The Dark Lord

Gaius Octavius, defender of the Republic of Rome, the victor—now, today, in this singular moment—the master of Rome and Egypt, looked down upon his last enemy with a pensive face. Nostrils flared, catching the brittle smell of urine and blood, and he nudged one of the slaves sprawled below the throne with the tip of his boot. The girl's flesh was already growing cold.

For a moment, standing over the body of the Queen, the young man considered calling his physicians, or discovering if any Psyllian adepts were in the city. But then he saw the woman's cheeks turning slowly blue and knew he had been denied a great prize.

'Khamun,' Octavian said in a conversational voice, 'come here.'

There was movement in the doorway and without turning the Roman knew the frail, spidery shape of the Egyptian sorcerer knelt behind him, long white beard trailing on the mosaic floor. No one else entered the room.

'Royal Egypt is dead.' Octavian stepped up to the throne itself, one foot dragging slightly. 'She is beyond us, her flesh so swiftly cold, joining her Dionysus in death...' Octavian barely spared a glance for the dead man in the center of the room. He was already quite familiar with the strong, handsome features—he had no need to look upon them ever again. 'Your gift to me, as you have so often called it, has vanished like dew.' Octavian turned, one eyebrow rising, his eyes cold. 'Has it not?'

Khamun bent his head to the floor. 'Yes, my lord. Alive, alive she...'

Octavian turned away, back to the dead Queen, who sat upon her throne in the very semblance of life, save for the patent stillness of her breast and the inexplicable failure of the vibrant energy, wit and incandescent charm that marked her in life. The Roman bowed to the dead woman, acknowledging the end of their game. 'Pharaoh is dead, Khamun. But I am content. I will rule Egypt, even if I may not possess her.'

The sorcerer nodded, though he did not look up. Octavian looked to the doorway, where his soldiers were waiting, afraid to enter. 'Scarus—find those servants who remain and bring them to me. They have unfinished business to attend.'

—|—

'Here is your queen,' Octavian said, standing on the top step of the dais. He looked down upon a clutch of Egyptians the legionaries had dragged from the tower rooms. Others would have escaped, he was sure, but these slaves knew their mistress well. 'She has joined her husband and sits among the gods. Look upon her and know Rome did not stoop to murder.'

The servants, faces streaked with tears, looked up, then bent their heads again to the floor. Octavian stepped down, careful to lead with his good foot. A wreath of golden laurels crowned him, and his stained soldier's cloak had been replaced with a supple white robe, edged with maroon. The lamps were lit, joining the fading sunlight in illuminating the death chamber. Both maids had been carried away, but the man and the woman remained, each in their chosen place.

'Has a tomb been prepared for your mistress?' Octavian's voice rose, for more Egyptians stood outside, in the hall, the late Queen's ministers and councilors among them. 'A place of honor for her and for her Dionysus?'

One of the slaves, a broad-shouldered man with a shaggy mane of blue-black hair, looked up. His limbs gleamed with sweat, as if he had run a great distance, and he spread his hands, indicating the room. 'Yes, great lord, this tower is her chosen tomb.'

The Roman pursed his lips and looked out through the tall window, across the rooftops of the houses and temples of Alexandria. Even here, within this great edifice, he could feel the mournful chanting of the crowds, the restless surge of the city. Alexandria was a live thing, filled with furious, fickle energy. Octavian swallowed a smile, acknowledging the Queen's foresight. Let you sleep within the walls of your beloved Alexandria? That will not do!

'This place will not suffice,' he said, looking down upon the slave. 'You must take her away—far away—into the desert. Prepare there a hidden tomb, safe from the eyes of men, where these two may lie in peace for all time. Let them have each other in death, for eternity, for their time together on earth was so short.'

Many of the slaves looked up in wonder and Octavian saw the black-maned man's eyes narrow in suspicion. The young Roman raised a hand, stilling their questions. 'Rome does not wish to know where you place her—nor should you tell another, for tomb-robbers will dream of Kleopatra's treasure with lust. Take her far from the dwellings of man. Let her find peace.'

Octavian turned away, looking out upon the city again, and he waited, patient and still, until the slaves and servants bore away the two corpses. Then he smiled and laughed aloud, for he was alone. Fools! Let Rome be magnanimous in victory—it costs nothing—and the witch-queen will be well hidden, far from the thoughts and dreams of men.

—|—

Drums boomed, a long rolling sound drowning the constant chatter of the crowds, and a pair of bronze horns shrilled as Octavian dismounted from his horse onto the gleaming marble steps of the Mausoleum. Three ranks of legionaries stood between him and the crowd, the men sweating silently in their heavy armor and silvered helmets. The young Roman raised his hand in salute to the crowd and to the city fathers, who crowded onto the edges of the steps like buskers at the races.

Without a word, he turned and took his time climbing the ramp. The drums continued to beat, slowly, in time with his pace. Their heavy sound made the midday heat fiercer, the polished sandstone and marble buildings reflecting the full weight of the sun upon the street. When Octavian disappeared into the shadowed entrance, the horns shrilled once and then drum and bucina alike fell silent.

Inside, in blessed cool gloom, a bevy of priests and Khamun's spear-thin shape were waiting. Despite the fierce protests of the clergy, legionaries with bared weapons stood in the shadows, their eyes glittering in the poor light, watching their commander walk past, into the center of the tomb.

An opening had been broken in one wall, leaving plaster and brick scattered on the floor. The wall had been painted with a colorful mural—all gold and red and azure—showing a mighty king in battle, throwing down his enemies. A gilded sarcophagus lay on the floor, gleaming in the light of lanterns and a dim blue radiance from windows beneath the roof. Octavian frowned, turning towards the Egyptian wizard. 'I thought the Conqueror was entombed in solid gold.'

Khamun bowed, wrinkled face creased by a sly smile. 'My lord, one of the later Ptolemies found himself short of coin—he had the body removed, the coffin melted down, and the god's corpse placed in crystal instead.'

The Roman snorted in amusement, then knelt by the head of the sarcophagus. A sheet of heavy glass covered the top of the coffin, allowing a distorted, milky view of the body within. Octavian grunted a little, running his fingers over the surface of the lid. The glass was of exceptional quality, with few bubbles or distorts. He raised his head and gestured to the legionaries biding in the shadows. 'Bring levers and my grave gift.'

The priests in the hall stiffened as two burly legionaries stepped up to the sarcophagus, iron pry bars in muscular hands. Octavian ignored the Egyptians and their half-choked cries of protest. 'Open it up, lads, but carefully—I want nothing broken.'

The two Roman soldiers grinned, but slid the pry bars under the glass with practiced ease and—after a moment's effort—popped the lid free. Grunting, they managed to get the cover loose and placed aside on the ground. Another man—one of Octavian's aides—opened a box of enameled pine. The smell of freshly cut flowers and incense rose from within.

Octavian knelt again, leaning beside the coffin, staring down at ancient, withered features. The man within—in his breathing life—had been of middling height, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. Now all of his body save the face was carefully wrapped in layers of fabric and even now, after hundreds of years in the tomb, embalming spices and unguents tickled Octavian's nose. Curly hair lay matted against the skull, and the eyes were closed, as if the man was merely asleep. The young Roman frowned, reaching out with a questioning hand, then withdrawing before he touched the ancient flesh.

Carefully! He reminded himself, he's old and fragile—wouldn't do for the great Alexander to lose his nose from your clumsy touch!

'Curious... he looks nothing like my adoptive father.' Octavian's voice was sad.

The old Egyptian, Khamun, raised an eyebrow in question. Octavian did not turn, but straightened up, remaining on his knees. 'My adoptive father, Julius Caesar, believed himself the reborn spirit of Alexander.' The