The Dark Lord

'I was deceived,' Rustam said, rousing himself from thought. 'I looked upon their battlements and saw only newly turned earth, freshly raised stone. So similar to that we faced at Pelusium...' His voice trailed off in a weary hiss, razor-edged nails making a clicking sound on the arm of his chair. Rustam's thin face contorted in disgust. 'There must be an older wall or foundation beneath the new construction. Something built by the ancients... deep with strength. These crawling, pus-drinking, shit-eating Egyptians must have known! They have made a new pattern atop the old—the very likeness of a battle ward—but they are keeping well back. I can barely feel them, hiding in the city...' He began to mutter and hiss, voice fading into unintelligible curses.

Shahr-Baraz sighed openly now, turning his attention to the Queen. Slitted blue eyes met his.

'They are clever,' Zenobia said in a husky, exhausted voice. 'We strike and the force of our blow bleeds into the earth. We press and the shield bends. Flame is swallowed, lightning grounded. We can feel them at a distance. They are wary and careful, working only through tokens set in the earth.' The Queen's eyes crinkled slightly in amusement. 'They will not face us in the open field or pit might against might. They are not fools.'

'No, they are cowards!' Rustam straightened, the tip of his black tongue flicking between needle-like teeth. He stared hollowly at the king. 'We must sleep and regain our strength.'

'How long?' Shahr-Baraz knuckled a heavy fist against his chin, meeting the sorcerer's gaze.

'Days, at least.' The prince's expression tightened. 'Dare nothing while we recover!'

Shahr-Baraz raised an eyebrow at the brusque order. 'This shield, does it hold out my men's spears and arrows?'

'No.' Rustam's face contorted into a foul grimace, reminded again of his failure.

'Then we will take the city regardless, if we have sufficient men and time.'

The sorcerer's eyes narrowed reflexively, shoulders hunching up. The king hid a spark of interest at the reaction and he waited, patient as a hunter lying beside a mountain trail.

'We do not have... time or men.' Rustam's eyes flickered with a sullen glow. 'We must press them, before they receive...' His voice changed tone subtly. '...reinforcements. The Emperor is sure to send more men to hold the city—they cannot afford to lose Egypt!'

'Really?' Shahr-Baraz leaned closer, watching the sorcerer with open curiosity. 'Why is that?'

Rustam stiffened again, lip twitching into the beginning of a sneer. 'Don't be a fool—Rome is drunk on foreign grain! You've seen the great ships—there will be riots in the Forum if the bread dole is reduced!'

Shahr-Baraz blinked slowly, like a lion waking from full-bellied sleep. He watched the sorcerer intently, exhaustion forgotten. 'You're speaking of Constantinople,' the king said softly, mouth thinning in well-contained anger. 'Where so many citizens now lie dead, they will not riot for lack of grain or wine. Rome draws her bread and meal from Africa, from Sicily, even from Spain.' He made a sharp, dismissive gesture with his hand. 'The Romans fight for Egypt because it is theirs. They fight to deny us. But the Empire will survive without the province.'

Rustam scowled, glaring at Shahr-Baraz. 'The longer we wait, the stronger they become.'

'Certainly.' The king nodded in agreement, putting both hands on his knees. 'We need more soldiers. We need time to prepare for a proper attack along the entire length of the wall.' His face twisted, but no one could have called the resulting expression a smile. 'Khalid needs time to clear away the barrier at Hierakonpolis. I need those riverboats. And of course, you must recover your strength. You will need every ounce.' The king bared blunt yellow teeth.

The sorcerer eyed him warily, still struggling against bone-deep fatigue. 'I won't be able to just brush aside their barrier,' he rasped. 'And you've not the soldiers to attack the whole length of the wall. Nor are you likely to get them—we're eight hundred miles from Ctesiphon! There are no more soldiers coming, nowhere to levy fresh troops...'

Shahr-Baraz's cold humor did not abate. 'Not so. There are reinforcements in plenty, all around us.'

Rustam blinked, staring at the king in surprise. 'What do you mean?'

'You are tired,' the king replied, waving his servants into the tent. The women entered, eyes downcast. With trembling hands, they set platters of cold meat, hard-crusted way bread and flagons of sour wine on the table. 'Sleep, lord prince and when you wake look about you. You will find allies in plenty, I think.'

At the edge of the tent, Zenobia's eyes flickered open in alarm. She stared at the king, watching him in profile as he drank deep. A sick expression crawled across her fine-boned face, then she closed her eyes with a shudder. She understood his meaning all too well. How low have the lords of Persia fallen? Where is their fabled purity and devotion to Ahura-Madza?

'Allies, here among the enemy?' the sorcerer said in a querulous, weary voice.

Shahr-Baraz nodded again, amused. 'All around. You will see.'

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The House of Gregorius Auricus, Roma Mater

Late afternoon sun slanted across a broad desktop of close-grained wood. The entire surface was covered with neatly arranged piles of parchment, separated by wooden dividers and interspersed with jars of colored ink. Gaius Julius bent over a marble writing surface, quill busy in his hand, while he listened to an elderly Greek reading a dispatch from Gothica.

''...our forces have pursued the Gepids into remote fastnesses where our horse cannot go and our columns are disordered if they advance. Because of this, the enemy continues to resist, though any attacks made by them are repulsed at high cost and with few casualties to our own soldiers.''

The Greek paused, raising a neatly plucked white eyebrow at the back of the old Roman's head. Gaius, continuing to write, nodded impatiently for the man to continue. The secretary sighed, wishing for the days when he served the elderly Gregorius—who did not keep such long hours!—and took a breath to resume his recitation.

The door to the study banged open and a tall, dark-haired woman swept into the room. Gaius Julius looked up in irritation. 'There'd better be—' The old Roman stuttered, caught by complete surprise. 'Kri—' He paused again, gathering his wits, eyes narrowing in recognition. 'My lady Martina, I had no idea you and the prince had returned to the city. Has something happened?'

'No, Master Gaius, not at all.' The Empress Martina glided up to the table and perched herself on the corner, daintily setting aside the papers lying there. She smiled down at the old man, a dazzling display of perfect white teeth and bit her lower lip, dimpling at him.

Gaius Julius set down his quill, careful to keep ink from spilling on the letter, and shook out the sleeves of his toga. Then, watching the Empress from under half-lidded eyes, he bowed graciously. A chill wash of fear and surprise trembled in his arms and legs, but he had faced worse before and he showed nothing of his consternation in face or attitude.

'My lady, you look well,' he said in a very dry voice. 'Marriage must agree with you.'

Martina laughed, a gay, ringing sound, and stretched luxuriously. Firm, full breasts pressed against cream- colored silk and a wavy cascade of dark, auburn hair spilled down her arched back. A slow, hot smile burned in a classic face. She stepped away from the desk. 'Do you think so?'

The Empress raised her arms, turning, letting the heavy silk cling to her thighs and flat stomach as she twirled. Golden bracelets fit snugly on round, white arms and silver rings flashed on slim, tapering fingers. Laughing again, a full merry sound, she came to a halt, faintly flushed.

Gaius remained impassive, watching the woman's face, searching her dark brown eyes with a faint frown.

'You don't like my new look?' Martina pouted. 'I do.'

'The prince's... wedding gift?' Gaius Julius hazarded, driving his tumultuous thoughts to ordered, quiet calm. He stepped around the desk, looking the Empress of the East up and down with a critical eye. Martina preened, enjoying his attention.

She looks like Krista, the old Roman thought, stomach clenching with troubled memories, but... improved. He struggled to suppress his frown, to keep clear disgust from his face. A boy's dream—larger breasts, more perfect features, longer hair, more... everything. Gaius smiled, summoning cheer into his seamed old face. Resentment flickered at the back of his thoughts, but this too he drove away without mercy. The prince favors who he will...