The Dark Lord (40 page)

"Madness!" He stood up, throwing aside the sheet. The Egyptian night was usually very warm here in the delta lowlands. The days were getting hotter too as summer dragged on. His tunic stuck to a broad, tanned chest, damp and clammy with night sweat. Aurelian paced to the door and pushed the panel open. The guard in the hallway started, swinging around in surprise, sword rasping free in his hand.

"Halt!" The boy was young, one of the new recruits. His face was pinched and beaded with sweat. The point of the blade aimed steadily at the prince's breastbone.

"Easy, lad," Aurelian said. He didn't feel so easy himself. The air in the hallway seemed stiflingly close. "Put your blade away."

The boy stared at him, teeth gritted, for a long moment. Then he squinted, seemed to recognize Aurelian, and returned the stabbing sword to its wooden sheath. "Something wrong, Caesar?"

"No." Aurelian shook his head. The momentary dream was gone, fading in the warm light of the oil lamps. "Just restless. Anyone been about? Hear anything?"

"No, my lord. Quiet as a tomb." The boy chuckled, straightening his helmet.

"Good." Aurelian considered returning to bed, but his stomach had woken up too. Familiar pangs drove the last of his dreams away. "I'm going to get a bite from the kettle."

The bottom floor of the old Ptolemaic palace was given over to kitchens and a mess hall filled with rough, wooden tables and long benches. A scattering of lamps provided faint illumination. Servants, kitchen slaves and thin, mangy dogs slept between the tables, filling the air with a groaning dissonant chorus. A low fire burned in the huge grate, enough to keep the night kettle warm and the porridge from solidifying into glue. Aurelian scooped grain and raisin mash into a wooden bowl. Crystallized honey from a nearby tub followed, ground in with a copper spoon. Stepping over the cooks, sprawled in rows near the fire, the Roman found an empty stone step against the wall.

"Who would believe me in the marketplace," a soft voice said from the shadows. "Caesar himself eating worker's gruel with a bent spoon? Impossible."

Aurelian swallowed, then licked the spoon clean. A cloaked, hooded figure leaned against the wall, back bent against the weathered feet of an enormous ibex-headed man. Cracked paintings crawled up into darkness, interleaved with old red-painted pillars and vertical columns of blocky hieroglyphs. "Men must eat," Aurelian said, pointing at the figure with his spoon. "Master Nephet."

A thin hand, burnished dark mahogany, drew back the hood, revealing a hawk-nosed silhouette and weary, piercing eyes. "Lord Caesar, I am flattered you recall my name, much less my voice."

"I have a good memory," the Roman said, scooping more porridge out of the bowl. The grain was barely milled, the raisins going sour, but he didn't care. The bowl was soon empty and the prince picked through his beard for crumbs. "You are up at an odd hour."

"The air is heavy tonight." The priest settled back against the wall again, face obscured, hands clasped on his chest, a staff held in the crook of his arm. "Do you feel the pressure?"

Aurelian nodded, putting down the empty bowl. He did not look at the priest. "I dreamed of Rome and a triumph. I was wearing a crown of gold. A king's crown."

"Rome has no king," Nephet said softly, bright eyes watching the prince. "The Senate and the people rule... isn't that what your banners say? No king, only an Emperor, the greatest of lordly men."

"Yes," Aurelian said, memory bright before his eyes again. He found it hard to look away. At the edge of vision, he caught a glimpse of his wife, their children... everyone was smiling and waving. "My brother is... Emperor." The Roman stopped, throat tight. A sense of loss welled up, reminding him of how far he was from home, how long it had been since he tousled the hair of his sons or kissed his wife. How strange and alien this flat, heat-baked land was.

"They will come against us soon," Nephet said. "Are the men ready?"

Aurelian took a deep breath.
The Persians.
He thought of the long walls, the dry rivers he had gouged from the mud and sand, the miles of rampart and barrier. His men were waiting, shields bright, banners standing proudly before each Legion. "We are ready," he said. The memories faded again, his mind rousing itself from something like sleep. "Do you foresee the day they will attack?"

Nephet laughed, but it was a soft sound, without malice, night wind rushing through palms. "Each day the pressure in the air will be worse, my lord. When we cannot endure it any longer, then they will attack."

Aurelian looked sideways at the old Egyptian. "They attack our will to fight," he stated. As the words left his lips, he knew they were true, felt something pressing at his mind, some taint in the air fouling his thoughts. "Are the other thaumaturges aware of this?"

Nephet nodded, eyes glinting in the shadow of his hood. "We can all feel this. Some of us, I'm sure, are afflicted with unquiet dreams. Those who are weak will hear the voices in the air more clearly." The Egyptian managed a grim smile. "Some will never hear the voices at all."

"That is fine for you to say," Aurelian growled. "What about my men? They cannot protect themselves. Can you drive these phantoms back? Strike at the magi plaguing us?"

"By myself?" Nephet shook his head. "No. This attack is subtle. The enemy is being cautious, even sly, taking his time. We would have to bind a pattern of resistance along the whole length of the defense!"

Aurelian stood, tossing the wooden bowl into the fire on the grate. He felt anger build, gnawing at his stomach like a fox.
This is my fault. I should have thought of this long ago.
"Yes, you will. Send messengers among the camps—the high priest of every temple will be here by noon. You have been idle, priest, but no longer!"

Nephet stiffened at the bitter tone in the Roman's voice. "What do you mean?"

"You
will
bind a 'pattern' into the ramparts, the walls, the gates. Every inch of stone, earth and wood from the sea to the marshes." Aurelian crushed the soft copper spoon in his hand, completely furious with himself. "We should have begun months ago!"

The Egyptian priest swallowed, shrinking back against the wall.
I suppose we should have,
he thought, a sick feeling creeping over him.
And why not? We knew what was coming...
Nephet felt his skin grow clammy, the close damp air prickling.
Have we chosen to sleep—or been lulled there by quiet voices?

Pale yellow candles luffed, their flame bending in the draft of an opening door. Shadows fled across a painted wall, briefly illuminating a mottled shepherd leading his flock across a plastered Elysian hillside. The door creaked closed, the helmeted face of a guard disappearing behind the panel. Galen Atreus, Emperor of Rome, set a stack of parchment and papyrus sheets down on an iron table beside the entry. The candles settled and a steady, warm light returned. Marble and heavy drapes of muslin soaked up the pale glow.

"Galen?" A sleepy voice called from another room. The Emperor grimaced, pressing the back of his hand to a throbbing forehead. Beads of sweat shone behind his ear. "Husband?"

Helena stood in the further door, her hair unbound, falling long and straight beside her face, lapping across delicate collarbones. Galen tried to smile, but managed only a grimace. He started to undo the heavy brooch holding his cape at the shoulder. He was still fumbling with the catch when she took his hand.

"Let me." The Empress' nose wrinkled up as she concentrated and the clasp clicked open. "No," she said firmly when he tried to help, her voice soft. "Just stand still."

Helena put his cape aside, then the formal toga and a gem-studded belt. After just a moment, Galen was able to breathe deeply, constricting clothes gone, the insistent pounding in his head easing to a mild hammering. The Empress knelt, untying his sandals. "There," she said, taking his hand. "Now come and sit with me."

The night was warm enough to sit on the terrace and Helena led him to a couch piled high with quilts and pillows. Thin columns framed a balcony wound with ivy, looking to the south, over the high walls of the Circus. Torches burned around the obelisk at the center of the
spina
. More lamps illuminated the white portico of the temple of Victoria. Beyond the high walls, the southern districts of the city were sleeping. In the late hour, the houses and apartments were hidden in darkness, only faintly marked by scattered lights.

"You're writing?" Galen eased himself down onto the couch, feeling dizzy. A hooded lamp sat on a table, shedding a yellow glow on parchments, ink, quills, two half-opened scrolls. "Is Theo asleep?"

"Yes," Helena said, sliding down beside him. He lay back, resting the back of his head on the padded arm of the couch. Her thigh was very warm on his. Galen twitched when her thin-fingered hand brushed across his forehead. "He's right here."

Galen turned, though his head felt heavy, heavy as a lead ballast. His son was curled up among the quilts, thumb in his mouth, drool damp on the covers. A fleece was tucked around him, partially obscuring a round face mussed with dirt and grass stains. Gently, the Emperor caressed the boy's cheek with the back of his fingers. Theodosius squirmed away, burying his little face in the covers. Galen smiled, feeling the ache in his bones abate. "He's had a big day..."

"Yes," Helena whispered, curling in beside him, her arm over his. Galen slumped back, resting his head on her shoulder. "Like his father. Have you eaten?"

"Something." Galen said wearily. "My guardsmen were sitting to supper when I left the offices."

The Empress leaned over, smelling his breath. Her nose wrinkled up again and she rubbed it smartly. "
Peh!
Sardines, elderly olives, rude cheese, all in a fish must. How fine..."

"Their wine was good," Galen said, turning his head to kiss her ear. She shivered. "And you?"

"Something," she said, chin raised imperiously. "Theo and young Heracleonas entertained me as their guest, in state and luxury as befits an Empress. We had bread and sweetened water and bits of sausage. Then they fell asleep and I fought hard to stay awake, to welcome my lord and husband at his homecoming."

Galen closed his eyes, his arm sliding under hers. He held her very tight, drawing a faint squeak. "A royal feast," he mumbled faintly, feeling sleep stealing over him. "Fit for a queen..."

"Husband..." Helena brushed hair out of his face again. "My arm will cramp if you fall asleep like that. Raise up a little." Grumbling, Galen lifted his head, letting her escape. She sat up, clapping her hands softly. A little girl padded out of the darkness, shining dark hair tied back in a silver ribbon. She was carrying a fluted glass pitcher, a pair of copper cups and a basket.

"Thank you, Koré, just put them there." Helena smiled at the girl, who dimpled, bowing.

"Shall I take the young master away to bed?" Koré's voice was soft and velvety.

"Not yet." Helena turned back a cloth laid over the basket. Steam rose up, carrying the smell of fresh bread. "Let his father see him for a moment."

The girl bowed, then disappeared back through the pillars on silent feet.

"What did you do today?" Galen's hands slid around Helena's waist and under her gown.

"Ah!" She said, giving him a look. "Your hands are cold."

"You're warm," he said, sleepy again. She tore bread from the loaf, dipped it in honey and stuffed the resulting gooey, sweet mess into his mouth. Obediently, he chewed.

"Eat, Lord and God," she said, pursing her lips at him. "I took the young princes about town, to the baths, to the Forum, to the gardens, to amuse and tire them out, so they'll sleep. Which they are, quite soundly. I saw and was seen. Gossip and rumor flowed over me, cascading from low to high. I wrote, I read, I wrote again. I was entertained by these young men."

"A good day," Galen said, throat tight.
Will I ever see my son for more than brief moments? Will I look up from my desk some day, years from now, and see him grown, bearded?

"Yours?" She turned, drawing a quilt of red-and-green squares over them. She ate a little bread herself. Galen took a filled cup of wine, drained it, then another. Helena put the cups away.

"Poor," he said, the headache throbbing up again behind a smoky veil of alcohol. "A courier came from Britain. The situation there has grown worse. More Scandian raiders have come in their long ships. There was a battle—a skirmish really—and they defeated the regional militia. So, a Legion must be sent." He squeezed his eyes hard, hoping to drive the grainy pressure away. "I have no Legions to send. A message came from Augusta Vendelicorum too, on the Rhine. There is trouble across the river. The king of the Franks has died and his sons are quarrelling. The governor is worried the Frankish nobles in the Empire will get involved, on one side or the other. Gods! It never ends..."

"Shhhh."
Helena cradled his head to her chest. "Never mind. Tell me later. Tell me later."

"No," he said, drawing away a little. "I want to send Aurelian a letter. A fast ship is leaving in the morning, a courier to Egypt with the Duchess' men. Gaius' man Nicholas is with them—he'll carry a message to Aurelian. Will you write it out for me?"

"Me?" Helena took his pale, drawn face in her hands. "You always write your own letters."

"I want you to write it out," Galen said. He was sweating.

Helena, disturbed, nodded. "Of course." She stepped carefully past their son, still asleep, and gathered up her writing tablet and quill. "What do you want to say?"

"'Aurelian,'" he began, eyes shut tight. "'I hope you are well, and not taken with the sun...'"

The Empress wrote, her hand steady, though she watched her husband's face with growing apprehension. There was something desperate about him. She had never seen him this way before, not even during the civil war. Yet the letter was light, even pleasant in tone, and filled with nothing of any importance.

The quill scratched a final line across fresh, cream-colored parchment, then stopped. A sharp, precise jab spiraled into a blocky G and J. Flicking ink from the end of the pen, Gaius Julius lifted the page and fluttered it gently. In this humid night, the ink was slow to dry. Whistling softly to himself, pleased with the way the draft edict had flowed into life from his pen, the old Roman laid the sheet out on the side table. Dozens of other letters were drying, arranged in neat rows.