In the dim room, Maxian's eyelids suddenly opened and he shuddered from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. A wild look of rage and delight entered his face. With effort, he rose from the bed. The Prince cast about the room, legs weak. There were only two sleeping couches, an end table and a leather trunk. On the top of the trunk was a wooden tray with a strigil, a shaving razor, some soap and a basin for water.
Maxian crept towards the trunk, hand trembling, and seized the razor. He stood, swaying, and fumbled the bright metal to his neck. His fist clenched, tendons standing out, and the blade cut into his neck with a sharp, sawing motion.
"Here now!" Gaius Julius bustled into the room, then leapt to the Prince's side. His ancient hand, suddenly swift, seized Maxian's wrist. Gaius cried out, alarmed at the terrific strength in the Prince's grip, but managed to jam his own hand between the razor and Maxian's carotid. "Lord Prince! What… are… you doing?"
Maxian's face contorted into a terrible grimace, turning red, veins throbbing in his forehead. The razor bit deep into Gaius Julius' palm. Pale, thin blood bubbled out of the wound, but Gaius, his ancient frame filling with unexpected strength, pressed back, digging the fingers of his other hand into the Prince's wrist. For a moment, the two men swayed back and forth, struggling, and then the old Roman kicked the Prince's leg and Maxian was thrown to the floor.
The razor flew away, clattering off the wall. Gaius Julius tried to jam his elbow into the Prince's neck, pinning him, but the younger man twisted away, sending Gaius flying into the sleeping couch with a bang. The old Roman scrambled up, his toga completely awry, tensed for battle. Maxian stared at him, his face blank. Then the Prince put a hand to his neck and it came away damp with blood. "Gaius? You cut me?"
"No." The old Roman breathed a sigh of relief, seeing Maxian's familiar expression in the younger man's face. "You were trying to cut your own throat."
"I was?" Maxian looked around the small, bare room. "What is this place?"
Gaius Julius laughed. "Some rooms of mine. Do you remember collapsing on the roof of the Flavian?"
"Yes…" The Prince stared at his hands, at the blood, then down at his naked body. "I was in the court of the dreadful king. His eyes struck me… I was destroyed, reduced to atoms." He laughed. "But I am alive. I am still alive!"
"Yes, you are." Gaius stood up. He stretched his arms and legs, bending his back. "Thankfully, you are alive and yourself again. Please, my lord, don't hurt yourself. I'm not sure if my social schedule can afford such a blow! Do you remember anything else?"
Maxian shook his head sharply, then brushed his ear with a hand. "There were many voices, like flies buzzing. I remember… they were trying to tell me something, something important. Ah, it is gone now."
"Good." Gaius Julius looked at the young man sharply, his high forehead wrinkling. "Did it work? Your ritual, your spell?"
Maxian grinned, brushing his long dark hair back out of his eyes. "I'm alive! That's enough for the… moment." The Prince suddenly swayed, his face growing pale. Gaius Julius caught him before he could fall, then eased him down on the couch. Beads of sweat had appeared on Maxian's face. "Gaius…"
"What is it?" The old Roman leaned close, trying to hear the Prince's faint voice.
"There is a great darkness in the East… I can feel it, like a cancer."
"A cancer?" Gaius Julius looked stricken. "In your body?"
"No." Maxian seemed to rally, gathering himself. He sat up, his face a grimace of pain. "There is something attacking the Empire itself. The Oath is not strong enough to hold it back."
"The Oath? You can feel what it feels?" Gaius Julius took a step back, astounded.
"Yes." Maxian gasped, standing, moving as though the air itself resisted him. "We've got to get into the palace. There is a device I need in the library there."
– |"Empress?" A polite knock echoed through the salon where Helena was sitting, writing at an elegant wooden table. At the sound, the murmur of conversation stopped. She looked up, putting down the snow-white quill in her hand on a holder of Cosian marble. A Praetorian centurion stood at the door, his helmet tucked under one arm, its stiff horsetail plume jutting up behind his elbow. The man looked more than usually stoic. Helena smiled brightly at him, catching his eye before it could wander.
"What is it, Salvius? Are you looking for my husband? He's in the Curia Julia, hobnobbing with the senators. He is in a taxing mood today."
"I know, Empress. A message has come from the thaumaturge watching the telecast. It is Empress Martina. There is a problem."
"Very well." Helena rose, smoothing down her cream-colored gown. "I will be there immediately. Return to your post."
The centurion saluted, then disappeared from the doorway. Helena rose, motioning to Anastasia and Thyatis to remain quiet, and went to the door. She looked outside and saw that only the usual guards were at the end of the hallway. She closed the door, then set the latch. Hopefully, no one would barge in unannounced.
"I must go," Helena said, turning back to her guests. "Martina is a dizzy young thing. A problem for her may be of any measure, small or large-the slight offered by one of the logothetes or an invasion of titans. I will be back soon."
Anastasia rose from her chair, dark silk stola rustling like aspen leaves. "I don't understand. Martina is Empress of the East, she is a thousand miles away." One of the Duchess' eyebrows, recently restored to its usual glossy black shape, rose. The weariness that had afflicted her seemed to be gone, banished by Thyatis' recovery and their nominal reconciliation. Helena was not sure how reconciled Thyatis was, but they were on speaking terms at least. The little blond slave Betia rose in tandem with her mistress, like a pale shadow.
Helena nodded, distracted, as she gathered up her papers. News from the East had been worse and worse. Galen was working overtime, trying to adapt to the reported destruction of all four legions he had sent to raise the siege of Constantinople. "There is a device that lets us speak with her, if there is pressing need. Galen calls it a telecast, for it allows sight and sound to be sent far away. Come, if you wish to see it, you may, but we must hurry."
Anastasia and Betia stood, gathering up their palla cloaks. Thyatis stepped away from the wall, limping slightly, her bandages still visible under the tunic she wore. The younger woman's sea-gray eyes flicked from one woman to another, seeing deep concern on the Duchess' face. The Empress' mind was already far away. "Where is this device?"
"In a room off the small library. Quickly now, we will take a hidden passage. It would not do for you to be seen here, not with all these troubles in the streets."
Helena walked quickly, leading them through a series of interconnected rooms, across a hallway, and then up a narrow flight of stairs. At the end of the stairway, she put a heavy bronze key in a complicated-looking lock, turned it twice, then pushed the door open after a solid click was heard.
They stepped into a high-ceilinged room, the clerestory pierced by many arched windows. Small panes of glass filled diamond-shaped spaces in an iron grillwork. The walls of the room were covered with wooden racks pierced with storage slots. Everything had the peculiar musty smell of books and scrolls. At the center of the room, illuminated by slanting bars of late-afternoon light, was a granite block. On the top of the block, wreathed in sparking green fire, something was spinning with enormous speed.
Anastasia blanched, her hand going to her mouth. Helena strode forward, her head high, and gestured imperiously at the thaumaturge to step aside. The fat man was sweating, his face drawn and pale, but he moved aside, letting the Empress look into the burning disk.
Thyatis looked at Anastasia with concern. The Duchess had turned quite white and was only standing with the swift assistance of Betia, who was holding her up by main strength.
"What is it?" Thyatis leaned close, her fist groping at her waist for a sword that was not there. "You're trembling."
"That thing…" Anastasia could barely whisper. Her glorious violet eyes were huge, r
eflecting the dazzling green fire. "It should not be here. They should not use it in this way! O goddess, the danger…"
"What should we do?" Thyatis glanced over her shoulder. Helena was snapping questions at the image of a frightened young woman wavering in the middle of the spinning disk. "I can strike down the thaumaturge-that would break the spell."
"Yes," breathed Anastasia, pulling herself together. Terrible fear was still plain in her face. "We must get the device out of here, right away. No man should be allowed near the inum da'umimtim armirtum nesi! This is forbidden! Can you kill him quickly?"
Thyatis nodded, though she had no weapon save her bare hands. She shifted stance, rolling up on the balls of her feet as if she were floating. Helena had her hands on the granite block, listening intently to the phantasmal woman, her face growing more and more serious. At her side, the red-bearded thaumaturge was sweating heavily, his whole attention turned inward.
The main door to the room suddenly banged open, making everyone jump. The telecast's spin slackened markedly and the vision of Martina disappeared. Helena spun, a sharp word on her lips. She stopped cold and closed her mouth.
Maxian stood in the doorway, an old man holding the door open behind him. The Prince was wearing only a hastily thrown on cloak and a black unbelted tunic. He was barefoot. "Helena?" Maxian sounded surprised, brushing unruly hair back from his forehead. "Sister, what are you doing here?"
"Trying to learn what has happened at Constantinople," snapped the Empress. "Gart, get this thing working again. Now." Her cold tone brooked nothing but obedience.
"Yes, Empress." Gart swallowed, his round face almost as red as his beard. "I will try."
"You will do this thing." Helena's fierce look made the man start in surprise. "If you do not, you will be killed." Gart nodded, then pressed his hands together and closed his eyes, thick lips moving silently as he tried to center himself.
"Let me." Maxian pushed past the thaumaturge, breaking the German's concentration again, the Prince's attention fixed on the slowly spinning bronze disks. The outermost disk, carved with runes and symbols, had already clattered to the granite surface of the block. "I know the necessary pattern. You were looking upon Constantinople?"
"Yes, before you barged in, giving everyone a fright." Helena stepped aside, motioning violently behind her back to the three women at the hidden doorway. "I had no idea you were in the city."
"I was ill." Maxian moved his right hand in a circling pattern. A sharp, metallic taste suffused the air. The bronze disks whipped up into the air, emitting a keening sound. The green fire licked from the edges of each segment as they spun faster and faster. In the blink of an eye, they were a solid blur and the sound had hissed down to a nearly inaudible hum. An image of a blue and white and brown sphere leapt into being, then was swiftly replaced by a rushing vision of clouds and sea, then twilight and a city. A great city. It was burning and covered by swiftly moving darkness.
"Ah!" Maxian shouted in dismay and stepped back. The blood drained from his face. "This is the enemy." He clenched his jaw, his body stiffening. The vision changed again, suddenly focusing on a dark room and the pale, frightened face of a young woman. A boy stood behind her, his face tight with concentration. This time the air did not waver or distort. The image of the Eastern Empress was clear and perfect, as if she were standing only feet away. "Empress Martina?"
"Yes," quavered the girl in the burning disk. "Who are you?"
"I am Caesar Maxian, Prince of the Western Empire. Your city is under attack. Do you know what comes against you?"
"No!" Martina seemed on the edge of complete panic. A little boy, perhaps only two years old, was clutched in her arms. "There was this awful sound, like the earth itself groaning in pain, and the darkness came! I can hear sounds of battle… What can we do?"
"Stand away from the disk," grated Maxian, raising his arm stiffly. There seemed to be a terrible resistance in the air around him, but the stone floor under his feet suddenly splintered and cracked. The edges of the granite block were shedding dust and small flakes in a drifting cloud. The sound began to rise again, hurting Helena's ears.
The Empress had stepped back and now she felt something press against her face, pushing her away from the Prince. She stumbled, unprepared, and felt powerful hands catch her, lift her up and place her in Anastasia's arms. The Duchess clapped a hand over the Empress' mouth and together they slipped back into the dark opening of the hidden door. Betia drew the door almost closed behind them.
Thyatis was frozen by indecision. She was wounded, weaponless, her side and leg still throbbing with pain. The Prince had his back to her, power wicking up into the air around him in a thin shining cloud. His entire concentration was focused on the disk and the young woman on the other side.
"I am coming through," Thyatis heard him say, "stand well back."
Thyatis turned, casting about for a weapon, a quill knife, a candlestick, anything!
She met the eyes of the old man standing just inside the door. They were a keen dark brown, and she recognized him-the editore from the senator's party. There was a strange sense of familiarity, of recognition, but then her anger flooded up. Unconsciously, she snarled, her teeth bared in challenge. He smiled wistfully, then shook his head.
"Don't do it," he said in a soft voice, barely loud enough to carry over the grating hum issuing from the floor, the walls, the air. "You should go. Quickly!"
Thyatis stepped back into the hidden passage, her eyes locked with his, glittering with thwarted rage. Shadow fell over her, though the burning green light of the telecast gleamed in her eyes for a long moment. Then the door swung closed with a soft click.
– |In the room, the sound of the telecast grew to a howling roar and winds began to rise in the confined space, lashing at the books and scrolls, ripping them into the air, swirling in a tight cyclone around the man and the blazing-bright disk. The image of Martina had fled, and Maxian gathered himself, all of the strength and power at his command focused on this one thing.
Like begets like. Like is like. Two identical things are the same thing.
He sprang up onto the edge of the granite block, feeling the stone slough away under his foot, then leapt, leg and arm extended, into the furiously whirling disk, which had expanded enormously, now easily taller than a man.
The air shook with a tremendous boom! Gaius Julius was thrown back against the door, cracking his shoulder against the oaken panel. He turned his head away, blinded by a brilliant light. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he raised a hand, trying to block out the radiance.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Constantinople
A ceramic cup danced on the edge of a low wooden table. Dwyrin struggled awake, his mind dulled by exhaustion. It took him an endless moment to realize that the cup should not be spinning and bouncing from side to side. Then the table itself jumped up with a bang and the cup toppled over, crashing to the floor. The Hibernian, eyes wide, clung to his cot, feeling the entire building dance on its foundations. A long, slow, rumbling crack-crack-crack echoed out of the floor. Then there was silence. Dwyrin blinked. Dust was drifting down from the ceiling. He stared at the vaulted roof, watching in horror as cracks rippled across the plaster. There was a grinding sound.
He rolled out of bed, then jumped to the wall. Plaster cascaded down in a loud boom and threw up a huge cloud of choking white smoke. Coughing, Dwyrin scrambled to find his woolen trousers, pulled them on, grabbed a tunic and then bolted out of the room.
The hallway was filled with confused, frightened men. The Faithful Guard had taken a severe beating in the battle among the tombs, losing nearly half of their number. The survivors were a little jumpy. Dwyrin struggled to pull the tunic over his head, standing in the doorway of the room he shared with Nicholas and Vladimir. The Scandians were shouting, their voices hoarse as bears'. The air was filled with dust, making it difficult to see. Some of the lanterns had been knocked down by the shock. Luckily, they had guttered out
on the tiled floor.
"Dwyrin!" Vladimir appeared out of the murk. His sweeping mane of dark hair was white with plaster dust and he had a cut alongside his nose. "Something is happening. You must come quickly."
"I can feel it." Dwyrin ran after the Walach, who had not waited for him to answer. He could feel something, a terrible heavy pressure in the air. There was something moving in the hidden world, something monstrous. Dwyrin's mouth felt dry and his limbs seemed to weaken, even as he ran, feeling the enormous power that had shaken the earth. Vlad led him out of the wing of the Bucoleon that housed the Guard and up a flight of stairs. The stairs were narrow and old, a tight spiral leading into a tower standing at the end of the palace wall.
Nicholas was waiting, his face drawn and grim, looking to the west. He did not turn when Vladimir, huffing and puffing, reached the platform. Dwyrin climbed up, breathing hard, and leaned with relief on the balustrade. "What is it?"
"There, you can see for yourself." Nicholas had Brunhilde bare in his arms, his fist wrapped around her hilt, the flat of the blade pressed against his shoulder. Faint lights gleamed in her steel body. Dwyrin turned, staring out over the gloomy roofs of the city. Lights burned in many windows, but the city huddled in darkness under a sky filled with racing clouds. Far in the distance, up the long slope of the city, past the towering pillar of Constantine in his great forum, past the looming inner walls, he could see a line of fire running from horizon to horizon, all along the massive bulk of the outer, Theodosian walls.
Dwyrin began to chant under his breath, summoning the focus to enter the hidden world. Then he stopped, for his mortal vision saw something impossible. The sky in the west darkened as if ink spilt into the air. A wave of ebon swept across the sky, racing past the clouds, covering the moon. A great shadow fell over the city, swallowing up the towers, the houses, then the column of Constantine, then lapping over the walls of the Hippodrome.
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