"What!" Even Gaius Julius was on his feet, fists on the table. Alexandros was fairly dancing from foot to foot. "After all this, you say we will do nothing?"
"I do," the Prince said, eyeing the two men. He sighed and turned back to them. "Gaius Julius, your intuition was right. Augustus put Khamun to the task of safeguarding his reign by devising an Oath that would bind the common soldier directly to the Emperor. Upon reflection, he demanded an extension of that guard to include his office and his heirs as well. The defection of the eastern Legions to Antony during their little war must have galled him! Khamun will have been put to death immediately afterward, I suppose. He was a superlative architect, a true master of the art."
"And so?" Gaius Julius moved around the table to stand by Alexandros. The hairs on the backs of his arms were standing up. The Prince seemed strange, and Gaius felt danger in the air around him. "What does all that mean to us?"
"It means, Gaius, that while the Emperor lives, the State endures. If I am to throw down the lattices of forms that are the core of this thing, I shall have to murder my brother and take his mantle as my own."
The words hung in the air of the library. Maxian turned again to leave, but Alexandros suddenly stepped forward and grasped the Prince by his arm. "Then do it! Man, you are to be a king! Flinching from blood will not make it easier. Trust me, I know full well the cost of Empire- have I not born it myself, on the bodies of my brothers and my father? If your brother must die to succor your people, is his single death not worth the freedom of millions?"
Maxian wrenched his arm from the Macedonians, an angry look settling over his face. "No," snapped the Prince, his voice hot. "It is not worth it. I am putting this thing aside. This I resolved today, on the mountaintop, and this"- he raised the book up- "only makes my will the surer. I have killed, murdered, maimed in the pursuit of this, and it is not worth it!"
Gaius felt the full chill of nearing death wash over him. It was worse than the hot shock of the blood-fire in battle, or the whisper of a Gaulish axe flying past his head. He remembered dank, close woods and the howling of his enemies. He gripped a nearby chair and coughed. Alexandros turned, and Gaius caught his eye with a sharp glare.
"Lord Prince, if this is your will, so be it. But what of us? You gave us life again and purpose. Will you put us aside now, like discarded toys after the gifting feast?"
Maxian sighed, weary, and raised a hand in dismissal. "Go. I will not withdraw the power that gives you motion. Find your own way in the world." Then he was gone, his charcoal cloak blending with the dark corridor and the rapof his boots echoing on the square tiles. When it faded, Gaius Julius turned to Alexandros.
"Well, I believe that we have reached a time of parting from these dear friends." The old Roman smiled, and his teeth were very bright in the dim light. Alexandros shook his shaggy curls away from his eyes, then smoothed it back with a trim muscular hand. Gaius touched the disk the Macedonian wore around his neck on a copper chain.
"We shall have to test these," he said, laughter bubbling in his voice. "Should they work-"
"We shall find a new world before us," finished Alexandros, and he, too, was smiling.
"And where will you go, my lad?" Gaius was already considering what to take from the villa. Gold first, of course, as much as he could find. Then fine horses and some of the local wine.
"To Rome, old man, where else?" Alexandros seemed to have settled the nervous energy that had filled him before. Now his mind was waking, rising up from the lulling doze it had assumed for the time when the Prince was his master.
"To Rome, then." The two men clasped forearms and bowed, one to the other. "To Rome."
Caesarea Maritima, the Coast of Judea
Terns wheeled and swooped over the water, lazing through the afternoon sky. The air shimmered with thermals rising from the marble docks of the harbor. Nicholas tramped down the gangway of the Tyrean coaster, his kit bag slung over one shoulder and his shirt halfundone. The sky and sun seemed unnaturally bright and the glare of gleaming sandstone quays and dockside buildings hurt his eyes. The harbor of the city was justly renowned throughout the Mare Internum for its smart appointments and the engineering marvel that it represented- having been built on an otherwise barren and useless shore.
For some reason the port was nearly empty of ships, so the coaster had found a tie-up close to the tall white shape of the Pharos at the southern end of the docks. Vladimir groaned behind him; the Walach hated bright sun even worse than Nicholas did. Only Dwyrin seemed happy. Despite moping over some sprig of a girl for the last week, this landfall had made him positively cheery.
"Ah: warm at last!" Dwyrin stretched his arms and grinned, viewing the sand dunes and dusty brown hills that rose up behind the port with delight. Nicholas shook his head in dismay- he had thought that Greece was hot, but this? It was still the edge of spring but the air shimmered with heat like the haze over a hot griddle pan. What would it be like in full summer?
"Is it usually like this?" There was an aggrieved tone in Vladimir's voice. He was squinting ferociously.
Dwyrin nodded, breathing deep of the arid desert air. "It is. This is a fine day, in fact. Look at that sky! I'd almost forgotten how blue it can be: Don't worry, Vlad, you'll love it here!"
"Of course," snarled the Walach, "just as soon as my eyeballs dry up and I go blind."
Dwyrin clapped Vladimir on the shoulder in a companionable way. "Don' t fret so," he said. "Just drink lots of water."
"Water?" Nicholas turned from his survey of the tan-and-white warehouses, offices, and boat sheds. "Is it fit to drink? Wouldn't we be safer with wine?"
The Hibernian shrugged and hitched his carry bag upon his shoulder. Nicholas saw that the boy had produced an evil-looking straw hat from somewhere and had crammed it down over his long red braids. He made a note to get one too. The sun was already burning on the back of his neck.
"Wine makes you thirstier. The water has a funny taste, but better than in Constantinople. Take it from me, Centurion, you don't want to go short of aqua in these parts."
"Fair enough. Let's find some lodgings and our new comrades."
Vladimir led off, making a beeline for a series of buildings stacked in a row along the road that wound out of the port side. Even from here, Nicholas could see the garish sign boards and ornamental wooden statues that advertised strong drink, cheap food, and sympathetic women. He sighed and hurried up. They needed a billet in the Legion camp, not a doss-house by the docks. The thought made him itch already.
Dwyrin started whistling a tune. By his estimation, if they made their way to this Aelia Capitolina, they would be only a week's ride from Damascus. He guessed that Zoe would wind up there if it was true that her city was destroyed. She would need supplies and food and water- what better place to get them?
"You're the First Century, Ninth Cohort, Sixth Ferrata?" Nicholas unfolded the briefing sheet and turned it over so he could read the names. "Gnaeus Parsos commanding?"
He looked up, his eyes running over the crowd of men that had risen from their bunks when he had rapped on the door to the barracks building. By his count there were nearly the hundred the Magister Militatum's Office had promised, which surprised him. The Ferrata had just been posted back to Judea from the war against Persia and would not have had time to replace any men lost or invalided out of service. He was perplexed by the men he saw- they were all dark-haired and Latin looking, with hardly a blond or redhead among them. Not the usual run of Eastern troops. True, they seemed stout fellows with muscular frames and thick wrists, but in the brief moment he had been in the doorway he had seen a marked lack of scars, missing ears, broken noses, or any of the other impedimenta that Legion soldiers tended to acquire. They weren't even particularly tan and he expected that veterans of the Ferrata, which had been garrisoning the Judean frontier for almost four hundred years, would have caught a little sun.