The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  "How can you be so real?" Mohammed tried to turn his head away, closing his eyes. "I know the master of this place—a creature of evil... I will not take anything from him."

  Khadijah sighed and the trees echoed her, rustling and creaking in some unseen wind. Loom-calloused fingers tapped in annoyance on her pleated skirts. "You have always been a willful man... much like a mule! Listen, son of my uncle, if you do not drink, you will die. If you die, then no man will hear the voice from the clear air. How will the people find their way free from sin?"

  Mohammed opened one eye a sliver, giving the apparition a look. She was scowling at him in such a well-remembered way, with such compassion and irritation bound in one, he opened the other eye in surprise. "How... oh, Khadi—I am so sorry!"

  "You did not come home," she said, sitting back, face filling slowly with grief. "I waited. I became weak, finally I could not stand, or even raise a cup myself. Still, I waited."

  "I am sorry." Mohammed tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. "I came too late. Only two days late..."

  Khadijah made a wry face, shaking her head slightly. Carefully, without spilling a drop, she set the leaf on the ground beside him. "My heart had strength enough to wait, but my body failed." An edge of anger glinted in her eyes and she frowned at him. "You sent the pots back, but you did not come home. You sent a letter—my love, I am going to Damascus—then nothing! You didn't even get a good price for the cups and bowls..."

  A dry, hacking cough escaped Mohammed's chest. He was trying to laugh.

  "You sound like a camel," Khadijah said, a slow, glowing smile breaking in her face. "Will you drink?"

  Mohammed nodded, letting himself lie back against the tree. Khadijah moved beside him, lifting the leaf again and slowly, with great care, the Quraysh sipped the cool water. When the leaf was dry, Khadijah rose and reached up into the spreading boughs of the fig.

  "Is this the land of the dead?" Still terribly thirsty, Mohammed managed to get the words out without coughing. "Am I dead?"

  "No." Khadijah knelt beside him, a plump yellow-green fig in her shadowy hands. "This is a realm between life and death." She cut into the tough skin with the edge of her nail, then broke the fruit into sections. Black seeds glistened inside. "Here."

  Mohammed let her put the pulpy fruit in his mouth, then began to chew. The sensation was painfully intense, each movement of his jaw a grinding, exhausting eternity. His lips stung, the cuts breaking open again. After a moment, he swallowed. "Why are you here? Why haven't you gone on to the fields of heaven?"

  The Arab woman looked away, absently taking a long tress of hair between her fingers. She began to plait the strands into a braid. Mohammed watched in growing fear, as her expression fell into familiar lines. Hidden emotions glimmered in her face. She is trying to decide something, something upsetting. Khadijah said nothing, entirely focused on the avenues of the forest, on the perfect, evenly spaced trunks and the short-cropped grass.

  "You cannot say? Or will not?"

  Khadijah remained silent, still looking away. Her face assumed a stoic mask. She finished the braid, then began to unbind what she had just done. Mohammed reached out to touch her arm, but his fingers encountered only air, passing through the russet cloth of her shirt. "How did you gather the water? Does it rain here?"

  "No," she said, finally looking back to him. Mohammed felt her grief, now openly displayed, as a physical blow. Moisture glittered on her cheeks, beading on fine wrinkles. "There is no rain in this place." She lifted her chin, pointing behind him. "They water the tree with their tears. Their desolation forms the dew."

  Mohammed turned, feeling bones creak and muscle stretch like old cord. The soil under his hands felt strange—glassy and smooth—not like real earth. A multitude stood in the forest, crouching among the trees and brush, staring at him with empty eyes. Their ranks stretched away as far as he could see. Most of those near him he recognized—his Sahaba, his friends—but their armor was dented and ripped. Faces turned towards him, but they bore terrible wounds. Mohammed felt ill, seeing ripped skin hanging in flaps, gouged eyes, the stumps of arrows festering in blackening flesh. Like Khadijah, they were faint, only transparent outlines against the hard, angular arrangement of the forest.

  "Those men died on the field at Constantinople," Mohammed whispered, turning back to Khadijah in horror. "They died a martyr's death with the name of the lord upon their lips! Why are they here? Why are you here, who led a blameless life? You should be walking in green fields, beside a golden river."

  Khadijah shook her head slowly. She turned towards the city, one hand holding back the edge of her veil. The blue sky seemed very bright behind her. "That door is closed to us," she said.

  Mohammed looked and the city of delights was gone. Instead, there was the edge of desolation and a broken arch of stone lay scattered among thornbushes. Flinty hills rose up against a knife-edged horizon. "What did this?" He managed to croak out. "What has denied you peace?"

  The woman smiled, reaching down to comb her fingers through his beard. Mohammed felt nothing, no pressure, no warmth, only the touch of tears falling on his naked, sunken chest. The sun was beginning to shine, a tiny, winking star peeking through her ghostly shadow.

  "Khadi..." Mohammed tried to lift his hand, to clasp hers. His fingers passed through smoke.

  She was gone.

  The Quraysh fell back, eyes clenched tight, his fists trying to curl. His head fell among the stones with a rattling clunk, like a dry gourd dropped beside the river. "Ahhhhh..."

  He could not weep, but he felt something well in his chest, pressing at his ribs, snatching away his breath. He tried to cry out, but something filled his throat, making his nostrils sting. "Uuuhh!" He lay on the ground, empty. The leaves of the fig were swaying, brushed by some unseen wind. Mohammed saw himself from above for an instant, a wrinkled bag of flesh wrapped around sticks and gnarled roots. Shadows drifted over him and he saw his men—the faithful who had fallen under his flag, expecting paradise—kneel around him.

  Tears fell, faint and sparkling like grains of brilliant sand on a twilit shore. His dry flesh, spread across the ground, attenuated, exhausted, empty even of grief and loss, soaked up the moisture, a greedy rag. No... he tried to shout, but his lungs were empty, his throat cracked. The translucent shapes faded, each man's face becoming indistinct, his outline fading, blurring until it could not be distinguished from the stones and gravel beneath the tree. Stop! You must not do this! I am not worth your sacrifice!

  The boughs of the fig suddenly shook, rattling as if a great wind rushed over them.

  Mohammed, still so distant from his flesh, turned and saw a towering shape, wrapped in flame and darkness rushing up the slope from the wasteland. Something leapt towards him, wings spread from horizon to horizon, burning mouth wide in a shout. Mohammed heard nothing, but he saw the perfect sky convulse, ripped by lightning. Meteors fell, blazing with flames. The storm broke over the forest and the shapes of the dead quailed away. Thunder shook the ground, though Mohammed heard nothing, felt nothing. Acid sleeted from the sky, burning the flesh of the dead. Scourged with falling hail, with burning stones, with sizzling rain, the uneasy spirits turned away from the tree.

  Mohammed fell, spinning, overcome by vertigo. He closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, Mōha was crouched over him, beautiful face split by a snarl. White teeth gleamed in the shadow of his face.

  "Worry not, my lord!" Mōha said, chest heaving with exertion, limbs tense. "I have driven the wretched filth away! You will be safe. Quite safe."

  Mohammed closed his eyes again, blotting out the man's face. He could still taste the fig in his mouth, the water on his lips. His heart felt light, as if a great weight had pressed against him for a long time. Now it was gone and he thought he was at peace.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In the Roman Garrison at Pelusium, Lower Egypt

  Aurelian woke in darkness, skin crawling with alarm. The room was q
uiet, the lights low—barely a gleam against plastered walls. He could hear the steady footfall of a guard outside, pacing the hallway. The Roman kept still, heart racing with wild fear. He was certain a figure had stood over him, looking down with pale eyes. Trembling fingers grasped the hilt of a knife beside the cot. He listened. There was nothing—no sound of hushed breath, no half-felt vibration of hostile intent.

  A dream, he thought, but it fades... A vision lingered; a vast city of cyclopean buildings, windows crowded with cheering people, flowers raining down on his face, the sun breaking through white, fluffy clouds, blazing on white-fronted temples. He remembered the smell of stallions, the creak of chariot under his feet as he rode through the crowded streets. A weight on his brow. Soldiers lined the avenue, holding back a boisterous, surging crowd with leveled spears. Rome, my homecoming, but with a diadem of gold.

  The prince sat up, sweating despite a chill hanging in the air. He released the knife, shaking out his fingers. They cramped and bruised from gripping the hilt. His strength had compressed the wire wrapping into the iron tongue.

  A thought came, unbidden. If I returned home with these Legions under my command, I would be Emperor. Aurelian snorted at the thought, shaking his head like a horse with flies tickling its ears.

  "Madness!" He stood up, throwing aside the sheet. The Egyptian night was usually very warm here in the delta lowlands. The days were getting hotter too as summer dragged on. His tunic stuck to a broad, tanned chest, damp and clammy with night sweat. Aurelian paced to the door and pushed the panel open. The guard in the hallway started, swinging around in surprise, sword rasping free in his hand.

  "Halt!" The boy was young, one of the new recruits. His face was pinched and beaded with sweat. The point of the blade aimed steadily at the prince's breastbone.

  "Easy, lad," Aurelian said. He didn't feel so easy himself. The air in the hallway seemed stiflingly close. "Put your blade away."

  The boy stared at him, teeth gritted, for a long moment. Then he squinted, seemed to recognize Aurelian, and returned the stabbing sword to its wooden sheath. "Something wrong, Caesar?"

  "No." Aurelian shook his head. The momentary dream was gone, fading in the warm light of the oil lamps. "Just restless. Anyone been about? Hear anything?"

  "No, my lord. Quiet as a tomb." The boy chuckled, straightening his helmet.

  "Good." Aurelian considered returning to bed, but his stomach had woken up too. Familiar pangs drove the last of his dreams away. "I'm going to get a bite from the kettle."

  —|—

  The bottom floor of the old Ptolemaic palace was given over to kitchens and a mess hall filled with rough, wooden tables and long benches. A scattering of lamps provided faint illumination. Servants, kitchen slaves and thin, mangy dogs slept between the tables, filling the air with a groaning dissonant chorus. A low fire burned in the huge grate, enough to keep the night kettle warm and the porridge from solidifying into glue. Aurelian scooped grain and raisin mash into a wooden bowl. Crystallized honey from a nearby tub followed, ground in with a copper spoon. Stepping over the cooks, sprawled in rows near the fire, the Roman found an empty stone step against the wall.

  "Who would believe me in the marketplace," a soft voice said from the shadows. "Caesar himself eating worker's gruel with a bent spoon? Impossible."

  Aurelian swallowed, then licked the spoon clean. A cloaked, hooded figure leaned against the wall, back bent against the weathered feet of an enormous ibex-headed man. Cracked paintings crawled up into darkness, interleaved with old red-painted pillars and vertical columns of blocky hieroglyphs. "Men must eat," Aurelian said, pointing at the figure with his spoon. "Master Nephet."

  A thin hand, burnished dark mahogany, drew back the hood, revealing a hawk-nosed silhouette and weary, piercing eyes. "Lord Caesar, I am flattered you recall my name, much less my voice."

  "I have a good memory," the Roman said, scooping more porridge out of the bowl. The grain was barely milled, the raisins going sour, but he didn't care. The bowl was soon empty and the prince picked through his beard for crumbs. "You are up at an odd hour."

  "The air is heavy tonight." The priest settled back against the wall again, face obscured, hands clasped on his chest, a staff held in the crook of his arm. "Do you feel the pressure?"

  Aurelian nodded, putting down the empty bowl. He did not look at the priest. "I dreamed of Rome and a triumph. I was wearing a crown of gold. A king's crown."

  "Rome has no king," Nephet said softly, bright eyes watching the prince. "The Senate and the people rule... isn't that what your banners say? No king, only an Emperor, the greatest of lordly men."

  "Yes," Aurelian said, memory bright before his eyes again. He found it hard to look away. At the edge of vision, he caught a glimpse of his wife, their children... everyone was smiling and waving. "My brother is... Emperor." The Roman stopped, throat tight. A sense of loss welled up, reminding him of how far he was from home, how long it had been since he tousled the hair of his sons or kissed his wife. How strange and alien this flat, heat-baked land was.

  "They will come against us soon," Nephet said. "Are the men ready?"

  Aurelian took a deep breath. The Persians. He thought of the long walls, the dry rivers he had gouged from the mud and sand, the miles of rampart and barrier. His men were waiting, shields bright, banners standing proudly before each Legion. "We are ready," he said. The memories faded again, his mind rousing itself from something like sleep. "Do you foresee the day they will attack?"

  Nephet laughed, but it was a soft sound, without malice, night wind rushing through palms. "Each day the pressure in the air will be worse, my lord. When we cannot endure it any longer, then they will attack."

  Aurelian looked sideways at the old Egyptian. "They attack our will to fight," he stated. As the words left his lips, he knew they were true, felt something pressing at his mind, some taint in the air fouling his thoughts. "Are the other thaumaturges aware of this?"

  Nephet nodded, eyes glinting in the shadow of his hood. "We can all feel this. Some of us, I'm sure, are afflicted with unquiet dreams. Those who are weak will hear the voices in the air more clearly." The Egyptian managed a grim smile. "Some will never hear the voices at all."

  "That is fine for you to say," Aurelian growled. "What about my men? They cannot protect themselves. Can you drive these phantoms back? Strike at the magi plaguing us?"

  "By myself?" Nephet shook his head. "No. This attack is subtle. The enemy is being cautious, even sly, taking his time. We would have to bind a pattern of resistance along the whole length of the defense!"

  Aurelian stood, tossing the wooden bowl into the fire on the grate. He felt anger build, gnawing at his stomach like a fox. This is my fault. I should have thought of this long ago. "Yes, you will. Send messengers among the camps—the high priest of every temple will be here by noon. You have been idle, priest, but no longer!"

  Nephet stiffened at the bitter tone in the Roman's voice. "What do you mean?"

  "You will bind a 'pattern' into the ramparts, the walls, the gates. Every inch of stone, earth and wood from the sea to the marshes." Aurelian crushed the soft copper spoon in his hand, completely furious with himself. "We should have begun months ago!"

  The Egyptian priest swallowed, shrinking back against the wall. I suppose we should have, he thought, a sick feeling creeping over him. And why not? We knew what was coming... Nephet felt his skin grow clammy, the close damp air prickling. Have we chosen to sleep—or been lulled there by quiet voices?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Imperial Apartments, The Palatine Hill

  Pale yellow candles luffed, their flame bending in the draft of an opening door. Shadows fled across a painted wall, briefly illuminating a mottled shepherd leading his flock across a plastered Elysian hillside. The door creaked closed, the helmeted face of a guard disappearing behind the panel. Galen Atreus, Emperor of Rome, set a stack of parchment and papyrus sheets down on an iron table beside the entry. The candles s
ettled and a steady, warm light returned. Marble and heavy drapes of muslin soaked up the pale glow.

  "Galen?" A sleepy voice called from another room. The Emperor grimaced, pressing the back of his hand to a throbbing forehead. Beads of sweat shone behind his ear. "Husband?"

  Helena stood in the further door, her hair unbound, falling long and straight beside her face, lapping across delicate collarbones. Galen tried to smile, but managed only a grimace. He started to undo the heavy brooch holding his cape at the shoulder. He was still fumbling with the catch when she took his hand.

  "Let me." The Empress' nose wrinkled up as she concentrated and the clasp clicked open. "No," she said firmly when he tried to help, her voice soft. "Just stand still."

  Helena put his cape aside, then the formal toga and a gem-studded belt. After just a moment, Galen was able to breathe deeply, constricting clothes gone, the insistent pounding in his head easing to a mild hammering. The Empress knelt, untying his sandals. "There," she said, taking his hand. "Now come and sit with me."

  —|—

  The night was warm enough to sit on the terrace and Helena led him to a couch piled high with quilts and pillows. Thin columns framed a balcony wound with ivy, looking to the south, over the high walls of the Circus. Torches burned around the obelisk at the center of the spina. More lamps illuminated the white portico of the temple of Victoria. Beyond the high walls, the southern districts of the city were sleeping. In the late hour, the houses and apartments were hidden in darkness, only faintly marked by scattered lights.

  "You're writing?" Galen eased himself down onto the couch, feeling dizzy. A hooded lamp sat on a table, shedding a yellow glow on parchments, ink, quills, two half-opened scrolls. "Is Theo asleep?"

  "Yes," Helena said, sliding down beside him. He lay back, resting the back of his head on the padded arm of the couch. Her thigh was very warm on his. Galen twitched when her thin-fingered hand brushed across his forehead. "He's right here."