The Dark Lord

Gaius shook his head, running a well-trimmed nail down page after page of lineages, births, deaths, all matter of scandal, despair, joy and tumult disguised by dryly worded fact. At length, he found the family dwindled almost to nothing, only possessing a single estate in southern Latium, and then—twenty years past—nothing. No children, no legal records. A dying clan guttering out at last.

'Hmm.' Gaius rubbed his nose. 'Is she the last of a disgraced, bankrupt house?' He wondered who would know her antecedents—the Duchess, of course, but I cannot ask her!—and began to trace the linages backwards, through the contorted branches and leaves of a sprawling, often-intermarried family. He sighed, wondering how long he would have to wait in this hot, close place.

—|—

Evening advanced and an elderly man entered, a heavy basket of scrolls tucked under one arm. He pushed through the workmen, exchanging greetings with a few, to stand at the bar beside Gaius. The old Roman put away his papers. The woman behind the slab-shaped counter lifted her head in question.

'Pickle, fish sauce and nut custard, please.' Nilos' voice was marked by a distinct 'Palace' accent and tinged with exhaustion. Gaius felt a twinge of sympathy—the basket of scrolls was not for show, but the man's uncompleted work from the day, being taken home to be copied or reviewed by lamplight.

The woman nodded, spooning a gooey confection of pepper, cracked nuts, honey, rue and raisin wine in egg white into a hand-sized cup from a bowl built into the countertop. One of her assistants scurried off to draw pickles from a huge vat in the back of the shop and pluck a jar of Hispanian fish sauce from one of the shelves.

'What news from our father's house?' Gaius made the statement to the empty air, though his voice was low and barely audible among the bustle and chatter in the common room. The workmen saw each other every day and most lived within a block of each other, yet there was never any lack of conversation or dispute.

Nilos did not look at him, but gratefully accepted the bundle of custard and pickles wrapped in cheesecloth from the proprietress.

'Thirteen,' she said, wiping her hands on a dirty gray rag. The secretary counted out a handful of copper coins and left them on the countertop. He nodded to Gaius in a friendly way as he turned, saying softly, 'Some cousins are coming for a surprise visit, one Briton and three German.'

'What?' Gaius Julius caught the man's eye, voice a bare, sharp whisper. 'Our cousins are coming? We don't have a British cousin!'

Nilos shrugged, trying to push past, but Gaius caught his elbow in a tight grip. 'Ay,' hissed the Greek, still trying to ignore the Roman. 'Leave go! That's all I know—the orders were cut today and are already gone by courier.'

'Where does Pater expect to find an entire Legion in Britain?' Gaius turned the Greek bodily to face him, using the man's head to block sight of his lips. So far, no one in the caupona had paid any attention, even the woman behind the bar bustling off about her own business. 'He's already stripped the garrison to the bone.'

'I know!' Nilos' face flushed as he wrenched his arm free. 'The province is on its own. He's recalling everyone, even the governor and his clerks.'

Gaius Julius blanched, staring in open horror at the secretary. 'What about Germania?'

'Almost the same,' Nilos allowed, shrugging. 'There are only five Legions along the entire Rhenus, and three will be here in four weeks, maybe less.' The Greek slipped away while the old Roman was grappling with vivid, overwhelming visions of cataclysm.

Gaius Julius finished his wine abruptly—a poor vintage fouled with silt and bitter, clashing tones—and set the cup down on the counter. He left two coins before climbing up to the street. The sun was just setting and he blessed the architects who had raised such a bulk of marble and concrete atop the Palatine. The street in front of the temple of Claudius was already in shadow, allowing a minute fraction of the day's heat to recede.

Fool of a fool, Gaius thought, walking quickly north towards the vast marble cliff of the Colosseum. Did he hear nothing the prince said? He'll throw another four Legions—five with Alexandros' Goths—to the Persian butchers for nothing. He turned left in the plaza surrounding the amphitheatre, hearing a muted roar rumbling within. The evening games—nothing special, really, just tyro gladiators trying their skills—were already underway. We'll lose Britain and Germania and Gaul all in one useless, stupid throw of the dice...

Sunk in depression, he failed to note a young woman standing in one of the vendor's alcoves piercing the outer ring of the Colosseum. She, however, did not fail to notice him and after he had passed by she bundled up a knitted rug covered with charms and trinkets and followed him at a prudent distance.

—|—

The dying sun painted the walls of the bedroom with gorgeous streaks of orange and red and purple. Maxian stuffed a spare shirt and some tightly bound papyrus scrolls into his old medikus bag, squinting against the flare of light. He had changed his tunic, cloak and leggings—finally realizing they had acquired a particularly stiff aroma of molten iron, coal dust, marble grit and sweat. The prince supposed he could have made them new again, but the maids in the town house were forever slinking around, looking for things to clean and mend.

'I want to come with you,' Martina said, fighting to keep a whine from her husky voice.

Maxian shook his head. 'I've already told you what I intend. Though your company would be welcome, there's no need for you to spend weeks sleeping beside dusty roads on the way south.' His hand searched among a collection of bronze and iron knives, finding an ancient dagger stained with a glossy green patina. As he touched the worn ivory hilt, he could feel a commanding shout ring from the iron and glimpsed a man in old-style Legion armor standing in a line of men under a brassy, bright sky. You will do, he thought, sliding the blade into a common leather sheath and stowing it in the bag.

'Fine,' the Empress said, crawling onto the bed, silk rustling as she moved. Her feet were bare and her formal stole and veil were discarded carelessly on the floor. She grinned up at him, arching her back and wiggling her taut bottom from side to side. 'Shouldn't you keep an eye on me, lest I get into trouble while you're gone?'

The prince looked at her quizzically, then a slight frown drew his lips down. The setting sun turned cold in his dark eyes. 'You would never get into trouble,' he said in a flat tone, turning his attention back to the odds and ends he had arranged on the bedspread. Martina flashed him an angry look, then her eyes widened and she stiffened. For a fraction of a grain, she was perfectly still, then she blinked and sighed again.

'I'll miss you,' the Empress said, curling both feet under her. Tapering fingers plucked at the hem of her silken gown, rolling seed pearls and tiny golden pomegranates over her nails.

'I know,' Maxian said, favoring her with a distracted half-smile. 'There are some things I need you to do while I am away. Get your notebook.'

Obediently, Martina padded from the bed to fetch a heavy wooden plaquette from her dressing table. The covers were edged with wear-blackened leather and sheets of parchment oozed from the sides. Opening the heavy book, she frowned prettily, searching for an empty page. Finding space to write, Martina drew a fine brush from the thicket of gleaming curls behind her ear. A small copper cup, plugged with wax, was affixed to the spine of the book. Dipping her brush, the Empress looked up, sleek hand poised to write.

'Nine of the iron drakes in the foundry at Florentia,' Maxian began in a brisk, concise voice, 'are ready to fly. Winnow the pilots down to eighteen and send them south to meet me in...' He paused to think. 'Eleven days. Tell them to find me on Aetna—they shouldn't be able to miss the mountain if they can find Sicilia itself.'

He closed the bag, snapping a clasp worked with the serpent and caduceus of his order. 'You remember Cenni—our young artist? He's made some builder's drawings for me, when I could tear him away from casting scales and ever-more-frightening eye shields for our sky serpents.' The prince laughed indulgently. 'I want you to split the workshops into two projects—divide the artisans by skill, and set half and half to work—one group on the next set of iron drakes, the others on the 'turtles.' Cenni should take charge of the workshops and foundries—he knows my desire.'

Martina nodded, hand moving quickly over the paper.

'There is another matter as well—Gaius Julius will be able to help, I think—we are using more iron ore, copper, coal, tin and lumber than the harbor facilities at Pisae can easily support. Moreover, a great deal of our raw materials come from Illyria and Gothica.' Maxian sketched an arc in the air before him. 'Which means the