The Dark Lord (41 page)

Gaius rubbed his hands together and looked across his work table for the next item needing his attention. "Ah," he said, spying a lengthy request for tax relief. "The letter from Britain! Excellent." He was reaching for the top sheet when he heard a soft tapping at the door.

Gaius rose, motions smooth and assured. A long knife, mirror-edged, ostensibly for cutting quills, was conveniently placed at the end of the table. His gnarled fingers slid around the hilt, feeling welcome heft in his hand. "Enter," he called.

It was very late at night, past the third watch. Only a few lamps burned in his rooms, their thin smoke coiling away towards the ceiling. Very few men would be out on the streets at this hour. Even the inns and drinking shops were closed. By now, even the bordellos would be slowing down, the customers steeped in wine, exhausted, paying an extra denarius for the overnight.

The door opened and a thin, stooped figure entered, heavily cowled in a long robe. Expensive sandals peeked out from the bottom. Gaius set the knife down and turned away to a cupboard set against the wall. "Hello, Master Temrys. Would you like some wine? Or something stronger?"

Gaius' cheerful tone was met with a hiss as the man slumped into a chair. Gaius turned back, eyebrow raised, a pair of cups in one hand, and a dark blue glass bottle in the other. "Here's something from India, recently washed up in the Mercantile arcade...
soma
, I believe."

The visitor, his face already red with drink, stared at Gaius with open loathing. The man was well dressed under the heavy cloak and hood, his pockmarked face habitually sullen. "I heard something interesting today," he said.

"Of course." Gaius sat, the blue bottle on the table between them. Temrys' eyes flicked to the bottle, then away again. The old Roman smiled in a genial way. "Do you need some spending money? I can loan you as much as you'd like... no need to barter."

"This isn't about spending money," the Greek said, lips twisting into a sallow grin. Gaius Julius' eyes narrowed. The man was not drunk with despair. He actually seemed
happy
. That was very disturbing. The Palace chamberlain was notorious for his poor humor. Delight would require something particularly foul.

"What then?" Gaius affected disinterest, uncorking the bottle. A pungent, harsh odor wafted out. The old Roman poured a finger's worth of shining golden liquid into each cup. "Come now, tell! You're bursting to share, I see. It must be quite the most interesting thing I'll hear all day."

"It is," Temrys said, clasping his hands together under the tabletop. He blinked furiously. "A notice of audit came across my desk today, all wrapped in Tyrian twine, stamped and double-stamped with the Emperor's signet."

"Really?" Gaius Julius felt a little tickle. Something bad was in the offing. "Who is the lucky fellow?"

"To audit?" Temrys said, grinning, the tight flesh on his scalp wrinkling up, lips drawing back from yellowed teeth. "Or to be audited?"

The old Roman watched him over the lip of the cup. Golden fluid burned against his lips, but he knew better than to drink. Even the dead would find this vintage rough. "Either," he replied. "Does it matter?"

"There was a will attached," the chamberlain said, wiping his mouth. The cup in front of him shimmered in the light of the lamps. "It was a senator's will. It had been denied. By the Emperor himself."

Gaius set down his cup, looking sharply at his night visitor. "I see."

"Yes," Temrys said, picking up the cup. "I expect you do. Your name appeared in the will. But, strangely, your name was not on the auditing request. Now, why would that be?"

"I don't understand," Gaius said, thinking furiously.
What happened? How could the Emperor deny his brother... oh, curse that fool child! He's been arguing about the war again! And those stupid telecasts... Galen slaps him on the wrist, reminding the boy who is Emperor.
The old Roman sighed. "I suppose the estate managers are being audited directly, one by one."
A process that might take years... while casting no overt blame on dear little brother, or myself. Very nice.

"Oh yes," the chamberlain said, still grinning. He tipped the cup to his lips, then paused. "The estate of the late Senator Gregorius Auricus, of course, has been directly expropriated to the Imperial Household. I hear the Emperor was not pleased to see it go to his brother, who has other, more pressing, matters to attend to. Why burden our wise
custos
with matters of farm and field, of harvests and commerce?"

Gaius choked back a vulgar word. He felt his stomach churn, then settle.
My loans... everything I planned... wrecked! Damn that boy, damn him!

"I thought you'd find this interesting," Temrys said, gloating, his throat pulsing with
soma
rush. His eyes dilated and he slumped back in his chair. "Very... interesting..."

Gaius Julius rose, looming over the chamberlain. The man was snoring already, struck numb by the powerful liqueur. He looked at the knife, gleaming in the lamplight, then shook his head. "No... that would be petty." The old Roman sighed, lips quirking into a wry smile. "And I am not petty. I forgive and I forget. Always." Gently, he lifted the chamberlain under the arms and carried him to the bed. Brown woolen covers covered him and Gaius peeled back an eyelid to make sure the man was still alive. He was.

"Well." Gaius Julius sat down again, picking up the letter from Britain. "Tax relief. Huh! I think not! We are all in dire straits, I think." He began penning a response, the quill scratching over smooth parchment in a clean, strong, swift hand.

The old Roman spent only the least thought on the letter;
no
was simple enough to relate. Instead, his thoughts worried and fretted about the damage the prince's recalcitrance had done to the delicate fabric of loans and bribes and gifts he had spun from the gold represented in Gregorius' estates.
Well, there's no more money for Alexandros army, then, and the end of those plays and feasts I planned... stupid, stupid prince!

Wind kicked out of the south, throwing fine sheets of dust across the dune. Three figures paced along the crest of a long, wind-compacted ridge, desert cloaks ruffling around their legs. To their right, to the east, complete darkness lay on the land. The moon had not risen and there was nothing to break the mantle of night; no habitation, no campfire, not even the glint of a traveler's lantern. To the west, though, long twisting lines of lights burned in the night. Hundreds of torches and dozens of bonfires gleamed and flickered. Even at this late hour, there was a murmur in the air, the distant echo of hammers, mattocks, braying mules and shouting men.

"Do they sleep?" Shahr-Baraz stopped, boot toes on the lip of the dune, darkness below, only the bare light of the stars and far-off lanterns on his face. Sand spilled away, making a soft
ssssshh
sound. The King of Kings drew back a length of cloth covering his face. "They must sleep by turns... passing tools from hand to hand. Some will never see daylight, not with the exhausted rest they earn from such labor. Sorcerer, what do your secret eyes behold, in the camps of the enemy?"

The second figure was already watching the night, lean head turned to the west. In the darkness, a pale witch-light crept across his skin—invisible by daylight—heightening the cadaverous planes of his face and skull.

"I see a hive of bees," Dahak whispered, "swarming around a fat queen. Busy, always busy, coming and going, building, digging, setting stone and wood, bending the earth to their will..."

"What are their numbers?" Shahr-Baraz pulled back the cowl, letting cold night air play in his hair. "How many Legions? Who is their master? How deep and wide is this wall of stone?"

The sorcerer hissed, displeased, and he looked at the King of Kings in anger. "You have eyes," he snapped. "Look for yourself!"

"I have," the shahanshah said, hooking both thumbs in his belt. The broad leather strap was heavy with scabbards and sheaths. A plain-hilted sword, two daggers and a mace hung against flat thighs. The king did not go unarmed into the desert night. "My scouts cannot see beyond the Roman lines—you can. Will you answer my questions?"

"I could," Dahak said, his full attention focused on the king. The air grew colder, the faint light around the sorcerer stronger. "Yet my attention is on many things... some are far away. Isn't your army strong enough?" A thin finger jabbed out at the lights in the west. "Do you need my help to pass this barrier?"

Shahr-Baraz frowned, a glint of anger in his eyes for the first time. "Our backs are to the desert, our enemies entrenched behind a wall of stone and earth the height of a goodly building. We must ship water from Gazzah, a hundred miles away, to share a cup among three men. The legionaries mock us from atop their wall and everywhere my scouts go, the Romans are waiting." The king waved a flat, broad hand, indicating the horizon from south to north. "Their wall runs from vast bogs of cane, mud and crocodiles to the sea... an enormous work. The Roman fleet is waiting on the blue water and I will not chance risking our fleet, or my men, on a sea attack behind the wall. We cannot go around to the south, for the footing is poor for our horses, the sand deeper, then the land a poisonous morass..."

"Then you do need my help," the sorcerer interrupted, smug. "You wish me to open a way forward, as I did at Constantinople?"

"Yes," Shahr-Baraz said in a level tone. "Can you summon the worms of G'harne to consume the Romans? Break down their rampart, shatter their gates?" The king's voice became contemplative, curious. He seemed to loom over the sorcerer. "Have you a second Axumite box? Holding pearls of an unusual hue?"

The Queen, standing quietly a few yards away, froze, barely even breathing. She stilled her mind as well, thinking of things far away and long ago, pleasant and innocuous. Only in the faintest whisper, at the back of her mind, well disguised behind remembered chatter and gossip, did she shudder in fear.
What did he say? That was one of the forbidden names!
The words slipped away from her memory, bubbles of oil rising in dark water.

Dahak raised a hand, a muttered curse under his breath. The crawling, leprous radiance on his skin vanished, plunging them into complete darkness. Even the stars were faint and cast no light on the sand. "Be quiet!" The words were a low hiss. "Where did you hear that name?"

"From you." Even in low tones, the Boar's voice was a hoarse shout. "You were careless, I think, to tell me so much."

"I was." Dahak moved in the darkness and the Queen gained the impression he was drawing something, some figure or diagram, on the sand with his staff. "The old ones are not a toy to be brought out at a king's whim. Even I—and my power is great, O King—will not tempt them a second time."

Rumbling laughter answered and the clink and rattle of metal on metal. "A single throw of the bones, then? So be it. Are your dead men in the Roman camp?"

"No," Dahak said, grudgingly. Despite her best intent, the Queen's ears pricked up and she listened intently, eyes closed, barely breathing. "They cannot be everywhere... and the Roman magi are thick as flies, crawling about in their hive, long noses in everything. They are alert and fearful. I do not want to risk the Sixteen so openly."

"Can you send some in, even one alone? They will not mind death, or pain, if caught." Shahr-Baraz seemed ghoulishly pleased at the prospect. "I thought there were several in the delta already?"

"They are busy on other, more important, errands." The sorcerer sounded irritated. He was still concentrating on the lights in the west. "What is this? The Egyptian priests are binding a pattern into the stone and earth. They think they can keep out my dreams!"

Silence followed. The Queen could hear Shahr-Baraz breathing. Finally, the king stirred. "Do they know you are here?"

"No..." Dahak did not sound convinced. "Perhaps. They are not blind. They can feel me, as I feel them—buzzing gnats, a racket of crickets, the mindless chatter of the small... I can taste their fear."

"It is time to reveal yourself." Shahr-Baraz's voice was firm and the words a command.

The Queen heard a sharp intake of breath and two pale points of light gleamed in the darkness as the sorcerer turned towards the king. She clutched her cloak tighter, trying to keep out the chill seeping from the air. Frost began to form on the wool.

"You..." The sorcerer's voice was thick, barely intelligible. "You are not the master here!"

"We must break through the Roman lines," Shahr-Baraz said, ignoring the venom in the sorcerer's voice. "We cannot go around. We cannot remain here, slowly dying of thirst. Now, you have pressed me to strike against Rome. You were eager to go forward. If we do not attack within the next few days, I will turn around and return to Persia."

The Queen, heart beating like a drum, flattened herself onto the sand, quiet as a mouse.

"Ssss!"
Dahak sputtered, then mastered himself. As the Queen watched, frost crystallized on the sand; tiny white flakes drifting from the sky. Her breath made a white haze in the air. "Where is the Boar's cunning now? You wish to charge ahead, to impale yourself on their spears? We must go around! Find a way!"

"We cannot," Shahr-Baraz said, perfectly calm. "Our fleet, though strong, does not have enough stowage for all of our men and horses. If we attack by sea, then we go ashore with a fraction of our strength... and the Romans will close upon us with all of theirs. I will not waste an army, even one composed of barbarians and mercenaries."

"The south, then. My powers will find us a path through the sand!"

The Queen quelled herself again, stilling a wild urge to cry out, or run. The sorcerer's tone verged on something like fear.
What horror could strike caution into that black heart?
Wild speculation churned in the Queen's mind, but thought was dangerous, and she focused, again, on inconsequential matters.

"Can your powers draw water from the sand?" Shahr-Baraz was curious again. "Each step we take from the sea and our barges means water, food, fodder must be carried for leagues across the desert... all exposed to Roman attack while we toil slowly through the wasteland." The King of Kings sighed, and the Queen felt his attention turn upon her for a moment. She remained still. It seemed, for a moment, as if he was going to speak to her. He turned back to the sorcerer. "Can you?"