Free Byzantium's Crown by Susan Shwartz

chuckled. Power might exist . . . did. He had had stern proof of it. It was a pity he didn't possess it, or was it? He might abuse it, too.
    "You laugh, Mor?" Nicephorus asked. "By Horus, you give me courage. I hope we are sold together." The scholar reached out to touch his taller friend's shoulder. Then, as a man gestured threateningly with his whipstock, he shrank back.
    A warmth very different from fever or the merciless sun filled Marric. As a prince he had tended to have associates, servants, officers. But no friends. Especially not for him, because of the daily treacheries in his life. But here was friendship given him for the man he was, not for any imperial favors. Or did Nicephorus, with that sight of his, know who Marric really was?
    It hardly mattered either way.
    Overseers and hired swords herded the coffle into a warehouse where the factor entered into loud, anguished bargaining. Finally, the slave dealers allowed the slaves to be fed and watered like the rest of the livestock. One man tossed Marric a flask of cloudy oil. He worked it into his skin thoroughly, easing the aching stripes and wounds on his body. It would also serve to make his body gleam so that he would draw a higher price, perhaps from some wealthy lady bored with too many long, idle afternoons. But he could not cavil: to be clean, fed, and out of the foul slave hold and savage streets were blessings for which slaves quickly learned to thank the gods.
     
    Marric watched them lead Nicephorus to the block and the thought made him feel sick. He had seen death, and had not shrunk from causing it. But this casual sale of a friend, reducing the scholar, the magician, the all-but-brother to sinew and muscle—if he retched here, they would beat him. He almost didn't care.
    And since when, Marric, did you get so sensitive about slaves? You've owned enough of them, a voice commented inside his skull.
    Since I became one. He grinned mirthlessly and forced himself to watch the transaction as if it meant little to him.
    The bidding rose high. Professional counters translated prices in ingots, dirhans, even gold armlets into their worth in imperial solidi. Nicephorus' skills as a scribe found a ready market.
    Finally, the bidding narrowed to two people: a priest and a freedman who was obviously the major-domo of some villa. The priest had his skull shaven and wore only a kalasiris of fine pleated linen in the archaic fashion. But his eyes caught and held first Nicephorus' gaze, then Marric's. He raised the major-domo's bid, then looked back at Marric.
    "Can he handle accounts?" shouted another bidder from the crowd.
    "You! Can you figure?" the auctioneer asked Nicephorus. He nodded. Despite the resignation he professed, he looked afraid. The new bidder topped the priest's offer.
    The priest's eyes seemed to expand, engulfing Marric's consciousness. Under their commanding gaze Marric felt simultaneously lighter and more aware. And then he became the priest, who seemed outwardly only to examine a sturdy slave.
    So that is the missing prince, thought the priest of Osiris.
    Marric was stunned. He had known people were said to speak mind-to-mind, but had never believed it.
    Tall, shoulders muscular from racing his chariot and reining in horses. Definitely a warrior: harsh tempered, stubbornly loyal, angry at the world and at himself. Those scars are healing well. Holds his head high, with the very falcon's pride. Is he a ruler yet, fit to be consecrated? The high priest ordered that he be tested . . .
    The priest glanced aside, and Marric knew he had been examined, judged, and dismissed. Though that was no more than he expected, crushed hopes made him strike back. I am Marric, Alexander's son! he shouted inside his mind until his eyes ached. I am emperor, Horus-on-Earth! Listen to me, priest! By your loyalty to my father, aid his son. I am master here!
    Priests. You could never make sense of them, like that old shavenpoll back in Byzantium. He had thought,