A brilliant flare of light cracked overhead and men screamed in fear. Aurelian's head whipped around and he saw a section of the nearer tower burning furiously. Some kind of clinging flame dripped down battered, scored stone, heavy black smoke rolling up in oily waves. A siege catapult atop the tower burned as well. A man, wrapped in flame, plunged from the height, mouth open in a soundless, flame-encompassed scream. The prince blanched, eyes swinging to the sky, but then he realized the catapult itself had broken a torsion arm, spilling naphtha across the stone platform.
Bless the gods, the prince thought wildly, it was only a fire arrow!
A frail shield protected the legionaries fighting on the battlements and towers. A thin, gossamer veil standing in the hidden world between mortal men and the full might of the Persian sorcerers. Those few remaining Roman thaumaturges were cloistered back in the heart of the city, sweating with effort to sustain the pattern of wards and defenses lining the rampart. By sheer luck, Aurelian had made two critical, seemingly unrelated decisions regarding the defense of the city.
First, he had ordered his new fortifications built atop the foundation of an ancient wall. Unbeknownst to him, the intricate patterns of defense laid down during the time of Ptolemy the Savior, the first Macedonian king of Egypt, remained intact, though weakened by the theft of the wall stones themselves. Still, like begat like, and the new Roman wall inherited a measure of the ancient strength.
Second, the disaster at Pelusium had laid low so many thaumaturges and priests, Aurelian had shipped them all back to convalesce in Alexandria. The horrendous retreat across the delta, despite the horrific casualties suffered by his legionaries, had not cost him a single thaumaturge. Stunned by the strength of their enemy at Pelusium, the priests had labored furiously to strengthen the ancient ward line ringing the city.
Still holding, Aurelian prayed, watching the queer distortion in the sky.
A basso roar of anticipation boomed beyond the wall as the Persians reacted. Aurelian popped his head up, face grim. The old highway was littered with wreckage. Two siege towers had come within a dozen paces of the walls and both were still burning furiously. Thousands of Persians swarmed below, sending up flight after flight of arrows. As Aurelian watched, one of the burning towers toppled away from the road, pushed by a forest of hands. In its place, a heavy ram rolled forward on a wooden frame, pushed by lines of men in full armor, silver battle masks down.
The sharp twang of a ballista bolt cut through the din, firing from the remaining tower. A Persian pushing the ram toppled, struck through. Stones and burning pitch rained down in sheets of flame. The dead carpeted the ground and the wounded crawled among corpses, desperate to escape the rain of destruction. Persian orderlies dragged away those who might live, or cut the throats of men wounded beyond succor.
Aurelian ducked back down, then slid from the fighting step. "They've a ram," he barked to his guardsmen. He waved sharply for his aide. "Phranes, get down from here and find the tribune commanding those two cohorts of the First on reserve in this sector. Get him up and into the gatehouse immediately. You lot, with me!"
Ignoring the anxious expressions of his guardsmen, Aurelian jogged along the rampart, heading for the rising iron-kettle din of battle around the smoke-shrouded towers. As he ran, the prince loosened the spatha bouncing at his waist and settled the grip on his shield. It was clear to him the Persians were throwing their full weight at the gate and by the gods, he intended to stand with his men, not hide in some tomb down in the city. Left behind, Phranes cursed wearily, long face twisted into a grimace and then ran off down the ramp past a constant stream of wounded descending towards the hospital.
The sky groaned, tormented by hidden forces, rising columns of smoke splintering into mirror fragments.
—|—
The Paris pitched up a long, rolling swell, sails taut with a quartering wind. The courier ship scudded northwest from the merchant harbor of Alexandria, the long low island of the Pharos falling away to starboard. Thin sheets of smoke hung over the water, fragments of an enormous black cloud building over the port. On the foredeck, Thyatis leaned against a guyline, hip pressed against the railing, staring back at the embattled city.
Night was falling, a warm orange glow lingering in the western sky and only the distant light of burning buildings illuminated her face. Footsteps padded on the deck, soft and faint, but Thyatis heard and turned. Shirin approached, her oval face framed by a dark cloak, smudges of fatigue darkening her glorious eyes.
"There's food," Shirin said, sitting on the deck. Her legs dangled over the lip of the rowing gallery. Below her, the off-watch crew was already asleep, curled up among the benches in an untidy mass of blankets and pillow rolls. The Khazar woman unwrapped a loaf—fresh this morning from a bakery near the port—and broke it in half. Thyatis settled in next to her, the meal between them on the deck. Shirin moved her leg, sliding her bare foot over Thyatis' toes.
"Thank you." Thyatis cut a hunk of bread from the heavy oval. She smeared oil and garlic paste and soft cheese across the spongy surface.
They ate in silence for a few grains, listening to the creak of the rigging and water hissing past under the bow, watching the southern horizon flicker and blaze with fire. Occasionally, bright sparks lofted above the city, then guttered out. Thunder rolled continuously, though the sound grew faint as they drew steadily away. Thyatis felt grainy, drained, her thoughts—if not harshly driven back on course—turning always to the city and the Legions fighting there. A tiny voice muttered in the back of her mind, urging her to return, to take up sword, spear, bow and climb the walls to fight beside her brothers.
"I want to ask you a question," Shirin said in a low voice. Thyatis looked over. The Khazar woman was methodically paring slivers of cheese from the round with her knife. They made a little pile on the deck. "Once you promised to stand beside me, to share my life. Do you still?"
"I do." Thyatis moved to take Shirin's hand, but stopped, the gesture quelled by a fierce expression on the Khazar woman's face.
"Do not take me lightly, Roman," Shirin warned sharply. "I am of the house of Asena, and my fathers ruled from distant Chin to the Roman border, from the ice to the mountains of Persia. Our numbers are like the grass, limitless, and our hearts stronger than your steel." She paused, full lips drawn in a tight line. "You say this Prince Maxian caused the eruption that destroyed Baiae? Which laid waste to so many towns and villages? Which strangled my children while they slept, burning the flesh from their bones, wrapping their skeletons in ash?"
Thyatis nodded grimly, understanding the venom in Shirin's voice all too well.
"Then I give you leave to separate yourself from our hand-fasting." The Khazar dug a hand into her gown and drew out a thumb-sized jewel on a heavy chain. The cabochon blazed as it emerged from hiding, catching the last gleam of the fires raging around Alexandria. Thyatis' lips pursed in surprise and she shook her head automatically.
"Shi—the Eye of Ormazd is yours. Given freely, not a token of binding."
Shirin pressed the jewel firmly into Thyatis' palm. "You gave this to me when we parted on Thira, against our time of meeting again. That day has come and I wish you to choose again, without doubt. I know where I am going, but you do not have to ride beside me."
"What do you mean?" Thyatis understood, even as the words flew from her mouth.
"I laid my children in the ground without grave gifts," Shirin said. "I believed accident took them, sky-father gathering them up with gentle hands, as he does those who die before their naming. But if this prince is the cause, if he sacrificed them so he might live, if he murdered them, then they do not rest easy. They do not run in green fields, golden flowers in their hair, rejoicing in the light of the sun through the trees." The Khazar woman lifted her knife, turning the mirror-bright blade to catch the last feeble gleam of the southern horizon. Deep and abiding anger flared in her harsh voice. "They are lost in darkness, shades without sustenance, helpless without weapons, fo
rced to walk without mount or bridle, lacking even the grave gifts to buy entrance into the house of the dead."
"No," Thyatis said firmly, mustering her thoughts. "Not so. Not so. This much I have done, Shirin, I have laved the earth with blood to feed the uneasy dead, to lighten their burden in the sightless world. Thirty warriors I've sent to join them, an honorable guard to bear their cups, to carry their burdens. A dozen ferocious beasts I've offered up, hot blood spilled in fair contest on the sand!"
Shirin's dark eyes widened, understanding dawning in her face. "The arena! I watched you fight—your face was wild, mad, transported... is this the Roman way, to honor the dead with living men's blood, spilled in combat?"
Thyatis nodded, feeling suddenly weak, emptied again. Memories crowded around, thick as Nile mosquitoes, faces emerging from darkness, mouths wide in anger or fear. My men. Our children. Nikos. "Yes, this is the Roman way."
Shirin clasped her hand over Thyatis, enclosing the jewel. "I would put a dog of a slave at my children's feet, my gift to lighten their burden in the world of shades. This is how things were done in my grandfather's time. Will you help me?"
The Roman woman shook herself, feeling a spark flare in her breast. "Shi—you don't know how dangerous this—"
"Yes, I do." The Khazar woman nodded, eyes glittering again, but now her fury was banked, glowing hot behind a shield of purpose. Hidden in their hands, the jewel gleamed with an inner fire. "I swear I will kill this prince of Rome."
—|—
Gape-mouthed horns blew mournfully, sending a long, ululating wail out across the fields before the city. Exhausted soldiers raised their heads at the sound, looking up from beside the raised highway, their faces painted with the ruddy, red light of a vast, smoke-bloated sun. Fires continued to burn among a long swathe of grass and drifts of fly-infested corpses. A bitter white haze drifted over the Roman wall, swirling around shattered towers and obscuring the forest of stakes sprouting from the disordered earth.
The horns winded again and men began to limp away from the fortifications, retreating by ones and twos across the fields. Night came winging out of the east, swallowing the land in a black throat and none of the Persians cared to remain among the dead after sunset. All along the wall, points of light began to flare as the legionaries cast pine torches down upon the slope.
The squat shapes of the two gate towers were lit from below by the smoking remains of the great ram, glowing coal-red from the fires that had consumed the wooden frame. The ancient sandstone blocks were burned dark by countless blows. The jagged, gappy parapet of one tower stood black against a sullen orange sky.
Shahr-Baraz, King of Kings, turned away from the doleful view. His army fell back, bloodied and beaten, from the Roman fortifications. On this depressingly flat plain he could not see the full sweep of the disaster, but what lay within sight was enough. A full day had passed in relentless, repeated assault. Four times, the pushtigbahn had stormed forward against the gate. Four times, the legionaries had thrown them back in disarray. Though other attacks had gained the rampart on more than one occasion, sharp Roman counterattacks had driven them back each time. His heart heavy, the Boar paced into the loose collection of tents forming his headquarters.
Bastard Romans... they've denied us even a roof over our heads. Despite the inconvenience, Shahr-Baraz was impressed. The enemy had not wasted any time in recovering from the disastrous retreat across the delta. The approaches to Alexandria had been stripped bare; every house, gyre, barn, temple and chicken coop had been demolished and hauled away. Stone and brick had gone into the massive wall, everything else into the bellies of the Roman soldiers or hidden in the vast city just out of sight. The Boar ducked into his tent, idly twisting the ends of his mustache to even sharper points. He sat in a canvas field chair, hearing the old walnut legs creak with his weight and sighed, rubbing his face with both hands.
A distinctive chill mist crept into the tent, flowing across the damp floor in eddying waves. Shahr-Baraz looked up, weary anger simmering in his eyes. The dark, angular shape of Prince Rustam appeared in the entrance, flanked by the gaunt shapes of his two apprentices.
"Come in, then." Shahr-Baraz gestured to the cots and camp chairs his servants had dumped under the canvas. He tapped an oil lamp with a thick, scarred finger. The wick had dimmed to a pinpoint with the sorcerer's approach. Shahr-Baraz breathed softly, letting the flame catch again and spread a slow, yellow light across table and chairs.
Hiding a mirthless grin, the King of Kings cocked an eyebrow at the sorcerer. "You look well."
Rustam bared his teeth in response, dark lips wrinkling up from long, white incisors. A dry hiss issued from the creature as he sprawled in a canvas seat, but he hadn't the energy for anything more.
Shahr-Baraz nodded to the other two figures, tilting his head to indicate the other chairs.
Pale oval face drawn with fatigue, Zenobia limped stiffly to one of the cots, her jaw pinched as she lay down on the hard boards. The Queen's robes were caked with mud, her hands bruised and streaked with blood. She turned her face towards the King of Kings, brilliant eyes dulled to fractured jewels, barely able to move. Her hands folded on her breast, withered doves lost in the dark, ragged pleats of her gown. "My lord," she whispered, though even so much seemed to drain her.
The jackal-headed man said nothing, squatting on the ground inside the door, his iron mask scored and dented. One ear, never properly repaired after the conflagration at Pelusium, was now entirely torn away, leaving a gaping hole in the metal, showing matted black hair and a pale scalp covered with scars.
"Have we failed?" Rustam managed to lift his head enough to speak. The king observed him closely, seeing the usual glamour fading, leaving the mottled, reptilian skin of the creature exposed. Inwardly, Shahr-Baraz sighed in despair, seeing the truth of his ally laid bare by such great exhaustion. The familiar princely face was no more than a comforting shell around something dark and lean, all spidery muscle and long, tapering ears flat against an inhuman skull. Something abhorrent, which should be cut down and cast into cleansing fire. The Boar's lips twisted into disgust, then settled—driven by implacable will—into a tight, flat line. Khadames was right about our dear prince. But I've made my choice.
"No," Shahr-Baraz said after a moment, "but today was costly, very costly."
He cleared his throat, realizing he was tremendously thirsty. "Bring wine and food," he called to the servants hiding in the darkness outside the tent. The rustling sound of running feet answered him and he turned his attention back to the sorcerer. "What happened?"
Rustam stirred again, nictating membranes rippling back from dark eyes. His voice was thready and weak. "We should not have kept attacking."
"I know that." Shahr-Baraz felt his temper stir. "You assured me the 'ward' was frail and easily destroyed. Just once more, you declared, and the towers would crack, the rampart split and we would be within the city."
A thin-fingered hand raised in protest, then fell wearily away again. "The Romans... no, the Egyptians are clever. We should have taken more time... divined their purpose, examined their defenses! I would have seen what they prepared, with just a day..."
Shahr-Baraz snarled, waving away the protest. "Useless words. We all agreed to strike with speed, to try and overwhelm them before they had more time to prepare. We were overconfident and have paid for our hubris! Tell me what happened today. Tell me what we can do to avoid such a debacle again!"
The sorcerer started to speak, then stopped and took a breath. He settled deeper in his chair and the Boar realized the creature was trying to muddle through his memories. The king leaned back for a moment himself. Despite his admonition to the others, his own thoughts turned unerringly to what he might have done, should have done...
The Persian army had rushed down the Nile with all speed, trying to catch the retreating Legions before they found shelter in Alexandria itself. Unfortunately, despite destroying nearly an entire Legion in a pitched battle at Hi
erakonpolis, they had failed to seize the crossing. Roman engineers had collapsed the causeway, blocking the river channel to Shahr-Baraz's flotilla. For their part, the bargemen brought in from Mesopotamia had reacted swiftly, building a pontoon bridge across the arm of the Nile. The king had thrown his army across, then raced down the highway into Alexandria's suburbs.
His wild lunge had fallen short. The surviving Roman Legions entered the city in time to occupy a freshly built ring of fortifications. Shahr-Baraz was impressed, again, at the speed and efficiency of the Romans in siege work. Very early this morning, he had felt a pang of regret as well—all that work, he thought, would soon be rendered useless—shattered by the power of the Lord of the Ten Serpents. Even with his army weary from the forced march down the Nile, Shahr-Baraz had elected to attempt an immediate, full-scale assault. Pressing hard had broken the Romans before, why not here too?
"I was deceived," Rustam said, rousing himself from thought. "I looked upon their battlements and saw only newly turned earth, freshly raised stone. So similar to that we faced at Pelusium..." His voice trailed off in a weary hiss, razor-edged nails making a clicking sound on the arm of his chair. Rustam's thin face contorted in disgust. "There must be an older wall or foundation beneath the new construction. Something built by the ancients... deep with strength. These crawling, pus-drinking, shit-eating Egyptians must have known! They have made a new pattern atop the old—the very likeness of a battle ward—but they are keeping well back. I can barely feel them, hiding in the city..." He began to mutter and hiss, voice fading into unintelligible curses.
Shahr-Baraz sighed openly now, turning his attention to the Queen. Slitted blue eyes met his.
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