The Dark Lord

'Are you happy?' Gaius asked, returning to his seat. He felt better with the wide desk between the two of them. 'Is this what you wanted?'

'Yes!' Martina stared at him in open astonishment. 'Of course! I hated my old body and now the loathsome fat thing is gone, cast away like a snake's skin, and I am... new!'

She giggled again, taking two gliding, dancing steps to the windows. The garden at the center of the prince's town house was not large, but old Gregorius' gardeners were both dedicated and patient. Cherry and lemon trees shaded a pool filled with delicate golden fish. She put her hands on the window frame, breathing deep of the scented air.

'I cannot wait to see Helena's face,' she said, looking over her shoulder with a mischievous expression. 'She'll wrinkle up like a prune!'

'She will not be pleased, no.' Gaius considered saying more, but held his tongue. Would this transformed creature even care? The old Martina might have... but now? I think not. 'Did you enjoy Capri? The island is very beautiful.'

'Is it?' Martina turned to face him, leaning back against the window. A dreamy, distracted expression filled her face. 'I didn't notice.' She bit her lip, grinning, eyes sparkling with remembered delight. Her hands smoothed pleated fabric down over her stomach. 'We were very busy, you know. But I remember smelling hyacinths and roses and jasmine outside the windows.' She made a slight move. 'I didn't want to leave.'

'Why did you come back?' Gaius rearranged his papers idly.

'Oh, he was troubled by bad dreams.' Martina made a disparaging gesture. 'He had to come back, quick as can be...' A thought came to her, and the Empress' expression brightened. 'He's gone off to bother the Emperor, which means I'm free to entertain myself in the shops.' She gave Gaius Julius a calculating look, then shook her head, making tiny silver beads set among her curls chime softly. 'You'll never do! You're old, and have so much important work to do.'

Gaius Julius could not help but scowl. The Empress' eyes glittered in response, and she clapped her hands together.

'Ah! You are still a little vain, aren't you? Even being so old.' She came closer with little dancing steps. The mischievous twinkle was back in her eyes. Laughter bubbled in her voice. 'Do you want to know a secret?'

'What would that be?' Gaius Julius held his ground, though instinct urged him to back away or run. The Empress took his hand, sliding his long fingers over the rich, luxurious fabric covering her hip. The old Roman's nostrils flared, involuntarily taking in a cloud of soft perfume—a dozen dizzying scents wrapped around a spicy core—and he became very still. Martina pursed her lips, fingers tracing his cheeks, the wrinkles under his eyes, passing over the thinning fringe of hair clinging stubbornly around his ears. She leaned close, resting her forehead against his cheek.

'Haven't you guessed,' she whispered and the sound of her laughter made another cold chill trickle along his spine. 'You've known the prince longer than I! You see what he can do with me, with nothing.' Martina pulled away, holding both of Gaius' hands. A look of triumph wreathed her perfect face, and her eyes glittered with a cold, victorious light.

'The prince will never die,' she said softly. 'Nor will I, or you, or Alexandros, or any of his favorites. Look at me! I will be this way, forever!'

Gaius Julius' jaw clenched and he forced down a choking sensation. His body held no bile to flood the back of his throat, for which he was grateful. 'Yes,' he said after a pause. 'While the prince lives, he may heal all our hurts, tend all our diseases. We will live while he endures.'

'Endures?' Martina made a face, the pink tip of her tongue flashing between snowy teeth. 'We will not endure, we will rejoice in limitless days! We will be free from death, disease, age... every plague and plight of men. Forever.'

The old Roman said nothing, watching her preen and laugh, filled with the prospect of endless joy. The Empress' face glowed with a vast, consuming delight and he felt old, very old. At the same time, he suppressed a shudder of atavistic fear.

Why did our prince fashion a new Alais from the clay of shy Martina?

—|—

Galen, Emperor of the West, protector of the East, ran both hands through lank, dark hair. His usually sharp brown eyes were dull with fatigue. Tiny flames reflected in each pupil and his skin shone a sickly green in the radiance of the telecast. He leaned on a narrow table, staring into the depths of the whirling device, attention wholly upon flickering, shrike-quick visions passing before him.

Two scribeswomen watched by his side, one sketching the revealed scene on papyrus sheets with a hard stick of charcoal, the other scribbling notes as fast as she could.

'There.' Galen coughed, pressing the back of a hand across his lips. He gestured to a pair of thaumaturges sitting beside the telecast, faces tense with effort. 'There beside the road, there is a bivouac... magnify those tents.'

The disk of fire flared, point of view swinging wildly from on high—where the outline of a great city was revealed on a peninsula dappled with shadow and the failing light of the sun—down past towering clouds of smoke, over battlements and ramparts strewn with the dead and wounded, past a sandstone tower blackened by fire and across trampled pastures. Tents swelled in the gleaming disk, and Galen looked down upon cohorts of men sprawled in exhaustion across stubbled fields and farmyards. Cook fires shone against encroaching night, cooks busy filling kettles of grain mash. Then tents appeared, glowing softly by lamplight. Banners stood limp in humid night air, but the Emperor saw a brace of black chargers pawing the earth, eager for grain.

'Yes,' Galen hissed in satisfaction. 'The largest tent, show me inside!'

'My lord! We dare not!' Beside the massive block of stone holding the telecast, one of the thaumaturges guiding the device looked up, long old face white with strain. 'He is nearby.'

Galen looked back to the disc, frowning, then saw the faint outlines of men crouched outside the tent, nearly invisible in the falling twilight. Their long pigtails and flat, sharp cheekbones could still be made out. 'Huns.' The Emperor cursed. 'The sorcerer's bodyguards. Very well, draw back and show me the army camps instead.'

Again, the vision changed, rushing back into the darkening air. A vast array of tents, campfires, wagons, men marching along muddy roads filled his vision. 'Steady there,' Galen said, turning to the clerks at his side. 'Can you make a count of the campfires and tents, while light remains?'

The women nodded, though their faces were puffy with fatigue and dark circles smudged their eyes. 'Yes, Lord and God.'

'Thank you.' He squeezed the gray-haired one's shoulder. 'When does your relief—'

The double doors to the old library swung wide, hinges groaning in protest. Galen looked up, surprised, his heart sinking in anticipation of dreadful news—was there any other kind?—then he breathed a sigh of relief. 'Maxian!' He stepped towards his brother. 'How was Capri?'

'What has happened?' The prince's face was taut with fear as he brushed his brother's welcoming hand aside. Maxian stared into the wavering vision burning inside the ring of the telecast. 'Is this Egypt? Why is it so dark?'

Galen turned, caught short by Maxian's angry demands. 'Yes, this is Egypt,' he said in a measured voice. 'The sun is setting.'

The prince did not look at his brother, all attention focused on pinpoints of light scattered in deep shadow. Sunlight still gleamed on a few spires rising from the smoke-fogged warren of Alexandria. The Nile channels gleamed pewter, beginning to catch starlight in their waters.

'Show me Caesar Aurelian,' Maxian commanded, raising a hand. A faint sound, like a ringing bell, hung in the air. The two thaumaturges yelped in alarm, starting wild-eyed from their couches. The disk blazed blue-white, flooding the room, forcing Galen to turn his head, gritting his teeth in pain. Both of the scribes cried out in surprise.

The Emperor blinked, then opened his eyes to a suddenly darkened room. He whistled in surprise. The telecast looked upon Aurelian, his red beard tangled and shining with sweat, mouth moving soundlessly. The stocky prince was in a tent hung with lamps, new wrinkles around his eyes, hands moving in sharp gestures. A crowd of Roman officers stood around a campaign table littered with maps. Aurelian turned, fist clenched, his face blazing with purpose.

'He lives,' Maxian said, relief plain in his voice. He brushed sweat from his brow.