Malichus nodded involuntarily.
Heraclius smiled genially. “Let us drink, then, friends, and discuss the more mundane details of such a joint effort.”
The moon rose huge and yellow-orange over the spires and towers of the city. Galen stood on an embrasure of the palace overlooking the waters of the Propontis. To the east, across the band of dark water, he could make out the twinkle of bonfires on the farther shore. A cool wind blew out of the north from the great open waters of the Sea of Darkness. He turned to his companion.
“A nice ploy with the desert chieftains,” he said in a quiet voice.
Heraclius nodded somberly, leaning on the still-warm stone of the crenellation. Even in the soft light of the moon, Galen could see that his brother Emperor was troubled.
“I think that it will work as we have planned,” the Eastern Emperor said. “Their greed will lead them to battle and defeat at Shahin’s hands.”
“Do you doubt your stratagem now? Do you wish to discard it? We can still split off the Sixth Gemina and enough Germans to make another Legion-strength auxillia band to prop them up.”
Heraclius pushed away from the wall and hooked his thumbs into his belt. “No, we are committed. I do not want to face the Boar with twenty thousand fewer men than I could. Sending those troops to fight in Syria would be a waste. Besides”-and now the Emperor smiled-“both of those cities are rich enough to take the loss.”
Galen frowned, tapping his fingers on the stone. “Petra and Palmyra have been allies of the Empire for hundreds of years-are you sure you want to expend them in such a manner? It does not seem particularly honorable.”
Heraclius laughed, a grim sound. “That bastard Chrosoes was surely honorable when he violated the treaty and attacked me five years ago. This is not an honorable war, my friend, this is survival. I will repay him insult for insult. I am the Emperor of the East.”
“True,” Galen said, shaking his head a little at the venom in the Eastern Emperor’s voice, “but what of afterward. when we have won? The desert frontier will still have to be defended-and the men of these cities will be dead.“
“There is nothing to defend against,” Heraclius said, dismissing the subject. “Chrosoes is the enemy. He will pay for his treachery and his pretensions to my throne.”
Galen was silent, balancing the good of the Empire as whole against the devastation that would be visited upon the distant cities in his mind. He was still standing by the wall, looking out on the dark bulk of Asia, beyond the moonlit waters, when Heraclius went back inside. lBQHOHQHQMQMQMQH()HOM()H()M()W()M()H()H()M()MQH()MOHQMQH()f]
THE VIA APPIA, SOUTH OF ROME H
The moon rode lower now, a great orange melon in the sky. Clouds obscured part of its face and cast the road into a deep gloom. Maxian nudged his horse forward to keep up with the lead rider. The clip-clop of the horses hooves echoed from the metaled surface of the Via Appia, but the sound was swallowed by the hedgerows that bounded the road on either side. Beyond the hedges, unkempt fields were scattered with small buildings and raised mounds. Almost three miles behind the Prince, the guard-towers of the city wall at the Porta Appia could barely be made out, marked by gleaming lanterns and torches. The guide halted and raised his lantern. A black opening yawned on the right side of the road, marked by two pale white columns. The lantern lowered as the man leaned down from his horse to make out the inscription on the pillar.
An owl hooted softly in a nearby tree, then there was a rustle of leaves as it took flight.
Maxian, his face shrouded by a deep hood, fingered a gold coin. It was a double aureus, with the face of his brother on one side. Freshly minted, almost sharp-edged. He sighed and put the coin back in the pocket of his tunic. At his side, the old Nabatean laughed softly.
“Soon, soon, my lord, you shall have the lever that you need:”
Maxian had rapped sharply on the overhung door with the head of his walking stick. Late afternoon was sliding quickly to night, and the narrow streets of the trans-Tiburtina were growing dim. People were walking quicker, trying to get home before full dark. The sky, what of it could be seen, was a deep purple streaked with rose-colored clouds. Maxian rapped again, faintly hearing movement within the residence. The door was unremarkable, marked only with a small sigil of two raised horns around a trap-ezoid. He had come here, to a stinking alley in the “foreign” district, on the recommendation of the last wizard he had visited. Though he had begun his search for assistance with a grim determination, now he was bone tired and ready to give up and go home.
The sorcerers and wizards he had approached, particularly those on the Street of the Magi in the Forum Boarium, had either refused to speak to him outright or had sent him away when he began to explain that the city was infused with some terrible power that could kill men or corrode metal. The last, a Jewish numerologist, had listened patiently to him for over an hour, then spread his hands and said that he had no experience in such matters. But, he continued, there was a man known to him, a Nabatean, who might be able to help.?
And so Maxian was here, at this darkened oak door, at nightfall.
The sound of a sliding bolt rasped through the thickness of the door, then another noise, like a pin being drawn out of a metal socket. The door creaked open a crack, and a startling blue eye gleamed out at the Prince.
“Good evening,” Maxian said in a very polite voice. “I seek the wise man, Abdmachus, who lives here. I am Maxian Atreus. I seek assistance in a delicate matter.”
The eye disappeared and the door opened the rest of the way, revealing a short, thin man with a wisp of white hair showing from underneath a small felt cap. The fellow was dressed in a trailing robe of narrow blue-and-white stripes, bound at his waist with a dark-green sash.
“Come in, young master. I am Abdmachus. Welcome to my house.”
The house of the Nabatean was long and narrow in its plan, wedged between two larger buildings. The tiny front room was bare with a tile floor. A second, heavy door led from the atrium into the rest of the house. It had no lock, but Maxian felt a tugging sensation as he passed through it. Beyond that portal there was a sitting room with a small fire in a brazier. Unlike the homes of the poor, the smoke was well behaved, swirling into a corner of the ceiling and vanishing up a partially exposed pipe of fired clay. The floor was thick with heavy rugs, all in muted browns and reds. Two low couches faced each other, making a triangle with the brazier at the head of each.
Abdmachus gestured Maxian to the rightmost couch and settled himself on the other. Maxian chose to sit rather than recline. The olive-skinned foreigner continued to regard him steadily.
Maxian coughed, clearing his throat. “Sir, I am in need of assistance. I understand from a fellow I met yesterday that you may be able to help me. Are you familiar with the, well, the unseen?”
Abdmachus cocked his head to one side, regarding the young man.
“If you mean,” said the old man, “am I of the magi, then yes, I am experienced with the unseen world. I am confused, however, by your coming to me. You show unmis takable signs of being possessed of power as well, of the ability to see the unseen. I can feel the pattern of defense you have raised around you even now. Why have you come to me?“