"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 the 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 h
im 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.
"When there is trouble," the girl continued, "or the Emperor needs gold, lists are posted of those who have committed crimes against the state. They must defend themselves in court, which costs money of course, or they are executed out of hand and their properties confiscated. But nothing like this has happened for decades."
Thyatis felt grief welling and clamped down hard on the useless emotion. "Not since Galen became Emperor," she bit out, though she'd had no intention of speaking.
Betia nodded, her own face shadowed. Shirin kept quiet, though she'd seen the black bands on the arms of the legionaries in the port and at the city gates. Even the temples they'd passed had been silent and in the rare occasion they met someone on the street, no greetings were exchanged and the passersby avoided eye contact, hurrying on as fast as their feet allowed.
"We need to get into the house," Thyatis said, forcing herself to action. "If only to see if it is empty. The Duchess may have fled elsewhere and left a sign."
"How?" Shirin looked up at her friend, and Betia frowned also. "The street…"
"Up. We're on the same side of the street, right?" Thyatis said, stepping to the heavy, four-paneled doorway behind her. Her fist tested the latch and found the door barred. She felt around the edge, pressing at the cheap wood with powerful fingers. "Keep an eye out," she said over her shoulder, one hand reaching under her woolen cloak.
Shirin backed up, biting her thumb. Thyatis produced a iron pry bar and sighted one end-fitted with a shovel-like spike-just above the latch mechanism. "Anyone coming?" she muttered.
"No," Betia said. Thyatis swung the bar in a short, controlled blow. Wood thumped and screeched as she bent her shoulder into the bar, twisting the iron down and sideways. Splinters screwed away from the wood and Thyatis grunted. There was a popping sound, and she levered the bar down. Something went clunk in the passage.
Smiling faintly, Thyatis pushed the door open. The corridor beyond was quiet and dark. She stepped inside.
Leading with the point of her spatha, Thyatis glided across a plain tile floor, flitting from doorway to doorway. Despite a heavy, encompassing quiet, the house did not feel empty to her. Frightened to silence, but not untenanted. Shirin followed, her feet bare and then Betia, a dark gray ghost who barely disturbed the air with her passage.
Thyatis paused at the head of a stairwell leading down to the cellars and her long nose twitched. She jerked her head towards the opening and the other two faded into the gloom of a nearby alcove. The tiny statue of Pan did not mind their proximity and Thyatis crept down the stairs, feeling the slowly building tic-tic-tic of bloodfire coursing in her veins.
A moment later, her head appeared on the stairs and she beckoned her companions down.
— |-
"Hello, mother," Thyatis said softly, stepping between two stout pillars streaked with brown water stains. Anastasia's head jerked up as if she'd sat on a nettle and an incredulous, glad smile bloomed in her tired, pale face. The redhead grinned broadly, making a sketchy bow towards the other woman lying on a cot against the wall.
"You…" Anastasia squeaked, crushed in a powerful hug. Thyatis held the Duchess close for a long moment, her eyes stinging. "…I can't breathe!" Anastasia managed, though her own embrace was just as tight.
"Sorry." Thyatis let go, holding the Duchess at arm's length. Her face settled into a concerned, grim mask. "I'm sorry we're late. The winds were against us for the return voyage from Alexandria."
Anastasia tried to tuck back her hair-grown entirely matted and snarled-then gave up. "I had hoped you wouldn't come here," she said, dabbing at the corners of bloodshot, violet eyes, indicating the house, the city, Italia. "But I'm glad you're alive." The Duchess peered around Thyatis and then she did start to sniffle. "Oh, Betia-you're here too-and you must be… Shirin." Anastasia put her hands over her face and sat down abruptly, only managing to gasp for breath between uncontrollable tears. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"
"Empress?" Thyatis knelt beside the still, quiet shape on the cot. Helena did not respond, though her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. The redheaded woman turned, saw Betia and Shirin sitting on either side of Anastasia, trying to give her a handkerchief, arms around her, heads bent together. "I heard about the Emperor," Thyatis said softly, taking the Empress' hand. The fingers were very cold and clammy, like a fresh-caught fish. "I'm sorry he is dead. He was a fine man."
Helena's eyes moved, tracking slowly, and she mustered a breath, though the effort seemed enormous. She met Thyatis' troubled gaze with her own and the younger woman stiffened. There was such a depth of sorrow and grief in the dark brown eyes, she could barely stand to meet them herself.
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