The Shadow of Ararat (36 page)

The others either rode in the wagon, now with clapboard sides advertising the traveling show, or walked behind. All of their gear was in the wagon or on their backs. Nikos was not particularly pleased that the centurion had elected to have them travel in the guise of players, but it did mean that they were both beneath the contempt and the attention of all but the meanest officials that they might encounter.

Thyatis was still in her demure-daughter outfit, though now she was riding on the top of the wagon, with her boots hooked into the back of the wooden seat that the two Turks were sitting on. Hidden by the top of the clapboard sides, she had a bow and her shortsword by her side. Nikos scrambled onto his own horse, a bay stallion with a gentle disposition. He urged the horse ahead to the turn in the lane that led into the back of the inn. The cock had barely crowed, so the street was empty. He waved an all-clear back to the wagon and the whole troop set out. It was a long road to the south, and the first days were a hard pitch up the passes of the Tatus.

Thyatis sat in the shade on a mossy boulder by the side of the road. The oilskin packet that the Emperor had given her was open in her lap. She spread the vellum map out, carefully creasing down the corners. Ravens complained in the pines just up the slope from her. The shade fell from the steep side of the canyon and the granite cliffs that loomed at either side of the road. Here there was a narrow verge by the side of the road, and the little caravan was stopped in a grassy area. The other side of the road was edged with worked stones and a swift stream rushed past at the bottom of the canyon. One of the Greeks, Tyrus, had stopped by while she was reading over the orders and had left her a lunch of bread, dried meat and cheese. She idly picked at the cheese.

Above her the looming cliff sheltered a thin four-story building wedged into a flat ledge above the trees. Empty windows stared down at the road. Parts of the brick walls were crumbling or covered with the thick wild ivy that grew in the mountains. The peasants in the valley below said that it was haunted and that it had been a temple in the time of their fathers' fathers. Crows and ravens roosted in it now, and owls hunted from it at night. Thyatis had scrutinized it when the party had stopped for lunch, but it did not have an ill-feeling.

A pebble bounced past her from upslope. She turned slightly to see that Nikos was descending from the trees. He cursed as he waded through a thicket of gorse and blueberry bushes. There were trailing streaks of blood on his chest and arms as he reached the boulder and clambered up its side. He had abandoned the tunic and vest that he had affected as the master of ceremonies for the traveling company. He wore loose, baggy, checkered pants and heavy boots. His torso, corded with muscle and etched with old scars, was brown with the sun. Thyatis smiled at him as he sat down. Tiny scratches covered most of his body. He rearranged the shortsword and the brace of heavy knives that he favored.

"A beautiful day," he said, looking up at the swatch of pure blue sky showing between the cliffs. "A pity to be about a dirty business with such nice weather."

"Yes," she said, leafing through the papers, "a pleasant holiday. How are the men?"

Nikos grimaced, saying "They're getting used to riding again. All of that city work took the edge off of everyone, I think."

Thyatis nodded and the smile was gone from her face. A shadow of doubt crossed it. "Once we are out of these mountains, we'll be in territory neither friendly nor easy. High desert valleys, rough mountains, clans and tribes hostile to both the Empire and to Persia. We've a long way to go as well. Our first waypoint is to meet with an Imperial agent at the city of Van, on the eastern shore of Lake Thospitis. By my reckoning, that lies almost four hundred miles from where we now sit."

Nikos nodded, saying "Three, maybe four weeks, with the wagon and the weather. Half that if we were just on horses."

"Without the wagon, we'll just look like what we are—a suspicious group of hard-assed characters that look like they belong in prison with one innocent girl among them."

Nikos laughed, but he watched her face closely too. The orders, which she had not discussed with him, troubled her. He figured that she counted their chances of getting out of this alive to be very low. Nikos had been in one army or another for almost thirty years, and he had long ago come to terms with sudden death. Each day was only as it was.

He poked at the bread. "You should finish eating that, you'll need it."

Thyatis grimaced back at him. "It tastes like dirt. Couldn't you steal anything fresher?"

"The best kind of bread is free. Are you going to tell me what we're lollygaging around up here in the high country for, or shall I guess?"

Thyatis did not answer right away. She gathered up the papers and the map and packed them away in the oilskin again. Then she ate the rest of the bread and the cheese. The meat she tucked into one of the pockets of her shirt. After they had left the last of the valley towns, she had shucked the dress and had Anagathios pack it away with the rest of the actor's apparel. She had gone back to the dark-burgundy linen shirt and baggy woolen pants that she favored for cooler weather. Not the raiment of a Roman lady—the pants alone would have caused a riot in the Forum—but it wore well on the road. She checked each of the weapons that she was carrying—long dagger on her thigh, short sword in a case sheath on her back.

Nikos sat, patient as a stone, saying nothing.

"All right," she said at last, after she had unbraided and rebraided her hair. Two small braids now framed her face, glittering red with gold highlights in the sun reflected off of the water. The rest was woven back behind her head.

"At Van we meet this agent, and he makes sure that we get over the mountains into Persia proper. Two hundred miles and a mighty mountain range east of Van is the Persian city of Tauris. It sits like a cork in a bottle at the end of a long valley that runs north toward the
Mare Caspium
. About a month after we're supposed to have arrived, all unnoticed, in Tauris, the entire Roman army is supposed to show up at the south end of the valley, below the city. Maybe at the same time, and maybe not, a mothering great host of Khazar horsemen are supposed to show up at the north end of the valley. Now, these barbarians have said that they'll join up and help beat the living daylights out of the Persians—whom they hate—but unless Tauris is in Roman hands, it's not going to be easy."

Nikos held up a hand, then carefully counted the men sleeping on the grass next to the wagon, or cleaning their gear, or standing watch at the ends of the canyon. "Ah, Commander, I count that we have a grand total of fourteen men to hand—including yourself. There is no way that we're going to capture some Persian fortress in the back of beyond by ourselves."

Thyatis shook her head. "That's not what our orders say. They say that we're to have Tauris secured when the two Emperors arrive."

"They say how?"

Thyatis gave him a lopsided grin. "That's to the discretion of the commanding officer."

Nikos sighed, seeing the delight hiding under his centurion's tanned features. "I don't suppose that you read any Greek poets when you were younger?"

"No," Thyatis said, her face showing a flicker of old pain, "my education came late in life. I learned to read and to write, but no poet suitable for a young lady."

Nikos cocked his head. Thyatis' past was an unopened book—though it was hotly discussed in private among the men who served her. "What did you read from?"

Thyatis shook her head and stood up, brushing pine needles and leaves from her pants. "That doesn't matter now. What poet did you want to quote?"

"Homer," he said, looking up at her. "Odysseus to Achilles, before Troy, 'a noble death does not bring victory—only victory brings an end to death.'"

Thyatis smiled, but it was wintry. "My poet says: 'when on desperate ground, fight.'"

The pipe made a groaning sound, like a soul in torment in Hades, then quivered and finally, after another long moan, spit muddy water. Maxian, his face, arms, and hands covered with grime, bits of leaf, and plain old dirt, stepped back, smiling in delight. The water flowed murky for a few minutes and then, finally, clear. The cistern at the top of the house echoed as the water fell into its depths. The Prince rubbed his eyes with the edge of his tunic, trying to get the dirt and sweat out of them. After making an even greater mess of his clothing, he gathered up the lengths of copper pipe that he had scavenged, the hammer and tong-shaped grippers, and set off down the brushy slope.

Inside the house, he piled all of the scrap and tools in a heap inside the back garden door. He stripped off the fouled tunic and threw it into a basin that stood inside the door. Farther into the house, he came upon Abdmachus and two of his servants who had come up from the city to assist their master. The Persian was carefully measuring the length of the main hall in the villa.

"We'll have running water in the house within the afternoon," he said in passing.

Abdmachus grunted and continued to carefully spool out the length of twine that he was using to mark distance. The two servants followed along, making marks in colored chalk at regular intervals. Maxian shook his head in amusement. He went up the steps to the upper floor, a grand stair flanked with statues of ibis-headed maidens and hawks. In the upper rooms, another two of the Persians' servants were mopping the floor and carrying away the debris that had blown in through the windows. Gaius Julius was lounging on a couch that had been brought up from the city. Sets of papyrus scrolls were laid out on a low table next to him. He was ignoring them and eating part of a roast pheasant.

"We'll have water soon," Maxian said as he opened the hamper containing the picnic lunch that the dead man had brought with him on his latest return from the city. "The Baths might even work if we have the servants clean them out."

Gaius Julius nodded appreciatively. He was a good Roman.

"It's not a proper house without a bath," he said, picking bits of bird out of his teeth.

Maxian set down on the other couch and began cutting slices of cheese off the wheel he had found in the basket. There were black grapes as well, and a jug of wine. The Prince sniffed it and wrinkled up his nose. "For a dead man, you have odd tastes in wine."

Gaius Julius shrugged. "These modern wines have a foul taste to my palate. This Gaulish wine is the best I've found. There's vinegar in that other jug, if you need your thirst quenched."

Maxian shook his head and picked up a wine cup left over from the night before. He stood and cleaned it out with a cloth. "I'd rather water than that piss! And thanks to my hard work, we have it."

He went out of the room and down the hall to a little private room with a marble privy seat. Built into the wall next to die bench was a shallow bowl. Above it, a corroded green bronze handle in the shape of a dolphin was set into the wall over a spigot. The Prince tapped on the dolphin with the handle of his knife and it squeaked a little. He dragged on the handle and the pipe complained and gurgled. Water spilled out and he caught it in the wine cup. After three cupfuls it ran clean.

Abdmachus was sitting on the other couch when he returned to the room overlooking the back garden. The Persian had a wax tablet covered with markings from his survey. He looked up at Maxian's entrance. "My lord, this house is almost thaumaturgically correct—following Egyptian practices. I think that we've finally gotten the blessing of the gods on our pro... is something wrong?"

Maxian had halted suddenly and was staring at the cup of water in his hand. His face was a confusion of emotions. He looked up and thrust the cup at Abdmachus. "Drink this, and tell me what you taste!"

Confused, the Persian took the cup and drank.

"It tastes like water, milord, good water at that. Fresh from the spring. A little coppery."

Maxian handed the cup across the table to Gaius Julius. "Drink!"

"Faugh! I hate water," the dead man said, but he drank anyway. "Huh. Sweet and cold. Not like that crap we drink..." The dead man looked up, his face startled. "...in the city."

Maxian nodded, his face both grim and filled with exultation. "One way or another, everyone in the city drinks water—either straight, or in soup, or mixed with wine." The Prince's voice was filled with utter certainty. "They bathe in it, they wash their clothes in it. But they don't drink it out of the river anymore, the Tiber is too foul for that. And many of the little springs that used to provide the Hill districts with water are dry. Not all, but most. And where does everyone get the water they drink?" Maxian turned to the Persian.

Abdmachus frowned at him, then the sun rose in his mind. "The aqueducts! Nearly all of the water in the city comes from the eleven aqueducts. All are controlled by the Imperial Offices—they're critical to the function of the city. A spell placed upon them would affect the waters and, through the waters, every person in the city..."

Maxian nodded sharply. "Here is what we're going to do, then." He began speaking rapidly. Abdmachus began taking notes on his wax tablet.

A hundred yards up the hillside from the Egyptian house, in a thicket of rowan trees, two figures sat quietly, their backs to the largest of the trees. From their vantage, they could see down both the overgrown lane that wound up the hillside to the house and into the front garden. Early-morning dew sparkled on the leaves of the bushes and trees around them, but both were thickly bundled in woolen cloaks and blankets against the night chill. The larger was snoring softly, his head at an angle. The smaller was awake, her sharp ears having caught the creak of a wagon and the whickering of horses on the still morning air.

To the east, the sky was a slowly spreading pink and violet. The sun would soon rise over the mountains and wash the land below with light. For the moment, there was a calm stillness as the land still slept, but the dawn crept in on light feet. The dark-haired girl sat up a little and doffed the straw hat that she had been covering her head with. There was a wagon in the lane, with two drivers. They clip-clopped past on the road below and turned into the garden path. Quietly enough to keep from waking her companion, she slid out of the scratchy wool blankets and slunk off down the slope, flitting from tree to tree.