The Dark Lord (39 page)

"Yes," Nilos said slowly, obviously hesitant. Galen raised an eyebrow.

"Have you seen the previous will?" Another nod. "The benefactor was—"

"Lord and God, there were several..." Nilos' voice trailed off, then—faced with growing anger in the Emperor's face—he rallied and was able to say, "...temples devoted to good works, master. The Vestals, the Asklepian hospital on the Isla Tiberis, the funeral clubs for soldiers without families..."

Galen looked down at the document again. His entire body became still and quiet. "'All estates, lands, monies, investments, partnerships and shares previously owned by the senator,'" he read aloud, "'are now the sole property of one Maxian Julius Atreus, son of Galen the elder, an adult Roman male without living father.'" The Emperor paused, then continued in a stiff voice. "'To be administered and executed by his agent, Gaius Julius.'"

The clerk blanched a little at the tone, but nodded again. "Properly filed, master."

"Was it?" Galen closed the folder. "Yet all senatorial inheritances, particularly those without heirs of the body, must be approved by the Emperor. By me," he snapped. "Has my brother taken possession of this fortune, these estates?"

"Well... no, Lord and God." Nilos gained some heart. "But Master Gaius was already the senator's administrator and aide. He is already responsible for everything."

"Not now," Galen said with a sharp tone in his voice. "I deny this claim." He handed the folders back to Nilos, who was staring at the Emperor in surprise. "These properties are declared the property of the Imperial Household. All managers and foremen will be immediately replaced and an audit will be conducted to ensure the previous administrator has properly maintained the patrimony of the Emperor's beloved friend, Gregorius Auricus."

Nilos turned a little green.

"Do you understand?" The Emperor's poor humor disappeared, replaced by unsubtle anger.

"Yes, Lord and God." The clerk bowed, then crept out of the room. Galen did not notice his departure, for the Emperor was staring out the window again, across the massive buildings of the Forum. The city sprawled away to the edge of sight, a jumble of red-roofed apartments, shining temples and the imposing bulk of the Antonine Baths. He felt better, much better.

I am the Emperor of Rome,
he thought, finding solace in the statement.
I am the Empire.

Moisture brushed against Mohammed's face and he came awake. There was water, real water, cold and wet. Without thinking, he opened his lips. Something stiff pressed against his cheek, and water spilled into his mouth. He opened his eyes, startled.
Take nothing from this place,
he thought wildly. A shape knelt over him, blocking out the perfect blue sky, silhouetted by the round, motionless sun. He blinked, feeling his eyelids crack. "No..." he gasped out, trying to raise a hand. The motion was very slow, so weak his limbs had become.

"You need to drink," said a voice; a familiar, beloved voice. A woman's voice. "Or you will die."

"Zoë?" Mohammed tried to push himself up. Again, his muscles could not respond. Firm hands caught his shoulders and helped him lie back against the trunk of the fig. Mohammed smelled familiar perfume, felt comfortable fingers brush back his white hair. The shape moved out of the sun's path.

"Hello, husband." Khadijah knelt before him on one knee, head tilted to one side, a white scarf of Indian cotton binding back her graying hair. She smiled, the corners of her eyes wrinkling up. Mohammed grunted, speechless, the sight of her face—so familiar, as if they had never been parted, even for an hour—looking back at him, just as he imagined his long-delayed homecoming. "You must drink."

In her hands was a leaf, a fig leaf, brimming with clear silvery water.

"How..." Mohammed managed to raise his arm, holding the makeshift cup away from his lips. He felt a heavy pain in his chest, as if his heart were being ground in the wheels of an oil press. The kind, accepting expression on her face made everything worse. "You must be a phantom, a spirit of this place... leave me be."

"You are stubborn as ever," Khadijah said, fingers closing around his hand. Mohammed's eyes widened. Her arm was insubstantial, colorful yet transparent, like excellent glass. The fig leaf was startlingly solid, the water like mercury. "I am myself, but I am dead. Now, drink. The water is from this tree, which shelters you from the sun with its branches, which supports your weary head with its roots. I gathered dew from these same leaves."

"How can you be so real?" Mohammed tried to turn his head away, closing his eyes. "I know the master of this place—a creature of evil... I will not take anything from him."

Khadijah sighed and the trees echoed her, rustling and creaking in some unseen wind. Loom-calloused fingers tapped in annoyance on her pleated skirts. "You have always been a willful man... much like a mule! Listen, son of my uncle, if you do not drink, you will die. If you die, then no man will hear the voice from the clear air. How will the people find their way free from sin?"

Mohammed opened one eye a sliver, giving the apparition a look. She was scowling at him in such a well-remembered way, with such compassion and irritation bound in one, he opened the other eye in surprise. "How... oh, Khadi—I am so sorry!"

"You did not come home," she said, sitting back, face filling slowly with grief. "I waited. I became weak, finally I could not stand, or even raise a cup myself. Still, I waited."

"I am sorry." Mohammed tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. "I came too late. Only two days late..."

Khadijah made a wry face, shaking her head slightly. Carefully, without spilling a drop, she set the leaf on the ground beside him. "My heart had strength enough to wait, but my body failed." An edge of anger glinted in her eyes and she frowned at him. "You sent the pots back, but
you
did not come home. You sent a letter—
my love, I am going to Damascus
—then nothing! You didn't even get a good price for the cups and bowls..."

A dry, hacking cough escaped Mohammed's chest. He was trying to laugh.

"You sound like a camel," Khadijah said, a slow, glowing smile breaking in her face. "Will you drink?"

Mohammed nodded, letting himself lie back against the tree. Khadijah moved beside him, lifting the leaf again and slowly, with great care, the Quraysh sipped the cool water. When the leaf was dry, Khadijah rose and reached up into the spreading boughs of the fig.

"Is this the land of the dead?" Still terribly thirsty, Mohammed managed to get the words out without coughing. "Am I dead?"

"No." Khadijah knelt beside him, a plump yellow-green fig in her shadowy hands. "This is a realm between life and death." She cut into the tough skin with the edge of her nail, then broke the fruit into sections. Black seeds glistened inside. "Here."

Mohammed let her put the pulpy fruit in his mouth, then began to chew. The sensation was painfully intense, each movement of his jaw a grinding, exhausting eternity. His lips stung, the cuts breaking open again. After a moment, he swallowed. "Why are you here? Why haven't you gone on to the fields of heaven?"

The Arab woman looked away, absently taking a long tress of hair between her fingers. She began to plait the strands into a braid. Mohammed watched in growing fear, as her expression fell into familiar lines. Hidden emotions glimmered in her face.
She is trying to decide something, something upsetting.
Khadijah said nothing, entirely focused on the avenues of the forest, on the perfect, evenly spaced trunks and the short-cropped grass.

"You cannot say? Or will not?"

Khadijah remained silent, still looking away. Her face assumed a stoic mask. She finished the braid, then began to unbind what she had just done. Mohammed reached out to touch her arm, but his fingers encountered only air, passing through the russet cloth of her shirt. "How did you gather the water? Does it rain here?"

"No," she said, finally looking back to him. Mohammed felt her grief, now openly displayed, as a physical blow. Moisture glittered on her cheeks, beading on fine wrinkles. "There is no rain in this place." She lifted her chin, pointing behind him. "They water the tree with their tears. Their desolation forms the dew."

Mohammed turned, feeling bones creak and muscle stretch like old cord. The soil under his hands felt strange—glassy and smooth—not like real earth. A multitude stood in the forest, crouching among the trees and brush, staring at him with empty eyes. Their ranks stretched away as far as he could see. Most of those near him he recognized—his Sahaba, his friends—but their armor was dented and ripped. Faces turned towards him, but they bore terrible wounds. Mohammed felt ill, seeing ripped skin hanging in flaps, gouged eyes, the stumps of arrows festering in blackening flesh. Like Khadijah, they were faint, only transparent outlines against the hard, angular arrangement of the forest.

"Those men died on the field at Constantinople," Mohammed whispered, turning back to Khadijah in horror. "They died a martyr's death with the name of the lord upon their lips! Why are they here? Why are you here, who led a blameless life? You should be walking in green fields, beside a golden river."

Khadijah shook her head slowly. She turned towards the city, one hand holding back the edge of her veil. The blue sky seemed very bright behind her. "That door is closed to us," she said.

Mohammed looked and the city of delights was gone. Instead, there was the edge of desolation and a broken arch of stone lay scattered among thornbushes. Flinty hills rose up against a knife-edged horizon. "What did this?" He managed to croak out. "What has denied you peace?"

The woman smiled, reaching down to comb her fingers through his beard. Mohammed felt nothing, no pressure, no warmth, only the touch of tears falling on his naked, sunken chest. The sun was beginning to shine, a tiny, winking star peeking through her ghostly shadow.

"Khadi..." Mohammed tried to lift his hand, to clasp hers. His fingers passed through smoke.

She was gone.

The Quraysh fell back, eyes clenched tight, his fists trying to curl. His head fell among the stones with a rattling
clunk
, like a dry gourd dropped beside the river. "Ahhhhh..."

He could not weep, but he felt something well in his chest, pressing at his ribs, snatching away his breath. He tried to cry out, but something filled his throat, making his nostrils sting.
"Uuuhh!"
He lay on the ground, empty. The leaves of the fig were swaying, brushed by some unseen wind. Mohammed saw himself from above for an instant, a wrinkled bag of flesh wrapped around sticks and gnarled roots. Shadows drifted over him and he saw his men—the faithful who had fallen under his flag, expecting paradise—kneel around him.

Tears fell, faint and sparkling like grains of brilliant sand on a twilit shore. His dry flesh, spread across the ground, attenuated, exhausted, empty even of grief and loss, soaked up the moisture, a greedy rag. No... he tried to shout, but his lungs were empty, his throat cracked. The translucent shapes faded, each man's face becoming indistinct, his outline fading, blurring until it could not be distinguished from the stones and gravel beneath the tree.
Stop! You must not do this! I am not worth your sacrifice!

The boughs of the fig suddenly shook, rattling as if a great wind rushed over them.

Mohammed, still so distant from his flesh, turned and saw a towering shape, wrapped in flame and darkness rushing up the slope from the wasteland. Something leapt towards him, wings spread from horizon to horizon, burning mouth wide in a shout. Mohammed heard nothing, but he saw the perfect sky convulse, ripped by lightning. Meteors fell, blazing with flames. The storm broke over the forest and the shapes of the dead quailed away. Thunder shook the ground, though Mohammed heard nothing, felt nothing. Acid sleeted from the sky, burning the flesh of the dead. Scourged with falling hail, with burning stones, with sizzling rain, the uneasy spirits turned away from the tree.

Mohammed fell, spinning, overcome by vertigo. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, Mōha was crouched over him, beautiful face split by a snarl. White teeth gleamed in the shadow of his face.

"Worry not, my lord!" Mōha said, chest heaving with exertion, limbs tense. "I have driven the wretched filth away! You will be safe. Quite safe."

Mohammed closed his eyes again, blotting out the man's face. He could still taste the fig in his mouth, the water on his lips. His heart felt light, as if a great weight had pressed against him for a long time. Now it was gone and he thought he was at peace.

Aurelian woke in darkness, skin crawling with alarm. The room was quiet, the lights low—barely a gleam against plastered walls. He could hear the steady footfall of a guard outside, pacing the hallway. The Roman kept still, heart racing with wild fear. He was certain a figure had stood over him, looking down with pale eyes. Trembling fingers grasped the hilt of a knife beside the cot. He listened. There was nothing—no sound of hushed breath, no half-felt vibration of hostile intent.

A dream,
he thought,
but it fades...
A vision lingered; a vast city of cyclopean buildings, windows crowded with cheering people, flowers raining down on his face, the sun breaking through white, fluffy clouds, blazing on white-fronted temples. He remembered the smell of stallions, the creak of chariot under his feet as he rode through the crowded streets. A weight on his brow. Soldiers lined the avenue, holding back a boisterous, surging crowd with leveled spears.
Rome, my homecoming, but with a diadem of gold.

The prince sat up, sweating despite a chill hanging in the air. He released the knife, shaking out his fingers. They cramped and bruised from gripping the hilt. His strength had compressed the wire wrapping into the iron tongue.

A thought came, unbidden.
If I returned home with these Legions under my command, I would be Emperor.
Aurelian snorted at the thought, shaking his head like a horse with flies tickling its ears.