The Dark Lord

kitchen, platters of spiced eggs balanced in either hand, weaving through a thick crowd of citizens and freedmen. The guests were lively, talking loudly, drinking heavily, taking full advantage of the liberal feast provided by the Duchess. The girl turned sideways, up on tiptoe, and slid between the enormous bulk of a grain merchant, his coterie of henna-haired 'nieces' and a cluster of grim-faced Legion officers. The soldiers were drinking heavily, sitting glum and quiet on benches lining the colonnade around the heart of the villa.

The maid breezed past, through columns glowing with copper Hispanian lamps and strings of cut glass and down into the garden. The arbor was heavy with lanterns and the wooden bridge crossing the stream was lit from below with the flickering glow of dozens of candle boats. Even with the evening well advanced, the center of the house was filled with laughter and light. Despite the festive atmosphere, Anastasia was content to stand in the shadow of rowan trees hanging over the garden's edge; pale, perfect face stippled with distant lamplight, watching the ebb and flow of her guests. Her invitations—each hand delivered by a phalanx of slaves—had incited a huge response. The porters and door guards had been turning away eager guests at the morning meal, and by noon the front gates were closed and barred against an expectant crowd. Eager guests flooded into the house at the earliest opportunity—even before the bakers and cooks finished the first course of the evening-long dinner. Anastasia allowed herself a small smile—she may have been in mourning a long time, but she remembered how to entertain and Rome's fickle social memory had not yet forgotten her.

Today, I am novelty! she thought. Tomorrow? Day-old bread, a copper a loaf.

Rising voices in the great hall, eager, nervous and excited caught her ear. The Emperor? Anastasia checked her hair—flowing loose, in dark, glossy waves, only barely restrained by threads of pearl and gold—then her gown and stole. The dress was new and modest, as befitted such troubled times. Still, the slick fabric clung eagerly to her breasts and flowed over hip and thigh in a cascade of ultramarine Chin silk. The spark in men's eyes was reward enough, even if she felt positively demure.

Across the garden, a crowd of people in the main hall parted, some bowing. Anastasia's violet eyes narrowed and then she frowned. Not the Emperor. He's being fashionably late. She was disappointed. The so-current prince, and his... The Duchess scowled... consort? Companion? Private secretary?

Maxian entered, properly attired in a formal toga and tunic, only the traditional bare feet of the custos magicum departing from a patrician's ideal. Martina, hanging on his arm, hip pressed to his side, had not been limited by such social constraints. The Eastern Empress' usually plain brown hair was tightly curled and ornamented with brilliant jewels. Martina's gold-laced gown, silky transparent drape, her shoes—everything bespoke wealth and power. The Duchess grimaced, noting the possessive hand—studded with golden bracelets and glittering jewels—wrapped around Maxian's arm. The girl smiled brilliantly, and Anastasia's eyes narrowed. Bleached teeth? Where did she find a wizard to—where else? Ah, child—what am I to do with you?

Biting her thumb in annoyance, the Duchess strode out of the shadows and paused for a heartbeat at the top of the stairs. Not one head turned toward her. Everyone in the garden was focused on the prince and upon his too-brilliant companion. Schooling her face to genteel welcome, Anastasia descended to the grassy sward, the fingers of her left hand touching the edge of her scooped neckline.

'Lord Prince Maxian,' she purred, gliding through the crowd of senators and their wives clogging the entrance to the main hall. 'My lady, Empress Martina, welcome to my house.' Anastasia caught the prince's eye, smiled warmly, then turned to the younger woman and bowed gracefully, taking her hand in greeting.

'Empress,' she said, turning away from the prince and leading Martina forward, out of the clutch of sycophants crowding the girl, to the edge of the marble steps. 'I hope my garden pleases you.'

Martina answered her smile with a faint grimace of her own and Anastasia felt a sharp moment of satisfaction, seeing ill-disguised fear hiding behind the girl's kohl-ornamented eyes and lead-white face powders. 'It's... beautiful,' the Empress managed, trying to turn back, looking for Maxian. 'The lamps are very pretty.'

'They are,' Anastasia said, squeezing Martina's hand and descending the steps. The Empress, unwilling to cast off her hostess' hand, followed. 'Have you seen my stream before? A cistern above the house lets it flow and the water is recaptured below by a clever siphon.' Anastasia leaned close to Martina as she spoke, as if they shared a confidence during temple services. Still unwilling to protest, though looking more and more startled with each moment, Martina found herself beside the stream, candlelight shining on her face.

Anastasia spared a sideways glance behind her and was pleased to see the prince entirely surrounded by a thick crowd of well-wishers and men in search of Imperial favor. Good, she thought, I've a few moments, then.

'The boats are very beautiful,' Martina said, her fancy caught by the tiny manikins of boatmen and ladies placed around the paper cones holding the candles. Caught in the slow current of the stream, the little craft were slowly bumping and whirling as they passed down the stream. 'What happens when they go out of the garden?'

'Shhh...' Anastasia bent close, finger to plum-colored lips, eyes twinkling. 'We mustn't speak of such things or the illusion will be spoiled.' Martina answered with her own faint smile. The Duchess squeezed her hand again, radiating warmth, the tilt of her head inviting secret confidence. 'I hope you enjoy the party,' she said softly. 'I know you must be dying to dance or hear the musicians or do anything but toil through dusty scrolls...'

'You've no idea!' Martina said, surprised and pleased. For the first time, her face opened, losing the frightened mask. 'Maxian is a dear—but he'll work until everyone is dead without notice or a care! I have to speak quite forcefully to him, sometimes.'

'Good,' Anastasia said in an approving voice. 'Some young men need guidance or they'll ignore the house while it burns.' She gestured to one of the maids, politely lurking just out of earshot. The girl hurried over with a pair of fluted, delicate glasses, half-filled with a sparkling golden draught. 'Here, my dear,' Anastasia said, deftly taking both glasses. 'Try this—it will make you forget your cares! It's from Gaul.'

Martina drank from hers, both small hands on the glass. She tasted, her nose wrinkled up, she sneezed, and then she laughed. 'Oh dear! It has bubbles!' Embarrassed, the Empress covered her mouth.

'It does,' Anastasia said, taking a sip. The liquor was sweet and sharp on her tongue. 'There is a temple of Dionysos in Gallica Belgica, where the vines are blessed and the wine light and delightful. My late husband owned some shares...' She raised the glass, tipping it against Martina's in a toast. '...and I have reaped the bounty of his investment for many years.' The Duchess smiled again, leaning close to Martina. 'But I do not share it with just anyone.'

Martina smiled back, eyes twinkling. 'Well, thank you for your confidence, Duchess. I am glad to be out of hot foundry rooms and in clean, breathable air!'

Anastasia was about to reply when a peal of bronze-throated trumpets sounded, ringing back from the high, curved ceiling with a martial blast. Everyone froze, silent expectation settling over the crowd, then all turned as one. A brace of Praetorians, breastplates gleaming silver in the lamps, appeared in the main hall. The mob of senators and merchants and Legion officers parted.

Drat! fumed the Duchess, catching sight of Martina's open, happy face closing up, becoming suspicious and mask-like. Just another few minutes and we'd have been best friends...

The Emperor appeared at the top of the steps, his son settled on one hip, his wife's hand raised shoulder height in his own. He was clad in pure white linen, a circlet of golden holly imprisoning his habitually lank hair and dark red boots. Beside him, the Empress of the West was appropriately subdued, in a dark, velvety brown, highlighted with old red gold at her neck, wrists and around her thin waist.

'The Augustus and God,' bawled one of the Praetorians, his voice booming through the garden, 'Galen Atreus, Emperor of the West, Protector of the East! The noble Empress, Helena, and their son and heir, Theodosius!'

The trumpets pealed again, echoes ringing through the halls, then falling away into silence. Galen, looking down into the garden, saw Anastasia and smiled, inclining his head. The Duchess knelt in response, making a flourish. Out of the corner of her eye, Anastasia saw Martina twitch nervously, then make a polite half-bow.

'Lord and God,' the Duchess called, her clear voice cutting through quiet air. 'We are graced and honored by your presence.' Capturing Martina's hand again, she ascended the steps, taking care to match her pace to