The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  You are powerful and skilled, the prince thought, holding an image of the Persian in his thoughts, yet so am I. You are ancient and steeped in lost knowledge, but I learn swiftly. Perhaps... Maxian shook his head, wishing yet again he'd kept his temper and the Nabatean wizard Abdmachus were still alive to guide him. I miss the old fool, he thought ruefully. I need his skills—hard-won through years of effort—I've no time to spend in diligent study to gain them...

  A thought occurred to the prince and he turned to the glowing air spinning around him.

  "Columella!" Maxian commanded, "show yourself!"

  One spark, brighter than the rest, dipped and dodged among their multitude, speeding to rest before the prince. Maxian moved a finger and the mote blazed with light, swelling rapidly into the half-transparent shape of a man. An old man, with a fine Latin nose, hunched shoulders and thinning white hair. Behind the image, another spark—a sullen green—slowed to a halt, hanging behind the ghostly shoulder, light dimming into near invisibility.

  "Old man," Maxian said curiously, "you whisper advice in my ear, lend me your knowledge of ancient tongues, watch over me while I sleep. Why?"

  Columella's seamed and wrinkled face twisted into a rueful grin, hands raised in a shrug.

  I live in you, Maxian heard as a faint whisper, though you murdered me while I sat reading.

  Maxian flinched a little, but his brother's acid voice echoed in memory and he knew there was no time for guilt or second thoughts about the past. Only the future remained, clouded by onrushing disaster. "What did you do in life?"

  I was a scholar, the old man answered dreamily. I read, I wrote... I plundered the past for poetry, for stories, for anecdotes to make my patron laugh at dinner parties. Some accounted me an expert in matters of the vine. I never guessed learning the signs of the ancients would prove such a fruitful business!

  "You have helped me," Maxian said, considering the cloud of light spinning around him. "You have skills I lack... What of these others? What do they know?"

  Faint, thready laughter answered him. Columella's ghost shook its head. What do you wish? There are entire cities here, lord prince! Bakers, fishermen, soldiers, prostitutes... who do you think guided your hands, your lips, when you lay with the Empress? They are eager, you know, eager to taste a little life again, through you.

  "Are they?" Maxian smiled in amusement, holding up his hands. Swarms of sparks crowded around his fingers, and now he could hear individual voices, pleading, praising, begging for an instant of his attention. He started to feel dizzy, then scowled furiously, closing his hands. "Enough! There is no time for this."

  The sparks fled from his anger, whirling away in the air. He felt great relief as their voices fell silent. "Better," Maxian allowed, turning his attention again to the old scholar. Columella had grown faint in the passing moment, but now his image strengthened, becoming almost solid.

  "Are there any among your number," the prince asked, keeping a firm tone in his voice, "who know aught of thaumaturgy or the matter of wizards?"

  The cloud of light stirred, drifting this way and that, then parted. A feeble spark limped into view, barely a smudge of pearl against the dark air. Maxian focused upon the mote, willing it to spring to fullness before him. Radiance swelled, filling a withered, hunched frame and dull, nearly lifeless eyes.

  "Who is this?" Maxian turned to Columella again.

  This is Quintus Metelus Pius, the scholar answered. He served in the Legions as a thaumaturge for much of his life. He was retired to Oplontis with his pension, living in a little villa by the sea, with hyacinths in the—

  "Enough." Maxian focused upon the dim spark, willing it to flare with life, with fullness, to show him the old man's face. He sent a thread of power into the failing, weak consciousness. "Let him speak for himself."

  A flare of dull copper lit the room and the mote rushed into a man's shape. Maxian stared in surprise—this was no old man!—this was a Legion officer in full health...

  Quintus struck, ghostly face transformed by rage, will brilliant with desire. A ghostly fist slammed against the prince's face. Maxian staggered, rolling back on the floor, blood flying from a suddenly broken nose. Power flickered in the air, accompanied by a grumbling, low rumble. Maxian's hair stirred, driven by an unseen wind.

  Now! screamed thousands of voices. Smash him! Crush him! Set us free!

  The legionary leapt forward, fire blazing from his hands. Maxian shouted in fear, fingers leaping into a sign of defense. A glittering, blue-white shield sprang into the air. Quintus struck with both fists, a coruscating dodecahedron pattern crashing into the prince's ward. Angles intersected, clashing violently and Maxian's pattern splintered. Glassy blue-white fragments smoked in the air. The prince struck the wall, feeling bones creak. Quintus swelled in size as countless sparks flooded to him, guttering out in headlong sacrifice. Lightning rippled along the ceiling, burning the stones black with soot. The legionary slashed his hand down, eyes alive with fire, and Maxian staggered, a long, red wound lashed open in his neck and chest. Stabbing pain flooded his mind and the pattern binding self to self began to fray. A chorus of exalted screams rocked the air.

  Tasting bitter iron in his mouth, Maxian groped to raise his shield again. A multitude of sparks swarmed around him, each tiny, angry will beating at his consciousness. The prince's face stilled as he concentrated, ignoring the frenzy around him. The Oath was waiting, surging around the room, vast and implacable, the combined will and thought and memory of millions of loyal Romans. Maxian seized hold, letting the black tide roar through him. The room seemed to compress and he looked down from a great height, seeing the entire city spread out below him like a mosaic. He reached down, finger stabbing at a single, shining spark.

  Quintus' shape wavered and a vast wailing shrieked in the air. The legionnaire shattered, the frail, weak pattern of his ghost-mind smashed aside by Maxian's unleashed power. There was a flare and the prince felt screaming despair flood into his bones. Half-consciously, he sensed the ghost trying to flee and reached out, seizing the man's guttering, nearly exhausted will in an icy pattern of interlocking diamonds.

  "Treachery earns destruction," Maxian grated, staggering away from the wall. He closed his fist and felt the Legion thaumaturge's will shatter, pinned between irresistible forces. "But you are not yet discharged from my service."

  His face a cold mask, the prince enveloped the fragments, drinking them into his consciousness. Memories flooded into his thoughts, memories and smells and sensations and skill like a draught of crisp Caucinian taken from a freshly broached amphora. Remorseless, his pride and honor stung by the thaumaturge's ambush, Maxian winnowed out the man's training from the freshet of other memories and emotions. Shields and wards, he saw, patterns and tricks, every kind of subtle skill...

  The prince opened his eyes and saw the world through sharper eyes. The ghost of Columella remained, one eye burning green, though the radiant cloud had dimmed tremendously. Maxian felt a little sick, though the exercise of such power no longer wore against him, but elevated his mind.

  You should not be surprised, my lord, Columella said, shaking his head sadly. There are many among your attendants who wished you ill. They were young, still in love with life, and they resented such abrupt cessation.

  "But you do not?" Maxian strode to the center of the room, translucent armor glittering around him in the hidden world, his power licking along the floor like a burning red sea. The ghost bowed, shaking his head.

  As I said before, even this half-life is better than oblivion.

  Maxian laughed hoarsely. "You do not believe in Elysium?"

  I see only darkness, my lord.

  "Very well," the prince said, turning his attention to the slowly shifting cloud of sparks. "My mind is upon you now, little spirits, and you must choose." Maxian's face drew intent, eyes darkening, an odd, bluish light flickering around him in a gossamer shroud. "The loyal will remain, the treacherous will find true oblivion waiting for the
m. I have no time and no patience to coddle you..."

  Rippling ultraviolet shaded through the room as the prince bent to his task, face a grim mask. The wailing roared up again, though no human ear could perceive the shrieks and moans of the tortured spirits. Columella turned away, his face against the wall. He could not bear to see such a judgement, though his withered old heart exalted to find another crumb of existence on his plate. The greenish light in his eye dimmed, flickering down to nothing, no more than the faintest spark of hate. Waiting patiently, hidden among the ghostly pattern of the old scholar.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Office of the Harbor Master, Alexandria

  "Caesar! Caesar! A ship is entering the port! It's one of ours!"

  Aurelian turned away from a high, narrow window, brow furrowed in unease. Why have the dogs stopped barking? Following his usual custom, the prince was wearing the full armor of a common legionnaire, heavy, red hair hanging greasily around his shoulders. The last of his servants had been sent away as medical orderlies, leaving Aurelian to see to his own kit and toilet.

  One of the local boys swerved between rows of tables crowded into the big room, brown face slick with moisture. Aurelian held up a hand, making the lad skid to a halt. The prince was uneasy; he had been peering at the sky, which was turning an odd green color with the onset of late afternoon. The street outside the building was empty too, which was strange. Usually a constant, noisy throng trampled every square foot of ground inside the walls, particularly with the city population swollen by men and women fleeing the fighting in the countryside.

  "What did you see?"

  The boy wiped his face, catching his breath. A light rain was falling outside, presaging the usual grumble of afternoon thunderstorms. Grayish haze lay over the city, discharging a tepid, oily drizzle. As summer advanced in the delta, the weather grew more and more oppressive. Even sunset brought no relief, the city sweltering throughout the night in a bath of its own heat and sweat. Aurelian mopped the base of his neck with a damp rag. He really hated this place.

  "A grain hauler, master! Four decks of sails, as tall as the Lighthouse!"

  Aurelian squinted through the window at the sky again. "Which direction?"

  "From the west," the boy answered, flashing a smile. "A Roman ship!"

  "Is it?" Aurelian swallowed, feeling a cloying thickness in his throat. He turned, glowering at the men laboring over the desks. The flight of the civil government from the city had left him with only a few dozen competent clerks, who labored in the headquarters occupying the harbormaster's offices near the junction of the Heptastadion causeway and the city. The vast complex of the Bruchion—the usual governor's residence—was crowded to the rafters with refugees from the delta and upriver.

  "Phranes!" One of the clerks turned to face him, leathery old face drawn tight with fatigue. "Hasn't the grain fleet been rerouted to Africa?"

  Phranes nodded. "Aye, my lord. We're expecting nothing from Rome."

  Aurelian's face twisted into a sour grin at the dry cynicism in the man's voice. Not a single ship had arrived in port for the past eleven days—not so much as a fishing barque or a courier boat. The prince guessed the Roman fleet was being held back—At Syracuse? Or Lepcis Magna?—while the Emperor prepared a counterblow. But relief will not come for another... week. If then.

  "Lad, were there flags or banners of any kind?" Aurelian's fingers curled around the pommel of his gladius, a habitual, unthinking action. The heavy weight of metal on his shoulders and chest was comforting.

  "Just the usual ones, Caesar." The boy shrugged, spreading his hands.

  Aurelian looked out the window again. The queer copper coloring was spreading through the clouds like ink spilling into a murky pool. His lips tightened. The city had fallen silent.

  "Runners!" The prince spun on his heel, sharp voice booming across the quiet room. Scribes and clerks jerked around, staring at him in surprise. "Phranes—gather everyone up and issue spears, knives, whatever is to hand! Barricade the windows and doors. You boys, get to the wall commanders instantly—the Persians are about to attack. You, my lad, tell the commander of my Praetorians in the atrium they're down to the docks at a run, to keep your grain hauler from landing, or to capture the vessel if naught else."

  Everyone was frozen for a moment, then Aurelian snatched up his helmet and bolted from the room at a dead run, weapons and armor jangling.

  "To arms!" he shouted, jogging down the steps onto the broad dockside avenue. Messenger boys sprinted past; a dozen brown whippets unleashed. "Romans to arms!"

  His guardsmen leapt up from their pallets, weapons in hand. They immediately poured down the steps behind him, a mob of men in stained, battered iron armor. Every man—whether he had been sleeping, gambling or complaining—was ready to fight; spears, axes, swords already in hand. Aurelian flashed a grin, seeing their grim faces intent upon him.

  "A ship filled with the enemy is closing upon the docks. Take her if you can, else burn her to the water. If she's truly ours, get back here to me as fast as you can. I'll need your strong arms! There will be bloody work today. Sound the alarm as you go, and go swiftly!"

  Aurelian slid the helmet on, tightening the strap under his chin. The Praetorians flooded past, shaking out into column as they scrambled out of the building. Their boots rang loudly on the paving stones. High above, on the roof, someone began ringing an alarm bar, a clashing, tinny sound that fell flat in the leaden air. The prince strode out into the avenue, staring up at the sky.

  The green stain continued to crawl across the heavens and its shadow was dark on the rooftops.

  Where shall I go? he wondered, limbs trembling with bloodfire, a nervous, grainy edge to his thoughts. He yearned to rush down one of the deserted streets, screaming a battle cry. Instead, to his disgust, he realized there was nothing to do but go back inside and wait for messengers to come to him.

  With a last, furious look around, Aurelian stomped back inside.

  —|—

  Khalid al'Walid splashed through the surf, feeling stones and gravel roll under his boots. A low island lay before him, the highest prominence a golden roof rising above a brood of accompanying temples. The beach was crowded with men in green-and-tan, clambering out of long boats and barges and skiffs. More boats filled with dark-bearded men maneuvered offshore, sails white against a brassy sea. The young Arab grinned in delight, feeling warm water slosh against his calves. The strand was empty, without so much as a fisherman in sight.

  "Forward!" he shouted, clear young voice rising above the slap of the water and the shouts of the Sahaba as they disembarked. Threads of fog rolled overhead, hiding the sun and obscuring the flat, green sea behind them. Khalid trudged up through golden sand, aiming for an opening between the buildings ahead. Arab skirmishers scattered across the beach, bows in hand, heads high and alert.

  "Form on your banners," the qalb section commanders yelled at their men. "Form up! Form up!"

  Horns and trumpets wailed, adding to the racket. Arab and Greek soldiers milled on the beach, searching for their tent-mates and rallying standards. More boats ran in to the shore and men leapt down into the water with abandon. The barges in the first wave backed oars, trying to clear the beach. Most of the soldiers clinging to the railings were pale-faced, but they splashed into the water, desperately eager to reach steady ground. All possibility of organization had been lost as soon as the flotilla had put to sea from Canopus, seven miles away at the mouth of the Boutikos channel. "Forward! Forward!"

  Blank walls etched by the wind and sea rose up at the crest of the beach. Khalid jogged up, now surrounded by a mass of Sahaban fighters in heavy Persian-style armor. The young general's sharp beard and flowing green-and-gold robes were easy to recognize, even in the confusion of the landing. Men gathered around him, seeing his eagle banner snapping in the landward breeze. Between the ancient tombs, an alley led off into a maze of buildings.

  Khalid slowed, reaching the entrance to the lane. Sea gras
s crept to the foot of the walls and scraps of plaster clung to bare stone. The young Arab squinted down the twisting passage, surprised by the heavy quiet pervading the island.

  "An island of tombs," he said aloud. "Is anyone alive here, save ourselves?"

  Shaking his head, Khalid looked about, spying the hulking figures of Jalal and Shadin among the men climbing up from the beach.

  "Generals!" The Eagle stepped out of the phalanx of his guardsmen. The two older Arabs looked up at him with tight, closed expressions. "Jalal—take charge of the landing. Get everyone ashore and formed up. Shadin—you take half the men around that way..." Khalid pointed towards the gleaming red roof and terraces of a massive temple rising at the eastern end of the island. Statues lined the rooftop, most of them gleaming white where their colorful paint had been stripped away by the sea wind. "Capture the lighthouse and the harbor entrance. I'll strike across the island for the causeway."

  Both men nodded silently, eyes invisible in the shadow of their helmets. The young Arab could feel their disapproval of his command, but they said nothing. Khalid stared after them as the older men turned away, gesturing for their own aides, messengers and guardsmen. For a moment, he considered calling them back, but put the thought aside. They are Sahaba, he reckoned, and they will fight for the memory of the Teacher, if not for me.

  "Forward," Khalid shouted, striding into the lane. With a rasp, he drew the ebon blade once carried by Mohammed from its jeweled sheath. In the diffuse, limpid sunlight the weapon gleamed with a twisting inner flame. A cheer went up at the sight of the blade of the city, and Khalid felt his heart soar at the sound. "With me, lads," he cried, grinning, feeling a wild, unrestrained joy rise in his breast.

  At the head of his thousands, the young general strode down the deserted street between ancient, crumbling tombs. What remained of the day's strange quiet immediately dissolved into the commotion of running men in armor, sandals and boots slapping on the paving stones.