Galen was standing, his eyes bright with fear and anger. His voice shook when he spoke. "Guilty of what? Has some madness overcome you? What is this conspiracy against me?"
Anastasia looked up, her face pale in its subtle makeup, her violet eyes huge and accented by a thin outline of kohl. She pressed her slim fingers to her chest. Unlike most of her gowns, this one had a high collar and her hand lay like a dying swan on that velvet surface.
"Not you, my lord. Never you. I have sent my men to take arms against your brother, the Prince Maxian, in his refuge at Ottaviano near Cumae." She paused, and it seemed that her voice might break. "I have sent them there to kill the young Prince and return his lifeless body to Rome in a casket of iron."
Galen staggered, his face blanching white, and he sat down. One hand gripped the edge of the couch. Aurelian's eyes had assumed a dreadful aspect and his fist curled around the hilt of a short stabbing sword at his waist.
"You would kill our little piglet?" Aurelian's deep voice ground like stones in a whirlpool. He stood, his brow furrowing, and he stepped to the Duchess' side, his thick-fingered hand touching her neck. Anastasia steeled herself and turned her face away, letting her hair fall loose in front of her eyes. "Our brother? You would send your footpads and sicaraii to seek him out in our mother's house?"
Aurelian's voice was rising, sending echoes ringing from the tall columns and the glazed tiles of the domed roof. The sword rasped from its sheath and settled in his hand, a gleaming extension of his arm.
"Yes," said the Duchess in a faint voice. She clasped her right hand around Aurelian's wrist, pressing his muscular palm against her neck. Her fingers were not long enough to encircle the thick muscles. " Tonight, beyond the speed of messenger on horse or ship to warn him, he will die. I have taken every precaution: " her voice strengthened and she looked up at Aurelian": every precaution that he be slain."
Aurelian had raised the blade, preparing to give his rage vent in her body, but the sight of her calm eyes, ready and waiting for death, stilled his hand. His face contorted, filled with confusion and fear.
"Why?" Galen's voice was drained and possessed of a depth of grief. " He could not be brought before me in chains? Unconscious? Even blinded and helpless?"
"No, my lord." Anastasia turned, leaning her head on Aurelian's arm. She too was weary. "All that I have learned tells the tale of a man grown so strong in the dark arts, so practiced, that he can take mortal wounds and live, regrow the eye plucked from his head, slip any bond, suborn any guard. He has drunk deep of ancient Oriental poisonshe trafficks with the dead, he raises up grave-wights and commands them, his fingers are thick with tombdust and lost secrets. Persians whisper in his ear. This dear boy, your brother, has set himself to replace you, to throw down the Senate and the people, to raise himself up in your stead."
"Impossible!" Aurelian shouted, but he turned to Galen, his face showing him lost in a strange land. "Gales, this is the piglet! Our little brother, a priest of blessed Asclepius! He has taken oaths: he cannot be a monster!"
"He is," Anastasia said, taking Aurelian's hand in both of hers and drawing him down to sit beside her at the end of the dining couch. "He has murdered foundling children and pensioned soldiers, he has placed workings upon men so that they might obey his will in all things. He has raised up a thing, a homunculus, that has murdered and consumed dozens of citizens, even strong men of the Praetorian Guard. He rides a serpent of fire."
Anastasia stroked the side of Aurelian's head, feeling the thick oily heaviness of his bushy red hair. The man seemed about to weep. The Duchess turned again to Galen, her face pensive with worry.
"My lord and god, all these things I have learned very recently. You knew some of them before, but not their entire scope. I know: I know that you wanted to give your brother time to heal and rest. I know that he has gone to your mother's estate at Ottaviano. An agent of mine has been close to him and recently returned to me. Things are far worse than you or I believed."
Galen raised a hand, his face terrible in repressed fury. A thin finger extended, jabbing at the Duchess.
"You took upon yourself to execute the Emperor's justice outside the sanction of the Twelve Tables. You usurp my authority, woman. If this man, my brother, is to die, it should be by my hand and order, not yours." The Emperor ground out each word like copper curling away from an iron die. Anastasia made a half-bow, still sitting and holding Aurelian's hand.
"I know, my lord. I am a traitor to the State. I will accept my punishment and death. But I could not wait, or risk that you would grant this man mercy. For the good of the Senate and the people of Rome, the Prince must be killed. I am sorry."
Galen looked away, his fists clenched. A vein throbbed in his forehead. When he looked back, after a long moment, his eyes seemed dead and clouded. His voice was bitter.
"There will be no punishment. This thing must be done. You have the will to lance this wound upon the body of the State."
The Duchess bowed her head again, disguising tears that pearled at the corners of her eyes. In the Emperor's voice, she heard the judgment and sentence of the Senate and the people of Rome.
Vesuvius
The gloom of the bowl-shaped grotto seemed to fold around Maxian like a comfortable old cloak, warm and soft, with a few tears and patches, but so well known that it was a relief just to settle into it. Night had fallen again after a sunny cloudless day. The Prince had tarried on the mountain, meditating and napping in the warmth. The last wagonload of books and sundries had been brought up from the villa and stowed in the Engine. Khiron was somewhere in the crevices and gullies among the boulders, waiting for word to climb into the iron hull of the Engine and depart.
Maxian sat at one edge of the grotto, his back to a sloping boulder, feeling the cool moss and the subtle comforting rumble of the mountain. He could see an arc of stars in the sky. Soon the moon might rise high enough to shine down into the bowl, filling it with a quiet silver light. Faced with the prospect of going out, beyond the point of balance between the Oath and the forces restrained within the mountain, he tarried. It was peaceful here and calm. He could doze in the sun without the worry of maintaining a vigilant shield. Khiron watched over him, keeping shepherds or wayward youths from disturbing his rest. Once he left, he would plunge back into the constant struggle with the corrosive power of the Oath. There would be no rest then.
So, he had stayed overlong, days past when he had intended to return to Rome and his brothers.
Maxian started awake, hearing the rattle of a stone falling somewhere in the grotto. He stood up, feeling stiffness in his arms and legs. He laughed softly to himself and patted the flank of the boulder. With the warm ground and the constant faint rumble of the mountain, it was easy to fall asleep here. The heat of the rocks made the bowl a little warmer than the night should be, raising a faint dewy mist. Maxian cracked his neck and walked toward the southern end of the grassy lawn. It was time to depart.
"Khiron! Come out, dead thing. It is time to go." Maxian heard his voice echo from the rocks.
He reached the far side of the glade and turned, looking up at the rim of the bowl. Where was the creature? It never went far away, even when it nosed about for living things among the rocks.
"Khiron, attend me!" The Prince put a tone of command into his call.
There was movement in the darkness at the side of the bowl and a lithe figure slipped down out of the shadows. Maxian frowned at itthe creature's head was turning this way and that and it moved quickly and low to the ground. He looked around the great circle of rocks again. It was very quiet. Khiron passed through a bit of starlight, his glistening skin shining, loping along in a crouch.