The Shadow of Ararat

by Thomas Harlan

  To his great credit, Aurelian had seemed to know that something was weighing on his little brother's mind and had quietly reassigned all of the tasks that Galen had intended for Maxian. In a way, this made it worse, for now Maxian felt useless. The power that gnawed at the vitals of the people of Rome was so strong that he could not even budge it from a single stone. He was unwilling to bend his thought to dealing with the bureaucracy as his brother needed him to. He groaned aloud and buried his head in his hands.

  "So bad, is it?" came a soft basso voice like an echo of thunder. Maxian looked up, and his drawn, pale face lightened for a moment at the sight of the stout man who now stood by the bench.

  "Tarsus!" he said in delight, and stood. The two men embraced and Maxian felt much of the weight of responsibility lift from his shoulders. Then he stood back and looked at his old friend with glad eyes. Tarsus met his gaze with solemn brown eyes and then laughed, hugging the young man close to his massive chest.

  "You're too young to have such a care-worn face, my friend," the priest of Asklepius rumbled. "I've not seen you since I came to the city, so tell me your troubles."

  Maxian sat again, though now he looked up, where long ribbons of cloud marked the sky like a race course. Tarsus sat down as well, leaning back against the willow tree that butted up against the end of the bench. The Prince turned a little to see him.

  "I've come upon a serious problem," the Prince began, "one that threatens, or afflicts, everyone in the city. You are a newcomer here, from Pergamum, you must have seen the sickliness of the citizens!"

  Tarsus nodded, his craggy face falling into its own lines of care and worry.

  "Too many dead babies, or mothers dead on the birthing table. Wizened old men and women of thirty and forty. Bones too brittle to knit properly. Summer colds that become the coughing death..." The healer regarded the Prince gravely.

  "You've found something causing this?" Tarsus asked.

  Maxian nodded, then paused, shaking his head. "I... I might have found something that could be causing this. I... don't know. My skill in the otherworld is not strong enough to see the whole shape of the situation." The Prince turned pleading eyes to his teacher. "I don't know enough of the kind of sorcery that could cause such a thing to say... I've found a..."

  Maxian paused, suddenly loath to relate the vision of the city drowning in darkness to his old friend. A dreadful thought formed unbidden in his mind. If the curse afflicted things that were outside of its purview, like the new cloth, or the ship at Ostia, then if he told what he knew to Tarsus, or to Aurelian, then they would be at risk as well. Though Tarsus was an exemplary doctor, surgeon, administrator, and teacher, he did not have the power over the otherworld that Maxian owned as an accident of birth. He could not protect himself from the tide of corrosion that permeated the city outside of the island.

  Maxian looked away from the concerned eyes of the priest. He felt sick. "I can't tell you now. I need to find out if I'm right... It is very dangerous, Tarsus. If I could tell you and keep you safe, I would."

  The Prince stood up and walked quickly out of the garden. Behind him, the old priest watched him with grave concern. After a moment, Tarsus shook his head as if to clear it of worry and got up to return to his duties in the sickward of the temple.

  —|—

  Maxian climbed the long ramp of narrow steps that ascended the southern side of the Coelian Hill. At the summit, he paused for breath. His tunic was damp with sweat from the exertion. At the top of the steps there was a small square, and on the western side a little circular Temple of Jupiter. In the midday heat, the streets radiating out from the square were empty and the lackluster chuckling of the fountain on the northern side was a lonely sound. He crossed the square and went up the broad steps into the dim coolness of the temple.

  Within, a marble statue of the god dominated the circular nave, his arm raised to hold a pair of bronze thunderbolts. Beyond that there was a column-lined porch overlooking the sweep of the city. Maxian hauled himself over the low wall and sat, his feet dangling over the edge, and surveyed the thousands of roofs that now lay below him. The white shapes of temples rose like ships in a sea of red tile that descended in steps and a slope to the banks of the Tiber. To his right, upstream from the island that held the calm garden of Asklepius, he could make out the broad open space of the Campus Martius, now all but abandoned with the departure of the Praetorian Guard with the Emperor to the east.

  Sitting in the shade, he felt a great fondness for the weathered old city. It had sheltered the art, civilization, and culture of the entire world for centuries. Now it was almost beaten down, its once-proud monuments chipped and cracked, many in ruins. High up here, above the stink and the crowds, he could see the sweep of the city and feel the breadth of Empire that it represented. He thought, his face twisted in regret, of all of the old ghosts he had seen in the palace. Each of them had laid down his whole life for the dream of a world Empire that would sustain civilization forever. A faded glory now. He rubbed his eyes, feeling terribly sad for a moment.

  Under the hot sun, the city lay somnolent in the late afternoon. Maxian restrained himself from seeing the city, knowing that eddies of corrosive power were lapping even around this temple. The problem presented by Tarsus, or his brother, occupied his mind. How could he defeat this curse upon the city if he could not tell anyone else? He was far too weak to break the spell, or spells, that anchored it to the city. He needed powerful help. Another sorcerer, someone who was a master of the art, someone who could supplement his own meager skills.

  Another thought occurred to him as he sat with his back against the cool marble pillar. He needed help that was not Roman. By constant vigilance he held the curse from his own mind and body with the Shield of Athena, but in some way it was a part of him as well. He could feel a vestige of it slipping and sliding through his arteries and veins.

  Another Roman wizard, brought into such an enterprise, could well be overwhelmed and destroyed—like the sericanum had been consumed—before he could defend himself. The Prince rubbed the stubble that had come during the last few days. I need to shave, he remarked to himself. And I need to find a foreigner who is strong enough to help me...

  Feeling vastly better that he had at least the beginnings of a plan, he left the temple, striding down into the narrow streets and alleys of the Subura district.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Great Palace of Constantine, The Eastern Capital

  The flood of servants ebbed back at last, leaving the small dining chamber on the top floor of Heraclius' palace at last inhabited only by himself, Theodore, Western Emperor Galen, and the ambassadors from Nabatea and Palmyra. Heraclius poured the latest round of wine himself, careful to avoid spilling more of the fine Miletean vintage onto the thick carpets that filled the room. All of the diners were well full, having demolished a nearly endless series of courses. Galen, as seemed to be his wont, had eaten moderately and drunk even less. His dry wit, and Western accent, had greatly amused the two ambassadors.

  Adathus, the Palmyrene, leaned over and picked two perfect grapes from the remains of the bunch. His aquiline face was creased by a slight smile. His garments were rich, embroidered with tiny jewels and pearls. His hands were well adorned with rings, and the brocade of his shirt was an intricate wonder. Beside him the Nabatean, Malichus Obodas, seemed plain in comparison, though Malichus was dressed in an elegant sea-green silk robe and girdle. Both men had spent vast sums upon their attire, but was that not expected when one visited the court of the Emperor of the East?

  "So," Adathus said, "what blessing brings us the attention of the two most powerful men in the world?" His words were flattering, but his eyes were not for they calmly considered both of the Romans before him. Galen was attired in his customary costume; the field garb of a legion commander: white tunic with a red cape, a heavy leather belt, and lashed-up boots. Heraclius much the same, though he had forgone the cape and settled for a tunic of heavier material, ed
ged with gold. As the Palmyrene had expected, both were calm and possessed of a tremendous confidence. Even with the sad state of the Eastern capital on this day, both of the ambassadors could count ships in the harbor and see that strength was flowing to the Roman hand.

  Heraclius helped himself to a peeled apricot dusted with sugar. He took a bite and savored the play of flavors on his tongue. Then he put it aside on the little silver tray by his dining couch.

  "The wind is turning in the East," he said, his voice calm. "In short time the Persians will be blown back to Ctesiphon by it. The barbarians who are camped before my walls will be destroyed or chased back to their grasslands. The Boar will be hunted down with long spears and skewered. These things will transpire, regardless of what we discuss this evening." Malichus rubbed his sharp chin with a well-trimmed fingernail. "If this is so, and I do not doubt it, great lord, why summon us to your presence?"

  "We intend more than the simple chasing off of the Persians," answered Heraclius. "We intend to deal them such a defeat as they have not suffered in almost a thousand years. We have the men and the will. All we need are the pieces put into the proper motion. For that, frankly, we need the aid of both of your states."

  Adathus stole a look at his companion, then arched an eyebrow, saying: "Even now the armies of both our cities, as allies of Eternal Rome, have forestalled the advance of the Persians from Antioch southward. We protect Damascus and thence the road to Alexandria. What more can we do to bring about the defeat of the Persians?"

  Heraclius nodded in agreement. "This is so. However, the Persian army at Antioch will soon be marching south, intending to capture Palestine and then Egypt. There will be battle in Syria Coele somewhere. Our plans are already in motion, as are Shahr-Baraz's. It is vital that the Persian army in Antioch remains south of the city, preferably diverted to a siege of Damascus or some other strong city. This state of affairs need not pertain for long, no more than a few months. This will give us time to complete our part of the evolution."

  Adathus leaned back in his couch, his brow furrowed in thought.

  "And what evolution would that be?" he asked, clearly suspicious.

  Heraclius rang a spoon against the pewter goblet he had been drinking from. Servants entered the chamber and cleared away the platters and other dishes. The last servant gathered up the dining cloth that had covered the table used to serve the four men. Beneath it, the surface of the wooden table was inlaid with a map of the Eastern Empire in tiny, carefully crafted mosaic.

  "The Persian armies are four," Heraclius began, using his dining tine as a pointer. First he pointed to the narrow strip of blue between the Mare Aegeaum and the Sea of Darkness. "Shahr-Baraz stands across the Propontis in my Summer House with a swift force of cavalry. Though he daily bites his thumb at me, he holds no more land there than the width of his lances."

  The tine moved south and east, across the brown shape of Anatolia, to the eastern edge of the Mare Internum, where the Levantine coast ran up to meet the body of Asia Minor.

  "The nearest true Persian army is at Antioch, under the command of his cousin, Shahin. This is the army that will threaten Egypt as soon as it can. Beyond those two armies, the main force of the Persians is at Ctesiphon, under the command of Shahanshah himself. A fourth army is currently in the uttermost East, campaigning along the Oxus.

  "We desire to defeat the Persians one at a time, so we have let rumor slip that our army will sail north from Constantinople and land at Trapezus." The tine slid north across Anatolia to the verge of the Sea of Darkness, and then east along that coastline to the mountains that ran down to the dark waters. "From there that army will advance south through Armenia and Luristan, to threaten the Persian heartland. To counter this, the Boar will take his horsemen back east, across Anatolia, to join up with Chrosoes' army from the heartland."

  The Palmyrene broke in, eyeing the map. "But that is not your true plan then."

  "No." Heraclius smiled and pointed to the plain of Issus to the northwest of Antioch. "Our army will land here instead and march inland to Samosata. We will be between the Boar, to the north in the mountains, and the main Persian army to the south at Ctesiphon. But our situation will be very precarious if Shahin and his army at Antioch are not already engaged in campaign."

  "So we are to occupy their attention," Malichus commented, frowning. "Our armies are equipped for border skirmishes, for fighting bandits and policing the desert. We do not have the heavy infantry or horsemen to face Shahin and his clibanari. They would roll right over us in the first standup fight."

  "I know," Heraclius said with a grim look on his face, "your generals will have to be careful and draw him southward with the promise of battle. One legion of Eastern troops and one of Western will be coming up the coast from Alexandria to join you. If you can keep Shahin's attention and fall back to meet them, then you will have the fighting men to fight him on even terms. But... that is not the plan either."

  Malichus and Adathus looked up from the map in concern.

  Heraclius took a deep breath, steeling himself for the next words. "By the time you would come to that battle, our armies will have engaged and defeated Chrosoes' main army somewhere between Samosata and Tauris. Then we will turn south to assail the Persian capital. Shahin will know our movements by then for sure, so he will be forced to turn back to defend their heartland. When that time comes, your forces, and those of the two Legions that have come up from Egypt, will be well placed to press him as he retreats back across the Euphrates."

  Now the two border chieftains glanced at each other and smiled. An army in retreat would be easy prey for the swift horsemen and raiders that their principalities commanded. There would be rich loot to be had as well from the fleeing baggage train. At little cost or even risk if the Persians could be denied battle...

  From his chair, Galen watched the by-play between the two ambassadors, and saw their native caution warring with naked avarice.

  Adathus pursed his lips and stroked his mustaches with a long, olive-toned finger. "This plan has promise, great lord. Still, it is risky if Shahin should managed to trap one of our forces and bring us to battle. Our peoples are not great in number and we husband our fighting men carefully—what assurances can you offer me that the Legions from Egypt will arrive on time? What restitution will you make us for the losses as the Persians march through our lands?"

  Heraclius fought to keep his face impassive. The haggling had begun. He nodded solemnly. "War is a terrible business, and Palmyra, in particular, may suffer greatly. To this end I propose that in recognition of the aid and assistance you give us, as you have given in the past, the Queen shall be proclaimed Tribune for her part in this defense of the East."

  The eyebrow of the Palmyrene ambassador inched upward in surprise. Within the hierarchy of the Empire, a Tribune stood just below a Caesar in rule, only two steps from the Purple itself. Such honors were not bestowed lightly, and never upon the head of an allied state. The Eastern Emperor is both tremendously assured and in a grave situation, he thought, to make such an offer.

  Heraclius turned to the Nabatean, his face serious. "Our friends in Nabatea have long stood by our side as well. Your state handles the vast majority of the sea trade from Axum and Sinope, your ports on the Sinus Arabicus are thronged with ships carrying our goods and the goods of others, destined for Rome and Constantinople. Your frontier patrols restrain the nomads of Arabia. We have been remiss in not acknowledging your aid and assistance. It seems to us, if you join in this endeavor, that Petra and Bostra should be treated as Roman cities henceforth."

  Now the Nabatean roused himself from his languid air of detachment. The alliance between Bostra and Palmyra was old and loosely fitting, but traditionally the Northerners had taken the lead in dealing with the Empire. The Nabateans had long been more than content to count the coin that spilled into their coffers from the vast flow of trade between the Empire, India, and distant Serica. Still, as an allied state, they were forced to pay a heft
y toll when the goods actually passed into Imperial lands. Were Bostra and Petra to be proclaimed urbes, true Roman cities, then nearly a third of that toll would be removed. Great sums were to be made from such a change in tax status.

  Malichus nodded involuntarily.

  Heraclius smiled genially. "Let us drink, then, friends, and discuss the more mundane details of such a joint effort."

  —|—

  The moon rose huge and yellow-orange over the spires and towers of the city. Galen stood on an embrasure of the palace overlooking the waters of the Propontis. To the east, across the band of dark water, he could make out the twinkle of bonfires on the farther shore. A cool wind blew out of the north from the great open waters of the Sea of Darkness. He turned to his companion.

  "A nice ploy with the desert chieftains," he said in a quiet voice.

  Heraclius nodded somberly, leaning on the still-warm stone of the crenellation. Even in the soft light of the moon, Galen could see that his brother Emperor was troubled.

  "I think that it will work as we have planned," the Eastern Emperor said. "Their greed will lead them to battle and defeat at Shahin's hands."

  "Do you doubt your stratagem now? Do you wish to discard it? We can still split off the Sixth Gemina and enough Germans to make another Legion-strength auxillia band to prop them up."

  Heraclius pushed away from the wall and hooked his thumbs into his belt. "No, we are committed. I do not want to face the Boar with twenty thousand fewer men than I could. Sending those troops to fight in Syria would be a waste. Besides"—and now the Emperor smiled—"both of those cities are rich enough to take the loss."