The Dark Lord

'He will win.' Martina's confidence shone in her eyes like sun blazing from a raised shield.

'I pray so,' Gaius said, keeping his own counsel in the matter. He pressed dry lips against the inside of her wrist, drawing a breathy giggle. 'Then you shall have your heart's desire.'

Martina laughed again and sat up on the windowsill, looking out upon the city with greedy eyes. Gaius Julius turned politely away, returning to his desk while the woman began talking softly to herself, white arm raised to indicate this temple or palace on the further hills.

'...there will be a garden, filled with statues of all the great poets...'

The letter lay on his blotter, lacking only a signature. Gaius Julius read it over carefully, then—scowling at the lost effort—set it aside in a pile marked for speedy destruction in fire. He drew a freshly-cut sheet from a waiting stack and settled himself on the curule chair to write.

Dear Alexandros, he began, quill scratching across smooth lambskin, as you have doubtless learned from the Emperor's courier, the Imperial fleet is almost ready to carry you to battle. Do not wait for their white sails, but march your army west by the Via Egnatia to Dyrrachium on the Epirote coast, where ships will be waiting for you...

—|—

Maxian heard singing and gay laughter. Disturbed from meditation, his thoughts rose from a still pool, breaching invisible waters. He sat, legs crossed in the Persian style, at the center of a small room adjoining the bedroom he shared with Martina in the house of Gregorius Auricus. Once, the chamber had held the old senator's desk and bookcases and personal items. Such things had been quietly removed by the servants and Maxian was content with a bare, polished floor and empty walls. A chatter of jays rose in the outer rooms as Martina's maids entered.

She is up to something, whispered a patrician voice in the prince's ear. Listen to her tone, like a wolf speaking sweetly to the lamb!

'Be quiet,' Maxian said, lips barely moving. The sensation of a man—an old, white-haired gentleman with ink-stained fingers—faded. The prince bent a tiny fraction of his will against wood and metal. The door between the two rooms swung closed, bolts sliding into iron hasps with a sharp clunk. 'I need to think.'

The chamber grew dim, the light from the windows fading. Slowly, one by one, faint lights sprang into visibility in the air around the prince. Each varied in color and hue and speed, a restless cloud of sparks swinging around the seated man, each in their own orbit. Many were barely visible, only the faintest drifting streak of light, while others blazed bright, almost a candle flame in the darkness. They cast a wavering, golden glow across Maxian's sharp features.

He closed his eyes, letting thoughts settle, letting his mind grow calm and clear, his hands at rest upon muscular thighs, palms open.

I need more strength, he thought, considering his enemy. The Oath is weak in Egypt. The Dark Queen will not be at my side. My enemy has gained allies, while I have none.

Impressions of the Persian sorcerer unfolded in his memory, coming to life for his inner eye. Again, he relived the battle in the streets of Constantinople and his fear was far away, confined and controlled. Maxian watched carefully, gauging the strength of his opponent. This time he paid close attention to the jackal-headed man, watching the creature crawl from shattered icy stone, iron mask smoking dull-red with heat. When the opponents parted, each retiring undefeated, Maxian let the vision begin again. This time, he focused upon the powers roiling and shuddering in the hidden world, flowing around the prince, the sorcerer, the Dark Queen and the Jackal, like a storm-driven tide.

The Jackal, Maxian thought deliberately, is a slave, held by a noose of power. The creature wields its own power—not inconsiderable!—yet is a pawn, an extension of the Serpent's will.

Intrigued, the prince studied the shining matrices shifting and distorting around the two Persians. Maxian had placed a mark of servitude on a man before—he had even roughly grasped control of Alexandros once, when the need pressed him—but those efforts were crude in comparison to the chains binding the jackal to its inhuman master. Maxian felt fear of his enemies' skill eddy up again, but repressed the emotion.

You are powerful and skilled, the prince thought, holding an image of the Persian in his thoughts, yet so am I. You are ancient and steeped in lost knowledge, but I learn swiftly. Perhaps... Maxian shook his head, wishing yet again he'd kept his temper and the Nabatean wizard Abdmachus were still alive to guide him. I miss the old fool, he thought ruefully. I need his skills—hard-won through years of effort—I've no time to spend in diligent study to gain them...

A thought occurred to the prince and he turned to the glowing air spinning around him.

'Columella!' Maxian commanded, 'show yourself!'

One spark, brighter than the rest, dipped and dodged among their multitude, speeding to rest before the prince. Maxian moved a finger and the mote blazed with light, swelling rapidly into the half-transparent shape of a man. An old man, with a fine Latin nose, hunched shoulders and thinning white hair. Behind the image, another spark—a sullen green—slowed to a halt, hanging behind the ghostly shoulder, light dimming into near invisibility.

'Old man,' Maxian said curiously, 'you whisper advice in my ear, lend me your knowledge of ancient tongues, watch over me while I sleep. Why?'

Columella's seamed and wrinkled face twisted into a rueful grin, hands raised in a shrug.

I live in you, Maxian heard as a faint whisper, though you murdered me while I sat reading.

Maxian flinched a little, but his brother's acid voice echoed in memory and he knew there was no time for guilt or second thoughts about the past. Only the future remained, clouded by onrushing disaster. 'What did you do in life?'

I was a scholar, the old man answered dreamily. I read, I wrote... I plundered the past for poetry, for stories, for anecdotes to make my patron laugh at dinner parties. Some accounted me an expert in matters of the vine. I never guessed learning the signs of the ancients would prove such a fruitful business!

'You have helped me,' Maxian said, considering the cloud of light spinning around him. 'You have skills I lack... What of these others? What do they know?'

Faint, thready laughter answered him. Columella's ghost shook its head. What do you wish? There are entire cities here, lord prince! Bakers, fishermen, soldiers, prostitutes... who do you think guided your hands, your lips, when you lay with the Empress? They are eager, you know, eager to taste a little life again, through you.

'Are they?' Maxian smiled in amusement, holding up his hands. Swarms of sparks crowded around his fingers, and now he could hear individual voices, pleading, praising, begging for an instant of his attention. He started to feel dizzy, then scowled furiously, closing his hands. 'Enough! There is no time for this.'

The sparks fled from his anger, whirling away in the air. He felt great relief as their voices fell silent. 'Better,' Maxian allowed, turning his attention again to the old scholar. Columella had grown faint in the passing moment, but now his image strengthened, becoming almost solid.

'Are there any among your number,' the prince asked, keeping a firm tone in his voice, 'who know aught of thaumaturgy or the matter of wizards?'

The cloud of light stirred, drifting this way and that, then parted. A feeble spark limped into view, barely a smudge of pearl against the dark air. Maxian focused upon the mote, willing it to spring to fullness before him. Radiance swelled, filling a withered, hunched frame and dull, nearly lifeless eyes.

'Who is this?' Maxian turned to Columella again.

This is Quintus Metelus Pius, the scholar answered. He served in the Legions as a thaumaturge for much of his life. He was retired to Oplontis with his pension, living in a little villa by the sea, with hyacinths in the—

'Enough.' Maxian focused upon the dim spark, willing it to flare with life, with fullness, to show him the old man's face. He sent a thread of power into the failing, weak consciousness. 'Let him speak for himself.'

A flare of dull copper lit the room and the mote rushed into a man's shape. Maxian stared in surprise—