"He was human once," Ahmet said bleakly. "He let a power enter him—one of the pitiless, inhuman Great Old Ones who were worshipped before man, an incalculable power beyond comprehension—and has been transformed. Only a tiny fragment of his master's strength can pass through him—but that is enough to make him formidable beyond all others..."
Mohammed tried to voice a question, but his mind grappled with a sudden realization. Mouth working soundlessly, he took a breath, then managed to speak. "Are these... Old Ones... opposed? Are they the wellspring of evil?"
Dead lips stretched over rotted teeth and Ahmet barked another hoarse laugh. "Evil? A human conceit, my friend. Do you remember our discussions round the campfire? The wise thoughts of the philosophers and sages? They are no more than rubbish, the prattle of children too young and shortsighted to grasp the truth of the world. There is no good and there is no evil." Ahmet shuddered. "But there are things—powers—which dwarf the works of man and have lived so long in the abyssal spaces between the stars, death no longer touches them or makes them weak."
Mohammed recoiled from the despair and nihilism in Ahmet's voice. This is not the man I remember! He had faith and a good heart, unbowed and unbroken.
"You have abandoned hope," the Quraysh said, changing the subject a little. "You think he has captured you, lured you into his service, bent your neck to the yoke."
"He has!" Ahmet rose, eyes blazing. "His will rides me like a ghoul, moving my limbs to murder, my power to strike—so many dead have I heaped at his feet I cannot remember their names! He sees with my eyes, speaks with my lips. I am no more than... a container for his desire. A tool to be picked up at need."
Mohammed's eyes glinted hard, his suspicions confirmed. "He holds the Queen—Zenobia—before you as bait, making you dance so you might see her once more, hear her voice, feel her touch? And too, now you fear death, don't you? You think there is nothing beyond the portal save annihilation and you cannot abide the thought of nothingness?"
Ahmet's face blanched and he lifted a skeletal arm to hide his face. "There is nothing," he groaned hopelessly. "I have passed beyond death—my body died on the steps of the palace, exhausted in the last effort of defeating the dhole—and there was nothing, only an eternity of darkness, before he summoned me back from oblivion." The Egyptian's voice faded to an almost unintelligible whisper. "Even this half-life is better..."
Mohammed's fierce expression faded, replaced by gentle understanding. He looked around the little cave. "You are not dead," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "Nor were you before. Your body may have perished, destroyed by the forces unleashed in defense of Palmyra, but your spirit has not completed its last journey." The Quraysh looked down and found Ahmet watching him with a peculiar, fixed intensity. "You are trapped in the borderland, in the margin between death and life. Our enemy has great strength and a cunning mind. He has—he had—blocked the gate through which the dead must pass."
The Egyptian tried to speak, but could find no words.
"This place is illusion," Mohammed said abruptly, rising to his feet. His visage became stern and he raised the fig-wood staff with an abrupt, defiant motion. The wooden stave broke through the stone ceiling and light flooded into the cavity. Stones and shards of obsidian crumpled away, falling up into the sky, driven by the power of the blow. A faint rumbling sound trembled in the air. "Another trap, laid by a master of snares."
The ground did not heave or split, but shivered, and Ahmet gaped to see entire spires and boulders begin to fragment, splitting apart. Each shard, released from some strange gravity, tumbled up, filling the sky with a black, spiralling cloud. Mohammed ignored the fantastic scene, holding out his hand to Ahmet.
"You weld your own chain," the Quraysh said, lifting his friend to his feet. "You bind only yourself and you may free yourself."
Ahmet, hunched, unable to stand straight, stared fearfully at Mohammed, who now seemed to loom enormous against the rippling, unstable sky. The broken stones, monoliths, spires, boulders—they plunged into the perfect darkness arching overhead—and as they fell, spit fire and meteors, shedding a terrible orange-red glow. Ahmet's eyes burned in reflection. "No! I will never see Zenobia again, never taste life again... I will cease!" The Egyptian was crying, though he had only dust for tears.
"While you cling to this half-life," Mohammed said, "you bind her as well. She has fallen into the same trap, bound by love and desire and—most of all—fear. While you live, you do countless harm, trampling the weak, throwing down the strong, spreading evil with either hand." His voice rose to a sharp snap. "And there is evil in the world and good too. You know the difference, in your heart."
"Yes," Ahmet gasped, clubbed by the harsh words. "But... but... have you seen what lies beyond the gate? Can you tell me what will happen? Truly?"
Mohammed shook his head, meteors streaking in his flashing eyes. "No. I have not made that journey. But I have faith and trust to the lord of the world, who made all things, all powers great and small, and whose provenance none can deny, not serpents or dead gods, or even the great ones who prowl the abyss among the dead suns."
Ahmet stood at last and looked into his friend's face and saw an incomparable strength shining there. "You have changed," he said. "You are not the man I knew—lost in his heart, confused, searching always for some answer beyond the next city, town, hill—what happened?"
"I grew still," Mohammed said, leaning on his staff, "and I listened."
Ahmet's face changed, growing pensive. "What did you hear?"
"Wind rattling the leaves. Stone groaning in the heat of the day. The voice of the world."
Ahmet let his hands fall to his side and closed his eyes. "What did the voice tell you?"
Mohammed smiled slightly. "The truth."
With a sigh, the Egyptian collapsed backwards, falling a little to the side. His body struck the ground in silence and the wasteland of shattered stone was gone. Only the black, perfect sky remained, now conjoined to an endless, glassy obsidian plain. Mohammed looked around, a bemused look on his face. "Good-bye," he said to the empty air. "My friends."
A look of determination and purpose came over him and the Quraysh reached up with one hand, grasping the sky and—with a powerful motion of his arm—tore open the firmament with an impossibly loud ripping sound. A blaze of light flooded down on his face, coupled with the roar of the sea and men shouting and the cry of gulls wheeling against an azure sky.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Messina, Sicilia
Alexandros stepped up out of the street and into a doorway. A wagon heavy with meal bags and pottery jars rumbled past, axels squealing, wooden wheels rattling on stone paving. A column of Gothic pikemen followed, helmets slung at their shoulders, backs bent under round shields and netted bags of clothing, food, personal effects.
The men marched past in silence, faces sharp with weariness, shining with sweat, the tramp-tramp-tramp of their boots barely audible over the din of the wagons. Most sported bile-yellow streaks on their scaled breastplates. Alexandros' doubted few of his men had been to sea before, and the ferry passage from Dyrrachium had been rough, with a harsh, gusty wind quartering out of the southeast. The Macedonian nodded a greeting to the column syntagmarch as he marched past, then stepped down and made his way into the forum. The squad of peltasts Clothar Shortbeard had sent to find him dogged along behind, bearded faces slack with exhaustion.
The plaza was crowded with marching soldiers, supplies, wagons, lines of unsteady horses. Late-morning sun picked out shining details, though heavy clouds covered most of the sky. Alexandros was glad of the shade, for the day only promised to get hotter and wetter. He hoped the rain stayed away long enough for his men to disembark. Masts crowded above the rooftops to the east, where the harbor was crowded with every barge, trireme, grain ship and coaster Alexandros could beg, borrow or steal. A constant din of shouting beat at his ears, but he was used to the racket of armies on the march. Without pausing, he climbed the steps into t
he city temple devoted to the Capitoline Triad, weaving his way through a maniple of archers sleeping in the shade.
Within, long tables crowded the nave and the Legion battle banners made a red, gold and iron thicket beneath a frowning, marble Jupiter. His officers were busy stuffing their faces with roasted fish, garlic, lentil soup—anything the commissary could confiscate—and Alexandros forced himself to nod in greeting to those men who looked up at his approach. Clothar was snoring—he'd heard that a block away—his tousled head resting on Jupiter's feet.
"Any news?" An irritated snap in the Macedonian's voice woke some of the younger men, but they fell back asleep—heads on their bedrolls or helmets—after a bleary glance in his direction. Alexandros' temper was near frayed to the breaking by the confusion, chaos and delay outside.
"Here, sir!" One of the Eastern tribunes beckoned from the rear of the temple. The man had a queer, frightened look on his face. Alexandros started to snarl a curse as he paced between the fluted columns, but he controlled himself. He knew the look. Something out of the ordinary had happened and the man was half-pissed with fear of his general's reaction.
"Another batch of letters from Rome? If I see one more Hades-cursed Imperial Order, I'm going to—"
Alexandros stopped dead, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. The rear half of the temple had been partitioned to provide for storage. Juno and Ares watched silently over on the Legion's pay, stacked in heavy iron-bound chests. Standing below the shadow-dappled statues was a lean, dark-haired man. The Macedonian blinked. "Lord Prince?"
Maxian turned to look at Alexandros and the Macedonian was stunned to see the young Roman's face grown old and wan. At the same time, there was an unexpected, compelling weight to his presence, as if Alexandros had stepped into the presence of one of the ancient heroes. "What has happened?"
"My brothers are dead," Maxian replied, his voice ringing with barely concealed power. The Macedonian staggered, forcing himself to remain standing by catching himself on one of the trunks. The Eastern tribune cried out and fell to his knees in a clatter of iron scale. "The Emperor was murdered last night, even as my men crossed the strait."
"Your..." Alexandros rallied himself, denying an urge to bow to the prince. "You've brought reinforcements?"
"Yes," Maxian said, stepping forward out of the shadows. As he did he seemed to shrink and the pressure in the air eased, allowing Alexandros to stand without effort. "I've brought at least three Legions across from Italia. They are already on the road to Syracuse. What of your Goths?"
"We're still unloading the fleet," the Macedonian replied, a little stunned, feeling as if he were suddenly a length behind in an unexpected race. "Another day and everyone will be ashore. Luckily, the Eastern troops are familiar with ships or we'd be here for weeks trying to get everything untangled."
"Good. I know you've received conflicting orders from Rome." The prince's face twisted into a remarkably sour expression. "This will not happen again. You will march south along the Via Pompeiana as quickly as possible. Do not tarry here." In brighter light Alexandros could see Maxian's cloak was tattered and torn, tunic badly stained, his boots fouled with dust and mud. Every sign spoke of a long road march, though the prince did not seem exhausted at all. His eyes blazed with irresistible command. "The Persians will be landing within days. You must meet them on the beaches below Catania if we're to have a chance at victory."
"I... see. My lord, if the Emperor is dead, then who..."
Maxian stiffened, his thin lips curling back from white teeth. "Who struck him down?"
"No," Alexandros managed to say, though the pressure in the air was rising again. I don't care who wielded the knife, you young fool, that's no matter to me or my men! "Who now rules in Rome?"
"I am Emperor." Maxian deflated again, the words hoarse with agony. "My brothers are dead, used up in this endless war." The prince swayed, then mastered himself. "Only I am left."
Alexandros was silent, his whole attention fixed on the prince. A dead, sick feeling was trying to gain a foothold in his gut. The man in front of him seemed to vacillate between supernal power and ashy exhaustion. After a moment, the Macedonian said, "My lord, if your brother is dead, then what has happened to... to the guardian?"
"The what?" Maxian tried to focus on Alexandros' face and failed. He slumped against the nearest chest, but the Macedonian caught him before the prince could fall. Maxian's skin was hot, almost hot enough to burn. Alexandros drew back, alarmed.
"Ayy! You've not just a fever—more like a furnace!"
"Yes," Maxian whispered, a ghoul-like smile stretching his lips. "Do you remember the night I tried to raise Octavian, tried to shroud him with the Oath and shatter the keystone?"
"I remember." Alexandros did. A night of destruction, raging with fire and lightning. Even this half-life had seemed precious then, when annihilation was only a hairbreadth away.
"Now I am the keystone," Maxian said, his voice a mere breath. Alexandros leaned closer, barely able to make out the words. "The Senate has acclaimed me Emperor, princeps, guardian of the Republic. And all the strength I tried to overthrow—it presses on me, Alexandros, crushes me like a vise!"
The Macedonian felt cold again and the sick feeling inside him grew stronger. He knew what it was like to rule men, to hold the power of life and of death over a vast domain, over millions of human souls. But even when the Persians had acclaimed him as a god, as a living deity, he'd never felt such pressure as this young Roman must feel.
"I can feel them all, a constant, raging noise..." Maxian's breathing grew ragged, his head rolling back. Cursing, Alexandros caught his shoulders, ignoring the heat.
"Lord Prince!" The Macedonian shook the Roman gently and Maxian's eyes blinked, focusing on him. Alexandros gave him a fierce glare. "How do you know the Persians are landing at Catania?"
"We saw... Galen and I saw them planning through the telecast." Maxian seemed to gather himself. "The Persians and the rebellious Greeks put a great fleet to sea. Their full strength will strike here. They plan to come ashore in strength, then turn either north to Messina or south to Syracuse and capture a port."
Alexandros clenched his teeth, thinking of his exhausted troops. If the Legions who'd marched down from Rome were in better shape, they might have a chance... but from looking at the prince, the Macedonian didn't think the legionaries were ready to fight schoolchildren, much less the Persian Immortals. And then, he thought, there is the real enemy...
"My lord..." Alexandros' tone was harsh with suppressed fear. "I've spoken with the survivors from Constantinople—they say the Persians have a sorcerer with awesome powers—how can I fight such a creature?"
"Yes," Maxian pushed the Macedonian's hands aside. "He is coming. I can feel him."
The prince stood, his movements weak for a moment, then filling visibly with strength as he gathered himself. Alexandros stepped back warily.
Maxian smiled grimly and a plainly visible corona of cold flame limned him, silhouetting his head, outlining his arms. Every trace of weariness, of exhaustion and grief, washed away in the spectral light. "Our dear friend Gaius has done me bitter service, Macedonian. His plots have murdered my brother, spilled the Emperor's blood, forced upon me unwanted honors, a crown..."
Alexandros' quick mind leapt ahead of the prince's words and the Macedonian's handsome face split in a feral grin. At last, the boy begins to think like a king. The first good news I've heard since entering this life!
"Yet now I've strength enough, and more, to face this Persian and his servants, be they two, three or a multitude." Maxian's grief was plain on his face, matched with a newly found steel.
Alexandros lifted his chin in challenge, his spirits entirely restored. "Wouldn't your brother give his life to save Rome?"
"He has," Maxian answered, teeth bared. "I will not waste his sacrifice."
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The Ianiculian Hill, Roma Mater
"Hsst! Get back." Betia retreated slowly
from the street corner, making a shooing motion with her free hand. Thyatis backed up, left hand tense on the hilt of her spatha, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Shirin had caught the warning. The Khazar woman was already two paces back, watching their back trail. The lane was narrow and badly paved, scarred by gaping potholes and overhung on both sides by three- and four-story buildings. Even at midday—with a perfectly clear blue sky above—the passage was dim and grimy.
Betia eased into a building entryway. Even with the litter of rinds and broken wine bottles and discarded chicken bones underfoot, she did not step wrong or make a noise. Thyatis filled most of the space with her broad shoulders, while Shirin occupied the rest, enveloped in a patched gray cloak. All three women were sweating, for the heat today was particularly fierce and the city was slowly baking in a humid mash of sweat, rotting garbage and wood smoke.
"There's an entire cohort of legionaries on the street ahead, breaking down the door to someone's house with a ram." Betia's voice was clipped and precise. "I don't think we should go that way."
"Our destination?" The redheaded woman looked thoughtful.
Betia shook her head. "No. Next door. A house of the Gracchi, I think." The girl frowned. "You saw the broadsheets posted on the port notice boards?"
Thyatis nodded. She had, though at the time she'd been more concerned with guiding their longboat through the maze of canals in old Ostia without running into someone or something and pitching them all into the fetid, gray-green water. "There are proscriptions."
"What does that mean?" Shirin's voice was tight where Thyatis had assumed a slow drawl. Everyone had their own reaction to the tense, frightened atmosphere in the city.
"Lists of traitors," Betia said, keeping her voice low. Thyatis could hear the crash of wood splintering and people screaming now, even with such a goodly distance between themselves and the house of the Gracchi. The streets were entirely deserted and silent, she realized.
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