Anastasia stirred, sitting up straight. She was tired too. "We have done well with the telecast, my lord. The work is draining for the thaumaturges assisting us, but the results are spectacular." She made a wry smile, clasping her hands. "Though the visions do not always show us what we desire to see. Not all the time, at least. First-the comes Alexandros has advanced within sight of Constantinople-and it seems, if we count fire pits and tents aright, the armies of the Avar khagan have decamped. They are probably already back in Moesia by now."
"Really?" Galen sat up straighter himself. "How can you tell?"
Anastasia tried to maintain a neutral expression, but it was very difficult to keep a smirk from her lips. She inclined her head towards Gaius Julius, who was sitting quietly beside the prince, being unobtrusive. "A famous Roman historian once described the encampment practices of the barbarians, finding them as unique to a people-between, say, the noble Carnutes and the savage Belgae-as costume or language. In my experience this holds true for the camps of the Romans-unmistakably orderly when viewed from above-the Persians and even the Avars. A Persian army is encamped within the ruins of Constantinople and Alexandros' without. There are no Avar camps-distinguished, I must say, by admirable efficiency and professionalism, as well as a peculiar ringed shape-within a hundred miles."
The old Roman did not respond. He did not even blink at the gibe.
"And Egypt?" Galen leaned forward, his fingers toying with the reed stylus.
"Prince Aurelian's defenses are being tested," Anastasia said, pursing her full lips. Today they were lightly brushed with a dark madder hue. The powders and paints around her eyes were very light, barely disguising puffy skin and incipient wrinkles. Indeed, her clothing was very restrained, even somber. Yet she had discarded the cloak of mourning and a subtle gleam of fine gold shone at her neck and adorned her hair. "The Persians have advanced across the desert of Sinai with great speed. A fleet-actually, two fleets-accompany them. One flotilla of galleys stands offshore at a distance, watching for our own ships. A large number of barges or large rafts are drawn up on the beaches."
"Supplies?" Gaius Julius spoke for the first time. "Water?"
"Yes." The Duchess nodded. "Prince Aurelian built his line of defense to deny an attacker access to fresh water. The swamps, bogs and streams in front of his fortifications have been drained. Yet, the Persians foresaw this-they are shipping barrels of water down from Gazzah on their barges. They will be thirsty, but they will not perish."
Galen nodded, smoothing his hair back. "Unfortunately, they are professionals. Have you found the army that fought at Constantinople?"
"No." Anastasia shrugged. "The telecast can only see one thing at a time. The world is vast. Since we know it does not face Alexandros in Thrace, and cannot have fit on their fleet, I believe the 'missing' army is crossing Anatolia overland, heading back to Persia." She looked at the Emperor, who seemed as displeased as ever. "We think, from what we see, the army before Pelusium is mostly composed of the rebellious Greeks, their Arab allies and new contingents from the east. I think-and this is only a conjecture, my lord-the Persians have emptied their treasury, hiring large numbers of Turks, Sogdians and Indians to supplement their forces."
"Have you informed Aurelian of this?" The reed tapped rapidly on the tabletop.
"We have," Anastasia said, smiling at the absurdity of the situation, "dispatched a courier from Ostia with all this news. With good winds, the ship will be in Pelusium port in three weeks, more likely four. What we see today, he will know in a month. Unless, of course, he learns at spearpoint…"
"Ahhh…" Galen snarled and the reed snapped in half in his fist. "Don't we have any faster way to send him this news?" The Emperor glared at Maxian. "Can a thaumaturge in Rome send a message to one in Pelusium, or Alexandria, today?"
"Yes…" Maxian smirked a little. "A fire-drake could carry the message swiftly!" The prince ducked as another stylus flipped past his head. "Peace, brother! Peace! I believe the Legion thaumaturges have a mechanism of their own, whereby two mages, each known to the other, with matching scrying bowls, can communicate."
"Like the telecast pairs?" Galen raised an eyebrow. "Could we make another telecast? Place one in Egypt with Aurelian? Speak with him as if he stood in this room?"
"That is impossible-" Anastasia began, teeth clenched.
"Wait," Maxian said, raising a hand to interrupt her. A faint smile played upon his lips. Anastasia was suddenly sure the prince had been waiting for this turn in the conversation. "There is something… Gaius, hand me my bag."
The old Roman grunted, lifting up a battered old leather bag still marked with the caduceus of the Asklepion. The prince dug around inside, rustling papers and bits of metal. Then, with a triumphant smile, he drew out a torn, frayed section of papyrus. Part of a diagram was sketched on the paper in faded ink. Anastasia felt a chill steal over her, seeing the delicate way the prince held the ancient page. The design seemed familiar to her. Oh goddess, curse these men with forgetfulness, strike sight from their eyes…
"Yes," Maxian said smugly, smoothing out the papyrus. "Martina found this in a collection of broken, incomplete scrolls sent back to Rome during the time of the Divine Augustus. I've had her going through everything about the ancients we could find, trying to find some mention of that Persian sorcerer. Something useful, you know…" The prince set the scrap of paper on the tabletop, squinting down at lines of ancient symbols. "This caught her eye, the design, the wheels within wheels. It's old Egyptian, almost unreadable, just the part of a page included in another scroll written by one of the notorious Kleopatra's secretaries."
Maxian looked up, grinning, and the exhaustion in his face was gone, swept away by a merry sparkle in his eyes. "But I know a trick." He pressed his palms together over the papyrus, closing his eyes. Then he opened his hands slowly, palm to palm. Wind tugged at Anastasia's hair and a cloud of dust hissed together over the tabletop. Sighing, dust and dirt, even one of the apple cores, leapt between the prince's hands. There was a soft flash and when Anastasia blinked tears away, the sheet of papyrus lay on the tabletop, crisp and new, complete, shining with black ink.
"There," Maxian said, lifting the roll by the corners. Perfectly clear in the center of the paper was an intricate drawing of a device, wheels within wheels, with gears and arcing sections. The Duchess felt very cold, looking upon a well-drawn picture of a telecast. She held her breath, wondering what disastrous secrets were written on the reborn page.
"'In Nemathapi's name,'" the prince read, slowly, puzzling out the hieroglyphs. He squinted, though the symbols were very clear. "'I, Menes, scribe of the-must be kingdom-write these words. Here I have drawn a-um-picture.'" Maxian paused, leaning back. For a moment, watching him, Anastasia was struck by an impression the prince was listening to something. "'A picture of the king's guardian,'" Maxian began again, and now his voice was assured and the translation swift. "'Uraeus, the eye of Horus the Avenger. Even as the god was hewn into pieces by his enemy, so is the eye divided into seven parts.'"
Anastasia controlled herself, keeping from flinching or gasping aloud only by digging her nails into her palm. Surely there would be a line of sharp bruises in the morning. Fragmentary thoughts flashed wildly through her mind, then she quelled them all. Without moving her head, she marked the places of each man in the room. I could kill Galen, she realized with a sick, helpless feeling. But Gaius is already dead and Maxian beyond my power to harm. Then the Praetorians would rush in and my life spill out on the tile.