"Yes," Galen said slowly, setting the dispatch aside. He split the seal on the single sheet with the edge of his thumb. "But they've already set sail, so the best we can do is dispatch a courier to Dyrrachium and send them on to..." His eyes settled on the terse message, then widened in surprise. Galen flipped the paper over, nostrils flaring as he read the quickly scrawled destination on the front. The ink had smeared a little, obscuring the first line, leaving 'The Palatine' still readable. "...Constantinople."
"Master?" Nilos leaned forward in concern. Galen closed the letter abruptly and tucked the sheet into the pocket of his toga. "Is something wrong?"
"No," Galen looked up, an affable smile on his face. A hard glint was visible in his eyes. "Send round for two Legion couriers—strong riders both!—and write them up priority passes for the dispatch inns from here to Augusta Vendelicorum and Londonium."
Nilos nodded, though he expressed no comment at the need to send a message by all speed to Germania and Britannia. The secretary went out, leaving Galen alone in the office.
So. The Emperor pushed the fleet dispatch away with the tip of one finger. The Goths are already on the road to Dyrrachium and the Imperial fleet will be there waiting when they arrive. A bead of sweat slowly formed on his forehead, trickling into the sharp line of his brow. A swift passage to Italia, then, for thirty thousand men. Galen leaned back in his chair, wood and canvas creaking as he settled. A fast march up the Via Appia and they will be in Rome in a month's time.
The Emperor nodded to himself, remembering the shocked expression on old Gaius' face when he heard of the disaster in Egypt. We both agreed, didn't we? Aurelian could hold out for another month, perhaps two, or even longer. Long enough to let these Goths place their foot on my neck.
Galen could see the logic, though his heart twisted at the ramifications. Then the new Emperor turns to deal with the Persians, armed with the fleet of the air and all our remaining strength. A snarl transformed his face. He thinks himself so great a general then, to do what Aurelian could not? The bitter thought brought the Emperor up short, and a cold sense of revelation came over him. Why not? Old Gaius is an exemplary general and Alexandros even greater. Why shouldn't they risk all, to gain all? They have never been defeated—and my rule has proved of only marginal worth...
A terrible weight pressed down on Galen, forcing his head into his hands. He felt pinned, trapped by circumstance and fate, ground fine by the millstone of events. Oh, gods of Rome, why not let them rule? Then I will be free of all this...
The door creaked and Nilos entered, carrying two leather-bound packets. "Here are—my lord?"
The Emperor forced himself to raise his head. Bitter gall choked his throat and every motion was exhausting. "I will write a letter for each," he managed to croak. "These men must leave today."
Nilos bobbed his head and fled through the doorway. Galen fumbled for a quill, then spilled more than a little ink on the papers before he could force his hand to begin writing. There was still nearly a Legion's worth of troops in Britannia, scattered here and there, who could be wholly withdrawn to Germania. He hoped they would be enough to let three, perhaps four, of the Rhine Legions march south. Britannia can fend for herself, he thought bleakly, and I pray the Franks-Beyond-The-River continue their kinstrife over Guntram's inheritance and keep their eyes from Gaul and Noricum. Or I will lose more than just Rome and this office and this cursed, heavy crown of laurel. I need troops who will remember I am the Emperor!
—|—
"Ah, luxury!" Vladimir brushed aside a heavy curtain and looked with joy upon his own bed. The sheets and quilts were neatly pressed and tucked in—the house maids in the prince's home were nothing if not efficient—and he dumped his kit bag and stinking armor on the floor with a crash and clatter fit to wake the dead. "Ahhhh..." The Walach sprawled on the cot, feeling leather straps creak under the pallet. Goose-down pillows cradled his head and Vladimir felt the weariness of the road ease from his bones. He stretched, luxuriating.
"Aren't you barbarians supposed to take strength from sleeping on the cold ground?" Nicholas stepped into the room with less exuberance, his fine-boned face showing its own relief at coming home. "Living without restraint or habitation breeds a gigantic race..."
Vladimir made a rude gesture in response, then bent to dump his boots on the floor.
Nicholas laughed and set down his bags. As he did, he spied a letter on the table set against one wall. "Vlad," he said curiously, picking up the brown parchment, "you corresponding with some noble lady behind my back?"
The Walach made a quizzical, snuffling sound. "Nick, you know I can't read or write. Must be for you."
"No," Nicholas said, sitting down on the edge of his cot, "this is addressed to you from the Office of the Legions."
"Huh?" Vladimir shrugged, scratching behind his ear. "What does it say?"
Nicholas opened the page and screwed up his face, reading the tightly spaced lines with a frown. He owned some knowledge of letters, but not much, and the terse official language was hard to follow. After a moment, though, as Vladimir watched, his frown faded, replaced by a sigh of regret.
"What?" The Walach felt the thick dark hairs on his arms stir.
Nicholas looked up, shaking his head sadly. "Our missing lad is dead, Vlad. They found his body in the ruins of Constantinople, gaffed like a trout."
"No!" Vladimir sat up, horrified. "Not Dwyrin!"
"Yes," Nicholas said, handing across the parchment sheet. "They identified his body from the Legion brand and his signaculum. I'm sorry, Vlad."
"Poor cub." The Walach wiped a moist eye. "We should have stuck close to him, Nick, like herd dogs on a lame ewe. It's not right, a young lad like him accepting the crow-queen's embrace without even knowing a girl's kiss."
The Latin shook his head. He'd assumed the boy was dead long ago—the Empire would not let such a powerful wizard go astray—but held his tongue, seeing his friend's open grief. "No, I guess not. But death is never fair, though the walküre are always quick to stoop over the fallen."
Vladimir dragged his boots back out from under the cot. "I have to go out," he said gruffly.
Nicholas nodded in understanding, but did not follow. He had his own bitter thoughts to fill the time between weary consciousness and blessed, forgetful sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The Serapeum, Alexandria
The floor jumped in echo of a resounding crash. Paving stones the size of a man creaked and dust clouded the air, shining brilliantly where thin slats of sunlight broke through the high roof. A broad-shouldered man, his long beard waxed and curled, mustache flaring beside and away from ruddy cheeks, turned his head slightly in question.
"They are tearing down the statues of the ancient gods, my lord," said the woman walking at his side. While the powerfully built man was clad in cunning, articulated armor from neck to foot, she was dressed in soft, gleaming white, with golden necklaces heavy on her breast. Raven-dark hair framed her face, now done up with pins and rods into an elaborate headdress.
Shahr-Baraz frowned, fist caressing the hilt of his sword. "By whose order?"
"His," Zenobia answered, bowing towards shadows filling one end of the ancient hall. "The sight of so many 'false gods' displeases him."
"Do they?" The King of Kings strode forward, then slowed. Tall iron stakes barred his path, driven into the stone floor without regard for ancient propriety. A palpable chill pervaded the air and the Persian's breath began to frost in his mustache. Indistinct shapes stirred in the darkness and the Boar felt hostile eyes settle upon him. "I would speak with Prince Rustam," he called, stopping just short of the outmost ward.
There was no answer. Shahr-Baraz scowled at the Queen standing by his side. She said nothing, face impassive. In that moment, while they waited, the sound of boots on stone rang around them and the young Eagle, Khalid al'Walid appeared, dark hair shining in the intermittent sunlight. Odenathus was with him, the two men laughing in conversation.
"We are all here, then," the king said suspiciously, turning back to the shadowed hall. He raised a bushy eyebrow—the iron wands had gathered soundlessly to one side—leaving a passage open into the inner chamber of the temple. Suppressing instinctive dread, Shahr-Baraz strode through the opening and into the room beyond. The Queen followed silently and even the two garrulous young men found their speech faltering in such forbidding air.
Once, the central nave of the temple had held a great statue of the god, surrounded by stone and ceramic attendants. Now the altar was bare, the statuary broken and scattered. A carved pair of sandaled feet rose in the darkness, but the body of pink marble was gone. The sorcerer stood among the detritus of recent violence—a smooth head lacking a body, part of an arm, the splintered remains of incense burners and lamps—his outline swallowed by encompassing gloom.
A faint, gray light shone down from drifting specks in the air. Dahak turned as the king entered, his eyes pale flames in the darkness.
"Pharaoh," the sorcerer said, ignoring the Boar, "does the common herd bow down in fear before our jackal-headed god?"
A spasm flitted across Zenobia's face, but she maintained her composure, making a shallow bow. "Yes, my lord, they do. They look upon your servant in his might and glory and they are filled with despair, thinking Set has burst the chains of the sun and now walks among them, as the gods did in days of old, before man first struck fire from flint."
"They are nearly right," Dahak whispered, climbing the steps to the ruined altar. "Do they labor at my tasks? Do they sweat under the whip, dreading each night as a coming death, as a plague?"
"Yes." Zenobia's gaze hardened, her rich lips thinning to a cold line. "Every ship of seagoing size is on the beach, hulls being patched, tarred, careened. Messengers have been sent to every port, summoning the merchants of Palmyra to attend your will."
"I am pleased." Dahak found a cracked piece of rose-colored sandstone on the dais and took the fragment in his hands. He peered at the stone, then let it fall. "And you, Pharaoh, do they prostrate themselves when you pass; do they call your name, begging your favor, your protection, your intercession?"
The Queen said nothing.
"Do they?" The sorcerer glanced at her, lip curling. Zenobia staggered, her skin rippling as though worms crawled beneath the flesh, gnawing at muscle and nerve. She cried out—a short, breathy cry of agony—and fell to her knees. Dahak smiled, showing gleaming white teeth. "I think they do. What name do they give you?"
Another spasm shook the woman and Zenobia let open fury and hatred flare in her face for an instant. Then the calm mask composed her features again. "They call..." she gasped, fighting to speak. "They call me Kleopatra Returned and weep with joy, hoping I will save them, save their husbands, save their children from the mines, the pits, the labor gangs..."
A gleam of delight flared in Dahak's limpid, pale eyes. Zenobia collapsed against the stones, breathing ragged, but the pain lifted from her white limbs.
"Well done," the sorcerer said, turning at last to the King of Kings. "You are displeased, old Boar. You do not like what has happened while you've been away upriver."