The Duchess had hurried home from the Palatine, her heart sick with dread. When word had come that it was Vesuvius that had erupted and that all the lands around that southern mountain were devastated, she had commandeered a troop of cavalry and set off.
She knew, in her heart, that all of the men and women she had sent south were dead. Her only hope, in all this ruin, was that the Prince had died as well. Her heart became numb at the thought and she pushed bleak visions away.
They rode on, out of the village and into a zone of complete destruction at the base of the mountain itself. Vesuvius rose up, its once-smooth sides ripped by long crevices and chasms. The summit, which had tapered to a smooth cone, was now jagged and canted at an angle. A good third of the mountaintop had simply vanished. Anastasia reined her mare to the side of the road. The way was blocked by a drift of large black boulders. The ground still steamed and smoked and the layer of ash was at least a foot deep on the surface of the highway. In the ditches on either side, it was far deeper. She looked up, her exhausted eyes following the line of the summit.
Foul black smoke still belched from the mountain, pluming into the sky. They were now so close that it seemed like late twilight, though far above the murk, the sun rode high in the sky. The Duchess wondered how long the pall would last- days? Months? Galen had already issued a series of edicts placing all grain production in the Western Empire under direct Imperial control. Thousands of acres of agricultural land in Latium had already been destroyed and the price of bread would skyrocket as soon as the grain factors recovered from the shock of the event.
The centurion in command of the detachment of equites rode up, his narrow face pale with ash and dust.
"My lady, it would be dangerous to proceed farther. Do you feel the heat in the ground and the thickness of the air? Dangerous vapors have been released from the underworld- we may well find ourselves in Charon's boat if we continue."
Anastasia would have laughed at the allusion on another day, but here, under the black slope of the volcano, it seemed all too appropriate. She nodded wearily and turned her horse around. They had seen nothing but corpses once they had entered the gray land. It seemed passing unlikely that they would find anyone alive. The toll of riding lay heavy on her as well. She had not been on a horse for a lengthy period in years. The pain would be with her for weeks.
They rode back north, following the highway. A wind rose, coming cold out of the east, driving grit and ash into their faces. Anastasia bundled up tighter, feeling chilled to the bone. The horses hung their heads low, fighting through the gray haze.
It was a long way back to Rome.
The Bucoleon Palace, Constantinople
Rufio had served the Emperor of the East for his entire adult life; first as a soldier in the personal army of the Emperor's father, the Exarch of Africa, then, after Constantinople had been taken and the usurper Phocas hacked to bits at the command of the new Emperor Heraclius, in the revitalized Imperial Army. His service during the disaster of the war against the Avars had led him into the service of the Emperor. During all that time, he had murdered men and women, stolen, lied, deceived, faked a kidnapping, misrepresented the use of public funds, forged letters, insulted holy men and priests, and consumed food left on the altars of the gods as sacrifice. Once Heraclius had turned to him, during the driving rain that accompanied their retreat from the dismal field of Adrianople, and called him the only man the Emperor truly trusted.
It had been a moment of weakness, but Rufio, in his stoic way, had let it pass.
Now the scarred, silent African had been the captain of the Faithful Guard for three years and seen all that the Empire had lost, regained. He had seen the golden-haired youth become a man and triumph over impossible odds.
It made the guards captain sick to see his master become a delusional cripple, isolating himself from everything that he held dear, letting the Empire that he loved so well slip away into the hands of the great landowners and magnates and priesthoods. Now, he felt uneasy and unfaithful. By Imperial edict, it was treason punishable by dismemberment to stand as he now did. In his own mind, he had already betrayed a man he considered a worthy commander. Now he considered the aspect of real treason and found it palatable.
"He is a stranger, unrecognizable." The Empress' voice was soft and low, barely audible. Her face was in shadow, barely illuminated by a single candle that stood on a long tapering holder by the door to the sleeping chamber. Martina had come by a hidden way, heavily veiled and shrouded in a thick cloak and long gown. The clothes were none of her own. One of the Faithful had purchased them in the city some days before. Rufio had held himself apart from the murk of intrigue and conspiracy that occupied the idle time of the city fathers, but he had not ignored its lessons.
"My lady," he said, his rough voice lowered as well. "In this poor light, he looks more like the man you remember than under the sun. He is not well. His body has rebelled against him."
Martina turned, her glorious brown eyes shining with tears, just visible between two bands of the veil. Rufio could see that the young woman longed to touch her husband's hand, but dared not. Of late, to keep Heraclius in some kind of effective state, Rufio had been adding one or two drops of poppy juice to the heavy wine that the Emperor would consent to drink before sleeping. Even that was difficult, for the Emperor's fears extended to anything liquid. The African knew that this was a dangerous business, but he could see no alternative. If he did not, then the Emperor's sleep would be wracked by terrible dreams.
If the Emperor did not sleep at night, he was in a hallucinatory daze during the day. Too much needed to be done for that to be allowed. Now, with Heraclius in a drugged stupor, Rufio had brought the Empress to look upon him. It was the first time that she had seen her husband in months.
"Is he dying?" For all her youth and bookish nature, the Empress was of a practical mind.
Rufio nodded, his gnarled hands clenching behind his back.
"How long?"
"Perhaps a year: he will not allow a priest of Asklepios to attend him. Sviod- one of the Faithful- has seen this kind of thing before. Those so afflicted will linger and slowly decay into death. Madness already comes and goes."
Martina turned away, her hand rising to her lips. Rufio stood, waiting, until she could speak again. "They say that this thing is my fault." The Empress' voice was very faint, barely a whisper. "My handmaids hear them; in the market, in the baths, at the Hippodrome. They are merciless and cruel. Did you know, there are plays in the low houses of the Racing District that: that depict what the common people think transpired in our courtship? It is rude work, no Ion of Chios surely, but I know it is what the fine ladies and gentlemen of the nobility are thinking when they titter behind their fans and handkerchiefs."
Rufio said nothing. He had heard all the same spiteful gossip and outright condemnation of the marriage of a niece and uncle. He knew them both, and had seen for three years that they loved one another deeply. What mattered to him, today, was that he needed an ally.
"My lady, there is a thing I would do, but I need your help."
Martina had heard nothing. She stared off into the darkness, her arms crossed over her chest. "They say that the gods have turned their backs on us, because of our marriage. We are cursed, our blood corrupt. My children have all died, save little Heracleonas. He is so small and weak- will he live? Is it true?"
"Empress!" Rufio turned the woman, his big hands enveloping her thin shoulders. Why not compound two treacheries by laying hands on the body of the Empress, too? He almost laughed, but stifled it with a cough. "You must listen to me." He bent down, catching her eye.