The Shadow of Ararat (47 page)

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.