Alexandros shook his head, disbelief plain upon his noble face. His thought was clear to Krista, who had relaxed a little. The youth knew in his heart of hearts that the only prize, the only goal, was to rule and to command the world. The Macedonian bowed insolently and then stalked out of the room. The Prince stared after him, then turned to Gaius Julius. "Ensure that he is ready for the ceremony tonight. We are prepared. We will make the throw."
The storm crawled down over the hills, sending rain and wind in front of it. On the hillside above the old, decaying villa, the trees shook and bent under the force of the wind, creaking and groaning. Icy rain spilled down between the trunks, spattering on the thick loam under the limbs. In the near darkness, now that the storm had covered the sun, two men crouched in the lee of a snag. Even here, where they were out of the wind, they could feel the temperature dropping rapidly. Thick woolen cloaks and padded hauberks kept them warm for the moment, but one of them was pulling on thick gloves to keep some feeling in his fingers.
"This is a storm like on the grasslands north of the Azov," the taller man shouted over the whistling roar of the wind. "Comes up out of nowhere and leaves frozen men and horses behind."
The other, shorter man nodded and peered between the thick trunks of the trees down at the villa in the clearing below. He had a weathered tan face, with a short stubble of beard, a bald pate, and a stubby nose. He was stocky and thick-wristed, with a wrestler's arms. Under the cloak he wore a shirt of thick iron rings over a heavy woolen undershirt. A legionary's short sword was strapped to his belt along with knives and pouches of well-worn leather. The taller man at his side had long, curly hair tied behind his head, an aquiline nose, and liquid brown eyes. Unlike his companion, he was well armed with a long cavalry sword- the spatha of the Eastern Empire- and a bow, enclosed in a gorytos or bow case of stiff leather, was strapped to his back along with a wooden case for black-fletched arrows. Their horses were hidden behind them, deeper in the hazel and witchberry bush that covered the hill.
"Can you see anything?" The taller man was still shouting, trying to make himself heard over the din of the trees being lashed by the storm. The rain began to fall heavily, and sight of the villa disappeared into a dark mist of falling water and blowing leaves. " Nikos?"
The shorter man shook his head, and his fingers made signs in the air. The taller man frowned, trying to follow the quick succession of signs. After a moment, and after Nikos repeated them, he made out:
The lights have gone out. And then, If the others do not arrive quickly, we will go in ourselves.
The tall man frowned at that, but made no answer. They had been expecting their backup for three hours, but the other Khazars and the maniple of legionaries that the Duchess had borrowed from the military camp north of the capital had yet to appear. Some deviltry was at work down in the ancient ruin. Their spy inside had only said that something was in the offing, something against the Emperor. Something that would happen tonight.
Jusuf, Prince of the Khazar people, settled himself back down in the shelter of the tree. The Illyrian, Nikos, continued to watch and wait. The storm howled, and small branches, broken from the crown of the trees, began to rattle through the canopy. Lightning flared in the heavens, sending a brief brilliant flash through the forest. Below, roof tiles shattered under the blow, sizzling and crackling with the heat of the stroke. The storm was getting worse.
At the center of the chamber, within the boundary of gold and silver, the Prince stood at the head of the marble table, a silk bag held reverently in his hands. He raised the bag, still tied closed with purple string, toward the northern corner of the room. As he did so the chanting of the Nabateans died, dwindling away to a low, almost inaudible mutter. The Prince turned and raised the bag toward the east and as he did so, the droning sound from the Persians faded away. He turned to the south, and the Walachs fell silent, and last to the west, where even the last low mutter of the Nabateans ceased.
"This is the body of our Emperor," Maxian declared to the still air. Even the odd mist along the ceiling had stilled, ceasing its constantly roiling movement. "This is the body of the state, of the Senate, of the people, and of the city of Rome. Praise him, our Emperor, from whom all order and justice flow."
Maxian bent over the marble table and took the bag in his left hand. With a quick movement he unknotted the string with his right hand and took the cord in his teeth. Carefully, he opened the top of the bag and shook it lightly to break up any clumps that might have formed inside. On the tabletop, the outline of a man with arms at his sides had been marked in purple chalk. The Prince's forehead creased in concentration, and he bowed his head, holding the open bag in front of him cupped in both hands. His eyes closed.
Krista started nervously and cocked her head. Some sound trembled in the air, just past hearing. A thin hum filtered out of the stones under her feet, and the shimmering echo of a distant gong. The sound rose, pulsing like a beating heart, making the air quiver in anticipation. The sound of horns rang, and the wail of the bucina- all faint, like the memory of some ancient battle renewed by the light of a dying sun- then a vague tremor of men's voices raised in a thunderous shout. Krista's head snapped around, her eyes wide in alarm, and a flickering glow of ultraviolet and static blue washed over her face.
Power crackled in the air around the Prince, a slow dance of standing lightning flaring between the Prince and his three companions. The air shifted, wind rising up and blowing past Krista, rushing out the door of the chamber. The Nabateans and Persians and Walachs bowed their foreheads to the paving stones of the floor and- almost unheard over the building roar of lightning and thunder that growled at the center of the room- they began to chant again.
The Prince forced his hands apart, crackling and burning with crawling rivers of red and electric blue. His eyes were black pits, thrown in sharp relief by the flare of light that streamed out of his hands. The bag disintegrated, but the pale ashy dust inside did not. Wind caught at it and swirled it up, whipping the dust this way and that. The Prince's mouth moved, speaking a single word.
The air boomed, and Krista found herself on her knees, gasping for breath, one hand skinned on the stone floor, reaching for some support. At her fingertip a lead cone rattled, almost unbalanced. A smear of blood marked the paving stone. The green mist rushed away, spilling through the doorway in flight, and the ceiling, now revealed, seemed to recede into an infinite distance.
The dust whirled in a broad circle over the marble surface, still just contained by the boundary of gold and lead that circumscribed the table and the Prince. Maxian, his face marked with concentration, pushed his hands against the air, drawing them farther and farther apart.
Krista, crouched within the pentacle by the door, could hear his voice at a great distance, speaking like a god in the mountains, a vast and enormous sound.
"We honor and obey our Lord, the Emperor of all Rome, the master of the world."
The dust whirled even faster, but now grains of it, sparkling in the shuddering light, flashed out of the stream and snapped to the tabletop. One by one, the grains flew to lie within the outline of the man marked on the marble. One by one, they rushed together, piling higher and higher.
Krista squinted. It was hard to see with the shimmering heat haze in the air and the rippling lightning that still danced between the three men. Gaius Julius and Alexandros seemed to be screaming, or crying out, but she could not hear their voices, only that of the Prince. Abdmachus had only slumped to one side, dull eyes staring straight ahead.