The other dispatches revealed more by their lack than their words-no fresh Legions to bolster his shrinking, battered army. The Imperial fleet was nowhere to be found. Civilian shipping left the Portus Magnus in a constant stream but did not return. He rubbed his face, looking at the straw pallets with longing. There was only one dispatch left-a crumpled, stained packet bound with red twine. He picked it up with thumb and forefinger, feeling a chill steal over him.
A letter from my brother, he realized. What now? Aurelian leaned back against the wall and cut the binding away with a sharp slash of his hand knife. Despite the poor condition of the missive, the wax seal was intact and the prince doubted anyone had dared read the contents. Unfolding the parchment, he frowned-this wasn't his brother's neat, economical printing. Instead, the letter was penned in a graceful, flowing hand, though there were abrupt amendments and several struck-out words.
"Why did Helena write this?" he grumbled, scanning the closely set lines. As he read, his frown deepened. The letter, rambling and obviously dictated in haste, contained no orders, no privy news, in fact nothing of a military nature. Aurelian flicked a green-blue bottle fly away from his nose, puzzled. This read like the correspondence of two patrician landowners with absolutely nothing to say to one another. Even the opening was odd-beginning with their boyhood nickname rather than a formal salutation. Horse, he read, starting over. The weather is very fine, with rains and sun and clear… A strikeout interrupted the sentence.
A wagon rumbled past-portions of the farm road were footed with brick, making them passable even during the wet season. The prince looked up, raising a hand in salute to the latest detachment of soldiers passing by. These men were covered with mud, spades canted over their shoulders. They stumbled past, barely raising their heads to greet the prince. At the end of the column, two weary figures trailed behind a huge-wheeled wagon, dozens of empty dirt hods hanging from leather straps on a pole between them. One of the men squinted at Aurelian as he passed.
The prince saluted the two engineers, but his mind was so dulled he couldn't muster the breath to speak their names aloud. Neither Frontius nor Sextus answered, though they did nod in response. Aurelian looked back to the paper. Something-a memory? A clear thought? — was trying to force its way into his consciousness. Thoughts of sleep and a hot bath battled for his attention, but there was no chance of rest, or leisure, not while the Persians harried his army so closely.
Tomorrow, there would be another-not a battle, but a running skirmish-as the Persian vanguard tried to overwhelm his rear guard. The easterners were tenacious and their generals were taking far too much delight in the slow, methodical destruction of the Roman army. Like boys torturing a fly, or a spider caught in a loft, or a lame dog that couldn't run away.
The elusive memory surfaced, buoyed up by a brief vision of a very young Galen painstakingly writing out a school lesson, sitting at the big, wide table in their mother's kitchen. Aurelian picked up the letter again, feeling the warmth of fond memory fade away. Hawk made a secret language for us, the prince remembered. The first letter of each word making a new word. A strikeout or correction making a space between…
He squinted at the page, trying to formulate the hidden sentence in his mind. After a moment, he gave up and began scratching the translation in the dirt of the farmyard. Grains dribbled past and Aurelian found himself staring at the ground, a dead sense of despair rising from his brother's terse, hasty message: Eque, tres menses mihi eme. Nullus post te est. Accipiter.
"'Horse,'" he read aloud, "'buy me three months. There is no one behind you. Hawk.'"
Aurelian put his head in his hands, closing his eyes. The stabbing pain in his stomach grew worse and he thought he would throw up. Helena, in her meticulous way, had dated the letter. A month had passed between the packet leaving Rome and reaching him here, in this abandoned farmyard. Two months… we'll be forced back into the city in another week, or no more than two. And no reinforcements.
The prince considered the effort he had invested in the massive, expensive fortifications at Pelusium and across the peninsula holding Alexandria. Sixty thousand men had moved heaven and earth to erect the barriers-the greatest set of fieldworks the Roman army had ever created. A harsh laugh escaped Aurelian, driven from his gut. Caesar himself could not have done better, he thought bitterly. All useless. The Persians have changed the geometry of war.
Dreadful experience had taught him how to survive where sorcerers rained death upon from the sky, or shattered stone and brick and wood with a thought. Hide. Maneuver constantly. Fight in loose order. Close quickly with the enemy, to deny their magi a clear target. Ambush them in confined spaces. Counterattack whenever possible. Aurelian realized all too well his own penchant for monuments and clever engineering had thrown away those advantages, leaving his soldiers to bear the result of his folly. I let them scout and prepare unhindered and then stood up and took the axe in the neck, just like a Roman pig… Two months! How can I hold Alexandria for two more months?
He needed thaumaturges far more powerful than Rome had ever produced to meet the Persian and Arab priests on even terms. I need the gods, or ancient heroes, at my side. But I will get nothing.
The prince looked around. There were no gods in evidence, only a rambling farmhouse filled with men sleeping like the dead, worn down past endurance by an endless succession of losing battles. His mind was still grappling with the enormity of his brother's decision. Aurelian had never expected Galen to make the "Emperor's choice" with his life! The roiling pain in his stomach faded, overshadowed by a vast emptiness in his chest.
"Two months, then." Aurelian pushed himself upright. He felt dizzy. The road was empty, the last of the First Minerva's cohorts having marched past to take up positions down the road. "Sixty days."
His mouth was dry, but Aurelian went looking for the cooks to see if they'd managed to get a fire going in the kitchen grate. The prospect of hot food-even only barley gruel-was enough to keep him awake and moving and alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Oasis of Siwa, West of Alexandria
Under a twilit sky, a lone pillar rose from the sand, three faces worn smooth by the wind. The fourth side, facing the north, retained shallow outlines of hawk-headed men and cranes and kilted servants bowing down before a sun-crowned king. Thyatis roused herself as her camel ambled past, dragging the corner of her kaffiyeh away from a parched mouth. Her lips were dry and cracked, mouth foul with the taste of salt and week-old grime. At least the sun had set, releasing them from the torment of its blazing furnace. The night wind was rising and cooler air pricked her to alertness.
"Quietly now," she called to the others riding behind her. The camels snorted in response, but the rest of the Roman party was too thirsty and exhausted to speak. Thyatis slipped a leather cord from the crossbar of her spatha freeing the long blade for a swift draw. Her armor was tied in a bundle to the high-cantled saddle behind her. Riding without close-fitting mail heavy on her shoulders and chest felt strange, but the heat in the open desert was only bearable in loose robes.