The old general cursed then, violently and for a long time. His face turned beet red under the thick, graying beard.
"You are a fool," Khadames said at last, when he had mastered himself enough to speak intelligibly. "I have seen this power you dote on. You do not control him. That is a charade! This strength will control you, if you use it. You have not seen the pits under Damawand, or the forges and furnaces that labor there, unceasing."
"I am King of Kings," the Boar snorted, standing up from the wall. "I rule Persia now. You forget yourself, Khadames. Even the power of Damawand bows to me."
"Does it?" Khadames coughed, feeling a little faint. "You forget that I have seen the true master there, though it almost destroyed my mind. The will of a king is insignificant."
"Old woman." Shahr-Baraz snorted, sounding like his namesake, rooting in the forest. "Well, then, since you are overwrought, I will say this-if the Arabs accept my offer, we will make war on Rome. If they do not, we will go home and I will see just what occurs in this mountain valley of yours."
Khadames nodded weakly, heart thudding violently in his chest and vision blurring.
– |"Zoe, listen to me." Mohammed maintained his composure, even when the Palmyrene woman's tirade reached particularly violent levels. She stopped, breathing heavily, and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Do you just want revenge? Nothing more, just to destroy your enemy?"
Odenathus, Shadin and Khalid had been watching in interest as the Quraysh and the Queen went back and forth. An hour or more had passed. Neither side had budged. Mohammed wanted to discuss the Persian offer, Zoe did not.
"If that is all that you want, then we will reject this offer. Indeed, we should try and capture Shahr-Baraz and his men and hold them for ransom, at least. But if you want anything more than to destroy the nations who brought down Palmyra, then we will have to consider this."
"He," Zoe jabbed a finger at the window, "set that monster upon the city. This noble Boar of yours fed my family, my people, my home into the furnace. It does not matter that he left-if he had not been there, this creature would have been elsewhere too. You urged me to strike against Rome first, and I agreed, for we thought Persia would be mired in civil war for a decade or more. We were wrong! Well, now chance comes around again, driven by the Fates. Let us seize this moment and strike a double blow!"
"Do you only want revenge?" Mohammed, at last, raised his voice a little. "Does your city mean nothing to you?"
"It means everything!" Zoe glowered at the Quraysh. "But it is dead and buried in the sand."
Mohammed shook his head, pointing at the harbor with his chin. "I saw the ships come in, just as you did. Palmyra was a mighty trading empire, not just a single city in the desert. Thousands of her citizens are still alive, scattered and disheartened. They are not dead. The city is not dead. It can rise again, built by Palmyrene hands, repaired by Palmyrene wealth. But it can only do that if there is peace."
Zoe was silent, her fists on the tabletop. She looked over her shoulder at Odenathus. "Cousin, what do you think?"
"I think," he said, his long, tanned face grave, "the city can live again, but it will be a mighty undertaking. We are rich, true, and many of our people still live, but our city was a fragile thing, balanced at the edge of the desert. It had been carefully cultivated over hundreds of years, built up stone by stone. All of that has been destroyed. Perhaps it cannot be regained. Perhaps we should abandon that dream of a new home."
"Is revenge enough?" Mohammed's voice was soft, making Zoe turn back to him. "Would you rather have victory? A victory where Palmyra is once again the queen of cities, mighty and cultured? If that is what you want, then revenge will not suffice."
"I want," Zoe said, grinding her fist into the table, "my aunt back, my mother back, all the dead haunting me back. But I will not get that, will I? No, there is only this war and this struggle. What do you intend, Lord Mohammed? Shall we make peace with this Persian? Shall we ally ourselves with him to defeat Rome? What then? What happens after Rome is cast down?"
Mohammed nodded, rubbing his nose. "That is the crux, Lady Zoe. What happens after victory?" He sighed and picked up a cup of water from the table. It was cool on his throat.
"Lord Mohammed?" Khalid ventured to break the silence. "I have not asked before, since there seemed to be no point… but can we, ourselves, take the Imperial capital?"
"No," Mohammed said, smoothing his beard with a scarred hand. "It is far too strong for us to take, even with this fleet and the army we have gathered."
Odenathus looked around, surprised, then coughed.
"Yes?" Mohammed was smiling.
"Then what did you intend?" Odenathus was nonplussed.
"I hoped," Mohammed replied, "to draw Heraclius into a field battle outside the city. With a fleet to blockade the ports, he would have to come out to drive us off so food could come into the city. I knew we could not possibly field and ship an army large enough to capture the Imperial capital, but we could lure the Emperor out to crush us."
Khalid laughed and slapped his thigh in delight. "Like baiting a leopard out of its den!"
"Yes, just so. Then, in open battle, I could kill this faithless emperor and have done."
Zoe raised an eyebrow, summoning a ghost of a smile on her weary face. "That was enough for you, then, just the death of one man? This smacks of revenge, Lord Mohammed."
"It does." Mohammed smiled back. "It does. It is romantic, too, one man against one man. The kind of thing that would appeal to any warrior of the tribes. Great honor could be had that way, for the daring."
Zoe stepped to Mohammed's side and put her hand on his weathered old face.
"You didn't think anyone would follow such a reckless romantic, did you? You've been surprised all along that an army came to you, and a fleet, and victory after victory."
"Yes, I was surprised." He took her hand and held it in his, searching her face. "But I should not have been, for the voice from the clear air guides me and it has the power to overcome all obstacles."
Zoe blushed at the softness of his voice and drew back her hand.
"What will you do now?" Odenathus pulled a chair out from the table and sat. "What comes after victory?"
"Peace, I hope." Mohammed stepped away from Zoe, smiling gently. "I think we must take this Persian offer, if for only one thing." The Quraysh glanced at Khalid, who nodded in agreement.
"For time," Zoe growled, pacing across the room to the window. "We cannot fight both Persia and Rome. Did you see his face when he spoke of standing on the shore of Chalcedon?"
Mohammed nodded. "I did. It galls him like a cancer. For all his valor and cunning, he could not defeat those walls. It is a lure for him, too. You saw the expression on his companion's face, I imagine." The Quraysh laughed softly. "The Boar could not live in peace. He is a man of war, of violent action; it is a drug to him. This Khadames sees the truth, but I wonder if the Boar kens his own nature."
Mohammed looked around the room and saw, in the faces of his companions, decision. "Very well. Khalid, send a runner to Lord Shahr-Baraz. We shall sit and eat and strike a bargain with this fellow, something suitable to both parties."
"Suitable?" Zoe snorted in laughter. "You've a merchant's tongue!"
Mohammed did not smile. A distant look passed over his face, reflecting loss. "I suppose," he said, "but a wise man once told me that there is no finer path in life than to weigh fairly and in full measure in all your dealings, no matter how small or how great. So does the merciful and beneficent Lord weigh the lives of men."
– |A sharp wind gusted out of the southeast, snapping the banners of the Sahaba on the masts of the harbor towers. Mohammed stood on the docks, a troop of men in full armor behind him. A Palmyrene coaster was loading from the main quay. Persian soldiers filed aboard while their horses, eyes covered, were being hoisted into the hold of the ship. Luckily, the Romans had equipped the port with big, double-winch cranes. The Quraysh watched the commotion with an exp
erienced eye, finding a simple joy in the practiced motions of the harbor crew. The Persians were very nervous, going aboard ship with their horses. Mohammed supposed that it was quite new to them. Persia was not renowned as a maritime power.
"Lord Mohammed?" Shahr-Baraz approached, accompanied by a pair of horses and grooms. "My thanks for lending me the ship. It will cut days off our journey to the port at Seleucia Peria and then Antioch."
"You seemed a man in haste," Mohammed replied evenly. "Allies should help each other. It is my pleasure to speed you on your way."
The Boar laughed at the gibe, wiping a tear from his eye. "Well said. You are a rare man, Mohammed, a king without a crown or throne. We shall see each other again, I expect, before the city of the enemy."
"Yes." Mohammed nodded at the other quays and wharfs, where thousands of men were in motion, beginning the long process of loading the army of the Sahaba onto the Imperial fleet and the merchantmen the Palmyrenes had summoned. It was a huge effort, for the soldiers had stripped the warehouses and Legion armories of everything they might need. Long lines of wagons and mules crowded the roads into the city as well, hauling food and other supplies and fodder in from the countryside. Detachments of Arab troops placed in garrison throughout the highlands were marching in, too. Mohammed had resolved to sortie forth with every man he could put under arms. "You will have to march swiftly to join us in time. It is a long and weary road from Antioch to Constantinople. If the good god smiles upon us, we will hold the crossing for you."
Shahr-Baraz grinned, running a thick-mailed hand across the heavy breastplate on his chest. "That will be a sight! It has been a long time since a Persian army crossed the Propontis. I have dreamed of such a day."
"I know," Mohammed said in a wry voice. "Do not tarry."
"We will not!" The Boar nodded fiercely. "Here, brother king, I've a gift for you."
Shahr-Baraz motioned and the grooms led two horses to the King's side. Each was alike as to be a twin: glossy black with long fetlocks and wild manes. There were no markings on them save the whites of their eyes. Even the hooves were coal dark.
"These fellows are from the stable of the Shahanshah, bred to the wind and foaled from the storm. They are my gift to you, to seal our bargain. There are suits of armor, too, for I would not lose my new friend to an errant blow, and blades-Indian steel-finer than any seen in Roman lands! Please, take them; they are yours."
Mohammed raised an eyebrow, hand smoothing his beard. He walked around the horses but he did not touch them. They were powerful creatures, very tall, and they watched him with liquid, intelligent eyes. They looked strong, strong enough to run a day and a night. Strong enough to carry a man in full armor and not tire.
"They are Bactrians," Mohammed said, smiling in delight. "They are very fine."
He ducked down, then stood again. "Ungelded yet. A rich gift, Lord Baraz."
"Will you take them?" The Persian king rubbed his hand across the shoulder of one of the chargers. The horse blew at him and nosed his armored shoulder, looking for an apple or a biscuit.
"No." Mohammed shook his head sadly. "They are a king's gift and I am not a king. Your generosity, sir, does you proud. But I will not take them and I do not mean offense by this. I have a horse, a sword, armor, a helm. I carry them in the name of my city, and I will not dishonor my home by bearing another's gear."
Shahr-Baraz nodded, but Mohammed could see the man was disappointed. The merchant in the Quraysh yearned to take the horses and send them south to stud the horse herds of Mekkah. Such fine animals were very rare. At the same time, he was certain that he should accept no gift, however small, from the Boar.
"Well," said Shahr-Baraz, "I will see you again, not-king, and our enemies will know despair!"
With that, the Boar turned and strode up the gangway into the ship, his men hurrying after. Mohammed watched him go. Then, when the ship had cast off its mooring lines and the longboats were towing it out to sea, he turned away and walked back to the praetorium. Unaccountably, his heart was heavy and he wondered if he had done the right thing.
– |The wind died at sundown, leaving a limpid, warm night. Mohammed was walking on the terrace of the praetorium, letting darkness wash over him, smelling the sweet scent of hyacinths and whiteflower vine. A trellis covered most of the veranda, supporting a riot of flowers. It was peaceful there, far from the eating hall and the barracks. He stopped, looking out at the nighted city, seeing the pale yellow glow of lamps shining from many windows.
"Lord Mohammed?"
The Quraysh turned, surprised to find anyone on the terrace. A slim figure was seated on a bench, well in shadow. "I am sorry, Zoe, I did not mean to intrude."
"It's nothing," she said. "I'm just hiding."
Mohammed sat down. "Why are you hiding? Do you want to keep hiding by yourself, or can I join you?"
Zoe laughed and the sound was blessedly free of her habitual brittleness. Mohammed wondered, sitting in the warm darkness, if she even visited her aunt's catafalque anymore. Since they had returned from the sea, the girl seemed almost herself. Mohammed did not assume the vitriolic, insanely angry woman he had first met was the true Zoe. "Do you know why I am Queen?"
Mohammed shook his head no.
"I will tell you." Zoe smoothed back her bangs, which had grown overlong and were constantly getting in her face. "My aunt Zenobia was the eldest child of the old king, Hairan. He doted upon her and, when time came to declare an heir, he chose her over his younger son, Vorodes. My mother, Antonia, was the middle child. Time passed, as it does, and Zenobia became queen of the city. Despite tremendous pressure, she did not marry. Always, she would say to the city fathers that she would marry soon, or next year."
Zoe sighed, and Mohammed heard an echo of despair. "Mama Antonia bore me and tended me, but Auntie Z was always there. When I raced in the city games, she was waiting at the finish line, a crown of laurels in her hands, just for me. When the witch-finders said I had this talent, she brought me the finest tutors and teachers. When the call came from the Empire to fight against Persia, Auntie clasped the winged eye on my cloak. She said I was her daughter, even if Antonia had done the hard work."
There was a rustling sound and Zoe unfolded her hands, revealing a golden brooch. In the soft darkness, the metal gleamed with a pale inner light. Mohammed touched the ornament gently, tracing a rimmed eye, double wings and a clasp pin.
"When we set out, she sent an escort of archers with us and bade me hurry home. Later, Mama Antonia sent me a letter-Auntie had issued a will, saying that I was her heir. Vorodes signed too, for he had no desire to be king. He liked hunting and playing too much."
Mohammed folded the girl's hands over the brooch again, shutting out the gleam of light.
"And now?" His voice was soft, befitting her gentle, quiet tone.
"Now I am Queen." Zoe put her hands over her face. "Odenathus is such a… man sometimes. He has been busy, writing letters, sending messengers, buying drinks for strangers. He is gathering all of our people, slowly, in fits and starts, but steadily in his Odenathuslike way. There must be thousands of us in the city now. They all want me to be Queen… I mean, to rule them. To judge their disputes, to issue writs and edicts… I don't know how to do those things."
"I know what you mean." Mohammed's voice was filled with laughter. "Khalid and Odenathus spend too much time together, I think. They are always plotting. Did you know Khalid has a man who writes down everything I say? He says it will be important someday. I wonder…"
Zoe nodded, leaning back against the carved wall. Marching soldiers flanked her, passing mutely in the stone. "You are a king, despite what you told that Persian braggart. You rule armies and cities, even nations. You see how Prince Zamanes is-he should be a king himself, yet he defers to you in all things. Ha!" She laughed, a liquid sound. "You are a king of kings."
Mohammed snorted, folding his arms over his chest. "Foolishness. Hubris."
Zoe turned, bringing her legs up before h
er and wrapping arms around her knees. She looked at him in the darkness, barely able to pick out the noble nose or the short, neatly trimmed beard. "You might think him foolish, but this is real. You are a king and make a king's decisions. Do you know why Khalid has that man writing down what you say?"
"So his own place in the histories will be assured, I warrant!" Mohammed sounded vexed.
"No," Zoe said, poking him in the side with a finger. "He calls it the Shari'a-the law-and the lives of your men, of all the tribes and cities who follow you, are guided thereby. Like the Romans, he believes every man should know the law, so it might direct his life."
"My words? The law? Oh, that is a sure course for confusion!"
"Is it?" Zoe sounded pensive. "Would the Lord of the World, who speaks from the clear air, guide you astray? Shouldn't men, exposed to the revealed desire of the Creator, follow his precepts?"
Hot words on Mohammed's lips were quenched and he put a hand to his chin, thinking. "If they are the words of the Great and the Beneficent One, then yes, man should abide by those strictures, keeping to a straight path. But what if the words this scribe takes down are only my words? Then I may speak from my human heart and mind, which may be confusing or misleading. I may be wrong in what I say."
"Are you?" Zoe's hand slipped over his. "I think this power has changed you. I can hear the echo of a mighty voice, even when Mohammed the man is speaking."
Mohammed shook his head, his hand curling into hers. "No. I am not an infallible deity. I am little more than a mirror to reflect the glory of god."
"Hmm." Zoe's nose twitched. "Perhaps."
Then they sat in the quiet darkness for a long time, undisturbed.
– |The wind shifted again, coming out of the south, hot with the smell of the desert. Almost a month of backbreaking labor had been completed and the army of the Sahaba was, at last, boarding the fleet. Zoe stood on one of the smaller quays in the merchant harbor of Caesarea. A fat-bellied merchantman was tied up, allowing the dockhands to run out a double-wide loading ramp. The Palmyrene ship was painted a sea green with yellow eyes. Zoe had chosen the coaster for its capacious hold. Even as she watched from the shade of a papyrus parasol, fifty men were carefully rolling the catafalque of Zenobia onto the deck of the ship.
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