The Dark Lord (53 page)

Anastasia flinched inwardly and closed her eyes for the smallest moment. An image of Martina's face filling with fury at the word
work
remained. Then she took a deep breath and caught Helena's arm. "My dear, I must show you something new and marvelous in the glass hall..." With a despairing look over her shoulder at Martina, who was almost shaking with rage, face white, barely restrained fury glittering in her eyes, Anastasia hauled the Western Empress away by main force.

Helena laughed as they passed into the portico leading from the inner garden to the outer.

"Oh, dear," the Empress said, chuckling, "did you see her face?"

"What has gotten into you?" Anastasia's tone was frigid. Helena stopped short, surprised.

"Oh, don't tell me you and the little lost princess are
friends
now? What a horror!"

"A horror?" The Duchess pushed Helena into a side chamber, thankfully empty and ornamented with enormous vases and ostrich-feather plumes. "She's young, inexperienced, bereft and desperately lonely. Why are you being so cruel?"

"I don't know." Helena leaned back against the smooth marble of the nearest urn, a sulky expression on her face. "She's such a fat little brown mouse, all weepy-eyed and pitiful. I don't like her."

Anastasia restrained a groan of despair, then marshaled herself. "You, of all people, should understand how she feels—weren't you lonely when you first came to Rome? Didn't you hate the proud matrons and their cutting tongues? I remember how unhappy you were—"

"Oh, please!" Helena stood away from the urn, eyes flashing. "Galen had been Emperor only a month, with blood still on his boots! The little twit has been an Empress for nearly a decade. There's no reason she should mope about—so her husband is dead, her son still lives, and there is every chance Heracleonas will be restored to his throne. Galen certainly intends to see him there!" The Empress paused, a calculating look filling her face. "Though the young often die unexpectedly—"

"Be quiet!" Anastasia glared at Helena, fingers pressed against the Empress' lips. "Do not say such things—you've your own son—would you want others to wish him ill?"

"No, I suppose not." Helena batted away the Duchess' hand. "She grates on me and the way she looks at Maxian... I'll not have her as a sister-in-law!"

Anastasia gave her an arch look. "How would you prevent such a match? The boy needs a wife, she needs a husband, and marrying Martina would ensure the loyalty of the Eastern nobility."

"No," Helena spat, lips twisting, "I will not make a rival to
my
son and his demesne."

"The East is our ally!" Anastasia was horrified and let it show, staring in amazement at Helena. "Heracleonas is not a rival!"

"No?" The Western Empress' expression grew grim, swift as night falling on some barren plain. "I know how the little mouse thinks. She's already clawed her way out of one dynastic wreck—her stepson lies dead in the ruins of Constantinople. The brother who hated her is struck down, taking with him all organized opposition." Helena raised a finger, forestalling another outburst from Anastasia. The Empress' voice became quiet and serious. "Listen to me,
Duchess
. Now she is here, among us, with her eye on my brother-in-law. He may be powerful, but he is not paying attention to the currents moving around him. If she captures his fancy, inveigles him to marry her, then her son's future is assured. Heracleonas
will
sit on the throne of the East—and more, he would be heir to the West as well..."

"Only if something happens to Galen, and you, and Theodosius..." Anastasia looked over her shoulder, suddenly wary. "Why would that happen? Have you heard something?"

"I have." Helena's expression grew even colder. She stepped to the doorway, peering out. After a moment, she raised her hand. Anastasia drew back the edge of a draped tapestry, eyes following the Empress' pointing finger. "Who is the prince's wise councilor? His eyes, ears, mouth in the city?"

"Gaius Julius," Anastasia replied tiredly, seeing the man himself, standing tall among a crowd of the Palatine secretaries and officials, face beaming with a genial smile, his hands in sharp motion as he related some amusing story. The Duchess let the drape fall. She met Helena's eyes and found a mocking smile on the Empress' lips. "You're sure he—"

"Aren't you?" Helena shook her head in dismay. "Aren't you the master of intrigue?
He is Caesar
—the only sober man who ever tried to overthrow the Senate!"

Anastasia shrugged, checking her earrings. She felt tired and the night was still young. "I concede the point. There is, possibly, danger."

"And so?" Helena raised an eyebrow again. "What will you do about her?"

"Nothing violent!" Anastasia made a sign to avert evil fortune. "In any case, I was well on my way to making friends with her... before your heedless tongue spoiled everything."

"Huh." Helena looked out into the garden again, frowning. "She's hanging on him again, like... like a limpet, or a leech, or something equally slimy from some eastern bog."

"You are not helping." Anastasia stepped into the doorway, giving the Empress a sharp look. "If Martina is your friend, Gaius is denied a weapon, and the danger to your son all the less."

Helena made a sour face. Giving up for the moment, the Duchess hurried off. A hostess' work is never done.

"Hello, dear." Anastasia slipped up beside Martina, who had found refuge in the outside garden, at the edge of a maze of ivy hedges and stunted ornamental trees. The Eastern Empress barely looked up, her makeup smudged, her nose red. "I am sorry," the Duchess continued, settling onto the curving marble bench. "I've spoken sharply with the Empress Helena, minding her to keep a civil tongue in my house."

Martina laughed, a harsh bark, and turned, eyes filled with wounds. "It doesn't matter, Lady Anastasia. She'll hate me all the more, no matter what you might say. Don't place yourself in any danger on my account."

"Danger?" The Duchess brushed a blue-black curl away from her face. "Helena and I have known each other for a long time—we've quarreled before and I've come out none the worse." Anastasia sighed, making a polite show of despair. "But you and she... seem star-crossed, always at odds! Is there some history between you two, some old grudge?"

"No," Martina said, looking down at her feet. "She always yells at me and tells me I've done the wrong thing. She doesn't like my clothes, my jewels or the way I set my hair. I feel ugly when she looks at me."

"Dear, your hair is beautiful and your clothes exceptional." The Duchess moved closer, brushing wayward curls away from the girl's face. "The Emperor is your friend—and he will not forget you or your son. Look up, now." Anastasia raised Martina's chin, gently. The Duchess met a tearful gaze with a calm, determined expression. "You are still Empress of the East. You have no peer, save Helena, which—I think—is part of what sets her on edge. Go find the prince, stand with him, speak politely and with interest to anyone who speaks with you." Anastasia's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Stand straight and ignore the cold eyes and whispers. You are an
Empress
!"

"But I have no empire," Martina said mournfully, nervous fingers bunching up the train of her gown. The transparent drape was tangled in her jewelry. "I am in exile."

"You have powerful friends," the Duchess said, rescuing the silk and smoothing it back into proper shape with gentle fingers. "The prince Maxian not least of them..."

Martina started to answer, then fell silent, though her eyes lit with relief. Anastasia turned, hearing a whisper of bare feet on the grass.

"Lord Prince," the Duchess said, rising from the bench, so she might kneel properly. "Welcome again."

"Hello." Maxian came to a halt, looking down at the two women. Anastasia, eyes demurely downcast, noticed his pale feet were grass-stained and had to suppress a laugh.

"Martina—are you all right?" The prince knelt, one knee on the bench. "Gaius Julius said you seemed unhappy."

The Eastern Empress rubbed her nose in embarrassment. "It's nothing."

"Nothing?" The Duchess rose. She caught Maxian's eye. "Your dear sister-in-law does not think Martina's hair or dress are suitable for my party. I have spoken to her—but Helena is in a particularly foul mood this evening."

"I see." Maxian nodded, avoiding Anastasia's eyes. He took Martina's hand, then drew her to her feet. "I've been on the wrong end of her sharp tongue myself." The prince grinned, and the exhaustion and fatigue clouding his face faded a little. The Duchess was struck by how alike Maxian and Galen seemed—a particular hollow look, filled with a brittle energy pressing them to nervous action. They both seemed to be stretched. "Martina—her bad humor will pass. It always does. The next time you see her, she'll be the sun to tonight's moon."

Anastasia started a little, reminded of an errand by the prince's turn of phrase. "Oh, Lord Prince, may I—as hostess—ask you—as a guest—for a small favor?"

"Of course," the prince said, finally meeting her eyes. "What can I do?"

The Duchess stared for a moment, disturbed by vivid memories, and she squinted in the dim light. The prince's eyes seemed a different color than she remembered. Had they changed—were they sharper? Did they gleam with an inner light in this half-darkness? Too, his face seemed thinner, more angular. Wrinkles had begun to appear where once the flesh of youth had been taut and smooth. With a start, she saw single white hairs threaded through his dark brown hair.
Where is the brash young man, so filled with the vigor of youth, who laughed in my bed? Swallowed, consumed, by the Empire and this endless war...

"Duchess?" Maxian canted his head to one side, concerned. "Do you feel faint?"

"No—no, I am fine. I was just thinking of how... old I feel, seeing you two. But no matter—later in the evening, there will be a performance. Acrobats, tumblers, that sort of thing—but I envision a fancy to make the entertainment special. Lord Prince, may I trouble you for a little magic?"

Maxian's face, which had grown still and quiet while she spoke—even suspicious—cleared and he laughed. "Of course, Duchess, I would be delighted to please your guests."

"Good. But later, my lord. Martina, please sit again, and I will send servants with wine and pastries. And I will make sure"—here the Duchess inclined her head, barely disguising a grin—"you are not disturbed by the sharp-tongued or the witless."

Martina nodded, clutching the prince's hand, but said nothing. Anastasia made to say more, seeing the girl's other hand knotting in her dress, but the prince clasped both his over Martina's. "Duchess, let me lend you my skill now—Martina, rest here a moment and I will be right back—and our evening may continue, uninterrupted."

"Thank you, my lord," Anastasia said, dimpling. "That is very kind."

The Duchess turned away and walked back toward the house. The prince followed, nervously tucking long straight hair behind his ears.

"This is a strange sight, an Empress alone amid such a splendid party."

Martina looked up into twinkling green eyes set in a noble face. "Master Gaius."

"May I sit with you for a moment?"

The Eastern Empress made a desultory gesture to the bench with her head, chin resting on both hands. "As you wish."

Gaius Julius sat, one thick-knuckled hand on his knee, the other gathering up his toga with the ease of long practice. In the light of so many candles, the pure white wool gleamed, and Martina thought the old man seemed younger, revitalized, far different from the serious, hard-working official attending the Emperor's council meetings.

"You do not seem happy tonight, my lady."

The Empress did not respond, continuing to stare at the ornamental trees and carefully pruned rosebushes. After waiting a moment, Gaius Julius nodded to himself, then sat quietly as well, eyes closed. The following silence dragged and at last the Empress turned her head, eyes narrowed to bare slits.

"I haven't given you proper thanks," she said, "for suggesting I help the prince with his research."

"You're welcome," Gaius Julius said, eyes still closed. "Is it interesting?"

"Hah!" Martina sat up straight. "The scraps of the past are interesting, in a dull numbers-and-lines sort of way. Too many documents reflecting the mundane, and too few filled with history. I have found almost nothing about our opponent—the old Greeks and Romans were more interested in themselves than in the doings of Persian and Parthian wizards."

Gaius Julius nodded in sympathy. "Have you found anything?"

"A hint," Martina said, scowling. "There is a letter, written by a Syrian merchant who traveled in old Parthia, before the rise of the house of Sassan. He relates a tale heard round a campfire in the north, while he was on the road from Roman Armenia to Ecbatana. He describes the rituals of priests dwelling in a great temple at a place called Gazaca. The merchant also describes the lord of light, Ahura-Madza, and his great enemy, Ahriman. He tells of an 'eternal' flame burning in the temple's heart and how this light holds back 'the night' and the might of Ahriman and his servants."

"Interesting," Gaius said. "I have always heard the Parthians and Persians followed a god of light—the more disturbing, now, as this enemy the prince fought is wholly of darkness."

"There is more," Martina said, gritting her teeth. "As you may know, I accompanied my husband on his campaign in Persia and Armenia three years ago. He wished to keep me close by, to ensure my safety from his enemies. During our journey, after the great victory at Kerenos River, he mentioned in passing the careful destruction of a Persian fire temple, a great one, at a town named Ganzak. He had sent his brother, the lamentable Theodore, to destroy the place—hoping to put the fear of Rome into the hearts of the Persians, to deny them the surety of faith and the comfort of their god's favor."

"Ah," Gaius said, running a hand over his balding pate. "The same town? The name distorted by time and changing dialect? In light of later events, you do not think that a wise decision."

"No." Martina bit her thumb, attention far away from the party and the glowing lanterns. "I think... I think the destruction of the temple let something enter the world. A dark spirit. A servant of Ahriman, perhaps..."