The Dark Lord

Anastasia rose, swaying slightly, and the others followed. She bowed to the Emperor, searching his face for some sign of life, finding nothing. Galen turned away without a word and walked slowly through the door. Helena —her face hidden by a deep hood, yet recognizable by jeweled bracelets on her thin arms—was waiting to take his hand. A cordon of Praetorians closed up behind them and the Imperial couple was gone.

The Duchess bent her head for a moment, taking a breath and saying a prayer. The others rustled, gathering up their cloaks and—in Gaius' case—a lantern of the type used by the night watch. He had come in haste from a villa on the outskirts of the city.

'My lord—my lady.' Anastasia looked up at Maxian and Martina passed. The woman's face was very calm, her huge eyes sliding to meet the Duchess with a tranquil, untroubled gaze. Anastasia—who had not personally seen the Empress since her return from Capri—repressed a shudder. Her spies had reported the girl's transformation, but the languid, predatory gleam in her eyes was new and unexpected. Nothing seemed to remain of the shy, insecure woman glad of the Duchess' friendship. The prince looked at Anastasia, lips tight on bared teeth.

'What do you want?'

'I am sorry, my lord.' Anastasia bowed again, looking away. Maxian's eyes were liquid with fury and grief in equal measure and the Duchess felt a chill steal over her, remembering the powers he held at his command. 'If there is anything...'

Maxian brushed past and Martina laughed softly, looking back at the Duchess with a sly, pitying smile. Anastasia watched them depart with a heavy heart. Gaius Julius had already slipped out, leaving her alone in the room. Even the guardsmen were gone.

'Well,' she said aloud, straightening the neckline of her gown. 'What a delightful evening.'

—|—

Gaius Julius ended his report and set aside a waxed tablet. The old Roman looked to the Emperor, who had been listening with a fist planted firmly against his chin, eyes closed. A dreadful pall hung over the room despite strong, bright sunlight streaming through the windows. Late summer in Rome now afflicted them with stupefying heat during the day and bathwater-warm nights. Blessedly, Gaius' new existence seemed to exempt him from these extremes in the same manner he escaped hunger, exhaustion, even the need to drink.

The Emperor opened his eyes and Gaius almost sighed to see the desolation lurking there. Galen controlled his face and attitude well, adopting a rigid, controlled manner. His voice did not quaver, but the old Roman knew heartbreak when he saw such dead eyes. I... we... should wait, he thought with unexpected compassion. There is still plenty of time for our plot to flourish. Years, in truth.

Twin weapons had placed themselves in Gaius' hands and every instinct urged him to strike now, while the iron blazed hot and the hammer rode high. The collapse of Egypt had wrenched the very heart from the Emperor, leaving him distracted and vulnerable. The unexpected arrival of young Nicholas and the Walach Vladimir two days previous had provided another sledge, not so great as the first, perhaps, but more suitable for delicate, precise work. Gaius wrestled with the problem as he sat down, weighing both options and finding neither entirely satisfactory.

This Emperor is a vexing creature, Gaius mused. I admire him and respect his keen mind. He is a brilliant administrator and an able leader—is there any Roman virtue he does not possess? Is there any reason not to serve him, and him alone, with vigor and piety? Yet...

His eyes drifted sideways, across the calm and composed face of the Duchess, sitting at the Emperor's left hand with her own notes, to the Empress Martina. A demure gown and stole failed to disguise her lush new body, but Martina was showing an unexpected talent for subtlety. She did not flaunt her charms, but hid them beneath expensive silk and linen, leaving her clean, raptor-like face unadorned by paint or powder. Instead, she let striking eyes and flawless skin carry her to victory over any observer. Gaius was sure no artful waxes made her rosebud lips so moist and soft—she had no need, now, or ever, of petty cosmetics. Not with our custos on the job, Gaius thought grimly, ever watchful for blemishes or sagging skin...

Yet, Maxian still overshadowed her with a lean, intense aura. Abiding anger suffused his movements, charging the sharp tilt of his head, the measured way he spoke and the fierce, hateful gaze he turned constantly upon his brother.

Gaius watched them both and here too his heart was heavy with bitter knowledge. Two brothers estranged over the third, he mused, when Rome needs them to stand together. Does my ambition reach too high? How dangerous are these Persians? The old Roman had been surprised by the loss of Egypt. His estimation—one shared by the Emperor, he knew—had been for Aurelian and his veterans to hold Alexandria almost indefinitely. The Legions were good at siegecraft and the Persians notoriously poor. Indeed, he—like the Emperor—had planned on the siege dragging on for months.

Now the other African provinces were in peril. Shahr-Baraz and his lancers could strike due west, rushing along the desert coast. There were no natural barriers to hold them back from reaching as far west as Carthage. More provinces lost, more revenues denied, more strength flowing to the enemy... Gaius quelled the wayward thoughts. They have reached the end of their tether, he reminded himself firmly. They may have taken the city by sorcery and a daring ruse, but they are still very far from home, without fresh armies or fleets. They have to stop! They must stop.

Galen had related the destruction of the Legions in the city in short, clipped sentences. Pressed, Maxian had responded, saying the manipulation of so many animate dead was dreadfully taxing. The enemy could not march them against Rome, not without exhausting himself utterly. Like a berserker's rush, Gaius took some faint hope from the thought. We will not have to fight a legion of the dead day upon day, only once in awhile, when the Persians have the time to prepare.

Everyone agreed the true stroke of genius had been to land an army on the island of the Pharos, splitting the defense. Even with his dead tone, Gaius had been able to see the anguish in the Emperor's heart as he spoke. His brother had been taken unawares, again, by the Persian general's reckless disregard for water barriers. The old Roman was impressed—he had led his own armies on the sea—but like most Imperial generals he saw a fleet as a means to go from port to port, not to flank a prepared position—not to wield with such elan!

Gaius Julius dithered—and was vastly annoyed to find himself in such a state. I am decisive! Bold! I act with considered, informed recklessness! He looked across the table, irritated, and met Martina's eyes. She looked back, a hidden smile playing on perfect bow-shaped lips and one sharp, ink-dark eyebrow rose in open challenge. Gaius felt blood surge in his loins and looked away to the Emperor, trying not to blush. No, he reminded himself, she is the impatient one, though her son cannot take his throne for decades! The old Roman decided to take a middle course and build, slowly, for the future. But, he realized, I can take one small step forward.

'Then, we are agreed,' Galen said, beginning to gather his notes. The movement of his hands was sure and steady, but slow and lacking his usual brisk efficiency.

'Lord and God,' Gaius heard himself say, 'there is one more matter.'

Galen's hands stopped and he set down an ivory stylus. 'Yes?'

The old Roman straightened his shoulders and met the Emperor's eyes directly. The speed of our onset, Gaius recited to himself, drawing confidence from old, old memories, unnerved them suddenly and completely. There was time neither to plan, nor to take up arms, and they were too confused to know if they should stand or flee.

'My lord, our privy expedition has returned from Egypt.'

Of the men and women seated at the table, only Martina did not start in surprise and she turned her head, looking out the nearest window in apparent boredom, letting Gaius' gaze linger on her fine neck and rising curve of her breast. Maxian's eyes, in particular, blazed with anticipation and a certain avaricious delight.

'Did they find at least one telecast?' The prince's voice was hoarse with anticipation.

'Yes, my lord, they did. One of our loyal soldiers bore it on his back to safety.' Gaius turned to face the Emperor, straightening formally in his seat. 'But the device was then lost and my agents have returned empty- handed. Lord and God,' the old Roman inclined his head to the Emperor, 'they beg your forgiveness for failure.'