The Dark Lord

They are already on the road to Syracuse. What of your Goths?'

'We're still unloading the fleet,' the Macedonian replied, a little stunned, feeling as if he were suddenly a length behind in an unexpected race. 'Another day and everyone will be ashore. Luckily, the Eastern troops are familiar with ships or we'd be here for weeks trying to get everything untangled.'

'Good. I know you've received conflicting orders from Rome.' The prince's face twisted into a remarkably sour expression. 'This will not happen again. You will march south along the Via Pompeiana as quickly as possible. Do not tarry here.' In brighter light Alexandros could see Maxian's cloak was tattered and torn, tunic badly stained, his boots fouled with dust and mud. Every sign spoke of a long road march, though the prince did not seem exhausted at all. His eyes blazed with irresistible command. 'The Persians will be landing within days. You must meet them on the beaches below Catania if we're to have a chance at victory.'

'I... see. My lord, if the Emperor is dead, then who...'

Maxian stiffened, his thin lips curling back from white teeth. 'Who struck him down?'

'No,' Alexandros managed to say, though the pressure in the air was rising again. I don't care who wielded the knife, you young fool, that's no matter to me or my men! 'Who now rules in Rome?'

'I am Emperor.' Maxian deflated again, the words hoarse with agony. 'My brothers are dead, used up in this endless war.' The prince swayed, then mastered himself. 'Only I am left.'

Alexandros was silent, his whole attention fixed on the prince. A dead, sick feeling was trying to gain a foothold in his gut. The man in front of him seemed to vacillate between supernal power and ashy exhaustion. After a moment, the Macedonian said, 'My lord, if your brother is dead, then what has happened to... to the guardian?'

'The what?' Maxian tried to focus on Alexandros' face and failed. He slumped against the nearest chest, but the Macedonian caught him before the prince could fall. Maxian's skin was hot, almost hot enough to burn. Alexandros drew back, alarmed.

'Ayy! You've not just a fever—more like a furnace!'

'Yes,' Maxian whispered, a ghoul-like smile stretching his lips. 'Do you remember the night I tried to raise Octavian, tried to shroud him with the Oath and shatter the keystone?'

'I remember.' Alexandros did. A night of destruction, raging with fire and lightning. Even this half-life had seemed precious then, when annihilation was only a hairbreadth away.

'Now I am the keystone,' Maxian said, his voice a mere breath. Alexandros leaned closer, barely able to make out the words. 'The Senate has acclaimed me Emperor, princeps, guardian of the Republic. And all the strength I tried to overthrow—it presses on me, Alexandros, crushes me like a vise!'

The Macedonian felt cold again and the sick feeling inside him grew stronger. He knew what it was like to rule men, to hold the power of life and of death over a vast domain, over millions of human souls. But even when the Persians had acclaimed him as a god, as a living deity, he'd never felt such pressure as this young Roman must feel.

'I can feel them all, a constant, raging noise...' Maxian's breathing grew ragged, his head rolling back. Cursing, Alexandros caught his shoulders, ignoring the heat.

'Lord Prince!' The Macedonian shook the Roman gently and Maxian's eyes blinked, focusing on him. Alexandros gave him a fierce glare. 'How do you know the Persians are landing at Catania?'

'We saw... Galen and I saw them planning through the telecast.' Maxian seemed to gather himself. 'The Persians and the rebellious Greeks put a great fleet to sea. Their full strength will strike here. They plan to come ashore in strength, then turn either north to Messina or south to Syracuse and capture a port.'

Alexandros clenched his teeth, thinking of his exhausted troops. If the Legions who'd marched down from Rome were in better shape, they might have a chance... but from looking at the prince, the Macedonian didn't think the legionaries were ready to fight schoolchildren, much less the Persian Immortals. And then, he thought, there is the real enemy...

'My lord...' Alexandros' tone was harsh with suppressed fear. 'I've spoken with the survivors from Constantinople—they say the Persians have a sorcerer with awesome powers—how can I fight such a creature?'

'Yes,' Maxian pushed the Macedonian's hands aside. 'He is coming. I can feel him.'

The prince stood, his movements weak for a moment, then filling visibly with strength as he gathered himself. Alexandros stepped back warily.

Maxian smiled grimly and a plainly visible corona of cold flame limned him, silhouetting his head, outlining his arms. Every trace of weariness, of exhaustion and grief, washed away in the spectral light. 'Our dear friend Gaius has done me bitter service, Macedonian. His plots have murdered my brother, spilled the Emperor's blood, forced upon me unwanted honors, a crown...'

Alexandros' quick mind leapt ahead of the prince's words and the Macedonian's handsome face split in a feral grin. At last, the boy begins to think like a king. The first good news I've heard since entering this life!

'Yet now I've strength enough, and more, to face this Persian and his servants, be they two, three or a multitude.' Maxian's grief was plain on his face, matched with a newly found steel.

Alexandros lifted his chin in challenge, his spirits entirely restored. 'Wouldn't your brother give his life to save Rome?'

'He has,' Maxian answered, teeth bared. 'I will not waste his sacrifice.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The Ianiculian Hill, Roma Mater

'Hsst! Get back.' Betia retreated slowly from the street corner, making a shooing motion with her free hand. Thyatis backed up, left hand tense on the hilt of her spatha, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Shirin had caught the warning. The Khazar woman was already two paces back, watching their back trail. The lane was narrow and badly paved, scarred by gaping potholes and overhung on both sides by three- and four-story buildings. Even at midday—with a perfectly clear blue sky above —the passage was dim and grimy.

Betia eased into a building entryway. Even with the litter of rinds and broken wine bottles and discarded chicken bones underfoot, she did not step wrong or make a noise. Thyatis filled most of the space with her broad shoulders, while Shirin occupied the rest, enveloped in a patched gray cloak. All three women were sweating, for the heat today was particularly fierce and the city was slowly baking in a humid mash of sweat, rotting garbage and wood smoke.

'There's an entire cohort of legionaries on the street ahead, breaking down the door to someone's house with a ram.' Betia's voice was clipped and precise. 'I don't think we should go that way.'

'Our destination?' The redheaded woman looked thoughtful.

Betia shook her head. 'No. Next door. A house of the Gracchi, I think.' The girl frowned. 'You saw the broadsheets posted on the port notice boards?'

Thyatis nodded. She had, though at the time she'd been more concerned with guiding their longboat through the maze of canals in old Ostia without running into someone or something and pitching them all into the fetid, gray-green water. 'There are proscriptions.'

'What does that mean?' Shirin's voice was tight where Thyatis had assumed a slow drawl. Everyone had their own reaction to the tense, frightened atmosphere in the city.

'Lists of traitors,' Betia said, keeping her voice low. Thyatis could hear the crash of wood splintering and people screaming now, even with such a goodly distance between themselves and the house of the Gracchi. The streets were entirely deserted and silent, she realized.

'When there is trouble,' the girl continued, 'or the Emperor needs gold, lists are posted of those who have committed crimes against the state. They must defend themselves in court, which costs money of course, or they are executed out of hand and their properties confiscated. But nothing like this has happened for decades.'

Thyatis felt grief welling and clamped down hard on the useless emotion. 'Not since Galen became Emperor,' she bit out, though she'd had no intention of speaking.

Betia nodded, her own face shadowed. Shirin kept quiet, though she'd seen the black bands on the arms of the legionaries in the port and at the city gates. Even the temples they'd passed had been silent and in the rare occasion they met someone on the street, no greetings were exchanged and the passersby avoided eye contact,