Khalid spread the papers out. Each sheet was covered with neatly lettered lines of text. "This is the harbor master's tally of ships in port and their condition. The fleet has been here for some time; four months at least, since they offloaded Prince Theodore and his army. Each ship is duly accounted for here. Bless these Romans, for they are fond of their records."
Mohammed made a half-smile. The boy was taking his time, taunting Shadin and the other, older Sahaba with his cunning. He let it pass, for it inspired the other commanders to greater effort.
"How many?" Mohammed let a tone of impatience creep into his voice.
"Two hundred and nineteen, lord. Most are triremes and heavier galleys. Many are those big, round-bellied transports, fitted to take horses, wagons, all manner of supplies."
Mohammed let out a long hiss of breath. He was relieved. He was pleased. A spear had placed itself in his hand, as the voice had foretold.
The Great and Merciful Lord will provide came a voice in his mind, speaking from the clear air. See what bounty I have laid before you?
"God is great," he said, smiling upon the faithful who had followed him into this place. "Prepare the fleet to sail. Time is short, though luck has favored us."
– |The great gate on the road to Aelia Capitolina closed at last, as the final wagons rolled into the city. The last wagon was shrouded in dark cloth, drawn by fine black horses. In the gloom, even with the light of the torches at the gate to illuminate it, it seemed ethereal and indistinct.
The Persian, Patik, rode on the driver's board, his hands resting easy on the reins. The horses knew his will and went quietly, their heads low, their hooves ringing on the flagstones of the street. The mercenary was always gentle with them and showed long experience with all kinds of horses and riding animals. In the wagon a casket of wood and gold rode easily on a bower of pine boughs. The crushed needles sent up a sharp scent that masked the fetid smell of long-dead flesh. Patik did not notice the stench. He was oblivious to many inconsequential things.
He flipped the reins and the horses turned down one of the avenues that bisected the city. Moonlight followed the wagon but did not disturb its occupant.
The dead Queen entered the city, victorious.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Baths of Trajan, Roma Mater
Alexandros walked quickly along a colonnaded hallway, passing gardens on his right. After a moment, he heard the chuckling sound of water falling. A fifty-foot-wide vault opened to his left. Fat-bellied pillars of red granite marked a set of wide, shallow steps leading up into the nymphaeum. The Macedonian turned and strode up into a room in the shape of a half-circle. As he did so, the temperature cooled noticeably.
Gaius Julius was sitting on the far side of the room, in a pool of sunlight slanting down through the half-dome overhead. The opening faced the south, allowing the sun to shine directly into the nymphaeum without exposing the room to the blustery elements. Behind the old Roman was a platform lined with statues of the gods, the fathers of the city and notable emperors.
At the center of the rear wall, flanked by heavy figures of Apollo and Zeus, was a three-story-high fountain. Water spilled from ranks of maeneads and porpoises at the top, falling in a hazy spray over tritons and naiads writhing around the central figure of Poseidon. The passage of so much water, over so many years, had left a thick crust of salt-white rime on the outer figures. Most of Poseidon's face had been worn away.
Alexandros laughed aloud as he approached Gaius Julius. The old Roman was sitting, his papers and books and correspondence spread out on a marble table in front of him, busily writing letters, his quill making a swift scratching sound on parchment. "You delight to tempt the fates, old man."
Gaius looked up, raising an eyebrow. Behind him, standing in the shadow of the nearest alcove, was a fifteen-foot-high statue of his living self. The artist must have been Greek, for the statue captured the visage and spirit of the old man perfectly.
"No one has noticed yet, my friend. I do not think that they will. Who would expect that the living would have traffic with the dead in the baths?"
Alexandros swung his leg over the corner of the table and sat, pushing aside some tally sheets. "Anyone with eyes… that is a very good likeness. Was it made when you were alive?"
Gaius Julius returned his attention to the letter he was writing.
"No," he said absently, "I understand it was made at the order of my dear son Octavian for funeral games he held in my name. It stood in the rostra of the Forum for a long time, but they moved it in here when these baths were built."
"Odd," Alexandros said, looking from face to face. "It is very good."
"I'm sure they used a death mask," Gaius said, inking his name to the bottom of the document. He blew on it gently, waiting until the ink dried. "Such things are often done, long after the fact." The old Roman looked up, smiling in memory. "Funeral games are usually given when convenient. I celebrated my father's… what, twenty years after he went into the cold ground? I think that is right. In any case, I had more hair when I was alive."
Alexandros laughed in delight, his voice booming harshly. The old Roman's vanity was undiminished by time. "I'm sure. Have you spoken with any of the Goths staying at the house of our benefactor?"
Gaius shook his head as he blotted the letter and then shook sand away. "No, have you?"
"Yes, I was just sparring with one of the younger ones. Ox-strong, nimble, completely lacking in subtlety. Your man was right to say that he could be found here today. They seem uneasy with their Imperial arrangements, or so this one says. Is there any truth to that?"
"I have no idea," said Gaius, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment out of a stack at his side. He began writing, still listening to Alexandros, in a strong, even hand. His letters were well formed and plain, without any flourishes or ornamentation. Alexandros cocked his head to one side, watching the older man write. Even upside down it was easy to read.
"You're in charge of the relief effort in… Nola? I thought you were avoiding Imperial service like the plague!"
Gaius stopped writing, put down his pen and looked up, frowning. "Do you usually read other people's letters? Isn't that rather rude?"
Alexandros shrugged, half-smiling. "I suppose. Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"In charge of the relief effort for Nola? Where is Nola?"
Gaius Julius sighed and pinched the bridge of his rather noble nose. "The strain on the Imperial resources," he said begrudgingly, "has grown sufficiently great that the Emperor has begun to sublet certain activities to certain senators. As it happens, the repair and reconstruction of bridges along the Via Appia-many of which were shaken down by the earthquake, or destroyed by falling meteors-are of utmost importance. It was entrusted to the esteemed and very reliable Gregorius, seeing as how he is a close, personal friend of the Emperor."
"I see," said Alexandros in a dry voice. "And Gregorius, who is hip deep in trying to arrange for sufficient food and water to reach the dispossessed in Campania, turned this other, simple matter over to you."
"Indeed," Gaius Julius smiled, "and I, the dutiful client, gladly accepted. Now, consider, my fine Macedonian friend, what must happen if bridges and roads are to be repaired. Why, other contracts must be let out, to skilled craftsmen and masons and engineers. Contracts must be arranged to supply those work crews with food and lodging. Supplies, in great quantity, must be found, purchased, delivered to the work sites-"
"The scope of possible corruption," Alexandros interrupted, "is staggering. How much are you skimming off the top of this? It must be a princely sum."
Gaius Julius raised his hands, palms out, his face perfectly serious. "Alexandros! You wound me. I am not, in fact, skimming anything. In fact, I am taking great care that the subcontractors are worthy men, with good reputations, and that the work, though rushed, is of the highest quality. That is the purpose of this voluminous correspondence! I have spies in every work camp, reporting daily events to me, sniffing for shirking,
corner cutting and substandard materials."
Alexandros stared at Gaius Julius as if he were a gorgon rising from the foaming sea. "What? Have you lost your mind? Didn't we just discuss the necessity of acquiring sufficient funds for our plans? What do you think you are doing?"
Gaius Julius smiled and it was the smile of a very satisfied fox, fresh from the hen coop. "Lad… you were not king of kings long enough! I am taking care this whole project is done swiftly and cheaply for three very serious reasons."
"Which are?" Alexandros was getting impatient. He brushed the wayward lock of hair from his eyes again.
"First, the Via Appia is the main highway from Rome to the great southern port of Brundisium. The Appia is a crucial artery of local commerce throughout southern Italia. The highway is also a military road. I may be a politician but I am also a general, and the day may come when I need this road to be in good repair. Therefore, since I can, I will move heaven and earth to make sure that the work is of the finest quality."
The Macedonian nodded in agreement, though grudgingly.
"Second, this effort is an arrow to fling me into a position where I meet a vast number of men in the city who make things happen very quickly. It provides me with a respectable and visible position. I can enter into negotiations with anyone. I gain friends and influence at all levels of society by the judicious allocation of lucrative contracts. Everywhere I go, I am welcomed."
Alexandros gave the older Roman a disbelieving look.
"It is true, so do not make such a face at me. We cannot conquer Rome by knocking over the Altar of Peace and slaughtering half the population… let me finish!
"Finally, it provides me with a very public and respectable image as a man who can make things happen. An honest and aboveboard gentleman, I may note, who can deliver something very complicated on time and budget… without problems."
"Ahhhh…" Alexandros was smiling and he bowed to the Roman. "Because there is a larger, more complicated, vastly more expensive project waiting in the wings."
"Even so," Gaius Julius said, smirking. "The funeral games. Consider this." He held up a sheaf of parchments filled with notations. "These are the budgets of the road project. Perhaps ten to twelve million sesterces in total. Five or six thousand people working on ninety bridges. The work will be complete in no more than three months."
He reached over to another pile of papers and pulled a much thicker sheaf from the bottom. The rest of the tower of papers threatened to topple over, but Alexandros saved and stacked the pile neatly. Gaius Julius spread out the parchments.
"This is the initial plan I have drawn up for what I call the Vesuvian Games. They are modeled on the death celebrations of Augustus, my lamentable heir. He may have been a lying weasel, but he could certainly put on a show… At first guess, I would say they will cost nearly a hundred and fifty million sesterces, take the effort of fifteen thousand people to stage and will last four weeks, after five months of backbreaking effort to prepare. Luckily, there are a large number of performers, gladiators, artists, actors and so on already in the city."
"I see," Alexandros said, "that you have the situation well in hand. There seems to be only one small detail remaining."
Gaius Julius looked a little glum, but a determined glitter shone in his eyes. "Yes… the Emperor must still approve the plan. I am confident, though. He will. He has to."
"Does he? Well, no matter. I'm sure you will be quite entertained."
Alexandros swung his leg off the table. He looked around the huge open space, admiring the wall paintings and the bright colors that outlined the honeycombed recesses in the half-dome of the ceiling. The falling water made the chamber cool and provided a pleasant background noise. Like the main hall of the baths, the nymphaeum was so large that the only other person, an old man reading a scroll, his feet up in the sunlight, was easily out of earshot.
"When these Goths leave the city, in a week or so, I am going with them."
Gaius Julius raised a thin white eyebrow. Since acquiring steady employment and a salary, he had substantially upgraded his appearance. No longer did he affect to be a rustic landowner, fresh from the countryside, but rather an elegantly attired patrician of the city. He spent more time in the barber's than one would expect, for a man with very little hair. "To Gothica? Why?"
"I hear echoes of the Macedon of my father in these men's words. A strong, vigorous nation, half-civilized, still young and filled with energy. They chafe, these Goths. I can feel it… they are a weapon waiting to be forged and quenched. You are well suited here, conniving and planning in the mazes of the city. I need an army. I need a war."
"And in Gothica, you will find it, I am sure." There was a faint echo of regret and sadness in the older man's voice. "We must correspond, then, to see that each knows the other's mind and plans."
"I will write," Alexandros said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He put his hand on Gaius Julius' shoulder and squeezed gently. "I will miss your company."
"Of course," said the old Roman, putting his own hand over the youth's. "It will seem strange without you here."
Alexandros bent down and kissed the bald crown of Gaius' head.
"I will return soon, and we will have our army."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A Hill Above the Plain of Scamander
Spiny brush crashed aside, long, wiry limbs bending. Branches tore at a sleeve of dark cloth and then a young man stepped out of the underbrush, face shining with sweat, pricked and bleeding from thorns. Wind whined in the oaks crowning the hill, rattling their stiff leaves. Climbing the rough slope, through tangled brush and over irregular stones, the air had been hot and stifling. Now, on the summit, in a stiff northern wind, the man was cold. He sat down heavily, exhausted, among tumbled, broken slabs littering the hilltop.
The hills spilled away below him, scattered olive and pine trees amid heaps of stone and thickets of dark gorse and thornberry. In the hazy distance a flat, rich plain spread out towards the sea. The man drew a tattered cloak around his shoulders, slumping down against a tilted stone slab. Warm from the sun, the weathered block shielded him from the wind. Settling among the grass he dozed, the long stems tickling his arms and face.
Slowly, as the sun fell towards the horizon, the slab was cast in shadowy relief, revealing ancient carvings of men and horses and chariots. The man continued to sleep, exhausted, his mind blessedly free from nightmares.
– |Maxian woke with a start, disoriented in the darkness. The slab at his back had turned cold as night advanced. Firelight flickered and gleamed on his face. His stomach growled.
"Are you lost?"
Maxian looked up sharply, away from the fire burning in the bottom of the little hollow. He did not remember starting a fire. The flames cast wavering orange-red light on the trunks of the trees and the shining, serrated leaves of the brush. Strips of mutton roasted over the coals. Thin trails of smoke drifted up, curling towards the dark sky.
The Prince could see a vast drift of stars in the space between the trees. The wind had died, leaving a great silence on the hill. It was very dark beyond the light of the embers. He rubbed his eyes, banishing stinging smoke. Across the fire, sitting easily on the ground, one arm back to support himself, was a boy.
"No." Maxian found his voice, rough and hoarse. "But I could not tell you where I am."
"An honest answer," the boy said, sitting up. He was a clean-limbed youth in a simple woolen tunic. His feet were bare and dark with soil. Light blond hair fell in ringlets behind his head. His face, easily seen in the light of the fire, was well proportioned. "Are you hungry?"
"I am," Maxian said gratefully. "I have not eaten in a long time."
"Here," said the boy, digging in the coals. He drew out something sizzling and rich with a savory smell. It was a thighbone, heavy with roasted flesh, wrapped in bubbling fat. There was a wooden trencher beside the campfire and the boy flipped the meat onto it with a smooth, practiced motion. "It is seemly that this b
e yours, you a guest at my fire."
Maxian nodded gratefully and took the plate. Sizzling-hot fat popped and hissed as it drained away to the ground. The Prince tore at the meat with his teeth, feeling a rush of saliva flood his mouth at the glorious taste. For a time, he thought of nothing but filling his stomach. At last, sated by the rich meat, he laid back against the slab. His hands, thick with grease, he folded on his lap. A state of blissful contentment filled him.
The boy sat quietly for a time, occasionally casting bundles of aromatic leaves and herbs onto the fire. The smoke became a little thicker, carrying a heavy sweet smell.
"Why did you come here, to this place?" the boy said at last, playing with a cut branch. "It has a poor reputation."
Maxian stirred himself from the edge of sleep. For a moment he heard horns blowing and the booming roar of kettle drums. He listened, but the night was silent.
"My feet led me here," said the Prince. "I have been walking for many days. My mind is troubled."
The boy laughed, a musical sound. "This is a troubled place. Perhaps it called you. Tell me, what is your name?"
"I am Maxian Julius Atreus, a Latin and youngest son of Galen the Elder. What is yours, honorable host?"
"I am named Paiawon, son of Leto, but you should call me Pai, for my name sticks in some throats. Do you feel at ease here, lord? The house of Atreus was never welcome in this place-I should think that it would burn your feet to walk on these angry old stones."
Maxian shook his head in confusion.
"Pai, I don't understand… what is this place? Does someone live here? I see only wilderness."
The boy smiled and turned his head, looking out into the close darkness. "Whence comes your clan and house, Lord Maxian? Did they come over the dark sea in black-bellied ships?"
"No…" Maxian frowned at the boy. He was a puzzling creature. "We are old Roman stock, from Tarentum originally. I was born in Narbo in the Narbonensis, in southern Gaul."
"Ah," Paiawon said, idly jabbing at the coals with the leafy end of his cut branch. "Your clothes are in tatters, my lord, your arms and legs cut by thorns. Have you been in the wild long? What are you seeking?"
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