The Dark Lord

sunlight. A solid rank of Praetorians closed around the Emperor and then he was gone, swallowed by the noon sun. The doors swung closed again with a dull boom.

Everyone began to speak at once, in a rush of excited noise and shouting and general clamor. Maxian remained sitting, realizing he was sweating, and found Gregorius sitting beside him once again, smiling quietly, his bushy white beard spilling over both hands clasped on the head of his cane.

'Rest your feet, young prince,' the old senator said, 'this will take some time.'

Gaius Julius stepped away from the marble screen, quite pleased with himself. Part of him wished he had delivered the little speeches, but his conscious mind—which learned at least one lesson in his abruptly interrupted life—was content to remain unknown and unremarked. The gallery was crowded with all manner of citizens, though slightly oily-looking men with particularly sharp togas and tunics predominated. There were large numbers of provincial and city representatives—a dizzying array of Nubians and Goths and Gauls and even some Britons— milling about in traditional costume. It all made a colorful scene, but Gaius was not interested in rural politics, not today. With the ease of long practice, he weaved through the crowd and found a man selling wine. The old Roman pressed a few copper coins into the peddler's hand and took a cup. With the chipped clay in his hand, he wandered slowly the length of the gallery, idly watching the discussion on the floor of the Curia.

After a moment he stopped and stepped sideways behind a cluster of Axumite merchants. Their tall feather headdresses made suitable cover and he took another drink from the cup, eyes narrowed over the rim. A woman he recognized entered the gallery and he felt a certain trepidation in being seen by her. They had never exchanged more than a few words; in his guise of a hardworking patrician bureaucrat there was little reason for him to engage in lengthy discourse with an Empress. Helena might not recognize him, but approaching her now was reckless.

Unfortunately, he found her particularly attractive. He knew from palace gossip she was strong-willed, sharp-minded and carried on a voluminous correspondence. Once or twice, he managed to overhear her conversations and she wielded a dagger wit with aplomb. Gaius Julius checked the drape of his toga, then mentally ground down on his ambition.

This is not the time for seduction! He wanted her though, and vivid imagination yielded up delightful, tempting vignettes. He started to step forward, desire convincing his limbs it would be perfectly reasonable for him to go up and speak with her, breathe in the air around her, look into sparkling dark eyes, bandy wit and wordplay with her. Gaius Julius caught himself and turned away, forcing himself to look down onto the Senate floor again.

—|—

The senators had gotten themselves into a furious argument. From the raised voices reaching the gallery, Gaius saw the awareness of the possible patronage and graft attendant upon an important new Imperial post was spreading through the white-haired old men like blood on the sea. Gaius suppressed a grin, unconsciously flicking his robes into an even straighter line and checking his hair. The smell of fear and power in the air was heady and he felt his pulse quicken.

Stop this. You're getting jittery. Gaius paused by one of the pillars and took a moment to calm down. He craved this—the lunge and parry and brutal verbal combat of the Curia and the Senate. He wanted to step down on the floor—as was his right!—and set his mind to the influence and control of others. There was a physical pain in his gut, like a rat was squirming among his organs. Against this desire, thoughts of Helena disappeared. Impossible, you old fool! You must be patient. Quiet. Like a mouse.

Gaius breathed out, slowly, and looked around, avoiding the flushed, sweaty faces of the men talking and exclaiming on all sides. He was not sure he approved of the renovations to the Curia—he had taken pains, in his breathing days, to see the building was just small enough. This gallery was new and there were more seats than he remembered below. Gaius frowned, counting rows of benches. There must be room for almost fifteen hundred senators. That, he thought, was too many. Even in his day—so long ago now!—he had ordered the architects and builders to make the Senate house just a little smaller than it needed to be.

The old Roman grinned, forgetting his own advice to remain impassive. With a constant shortage of seats, the junior senators stood in the back of the hall, or even outside. That kept them helpfully out of the debate, and gave them incentive to compromise so they could move inside. Now this expansion had made a muddle of everything, and this too-convenient gallery allowed anyone to watch the Senate at work. How... republican...

'Master Gaius?'

The old Roman turned, smiling genially. Three men approached him out of the crowd and the middle one—a stocky, balding white-haired 'twenty-year man,' if ever Gaius Julius had seen a Legion veteran trying to be inconspicuous in civilian clothes—was also carrying a krater of wine. The man's pockmarked face seemed habitually grim and his attention was in constant motion, watching the crowd for enemies. Gaius guessed the man was forty or fifty years old.

'I am Gaius Julius. Welcome to Rome. You must be Sergius.'

The soldier nodded, flashing a bit of a wintry smile. 'You're welcome sir. It was good to hear from you.'

Gaius nodded, turning his attention to the other two men. Both of them were young and alert, with the air of those used to violent action. 'This would be Nicholas and Vladimir?'

Sergius nodded, motioning the other two forward. 'They are. A pair of right rascals, but I was never gladder than to find them alive after our disaster.' The old soldier shook his head in dismay.

Gaius clasped wrists with the thinner one, a whipcord-lean man with dark brown hair and peculiar mauve eyes. The lad had powerful wrists, well-used and corded with muscle. Like his companion, he was wearing a nondescript military cloak over a tunic and some kind of armored shirt. The hilts of a heavy, spatha-style longsword rode at his trim waist. Nicholas grinned, matching Gaius' gaze, and made a little bow. The young man's mustaches were very sharp, twisted to points beside a thin nose. Gaius nodded in welcome. 'Nicholas. Where are you from?'

'I don't know, sir. I was raised a slave in the Dannmark.'

'But you are surely a Latin—taken in a raid by the Scandians?'

The young man shrugged. 'I don't remember any of that, Master Gaius. My first memory is of a gray sky, and ravens crying, and then entering the fortress of Roskilde.' His expression changed, growing feral. 'Everything after that is rather cruel. At least, until I entered the service of Rome.'

Sergius nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. 'True enough, Master Gaius, and we've had good service of young Nicholas. He and Vladimir have gone into and come out of some tight places in the name of the Empire.'

'So I have heard.' Gaius maintained a lengthy correspondence with Sergius. The old centurion was a field officer for the Eastern Empire's Office of Barbarians. Over the years, Sergius had decided a close relationship was needed between—specifically—himself and the Western Office. Some small-minded men might have termed the stoutly built centurion a traitor, but Gaius thought of him as a man who could tell which side the loaf was going to fall on.

Before Gaius Julius involved himself in such matters, a woman—a beautiful, powerful woman named Anastasia De'Orelio—had been the secret master of the Western Office. Over a year ago, however, she abandoned her post and Gaius Julius—at something of loose ends at the time—took the opportunity to gather up some of the responsibilities she let fall. In fact, the small-minded might also accuse Gaius of theft and outright falsehood. Some privy letters, he allowed, might have gone astray, but if they did—well, the world was filled with troubles—and one of those letters led him to Sergius and then, in the full course of time, to these two admirable young men.

'You are Vladimir, then, the Walach.' The corners of Gaius Julius' eyes crinkled up and he clasped wrists with the young barbarian. The Walach—a riot of dark curly hair, a creamy white complexion over rippling muscle, brilliant dark eyes—took his hand tentatively and Gaius could see the boy's nostrils flare. 'We are all friends here, Vladimir, do not worry.'

Ah, but I must smell strange to him, Gaius thought. I should not have met them here, in this public place... in private, I might allay their fears with honest words.

'Master... Gaius.' Vladimir looked down, unwilling to meet Gaius' direct gaze. 'Thank you for your patronage