The Duchess pressed the back of a thumb against her eyebrow, hoping to stave off an incipient and formidable migraine. In the brief instant, while her eyes were closed, she heard a murmur of voices and the clatter of boots and sandals on her tile floors. Someone is leaving, she thought, giddily. Oh good! Gathering herself, she stepped out into the hall and saw the departing guests were the prince, the Empress and the sly gray old shape of Master Gaius Julius.
"Lord Prince," Anastasia said, bowing slightly. "I am very pleased you came this evening. And thank you for your help. Without your 'additions,' I fear my little play would have fallen rather flat."
"My pleasure," Maxian said. He seemed very relaxed, his arm around Martina's waist, wine spots on his collar and sleeve. He smiled easily at her, as if they had always been old friends and never enemies. "Thank you, Duchess, for your hospitality. I'm glad our difference of opinion is in the past."
"Of course, my lord," she said, making a polite smile in return. With no desire to reopen old business—particularly with a happily drunk thaumaturge—she bowed to the Eastern Empress with a warm smile. "My lady Martina—I do hope your evening ended better than it began."
Martina, though she seemed quite content to lean her head on Maxian's chest, frowned at the Duchess. "You need," she said, in a slightly slurred voice, "to invite a better class of guests."
Anastasia felt her stomach—already brutalized by too much wine and too many salty olives—turn over queasily. And she's a mean drunk, the Duchess thought despairingly. At the same moment, she caught sight of Gaius Julius turning abruptly, looking behind him.
"My dear," Anastasia took Martina's hand. "I am so sorry—please, come again when you are in Rome, and we will sit together in private and have a wonderful, delightful time. I do not want your memory of my house to be distasteful."
"That would be nice," the Empress said, perking up. The Duchess saw her pupils were dilated and realized the young woman was half-asleep on her feet. "You have a nice house."
"Thank you." Stepping aside, Anastasia glanced over Martina's shoulder and saw, to her surprise, Gaius Julius deftly interposing himself between the prince, the Empress and an approaching Helena. The Western Empress was already clad in cloak and hood, her face tense. Oh, dear. "Come, I'll walk you out," she continued smoothly. "Your escort is waiting—alert and well-fed—I assure you!"
The porters were watching and the big door panels swung wide as they approached. The courtyard before the house was well-lit by torches and a bonfire. The warm night air flooded over them, carrying the sweet, heady smell of citrus and cooking smoke. Several Praetorians emerged, armor gleaming dully in the torchlight. They were alert, hands ready on the hilts of their swords, every other man carrying a lantern.
"My lord?" The centurion in charge of the detachment stepped up, saluting the prince. "Where bound tonight, Caesar?"
"Our house on the Cispian Hill," Maxian said, casting about for Gaius Julius. The older man appeared quickly, hurrying out of the house. As the old Roman passed Anastasia, he inclined his head and gave her a queer look, almost a wink or a nod. The Duchess did not respond, smiling politely, and kissed Martina on each cheek. The Empress smiled back, squeezing her hand.
"Good night," Anastasia said, watching them saunter out onto the street, surrounded by a moving wall of iron and bared steel. Despite the late hour and the prince's powers, his guardsmen were neither relaxed nor inattentive. The nighted streets of Rome were dangerous, even for members of the Imperial family.
"Well."
The Duchess turned, heart sinking, and found Helena waiting on the threshold, eyes glittering, watching the prince and his party disappearing down the street. "Helena, what—"
"What did I say to Gaius Julius or what did he say to me?"
Anastasia pursed her lips, registering the cold, even tone in her friend's voice. "What did you say?"
Helena drew up her hood. "I wished to speak with Empress Martina. I intended to apologize."
"And he said?" The Duchess looked down the street. Empty. Even the gleam of the torches on cobblestone was gone.
"He said the Empress was overtired and would be happy to speak with me at another time."
Anastasia closed her eyes again in relief, nodding to herself. Well done, old goat. Well done. "He was right, she was barely awake. Too much wine and food, I think."
"Really." The icy tone in the Empress' voice brought the Duchess around to face her again.
"Yes—I spoke with them both—she was barely intelligible." Anastasia stepped close to Helena, lowering her voice. "And she was drunk and irritable. Master Gaius did everyone a favor, I think, by keeping you apart."
Helena's lip twisted as she stepped away. "Should I send him a note in the morning, thanking him for insulting me?"
More Praetorians gathered inside and Anastasia heard the Emperor's voice raised in farewell.
"Listen to me," the Duchess hissed, drawing Helena into the shadows at the edge of the door. "You must know how delicate things are. I know Gaius is at work—my informers and spies are watching him every minute—and he is doing many things in the prince's name, not all of them known to our dear Maxian. This business of the Empress and her affection is just one of his plans."
Helena screwed up her face in a gruesome scowl. "So you want to win her away from him—not the prince him, but Gaius Julius him. With your own game and your own plans."
Anastasia nodded, watching the Empress' face intently. "Yes. You have to be civil to her, at least, if you cannot be friends."
Helena's scowl did not recede. "You watch him closely then, with an eagle's eye."
"Every moment," the Duchess replied. Then the Emperor was in the doorway, his son asleep on his shoulder, and everyone was bidding one another good night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Near Iblis
Mohammed became aware of the sky rippling like glossy cloth. The branches of the fig tree were dark in relief against the unremitting brilliance of the heavens. He focused and the sky settled back into a perfectly unremarkable blue. The sun remained a bright disk, shedding only a cold clear radiance on white-limbed trees and emerald grass.
This world is illusion, Mohammed realized. The thought seemed to have emerged from a great depth, slowly ascending to his waking consciousness. Did not Mōha change shape as I watched? Is not the city filled with phantoms and deceit? Is anything here real? Am I real?
For an instant, Mohammed felt a plunging sense of vertigo. Everything seemed to whirl about him with tremendous winds—there was no earth beneath his back—no air to breath—not even the cold glare of the perfect sun on his face. Horrible, gut-wrenching fear clawed at his mind, urging him to scream or flee or strike out wildly. He could feel his hands and feet fray, dissolving in the storm.
I am real! he answered, trying to shout against the maelstrom. No sound issued from his mouth. Indeed, there was no sound around him, no rush or wail of the winds, no singing zephyrs, no blast upon his face. He forced his eyes open again. The sun remained overhead. The leaves of the fig silhouetted, perfectly motionless, against the blue sky. I am real. The fig is real.
Tentatively, he forced a hand to rise and brush against the mottled gray-and-white bark of the tree. I can feel you... but where did you come from? From this sterile earth? With an effort, for his muscles were stiff with disuse, Mohammed turned his head and looked into the forest. There were no fig trees. There were no trees with irregular bark, surrounded by a litter of fallen twigs. Not like the many-fingered leaves scattered around him at the base of his tree. Wait... He remembered putting something in his pocket, long ago, past an eternity of battle and driving rain and the god speaking in the sky with a voice of thunder. I was eating a fig, as we sat waiting in darkness for the Persian horsemen to cross the stream. Zoë was at my side.
Neck creaking, Mohammed looked down and found the tattered remains of his cloak still clinging to his body. Bloodstains on the cloth had turned dark brown and the leather greav
es on his shins were cracked open. I put the pit in my pocket, he remembered, the pocket of my cloak.
Straining, his skeletal fingers groped in the crumbling fabric and found the pocket eroded away. Only the roots of the tree could be felt.
"A seed fell," Mohammed croaked, "on barren ground and yielded up this life. Where none had been before. Fruit to feed me, leaves to catch the tears of the dead, the conscience of the earth to remind me of the will of the lord of the world. As he made all things from darkness and men from clots of blood." He sat up.
As before, the city lay below him, beyond the grassy sward. The creature Mōha was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the faint trill of pipes and the merry thump and clatter of drums touched his hearing, rising from the streets and houses below. The pungent smell of a dung fire pierced the air. The sound brought the promise of joy and the warm embrace of old friends in hospitable surroundings.
"What would I see..." he mused aloud, climbing to his feet, spindly arms clinging to the bole of the tree. His legs began to shake with fatigue. Mohammed gritted his teeth, tasting the sting of bitter alkali from eroded bone and enamel. "What would I see there, if I passed through the broken gate and into the city?"
"You would find rest and comfort," a voice said, "at the end of a long, hard road."
Mohammed pushed away from the tree to stand unsupported. A woman was walking up the hill towards him and for just an instant he thought Khadijah had returned from the forest of the dead. She was of middling height; her hair tied back, a long dress of soft, subtle colors falling to her feet. Her hands were unadorned with bracelets or rings and thin, almost translucent fabric clung to her breast and thigh.
Mohammed tensed, seeing now something of Zoë in her oval face, high cheekbones, dark eyes. Another spirit, he guessed. "Who are you?"
"I am Ráha," she answered in a warm, friendly voice. Streaks of white crept through obsidian hair. "The last of your guides."
Swallowing, Mohammed felt his dry throat crack. The voice was so familiar... but he could not put a name to her, no familiar face, nothing but a faint memory of singing—a lullaby—and a rocking sensation. A camel? A ship at sea? He felt his skin grow cold. A crib? It was a crib. Mine. "Where would you guide me? Into the city? Into death?"
"Yes," Ráha said, concerned. "Aren't you tired? You have traveled a long way, seeking solace for the emptiness in your heart." She lifted a hand, pointing to the gates and towers. "What you seek, what your heart desires, lies within the city. An end to your labors, deserved rest, your family, respect, honor. A white beard covering old knees as you cradle your grandson in your arms."
"And the dead trapped in the dark wood, what of them?" Mohammed tugged at the scrap of a cloak around his neck and the decayed wool fell to dust between his fingers. With the movement of his limbs, the rest of his garments sighed away, falling in a brown rain around his feet. "I will not abandon the innocent."
Ráha raised her chin, pointing into the wood. "They cannot enter, my lord, because you are here, balanced between life and death. While you remain, they cannot pass into the city and thereby to the land of the dead."
Mōha said the same thing, Mohammed remembered. Is it true?
"You must choose to pass on," Ráha continued. "You are endangering those who still live." She smiled and Mohammed felt her compassion like a physical blow, a balled fist in his gut. "Every spirit fears change—and yours is very strong! It clings tenaciously to the memory of life. These are not your arms and legs," she said, gesturing to the weak, spindly limbs holding him up. Ráha's forehead wrinkled in thought. "This is the flesh of a dead man, withering in the ground. You must let go of this illusion of life. Free the multitude trapped in this terrible balance. Don't you hear them wailing, frightened, each alone in the darkness?"
"I do," he said. "But I will not yield to your foul master! My work among the living is not complete. The great and merciful one has set me a task, which remains yet undone. So, I say to you, malign spirit, I will return to the living world. I will not enter the city. Yet, by my absence, the dead will be freed to pass on, and find peace."
"But," Ráha said, perplexed, "your work is done. The Emperor Heraclius, who betrayed the cities of the Decapolis, is dead, his corpse only one among thousands, nameless and unmarked. Your people have been freed, your enemies revenged. Even now they claim a great destiny in your name. Your teachings will live on, forever. The allotted span of your days has come to an end."
"The lord of the wasteland," Mohammed said sharply, "sets the beginning and the ending of each man's life—yes, he who made men from clots of blood, from clay—he sets the rising and the setting of the sun! Not you, not your master, not his slave Mōha or any other power! I was struck down by treachery, my efforts incomplete! The voice from the clear air guides me, showing a clear and righteous path against evil!"
Ráha stepped back from his vehemence, an expression of grave concern coming over her. "Evil? My lord, all things have an ending. There is no evil in death, only the wheel of change, of life, turning as it has always turned. The means of change do not matter, only its inevitability. All things end! Even you, even I."
Mohammed licked his lips, overcome by a sensation of nervousness. She is speaking the truth.
"O Man, observe," Ráha said, spreading her hands wide. A glittering circle opened in the air, through which Mohammed saw a thicket of pine and thistle. A stag crashed through the brush, followed by a swift, golden bolt of fur. The lion struck hard, massive jaws crunching into the stippled brown neck of the deer. Both animals went down in a cloud of dust and branches, the stag kicking, the lion's rear claws tearing bloody streaks across a heavy tan pelt. "Here is the engine of the world, of all creation! There is no permanence—only change—and in this world, men die. Women die. Everything passes with the turning of the wheel. New life springs from the old." Ráha looked up, her lambent dark eyes blazing. Mohammed felt a void open before him, saw scattered stars glitter on a field of sable. They grew, swelling enormous and dark, a doorway opening in the air before him. "Your time has come. Accept this."
A faint, ethereal wailing trembled in the air and Mohammed knew the dead were pleading with him, shouting in their faint voices, bending their will upon him for release. He felt the weariness of his bones, the fatigue settling in what muscle and sinew remained. Even his thoughts were slow, attenuated, stretched to the utmost. He heard temple bells and the chant for the dead, a slow, mournful dirge on a thousand voices. Drums rolled, echoing the tramp of sandals on a dusty plain. A funeral procession, he recognized. It must be mine.
"No," Mohammed managed to gasp. He was on his knees again, barely able to stand. "I will not abandon my purpose. The judge of judges will account the deeds of my life, when I stand before him. Until that day, when the lord of the world commands me lay down my purpose, I will not surrender."
"Are you the maker of all things?" Ráha knelt beside him, a pale hand on his shoulder. "Are you the judge of good and evil?"
"No!" Mohammed drew away from her. "I am only a man."
"How can you know your purpose continues? This is the end of your time. You must pass on!" A tone of urgent pleading crept into her voice.
"No—I will not! I will not be driven by thirst, by fear, by temptation, by the blandishments of the spirits here. I will endure. A great evil has entered the world—a serpent with countless heads, arms, bodies—I have seen the dark power walking under the sun, cloaked in the shape of a man. The voice from the clear air has spoken, setting me to strive against shaitan and all his spawn."
Ráha shook her head in despair. "Still you seek to name evil. I ask again, are you the judge of judges?"
"I am not," Mohammed snapped, "yet the voice of the empty places guides me to a righteous life! My heart sings to hear him, showing me a certain path. I will not let the whole world die, consumed by the serpent, crushed in leviathan coils! I will not step aside, while there is work yet undone!"
The woman rose, lips pursed. She cupped her hands
and a spark appeared, fluttering like a butterfly. The flickering glow lit her face with warm light. "You are not listening. Certainty is oblivion. Immutability disaster. Only in the motion of change—in birth and death—is there life. The voice speaking to you is only one of many, only part of a great chorus. Everything, even what you name evil has a place in that choir."
"No—" Mohammed recoiled. "Not the abomination! The Lord of Serpents is a stain on the perfection of creation!"
A beneficent smile spread across Ráha's features. "Creation is imperfect. In all things a flaw—even in the wisdom of your guide, this voice from the clear air." She closed her hands over the light sputtering between her fingers. Darkness flooded the air around them, drowning sight of the grass, the city, even the swaying branches of the fig. "You claim the power in the desert as your patron, saying he raised the race of men from clay, from blood, from the very soil. So he did."
A vision burst over Mohammed, stunning his mind. A vast city rose up around him, cyclopean towers piercing leaden clouds, titanic shapes moving in the chill air. In the distance, mountains of ice encroached upon the city, glittering blue-white walls looming over soapstone colored buildings. Abandoned doorways yawned on streets tenanted solely by cold whirlwinds. A singular slate-gray tower swelled into view, colossal, every surface covered with deeply incised glyphs and signs. A window filled his vision and he looked down upon a great chamber, filled with shining, dark machines. Glimmering lightning flared in the shadows and something huge bent over a slab of mirrored black stone. Glossy rust-colored wings shifted, one pair, then four rising and falling around a ridged circumference. A tiny creature squirmed and writhed on the gleaming table, screaming endlessly. Bright red blood smeared silky fur. Stubby-fingered hands groped mindlessly at the air. Delicate white cilia descended, adjusting minute jewel-like tools.
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