Authors: Thomas Harlan
The main courtyard of the villa had been transformed—the smoke blackening scoured away, the shattered roof tiles replaced, dead shrubs and flowers rooted out and replaced with new, fresh plantings. Galen took his place at one side, standing on marble tiling. Pine torches sputtered and blazed around him in a great circle and the bride and groom stood before him, as yet apart.
Some fathers might make a long speech, but Galen was already tired and the night promised to be long. He raised his hands to the crowd filling the courtyard and the colonnade. Everyone fell quiet, even the servants perched on the roof, who gained a better view with their daring than many of the patricians below.
"Here stand before you Maxian Atreus, son of Galen the Elder, and Martina, daughter of Martinus. They are from good families and of noble blood. As princeps of the State, I speak for Martina as paterfamilias, her guide and defense against the trials of the world."
Galen, face composed in a stern and commanding mein, turned to Maxian. The prince was trying not to grin broadly. Despite his obvious good humor, Maxian managed to speak in a suitably respectful voice. "Do you promise Martina, your daughter, to be given to me as a wife?"
"May the gods smile upon us," Galen answered formally. "I promise her to you."
"May the gods smile upon us." Maxian said, making a slight bow.
The Emperor smiled warmly at Martina, who was sweating a little in a heavy woolen gown. The night had grown warm. Fine, pure white cloth was pleated and cinched at her waist with a silken band, tied in an ornate knot. A flame-colored veil shrouded her shoulders. As Galen had expected, the girl's hair was done up in six plaits and crowned with fragrant blooms.
"Martina, daughter, have you set aside your child's dress?"
Martina smiled back and the Emperor was gladdened to see a spark of happiness in her eyes. The petulant, depressed young woman who had fled the destruction of her city seemed to be a fragment of the past. The Eastern Empress had gained confidence in the passing months.
Perhaps this is worth it, then,
Galen thought, grasping for some beneficent omen.
"I have, Father," she answered. "I have put my toys aside."
"So," Galen said, raising his voice so all might hear, "go forth, as one, and stand fast together the length of your days." He lowered his hands.
Maxian, grinning like a loon, took Martina in his arms and kissed her soundly. The Empress squeaked, hand clutching the floral wreath, then pressed herself against him. Galen watched, filled with unexpected sadness. His own wedding day seemed very long ago. Then he turned away, leaving the circle of torches. Well-wishers converged on the bride and groom from all sides, laughing and shouting. Gaius Julius was among them, though his eyes followed the Emperor with interest.
"Ho! See the bride, see the groom!" A great shout rose from the men in the crowd and they hoisted Maxian on their shoulders, then Martina as well. Someone began to sing and the whole group congealed into a procession winding around the garden and out into the dining hall. Torches bobbed above the heads of the revelers. Laughing, the young Empress flung her crown of flowers out into a thicket of grasping hands.
Again, Galen stood in quiet darkness, face shrouded by the folds of his toga, watching men and women dancing in the great hall of the villa. He felt unaccountably cold, though the summer night was close and almost hot. Maxian and Martina had taken three turns on the freshly tiled floor, swirling past his vantage to the lively rattle of drums and the wail of pipes and horns. At the moment, the prince was dancing with a young girl—one of the senatorial daughters, whose head barely reached his waist, her hair bound up with ribbons and posies. Empress Martina sat at the edge of the floor, face flushed, laughing in delight. A heavy golden cup wavered in her hand. Galen tensed, then breathed out in relief as Gaius Julius—sitting beside the Empress—caught the goblet as it tipped.
"Husband?"
Galen turned, startled and pleased. Helena approached, walking quickly down the pillared hall. She was dressed plainly, a heavy scarf around her neck, pulling gloves from her hands. A courier's satchel was slung across her chest, riding under her breast like a suckling child. Two Praetorians hung back behind her, then faded into the shadows when they caught sight of the Emperor. Galen thought they were wearing riding leathers, but couldn't be sure.
"Helena! I thought you weren't coming." His mood lifted, buoyed by her simple presence.
"There is news," she said in a clipped, emotionless tone. Galen felt an almost physical shock, seeing her face in the light. More than simple fatigue, or a hard ride up from the port, lit her eyes with such a grim flame. "From Egypt," she continued.
Galen looked around, shedding the ceremonial drape with a shrug. There was no one within earshot. The cloth, forgotten, fell to the floor in an untidy tangle. "Tell me."
Helena breathed deep and the Emperor saw she had ridden swiftly, her hair tangled, high cheeks flushed with effort. Even her accustomed makeup was sketchy and old. "The thaumaturges watching the telecast sent me word the day before yesterday. They had turned their attentions to Egypt. They found the defenses at Pelusium abandoned, the Persian army and fleet decamped."
"What?" Galen rocked back on his heels. "Where is Aurelian?"
"At Bousiris," Helena said, opening the satchel. She tried to smile grimly, but failed. "Anastasia has always warned our all-seeing eye can only look one place at a time... it took the thaumaturges an hour of casting about to find the Legions. They are digging furiously on the western bank of the main Nile channel, building a rampart from Bousiris north. The Persians are busy across the river too." Helena drew a sheaf of papers from the pouch, then knelt on the floor. Galen knelt as well, watching in growing cold nausea as she spread out hasty drawings—maps—on hexagonal tile.
"We looked for signs of the Persian advance." Her slender fingers shifted two of the pages, and a crude diagram of the Nile delta became recognizable. "Their foraging parties have struck as far south as Boubastis. This much we see from the smoke clouding the sky and roads clogged with fleeing peasants."
"Where is their fleet?" Galen bit out, furious with himself.
Of course,
he raged silently,
there is nothing to be done, not by me, not now... not when we are so far away, and our arm so slow to reach the enemy.
"Can they cross the Nile?"
Helena looked across at him, over the scattered papers, in the dim hallway. The music from the dancing echoed faintly from the ceiling, coupled with the laughter of the guests. "Yes," she said quietly. "They have a great fleet of barges. They are moored along the Boutikos canal, in a long array."
The Emperor closed his eyes, marshalling his thoughts. The Boutikos sliced across the delta from Pelusium in the east to the main Nile channel just north of Bousiris, then jogged west to reach the second channel, the Kanobikos, above Alexandria. In better days, the broad canal flowed with commerce, carrying the lifeblood of Egypt and the Empire across the endless paddies and fields of lower Egypt. He bit his thumb, considering. Now the waterway was a lunging spear, aimed right at the heart of the Roman province. Galen felt a familiar pricking begin behind his left eye.
"They were ready to fight on the water, in the swamps and mire." His voice was level, contemplative. "Supplies, water, arms, wounded men—all can be swiftly moved on the canal." He took a breath, feeling certainty congeal his thoughts into a discrete pattern.
What must be done, must be done.
"Do you have a writing tablet?"
"Yes." Helena settled into a tailor's crouch, drawing a wooden tablet from the courier bag. Individual sheets of thin wood, faced with wax, were bound together with copper wire. The Empress looked up, a stylus poised in one hand. Galen tried to smile, but the bleak look in her eyes matched his own temper. He looked down at the maps, disheartened.
"Have we heard from Aurelian directly?"
The Empress nodded, scrabbling in the papers and producing a sheet of papyrus. "This came while we were trying to find the army. Aurelian sent a dispatch three weeks ago—he had been attacked at Pelusium by the Persian army and a 'burning giant.' His thaumaturges were unable to hold back the enemy..."
Galen's palm hit the floor with a sharp
crack!
"The sorcerer."
Helena nodded again, offering the letter. Galen shook his head sharply in refusal, running both hands through his thin hair.
"He's put everything in this one throw... But why Egypt..." He bit his lip, thinking again.
"Grain? Wealth?" Helena looked at him quizzically. "Does it really matter?"
"It matters. Something drives the enemy to his current path..." Galen looked out through the pillars, into the dining hall. Maxian and Martina were dancing again, this time to a gentle, melodic tune. The guests were stamping their feet in slow, measured time. "What of the situation in Thrace? Constantinople?"
"Good news," Helena said, lip curling at the sight of the young couple moving in unison. "The
comes
Alexandros has retaken the city and the Persians are in flight across the strait. We observed Khazar horsemen crossing the Propontis on ferry barges. Groups of riders—perhaps the Persians, or their mercenaries—are scattering east into Anatolia."
Galen drew a relieved breath.
Something... something positive in this wreckage. But what does this sorcerer want in Egypt?
For the first time, the Emperor felt himself lost, groping in darkness for some fragile light of truth. He knew why Shahr-Baraz would desire Egypt—taxes, wealth, abundant grain and denying Rome these same things—but the same could be said for Constantinople and the rich fields of Thrace. But a sorcerer? Why abandon one prize and strike at the other? Tantalizing fragments taunted him, but he could not make them gel into a reasoned whole. He shook his head angrily.
"Very well, we will send the fleet—now regrouped at Ostiaport and reinforced with our squadrons from Hispania and Britannia—to Constantinople in all haste. Whatever thaumaturges can be spared are to be aboard, with these mirrored bowls Maxian spoke of—we may need immediate speech with their admiral! Let them take Alexandros' army aboard and straightaway to Egypt. Together, Alexandros and Aurelian can crush these Persians before the walls of Alexandria."
Helena had begun to write, but now she stopped, staring at her husband. "And Maxian? You'll be sending him, won't you?"
The Emperor stared through the pillars again, stricken with gut-wrenching despair. He started to speak, then stopped. Helena waited, stylus tapping impatiently on the edge of the tablet.
"He must go," Helena said, when she could keep her peace no longer. "If the Perisan
monster
is striving against Aurelian, he will not be able to hold Egypt! Maxian will have to go, if we hope to hold Alexandria and the delta."
Still the Emperor said nothing. In the dining hall, men raised their cups in a toast to the young couple and the prince's face glowed with delight. Galen remembered times now lost, when they were all children, brawling in the kitchen, running in the grassy fields above Narbo, Aurelian daring Maxian to cross the aqueduct vaulting the swift-flowing Atax. His mother silhouetted in the doorway of their room, watching the boys sleeping by firelight.
Does it come to this?
he thought, mournful again.
A young man sent out to war on his wedding night? What about my promise?
"Husband?"
A thought occurred to him, whispered by some unseen messenger and Galen let relief hiss out in a long breath. "No, not yet. Iron Pegasus can carry him to Egypt in the space of a week. The fleet will take..." He paused, calculating distances and time. "...two weeks to gather and reach Constantinople. Another five days to load Alexandros' army aboard, then a week to reach Alexandria." A very faint smile creased his lips and he felt lighter, relieved. "Time enough for him to enjoy a taste of marriage, I think. We will wait until Alexandros is in position, then send him forth. By then, his flight of iron drakes may be hatched and ready to wing—that will give Persia pause, I think!"
He looked back to his wife and saw she had gone deathly still.
"What is it?" Galen was afraid to ask, but felt compelled. Tears sparkled at the corner of Helena's eyes, creeping through kohl already smudged by her nighttime ride. Swallowing, she wiped them away, leaving trailing black streaks on her cheeks.
"I always loved that big horse," she said in a choked voice. "It's not right."
The Emperor nodded, understanding her reaction all too well. There was a tight constriction around his heart. "He's a soldier, Helena. Always has been, always will be. Aurelian will understand."
"Will Famia? What about his boys? They're so worried already..."
Galen could think of nothing to say. What came to pass, would come to pass.
Waves hissed against across empty sand, foam glittering in faint moonlight. Luna, a thin sliver, rose over the mountains in the east, shedding barely enough light to challenge the jewel-bright stars. Maxian, his toga and tunic a pale flare of white against the dark shore, splashed into the surf. The water rushing past his ankles was still warm from the day's heat.
"Where are we going?" Martina said sleepily, arms curled around his neck, tousled head nestled against his chest. The Empress' elaborate gown was rumpled and sweat-stained from a long night of dancing, feasting and drinking. Maxian waded deeper into the bay, bare feet sinking into heavy, soft sand. Waves lapped around him, rising to his waist. Foam touched Martina's bare feet and she squeaked in surprise. "That's wet! Where are..."
Maxian raised his chin, pointing, and the Empress turned, eyes widening in surprise.
A boat rode at anchor, not more than a dozen yards away. Long-prowed, with gilded figureheads of rampant gods at fore and aft and shallow sides chased with gold. An awning of muslin suspended from wooden arches sheltered the deck, barely visible in the moonlight.
"Oh," Martina said, then she hissed as the warm water rose up around her. Maxian smiled in the darkness, feeling her cling tight to him. "Are there sharks?" she whispered, still half-asleep.