The Dark Lord

so many men would be out—armed and armored—at such an hour. 'Alexandros bade me find you straightaway when we reached Rome... should I return at another time?'

The old Roman winked saucily, shaking his head. 'Tonight, you need to be here with me, and I bless the gods who set your impatient feet on the road to Rome. What of your men?'

'Still a day's march away,' the Goth growled, suddenly impatient. 'I have received many letters from the Emperor, urging speed. Are we truly supposed to be in Messina now? Is it true the Persians are landing at Sicilia?'

Gaius Julius made a quieting gesture. 'Pax! This time of year, you're only three days from landfall at Messina by sea. If your Goths need be there, I will arrange ships to carry you.'

'Fine. Who are these men?' Ermanerich kept a hand on his horse's bridle—the stallion was tired, but still game, and the young Goth was not a man to mislay fine horseflesh. Particularly not among these Roman scoundrels. Everyone seemed on edge and there was a harsh, brittle smell in the air, reminding him of the last hour before battle.

'These are men from the Legio Eight Augusta,' Gaius said, moving towards the gate, his voice rising as he moved. 'These Gallic Bulls have come down from Germany as reinforcements—and never more welcome than tonight!' The old Roman hopped up on a step just inside the wall. 'Soldiers of Rome,' he called out, drawing the attention of every man in the courtyard. 'You've come to answer your Emperor's call to battle, ready to throw the Persians back and seize victory for the city, the Senate and the people. But tonight—as your officers and I have just learned—you've a more desperate task.' Gaius looked around, resting one hand on Ermanerich's muscular shoulder. A hundred men, or more, looked back, tense and attentive. 'We've learned there is a mutiny among the Praetorians in their camp beyond Tiburtina. Rebellious cohorts are marching on the Palatine, intending to murder the Emperor Galen and acclaim their own tribune, Motrius, as king instead!'

A hoarse shout and a growl of anger answered the bold words and Gaius Julius nodded, gauging the men's response. 'Yes—a black act of treachery against the Senate and the people, against you, whom Galen has always favored, always supported. Who has seen your pay raised? Galen! Who has increased the size of the retirement allotments? Galen!'

The legionaries answered him with a fierce shout, some clashing their spears against breastplate or shield. The old Roman swung his arm, pointing south across the city. 'But we will not let them spill the blood of the Princeps or his family—no! We march to the Palatine ourselves, with haste, and we will find these traitors and we will cut them down like dogs, scattering their weak limbs, their corrupt hearts as grain is cast upon the threshing floor!'

'Aye!' boomed the legionaries and their officers were among them, shouting for order and quiet and a column of twos. Gaius Julius hopped down, flashing a quick smile at Ermanerich, who gave him a suspicious look.

'What is this?' the Goth whispered, clutching the dispatch bag to his chest. Everything seemed to be losing focus, as if the earth under his feet turned unsteady. 'What are you doing?'

'Come on, my young friend,' the old Roman chaffed, grasping the saddle horn of Ermanerich's horse. 'This nag will take two riders!'

Shaking his head, the Gothic prince led the horse from of the gate, letting the column of troops jog by, then mounted, reaching down to pull Gaius up. As he did, Ermanerich leaned close. 'Where are these troops from? From Germania? How many are here?'

'Not so many as I feared, thank the gods,' Gaius answered, settling in behind the Goth. 'I managed to convince two of the Legion tribunes to turn around and march back north. These men are part of the lead elements of the Eight.'

Ermanerich glanced over his shoulder in surprise. 'Who watches the Rhenus, then?'

'No one,' Gaius Julius answered, his face bleak. 'No one at all.'

—|—

Her skirts clutched in one hand, Anastasia bolted up a flight of stairs, taking them two and three at a time. The way was dark and very narrow, forcing her to turn sideways at each turn, a sputtering lamp burning her hand. The top of the passage was closed by a door and the Duchess paused, catching her breath. No time for subtlety, she thought, measuring the ancient termite-carved wood. She braced herself, then slammed a shoulder into the panel.

Old plaster moldings squealed and cracked, shattering and spraying dust and paint across a tiled floor. Anastasia kicked the splintered boards clear, thankful again for taking proper cavalry boots reinforced with iron strips in the uppers and soles. Bending down, she squeezed through the opening into a short, richly appointed hallway. To her right, a painted, carved door swung open.

The Duchess darted forward, catching the edge of the door and stepped inside. The woman opening the door cried out in alarm and staggered back. Empress Helena—like Anastasia before her—was still waking up, barely clad in night-clothes. The Duchess slammed the door behind her and threw the locking bar.

'Get dressed,' she snapped at the Empress, who was staring at her in befuddlement. 'Go on!'

The Duchess leaned against the door, concentrating, listening for alarms or noise. Grimacing, she drew the knife from her girdle and settled the heavy bone hilt in her hand.

'What—what is happening?' Helena found a quilt and wrapped the patterned cloth around her thin shoulders. Anastasia, seeing her bare feet, became very irritable.

'Put on some shoes,' the Duchess hissed, casting around the room for something suitable. 'Good ones, not those flimsy slippers you're always wearing.' Her eye lit upon a pair of stoutly built sandals. Anastasia snatched them up and threw them to the Empress, who fumbled the catch but then managed to gather them up. 'Where is your son?'

Helena pointed wordlessly at a connecting door as the Duchess' grim tone and bared weapon finally registered. Anastasia eased the side door open, hearing a warning hiss. She stepped back, pushing the door wide with her boot. The nursery seemed empty and dark, but the lamplight from the bedroom picked out a pair of blazing green eyes crouched under little Theodosius' bed.

'Come, we'll have to leave quickly.' The Duchess made a sharp gesture, her tone brooking nothing less than obedience. The eyes blinked, then a little girl—no more than six—darted out, unkempt black hair falling glossy around scrawny shoulders. Kore held Theodosius on her back, his round fingers clutched about her neck. The boy was almost as large as the girl, but the maid had no difficulty carrying him. 'Do you need shoes?'

Kore shook her head, sidling along the wall towards the door. Helena caught her hand, white feet dwarfed by the pair of sandals. Anastasia realized they must be Galen's. 'There's no time to do anything but run,' she whispered, striding to the outer door. 'Where is the Emperor?'

'I don't know,' Helena replied, her voice tight with fear. 'He left a little while ago—there was an urgent message...'

'Put out the lamp.' Anastasia could hear a commotion through the door.

Darkness folded around the three women, Helena shaking soot from her fingers.

—|—

Grunting with effort, Ermanerich ground his spear into the Roman's chest, iron scales snapping under the pressure, blood oozing between armor plates. The Praetorian gasped, crimson flooding from his mouth and the light in his eyes died. A cavalry spatha clattered from his nerveless fingers. The blade was nicked and chipped, ornamented with a long streak of red. Silence suddenly replaced the clash and din of men grappling in combat. Gaius Julius stepped into the chamber, waving back two German legionaries poised with javelins at his side.

'These are the last of the traitors, I think,' the old Roman pronounced gravely. Making a show of careful consideration, he stepped among the bodies of the dead, turning some over with his boot. 'We were just in time,' Gaius Julius said to the men crowded into the doorway of the Emperor's study. The corpse at his feet had long, dark hair and sun-bronzed features. 'This was Motrius himself, now sent to Tartarus as he deserves.'

Ermanerich wrenched his spear from the dead Praetorian against the door, letting the body slump down the gold-chased panel. The thrust had scored the wood, leaving a dark smudge. Gaius Julius tested the latch, finding it solidly closed.

'They did not have time to break in,' he said, waving back the Germans. Two of their officers were staring around in awe—at the busts of past Emperors and philosophers, at two grand paintings on wooden panels held up