"No," Galen said, stiffening. "He must stay. If he leaves, the defense will collapse. You saw those faces in the telecast—the men are weary, driven to the edge, but they believe in him—his confidence holds them together. Aurelian must stay in Alexandria until we can relieve him." A finger stabbed at the prince. "And you must make ready. You have to be in Florentia in three weeks to complete the sorcery binding the iron drakes. Without them, we've no chance to salvaging the situation in Egypt."
"But—"
"Are you ready to face this monster?" Galen's voice cracked like a whip, making Maxian flinch. The Emperor advanced on his younger brother, eyes glittering. "You'll only get one throw in this game, one toss, one set of bones rattling in the cup. The next time you face the Serpent, you must win."
Maxian snarled back, a guttural, unintelligible sound. He raised a hand, naked fury in the choppy motion. "I will be ready!" he shouted. "I am ready now!"
"I don't think you are," Galen barked in a cold, cutting voice. "Rested, yes. Focused, no! I've given you all the time I can, but your idle youth is now past. Now you must fight and win and there is no margin for failure!"
"Idle youth?" Maxian goggled at his brother. "Idle youth! I've not been idle, you arrogant bastard! I've been working without a pause for—" His mouth snapped shut. With obvious effort, Maxian mastered himself. "I will be ready," he snarled.
Galen held up four fingers in response. Maxian's jaw clenched, but he said nothing, turning on his heel and stalking out. The doors groaned as he passed, then slammed shut, driven by invisible hands.
In the quiet, deserted room, the Emperor slumped back against the table, palms pressed against burning eyes, a sick, queasy feeling roiling in his stomach. After a moment, he sighed again and pushed away from the table. He was very tired.
He'll be ready now, the Emperor thought, a very terror, raging to crash into the midst of the enemy and savage them. Galen made a weighing motion with his hands, then shook his head at the bargain he'd made with his heart and the Empire. I hate this. I have two brothers... but the Empire needs victory more than one general, or even a Legion.
—|—
Gaius Julius released the Empress' hands, stepping to the windows himself. He did not look down upon the shady trees and cool green lawn below, but out over the red-tile roof and white walls of the villa. He lifted his chin, pointing at the Palatine Hill sweltering in summer heat. "Do you think Helena will let you live so long?"
The old Roman turned, amusement gleaming in his eyes. Martina's face was a frozen mask.
"She is not a jealous woman," he continued, "but she has eyes to see and a mind quick enough to grasp the implications of your new... body. Oh, the prince could cast a glamour upon you, making you seem your old, familiar self. But would wearing such a guise please you, my lady, when you have such fine new plumage to show?"
"It would not!" Martina made a striking motion with one hand; her firm, muscular arm cutting the air. "I want to see shock in her face and envy and raw jealousy! I want every head to turn to me and leave her standing alone and ignored at the edge of the room, while the great lords and ladies fawn at my feet. I want—"
"You want to be the Empress," Gaius said, deftly interrupting her tirade. "You wish to rule."
Martina's nostrils flared and she fell silent, rosebud lips moving, silently tasting the words. Gaius Julius watched and considered while the girl thought. Nervous tension made his right hand tremble, but he stilled the offending limb, forcing quiet upon muscle and bone by sheer will. He had prepared for this moment for some time, laying plans, making friends among his enemies, assuring himself of a means of retreat and advance alike, securing his flanks, sending out emissaries to neighboring nations to measure their interest and enmity. Yet despite all this—a patient, measured approach learned at the foot of Mars through long years of war—there was still a tight, brittle tension in the moment before action broke, in the quiet space before spears clashed against shields and men roared their war cries, rushing forward onto the field.
So Gaius Julius waited, watching the woman think, seeing a flush rise in her breast, seeing her eyes brighten, her features draw tight with predatory sharpness. The old general remembered another woman, one with coal-dark hair, alabaster skin, piercing eyes like the sea in morning light, and he felt a pang in his heart, realizing he missed Kleopatra terribly.
You are not her, child, he thought sadly. Though your physical charms surpass hers, you will never have her wit or quicksilver mind, a hawk soaring on summer air... will I ever see such a light in human flesh again?
A memory tugged at his thought and Gaius' quick mind focused for an instant. Who have I seen who struck me in just such a way... there was someone, a girl with gray eyes...
"Yes," Martina pronounced, straightening, lifting her head. "I want to be the first woman in Rome, without equal or rival."
Gaius forced himself to concentrate on the moment at hand. "And your son? What do you wish for him?"
"An empire," Martina answered sharply. "A single, undivided empire."
The old Roman flashed a tight little smile, feeling his pulse quicken. The distracting memory was set aside. "What of your benefactor, your protector, the Emperor Galen? He has made many honorable pledges to you..."
"Oh." Sorrow and guilt flared in Martina's face, but she shook the shadow away in a cascade of shining curls. "He is weary—let him retire, as Emperors have done before and live out his waning days in a garden by the sea, tending his cabbages."
Gaius Julius laughed softly, raising an eyebrow in appreciation. "Do you think he will agree as readily as Diocletian did?"
Annoyance and irritation replaced the sorrow in the woman's face. "He should! Even he must see how the world has changed. And if not... then wiser heads may prevail and save everyone such grief."
"And his son?" The old Roman tucked his hands into the folds of his toga, leaning back against the cool stone of the wall. "Will your Heracleonas miss his playmate?"
"I will not miss him or his mother!" Martina said, sharp delight spreading across her face. "Let her go into retirement as well, and the boy—he may suffer any sickness of the young—as she has pointed out herself!"
Gaius' gaze lingered on the woman's breasts, taut against the silk gown, and the curve of her shoulders, shining now with a faint sheen of sweat. He met her eyes with a cool glance and they were glistening dark, pupils swollen into the iris. So quickly is the mild, bookish girl overthrown by a heady taste... he thought sadly. Gaius stepped to her, holding out a broad, flat hand.
"We are agreed, then, my lady?"
Her soft, damp hand settled over his and she nodded fiercely. "We are agreed."
"Then," Gaius said, recovering his hand and bowing deeply to her. "I suggest we leave our common master, the prince, out of any deliberations or discussion." The old Roman essayed a thin smile. "He has much on his mind, for the war in Egypt goes poorly. Soon, I fear, he will be forced to take the field against the Persian mage. The gods of Rome give him strength for that contest!"
"He will win." Martina's confidence shone in her eyes like sun blazing from a raised shield.
"I pray so," Gaius said, keeping his own counsel in the matter. He pressed dry lips against the inside of her wrist, drawing a breathy giggle. "Then you shall have your heart's desire."
Martina laughed again and sat up on the windowsill, looking out upon the city with greedy eyes. Gaius Julius turned politely away, returning to his desk while the woman began talking softly to herself, white arm raised to indicate this temple or palace on the further hills.
"...there will be a garden, filled with statues of all the great poets..."
The letter lay on his blotter, lacking only a signature. Gaius Julius read it over carefully, then—scowling at the lost effort—set it aside in a pile marked for speedy destruction in fire. He drew a freshly-cut sheet from a waiting stack and settled himself on the curule chair to write.
Dear Alexandros, he began, quill scratching across smooth lambskin, as you have doubtless learned from the Emperor's courier, the Imperial fleet is almost ready to carry you to battle. Do not wait for their white sails, but march your army west by the Via Egnatia to Dyrrachium on the Epirote coast, where ships will be waiting for you...
—|—
Maxian heard singing and gay laughter. Disturbed from meditation, his thoughts rose from a still pool, breaching invisible waters. He sat, legs crossed in the Persian style, at the center of a small room adjoining the bedroom he shared with Martina in the house of Gregorius Auricus. Once, the chamber had held the old senator's desk and bookcases and personal items. Such things had been quietly removed by the servants and Maxian was content with a bare, polished floor and empty walls. A chatter of jays rose in the outer rooms as Martina's maids entered.
She is up to something, whispered a patrician voice in the prince's ear. Listen to her tone, like a wolf speaking sweetly to the lamb!
"Be quiet," Maxian said, lips barely moving. The sensation of a man—an old, white-haired gentleman with ink-stained fingers—faded. The prince bent a tiny fraction of his will against wood and metal. The door between the two rooms swung closed, bolts sliding into iron hasps with a sharp clunk. "I need to think."
The chamber grew dim, the light from the windows fading. Slowly, one by one, faint lights sprang into visibility in the air around the prince. Each varied in color and hue and speed, a restless cloud of sparks swinging around the seated man, each in their own orbit. Many were barely visible, only the faintest drifting streak of light, while others blazed bright, almost a candle flame in the darkness. They cast a wavering, golden glow across Maxian's sharp features.
He closed his eyes, letting thoughts settle, letting his mind grow calm and clear, his hands at rest upon muscular thighs, palms open.
I need more strength, he thought, considering his enemy. The Oath is weak in Egypt. The Dark Queen will not be at my side. My enemy has gained allies, while I have none.
Impressions of the Persian sorcerer unfolded in his memory, coming to life for his inner eye. Again, he relived the battle in the streets of Constantinople and his fear was far away, confined and controlled. Maxian watched carefully, gauging the strength of his opponent. This time he paid close attention to the jackal-headed man, watching the creature crawl from shattered icy stone, iron mask smoking dull-red with heat. When the opponents parted, each retiring undefeated, Maxian let the vision begin again. This time, he focused upon the powers roiling and shuddering in the hidden world, flowing around the prince, the sorcerer, the Dark Queen and the Jackal, like a storm-driven tide.
The Jackal, Maxian thought deliberately, is a slave, held by a noose of power. The creature wields its own power—not inconsiderable!—yet is a pawn, an extension of the Serpent's will.
Intrigued, the prince studied the shining matrices shifting and distorting around the two Persians. Maxian had placed a mark of servitude on a man before—he had even roughly grasped control of Alexandros once, when the need pressed him—but those efforts were crude in comparison to the chains binding the jackal to its inhuman master. Maxian felt fear of his enemies' skill eddy up again, but repressed the emotion.
You are powerful and skilled, the prince thought, holding an image of the Persian in his thoughts, yet so am I. You are ancient and steeped in lost knowledge, but I learn swiftly. Perhaps... Maxian shook his head, wishing yet again he'd kept his temper and the Nabatean wizard Abdmachus were still alive to guide him. I miss the old fool, he thought ruefully. I need his skills—hard-won through years of effort—I've no time to spend in diligent study to gain them...