“Close your eyes, Alais.”
The long eyelashes fluttered closed and her lips parted, the tip of her pink tongue visible. Maxian made a mark on her forehead, though nothing remained after his fingers had passed. The woman swayed and Maxian steadied her with a hand. Krista quietly stepped to one side, where she could see both of them clearly.
“Do you swear to abide by my will and desire? To execute my commands and to serve me in all honor? In . exchange for this I offer you the protection of my house and my servants.“
“I swear, my lord. We are strong and we can serve you well.”
“Then I banish your pain.”
The wax plug on the capsule came loose under his thumb and he dripped a little of the red fluid into her open, waiting mouth. Her tongue licked up to capture the drops. Maxian stepped back. Alais shuddered and crumpled to the ground, her limbs suddenly weak. She began gagging as her throat convulsed and her skin flushed. The Prince rubbed his chin in contemplation, watching her twitching at his feet. Krista slowly slid the spring gun out of her sleeve and leveled it on the woman on the floor. Alais groaned, a terrible sound that swelled until it filled the whole room. Then she shuddered one last time and lay still.
Maxian touched the top of her head lightly, and Alais turned her face up him. Krista hissed in surprise. The gaunt-ness was gone, a flush obvious in the woman’s cheeks. Her blue eyes were liquid and alive. Her red lips pressed against the Prince’s hand in a kiss.
“My lord, your blessing fills the world.”
The Prince smiled, his eyes narrowed in calculation. “Alais, rise up. Stand by me. You say there are others that feel as you do among your people. Bring them to me and I shall give them the same blessing, if they will swear to me.”
The blond woman curtseyed, her smile slow and languid, filled with promise.
“So you command, lord, so shall it be done.” The husky purr was back in her voice.
Krista, unseen by the Prince or the woman, rolled her eyes in disgust and slid the spring gun back into the leather sheath strapped to her arm. Maxian released Alais’ hand and the woman gathered her cloak around her. Bowing once more, showing a flash of firm high breast and smooth throat, she left. The Prince stared at the doorway for a mo ment, scratching at the stubble along his chin. Then he turned to Krista, who was standing by the inner door, her face a calm mask.
“Ah, well,” he said, “each tool to a purpose. I think that I shall give them to Gaius Julius as a diversion. He is jealous, I think, of Abdmachus and his works.”
“Jealous?” Krista raised an eyebrow. “Bored is more like it… you keep him mewed up in here, while you and the Persian labor on your creation. He wants to be out and about, putting that long nose of his where it does not belong, sniffing after the intrigues of the city.”
Maxian frowned, feeling the same sense of missed opportunity that he had felt before, when Krista had revealed her talent for languages. / had put him to work as my spy-master in Rome… “You are right. It is a waste to have him loitering around, drinking too much and trying to seduce the servants. I shall set him to work more to his liking.”
“Good,” Krista said, turning away, back to the tables filled with drawings.
PALMYRA, THE CITY OF SILK
Towers of pale-gold sandstone rose from the desert floor on either side of the road. Ahmet stared up them as his camel padded past on the hard-packed road. The towers were square and built of heavy blocks of stone. At a height, windows and doors leading into empty air pierced the walls of the towers. One stood near to the road as they passed, and the Egyptian stared with dull eyes at the carvings of men, camels, and fat-bellied ships that adorned its sides. A familiair smell reached him, leaking from the close-fitting stones.
The smell of dead men laid to rest, embalmed with spices and salt.
The forest of tombs was scattered across the valley floor and climbed the shoulders of the hills. Their shadows, gaunt fingers in the light of the setting sun, stretched away across the rocky ground. A hawk circled high in the sky. Around Ahmet, the rattle and creak of the army echoed off of the tomb walls.
No one spoke. Weary lines of men behind them, on horses or camels, rode with heads down. Dust covered them, dulling their battered armor. Zenobia rode at his side, and beyond her, Mohammed. The Southerner sat stiffly on his horse, favoring his right side. Bandages, crusted with dried blood and sweat, wrapped his midriff. His color was poor. The long retreat from Emesa had told on him, though he was very strong. The queen had veiled her face the day after the debacle at Emesa and now met no one’s eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was faint and hoarse^
The road swung wide around a cluster of the towers and the city, at last, came into view.
Ahmet raised his eyes to the cyclopean walls, a vast expanse of golden sandstone, and strong towers that flanked the Damascus gate. Forty feet or more high, the walls of Palmyra reflected the ancient wealth of the city, slightly sloping, constructed of massive blocks. They seemed the playthings of the Titans of old. A stream lay between the marching army and the city, bridged by a broad span of wood with stone pilings. The ramparts of the city, still distant, were lined with thousands of figures. There were no bright colors there, only gray and black. The Queen had sent riders ahead with the news of her defeat.
Zenobia nudged her horse to the side and Ahmet turned as well. The Queen rode down off the road and into a wedge of flat, sandy ground. When Mohammed made to follow her, she made a slight gesture, pointing to the city.
“The army enters first,” she said, her voice faint. “I shall enter the city last of all, when my men have found sanctuary.”
Mohammed nodded, his bleak eyes rimmed with dust. He angled his horse back into the center of the road. The men continued their slow march. Zenobia sat on her horse, with Ahmet at her side, watching them trudge past. Their companies were small and many men were wounded. There was little infantry and no wagons. All of that had been lost in the mad flight from the field where the Boar had crushed Zenobia’s dreams of freedom in a vise of steel.
At last the rearguard had passed, the remnant of the Ta-nukh that had survived Mohammed’s mad charge against the Persian knights. The desert men bowed in the saddle to the Queen as they passed, though their scarred faces were gaunt with weariness. Ibn’Adi was the last to pass, his old face grim and drawn. He raised a hand in salute and Ahmet was shocked, in his tired way, to see that the sheykh had lost two of his fingers. The old man’s hand was bound with a dirty bandage.
The dust settled and quiet returned. A hawk continued to circle in the twilight sky. Zenobia reached out a hand and Ahmet took it. They sat there on their mounts for a time, holding hands. The sun was swallowed by the western hills and darkness crept over the land. Then the Queen squeezed his hand and let go, unclipping her veil.
“Those few who survived will have entered the city now,” she said in a dead voice. “I must go and face the grief of my people.”
She turned to him, her eyes bruised and darkened by tears and fatigue. Her horse stirred restlessly, but she laid a hand on its neck and it quieted.
“You could go. The trails to the south will still be open. You could make your way to Aelana and home, home to Egypt.”
Ahmet shook his head, smiling quietly. “I will remain in your service, my lady. There is nothing left for me in Egypt.“
Doggedly she continued. “If you stay,” she said, “you will doubtless die when the city falls to Shahr-Baraz. If you go, you will live. Is that not better than death?”
“If I go, my lady, will you go with me?” He struggled to keep his voice level.
A look of despair and longing flitted across her face. “Oh, Ahmet… I cannot. I have duty and honor to discharge. My hubris has led my people into disaster. How could I face my father in the House of Bel if I abandoned them? Please, my friend, go. There is nothing you can do here.”
Ahmet shook his head again and twitched the bridle. The camel snorted and ambled forward. The Egyptian lo
oked back at the lonely young woman. “Come, the city waits for its beloved Queen.”
The Damascus gate was flanked by two huge towers, each rising seventy feet or more to a crenellated battlement studded with triangular teeth. Above the lights at the gate, the tops of the towers were lost in the night sky. A long passage, thirty feet across and open to the sky but walled on either side by the bulk of the towers, led up a ramp to the gates, which stood wide. They were stout panels of Lebanon cedar, each twenty feet high. The crest of the city, the sigil of the God of the Desert, was inlaid in each panel in brass and silver. Guardsmen, attired in silver mail that reached from head to below the knee, stood in ranks on either side of the portal, arms presented. A hundred torches flickered, lighting the entrance. Zenobia rode through with Ahmet at her side, her head held high, her long hair loose, flowing down her back like a wave. She was covered with grime and her eyes were hollow pits, but no one could have mistaken her for less than a Queen.
Beyond the gate they rode down a short ramp into a square. More guardsmen stood in lines on either side of the paved road, their arms held wide to hold back the crowd. Beyond the mass of dark clothing and pale faces, great pillars rose up, making a colonnade around the square. Fires burned on the top of the colonnade, casting a shifting light upon the scene. The avenue before them arrowed north into the city, and it too was lined with mighty fluted columns. Between the columns, platforms rose up above the crowd like marble islands in a sea of quiet, waiting people. On the platforms, statues of kings and gods rose, their painted faces come alive in the firelight.
Zenobia rode forward and Ahmet fell slightly behind her. She stared straight ahead. The sound of the hooves of her horse on the pavement, and the jingle of its tack were the only sounds. Even Ahmet’s camel was quiet. They rode down the aisle of the city in utter silence. The snap of logs in the fires atop the columns was muted. Tens of thousands of people lined the arcade, staring with desolate eyes at the Queen. Ahmet slowly realized that the entire city presumed that it was now doomed to desolation. Still, they came to look upon her and share her grief.
A thousand feet into the city, the avenue turned to the right at a sharp angle and Zenobia entered the great colonnade that formed the heart of the polis. The avenue widened and Ahmet swallowed a gasp at the sight that met his eyes. Now the columns were even higher, soaring thirty or forty feet into the air, and the press of people occupied a wider street. Tens of thousands of torches blazed, filling the avenue with light. The men of her army had fallen out and now stood in formation at either side of the pavement. As she passed, they raised their arms in salute yet made no sound.
They passed through a circular plaza that surrounded a great house of four parts, each faced with four massive pillars. Hundreds of priests in robes of white and pale yellow stood on the steps that led up to the house. They bowed, a rustling wave, as the Queen passed. Beyond this, Ahmet could now see that the avenue sloped upward to ‘ ward a great platform that dominated the eastern end of the city. A vast building, with white walls faced with marble, rose up behind walls of its own. Great carved friezes lined the walls, showing men marching, hunting, sailing the seas in swift ships. A pair of mammoth winged lions flanked the entrance ramp to that building. -
Three men stood on the ramp, halfway up, in their tattered robes and armor. The firelight gleamed on their helms and from their eyes. Zenobia halted her horse at the bottom of the ramp and stared into the weary eyes of her brother.
“Welcome, Zenobia, Queen of the city.” His voice was hoarse but clear, and it carried across the ramp and to the mass of people who had filled in the avenue behind Zenobia’s passage. “The great god Bel welcomes you in the name of his people. Enter your palace, O Queen, with his blessing.”
Zenobia sagged forward in the saddle, then, with a trembling hand, slid down to the ground. Ahmet dismounted as well, the camel kneeling to the stones of the plaza that faced the great building. Surreptitiously he touched her shoulder, and she jerked slightly as a spark of pale-orange light passed from his outstretched finger to her. She nodded and straightened her back. Head high, she walked forward to where her brother, Mohammed, and Ibn’Adi waited.
They bowed, Vorodes first, then Mohammed and the old sheykh. The Prince of the city fell to one knee and extended a circlet of pale-white gold to the queen. Zenobia stared at the tiara for a moment and then took it in both hands. While she did so, Ahmet led the horse and the camel away to the side. The Queen turned, raising the crown above her head. There was a great murmur from the thousands and tens of thousands who waited in the avenue below.
“While one Palmyrene lives, the honor of our city shall not die.”
Her clear voice, high and strong, rang off of the pillars and walls.
“We have gambled with Mars and lost, but our city will withstand the Persian storm. Rome will come to aid us, as they have always done, and then the Persian will perish in the sands, of thirst and the merciless sun. Palmyra will stand, free and strong, as it has always done.“
She placed the crown upon her head, and it laid heavy, winking white amid her raven curls. Then the Queen turned and mounted the ramp, slowly and alone. When she reached the top of the ramp, where all could see, she raised her slim white arms to the sky.
“Bel bless us and stand with us. The love I hold for my people will sustain all.”
Then she turned and entered the citadel, and the people in the streets and the avenues raised a long slow wave of sound, the prayer of Bel. Then they bowed as one toward the great building and the Queen who symbolized their city. Ahmet stood at the base of the ramp with some of the palace guardsmen, staring out upon the throng. A strange power was in the air, and the small figure of the Queen, now gone, was its focus. He tasted the air and felt some promise there.
Two figures stood on the crest of the escarpment, staring down into the valley. The moon had not yet risen and the land was dark, but they could see the blaze of light from the plaza at the center of the city. Fires burned on the walls, showing many men watching the approaches to the gates. A faint sound reached them in the quiet night air, the rumor of thousands of voices raised in song. The taller figure scratched at the grime in his beard.
“Little water,” he said in a voice made harsh by the dust. “Our men are nearly dead of the heat and sun.”
The other figure stirred and peered through the darkness. Narrow fingers wrapped around a staff of pale bone. “Dam the stream and make a reservoir. Cut the aqueduct. We shall have plenty and they none.”
The taller figure nodded, rocking back on his heels. The city lay in the night, safe behind strong high walls and the vigilance of its protectors. “This will take time, time that mires us here, leagues from where we should be, at the gates of Damascus.”
The smaller figure smiled in the darkness, his sharp white teeth flashing. “She would fall on your flank like a leopard and claw you again and again until you bled to death in the sand.”
“Yes.” The taller man laughed. “She should not have mewed herself up in the city. An error made by a tired mind. Now she cannot maneuver or escape into the desert. We can destroy this enemy utterly. Then there is nothing between us and Egypt.”
Dahak turned away, his staff making a tapping sound on the stones of the escarpment. He felt something in the air, a trace of familiar memory; he raised his nose to catch the scent. The general remained on the ridge, his eyes taking in the lay of the ground, the height of the towers, the banks of the stream. It was a strong place, but he had broken strong places before.
A puzzle, he thought, a problem of walls and towers and the wills of men. A man may make such a puzzle, and man may solve it too.
After a full glass had passed, he turned and picked his way down the slope in the darkness. The wizard was already gone, back to his wagon with the army that had halted beyond the hills at sunset. Baraz walked alone, under the cold stars, and realized that he was almost happy. Then he laughed, a full rich sound that echoed off of the rocky walls of
the defile, for it was not the fate of men to be content with their lot.
Servants showed Ahmet to a small room, no more than a cell, though it boasted a fine soft mattress on a bed of ce-darwood. He laved his face and hands in a pewter bowl that stood on a three-legged table by the side of the bed. He was terribly weary, but he took the time to calm his mind and recite the prayers that let him sleep. He fell asleep under a thin cotton quilt, his eyes tracing the painted patterns that adorned the walls.
Very late in the night, as the Egyptian slept, the door to his chamber opened and a figure in a long dark cloak entered. It stood over him, face hidden by the depth of the cowl, for a time, watching him breathe, and then it left, quietly closing the door behind.
Ahmet woke to a sharp rapping sound on wood. He stared up at a white plastered ceiling crossed by wooden beams. Sunlight fell on the wall to his right, illuminating bands of geometric patterns in black and red and white. The rapping came again.
“Holy Father,” a man with a shaven pate said from the door, “your presence is desired in the Queen’s chambers.”
Ahmet rose, throwing back the thin coverlet. His thighs ached from the long trek on the back of a camel. He rubbed his face and frowned at the stubble he found there. His things were laid on a chest of light-red wood next to the opposite wall. He dressed and washed his face again. An ewer of pale porcelain sat on the table, filled with fresh sweet water. He drank his fill, then settled his tunic and headdress. He fingered his chin again but decided against shaving. It was late, the sun, seen through a narrow window in the wall, was high in the sky.
The Queen’s chambers were opulent. Ahmet stared around in undisguised wonder at the wealth represented in the silk hangings and tapestries that adorned the walls. Rich carpets three and four layers deep covered the floor, obscuring the vast expanse of marble tesserae. Fluted pillars crowned with stylized acanthus leaves held up a soaring domed roof. Light fell in pale columns from circular windows set into the sides of the dome. It was cool and light. Many men were gathered around a cluster of couches and chairs at one end of the hall. Ahmet walked slowly toward them, his eyes taking in the richness of their brocaded robes and tunics. No man there had fewer than three rings on his fingers, of heavy gold and adorned with glittering gems.
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