The thin glass walls of the structure showed themselves to be blurred by moisture. Coming closer, she could almost feel the stifling damp heat from within, almost make out the, shapes of the fleshy flowers with brilliant leaves, the twisting tendrils of climbers and creepers hanging down from the ceiling and wildly splashing out across the walls, each one of a kind; there were no others like them anywhere within a thousand kilometers of Samarkand.
Sharon suddenly stopped in her tracks, put her hand to her mouth, and gasped. The greenhouse door was open; she could discern the blurry, dark figures of two men walking slowly among the rows of shelved pots as they talked. The taller of the two was her father, the other as yet indistinguishable. And beside the door, ears pointed straight up, nose sniffing away at the aromas, was Majesty.
She took a brave step forward, wondering how she was going to explain any of this should the cat be noticed. Dashing from the hedges, she beckoned to her pet, vainly trying to get his attention. Majesty, whether he had seen her or not, seemed far more interested in examining the strange things inside the peculiar house. He slinked his body through the slightly ajar door and went inside. Sharon held her breath, expecting to see the cat come racing out any moment, her angry father on his heels, cursing, shaking a fist.
To her surprise — and momentary relief — that didn’t happen. Instead, her father and his companion came out alone, eyes downcast, faces serious. And the man she’d assumed to be the gardener in charge of the greenhouse was none other than Hezekiah, Hebrew court minister, right hand of the emir, one of the most powerful figures in all of the empire. A black-speckled silver beard framed his square jaw handsomely; his small eyes were steely gray, intelligent and cunning; and he walked with a proud gait, a swagger, that had always impressed Sharon as much as it left her in awe. Certainly it seemed strange to find him here with her father like this, the two of them alone, speaking in whispers and in secret.
She momentarily forgot about the straying cat and focused her attention on them instead. Along the narrow dirt path through the junipers they walked, slowly, faces long and worried, her father nervously toying with the tiny earring in his left ear as he listened. Sharon, keeping out of sight, skirted the path and stayed close to the thick trunks and branches. At five paces behind, she could hear almost everything.
“… And the caravan arriving from Tabla last night has confirmed it,” the somber Hebrew was saying.
“Their tents were in sight until the caravan reached the river itself.”
Amrath nodded darkly; such news, disturbing as it was, had not been totally unexpected. Less than three weeks before, a dispatch from the border garrison had been received saying much the same: Huns from the north had been sighted massing along Samarkand’s outermost borders. Fierce nomadic tribesmen from beyond the Steppes in endless numbers were moving like locusts with their cattle and their women from the barren regions toward the fertile plateau of empire territory.
The implication was clear: If the Huns dared cross the great river, Samarkand would be compelled to force them back; it would be a costly war, with no guarantee that even if defeated, the Huns would not return.
“The emir has called upon General Le-Dan to take up the offensive,” Hezekiah went on. “Already our army from the west prepares to march.”
Amrath’s brows rose in speculation. “Is that wise? Le-Dan is needed where he is; the Kazir rebellion grows worse.”
“We are taxed to the limit,” agreed the minister. He stopped beneath a bough and pulled a leaf from a twig; holding it in the palm of his hand, he stared at it briefly before crushing it and throwing it to the ground. “But there was no choice: It was either Le-Dan or dispatching troops from the city.”
Amrath sighed heavily. The petty rebellions at home were costly and dangerous enough; they ripped apart the very fabric of Samarkand’s peaceful empire. Beset by religious fanatics across the Steppes and in the forests, rebellious Hameliks in the southern regions, and a broadly based unrest within the city itself, inspired without question by the new and unknown Kazir leader, it was all Samarkand could do to hold its own; if not squashing these revolutions completely, at least quell them. But now, if all these reports flooding into the palace were true, and the Huns were indeed intent on crossing the ancient borders in search of new lands for their unlimited number, the empire would find itself fighting on every front, beleaguered, without the resources to endlessly carry on the battle. Cracks had appeared in Samarkand’s fiber long ago, and now those cracks had deepened, turned into fissures that perhaps could never be repaired.
“And the emir?” asked Amrath.
Hezekiah frowned. It was no secret that Amrath’s, cousin was weak and ineffectual. Doting upon his games and his women, he had never given the growing difficulties the attention they deserved. Dissatisfaction within the palace was rife; once even Le-Dan himself, the empire’s finest soldier, had sworn to resign his post and return to his ancestral home in the east unless matters were put into his own hands. The emir had had little option but to comply, and the general had moved Samarkand’s best-trained and equipped army to the Steppes, to fight an ongoing battle against bandit phantoms, who claimed not only autonomy for their own lands but also the right to rule over Samarkand itself. Kazirs they were, whose sense of righteousness turned them into fanatics believing that their holy cause could not fail; and, though steeped in superstition and magic, they had time and again proved formidable opponents for Le-Dan, a rag-tag, ill-trained, and ill-armed bunch holding the might of Samarkand to a standstill.
Now Le-Dan was being recalled from the Steppes to face an even greater threat. The Huns were a dreaded race, burning everything in their wake, leaving behind pestilence wherever their armies had marched. Clearly they must not be allowed to cross the river.
Amrath shook his head slowly from side to side, feeling the growing sense of helplessness that had overtaken him these past few years. Like a dam ready to burst, Samarkand struggled to hold back the waters of destruction for just a while longer, at times having to resort to packing its armies with foreign mercenaries, despised men of the Asian central plain, whose very presence often only made matters worse than they already were. It seemed a no-win situation, with the city itself sitting upon a smoldering fire ready to explode. The Huns might be all it took to light the match.
“There was a near riot outside the dome temple this morning,” Hezekiah continued.
Sharon’s father snapped from his thoughts. “Was there much … bloodshed?”
“Fortunately, no. Our mounted legion held them in check. But the people are worried, Amrath. The mullahs have been openly speaking treason against the emir. They say he must be driven from the throne if our empire is to survive.”
Sharon held her breath and stifled a gasp.
“The emir will not stand for such open displays against the throne,” Amrath countered.
“Action is already contemplated. That’s why it was so imperative that I speak with you. He plans to imprison the ayatollah as a symbolic gesture of his resolution. If the leader of holy men is chained and treated as a common criminal, all the mullahs shall publicly decry the emir’s weakness. They shall claim that Allah has turned His face from Samarkand, that our city and our empire are disgraced, and that the emir must be removed — by force, if necessary.”
Amrath was both pained and shocked. It was true that his cousin had not proved an able leader, but such open rebellion by the people of Samarkand could prove the last straw. He put his hand on the Hebrew’s stout shoulder and looked him squarely in the eye. “You must speak with the ayatollah,” he implored, “make him stop these statements, at least in public.”
Hezekiah scowled. “I am a nonbeliever,” he reminded his friend. “The mullahs treat me with suspicion. But, in any case, matters have gone too far for that. What the ayatollah says is of little consequence.” His eyes darkened and he furrowed his brows. “It is the emir himself who must be dealt with; there is no other way, unless you care n
ot that the people turn against the palace and destroy what it has taken a thousand years, for Samarkand to build.”
Amrath listened intently, knowing what the minister said to be true. He sighed deeply, biting his lip and shivering at the thought of facing the outraged monarch. “What is it you want me to do?” he asked at last.
“Speak with the emir — today. There is no time to lose. You must make him realize the risk of inflaming the people further. They bear the burden of our taxes, send their sons to fight his battles and die, permit his whims to divest the city of its wealth. Shall we forget that Samarkand is no stronger than these very souls we abuse? If our emir does arrest the holiest of holy men, there will not be enough soldiers in all our provinces to contain the wrath of the people. Disaster surely must follow — for them as well as for us.”
The meaning of Hezekiah’s words was not lost upon the graying cousin of Samarkand’s monarch. The emir for too long had lived in a world of dreams; the reality today was far different from what it had been in times past. And now, Amrath realized sadly, all these portents of doom seemed to be converging at the same moment.
The Legend, he thought suddenly, remembering Kazir folklore, the Hundred Year Solitude … How did it go? And from that day shall come a time, a day of reckoning when mighty Samarkand shall fall, and fall again, yet be regained in the name of those who loved her most …
A strange legend of a stranger people. Amrath sighed. Of all the empire’s enemies, it was the Kazirs he feared the most: A tribe of seminomadic, semibarbarians, whose inner strength and will had not been defeated in almost a full century of conflict. Amrath wondered which side God was truly on.
“Will you speak with the emir?” came Hezekiah’s strong voice.
Amrath nodded dourly; he put a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder and nodded. “Yes, I’ll speak with him, but will he listen?”
Both men stood silently for a moment, listening to the songs of tiny buds in the trees but hearing only their own thoughts, their own doubts.
At length Amrath hunched his shoulders and cast his gaze away from the scarlet-robed minister. “Ah, what has happened to our dreams of youth, old friend? Where have we gone wrong?” And there was such sadness in his eyes that Hezekiah was deeply moved. But there were few words of solace to be shared, only the mutual and certain knowledge that if Samarkand did not act — and swiftly — all that they and their forefathers had built would crumble to dust.
Shadows were lengthening; the two men turned around first in the direction of the greenhouse, then abruptly crossed the path to the wide walkway and made their way toward the standing guard at the arched palace entrance.
For what seemed a long time Sharon stayed where she was, hardly daring to breathe. She shuddered with the realization that these whispered words were not meant for her ears; indeed, if her father even suspected her of eavesdropping, both his anger and his punishment would be monumental. And in that moment she felt her whole world go insane around her. It was impossible, a jest of some kind; such terrible events could not be!
Within the dusty city of Samarkand, and even within the palace walls, talk of coming wars and strife was common. Among superstitious peoples, there are always portents to be feared, legends both real and imaginary spoken upon the lips of would-be prophets. But this was different, Sharon knew. Hezekiah was not a man to spread rumor; his title and duties made him one of the most respected, if not feared, men in all the city. And the look of despair upon her father’s face, that too assured her that what she’d overheard was no mere gossip, no chatter of washerwomen or senile old men.
The fears were as real as Samarkand itself, and the knowledge of it gnawed at her stomach. She must speak of what she’d heard, find out if these dire forebodings were as terrifying as they seemed. Yet to whom could she repeat them? Whom could she trust?
Sharon breathed hard to catch her breath. Then, needing to run from the garden as fast as she could, she scooped up the straying cat and rushed back to her private chambers.
Chapter Two
Thin wisps of pale-blue moonlight slanted through the double windows and past the curtains, burning away the pleasant darkness of Sharon’s bedroom. Pensive and sleepless, the young princess rubbed at the goose bumps crawling up her arms and pulled her Persian quilt more tightly around her. Majesty, huddled snugly between the folds in the blanket and the satin sheets, stirred slightly at her restlessness.
Sharon stared wide-eyed at the star-filled night, letting her eyes wander randomly across the roofs of the distant domes and steeples shadowed in a hazy halfglow of light. How peaceful the city seemed at this hour, she mused, how content, how right, as if nothing at all were wrong in the world. She pulled down her blanket, shivered at the nip in the air, slipped into her slippers and pulled on her robe. Chestnut hair tossing like a horse’s mane as she shook her head, she walked quietly to the curtains and opened them wide. Then she strolled onto the small stone balcony beyond the chamber — a veranda especially built at her request nearly three years before.
The view from her rooms in the high palace tower was nothing short of spectacular. From this vantage point she could clearly see it all: the sweep of the city, the ancient walls beyond, the rich, fertile plains beyond that for as far as the eye could see. The slightest turn of the head afforded more of this panoramic vista. To the south she could see the river, and past it, arcing to the west, the dark patch of giant trees and dense shrub known to all as Grim Forest.
The wood was aptly named, she thought, shivering with a small smile. How the very mention of that place used to scare her The superstitious servants used to claim that in parts the forest was so dense, so dark, even the sun could not penetrate between its thick leaves and misshapen branches. Only fools and fanatics dared to step within those strange boundaries. Gypsies and Kazirs were said to dwell there, but few others.
And tales abounded of weird and uncanny doings late at night among the forest’s inhabitants, especially the Three Hooded Witches, aged hags as old as creation who one night each month burned the fire of their infamous cauldron, conjuring up all manner of evil portents. But whether all this was real or imaginary, Sharon honestly could not say. No sane person ever had reason to go even in daylight, much less after dark. Still, Samarkand’s more superstitious, hillfolk and the like, swore to this very day that all this was so.
When Sharon was a little girl, a trader from Damascus came with the first spring caravan to the palace. Displaying his wares of silk and perfumes and exotic spices from the west, he quickly gathered an audience of chambermaids and other servants and, after selling his goods, went on to recount firsthand tales of these very matters, his own experiences while traveling alone through Grim Forest. Sharon, although it was well past her bedtime, sneaked from her room down to the kitchens to listen. It was a grisly story he told — of devils whisked from graves, and ghouls and skeletons come to life at a single calling of the three hags. The servants shuddered and gasped, believing it all, and Sharon was so frightened that she fled back to her rooms and stayed awake all night. The next day, still upset, she refused to leave her bed, and it took her patient father almost until suppertime to convince her that what she’d heard was nothing more than a traveler’s way of passing a long night and nothing more. That episode was long past in her life, yet she’d never quite forgotten it.
As she stood musing, staring out at her beloved city and wrestling with the troubling matters she had overheard this afternoon, her attention was abruptly turned to a tiny reddish glow fanning out against the night sky. Curious, she leaned forward, slim hands clutching at the low balcony wall. The hue spread bit by bit, and as it did, there came a low din of distant noise.
Horses? Troops on midnight maneuver? Sharon was puzzled; but then the noise grew in intensity, and she could almost make out the muted cries.
She peered at the glowing color again and gasped. Fire!
Within minutes a terrible roar filled her ears; flames, leaped and popped higher a
nd higher into the velvet night. Colors began to swirl before her startled eyes: glowing orange tipped with crimson and fading to a bluish pall at the fringes. And the mighty silos at the edge of the walled city burst into flame, one after the other, until half the sky was immersed in a rainbow of flashing heat.
There were screams now as citizens poured from their quiet mud brick homes into the streets and plazas and emptied bazaars. Horns blasted, and troops poured from the multitude of barracks located outside the palace grounds. Messengers on horseback came galloping through the gates, shouting the news through soot-blackened faces. The eastern quarter of the city was burning out of control. There was panic in the streets, and the soldiers were helpless to stem the tide of the mobs rampaging to reach safer parts.
Sharon watched and listened in horror. Below, in the vast square just outside the palace walls, angry hordes of peasants were gathering. Palace soldiers, rushing from the opened gates with drawn swords, came swarming at them, trying to stem the panic and turn the mindless mob about. Among their number, in the forefront of the surging crowd, came a dozen screaming mullahs. Exhorting the people to break through the gates and inflaming them with rhetoric, they chanted for death to the emir.
At first the guards were hard-pressed to keep them back; but suddenly, behind the blare of a trumpet, charged a hundred horsemen. With reckless abandon they broke into the crowd, gleaming-swords swinging above their heads, and fiercely cut down any and all who got in their way. Screaming rose to a deafening pitch; the mob fled helter-skelter down the many byways and narrow streets. Women knelt beside the bodies of slain loved ones, weeping and wailing, calling to Allah and tearfully pleading for the carnage to stop. Those mullahs who had survived the onslaught were quickly cornered and arrested, dragged away in the direction of the old stone prison and its deep dungeons.
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 2