"I am distracted and busy, my love, but I think I see your fear. Should Martina and Maxian wed, their son would have a claim to the West, while ruling the East. It is an old dream—both here and in Constantinople—to reunite the Empire. Our current amity and alliance is newly born, barely six years old. Dreams might push a young man, new on his throne, flush with heady power, to grasp for both hanging fruit, rather than just the one."
Helena nodded, clutching her son tight to her chest. Theodosius made a happy, burbling sound.
"Maxian is his own man," Galen continued, musing softly, speaking almost to himself. "Our father is dead, making the three of us adults and heads of our own households. Martina is a suitable match—I cannot invoke some hoary old law, forbidding marriage by a patrician out of his class—and doing so would only insult the Eastern lords and cause an immediate rift between our two domains. Do you think they want to marry?"
"She will." Helena's voice was flat and emotionless. "She will think of her son."
"Two little boys," Galen said, trying to lighten the tone. "Rolling and playing in the mud at soldiers, as gladiators, the best of friends... you think they will grow to opposition, at each other's throat with bare steel?"
"I read," Helena replied, tears beginning to sparkle at the corners of her eyes. "I read of the past and see brother strangling brother, husbands drowning wives, children murdering their fathers, sending their mothers away into prison and exile. I read—and I see men reduced to pretending buffoonery so they might live amid slaughter, or prostituting their sisters, daughters and wives to win the favor of the Senate." The Empress' eyes grew brighter, but she fought back the tears and clear anger shone in her face instead. "Men will do anything to wear the laurel crown, don the red boots, lift the white rod."
"And women?" Helena looked so grief-stricken, disconsolate, her fingers digging into the child's arm. Galen felt his chest tighten again. "What would you do?"
"I will kill," Helena whispered, "to protect my son and see he lives."
The Emperor nodded, feeling a vast weight settle on his shoulders. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking refuge in soft darkness. "Very well. I will speak to Maxian, when next time and circumstance permit privacy. If he wishes to marry Martina, I will approve and applaud, but only on the condition he and his forswear their Latin patrimony."
Galen opened his eyes, brushing a hand over his son's thin hair. "Then I will claim Theodosius—even though he is but a child—as my official heir. Maxian's sons, if he is blessed with any, will rule only the East, not the West."
Helena made no response, pressing her lips to the boy's head. Galen watched her, waiting. A long time passed and then the Empress said in a hoarse, ghastly voice: "We cannot cast the East aside? Or impress our own rule upon them? Send Martina into exile, blinded, tongue slit—her son rendered harmless?"
"No!" Galen shook himself, shocked. "We are too weak and hard-pressed by Persia. I have no Legions spare to garrison the East, even if we could subdue the Eastern lords. If either Empire is to survive, we must fight together, in common accord."
"Compromise," Helena said, "digs a shallow grave for more than one."
"It is all we have." Galen took his wife's hand, pressing her cold fingers to his cheek. "My love, your son will live and he will grow strong. In time he will sit on my throne. You have my word. Maxian is my brother—and our friendship, our love, is strong. We disagree of late over tactics, not our family. What you fear will not come to pass. He is my brother!"
Helena's eyes were pooled darkness. "So said Agamemnon as he drowned, throat crushed in Aegisthus' brawny hands. I do not fear Maxian, but his son, or his son's son."
"Anything can happen, Helena! Such a dreadful path you see before us..."
"I watch your face while you sleep, husband," she replied, face drowned in shadow, only the pale hair of the boy revealed by the lamps. "Each day, your burden grows. These are dreadful times. Who is to say the future will be better?"
"I do." Galen stood straighter. "What other purpose do I have?" He gave Helena a sharp look. "Now—I will do as you ask, but you must do your part as well, for amity and goodwill. Regardless of what else happens, you must make peace with Martina—she is your sister empress—and our ally. Neither slight nor stifle her, but make her your friend, if you can."
Helena responded with a glare of her own, but Galen stood, waiting, until she—at last—nodded in agreement. He could tell she was not pleased and hid a sigh, knowing he would hear about this again, at length.
—|—
Bronze dolphin trumpets pealed, ringing bright and clear against the gilt satyrs and painted shepherdesses staring down from the domed ceilings. Quiet settled over the crowd, even near the banquet tables where the boards groaned under the weight of the Duchess' feast. A centurion, barrel-chested, throat like an oak root, stepped up onto a bench near the inner garden. "Citizens, guests, officers! Our hostess commands you attend her in the garden and look upon the heavens above, filled with wonder and delight!"
Obediently, everyone began to file into the center of the villa. Maxian, looking very pleased with himself, pressed through the crowd in the opposite direction. In the short hall between the inner court and the outer garden, he found the Eastern Empress and Gaius Julius. The young woman's face was grave and the two were deep in conversation.
"Martina, excellent! Gaius, you too, come and see. The Duchess has commanded a performance and I have done a small bit to make it livelier than usual." The prince was grinning.
"It's not a dancing bear, is it?" Martina looked sourly at the close, hot crowd filling the hallway. Everyone in front of her was markedly taller than the Empress. "I don't like bears."
"No, no," Maxian said, taking her hand and Gaius' arm. "Come through here."
A drape slid aside at a wave of the prince's hand, starting the hackles on Gaius' neck to life, revealing a servant's corridor. A moment later Maxian pushed open a low ironbound door and they stooped through, finding themselves at the back of the garden, behind a bower of rowans and white-barked elms. The prince put a finger to his lips, urging silence, and the three slipped through a cluster of quiet servants to a staircase leading up into the kitchens.
"Stand here," Maxian whispered, picking up Martina and setting her on the highest step. "Watch the sky."
Above the branches, framed by white pillars and terra-cotta eaves on three sides, the vault of heaven stood in bright array. The river of milk was a gossamer veil, here and there a star shining through. Martina shifted, her hand on Maxian's shoulder, and started to speak. "What—"
The lamps suddenly died and the candles flickered out. Complete darkness filled the garden and the halls on either side. In the unexpected gloom someone squealed and there was muted laughter. Martina fell silent. Maxian put his hand over hers and she settled against him, arms on either shoulder.
A harp began to play, a light, shimmering sound. The low soft beat of one drum joined in, carrying the sound of the strings up and up, as if they rose to the glittering stars. Then a second drum, even deeper voiced than the first, woke to life. Maxian, still grinning in the dark, closed his left hand and mist rose. The drums rattled up, beat quickening, speeding like a runner on desert sands. Still darkness filled the courtyard and the halls of the house.
Just when the watching people below began to stir, impatient, there was a soft twang and fluting pipes skirled, drowning the steady drums for a moment. Above, three figures appeared against the night sky, softly glowing, arms outstretched. Two girls and a boy, bare skin shining silver, long-colored ribbons wound through their hair. They ran across the sky, bare feet keeping close to some invisible track. The boy darted ahead, ribbons snapping behind as a comet's tail sweeps across the vault of night. Halfway across the courtyard, he sprang up, cartwheeling forward. The two girls followed close, only paces behind, and three whirling comets—shining silver, matching the stars, blazing ribbon flashing against sable firmament—rushed away into the darkness.
&n
bsp; A gasp followed from below, as the crowd remembered to breathe.
The drums beat down to silence, the pipes falling to a breathy whisper. Everyone grew quiet. Again, the faint shivering twang fell from the air. The eastern sky brightened, flooding with a golden glow. Trumpets sounded, blaring a grand ovation. A man's head appeared, bent under an enormous, burning orb. He was muscled like a god and walked slowly on the air, toes splayed on either side of a barely visible cable. The sun rode on his back, a spherical lattice of fiercely blazing rods. The man strode across the sky, the orb shedding a cool, brilliant light upon the upturned faces below.
Behind the sun, as the bent man reached the halfway point, suddenly rushed the moon.
A pale sphere, glimmering, bouncing upon a lithe woman's outstretched hands. She sped across the sky, faster than the slow sun, springing in long bounds—the cable catching her on each landing, then springing back, wire singing like a blade, propelling her skyward—and the disk brightened and waned as she passed the sun, even as Luna changes in her courses.
Again, the cold moon vanished into the west, into gathering mist. Old Sol stumped on.
Those watching below began to clap, then fell silent. The burning sun guttered down, growing dim, radiance failing, leaving only a dim spark at the center of the lattice rods. The powerfully muscled man stopped, swaying slowly back and forth, shoulders slumped in weariness, his outstretched arms making small adjustments to keep in balance. Maxian heard a hiss of dismay from the crowd and Martina's fingers dug into his shoulders. He lifted his hands, palms towards the sky, and the mist responded, billowing out to swallow the sun. Now the west brightened, but this time with a sullen red glow. Sparks shot up from the rooftop, accompanied by a chaotic, rattling clamor of drums and tambourines and pipes. Burning motes streaked heavenward.
Everyone in the house groaned and at least one man cried out in rage.
The distinctive shape of Vesuvius appeared, outlined in flame, rising over the roof. The drums roared, a heavy, furious beat. Black mist flowed from half-seen vents, red worms writhing down night-shrouded slopes. The man holding the sun swayed, the last light failing. Darkness swallowed the scene, save the fitful glow of the burning mountain.
Maxian heard people crying in the darkness, though he was unmoved by the phantasm. Silently, he turned his palms toward one another and pressed them against the contained air, as if something stiff resisted him. Beyond the eastern roof, a sudden light flared, a shining white beam striking through the curdling mist, driving back the abyss of darkness. The sun—dead, cold, rods black as slate—was revealed. The muscled man continued to balance the orb on his back, swaying little by little from side to side. White light played across him, casting his face in sharp relief, his tense muscles growing huge under such scrutiny.
Four men of diverse races appeared from the east, backs arched, hands and toes gripping the cables. Bound to their backs was a four-square platform. With smooth grace, they scuttled forward, exemplary skill keeping the platform steady. Standing on their support, a man in white robes with a patrician face, bare ankles adorned by wings, wore a golden wreath on a high brow. He held aloft a crystal sphere, incandescent with white light. As he advanced, Maxian pushed his hands away from his chest and the mist and darkness boiled back. Vesuvius' refulgent glow dimmed, then vanished. The conical outline receded into mist and was gone.
The four crawling men scurried on until they came even with the sun. Now the muscled man rose, inch by inch, muscles straining, rolling the orb of the sun from his back and onto his hands. He stretched skyward, lifting the sphere of rods above his head. The noble Roman tossed the brilliant crystal into the air. The muscular man swayed, spinning the lattice and then deftly caught the flying crystal in a cup at the sphere's heart.
The sun blazed alight anew, flooding the courtyard and the sky with golden light. A cheer went up, torn from unwary throats, and everyone clapped furiously. No longer slow, the man bearing the sun ran off to the west along the cable, carrying the radiant orb away over the rooftop. Behind, the noble Roman bowed to the crowd gathered below, then the four bearers scuttled backward and in moments they too had vanished over the eastern roof.
Maxian snapped his fingers and every candle, lamp and torch in the house sprang alight.
A great clamor of glad voices rose, filling the air. The servants watching from the shadows of the arbor streamed away, chattering, their good humor restored. Even Gaius Julius was smiling.
"Nicely done," the old Roman said. "The winged feet were a good touch."
Maxian shrugged. "It was the Duchess' idea—I just added a little light."
"Hmph." Martina made a face, but seemed content to lean against the prince, hands clasped across his chest, her chin resting on the crown of his head. "No one can accuse her of subtlety—Rome lights the world, indeed!"
Gaius Julius gestured at the people crowding back into the hall, appetites restored, faces bright with cheer. "They needed something to revive their spirits. The Duchess invited everyone of importance in Rome and Latium—if their will flags, then the Empire suffers. Now they see their Emperor, see his son, their bellies are full, their senses replete. They are inspired—and tomorrow they will set to their tasks with greater vigor, with a lighter heart. I say again—well done!"
"Thank you, Gaius." Maxian made a small bow in reply. "But I did little. How passes your evening?"
The old Roman tilted his head to the Empress. "We have been talking, Martina and I. I thought you'd been working too hard—but she tells me what she's found about our enemy—"
Maxian raised an eyebrow, face going still, his expression becoming cold and forbidding.
"—and I cannot fault you! Is there anything else I can do to aid your search? I have no desire to live in a world ruled by a three-headed dragon that lives only to consume and torment the living." He paused, a catlike smile on this face. "Cicero as consul was bad enough."
The prince relaxed, nodding. "We need more of everything, Master Gaius. More time, more skilled workers, a better grade of iron ore, more money to pay them and purchase materials. I would appreciate the effort if you kept such concerns fresh in Galen's mind while we are up in Florentia."
"Of course." Gaius Julius rubbed his chin, feigning thought. "I am reminded of a note that lately crossed my desk—a bequest was made to you, Lord Prince, and the Emperor remanded the property to the Imperial Exchequer. I will remind him of your good and loyal service, urging him to use the bequest—through his hands, of course—to fuel your enterprises."
"What bequest was this?" Martina leaned over Maxian's shoulder, interest perked.
"A small matter," Gaius Julius smiled faintly. "An old friend made Lord Maxian his sole heir—as he had gone down to the halls of the dead without male issue—a suitable, princely sum!"
"Who was this?" The Empress flicked her fingers, bidding Gaius hurry with his revelation.
"The esteemed senator, Gregorius Auricus," the old Roman said, lowering his voice and making a sign to propitiate the gods. "Solely the richest man in Rome, save the Emperor himself. The master of vast estates, herds, flocks, wineries, oil presses, flour mills, merchant ship shares, bakeries—every possible source of wealth! All left for Maxian Atreus, without stipulation save 'to use for the good of Rome.'"
"Really?" Maxian was surprised and gratified. "How remarkable... but you say Galen refused to approve the inheritance?"
"Yes..." Gaius Julius made sort of a sickly smile. "The note—by the Emperor's hand—related the inheritance was being secured by the state, to finance the war and other... efforts."
Maxian laughed, with a little catch in his voice. Gaius Julius caught the change in tone, and hid another smile, though his eyes fairly gleamed. Martina, for her part, did not laugh at all.
"So," she said in an icy voice, "now the prince must petition for wealth rightly his? He must send polite notes, requesting his own revenues be released to himself? So he might continue his work, to strengthen the Empire and throw
down these Persian monsters?"
"Yes—" Gaius started to say, but Maxian cut him off with a raised hand.
"This is within my brother's right—though I am puzzled by his decision. But, I will not argue the matter with him. That," the prince said with a smirk, "I leave to you, Gaius. Just get me the things I need." With that, the prince squeezed Martina's hand and stepped away. "I'm starving. Shall we eat?"
Martina did not answer. Instead, she gave Gaius Julius a look of such banked fury he stepped back in alarm. Ignoring them both, Maxian started off for the banquet tables.
"My lady?" the old Roman ventured quietly, as soon as the prince was out of earshot. She pursed her lips, obviously restraining a vigorous expression of disgust.
"Does the prince possess lands of his own, Master Gaius? His own livelihood?"
"Well..." Gaius Julius shrugged a little, clasping both hands behind his back. "Not to speak of—there are some small properties in his name; rundown apartment houses, a copper mine in Illyria; at one point he held a vineyard and estate on the slopes of unfortunate Vesuvius... nothing too large. Traditionally, the Emperor provides for his family—including any brothers or sisters."
"Does he?" The Eastern Empress' brown eyes narrowed. "Or rather, he keeps his brothers from accruing their own wealth, so as to protect his position." She paused, staring after the prince, who was following his nose to the food. "He doesn't care, does he?"
"Maxian? No—I don't think he does. It's not important to him."
Sympathy and anger warred in Martina's face for a moment, then her expression settled into a determined frown. "Then we will watch out for him," she said briskly. "To make sure he's not cheated again."
—|—
Anastasia was standing in an alcove just off the atrium of her house, when the water clock began to sound, signaling the seventh hour of the night. The party was winding down—more than half the guests had departed in small groups, escorted by link boys and armed slaves—and the chiming sound beat in her head like a hammer. Everyone else seemed determined to greet the rising sun over the ruins of her feast and many lesser lights were already asleep, curled up in corners or on the couches in the entertaining rooms.
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