The Dark Lord

busily devouring a huge section of roasted mutton.

'Eat first,' the old Roman said, guiding Nicholas to a stone bench. 'Then we'll talk.'

—|—

The last tinge of gold faded from the sky as servants moved through the vine-covered arbor, lighting copper lamps from long, smoking tapers. Gaius' guardsmen were outside, sitting with the horses, making sure no wayward travelers disturbed their master's conversation.

'...so the Urbes Brigantium landed at Portus today and we made haste up to the city.' Nicholas stared at the old Roman with a hollow-eyed look. 'How did you know to meet us?'

'There is a messenger relay from the port,' Gaius said, lifting his head slightly to indicate the distant coast. 'The captain of the Brigantium sent a note ahead to the Palatine, which came to my hands from a friend. I left immediately, of course. But you did well to make such a fast passage from Africa.'

'Bad news travels swiftly,' Vladimir said, his head bent. The Walach refused to meet the old Roman's eyes. Nicholas seemed similarly despondent. 'Have you heard anything of our... companions?'

'The traitors, you mean!' Nicholas roused himself, anger glittering in his pale eyes. 'Curse Thyatis, her maid and her mistress! We had the telecast in our very hands and then we had nothing...'

Gaius Julius nodded, his quick mind burning with rage, anger, envy—deftly done, he allowed—and Nicholas' singular hatred of the Duchess' agent loomed large in his thoughts. 'This Thyatis Julia Clodia... describe her more fully.'

'Tall,' Nicholas muttered, his face twisting with mingled distaste and admiration. 'Gray-eyed, strong, quick —very quick—with a blade. A deadly opponent. A whirlwind of steel. I've never seen such a woman before.'

'Because you were not in the City the last year,' Gaius Julius said, feeling an unexpected, jarring rush of emotion, of relief and delight. She is alive! Diana is alive! 'There were a series of games in the arena, and champion of these contests was a woman named 'Diana' who must be—cannot be anyone—but your 'Thyatis.' She is a marvel, indeed.' His voice trailed off, as memories of their too-brief encounters surged up, fresh and sharp as if not a single day had passed between now and then.

'A marvel? More like a harpy!' Nicholas spat on the dusty ground. 'A faithless friend...'

'No so,' Vladimir said, very softly. 'She saved our lives and we hers. There is a debt—'

'There is no debt!' Nicholas' voice rose sharply. 'She betrayed us!'

Gaius turned away from the two men as they fell into a muttered, fierce argument. His disappointment at failing to secure the prince's toy faded, replaced by a strange lightness in his heart. Thyatis Julia Clodia... an odd name. Why would the Clodians name a daughter Julia? We were rarely friends when I was alive. Rivals, yes—sometimes allies if the wind turned from the proper quarter in the Senate—yet not even enemies. Marc Antony now, he kept a Clodian wife for a time... did he have a son by her? Gaius shook his head in amusement. His old head was filled with a marvelous array of useless facts. But things change, even in Rome, with all these centuries passed. The old Roman was pleased to learn his 'Diana' was a daughter of Rome, even if she sprang from such dissolute remnants. Silently, he congratulated the Duchess on her choice of agent. Would I had her in my own quiver, he thought ruefully, watching the two younger men out of the corner of his eye. But these fellows, and others like them, must suffice.

'Come, my friends,' Gaius said, gathering up his hat. 'Do not quarrel. The heat of the day has passed and we've refreshed ourselves. Your news is welcome, for these 'friends' are revealed as our enemies. We may take a more leisurely pace as we return to the city.'

Everyone clattered out of the way station, grooms and guardsmen milling about to bring up the horses. Gaius stood to one side, his thoughts still plagued by inconsequential questions.

'Who were her parents?' he wondered under his breath. 'How did she come to serve the Duchess? And a Legion centurion! Unheard of... just unheard of.' Gaius' old face was lit by a half-hidden smile. 'Ah, I would like to see her again.' Then he frowned, the thought leading to an inevitable conclusion. But there will be no glad meeting of friends long parted... not now.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The Palatine Hill

Galen slumped back with a groan, covering his face with both hands. The flickering, watery light of the telecast washed over him, throwing odd shadows into the corners of the chamber. No one spoke, leaving only the hissing buzz of the device to fill leaden silence. Grains passed, threatening to drag into a glass and the two ladies sitting at the writing table exchanged a slow, mute glance. They made no sound, but the Emperor stirred, absently brushing lank, dark hair from his high forehead.

'Turn it off.' His voice was emotionless, thin face a flat mask. Even his eyes were shuttered and dim.

The thaumaturges on duty bent their heads, muttering softly, and the whirling fire dulled, wicking down to a faint radiance and then to nothing. The bronze disks spun out of the air—this time their descent was gentle— settling quietly into flattened rings. Their task done, both men rose, faces averted from the Emperor's grief and padded out of the room. A moment later, the two ladies followed, their quills and inks and stores of parchment tucked away in wicker baskets ornamented with colored ribbon.

The Emperor remained, staring straight ahead, hands on his knees. He said nothing. His eyes looked upon nothing save a bare, plastered wall.

—|—

Galen waited grimly while the members of his privy council entered the room. A pair of oil lamps hissed quietly, providing mellow illumination. Outside the open windows, a warm, windless summer night lay over the city. The hour was very late, deep into the third watch. Everyone was tense—even the usually unflappable Gaius Julius seemed on edge, darting a sideways look at the Emperor as he took a chair—and they were unexpectedly quiet.

The lady Anastasia entered last, sweeping through the doorway in a long, gray gown, her neck ablaze with pearls and glittering white stones. She bowed formally to the Emperor, then to Martina—who lounged beside an irritated Maxian, her hand tucked in his—and claimed a seat between Galen and Gaius Julius. She made no mention of the late hour or the abrupt summons received in the midst of a play. A pleasing scent of coriander and myrrh reached the Emperor's nostrils, but the sensation barely registered.

Galen stood, face impassive, hands flat on the table. 'We have lost Egypt,' he said in a quiet voice.

Everyone became very still and Maxian's head turned away from his wife to fall upon his brother with a palpable intensity.

'Alexandria has fallen,' the Emperor continued, his eyes fixed on some point in the air above Martina's head. Galen took a breath, though his voice did not alter in tone or inflection. 'Six full Legions have been destroyed. The entire province now lies open to the enemy. There are small garrisons at Elephantine and Luxor, but they will not be able to resist the Persians. I expect they will surrender and seek repatriation to Cyrenaicea, or employment in the ranks of the conquerors.'

He fell silent. Gaius Julius and Anastasia eyed one another, wondering who would pose the first question and break the leaden, dead silence gripping the room. Only Maxian moved, slowly clenching his hand into a fist.

'The lord Aurelian.' Galen stopped, nostrils flaring. Something flickered in his eyes, the first time they had shown any emotion at all. 'My brother Aurelian, Caesar of the Western Empire, is dead. He suffered grievous wounds in the defense of the harbor and breathed his last while escaping the city aboard an Imperial grain transport.'

Maxian started to speak, then stopped, staring at the Emperor with an accusing, anguished expression. The air between the two men seemed to tremble. Martina placed her hand on the prince's arm, speaking softly, and the young man's face closed tight, a shuttered house, with neither lights in the windows nor smoke curling from the chimney.

'We will soon know,' Galen said, continuing as if nothing had happened, 'what the Persians intend. There are some forces left to us—the army at Constantinople, the fleet, the iron drakes now reaching completion in Florentia. Despite this blow, we still stand. We will yet prevail.'

Silence filled the room again and Galen picked up a wooden booklet. Out of long engrained habit, he opened the notebook, stared sightlessly at the page within, then closed the cover again. 'That is all. We shall meet again tomorrow and discuss what must be done.'