"A marvel? More like a harpy!" Nicholas spat on the dusty ground. "A faithless friend..."
"No so," Vladimir said, very softly. "She saved our lives and we hers. There is a debt—"
"There is no debt!" Nicholas' voice rose sharply. "She betrayed us!"
Gaius turned away from the two men as they fell into a muttered, fierce argument. His disappointment at failing to secure the prince's toy faded, replaced by a strange lightness in his heart. Thyatis Julia Clodia... an odd name. Why would the Clodians name a daughter Julia? We were rarely friends when I was alive. Rivals, yes—sometimes allies if the wind turned from the proper quarter in the Senate—yet not even enemies. Marc Antony now, he kept a Clodian wife for a time... did he have a son by her? Gaius shook his head in amusement. His old head was filled with a marvelous array of useless facts. But things change, even in Rome, with all these centuries passed. The old Roman was pleased to learn his "Diana" was a daughter of Rome, even if she sprang from such dissolute remnants. Silently, he congratulated the Duchess on her choice of agent. Would I had her in my own quiver, he thought ruefully, watching the two younger men out of the corner of his eye. But these fellows, and others like them, must suffice.
"Come, my friends," Gaius said, gathering up his hat. "Do not quarrel. The heat of the day has passed and we've refreshed ourselves. Your news is welcome, for these 'friends' are revealed as our enemies. We may take a more leisurely pace as we return to the city."
Everyone clattered out of the way station, grooms and guardsmen milling about to bring up the horses. Gaius stood to one side, his thoughts still plagued by inconsequential questions.
"Who were her parents?" he wondered under his breath. "How did she come to serve the Duchess? And a Legion centurion! Unheard of... just unheard of." Gaius' old face was lit by a half-hidden smile. "Ah, I would like to see her again." Then he frowned, the thought leading to an inevitable conclusion. But there will be no glad meeting of friends long parted... not now.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The Palatine Hill
Galen slumped back with a groan, covering his face with both hands. The flickering, watery light of the telecast washed over him, throwing odd shadows into the corners of the chamber. No one spoke, leaving only the hissing buzz of the device to fill leaden silence. Grains passed, threatening to drag into a glass and the two ladies sitting at the writing table exchanged a slow, mute glance. They made no sound, but the Emperor stirred, absently brushing lank, dark hair from his high forehead.
"Turn it off." His voice was emotionless, thin face a flat mask. Even his eyes were shuttered and dim.
The thaumaturges on duty bent their heads, muttering softly, and the whirling fire dulled, wicking down to a faint radiance and then to nothing. The bronze disks spun out of the air—this time their descent was gentle—settling quietly into flattened rings. Their task done, both men rose, faces averted from the Emperor's grief and padded out of the room. A moment later, the two ladies followed, their quills and inks and stores of parchment tucked away in wicker baskets ornamented with colored ribbon.
The Emperor remained, staring straight ahead, hands on his knees. He said nothing. His eyes looked upon nothing save a bare, plastered wall.
—|—
Galen waited grimly while the members of his privy council entered the room. A pair of oil lamps hissed quietly, providing mellow illumination. Outside the open windows, a warm, windless summer night lay over the city. The hour was very late, deep into the third watch. Everyone was tense—even the usually unflappable Gaius Julius seemed on edge, darting a sideways look at the Emperor as he took a chair—and they were unexpectedly quiet.
The lady Anastasia entered last, sweeping through the doorway in a long, gray gown, her neck ablaze with pearls and glittering white stones. She bowed formally to the Emperor, then to Martina—who lounged beside an irritated Maxian, her hand tucked in his—and claimed a seat between Galen and Gaius Julius. She made no mention of the late hour or the abrupt summons received in the midst of a play. A pleasing scent of coriander and myrrh reached the Emperor's nostrils, but the sensation barely registered.
Galen stood, face impassive, hands flat on the table. "We have lost Egypt," he said in a quiet voice.
Everyone became very still and Maxian's head turned away from his wife to fall upon his brother with a palpable intensity.
"Alexandria has fallen," the Emperor continued, his eyes fixed on some point in the air above Martina's head. Galen took a breath, though his voice did not alter in tone or inflection. "Six full Legions have been destroyed. The entire province now lies open to the enemy. There are small garrisons at Elephantine and Luxor, but they will not be able to resist the Persians. I expect they will surrender and seek repatriation to Cyrenaicea, or employment in the ranks of the conquerors."
He fell silent. Gaius Julius and Anastasia eyed one another, wondering who would pose the first question and break the leaden, dead silence gripping the room. Only Maxian moved, slowly clenching his hand into a fist.
"The lord Aurelian." Galen stopped, nostrils flaring. Something flickered in his eyes, the first time they had shown any emotion at all. "My brother Aurelian, Caesar of the Western Empire, is dead. He suffered grievous wounds in the defense of the harbor and breathed his last while escaping the city aboard an Imperial grain transport."
Maxian started to speak, then stopped, staring at the Emperor with an accusing, anguished expression. The air between the two men seemed to tremble. Martina placed her hand on the prince's arm, speaking softly, and the young man's face closed tight, a shuttered house, with neither lights in the windows nor smoke curling from the chimney.
"We will soon know," Galen said, continuing as if nothing had happened, "what the Persians intend. There are some forces left to us—the army at Constantinople, the fleet, the iron drakes now reaching completion in Florentia. Despite this blow, we still stand. We will yet prevail."
Silence filled the room again and Galen picked up a wooden booklet. Out of long engrained habit, he opened the notebook, stared sightlessly at the page within, then closed the cover again. "That is all. We shall meet again tomorrow and discuss what must be done."
Anastasia rose, swaying slightly, and the others followed. She bowed to the Emperor, searching his face for some sign of life, finding nothing. Galen turned away without a word and walked slowly through the door. Helena—her face hidden by a deep hood, yet recognizable by jeweled bracelets on her thin arms—was waiting to take his hand. A cordon of Praetorians closed up behind them and the Imperial couple was gone.
The Duchess bent her head for a moment, taking a breath and saying a prayer. The others rustled, gathering up their cloaks and—in Gaius' case—a lantern of the type used by the night watch. He had come in haste from a villa on the outskirts of the city.
"My lord—my lady." Anastasia looked up at Maxian and Martina passed. The woman's face was very calm, her huge eyes sliding to meet the Duchess with a tranquil, untroubled gaze. Anastasia—who had not personally seen the Empress since her return from Capri—repressed a shudder. Her spies had reported the girl's transformation, but the languid, predatory gleam in her eyes was new and unexpected. Nothing seemed to remain of the shy, insecure woman glad of the Duchess' friendship. The prince looked at Anastasia, lips tight on bared teeth.
"What do you want?"
"I am sorry, my lord." Anastasia bowed again, looking away. Maxian's eyes were liquid with fury and grief in equal measure and the Duchess felt a chill steal over her, remembering the powers he held at his command. "If there is anything..."
Maxian brushed past and Martina laughed softly, looking back at the Duchess with a sly, pitying smile. Anastasia watched them depart with a heavy heart. Gaius Julius had already slipped out, leaving her alone in the room. Even the guardsmen were gone.
"Well," she said aloud, straightening the neckline of her gown. "What a delightful evening."
—|—
Gaius Julius ended his report and set aside a waxed tablet. The old Roman looked to the Emperor, who had been listening with a fist planted firmly against his chin, eyes closed. A dreadful pall hung over the room despite strong, bright sunlight streaming through the windows. Late summer in Rome now afflicted them with stupefying heat during the day and bathwater-warm nights. Blessedly, Gaius' new existence seemed to exempt him from these extremes in the same manner he escaped hunger, exhaustion, even the need to drink.
The Emperor opened his eyes and Gaius almost sighed to see the desolation lurking there. Galen controlled his face and attitude well, adopting a rigid, controlled manner. His voice did not quaver, but the old Roman knew heartbreak when he saw such dead eyes. I... we... should wait, he thought with unexpected compassion. There is still plenty of time for our plot to flourish. Years, in truth.
Twin weapons had placed themselves in Gaius' hands and every instinct urged him to strike now, while the iron blazed hot and the hammer rode high. The collapse of Egypt had wrenched the very heart from the Emperor, leaving him distracted and vulnerable. The unexpected arrival of young Nicholas and the Walach Vladimir two days previous had provided another sledge, not so great as the first, perhaps, but more suitable for delicate, precise work. Gaius wrestled with the problem as he sat down, weighing both options and finding neither entirely satisfactory.
This Emperor is a vexing creature, Gaius mused. I admire him and respect his keen mind. He is a brilliant administrator and an able leader—is there any Roman virtue he does not possess? Is there any reason not to serve him, and him alone, with vigor and piety? Yet...
His eyes drifted sideways, across the calm and composed face of the Duchess, sitting at the Emperor's left hand with her own notes, to the Empress Martina. A demure gown and stole failed to disguise her lush new body, but Martina was showing an unexpected talent for subtlety. She did not flaunt her charms, but hid them beneath expensive silk and linen, leaving her clean, raptor-like face unadorned by paint or powder. Instead, she let striking eyes and flawless skin carry her to victory over any observer. Gaius was sure no artful waxes made her rosebud lips so moist and soft—she had no need, now, or ever, of petty cosmetics. Not with our custos on the job, Gaius thought grimly, ever watchful for blemishes or sagging skin...
Yet, Maxian still overshadowed her with a lean, intense aura. Abiding anger suffused his movements, charging the sharp tilt of his head, the measured way he spoke and the fierce, hateful gaze he turned constantly upon his brother.
Gaius watched them both and here too his heart was heavy with bitter knowledge. Two brothers estranged over the third, he mused, when Rome needs them to stand together. Does my ambition reach too high? How dangerous are these Persians? The old Roman had been surprised by the loss of Egypt. His estimation—one shared by the Emperor, he knew—had been for Aurelian and his veterans to hold Alexandria almost indefinitely. The Legions were good at siegecraft and the Persians notoriously poor. Indeed, he—like the Emperor—had planned on the siege dragging on for months.
Now the other African provinces were in peril. Shahr-Baraz and his lancers could strike due west, rushing along the desert coast. There were no natural barriers to hold them back from reaching as far west as Carthage. More provinces lost, more revenues denied, more strength flowing to the enemy... Gaius quelled the wayward thoughts. They have reached the end of their tether, he reminded himself firmly. They may have taken the city by sorcery and a daring ruse, but they are still very far from home, without fresh armies or fleets. They have to stop! They must stop.
Galen had related the destruction of the Legions in the city in short, clipped sentences. Pressed, Maxian had responded, saying the manipulation of so many animate dead was dreadfully taxing. The enemy could not march them against Rome, not without exhausting himself utterly. Like a berserker's rush, Gaius took some faint hope from the thought. We will not have to fight a legion of the dead day upon day, only once in awhile, when the Persians have the time to prepare.
Everyone agreed the true stroke of genius had been to land an army on the island of the Pharos, splitting the defense. Even with his dead tone, Gaius had been able to see the anguish in the Emperor's heart as he spoke. His brother had been taken unawares, again, by the Persian general's reckless disregard for water barriers. The old Roman was impressed—he had led his own armies on the sea—but like most Imperial generals he saw a fleet as a means to go from port to port, not to flank a prepared position—not to wield with such elan!
Gaius Julius dithered—and was vastly annoyed to find himself in such a state. I am decisive! Bold! I act with considered, informed recklessness! He looked across the table, irritated, and met Martina's eyes. She looked back, a hidden smile playing on perfect bow-shaped lips and one sharp, ink-dark eyebrow rose in open challenge. Gaius felt blood surge in his loins and looked away to the Emperor, trying not to blush. No, he reminded himself, she is the impatient one, though her son cannot take his throne for decades! The old Roman decided to take a middle course and build, slowly, for the future. But, he realized, I can take one small step forward.
"Then, we are agreed," Galen said, beginning to gather his notes. The movement of his hands was sure and steady, but slow and lacking his usual brisk efficiency.
"Lord and God," Gaius heard himself say, "there is one more matter."
Galen's hands stopped and he set down an ivory stylus. "Yes?"
The old Roman straightened his shoulders and met the Emperor's eyes directly. The speed of our onset, Gaius recited to himself, drawing confidence from old, old memories, unnerved them suddenly and completely. There was time neither to plan, nor to take up arms, and they were too confused to know if they should stand or flee.
"My lord, our privy expedition has returned from Egypt."
Of the men and women seated at the table, only Martina did not start in surprise and she turned her head, looking out the nearest window in apparent boredom, letting Gaius' gaze linger on her fine neck and rising curve of her breast. Maxian's eyes, in particular, blazed with anticipation and a certain avaricious delight.