The Dark Lord (100 page)

"Cranes," Shahr-Baraz said. "The first to head south for the mountains of Axum and Ethiop. Soon, there will be thousands upon thousands. The seasons turn, lad, regardless of what we do."

"Yes," Khalid said, finding no solace in the sight of the glossy, white creatures. "I suppose."

Shahr-Baraz tossed his head, letting heavy black curls shot with gray fall over his shoulder. "Your mood will lift, I think. See—here is a man whose ugly face will cheer you." The king pointed down the steps with his chin.

Khalid turned and saw a tall Persian climbing the stairs, armor gray under tattered desert robes, solemn face creased by the smallest possible smile. "Patik!" Khalid stepped forward, clasping forearms with the big Persian soldier. "Or Prince Shahin, I suppose I should say."

"Patik is better," the
diquan
replied, crushing the Arab's arm with a powerful grip. "The Serpent Lord is no longer pleased with the great prince Suren-Pahlavi."

"What happened?" Khalid looked to the king in alarm and found the Boar nodding in dour agreement.

"I failed to find our sorcerer his ancient trinket." Patik rubbed his neck. "Though I believe I caught a glimpse of the cursed thing once, at distance."

"Too bad," Khalid said, trying not to grin in delight to find his old friend still alive. "What about your men?"

Patik shook his head dolefully. The young Arab sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Another failed hunt," Patik said, bowing politely to Shahr-Baraz. "Your pardon, Great Lord."

The greeting drew a sharp bark of laughter from the king. Shahin's new sense of humility was far preferable to his old hauteur, which had only gained him contempt. "You look well, Shahin, and I am glad you live, though I begrudge even the deaths of your flea-bitten desert jackals. Particularly in Rustam's service."

"Thank you, my lord." Patik looked out at the fleet. "The Queen sent me to find you. She says everything is in readiness, waiting only upon the wind and tide."

Shahr-Baraz stepped away from the wall, settling the leather harness and straps holding his diverse weapons. Swords, maces and dagger clanked against each other. The king squinted at the eastern sky, then to the south. "The fishermen say there will be a morning breeze as this dust cloud turns and we will make good headway out of the harbor." He looked to the west, his expression hardening. "And we shall see the mountains of Sicilia in a week, or ten days at the most."

"Mistress, you must wake up!" A small, firm hand gripped Anastasia's shoulder and a flare of candlelight fell across her sleepy face. The Duchess blinked, recognized alarm in the girl's voice and struggled to clear her mind of sleep. Yawning, she sat up, throwing back a light sheet. She had slept poorly—the night was too warm for comfort.

"What has happened?"

Constantia ducked her head nervously, a candle bobbing in one small hand, the other holding back gauzy netting draped around the couch. The maid was half-dressed in her nightgown and the sleeping porch was entirely dark. Anastasia made a face, seeing the waning moon high in the sky.
What time is it?

"One of your watchers came to the garden gate," Constantia said, words tumbling over one another in a rush. "The Praetorians have marched out of their camp without horns or trumpets, weapons muffled in cloth, cloaks drawn over their faces."

The Duchess came entirely awake, the fog of sleep blown away. The cantonment of the Imperial Guard was on the northern edge of the city. No more than two hours march from the Forum. "What about the Urban Cohorts?"

Constantia licked pale, pink lips. "Another runner came—the Urban Prefect sent his men home last night, their barracks are locked and deserted."

"Oh, black day," Anastasia grunted, rising from the couch. "Get me clothing—quickly now, child! And boots, not slippers. And a watchman's lantern. Maxentia!" The Duchess' clear voice rang through the pillars and halls. "Where are you?"

Without waiting for her maids, Anastasia hurried across an octagonal gazebo redolent with orange blossoms and into the villa itself. By the time she reached her winter bedroom, both girls had returned and the cook stuck her head in one of the doors, holding a lantern high.

"Good," the Duchess said, seeing the older woman. "There will be trouble in the city today," she said briskly, "and perhaps riots. Mallia, everyone must get out of the house before the sun rises—scatter the slaves to our farms, and everyone else should go stay with their relatives. Everyone should discard any token of service to this house, or to the Archer! Constantia, where is my purse?"

The maid pressed a heavy leather bag lined with silk into Anastasia's hands. She considered the weight of metal, wondering how badly things would go. "Maxentia, dress for travel and take one of the horses down to Ostia port before the city gates are closed to all traffic—which will be soon! Tell my agent in the port to close his shop and warn off any of our ships making landfall. Anyone in port should go to... to..." She scowled, failing to think of a safe harbor. "...to safety!"

The Duchess sat, tying back a cloud of unruly hair, her legs sticking straight out. Constantia buckled riding boots onto her mistress' small feet. Anastasia glared at the cook and the other maid. "Go! Now! There is no time to waste. Not today."

Wiggling her feet into the boots, the Duchess nodded. "Good enough. Now, Constantia, there are many papers in my study and I have to leave immediately. You must take everything marked with blue twine away to the house on the Ianiculan Hill—I will meet you there later—and all other correspondence must be burned and the ashes sifted. In particular, you must destroy
all
of the pay records. Do you understand?"

The girl swallowed nervously, but nodded. Anastasia fixed her with a steady glare, plush lips tightening in consideration.
Will she do this properly? I hope so. There's not time for a more thorough evacuation... and Betia is not here. Curse the snip of a girl for haring off on some useless adventure!

"I will be back later," the Duchess said, waving Constantia away. "Get busy, child!"

When the maid had run off down the hallway, Anastasia knelt and dragged a heavy wooden box from under her bed. Inside, she found a sheathed knife and the leather and wire apparatus of a spring-gun. Gritting her teeth, the Duchess hid the knife in the girdle of her tunic and
stola
. The oiled leather arm brace of the spring-gun still fit on her left arm—which surprised her, so long had it been since she donned the weapon—and the release ring fit snug to her thumb.

The glass is spilling too fast,
Anastasia thought as she pushed the garden gate closed. The sky was still dark, without even a hint of the sun behind the eastern mountains. Hushed voices and the clatter of men and women moving baggage followed her down the narrow alley.

"Halt! Who goes there?" A rough shout filled the night. A young man on a well-traveled horse reined in, letting the stallion puff and paw on the street pavers. Torches flared, casting a wayward red glow on the faces of soldiers barring the gate. The young man pulled back the hood of his riding cloak, revealing rugged features and light brown hair.

"My name is Ermanerich," he called to the legionaries milling about in the courtyard of the house of Gregorius Auricus. "I've just arrived from the north with messages for Master Gaius Julius. Is he here?"

"He is!" boomed a commanding, glad voice. "He is here, young prince!"

Gaius Julius himself pushed through the crowd of soldiers, face brimming with a smile. The Goth swung down from his horse and tentatively embraced the unfamiliar Roman. Gaius brushed dust from the prince's riding cloak and raised an eyebrow at Ermanerich's stubbled chin and vexed eye.

"Well met, my lord," Gaius Julius said, "a propitious night for you to come, but I'm surprised—"

"To see me?" Ermanerich glanced around, puzzled by the appearance of the legionaries standing at arms. They were dressed differently than the Easterner legionaries or even his own Goths. They were taller, stockier, with fur-lined cloaks entirely unsuitable for the Roman summer. He leaned close to the older man, still unsure why so many men would be out—armed and armored—at such an hour. "Alexandros bade me find you straightaway when we reached Rome... should I return at another time?"

The old Roman winked saucily, shaking his head. "Tonight, you need to be here with me, and I bless the gods who set your impatient feet on the road to Rome. What of your men?"

"Still a day's march away," the Goth growled, suddenly impatient. "I have received many letters from the Emperor, urging speed. Are we truly supposed to be in Messina
now
? Is it true the Persians are landing at Sicilia?"

Gaius Julius made a quieting gesture. "Pax! This time of year, you're only three days from landfall at Messina by sea. If your Goths need be there, I will arrange ships to carry you."

"Fine. Who are these men?" Ermanerich kept a hand on his horse's bridle—the stallion was tired, but still game, and the young Goth was not a man to mislay fine horseflesh. Particularly not among these Roman scoundrels. Everyone seemed on edge and there was a harsh, brittle smell in the air, reminding him of the last hour before battle.

"These are men from the Legio Eight Augusta," Gaius said, moving towards the gate, his voice rising as he moved. "These Gallic Bulls have come down from Germany as reinforcements—and never more welcome than tonight!" The old Roman hopped up on a step just inside the wall. "Soldiers of Rome," he called out, drawing the attention of every man in the courtyard. "You've come to answer your Emperor's call to battle, ready to throw the Persians back and seize victory for the city, the Senate and the people. But tonight—as your officers and I have just learned—you've a more desperate task." Gaius looked around, resting one hand on Ermanerich's muscular shoulder. A hundred men, or more, looked back, tense and attentive. "We've learned there is a mutiny among the Praetorians in their camp beyond Tiburtina. Rebellious cohorts are marching on the Palatine, intending to murder the Emperor Galen and acclaim their own tribune, Motrius, as king instead!"

A hoarse shout and a growl of anger answered the bold words and Gaius Julius nodded, gauging the men's response. "Yes—a black act of treachery against the Senate and the people, against
you
, whom Galen has always favored, always supported. Who has seen your pay raised? Galen! Who has increased the size of the retirement allotments? Galen!"

The legionaries answered him with a fierce shout, some clashing their spears against breastplate or shield. The old Roman swung his arm, pointing south across the city. "But we will not let them spill the blood of the Princeps or his family—no! We march to the Palatine ourselves, with haste, and we will find these traitors and we will cut them down like dogs, scattering their weak limbs, their corrupt hearts as grain is cast upon the threshing floor!"

"Aye!" boomed the legionaries and their officers were among them, shouting for order and quiet and a column of twos. Gaius Julius hopped down, flashing a quick smile at Ermanerich, who gave him a suspicious look.

"What is this?" the Goth whispered, clutching the dispatch bag to his chest. Everything seemed to be losing focus, as if the earth under his feet turned unsteady. "What are you doing?"

"Come on, my young friend," the old Roman chaffed, grasping the saddle horn of Ermanerich's horse. "This nag will take two riders!"

Shaking his head, the Gothic prince led the horse from of the gate, letting the column of troops jog by, then mounted, reaching down to pull Gaius up. As he did, Ermanerich leaned close. "Where are these troops from? From Germania? How many are here?"

"Not so many as I feared, thank the gods," Gaius answered, settling in behind the Goth. "I managed to convince two of the Legion tribunes to turn around and march back north. These men are part of the lead elements of the Eight."

Ermanerich glanced over his shoulder in surprise. "Who watches the Rhenus, then?"

"No one," Gaius Julius answered, his face bleak. "No one at all."

Her skirts clutched in one hand, Anastasia bolted up a flight of stairs, taking them two and three at a time. The way was dark and very narrow, forcing her to turn sideways at each turn, a sputtering lamp burning her hand. The top of the passage was closed by a door and the Duchess paused, catching her breath.
No time for subtlety,
she thought, measuring the ancient termite-carved wood. She braced herself, then slammed a shoulder into the panel.

Old plaster moldings squealed and cracked, shattering and spraying dust and paint across a tiled floor. Anastasia kicked the splintered boards clear, thankful again for taking proper cavalry boots reinforced with iron strips in the uppers and soles. Bending down, she squeezed through the opening into a short, richly appointed hallway. To her right, a painted, carved door swung open.

The Duchess darted forward, catching the edge of the door and stepped inside. The woman opening the door cried out in alarm and staggered back. Empress Helena—like Anastasia before her—was still waking up, barely clad in night-clothes. The Duchess slammed the door behind her and threw the locking bar.

"Get dressed," she snapped at the Empress, who was staring at her in befuddlement. "Go on!"

The Duchess leaned against the door, concentrating, listening for alarms or noise. Grimacing, she drew the knife from her girdle and settled the heavy bone hilt in her hand.

"What—what is happening?" Helena found a quilt and wrapped the patterned cloth around her thin shoulders. Anastasia, seeing her bare feet, became very irritable.

"Put on some shoes," the Duchess hissed, casting around the room for something suitable. "Good ones, not those flimsy slippers you're always wearing." Her eye lit upon a pair of stoutly built sandals. Anastasia snatched them up and threw them to the Empress, who fumbled the catch but then managed to gather them up. "Where is your son?"

Helena pointed wordlessly at a connecting door as the Duchess' grim tone and bared weapon finally registered. Anastasia eased the side door open, hearing a warning hiss. She stepped back, pushing the door wide with her boot. The nursery seemed empty and dark, but the lamplight from the bedroom picked out a pair of blazing green eyes crouched under little Theodosius' bed.