The Dark Lord ooe-4

by Thomas Harlan

  The rear doors of the Curia opened, grinding loudly on ancient hinges, and a flood of haggard-looking senators poured out, clogging the steps down into the old Forum. Gaius Julius, with Nicholas and Vladimir in tow, waited patiently while the patricians streamed past. The old Roman was openly smirking, enjoying the deflated, defeated looks on the faces of the "powerful."

  "They've seen something today," he muttered, "they won't soon forget."

  Neither Nicholas nor Vladimir said anything. In Gaius' company, they had remained in the gallery and seen the prince's little show. Both men were rather pale themselves, with a pinched look around the eyes and mouth, but Gaius Julius was impressed with their reaction. Unlike many of the senators, they had not cried out or been reduced to weeping. A party of slaves with litters ran up the steps and entered the Senate hall.

  "Follow me." Gaius Julius stepped in, nodding to the Praetorians standing back from the door. The guardsmen nodded in recognition-Gaius had recently struck up a profitable friendship with the two prefects of the Praetorian Cohort over the matter of some vineyards in the south whose owners had died in the eruption of Vesuvius-and let the three men pass. Inside, there was a peculiar chill in the air and the hall still seemed quite dark, though the high windows remained open.

  Prince Maxian knelt at the end of the benches on the right-hand side of the hall, his young face filled with dismay. Lying on the bench, hands clasped on his chest, was Gregorius. Gaius Julius hurried forward, sandals slapping on the mosaic, and felt a growing dread.

  "What happened, my lord?" Gaius bent down, eyes searching the old man's face. Gregorius met his searching gaze with a faint, weak smile. The old senator's color was very poor, and Gaius was disturbed to see the blue veins showing so clearly through the skin. "You are not well."

  "I am not," Gregorius whispered. "I was… unprepared for such terrible sights and sounds. Ah!" The senator's hands trembled with a palsy, and he jerked forward. Gaius, speechless, pressed him gently back onto the bench. Nicholas, standing close, handed the old Roman his cloak, folded into a pillow. Gaius nodded in thanks, tucking the pad under Gregorius' head.

  "Sir, I can help you!" Maxian's voice was a harsh whisper, and Gaius-looking sidelong at his master-saw fear and dismay and guilt war in the prince's face. "Let me exert my power upon you. I can restore your heart, your lungs… all the vital humors."

  Gregorius shook his head slowly. His left hand fluttered like a bird and Maxian grasped the cold fingers. The prince was as pale as death himself. The senator tried to smile, but stiffened with pain instead.

  "Lord prince," he whispered after the spasm passed, "do not anger the gods. I am very old. I should have died years ago. If nothing else, the plague should have taken me. I have done enough, I think, for any man…" Another spasm rippled across his chest and throat, muscles jumping. Maxian laid a hand on the senator's forehead, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  "No," Gregorius said, batting weakly at Maxian's hand. "Listen to me, Caesar, you must accept the finality of death. Not everyone… can be saved." The old man's eyes fluttered and then, suddenly, he lay still.

  The prince, with a ghastly expression on his face, stared down at his old friend, and there was a trembling in the air, some musical note just past hearing. Gaius Julius jerked back, staring around. Many voices were singing, filling the hall with a beautiful harmony. Nicholas and Vladimir stared at Gaius in alarm. The lean northerner's blade was half-drawn from the scabbard. The old Roman shook his head in puzzlement. The hall was filled only with the muted laughter of slaves lifting those senators who fainted onto litters.

  "My lord?" Gaius knelt next to Maxian, his voice low and fervent. "You must bring him back."

  "I cannot." Maxian's hands moved gently on the old man's face, smoothing back the white hairs, pressing stiffening eyelids down over dead, clouded eyes. Both wrinkled hands were carefully crossed on the sunken chest. The prince was crying, though he seemed unaware of the tears streaking his cheeks. "He has already crossed over the Black River."

  "My lord, we need him." Gaius Julius gripped the prince's shoulder. "Without his support in the Senate, our efforts will be stymied in discussion and argument at every turn. You saw how they are today? Can't you bring him back like… well… like…"

  "Abdmachus?" Maxian turned, eyes glinting with anger. "As a puppet? As a shape without life, but something to recite the words you devise?"

  "Yes," Gaius Julius said, jutting out his chin. "Please, my lord! He is the most powerful man in the Senate; a leader, your friend and your brother's staunchest supporter. His death means the Empire is weakened-the Emperor will have to work even harder, take more on his shoulders-which we cannot afford, not with the Persians bearing down on Egypt like a storm."

  Maxian grimaced, thinking, and pushed Gaius Julius' hand away. The old Roman moved away, staring at the prince with a determined expression, but he said nothing. Maxian stood, his whole attention fixed on Gregorius' body. After a moment, he raised his hand in the beginning of a gesture, then shook his head abruptly and turned away.

  "He is gone," Maxian said to Gaius Julius with a fierce look. "Do you understand?"

  The old Roman started to speak, trying to marshal a new argument. Maxian continued to glare at him, and finally Gaius raised his hands in surrender. "I'll not mention it again, Lord Prince."

  "Good," the prince said, smiling thinly. "Who are these men?"

  Gaius rubbed his bald crown, still shaken by the unexpected death of his one-time patron. "My lord, this is Nicholas of Roskilde and Vladimir, a Walach. They are soldiers from the Eastern Empire. They too were in Constantinople… I have taken them into your service."

  "My service?" Maxian was taken aback and looked at Gaius in open amusement. "What on earth do I need them for?" The prince turned to Nicholas, embarrassed. "Your pardon, Master Nicholas, and you too, Master Vladimir. I mean you no disrespect. Gaius…"

  "My lord," the old Roman interjected firmly, "these men will be your bodyguards."

  "My what?" Maxian seemed nonplussed, but Gaius plunged on, keeping his voice low.

  "Lord Prince, you have many enemies. Have you forgotten how close you've come to death before?" Gaius paused, searching the boy's face. Maxian made to speak, then paused and Gaius sighed in relief, seeing his patron was at last thinking about his situation. "Yes, my lord, you have enemies-some of them, I am sure, are still in Rome. And what of the Persians? What of the thing you confronted in Constantinople? It will be looking for you too, and I am sure he will not balk from poison or murder sent in the night!"

  "No…" The prince's face screwed up into a grimace, as if he had bitten into a rotten olive. "We know the shahanshah has spies in Rome. And there is the… ah… our beautiful friend…"

  Gaius Julius nodded somberly. "Will you accept their service, my lord?" The old Roman drew a copper chain out of his tunic, letting the prince's eye catch on the flat black amulet dangling from the end. Maxian's eyes widened, but he nodded, understanding.

  Ah, Gaius thought, a single ray of hope… The old Roman took a moment each day to mentally thank Alexandros for discovering those in Gaius' peculiar state did not need sleep or food. Having those extra hours in each day meant all the difference when you had to clean up behind a rash young man like Prince Maxian.

  Maxian touched the amulet and there was a faint, muted spark. "Nicholas, Vladimir. I see from your expressions that you are new to this idea of bodyguarding too."

  "Yes, Caesar," Nicholas said, the set of his mouth speaking volumes. The Walach looked even less comfortable with the idea. "We're not professionals… not in that way. We've always, ah…"

  "— worked outdoors," Vladimir put in, his Latin thick with an indefinable accent. "Keeping an eye on things, you know, or quieting troublesome people."

  "I understand." Maxian said. "I don't like being cooped up either." The prince peered at Nicholas' sword for a moment. Then he managed a half-smile, eyes shadowed by unruly hair. "You're on good terms with your
blade? You have some skill?"

  "Yes." Nicholas answered the smile with a grin, fingertips resting on the hilt of the blade. "I do."

  "Good." Maxian glanced at Gaius with a considering air. "We'll need larger quarters."

  The old Roman nodded. "Already secured, my lord. A quiet little place on the Cispian Hill."

  "Really?" Maxian looked very dubious. "I suppose I will have to see it for myself."

  The prince smoothed back his hair and looked over his shoulder at Gregorius' corpse. Sadness washed over his face, making him seem much younger. "I am going to tell Galen what has happened. See the body is taken up, in a state befitting a great and noble Roman, and placed in the vestibule of the temple of the Divine Julius. Inform his family immediately. I will pay the expenses of his funeral myself."

  "Of course, my lord." Gaius swallowed a groan. Those are my hard-earned sesterces you're throwing about, my lad! But he said nothing, only bowing and motioning for Nicholas and Vladimir to follow him. The thought of entering the Temple of the Divine Julius made him feel a little ill. Gaius made a sign to avert evil fortune, his quick mind already distracted by the delightful prospect of writing Gregorius' funeral oration. Sadly, he supposed the prince would deliver the speech, though Gaius Julius could make sure he had an excellent text.

  "Nicholas, Vladimir. I will speak with you tomorrow. There are things you need to know." With that, the prince strode away, heading for the main doors to the Curia and the swiftest path through the crowds of the Forum to the Palatine and his brother.

  Vladimir jogged along a narrow street plunging down the side of the Caelian Hill, feeling his skin prickle and grow damp as each step took him closer to the heart of the city and deeper into the fetid close heat pooling among the brick buildings. He wiped his face, sweating furiously, and cursed-not for the first time, or for the last-this business of cities and buildings and putting so many people cheek by jowl. The Walach did not like Rome at all, and he did not bother to disguise the fact.

  As he passed, matrons walking with their children flinched away and men in doorways scowled. Vladimir ignored them, tugging restlessly at the tunic's tight collar. The house servants had taken away the loose linen shirt and checked pantaloons he favored and he was sure he would never see them again. In return, he had these city clothes-no more than a tunic and undershirt-and a funny-smelling bronze dolphin amulet on a leather cord around his neck. The prince had given him the signet, telling the Walach it would "keep him out of trouble."

  Nicholas seemed impressed by the cool halls and high ceilings of the villa, but Vladimir preferred forest and glen and a high mountainside, wet with summer rain.

  At the bottom of the hill, the street twisted into a maze of ramshackle buildings set even closer together and now there were people everywhere, shoulder to shoulder, pressing and pushing. The low roaring became a din of shouting voices, ringing metal on metal, the creak and growl of machines, singing, cook fires, boiling steam, the lowing of cattle. Vladimir winced, ducking under laundry hanging across the street, and clamped a thumb and forefinger firmly over his nose.

  The smell of Rome was the worst, a stew of unwashed bodies, sweat, fear, mucus, urine, offal and rotting flyblown meat. Head down, Vladimir plowed his way through the crowds of the Subura, ignoring angry shouts and glares from the citizens. All he cared about was reaching someplace open and clean where he could see the sky. He looked up, hopeful, but found cliffs of soot-stained brick and plaster looming over the street. Lines hung with wash, curing hams, plucked chickens and pigeons, lengths of dyed wool, obstructed any possible view of clouds or even the sun.

  At the edge of the Subura, the crowds grew thicker as the street approached a deep gate set in a mammoth wall of brick. Vladimir accounted himself a strong man, with thickly muscled forearms and broad shoulders, but in this mass of people all he could do was inch forward. The sides of the road were lined by burned out, wrecked buildings. Vladimir could see people sleeping or sitting in the ruins. Others were selling trinkets, amulets, little copper idols from the steps of the burned houses. Close to the gate, crews of slaves were busily clearing the wreckage, hauling bricks, rotted corpses and charred lumber out hand over hand. The Walach frowned, seeing the labor overseers wearing Gaius Julius' dolphin blazon.

  The dead man has been busy… clearing the ruins, building new blocks of flats, offering reasonable loans…

  It took nearly a half hour to pass through the tunnel, where cold-eyed soldiers watched the mob with bared weapons. The brickwork facing of the gate was black from the fire that had swept away the blocks of apartments. Beyond the gate tunnel, Vladimir sighed in relief, though he was half-blinded by the sun glittering off the vast sweep of the Forum. He crossed a huge plaza thronged with well-to-do men in long cloaks or togas, lined with monumental buildings faced with marble and brightly painted plaster. The glare hurt his eyes, as did the gilding on the myriad statues standing before the temples. He hurried on, hoping to get into some shade as soon as he could. The Roman summer leached moisture straight from his skin.

  Following the directions given by the prince's majordomo, Vladimir passed between a small temple on his right, filled with chanting priests, and a long columned passage on his left. Through the columns, he could see some kind of a garden or park. The sight of trees and grass trapped in the middle of this huge hive made him feel a little ill but he did not stop. Instead, he continued on, across a paved courtyard and through a vaulted hall the size of a whole village and three stories high. Hundreds of men and women were standing around in the gloom, examining goods set out on tables. Huge bundles of wicker cages stood on poles, holding pigeons, sparrows and rabbits. The trestle tables were groaning under the weight of cured sausage and bags of millet and wheat and rounds of cheese.

  Beyond the market, Vladimir finally caught sight of his destination, another hill completely obscured by more enormous buildings. These were rather plain, though as he approached he saw they were solidly built and utilitarian. His lips twitched into something like a smile when he noticed there were no windows on the first and second floors. He spied a gate to his left and approached. The crowds petered out, leaving only a brace of very large and well-armored legionaries in the shadow of the gatehouse.

  "Ave," Vladimir said, coming to a halt. "I am looking for the Office of the Legions."

  The centurion in charge of the guard detail stepped away from the wall, flipping a half-eaten apple into the street. "Papers," he grunted, still chewing.

  Vladimir produced a letter from Gaius Julius-won rather easily, the Walach thought, but it was of no matter to the dead man, he supposed-and handed over the paper. The soldier cracked the seal and glanced over the writing inside, then nodded. "Fourth building up, barbarian, with crossed spears over the door."

  The Walach nodded and recovered the letter. He pressed coins into the soldier's hand and stepped inside. The centurion grinned, then settled back against the wall. His mates clustered around, eyeing the money.

  Vladimir didn't expect much, but he was disappointed to find the Office of the Legions very small and cramped and filled with pale, round little men smelling of ink, dry sweat and unwashed feet. He thought about pinching his nose closed again, but decided they might be insulted. The clerk sitting in the vestibule was reading his letter of introduction for the fourth time. Vladimir tried to keep still, but he only managed to keep from clawing furiously at the door. Large brown water stains marked all four walls and a ceiling thick with spiderwebs. A brief fantasy of seizing the spindly little man by the neck and squeezing until his eyes burst, spilling red, and Vladimir having bit through his throat distracted the Walach for a moment, and then passed.

  "I see your master has a sense of humor," the clerk said, holding up the letter with an approving air. "He perfectly captures the Great Caesar's brisk efficiency and clarity of thought." The clerk stared at Vladimir, who bared his teeth, and then sighed in regret. "Never mind. You want to find the whereabouts of an Eastern soldier-one Dwyri
n MacDonald? Attached to the Eastern Thaumaturgic Corps, in Constantinople?"

  "Yes," Vladimir nodded eagerly. "Is he alive?"

  "How, may I ask, would we know?" The clerk made a face. "All of the Eastern records were destroyed, or lost, and the most we've received are partial reports of men who have survived and fled with the fleet to Athens. It would take weeks just to sort through those!"

  The Walach squatted down, so that he was on the same level as the clerk. The man inched back, surprised at the swift motion. "Will you look?" Vladimir tried not to growl, but the words rumbled back from the walls. "I will pay you."

  The clerk made another face, then threw up his hands. "You're not supposed to bribe me! Not yet. That's for later, after we've dickered for a bit-urk!"

  Vladimir dragged the man up, claws digging through his tunic. "My friend is missing," the Walach rumbled. "If you look through your bits of paper, and find out if he lives or not, I will pay you." Vladimir's nostrils flared and he leaned close, sniffing the clerk's ears. "I will come back later."

  Then he leaned the man against the wall. There were some coins left in his purse. Vladimir placed them carefully on the writing desk, then went out. The smell of dusty paper set him on edge. He hurried out, hoping the prince would decide to leave the city soon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Glade, In an Orchard of Fruiting Trees

  Mohammed struggled for a moment, then threw back a heavy cloth binding his face and arms. Flat, harsh sunlight struck his face and he turned away, eyes smarting. When, after a moment, he opened them again, he was lying on his back, staring up at a perfect blue sky, unmarred by clouds. The spreading branches of a tree obscured a quarter of his vision.

  A fig, he realized, recognizing the hand-like leaves. Not a good omen.

  He tried to sit up, but found his arms weak and stabbing pains shot through his back. The merchant subsided, letting his head rest among the roots of the tree. He lay in the shade of the fig for some time, trying to gather his thoughts, but found a terrible, ripping hunger dominating his consciousness. Worse, his limbs were utterly drained of strength. With an effort, he raised his left hand and was shocked to see the flesh shriveled and tight on bone and sinew like some dry creeper clinging to ancient stone.