"Endures?" Martina made a face, the pink tip of her tongue flashing between snowy teeth. "We will not endure, we will rejoice in limitless days! We will be free from death, disease, age… every plague and plight of men. Forever."
The old Roman said nothing, watching her preen and laugh, filled with the prospect of endless joy. The Empress' face glowed with a vast, consuming delight and he felt old, very old. At the same time, he suppressed a shudder of atavistic fear.
Why did our prince fashion a new Alais from the clay of shy Martina?
— |-
Galen, Emperor of the West, protector of the East, ran both hands through lank, dark hair. His usually sharp brown eyes were dull with fatigue. Tiny flames reflected in each pupil and his skin shone a sickly green in the radiance of the telecast. He leaned on a narrow table, staring into the depths of the whirling device, attention wholly upon flickering, shrike-quick visions passing before him.
Two scribeswomen watched by his side, one sketching the revealed scene on papyrus sheets with a hard stick of charcoal, the other scribbling notes as fast as she could.
"There." Galen coughed, pressing the back of a hand across his lips. He gestured to a pair of thaumaturges sitting beside the telecast, faces tense with effort. "There beside the road, there is a bivouac… magnify those tents."
The disk of fire flared, point of view swinging wildly from on high-where the outline of a great city was revealed on a peninsula dappled with shadow and the failing light of the sun-down past towering clouds of smoke, over battlements and ramparts strewn with the dead and wounded, past a sandstone tower blackened by fire and across trampled pastures. Tents swelled in the gleaming disk, and Galen looked down upon cohorts of men sprawled in exhaustion across stubbled fields and farmyards. Cook fires shone against encroaching night, cooks busy filling kettles of grain mash. Then tents appeared, glowing softly by lamplight. Banners stood limp in humid night air, but the Emperor saw a brace of black chargers pawing the earth, eager for grain.
"Yes," Galen hissed in satisfaction. "The largest tent, show me inside!"
"My lord! We dare not!" Beside the massive block of stone holding the telecast, one of the thaumaturges guiding the device looked up, long old face white with strain. "He is nearby."
Galen looked back to the disc, frowning, then saw the faint outlines of men crouched outside the tent, nearly invisible in the falling twilight. Their long pigtails and flat, sharp cheekbones could still be made out. "Huns." The Emperor cursed. "The sorcerer's bodyguards. Very well, draw back and show me the army camps instead."
Again, the vision changed, rushing back into the darkening air. A vast array of tents, campfires, wagons, men marching along muddy roads filled his vision. "Steady there," Galen said, turning to the clerks at his side. "Can you make a count of the campfires and tents, while light remains?"
The women nodded, though their faces were puffy with fatigue and dark circles smudged their eyes. "Yes, Lord and God."
"Thank you." He squeezed the gray-haired one's shoulder. "When does your relief-"
The double doors to the old library swung wide, hinges groaning in protest. Galen looked up, surprised, his heart sinking in anticipation of dreadful news-was there any other kind? — then he breathed a sigh of relief. "Maxian!" He stepped towards his brother. "How was Capri?"
"What has happened?" The prince's face was taut with fear as he brushed his brother's welcoming hand aside. Maxian stared into the wavering vision burning inside the ring of the telecast. "Is this Egypt? Why is it so dark?"
Galen turned, caught short by Maxian's angry demands. "Yes, this is Egypt," he said in a measured voice. "The sun is setting."
The prince did not look at his brother, all attention focused on pinpoints of light scattered in deep shadow. Sunlight still gleamed on a few spires rising from the smoke-fogged warren of Alexandria. The Nile channels gleamed pewter, beginning to catch starlight in their waters.
"Show me Caesar Aurelian," Maxian commanded, raising a hand. A faint sound, like a ringing bell, hung in the air. The two thaumaturges yelped in alarm, starting wild-eyed from their couches. The disk blazed blue-white, flooding the room, forcing Galen to turn his head, gritting his teeth in pain. Both of the scribes cried out in surprise.
The Emperor blinked, then opened his eyes to a suddenly darkened room. He whistled in surprise. The telecast looked upon Aurelian, his red beard tangled and shining with sweat, mouth moving soundlessly. The stocky prince was in a tent hung with lamps, new wrinkles around his eyes, hands moving in sharp gestures. A crowd of Roman officers stood around a campaign table littered with maps. Aurelian turned, fist clenched, his face blazing with purpose.
"He lives," Maxian said, relief plain in his voice. He brushed sweat from his brow.
"He does." Galen waved the clerks out of the room. Both women tiptoed away. The thaumaturges looked to the Emperor for guidance and he tilted his head towards the door. They fled. "Maxian, our Horse is fine. There was a battle today, but-all things considered-it went well. Very well."
Maxian turned to his brother, a ghastly expression on his face. "I dreamed… I dreamed he was dead. His face was pale, blood streaked the water, lapping over him…"
"Nothing has happened to our Horse," Galen said firmly, taking Maxian's shoulders in hand. "Nothing."
Shoulders slumping in relief, Maxian sat heavily on the table. Behind him, the vision of his brother continued to declaim, now indicating the maps with a stubby finger. The officers leaned close, faces intent on the diagrams.
"I couldn't sleep," Maxian said softly, avoiding Galen's eyes. His right hand batted at the air beside his ear. "Voices were whispering, telling me things-they said Horse was dead, cut down, lungs filling with water-and I could do nothing. Everything was in ruins…"
"It's not true," Galen said, managing a very tired smile. "But I have the same dreams, when I try to sleep, filled with disaster and calamity." He rubbed his eyes. "In truth, this battle today was the first good news in weeks."
"I should be there," Maxian said, sitting up straighter. He glared at his brother. "The Persian sorcerer is there, isn't he?" The prince turned to the telecast, taking obvious comfort from the sight of Aurelian in good health. "Show me the enemy," he said in a commanding voice.
"No!" Galen lunged forward, then pulled himself up short. I can't control the cursed thing with my fists… "Maxian-if we can see him, he can see us!"
The scene shifted with dizzying speed, flashing over flat-roofed buildings-a towering wall-men marching along a rampart studded with stakes and towers, winging over trampled grass and boggy ground. Maxian grimaced, looking pained. Galen made a halfhearted gesture at the disc. The Persian camp swelled into view, tired, curly-bearded faces flashing past.
"Please, Max, they don't know we can watch them!"
Growling in disgust, Maxian sketched a sign in the air and the disk abruptly went dark. A whining hum skittered down, then bronze clattered on stone as the sphere of fire hissed into silence. A low, ringing tone bounced and jangled from the ceiling as the last, innermost gear rattled from side to side, then lay still.
"Your secret is safe." Maxian's voice was surly and the prince drew himself up, lips curled in almost a snarl. "And I am safe too, trapped here in Rome, while our soldiers bleed in some Egyptian field, and my brother tries to hold back sorcery with nothing but mortal bone and muscle!"