The Shadow of Ararat (87 page)

"Soldiers, attention!"

The tribune, with all four centurions at his back, paced along the front of the assembly. The odd pieces of glass that were suspended in front of his eyes on wire frames glittered in the torchlight. Like the centurions, he was clad in a heavy wool cloak and a doublet of furred leather. It looked warm too.

"Soon," the tribune said in a carrying voice, "there will be battle. The armies of Persia advance upon us in haste. The weather will turn soon and close the passes to the south. This King of Kings, this Chrosoes, desires to decide the contest between his treacherous Empire and ours now. He hurries toward defeat. Some of you have never been in battle before. I will say this to you! If you follow orders and keep the men of your unit around you, if you obey the commands of your five-leader and your centurion, if you hold your place in the line of battle and do not run, you will live and we shall have victory."

Dwyrin straightened up a little more, for the tribune and the centurions had come to the end of the line closest to them. Zoë stared straight ahead, over the heads of the men in front of them. Dwyrin wrenched his eyes aside.

"Some of you," the tribune continued, walking behind them, "will not be fighting in the line of battle. You will be deployed forward of the main army, to harass and threaten the march and deployment of the enemy. This is a new strategy. It has not been tested in battle. It may fail, but I believe that it will succeed. I believe that we, the thaumaturgic arm of the Legion, will be decisive. Our success in the coming battle, operating in teams, will make all the difference."

Once more before his men, the tribune turned, surveying them. "The Emperor is watching, and through him, the city and the Senate and the people. Do not disappoint them."

Dwyrin felt a chill in his mind and throat, but it was not from the air.

"Do you think there will be battle tomorrow?" Dwyrin's voice was soft in the darkness. With Eric gone, they had taken to sleeping in one tent, even though it was crowded. The nights were cool enough that the warmth of the three of them filled the hide walls. Even by morning it was not unpleasant—at least until you had to go outside. He knew that Zoë was awake—he could feel her moving under the woolen blanket. She was thinking, as he was, wondering what would happen the next day.

"No," she said, turning over to face him. Even in the very dim light filtering through the small opening in the front of the shelter, he could make out the planes of her face, the darkness of her eyes. Dwyrin wondered if Odenathus were awake.
Probably not,
he thought,
he sleeps like a stone.
He struggled in his own bedding and managed to free a hand to scratch his nose.

"The scouts," she continued, "are still coming and going from the command tents. When the enemy is close enough, we will march. Then we will know that battle is close."

"Have you been in a battle before—one like this, not like the city?"

"No."

Dwyrin stopped rubbing his nose. It seemed that Zoë was unsure—a strange emotion for her. They had worked together for weeks now, practicing together, learning to fight as one. Eric's death had wrecked their original plan to fight as two pairs. Now they were learning, again, to fight as a three. In some ways it was much easier this way. Both Zoë and Odenathus were quite skilled, though they lacked the raw power that Dwyrin could summon. They could bind a shield of defense far faster than he could, but while they covered him, he could bring fire or cast it with blurring speed. Colonna, watching them train, had commented that they reminded him of the old Thebans, who would fight in pairs, each with a different, specialized weapon.

"I have never seen a great battle." She paused. "Before Tauris, I had never seen battle at all. No struggle to the death, no corpses piled up like sheaves of wheat beside the road. No friends die." Something caught in her throat and she turned her face away from him. Dwyrin felt a rush of pain too, thinking of what it meant to lose their friend.

"Zoë," he said, touching her hair, "I miss Eric too. It was just bad luck that he was thrown into the river."

She mumbled something, but he could not hear what it was, her face was still turned away. He stared up at the ceiling of the tent, feeling his own tears well up in his chest, clenching at his heart. But, like her, he did not cry out loud, letting them trickle down his cheeks instead. Finally he slept, his fingers still touching her hair.

A cold wind blew out of the north, driving sheets of dust before it. Nikos and Anagathios huddled in the lee of a tumbled mud-brick building. Their horses clustered in front of them, tied to stakes driven into the loose sandy soil. The sky was dark, the sun only a dim circle through the howling wind and dust of the storm. The yellow-brown grit got into everything, even when they were, as now, bundled up tight in their robes with scarves over their faces. They sat, not bothering to speak, waiting for the storm to pass. The wind hissed and wailed around the building.

A figure appeared momentarily in the dust, between flying sheets of sand. The figure was wrapped up too and leaned forward into the wind howling out of the north. Nikos made to rise, but Anagathios grabbed his arm and sat him back down. The approaching figure continued to battle against the wind, but finally reached the poor shelter of the wall and sat down heavily next to them. Nikos and Anagathios leaned close, straining to hear.

"...a city of... there." The figure pointed off into the brown murk.

Nikos shook his head—he couldn't make it out over the sound of the storm. The figure shouted again but was still unintelligible. Finally the other gave up and settled back against the wall. The horses continued to stand, heads down, and the sand began to pile up around the feet of the three waiting travelers.

The storm passed and the stars came out in a deep blue velvet sky. The sun had begun to set while the trailing edge of the sandstorm had passed. The travelers shook the dust from their cloaks in clear red-gold light. There was still a high cloud of thick dirty brown and the rays of the sun slanted in under it, painting the desert with rich full colors. Jusuf, Nikos, and Thyatis stood at the edge of a canal a hundred yards from the tumbled-down wall. Across the gurgling water in the canal, beyond a belt of date palms and greenery, a great city rose around a broad, flat hill. It had no walls, only a gate that they could see. A huge building rose at the center of the city, a stepped pyramid a hundred feet above the flat roofs of the houses. Sand had invaded its precincts, burying the streets and agora. Pillars thrust from the dunes, leaning at odd angles. The windows of city were dark, the only light a dull orange flame coming from the top of the ziggurat.

"That place has an odd feel to it," Jusuf said, scratching at his beard, which had finally recovered something of its usual fullness. "There should be lights, noise, something."

"And walls," Nikos added, peering through the night, trying to see if anything was moving in the silent city. "The Arabian desert is not far off—there might be raiders."

Thyatis felt something too, a prickling at the back of her neck. She looked up and down the canal. The water was a black pit holding the stars, wavering, in its heart. There seemed to be no bridge or crossing.

"Some things," she said softly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, "do not bear investigation. Get the men mounted up—we press on down this canal. We need a bridge if we're to get to the Tigris..."

Dawn was close when the dark engine descended out of the sky. A wailing high-pitched roar and the rush of flames shattered the quiet of the night. Ruddy light scattered over the dunes as it touched down, limbs flexing as they settled into the sand. Flames hissed and then died, leaving the desert quiet again. Molten sand bubbled and popped where the talons of the engine had touched. A door, hinged at the top rather than the side, swung open and pale-yellow light spilled out onto the dunes. Figures climbed out, stretching and groaning after the long flight from the north.

One, taller than the rest, strode to the top of the nearest dune. Two shorter figures followed, one on either side. Beyond the dunes, across rippling white ridges, the shape of a buried city rose, dark and desolate. Behind them other figures were busy unloading supplies and tents from the belly of the engine.

"So," the first figure said in a conversational tone, "this is the city of the
magi
."

"Yes, great lord," the shortest figure said, a tremulous note in its voice, "the forbidden place. Dastagird of the Kings of old. Once it was the residence of the King of Kings—a city of marble palaces and beautiful gardens—but the priests coveted it and made it their own. Now the gardens are buried in the sand and the palaces are filled with shadows."

The Prince pulled the cowl of his robe back and shook his shoulders out. He was nervous, but there was little to fear. He had powers on his side too, strong powers.

"Gaius?" He turned to the other figure. The old Roman stood at ease, his hands clasped behind his back. "Suggestions?"

The dead man nodded, his leathery face creased with the smallest of smiles. "First we take a look around and see what there is to see, Lord Prince. Then we show ourselves. With your permission, the Walach and I will go out tonight and find the lay of the land."

Maxian nodded sharply, then turned around and descended the dune. The others were still unloading crates. He was tired and hoped to find sleep soon. Behind him the little Persian took one last look at the darkened city and then hurried after him. Gaius Julius took his time, watching the silent buildings and the empty steps of the great ziggurat for a long time. Two other figures joined him, squatting in the sand at his back. When at last he turned back to the engine, he found both of them waiting for him. The dead man smiled, looking upon his little army. "Alais. Khiron. Are we ready?"

"Yes, lord," they whispered. "We are ready."

"Good." He checked the shortsword at his hip and the fit of the bracelets on his arms. "We go."

Dust blew in the street, and steppe thistle bounced past out of an alleyway. Gaius Julius strode down the middle of the pavement, feeling the edges of the bricks under his sandals. The sun had just risen when he and his companions entered the city through the eastern gateway. Pale-pink light fell on dark bricks and stone and was swallowed. Beside the wind and his shadow, sprawled out before him on the street, nothing moved. Alais paced him on the right, shrouded in a voluminous black cloak and cowl. Even her face was hidden in the depths of the cloak, only a pale-white shadow peeping out. The creature, Khiron, was on his left, garbed in dark-brown wool and a thin desert robe over that. Khiron's face, too, was hidden; he had wound his
kaffieh
around his head, hiding everything but his eyes.

Gaius alone showed his face. He wore only a simple tunic and kilt, with his thick leather belt cinched tight and his sword slung over his shoulder. His leathery brown face was set and his nearly bald head gleamed in the sun. The buildings narrowed, hanging over the street, but then fell away to either side. At the center of the city, a plaza was open to the sky. On the western side of the square, before them, the ziggurat rose up in mighty steps. Gaius Julius halted, the thin fringe of white hair around his head ruffled by the hot breeze. The city was quiet, but Gaius felt that its tenor had changed since they had come into its heart.

"Eyes are watching us," the
homunculus
said. Its voice was still raspy and harsh. Even great quantities of pig and calf blood had not restored it to full health. Gaius Julius nodded absently. He felt a familiar tickling sensation at the back of his mind. A brief memory surfaced: a deep-green forest and blue-painted warriors creeping, their long red hair thick with grease and mud. The others made to move forward and mount the flight of steps that led up the imposing side of the ziggurat, but he raised a hand and they stopped.

Gaius Julius stood, waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes narrow slits against the light. Khiron, as was his wont when action was not required, froze into immobility. Alais drifted closer to the dead man, close enough for him to smell her perfume. It was a bitter scent, reminding him of rose petals that had withered and died still on the thorn.

A man appeared on the second level of the ziggurat. He was elderly, with a long white beard and bushy eyebrows. His skin was very dark and shone like a polished walnut burl. Gaius could feel the power in him. The man was wearing a long dark-blue robe and leaned heavily on a tall staff. His head was bare, allowing his snowy mane of hair to flow behind him.

"You are not welcome here, dead man." The booming voice emanated from the ziggurat, filling the square and echoing off the blank faces of the buildings. "Begone."

Gaius Julius hooked his thumbs into his belt and squinted up at the elderly man.

"My master bade me come," he shouted back, his voice clear and strong, though not the overpowering volume of the other, "and I came, doing him honor and you as well. My master bears you no ill will. He does not come with armies or with fire. He comes openly, seeking knowledge. Will you admit him to your precincts? Will you treat him with hospitality?"

The elderly man did not respond, the hot wind ruffling his robes out to the side. Two more men appeared, one on either side. They seemed equally ancient.

"No," came the booming voice. "We felt the passage of your master in the night. He is not welcome here, as you are not welcome, corpse man."

Gaius Julius, having taken the measure of the empty town and the men on the ziggurat, bowed deeply, held the pose for a beat, and then turned on his heel. Alias and Khiron fell in behind him. The wind escorted them out of the city, whistling through empty doorways and barren windows. The watching eyes followed them too, until they were well past the gates. On the first dune ridge, the old Roman turned, his eyes measuring distances and elevations.