The Dark Lord (28 page)

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.

Maxian realized he was still holding her hand. He let go and sat up straight in the chair. "I'm glad. I'm sorry we couldn't save more of your people..." He grimaced, thinking of the devastation he had seen during the brief time he was in Constantinople. "It won't happen again."

"I'm sure it won't... my lord," Martina said in a rush. "Master Gaius said you needed help with some historical research and I'm a historian and perhaps I could help if that's not too much trouble."

"But aren't you..." Maxian stopped before he said
busy
. He looked around for Gaius Julius. The old Roman was nowhere to be seen. He looked back at the girl, giving her his full attention. She was still looking at the floor and he could feel her nervousness in the air like the half-heard chime of a temple bell.
What is there for you to do?
he mused, considering her. Ghost images of the Empress unfolded in his sight—laughing, afraid, cowering in the basement room under the palace in Constantinople, clutching her baby to her—then disappeared as he willed them away.
Alone in exile, living on the mercy of others, directionless... bored.

"You're a historian?" he said, curious. "What kind of histories do you write? Can you read Greek or Persian?"

"I can," Martina said, smiling. She dabbed at her eyelashes, smudging charcoal powder on her cheek. "I was writing a history of Constantinople, from its founding by Queen Medea as Byzantium in ancient times to the present day... Heraclius approved, he thought it would keep me out of trouble."

"Medea of Colchis founded the city?" Maxian was surprised. He'd never thought of the woman as anything but a character in a play. "I thought colonists from Corinth made the first settlement."

"Rubbish!" Martina's face changed, her shyness falling away. "I've seen the founding stone of the city myself—and Medea is listed as Queen, under the aegis of her patron, the goddess Hecate. You can ignore Eusebius—he had
no
idea what he was talking about."

"You read old Greek too?" Maxian grinned. He did not relish the thought of plowing through mountains of Achean scrolls, searching for some vague fragment that might bear upon the current matter. Someone to help him would be very welcome indeed.

"Yes," Martina smiled back. "Being an Empress is usually very dull. It would be nice to do something useful for a change."

"Then you can help me," he said, pleased. "I must go up to Fiorentina tomorrow, to oversee some projects. If you'd like to come along, I'll show you what we've gathered."

The sky was still perfectly blue. Mohammed opened his eyes to cerulean heavens unmarred by cloud or wind and a round yellow sun. Despite the brightness, his skin was cold and the falling sunlight brought him no warmth. He was unsure if any time had passed while his eyes were closed, but he forced himself to sit up against the bole of the tree. The sound of his parched skin rubbing against the skin of the fig was very loud. His movement made the hand-shaped leaves tremble, and they rustled softly, disturbing a perfect silence.

Pale-barked woods surrounded him on three sides. On the fourth, a grassy sward led down to the walls of the city. He looked through the open gate, seeing men and women passing by, going about their daily tasks. As he watched, the sounds of their conversation and business swelled around him. The smell of roasting meat, of fresh-baked bread, of decanted wine assailed his nostrils and he began to salivate.

Mohammed wiped his mouth, then looked down at his hand. A fine white dust covered his palm. He raised his hand, squinting, and saw the dust was composed of tiny, broken hairs.

"My beard." He coughed and felt his lip split. Tentatively, he touched the wound and his finger came away clean. Even his blood was parched and dry.
Yet,
he thought,
I have not died of thirst, or of hunger. What is this place?

"You are outside the city of Iblis," a gentle voice said. "In a wood."

Mohammed looked up and saw the well-featured man who had spoken to him before. Mōha knelt on the grass, strong-limbed body clad in jewel-colored silk. As before, he smiled and nodded in greeting. "You are not well. I can bring you water, from the city, or food, if you are hungry."

"I am not hungry," Mohammed said, looking the man over very carefully. "You are the guardian of this place? A servant, who watches over those within?"

Mōha shook his head, puzzled, and his golden eyes danced with laughter. "I am not a jailer," he said. "I keep a watch upon the wood and the city. Sometimes—though not, I must admit, in my lifetime—a disturbance might rise in the wood to trouble those who live in the city. I am... a shepherd."

"Your flock seems content," Mohammed said, indicating the bustling crowds in the city only by the movement of his eyes. Even this much effort left him drained and weak. "What happens if they wish to leave?"

"I don't know," Mōha said, standing up and brushing off his tunic. Mohammed watched closely, but did not see grass, leaves or dust fall from the man's clothes. "No one has ever wished to leave."

The man turned, looking back at the city. A procession was passing the gate, holding aloft banners and gaudy icons. Drums and pipes sounded, making a merry noise. The people were laughing, carrying a golden idol on a platform of glossy wood. Mohammed started in surprise, then felt a chill creep across his arms. The face of the idol was his own.

"I'm sorry, but there is poor news," Mōha said, turning back. Now his perfect face was troubled, creased with worry and anguish. "A message has come for you."

Mohammed blinked, looking away from the idol and the cheering crowds filling the streets of the city. Many of the faces were familiar—his friends and neighbors—even those he had not seen since he was a boy.
Was that Khadijah, in her wedding veil?
"A message?"

"Yes." Mōha squatted, clasping his hands. He seemed worried. "You are sorely missed, at home. The young Khalid al'Walid—he has betrayed you—taken your army, your woman, even your name. Did you know he was of the Makzhum tribe?"

Mohammed frowned for a moment before his face cleared and he remembered his father, speaking vigorously in the house of the black stone. "The Makzhum... they were driven from the Zam-Zam by my grandfather. They fled the city, into the desert in shame." The face of Khalid wavered into his memory, and now—thinking back across many years—Mohammed saw the resemblance to those proud, hawk-faced chieftains. "Was he even born, when they were driven from Mekkah?"

"No," Mōha said, shaking his head in sympathy. "He was whelped in the sand, among scorpions and snakes. His people wandered in the desert for a long time, without a home, without lands or flocks... forced to banditry. The last of the Makzhum were betrayed and ambushed by the Banu Hira. Khalid, still a child, was taken prisoner. In time, he was a slave, and then a scout in the Persian army after Bahram Choban destroyed the kingdom of the Mondars."

"Yes," Mohammed whispered, remembering. "He was at Palmyra. He saw our final battle... Uri said..." Mohammed fell silent and his mind became entirely clear. A shadow fell away from his sight and he looked upon the man, Mōha, with a piercing glance. "Your master is known to me, creature. I will take nothing from you, or from this place."

Mōha ran slender fingers through his dark hair, sighing. He seemed concerned. "My lord Mohammed... Khalid has seized control of the Sahaba, your boon companions. He urges and guides them to fight for Persia, for your ancient enemy. Your teachings are being ignored and forgotten. The lady Zoë is under his spell, his servant. Even such stalwarts as Jalal and Shadin follow him. They continue to fight against Rome, heedless of the danger to their own lives."