The Dark Lord

leagues, seen his men encamped, then plunged into this...

'Emperor Galen was a wise man and foresaw many paths fate might take. Beyond brave Aurelian, he also titled his younger brother Caesar. Now, with Theodosius an infant, the law says Prince Maxian should rule until his nephew is of proper age.'

'But where is the prince?' the crowd murmured in response to the plaintive cry.

'Fear not, my friends,' Gaius responded, pitching his voice so even the washerwomen at the back of the steadily-growing crowd could hear. 'Prince Maxian has taken the field in Sicilia, where we have lately learned the Persians plan an attack. But the prince and his Legions wait in ambush, where the Persians do not expect them. He will seize victory from the jaws of the Cylcopes and bring home many captives, and much tribute, to honor great Rome!'

The frightened muttering died down a little. Gaius Julius turned to the senators clustered before the doors of the Curia. 'Noble senators,' he said, drawing their walleyed attention. 'I abhor haste in all things, but this dawn we must move swiftly to assure and ease the troubled minds of the public. I call on you to open these doors and let the Senate enter, so Maxian—the young prince—may be proclaimed Augustus and God, Emperor of the Romans!'

—|—

Watching from below, Ermanerich pursed his lips in a slow, thoughtful whistle. At the old Roman's words, the Praetorians herded the senators back inside and Gaius and the Empress Martina entered, flanked by a hedge of men in armor, swords drawn. A great commotion rose inside the building, which was filled with the light of many lamps. It seems the headmen have already gathered, the Goth thought, allowing himself to be pulled along by the crowd surging up the steps. How did they know? Lest they were told aforetime...

Gaius' singular voice rose above the din, filling the hall with calm surety and determination. Senators milled around in a white cloud like so many sheep adrift on a hillside. Ermanerich forced his way out of the crowd, taking up a vantage just inside the doors. The Praetorians had recovered themselves and now began shouting and pressing back the common citizens who wished to look upon the deliberations of the mighty.

What geese these men are, the Goth thought sourly. This Gaius is a shrewd man—yet I would take care buying a horse from him! Aye, and count all four hooves and tail too, before silver left my hand...

The doors closed with a heavy thud and Ermanerich settled in to wait. These Romans had seemed prepared to deliberate and debate while the day came and went and the sun rose again. But he did not leave quite yet, though his men marched southward at a steady pace, for Ermanerich wished to be sure of events before he went once more to war.

—|—

'A thousand years is not too long to wait,' Gaius Julius said sotto voce to Martina, who sat beside him on a marble bench, 'for proper respect.' The old Roman clasped the hands of one of the Senators, who emerged from the crowd in the Curia, muttered something about his 'sympathies' and confided his support for the prince's imminent deification. Martina looked demure and grief-stricken for her brother-in-law's demise, answering the man's politeness with her own.

The crowd moved and the Empress stole a moment to glare at Gaius. 'You didn't have to kill him,' she whispered, rosebud lips twitching into a very pretty grimace. 'I liked Galen! He was always polite to me and kind to my son.'

'I did too,' Gaius answered from the side of his mouth. 'Necessity makes its own demands.'

'Very well,' she said, forcing a smile for the next of the magnates circulating in the crowded, hot room. Outside, the sun was well up, making the Forum shimmer, and even a system of constantly rotating fans suspended below the ceiling did little to alleviate the heat. 'You can tell my husband what happened to his brother. A brother,' she said, voice cracking a little, 'he loved very much.'

Gaius started to say, it was him or me, then restrained himself. He had a very good idea where the Empress Martina's priorities lay and they did not necessarily include an old Roman dictator who happened to have escaped death by a very fine hair. Instead, he nodded somberly. 'I will tell the prince. He will judge these events as he will.'

One of Gaius' guardsmen approached, nervous without his weapons; the Praetorians had recovered something of their equilibrium and now surrounded the Senate House with a double ring of armed, angry men. The man bobbed his head, trying to draw attention without interrupting.

'Over here, Verus. Stop that, you look like a duck.' Gaius Julius turned away from the Empress, leaning close. 'What news?'

'Not good, sir.' Verus screwed his face up. The old Roman gave him a withering stare. 'We've searched the Palatine from top to bottom—' The man's voice dropped like a stone into a well. '—there's no sign of her or the boy. None. Like she just... vanished.'

Gaius Julius grunted, his face sliding into careful immobility. He pinned the man with a furious glance. 'How long,' he said softly, 'have Empress Helena and her son been missing?'

'Since...' The man gulped. 'Last night. One of her maids says she went to bed at the usual hour!'

One eyelid flickering, Gaius Julius turned away, waving his hand in dismissal. Martina was watching him, her perfect face tinged with feigned concern. Her limpid brown eyes seemed very cold. 'Well? What did he say?'

'Nothing we can do anything about now.' Gaius Julius felt his stomach slowly unclench. This is what haste gains you, my lad, he chided himself. But our nets will scoop her up. 'Your good friend Helena, in her grief, has disappeared.'

'Has she?' The Empress of the East's lips curled back from white, white teeth. One smooth hand drifted across her breast, coming to rest with long fingertips on her clavicle. 'She'll hide with friends, won't she? Where else would she go?'

Gaius nodded, spying a storm cloud of perspiring senators bearing down on him. He stepped away from the Empress, smiling genially, yet with the trace of profound regret appropriate for such a terrible day.

'Good,' Martina said to herself, wondering how much longer she would be forced to endure this heat. She began to smile, spirits lifting. 'Their names will be on one of dear Gaius' lists and when the arrests and executions begin, they will beg for their lives and she will be yielded up, trussed like a... a summer sausage!' Then her face fell again and she had to fight against gnawing on a nail. I never meant Galen ill! Stupid, reckless Gaius Julius! She sighed, feeling very lonely. I miss my husband, she thought morosely, but the image in her mind was neither Maxian nor Heraclius, exactly.

CHAPTER FIFTY

The Wasteland

'You are Mohammed,' the wounded man said in a weak voice, forcing his eyelids open. They were caked with grime, dried blood and crusty yellow crystals. The rest of his face—once darkly handsome—was no better, his eye sockets surrounded by glassy scars, his scalp lacerated by jagged cuts. 'You were selling cups and plates; a whole caravan of beautiful red pottery...'

'Yes,' Mohammed answered, lifting the Egyptian from the black sand. The body was very light, but still had some weight. Ahmet had been a strong man with a powerful build in life. 'Is my caravan the last thing you remember?'

'I...' Ahmet turned his head weakly, an expression of bewilderment working its way across his wounded face. He did not seem to recognize the wasteland of broken, black stone and weathered spires. 'I remember roses climbing a plastered wall and... and a woman.' He stopped speaking, his body clenching convulsively into a tight ball. Mohammed let him shudder, holding Ahmet close while he climbed carefully out of the pit. There did not seem to be any weather in this place—the flat, black sky remained still and unblemished by clouds or wind or even a celestial body—but instinct bade him find shelter.

One of the jagged boulders harbored an egg-shaped opening in one side, the largest among hundreds of cavities and pits eroded from the glassy stone. Mohammed ducked inside, finding the floor covered with the same obsidian-colored sand as the plain. He noticed, but was no longer surprised by, the directionless, ambient light picking out every detail. There was no sun—the air itself seemed to be the source of this queer, febrile radiance.

He laid Ahmet down, letting the Egyptian's body uncurl at its own pace.