The Shadow of Ararat

by Thomas Harlan

  Behind him the fires guttered down, casting long shadows over the shattered statues. Heads peered out of the darkness, lying sideways amid a rubble of arms and stones. At the far end of the chamber, beyond the honeycombed pits, Khiron stood silently, waiting for the command of his master, holding Abdmachus by his neck. The Walach boys, cowed and whimpering, crouched behind him. The eyes of the homunculus were dark pits filled with guttering flame.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Near the Town of Ganzak, Northern Persia

  The cohort was sitting at the side of the road, their wagons pulled over onto a verge of stubbly brown grass. Most of the veterans slept. Zoë, Odenathus, and Dwyrin were perched on a wall made of fieldstone, their backs to the yew trees that had grown up behind the wall. Behind them a fallow field stretched off to another line of trees. Behind that the valley rose into low rounded hills capped with terraces and green bands of trees. The air was heavy with dust and it was hot in the bare shade of the yew trees. In the mountains behind them, to the north, snow was falling and the air bit like ice. Here, in the sheltered valleys of what the locals called Azerbaijan—the land of fire—it was still a warm autumn.

  A troop of clibanari trotted past in single file, their helmets slung over their backs on leather thongs, lances drooping from slings, raising more dust. The three young mages were coated in it and had been for weeks as the army had wound its way down out of the mountains. They had heard that the armies of East and West had split into two great columns that were advancing south along the axis of the valley, each army taking care to leave nothing useful in its wake. For his part, Dwyrin had seen nothing but an endless succession of burned-out towns and looted villages.

  The horsemen passed, leaving the road empty for the moment.

  Dwyrin, who was twisting two soft reeds together for lack of anything better to do, looked up. He heard the swift clatter of a running horse.

  "Someone..." he started to say to Zoë, but the rider cantered around the curve of the lane, ducking his head under low-hanging branches. "...is coming."

  The dispatch rider slowed down, stopping his horse by the front of the resting cohort. The young man was streaked with mud and pasty with road dust. He had the riding leathers and broad-brimmed hat of an Eastern Empire courier. A long sword was tied to the side of his saddle and a quiver and bow were slung over his back with crisscrossed straps. He bent over, speaking to Colonna and Blanco. From where Dwyrin sat, he was sure that the centurion and the ouragos had not gotten up. The fellow on the horse did not outrank them, then.

  Dwyrin went back to plaiting the reeds together. Zoë was dozing, leaning against his side, and Odenathus was flat asleep, snoring a little. The army had pushed south fast after the victory at the Kerenos River. The Persians had scattered in front of their advance, making little effort to deny the Romans the passes above Dastevan. There had been little rest for the thaumaturges, and less to do. Just march, fall down in a temporary camp, get up and march again. Two of their wagons had been lost in a stream crossing and no time had been taken to build or steal new ones. Dwyrin had been keyed up all day, unable to sleep like the others. He kept his hands busy with the reeds.

  "MacDonald!" Blanco had roused himself from his nap. He waved the boy over. Dwyrin scrambled down from the rocks and jogged to the end of the line of sleeping men. The dispatch rider had dismounted and was stretching his legs, leaning against his horse. The courier was young looking, though like everyone in the army of the Two Empires, his eyes were getting older and older each day. He seemed exhausted, with deep lines of exhaustion marking his face. Blanco jerked a thick thumb toward the Hibernian as Dwyrin reached the three men.

  "Here's your specialist," the centurion said. "Just put him back where you found him."

  "Centurion?" Dwyrin tried to look unconcerned. Blanco lay back down, pulling the hat over his face. Colonna winked and leaned back against the wall as well. Dwyrin, without an option, turned to the courier. The young man was scratching furiously at his beard.

  "Ah... sir?"

  The courier looked Dwyrin up and down. He frowned. "You're a thaumaturge?" The courier seemed too tired to sneer.

  "Yes, sir. Dwyrin MacDonald, third of the third, Ars Magica cohort."

  "Good enough, I suppose. You're to come with me back to headquarters. Get your kit. They need an expert and I guess you're it."

  —|—

  The courier didn't even get Dwyrin to headquarters, wherever that was. Two miles back down the road, at a bridge over a swift stream, they met a troop of Varangians in their red cloaks and shirts of ring mail. A young Greek with a thick brown beard and piercing eyes was in command. The courier handed the Hibernian off and sat down at the side of the road to watch them ride away. Dwyrin was confused, but he urged his horse forward and fell in behind the Greek officer as they took a side road off of the main line of march.

  Silently the troop of men cantered up into the hills along the side of the valley, passing through vineyards and orchards that had been heavy with olives and oranges. Now many were scorched and burned. The manor houses between the fields seemed empty—not even dogs yapped at them as they passed the gates. At the end of the day they came up over a hill and Dwyrin whistled silently.

  A great building rose on the side of a terraced bluff. Three broad decks thrust forth from the flank of the mountain, each twice as high as a normal building. Rows of pillars bounded each floor, tall and white. In the twilight they gleamed like white candles. Vaulted roofs covered the first two floors, but the third rose to a peak and was surmounted by a great circular tower. A red glare blazed from the height of the tower, illuminating a drifting cloud of smoke that hung over the great building. Ablaze with light, it seemed eerily abandoned and quiet.

  The Greek officer pulled his horse, a gorgeous red stallion, up next to Dwyrin. The man leaned close, resting his arms on the saddle horns.

  "This is the Shrine of the Living Flame, young lad. It is the holy of holies for the Zoroastrian faith. Do you know of their god, Ahura-Mazda, and his prophet, the man called Zoroaster?" The Greek spoke fine Latin, with barely an accent.

  Dwyrin met his eye and felt an almost physical shock. The man at his side was someone. Someone used to the exercise of power and a decisive nature.

  "No, lord," he replied, pulling his horse around. It was shying from the stallion. "I have heard that they worship a living flame and sacrifice to it."

  "Babies, no doubt," the Greek said with a wry tone, "thrown alive into a maw of iron..."

  Dwyrin flushed and shook his head. "I have not heard that, sir. But I do not know much of their faith."

  "Well, lad, this is the crux of it—that building, yonder, now held by Imperial troops—by men under my command—is the focus of their faith. Every fire temple in all this land, even in the great cities of Ctesiphon and Selucis, has a living flame drawn from this, the first flame of their faith. In that building is a fire that has never died, not since their great man, this Zoroaster, lit it to drive back the darkness and corruption of the world of woe."

  Dwyrin looked back across the valley, seeing the vast size of the building, the rich gleam of the marble and woods that formed the walls and floors. Monumental reliefs and carvings decorated its surfaces. The sky continued to darken and the faint roar of the fire in the cylinder could be picked out among the sound of night birds and the muttering of the troops around him.

  "Why am I here, sir? The courier said you needed an expert, but I know nothing of this god or these priests. My talent is to call fire..."

  "Exactly," the Greek officer said. "Come, and I will show you what you must do."

  —|—

  A great ramp of steps rose a hundred feet from the bottom floor of the building to the entrance at the base of the cylinder on the top floor. Marble panels decorated with bas-reliefs of religious acts lined the corridor. Red-cloaked guardsmen with axes and spears stood along the stairs, holding torches to illuminate them. The Greek officer led, his long legs taking
two steps at a time, and Dwyrin trotted along behind him. The man seemed tireless, though Dwyrin guessed that he had been spending long days in the saddle. At the top of the stairs, there was a great vaulted archway, leading into a long arcade that stretched off to the left and to the right.

  The pillars of the arcade were carved into the semblance of flames licking up from stolid bases. The round supports at the floor were further carved with figures in torment, lashed by demonic creatures with cruel faces and men without eyes. Above, at the capitals, winged figures with beatific expressions looked down, helping the figures of men and women rise up in the draft of the fire. Dwyrin shivered. There was something odd about the air in this place. He felt a strange sense of memory crowding around him. They walked forward on floors of red-veined marble, through two more doorways, each more massive than the last, past squads of Germans and Sarmatians. The barbarians seemed nervous, and their eyes darted to the shadows as the Greek and Dwyrin passed. It was very quiet, with only the distant roar of a fire filling the air.

  The hallway opened out into a vast round room, filled with a stepped platform like an amphitheater that led down to the edge of a great pit. Around the circumference, more great pillars, each thicker at the base than a tall man, rose up to support the round ceiling. That ceiling was painted with a night sky, filled with constellations and moons and planets. The stepped platforms were lined with seats, enough space for thousands to sit, facing the pit and the flame.

  Behind the fire a statue rose, crouched on bended knee. Its face was the face of a dreadful king, majestic and wise. Its limbs were mighty, like the sinews of Hercules, thick with muscle. On its back it bore planets and the heavens, cast in bronze and cunningly painted. Its thews were covered with a kilt of pleated metal. Dwyrin had never seen such a gargantuan work of art.

  "They worship Atlas?" His voice seemed faint and small in this place.

  "No." The Greek laughed, looking aside at him. "That is Chrosoes, King of Kings. He does not lack ambition, I will warrant."

  Below the figure of the godlike king, in the pit lined with black-faced obsidian, a fire roared. It was white-hot and radiant, yet it did not fill the great room with a terrible heat. Dwyrin stepped forward without thinking, to the edge of the top ring of seats. The Greek officer followed him, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his cavalry saber. The pillar of fire did not touch the floor of the pit; it was suspended a dozen feet above the floor. It leapt up, unquenched, fuelless, to roar in the cylindrical opening in the top of the domed room. Rings of mirrors filled the inside of the opening, reflecting the light of the eternal flame upward out of the temple. The clouds above roiled in the draft, glowing, a sight to be seen for miles and miles.

  Dwyrin felt his perception peel away, and this time he did not resist. The flame filled his sight, his entire perception, everything in the universe. In his sight, it expanded to fill the room, then the world. He was suspended at the center of a whirling maelstrom of fire. A great oblate sphere filled his sight, seemingly far away. Long tendrils of fire lurched across its surface, some licking out in long, soaring arcs that sprang away from the surface of the sphere and then plunged back into the unguessably vast surface. The thing, this sphere, this universe of light, was alive. He could feel the incredibly complex pattern of forms and energies that boiled and smoked at the center of the light.

  He rushed toward it. Where before he had been consumed by fear and had felt that he would be destroyed by the attenuation, by the dissolution in something so vastly greater than himself, now he accepted it. He entered the outer shell of the burning light, feeling some etheric wind rush past him. The surface of the sphere contorted, opening before him like an unfolding lotus blossom. Something bright was inside. He rushed closer.

  He snapped awake, feeling a heavy hand shaking his shoulder. Dwyrin looked around, blinking dizzily. The face of the Greek officer was close to his. "Can you make this fire die?"

  "What?" Dwyrin shook his head. It was hard to hear the man; he seemed far away, his voice echoing as if he stood at the bottom of a deep well. Dwyrin realized that his ears were ringing.

  "You can call fire from dead stone—I know, I was at Tauris. Can you send it back as well?"

  Dwyrin stared at the man, then back at the pillar of fire, then he looked around, seeing for the first time the grim-faced guardsmen and soldiers that loitering among the pillars. He did not see a single priest. The Greek shook his shoulder again, turning Dwyrin to face him squarely.

  "Can you do this thing?" The brown eyes were intent and focused. "It must be done."

  Dwyrin felt a tightness in his chest. He could feel the will of the officer beating upon him, driving him to obey. At the same time, the beauty of the infinite flower called to him, singing in his mind. Here was a thing that he had long sought but had not realized he craved like water in a desert. He stared back at the officer, only peripherally aware that the German guards were edging closer, their faces bleak and terrible. The thought that such a thing as this could die, be put forth from the world, tore at his heart. What will happen to the light?

  "Can you do this thing?" The officer had a hand on either shoulder now, his eyes fixed on Dwyrin's. "Tell me, boy. It is incredibly important."

  "What will happen?" Dwyrin had trouble speaking, but he managed. "What will happen when the fire goes out?"

  "Then," the officer said, straightening up, "the will of the priests of Ahura will die with it. We are a long way from home, MacDonald, in a hostile land, surrounded by enemies. Their faith, their priests, give them the will and focus to resist us. If we show that our power, our gods, are stronger than theirs, then many will bow down before us. Others will lose heart. The Emperors need every advantage that can be crushed from rock and stone. This is one. Can you kill this fire?"

  No! cried part of Dwyrin's mind, grappling for control of his tongue, his voice. This fire cannot die—must not die! Should it fail, darkness will creep across the land, unleashed from the chains that Zoroaster bound it with!

  "Yes," he said, though he blinked in surprise to hear it. Other powers crept through his mind. His left shoulder burned with a cold like rotten ice. He tried to force words, his own words, out, but they did not come. "I will kill this fire."

  The Greek officer smiled, taking his hands away. The guards drifted off, talking among themselves once more. Dwyrin turned, though inside his mind he scrabbled to find some control. There was nothing he could grab hold of. His body descended the stairs, one at a time, with steady, even steps. At the bottom of the steps, a broad ring of marble tiles surrounded the edge of the pit. They were cool and slippery under his feet. He walked to the edge and raised his arms.

  Before him the pillar of fire hissed and roared, twisting within the confines of the cylinder. He looked down, seeing only the flinty bricks that made the cavity and the floor. There were no logs or charcoal. The fire sprang forth from the air, burning first a brilliant blue, then this tremendous white. He looked up again, seeing the far circle of night that hovered overhead. The clouds boiled and turned over the temple.

  "Fire, come to me," he said, crossing his hands on his chest. He closed his eyes.

  In his self, there was a struggle. The cold surged across him, raising a chill and then a sweat on his face and arms. Another fire echoed the pillar, curling in his center, flickering at the base of his spine. Ice leached across it, killing the embers one by one. Finally there was only a pure burning point of flame settled just above his stomach.

  Distantly the sound of men crying out in fear came to his ears. Wind blew against him, a fierce gust, and he felt a blow to his stomach. Dwyrin's eyes flew open in alarm. Living flame had leapt from the side of the pillar, a streamer of white-hot fire that burrowed into his chest. He staggered back, but the current did not let go. He began screaming in fear, but the fire did not consume him. The incandescent point in his diaphragm spun and whirled, drawing in the pillar. A molten stream of flame sizzled down into a great depth, all hidden in a sing
le point. Ice raged around it, and Dwyrin lost sensation in his fingers and toes.

  The pillar shrank suddenly, rushing with a great noise down into the pit. The room shook with a booming sensation and without warning there was complete darkness. Dwyrin collapsed on his hands and knees to the cold marble tiles. Frost had formed on his eyebrows and skin. He shivered uncontrollably. All through the great room, a light ashy snow fell out of the clear air. It was terribly cold. Above, on the deck at the top of the room, the Greek officer and his men clambered to their feet, stunned and horrified in the darkness.

  Dwyrin curled into a ball, trying to warm his limbs. It was so cold. His body shuddered, filled with a bone-deep buzz of delight and pleasure. Dwyrin felt sick; he had never felt like this before. The snow continued to fall, carpeting the floor and the rows of seats with a pale-white coverlet. Flakes settled onto his face, dusting his long braids.

  —|—

  The bloom of late summer was gone now, the cold air that had been held back from the valleys curled along the stream bottoms. The Roman army marched southward in bitter cold fogs and intermittent rain. Dwyrin bent his head, feeling chilly rain patter on his straw hat. A woolen cloak hung over his shoulders, and over that a cape of raw fleece. His boots slipped in the muck of the road—the rains had begun to turn the tracks that wound south toward the Euphrates into muddy rivers. The weather reminded him of home, though he was sure that his mother was not waiting at the end of the day, in a warm firelit house with a big bowl of mutton stew thick with onions. Instead, it would be a cold camp by the side of the road and moldy bread with a bit of salt pork.