Maxian nodded and almost without thought his sight expanded to fill the room. Now he could see the trembling aura around the old man, a stolid, burnished bronze color. The rest of the room was a tracery of fine blue lines of fire. His own shield glittered in the air between him and the Nabatean. The old man too was still and quiet. For a moment nothing happened, and then the blue fire began to wick up into the air. The brazier sputtered and went out, though Maxian could still see clearly in the darkness. The walls, floor and ceiling gave up their energy to a coalescing sphere that spun out, slowly, from the figure of the old man to pass over Maxian and then halt just beyond him. The blue fires slid, glutinously, to the sphere and at last it was complete.
The Prince relaxed for the first time in days, and his own shield flared and went out. He slumped backward on the couch, the low-level headache that he had been fighting while the shield was up passing away.
“Better, is it not?” the old man whispered, his eyes still closed in concentration. “Now I will show you the blessing of Rome… but be prepared to raise your pattern again at an instant. This will be quite dangerous.”
The Nabatean reached out a thin hand and plucked at the air above the gold coin. Bidden by his hand, it rose up to spin slowly in the air between the old man and the prince.
“By the shape of the man who held this coin, I can influence him for good or ill. I can harm him, so…”
The old man twisted his hand in the air, and a virulent crimson tendril sparked in the air in front of him. Maxian sat up straighter, his own hand raised in an involuntary ward. The tendril of fire crept through the air and twisted around the coin. The air around the coin flexed, becoming cloudy, and for a moment the image of a stern, patrician, face appeared around the coin.
“Easy, easy, young master, I will not actually harm the officer, but look, beyond the pattern of defense…”
Maxian turned his attention outward and his face froze at the sight beyond the pale-blue barrier. Acidic darkness surged against the blue sphere, filled with deep-purple fire and an eye-dizzying eddy of contorting shapes. The power that lay throughout the city, in the stones, in the air, in the war, englobed them and hissed and spit against the blue wall.
“You see the blessing? As I raise evil intent against a steward of the state, against an officer who is a very pillar of the Empire, the blessing moves against me. The pressure upon the pattern is incredible… even here, in a place where I have lived for many years and invested much power, it is almost enough to overcome me. I withdraw the threat.”
The crimson tendril faded away and the coin spun gently down to rattle on the tabletop. Abdmachus opened his eyes, breathing heavily. Beyond the flickering blue wall, the darkness surged and spun about, beating against the invisible wall. Then slowly, inch by inch, it receded and flowed back into the walls, into the air, into the earth. Maxian let out a long slow breath when the last vestiges were gone.
The old man also slumped against the back of the divan in exhaustion, but his eyes were still bright. “It has always puzzled me that no Roman mage has written of this effect, or that the Empire has not trumpeted its protection to the four corners of the world. But seeing you here, now, with an equally puzzled expression tells me that no Roman has ever come athwart it and lived to tell of it to another.“
Maxian pursed his lips and slowly nodded.
“Any who provoked the power,” the Prince said, “would be destroyed were they not ready. No one would know…” He looked up sharply at the old man. “Then how did I survive discovering it? How did you survive discovering it?”
Abdmachus ignored the question for a moment, wearily levering himself up from the couch and disappearing behind a curtain at the back of the room. He returned in a few moments with jugs of wine and water and two broad-mouthed cups. He poured the heavy wine and then added a liberal dose of water to each. After he had drained the cup, he spoke.
“When I first came to the city, I was… so to say… not officially welcomed. I sought no license to practice my craft and I did not make myself well known. I took these rooms and set about assiduously minding my own business. I was younger, but still careful, so when first I essayed a commission such as I just demonstrated, I took many extra precautions.”
He paused and poured another cup of wine, motioning to Maxian to drink himself. The Prince sniffed the wine and put forth a small fraction of his ability to see if it was safe. It was, and so he drank.
“It is common knowledge among the practitioners of the craft, at least it is outside of Rome, that the Empire is all but inviolate to sorcery and magic of all kinds. The widespread presumption is that the Imperial thaumaturges are so powerful that they detect or repel all attempts to do ill to the state. But my time here in the city has told me otherwise. Your sorcerers are strong, true, but they could not do this.
“Has it never struck you, or any other Roman, that your enemies have not slain your Kings or Emperors by magic?
That the priest-kings of Persia or the witch-men of the Germans have not shriven your armies to ruin in the field of battle? These enemies can summon horrific powers and, I assure you, have done so in the past. But their efforts were for nothing. Such an attempt is a sure path to ruin for the practitioner. And this, what we have seen this evening, is why.“
Maxian put the empty cup down. By parts he was greatly relieved that he had found someone who not only believed him but had considered the same problem himself. The perspective that he brought, however, was disquieting. He rubbed his face again, trying to urge his mind to motion. Abdmachus saw this and smiled again, though the young man did not see.
“Young master, you are gravely tired. There is nothing that can be done tonight about this. If you would care to, you may sleep here tonight. Here, at least, you can sleep free of troubling dreams and the effects of the power.”
Great cypress trees folded over the top of the lane as they turned off the Via Appia. A suffocating darkness surrounded Maxian, and he shivered though the summer night was still warm. He could smell the richness of the fields on either side of the hedgerows. The lane descended and then turned to the left. The lantern ahead jogged to the right and the horsemen entered a small clearing.
The moon had passed through the clouds and now loomed large over a small temple on the far side of the clearing. Silver light lay upon the stones at the entrance to the tomb. Abdmachus swung spryly down from his horse, as did the two attendants who had led them to this place. Maxian looked around, surprised that the burial place of the Julians would seem so insignificant. Then he too dismounted. The Nabatean stepped to his side, carrying one of the two hooded lanterns they had brought.
“Light your lantern,” he said, his voice low.
Maxian nodded and lifted the heavy bundle from the sad dlebag on his horse. Praetor whickered at him and nudged his shoulder with a great soft nose. Maxian smiled in the darkness and dug in his pocket for a carrot. The stallion accepted the bribe with a gracious air and allowed himself to be tied off to a tree near the entrance to the temple. This done, Maxian unwrapped the lantern and sparked the wick to light with a snap of his fingers. Abdmachus had lighted his as well. The Nabatean turned to the two attendants and bade them sit in the cover of the trees and watch the entrance of the tomb and the lane.
“You’ve the other tools?” Abdmachus asked, turning back to the Prince.
Maxian hefted the leather bag he had slung over his shoulder; there was a clank of metal from within. In the moonlight, the Nabatean’s head bobbed in acknowledgment.