The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  The elusive memory surfaced, buoyed up by a brief vision of a very young Galen painstakingly writing out a school lesson, sitting at the big, wide table in their mother's kitchen. Aurelian picked up the letter again, feeling the warmth of fond memory fade away. Hawk made a secret language for us, the prince remembered. The first letter of each word making a new word. A strikeout or correction making a space between...

  He squinted at the page, trying to formulate the hidden sentence in his mind. After a moment, he gave up and began scratching the translation in the dirt of the farmyard. Grains dribbled past and Aurelian found himself staring at the ground, a dead sense of despair rising from his brother's terse, hasty message: Eque, tres menses mihi eme. Nullus post te est. Accipiter.

  "'Horse,'" he read aloud, "'buy me three months. There is no one behind you. Hawk.'"

  Aurelian put his head in his hands, closing his eyes. The stabbing pain in his stomach grew worse and he thought he would throw up. Helena, in her meticulous way, had dated the letter. A month had passed between the packet leaving Rome and reaching him here, in this abandoned farmyard. Two months... we'll be forced back into the city in another week, or no more than two. And no reinforcements.

  The prince considered the effort he had invested in the massive, expensive fortifications at Pelusium and across the peninsula holding Alexandria. Sixty thousand men had moved heaven and earth to erect the barriers—the greatest set of fieldworks the Roman army had ever created. A harsh laugh escaped Aurelian, driven from his gut. Caesar himself could not have done better, he thought bitterly. All useless. The Persians have changed the geometry of war.

  Dreadful experience had taught him how to survive where sorcerers rained death upon from the sky, or shattered stone and brick and wood with a thought. Hide. Maneuver constantly. Fight in loose order. Close quickly with the enemy, to deny their magi a clear target. Ambush them in confined spaces. Counterattack whenever possible. Aurelian realized all too well his own penchant for monuments and clever engineering had thrown away those advantages, leaving his soldiers to bear the result of his folly. I let them scout and prepare unhindered and then stood up and took the axe in the neck, just like a Roman pig... Two months! How can I hold Alexandria for two more months?

  He needed thaumaturges far more powerful than Rome had ever produced to meet the Persian and Arab priests on even terms. I need the gods, or ancient heroes, at my side. But I will get nothing.

  The prince looked around. There were no gods in evidence, only a rambling farmhouse filled with men sleeping like the dead, worn down past endurance by an endless succession of losing battles. His mind was still grappling with the enormity of his brother's decision. Aurelian had never expected Galen to make the "Emperor's choice" with his life! The roiling pain in his stomach faded, overshadowed by a vast emptiness in his chest.

  "Two months, then." Aurelian pushed himself upright. He felt dizzy. The road was empty, the last of the First Minerva's cohorts having marched past to take up positions down the road. "Sixty days."

  His mouth was dry, but Aurelian went looking for the cooks to see if they'd managed to get a fire going in the kitchen grate. The prospect of hot food—even only barley gruel—was enough to keep him awake and moving and alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Oasis of Siwa, West of Alexandria

  Under a twilit sky, a lone pillar rose from the sand, three faces worn smooth by the wind. The fourth side, facing the north, retained shallow outlines of hawk-headed men and cranes and kilted servants bowing down before a sun-crowned king. Thyatis roused herself as her camel ambled past, dragging the corner of her kaffiyeh away from a parched mouth. Her lips were dry and cracked, mouth foul with the taste of salt and week-old grime. At least the sun had set, releasing them from the torment of its blazing furnace. The night wind was rising and cooler air pricked her to alertness.

  "Quietly now," she called to the others riding behind her. The camels snorted in response, but the rest of the Roman party was too thirsty and exhausted to speak. Thyatis slipped a leather cord from the crossbar of her spatha freeing the long blade for a swift draw. Her armor was tied in a bundle to the high-cantled saddle behind her. Riding without close-fitting mail heavy on her shoulders and chest felt strange, but the heat in the open desert was only bearable in loose robes.

  The camel plodded on. The string of riders approached a thick line of palms and scrubby, dark brush. Thyatis' head raised in surprise as she smelled open water. Everything under the palms was dark—the light of the moon, an arc of dusky red high in the sky, failed to penetrate the foliage—but she swung down, heedless of any possible danger. Her legs were stiff and sore, but the Roman woman pushed through the branches and stumbled into a shallow pond.

  Thyatis slid to a halt, the water unexpectedly cold against her legs. Mud oozed into her sandals.

  "Wait," she hissed, furious at herself for rushing ahead, as Vladimir slid through the hanging branches. The Walach froze at the edge of the pond, hand halfway dipped to the quicksilver surface. "Smell first, my friend. We don't know who might have been here before us."

  Thyatis drew her sword slowly, oiled metal sliding free without a sound. She could feel Betia and Nicholas and the others waiting in the darkness. Everyone's discipline had broken at the heady, irresistible smell. Vladimir withdrew his hand slowly, watching her with huge eyes, then audibly tasted the air, canting his head to one side. He bent low over the water, then dipped his hand again, long tongue flicking over the back of his hand.

  "Water," he whispered. "Mud. Dates. Camels. Men. Women."

  "Poison?" Thyatis coughed quietly, clearing a dry, dusty throat.

  Vladimir shook his head.

  "Drink then," she said, "but take your time." She forced herself to stand, alert to any disturbance in the night, while he drank. When the Walach had finished, he slipped back into the brush and Thyatis waded quietly to the edge of the pond. Betia came next, gliding between the palms like a ghost. The Roman woman continued to listen, nerves on edge, suppressing a start every time one of the camels honked or grumbled.

  —|—

  "Why is it so still?" Nicholas squatted beside her, wiping his face with a damp rag. Thyatis sipped slowly from one of the waterbags. She had washed her face, hands and arms in the pond, but longed for a real bath. Everything sticks together in this heat... The pilgrim road from the coast south to Siwa crossed nearly a hundred miles of lifeless, sun-blasted desert. Endless miles of rocky flats interspersed with acres of gravely lowlands. Thyatis had expected a desert filled with sand, like the lands around Lake Mareotis. But here in the western reach, there were no springs, no water and no shelter to speak of. Only wells built a day's march apart along the trail allowed passage from the coast. The last of those cisterns, cut into a shallow canyon twenty miles north of the oasis, had been bone dry.

  "I don't know," Thyatis said, keeping her voice low. Stands of palms and scrawny trees stretched away to the south, forming the main body of the oasis. In the fading sun, as they had descended the flank of a flattened, rocky ridge, Thyatis had seen whitewashed houses and sand-colored temples at the center of the depression. The glittering expanse of a dry lake blazed beyond the green fields. People—priests, shepherds, artisans—were supposed to live here, drawing life from the bubbling pools and the fields the springs allowed. Flat-topped mesas surrounded the valley of Siwa, though they were nothing more than barren white stone and chalky gravel. "There must be someone here."

  She pointed into the darkness. "There is a hill at the center—you saw it from the ridge? The temple of Amon-Ra is there, and the Oracle, and the quarters of the priests."

  "I saw." Nicholas shifted in the moonlight, nodding. Thyatis felt Vladimir and Betia stir. The others were resting farther back in the grove. Everyone was worn down by the punishing heat. They had pushed hard from the coast. Thyatis' thighs and back simmered with dull, constant pain. Camels had a strange, loping gait and she'd felt nauseated for five days while they ambled sou
th. She longed not just to be clean again—preferably via hours spent soaking in blisteringly hot water—but a masseuse afterwards, iron-hard hands kneading her tortured muscles into welcome oblivion.

  "What did your bird say? Where do we go now?"

  Nicholas rose, grimacing as abused muscles complained. Thyatis didn't think he was used to riding so much either. He was happy at sea, she remembered. A Roman sailor, how funny! He cracked his knuckles.

  "She said—if we can believe her more than we could our poetic Cypriot—to enter the Mystery itself, the nave. The god looks down on a pit, from which bitter fumes rise. If we descend the pit, there is a stair and a chamber below." Thyatis could see the Latin's teeth shine in dappled moonlight. "The priests of the Oracle store the offerings there."

  "And among those gifts, offered up so long ago, is one of Nemathapi's legendary telecasts?" Thyatis forced disbelief into her voice, though she prayed silently for the Daughters to have been and away with their prize. She had watched carefully as they came south, looking for the signs of another party on camels coming and then going. She had seen nothing.

  "She had good reason to speak true," Nicholas answered. "I saw the papyrus myself—the signs and devices—one clearly described a telecast, given as tribute to the Oracle by the pharaoh Djoser in thanks 'for his salvation.' And if the librarian lied?" He laughed. "She'll still be in our cage when we return."

  Thyatis stood as well, breathing deeply, forcing her tension out in a sharp huh. Bird-like Sheshet was tucked away in a prison cell beneath the governor's palace. She wondered if Nicholas would really put burning irons to the woman if they found nothing in the temple. She wondered how the librarian had known the truth. The matron Penelope seemed sure there was an Eye here... shouldn't such a thing be a closely held secret? But then—the priests of Amon-Ra would know and they might tell another, and then another... who would care for old bronze and rusting gears?

  "Doesn't matter," Thyatis said aloud, flexing a cramp from her calves. They complained, but she ignored the soreness. "We'll check and see." She smiled tightly at Nicholas, fist over the prince's amulet. "If there's nothing here, we'll know soon enough. If there is, we'll find the telecast one way or another and take it home. Everyone have enough to drink? Are the waterbags full?"

  The legionaries with the camels whistled in acknowledgement and Vladimir rose up, shaking out his shoulders, long axe swinging in his right hand. Scaled armor rattled softly. The barbarian grew more lively and awake as the night deepened and the air cooled.

  "Vlad, you lead." Thyatis said, flipping her cloak free of both arms. Betia had helped her squeeze into the mailed armor. The metal was almost hot from riding on the back of a camel all day. In the damper, chillier air of the oasis, the warmth felt good. "Nicholas, you're on the right. I'll take the left. Florus..."

  One of the shapes in the darkness raised his head attentively. Nicholas had tried to commandeer an entire cohort from the city garrison for their expedition, but had only managed to wrinkle free a handful of men—four recruits fresh from the Italian provinces and a veteran centurion to watch out for them. Thyatis didn't mind—they had borne up well in the dash from the coast—and they were willing to take orders. She hid a smile. Better yet, they were too exhausted to ask questions.

  "...you cover the camels and the gear. Betia will follow along behind. Remember, people get lost in the dark. If you get separated, meet us back at the pillar we passed by the edge of the oasis."

  Everyone nodded, a motion more felt or sensed than seen. Thyatis tucked her braids behind both ears, then padded off through the palms. The long blade was back in its sheath, but her hand was poised to draw at an instant's notice.

  The night remained entirely still, without so much as the squeaking passage of bats to break the silence. Thyatis began to get a queer feeling between her shoulder blades. This just isn't right... Even in the desolation out beyond the ridge, the desert came alive after sunset, filled with scurrying lizards or scorpions, the hushed passage of hunting owls, sand moving in the night wind. The night under these close, humid palms felt watchful and oppressive.

  —|—

  A narrow road climbed the temple hill, rising up from a crowded little mud-brick town filled with twisting streets. Stumpy obelisks and eroded sphinxes lined the outer edge of the avenue. The rusty moon had begun a slow descent towards the western horizon. Nicholas darted from turn to turn, rushing forward in sharp bursts. Thyatis followed, keeping her sandals soft on the irregular slabs of fitted sandstone.

  A dozen yards behind, the others crept forward, hugging the inner wall where deeper shadows covered them with a black cloak. Below, the town was abandoned and silent. No dogs barked, no lantern or candle flared in a window.

  At the top of the hill, the road passed through a squat gate of brick. Thyatis stepped around the corner, through a pale section of moonlight and into deeper shadow. Nicholas was already crouching across the road, his outline obscured against the crude shape of a lion in bas-relief. She exhaled slowly, testing the air, and saw fog condense from her breath. The night had grown steadily colder.

  Pillars rose up against the starry sky, huge and round, tapering towards the heavens. If they had ever supported a roof, the vault had collapsed long ago. Thyatis snapped her fingers softly—Nicholas' head turned sharply towards her—she pointed off along the main path through the colonnade. "Lead," she whispered.

  Nicholas glided away into darkness. Thyatis stepped back to the edge of the gate, feeling her flesh crawl with uneasiness. Too quiet... what's going on? There had been no sign of pursuit on the trail. Has this place been abandoned?

  She flashed her hand in the pale slat of moonlight, beckoning to the others. A moment later, she heard the thump-thump of camel paws on the ground, then Betia was crouching beside her. The legionaries loomed over the girl, smelling of rust, fish sauce and sweat-stained leather.

  "Where's Vladi—?" Thyatis turned sharply in alarm, staring into the darkness among the columns. There was nothing, only more shadow and the vague outlines of crumbling brick walls and more pillars. The shrine and temple had fallen on bad times. Her hand twitched to the hilt of her sword, but she repressed the urge to draw the blade. "—mir."

  "Here," the Walach said, deep voice rumbling despite an effort to keep quiet.

  "We're switching off," Thyatis whispered, turning back. "Nicholas is ahead. You back him up. Florus, the camels will have to go around—they won't fit through these columns. Betia, you've the rear guard."

  "What about you?" The little Gaul's voice was so faint Thyatis almost missed her question.

  The Roman woman bent close, close enough to smell lavender oil and juniper in Betia's hair. "I'll flank."

  Vladimir padded off, armor lying quiet against his heavy, felted shirt. The legionaries crept after, each man leading a camel by a shortened rein. Thyatis caught Betia's shoulder as the girl moved past.

  "Well behind," Thyatis breathed, her hand trembling against the urge to draw her blade and whirl with a shout. "Something is watching us. If anything happens, get away." The girl touched her fingers, then vanished into the gloom, drawing up the hood of her cloak. Thyatis squinted into the darkness, but the little Gaul had already vanished without a sound.

  Be safe, Thyatis thought, putting everything but soundlessness from her mind. Knuckles white on the hilt of her blade, hand gripping the scabbard, she drifted off to the right, circling around the columns. I should take my sandals off, she thought after a moment, hearing a faint scuff-scuff of leather on stone. A thin layer of sand covered the floor and she felt each grain as it rolled under her tread like a gong ringing from the Capitoline.

  She passed through two, then three ranks of pillars. They were old and worn, lacking the smooth plaster facings of younger temples. There was no marble here, not so far from the sea, only crumbling brick, streaked with salt crystals. The moonlight faded and she looked up. A single chimney-like tower loomed against the stars, obscuring Luna's faded crescent. Wi
thout hesitation, she slipped forward, blade inching from the scabbard. The sensation of watchfulness was fading and she swiveled her head from side to side, staring down the dim corridors between the columns as she ran forward.

  Where are the priests? Where are my sisters? Have they fled? she thought. Suddenly, the maze of pillars ended. There was a courtyard, bounded on four sides by columns and an ancient, crumbling pediment. Before her, the round tower rose from a blocky foundation. A doorway gaped, twice the height of a man, three times as broad. Thyatis turned, thinking what was that? There had been a noise, half-heard, at the edge of perception.

  HERE, something spoke in the darkness, COME TO ME.

  Thyatis' eyes widened, light blooming on her face like the rising sun. Her mouth opened in a shout but no sound emerged, drowned in surging waves of color. Silence continued to grip the night.

  COME, I HAVE BEEN WAITING, the voice boomed, though no sound reverberated in the air.

  Brilliant white light blazed in the courtyard and Thyatis crumpled to her knees, eyes squeezed shut against the blinding glare, one hand thrown up to block out the brilliance flooding from the doorway. Tears streamed down her cheeks and the sword fallen on the ground began to smoke.

  ENTER, MY CHILD. ENTER.

  —|—

  Where is everyone? Nicholas paused, hand against grainy, eroded brick. He looked back along the avenue. One of the camels ambled towards him, a wash of moonlight gleaming on a legionary's iron lorica. Here on the summit of the hill, the curved horns of the moon were clear in the sky. The Latin felt a flash of relief to see the others, then stiffened. Still sheathed, Brunhilde suddenly began to hum, sending a piercing vibration through his hand and arm.

  "'Ware!" Nicholas shouted in alarm, leaping away from the column. The dwarf-blade sang free from her sheath in a glittering arc. A pale, bluish light gleamed in watery steel, silhouetting the columns and fallen blocks of stone. Behind him, he heard the rush of feet and half-sensed Vladimir at his side.