The Dark Lord

bring me the news of victory or defeat.' Her lip began to tremble and Galen took her in his arms, holding her close.

'Helena, I'm not worried about the Persians. We have enemies in the city.'

The Empress stiffened in the circle of his arms, raising her head. 'Who?'

Galen shook his head. 'I've only suspicions, love. I know nothing yet. But I want you away from here, and somewhere safe. Narbo, perhaps...'

'I won't,' she said, pushing him away. Grudgingly, the Emperor let her go. Helena wiped the corner of her eye, leaving a black smudge on her temple. 'You're saying there is a plot against you. Some overmighty lord desiring the red boots?'

Galen managed a barely perceptible nod. She responded with another icy glare.

'Well, then, husband, you can have me gagged and bound and bundled away in a sack to Narbo to sit—in chains!—in your drafty old house where there is nothing to read and holes in the ceiling and then—and then—you can worry these conspirators have crept up and kidnapped me at the other end of the Empire, where you'll have no idea if I'm well or sick or dead or having an affair—and don't think I won't if I find a strapping young shepherd lad—and I could be here, in your own apartments, where you can find me each night, waiting patiently for you to come home, and rubbing your feet and making you feel better—and you would know that I am safe, and our son is safe and everything is all right with the world.' She finished with a sniff and looked away, arms crossed over her breast.

Galen stared at her for a moment, opened his mouth, then closed it again. 'Well...'

Helena turned her head, eyes bare burning slits and gave him such a venomous look the Emperor said nothing, then or later.

—|—

A long time since I've ridden this road. Maxian let the horse set her own pace, trotting along the grassy riding path beside the Via Appia Antica. The road struck south from the city, regular as a mason's rule. His spirits lifted as the spotted mare ambled along. The moon was rising, casting deep shadows below the rows of cypress and poplars lining the highway. Fields and farmyards stretched away on either hand, quiet under the night sky. Even the temperature was pleasant, the heat of the day fading and cool winds tousled his long hair.

The simple act of leaving Rome lifted his spirits. The city was close and hot and filled with sullen, dispirited people. Maxian made a conscious effort to ignore the voices whispering from the air. They wore on his temper. Gaius Julius can fend for himself, the prince thought, for a time. He certainly doesn't need me looking over his shoulder. And what would I see? Ledgers, accounts, long litanies of works and favors and debts. Bah!

Maxian supposed he should feel a little guilty, thinking of the binding he'd placed on Martina, but his husband's heart was eased to know she would not—could not—stray while he was gone. She is terribly efficient, he thought, pleased with his solution, and now entirely delightful company. Everything I could desire.

The prince rode in darkness for a time, enjoying the solitude, waving genially to those few pedestrians he passed, walking quickly along the canted surface of the Appia with paper lanterns hung on long poles. A mile out from the city, he was alone with a soft breeze and the distant lights of scattered farmhouses. The mare did not mind the dark, following her nose along the horse path.

Thoughts of Martina and Gaius and his brother and the whole irritating business of war had grown quite remote by the time he reached a crossroads and found a man standing beside the road. Here, the paving stones of the highway were heavily grown over with grass, making a circle of green turf under overhanging cypresses. A tall milestone gleamed softly in the moonlight, covered with ivy and climbing vines. The single numeral II was chiseled into the smooth face of the stone. Maxian reined the horse to a halt, though she did not want to stop, and nodded in greeting.

'Ave,' Maxian said, leaning on his saddle horn.

The soldier saluted, his mouth moving silently. He was young, with barely a fringe of beard lining a strong chin. His hair glowed in the moonlight, ruffled by quiet night wind. Like the legionaries of his day, a long pole lay across his shoulderblades, kit bag hanging from pinewood. A single, solid metal plate embraced his chest, the rounded surface catching a reflection of the moon. His shield was oval and carried over the back, a pot-shaped helmet secured by a strap at his shoulder. Maxian could see the outline of the paving stones through the dark pits of his eyes and mouth.

'Well met, Lucius Papirius,' Maxian answered. 'I ride with the writ of the Senate—there is war in the south and every Latin is needed to drive back the invader. Will you join me?'

The young legionnaire nodded, grinning, and stooped to gather up his javelins and stabbing spear from the ground. Maxian turned the horse in a circle, watching the night. Faint lights gleamed in the orchards and woods all around.

'Rome needs you,' he called out, raising the ivory staff of a tribune above his head. 'The Senate and the People are in danger, our ancient traditions threatened, our honorable name blackened by defeat. I am riding to war, men of Rome. Will you ride with me?'

Without waiting for a response, the prince turned the mare to the southern road and let her take an easy trot. Behind him, the young legionnaire jogged after, easily falling into the steady, ground-eating pace of the professional soldier. The stars shone on his shield and the moon wavered in the ghostly firmament of his hair. Maxian did not think he would tire, no, not even if they marched without a halt to the world sea beyond the horizon.

Again, the prince's thoughts turned far away and he barely noticed when a second man was waiting beside the highway and then another and then three brothers, oval shields scarred by axe and fire. Like the young soldier, they proved tireless and they marched south under a vast, star-filled sky, soundless voices raised in a marching song to while away the miles.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Constantinople

'The latest dispatches, my lord.' Alexandros nodded to the messenger—a Gothic youth, his tunic damp with sweat—and took the leather bag with mingled interest and dismay. The morning's appearance of a sail in the straits had caused great excitement in the city, but now the Macedonian stared at the bundle of letters with mounting disgust.

Over the past two weeks, he'd received a string of missives from Rome, invariably carried in Imperial dispatch pouches, one set from Emperor Galen and one set from Gaius Julius. Alexandros wondered—he often wondered, sitting up drinking with his officers—if the two men were aware of the effect their conflicting commands had on the soldiers out on the sharp end of the war.

'I don't think they have any idea which end is the business end,' Alexandros muttered, sitting back in a leather camp chair. The long arcade along the seaward side of the Buchion palace was very cool and dim, the air stirred by a constant breeze out of the north and the Macedonian had moved his command staff, servants, equipment and messengers into the undamaged buildings.

He cut the dark red twine sealing the first packet with his boot knife.

'So, what does Galen have to say today...' Alexandros began to read, then shook his head. The fleet gathering at Tarentum was still delayed, but the Emperor expected them to leave port for Constantinople within the week of his writing. Two weeks ago, the Macedonian thought, checking Galen's scribbled date at the end of the missive. 'And this one?'

Gaius Julius' note was not under an Imperial cover, but the parchment was of similar fine quality and the ink was even darker—must be a better grade of octopus, Alexandros noted in amusement. The old Roman's strong, clear hand urged the Macedonian to immediately march his men west along the old highway running across Thrace and into the mountains of Epirus, to Dyrrachium on the coast of the Mare Adriaticum.

I've been that way before, Alexandros thought, idly tugging at a lock of hair dangling across his forehead. But not on such a fine road as these Romans build. 'Demetrios! A moment of your time...'

The Eastern officer hurried over, rubbing ink-stained fingers on his tunic. 'Yes,