"The elder Constantius lived only a year as Augustus. His son-a man of enormous energy, conviction, and military ability-was acclaimed as Emperor in the East by the Legions in Thrace and Macedonia. Galerius, the Western Emperor, protested this appointment, but Constantine was already moving against him."
"There was war," Abdmachus said, suddenly speaking. "Roman strove openly against Roman for the first time in four hundred years. How could this be? Because the Eastern Empire had already passed from under the aegis of the Oath. Though to a thing with mind and forethought the loss of half of the Empire-the richer and more populous half by far!-would seem a thing of dreadful aspect, to the Oath it knew only that Rome still maintained and that the Emperor on the throne still upheld the acts and usages of his father."
"Galerius sent his armies against Constantine," Maxian continued, "and attempted to overthrow the usurper, but the Eastern Legions threw back the West, soundly defeating them in a great battle at Thessalonika. The next year Galerius died of a terrible wasting disease. To my mind, looking back over the centuries, I think the curse removed him from the field of play. It may have been that Galerius was considering peace with the Eastern rebels. The ever-crafty Constantine offered peace and proclaimed himself 'senior' Augustus. In Rome, Galerius' old friend and subordinate Licinus was proclaimed Emperor, but he was of no mood to be subordinate to a younger man.
"The war continued, but it was Constantine who felt the sting of defeat next. Despite outnumbering Licinus' army by three to one, his invasion of Italy was a disaster, and his fleet was scattered by a great storm off Tarentum. Thereafter there was an uneasy peace… other troubles and threats rose up to command the attention of the Emperors, and in time the two Empires came to live side by side."
"But," Alexandros said with a lilt in his voice, "the Eastern Empire was no longer under the sway of the Oath. True?"
"In part," Maxian replied, "vestiges of it remain-they still call themselves Romans and try to maintain the ancient traditions and honors. But you can see the change that centuries have wrought-their language is Greek now, and they no longer rule themselves as Rome did."
"But," Alexandros said again, his eyes bright, "they have placed themselves beyond the Oath by this?"
"Yes," Maxian said wearily, missing the look that passed between Gaius and Alexandros. "But the West is still its slave."
– |Maxian grunted a little, lifting a cylinder of carved marble from the floor up onto the tabletop. The Persian slaves had found an old burial urn for the stolen ashes. It seemed almost new, save for its archaic design and corrosion still clinging stubbornly to the bronze fittings.
"Here is what will be our keystone," Maxian said, turning the cylinder about. "These are the mortal remains of the first Emperor-Gaius Octavian-now better known as Augustus. It was he who first commanded the changes to the soldiers' Oath that gave rise to this curse. It is he, now, who will help us break it. Gaius Julius has been adamant in his belief that we cannot break the Oath without involving the current Emperor, my brother."
Gaius Julius leaned back on his couch, a half smile lurking on his thin lips.
Maxian nodded to him and raised up the cylinder. "Our dear Gaius believes," Maxian continued, "that only the death of my brother will free the Empire. He has a cruel and bloody mind, our Gaius, but he is not a sorcerer. I have, I believe, found another way to take the key from the lock, to bring down the Oath, without this murder…"
Krista pulled back the ears of the little black cat, making its yellow eyes into narrow slits and showing its fangs. The little cat shook its head, freeing its ears from her light touch. It yawned up at her, showing sharp white teeth. Despite this byplay with the little scamp, she was listening intently to Maxian's voice. There was hope in it, and certainty, and her heart veered toward believing in him again. Duty warred with the remnant of affection in her heart-once, she had believed in Maxian, perhaps even loved him as much as a common woman may love a prince. She knew he believed that he loved her, though that was such a fickle thing, she had put no credence in it. Many men had said they loved her-some had even said they would buy her from her mistress, the Duchess, and free her. They had lied.
Would they have made the offer, she wondered, if they had known she was in truth no slave?
Only this man, this Prince, had made her a real offer of freedom, though it had been in extremis at the edge of the world, preparing for battle against the Persian magi in their old, dead city. Then, that had counted heavily for her, that he would make the gesture when he desperately needed her at his back. But now? With Gaius Julius and the golden youth filling his ears with their thoughts, their desire, their plans, and schemes? She saw him less and less. His mind and mood had turned away from her and down darker paths. The inevitability of some action against the Emperor seemed to grow stronger and stronger.
And now duty wars against my heart, and the heart loses.
"My brother, friend Gaius," Maxian said, "is currently the keystone we seek. But he need not remain so. Here is an ancient law of the sorcerer's realm-that thing that owns the seeming of another thing may become that thing. A hair, taken from the head of a man, can be used-by this law of similarity-to affect the man himself. At this instant, Augustus Galen is the crux of the Oath, but with this"-he rubbed his hands over the top of the cylinder-"we can bring forth an older precedent. We can bring forth Augustus himself, and through him, strike at the Oath without touching my brother."
Alexandros made a sound, more than a snort of disbelief and less than outright laughter. Maxian turned his head, glaring at the youth, but Alexandros shook his head and showed his palms.
"Mummery! If you say it will work, perhaps it will, but what will you do if this substitution does not work? What will you do if, in the throes of battle, you find your knife at your brother's throat?"
Maxian's face darkened, and Krista tensed, seeing the imminent dissolution of the golden youth at hand. Her right hand clenched into a fist, and the smooth, cold tube of the spring-gun filled her palm. She rummaged the little cat with her left hand, making it squeak. Gaius Julius turned a little at the noise, and she caught his eye. She shook her head minutely, pinning his gaze, and the spring-gun eased out of her sleeve, focusing on him under the cover of the table. The old Roman raised his eyebrows and put a blank look on his face.
"Noble Macedonian," Maxian hissed, "I will not murder my brother. I know it was the common sport of your youth, but here, in my Rome, we will sustain the family that I love. Do you understand me?"
"Oh yes." Alexandros smirked, standing away from the table, his blue eyes hard with old knowledge, dearly bought in a bitter childhood. "You will send tens of thousands to their deaths to salve your conscience, where the death of one-even a dearly beloved one-would suffice. It is good you are not Emperor, for you have not the stomach for it."
"I will never be Emperor," Maxian grated, his left eyelid twitching in barely repressed fury. "My brother and his sons will found that line. What we do is for the Senate and the people, not for personal gain."
Alexandros shook his head, disbelief plain upon his noble face. His thought was clear to Krista, who had relaxed a little. The youth knew in his heart of hearts that the only prize, the only goal, was to rule and to command the world. The Macedonian bowed insolently and then stalked out of the room. The Prince stared after him, then turned to Gaius Julius. "Ensure that he is ready for the ceremony tonight. We are prepared. We will make the throw."
– |The storm crawled down over the hills, sending rain and wind in front of it. On the hillside above the old, decaying villa, the trees shook and bent under the force of the wind, creaking and groaning. Icy rain spilled down between the trunks, spattering on the thick loam under the limbs. In the near darkness, now that the storm had covered the sun, two men crouched in the lee of a snag. Even here, where they were out of the wind, they could feel the temperature dropping rapidly. Thick woolen cloaks and padded hauberks kept them warm for the moment, but one of them was p
ulling on thick gloves to keep some feeling in his fingers.
"This is a storm like on the grasslands north of the Azov," the taller man shouted over the whistling roar of the wind. "Comes up out of nowhere and leaves frozen men and horses behind."
The other, shorter man nodded and peered between the thick trunks of the trees down at the villa in the clearing below. He had a weathered tan face, with a short stubble of beard, a bald pate, and a stubby nose. He was stocky and thick-wristed, with a wrestler's arms. Under the cloak he wore a shirt of thick iron rings over a heavy woolen undershirt. A legionary's short sword was strapped to his belt along with knives and pouches of well-worn leather. The taller man at his side had long, curly hair tied behind his head, an aquiline nose, and liquid brown eyes. Unlike his companion, he was well armed with a long cavalry sword-the spatha of the Eastern Empire-and a bow, enclosed in a gorytos or bowcase of stiff leather, was strapped to his back along with a wooden case for black-fletched arrows. Their horses were hidden behind them, deeper in the hazel and witchberry bush that covered the hill.
"Can you see anything?" The taller man was still shouting, trying to make himself heard over the din of the trees being lashed by the storm. The rain began to fall heavily, and sight of the villa disappeared into a dark mist of falling water and blowing leaves. "Nikos?"
The shorter man shook his head, and his fingers made signs in the air. The taller man frowned, trying to follow the quick succession of signs. After a moment, and after Nikos repeated them, he made out:
The lights have gone out. And then, If the others do not arrive quickly, we will go in ourselves.
The tall man frowned at that, but made no answer. They had been expecting their backup for three hours, but the other Khazars and the maniple of legionaries that the Duchess had borrowed from the military camp north of the capital had yet to appear. Some deviltry was at work down in the ancient ruin. Their spy inside had only said that something was in the offing, something against the Emperor. Something that would happen tonight.
Jusuf, Prince of the Khazar people, settled himself back down in the shelter of the tree. The Illyrian, Nikos, continued to watch and wait. The storm howled, and small branches, broken from the crown of the trees, began to rattle through the canopy. Lightning flared in the heavens, sending a brief brilliant flash through the forest. Below, roof tiles shattered under the blow, sizzling and crackling with the heat of the stroke. The storm was getting worse.
– |At the center of the chamber, within the boundary of gold and silver, the Prince stood at the head of the marble table, a silk bag held reverently in his hands. He raised the bag, still tied closed with purple string, toward the northern corner of the room. As he did so the chanting of the Nabateans died, dwindling away to a low, almost inaudible mutter. The Prince turned and raised the bag toward the east and as he did so, the droning sound from the Persians faded away. He turned to the south, and the Walachs fell silent, and last to the west, where even the last low mutter of the Nabateans ceased.
"This is the body of our Emperor," Maxian declared to the still air. Even the odd mist along the ceiling had stilled, ceasing its constantly roiling movement. "This is the body of the state, of the Senate, of the people, and of the city of Rome. Praise him, our Emperor, from whom all order and justice flow."
Maxian bent over the marble table and took the bag in his left hand. With a quick movement he unknotted the string with his right hand and took the cord in his teeth. Carefully, he opened the top of the bag and shook it lightly to break up any clumps that might have formed inside. On the tabletop, the outline of a man with arms at his sides had been marked in purple chalk. The Prince's forehead creased in concentration, and he bowed his head, holding the open bag in front of him cupped in both hands. His eyes closed.
Krista started nervously and cocked her head. Some sound trembled in the air, just past hearing. A thin hum filtered out of the stones under her feet, and the shimmering echo of a distant gong. The sound rose, pulsing like a beating heart, making the air quiver in anticipation. The sound of horns rang, and the wail of the bucina-all faint, like the memory of some ancient battle renewed by the light of a dying sun-then a vague tremor of men's voices raised in a thunderous shout. Krista's head snapped around, her eyes wide in alarm, and a flickering glow of ultraviolet and static blue washed over her face.
Power crackled in the air around the Prince, a slow dance of standing lightning flaring between the Prince and his three companions. The air shifted, wind rising up and blowing past Krista, rushing out the door of the chamber. The Nabateans and Persians and Walachs bowed their foreheads to the paving stones of the floor and-almost unheard over the building roar of lightning and thunder that growled at the center of the room-they began to chant again.
The Prince forced his hands apart, crackling and burning with crawling rivers of red and electric blue. His eyes were black pits, thrown in sharp relief by the flare of light that streamed out of his hands. The bag disintegrated, but the pale ashy dust inside did not. Wind caught at it and swirled it up, whipping the dust this way and that. The Prince's mouth moved, speaking a single word.
The air boomed, and Krista found herself on her knees, gasping for breath, one hand skinned on the stone floor, reaching for some support. At her fingertip a lead cone rattled, almost unbalanced. A smear of blood marked the paving stone. The green mist rushed away, spilling through the doorway in flight, and the ceiling, now revealed, seemed to recede into an infinite distance.
The dust whirled in a broad circle over the marble surface, still just contained by the boundary of gold and lead that circumscribed the table and the Prince. Maxian, his face marked with concentration, pushed his hands against the air, drawing them farther and farther apart.
Krista, crouched within the pentacle by the door, could hear his voice at a great distance, speaking like a god in the mountains, a vast and enormous sound.
"We honor and obey our Lord, the Emperor of all Rome, the master of the world."
The dust whirled even faster, but now grains of it, sparkling in the shuddering light, flashed out of the stream and snapped to the tabletop. One by one, the grains flew to lie within the outline of the man marked on the marble. One by one, they rushed together, piling higher and higher.
Krista squinted. It was hard to see with the shimmering heat haze in the air and the rippling lightning that still danced between the three men. Gaius Julius and Alexandros seemed to be screaming, or crying out, but she could not hear their voices, only that of the Prince. Abdmachus had only slumped to one side, dull eyes staring straight ahead.
A body formed with dizzying speed on the table; that of a man of middle height, stooped by age, his face lined with wrinkles and long-held care. One foot was a little twisted, some ancient injury leaving a long scar along his leg. The Prince raised his hands up, into the air, and the last of the dust settled. The corpse was whole, knitted together by sorcery and trapped lightning.
"We honor him, the Emperor, and make sacrifice to him, blessing him and his regal name, Imperator Caesar Divi Filius Augustus."
– |Thunder rattled the wooden window shutters that lined the upper floor of the house. A blue-white crack sizzled in the air, sending echoes rolling over the hills. Rain continued to pour down, filling the dead garden with slowly spreading pools of mud. Along the main hall of the villa, now empty and dark, was a flicker of red light along the floor. Tiny signs and symbols of protection marked there months before by the Persian sorcerer Abdmachus flared up brilliantly and then died. A tide of black mist began to creep in from the garden doors. Where the mist touched, the tesserae of the floor crumbled to dust, and the stones and wooden supports of the roof and the walls began to flake away, eroding at a fantastic pace.
At the center of the house, in the barren inner courtyard, where once ten thousand flowers had bloomed in spring to bring a smile to the face of a young queen, a figure stood, alone, exposed to the fury of the storm that rippled and cracked in the heavens above. D
ark clouds swirled in the sky, glowing with the constant flash of lightning. Ice and rain fell, lashing the tiled roof. The garden was filling with water from the torrential rain.
The figure stood, inviolate and uncaring, in the storm. A dull yellow gleam marked the slits of its eyes. Water sluiced off a bony skull, ridged with long, twisting lines of tiny stitches. The homunculus, Khiron, waited patiently, watching and listening to the roar of the storm. Hail drummed on its ancient flesh, but the thing did not feel the blows.
The mist drifted into the rooms on the main floor, filling them slowly with dark poison.
– |"Here is our Lord, the Emperor of all men, we praise him!"
Maxian struggled in the grip of lightning, his voice rasping with the effort of forcing words from his throat. The vertices of power-ultraviolet and pale green-that whirled around him, linking him, the old man, the Persian, and the youth in a blizzard of hurtling sparks, were enormously strong. The power inherent in the youth and his legend, coupled with the ever-growing strength of the Prince and the bedrock solidity of the old man, cascaded into a dizzying pattern. At the center, now whole and fleshed, the corpse of the first Emperor twitched and shuddered in time with the beat of Maxian's heart. The circles of ward and protection were ablaze with light, straining to contain the maelstrom that the Prince had unleashed.
"Here is the ruler of the world, Imperator Caesar Divi Filius Augustus! Emperor of Rome!"
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