The Cup

PROLOGUE: Milan, 395 CE

The Emperor of Rome lay dying.

The odor of his decaying, swollen body filled the room. His two sons had been sent away with a final kiss a half hour before and now his confessor knelt by the bed reciting prayers. Two of the emperor's generals looked on.

Death was in the room.

The priest finished his prayers and bent to hear the emperor's whispered words.

"Anastasius… send them away."

The priest stood, an imposing figure in a black robe, a man who knew he spoke with the authority of God. His look was fierce.

"He commands you all to leave."

"We must witness the death."

The speaker was Stillicho, guardian of Honorius, the ten-year-old boy who would rule in the West. Next to him stood Flavius Rufinus, guardian of Theodosius' other son, Arcadius. He would rule in the East.

"Obey your emperor." The priest's voice was stern. "Soon enough you can do as you will."

The two men bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door behind them. Theodosius spoke to the priest again, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Where…?"

"I will take it to the monastery, Majesty. All will be well."

"These men… Rufinus and the others. They are corrupt. They must not have it."

A violent fit of coughing seized him. He clutched at the covers and struggled for breath. Anastasius held the emperor's head and wiped mucus from his lips with a cloth.

The spasm passed. Theodosius fell back against his pillows. He raised a trembling hand and pointed at an ornate standing cabinet across the room.

"… the cabinet."

The priest went to the cabinet and opened the door, reached in and took out a package the size of a loaf of bread, wrapped in cloth of gold. A harsh, gasping rattle made him turn in time to see Theodosius draw his final breath.

The last emperor of one Roman Empire was dead.

The priest closed the dead man's eyes, made the sign of the cross and said another prayer for Theodosius' soul. He slipped the package under his robes, into the secret pouch he'd sewn to hold it. Now there was nothing left to do but allow the vultures to assemble.

He threw open the doors. A dozen people waited in the antechamber.

"The emperor is dead."

"At last," Rufinus said.

He brushed rudely past the white-haired priest and went into the room, followed by the others.

Anastasius waited until they were all inside and then slipped away. Under his robes, the package felt hot against his body.

He was an old man, and a long journey lay before him.