The Dark Lord

grew brighter, but she fought back the tears and clear anger shone in her face instead. 'Men will do anything to wear the laurel crown, don the red boots, lift the white rod.'

'And women?' Helena looked so grief-stricken, disconsolate, her fingers digging into the child's arm. Galen felt his chest tighten again. 'What would you do?'

'I will kill,' Helena whispered, 'to protect my son and see he lives.'

The Emperor nodded, feeling a vast weight settle on his shoulders. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking refuge in soft darkness. 'Very well. I will speak to Maxian, when next time and circumstance permit privacy. If he wishes to marry Martina, I will approve and applaud, but only on the condition he and his forswear their Latin patrimony.'

Galen opened his eyes, brushing a hand over his son's thin hair. 'Then I will claim Theodosius—even though he is but a child—as my official heir. Maxian's sons, if he is blessed with any, will rule only the East, not the West.'

Helena made no response, pressing her lips to the boy's head. Galen watched her, waiting. A long time passed and then the Empress said in a hoarse, ghastly voice: 'We cannot cast the East aside? Or impress our own rule upon them? Send Martina into exile, blinded, tongue slit—her son rendered harmless?'

'No!' Galen shook himself, shocked. 'We are too weak and hard-pressed by Persia. I have no Legions spare to garrison the East, even if we could subdue the Eastern lords. If either Empire is to survive, we must fight together, in common accord.'

'Compromise,' Helena said, 'digs a shallow grave for more than one.'

'It is all we have.' Galen took his wife's hand, pressing her cold fingers to his cheek. 'My love, your son will live and he will grow strong. In time he will sit on my throne. You have my word. Maxian is my brother—and our friendship, our love, is strong. We disagree of late over tactics, not our family. What you fear will not come to pass. He is my brother!'

Helena's eyes were pooled darkness. 'So said Agamemnon as he drowned, throat crushed in Aegisthus' brawny hands. I do not fear Maxian, but his son, or his son's son.'

'Anything can happen, Helena! Such a dreadful path you see before us...'

'I watch your face while you sleep, husband,' she replied, face drowned in shadow, only the pale hair of the boy revealed by the lamps. 'Each day, your burden grows. These are dreadful times. Who is to say the future will be better?'

'I do.' Galen stood straighter. 'What other purpose do I have?' He gave Helena a sharp look. 'Now—I will do as you ask, but you must do your part as well, for amity and goodwill. Regardless of what else happens, you must make peace with Martina—she is your sister empress—and our ally. Neither slight nor stifle her, but make her your friend, if you can.'

Helena responded with a glare of her own, but Galen stood, waiting, until she—at last—nodded in agreement. He could tell she was not pleased and hid a sigh, knowing he would hear about this again, at length.

—|—

Bronze dolphin trumpets pealed, ringing bright and clear against the gilt satyrs and painted shepherdesses staring down from the domed ceilings. Quiet settled over the crowd, even near the banquet tables where the boards groaned under the weight of the Duchess' feast. A centurion, barrel-chested, throat like an oak root, stepped up onto a bench near the inner garden. 'Citizens, guests, officers! Our hostess commands you attend her in the garden and look upon the heavens above, filled with wonder and delight!'

Obediently, everyone began to file into the center of the villa. Maxian, looking very pleased with himself, pressed through the crowd in the opposite direction. In the short hall between the inner court and the outer garden, he found the Eastern Empress and Gaius Julius. The young woman's face was grave and the two were deep in conversation.

'Martina, excellent! Gaius, you too, come and see. The Duchess has commanded a performance and I have done a small bit to make it livelier than usual.' The prince was grinning.

'It's not a dancing bear, is it?' Martina looked sourly at the close, hot crowd filling the hallway. Everyone in front of her was markedly taller than the Empress. 'I don't like bears.'

'No, no,' Maxian said, taking her hand and Gaius' arm. 'Come through here.'

A drape slid aside at a wave of the prince's hand, starting the hackles on Gaius' neck to life, revealing a servant's corridor. A moment later Maxian pushed open a low ironbound door and they stooped through, finding themselves at the back of the garden, behind a bower of rowans and white-barked elms. The prince put a finger to his lips, urging silence, and the three slipped through a cluster of quiet servants to a staircase leading up into the kitchens.

'Stand here,' Maxian whispered, picking up Martina and setting her on the highest step. 'Watch the sky.'

Above the branches, framed by white pillars and terra-cotta eaves on three sides, the vault of heaven stood in bright array. The river of milk was a gossamer veil, here and there a star shining through. Martina shifted, her hand on Maxian's shoulder, and started to speak. 'What—'

The lamps suddenly died and the candles flickered out. Complete darkness filled the garden and the halls on either side. In the unexpected gloom someone squealed and there was muted laughter. Martina fell silent. Maxian put his hand over hers and she settled against him, arms on either shoulder.

A harp began to play, a light, shimmering sound. The low soft beat of one drum joined in, carrying the sound of the strings up and up, as if they rose to the glittering stars. Then a second drum, even deeper voiced than the first, woke to life. Maxian, still grinning in the dark, closed his left hand and mist rose. The drums rattled up, beat quickening, speeding like a runner on desert sands. Still darkness filled the courtyard and the halls of the house.

Just when the watching people below began to stir, impatient, there was a soft twang and fluting pipes skirled, drowning the steady drums for a moment. Above, three figures appeared against the night sky, softly glowing, arms outstretched. Two girls and a boy, bare skin shining silver, long-colored ribbons wound through their hair. They ran across the sky, bare feet keeping close to some invisible track. The boy darted ahead, ribbons snapping behind as a comet's tail sweeps across the vault of night. Halfway across the courtyard, he sprang up, cartwheeling forward. The two girls followed close, only paces behind, and three whirling comets—shining silver, matching the stars, blazing ribbon flashing against sable firmament—rushed away into the darkness.

A gasp followed from below, as the crowd remembered to breathe.

The drums beat down to silence, the pipes falling to a breathy whisper. Everyone grew quiet. Again, the faint shivering twang fell from the air. The eastern sky brightened, flooding with a golden glow. Trumpets sounded, blaring a grand ovation. A man's head appeared, bent under an enormous, burning orb. He was muscled like a god and walked slowly on the air, toes splayed on either side of a barely visible cable. The sun rode on his back, a spherical lattice of fiercely blazing rods. The man strode across the sky, the orb shedding a cool, brilliant light upon the upturned faces below.

Behind the sun, as the bent man reached the halfway point, suddenly rushed the moon.

A pale sphere, glimmering, bouncing upon a lithe woman's outstretched hands. She sped across the sky, faster than the slow sun, springing in long bounds—the cable catching her on each landing, then springing back, wire singing like a blade, propelling her skyward—and the disk brightened and waned as she passed the sun, even as Luna changes in her courses.

Again, the cold moon vanished into the west, into gathering mist. Old Sol stumped on.

Those watching below began to clap, then fell silent. The burning sun guttered down, growing dim, radiance failing, leaving only a dim spark at the center of the lattice rods. The powerfully muscled man stopped, swaying slowly back and forth, shoulders slumped in weariness, his outstretched arms making small adjustments to keep in balance. Maxian heard a hiss of dismay from the crowd and Martina's fingers dug into his shoulders. He lifted his hands, palms towards the sky, and the mist responded, billowing out to swallow the sun. Now the west brightened, but this time with a sullen red glow. Sparks shot up from the rooftop, accompanied by a chaotic, rattling clamor of drums and tambourines and pipes. Burning motes streaked heavenward.

Everyone in the house groaned and at least one man cried out in rage.

The distinctive shape of Vesuvius appeared, outlined in flame, rising over the roof. The drums roared, a