He stopped, hard, when he reached the two Palmyrenes. Odenathus was staring upat him with the face of a dead man, bleached almost white, his eyes stunned. The young man sat down heavily, staring sightlessly at Dwyrin. The Hibernian turned, his mouth half open in surprise, and flinched back from the pure brilliant hatred in Zoe's eyes.
The young woman staggered up, one hand against the wall, the other curled into a claw. "Bastard Roman!" Her voice cut the early dawn stillness like a knife digging into flesh. "Your blessed Empire has destroyed us, every single one of us!"
"What?" Dwyrin managed to blurt before Zoe crossed the space between them and slammed her fist into the side of his head with all her strength. Pain blossomed from his ear, and he staggered back.
"Filth-eating Roman pig!" Another punch slammed into his throat and he rolled, gasping for breath. She pounced on him, fists raining down, cracking against his ribs. He scrambled away, breaking free, and sprang up, his face flushed with anger, his own fists raised. Zoe circled, howling insults at him, her entire body electric with rage. She jumped in and Dwyrin blocked her strike frantically, pushing her away. She spun, kicking at his knee and he barely skipped back in time.
"Irrumator! I will kill you and everyone who looks like you, you: urk!"
Odenathus, tears streaming down his face, tackled his cousin from behind, and they crashed to the cobblestones together.
"Help me!" Odenathus shouted at Dwyrin as Zoe thrashed and squirmed like a marsh eel under him. Dwyrin piled on, trying to pin the woman's legs. There was a flurry of arms and knees and a searing pain as she bit him. Dwyrin managed to push a wad of cloth between her teeth, and then they had her pinned down. Odenathus was gasping for air, barely able to speak for the tears that were dripping from his face.
"What: what is it?" Dwyrin was winded, too, and his head was still ringing like a temple gong.
"Oh, my friend, I cannot believe it: our city has been destroyed."
Dwyrin stared at the shock and horror on his friend's face, barely comprehending what he was saying. "Destroyed? How- I mean, who? The Persians? Not the Empire!"
"I don't know, that was all that she said- but I saw it in her face; everyone is dead: my mother, my father, my sisters, everyone I grew upwith, or knew: " Odenathus began crying then, and Dwyrin could only hold his friend tightly, while all the pain in the world seemed to pour into them from the open sky.
It was night again, as seemed fitting. Dwyrin sat alone in front of the tent. The wagon loomed over him on one side, and the little oil lamp gleamed, shedding a wan circle of light that included him and the edge of one of the big wagon wheels. He had stopped crying with the help of nearly a gallon of wine. The rest of the cohort was in the city, spending their Persian loot and indulging in whatever desire or pleasure they harbored. The night felt very cold and empty. Both of his friends were gone. Zoe had left the same day that they had found her at the gate. Odenathus had tried to convince her to stay, if only for a few days, but she had refused to listen and had stalked out the eastern gate of the city, alone and on foot. After their brief struggle in the plaza, she had refused to look at Dwyrin, and even Odenathus seemed only marginally acceptable to her. Dwyrin had stood in the midday heat of the gate, watching her figure dwindle into the distance. Watching her go, he felt cold, even with the Syrian sun burning down on him.
Dwyrin raised his cup to his lips. The wine didn't even taste like anything anymore. The open hatred that Zoe had shown him had left its mark; he felt stunned and wounded. But there was no blood to stanch or any wound to close up. Some of the grape dribbled down his chin to stain his tunic, but he did not notice.
Odenathus had left only a few minutes ago. He had been crushed by the news, too, but had managed to struggle through and process his paperwork to leave the Imperial Army. Given the confusion in the city, it had not taken that long- only four days of waiting in the stifling heat of the government offices. He had taken his cash-out with a grim face, weighing the heavy gold coins in his hand for a long time before he turned away from the tribune's field desk. He had taken his things and Zoe's from the wagon and loaded them onto a string of heavily laden camels he had purchased in the agora of the city. Dwyrin had watched him dully, already drunk and lying in the shade of their tent. Odenathus had said nothing to him, though Dwyrin hoped that the easygoing Palmyrene did not bear him the same virulent hatred that Zoe had conceived.
Dwyrin put the cup down by the amphora. It was empty; he could tell that by the weight. The little lamp exhausted its oil and flickered out. "Do you want me to come with you?" His voice echoed in the darkness, but there was no one there. He had wanted to say this to Odenathus, but his throat had seized up and he had not. "I will, if you just ask."
The young man lay down, curling his body up against the cold desert night. Stones dug into his back, but for the moment he did not care. " We should stay together," he whispered. "We're a strong team."
High above the camp, on the soft breeze of night, an owl hunted, crossing the moon.
The Campus Martius, Rome
Gaius Julius squatted in deep shadow, a cloak of dark red wool pulled around his shoulders and falling to the ground around his boots. It was cold among the ornamental trees, but the old Roman grinned to himself in delight. Indeed, he was flexing his fingers and feeling the smooth movement of the muscles and tendons in his hands and arms. Clouds covered the sky, shrouding the sliver of moon that had been peeking over the tops of the cedars.
"What are you laughing about?" Alexandros' voice was edged with tension and excitement.
"I was thinking," Gaius whispered over his shoulder, "that when I was a living man I would be feeling creaky and old and frozen to be out here at this hour. But now? Now I feel fine! I can sense the cold, but it does not dig at my bones."
"Huh." The Macedonian did not seem impressed. The young man continued to fidget, constantly checking the tools and bags that were strapped to his body. "I can still run farther and faster than you. My grip is stronger."
Gaius Julius smiled in the darkness, hearing the utter confidence in that mellow voice. His heart tugged at him, even cold and dead as it was. Something about the golden youth drew him, subtly demanding that he follow the other blindly, even to death. The old Roman was wary and cynical and knew that he had once exerted the same influence upon others. Perhaps he wouldn't be fooled.
"True," the old Roman purred, "but you died so young and with so much left undone. Your restored body is much fitter than mine, which is old and worn out, abused by success: but even so, I do not feel the cold, and that pleases me."
Alexandros made a muttering sound and slouched down against the bole of one of the pine trees. They were crouched in hiding within the first tier of the trees. A curving road of gravel and close-fitted stones lay before them, and beyond that the looming circular shape of a great mausoleum. Across the way, a barrier of rosebushes encircled the base of the tomb. High marble walls rose up to a terrace planted with more ornamental trees- lemons and olives intertwined. Two more terraces rose above that, each sloping with green turf and bright flowers. Finally, surmounting the whole edifice, a great brick drum faced with travertine rose up, topped with a stout marble pillar and then a shining golden statue.
Gaius Julius looked up, seeing the thing glittering in the light of torches held in brick recesses at its base. His lips curled into an involuntary sneer. The sight of his so-called nephew, arm raised in benediction over the city of Rome, the crown of laurels upon his head, galled him. "Puppy:," he hissed, feeling envy and jealousy stir in his heart, bitter as wormwood.