The Dark Lord (94 page)

"No..." Galen started to speak, but Maxian gave him such a quelling look the Emperor fell silent.

"I will find him and destroy him." The prince's voice cut like a flensing knife stripping meat from the fat. "I know what must be done. I have an idea of
how
it might be done. This is the business of the
custos magus imperium
and you all would do well to leave these matters to those who have some comprehension of the powers at work."

No one looked up as Galen entered his offices on the northern side of the Palatine. The Emperor paused inside the doorway, surveying rows of writing tables and clerks hunched industriously over them. A soft, pervasive scratching sound lent a familiar, comfortable air. Even Nilos pretended ignorance of his presence, though Galen was sure the first secretary had not missed the sound of boots marching in the hall or the heavy wooden panel creaking open. The Greek was concentrating furiously on some letter on his copying stand, keeping his eyes averted from the door and his master's face.

Galen could not manage a smile at their painful circumspection.
Am I a ghost, then? Reduced to transparency, even in my own home? Ah, but I must look like a spirit—drawn, lifeless, haggard—with only torment hiding behind my poor mask of a face.

The Emperor crossed the room, finding the effort of walking almost too much to manage. Every muscle felt sore, as if he'd ridden for days over bad ground. He squeezed Nilos' shoulder in passing, then closed the inner doors behind him.

Two walls pierced by broad windows let in a flood of cool northern light. A marble-topped desk made an L-shape, though the smooth gray Cosian slab was invisible beneath such a confusion of parchments, scrolls, inkstands and quills that Galen wondered if the stone retained any of its subtle color. Back creaking, he lifted a fresh set of letters and edicts from his seat, dumping them among their disorderly fellows. Galen slumped in the camp chair, leaning his forehead—which seemed so hot, like the air simmering over the forum—against the back of his hand.

Maxian's voice rang harsh in his memories. Galen was not blind enough to deny the truth of his brother's words, though their disparaging tone cut him to the quick.
I am lost,
he thought, mood darkening as a shrill voice in his head recounted a litany of missteps and disasters.
I do not grasp the abilities or strengths of our enemy—not well enough to overcome them.
A loathing smile twitched on his lips.
And dear old Gaius Julius does no better. We are both artifacts, out of our depth, passed by in the rush of time and events.

He missed Aurelian—not just for his solid, cheerful presence—but for the surety the big red beard gave Galen's world. A pillar, a mountain, a sure strength at his hand, someone to trust, someone to confide in... Maxian's sunny complement.
But now only we two remain,
he thought morosely,
two brothers too much alike to keep their quick tongues to themselves, without the moderating influence of...

Galen pressed the palms of his hands over both eyes, trying to blot out beloved memories. The splitting pain of his headaches, at least, had receded, but now he was left with an enormous emptiness that captured every spare thought. "Enough of this," he said aloud, trying to force his mind onto a useful path. The Emperor squinted at the piles of papers.

"What to do?" Galen rubbed his jaw, realizing the muscles were tight as a drum. "Let us say my dear brother does have a way to defeat the Persian monster... then we will still have to fight Shahr-Baraz and his Immortals and these damned Arabs and Greeks." The Emperor looked at the southern wall of his office, where a stitched parchment sheet held a carefully drawn map of the Empire. His eye was drawn to Constantinople. A sense of neglected business tickled. "Ah—Alexandros had best not sail down to Egypt now! He'll put his head in the noose for sure. Nilos! Get in here!"

The door opened slowly, the Greek peeking with a wary expression on his face. Seeing a familiar, irritated expression on the Emperor's face, the secretary ventured a faint smile. "Yes, Lord and God."

Galen glared at the mess, scratching his head. "Help me find the latest reports from the fleet, and from
comes
Alexandros and his Legion."

"Here, sir." Nilos closed the door softly, then rummaged through the debris around the edge of the desk. After a moment, he excavated a packet of letters stamped with the seal of the cursus publicus and bound in dark green-and-red twine. The Greek dragged over a chair, setting a hamper filled with tax receipts on the floor. "This one—" he passed over a single sheet "—is from Alexandros, arrived just two days ago. And these—" A heavier packet, stained with some dark sauce, filled Galen's outstretched hand. "—arrived today from Tarentum."

"You've read them?" The Emperor raised an eyebrow, untying the fleet dispatch.

"No, Lord and God." Nilos managed a wry smile. "We've just been trying to keep things sorted."

Galen nodded absently, scanning through the listings of ships and men and supplies. He flipped to the last page, where a scrawled note occupied the bottom of the sheet. As he did, the Emperor's brow furrowed and he looked up at Nilos. "The fleet has moved to Dyrrachium in Epirus? Why?"

Nilos' eyebrows raised, and he shook his head. "I don't know, Lord and God. Who ordered them there?"

Galen looked back down at the page, brow darkening. "As per 'your orders,' this says. I sent no order... did you, or one of the tribunes?"

"No, my lord." Nilos looked perplexed. "Shall I find out who did?"

"Yes," Galen said slowly, setting the dispatch aside. He split the seal on the single sheet with the edge of his thumb. "But they've already set sail, so the best we can do is dispatch a courier to Dyrrachium and send them on to..." His eyes settled on the terse message, then widened in surprise. Galen flipped the paper over, nostrils flaring as he read the quickly scrawled destination on the front. The ink had smeared a little, obscuring the first line, leaving 'The Palatine' still readable. "...Constantinople."

"Master?" Nilos leaned forward in concern. Galen closed the letter abruptly and tucked the sheet into the pocket of his toga. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Galen looked up, an affable smile on his face. A hard glint was visible in his eyes. "Send round for two Legion couriers—strong riders both!—and write them up priority passes for the dispatch inns from here to Augusta Vendelicorum and Londonium."

Nilos nodded, though he expressed no comment at the need to send a message by all speed to Germania and Britannia. The secretary went out, leaving Galen alone in the office.

So.
The Emperor pushed the fleet dispatch away with the tip of one finger.
The Goths are already on the road to Dyrrachium and the Imperial fleet will be there waiting when they arrive.
A bead of sweat slowly formed on his forehead, trickling into the sharp line of his brow.
A swift passage to Italia, then, for thirty thousand men.
Galen leaned back in his chair, wood and canvas creaking as he settled.
A fast march up the Via Appia and they will be in Rome in a month's time.

The Emperor nodded to himself, remembering the shocked expression on old Gaius' face when he heard of the disaster in Egypt.
We both agreed, didn't we? Aurelian could hold out for another month, perhaps two, or even longer. Long enough to let these Goths place their foot on my neck.

Galen could see the logic, though his heart twisted at the ramifications.
Then the new Emperor turns to deal with the Persians, armed with the fleet of the air and all our remaining strength.
A snarl transformed his face.
He thinks himself so great a general then, to do what Aurelian could not?
The bitter thought brought the Emperor up short, and a cold sense of revelation came over him.
Why not? Old Gaius is an exemplary general and Alexandros even greater. Why shouldn't they risk all, to gain all? They have never been defeated—and my rule has proved of only marginal worth...

A terrible weight pressed down on Galen, forcing his head into his hands. He felt pinned, trapped by circumstance and fate, ground fine by the millstone of events.
Oh, gods of Rome, why not let them rule? Then I will be free of all this...

The door creaked and Nilos entered, carrying two leather-bound packets. "Here are—my lord?"

The Emperor forced himself to raise his head. Bitter gall choked his throat and every motion was exhausting. "I will write a letter for each," he managed to croak. "These men must leave today."

Nilos bobbed his head and fled through the doorway. Galen fumbled for a quill, then spilled more than a little ink on the papers before he could force his hand to begin writing. There was still nearly a Legion's worth of troops in Britannia, scattered here and there, who could be wholly withdrawn to Germania. He hoped they would be enough to let three, perhaps four, of the Rhine Legions march south.
Britannia can fend for herself,
he thought bleakly,
and I pray the Franks-Beyond-The-River continue their kinstrife over Guntram's inheritance and keep their eyes from Gaul and Noricum. Or I will lose more than just Rome and this office and this cursed, heavy crown of laurel. I need troops who will remember I am the Emperor!

"Ah, luxury!" Vladimir brushed aside a heavy curtain and looked with joy upon his own bed. The sheets and quilts were neatly pressed and tucked in—the house maids in the prince's home were nothing if not efficient—and he dumped his kit bag and stinking armor on the floor with a crash and clatter fit to wake the dead. "Ahhhh..." The Walach sprawled on the cot, feeling leather straps creak under the pallet. Goose-down pillows cradled his head and Vladimir felt the weariness of the road ease from his bones. He stretched, luxuriating.

"Aren't you barbarians supposed to take strength from sleeping on the cold ground?" Nicholas stepped into the room with less exuberance, his fine-boned face showing its own relief at coming home. "Living without restraint or habitation breeds a gigantic race..."

Vladimir made a rude gesture in response, then bent to dump his boots on the floor.

Nicholas laughed and set down his bags. As he did, he spied a letter on the table set against one wall. "Vlad," he said curiously, picking up the brown parchment, "you corresponding with some noble lady behind my back?"

The Walach made a quizzical, snuffling sound. "Nick, you know I can't read or write. Must be for you."

"No," Nicholas said, sitting down on the edge of his cot, "this is addressed to you from the Office of the Legions."

"Huh?" Vladimir shrugged, scratching behind his ear. "What does it say?"

Nicholas opened the page and screwed up his face, reading the tightly spaced lines with a frown. He owned some knowledge of letters, but not much, and the terse official language was hard to follow. After a moment, though, as Vladimir watched, his frown faded, replaced by a sigh of regret.

"What?" The Walach felt the thick dark hairs on his arms stir.

Nicholas looked up, shaking his head sadly. "Our missing lad is dead, Vlad. They found his body in the ruins of Constantinople, gaffed like a trout."

"No!" Vladimir sat up, horrified. "Not Dwyrin!"

"Yes," Nicholas said, handing across the parchment sheet. "They identified his body from the Legion brand and his
signaculum
. I'm sorry, Vlad."

"Poor cub." The Walach wiped a moist eye. "We should have stuck close to him, Nick, like herd dogs on a lame ewe. It's not right, a young lad like him accepting the crow-queen's embrace without even knowing a girl's kiss."

The Latin shook his head. He'd assumed the boy was dead long ago—the Empire would not let such a powerful wizard go astray—but held his tongue, seeing his friend's open grief. "No, I guess not. But death is never fair, though the
walküre
are always quick to stoop over the fallen."

Vladimir dragged his boots back out from under the cot. "I have to go out," he said gruffly.

Nicholas nodded in understanding, but did not follow. He had his own bitter thoughts to fill the time between weary consciousness and blessed, forgetful sleep.

The floor jumped in echo of a resounding crash. Paving stones the size of a man creaked and dust clouded the air, shining brilliantly where thin slats of sunlight broke through the high roof. A broad-shouldered man, his long beard waxed and curled, mustache flaring beside and away from ruddy cheeks, turned his head slightly in question.

"They are tearing down the statues of the ancient gods, my lord," said the woman walking at his side. While the powerfully built man was clad in cunning, articulated armor from neck to foot, she was dressed in soft, gleaming white, with golden necklaces heavy on her breast. Raven-dark hair framed her face, now done up with pins and rods into an elaborate headdress.

Shahr-Baraz frowned, fist caressing the hilt of his sword. "By whose order?"

"His," Zenobia answered, bowing towards shadows filling one end of the ancient hall. "The sight of so many 'false gods' displeases him."

"Do they?" The King of Kings strode forward, then slowed. Tall iron stakes barred his path, driven into the stone floor without regard for ancient propriety. A palpable chill pervaded the air and the Persian's breath began to frost in his mustache. Indistinct shapes stirred in the darkness and the Boar felt hostile eyes settle upon him. "I would speak with Prince Rustam," he called, stopping just short of the outmost ward.

There was no answer. Shahr-Baraz scowled at the Queen standing by his side. She said nothing, face impassive. In that moment, while they waited, the sound of boots on stone rang around them and the young Eagle, Khalid al'Walid appeared, dark hair shining in the intermittent sunlight. Odenathus was with him, the two men laughing in conversation.

"We are all here, then," the king said suspiciously, turning back to the shadowed hall. He raised a bushy eyebrow—the iron wands had gathered soundlessly to one side—leaving a passage open into the inner chamber of the temple. Suppressing instinctive dread, Shahr-Baraz strode through the opening and into the room beyond. The Queen followed silently and even the two garrulous young men found their speech faltering in such forbidding air.