The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  "Raiders?" Martina fanned herself with a stiff sheet of parchment. Her face shone with sweat from only moments in the main hall. "We're in the heart of the Empire!"

  Maxian looked over at the young woman, lips quirking into a cold half-smile. "These rebellious Greeks have a fleet... and their Persian allies have far-seeing eyes. Nothing is safe now, you know, with the bulwark of the East fallen. Even Rome herself might be attacked."

  "Oh." Martina stared at the prince for a long moment, face reddening. He turned away, shaking his head at her foolishness. Her eyes brightened with tears. Vladimir turned away, touching Nicholas' shoulder. The Latin was stuffing his face with sausage rolls—laid out on one of the tables by the foundry cooks. Nick looked over his shoulder, nodded to the Walach and the two men quietly left. Vladimir scooped up a platter of roasted meat as he passed the table.

  —|—

  The Empress sat alone amid the mess, staring at the prince's back. He was bent over the diagram again. Fury sparked in narrowed moss-colored eyes. With a sharp movement, Martina stood up and snatched a scrap of dirty papyrus from between the pages of one of the books. Glancing down at the muddled diagram on the page, she wadded it up and tossed it behind the divan.

  "Do you think I am a fool?" Martina said, picking up her stole and cloak. "Or your servant?"

  "No," Maxian said, but his attention remained on the diagrams, brow furrowed in thought.

  Martina's lip twitched into a scowl, and she pulled on the cloak. "Prince Maxian. Prince Maxian!"

  "What?" He turned, surprised and irritated. One eyebrow raised questioningly, seeing her gather up a leather pouch of ink stone and quills and a small knife. "Where are you going?"

  "I am going back to Rome," she said. The frosty tone in her voice finally seemed to touch the prince. "You've shown me some lovely things—I think I'll remember the softness of the oak gardener and the faerie lights in the stone ring for as long as I live—but you've no more need for me than for any tool you might find in your workshop!" She paused, glaring at Maxian. "When I started looking through these documents for you, it made me feel useful. I liked that..."

  "Then stay!" The prince interrupted. "Nothing's changed about your work."

  "True enough," she snapped. "I have been dutiful—I wade through oceans of rotting parchment and crumbling papyrus for you, searching for secrets that may not even exist—I serve as your lure for the wee folk, jeweled and ornamented—I keep track of the documents you forget, deal with the meetings you ignore. What better secretary could you have, than an Empress? Do you even realize I exist?"

  "I do!" Maxian's distant, distracted air was gone. Now, for the first time, he seemed focused on Martina and he was troubled. "I could not have done what I've done, without you. I appreciate you, and am grateful for your help. What have I done to offend?"

  "Offend?" Martina choked back a laugh. "A bloodless word. But you are bloodless—everything weighed in logic, carefully measured against need, time and the Empire's capacity to produce gears, wheels, tempered iron! Are all wizards like you, looking down upon men and women as if we were insects? Have you forgotten how to be human?"

  The prince made to answer, a hot retort on his lips, then stopped. His mouth snapped closed. For a moment, he said nothing, then: "Lady Martina, I am sorry if I've ignored or slighted you. It was not my intent to make you a servant. I..." He fumbled for the proper words. "I need your help. If I've not said it before, I need you."

  The Empress stepped back, wary, suspicion plain on her face. "You need... me."

  "Yes," Maxian said. It seemed he would say more, but did not.

  "You spoke slightingly to me," she said angrily, clutching the pouch to her chest. "As if I were a child who did not understand the Empire was at war. Don't you think I've noticed? My entire life has been spent in cities under siege, or Legion camps, or fleeing from treachery and defeat. My husband is dead, my stepsons missing. I can count leagues and ships and cohorts as well as you—perhaps better, for I've been in war, while you fly above the fray, safe on your iron mount!"

  "Peace!" Maxian raised his hands. "I am sorry. Will you stay?"

  "Perhaps." She glared at him, eyes narrowed to slits. "Will we walk in the woods for pleasure, under restful eaves, not hunting for more advantage? Will you listen, when I speak? Will you treat me as a friend, not a servant?"

  "A friend," he said, making a little bow. "I swear it."

  "Huh." Martina stepped to her table and pushed some of the pages around with the tip of her finger. "This morning, when you asked me if I wanted to go for a ride in the hills, I was very happy. I don't like sitting in this hot, smelly building for weeks on end. I wanted to go out, to see something new, to have a rest from this constant noise and vibration." She looked sideways at him, grimacing. "Do you even notice how foul this place is?"

  Maxian shook his head, nonplussed. Martina sighed, shaking her head.

  "Don't you see how drawn the workers are? They grow more haggard every day, their faces stretched thin, their eyes dull with fatigue..."

  "But we have a schedule!" The prince's head jerked up in alarm. "I have to go down to Rome in a week and tell Galen when we'll be done. We need those fire drakes! The men can rest when they are done—soon enough, I think, only a few more weeks. It's hard work, but they must keep to the schedule!"

  Martina raised a hand, pointing to the east. "Done? The road from the sea is still crowded with wagons—yet I know our warehouses are already filled with everything you need to complete these six drakes! I can read the foremen's schedules as well as anyone, lord prince!" Her voice rose crisply. "How many more times will you take me into the woods, dangling me as bait for the fey queen? How many more of the faerie do you expect to find?"

  "None." Maxian pushed wearily away from the table, turning from her. "We've taken them all—all living hereabouts, anyway." He looked at the diagram, at some parchments held to the wall with pins, rubbing his chin in thought. "I've sent some letters—I hear the fey are still strong in parts of Gaul and Britain. We can get more. We need more."

  "How many?" Martina struggled to keep her voice from rising further. "You've plans on your drawing table for another dozen iron drakes—and other grotesque devices of iron and steel. Do they need living hearts as well?"

  "Some do." Maxian turned back, pensive, biting his lip nervously. "The drakes will give us control of the sky and the sea, but I'm sure the Persians will find a counter. The creatures I fought in Constantinople could fly..." His voice trailed off and his head bent in thought.

  "Prince Maxian!" The Empress shouted, her temper lost. The prince, startled, looked to her, eyes wide. "I asked you to listen to me. You seem incapable of this simple task. I'm not talking about your machines, or schedules, or the Empire. I was talking about having a chance to be alive, to talk as friends, to just... be... for even an hour."

  The prince blinked, confused. He stared at her and Martina could tell he was truly puzzled. What an onker, she thought in despair.

  "I could spare an hour," he said after a moment, "maybe tomorrow, or the day after."

  "For what?" she said in a very dry voice.

  Maxian tried to smile. "I have heard, from the foremen, there are still some woods uncut, undisturbed, up above the lake made by the dam. We could go there and sit for a little while, watching the sky."

  "We could." Martina raised her nose imperiously. "I would like that."

  "I," Maxian said, making a little bow again, "would like that too."

  "Good," the Empress said, starting to remove her cloak. "We'll go at noon."

  "Noon? Impossible, I have an iron pour—" Maxian fell silent, catching the fierce light in Martina's eyes. "Noon, then," he said.

  The Empress shook her head in wonderment as she knelt beside the divan, one hand groping underneath for a wadded-up ball of papyrus. "Is he even trainable?" she muttered under her breath. Her fingertips touched the stiff shape of the scroll and she sat up, pleased.

  "What's that?" M
axian leaned over, peering at the papyrus.

  "Something you might get," she said in a smug voice, hiding it from him, "after we come back from the lake tomorrow."

  "Oh." Maxian frowned. Martina, turned away, did not see that a cold and distant expression washed over his face. Then the prince grimaced, shaking his head at his own folly and he was an affable young man again. "Is it important?"

  "Perhaps," Martina said, lifting her nose imperiously. "You will just have to wait and see."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Alexandria, Roman Egypt

  Shahin, noble brow covered by a wide-brimmed leather hat, waved cheerfully to an approaching customs boat. The Persian sat astride the portside railing of their coaster, one sun-bronzed leg dangling over the side. Like the Palmyrene crew, he wore only a short kilt-like cloth around his waist.

  "Ho, the boat!" An Egyptian waved from the foredeck of the galley. The Roman ship was old, painted eyes peeling and the decking splintered and gray from the sun. Shahin kept a cheerful, open expression on his face, though he took a count of the men in the approaching boat. His own crew was substantially outnumbered. Despite their ship's age, the Egyptians turned deftly at their captain's command and slid to a stop alongside the Palmyrene ship.

  The Duchares was equally decrepit, weather-beaten and sunburnt, her rigging frayed, square sail mottled with patches. Shahin leaned down and grasped the Egyptian official's hand, swinging him up onto the higher deck. The man bowed in thanks, then looked around with an idle-seeming air. The big Persian noted the archers on the galley had arrows nocked. They seemed alert.

  "Port of origin?"

  "Ephesus," Shahin said, stretching his Greek to the limit. "By way of Rhodes."

  "Huh. See any pirates, any Persians?"

  Shahin shrugged and shook his head. The captain—a Palmyrene—hurried down the deck from the tiller, wringing his hands. The big Persian looked away, though he listened carefully to the discussion between the two men as he leaned on the railing. There was a matter of port taxes and entry fees and the Emperor's tithe for commerce.

  Alexandria was impressive, he thought, squinting into the morning sun. Even from the sea, here at the edge of the grand sweep of the mercantile harbor, the city made itself felt upon the mind, the eye and the spirit. To his left, as the coaster rolled slowly up and down on the swell, a long, low island lay baking in the sun. Brightly colored buildings crowded along a sandy shore. Directly ahead, a sandstone causeway ran out from the city to the island, studded with square towers and lined by a crenellated battlement. Beyond the fortified mole, another island held a impossibly tall building surmounted by a lighthouse. Shahin felt envy, measuring the height of the edifice by eye. Rome can build, he thought, keeping a sneer from his face. He had never seen such a building—ones larger, perhaps, like the Great Hall of the palace in Ctesiphon—but none so high. On the summit, set on a tapering brick platform, a golden disk blazed in the sun.

  The city sprawled along the shore from west to east, mile after mile of tan-and-white buildings baking in the sun, none more than two or three stories high. Shahin could hear, over the creak of the hull and the slap of the oily brown water, a vast, constant murmur. The city was filled with noise. Crowded, hot and pestilential, he realized. How delightful.

  Then the wind shifted and a thick miasma rolled out across the water. Shahin staggered as the smell washed across him. O lord of light! What a stench! How many people live here? How many pigs? During his time in the desert, or at sea, he'd forgotten how foul a human city could become.

  The Egyptian customs officer slapped him on a bare, powerfully muscled shoulder as the man passed. "Don't worry," he said in a cheerful voice. "You'll get used to it if you're here long. When the Nile floods, it gets better. All the refuse gets washed out to sea."

  Shahin grunted, then helped the man—heavier by a substantial bribe—down into the galley. The Palmyrene captain leaned on the railing, waving good-bye. The desert man had a sick look on his face too. With the Egyptians gone, the Persian turned his attention back to the city. How are we going to find the prince's agent in that morass?

  —|—

  The noise was the worst. Shahin felt physically ill—not from the close, hot streets or the cloying smell of rotting vegetation—but from the constant assault upon his eyes and ears. Led by a Palmyrene sailor who had shipped to Alexandria before, Shahin and his men spent most of the day trudging through crowded streets, making their way from the port to the temple district. The press of humanity—dressed in a dizzying array of colors and hues, with brown, black, white and tan faces—surged past them in a constant flow. Shahin's arms were tired from holding his belongings aloft in a bundle while pushing through the chattering, shouting crowd. They passed streets of metal workers, vigorously hammering away, through lanes filled with shrieking birds and animals, past block-long temples lifting a droning chant to the sky.

  Out of the area immediately around the great harbor, the sailor turned left and they wound through smaller and smaller streets, swiftly leaving the broad avenues and regular streets of the Roman city. Shahin took solace only from the faces of the passing men and women. They looked familiar and Eastern; neither the angular faces of the Romans and their German allies nor the dark-eyed Egyptians. He raised his head, looking forward, and was rewarded by the sight of a temple portico faced with red stone, stair-stepped, and showing the blazon of the Lord of Light, Ahura-Madza.

  "Is that where we're going?" He thumped the sailor on the shoulder, pointing at the Persian-style temple. The man glanced over his shoulder with a bemused expression.

  "No..." The sailor stopped suddenly, causing Shahin and his men to crowd behind him like lost sheep. "That place is closed—the Romans are not fools!" He pointed and the big Persian saw the doors of the fire temple were boarded up. City militiamen sat on the steps, throwing dice on a blanket. The rest of the porch was filled with peddlers selling live parakeets and steamed shellfish from copper buckets.

  "Where are we going?" Shahin leaned down, trying to keep his voice low. But in this constant noise, who would be able to tell what he said? The sailor paused, waiting for a dozen bearded men, round flat-topped hats on their heads, long black tunics flapping above their sandals, to walk past. The men were chanting, papyrus rolls held in their hands. They did not look up as they passed and Shahin frowned after them. The city was filled was strange sights.

  "There is an inn, where we can find rooms. Not far now." The sailor slipped deftly into the flow of the crowd and Shahin, less used to such things, was forced to press after him, pushing aside three women carrying cane platters of bread on their heads. The bakers, insulted, shouted viciously at the Persians as they hurried past. Mihr, bringing up the rear, got a bruise on his shin from a sharp kick.

  The street turned and turned again, and the crowd suddenly dissipated. Shahin felt a chill; they walked swiftly past crumbling houses with empty windows and doors. He realized, after they passed a tall raven-headed statue looming in an alcove on the left-hand side of the street, they had entered a burial district. A mangy dog lifted its head, yawning. It rose stiffly, back arched, watching them with cold eyes. Mihr walked backwards for a time, making sure it did not follow.

  "Here it is!" The sailor sounded relieved. They entered a small plaza, thronged with people, surrounded on each of the four quarters by small, dilapidated temples. A confusing array of roads and narrow alleys opened onto the open space. Shahin felt relieved—he could see laundry hanging from balconies, housewives chatting from their windows, children playing. Young people talked while they filled their urns and pitchers from a cistern. The sailor climbed a flight of steps, ducking his head to enter a doorway. Shahin paused, puzzling out the letters cut into the white plaster beside the door. He failed, but traced an outline of spreading horns with his thumb. Mithras, the Sun, he realized. Then he did feel better. The Dying Bull was a Persian cult, but an old one, from his father's father's time.

  —|—

  "You a
re of the house of Suren! How delightful."

  Shahin looked up in surprise, his mouth filled with porridge. A man of some age, his oval face defined by a short, neat beard and carefully combed white hair, stood beside the common-room table. The Persian swallowed, looking around suspiciously. None of his men were in sight. Most were sleeping on the roof, under spreading flower-heavy trellises, trying to escape the heat of the day.

  "May I sit?" Without waiting for Shahin's leave, the man slid onto the facing bench.

  "Who are you?" The Persian squinted at the stranger, examining his threadbare brown robe, mended tunic, proud nose and nimble, calloused fingers stained with ink. "Have we met before?"

  "Not at all. My name is Artabanus." Casually, the fellow looked around. The common room was nearly empty at this hour, the usual tenants having departed for their day's labors. He produced a silver coin from his sleeve, presenting it to Shahin. "You've come on the king's business, I understand."

  "The king? No." Shahin frowned suspiciously as he picked up the silver piece. A bearded man, notable for long mustaches, was stamped on the face. The minting was nearly fresh, barely worn at all. A bust of the king, large mustaches prominent, filled one side, while the reverse held a brief sketch of a fire altar and two attendants. "Prince Rustam sent me on this errand."

  "I do not know the name." Artabanus seemed dubious. The man retrieved the coin, making the silver disk vanish from his fingers. He grinned at the trick, though Shahin did not find it amusing. "I am the king's man. Are you?"

  "Yes," Shahin nodded, feeling a little odd to claim his old enemy with pride. But he was proud. The Boar was an honorable lord, far more trustworthy than the prince... "The prince does the king's work in this. I am looking for an old device."