of Antioch. The Persians and Arabs, now allied, launched an invasion by land and sea into the Eastern heartland, besieging Constantinople once more.
In Rome itself, a direly wounded Thyatis struggled to reclaim herself in the face of abject failure. Despite the help of a troupe of Gaulish holy performers, she fell into the clutches of Gaius Julius, now entrusted with the execution of enormous and extravagant funeral games for those slain in the eruption of Vesuvius. Forced into the arena, Thyatis proved herself more than a match for man and beast. At last, thought dead again, she was spirited away by Anastasia and the Empress Helena. The successful culmination of the games also provided the prince Maxian—working behind the scenes and without his brother's knowledge—with victory over the rigid and inflexible structures of the Oath. The prince, setting aside his desire to destroy the ancient spell, instead ingratiated himself with the all-encompassing structure. By these means, he hoped to direct its power and free Rome slowly and subtly from its invisible master.
In the East, Alexandros raised a new army among the Gothic tribes and marched towards Constantinople. Before he could reach the Eastern capital, a monumental battle evolved before the gates of the embattled city. Western legions, Eastern troops and a contingent of Khazars under the command of the new kagan Dahvos attempted to break the Persian siege. Despite the awesomely destructive powers of the young firecaster Dwyrin MacDonald, they failed and the combined host of the Decapolis, Persia and the Avar khaganate drove the Romans from the field in disarray. In the ensuing confusion, Heraclius reclaimed his throne and prepared to lead a final defense of the Eastern capital. The end came in darkness. Dahak's infernal servants shattered the gates and an army of the risen dead stormed into the streets of the city. Dwyrin, exhausted in a fruitless attempt to stem the attack, was struck down. The Roman troops trapped in the city fled, evacuated under a burning sky by the Western fleet.
Even the sudden arrival of Prince Maxian and his brief alliance with the Cat-Eyed Queen are not enough to stem the tide of defeat. The prince and the surviving legions slink away, broken and battered. Persia and her allies stand triumphant, poised to invade the Roman heartland. After two thousand years, the Empire slides down to destruction...
CHAPTER ONE
Alexandria, Capital of Ptolemaic Egypt, Late Summer, 30 B.C.
Grimacing, the Queen turned away from a casement window, sleek dark hair framing her elegant neck and shoulders. Outside, the roar of shouting men filled the air. Beneath her slippers, the floor trembled with the crash of a ram against the tower doors. The room was very hot and close. Swirls of incense and smoke puddled near the ceiling. For a moment the Queen was silent, considering the array of servants kneeling around her husband's funeral bier.
'Antonius Antyllus,' she said, at last, as a fierce shout belled out from the courtyard below and the floor shook in response. 'You must take my son.'
The stocky Roman, clean-shaven face pinched in confusion, half turned towards the back of the room. At the Queen's arched eyebrow, a slim young man in a pleated kilt stepped forward. The boy was trembling, but he raised his head and met the Queen's eyes directly. Antyllus made a questioning motion with his hand, brow furrowed. 'Pharaoh, I cannot take him away from you... where will he go? Where would he be safe from your enemies?'
'Home,' the Queen said, stepping to a silk and linen-draped throne dominating the room. As she moved, her attendants drew a gown of shimmering black fabric from a chest. A blond handmaiden knelt and raised a headdress of gold and twin scepters. Beside her, a dusky maid bore a jeweled sun-disk, ornamented with an eight-rayed star in bronze. 'To your home, to Rome, as
Antyllus shifted his feet, unsure, but finally nodded in surrender. There was a huge crash from below and the drapes swayed. The legionary tried to summon a smile, but there was only bleak agreement in his fair, open face. 'Another cousin,' he said, looking upon the young man, 'among dozens of our riotous family...' His eyes shifted to the corpse on its marble bier and grief welled up in his face like water rising in a sluice. 'Father would wish this, my lady, so I will take your command, and his, to heart. Your son will find sanctuary in the bosom of my mother's family—they are a huge clan and filled with all sorts...'
'Go.' The Queen raised her chin, sharp sea-blue eyes meeting those of a man in desert robes, his lean, dark face half shrouded by a thin drape of muslin. 'Asan, you must take Antyllus and Caesarion to safety—a ship is waiting, at the edge of the delta. Will you do this thing, for me?'
The Arab bowed elegantly and stepped away into the shadows along the inner wall of the room. Antyllus did not look back at the Queen, boots ringing as he strode to the hidden door. Caesarion did, looking to his mother with bleak eyes. His youth seemed to fade, as he ducked though the opening, a weight settling on him, and the Queen knew the boisterous child, all glad smiles and laughter, was gone forever.
Voices boomed in the corridors of the tower and the shouting outside dwindled, replaced by the clashing of spears on shields. The Queen did not look out, for she was well used to the sight of Roman legionaries. Instead, she settled on the throne, long fingers plucking at the rich fabric of her gown. Narrowed eyes surveyed her servants and councilors, a meager remnant of the multitude who once clung to the hem of her glory.
'Get out,' she rasped, voice suddenly hoarse. Sitting so, facing the closed, barred door to the main hall, she could look upon the shrouded, still body of her last husband, laid out in state at the center of the chamber. 'All of you, out!' The Queen raised a hand imperiously, golden bracelets tinkling softly as they fell away from her wrist.
They fled, all save fair Charmian and dusky Iras. The Queen listened, hearing the tramp of booted feet in the hall, then the door—two thick valves of Tyrian cedar, bound with iron and gold and the sun-disk of Royal Egypt—shuddered. A voice, deep and commanding, shouted outside.
The Queen ignored the noise, leaning back, letting her maids fix the heavy headdress—a thick wreath of fine golden leaves around an eight-rayed disk—upon her brow and place hooked scepters in either hand. The doors began to boom as spear butts slammed against the panels. She closed her eyes, crossing delicate fingers upon her chest, then took a deep breath.
'I am ready to receive our conqueror,' she said quietly, looking sideways at the blond maid, who knelt, tears streaming down her face. 'Where is the god?'
Iras lifted a wicker basket from the floor, then removed the fluted top. Something hissed within, thrashing, bulging against the sides of the basket. The dusky maid grasped the viper swiftly, just behind the mottled, scaled head. The snake's jaws yawned, revealing a pink mouth and pale white fangs. Iras worked quickly, squeezing the poison sac behind the muscular jaw with deft fingers. A milky drop oozed out into her hand. A brief spasm of pain crossed the Nubian's impassive face as poison burned into her flesh, then the maid tilted her hand and the droplet spilled onto the Queen's extended tongue.
Kleopatra closed her mouth, clear blue eyes staring straight ahead. The door splintered. Ruddy torchlight leaked through, sparkling in clouds of dust puffing away from the panels with each blow. Then she closed her eyes, long lashes drooping over a fine powder of pearl and gold and amethyst. At her side, Iras broke the snake's back with a twist, and then dropped the creature onto the floor, where the serpent twitched and writhed for a long moment.
The two maids knelt, bowing one last time before their Queen, and then they too tasted the god's blessed milk and lay still, as if asleep, at her feet.
—|—
The ruined door swung wide and the legionaries stepped back, tanned faces flushed, the chin straps of their helmets dark with sweat. For a moment, as they looked into the dark room, no one spoke. There was only the harsh breathing of exhausted men. The centurion in charge of the detail glanced over his shoulder, a question plain in his sunburned face.
'Stand aside,' a quiet, measured voice said. 'There is nothing to fear.'
A young man, his hair a neat dark cap on a well-formed head, limped across the threshold. Like the soldiers crowding the hallway, he wore heavy banded mail, a red cloak, and leather boots strapped up to the knee. His sword was sheathed—indeed, the man claimed to have never drawn a blade in anger—and even on this day, he did not wear a helmet.
