The Gate of Fire (6 page)

Alex nodded absently, looking around the dim, old room. The painted panels that had once covered the masonry and concrete walls had cracked and splintered, falling away in piles of dust. Still, it was a great chamber, and he could see that it had—upon a time—been a bright place, filled with torches and lanterns and the many marvelous inventions of the Romans. Still, he thought, it was little different, this stone and brick and mortar, from his own palaces, or the cities he had ruled or destroyed. Even the speech of his countrymen was the same, though centuries had passed by, leaving nations and men in ruin. It seemed odd, but then, perhaps there was something to this talk of a curse.

"Yes... your empire still stands," Alexandros said, "though your name stands best as a festival day and a text for schoolchildren. Do the notables of this time raise statues to you in their entranceways?" The edge of a sneer had crept into Alex's voice.

Gaius smiled broadly, hooking his thumbs in his belt. "Why, my lad, you are right. The great houses of the city do hold statues of me, or my nephew, in honored places. A great tomb of colored marble stands near the crossroads of the city, erected in my name. My memory maintains, as great as yours."

Alex matched stares with the old man for a moment and was reminded, briefly, of a pugnacious childhood friend he had not seen in a long time. There was something familiar in the old man's eye and face—but then he laughed and bowed.

"My pardon, I am your guest and have been inconsiderate. Pray, show me the rest of this place and tell me the story of its building."

Gaius inclined his head, accepting the apology.

Maxian lay still on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. Krista crouched next to his head, lifting it a little to slide another folded blanket underneath. The Prince's breathing had grown stronger since they had entered the house, and he could move his arms and legs. She wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of her sleeve.

"Thank you," whispered the Prince. His voice had not yet recovered.

"No matter, my lord," she said softly. "Without you we are all dead."

"Perhaps..." Maxian searched her face, seeing worry and strain there. He realized, again, how much he needed her assistance and support. For a moment, he nearly blurted the words out, but something held him back. A distance had grown up between them since the death of the Walach woman, Alais, at Dastagird. Maxian knew what had happened; old Gaius had taken great relish in relating the story of the struggle in the final chamber of the fire temple. But he had never mentioned it to Krista, or she to him.

"Is everyone else inside?"

Krista nodded and folded back the sleeves on her tunic.

"Yes, the rest of us can still come and go—it just seems to seek you out. The Engine is fine. I've ordered the other servants to move it back into the cover of the trees and set a watch. There will be hot food in a little while, and the plumbing still works." She smiled and knelt at his side, taking his left hand in both of hers.

"What about Gaius and Alexandros?" Maxian squeezed her hand.

Krista shook her head, giving him a despairing look. "They're wandering around, trying to see which is the bigger dog. I took care of everything myself."

Maxian shook his head a little, frowning. Bright white sparks floated across his vision at this, so he stopped and lay very still. "Go get them and bring them here," he whispered. "We've no time for their bickering."

"You've thought of strangling him while he sleeps, I suppose."

Gaius turned in the darkness, barely able to make out the outline of Alexandros' head. A thin slat of light fell from a broken roof tile, high above, and provided the faintest illumination. The boy's golden hair was white in this light, and his face was hidden in shadow, unreadable and distant.

"Many times." Gaius' voice was very quiet, though they were far from the kitchens, where the Walach and Armenians were setting up shop, or the upper bedrooms, where Prince Maxian lay with his concubine. A cool, musty dampness surrounded them as they lay on a pallet on the floor of the root cellar of the old house.

"On the road into the East, my thoughts often turned to poison—save that he could doubtless smell it, or feel its effect and cure himself. Sometimes, I thought that the quick stab of a knife into the back of his skull might be enough. But the little witch watches him all the time. This makes it difficult..."

Alexandros laughed, a low musical sound that made the skin on Gaius' arms prickle. "Never more in my life," Alex said, "have I hated anything more than another having power over me, controlling my life, pointing my destiny. Such a man was my father, and now this Prince of yours. I had seemed to escape this, only to come home again."

Gaius snorted and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. "He is not
my
Prince. He is the unwanted friend who rouses you from sleep for some dreadful party or careless escapade that brings the
aediles
. These are fancies, though, that cannot stand the light of bitter truth."

Alexandros sat up as well and pulled on his tunic. He sprang to his feet, limber as the youth that he still was. Gaius watched him out of the corner of his eye, feeling envy creeping in his soul.
He is a pretty boy,
thought the old Roman,
and, now, will always be.

"Our truth is that he is life." Alexandros, despite the bitter tone, was smiling. "Life is precious to us—to me, at least. Perhaps you are old enough to lay down this burden again?"

"Hah!" Gaius rose as well, though he did not
spring
anywhere. He stood, using one of the broken columns to steady himself. His sandals had gone missing, and he hunted about with his foot, stubbing a toe on a brick. He grimaced at the pain, but it subsided quickly. An unexpected side effect of his condition, he supposed. "I have never sought release from this life. It galls me, as it oppresses you, that I—we—must serve another. Yet, this is the lot we are given. I put to you a thought..." Gaius paused, hearing a noise on the narrow stairs that led down from the upper floor. A sound like light footsteps. He raised a hand, and Alex looked up at the stairway as well. The sound did not repeat.

"I put to you," he continued, "that our situation being fixed, we must put all our labors to exalting the position and situation of our master—yes, a cold word, but a true one! As he improves, so do we. Is this not so?"

Alex made a face, but nodded. "You think like a Persian palace servant," the youth said. "But, still, you are right."

"Good," Gaius said briskly, "I will take that as a compliment. Now, our present circumstances are limited, so we must convince the Prince to allow us more freedom of action, both to pursue the goals that he knows he holds and those that he does not."

"What?" Alex raised a hand, glaring at the older man. "You speak like an Athenian jurist—many words with little meaning."

Gaius raised an eyebrow, his lips forming a smirk. "I am—I was—a rather successful one," he said. "This is what I mean, plainspoken boy! Today, our Prince desires one thing: to defeat this curse upon his people. We will bend all our effort to helping him win out. Tomorrow, however, when this affliction is past, then other thoughts will come to him. I say that we help ourselves most by working toward both goals—that of today, and that of tomorrow—now. Let us spare no time while he dithers and struggles with his conscience."

Alex stared back at Gaius for a moment, but then understanding stole up on him a bit at a time. Then the youth smiled back at the old Roman, showing his fine white teeth. "Not just a jurist, but a wise councillor."

This time they both heard the sound of steps, light but unmistakable, on the stairs.

Both men turned to look up at Krista as she appeared in the doorway. "My lords," she said, seemingly oblivious of the dankness of the chamber, "the Lord Prince wishes to speak with you."

Gaius bowed a little, indicating that Alexandros should precede him up the stairs.

The Prince lay in one of the beds in the upper rooms. The wooden frame had nearly rotted away, but enough of the pallet remained for him to lie down on a bed of rugs and quilts that the servants had carried from the Engine. A brace of beeswax candles burned steadily on a table at the head of the bed. Gaius entered the room and drifted to one side to lean against the wall, as was his wont. Alexandros chose to squat on the floor by the foot of the bed, watching the Prince with his deep blue eyes. Krista occupied the lone chair, her legs crossed and a small black cat cradled in her lap. Maxian was still pale and drained looking, but some color had returned to his cheeks.

"My friends, a delicate struggle lies ahead of us. We have returned to the heartland of our enemy stronger by the addition of Alexandros and the secrets of the Persian magi, but now this great power is focused upon me and it bears down heavily.

"Gaius, we cannot wait until I am strong enough to go about in the world on my own feet. There is too much work to be done. You and Alexandros must be my eyes and hands in the city."

The old Roman bowed slightly at this, though his eyes did not leave Maxian's face. The Prince was recovering, but slowly, and Gaius smiled inwardly, seeing opportunities unfold like the leaves of a spring flower.

"How do we avoid destruction by this curse?" Alexandros' voice showed no concern for his possible annihilation. "If we leave this place and its ward, will it not strike us down?"

Maxian shook his head wearily. "Our enemy is neither wise nor cunning," he said. "It is very strong, but it does not look ahead. If you take an indirect approach and do not cause the weave of the fabric of the Empire, as it were, to change by direct action, it cannot tell that you are a threat. Even if you did, it might take some time for it to react and strike at you. It knows me, though! It knows the taste of my will and is always pressing against me. If you and Gaius and Krista go out and undertake activities that are not obviously a threat, then I believe that you can act without fear."

Alexandros shrugged and looked up at Gaius. The Roman nodded slightly and turned back to the Prince. "My lord, what must we do?"

A brief smile flitted across Maxian's face. "First," he said, "we must track down the exact text of this Oath, which means you or Alex must spend a great deal of time within the Imperial Archives and whichever private libraries you can gain entrance to."

Gaius grinned at Krista at this, his eyes sparkling. She answered him with an icy calm and continued to pet the cat. Maxian did not miss the exchange, however.

"Gaius... no dallying. Time will be short, and we must move quickly."

"How so?" Alexandros stood, brushing his cotton kilt down over his thighs. "If you surmise correctly, we can take our time with a flanking movement and the enemy will not be able to discern our approach."

"The curse is not our only foe," Maxian said, his voice now very weary. "My brother's agents will also be seeking me out if they learn that I have returned to Latium. After our lamentable conversation in Armenia, I fear my dear brother will think me quite mad. An emperor must, by his nature, look poorly on unstable relatives."

Gaius opened his mouth to speak, but a fierce look from Maxian stilled him.

"No, old man, we will
not
undertake your preferred course of action in this matter. There are other ways to reach my goal. I will
not
take that one. Go into the city and find out the latest news, seek out this text, get supplies..."

Krista ushered both men out, and then closed the pale green panel behind them.

"Uncle Mohammed!" The young woman, her raven hair tied back behind her head with a scarf, looked up in surprise, bright green eyes visible over a light veil of raw silk. She rose from the stone seat just inside the doorway of the house, smoothing the plaits of her dress, and bowed deeply.

Mohammed returned her bow and shrugged his outer robe, dirty with the grime of a thousand-mile journey, off his shoulders. "Rasana, daughter of my wife's sister, greetings."

The courtyard behind Mohammed was filled with noise: men, camels, horses. The sound of swords and lances rattled against the whitewashed walls of the house. Boots rang on the cobblestones. Mohammed stripped the burnoose from his head, unwinding the length of linen. His face was worn and dark from the sun, showing the strain of weeks of hard travel across the wasteland. The girl stared at him, seeing a jagged new scar starting at his left eye and descending sharply into the thicket of his beard.

Mohammed cocked his head a little to one side, dark brown eyes curious. "Niece, kindly summon my wife to me. I would greet her before I enter our home."

The girl's eyes grew wider, as some surprise or shock registered in her. "Uncle... you did not hear? I thought you had come—"

Mohammed raised a hand, forestalling her, and turned to the crowd of men in the courtyard. They were a grimy and desperate-looking lot, men of the deep desert with long, curved swords and grim, forbidding faces. Many bore the marks of old wounds and hard fighting. Mailed armor glinted under their patched and mended robes. Mohammed gestured to two of them, hawk-visaged men with the blue cords of the northern tribes wound through their
kaffiyeh
.

"Quiet! Jalal, Shadin—the stables and water are around the side. Take the horses there and see that they are fed and watered. I will send servants with food and drink for the men."

The two men bowed, and Mohammed turned back to the girl in the doorway. She had turned pale, and her soft hands were fluttering at her waist like doves startled from the brush. "Oh, Uncle! I thought you knew! Please, accept my apologies! I am so sorry." The girl bowed again, almost kneeling on the floor.

Mohammed frowned and crossed one leg over the other so that he could take off his boots. "Apologies for what? Where is Khadijah? Where is everyone, for that matter?"

The girl bowed again, placing her head on the floor. "Oh, Uncle, they are in the little house on the side of the hill. The house of white stones! Please, forgive my foolishness, I thought you had come because of the news..."