The Dark Lord

'Ah,' he said, spying a lengthy request for tax relief. 'The letter from Britain! Excellent.' He was reaching for the top sheet when he heard a soft tapping at the door.

Gaius rose, motions smooth and assured. A long knife, mirror-edged, ostensibly for cutting quills, was conveniently placed at the end of the table. His gnarled fingers slid around the hilt, feeling welcome heft in his hand. 'Enter,' he called.

It was very late at night, past the third watch. Only a few lamps burned in his rooms, their thin smoke coiling away towards the ceiling. Very few men would be out on the streets at this hour. Even the inns and drinking shops were closed. By now, even the bordellos would be slowing down, the customers steeped in wine, exhausted, paying an extra denarius for the overnight.

The door opened and a thin, stooped figure entered, heavily cowled in a long robe. Expensive sandals peeked out from the bottom. Gaius set the knife down and turned away to a cupboard set against the wall. 'Hello, Master Temrys. Would you like some wine? Or something stronger?'

Gaius' cheerful tone was met with a hiss as the man slumped into a chair. Gaius turned back, eyebrow raised, a pair of cups in one hand, and a dark blue glass bottle in the other. 'Here's something from India, recently washed up in the Mercantile arcade... soma, I believe.'

The visitor, his face already red with drink, stared at Gaius with open loathing. The man was well dressed under the heavy cloak and hood, his pockmarked face habitually sullen. 'I heard something interesting today,' he said.

'Of course.' Gaius sat, the blue bottle on the table between them. Temrys' eyes flicked to the bottle, then away again. The old Roman smiled in a genial way. 'Do you need some spending money? I can loan you as much as you'd like... no need to barter.'

'This isn't about spending money,' the Greek said, lips twisting into a sallow grin. Gaius Julius' eyes narrowed. The man was not drunk with despair. He actually seemed happy. That was very disturbing. The Palace chamberlain was notorious for his poor humor. Delight would require something particularly foul.

'What then?' Gaius affected disinterest, uncorking the bottle. A pungent, harsh odor wafted out. The old Roman poured a finger's worth of shining golden liquid into each cup. 'Come now, tell! You're bursting to share, I see. It must be quite the most interesting thing I'll hear all day.'

'It is,' Temrys said, clasping his hands together under the tabletop. He blinked furiously. 'A notice of audit came across my desk today, all wrapped in Tyrian twine, stamped and double-stamped with the Emperor's signet.'

'Really?' Gaius Julius felt a little tickle. Something bad was in the offing. 'Who is the lucky fellow?'

'To audit?' Temrys said, grinning, the tight flesh on his scalp wrinkling up, lips drawing back from yellowed teeth. 'Or to be audited?'

The old Roman watched him over the lip of the cup. Golden fluid burned against his lips, but he knew better than to drink. Even the dead would find this vintage rough. 'Either,' he replied. 'Does it matter?'

'There was a will attached,' the chamberlain said, wiping his mouth. The cup in front of him shimmered in the light of the lamps. 'It was a senator's will. It had been denied. By the Emperor himself.'

Gaius set down his cup, looking sharply at his night visitor. 'I see.'

'Yes,' Temrys said, picking up the cup. 'I expect you do. Your name appeared in the will. But, strangely, your name was not on the auditing request. Now, why would that be?'

'I don't understand,' Gaius said, thinking furiously. What happened? How could the Emperor deny his brother... oh, curse that fool child! He's been arguing about the war again! And those stupid telecasts... Galen slaps him on the wrist, reminding the boy who is Emperor. The old Roman sighed. 'I suppose the estate managers are being audited directly, one by one.' A process that might take years... while casting no overt blame on dear little brother, or myself. Very nice.

'Oh yes,' the chamberlain said, still grinning. He tipped the cup to his lips, then paused. 'The estate of the late Senator Gregorius Auricus, of course, has been directly expropriated to the Imperial Household. I hear the Emperor was not pleased to see it go to his brother, who has other, more pressing, matters to attend to. Why burden our wise custos with matters of farm and field, of harvests and commerce?'

Gaius choked back a vulgar word. He felt his stomach churn, then settle. My loans... everything I planned... wrecked! Damn that boy, damn him!

'I thought you'd find this interesting,' Temrys said, gloating, his throat pulsing with soma rush. His eyes dilated and he slumped back in his chair. 'Very... interesting...'

Gaius Julius rose, looming over the chamberlain. The man was snoring already, struck numb by the powerful liqueur. He looked at the knife, gleaming in the lamplight, then shook his head. 'No... that would be petty.' The old Roman sighed, lips quirking into a wry smile. 'And I am not petty. I forgive and I forget. Always.' Gently, he lifted the chamberlain under the arms and carried him to the bed. Brown woolen covers covered him and Gaius peeled back an eyelid to make sure the man was still alive. He was.

'Well.' Gaius Julius sat down again, picking up the letter from Britain. 'Tax relief. Huh! I think not! We are all in dire straits, I think.' He began penning a response, the quill scratching over smooth parchment in a clean, strong, swift hand.

The old Roman spent only the least thought on the letter; no was simple enough to relate. Instead, his thoughts worried and fretted about the damage the prince's recalcitrance had done to the delicate fabric of loans and bribes and gifts he had spun from the gold represented in Gregorius' estates. Well, there's no more money for Alexandros army, then, and the end of those plays and feasts I planned... stupid, stupid prince!

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Sinai, Near Pelusium

Wind kicked out of the south, throwing fine sheets of dust across the dune. Three figures paced along the crest of a long, wind-compacted ridge, desert cloaks ruffling around their legs. To their right, to the east, complete darkness lay on the land. The moon had not risen and there was nothing to break the mantle of night; no habitation, no campfire, not even the glint of a traveler's lantern. To the west, though, long twisting lines of lights burned in the night. Hundreds of torches and dozens of bonfires gleamed and flickered. Even at this late hour, there was a murmur in the air, the distant echo of hammers, mattocks, braying mules and shouting men.

'Do they sleep?' Shahr-Baraz stopped, boot toes on the lip of the dune, darkness below, only the bare light of the stars and far-off lanterns on his face. Sand spilled away, making a soft ssssshh sound. The King of Kings drew back a length of cloth covering his face. 'They must sleep by turns... passing tools from hand to hand. Some will never see daylight, not with the exhausted rest they earn from such labor. Sorcerer, what do your secret eyes behold, in the camps of the enemy?'

The second figure was already watching the night, lean head turned to the west. In the darkness, a pale witch-light crept across his skin—invisible by daylight—heightening the cadaverous planes of his face and skull.

'I see a hive of bees,' Dahak whispered, 'swarming around a fat queen. Busy, always busy, coming and going, building, digging, setting stone and wood, bending the earth to their will...'

'What are their numbers?' Shahr-Baraz pulled back the cowl, letting cold night air play in his hair. 'How many Legions? Who is their master? How deep and wide is this wall of stone?'

The sorcerer hissed, displeased, and he looked at the King of Kings in anger. 'You have eyes,' he snapped. 'Look for yourself!'

'I have,' the shahanshah said, hooking both thumbs in his belt. The broad leather strap was heavy with scabbards and sheaths. A plain-hilted sword, two daggers and a mace hung against flat thighs. The king did not go unarmed into the desert night. 'My scouts cannot see beyond the Roman lines—you can. Will you answer my questions?'

'I could,' Dahak said, his full attention focused on the king. The air grew colder, the faint light around the sorcerer stronger. 'Yet my attention is on many things... some are far away. Isn't your army strong enough?' A thin finger jabbed out at the lights in the west. 'Do you need my help to pass this barrier?'

Shahr-Baraz frowned, a glint of anger in his eyes for the first time. 'Our backs are to the desert, our enemies entrenched behind a wall of stone and earth the height of a goodly building. We must ship water from