The Dark Lord

help him either. He's like a god...' Martina broke into soft verse, some old words that she remembered from stories of her childhood. '...down from the mountain's rocky crags, Poseidon stormed with giant, lightning strides —and looming peaks and tall timber quaked, beneath immortal feet as the sea lord surged...'

Oh, my, a poetess, Gaius thought, riding hard on his expression, keeping it kind and just a little distant. What vistas unfold now! 'Empress, Maxian is not a god. He is not the lord of earthquakes. He is a young man carrying an enormous burden. Now, if I remember correctly, you are a historian?'

'I was.' The Empress pouted a little, which made her round cheeks blush. 'All of my books, my writing, everything was destroyed. Why does that matter?'

'I assure you,' Gaius said, entirely truthfully, 'the libraries of Rome are without equal. Consider the prince's dilemma now—he must find a way to defeat this Persian mage—and he is only one man. I have dabbled a little in history myself—written a few small dissertations on obscure subjects—but he will need to delve into all that we know of Persia and the east, seeking to find some clue to the provenance of this enemy. Is our foe wholly new? Have the Persians raised such a power before? How can it be stopped? You can help him.'

'I suppose.' Martina shrank back a little. 'But he's so busy all the time...'

'There is a great deal of work to be done.' Gaius beamed. 'He'll be very glad of your wise assistance. Just... let him know. He's really a very approachable young man.'

Martina bit her lip, dithering, but Gaius stepped away, barely restraining a grin. He hoped the prince would have the wit to be nice to the girl.

So straight flies Cupid's arrow, he thought smugly. Alexandros will be pleased to rule green Macedon again.

—|—

'My lord?' Anastasia hurried, one fine-boned hand holding up her skirts. The Emperor turned to face her, his expression distant. At his sign, the Praetorians parted, allowing the Duchess into a circle of iron-armored chests and flowing red cloaks. 'May I have a moment? There is something you need to know.'

One of Galen's eyebrows rose and the weariness hiding behind his mask-like expression was plain. 'What is it?'

Anastasia brushed dark, glossy curls out of her face as she looked back over one shoulder. The others were still in the meeting room, leaving the corridor empty. 'Lord and God, may we speak in private?' She indicated an alcove, flanked by towering marble gladiators and potted palms.

'Do you have a knife?' Galen cocked his head to one side.

The Duchess recoiled slightly at the suggestion, a hand rising to cover her breast. 'No!'

Galen's lips twitched into a half-smile. 'Imperial humor, my lady. Very well.'

The Praetorians parted again, shifting into a line blocking the alcove from the rest of the corridor. The Emperor leaned against a wall, fine, thin hair hanging limply over his brow and crossed his arms, staring morbidly at the Duchess. 'Another plot?' he asked in a resigned tone.

'No, my lord,' Anastasia said, suddenly reluctant to continue. The impulse to speak was fading as quickly as it had sprung into being. Now she felt a little foolish. 'Do you remember the accusations I made last year, against the prince?'

Galen leaned forward a little, trying to catch her soft voice. Anastasia cursed her recklessness. Too late now... 'When I accused your brother of trafficking with spirits, with raising the dead to do his bidding?'

'Yes.' The Emperor motioned for her to continue.

'Master Gaius Julius, to whom you entrust so much,' she said, keeping her voice low, 'is one of his... experiments.'

Galen's head rose in surprise, and both eyebrows crept up under his bangs. 'He is?'

'Yes, Master Gaius is... my lord, he is Gaius Julius Caesar, formerly dictator of Rome.'

'What?' Galen laughed aloud, thin shoulders shaking. His face split into a wide grin and he stood up straight. 'The famous... the Caesar?' He laughed again, his face brightening, exhaustion shedding from him like leaves from fall trees. 'Really? It's really him?'

'Yes,' Anastasia answered dubiously, drawing away from the Emperor.

'That is marvelous!' Galen looked down the hallway. The man in question was standing in the doorway of their meeting room, talking affably with Empress Martina. 'The scholar? The playwright? No wonder he has such a flair for the games!' The Emperor rubbed his chin, still grinning. 'How delightful!'

'My lord!' Anastasia was alarmed and dared place her hand on his arm. 'This is Julius Caesar we are taking about! A man who never once in his life set aside the pursuit of power, of the throne, or all the power he could gather into his own hands! Do you realize he will take Gregorius Auricus' place in the Senate, if you do not take immediate steps to prevent him? He will plot, bribe, inveigle, scheme and spy until his power rivals your own!'

Galen nodded, still smiling, but now his expression shaded into something like melancholy. 'I know. You know...' He paused, tugging at his lip. 'He has seemed so familiar for so long, I'm amazed I didn't grasp the fact myself. But who would think to see the dead live again? This is an age of wonders...'

'My lord!' Anastasia hissed in alarm. 'He is not a curiosity to be displayed at a garden party!'

'I know.' Galen was unaccountably sad. His good humor vanished, leaving a bleak expression. 'But Duchess, he is a fine poet, a playwright of repute, a cunning statesman, a fine administrator, even a beloved and victorious general. He was the best of us.'

'And the worst!' Anastasia tilted her head, trying to catch Galen's eye. Grief crept into the Emperor's face, and the Duchess was startled to see his eyes shining with incipient tears.

'And the worst...' Galen mastered himself, blinking. 'How can such a man be trusted, once he tasted a heady Imperial vintage? He should be imprisoned or strangled. Certainly not left to run riot in the Senate, or walk the streets speaking with whom he chooses. Not left free to serve the State, or to pen witticisms in his spare time, or write histories, or... do anything the things I would love to see spring from his mind and hand.' The Emperor shook his head.

Anastasia cursed herself—why tell Galen this now? She could have just seen to the quiet, discreet removal of the dead man. Then all this would be moot and a viper plucked from the bosom of the Empire. She felt a creeping sense of dread, as if she had unwittingly made a terrible mistake. 'My lord...'

Galen covered her hand with his own, shaking his head. Melancholy distilled in his eyes. His brief joy was gone. 'You did the right thing, Anastasia. I will decide what to do with the esteemed Gaius Julius. That, if nothing else, is my duty.'

—|—

'Um... Prince Maxian?'

A soft, tentative voice penetrated the prince's thoughts and he made a brushing motion near his ear. Faint whispering faded away and he looked up into the leaf-colored eyes of a worried young woman. Her hair was elaborately coifed and curled, sparkling with tiny golden pins. A heavy embroidered stole lay over white shoulders, gleaming with pearls and Indian rubies.

'Hello, Martina,' Maxian said. He became aware of sitting in a chair. The ghosts in the room dissolved bit by bit, slowly disintegrating until their translucent bodies shone like glass and then were entirely gone. The marble walls and painted ceilings reasserted themselves and the prince found himself alone with the young Empress. 'Is something wrong?'

Martina looked poorly with circles under her eyes and a sallow complexion to her round face. 'Have you fallen ill?' The prince took her hand and was surprised at how cold she felt. He frowned, concentrating. 'No... your humors are in balance... but you must sleep more. You're tired.'

'Oh.' Martina sat down abruptly, her eyes wide. 'I felt that!'

'Yes.' Maxian smiled, 'sometimes you can feel the power as it passes through you. Was it unpleasant?'

'Oh no,' she said, blushing furiously. 'I didn't mind.'

'Good. How is your son?'

'He's well,' Martina said, staring at the floor.