The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  Shahr-Baraz put the thoughts aside. His men needed to see utter confidence from their captains, to forget the closeness of the day's struggle, to forget the rows of the dead or those swept away by the sudden flood. Nearly three thousand Persians, Arabs and Greeks had fallen today. Who knew how many Romans had died? Not quite so many, Shahr-Baraz guessed. But the enemy had lost their first line of defense, and they had not expected such an outcome. A feral grin welled on his lips. Tomorrow will bring the same result...

  The Boar turned away from the riot of color in the western sky, from the Roman fortifications and the shadow-filled canal. He looked to the east, and his eyes—still keen despite advancing age—quickly picked out darkness against darkness. The Serpent, crouching fearfully among his Huns and iron wands. Your great fear was unfounded, little snake, he thought, smugly pleased. Only the Legion thaumaturges faced your servants today. Your "great enemy" is not here!

  Shahr-Baraz was sure the Romans had suffered terrible losses among their magi. Tomorrow, the Serpent would reveal himself, his power unfettered by fear or caution. There would be a great slaughter and the Legions would break like glass.

  "Come," the King of Kings boomed. "Come my friends. Let us go down to my tents, where a fine, rich feast is ready upon the table. Maidens are waiting, with wine in silver cups, with flowers in their long hair. You are hungry and tired. But victory is ours and your labors will be rewarded!" The king swept through the cluster of men, slapping some on the shoulder, meeting the eyes of others. They moved to follow him automatically, without a second thought, drawn in by his good humor, his confidence, the undimmed sun of his bravura. They descended the slope in a clatter of metal and tired, cheerful voices.

  Only Khalid remained on the platform, sitting in shadow, exhausted, his face drawn and pale. His eyes were drawn to the west, to the Roman limes, where the legionaries were still at work by torchlight, digging and shoring, strengthening their walls of stone and earth and wood. Preparing for another day of battle.

  —|—

  A log creaked. Khalid woke with a start, disoriented. The sky had grown dark, the sun long down in the west, plunging the land into a close, warm darkness. A shape appeared out of the night, booted feet illuminated by a softly glowing paper lantern.

  "Hello, Khalid." Zoë was limping a little, but she settled beside him on the logs with her usual deft grace, a covered basket in one hand. "I brought you some food." She folded back the cloth and Khalid felt dizzy—the smell of fresh bread and roasted lamb flooded up from the basket. Greedily, all good manners brushed aside by sudden hunger, he tore into the crispy loaf and dripping meat. After a moment, Zoë—nose wrinkled up at his haste—handed him a water flagon. Thirsty, he drank until the damp leather was dry and pinched. When he was done, he looked sideways at her, face stiff as a mask, suddenly embarrassed.

  "Thank you," he managed, in a very formal tone. Zoë nodded slightly in response, hands clasped around her knees. She was looking out into the darkness, watching lines of torches wiggle among the Roman works. Like the young Arab, she seemed tired, exhausted by the day's struggle.

  After a moment, Khalid shifted a little, growing nervous. He turned toward her, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why did you bring me the food?"

  Zoë did not answer. She continued to watch the slow procession of yellow and orange lights across the canal. With the sun gone to his night bed, the surface of the canal reflected the Legion fires and lanterns, making shimmering warm constellations in the oily water.

  Khalid, watching her now by the same dim, flickering light, realized she was overcome by sadness. Faint pearls of moisture gathered at the corner of her eyes and her bow-shaped lips were pressed tight against welling emotion. He drew back, unsure of what to say or do, and drew the cowl of his cape over his head. To his disgust, the linen was scored with charred holes. Shaking his head in dismay, he poked a finger through one of the larger openings, then snorted with laughter. "Roman moths."

  "Hmmm." Zoë looked sideways at him, the faint ghost of a smile emerging from her desolate mood. "I don't think cedar shavings will keep them away from your cloak."

  Khalid pulled the cloak onto his knees, then sighed in dismay to see soot blackening the fabric. Most of the cloth was burned away or reduced to a tangle of threads. He made an equally sad face. "Ruined."

  Zoë stood. "You'll get another. The King of Kings would be pleased to gift you something rich—with golden thread and rich, soft silk. Far better than these scraps."

  Khalid looked up, shaking his head. "I don't want a new one... the Teacher's aunt made this cloak for me, before we left Mekkah." He rolled the fabric between his fingers, watching flakes of charred thread pill away under his thumb and forefinger. "It was my favorite."

  Zoë rose, making a sharp, dismissive motion with her hand. "It's just a cloak," she said. "A Persian one will fit you just as well."

  Khalid stared after the Queen as she padded off down the slope. For a moment, she was a pale shape against the engulfing night, then she was gone. A peculiar sick feeling coiled in his stomach. He wondered how many of his men would be wearing Persian tunics, cloaks, armor when the sun rose again. Too many, he thought. Too many.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Mare Internum, East of Sicily

  "I don't know," Betia said slowly, biting her lip, looking from the imposing figure of Mithridates, late afternoon sun gleaming from smooth, glossy muscle, to Vladimir, bare-chested and peeling red. "They both look equally large..." Her bright blue eyes traveled back to the African.

  "Perhaps if you flexed them again, I could tell." Smiling, she kicked her heels against the boards of the foredeck anchor housing. A hundred feet of tarred rope lay coiled within, threaded through a cored-out marble bust. When they had last anchored, off the Sicilian shore, the head of Perseus had rested on a sandy bottom, where Betia could trace the taut line of the cable plunging through clear, sapphire water.

  Grunting, the two men clenched their fists, biceps bulging. In truth, Betia was having a hard time determining which man's arms were larger, whose muscles were more tightly corded. She put her chin on her palm, paying close attention. The African grimaced at the Walach and Vladimir squinted back ferociously, baring long, white incisors.

  "Hmmm..." Betia said, distracted again. "This is very difficult."

  —|—

  Thyatis settled onto the deck beside Nicholas, her long cavalry sword in one hand, a bundle of rags, a whetstone and oil in the other. With the sky still warm with summer, she had stripped down to a short linen kilt and a Persian-style shirt. Nicholas looked up, surprised—the woman's bare feet made no sound on the smooth deck—and his nostrils flared in response to her smile.

  "Nice blade," she said, sitting cross-legged. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his immediate frown and there was an abrupt click as he slid the steel back into a battered, worn leather sheath. An afterimage lingered for a moment—sunlight burning on a slick, oiled metal bar three fingers wide, a long series of squared-off glyphs flaring as they vanished into darkness. "True steel?"

  "Yes," Nicholas said gruffly, averting his eyes.

  Nodding companionably, Thyatis slid out her own blade, a heavy spatha-style sword, the surface mottled with the waterfall pattern typical of Eastern swordcraft. Pursing her lips, Thyatis hefted the sword, turning it this way and that in the sunlight, squinting at the surface. Then, with careful deliberation, she picked a clean cloth out of the bundle and began to oil the blade.

  "This one's Rajput work," she said after a bit, when Nicholas' breathing had settled. "My second one. The first was... ah... lost in a bad fight. The Duchess was kind enough to find me a replacement."

  "Good," Nicholas said, after sitting in silence, listening to the careful burr of the whetstone along the steel. "Hard to get a good blade these days... the Legions or the generals take them all."

  "Expensive, you mean," Thyatis said, lifting the sword again and letting the sun slide slowly down the edge, eyes int
ent, watching for imperfections, scratches or oily fingerprints. Across the deck there was a sharp grunt and the Roman woman looked up. Mithridates had his arm out, stiff, and Betia, small, pale hands gripping his teak-dark forearm, was doing pull-ups. The Walach was watching, a huge grin on his face, and laughing. Thyatis froze for a moment, letting painful memories rise, then fade. The past, she thought sadly. Not today. Then she forced a smile. "Vladimir seems a good companion—you two been together long?"

  "Three years, almost." Nicholas settled the battered sheath across his knees. Quick, nimble fingers rooted among his own gear, finding a bottle of heavy, dark oil. He began to treat the scabbard, working the oil in with his fingers. "I was working for the Eastern Office, doing cleanup work, odd jobs, you know the kind of thing... there was a sea attack on the city. We were on the same boat. I went overboard, to cut a tangled line free... he jumped in after me, the oaf!"

  "Can he swim?" Thyatis turned her sword over and began to work on the reverse.

  "He can now." Nicholas shook his head. "The big idiot was wearing scaled armor—like he is today!—must weigh sixty, seventy pounds; but he's strong, very strong. Between the two of us, we kept from drowning. He doesn't like the water, though... makes him nervous just to see a boat."

  "Like a cat," she said, deadpan.

  "Huh. Like a cat." Nicholas looked sideways at her. "You've met a Walach before?"

  "I've heard some tales," she replied, keeping her voice light. "He get hungry much?"

  "Sometimes..." Nicholas sighed, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. "He counts us all as family, though... he won't think your maid a tasty snack or something."

  Thyatis' lips twitched, then she looked back across the deck. Now Vladimir had his arm out level and Betia had drawn herself up, arms stiff on his forearm, body balanced over his fist and was slowly swinging her legs up over her head. The muscles of her back and shoulders were sharp as razors. Vladimir watched with open appreciation, stiff with the effort of holding her entire weight with one arm. "Betia's not a maid."

  "Ah-huh. Why bring her, then?" Nicholas scratched his head and Thyatis realized he was truly puzzled. She hid a sigh, thinking, but what do you expect? He has no idea what kind of training she's been through...

  "She's our messenger, our spy in the marketplace, our quiet, hidden eyes in a crowded street." Thyatis pointed at the African and the Walach with the point of her blade. "Each tool to a purpose, my friend. Strength, size, speed, a deadly eye—not much use if you don't know where to go, who to kill, where to find a missing pouch of letters... our little Betia is worth her weight in gold, or more." She looked back at Nicholas, grinning. "You'll see."

  "I suppose." Nicholas twisted the ends of his mustache in a nervous gesture. "You won't be worrying about her if things get hot, then? I would..."

  "Are you going to worry about me?" Thyatis' voice settled into a professionally level tone. "Why would you worry about her and not about Vladimir? Or Mithridates?"

  Nicholas made a face and raised a hand as if to deflect the question. "I see. We'll each take care of our own business."

  "What we'll do," Thyatis said softly, eyes narrowed in a hard glare, "is trust each other. If any of us are in trouble, the others will help, but we won't assume Betia, or I, or you, require 'looking after.' Do you follow?"

  "Yes," Nicholas said, rising from the deck. Thyatis could see he was irritated.

  "Good," she said, rising as well. "Let's spar. I'm starting to feel rusty, sitting on this damp boat." She stepped back, clearing some space. The Indian steel blade gleamed in her hand, point drifting towards the deck, her grip light on the hilt.

  Nicholas stared at her as though the seas had parted, revealing Typhon in all his awful glory. "What? You want to fight?"

  "Yes," Thyatis said, letting her body relax into stance, shoulders level, rising up on the balls of her feet. It felt good, even to begin the proper exercise of form. The sword quivered, a seamless extension of her hand and will. "We need the practice—and the time will past the quicker for some honest sweat!"

  Nicholas blinked, watching her, and he shook his head suddenly. "No—I won't. Not with bare steel! Let us take staves and spar with them instead." Thyatis saw his knuckles turning white on the hilt of the blade. He's afraid, she thought in amazement. Afraid he'll hurt me. How strange!

  Chuckling, Thyatis sheathed her sword. Given the man's reaction, there was no point in pressing the matter. "Very well," she said. "The staff it is, then."

  Relief flooded Nicholas' face and he tossed the scabbard to Vladimir, who had wandered over. The big Walach caught the weapon from the air with one hand. Mithridates was right behind him, Betia riding his shoulders, arms crossed on his bald head, pale legs tucked into his armpits. "Vlad—are there staves about?"

  Thyatis rolled her neck, then deftly caught a length of oak tossed by the African. She spun the wooden staff in her hand, flipping it across her shoulders and into her other hand. Nicholas had his in hand as well and now his body relaxed into a fighting pose—not quite the same as Thyatis'. She saw he'd been trained by a master emphasizing power and the striking blow. She shifted her feet, turning a little away from him, hands sliding on the smooth wood. The hiss of bloodfire began to trickle through her and she grinned wide, feeling suddenly awake.

  Nicholas began to circle, his feet very light on the deck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Villa of Swans, Roma Mater

  Anastasia stood at the edge of her garden, watching one of the serving girls hurry down the steps from the kitchen, platters of spiced eggs balanced in either hand, weaving through a thick crowd of citizens and freedmen. The guests were lively, talking loudly, drinking heavily, taking full advantage of the liberal feast provided by the Duchess. The girl turned sideways, up on tiptoe, and slid between the enormous bulk of a grain merchant, his coterie of henna-haired "nieces" and a cluster of grim-faced Legion officers. The soldiers were drinking heavily, sitting glum and quiet on benches lining the colonnade around the heart of the villa.

  The maid breezed past, through columns glowing with copper Hispanian lamps and strings of cut glass and down into the garden. The arbor was heavy with lanterns and the wooden bridge crossing the stream was lit from below with the flickering glow of dozens of candle boats. Even with the evening well advanced, the center of the house was filled with laughter and light. Despite the festive atmosphere, Anastasia was content to stand in the shadow of rowan trees hanging over the garden's edge; pale, perfect face stippled with distant lamplight, watching the ebb and flow of her guests. Her invitations—each hand delivered by a phalanx of slaves—had incited a huge response. The porters and door guards had been turning away eager guests at the morning meal, and by noon the front gates were closed and barred against an expectant crowd. Eager guests flooded into the house at the earliest opportunity—even before the bakers and cooks finished the first course of the evening-long dinner. Anastasia allowed herself a small smile—she may have been in mourning a long time, but she remembered how to entertain and Rome's fickle social memory had not yet forgotten her.

  Today, I am novelty! she thought. Tomorrow? Day-old bread, a copper a loaf.

  Rising voices in the great hall, eager, nervous and excited caught her ear. The Emperor? Anastasia checked her hair—flowing loose, in dark, glossy waves, only barely restrained by threads of pearl and gold—then her gown and stole. The dress was new and modest, as befitted such troubled times. Still, the slick fabric clung eagerly to her breasts and flowed over hip and thigh in a cascade of ultramarine Chin silk. The spark in men's eyes was reward enough, even if she felt positively demure.

  Across the garden, a crowd of people in the main hall parted, some bowing. Anastasia's violet eyes narrowed and then she frowned. Not the Emperor. He's being fashionably late. She was disappointed. The so-current prince, and his... The Duchess scowled... consort? Companion? Private secretary?

  Maxian entered, properly attired in a formal toga and tunic,
only the traditional bare feet of the custos magicum departing from a patrician's ideal. Martina, hanging on his arm, hip pressed to his side, had not been limited by such social constraints. The Eastern Empress' usually plain brown hair was tightly curled and ornamented with brilliant jewels. Martina's gold-laced gown, silky transparent drape, her shoes—everything bespoke wealth and power. The Duchess grimaced, noting the possessive hand—studded with golden bracelets and glittering jewels—wrapped around Maxian's arm. The girl smiled brilliantly, and Anastasia's eyes narrowed. Bleached teeth? Where did she find a wizard to—where else? Ah, child—what am I to do with you?

  Biting her thumb in annoyance, the Duchess strode out of the shadows and paused for a heartbeat at the top of the stairs. Not one head turned toward her. Everyone in the garden was focused on the prince and upon his too-brilliant companion. Schooling her face to genteel welcome, Anastasia descended to the grassy sward, the fingers of her left hand touching the edge of her scooped neckline.

  "Lord Prince Maxian," she purred, gliding through the crowd of senators and their wives clogging the entrance to the main hall. "My lady, Empress Martina, welcome to my house." Anastasia caught the prince's eye, smiled warmly, then turned to the younger woman and bowed gracefully, taking her hand in greeting.

  "Empress," she said, turning away from the prince and leading Martina forward, out of the clutch of sycophants crowding the girl, to the edge of the marble steps. "I hope my garden pleases you."

  Martina answered her smile with a faint grimace of her own and Anastasia felt a sharp moment of satisfaction, seeing ill-disguised fear hiding behind the girl's kohl-ornamented eyes and lead-white face powders. "It's... beautiful," the Empress managed, trying to turn back, looking for Maxian. "The lamps are very pretty."

  "They are," Anastasia said, squeezing Martina's hand and descending the steps. The Empress, unwilling to cast off her hostess' hand, followed. "Have you seen my stream before? A cistern above the house lets it flow and the water is recaptured below by a clever siphon." Anastasia leaned close to Martina as she spoke, as if they shared a confidence during temple services. Still unwilling to protest, though looking more and more startled with each moment, Martina found herself beside the stream, candlelight shining on her face.