Damascus, The Theme of Syria Magna
Ahmet sat in the shade of an olive tree, his hat turned upside down in his lap. It was late afternoon on the hillside, and of all of Mohammed's men, only he was still awake. The others, even the guards, were sleeping in the shade under the trees in the grove. The camels and horses were grazing on the low grass between the trees. Even the flies were quiet, only a few buzzing around the Egyptian's head, and they were slow and lazy. He was eating an orange and putting the peels in his hat. From his vantage, he could see down the slope of the low hill to the gates of the great city. A pall of dust and smoke shrouded the road from the south. Ahmet finished peeling the fruit and popped a section into his mouth. Strong white teeth bit down and he savored the taste.
A river, broad and swift, lay between the hills and the walls of Damascus. Drovers on the road the previous day had named it the Baradas. Twin bridges, long wooden spans on great pilings of gray stone, arched over it, carrying the elevated road to the gates. A great bastion of towers and gates met the bridge there and gave entrance to the teeming streets of the city. Marshlands and water gardens surrounded the city on the southern and eastern sides, channeling all traffic onto the three raised roads that came to the gates from those directions. Ahmet was not impressed. Alexandria was ten times larger than this provincial town.
The road leading to the river remained a confused snarl, as it had been the night before. A constant stream of people was leaking out of the fastness of Damascus, heading south by foot, by camel, by horse, by litter, and by wagon. At the same time, bands of fighting men on horse and afoot were trying to move north. As Ahmet watched, another column of horsemen with brightly pennoned lance tips trotted past the base of the hill, forcing their way down the crowded road. A distant murmur of voices raised in anger drifted on the slow afternoon air. The armies of the Eastern princes were trying to get north of the barrier of the Baradas. Even the noblemen were backed up at the bridge.
Near dusk, the men roused themselves and began gathering wood for a fire. Ahmet stood at the edge of the grove, his hands clasped behind him, looking across the shallow valley toward the lights of the city. Great black and silver clouds of birds rose from the marshes and wheeled away across the sky, hunting for insects before nightfall. With the gloom of twilight creeping across the valley, the Egyptian could see the lights of encampments along the northern and western roads to the city as well. The pale sandstone walls of the old city were joined by new, bustling suburbs of canvas and wood.
Stars had begun to show in the darkening sky over the peaks of the mountains to the west of the city when Mohammed at last returned. He labored up the slope to the olive grove with a heavily laden horse in tow behind him and two bags thrown over his own shoulders.
"Ho, priest!" Mohammed said, wheezing with effort. "Take a poor working man's burden." He swung one of the bags off his shoulder and Ahmet caught it, grunting with effort. It was very heavy. Some of Mohammed's cousins ran up to take the other and the reins of the horse. The merchant straightened up and stretched his back.
"Ah, better, better! It's Shaitan's own pit of torments in there, I'll tell you. The place is a madhouse." Mohammed looked around, counting noses. Satisfied that everyone was present, he shooed his men away and crooked a finger at Ahmet. They walked together, away from the camp, up the slope to the top of the hill. A tumble of stones crowned the summit. Mohammed sat down on a flat rock and began unlacing his sandals. Ahmet sat nearby, his shape muted in the dim light.
"I looked for your friend," the southerner said, kneading his sore foot between powerful fingers. "But there are no Roman legionnaires in the city. There's every other kind of fighting man in the eastern half of the Empire down there, but no Romans. There are Arabs, Syrians, Palmyrenes-a whole host of Palmyrenes-Nabateans, Palestinians, Goths, Turks, Ethiops-but no Roman Imperial troops." Mohammed paused, looking off into the night, toward the bridge over the Baradas.
"If I knew no better, I'd say the city was a mutiny against the Empire waiting to happen, but every man's voice is raised against Chrosoes of Persia. I spoke with everyone I knew from the times I've been here before, and not one of them said that there were any Roman troops in the city. The governor maintains a civil guard, but-and this from my friend Barsames the glassworker-the two cohorts of the Second Triana that had been stationed in the city were withdrawn to Tyre on the coast almost a month ago."
Ahmet shook his head in puzzlement. "I don't understand," he said. "The quartermaster in Alexandria was quite specific that the Third had been sent to Damascus, along with another Legion."
Mohammed shrugged. "No matter, my friend, this man you seek is not here now. These Legions may arrive soon-that is a common rumor in the markets-but until then…"
Ahmet stood, his face filled with confusion. He paced around the cairn of rocks.
"I shall go to the coast then," he said at last. "To Tyre, or wherever the Legions are."
Mohammed turned a little to keep his friend in view. "This fellow, you are certain you must find him? Do you owe him so much?"
"Yes," Ahmet said in a sad voice, "I owe him a great deal. I doubt, no, I am sure that he does not know that I am seeking to find him. But I cannot countenance what was done to him, not and remain an honorable man." Mohammed spread his hands questioningly. Ahmet sighed and sat down, his head in his hands. "Weeks ago now I was a priest-teacher at a school in Upper Egypt. A school devoted to teaching the works and philosophies of Hermes Trismegistus and the other ancient savants. This school is moderately well known, and many rich families send their sons to learn the techniques and practices of the art of sight and power. I was the youngest master of the school, a teacher.
"Then one day a message came from the father temple in Alexandria that we had to answer an Imperial levy-a sorcerer of the third order must be sent to the muster of the Legions. The master of the school chose to send Dwyrin MacDonald, one of my students, to fulfill this obligation. I protested this decision, but Dwyrin was sent anyway."
Mohammed raised an eyebrow; he had guessed bits and pieces of his quiet Egyptian friend's background from the way that he spoke and how he thought, but he had never realized that he had been traveling in the company of a man who commanded the hidden powers. Inwardly he chuckled; he could not have chosen a better companion for the road!
"Did this Dwyrin not want to go? What did he think of it?"
Ahmet snorted in disgust. "I am sure that Dwyrin was elated to be so chosen-but, my friend, Dwyrin is, or was, a sorcerer of the third order in only the most flimsy legal sense. He is not even the best of my students! A boy of sixteen-with talent, yes-but nothing of the discipline of a master. Ah, I should have gone in his stead to begin with."
"You have masters of the art that are sixteen?" Mohammed's voice was confused.
"No!" Ahmet exclaimed in horror. "When the master of the school received the notice of the levy, he bade me take the boy to the hidden temple and initiate him into the mysteries of the third order-but he has not the training for it, not the discipline, not the patience! He has been opened to a world he cannot properly see, or control. He is still a child-a troublesome child-one the master of the school felt it best to be rid of, lest he cause more problems, but that is no excuse to offer him up as a sacrifice to the gods of war. He may already be dead."
Ahmet stared off, into the night, with blank eyes.
Mohammed clapped him gently on his shoulder. "So, you abandoned your position at the school to find him, then? What will you do if you do find him?"
"Take his place, I suppose." Ahmet's voice was low and filled with fatigue. "Join him and teach him what I can if they will not release him from his duty to the state. He was, he is, my student. I am responsible for him, for all his cheerful tricks and irreverence. He had promise, my friend, promise to be a fine young man with a good talent. He could have done many worthy things. I am sick to think of him dead in a field, entrails pecked by crows, because the master of the school found it convenient to dispose of a possible political problem without getting his hands dirty."
Mohammed laughed silently in the darkness. Was that not the way of the world?
"There is no more difficult path than that of an honorable man," he said in a portentous voice. "Ahmet, tomorrow we will take the caravan into the city and turn the glasswares and pottery over to the warehouse my wife's cousin's brother owns. Then my business will be done for this venture. I think that we should then make inquiries at the citadel to see if the Roman authorities there know the whereabouts of the Third Cyrene. Then you and I, if you will have my companionship on the road, will go and find your student and see about getting your honor back."
Ahmet glanced up. "A fine offer made to a man that you've barely known three weeks. Why would you do such a thing?"
Mohammed sighed, clasping his hands together in front of him. "You are driven by honor and your duty as a teacher. I am not driven by anything. I have a fine wife and a rich family in my home city. I could while my days away, and I have, in reading and philosophy. I have spent my time in the saddle too, raiding the oases and villages of the enemies of my tribe. I could play the merchant on the road, journeying to distant lands and cities, and this too I have done. My heart is hungry, and I have not found the thing to fill it. I am restless, my friend, and I want to understand all of this." He waved a hand to encompass the sky, the grove, the ground beneath their feet.
"I miss the comfort of my wife and our household, but something is still missing. So, I will come with you and see something, at least, that I have not seen before. Perhaps I will find what I am looking for! One never knows where he'll end up, setting out on an unknown road. Truth might lie around the next bend, or over the next hill."
– |In peaceful days, the markets of Damascus were filled with a raucous throng of thousands coming and going along the narrow, covered ways. Now, with tens of thousands of troops camped around, or in the city, it was worse. It took Ahmet three hours of pushing through congested streets filled with bands of armed men, rickety stalls, and the citizens of the city to reach the broad square surrounded by mighty temples and buildings of the state that marked the center of the ancient town. Once on the square, Ahmet was able to breathe again and walk at a normal pace. He headed for the imposingly porticoed front of the Temple of Zeus, which made itself unmistakable by towering over the entire square and every other building adjoining it.
He mounted the long tier of steps at the front of the temple, passing by fountains set into the broad front that fed a series of shallow ornamental pools at the base of the building. The footsteps of many priests and penitents echoed off the high ceilings as he made his way into the dim recesses at the side of the central nave. There were a number of small offices there, and he walked along them after asking directions of a slave at the front of the temple. At the end, in a rather barren cell, he found the man he wanted to see.
"Master Monimus?" A slight man with only a trace of hair remaining on his head looked up from a low desk. Wooden scroll cases surrounded him like honeycombs, filled with burnished brass handles and well-worn wooden pegs. The priest's eyes were a merry blue, and his face, though deeply lined with age, seemed open and pleasant.
"I am Monimus," he said in a clear tenor voice. "Please sit. There is wine, if you are thirsty."
"Thank you, master. I am Ahmet of the School of Pthames in Egypt. I also serve Hermes Trismegistus."
Monimus bowed, still sitting, and poured two shallow cups of wine from an ancient red-black amphora. He passed one of the krater to Ahmet and sipped politely from the other. Ahmet sipped as well, then placed the ancient drinking bowl on the edge of the table. Monimus waited with the calm that all of the masters of the order seemed to assume as a matter of course. Ahmet cleared his throat, not sure how to begin, but he thought of how Mohammed would handle this and decided to plunge straight in.
"Master Monimus, I must beg your indulgence and ask two favors of you and your house here. I am on a long journey and I am afraid that I have not pleased the master of my school overmuch. He did not give me leave to undertake such an absence, and he may be most displeased with my hasty departure. Despite this, I feel that I should tell him where I am and where I am going, and why I left in such a precipitous manner."
Ahmet opened the heavy cloth bag that he had purchased in Gerasa and drew out a letter written on poor papyrus. He placed it on the desk between himself and the master. "If you could see that this letter reaches Master Nephet of the School of Pthames, near Panopolis in Upper Egypt, I would be grateful. My second favor is more pressing, though you may not know the answer. Has any news of the Imperial Legion called the Third Cyrenaicea reached you? I must find a man who is serving with it, but my last report held that it was coming here, and it has not done so."
Monimus sat quietly for a little while, his blue eyes considering Ahmet. The young Egyptian began to feel very nervous at the examination, but he remained still and did not fidget. After a time the Syrian priest sighed and picked up the letter from where it had lain on the desk.
"Of course I will see that this letter reaches your superior in Panopolis. I believe that I know this Nephet from my time at the sanctuary of the Order in Ephesus. He is a stern man, if memory serves, but he does care about his charges, and forgives. Of your second request, I can say nothing, for I know nothing of the matter. Every tongue in the city has the matter of the war against Persia upon it, but I have heard nothing that would indicate that the Imperials are coming here. Are you determined to find this man?"
Ahmet nodded.
The older priest picked at the edge of the letter, his face troubled. "You know of the levy upon the orders, of course?"
Ahmet nodded again, and something of the anger he felt must have shown through.
"Yes, an evil business," said Monimus, his voice quieting to a whisper. "Little good can come of it-yet it is a desperate necessity. You may not feel the tremors and echoes in far Egypt, but here, so close to the border, we feel the workings of the Persian mobehedan often-almost daily in the last months. The walls between our world and the others are strained and pinched. We tremble at the approach of each darkness of the moon, for then it is worse. They are desperate for victory. They are paying a terrible cost for strength to bring against Rome.
"If you go north or east, tread lightly. There are foul powers on the hunt in those lands."
Ahmet nodded again. He had been feeling a growing unease the farther north he had come with the caravan. The air seemed brittle and thin, the sun dimmer than usual. In his othersight, odd flickerings and half-heard voices filled the empty spaces of the desert. Lines of unexpected tension and force were gathering in the unseen world.
"Master, I will be careful in my travels." Ahmet bowed, his head almost touching the tiled floor.
Monimus made the sign of the god and watched the young man go. The sense of unease did not leave him. He turned back to the rolls of the Temple and the order for timbers to begin construction of a new lodging house behind the main building.
Mohammed was waiting in the shade of the great entrance hallway to the sanctuary of the Temple of Zeus, staring up at the giant marble figure of the god of storms. The Zeus reclined on poorly carved clouds, but his body was well cut, standing forth from the rock. One arm supported the god against the clouds and held a cluster of bronze thunderbolts, the other raised a torch of stone. Oil-fire gleamed on that sconce, casting flickering light on the ceiling of the temple. Under the wavering light, the skin tones and painted hair of the statue seemed close to life. Ahmet coughed politely.
Mohammed shook his head and looked around at his friend. Though his face was properly solemn for such a place, Ahmet could see that a huge grin was threatening to break out under the brushy black mustaches.
"Come," the merchant whispered in a voice quiet as a shout, "I've done well this morning!"
Outside, Mohammed fairly bounced down the steps. Ahmet lengthened his stride to keep up. The merchant bustled across the square, stopping only to purchase a wooden skewer with roasted meat on it. Chewing, he began talking to Ahmet.
"There will be a council of the chieftains and Princes tonight, my friend, in the Roman citadel. All of the lords who were summoned have arrived as of last night, and the governor has called this meeting to lay out the plans of campaign. There is no better way to find out where the Third is stationed, and where it is going to be stationed, than at this meeting. Everyone will be there, even the Princes of Nabatea and Palmyra."
"And how," Ahmet asked with asperity, "are we going to get into this conclave of the great?"
"Ah, my friend, that is the beauty of the thing. You are traveling with me, so these things are possible! As luck would have it, one of the bands of lancers that have been hired by the Palmyrenes are cousins of my wife's brother's wife's uncle. I convinced their war captain-an old rascal named Amr ibn'Adi of the Tanukh-that we should ride with them, and just by the by, attend the conference tonight as his aides."
"Oh," Ahmet said. "Do you usually get your friends into this much trouble?"
Mohammed laughed aloud at that. "Nay! All of my friends take great joy in my company-all of them say that I am the most interesting of men to be around! Besides, Amr ibn'Adi does not speak Latin or Greek-so you and I will have to translate for him."
– |Night in the streets of the city was almost as bright as day. Thousands of lanterns hung from the entrances of the market stalls and over the doorways of the houses. Torches ornamented the walls that enclosed private gardens. Parties of men, led by link-boys with burning wicks, moved through the streets, slowly converging upon the gates of the Roman camp that lay near the northernmost of the city's eight gates. The light glowed off low clouds that had gathered over the city in the late afternoon, bringing a cool rain to wash the streets.
Ahmet and Mohammed were among those who approached the gates, in the party of the desert chieftain Amr ibn'Adi. The sheykh was a villainous rogue with long curling mustaches and a salt-and-pepper beard who affected a ragged cloak and hood over his rich garments. His three bodyguards-the most allowed by the governor-held no such flimsy disguise. They were stout men with broad shoulders, plain weatherworn cloaks, and well-used armor and weapons. Mohammed, in turn, was dressed in a subdued red shirt, dark pants, and long cloak of white-and-green stripes. Ahmet, who did not account himself one for fashion, thought that his friend looked rather dashing in the outfit-obviously his best, carried in a small trunk for just such an occasion. Ahmet owned no pretense such as this; he had cleaned his simple white tunic and robe before entering the city. He had his staff and the leather book bag that he habitually wore at his waist. He had tied back his long raven-black hair with two braids and a silver clasp.
The residence of the Roman governor was no more than a fortified Legion camp carved out of the buildings of the northwest corner of the city. Stout wooden and iron gates barred the way into the camp, watched by a band of slightly overweight men in ill-fitting armor. Ibn'Adi's party was halted by their commander, an elderly man with close-cropped white hair and a scarred face. The retired legionnaire searched them, even Ahmet's bag and staff, before waving them through into the camp.
Ahmet looked around curiously at the fired brick buildings, arranged in neat rows, with paved streets between them. Though there was every sign of the regular presence of a strong garrison in the city, it was obvious that all of these residences had been carefully closed up, their owners departed. Mohammed was looking around too, with a slightly puzzled look on his face. The broad street that led down the middle of the camp was busy, though, with parties of chieftains and their retainers in a broad array of desert robes, silks, linens, and partially hidden armor.
"Why have all these chiefs come to fight for Rome?" the Egyptian asked as he and Mohammed trailed along after ibn'Adi's ruffians. "Most seem to be bandits or vagabonds. I thought that the men of the frontier were at odds with the Empire."
Mohammed nodded, his face creasing in a sharp smile. "Few here love Rome, if any do, my friend. But near every man here knows that Persia is not better and perhaps worse. Under Roman rule, or Roman 'protection,' there is law of a sort. Under this King of Kings, this Chrosoes, there is no law. These chiefs are here to protect the rights and usages that they own today. With Rome, the way that things are done has not changed in hundreds of years. If Persia conquers these lands, everything will be different."
Ahmet nodded at this, then said, "So none of them see an opportunity to better themselves by siding with Persia? To my mind, that would seem a good way to dispose of rivals and make oneself stronger at their expense."
The Southerner laughed, but softly, for one of the guards with ibn'Adi had turned a little, trying to catch their conversation while they walked into the inner camp. They passed through another vaulted gate, but these walls were of worked stone. Four towering men in mail shirts and boiled-leather pteruges stood in the shadows of the passage. They were red-haired and taller by two hands than any man that passed between them. Longswords were hung at their belts, and they wore many rings and bracelets on their arms. Ahmet returned the steely gaze of the nearest one as he passed. Germanii, he thought to himself as they entered the governor's camp.
"The men that have made that calculation, my friend, and have chosen to side with the King of Kings are not at this meeting tonight. No, they have already ridden north to Antioch, to join the army of the great Prince Shahin." Mohammed's voice was low and clear. He had drifted a little behind Ahmet, though he walked close by.
"These are men who have made themselves and their tribes strong under the tutelage of the Empire. If it is driven out, they will suffer by it. These are the men who have ruined their enemies by naming them traitors, or heretics, or taxless. Chiefs like these, whose families have held power for generations under the eye of Rome, are the creatures of the Empire. They use that patronage to control the best trade routes, and to drive out the smaller clans or break them to their will."
Ahmet glanced back; Mohammed's voice was verging into bitter anger. "Do you hate Rome, then? Have these things happened to your family?"
Mohammed blinked, apparently unaware of his tone. "Hate Rome? No, I do not hate the Empire. It is as it is. I hate those that oppress the weak, those that drive out the less favored, but the Empire is like a boulder on a mountainside. If it is urged to motion, it cares not what it crushes in passing. The nature of a boulder is to ignore the things that are insignificant to it. A man like you, or I, is immaterial to the boulder. We are too small to harm it. But I do not love Rome either. How can I? It does not love me."
Ahead of them, ibn'Adi and his men stopped at the bottom of a set of steps that led up to a broad veranda. Guardsmen stood in the shadows between pools of warm light cast by lanterns hung from iron sconces bolted to the wall. The sheykh turned and motioned to Mohammed, who moved forward and made a small half bow. Ahmet leaned closer as well.
"Remember, my new friends, that I speak none of these barbarian tongues favored by our hosts." Ibn'Adi's voice was deep and very strong, like a high wind on the desert. Ahmet could understand him well, though Aramaic was not his best language. "Al'Quraysh, you will speak for me, while your Egyptian friend will translate what others say. Speak softly, priest; I hear well and I know that others of the chieftains will not have this small advantage that the Lord of the Sky has given me. Let us not give away rams for free, eh? Also, keep your weapons handy. There are those who may cause trouble, and if such comes, we must be ready. But do not draw steel unless I command it!"
Mohammed and Ahmet both bowed. The sheykh looked them over, lingering a long time on Mohammed, who assumed a pleasant and inoffensive expression. The old man smiled at last and turned to go inside. As he mounted the steps, he seemed to shrink, one leg seemingly weaker than the other, and he leaned more heavily on his staff. Mohammed caught Ahmet's eye and winked.
– |Within the wooden house was a high-vaulted room with wooden beams supporting a roof of slate tiles. Fifty or sixty men had already gathered in the room, where many couches and divans had been arranged in a rough circle. Tables had been pushed back against the walls, clearing this space. At the far end of the room from the door a raised dais stood with an altar of light-colored stone upon it. Behind it, on wall, was the cast image of a bull in corroded greenish bronze. Two rows of fluted wooden columns ran the length of the room. The old chieftain, rather than pushing forward through the men clustered at the center of the room, moved through the crowd to the right, taking up his position in front of one of the pillars with Mohammed just in front of him and Ahmet to his left. The three guards settled in behind the pillar.
Lanterns were hung along the beams overhead and there were tapers in copper holders on the pillars. The vaulted space above the beams was already filling with dim smoke, but high above Ahmet saw that there were openings covered with latticework to let the smoke out. Men continued to enter the chamber, and now noise rose from the center of the room as men jostled for position among the couches. Ahmet remained still, for the sheykh was apparently at complete ease leaning against the pillar. Mohammed too was content with his view.
Between the men standing in front of him, Ahmet could make out that at the end of the circle of couches away from the door, three divans-more ornate than the rest-were still unoccupied. He was about to ask Mohammed who the assembly was waiting for when there was a commotion at the door. Men's heads turned and they fell silent.
A party of men in very dark-red clothing entered-long capes with deep hoods and glittering silver bracelets and necklaces. Four such men, with narrow, hawklike faces, entered in a wedge, and the desert chieftains and their retainers parted before them like the tide off a rocky shore. Between them walked a man of middling height with dark-olive skin and a neatly trimmed beard. His cheekbones were sharp and he wore very little jewelry, only a ring of gold on each hand and a thin circlet of fine silver metal at his brow. He wore a simple tunic of pale rose-colored silk, bound with a black belt. As they passed, Ahmet felt a wave of controlled power roll over him like a soft breeze. A sorcerer, he thought, his other senses pricking fully awake for the first time in many days.
He centered and allowed his vision to expand slightly. The four men in the hoods smoldered with purple-black flame, like the fire that danced at the edge of a hot forge. Ahmet shuddered a little, realizing that each man-obviously the servants of the man in rose-had a spirit bound to it, some hellish imp drawn from the cracks and crevices that sometimes disgorged tormented and dreadful beings into the realm of man. At the center, the man in rose gleamed with concealed strength, like a strong light beheld through a colored glass or through ice. He turned at the couch on the left of the three and took his ease there. The four hooded men arranged themselves behind him, making no sound. Ahmet wondered if they could sense him as well.
"This is Aretas, the ninth of his noble line," ibn'Adi said from behind the Egyptian in a quiet voice. "He is the Prince of the city of Petra in the south. He styles himself the King of the Nabateans, though they are more rightly the subjects of the Governor of the Roman province of Arabia Minimis. He is a vain and dangerous man."
The Petran had seated himself and accepted a cut crystal cup of wine, when the doors to the room opened again and all of the men turned again to see who had entered. Beside the restrained menace of the Nabatean and his minions, the man who entered struck Ahmet as an inoffensive clerk late to a business meeting of his master. He was tall and thin, balding, with a hooked nose, and his white tunic-though richly hemmed-hung from his frame like a sheet. Four of the red-haired guardsmen flanked him, however, and when he took the center couch, Ahmet knew that he must be the governor of the province of Phoenicia.
"The Roman Lucius Ulpius Sulpicius, as dry a man as ever birthed by the loins of the Roman wolf. Though his seat of rule is at Tyre on the coast, Damascus is his responsibility." Ibn'Adi's voice was tinged with wry respect for the gawky man that now settled, uncomfortably, onto the center couch. His Germans cleared a broad space around him, pushing aside some of the Arabs who had been edging closer to where Aretas was sitting.
Lucius cleared his throat and then rapped on the arm of his couch with a bony hand. "Friends, our company is gathered, all but one, but it already grows late and there is much to discuss, so we will begin. I will be brief and blunt-the Empire thanks you for your friendship, shown so well by coming here today and gathering those men you command to the standard. It will be rewarded and the Empire will mark those who came when called and who did not."
Mohammed turned the slightest bit and whispered to Ahmet, "Ah, Constantinople will remember those who came to lick its hands and kiss its boot when called, like dogs…" Ibn'Adi stilled the younger man with a fierce scowl. Ahmet finished his translation of the governor's Latin and ibn'Adi nodded.
"An invasion is upon us," the governor continued, "one that will bring sure disaster to us all if it is not stopped, and stopped well short of Damascus or Tyre. The enemy is strong. The latest report from the north counts his number at nearly sixty thousand men."
A current of whispering rushed around the room, and Ahmet saw that many of the men around him were startled by the size of the Persian army. He wondered how many lances the chieftains in this room commanded. The sheykh did not seem concerned, however, when Ahmet related this to him. Rather the old man seemed to be more interested in the reactions of the other captains and warlords.
"Do not be alarmed," the governor said, pressing on through the murmur of his audience. "The count of our own army is equal to that, or greater. Within three days the rest of our forces will have completed the muster here and we shall march north across the mountains to Emesa to meet the invaders. Our will is strong and we will defeat the Persians, driving them back beyond the Euphrates,"
"With what?" One of the chiefs, dressed in a heavy brocade robe and bare-headed, stood from his couch. He sported a thick dark beard that had been carefully braided at the ends, with small jewels bound into it. "I see many brave men here, but the forces we can put to the field are lancers and bowmen on horseback. I hear fine words from Constantinople, but I see no Roman soldiers here. Where are the Legions? My men and I rode six days from Gerasa and I saw none upon the road. My cousins tell me that the Legion camps at Bostra and Lejjun are empty. I see no Legions here either. Where is Rome? Where is the Emperor of the East?"
Lucius remained seated, his face calm. "The Legions have been sent to the coast, to Tyre, to receive reinforcements from Egypt and the Western Empire. They will meet us at Emesa, having marched up the coastal road. Three legions-the Third Cyrenaicea, the Second Triana, and the Sixth Ferrata-will join us there. With those men, and the auxillia they command, our army will number no less than eighty thousand men to stand against the Persians."
"I do not believe you!" the Gerasan chief shouted, his face reddening with anger. "When the Iron Hats come at us, there will be no Romans there, only us, with our light mail and bows to stop them. This is a bootless venture! Any man who goes north"-the Gerasan turned about, his gaze challenging the crowd-"will be a dead man."
"This is not so!" Lucius stood at last, his pale face dark with rage. "Rome will not abandon you. The honor of the Empire stands with you, as will its soldiers on the field!"
"Lies!" the Gerasan shouted back, shaking his fist at the governor. "Rome whores us like it does its daughters on the steps of the Forum!" His men began shouting too, and the German guardsmen rushed forward to stand between the Southerners and their patron. The room filled with noise, and the men in front of Ahmet pressed forward to see if there would be a fight. Ahmet stepped back, out of the way, and hurriedly related the lurid insults that the Gerasan was defaming the governor with. The edge of ibn'Adi's lip twitched a little, almost into a smile. His guardsmen closed up, hands on their weapons.
It was impossible to see over the heads of the shouting and gesticulating men in front of them and Ahmet stepped back, running into someone standing behind him. He turned, an apology on his lips, and stopped, unable to speak.
A woman stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder. At first, all that he was aware of were her eyes-a cobalt bluer than the open sky-with heavy dark lashes in a delicate oval face. They smiled at him and he felt the shock of that personality all the way to his stomach. She pressed him gently aside with a murmured "Your pardon, holy one," and he had a blurred impression of a cloud of lustrous black curls ornamenting a graceful alabaster neck. Then a very solid-looking breastplate of bronze workings on steel interposed itself and Ahmet could feel the hands of Mohammed and the sheykh holding him up from behind. A phalanx of ebony-skinned men clad in solid armor and heavy links of mail from head to toe pressed through the crowd behind the spear point of the woman. Belatedly Ahmet remembered to breathe.
"And I say," the Gerasan roared over the tumult of the crowd, "that I shall not lead my men north to battle unless the Turtlebacks stand with us! No matter your honor, Lucius Ulpius, my duty is to my people, not to the tax coffers of Constantinople and Rome! I do not come so cheap!"
"Your father swore to stand with the Empire in the test," the governor hissed back, his fists clenched, "and so did you, when I stood with you beside his funeral bier. Are you renouncing that oath, then? Do you turn your back on your father? Your honor?"
The Gerasan snarled something unintelligible and the sound of steel rasping from a copper sheath cut across the pandemonium in the room. In the crowded space between the ring of couches, the factions of men formed up behind the governor and the Prince of Jerash froze. Everyone held his breath as the prince's blade flashed in the air in front of him. Lucius Ulpius' face drained of color, his eyes fixed on the point of the knife, dancing only a foot from his sternum. The Gerasan, his face flushed, stepped forward and his dagger lurched into the creamy white chest of the woman with the mane of raven hair as she stepped in front of the governor. A tiny pinpoint of blood sprang up where the razor-sharp tip cut into her skin.
"You would murder me, Zamanes?" Her voice cut across the room, reaching every man, though its tone was private, even intimate. "Would you murder the trust between the Empire and the cities of the Decapolis?"
The Gerasan Prince, his eyes wide in utter shock, stepped back, his dagger falling away to one side. One of his servants lifted it from his nerveless fingers and tucked it away in his robes. The woman turned, ignoring the governor, who had also stepped back into the safety of his guardsmen, and stepped up onto the couch next to him.
Ahmet, at the back of the room, forgot to breathe again as she rose up above the heads of the men crowded into the hall. She was slightly built but tall for a woman, about five and a half feet high, and in her presence all other things seemed diminished. The blue lightning spark of her eyes, even across the hall, struck Ahmet like a blow. Her hair, a cascade of heavy curls, swept across her bare white shoulders and down her back. A net of gold wire and pearls held it back away from her smooth forehead and face. She was clad in a deep-purple gown with embroidered traceries of minute roses and lilies along the hems. She was not a heavily endowed woman, but the curve of her breasts against the silk seemed the most perfect shape imaginable to the Egyptian. The tiny spot of blood remained, like a ruby set between them. Her voice was the purr of a languid cat, but it was strong, strong enough to reach clear to the back of the room.
"Rome called us," she said, her voice ringing like a bell, "but we did not come here for Rome. We came because we are all threatened. We came because, at last, this is our time. The Empire has suffered too grievously to stand alone as our shield against the Persians any longer. It is time for us, the peoples of the Decapolis, of Petra and of Palmyra, to stand apart from our parent and defend ourselves as adults. I will stand against the mad King, Chrosoes. Alone, if need be, as did my namesake. Will you stand with me?"
Ahmet turned and stared into the face of ibn'Adi, who was smiling a long, slow smile like a hunting lion that prepares to feast well.
"Who…?" he whispered.
"Our Queen," the old chieftain proudly answered. "Zenobia of Palmyra. The Silk Empress."
– |Pale-gold dawn was creeping across the eastern sky when, at last, the conclave of the chiefs broke up. Ahmet, who had spent most of the night in meditation, came fully awake. The desert men were filing out, speaking in low tones among themselves. The lanterns had guttered down to only a dim flame at most, and some had gone out entirely. The tapers and the tallow candles that had replaced them were done as well. The Egyptian rose from his place by the wall, out of the way, and walked amid the couches, strewn with emptied jugs and dirty plates. The air was still heavy with smoke and the tang of many men in an enclosed space. Mohammed, who had stayed up, in the thick of the discussion, sat on the edge of the couch that the Roman governor had occupied, holding his head in his hands.
Ahmet paused, standing at his shoulder, and gently tugged the Southerner's ear. Mohammed looked up, his face drawn with weariness. The Egyptian smiled down at him and placed fingers on either temple. In his mind he chanted a little lullaby that his mother had once sung over the wicker cradle he had slept in as a baby. Mohammed's eyelids flickered and then closed. He fell backward with a snore escaping his lips. Ahmet arranged him on the couch. "Can you work such magic for me as well, holy one?" Her voice was no longer so clear and strong, now it was immensely tired and rough, barely audible. Ahmet turned and settled by her on one knee. Her gown was creased and spattered at the lower hem with food and stains of wine. Her hair had escaped most of the delicate net of gold and now was simply tucked back in a single braid behind her head. The luminous face was still, quiet in extreme exhaustion. Her eyes still held him, though, even in weariness. He met them without freezing, so in a way he had the better of it.
"Milady, I can make you sleep, but you should return to your camp first. If I understand aright, you will have many enemies after the doings of this night. And… I am not a holy one. My name is Ahmet, once of the School of Pthames. Any pretense I maintained to being a priest is long gone now."
Zenobia brushed his excuse aside with a delicate wrist flip. She levered herself up from the couch and took his hand. Her eyes met his and they were, for a moment, vulnerable and wholly human-not the distant imperious presence she had maintained throughout the night.
"Take me to my camp, Ahmet, and make me sleep. I cannot otherwise. I will pace and pace and scheme and plot until at last exhaustion overcomes me. Then I will sleep a dozen hours, when only a handful are wise to take."
She laid a hand on his cheek; it was cold as ice. Ahmet shivered at the touch but took her hand between his.
"You're warm," she said, smiling up at him, and leaned her head against his chest. Reflexively he gathered her into his arms. She nestled against him, warm and close, content in the day. Without hurry, he lifted her up and walked out of the temple house of the Romans. Outside, as he walked toward the gate, he began to sing in a soft voice that only she could hear.