gold. An awning of muslin suspended from wooden arches sheltered the deck, barely visible in the moonlight.
"Oh," Martina said, then she hissed as the warm water rose up around her. Maxian smiled in the darkness, feeling her cling tight to him. "Are there sharks?" she whispered, still half-asleep.
"Not in this cove," he said. "A barrier net closes the entrance and nothing enters that might spoil an Empress' wedding night."
"That's comfort-eek! That's cold!" Maxian waded to a ladder hanging from the rear deck, water swirling around his chest. Martina, her head still above the waves, was completely immersed.
"Hold tight now," he said, letting her legs fall free in the water. Her grip tightened on his neck like a vise. With his free hand Maxian grasped the rope, setting one bare foot to the lowest rung of the ladder. Then he swung himself and Martina out of the water in a smooth motion onto the deck. Water sluiced from their sodden clothes, spilling away on polished teak planks. In the moonlight, a very pale, indistinct radiance touched the awning ropes, the railings, even the piled cushions and quilts on the deck. The deck rolled softly under their feet, the motion barely noticeable, yet giving the impression of yielding, infinite depth.
"I'm freezing," Martina said in the darkness. The heavy, saturated wool of her gown sent streams of water spilling down her legs. Maxian let his own garment fall to the deck. "Why is it so dark?"
"Here," Maxian said. "Let me show you." He drew her close, hands peeling the sodden gown away. The Empress shuddered, then let out a gasp as he caressed the skin of her shoulders, her upper arms. Warmth spilled from his touch. His palms slid over the curve of her breasts, her round stomach, her flanks. The gown fell away and then she was dry. Martina pressed herself against the prince, finding his smooth chest bare under her fingertips.
"You're so warm," she breathed, her body conforming greedily to his. She turned up her face, lips parted. Maxian smiled down and above his head, the tracery of wires suspending the translucent awning began to wink to life, fluttering with pale blue, yellow and carnelian. Unnoticed by the Empress, the ship had begun to move, the ladder lifted from the sea by invisible hands. Now the tiller shifted and the sea hissed past under the prow. In darkness, the ghost-barque turned to the cove's entrance, passing between towering black pinnacles. Ahead, the open sea waited.
"Are… are they the fey?" Martina turned, feeling delightfully smooth skin sliding against her back, the Prince's arm curled between her breasts, his fingers against the side of her neck. Looking forward, she saw pale lights trace the length of the ship, throwing a soft, intimate light over couches, bedding, silken pillows. "It's so beautiful…"
"All of this," the prince whispered, his breath hot on her neck, "is for you."
Jewels blazed in the awning and the deck shone like molten gold. A comfortable, encompassing warmth folded around her, made all the more delicious by the sea's cool grasp, so recently released. Maxian picked her up, then settled among the cushions, deep quilts yielding to his knees. Laughing softly, he dropped Martina to the deck, then smiled as she bounced-startled-on the deep pile.
"Ah, this feels wonderful…" She stretched, luxuriating in the glassy sensation of Chin silk. "You are very… ah!.. naughty!" Maxian slid his knees inside hers, parting her legs. Martina's eyes grew large in the dim light, seeing him bend over her. Long, dark hair trailed on either side of his face, spilling across her white breasts. Seeing him in this glamour, Martina realized how beautiful he had become, his face lean with high cheekbones, his body trim and muscled like an acrobat, long, powerful legs illuminated by the subtle light.
He bent to kiss her, but she suddenly stiffened, turning away.
"What is wrong?" he said softly, moving to look at her face. She was biting her lip, eyes squeezed shut. "Martina?"
"Don't look at me," she hissed, tears pearling from her eyes. "Please make the lights go out."
Maxian sat up, head tilted to one side, sun-browned hands on her waist. "You don't like the lights?"
"They are very nice," she said tightly, curling away from him, drawing her legs up to her stomach. "Please put them out."
"Why? I want to see you…"
"Don't!" The Empress compressed herself to a tight ball, hiding her face in her arms. "You don't want to see me-I'm fat and round-not beautiful like you and your family. Please, make it dark again."
"Oh." Maxian knelt beside her, trying to stroke her hair. Martina flinched away. "You're not happy with your body?"
"No!" The Empress raised her head, tears streaming through caked kohl. "Are you stupid? I'm short and round and I have a fat stomach-not like cold Helena, who is so perfect and slim and elegant! Or even Anastasia, though she's nice to me at least, but she's got so much beautiful hair, and striking eyes and her breasts don't point down because she hasn't had any babies and she can wear fashionable clothes and if I try them they look horrible or cheap and everyone laughs behind their hands when they think I'm not looking!"
She punched him, tears streaming freely. He barely felt the blow against the hard, flat muscle of his chest. Maxian caught the fist, then spread her fingers against his breast. "Shhh…" he whispered. "Hush. I've gift, a groom's gift-and not scissors or a paring knife-for a bride on her wedding night. Let me take these cares away…" Again, he bent to kiss her, but Martina buried her face in the pleated quilts, sobbing.
Maxian drew back, letting her lie shuddering in exhaustion. A troubled look crossed his face, followed by an attitude of listening, then a slow, broad smile. He nodded thanks to the air, then settled his hands on the crown of Martina's head.
"Don't touch me!" she hissed, trying to strike his hands away.
"Shhh…" he said, closing his eyes. "Behold."
Martina started to struggle, but a warm, liquid glow spilled from his hands and her eyes rolled up. Mouth parted in a soft aaah, her back arched as she stiffened, caught in the glamour. Sweat beaded on bare skin and her fingers dug into the quilts. Slowly, with infinite care, Maxian drew his hands through her hair, which thickened, grew, spilling into soft, chestnut waves. Spreading her tresses across the pillows he lay alongside her, hands firm upon her face and neck, cupping her breasts, smoothing the skin of her stomach, circling her thighs, fingers running down to her toes in gentle, irresistible progress. The shimmering glow seeped into skin, rendering her flesh pliable, adding muscle, stealing fat, lengthening bone.
As he worked, face shining with soft, rippling blue white light-like the sea gleaming from a shield or a grotto roof-she moaned and squirmed, unable to speak, transported by his touch. When, at last he was done, he rose to his knees, looking down upon her. A certain expression filled his face, an amalgam of pride, delight and satisfaction. Well done!
Martina lay among the silken sheets, languid eyes barely open, heart-shaped lips parted, glorious dark brown hair spilling to her waist, breasts now high and firm, velvety stomach curving irresistibly to the sweet cradle of her thighs, legs long and tapering. The sight of her struck him in the stomach, a heavy blow of desire.
"Could Pygmalion have done better?" Maxian's eyes sparkled. "Martina?"
"Yes, husband?" The Empress' eyes fluttered open and looked up
on him with joy. Her fear, self-doubt and exhaustion were gone-wiped away by his power. "Where is my bridal bed and bower?"
"Here," he said, standing, silhouetted against the star-filled sky. He raised a hand and the sea foam blazed with deep green light as if the sun rose in the depths, filling the sky with pillars and columns of twisting cold flame. "On a sea of dreams."
The prince knelt between her legs and now Martina accepted his caress with wanton delight, rising to meet him. He gasped at the hot breath of her kiss. Then she cried out, surrendering to him.
The ship bore into the west, glittering spray falling back from a high prow and the ghosts of men kept watch in the rigging, spying the deeps for reefs and hidden rocks. Sails of starlight caught invisible zephyrs, carrying the lovers on, into warm, close darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Desert Beyond Lake Mareotis, Lower Egypt
"There!" Nicholas pointed, eyes shaded against the blazing white sky by his burnoose. "A worked edge."
Sandals crunching in loose pea sand, Thyatis climbed a low dune to stand beside the Latin. Pillars and knobs of crumbling russet-colored stone rose from the desolation, stretching to the horizon in either direction. Beneath the eroded towers, dark red sand moved slowly south, driven by a constant gusty wind. The Roman woman had never seen a more inhospitable place. All signs of life were absent-no short grass, no lichen, no birds-nothing but keening wind and the rattling sound of sand blowing against rock.
Ahead, beyond Nicholas' pointing finger, she saw a larger pinnacle jutting from the wayward dunes, burnished sandstone striated with dark streaks. The lowering sun threw a long shadow to the east, but her eyes found a dissonant angle on the face of the worn, curved rock.
"Not a door," she said, voice muffled by the heavy linen covering her mouth and nose. "But something made by man."
The Dark Lord ooe-4 Page 49