The Dark Lord (13 page)

Galen turned, seemingly staring right at Maxian. The prince stiffened, but the Emperor's eyes traveled over him without stopping. "This is a desperate measure, but the esteemed Gregorius has spoken truthfully. We are overmatched in the east. Our Thaumaturges cannot stand against the dark powers the Persians have unleashed. We must consider new weapons if we are to defeat them. I fear Rome has slept too long, ignorant of these matters, relying on our Thaumaturges, yet not giving them rein enough to develop the strength we are now desperate for."

"Understand!" Galen reached the far end of the hall, by the entry doors, and his voice boomed loud from the ceiling as he turned to face the distant chair. "We must find a man, a wizard of great strength. We must give him
more power
if he is to repel this foe. Many old traditions will be overturned and our Thaumaturgic Legion will be vastly changed. We cannot know where this path will lead, but..." The Emperor paused and Maxian perceived enormous weariness in the line of his body, in his face, in the tenor of his voice. A great rush of fear threatened the prince and again he nearly leapt up to run to his brother, who suddenly seemed so old. Galen shook his head, throwing off the fatigue with a visible effort and stood up straight. "...we must do something. This path, perhaps, offers a hope of victory."

"Is there such a man?" A voice called out from the crowd of senators, though Maxian could not see who spoke.

"If there is," Galen responded, drawing the cloak over his chest. "I will not name him. This is a critical matter, and one that I lay at your feet, Senators." The Emperor looked around again, then walked slowly to the outer doors of the hall. "I will abide by your wishes in this matter. I pray you choose wisely."

Galen stepped up into the threshold of the bronze doors and they opened, flooding the chamber with brilliant sunlight. A solid rank of Praetorians closed around the Emperor and then he was gone, swallowed by the noon sun. The doors swung closed again with a dull
boom
.

Everyone began to speak at once, in a rush of excited noise and shouting and general clamor. Maxian remained sitting, realizing he was sweating, and found Gregorius sitting beside him once again, smiling quietly, his bushy white beard spilling over both hands clasped on the head of his cane.

"Rest your feet, young prince," the old senator said, "this will take some time."

Gaius Julius stepped away from the marble screen, quite pleased with himself. Part of him wished he had delivered the little speeches, but his conscious mind—which learned at least one lesson in his abruptly interrupted life—was content to remain unknown and unremarked. The gallery was crowded with all manner of citizens, though slightly oily-looking men with particularly sharp togas and tunics predominated. There were large numbers of provincial and city representatives—a dizzying array of Nubians and Goths and Gauls and even some Britons—milling about in traditional costume. It all made a colorful scene, but Gaius was not interested in rural politics, not today. With the ease of long practice, he weaved through the crowd and found a man selling wine. The old Roman pressed a few copper coins into the peddler's hand and took a cup. With the chipped clay in his hand, he wandered slowly the length of the gallery, idly watching the discussion on the floor of the Curia.

After a moment he stopped and stepped sideways behind a cluster of Axumite merchants. Their tall feather headdresses made suitable cover and he took another drink from the cup, eyes narrowed over the rim. A woman he recognized entered the gallery and he felt a certain trepidation in being seen by her. They had never exchanged more than a few words; in his guise of a hardworking patrician bureaucrat there was little reason for him to engage in lengthy discourse with an Empress. Helena might not recognize him, but approaching her now was reckless.

Unfortunately, he found her particularly attractive. He knew from palace gossip she was strong-willed, sharp-minded and carried on a voluminous correspondence. Once or twice, he managed to overhear her conversations and she wielded a dagger wit with aplomb. Gaius Julius checked the drape of his toga, then mentally ground down on his ambition.

This is not the time for seduction!
He wanted her though, and vivid imagination yielded up delightful, tempting vignettes. He started to step forward, desire convincing his limbs it would be perfectly reasonable for him to go up and speak with her, breathe in the air around her, look into sparkling dark eyes, bandy wit and wordplay with her. Gaius Julius caught himself and turned away, forcing himself to look down onto the Senate floor again.

The senators had gotten themselves into a furious argument. From the raised voices reaching the gallery, Gaius saw the awareness of the possible patronage and graft attendant upon an important new Imperial post was spreading through the white-haired old men like blood on the sea. Gaius suppressed a grin, unconsciously flicking his robes into an even straighter line and checking his hair. The smell of fear and power in the air was heady and he felt his pulse quicken.

Stop this. You're getting jittery.
Gaius paused by one of the pillars and took a moment to calm down. He craved this—the lunge and parry and brutal verbal combat of the Curia and the Senate. He wanted to step down on the floor—as was his
right!
—and set his mind to the influence and control of others. There was a physical pain in his gut, like a rat was squirming among his organs. Against this desire, thoughts of Helena disappeared.
Impossible, you old fool! You must be patient. Quiet. Like a mouse.

Gaius breathed out, slowly, and looked around, avoiding the flushed, sweaty faces of the men talking and exclaiming on all sides. He was not sure he approved of the renovations to the Curia—he had taken pains, in his breathing days, to see the building was just small enough. This gallery was new and there were more seats than he remembered below. Gaius frowned, counting rows of benches. There must be room for almost fifteen hundred senators. That, he thought, was too many. Even in his day—so long ago now!—he had ordered the architects and builders to make the Senate house just a little smaller than it needed to be.

The old Roman grinned, forgetting his own advice to remain impassive. With a constant shortage of seats, the junior senators stood in the back of the hall, or even outside. That kept them helpfully out of the debate, and gave them incentive to compromise so they could move inside. Now this expansion had made a muddle of everything, and this too-convenient gallery allowed anyone to watch the Senate at work.
How... republican...

"Master Gaius?"

The old Roman turned, smiling genially. Three men approached him out of the crowd and the middle one—a stocky, balding white-haired "twenty-year man," if ever Gaius Julius had seen a Legion veteran trying to be inconspicuous in civilian clothes—was also carrying a
krater
of wine. The man's pockmarked face seemed habitually grim and his attention was in constant motion, watching the crowd for enemies. Gaius guessed the man was forty or fifty years old.

"I am Gaius Julius. Welcome to Rome. You must be Sergius."

The soldier nodded, flashing a bit of a wintry smile. "You're welcome sir. It was good to hear from you."

Gaius nodded, turning his attention to the other two men. Both of them were young and alert, with the air of those used to violent action. "This would be Nicholas and Vladimir?"

Sergius nodded, motioning the other two forward. "They are. A pair of right rascals, but I was never gladder than to find them alive after our disaster." The old soldier shook his head in dismay.

Gaius clasped wrists with the thinner one, a whipcord-lean man with dark brown hair and peculiar mauve eyes. The lad had powerful wrists, well-used and corded with muscle. Like his companion, he was wearing a nondescript military cloak over a tunic and some kind of armored shirt. The hilts of a heavy,
spatha
-style longsword rode at his trim waist. Nicholas grinned, matching Gaius' gaze, and made a little bow. The young man's mustaches were very sharp, twisted to points beside a thin nose. Gaius nodded in welcome. "Nicholas. Where are you from?"

"I don't know, sir. I was raised a slave in the Dannmark."

"But you are surely a Latin—taken in a raid by the Scandians?"

The young man shrugged. "I don't remember any of that, Master Gaius. My first memory is of a gray sky, and ravens crying, and then entering the fortress of Roskilde." His expression changed, growing feral. "Everything after that is rather cruel. At least, until I entered the service of Rome."

Sergius nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. "True enough, Master Gaius, and we've had good service of young Nicholas. He and Vladimir have gone into and come out of some tight places in the name of the Empire."

"So I have heard." Gaius maintained a lengthy correspondence with Sergius. The old centurion was a field officer for the Eastern Empire's Office of Barbarians. Over the years, Sergius had decided a close relationship was needed between—specifically—himself and the Western Office. Some small-minded men might have termed the stoutly built centurion a traitor, but Gaius thought of him as a man who could tell which side the loaf was going to fall on.

Before Gaius Julius involved himself in such matters, a woman—a beautiful, powerful woman named Anastasia De'Orelio—had been the secret master of the Western Office. Over a year ago, however, she abandoned her post and Gaius Julius—at something of loose ends at the time—took the opportunity to gather up some of the responsibilities she let fall. In fact, the small-minded might also accuse Gaius of theft and outright falsehood. Some privy letters, he allowed, might have gone astray, but if they did—well, the world was filled with troubles—and one of those letters led him to Sergius and then, in the full course of time, to these two admirable young men.

"You are Vladimir, then, the Walach." The corners of Gaius Julius' eyes crinkled up and he clasped wrists with the young barbarian. The Walach—a riot of dark curly hair, a creamy white complexion over rippling muscle, brilliant dark eyes—took his hand tentatively and Gaius could see the boy's nostrils flare. "We are all friends here, Vladimir, do not worry."

Ah, but I must smell strange to him,
Gaius thought.
I should not have met them here, in this public place... in private, I might allay their fears with honest words.

"Master... Gaius." Vladimir looked down, unwilling to meet Gaius' direct gaze. "Thank you for your patronage and support."

"My assistance," Gaius said, "is only what you deserve, for such loyal service."

All three men nodded and Gaius saw honest appreciation in their faces. With the collapse of the Eastern Empire, a huge flood of refugees hurried west. Rome was crowded with out-of-work ministers, logothetes, clerks and their families. The soldiers were immediately incorporated into the Western Legions, but everyone else was having a difficult time just finding food to eat and a place to sleep. As it happened, Gaius Julius had recently invested in blocks of apartments, warehouses, taverns, smithies, brick factories and all manner of other businesses. He could easily find lodgings for a few dozen Easterners at loose ends. Better, he had plenty of work for men like these three.

Gaius clapped a hand on Sergius' shoulder and looked down into the main hall of the Curia. "As it happens, my friends, I have great need for men who are swift and alert. Do you see that young man—the dark-haired fellow in the first row—sitting by the graybeard?"

Both Nicholas and Vladimir peered down through the screen.

"Yes," Nicholas said, squinting between the marble legs of a titan wrestling a giant serpent. "Thin-faced, long hair tied back, looks like he hasn't sleep in a week?"

"The very fellow." Gaius said. "His name is Maxian Atreus, the youngest brother of the Emperor Galen. He is a... powerful... young man, but not in the way most people think. He is also my patron, even my friend." Gaius Julius stopped, thinking about what he had just said.
Is that true? Sometimes it seems that the boy is barely aware of me, as if I were a chair or a table. Does it matter? I am alive!

"As you might imagine, he has enemies." Gaius chuckled suddenly. "Some of them are very beautiful. He needs bodyguards and I think the two of you will do well in such a post."

"Bodyguards?" Vladimir's nose wrinkled up and he ran long sharp nails through his beard. The Walach seemed displeased by the prospect. "Don't the Praetorians handle such things? As the Faithful Guard did in the East? This sounds like a lot of standing around inside..."

"Sometimes." Gaius spread his hands, indicating things were
different
in the West. "I will surely sleep sounder at night if I know he has guardian spirits to watch over him. He has been attacked at least once before, and came close to death. Things would turn poorly for everyone if he were to die now."

Nicholas looked intrigued, thumbs hooked in his belt. "What kind of
beautiful
enemies does he have?"

Down on the floor of the Curia, Gregorius rose and spoke to the crowd. The other senators took the cue to sit and listen. Gaius Julius felt the pang of regret again—why couldn't he be the one to speak? The one to stand at the center of all attention, the world turning on the lever of his actions? He stifled the feeling, contenting himself with being the playwright, not the pantomime.

"Watch," Gaius Julius said, his expression changing subtly. All life seemed to leach out of him. "You will see more than you desire. Not all our enemies are fair to look upon."

Maxian felt his gut twist at the realization he would have to stand and speak. He didn't expect to be so nervous, but this was the
Senate
! The faces in the hall blurred into a mass of indistinguishable white ovals.
Why can't Galen do this? He's the Emperor...

Suddenly a memory swam up out of the past and into waking thought. He was in the great teaching hall of the Asklepion, below the hill of old Pergamum, and a stocky, brown-bearded priest was speaking. Tarsus—his old friend, his teacher—was explaining a simple process all his students were to learn, a mnemonic pattern to induce a settled, focused mind. Maxian felt calm flow over him, just remembering the voice like a soft murmur in his ears. The words and the mental pattern became clear in his thoughts and the prince felt his anxiety fall away.