"They are clever," Zenobia said in a husky, exhausted voice. "We strike and the force of our blow bleeds into the earth. We press and the shield bends. Flame is swallowed, lightning grounded. We can feel them at a distance. They are wary and careful, working only through tokens set in the earth." The Queen's eyes crinkled slightly in amusement. "They will not face us in the open field or pit might against might. They are not fools."
"No, they are cowards!" Rustam straightened, the tip of his black tongue flicking between needle-like teeth. He stared hollowly at the king. "We must sleep and regain our strength."
"How long?" Shahr-Baraz knuckled a heavy fist against his chin, meeting the sorcerer's gaze.
"Days, at least." The prince's expression tightened. "Dare nothing while we recover!"
Shahr-Baraz raised an eyebrow at the brusque order. "This shield, does it hold out my men's spears and arrows?"
"No." Rustam's face contorted into a foul grimace, reminded again of his failure.
"Then we will take the city regardless, if we have sufficient men and time."
The sorcerer's eyes narrowed reflexively, shoulders hunching up. The king hid a spark of interest at the reaction and he waited, patient as a hunter lying beside a mountain trail.
"We do not have... time or men." Rustam's eyes flickered with a sullen glow. "We must press them, before they receive..." His voice changed tone subtly. "...reinforcements. The Emperor is sure to send more men to hold the city—they cannot afford to lose Egypt!"
"Really?" Shahr-Baraz leaned closer, watching the sorcerer with open curiosity. "Why is that?"
Rustam stiffened again, lip twitching into the beginning of a sneer. "Don't be a fool—Rome is drunk on foreign grain! You've seen the great ships—there will be riots in the Forum if the bread dole is reduced!"
Shahr-Baraz blinked slowly, like a lion waking from full-bellied sleep. He watched the sorcerer intently, exhaustion forgotten. "You're speaking of Constantinople," the king said softly, mouth thinning in well-contained anger. "Where so many citizens now lie dead, they will not riot for lack of grain or wine. Rome draws her bread and meal from Africa, from Sicily, even from Spain." He made a sharp, dismissive gesture with his hand. "The Romans fight for Egypt because it is theirs. They fight to deny us. But the Empire will survive without the province."
Rustam scowled, glaring at Shahr-Baraz. "The longer we wait, the stronger they become."
"Certainly." The king nodded in agreement, putting both hands on his knees. "We need more soldiers. We need time to prepare for a proper attack along the entire length of the wall." His face twisted, but no one could have called the resulting expression a smile. "Khalid needs time to clear away the barrier at Hierakonpolis. I need those riverboats. And of course, you must recover your strength. You will need every ounce." The king bared blunt yellow teeth.
The sorcerer eyed him warily, still struggling against bone-deep fatigue. "I won't be able to just brush aside their barrier," he rasped. "And you've not the soldiers to attack the whole length of the wall. Nor are you likely to get them—we're eight hundred miles from Ctesiphon! There are no more soldiers coming, nowhere to levy fresh troops..."
Shahr-Baraz's cold humor did not abate. "Not so. There are reinforcements in plenty, all around us."
Rustam blinked, staring at the king in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"You are tired," the king replied, waving his servants into the tent. The women entered, eyes downcast. With trembling hands, they set platters of cold meat, hard-crusted way bread and flagons of sour wine on the table. "Sleep, lord prince and when you wake look about you. You will find allies in plenty, I think."
At the edge of the tent, Zenobia's eyes flickered open in alarm. She stared at the king, watching him in profile as he drank deep. A sick expression crawled across her fine-boned face, then she closed her eyes with a shudder. She understood his meaning all too well. How low have the lords of Persia fallen? Where is their fabled purity and devotion to Ahura-Madza?
"Allies, here among the enemy?" the sorcerer said in a querulous, weary voice.
Shahr-Baraz nodded again, amused. "All around. You will see."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The House of Gregorius Auricus, Roma Mater
Late afternoon sun slanted across a broad desktop of close-grained wood. The entire surface was covered with neatly arranged piles of parchment, separated by wooden dividers and interspersed with jars of colored ink. Gaius Julius bent over a marble writing surface, quill busy in his hand, while he listened to an elderly Greek reading a dispatch from Gothica.
"'...our forces have pursued the Gepids into remote fastnesses where our horse cannot go and our columns are disordered if they advance. Because of this, the enemy continues to resist, though any attacks made by them are repulsed at high cost and with few casualties to our own soldiers.'"
The Greek paused, raising a neatly plucked white eyebrow at the back of the old Roman's head. Gaius, continuing to write, nodded impatiently for the man to continue. The secretary sighed, wishing for the days when he served the elderly Gregorius—who did not keep such long hours!—and took a breath to resume his recitation.
The door to the study banged open and a tall, dark-haired woman swept into the room. Gaius Julius looked up in irritation. "There'd better be—" The old Roman stuttered, caught by complete surprise. "Kri—" He paused again, gathering his wits, eyes narrowing in recognition. "My lady Martina, I had no idea you and the prince had returned to the city. Has something happened?"
"No, Master Gaius, not at all." The Empress Martina glided up to the table and perched herself on the corner, daintily setting aside the papers lying there. She smiled down at the old man, a dazzling display of perfect white teeth and bit her lower lip, dimpling at him.
Gaius Julius set down his quill, careful to keep ink from spilling on the letter, and shook out the sleeves of his toga. Then, watching the Empress from under half-lidded eyes, he bowed graciously. A chill wash of fear and surprise trembled in his arms and legs, but he had faced worse before and he showed nothing of his consternation in face or attitude.
"My lady, you look well," he said in a very dry voice. "Marriage must agree with you."
Martina laughed, a gay, ringing sound, and stretched luxuriously. Firm, full breasts pressed against cream-colored silk and a wavy cascade of dark, auburn hair spilled down her arched back. A slow, hot smile burned in a classic face. She stepped away from the desk. "Do you think so?"
The Empress raised her arms, turning, letting the heavy silk cling to her thighs and flat stomach as she twirled. Golden bracelets fit snugly on round, white arms and silver rings flashed on slim, tapering fingers. Laughing again, a full merry sound, she came to a halt, faintly flushed.
Gaius remained impassive, watching the woman's face, searching her dark brown eyes with a faint frown.
"You don't like my new look?" Martina pouted. "I do."
"The prince's... wedding gift?" Gaius Julius hazarded, driving his tumultuous thoughts to ordered, quiet calm. He stepped around the desk, looking the Empress of the East up and down with a critical eye. Martina preened, enjoying his attention.
She looks like Krista, the old Roman thought, stomach clenching with troubled memories, but... improved. He struggled to suppress his frown, to keep clear disgust from his face. A boy's dream—larger breasts, more perfect features, longer hair, more... everything. Gaius smiled, summoning cheer into his seamed old face. Resentment flickered at the back of his thoughts, but this too he drove away without mercy. The prince favors who he will...
"Are you happy?" Gaius asked, returning to his seat. He felt better with the wide desk between the two of them. "Is this what you wanted?"
"Yes!" Martina stared at him in open astonishment. "Of course! I hated my old body and now the loathsome fat thing is gone, cast away like a snake's skin, and I am... new!"
She giggled again, taking two gliding, dancing steps to the windows. The garden at the center of the prince's town h
ouse was not large, but old Gregorius' gardeners were both dedicated and patient. Cherry and lemon trees shaded a pool filled with delicate golden fish. She put her hands on the window frame, breathing deep of the scented air.
"I cannot wait to see Helena's face," she said, looking over her shoulder with a mischievous expression. "She'll wrinkle up like a prune!"
"She will not be pleased, no." Gaius considered saying more, but held his tongue. Would this transformed creature even care? The old Martina might have... but now? I think not. "Did you enjoy Capri? The island is very beautiful."
"Is it?" Martina turned to face him, leaning back against the window. A dreamy, distracted expression filled her face. "I didn't notice." She bit her lip, grinning, eyes sparkling with remembered delight. Her hands smoothed pleated fabric down over her stomach. "We were very busy, you know. But I remember smelling hyacinths and roses and jasmine outside the windows." She made a slight move. "I didn't want to leave."
"Why did you come back?" Gaius rearranged his papers idly.
"Oh, he was troubled by bad dreams." Martina made a disparaging gesture. "He had to come back, quick as can be..." A thought came to her, and the Empress' expression brightened. "He's gone off to bother the Emperor, which means I'm free to entertain myself in the shops." She gave Gaius Julius a calculating look, then shook her head, making tiny silver beads set among her curls chime softly. "You'll never do! You're old, and have so much important work to do."
Gaius Julius could not help but scowl. The Empress' eyes glittered in response, and she clapped her hands together.
"Ah! You are still a little vain, aren't you? Even being so old." She came closer with little dancing steps. The mischievous twinkle was back in her eyes. Laughter bubbled in her voice. "Do you want to know a secret?"
"What would that be?" Gaius Julius held his ground, though instinct urged him to back away or run. The Empress took his hand, sliding his long fingers over the rich, luxurious fabric covering her hip. The old Roman's nostrils flared, involuntarily taking in a cloud of soft perfume—a dozen dizzying scents wrapped around a spicy core—and he became very still. Martina pursed her lips, fingers tracing his cheeks, the wrinkles under his eyes, passing over the thinning fringe of hair clinging stubbornly around his ears. She leaned close, resting her forehead against his cheek.
"Haven't you guessed," she whispered and the sound of her laughter made another cold chill trickle along his spine. "You've known the prince longer than I! You see what he can do with me, with nothing." Martina pulled away, holding both of Gaius' hands. A look of triumph wreathed her perfect face, and her eyes glittered with a cold, victorious light.
"The prince will never die," she said softly. "Nor will I, or you, or Alexandros, or any of his favorites. Look at me! I will be this way, forever!"
Gaius Julius' jaw clenched and he forced down a choking sensation. His body held no bile to flood the back of his throat, for which he was grateful. "Yes," he said after a pause. "While the prince lives, he may heal all our hurts, tend all our diseases. We will live while he endures."
"Endures?" Martina made a face, the pink tip of her tongue flashing between snowy teeth. "We will not endure, we will rejoice in limitless days! We will be free from death, disease, age... every plague and plight of men. Forever."
The old Roman said nothing, watching her preen and laugh, filled with the prospect of endless joy. The Empress' face glowed with a vast, consuming delight and he felt old, very old. At the same time, he suppressed a shudder of atavistic fear.
Why did our prince fashion a new Alais from the clay of shy Martina?
—|—
Galen, Emperor of the West, protector of the East, ran both hands through lank, dark hair. His usually sharp brown eyes were dull with fatigue. Tiny flames reflected in each pupil and his skin shone a sickly green in the radiance of the telecast. He leaned on a narrow table, staring into the depths of the whirling device, attention wholly upon flickering, shrike-quick visions passing before him.
Two scribeswomen watched by his side, one sketching the revealed scene on papyrus sheets with a hard stick of charcoal, the other scribbling notes as fast as she could.
"There." Galen coughed, pressing the back of a hand across his lips. He gestured to a pair of thaumaturges sitting beside the telecast, faces tense with effort. "There beside the road, there is a bivouac... magnify those tents."
The disk of fire flared, point of view swinging wildly from on high—where the outline of a great city was revealed on a peninsula dappled with shadow and the failing light of the sun—down past towering clouds of smoke, over battlements and ramparts strewn with the dead and wounded, past a sandstone tower blackened by fire and across trampled pastures. Tents swelled in the gleaming disk, and Galen looked down upon cohorts of men sprawled in exhaustion across stubbled fields and farmyards. Cook fires shone against encroaching night, cooks busy filling kettles of grain mash. Then tents appeared, glowing softly by lamplight. Banners stood limp in humid night air, but the Emperor saw a brace of black chargers pawing the earth, eager for grain.
"Yes," Galen hissed in satisfaction. "The largest tent, show me inside!"
"My lord! We dare not!" Beside the massive block of stone holding the telecast, one of the thaumaturges guiding the device looked up, long old face white with strain. "He is nearby."
Galen looked back to the disc, frowning, then saw the faint outlines of men crouched outside the tent, nearly invisible in the falling twilight. Their long pigtails and flat, sharp cheekbones could still be made out. "Huns." The Emperor cursed. "The sorcerer's bodyguards. Very well, draw back and show me the army camps instead."
Again, the vision changed, rushing back into the darkening air. A vast array of tents, campfires, wagons, men marching along muddy roads filled his vision. "Steady there," Galen said, turning to the clerks at his side. "Can you make a count of the campfires and tents, while light remains?"
The women nodded, though their faces were puffy with fatigue and dark circles smudged their eyes. "Yes, Lord and God."
"Thank you." He squeezed the gray-haired one's shoulder. "When does your relief—"
The double doors to the old library swung wide, hinges groaning in protest. Galen looked up, surprised, his heart sinking in anticipation of dreadful news—was there any other kind?—then he breathed a sigh of relief. "Maxian!" He stepped towards his brother. "How was Capri?"
"What has happened?" The prince's face was taut with fear as he brushed his brother's welcoming hand aside. Maxian stared into the wavering vision burning inside the ring of the telecast. "Is this Egypt? Why is it so dark?"
Galen turned, caught short by Maxian's angry demands. "Yes, this is Egypt," he said in a measured voice. "The sun is setting."
The prince did not look at his brother, all attention focused on pinpoints of light scattered in deep shadow. Sunlight still gleamed on a few spires rising from the smoke-fogged warren of Alexandria. The Nile channels gleamed pewter, beginning to catch starlight in their waters.
"Show me Caesar Aurelian," Maxian commanded, raising a hand. A faint sound, like a ringing bell, hung in the air. The two thaumaturges yelped in alarm, starting wild-eyed from their couches. The disk blazed blue-white, flooding the room, forcing Galen to turn his head, gritting his teeth in pain. Both of the scribes cried out in surprise.
The Emperor blinked, then opened his eyes to a suddenly darkened room. He whistled in surprise. The telecast looked upon Aurelian, his red beard tangled and shining with sweat, mouth moving soundlessly. The stocky prince was in a tent hung with lamps, new wrinkles around his eyes, hands moving in sharp gestures. A crowd of Roman officers stood around a campaign table littered with maps. Aurelian turned, fist clenched, his face blazing with purpose.
"He lives," Maxian said, relief plain in his voice. He brushed sweat from his brow.
"He does." Galen waved the clerks out of the room. Both women tiptoed away. The thaumaturges looked to the Emperor for guidance and he tilted his head towards t
he door. They fled. "Maxian, our Horse is fine. There was a battle today, but—all things considered—it went well. Very well."
Maxian turned to his brother, a ghastly expression on his face. "I dreamed... I dreamed he was dead. His face was pale, blood streaked the water, lapping over him..."
"Nothing has happened to our Horse," Galen said firmly, taking Maxian's shoulders in hand. "Nothing."
Shoulders slumping in relief, Maxian sat heavily on the table. Behind him, the vision of his brother continued to declaim, now indicating the maps with a stubby finger. The officers leaned close, faces intent on the diagrams.
"I couldn't sleep," Maxian said softly, avoiding Galen's eyes. His right hand batted at the air beside his ear. "Voices were whispering, telling me things—they said Horse was dead, cut down, lungs filling with water—and I could do nothing. Everything was in ruins..."
"It's not true," Galen said, managing a very tired smile. "But I have the same dreams, when I try to sleep, filled with disaster and calamity." He rubbed his eyes. "In truth, this battle today was the first good news in weeks."
"I should be there," Maxian said, sitting up straighter. He glared at his brother. "The Persian sorcerer is there, isn't he?" The prince turned to the telecast, taking obvious comfort from the sight of Aurelian in good health. "Show me the enemy," he said in a commanding voice.
"No!" Galen lunged forward, then pulled himself up short. I can't control the cursed thing with my fists... "Maxian—if we can see him, he can see us!"
The scene shifted with dizzying speed, flashing over flat-roofed buildings—a towering wall—men marching along a rampart studded with stakes and towers, winging over trampled grass and boggy ground. Maxian grimaced, looking pained. Galen made a halfhearted gesture at the disc. The Persian camp swelled into view, tired, curly-bearded faces flashing past.
"Please, Max, they don't know we can watch them!"
Growling in disgust, Maxian sketched a sign in the air and the disk abruptly went dark. A whining hum skittered down, then bronze clattered on stone as the sphere of fire hissed into silence. A low, ringing tone bounced and jangled from the ceiling as the last, innermost gear rattled from side to side, then lay still.
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