"We have all heard rumors—as children or as adults—of demonic powers who oppose the great gods, Jupiter and Minerva and Juno. Over the centuries our philosophers have claimed these gods do not exist, that they are the superstitions of a credulous, ignorant people. Some men point to the abilities of wizards and sorcerers and say; 'there are your gods of old, the men who first wielded such power.' We have been blind, my friends."
The walking cane rapped sharply, punctuating his words. The senators did not stir, bending all their attention upon the old man.
"There are dark powers, things that should remain nameless, deities desiring only destruction and the enslavement of all human life. I do not know if the great gods exist, or if they will help us, but I do know we are locked in a struggle to the death with the servants of darkness. Rome has never—I say never—faced a more terrible enemy, even in the war against the Egyptian Queen."
Gregorius turned to the Emperor, face filled with foreboding. "Augustus Galen, you are the protector of the state and the Senate and the people. Above all, you are the bulwark of civilization, both against the barbarian tribes and against impious darkness. We are embattled, matching our mortal strength against this supernal power—I beg you, in the name of the people, to raise a shield, an aegis, against these enemies."
Galen stirred, sharp eyes flickering across the crowd. "What more would you have me do, Senator? The Legions and the Thaumaturges are already upon the field of battle, striving to turn back the Persian tide. There are no more men to call up, no more armies to raise..."
"There is an Imperial post, princeps, which has never been filled. I beg you to fill it now."
Maxian was surprised—he knew full well what Gregorius had in mind—yet now he felt his throat constrict. A complete silence fell upon the assembly, and many of the senators tensed, staring at Gregorius as if the old man had become a monster himself. Maxian's eyes drifted over them and he saw calculation and ambition alike shining in their faces. For a moment, he felt sick, filled with revulsion at their reaction.
Where is your love for Rome, the wise city who nurtured you? he cried to himself, heartsick. You see only opportunity and a chance for greater wealth, power, fame... Is this the Rome of my fathers?
"It is," a cultured voice said in his ear. Maxian started, but he did not turn. Instead he berated himself for speaking aloud, or wearing his thought so openly on his face. "These are only men, not gods," whispered the voice.
"What is this post?" Galen leaned forward, intent upon Gregorius, and Maxian swallowed a laugh. Both the old senator and the Emperor had gone over their little speeches to the Senate in past days, yet now, in this electric atmosphere, it seemed each word was new, wrung from circumstance for the first time. "How may a single man aid us in this desperate strait?"
"Princeps, in the first days of the principate, the Divine Augustus in his wisdom established the sacred and honorable post of custos magus imperium, intending for the greatest of the Thaumaturges to not only defend Rome on the battlefield, but to serve as a protection for the Empire as a whole. The magus was to defend the Empire from those threats that come unseen, as the Legions defend the frontier, and the Emperor oversees all, guiding the people as a wise father. My lord, I beg you to fill this post now, for we have great need of such a man, and such a bulwark against the sorcery of the Persians."
In the silence that followed, eager voices began to rise, but Galen raised a hand sharply and everyone subsided. The Emperor remained sitting in the chair, seemingly deep in thought. The moment stretched and Maxian began to fidget, but again the men on either side of him held him in place. Finally, Galen raised his head and looked upon the Senate with a grim expression.
"I am loath to fill such a post," he said, frowning, "for Rome has never placed its faith in wizards or anything but our strong arm, iron will and the blessing of the gods. In this way Rome brought civilization to many benighted countries and raised up a great Empire. The men and women of Rome have always placed their faith in things that can be seen and done by eye and hand." Galen stood up, his face severe, and stepped down onto the open floor.
Maxian suddenly felt a foreboding chill, fearing Galen had decided against the plan without informing his brother or Gregorius or anyone. But we must take this step!
"Fellow senators," Galen's voice was low, but it carried to every ear. "If a wizard is raised to the magus imperium then we will have changed Rome forever. We will turn down a path traveled by the nations of the east—where long ago god-kings and sorcerers ruled over men. This is dangerous, for who can say what a man will do, if given such power?"
Galen turned, seemingly staring right at Maxian. The prince stiffened, but the Emperor's eyes traveled over him without stopping. "This is a desperate measure, but the esteemed Gregorius has spoken truthfully. We are overmatched in the east. Our Thaumaturges cannot stand against the dark powers the Persians have unleashed. We must consider new weapons if we are to defeat them. I fear Rome has slept too long, ignorant of these matters, relying on our Thaumaturges, yet not giving them rein enough to develop the strength we are now desperate for."
"Understand!" Galen reached the far end of the hall, by the entry doors, and his voice boomed loud from the ceiling as he turned to face the distant chair. "We must find a man, a wizard of great strength. We must give him more power if he is to repel this foe. Many old traditions will be overturned and our Thaumaturgic Legion will be vastly changed. We cannot know where this path will lead, but..." The Emperor paused and Maxian perceived enormous weariness in the line of his body, in his face, in the tenor of his voice. A great rush of fear threatened the prince and again he nearly leapt up to run to his brother, who suddenly seemed so old. Galen shook his head, throwing off the fatigue with a visible effort and stood up straight. "...we must do something. This path, perhaps, offers a hope of victory."
"Is there such a man?" A voice called out from the crowd of senators, though Maxian could not see who spoke.
"If there is," Galen responded, drawing the cloak over his chest. "I will not name him. This is a critical matter, and one that I lay at your feet, Senators." The Emperor looked around again, then walked slowly to the outer doors of the hall. "I will abide by your wishes in this matter. I pray you choose wisely."
Galen stepped up into the threshold of the bronze doors and they opened, flooding the chamber with brilliant sunlight. A solid rank of Praetorians closed around the Emperor and then he was gone, swallowed by the noon sun. The doors swung closed again with a dull boom.
Everyone began to speak at once, in a rush of excited noise and shouting and general clamor. Maxian remained sitting, realizing he was sweating, and found Gregorius sitting beside him once again, smiling quietly, his bushy white beard spilling over both hands clasped on the head of his cane.
"Rest your feet, young prince," the old senator said, "this will take some time."
Gaius Julius stepped away from the marble screen, quite pleased with himself. Part of him wished he had delivered the little speeches, but his conscious mind—which learned at least one lesson in his abruptly interrupted life—was content to remain unknown and unremarked. The gallery was crowded with all manner of citizens, though slightly oily-looking men with particularly sharp togas and tunics predominated. There were large numbers of provincial and city representatives—a dizzying array of Nubians and Goths and Gauls and even some Britons—milling about in traditional costume. It all made a colorful scene, but Gaius was not interested in rural politics, not today. With the ease of long practice, he weaved through the crowd and found a man selling wine. The old Roman pressed a few copper coins into the peddler's hand and took a cup. With the chipped clay in his hand, he wandered slowly the length of the gallery, idly watching the discussion on the floor of the Curia.
After a moment he stopped and stepped sideways behind a cluster of Axumite merchants. Their tall feather headdresses made suitable cover and he took another drink from the cup, eyes narrowed over the rim. A woman he recognized entered the gallery and he felt a certain trepidation in being seen by her. They had never exchanged more than a few words; in his guise of a hardworking patrician bureaucrat there was little reason for him to engage in lengthy discourse with an Empress. Helena might not recognize him, but approaching her now was reckless.
Unfortunately, he found her particularly attractive. He knew from palace gossip she was strong-willed, sharp-minded and carried on a voluminous correspondence. Once or twice, he managed to overhear her conversations and she wielded a dagger wit with aplomb. Gaius Julius checked the drape of his toga, then mentally ground down on his ambition.
This is not the time for seduction! He wanted her though, and vivid imagination yielded up delightful, tempting vignettes. He started to step forward, desire convincing his limbs it would be perfectly reasonable for him to go up and speak with her, breathe in the air around her, look into sparkling dark eyes, bandy wit and wordplay with her. Gaius Julius caught himself and turned away, forcing himself to look down onto the Senate floor again.
—|—
The senators had gotten themselves into a furious argument. From the raised voices reaching the gallery, Gaius saw the awareness of the possible patronage and graft attendant upon an important new Imperial post was spreading through the white-haired old men like blood on the sea. Gaius suppressed a grin, unconsciously flicking his robes into an even straighter line and checking his hair. The smell of fear and power in the air was heady and he felt his pulse quicken.
Stop this. You're getting jittery. Gaius paused by one of the pillars and took a moment to calm down. He craved this—the lunge and parry and brutal verbal combat of the Curia and the Senate. He wanted to step down on the floor—as was his right!—and set his mind to the influence and control of others. There was a physical pain in his gut, like a rat was squirming among his organs. Against this desire, thoughts of Helena disappeared. Impossible, you old fool! You must be patient. Quiet. Like a mouse.
Gaius breathed out, slowly, and looked around, avoiding the flushed, sweaty faces of the men talking and exclaiming on all sides. He was not sure he approved of the renovations to the Curia—he had taken pains, in his breathing days, to see the building was just small enough. This gallery was new and there were more seats than he remembered below. Gaius frowned, counting rows of benches. There must be room for almost fifteen hundred senators. That, he thought, was too many. Even in his day—so long ago now!—he had ordered the architects and builders to make the Senate house just a little smaller than it needed to be.
The old Roman grinned, forgetting his own advice to remain impassive. With a constant shortage of seats, the junior senators stood in the back of the hall, or even outside. That kept them helpfully out of the debate, and gave them incentive to compromise so they could move inside. Now this expansion had made a muddle of everything, and this too-convenient gallery allowed anyone to watch the Senate at work. How... republican...
"Master Gaius?"
The old Roman turned, smiling genially. Three men approached him out of the crowd and the middle one—a stocky, balding white-haired "twenty-year man," if ever Gaius Julius had seen a Legion veteran trying to be inconspicuous in civilian clothes—was also carrying a krater of wine. The man's pockmarked face seemed habitually grim and his attention was in constant motion, watching the crowd for enemies. Gaius guessed the man was forty or fifty years old.
"I am Gaius Julius. Welcome to Rome. You must be Sergius."
The soldier nodded, flashing a bit of a wintry smile. "You're welcome sir. It was good to hear from you."
Gaius nodded, turning his attention to the other two men. Both of them were young and alert, with the air of those used to violent action. "This would be Nicholas and Vladimir?"
Sergius nodded, motioning the other two forward. "They are. A pair of right rascals, but I was never gladder than to find them alive after our disaster." The old soldier shook his head in dismay.
Gaius clasped wrists with the thinner one, a whipcord-lean man with dark brown hair and peculiar mauve eyes. The lad had powerful wrists, well-used and corded with muscle. Like his companion, he was wearing a nondescript military cloak over a tunic and some kind of armored shirt. The hilts of a heavy, spatha-style longsword rode at his trim waist. Nicholas grinned, matching Gaius' gaze, and made a little bow. The young man's mustaches were very sharp, twisted to points beside a thin nose. Gaius nodded in welcome. "Nicholas. Where are you from?"
"I don't know, sir. I was raised a slave in the Dannmark."
"But you are surely a Latin—taken in a raid by the Scandians?"
The young man shrugged. "I don't remember any of that, Master Gaius. My first memory is of a gray sky, and ravens crying, and then entering the fortress of Roskilde." His expression changed, growing feral. "Everything after that is rather cruel. At least, until I entered the service of Rome."
Sergius nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. "True enough, Master Gaius, and we've had good service of young Nicholas. He and Vladimir have gone into and come out of some tight places in the name of the Empire."
"So I have heard." Gaius maintained a lengthy correspondence with Sergius. The old centurion was a field officer for the Eastern Empire's Office of Barbarians. Over the years, Sergius had decided a close relationship was needed between—specifically—himself and the Western Office. Some small-minded men might have termed the stoutly built centurion a traitor, but Gaius thought of him as a man who could tell which side the loaf was going to fall on.
Before Gaius Julius involved himself in such matters, a woman—a beautiful, powerful woman named Anastasia De'Orelio—had been the secret master of the Western Office. Over a year ago, however, she abandoned her post and Gaius Julius—at something of loose ends at the time—took the opportunity to gather up some of the responsibilities she let fall. In fact, the small-minded might also accuse Gaius of theft and outright falsehood. Some privy letters, he allowed, might have gone astray, but if they did—well, the world was filled with troubles—and one of those letters led him to Sergius and then, in the full course of time, to these two admirable young men.
"You are Vladimir, then, the Walach." The corners of Gaius Julius' eyes crinkled up and he clasped wrists with the young barbarian. The Walach—a riot of dark curly hair, a creamy white complexion over rippling muscle, brilliant dark eyes—took his hand tentatively and Gaius could see the boy's nostrils flare. "We are all friends here, Vladimir, do not worry."
Ah, but I must smell strange to him, Gaius thought. I should not have met them here, in this public place... in private, I might allay their fears with honest words.
"Master... Gaius." Vladimir looked down, unwilling to meet Gaius' direct gaze. "Thank you for your patronage and support."
"My assistance," Gaius said, "is only what you deserve, for such loyal service."
All three men nodded and Gaius saw honest appreciation in their faces. With the collapse of the Eastern Empire, a huge flood of refugees hurried west. Rome was crowded with out-of-work ministers, logothetes, clerks and their families. The soldiers were immediately incorporated into the Western Legions, but everyone else was having a difficult time just finding food to eat and a place to sleep. As it happened, Gaius Julius had recently invested in blocks of apartments, warehouses, taverns, smithies, brick factories and all manner of other businesses. He could easily find lodgings for a few dozen Easterners at loose ends. Better, he had plenty of work for men like these three.