"Ha!" Maxian's laugh was a sharp, abrupt bark. Galen fell silent, surprised. The prince rose, lean face a pale streak against the dark colors of his cloak and tunic. "Would that be wise? Brother-you are my sworn Emperor and blood of my blood-but you are becoming witless in advanced age!"
Galen flinched from the cutting tone, then his face settled into granite. "What do you mean?"
"Egypt is lost!" Maxian's hand cut the air in a ferocious blow. "Consider the Persian sorcerer's skill-he cannot send his army of the dead a great distance-but nothing stops him from giving them life again if our army marches into his hands! You are counting living men, thinking we might muster equal numbers, but we cannot!" The prince's face twisted into such an expression of rage and disgust even old Gaius drew back. "You sacrificed fifty thousand men to buy a month's time-yet if we strike against Egypt-we will fight those same six Legions! Every fallen man is now a Persian soldier, one who does not need pay, food, wine, oil or even a centurion's boot up his backside to fight." Maxian stared around the table, contempt and grief mixing in equal measure on his young face. "We have entered a terrible new world and you will be lost if you try a familiar guide or map to find your way."
The Emperor grasped the back of the chair next to him, exhausted mind awhirl with hideous visions. "I… I had not thought of that." Galen's voice was a barely audible whisper.
"No," Maxian said, casting a pitying glare at his brother. "You had not. No one did."
"What… what do we do, then?" Anastasia managed to speak, though she too had grown pale. Only Martina remained unmoved, watching her husband with a sly smile on her face, long fingers playing in russet curls.
"The Persian sorcerer and his servants," Maxian said frankly, "must be destroyed as soon as possible. Without them, the Persian army will be only living men again and they our soldiers can defeat." He flashed a grim smile, holding his brother's eyes. "Our old Horse could not match them, save in the strength of his heart and indomitable will, but I will make good his sacrifice. We will watch the enemy with our hidden Eye and when the sorcerer moves away from Egypt-and he will, I am sure-I will be waiting."
"No…" Galen started to speak, but Maxian gave him such a quelling look the Emperor fell silent.
"I will find him and destroy him." The prince's voice cut like a flensing knife stripping meat from the fat. "I know what must be done. I have an idea of how it might be done. This is the business of the custos magus imperium and you all would do well to leave these matters to those who have some comprehension of the powers at work."
No one looked up as Galen entered his offices on the northern side of the Palatine. The Emperor paused inside the doorway, surveying rows of writing tables and clerks hunched industriously over them. A soft, pervasive scratching sound lent a familiar, comfortable air. Even Nilos pretended ignorance of his presence, though Galen was sure the first secretary had not missed the sound of boots marching in the hall or the heavy wooden panel creaking open. The Greek was concentrating furiously on some letter on his copying stand, keeping his eyes averted from the door and his master's face.
Galen could not manage a smile at their painful circumspection. Am I a ghost, then? Reduced to transparency, even in my own home? Ah, but I must look like a spirit-drawn, lifeless, haggard-with only torment hiding behind my poor mask of a face.
The Emperor crossed the room, finding the effort of walking almost too much to manage. Every muscle felt sore, as if he'd ridden for days over bad ground. He squeezed Nilos' shoulder in passing, then closed the inner doors behind him.
Two walls pierced by broad windows let in a flood of cool northern light. A marble-topped desk made an L-shape, though the smooth gray Cosian slab was invisible beneath such a confusion of parchments, scrolls, inkstands and quills that Galen wondered if the stone retained any of its subtle color. Back creaking, he lifted a fresh set of letters and edicts from his seat, dumping them among their disorderly fellows. Galen slumped in the camp chair, leaning his forehead-which seemed so hot, like the air simmering over the forum-against the back of his hand.
Maxian's voice rang harsh in his memories. Galen was not blind enough to deny the truth of his brother's words, though their disparaging tone cut him to the quick. I am lost, he thought, mood darkening as a shrill voice in his head recounted a litany of missteps and disasters. I do not grasp the abilities or strengths of our enemy-not well enough to overcome them. A loathing smile twitched on his lips. And dear old Gaius Julius does no better. We are both artifacts, out of our depth, passed by in the rush of time and events.
He missed Aurelian-not just for his solid, cheerful presence-but for the surety the big red beard gave Galen's world. A pillar, a mountain, a sure strength at his hand, someone to trust, someone to confide in… Maxian's sunny complement. But now only we two remain, he thought morosely, two brothers too much alike to keep their quick tongues to themselves, without the moderating influence of…
Galen pressed the palms of his hands over both eyes, trying to blot out beloved memories. The splitting pain of his headaches, at least, had receded, but now he was left with an enormous emptiness that captured every spare thought. "Enough of this," he said aloud, trying to force his mind onto a useful path. The Emperor squinted at the piles of papers.
"What to do?" Galen rubbed his jaw, realizing the muscles were tight as a drum. "Let us say my dear brother does have a way to defeat the Persian monster… then we will still have to fight Shahr-Baraz and his Immortals and these damned Arabs and Greeks." The Emperor looked at the southern wall of his office, where a stitched parchment sheet held a carefully drawn map of the Empire. His eye was drawn to Constantinople. A sense of neglected business tickled. "Ah-Alexandros had best not sail down to Egypt now! He'll put his head in the noose for sure. Nilos! Get in here!"
The door opened slowly, the Greek peeking with a wary expression on his face. Seeing a familiar, irritated expression on the Emperor's face, the secretary ventured a faint smile. "Yes, Lord and God."
Galen glared at the mess, scratching his head. "Help me find the latest reports from the fleet, and from comes Alexandros and his Legion."
"Here, sir." Nilos closed the door softly, then rummaged through the debris around the edge of the desk. After a moment, he excavated a packet of letters stamped with the seal of the cursus publicus and bound in dark green-and-red twine. The Greek dragged over a chair, setting a hamper filled with tax receipts on the floor. "This one-" he passed over a single sheet "-is from Alexandros, arrived just two days ago. And these-" A heavier packet, stained with some dark sauce, filled Galen's outstretched hand. "-arrived today from Tarentum."
"You've read them?" The Emperor raised an eyebrow, untying the fleet dispatch.
"No, Lord and God." Nilos managed a wry smile. "We've just been trying to keep things sorted."
Galen nodded absently, scanning through the listings of ships and men and supplies. He flipped to the last page, where a scrawled note occupied the bottom of the sheet. As he did, the Emperor's brow furrowed and he looked up at Nilos. "The fleet has moved to Dyrrachium in Epirus? Why?"
Nilos' eyebrows raised, and he shook his head. "I don't know, Lord and God. Who ordered them there?"
Galen looked back down at the page, brow darkening. "As per 'your orders,' this says. I sent no order… did you, or one of the tribunes?"