The priests in the hall stiffened as two burly legionaries stepped up to the sarcophagus, iron pry bars in muscular hands. Octavian ignored the Egyptians and their half-choked cries of protest. "Open it up, lads, but carefully—I want nothing broken."
The two Roman soldiers grinned, but slid the pry bars under the glass with practiced ease and—after a moment's effort—popped the lid free. Grunting, they managed to get the cover loose and placed aside on the ground. Another man—one of Octavian's aides—opened a box of enameled pine. The smell of freshly cut flowers and incense rose from within.
Octavian knelt again, leaning beside the coffin, staring down at ancient, withered features. The man within—in his breathing life—had been of middling height, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. Now all of his body save the face was carefully wrapped in layers of fabric and even now, after hundreds of years in the tomb, embalming spices and unguents tickled Octavian's nose. Curly hair lay matted against the skull, and the eyes were closed, as if the man was merely asleep. The young Roman frowned, reaching out with a questioning hand, then withdrawing before he touched the ancient flesh.
Carefully! He reminded himself, he's old and fragile—wouldn't do for the great Alexander to lose his nose from your clumsy touch!
"Curious... he looks nothing like my adoptive father." Octavian's voice was sad.
The old Egyptian, Khamûn, raised an eyebrow in question. Octavian did not turn, but straightened up, remaining on his knees. "My adoptive father, Julius Caesar, believed himself the reborn spirit of Alexander." The young man's voice was soft and contemplative.
"He felt a great pressure throughout his life," Octavian continued, "and it made Caesar mad, I think, always racing to match the achievements of Alexander. Sometimes he complained of urgent dreams, and never accounted he had matched his old glory."
Khamûn said nothing, though his face turned pensive. Octavian continued to speak softly and quietly, musing on the past. "He sent me a letter from Alexandria, soon after Pompey the Great was defeated. He too looked upon the face of Alexander... he said the visage was familiar but not his own face. That Woman played to his obsession, I think, plying Caesar with tales of reborn souls. She wanted him to be Alexander."
Octavian looked up at Khamûn, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are the souls of the great reborn, wizard? Could Alexander's spirit have dwelt in my father's body?"
"I have heard this said, my lord." Khamûn took a moment to still his racing heart. A terrible thought had occurred to the old wizard, chilling his blood. "Many men, and women, too, oft claim the blood of the great heroes and kings runs in their veins... mostly those who hope for descent from some heavenly power. Alexander, I have heard, claimed his own house of Aegea descended from Hercules, and through him from Zeus Thundershield. I do not know if that is true."
Octavian stood, his expression turning cold. "You are not answering my question, wizard."
Khamûn swallowed, but managed to speak. "There are some great spirits, my lord, which maintain after a man or woman dies. We call them the ka, and they do not die with the defeat of the physical body. Such a man as Alexander? His spirit might live on for a long time... but from what I have seen and read, it will be drawn like to like. In his own descendant, perhaps, he might live again. But the great Caesar is a trueborn Roman, yes? Born of Latin blood? Not a Macedonian... and everyone agrees Alexander's children perished, strangled or murdered by his successors."
Octavian continued to fix the old Egyptian with a cold stare, but at last relented, turning back to the coffin on the floor. "True," the young Roman mused, "his line ended in blood. So my father's dream was just that—a dream—though he was carried far on those wings! Just the memory of the man was enough..." Octavian's voice trailed off into silence.
A long moment passed and Khamûn, seeing the young Roman deep in thought, did not venture to disturb him. Finally, Octavian roused himself, looked around and gestured to his aide. The youth unfolded a cloth in the box, and removed a golden diadem, surmounted by the eight-rayed star of the Macedonian kings. Octavian, moving with great care, settled the crown upon the ancient leathery head, then saluted the corpse as one Roman general might another. He followed the diadem with the petals of many flowers, strewn artlessly in the coffin.
"It is done," he said, and the two legionaries—under his careful eye—replaced the glass lid and drove thin wedges of lead into the spaces around the edge to hold it fast. Octavian turned away, grinning at Khamûn. At the same time, he put something in a pocket inside his cloak.
"My lord?" ventured one of the priests, "would you like to look upon the mausoleum of the Ptolemies?"
Octavian laughed at the man, now seemingly in great good humor. "I came to see a king, not a row of corpses!"
With that, Octavian strode out of the tomb, with his legionaries and aides in a crowd around him, leaving the priest sullen and red with anger.
—|—
"Now, Khamûn, where have you hidden the boy, Caesarion? I would like to see him for myself." Octavian slouched in a field chair in his great tent outside the city. Full darkness had come, revealing a vast wash of stars girdling the heavens. All around the young Roman, his Legions were bedding down for the night, here on the plain just east of Alexandria. In the gloom, their lanterns and torches made a bright orchard along the banks of a canal. "Her children by Antony I have already looked upon—charming and well-featured, but useless—where is Caesar's child?"
The old Egyptian stood at the door of the tent, staring out into the darkness. Now he turned, long wrinkled face filling with despair. "Gone, my lord. None can say where, and I have cast about in my thought, seeking to gain this knowledge. The boy has vanished. Some... some say he has fled south, to Axum or the dark kingdoms at the source of the Nile..."
Octavian stood abruptly, his usually calm face twisted in anger. "You purchased your child's life and freedom, master Khamûn, with promises of power over Egypt and Rome alike! Now, what do I have? Nothing! You are a weak tool, a chisel that slips too many times from the cutting groove. Why should I keep you, when you fail so often? Do I mistake the passage of events? Each thing I desired, I have taken myself."
The Egyptian paled, seeing raw fury in his master's face for the first time. The young Senator was not a man of great passions and the change was startling. Khamûn knelt, swiftly. "My lord..."
"Be quiet." Octavian stared out at the dim lights of the city, a constellation of pale yellow and orange crashed upon the earth. "My agents, my men, will search for the boy. I will set Agrippa upon the task—he has never failed me! This child of conjoined Rome and Egypt will not be allowed to live. I am Caesar's only heir and I will have Rome for myself."
Octavian gestured for the Egyptian to rise. "Yet there is a task I have in mind for you, something I hope is within your skill! My reach is long... wherever you have hidden your beloved will not be far enough away, if you fail me again." The young Roman smiled suddenly, teeth white and feral in the half-darkness. "I will make a new Rome, a glorious, eternal Rome. You will help me. I have not ignored the little you have taught me of power and this hidden world you claim to master."
Khamûn watched his master warily, though the Egyptian breathed a thankful prayer he still had some use. He did not want to die under the burning tongs—his ancestors would have laughed at such threats, but the blood of Khem was thin in these later days. "Of course, my lord, I am your servant."
CHAPTER TWO
A Street, North of the Forum Bovarium, Constantinople, Late Spring A.D. 625
A faint groan issued from beneath a heap of corpses. Pale sunlight fell on dead staring eyes, picking out faint gleams from buckles and rusted links of chain armor. The entire street was filled with scattered bodies—most of them burned beyond recognition—though many still held the semblance of life. There were no flies, no rooting, bloody-nosed dogs, no scavenging peasants, no crows or ravens or seagulls feasting on the flotsam of war. Empty windows stared down onto the sloping street, shutters scorched black by some awesome blast of flame that had raged up and down the avenue.
Bodies shifted, heavy gray arms falling away, thighs encased in armor clanging to the ground. A man clawed his way out of the corpse midden, face streaked with dried blood, armor dented and scratched. He stood, trying to muster the spit to clear his mouth. Dark eyes, almost black, took in the wreckage all around and the soldier grimaced. There was nothing moving, certainly nothing alive as far as his eye reached in either direction.
A great stillness pervaded the houses and crouched in the doors of the little shops. The soldier realized nothing lived, even in the dark, close rooms behind the facades. Grunting, he tried to climb up over the heap of half-naked bodies—part of his conscious mind registered Slavic spearmen, long hair stiff with white clay, their bodies intricately diagrammed with whorled signs in black and dark blue dye—and found his right arm weak. Frowning, he looked down on his forearm and realized a huge gash ripped from his wrist to the elbow, tearing through a sleeve of linked iron rings.
"Merciful gods!" The man hissed. Something had shattered his arm, cleaving right to the bone. An axe? He remembered something bright flashing towards him.
The soldier reached to undo the buckle at his shoulder and his left arm caught on something. Cursing, the man realized a long black-shafted arrow had wedged itself through the center of the iron links and clear through his forearm. The stubs of two more arrows were buried in his chest. Snarling, without even words to express his rage, the man broke the shaft of the arrow off at the base, rewarding himself with a popping sound and the slow welling of thick, dark blood around the wound. He ignored the arrows in his chest for the moment.
With swift, experienced motions, Rufio unbuckled the straps holding the armored sleeves to his shoulder plates, then jerked the heavy iron hauberk off over his head. The arrows in his chest snapped with a wet sound and he hissed with pain. A pale, welted body crisscrossed with terrible scars was revealed. The street remained silent and desolate. Even the sky was empty of birds. The uncanny stillness weighed on the soldier's mind. He assumed the city had fallen—but where was the occupying army? Where were the oppressed citizens?
Blunt fingers gripped the head of the arrow in his left arm, then dragged the shaft out through the muscle. The point emerged, slick with reddish-yellow fluid, and Rufio tossed the arrow away. He bent over, feeling abused muscle and bone creak. Two arrows were buried deep in his chest. Squatting, bracing his shoulders against the nearest building wall, Rufio lifted a spent shaft from the ground. Another dead Slav, lying facedown, flesh distended and purple, provided him with a moderately clean knife. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his left arm, Rufio cut the head from the arrow, then trimmed the resulting shaft, notching the blunt head into four quarters.
Clenching his jaw, Rufio wedged his trimmed arrow against the broken butt of the one in his shoulder, wiggling it until the notched head settled properly against its new friend. Then, holding his body as still as he could manage, the soldier bore down, pushing the arrow lodged in his body through, feeling it grind past bone and muscle, until it punched through the skin of his back. Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting tracks in dried, crusty blood. Despite being half-blind, his entire body shimmering with pain, he carefully withdrew his dowel. With the iron head of the shaft sticking out of his back, Rufio managed to reach around and snag it with his thumb. Some wiggling around managed to slide the bolt free.
One more to go. Rufio lay back, panting, staring at the pale sky. A haze seemed to lie over the city, making even a clear bright sun, high in the bowl of heaven, seem faded and washed out. Oh, you cursed gods, the soldier thought bitterly, I never asked for this... to see nothing but an eternity of ruin and destruction! You should have left me safely dead, cursed physician!
But he remained alive, and though his entire body was trembling, he fitted the dowel, again, to the broken stub jutting from his chest and began to push. A long agonized groan escaped the soldier's lips as the arrow punched out his back.
CHAPTER THREE
North of the Reed Sea, Lower Egypt, Early Summer, A.D. 625
The stand of cane waved softly, moved by some zephyr of the upper air, creaking and rustling with quiet voices. A thin little man, wiry body given desperately needed bulk by layered leather armor, crouched at the edge of the thick green stalks, his lower body tugged by a sluggish current. The Roman peered through the foliage, ignoring the flies buzzing and crawling on every surface and the gelid sensation of leeches squirming against his legs. One of the man's hands was raised, bidding other men—hidden still further back among reeds and rubber trees thick on the banks of the canal—to wait, to be patient.
Beyond the screen of cane was a ford where the ancient brick sidings of the canal slumped away with age and use, leaving a high sandy bank cut by a rutted wagon path. Here in the lower delta of the Nile, silt filled old passages and the river—in times of flood—cut new channels on its way to the sea. From where Frontius was crouched, skin itching and nostrils filled with an overpowering stench, he could barely make out the paving stones that had once joined a proper road—a Roman road—to a bridge across the canal.
Frontius clenched his fist, feeling the water stir. Little dimples began to appear in the thick brown surface. A sound rose over the constant buzz and hiss, a thundering roll of hooves on sand and broken paving. A man appeared, jogging along the old road, leading a small tan horse. The new arrival was swathed in white and ochre, mail glinting through his robes, and a conical helm wrapped with a green flash. The scout, careful, probed the muddy water with a spear, then—even at this distance, in this heavy, nearly opaque air—Frontius could see the man smile. The old bridge had collapsed into the muck, making a firm, sandy bottom. The Arabian high-stepped through the water, but there was little need—the slow current barely covered the mare's fetlocks.
After a moment, the Arab disappeared back the way he had come. Frontius opened his hand, making a signal to the others, then settled himself lower in the muck, letting the tepid water lap up around his torso until only his head and shoulders were revealed, pressed against the heavy black loam anchoring the reeds. The thundering in the earth was growing stronger, making the surface of the canal ripple and bounce. Then the scout reappeared and the Arabian splashed lightly across the stream and scooted up the far bank. Within an instant, the road and ford were filled with men. Dozens, then hundreds of mounted men picked their way across the canal, surging up the western bank.
In the cane break, Frontius bit at his knuckle, counting and watching, praying the footing of the ford would hold—they had not expected so many of the enemy to come this way! A troop of men with green banners splashed past, then they too were gone. For a moment, there was silence, then the croaking of frogs and the honking cries of marsh egrets and cranes returned. Frontius rubbed furiously at his ears, crushing a feathery carpet of mosquitoes. His hands came away bloody and gray.
He bent his head, listening. A grain passed, and then another, then most of a glass, before he heard the rattling din of battle suddenly brew up to the west. Horns called, echoing mournfully over the swamplands and the screaming of horses grated across his nerves. Now he stood, arm raised again, mud oozing from his armor, and watched the high bank where the banda of Arabic cavalry had passed. The sound of the fighting grew closer—shouts, the clash of metal on metal, cries of pain, the snap and hiss of arrows. High in the broadleaf trees, Frontius could see branches moving in some breeze, but here, down in the muck, there was only a close stillness. Sound carried far over this stagnant water.
A horse burst from the top of the western bank, slewing down the slope, throwing up a spray of sand and brown water as it hit the canal. The Arabian staggered, then came up, leeches clinging to its flanks, saddle askew. There was no rider. A moment later, a man—his face covered with blood—limped down the sandy bank, then managed to cross the ford, using his spear as a cane. Off to the west, there was a sharp boom and leaves fluttered out of the cottonwoods. Frontius smiled: the Legion thaumaturges weighed in.
The Roman engineer turned, opening and closing his hand twice. Off through the thick brush, reeds and white-barked trees there was an answering flash of light. Frontius closed his nose, trying to keep mites from crawling in, then began wading back up the canal. The mud was deep and thick under the thin sheet of water, slowing his progress. His heart started to beat faster, hearing a low rumbling sound upstream, and he veered towards the bank. Here, under the tree roots, there was a course of fitted stone. He reached the bank as the first wavelet passed, pushing gently at his legs. Frontius swallowed a curse, then grabbed hold of one of the clinging roots and started to climb out of the canal.
Another, higher wave rushed down, more of a rolling hump in the brown water, but when this one passed, the level of the canal did not drop. Instead, the water began to sluice past, running faster and faster, swirling around Frontius' boots. The wiry little engineer struggled, trying to scramble up the stone, cursing the enormous weight of mud and water trapped in his armor.