Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

What beauties, she thought, a warm, unaffected smile growing in her face. Their mother must be stunning.

The kitchen was almost dark, but a dim glow came from the roasting oven and she bent to it, igniting a punk from the embers.

She lit one lantern by the carving table and yawned. These long nights were wearing her down, but she had become lax during Aurelian's time as ruler of the West. He did not push her like Galen did; he accepted what she gave him without dispute or comment. It was too much for him, she thought as she poured wine into a copper cup. He was not ready for the weight of the burden. Still, the middle brother had not done badly in his time, though if it came to his ascending the Purple for true, she would have such a struggle on her hands.

She rooted around in the bins and wicker baskets hung from hooks along the preparation tables and found a brace of pears and some bread that had not gone moldy yet. Hah, what would my cooks think, she thought to herself in weary amusement, to see me making a muss of their kitchen at such an hour? There was still butter in a chilled urn by the rear door. With her breakfast bundled in a napkin, she climbed the stairs again. They seemed much steeper this morning than last night when she had come home-her nerves fired with the echo of the terror she had felt when Maxian had appeared in the Emperor's dining chamber. "To think," she said aloud, "that I thought him such a nice young man only last year…"

At the top of the stairs she turned, hearing a soft knocking sound echo from the front hallway. She paused, hand on the banister, looking back down into the sweep of the front hallway. She could hear, magnified by the smooth marble floor, the sound of her watchmen rousing themselves and the rattle of a bolt being withdrawn from the spy hole set in the door. She bent her head, listening.

The mutter of voices came, and then the sound of the door opening. Anastasia turned and descended the steps. When she reached the entryway, she found that three of her guardsmen, still blinking sleep from their eyes, had admitted a swarthy and nervous young man. The Duchess frowned, but saw that two of the guardsmen had their weapons drawn and that the other had locked the heavy door behind the visitor.

"Who are you, lad? What brings you to my house at this hour?"

The barbarian boy looked up, and she felt a strange crawling sensation in her back and shoulders. His eyes seemed huge and luminous; when he blinked, the feeling passed. He had long, unruly hair, black as squid ink and possessed of a shine that caught the light of the lamps set beside the door. He wore an embroidered vest and a thick white cotton shirt under it. His feet were bare, though he did not seem to mind the cold and his legs were clad in the rough woolen pantaloons favored by the Goths or Germans.

"I am Anatol," he said in a thick accent. "I bring a message from our mistress, Lady Krista. She bade me hurry-please, I must make my way swiftly before anyone notices that I am gone."

Hearing him speak, Anastasia knew that he was very young, perhaps only thirteen or so. Her mind considered and discarded a dozen replies before settling for the simplest one. She would investigate this matter of Lady Krista at a later date. "We will not keep you," she said, touching the boy's hand. "What is the message?"

Anatol ducked his head nervously and drew a scrap of parchment from a pocket of his vest. He pressed it into her hand, and she felt his long nails, tapered and sharp, press into her wrist. She met his eyes again, smiling, and inclined her head. "Tell Lady Krista that I think of her often, and miss her company." She nodded to the guardsmen. "Open the door and let the boy go. He must hurry."

"Thank you, noble lady." Then he was gone, slithering out the door like a black streak, and she could hear him running, his feet soft on the stones of the street. Anastasia turned from the door, unrolling the scrap of paper. A vague foreboding threatened, inchoate fears and worry clouding around her.

My lady, said the paper in the brisk angular letters that Krista favored. I am with the Prince, who has returned to the city. We will be leaving soon for the South. He says Cumae, but I do not believe it. He is dangerous, but you must tread carefully, for he has powerful servants. He will not abandon his purpose.

Anastasia hissed, feeling a deadly weight settle around her heart. The stairs to her study seemed even steeper now, and she felt terribly alone. Krista, Tros, Thyatis-all were gone, and she felt the weight of their absence keenly.

The Mile Marker, Constantinople

Nicholas pushed through the crowd, a garland of flowers twisted around his head. The thunder of the mob of people in the Forum of Constantine rolled over him like the sea. He had never seen so many people in one place before in his life. The energy of the crowd-its delirious good humor and relief-was infectious, filling him like the finest wine. Vladimir, his dark face grinning fit to burst, pushed along behind him. The Northerner had a blonde on his shoulders; her pale, plump legs tucked in his armpits. She was laughing, wine spilling down her chin and soaking her blouse. Nicholas had a girl too, but she was pressed close to his back, her slim hands in his belt. The crowd surged around them like a riptide, pushing them away from the line of columns that ringed the Forum.

Nicholas looked over his shoulder, catching Vladimir's eye. The Northerner's hands were curled around the blonde's smooth white thighs. Nicholas jerked his head, shouting, and Vladimir grinned back, mouthing, I can't hear you! Waves of sound battered them, drowning all else. Somewhere, across the vast circle of the Forum, lines of victorious soldiers were marching, their armor bright and shining, their heads held high, their spears and lances sparkling in the sun.

Of all days, the gods had blessed this one. The dreary clouds of winter and the haze of the campfires of the Avars had been blown away by a southern wind. The sun rode high, shining down upon a jubilant city, summoning the populace to the greatest revel that anyone had ever seen. The Emperor, crowned in majesty and favored by victory, would enter the city this day to be greeted by his people in unrestrained joy. The army, hardened by war and laden with loot, had been unloading from the fleet for three days. The civil authorities, however, had begged the Emperor to delay his entrance until they could prepare.

Now he entered, and the city met him with open arms.

Nicholas squeezed around the side of a heavy cart filled with jugs of wine. The merchant was selling them out of the back of the wagon in job lots, passing them over the heads of the crowd that thronged about him. Coins sparkled in the air, cast by thirsty citizens. The merchant was laughing, his face red and flushed, while his assistants-two scrawny boys-scrambled to catch the denarii. Nicholas reached a wall, marked with the painted sign of a tailor's shop, and turned, taking the redhead in his arms. She smiled up at him, her full lips moving, saying something. Nicholas smiled back and shrugged. Over the din of a hundred thousand people shouting, singing, releasing all the pent-up joy and jubilation at their delivery from their enemies, he couldn't make out a word anyone said. He kissed her, instead, feeling her press tight against his body, her breasts firm and round against his chest. She dug her hands into his hair, dragging him down to lose himself in her sweet lips.

Vladimir banged into him, pressing his mouth close to Nicholas' ear. "This one says she does not live so far away!" the Northerner was shouting at the top of his voice.

Nicholas nodded, his hands under the redhead's tunic, warm on her bare skin.

Vladimir turned away, the blonde pointing down the street and waving the wineskin like a banner.