The Shadow of Ararat (30 page)

Dwyrin gathered that Timur was a soldier, though not a legionnaire. A mercenary drawn to the service of Rome by the smell of gold, doubtless. He and his fellows were a footloose band that was living in a basement of one of the lesser palaces. Their chief seemed to be the Illyrian, Nikos, who had looked the battered Dwyrin over after the boy was strong enough to sit.

"You say you had papers, lad?"

Dwyrin nodded. He remembered the master of the school pressing them into his hands. Where were they now? Who knew? But he did remember his purpose.

"They were orders to report to the prefecture in Alexandria, to enter the Thaumaturgic Legion. To serve the Emperor in the great war."

Nikos had shaken his head in disgust at the thought of the young boy before him being drawn into the toils of the Imperial military machine. It was bad enough that he had fallen afoul of slavers, but the Legion? Timur, leaning against the nearest wicker crate, had chuckled at the expression on Nikos' face.

"Are you sure of this, lad? Being a twenty-year man is no light load. You'll be gray when you get out, mark me." Nikos jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the crowd of men playing dice at the entrance to the area claimed by the other members of his squad. "Look at these fellows. With your training, you could take up a soft life in the city, become rich. Have servants."

Dwyrin had shaken his head. He had given old Nephet his word that he would carry out the task set him. His honor depended on it. Nikos and Timur had argued with him for another hour, but it was to no avail. So, the next morning, they had trooped with the boy up to the quartermaster's billet in the "new" palace.

A door opened in the hallway and a slightly built clerk with a frizz of white hair looked out.

"Dwyrin MacDonald, enlistee?" The man's voice was devoid of emotion, but it carried to where the three were sitting.

Dwyrin jerked awake and stood up.

Nikos stood as well and tousled his hair. The stocky Illyrian smiled, his stubbly square face lighting for an instant. "Be careful, lad. Don't take any extra duty and never, ever volunteer. Remember that!"

Timur stood as well, easing up on his bad leg, and fingered his mustaches. He looked down at the boy for a long moment, his face a mask. Then he smiled a little too and pressed a worn leather knife scabbard into the boy's hand. It was grimy and nicked, and the hilt of the knife was wrapped in leather so black with age and sweat that it seemed like obsidian. Dwyrin smiled back and bowed, taking the leave-present. He turned and entered the room set aside for the oath-taking.

Outside, Nikos glared at the closed door. Timur leaned against the wall at his side.

"We should have convinced him to stay with us," Nikos said, his voice tight with disappointment. Timur snickered.

"He's too young for you,
optio
." Nikos ignored him.

"The centurion will skin me for letting a fire-caster get away," he continued. Timur shrugged. The boy was gone. Nikos stalked off down the hallway, ignoring the clerks and bureaucrats who got in his way. Timur followed close after, though his leg was hurting him again.

In the room, there was only a desk with a camp stool behind it. On the stool sat a lean-faced man with dark brown hair. He wore the tunic, short cloak, and leggings of a senior centurion. At his right breast, a small golden eagle was pinned to hold back the folds of his cloak. He had a muster roll open on the desk in front of him. The clerk, having shown Dwyrin in, retreated to the wall by the door. The centurion did not smile and looked the Hibernian up and down, his lips pursed in disapproval.

"Name?" he asked.

"Dwyrin MacDonald, sir."

The centurion carefully checked through the roll. At last, he shook his head slightly.

"There is no record of your levy, MacDonald," he said.

Dwyrin nodded, saying, "I was supposed to report to the prefect in Alexandria, sir, but I became sick and was sold to slavers. During that time I lost my travel and assignment papers, sir."

The centurion continued to regard him, his light-brown eyes cold. "Do you know which unit, or legion, you were assigned to, MacDonald?"

"Yes, sir, the Third Ars Magica."

An eyelid of the senior centurion flickered. He put the main muster roll aside and unfolded a smaller one. He checked through it, his long fingers rustling through the rolls of papyrus. He looked up. "Here you are. You are to report to a unit that was to muster at Alexandria. Have you taken the oath of enlistment?"

"No, sir."

The senior centurion sighed and gestured to the servant at the back of the room. The white-haired man crossed to another door and returned with a tall wooden pole surmounted by a bronze eagle with downswept wings. Beneath the eagle were two cross-plates, each inscribed with letters. The servant knelt and held the standard in a firm grip. Another servant entered through the same door, with a smoking copper brazier and a wooden-handled object. The senior centurion and the new servant fussed with the brazier. Finally it was ready. The centurion turned and motioned for Dwyrin to kneel.

"Take off your tunic," he said, his voice level. Dwyrin obeyed. The centurion stood over him. Dwyrin stared at the floor, wondering what the oath entailed.

"You are Dwyrin MacDonald, of the house MacDonald. Son of Aeren."

"I am," the boy answered.

"You pledge yourself to the service, in war, of the people and the Senate and the Emperor of the city of Rome?"

"I do," Dwyrin answered.

"Do you swear to uphold the state with your very life, under the auspices of the gods?"

"I do," Dwyrin said. Now an odd feeling stole over him, a prickling along his skin. For a moment he was tempted to assume the entrance of Hermes and see if some fey power had entered the room, all invisible. But he did not. The centurion continued to speak, his voice rising.

"I so swear," Dwyrin finished. The centurion pulled the wooden-handled rod out of the fire in the brazier. Before Dwyrin could flinch away, the two servants seized his arms and bent them back. The centurion, his eyes glinting in the reflection of the fire, pressed the white-hot brand against the pale white shoulder of the boy.

At the top of the steps at the far end of the corridor that led away from the quartermaster's offices, Timur heard the echoing wail of pain. He smoothed his mustaches and his hand slid into the light shirt he wore. His fingers ran lightly over the ritual scarring that decorated his chest and abdomen. He smiled and then made his way down the stairs. They were narrow and steep and well worn by the passage of thousands of feet.

"Gods, what a pit!" The dead man sneered, his leathery face twisted into a grimace. He and Abdmachus rode down a narrow way behind the Forum. The alley was choked with garbage, broken furniture, and the rotting corpses of dead animals. The little Persian led, while the dead man had the young Prince thrown over the front of his saddle. A gray cape had been added to the clothes Abdmachus had given him in the tomb. The moth-eaten hood was pulled forward, shading the man's extremely pale complexion. The Persian nudged his horse right and they turned into a little courtyard behind the brick edifice of a four-story
insula
. The dead man looked around carefully, his face a mask, while the Persian swung off his horse and made his way up a flight of broken steps to bang on the door at the back of the block of flats.

A sound rose, echoing from the pale brick faces of the buildings, a great murmur like the sea against a steep shore. The dead man turned around on his horse, looking for the source of the noise. Off to the south he saw a great cliff of marble rising over the red tile roofs. A forest of banners and pennons surmounted it. Smoke rose around it, curdling against the soaring wall and collecting in the arched openings that ringed the top of the edifice. He scratched his nose, then held his hand up in the morning light. It seemed odd for it to be so bleached and pale, very like the belly of a fish.

A man in a dirty yellow smock opened the door and nodded to the Persian. Abdmachus stumbled down the steps and came up to his horse.

"What is that?" The dead man pointed at the building looming over the rooftops.

Abdmachus turned, his fingers busy untying the straps that held the Prince to the horse. He squinted into the sun.

"Oh," the Persian said, "it's the Colosseum. There must be games today."

They had entered the city through the Porta Ostiensis gate, by the river, at dawn. A great throng of merchants and draymen had already clogged the artery leading into the city from the southwest. The Persian had shown his papers to the overworked guards at the gate, and they had entered without incident. The dead man was, by turns, troubled at the wan pallor evident on the faces of the people and stunned by the vast size of the city and the crumbling monuments therein. Cutting across the city toward the bowl of the Subura, they had passed through ancient gates, triumphal ways, and skirted the palace-clogged magnificence of the Palatine. As they rode through the thronging crowds, the Persian could hear the dead man muttering to himself.

The Prince owned an
insulae
on the southern side of the Subura, and the Persian and the dead man carried his body up the steps, down a rank hallway, and through a stout wooden door into a bare apartment. Only a few sticks of furniture were about, but there was a bed made of pine boards and crisscrossed leather straps. They lay him there and the Persian bustled off to find water and make an infusion. The dead man crossed the bare dusty room to the windows set into the south wall and, putting his shoulder to them, opened the shutters. Brilliant sunlight flooded the room, cutting long sparkling trails through the dusty air.

"Ai, no strength in these limbs," the dead man mused to himself. He clenched his fists and frowned at the sound of muscles cracking.

Beyond the windows, the temples and pillars of the Forum rose up over the tiled roofs of the buildings across the street. The way below was crowded with morning shoppers. The little door fronts were crammed with goods: fruits, slabs of meat, bushels of grain, carefully bundled feathers. The noise from the street echoed off the roof in the apartment. The dead man half closed the shutters. Abdmachus returned to the room with a steaming pot of water. The sharp smell of mint and sage rose from it.

"What is that great cylinder?" the dead man asked, pointing out the window.

Abdmachus glanced up, then said, "The triumph of Trajan. A long bas-relief depicts his conquest of the Dacians."

The dead man snorted and rubbed the side of his long face. Dust and grit came off under his fingers. He smiled.

"Dacia... always troublesome. How long was I in the ground, Persian?"

Abdmachus tipped the lip of the pot to Maxian's lips and spilled a little of the brew. The young man twitched and the Persian managed to get more of the brew down him. The Prince groaned and his eyelids fluttered.

"Over six centuries," the Persian answered absently, his attention focused on the pulse and color of the Prince.

"Six centuries and the Republic winds up looking like a pigsty?" The dead man came to the other side of the bed and gazed down on the long-limbed youth who lay between them. "Six centuries and the city is a crumbling ruin, filled with plague victims and lepers? Is there no order? I see that the administrative skills of the Senate have not improved..."

Abdmachus looked up briefly but said nothing. The Prince stirred, his eyes opening.

"Are we in the city?" Maxian's voice was faint.

The Persian rolled back each of the young man's eyelids and pursed his lips in concern. "Lie still, lad, you're still shaken up. The effects of the spell were rather stronger than I expected."

Maxian smiled weakly. "Feels like my skin has been scrubbed off and then put back on, wet."

With a great effort he turned his head to look at the dead man. "Welcome back to the land of living."

The dead man scowled and looked over his shoulder at the partial view of the city from the window. "Not much to see. How many have died from the plague?"

The Persian and the Prince exchanged puzzled glances. Abdmachus cleared his throat. "My lord, this is twice you've referred to the plague. We don't understand."

The dead man stared at each of them in turn, his face a picture of incredulity.

"Out there"—he pointed out the window—"the people on the street. They look ghastly... the only time I've seen such deprivation in an unbesieged city was during the outbreak of the plague in Thapsos when I was a young man."

Maxian coughed, then managed to clear his throat. "It is no plague, my friend, it is the common state of the Roman citizen in these days. Those men and women are as healthy as they're liable to get."

The dead man shook his head in disbelief, then took quick steps to the window. He looked out for a long time. Then he said: "They are like the walking dead. Each face is cut with terrible weariness and pain. The citizens are... diminished, frail almost."

Abdmachus exchanged a knowing glance with the prince, then said: "It is why we have brought you back, my lord. There is a... a curse upon the city. We need your help to break it. But be warned, it is very strong. We believe that it is, in part, the doing of your nephew."

"Who?" The dead man was puzzled. His face creased in thought. "I have—
I had
—no nephews. All of my children are dead."

Maxian struggled to rise and managed to get up far enough to lean against the plaster wall. "The
Histories
say that he was adopted by you, made your heir. He used your name, in part, to make himself Dictator of the city. You must remember him—Gaius Octavius. Your sister's daughter's son."

The dead man stared at Maxian with something like shock on his face. He rubbed the back of his head, then turned around and paced to the window. There he turned back again, his hands on his hips. "Octavian? That mousy little sycophant claimed to be my heir? A colorless, mewling senatorial lickspittle? All he did was follow around on my heels, snooping. I surely left no will naming him my heir..."