"I think not," she said with a sharp tone in her voice. "You're killing yourself with work and worry. You've not even been out of the palace to ride, or hunt, or walk among the people in the Forum in weeks. Now, the Duchess, who has been our dear friend, is near dead herself of grief. Both of you drive me to tears! Do you say daughters of hers, adopted daughters, I assume, were killed in the eruption?"
"Yes," Galen growled from under a pillow. "Let us sleep!"
"No," she said, snatching the pillow away and flinging it across the room. "I would like to hear about this business now." She sat up, shift falling from one white shoulder. Though she constantly reminded Galen to go outside, to see the sun, to walk in the wind and rain, to find some exercise and play, she rarely did any such thing herself. Indeed, among her peers in the nobility of the city, her naturally pale skin and lustrous hair were a source of envy.
Galen scowled and rummaged around in the sheets for another pillow. She clouted him across the side of the head with hers. It was heavy with goose down and made a satisfying thump.
"Ow! You are in a mood. I thought you wanted me to get more sleep."
"You can sleep later," she said, "when I'm satisfied."
"Oh," he said, grabbing for her leg and catching her by the ankle. "I thought you wanted to talk!" Grinning, he began dragging her towards him. Helena squealed in fury and hit him with the pillow again, hard. Galen rolled over, laughing.
"You're impossible," she spit at him, brushing hair out of her eyes. "Tell me what happened."
"All right." Galen sat up, his brief laughter gone. Helena, who had been about to ask a pointed question, stopped, for her husband's face was suddenly very old. For the first time in weeks, she saw the full, crushing burden he carried reflected in his eyes. She had a momentary feeling that a door, long held closed, was suddenly open.
"Oh, my love…" She crawled to him and took his head in her hands. "You've the same look in your eyes as she does." Helena kissed his forehead, then their lips met and he was holding her very tight. Salt stung her eyes and she blinked his tears away. Her Emperor was on the verge of crying and she cradled his head in her arms.
"Tell me," she said softly, her lips brushing his ear.
– |Some time later, when he had finished, Helena held him close, rocking back and forth. He still refused to cry, but her own face was wet with salt.
"Our dear friend sent men to kill your little brother?" It seemed impossible, even insane.
"Yes." Galen's voice was a faint shadow of its usual commanding baritone.
"And, they all died when the mountain exploded?"
"Yes."
Helena sat quietly for a time after that, thinking. Galen drowsed in her arms. The moon rose, cutting a pale, white shadow on the floor of the room. In the flavorless light the patterns of mosaics and tiles turned strange and unrecognizable. Then the moon passed the angle where it could shine in the window and everything became dark again.
"Little Maxian," she said at last. "He truly had these powers, he could raise the dead, heal all hurts?"
"Yes," Galen said, voice filled with sleep. Much of the brittle tension which had marked him of late has gone. "He commanded powerful servants and forbidden powers. Or so the Duchess said."
Helena's forehead furrowed in thought. Her lips pursed for a moment, then she smoothed back her husband's lank, dark hair. "Love, your brother had a machine that flew?" The thought of it filled her with terrible envy.
"Yes, so the Duchess' servants reported. Something surely carried him to my camp on the shores of the Mare Caspium with unmatched speed, then back again."
"Ah-huh. Do you think he still lives?"
"No." Galen's voice was filled with heavy grief. He was not the kind of man to part easily from his brothers, for their bond had been very strong. Other emperors, as Helena well knew from the histories, had been quick to hate and fear their siblings, to murder them with the noose, with poison, with a suffocating pillow. Galen enjoyed the most precious gift any emperor had ever held in his hand-the love and trust of his family. "He is dead. There… there was a moment, as Aurelian, the Duchess and I stood in Phillip the Arab's dining chamber. I saw him, the piglet, he was covered with blood, a blade in his chest. I saw fire and flame and he was dying, dark blood bubbling from his mouth. His eyes were filled with fury. Then I saw the life go out of them, and the vision was gone. He is surely dead."
Helena sighed and kissed his forehead, feeling the heat of his body on hers. He seemed very old and tired, exhausted by the long struggle. To know this; then to hear, day after day, the count of the dead from the south. Messengers came each morning, bearing reports from the tribunes and consuls who had charge of the relief effort. Mass graves lined the roads into Baiae and Misenum. Thousands of slaves worked, bent over shovels and hoes, burying the dead. The cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum had become tombs of their own, buried by the smoking black rock that flowed down from Hades-cursed Vesuvius. Galen must feel the grief of every family that had lost a son, a daughter, a father, as his own loss.
"There is no body, my love. Perhaps it is impossible to think of, but I know you would have contrived escape from this thing-with these powers, with a machine that flies, you would have escaped. Could your brother do less?"
"Don't say such things… our little piglet is dead, by my hand. I will not think of it."
"By your hand?" Helena's voice rose, her fingernails digging into his shoulder. "You did not put the knife into his breast-that was Anastasia's doing. That was business of the state, not you."
Galen turned to her, his eyes fierce. "I am the state. Must needs he die, then I am the one with the sword in my hand. I accept my responsibility-do not try to sway me with your words."
Helena flinched away, feeling the coldness of his rebuke. It was painful and it reminded her she had once sworn to never meddle in these affairs, to keep to her books, her poetry, her letters. It was sin enough in the eyes of many patricians she was accounted an able playwright. There are two rooms in our house, the state and the family, she thought. Now I have stepped into his room, uninvited.
She wished she had stayed in Catania, at the summer villa. Then all of this would be far away and out of her control. She wouldn't even be worrying about it, save to lament over the tragedies reported to her in letters. The words on her lips would not issue forth, cutting at her own love of his family like a shearing knife.
"Husband, please! If Maxian lives, then he is your dreadful enemy now. He will know who sent those men against him. You must take all care and seek him out, find him. You must protect yourself. Set hounds upon his trail."
Galen raised a hand, his eyes flashing with disgust. "I have said, wife, that I will not employ the Duchess again!"
"But-"
A sharp rapping at the door interrupted them both. Galen cursed luridly and swung out the bed. He was naked, but he scooped up the semicircular toga from a chair where he had thrown it and cast it about his shoulders.
"Yes," he barked, approaching the door. "What is it?"
"A message, my lord." The voice was that of one of the guardsmen who sat outside the doors of the apartments during the night. Galen halted, suddenly suspicious. "It has come in great haste by dispatch rider from Portus, sir, with the seal of the Alexandrine prefect."
Galen put his hand on the door, given pause by the odd tone in the man's voice.
If there are assassins without, he thought, then there is little reason to make me open the door. They could break it down, having overcome my guards.
The panel swung wide under his hand and the guardsman, a very young German with a stubbly reddish beard and two braids on either side of his face, bowed deeply. The message packet was thrust into his hands. Galen smiled, seeing the embarrassment on the boy's face.
"You've done well, Rufus. Resume your station."
Galen shut the door, wondering what had driven the prefect-an able man whom he had put in place only last year-to send such an urgent message. He thumbed
open the packet, breaking a double wax seal. There was a single sheet of fine-quality papyrus inside, covered with slanted writing. Galen squinted at it. The light was very poor.
"Here," said Helena, holding up one of the candles. She had drawn a cloak around herself and the candle hissed and spit, but it illuminated the message. "What does it say?"
"The usual blather about praising me, my divine rule, my genius… then, 'Word has come from Tyre on the Phoenician coast of a great disaster that has befallen the Eastern Prince Theodore, blessed be his name,' and so on… Here it is, some details: 'The various and diverse states of the Decapolis have risen in revolt, claiming tyranny and misplaced faith between Emperor Heraclius and themselves. By this means a great army has come out of the desert, laying low Theodore and his many men. This army, unchecked by the gods or Roman arms, now advances upon Tyre and Damascus.' Then he says he fears that Egypt may be next. He begs me that men and ships be sent to reinforce him."
Galen turned the paper over, his face grim, but there was nothing on the back.
"What will you do? Will Heraclius ask for your aid?"
The Emperor ran a hand through his hair, momentarily brushing the lank bangs out of his eyes. "He may not ask… he stripped the cities of the Decapolis of men to fight the southern Persian army the year before last. Most of them were reported scattered or slain at Emesa. I wonder…"
Galen's face, which had reverted to its usual grim mask while he considered this news, suddenly brightened and something like a smile came upon it for the first time in months.
"By the blessed gods, we can see what transpires in the East. If Hermes, god of messengers, wills it, we may even have converse with my brother emperor concerning this matter."
"Are you mad?" Helena watched in surprise as Galen pulled his tunic, still stained with sweat from the long day, over his head. "How will you accomplish that? It's impossible."
"Not at all, my love." Galen grinned, his teeth white in the candlelight. For an instant, he looked like nothing so much as a mischievous boy with a terribly huge secret. "There's something I've not shown you yet. Come, put on your slippers."
– |The telecast flickered and hissed, bronze rings humming with power. An acolyte of the temple of Mars Ultor, his face tense with effort, knelt beside the granite block, his whole concentration focused on the slowly spinning discs before him. Green fire licked along the edges of the rune-carved metal bands. Now they rose into the air, whirling ever faster. The light grew, flooding across the ceiling and the walls like the rising sun.
Helena hid behind her husband, her eyes wide, watching with fearful anticipation as the buzzing, whirling contraption formed a globe of flickering bronze above the ancient slab.
"This one was found in Spain, buried under an old temple near the Pillars of Hercules. Eventually it came here, part of some lot of odds and ends. Aurelian found it in the market and bought it for a minor sum. You know him, he loves every kind of machine and gadget-he drafted some of the thaumaturges from the Imperial academy to figure it out."
The rising, shrill whine suddenly stopped and a swirling, milky globe of blue and brown and green swam in the air before them. Helena's eyes widened even more and her fingers dug into her husband's shoulder, cutting into the fine linen of his toga.
"That's…"
"Yes," he said, laughing. There was a great feeling of relief in his chest, seeing that something in this cold, gray world yielded to his will. "It is glorious, isn't it? Lad, show us Constantinople and the matching sphere."
"There is another?" Helena tried to keep surprise from her voice but failed. This was far more than she expected. How could she relate this? Who could she tell? No one, I warrant, she thought in disgust. State secrets! Ah, but what a fine story in one of my letters it would make!
"Yes…" Galen's attention was diverted by the fluctuation of the sphere. The glassy blue-white world disappeared, flickering, and then there was a face hanging in the air. A young woman with tousled brown hair and enormous eyes stared out at them, her face frozen with surprise. A gloomy, dark room loomed behind her, interrupted only by the face of an overweight young man in one corner of the scene.
"Empress Martina?" Galen was startled, his voice rising in surprise. "What are you doing at the telecast?"
The girl in the sphere gulped, staring out at them. "Emperor Galen? I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to look upon you! Alexos, you fat cow, you've bothered the Western Emperor! I'm sure that some suitably fitting punishment can be contrived-"
"My lady," interjected Galen, stepping towards the sphere before he stopped himself. It wasn't as if he could reach through the buzzing globe of witch light to touch her. "Please, I've just had word of Prince Theodore's defeat in the desert-I had hoped to speak with my brother emperor about the matter. Is he nearby?"
Martina's face passed through surprise, shock and then resigned fear. "Lord Galen, I've heard nothing from Theodore for weeks, but my husband is not nearby. I fear… I fear he will not speak with you, nor with anyone at the moment."
Helena jabbed her husband in the back, then whispered urgently in his ear. He raised a hand and nodded, acknowledging her.
"Martina, have you heard, in the palace, in Constantinople, that Theodore's army in the Levant has been destroyed? The Prince has been killed?"
The Eastern Empress' face paled, then furious anger burned through the shock and her eyes flashed. "Killed? Not by my eyes! That wretched, horse-loving traitor! I assure you, Lord Galen, that we've heard nothing of any failure on his part here. Oh no, only reports of victory over some towns and estates in the back of beyond! Miserable peasant…"
Galen tried to catch the Greek woman's eyes, but she was shouting at the priest behind her. "Lady Martina! Stop shouting at the boy, you'll disturb his concentration. You say that Theodore is alive?"
"Yes," she said, throwing a slipper at the young priest. "Letters arrived from him this week."
Galen digested this news, then said, "Pray tell me, is Heraclius there? Can you send a messenger for him? It is most urgent."
The Eastern Empress turned back and shook her head. Helena thought that the girl looked like she was going to cry. "I can't! He won't see anyone, even me. He's been terribly sick, Lord Galen, since he left Antioch. He hides in his rooms and won't come out. Everyone is terrified!"
Galen cursed, striking the granite block with the flat of his hand. "Martina, listen. If Theodore has sent no word of his loss, then none of the regional commanders can prepare… these rebels may overwhelm the whole of the Levantine coast, even threatening Antioch or Tarsus, before anyone can stop them. If Heraclius is ill, you must take steps to alert the fleet and all of the garrison commands. Can this be done?"
Martina bit at her hand, swaying a little. "Perhaps! I don't know… no one here will listen to me. I was trying to get things done, but the ministers have banded together against me. I have no power to order the fleet to sea, or anything…"
Helena stepped out from behind her husband, drawing Martina's attention. The girl seemed to take heart from her appearance. Helena leaned close to the whirling, glowing sphere and smiled gently.
"Martina, dear, you mustn't listen to those old men. Can you trust your bodyguards, the… the Faithful Men, the Varangians?"
A smile flickered across the brown-haired girl's face and she nodded. "Yes, Empress! Rufio and the Northmen are still here. They are helping me."
"Good. Write letters to each of the garrison commanders-Rufio will know who they are-and have the Faithful carry them for you, in secret. Do this straightaway! Then, after you've seen the messengers away, tell these logothetes and ministers what you have learned."
Martina nodded, taking a writing tablet out of her cloak. "I will. I will, right away."
The two women's eyes met in the burning radiance of the telecast, and Helena saw the girl smile, taking heart from her. Then the buzzing slowed and the vision passed, the bronze rings rattling slowly down onto the granite block. Helena turned away, feeling
a flush of heat on her face. It felt good, here in the cold room where the device was stored.
Galen was watching her, his thin face marked by a long-familiar half-smile. "It's not enough, then," he said, "to boss one emperor around?"
Helena sniffed and flipped the hood of her cloak up, saying, "Isn't it time for bed?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Temple of Asklepius, Below Pergamon
Tarsus, priest of the temple and initiate of the mysteries of Apollo and his mortal son, Asklepius, drank deep from a curved red cup. Wine spilled at the edge of his mouth and dribbled through his beard. The liquid stained his tunic, but he was past caring. He set the kylix down on the common table.
"…and then he was gone." Tarsus wiped his mouth. "Leaving my cell filled with writhing life and this… girl… behind."
The priest motioned to the still, silent figure of the young woman that stood against the wall of the common room. She breathed, her chest rising and falling. She could hear, for she obeyed commands that were addressed to her. She seemed, to all examination, to be in perfect health. But her rich, dark brown eyes stared straight ahead, acknowledging nothing.
"It is not a living girl," rumbled the eldest of those seated around the table. Demetrios was a veritable bear of a man with a carefully clipped white beard and massive shoulders. "It has no spirit, no ka, to give it life."
The other priests nodded solemnly. This sad matter had occurred many times before in the annals of their order. It was lamentable, but the ancients were clear on what must be done.
"Yes, it must be destroyed before a malign spirit enters the body." Demetrios put aside his own cup, signaling to the others that it was time to discuss hard business. Tarsus nodded as well, though he was loath to give up the sweet grape. His nerves were still frayed. The depth to which his old student had fallen embarrassed and frightened him.
"Tarsus, you did well in this. Had you angered him, or incited his wrath, we might all be dead. From the words you report, there is madness in the boy. He has trespassed into forbidden knowledge and become consumed by it."
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