The Dark Lord

this was no old man!—this was a Legion officer in full health...

Quintus struck, ghostly face transformed by rage, will brilliant with desire. A ghostly fist slammed against the prince's face. Maxian staggered, rolling back on the floor, blood flying from a suddenly broken nose. Power flickered in the air, accompanied by a grumbling, low rumble. Maxian's hair stirred, driven by an unseen wind.

Now! screamed thousands of voices. Smash him! Crush him! Set us free!

The legionary leapt forward, fire blazing from his hands. Maxian shouted in fear, fingers leaping into a sign of defense. A glittering, blue-white shield sprang into the air. Quintus struck with both fists, a coruscating dodecahedron pattern crashing into the prince's ward. Angles intersected, clashing violently and Maxian's pattern splintered. Glassy blue-white fragments smoked in the air. The prince struck the wall, feeling bones creak. Quintus swelled in size as countless sparks flooded to him, guttering out in headlong sacrifice. Lightning rippled along the ceiling, burning the stones black with soot. The legionary slashed his hand down, eyes alive with fire, and Maxian staggered, a long, red wound lashed open in his neck and chest. Stabbing pain flooded his mind and the pattern binding self to self began to fray. A chorus of exalted screams rocked the air.

Tasting bitter iron in his mouth, Maxian groped to raise his shield again. A multitude of sparks swarmed around him, each tiny, angry will beating at his consciousness. The prince's face stilled as he concentrated, ignoring the frenzy around him. The Oath was waiting, surging around the room, vast and implacable, the combined will and thought and memory of millions of loyal Romans. Maxian seized hold, letting the black tide roar through him. The room seemed to compress and he looked down from a great height, seeing the entire city spread out below him like a mosaic. He reached down, finger stabbing at a single, shining spark.

Quintus' shape wavered and a vast wailing shrieked in the air. The legionnaire shattered, the frail, weak pattern of his ghost-mind smashed aside by Maxian's unleashed power. There was a flare and the prince felt screaming despair flood into his bones. Half-consciously, he sensed the ghost trying to flee and reached out, seizing the man's guttering, nearly exhausted will in an icy pattern of interlocking diamonds.

'Treachery earns destruction,' Maxian grated, staggering away from the wall. He closed his fist and felt the Legion thaumaturge's will shatter, pinned between irresistible forces. 'But you are not yet discharged from my service.'

His face a cold mask, the prince enveloped the fragments, drinking them into his consciousness. Memories flooded into his thoughts, memories and smells and sensations and skill like a draught of crisp Caucinian taken from a freshly broached amphora. Remorseless, his pride and honor stung by the thaumaturge's ambush, Maxian winnowed out the man's training from the freshet of other memories and emotions. Shields and wards, he saw, patterns and tricks, every kind of subtle skill...

The prince opened his eyes and saw the world through sharper eyes. The ghost of Columella remained, one eye burning green, though the radiant cloud had dimmed tremendously. Maxian felt a little sick, though the exercise of such power no longer wore against him, but elevated his mind.

You should not be surprised, my lord, Columella said, shaking his head sadly. There are many among your attendants who wished you ill. They were young, still in love with life, and they resented such abrupt cessation.

'But you do not?' Maxian strode to the center of the room, translucent armor glittering around him in the hidden world, his power licking along the floor like a burning red sea. The ghost bowed, shaking his head.

As I said before, even this half-life is better than oblivion.

Maxian laughed hoarsely. 'You do not believe in Elysium?'

I see only darkness, my lord.

'Very well,' the prince said, turning his attention to the slowly shifting cloud of sparks. 'My mind is upon you now, little spirits, and you must choose.' Maxian's face drew intent, eyes darkening, an odd, bluish light flickering around him in a gossamer shroud. 'The loyal will remain, the treacherous will find true oblivion waiting for them. I have no time and no patience to coddle you...'

Rippling ultraviolet shaded through the room as the prince bent to his task, face a grim mask. The wailing roared up again, though no human ear could perceive the shrieks and moans of the tortured spirits. Columella turned away, his face against the wall. He could not bear to see such a judgement, though his withered old heart exalted to find another crumb of existence on his plate. The greenish light in his eye dimmed, flickering down to nothing, no more than the faintest spark of hate. Waiting patiently, hidden among the ghostly pattern of the old scholar.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Office of the Harbor Master, Alexandria

'Caesar! Caesar! A ship is entering the port! It's one of ours!'

Aurelian turned away from a high, narrow window, brow furrowed in unease. Why have the dogs stopped barking? Following his usual custom, the prince was wearing the full armor of a common legionnaire, heavy, red hair hanging greasily around his shoulders. The last of his servants had been sent away as medical orderlies, leaving Aurelian to see to his own kit and toilet.

One of the local boys swerved between rows of tables crowded into the big room, brown face slick with moisture. Aurelian held up a hand, making the lad skid to a halt. The prince was uneasy; he had been peering at the sky, which was turning an odd green color with the onset of late afternoon. The street outside the building was empty too, which was strange. Usually a constant, noisy throng trampled every square foot of ground inside the walls, particularly with the city population swollen by men and women fleeing the fighting in the countryside.

'What did you see?'

The boy wiped his face, catching his breath. A light rain was falling outside, presaging the usual grumble of afternoon thunderstorms. Grayish haze lay over the city, discharging a tepid, oily drizzle. As summer advanced in the delta, the weather grew more and more oppressive. Even sunset brought no relief, the city sweltering throughout the night in a bath of its own heat and sweat. Aurelian mopped the base of his neck with a damp rag. He really hated this place.

'A grain hauler, master! Four decks of sails, as tall as the Lighthouse!'

Aurelian squinted through the window at the sky again. 'Which direction?'

'From the west,' the boy answered, flashing a smile. 'A Roman ship!'

'Is it?' Aurelian swallowed, feeling a cloying thickness in his throat. He turned, glowering at the men laboring over the desks. The flight of the civil government from the city had left him with only a few dozen competent clerks, who labored in the headquarters occupying the harbormaster's offices near the junction of the Heptastadion causeway and the city. The vast complex of the Bruchion—the usual governor's residence—was crowded to the rafters with refugees from the delta and upriver.

'Phranes!' One of the clerks turned to face him, leathery old face drawn tight with fatigue. 'Hasn't the grain fleet been rerouted to Africa?'

Phranes nodded. 'Aye, my lord. We're expecting nothing from Rome.'

Aurelian's face twisted into a sour grin at the dry cynicism in the man's voice. Not a single ship had arrived in port for the past eleven days—not so much as a fishing barque or a courier boat. The prince guessed the Roman fleet was being held back—At Syracuse? Or Lepcis Magna?—while the Emperor prepared a counterblow. But relief will not come for another... week. If then.

'Lad, were there flags or banners of any kind?' Aurelian's fingers curled around the pommel of his gladius, a habitual, unthinking action. The heavy weight of metal on his shoulders and chest was comforting.

'Just the usual ones, Caesar.' The boy shrugged, spreading his hands.

Aurelian looked out the window again. The queer copper coloring was spreading through the clouds like ink spilling into a murky pool. His lips tightened. The city had fallen silent.

'Runners!' The prince spun on his heel, sharp voice booming across the quiet room. Scribes and clerks jerked around, staring at him in surprise. 'Phranes—gather everyone up and issue spears, knives, whatever is to hand! Barricade the windows and doors. You boys, get to the wall commanders instantly—the Persians are about to attack. You, my lad, tell the commander of my Praetorians in the atrium they're down to the docks at a run, to keep your grain hauler from landing, or to capture the vessel if naught else.'

Everyone was frozen for a moment, then Aurelian snatched up his helmet and bolted from the room at a