Thomas Harlan - The Dark Lord

"Have you drunk deep enough of war?" The Emperor's voice softened for the first time. "Is your thirst quenched? Where are your sons, the friends of youth, your brothers?"

"Dead," growled the King of Kings, the word forced from his mouth against his will, face twisting in despair. "They are dead."

"You are Shahr-Baraz, the Boar, shahanshah, lord of the Medes, master of the Persians." Maxian's voice cracked sharply. "You will rule Persia in my name and yours will be a realm at peace, where a wise king rules from a throne not drenched in blood, but founded on order." He lifted his hand and the middle-aged man tried to turn away, but sighed-a long, exhausted exhalation-when the Emperor smoothed back his wild, tangled hair. Years lifted from the man's face and his beard curled dark and lustrous again.

"You, I know." Maxian looked upon Alexandros with a grim smile. "By your tread, I will measure the circumference of the world." The Macedonian flinched, his heart quailing away from the pressure in the shadowed eyes. Maxian grasped his shoulders and Alexandros felt weariness fade, spilling out on the ground in an invisible stream. "India is waiting and beyond her-who knows what wonders might lie?"

The Macedonian pressed fingertips to his forehead, and bowed, as the others had done.

Only the woman remained, standing a little apart, her face turned away to the east. Wind tugged at night-black hair, cascading in waves of curls down her back. The Emperor looked upon her and his mouth tightened. "Who are you?"

The Queen turned, looking over her shoulder. Her face matched his for cold composure, showing neither fear nor despair. The glow of the burning city shone in sapphire eyes and her chin lifted. "I am Zenobia Septima," she said tonelessly. "My city is ruins, scattered bone and rock. I have no kingdom, no subjects, nothing save sand and wind."

"Palmyra the Golden will rise again," Maxian said, brow furrowing slightly. "White towers will rise and countless gardens bloom. Silver will fill her coffers and her ships will ply the wide sea, holds filled with silk, spices and every luxury. All will look upon your beauty and rejoice!"

Zenobia did not respond, the corners of her mouth tightening. Sweat beaded her neck. The Emperor waited, remaining entirely still. She swayed, then straightened. Long fingers stiffened and her oval face became pale. Maxian remained still, watching her, implacable and irresistible. The Queen gasped, staggered and fell.

The Emperor caught her with gentle hands and he bent close, whispering. White fingers clutched tight on his arm and he stood while she knelt in homage.

"Now," Maxian said, "there will be order in all the world, and peace."

Somewhere on the Coast of Sicilia

A single star burned bright in the eastern sky, the first to spring alight with the passing day, and cool light shone down upon a rocky shore. Twin headlands jutted out, enclosing a sheltered cove where the violent sea had passed, leaving wrack piled high among glistening black rocks. Mohammed crawled from the sea, foam streaming from his chest and thighs, long white beard plastered to a muscular body blessed with powerful arms and mighty thews. Spitting brine, he used a staff to aid his tired feet and climbed up, out of the rocky strand to a shelf thick with olives and dwarf pine.

"A welcoming cave?" the man said aloud, testing his ragged voice. "Dank with sea mist…"

A faint, attenuated rumbling drew his attention and Mohammed turned, keen eyes piercing the night, looking out to the north across the long sweep of Catania's broad gulf, where of late so many ships had perished, swallowed by the vengeful sea. Night was full upon the waters and great clouds and storms rode the upper air. Yet despite all these obscuring veils, the Quraysh saw flame shining in the darkness.

He leaned against the staff, his head bent in weariness. The night wind moved among the trees, making their soft leaves rustle and shake and the sea sighed against the headland shore. When Mohammed lifted his face, letting the pale stars gleam upon him, determination and knowledge filled him with a clear light.

"Now," he said, "all powers are unmasked and a daunting task set before me. But I will not turn away."

Yes, came a voice from the clear air. Your purpose is revealed. There is your enemy, shining dark, a deadly sun. Here is your great test, for which destiny has chosen you.

The Quraysh leaned against his staff, long white beard luffed by the sea wind. "I accept this fate," he said to the night, and the stars, "I submit myself to the will of the lord of the world. But I am not ready, not yet…"

No, answered the voice, but you will be.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Roma Mater

Gaius Julius scowled, his fists knuckling on either side of a stack of tattered parchment sheets. They had been touched by fire, the edges charred and split by heat. Columns of figures- payments, he thought, striving to clear his mind of grief-and names filled each page. "These were all your men found?"

"Yes, sir. The Duchess' servants had set the rest afire." Nicholas stood opposite, hands clasped behind his back, narrow face tight with ill-concealed tension. The man's armor was spotted with blood, his leathers creased and worn, dark with sweat. Gaius Julius nodded absently.

"These names," the old Roman said, "will lead us to others. Gather your men and set them upon the trail-question these… traitors… closely, but do not use them up." Gaius flashed a hard glance at the man and Nicholas nodded stiffly. "They serve our purpose best by leading to more interesting prey." His fingers traced the shortened, abbreviated names in the left-hand column. "Bait, Nicholas, bait. Find me a larger fish."

The Latin bowed his head in understanding, though the old Roman could see his angry thoughts clearly enough: Why coddle traitors and conspirators? Why not purge the city of their taint, root and branch alike? But he would obey. In time, Gaius hoped, he will learn some circumspection. Perhaps even forethought. An endless vista of labor stretched before them.

"Has Vladimir returned?"

Nicholas nodded, though his lip twitched in something like disgust. "He has."

Gaius Julius raised a gray eyebrow in response. The Latin squared his shoulders. "The child escaped with… two others. One, at least, was the Empress Helena's maid, a child named Kore. They entered the sewers on the Ianiculian hill, thwarting our Walach's sense of smell. I have the Urban Cohorts searching every mile of every adit, channel and tunnel. Boats filled with our men patrol the river, and the city gates are closed."

Nicholas paused and Gaius saw he wanted to say more, but restrained himself. The play of half-hidden emotions made an interesting play on his narrow face.

"Vladimir found nothing in the tunnels?"

The Latin shook his head sharply. "No, my lord. Nothing at all."

The old Roman regarded Nicholas with a considering, prolonged stare. After a time, Gaius Julius made a dismissive motion with his hand. The Latin strode out, obviously relieved to have escaped without hearing his master's opinion of the night's events.

Well, Gaius thought, leaning on the desk again. He was very tired-his body did not yearn for sleep, but his mind was exhausted by the relentless passage of events-and longed to sit somewhere, undisturbed for hours or days, watching the sun pass in the heavens. I shall find a dead boy of the proper age and features and bury him beside Galen and Helena. The old Roman nodded to himself, finding the solution at least practical. Should Theodosius turn up again… he will be an impostor, a rogue, a false pretender. Such things have happened before.