The Greek seemed uneasy and did not respond. Galen noticed the man had a stack of legal documents in his hands, wrapped with the dark red string the Palace staff used to denote manuscripts for the Emperor's attention. "What is this?"
"Nothing pressing, Lord and God," Nilos said, clutching the wooden folders to his chest. "You know... my cousin sometimes suffers from terrible headaches. He says it's like a vise crushing his temples."
"This feels that bad," Galen grated, squinting. "What does he do?"
"Goes to see a prostitute," Nilos said with a straight face. "Or eats Axumite beans."
"What is an Axumite bean?" Galen pointed at the documents. The motion made him feel queasy, but focusing on something other than his brother's pigheadedness was a welcome distraction. "That is a senatorial will, isn't it?"
"An Axumite bean," Nilos said, moving away and putting the stack of parchments on the far end of the marble-topped table, "is a little red bean from a green bush. If you chew them, many pains are banished. He says they help if you have a very bad headache."
Galen stood up and moved along the desk, supporting himself on the cool marble. "They help more than a prostitute? Do you have any?" He reached for the top folder.
"I know some," Nilos said, snatching the folders away from the Emperor. "But you should visit your beautiful wife. A most efficacious cure for many maladies! These things will wait until tomorrow. Or the day after."
"Give me the folder," Galen growled. "Or I will have you cut into tiny pieces by the guards. If this were Egypt, there would be crocodiles to clean up the mess, but I'm sure the circus is well stocked with hungry lions..."
"Yes, master." Nilos said, relinquishing his hold on the documents. He looked a little ill himself. "Should I find you some Axumite beans?"
"Wait a moment," Galen said, opening the folder and squinting at the closely-set lines of handwritten text within. It was a will. He flipped through several pages of declarations and invocations to the gods for a just and swift disbursement of the inheritance. "This is the will of Gregorius Auricus."
"Yes, Lord and God." Nilos clasped both hands behind his back and focused on a point above the Emperor's shoulder.
Galen's brow furrowed and the pain behind his right eye abated, driven out by intense irritation. His finger paused on the signatures at the bottom of the last page. "This was prepared by the very Gaius Julius who is familiar to us?"
Nilos nodded, though his mouth puckered up like a quince.
The Emperor considered the date of preparation and announcement in the Forum. "This is a revised will, replacing an earlier draft?"
The Greek nodded again.
"Does a copy of the previous will exist?"
"Yes," Nilos said slowly, obviously hesitant. Galen raised an eyebrow.
"Have you seen the previous will?" Another nod. "The benefactor was—"
"Lord and God, there were several..." Nilos' voice trailed off, then—faced with growing anger in the Emperor's face—he rallied and was able to say, "...temples devoted to good works, master. The Vestals, the Asklepian hospital on the Isla Tiberis, the funeral clubs for soldiers without families..."
Galen looked down at the document again. His entire body became still and quiet. "'All estates, lands, monies, investments, partnerships and shares previously owned by the senator,'" he read aloud, "'are now the sole property of one Maxian Julius Atreus, son of Galen the elder, an adult Roman male without living father.'" The Emperor paused, then continued in a stiff voice. "'To be administered and executed by his agent, Gaius Julius.'"
The clerk blanched a little at the tone, but nodded again. "Properly filed, master."
"Was it?" Galen closed the folder. "Yet all senatorial inheritances, particularly those without heirs of the body, must be approved by the Emperor. By me," he snapped. "Has my brother taken possession of this fortune, these estates?"
"Well... no, Lord and God." Nilos gained some heart. "But Master Gaius was already the senator's administrator and aide. He is already responsible for everything."
"Not now," Galen said with a sharp tone in his voice. "I deny this claim." He handed the folders back to Nilos, who was staring at the Emperor in surprise. "These properties are declared the property of the Imperial Household. All managers and foremen will be immediately replaced and an audit will be conducted to ensure the previous administrator has properly maintained the patrimony of the Emperor's beloved friend, Gregorius Auricus."
Nilos turned a little green.
"Do you understand?" The Emperor's poor humor disappeared, replaced by unsubtle anger.
"Yes, Lord and God." The clerk bowed, then crept out of the room. Galen did not notice his departure, for the Emperor was staring out the window again, across the massive buildings of the Forum. The city sprawled away to the edge of sight, a jumble of red-roofed apartments, shining temples and the imposing bulk of the Antonine Baths. He felt better, much better.
I am the Emperor of Rome, he thought, finding solace in the statement. I am the Empire.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Near Iblis
Moisture brushed against Mohammed's face and he came awake. There was water, real water, cold and wet. Without thinking, he opened his lips. Something stiff pressed against his cheek, and water spilled into his mouth. He opened his eyes, startled. Take nothing from this place, he thought wildly. A shape knelt over him, blocking out the perfect blue sky, silhouetted by the round, motionless sun. He blinked, feeling his eyelids crack. "No..." he gasped out, trying to raise a hand. The motion was very slow, so weak his limbs had become.
"You need to drink," said a voice; a familiar, beloved voice. A woman's voice. "Or you will die."
"Zoë?" Mohammed tried to push himself up. Again, his muscles could not respond. Firm hands caught his shoulders and helped him lie back against the trunk of the fig. Mohammed smelled familiar perfume, felt comfortable fingers brush back his white hair. The shape moved out of the sun's path.
"Hello, husband." Khadijah knelt before him on one knee, head tilted to one side, a white scarf of Indian cotton binding back her graying hair. She smiled, the corners of her eyes wrinkling up. Mohammed grunted, speechless, the sight of her face—so familiar, as if they had never been parted, even for an hour—looking back at him, just as he imagined his long-delayed homecoming. "You must drink."
In her hands was a leaf, a fig leaf, brimming with clear silvery water.
"How..." Mohammed managed to raise his arm, holding the makeshift cup away from his lips. He felt a heavy pain in his chest, as if his heart were being ground in the wheels of an oil press. The kind, accepting expression on her face made everything worse. "You must be a phantom, a spirit of this place... leave me be."
"You are stubborn as ever," Khadijah said, fingers closing around his hand. Mohammed's eyes widened. Her arm was insubstantial, colorful yet transparent, like excellent glass. The fig leaf was startlingly solid, the water like mercury. "I am myself, but I am dead. Now, drink. The water is from this tree, which shelters you from the sun with its branches, which supports your weary head with its roots. I gathered dew from these same leaves."
"How can you be so real?" Mohammed tried to turn his head away, closing his eyes. "I know the master of this place—a creature of evil... I will not take anything from him."
Khadijah sighed and the trees echoed her, rustling and creaking in some unseen wind. Loom-calloused fingers tapped in annoyance on her pleated skirts. "You have always been a willful man... much like a mule! Listen, son of my uncle, if you do not drink, you will die. If you die, then no man will hear the voice from the clear air. How will the people find their way free from sin?"
Mohammed opened one eye a sliver, giving the apparition a look. She was scowling at him in such a well-remembered way, with such compassion and irritation bound in one, he opened the other eye in surprise. "How... oh, Khadi—I am so sorry!"
"You did not come home," she said, sitting back, face filling slowly with grief. "I waited. I became weak, finally I could not stand, or even raise a cup myself. Still, I waited."
"I am sorry." Mohammed tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. "I came too late. Only two days late..."
Khadijah made a wry face, shaking her head slightly. Carefully, without spilling a drop, she set the leaf on the ground beside him. "My heart had strength enough to wait, but my body failed." An edge of anger glinted in her eyes and she frowned at him. "You sent the pots back, but you did not come home. You sent a letter—my love, I am going to Damascus—then nothing! You didn't even get a good price for the cups and bowls..."
A dry, hacking cough escaped Mohammed's chest. He was trying to laugh.
"You sound like a camel," Khadijah said, a slow, glowing smile breaking in her face. "Will you drink?"
Mohammed nodded, letting himself lie back against the tree. Khadijah moved beside him, lifting the leaf again and slowly, with great care, the Quraysh sipped the cool water. When the leaf was dry, Khadijah rose and reached up into the spreading boughs of the fig.
"Is this the land of the dead?" Still terribly thirsty, Mohammed managed to get the words out without coughing. "Am I dead?"
"No." Khadijah knelt beside him, a plump yellow-green fig in her shadowy hands. "This is a realm between life and death." She cut into the tough skin with the edge of her nail, then broke the fruit into sections. Black seeds glistened inside. "Here."