Maxian stood as well, his voice anxious. “But, brother! We can be free of it-and the Empire will still stand. All I need is a lever that is long enough and a fulcrum firm enough to dislodge it. I know where I can find the lever-I am sure of it. Help me do this thing, and a new world will come, one of freedom for all men. Our poor citizens can› be strong again, Rome mighty again without the affliction of this curse.”

Galen stared at Maxian’s outstretched hand and stepped back. His mind whirled, filled with strange images and the words of his brother’s trek across the Empire. It came to him that there were things missing, things left unsaid, passages only hinted at.

“How did you reach me so quickly?” The Emperor’s voice was low, controlled. “By your accounting, you left Constantinople only days ago. What power brought you here?”

Maxian started to speak, but then closed his mouth, shaking his head.

“Tell me. Something must have carried you here-what is it? Where is it?”

“No,” Maxian said, his voice clipped. “I see that you will not help me, so I will go and trouble you no more. There may be another way to break the curse. If there is, I will find it.”

Galen’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I have heard,” the Emperor said, sliding sideways around the table, “that the magi of Persia command powers that can carry them great distances swiftly. Do you have allies in this? Allies you have failed to mention?”

Maxian drew himself up and moved toward the door. “Friends have helped me. Friends who see clearly, unfettered by your fear. But I am my own master-you cannot command me, nor can anyone else.”

Galen stopped him, a stiff hand on his chest. “Chrosoes

King of Kings would laugh to see the Empire stripped of this protection.“

Maxian stared back, his face taut with anger.

“I care not,” he hissed, “for the King of Kings. Your war is an inconvenience to me, no more. Something to be taken into account. You forget, with your dream of Empire, that the common people pay for your glory in blood. I have had enough of it. It is the nature of man to learn and to grow, to seek out new things. If the Empire cannot stomach that, then I do not care for the Empire either. Stand aside. I will take my leave of you, brother.”

Galen shook his head, whistling sharply. The Germans outside, already aroused by the sound of voices raised in anger, crowded in through the doorway.

“My brother,” the Emperor said, “is weary and full of anger. Take him to my tent and keep him there, safe, until the morning. Sleep will restore his good humor.”

Maxian did not speak, eyeing the broad chests and thickly muscled arms of the Germans. There were many of them, and he was tired and only one. He nodded, smiling weakly.

“It may be so,” he said, and when they led him from the tent, he did not resist.

Galen, troubled beyond measure, leaned against the pole at the door of the tent, watching as the Germans took his brother away into the darkness. He scratched the back of his head, feeling the short stubbly hair, then turned away. There was still work to be done. He would sort things out with his little brother in the morning.

The Prince lay amid soft cushions and pillows on a fine bed. It was soft and yielding under him. Weariness washed over him in slow waves, dragging him closer to sleep. A lantern of cut-crystal faces gleamed at the top of the tent. Rich dark fabrics formed the walls and it was raised up, above the ground, on a platform of boards. It was warm and close. Maxian smiled wryly, remembering the dis gusted faces of the two concubines who had been hustled out into the cold night by the Germans. He yawned.

Despite the comfort, sleep did not come easily to him. Dreams of fire and great wheels turning in dark places haunted him. In one fragmentary moment, he saw himself on a high place, surrounded by pillars of cold marble, hearing a great roaring sound, like the sea crashing against cliffs. He saw vast wings blotting out the sun and felt joy at the rush of hot wind in his hair. He saw Krista, her face pale and drawn in concentration, facing him, her arm out-thrust toward him. At last he slept, but sounds and images of places he had not seen and people he had not met troubled even that. A woman looked down on him, maddeningly familiar, with eyes as gray as a northern sea. The sky behind her was red with burning clouds.

A touch woke him, feather-light. He slowly opened one eye and saw that the lantern had failed, leaving total darkness. A pale face hovered over him, seemingly lit by some ghostly pale-blue inner light. Long pale hair fell like gossamer on either side of the face. Rich dark lips moved.

Master?

“Alais,” he said, his voice fuzzy with sleep. He raised a hand and touched her cheek. She turned, kissing his hand, the contact shockingly hot. Her tongue moved wetly against his palm. He stroked her hair back, away from her neck. She trembled at his touch.

“Master, we must go.” Her voice was an electric whisper in the darkness. “The Romans are searching the woods, looking for something. There are hundreds of men with torches.”

“Ah, my brother is keen for something he can only guess at. So, even a brother cannot trust a brother. Help me up.”

Her hands, strong as iron, raised him up. He gathered his clothing and let her dress him. Her hands were very warm on his stomach. The Prince smiled in the darkness. If he had to go alone, without his brothers, he would go alone. The citizens were more important. Saving the innocent from unseen, unstoppable death was more important.

Alais drew back the curtain at the door, her voice whispering in the night. The guards outside sat at their posts, unmoving, and did not look up as the Prince exited the tent, closing the drape behind him. Together he and the pale Valach woman walked away through the camp, she a pace behind him.

SOUTH OF THE KERENOS RIVER, ALBANIA

H

The boy ran through the forest, blood trailing from a cut on his scalp. He gasped for breath and ran crookedly, his right leg moving in jerks. The ground rose, becoming thick with low brush and saplings. He crashed through the bushes and fell to his knees. Without the breath to swear, he scrabbled at the ground, finally finding purchase and rising again.

Behind him there was a whistling sound and the shouts of men. Hooves thudded on the loamy earth, growing closer. The boy staggered up the side of the hill, bent nearly double, trying to keep the brush and trees between himself and his pursuers. Near the crest, his right leg gave out and he tumbled to the ground, rolling back down the slope. Blood oozed out of a deep cut on the outside of his right leg and he lay there, wheezing, unable to move.

The hunters began climbing the hill, their voices quite close. He could hear the horses blowing and the rattle of armor. Through the canopy of trees above him, the boy could see blue sky streaked with high white clouds. He rolled over, biting down on a cracked lip to keep from crying out. On his hands and knees, he crawled along the side of the hill, away from the crest. The ground was rough-rocky and covered with small stones. There was little grass, for these hills were dry and covered with stunted trees with sharp thorns.

He came to a rock outcropping and hauled himself up onto a shelf. Leaning heavily on the stones, he managed to limp around the corner of the rocks. For a moment, as he swung around the side of the boulder, he was silhouetted against the sky.

The boy spun around, losing his grip on the crumbly granite. A black-fletched arrow stabbed out from his shoulder, blood welling around the exit wound. For a moment he stared at the sky and the slope below him on the backside of the hill. Then his knees became terribly weak and he slid down to the ground. His body rolled off the. ledge and bounced, arms and legs flailing, down the slope.