The Shadow of Ararat (97 page)

"And the Roman army?" Thyatis held her breath.

"Messengers came too from Nineveh in the north, on Tigris. The Romans are only a few weeks away. They must have marched swiftly to reach the warm lands before winter closed the passes in the north. The governor of Nineveh has ordered the bridges over the rivers and canals destroyed."

Shirin paused, staring at Thyatis with that same calm look.

"What else?" Thyatis asked, disturbed by the princess' equanimity.

"No Khazars have come south with the Roman army. Zarmihr saw that many barbarians were in the army of the two Emperors but did not know their banners. The King of Kings questioned him closely as to the presence of my kinsmen, but Zarmihr saw none of them."

Thyatis pursed her lips and considered the Princess, who looked down, her face lit from within by a smile, and resumed stitching. "You are free to leave the palace again?"

"No," Shirin said, looking up briefly, her lips in a moue, "but soon I will be. My husband will soon be at ease. The magistrates and lords who whisper to him will have nothing to say. My children will be safe."

"You see no reason," Thyatis said slowly, considering her words carefully, "to leave the palace in secret, with your uncle and me?!"

"Oh, no," the Princess said. "Within the month things will be as usual again."

The Roman woman rubbed her nose, thinking, then rose. "My lady, this is excellent news. I will tell your uncle and we will make preparations to take our leave. I am sorry you had a fright."

"Oh"—Shirin laughed—"it's nothing! In a few days you'll be able to leave peacefully."

"Talk to me," Thyatis said, her voice clipped, once more mewed up in her room with Nikos, Jusuf, and Anagathios. "What are the servants and slaves saying?"

Nikos frowned, his broad face grim. He exchanged looks with Anagathios. "It is very bad. 'Gathios saw three of the lesser nobles leave today with their families. Those were the smart ones. More will be slipping out tonight. The word in the baths is that the King of Kings has slipped right over the edge. He declared that this disaster at the Kerenos is only a minor setback. He collared two of the remaining big hats here and sent them off to raise a new army from the citizens of the polis. He wants a hundred thousand men."

Jusuf snorted, shaking his head. "If
two hundred thousand
men were slaughtered up north, there aren't another hundred thousand fighting men in the whole empire. What is this King of nothing going to do, arm the slaves?"

Nikos face settled into grimmer lines. "Women and children is what I heard. Kitchen knives and sharpened poles. Whatever they can find in the city. Old men too, I'd imagine."

"Will they do it?" Thyatis said, her fingers twitching on the hilt of her sword. "Are they afraid enough of Chrosoes to drive the citizens out into the fields to face Galen?"

Jusuf laughed at her, but his voice was trembling.

"Nikos, are the palace guards and city watch enough to do that?"

The Illyrian met her eyes and shook his head. "No, there are only a handful of guardsmen left—maybe a hundred—and the city watch isn't going to drive their families out onto the swords of the legions. Besides"—and he smiled a little, his lip curling up—"the two nobles set to this task have already bolted. They left everything behind, concubines and all, and shot out of the city like a stone from a mangonel."

"Good." Thyatis stared out the window, her eyes distant. "I promised Shirin I would not kill her husband." She turned to the Syrian.
Anagathios,
she signed,
are you sure about this water gate in your hidden garden?

The actor shrugged, his hands languid as doves in the close air of her room."

You didn't ask the Princess?
he replied.

No, I was going to ask her today, but now we'll have to do it without her help.

Then I cannot say for sure. It seems that the garden is part of the King of Kings personal quarters and the lower gate must lead down to the water side. But without getting a boat and checking the bank, I cannot say.

Thyatis punched her thigh in frustration. Jusuf and Nikos, who had only caught a little of the quick conversation, watched her in concern.

"Everything is a bad bet," she snarled. "So we go for the Venus throw. Nikos, get everything and everyone ready—quietly—for a quick exit. Jusuf, you have to stick to Shirin like glue. When things finally come loose around here it's going to be very ugly. We don't want to lose her or the children in the confusion. 'Gathios—you've got to find a better way into that garden. I don't think Shirin is going to be able to climb down a drain like the rest of us."

She stood up. The three men nodded. "Good, get to it."

After they were gone, she stood at the window, clicking the sword in and out of its sheath. The sky was turning dusky purple. The rooftops were already steeped in darkness. She sighed, rubbing her nose.
Sahul, why didn't you come south? What happened in the north?

The midmorning air trembled with a booming shock. Dust rose in a great pillar over the rooftops of the city. The sky was very blue, almost pure undiluted color, scrubbed clean of any clouds or impurities. The dust rose up, a bone-colored smear against the deep blue. Mohammed turned from the doorway, his face graven with weariness. His eyes were old in a still-young face. The
kaffieh
that was wound around his head and trailed over his shoulder was dirty and spotted with old blood. His breastplate was scored and marked with dozens of tiny dimples where spears, swords, arrows had been turned aside by the stout metal. His hands were marked with many cuts and stiff bandages were tied between his fingers. Still, his right hand rode easily on the pommel of a well-used saber.

"My Queen," he said to the darkened room, "I must go to the gate. The Persians will come again in strength."

"Is this the last day?" came a murmur from the darkness. There was a slithering sound as silk sheets rustled and fell away. In the dim light, the Southerner could see a pale blur rise up and slowly swim into focus as it came toward him. He bowed and took the hand of the woman.

"It may be," he said, his voice gravelly with the strain of a hundred days of shouting commands. "There is something in the air... perhaps the wizard will show himself. If he does, then the gate will fail and the Persian will walk the streets of the city."

Zenobia squeezed his hand, her long fingers firm.

"I shall command the people of the city to retire to the palace," she said. "If the gate falls, then we will fight on here. Mohammed..."

He released her hand. Her shift was plain soft cotton, falling to her ankles, and her hair was loose and uncombed, a tangled cloud around her neck and shoulders.

The southerner raised a hand, his fingers to her lips. "Say nothing, my lady. I choose to stand with my friends. I do not regret it, though it grieves me to see that your dream has died. I was lost for many years. In this struggle I have found purpose, short-lived though it may be, and I am well pleased for it."

The Queen smiled, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. The press of events had finally stirred her from the death-watch that had possessed her for so long.

"I will be at your back, then, Al'Quraysh."

There was the echo of another boom, louder than the first.

"Go, your purpose is getting impatient."

He bowed again and strode out, his boots clicking on the polished tiles.

When he was gone, Zenobia returned to the bed and crawled across its expanse. Her fingers traced the forehead, sharp nose, and lips of the man lying in it. She bent close and kissed him, though he did not move. She felt only a faint breath on her cheek, but it was enough to know that he was alive.

"Well, my love, sleep in peace. I have duty to attend to."

Zenobia stood up, feeling the leather strapping of the bed give under her weight, and pulled the slip off over her head. She stepped lightly off the bed and ran a hand through her hair. It was a mess and she frowned at the tangles caught in her fingers.

Silly,
she thought to herself,
it doesn't matter if my hair is combed and brushed for death.

But then she paused and turned the silver mirror on her wardrobe toward her.
No,
she thought,
today it does matter.

She rang a small glass bell, summoning her servants to draw her bath and dress her.

Mohammed looked out over the plain before the city. It seethed like an enormous anthill with men and horses and engines of war. The Persians had been coming down out of the hills since the dawn had broken, long lines of spearmen hurrying down the road. Horsemen thundered past, their lances glittering like stars. Four more great siege towers had been raised up and now they crouched a hundred yards from the wall. Stone-throwers couched behind battlements of rocks and raised earth lay behind them. As Mohammed watched, the one nearest the gate released, sending a boulder the size of a small man flying into the air.

"'Ware!" echoed in a shout down the line of the battlement. Men ducked their heads below the merlons. The stone hissed through the air and struck the pinnacle of the left tower at the gate. Stone splintered violently on stone and shards of rock sprayed on the men crouched below. The gate tower stood unmoved, though another pale scar had been gouged from the sandstone facing.

Mohammed stood again, his hand shading his eyes. Hundreds of Persian archers in light armor and quivers full of arrows were running forward toward the gate. Among them, men jogged under the weight of mantlets woven from reeds gathered from the stream that fell away east of the city and leather cured from their own horses. All along the front of the enemy army, regiments and battalions were forming up. Men jostled to raise ladders to their shoulders. Arrows began to fly up from the advancing ranks, a dark cloud of angry birds.

"This is it," Mohammed said to his commanders, stepping back from the fighting slit. "He has come out."

Away, across the plain, behind the engines and the tens of thousands of men, a black wagon drawn by ten black horses had appeared on the road. A solid wall of knights in heavy armor surrounded it. Their banners were dark, long fluttering pennons in the shape of serpents with scarlet scales. Around it, the marching men of the Persian army shied away, leaving a great clear space. Mohammed blinked—the air seemed to twist and shimmer over the distant image.

"Ten serpents..." he muttered, pursing his lips in thought. He shook his head, unable to dredge up the memory.

"To arms!" Mohammed shouted, his voice ringing out over the battlements and the shattered buildings behind the wall. Metal rang on stone as the Palmyrenes rushed to the wall. The Southerner looked out over them, a ragged line of men in battered armor and scarred faces. Too few of them were soldiers; most were the men of the city forced to defend their homes. Many had never held a spear or hacked at another man with a sword before these days. Now they were blooded veterans, forged hard in this hellish place. Mohammed turned back to the wall. Arrows rained out of the sky, clattering on the stones. He pressed himself close to the dun-colored brickwork.

Men along the battlement popped up, loosed their arrows into the running mass of Persians heading for the wall, and then ducked back down again. Mohammed drew his saber and checked the edge for chips or cracks. Shouting rose from below the wall. Another great stone caromed off of the nearest tower and bounced down onto the wall. Mohammed turned his head and cowered behind his shield. The stone plowed into a knot of men, bakers by the signs they had painted on their shields, and smashed them into a bloody dough of splintered bones and crushed intestine. Arrows fell like rain.

The ladders hit the wall, a long rippling rattle of wood on stone. Mohammed sprang up and raised his saber.

"Up! Up!" he screamed. "To the walls!"

The two Tanukh who shadowed the general stabbed out with their spears, pushing at the slats of the nearest ladder. One spear caught and the man put his shoulder into it. The ladder slid sideways and then suddenly toppled over. Screams and yells of anger filled the air. Mohammed ran back up onto the fighting platform that jutted from the side of the tower. Hundreds of ladders had gone up along the wall and the men of the city were furiously engaged, shoving them back. The city archers fired down into the masses of men swarming at the base of the wall, their arrows punching down into upturned faces. Another stone sailed over the wall and crashed through the tile roof of a building across the street. Fire gouted up from the ragged hole.

The sky above was serene and blue, clear as a high mountain lake.

Zenobia stepped out onto the broad brick platform that was raised before the vast bulk of the palace. The gates were swung wide and a constant stream of women, children, and old men poured up the ramp and into the precincts of the royal family. She walked out onto one of the buttresses that held the great winged lions, her left hand on the muzzle of the beast. Her attendants had repaired her golden armor and polished her silver helm to a brilliant sheen. She had added a long cape of purple with a gold trim as well. The wings that swept back from her face gleamed in the sun. It was heavy on her head and a trail of sweat trickled down the side of her cheek.

The people pushing past below in the gate looked up at her and smiled, though their faces were haunted by the long siege. Many raised their hands to her, seeking her blessing. She smiled down upon them. There was little she could do now, though the sight of her brave figure might give them hope for the hours that remained. She felt cold inside, shaky with apprehension.

The lion trembled under her hand and a moment later the air shook with the sound of a deafening crash. Zenobia's head snapped around and across the city. At the distant embattled gate she caught sight of a vast towering shape out of the corner of her eye, something wreathed in smoke and flame, looming over the towers. Titanic wings unfurled and Zenobia reeled, gripped by a terrible nausea. The sun seemed to dim and the earth grew silent. The shape struck downward and there was a tremendous booming sound. It struck again and towers and stone cracked. It struck a third time and the gate towers crumbled in a huge gout of dust and smoke. The tower to the right side of the gate split down the side and tilted over. Hundreds of tons of sandstone and concrete crumbled down into the street. The thing moved in the smoke and fire roared up. A nightmare head was thrown back in howl of victory and Zenobia fell to her knees, her heart thudding like a dove.