The Dark Lord

and crowned with fragrant blooms.

'Martina, daughter, have you set aside your child's dress?'

Martina smiled back and the Emperor was gladdened to see a spark of happiness in her eyes. The petulant, depressed young woman who had fled the destruction of her city seemed to be a fragment of the past. The Eastern Empress had gained confidence in the passing months. Perhaps this is worth it, then, Galen thought, grasping for some beneficent omen.

'I have, Father,' she answered. 'I have put my toys aside.'

'So,' Galen said, raising his voice so all might hear, 'go forth, as one, and stand fast together the length of your days.' He lowered his hands.

Maxian, grinning like a loon, took Martina in his arms and kissed her soundly. The Empress squeaked, hand clutching the floral wreath, then pressed herself against him. Galen watched, filled with unexpected sadness. His own wedding day seemed very long ago. Then he turned away, leaving the circle of torches. Well-wishers converged on the bride and groom from all sides, laughing and shouting. Gaius Julius was among them, though his eyes followed the Emperor with interest.

'Ho! See the bride, see the groom!' A great shout rose from the men in the crowd and they hoisted Maxian on their shoulders, then Martina as well. Someone began to sing and the whole group congealed into a procession winding around the garden and out into the dining hall. Torches bobbed above the heads of the revelers. Laughing, the young Empress flung her crown of flowers out into a thicket of grasping hands.

—|—

Again, Galen stood in quiet darkness, face shrouded by the folds of his toga, watching men and women dancing in the great hall of the villa. He felt unaccountably cold, though the summer night was close and almost hot. Maxian and Martina had taken three turns on the freshly tiled floor, swirling past his vantage to the lively rattle of drums and the wail of pipes and horns. At the moment, the prince was dancing with a young girl—one of the senatorial daughters, whose head barely reached his waist, her hair bound up with ribbons and posies. Empress Martina sat at the edge of the floor, face flushed, laughing in delight. A heavy golden cup wavered in her hand. Galen tensed, then breathed out in relief as Gaius Julius—sitting beside the Empress—caught the goblet as it tipped.

'Husband?'

Galen turned, startled and pleased. Helena approached, walking quickly down the pillared hall. She was dressed plainly, a heavy scarf around her neck, pulling gloves from her hands. A courier's satchel was slung across her chest, riding under her breast like a suckling child. Two Praetorians hung back behind her, then faded into the shadows when they caught sight of the Emperor. Galen thought they were wearing riding leathers, but couldn't be sure.

'Helena! I thought you weren't coming.' His mood lifted, buoyed by her simple presence.

'There is news,' she said in a clipped, emotionless tone. Galen felt an almost physical shock, seeing her face in the light. More than simple fatigue, or a hard ride up from the port, lit her eyes with such a grim flame. 'From Egypt,' she continued.

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