The Shadow of Ararat (103 page)

The Sarcophagus was a glory of gold and silver and jade under the light of the lanterns Maxian and Gaius Julius had carried down from above. The air in the enclosed space was already thinning. The coffin was made in the shape of a man, tall and handsome, with wavy hair and a piercing gaze. It was crafted in the manner of the Egyptian pharaohs, arms crossed over the chest, features smoothed and rounded. Signs and symbols, scribed in gold paint, ran along the sides of the coffin in rows.

Maxian sat at the foot of the Sarcophagus, his legs crossed under him. Gaius Julius sat to his right, in the corner near the head of the coffin. Krista slid past the Prince and went to the other corner. She settled to the floor, crossing her long legs. The Prince already seemed to be gone, his face calm and composed, though his eyelids twitched with the movement of his eyes. The dead man, for all she could tell, was sleeping.

The homunculus and the Walach boys waited at the top of the stairs, crouching around the mouth of the tunnel.

Maxian began to speak, raising his hands. His eyes remained closed.

"Give us the corpse hung from a nail," the Prince said in a hollow voice.

There was a pause.

"The corpse, though it is our King's, give it to us."

Pale-blue light sparked around Maxian's hands. Krista felt a hum begin to build in the flat stone blocks of the floor, vibrating against her legs.

"On this corpse, I sprinkle the food of life." The Prince's hands moved in the air before him.

"On this corpse, I sprinkle the water of life." His hand cupped and then turned over, as if to pour some liquid onto the floor.

The pressure in the air of the room changed, crushing down upon her. Her eyes began to water and she blinked furiously. The Prince raised his hands, stretching them out to her and to Gaius Julius. She calmed her breathing and raised her hand, trying to fill her mind with calm.

White light burst around her, filling the entire space, flooding up the staircase. Her whole body trembled as a tingling sensation rushed over her skin. Even though eyelids screwed shut, she could see the room in stark detail, each stone, groove, surface, and symbol outlined in a clear white light. Lightning crawled through the air toward her with infinite slowness. She realized that she had stopped breathing. She panicked, but her body refused to listen. She screamed, feeling her blood halt in her veins. But no sound came from her lips.

The burning spark of lightning crept closer, arcing from the Prince's hand to hers.

It touched, and her universe collapsed, every memory, every sensation rushing together in one point just behind her eyes. Every thought, every emotion, every word she had ever spoken flashed past her, swallowed into that one hot point of fire that spun and flickered behind her eyes.

Something clicked, then scraped in the room.

Awareness flooded back into its usual dimensions and shapes. Krista sagged to the floor, her nails skidding across the rough stone. There was a tart smell, like burned pepper, in the air. She looked up, her hair falling around her face like a thicket of tight reddish-brown brambles.

The coffin had folded away. A man sat up from a bed of linen; a strong hand, burned almost bronze by some ancient sun, rubbed a face of noble proportions. He was naked, not a tall man, but well made. His limbs were long and clean, with sharply defined muscles. His hair was long and golden, falling in a wave of curls over his shoulders and broadly muscled back. The man looked around, his blue eyes narrowed in apprehension. Krista remembered to close her mouth. She brushed the hair out of her face.

"Was... was I dead?" His voice rang with command, a voice that would inspire men to valor on a field of battle. His Greek sounded strange to her ear, clipped and hurried. Krista felt her throat dry at the sound.

"Yes," she croaked and stood up, forgetting to keep her head low. "Ouch!"

The man laughed, a musical sound, and offered her his hand. She did not take it.

"You've been dead a long time," she said, glancing at Maxian, who was only beginning to recover consciousness. She pointed. "He brought you back."

"Then he is a well-met friend," said Alexander, son of Phillip, standing gingerly on unsteady legs. "I will thank him for it."

Gaius Julius rolled over, groaning and pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes.

"Yes," Krista said, eyeing the Conqueror as he stood up. He was well made. "Yes, you will."

"And the body of the Queen?"

"Laid to rest in the tomb of her father,
sheykh
. We sealed the entrance with many stones."

"Good."

Mohammed sighed and laid his hand on the mane of his gray mare. The animal looked over its shoulder, speckled with flea bites, at him and twitched its ears. Birds chattered in the palms around the camp. The twenty other men in his band climbed onto their camels and the ungainly beasts rose up. The last man scuffed sand over the firepit with his boot and clambered up onto his mount.

The Southerner felt the side of his face, his fingers tracing the path of the long scar that occluded his right eye and had cut across his mustache, lip, and down his chin. A long arrow of stone, spalled from the collapsing tower at the Damascus Gate, had come within a finger's width of ending his life. He wondered if he would ever be able to see out of that eye again.

I wonder if a priest could heal it,
he thought, but then he thought of his friends and their mutilated bodies and resolved to leave the scar. His men looked away, seeing his face marked with a deep and abiding anger. It was not wise to look upon the Al'Quraysh when he was in such a state. The chieftain had already slain a man for speaking ill of the dead; it would not do to press him.

Mohammed adjusted the fit of his
kaffieh
and touched the scabbard of the sword that she had carried into battle. The blade was nicked and badly used, but there were weaponsmiths in his home city who could restore the sword to health again. It seemed that he could still feel the touch of her fingers on his hand, cool and soft, but this could not be so. He nudged the horse again and she trotted out of the shade of the palms into the searing light of the desert sun.

At his back a bare twenty Tanukh rode, all that remained of their tribe. With ibn'Adi dead, they had come to him as he had laid up in a cave miles from the ruined city, slowly healing, and pledged themselves to him. The sands opened up before them, long endless rolling dunes that filled the Waste at the center of the world. Mohammed set an easy pace, for they had many miles to cross before he saw the doorway of his home or heard the welcoming voice of his wife.

His eyes glittered with fury as he rode, thinking of the news that ibn'Adi's nephew had brought, of the defeat of Persia and the capture of their great capital by the armies of Rome. A few hundred miles away they had marched, the legions that could have relieved Palmyra. He thought of the treachery of Kings and the sacrifice of a brave Queen and the priest who had loved her.

Purpose grew in his heart, hot and filled with hate, and the horse, sensing his desire, moved a little quicker. There were many leagues to cross, ere he was home again.