The Dark Lord (52 page)

Nicholas began to circle, his feet very light on the deck.

Anastasia stood at the edge of her garden, watching one of the serving girls hurry down the steps from the kitchen, platters of spiced eggs balanced in either hand, weaving through a thick crowd of citizens and freedmen. The guests were lively, talking loudly, drinking heavily, taking full advantage of the liberal feast provided by the Duchess. The girl turned sideways, up on tiptoe, and slid between the enormous bulk of a grain merchant, his coterie of henna-haired "nieces" and a cluster of grim-faced Legion officers. The soldiers were drinking heavily, sitting glum and quiet on benches lining the colonnade around the heart of the villa.

The maid breezed past, through columns glowing with copper Hispanian lamps and strings of cut glass and down into the garden. The arbor was heavy with lanterns and the wooden bridge crossing the stream was lit from below with the flickering glow of dozens of candle boats. Even with the evening well advanced, the center of the house was filled with laughter and light. Despite the festive atmosphere, Anastasia was content to stand in the shadow of rowan trees hanging over the garden's edge; pale, perfect face stippled with distant lamplight, watching the ebb and flow of her guests. Her invitations—each hand delivered by a phalanx of slaves—had incited a huge response. The porters and door guards had been turning away eager guests at the morning meal, and by noon the front gates were closed and barred against an expectant crowd. Eager guests flooded into the house at the earliest opportunity—even before the bakers and cooks finished the first course of the evening-long dinner. Anastasia allowed herself a small smile—she may have been in mourning a long time, but she remembered how to entertain and Rome's fickle social memory had not yet forgotten her.

Today, I am novelty!
she thought.
Tomorrow? Day-old bread, a copper a loaf.

Rising voices in the great hall, eager, nervous and excited caught her ear.
The Emperor?
Anastasia checked her hair—flowing loose, in dark, glossy waves, only barely restrained by threads of pearl and gold—then her gown and stole. The dress was new and modest, as befitted such troubled times. Still, the slick fabric clung eagerly to her breasts and flowed over hip and thigh in a cascade of ultramarine Chin silk. The spark in men's eyes was reward enough, even if she felt positively demure.

Across the garden, a crowd of people in the main hall parted, some bowing. Anastasia's violet eyes narrowed and then she frowned.
Not the Emperor. He's being fashionably late.
She was disappointed.
The so-current prince, and his...
The Duchess scowled...
consort? Companion? Private secretary?

Maxian entered, properly attired in a formal toga and tunic, only the traditional bare feet of the
custos magicum
departing from a patrician's ideal. Martina, hanging on his arm, hip pressed to his side, had not been limited by such social constraints. The Eastern Empress' usually plain brown hair was tightly curled and ornamented with brilliant jewels. Martina's gold-laced gown, silky transparent drape, her shoes—everything bespoke wealth and power. The Duchess grimaced, noting the possessive hand—studded with golden bracelets and glittering jewels—wrapped around Maxian's arm. The girl smiled brilliantly, and Anastasia's eyes narrowed.
Bleached teeth? Where did she find a wizard to—where else? Ah, child—what am I to do with you?

Biting her thumb in annoyance, the Duchess strode out of the shadows and paused for a heartbeat at the top of the stairs. Not one head turned toward her. Everyone in the garden was focused on the prince and upon his too-brilliant companion. Schooling her face to genteel welcome, Anastasia descended to the grassy sward, the fingers of her left hand touching the edge of her scooped neckline.

"Lord Prince Maxian," she purred, gliding through the crowd of senators and their wives clogging the entrance to the main hall. "My lady, Empress Martina, welcome to my house." Anastasia caught the prince's eye, smiled warmly, then turned to the younger woman and bowed gracefully, taking her hand in greeting.

"Empress," she said, turning away from the prince and leading Martina forward, out of the clutch of sycophants crowding the girl, to the edge of the marble steps. "I hope my garden pleases you."

Martina answered her smile with a faint grimace of her own and Anastasia felt a sharp moment of satisfaction, seeing ill-disguised fear hiding behind the girl's kohl-ornamented eyes and lead-white face powders. "It's... beautiful," the Empress managed, trying to turn back, looking for Maxian. "The lamps are very pretty."

"They are," Anastasia said, squeezing Martina's hand and descending the steps. The Empress, unwilling to cast off her hostess' hand, followed. "Have you seen my stream before? A cistern above the house lets it flow and the water is recaptured below by a clever siphon." Anastasia leaned close to Martina as she spoke, as if they shared a confidence during temple services. Still unwilling to protest, though looking more and more startled with each moment, Martina found herself beside the stream, candlelight shining on her face.

Anastasia spared a sideways glance behind her and was pleased to see the prince entirely surrounded by a thick crowd of well-wishers and men in search of Imperial favor.
Good,
she thought,
I've a few moments, then.

"The boats are very beautiful," Martina said, her fancy caught by the tiny manikins of boatmen and ladies placed around the paper cones holding the candles. Caught in the slow current of the stream, the little craft were slowly bumping and whirling as they passed down the stream. "What happens when they go out of the garden?"

"Shhh..." Anastasia bent close, finger to plum-colored lips, eyes twinkling. "We mustn't speak of such things or the illusion will be spoiled." Martina answered with her own faint smile. The Duchess squeezed her hand again, radiating warmth, the tilt of her head inviting secret confidence. "I hope you enjoy the party," she said softly. "I know you must be dying to dance or hear the musicians or do
anything
but toil through dusty scrolls..."

"You've no idea!" Martina said, surprised and pleased. For the first time, her face opened, losing the frightened mask. "Maxian is a dear—but he'll work until everyone is
dead
without notice or a care! I have to speak quite forcefully to him, sometimes."

"Good," Anastasia said in an approving voice. "Some young men need guidance or they'll ignore the house while it burns." She gestured to one of the maids, politely lurking just out of earshot. The girl hurried over with a pair of fluted, delicate glasses, half-filled with a sparkling golden draught. "Here, my dear," Anastasia said, deftly taking both glasses. "Try this—it will make you forget your cares! It's from Gaul."

Martina drank from hers, both small hands on the glass. She tasted, her nose wrinkled up, she sneezed, and then she laughed. "Oh dear! It has bubbles!" Embarrassed, the Empress covered her mouth.

"It does," Anastasia said, taking a sip. The liquor was sweet and sharp on her tongue. "There is a temple of Dionysos in Gallica Belgica, where the vines are blessed and the wine light and delightful. My late husband owned some shares..." She raised the glass, tipping it against Martina's in a toast. "...and I have reaped the bounty of his investment for many years." The Duchess smiled again, leaning close to Martina. "But I do not share it with just
anyone
."

Martina smiled back, eyes twinkling. "Well, thank you for your confidence, Duchess. I am glad to be out of hot foundry rooms and in clean, breathable air!"

Anastasia was about to reply when a peal of bronze-throated trumpets sounded, ringing back from the high, curved ceiling with a martial blast. Everyone froze, silent expectation settling over the crowd, then all turned as one. A brace of Praetorians, breastplates gleaming silver in the lamps, appeared in the main hall. The mob of senators and merchants and Legion officers parted.

Drat!
fumed the Duchess, catching sight of Martina's open, happy face closing up, becoming suspicious and mask-like.
Just another few minutes and we'd have been best friends...

The Emperor appeared at the top of the steps, his son settled on one hip, his wife's hand raised shoulder height in his own. He was clad in pure white linen, a circlet of golden holly imprisoning his habitually lank hair and dark red boots. Beside him, the Empress of the West was appropriately subdued, in a dark, velvety brown, highlighted with old red gold at her neck, wrists and around her thin waist.

"The Augustus and God," bawled one of the Praetorians, his voice booming through the garden, "Galen Atreus, Emperor of the West, Protector of the East! The noble Empress, Helena, and their son and heir, Theodosius!"

The trumpets pealed again, echoes ringing through the halls, then falling away into silence. Galen, looking down into the garden, saw Anastasia and smiled, inclining his head. The Duchess knelt in response, making a flourish. Out of the corner of her eye, Anastasia saw Martina twitch nervously, then make a polite half-bow.

"Lord and God," the Duchess called, her clear voice cutting through quiet air. "We are graced and honored by your presence." Capturing Martina's hand again, she ascended the steps, taking care to match her pace to Martina's—who lagged, feet dragging, nervous and out of her depth. "Please, partake of my house, the entertainments, anything you might desire."

"Thank you, it is our pleasure." Galen said, managing a tired smile. Up close, Anastasia fought to keep down a frown. The Emperor's eyes were smudged with fatigue, his skin a poor color even disguised by powders and crushed rose dust. "Hello, Martina. Are you and your son well?"

"Yes, Lord Galen," Martina responded, her voice tight with nervousness. "And yours?"

Galen looked down at Theodosius, who was staring around with interest, most of one hand stuffed into his mouth. Anastasia felt a pang, seeing a flicker of happiness pass in the Emperor's face as he looked upon his son. "He is very well, thank you."

"Empress," the Duchess said, bowing to Helena, "welcome to my house."

"Thank you, Duchess. I see you've invited everyone I'd forgotten existed," the Empress replied, inclining her head to Anastasia. The Duchess stiffened, seeing her old friend was in a particularly sharp mood. The cutting tone in the woman's voice seemed to touch Martina as well, and the Duchess felt the Eastern Empress' grip tighten. Trying to reassure the girl, Anastasia gave an answering squeeze.

"My lord, my lady," Anastasia said quickly, before Martina had to respond, "will you be presiding this evening? Or simply private citizens, at the house of an old friend?" At the same time, the Duchess tried to catch Helena's eye, but the Western Empress was looking Martina over with a particularly calculating gaze.

"We are just private citizens," Helena said, before Galen could respond. "The party is for our dear brother-in-law, Prince Maxian, isn't it? We wouldn't want to spoil his chances for a good time by hovering, or making people bow every time we walked by. Besides, things are formal enough in the palace. Don't you think so, husband?"

"Of course." Galen nodded, seemingly relieved. Theodosius grabbed for a sweetmeat from a passing tray and the Emperor captured a grubby hand before it spilled the platter. Distracted by his son, Galen failed to notice the tense air between the three women. "Ah, good, there's Gaius Julius! Excuse me, ladies..."

"Helena," Martina said into the silence as the Emperor departed. "Good evening."

The Western Empress' eyes narrowed and Anastasia realized Martina had neither bowed nor used an honorific in addressing the older woman.
And why not,
the Duchess thought despairingly,
she's an Empress as well, and Helena's equal...

"Good evening," Helena said, one long, dark eyebrow inching up. "Martina. A lovely dress." She tilted her head a little to one side. "Is this the fashion in Constantinople?"

The Duchess felt the girl flinch at the Western Empress' turned lip. Helena, in comparison, was very plainly dressed, even austere. The younger woman's gown exposed too much cream-colored breast and her jewels and gold now seemed overdone—even crass—when measured against Helena's restrained antiques. Anastasia glared at Helena, but the Empress just raised her head, looking back at her friend with a cool expression.

"Thank you," Martina managed to say, swallowing the beginnings of a stutter.

"You're welcome," Helena said, eyes glittering. "How is your son? Still healthy, I hope. Little Theodosius would miss playing with him. You know he is welcome to stay with us at any time."

"Heracleonas is a strong, healthy boy," Martina said, an edge of anger creeping into her voice. "Theo's colic has passed, has it?"

"Oh, yes," Helena said, making a dismissive wave with a pale white hand. "Did you come with anyone tonight? I worry you've no one of your own station to attend such events with."

Anastasia felt her heart sink into her stomach.
What has gotten into her tonight?
The Western Empress looked around, as if she searched for one of the great nobles of the East.
Why remind the girl her husband is dead?

"I came," Martina bit out, "with the prince Maxian." Her fingers slipped from Anastasia's, balling into fists. The Duchess saw some of the senatorial wives lingering, eyes bright with interest, sharp ears pricked. Anastasia turned, shielding the two women from prying eyes, a hand on either Empress' arm.

"You did?" Helena smiled, though the motion did not reach her eyes. "That was kind of him. He is busy these days... everyone is, I suppose, with such dreadful things happening."

For a moment, Martina seemed to freeze solid, a flush rising at her throat. Then she mastered herself, essayed a brittle smile, and said, "We are busy, Helena, there are many projects underway, all in the service of the Emperor and the State." Her green eyes narrowed. "We will need every advantage to destroy the Persians."

"Oh," Helena said, one tapered fingernail pressed to her chin in a pose of remembering. "I'd quite forgotten you work for the prince, collating the news of ancient days, searching for some fragment that might yield us victory." The Western Empress smiled, making a little bow. "This evening must be a welcome diversion, then."