The Dark Lord Page 4

  At the base of the ancient mound, thousands of men labored in the sun, digging with spades and mattocks in the dark earth. They made a line arcing around to the north and west, running along a low ridge marking the eastern border of the sprawling, profligate metropolis of Alexandria. In the time of the Ptolemies—the Greek dynasty that ruled Egypt before the coming of Rome—the city itself had boasted a wall of sandstone and marble. The intervening centuries, under an enduring Roman peace, saw the ancient wall engulfed by the city, then demolished block by block for building material. Now there was no rampart, no bastion, no powerful towers to hedge the city in. Only miles of villas and shops and warehouses and little gardens. There was only one gate of any size, completely surrounded by a dyer's district, and entirely useless for defense.

  Aurelian had levied sixty thousand laborers to build a line of fortifications from Pelusium at the eastern edge of the Nile delta south to the edge of the Reed Sea. Though the Roman had every confidence in his men, he was also cautious. The enemy might break through the defenses sixty miles to the east. Alexandria might be threatened.

  So nearly a hundred thousand men sweated in the blistering sun before the provincial capital, with two full Legions of Western troops to guide them. A wide ditch was being gouged from the earth, from Lake Mareotis a mile south to the shore of the Mare Internum a mile north. The earth from the excavation was being hauled in cloth bags—one to a man—up to a wide, heavy berm behind the ditch, along the crest of the ridge. A rampart thirty feet high would loom over the ditch, and it would be faced by a thicket of stakes and fitted stone. A fighting wall twelve feet high would run along the length of the rampart, with square towers jutting up every half mile.

  All the land for a half-mile before and behind the wall was being cleared; the villas knocked down, the houses broken into brick and timber, the shops emptied and demolished. Brick, mortar, stone, cut timber—Aurelian's enterprise swallowed building materials at a prodigious rate.

  The eastern horizon was a flat green line, shrouded with haze curving up into a simmering blue-gray sky. Somewhere out there, four Roman Legions were squared off against the Greek rebels and their Arab auxiliaries. Aurelian did not expect there to be a battle—the enemy army was far too small to force its way past the fortifications spidering out from Pelusium. He did not want his hand to be tipped, though, and this fool Cestius may have done just that.

  "Lord Caesar?" Aurelian turned, and sighed, seeing another messenger arrive, this one in the armor, cloak and sigils of the Eastern Empire's fleet.

  "What news?" The Western prince had little hope it was good. Then he saw the messenger's face, and felt a chill steal over him. The man was haggard, worn to the bone, with badly healed wounds on his face and arm. In his eyes, Aurelian saw a reflection of horror.

  "Phranes! Bring a medikus!" The prince took the sailor's arm and led him to a chair. The Easterner moved like a puppet, jerkily, without life or animation. Aurelian prised the message packet from his fingers. The man did not seem to notice. When one of the priests of Asklepius arrived, the sailor was carried away without complaint. Aurelian paid no mind, squatting on the ground, ignoring the surprised expressions on the faces of his staff. He took his time reading each page, cribbed in a scrawl, tightly spaced, obviously written in great haste.

  When he was done, Aurelian rose, shaking out a cramp in his leg. The sun was beginning to set, a vast bloated red sphere wallowing down through the haze and murk. Already the east was drenched in deep purple and blue as night advanced. The prince gestured for his Centurion of Engineers, then waited until old Scortius had come close enough to hear a low voice.

  "How many feet of water are behind the Reed Sea dam?" Aurelian turned away from the crowd of people waiting in the tent. Scortius raised a white eyebrow, but answered in a low voice. "Thirty feet, lord Caesar. As you planned and, frankly, the best we can manage in this flat country!"

  "Good." Aurelian's face was tight and controlled, odd for a man usually open and expressive in all his dealings. "You must be at the dam tomorrow. Take four centuries of the best men you can find—no one is to trouble our project there, no one! Let nothing—not a bird, not a dog, nothing—within sight. I will signal you, when I am ready."

  Scortius nodded, chilled by the venom in the prince's voice. Where was the affable commander? The big cheerful red bear, so beloved of his troops? "Aye, my lord. We will leave immediately."

  Aurelian turned away, striding back to his field desk. As he did, the eyes of every man in the tent turned to follow him, poised and waiting for his command. The Western prince stared down at the diagrams and notes scattered across the wooden table. Then he began putting them away—the bottles of ink, the rulers, the stacks of designs and diagrams, the small wooden models. Scribes crept up around him and took each thing away. Busy in his own mind, and concentrating on the simple task, Aurelian barely noticed them. When the field table was clear, the prince looked up.

  "Bring the priests of every temple and thaumaturgic school within a day's ride of Alexandria. I will speak with them at noon tomorrow. If a man refuses my command, which is given with the voice of the Emperor, then that man is to be slain. His second, or heir, will come instead. Do this now!"

  —|—

  Thin high clouds and an oppressive pressure in the air marked the following day. Aurelian rose before dawn and spent the morning standing at the edge of the tell, watching the fortifications rising below him with relentless speed. Slabs of basalt in twelve-by-eight-foot sections—looted from an abandoned temple on the outskirts of the city—were being placed along the fighting wall and driven home with padded mallets. The sight gave him no ease, for he could feel the wind turning to come out of the east. Phranes had forced him to choke down some food, but now the flat bread and boiled grain lay in his stomach like a ballast weight.

  "Lord Caesar?" It was Phranes again, venturing out from the great tent. "The priests have come, as you commanded. The Legion commanders are here, too."

  Aurelian did not turn around. "Has the commander of the Fleet arrived?"

  "Yes, my lord, as well as the senior captain of the Eastern ships in the harbor."

  The prince nodded, then turned and climbed back up to the tent. The space under the awnings was full, priests and soldiers and clerks packed shoulder to shoulder. Though the day was cloudy, the sun seemed much hotter than usual, making the air simmer. Slaves moved through the tight mass of men, filling cups and passing trays of pastry and cured meat. Only the space directly behind the field desk was open, and Aurelian passed through the press of men slowly, meeting the eyes of many, speaking softly to others.

  By his command, a map of the delta, carefully inked on sheets of parchment, lay open on the table.

  "I have news," he began, without preamble, looking out over the sea of faces. Everyone was sweating, even the Egyptians. "It is poor. Constantinople has fallen to Persia."

  The murmur of men speaking in low voices stilled. There was only a faint creaking of ropes and canvas. Aurelian nodded, looking from face to face.

  "This news came last night, by sea. The Eastern capital has been destroyed. The Persians, with their Greek and Avar allies, have overthrown its walls and slaughtered—yes, I say slaughtered—its citizens. The army of the East has been broken and can no longer be accounted upon the field of battle." Aurelian paused and bowed his head, placing his palms flat upon the table.

  "The Emperor Heraclius... the Emperor is dead, and his brother, the great prince Theodore, has also fallen. The Eastern fleet has been scattered and only the remains of the Western Legions, supported by Khazar and Gothic auxillia, stand between the Persian army and Greater Greece."

  Aurelian looked up and saw a cold, stunned silence had fallen over the gathering. Even the priests of the temples—usually a stoic and sullen lot—seemed surprised, even fearful. They were, however, listening very closely. The prince did not smile, though he was pleased to see that his harsh words had woken them to attentiveness. "There is m
ore. The Persians have employed the foulest sorcery to—"

  "Rubbish!" One of the priests made a loud snorting noise, sticking out his chin pugnaciously. "Roman lies! The mobehedan serve the lord of light, they would never—"

  Aurelian made a slight motion and one of the legionaries in the crowd slammed the butt of his spear into the priest's back, knocking him to the ground, gasping for breath.

  "There is no time for discussion," the prince barked at the crowd. "By the eyewitness account of soldiers and priests within the city, it is all too clear the Persians have brought a monstrous power against us. The great gates of Constantinople were toppled by something which cannot be described." He picked up the parchment and read aloud: "A storm of darkness, writhing with obscene movement—and within the city the soldiers were overwhelmed by hosts of the risen dead. Yes, the Persians own a necromancer among their number."

  Aurelian paused, letting his words hang in the air. The priests stirred, incredulous, and began to speak, their voices rising up like a flock of gulls.

  "Be quiet." The prince did not repeat himself. The priests fell silent, cowering under the stern visage of the legionaries among them. "You may read the accounts yourself, when I have finished, but I have not misled you. Know this—the Eastern Empire has fallen, its emperor dead, its army scattered, its fleet broken. Emperor Galen, Lord of the West, has placed all Eastern lands under his direct authority. You may dispute my conclusion, but I know the enemy will turn upon Egypt, and we will be sorely pressed to withstand him."

  Aurelian turned to the east, gesturing out into the murky haze and the endless green fields. "Within the month, the Nile will begin to rise. By the end of Augustus it will be in full flood, making an impassible barrier between us and the east. That leaves the enemy only two months in which to break through our lines at Pelusium. I believe he will make that effort with every power at his disposal."

  The prince turned back, a grim smile on his face. "Every power." He stabbed a thick finger at the priests. "The day has come for you to leave your temples and schools. A black tide rushes toward us and you will have to bar its passage."

  "Us?" One of the priests, a spindly little acolyte of Sebek the Crocodile, squeaked in alarm. "We are not battle magi—"

  "You will have to be. We need thaumaturges desperately. Too many have already been slain in Thrace or Syria. You will have to fill the gap and stand against the foulness Persia brings. Have you heard me? The Persians have cast aside every covenant and restriction—they will wake the dead of Egypt to destroy us. They have summoned the forbidden onto the earth to throw down their enemies! This has become a war of great powers, not just of men!"

  Aurelian's voice rose, trying to force his point across by volume. Some of the priests were nodding, ashen-faced; others spoke agitatedly among themselves. But too many of the shaven-headed men stared at him in confusion or outright disbelief.

  "Your gods," he barked, temper fraying, "demand you stand and fight! This is the oldest enemy—you may call it Set or Ahriman or Typhon—but it is the foe of all that lives! Wake up! Rouse yourselves—if we fail, if Rome fails, if you fail, then Egypt will be destroyed, as Constantinople was destroyed. The temples will be cast down in fire and ruin, the people enslaved, your own heads will be upon a stake, and death itself would be a welcome release from the torments you will suffer.

  "Know this, priests and captains: Rome will fight to the last to hold the enemy from Egypt. Without Egyptian grain, Rome will starve. If Rome fails, then Egypt will die too. You must come forth with all your strength—you are learned men; many of you can wield the power of the hidden world, you own ancient secrets passed down from the Pharaohs—you must bend all your will and power to this enemy's defeat.

  "Know this, too; there is no escape from this war. If Egypt falls, there will be no place to flee, for the enemy will grow ever stronger, and Rome ever weaker. In the end, if you hide, the enemy will find and consume you. You must fight, and we must win."

  The prince ceased speaking, a little surprised at his own vehemence. In the night, he had spoken with the Legion thaumaturges and their words filled him with raw fear. The power unleashed upon Constantinople still echoed in the hidden world, jolting furiously outward, and where such foulness passed, men with the sight quailed. A truly horrific power—something out of ancient legend—was loose in the world, and allied with Persia—if not its master!

  Aurelian did not think he could hold Egypt against such strength. In truth, if the enemy fleet controlled the sea, he was not sure he could hold Egypt against the Persian army, much less this power. More than half of his men were new recruits and the rest had never faced such a terrible enemy. But I will not yield. I will buy time, at least, for Galen and the Empire.

  Aurelian did not dwell on his brother's situation. The Emperor had his own concerns.

  "Lord Caesar." One of the priests rose—a very old man, bald, with smooth, dark brown skin and a neat yellow-white beard. He leaned upon a hawk-headed cane and the sign of Horus the Defender was worked into a clasp holding his tunic at the shoulder. "I will speak frankly. Egypt has never loved Rome, even under the 'good' Emperors. You are foreigners and conquerors. Your taxes are heavy and your demands in labor worse. There are some among us who might hope Persian rule would sit lighter upon our necks..." The old priest looked around, grinning, showing gappy white teeth. "But they are fools. Even without this... dark power... the Persians would ignore our traditions, trample our gods and squeeze the farmers for every last coin. This is the way of Empires."

  The grin faded and the old priest leaned even more wearily upon his cane. "I have felt the power—the destroyer—moving in the hidden world. It is a black sun, swallowing all light. Many here, I am sure, have had troubled dreams of late—strange visions, seductive promises, disturbing vistas of dead drowned cities and lost realms. This—if you have not the wit to ken it yourselves!—is the work of the enemy. He seeks to frighten or seduce us."

  The old priest met Aurelian's eye with his own bright gaze. "Nephet of the house of Horus the Strong will stand by you, Pharaoh. We are few and weak, perhaps, but we will not flinch aside from battle, or flee. Long ago, at the beginning of days, Lord Horus strove against such an abomination as this... he won through. I pray that we can do the same, though our strength is much diminished." The priest paused, laughter in his eyes. "So many centuries of Roman peace have made us weak!"

  The Roman prince nodded, some small hope welling in his chest. Then he looked upon the faces of the others and saw naked fear, or avarice, or anger... anything but honorable assistance. Aurelian kept his face still and unrolled a scroll his aides had prepared. Very well...

  "Each temple," he began in a carrying voice, "will be assigned to a Legion..."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Ruins of Baiae, Below Vesuvius

  A patch of grass remained, on a hillside facing away from the mountain. Vesuvius still loomed in the eastern sky, a vast smooth cone, but her tapering green crown was gone. Now a jagged summit smoked and fumed, sending up a thin, constant spiral of ashy smoke into a blue Campanian sky. The slopes, once lush with orchards, farms and vineyards, were black and gray, scored by massive mudslides. Snaky black trails of hardened lava spilled from the flanks of the volcano, puddling down onto the plain below.

  On the grass, a young woman was digging in the rich, dark earth.

  Beside her, wrapped in woolen sheets, were four small, twisted figures. The homespun was caked with ash and soot. Tiny charred, blackened feet poked from beneath the cloth. This slope—turned away from Vesuvius—had escaped the billowing clouds of burning air, the waves of poisonous vapor and fiery meteors, which rained such destruction upon the land below the mountain. Just over the crown of the hill, lined with skeletal, leafless trees, was a sprawling villa. The children had been sleeping in the great house when the volcano woke in darkness and exploded with such terrific violence that ships at sea were swamped by the shock in the earth and nearly everything within a hundred
miles of the mountain had been smashed down, burned and then suffocated by choking, invisible vapors. The roof of the villa had been stripped away by howling wind and the interior had burst into flame. All four children died almost instantly.

  The young woman was digging in the black soil with a spade taken from the gardener's cottage behind the villa. The grass—puzzlingly green and living amid the ruin surrounding the hill on all sides—parted under the metal edge. The woman's lithe, muscular arms were smooth and brown. A mane of black hair, shining like ink, was tied behind her head in a ponytail. A traditional Roman stola and gown was neatly piled beside her on the grass. For the moment, she was digging in her under-tunic, ignoring the sweat matting the thin cloth to her back.

  Shirin had placed her children—these tiny bodies—in the care of a dear friend who had promised them safe haven in a dangerous world. Her shoulder muscles bunched as the spade cut into the earth, turning up grass roots and fat earthworms and tiny black beetles. Shirin had trusted her friend's judgment and sent her children to be hidden from the agents of the Emperor of the East, Heraclius, who had designs upon the mother, but no regard for her two little boys and two little girls.

  The first grave was finished: deep enough to keep dogs away, long enough and wide enough for the curled-up, charred body of a nine-year-old boy. Shirin stood up, wiping her brow, and stepped aside two paces. The edge of the spade bit into the earth again. Heraclius had promised Shirin in marriage to his brother, Theodore, as part of a greater prize—the whole of the Persian Empire. Not two days ago, in the half-burned, but still bustling port of Misenum, Shirin had learned both Heraclius and Theodore were dead, Persia restored and the Eastern Empire in ruins.