The Dark Lord (16 page)

He had not noticed—over the gnawing pain in his gut and the terrible lassitude in his limbs—the silence pervading the park and the trees and the grass. There was no sound, save his own harsh, gasping breath. He turned his attention inward, clasping his hands on his chest. A prayer settled his nerves, and he let the common, simple words lull his mind to quiet, until even the stabbing hunger faded away. There, in the quiet in his heart, he sought out the voice from the clear air, which had guided and accompanied him for such a long time.

There was nothing. No invisible voice, ringing like a trumpet to welcome the rising sun.

Mohammed realized he was alone, and his eyes flickered open.

The man was still standing, waiting, a hand held out to lift him up. The city still beckoned from beyond the meadow, filled with fountains and tables—he was sure—groaning with food and drink and good company.

Mohammed, prince of the Quraysh, merchant of the city of Mekkah, realized he had been betrayed and captured by the enemy.

"Do you have a name?" he rasped at the man standing over him.

"Yes," the man said, smiling cheerfully as he stepped away. Now he seemed very tall, his limbs in perfect proportion, his visage filled with strength. "You may call me Mōha, if that pleases you. Are you hungry or thirsty? I can bring you water."

"No," Mohammed said, lying back against the trunk of the fig and closing his eyes. "I am not hungry or thirsty."

"Do you wish to go into the city? There is a physician there and a soft bed. You could take your ease in comfort."

"This bed is soft enough for me," Mohammed said. One eye fluttered open a little and he looked up, at the flat, blue sky, undisturbed by clouds or wind. Only the leaves of the fig moved softly in the still air. "I have enough comfort already."

"Are you sure?" Mōha knelt again, his beautiful face filled with concern. "You are terribly thin, malnourished; your buttocks are like a buffalo's hoof; the pupils of your eyes seem sunk deep in their sockets like water shining at the bottom of a well; your scalp like a bitter gourd cut unripe becomes shriveled and shrunk by sun and wind; the hairs on your arms and legs rotting at the roots and falling away from your body."

"I am content," Mohammed said, closing his eyes again. "I will abide here, waiting to see what may transpire."

"Very well," Mōha said in a genial voice, rising. "If you need anything, call my name and I will hear. I am always within earshot."

Mohammed felt the man leave, though there was still no sound. He prayed and waited, lying under the tree, feeling its soft, wrinkled bark behind his head. The sun shone down upon him, but the light did not warm his withered flesh, and no breeze or wind stirred his hair.

Where will I go?
Shirin pondered, holding the corner of her cloak across her face. Ash billowed up in the sea breeze, driven off the docks and warehouses of the port. The answer came to her swiftly, as if on the sooty wind.
I will go home. Dahvos and Jusuf will be waiting for me.

Misenum had been a bustling port before the eruption had roused the sea to wreck the warehouses along the stone quays, grinding the ships to kindling along the oval bay. Now the port was twice as crowded as before, with work crews swarming over the ruins, and barges and dredging ships in the channel and harbor. Shirin walked down the central avenue, keeping to the tufa-slab sidewalks, mind distant from her feet.

The roads were crowded with wagons and soldiers, all inching their way down to the harbor. Legionaries watched with interest as she passed, stepping lightly among their piled gear, the bundles of stakes and shovels, tents of spears, bawling donkeys and sullen mules, white faces and black. Shirin wore a vaguely priestess-like robe and gown, her thick black hair held in place by copper pins. The garments were bulky, disguising her lithe figure. Soot and weariness stained her face. She passed a rank of standards, shining gold-and-silver eagles lashed to the sides of a wagon and made a fleeting bow. The centurions and aquilifers sitting in the shade of a storefront noticed the motion and frowned or smiled, as conscience demanded.

Few would think to pay respects to the spirits of the dead thronging around the Legion standards, hungry for blood and sacrifice, thin voices keening hopelessly. Shirin's people held similar beliefs, and she had been raised among warriors. No soldier wanted to be forgotten and the men carrying the Legion standards took their duty very seriously. Every battle was remembered and the names of the dead were scrupulously recorded in leather-bound books. Those who lived took strength from the memories of the fallen. Every legionary knew Rome herself watched over them.

Brilliant sun glittered from the harbor, illuminating sea-green depths. Drowned ships lay on the floor of the bay, leaning masts still jutting above the waves. Colored banners flapped on the mastheads, marking the wrecks. Of sixteen quays, only three were in operation and Shirin frowned, seeing the only ships in harbor were massive grain haulers, wooden flanks rising two or even three stories high. Their masts towered over the buildings and rivaled the twin pharos at the entrance of the bay for height.

Spying the harbormaster's office, Shirin turned towards the low building, though her quick eyes saw only soldiers boarding the huge ships. She entered the offices of the port, relieved to escape the heat. There were a dozen men inside, sitting at low tables, scribing furiously on long parchment sheets. Drawing a veil over the bottom half of her face, Shirin stepped gracefully past them, to a raised platform where a very thin little man was working among a pile of wooden tablets filled with beeswax inserts. Two centurions were standing at the desk, muttering angrily to the little man in low tones.

Waiting, Shirin saw everyone was drawn and haggard, exhausted by the weight of their labors.
I feel the same way,
she thought.
Who here has not lost his family, or part of it?
Even the floor was sticky with ash. Shirin had given up hope of being clean weeks ago. The feeling settled into her skin, coupling with grinding exhaustion and an endlessly hollow space in her gut. The centurions departed, disappointed, ignoring her as they argued in harsh voices.

"Yes, my lady?" The thin little man did not look up from his work. He was counting tallies from the wax tablets with sets of glazed pottery beads. His fingers were quick, shuffling the beads from one pile to another.

"Are those ships heading east?"

"Yes." The man looked up briefly, his eyes dark brown on brown, with barely any white around them. The tone of his skin matched his eyes. "All shipping goes to Alexandria by the Emperor's orders! Grain and refugees out, soldiers and supplies in."

"Nothing going to Ephesus or Pergamum?" By Shirin's reckoning, the old Greek cities were the closest she was likely to get to the Sea of Darkness, at least without entering the Hellespont. With the Persian army and fleet crouched at Constantinople, her easy road home was blocked. However, if she could make her way to the Asian shore then she could make her way overland to the Pontian coast on the southern rim of the Sea of Darkness. From there a ship might be found heading for the northern shore, and Khazaria. And then, at last, she would be home.

The thought of seeing her aunts again and sitting in the great round yurt and eating among the cheerful, bickering crowd of her family overcame her with longing. Her knees felt weak and she gripped the edge of the work table.

"No." The man shook his head sadly. A smear of ink underlined one eye like a bruise. "The Asian shore is too dangerous... quartered by Persian pirates and every kind of evil. We've not had a ship from beyond Egypt for months."

"Which ship can take me to Alexandria, then?"

The harbormaster finally looked up and actually saw her. One eyebrow raised, and he pointed at her with his chin. "You are not a Roman."

Shirin nodded. "I am a priestess of Artemis, from the great temple at Ephesus. I was sent here just before the eruption, to tend a shrine above Baiae." It was easy to bring a desolate tone into her voice and to let her face fill with grief. "It has been destroyed, and all the priestesses, save myself, killed. I must go back, and tell the high priestess what happened."

The harbormaster nodded, his own dark eyes distant. "I understand. The
Bast
is the nearest ship. She will leave in the morning, once all of these cursed soldiers are aboard. Her sailing master is named Calvus—he will want a fee from you. Do you have any money?"

"A little," Shirin allowed, looking worried.

"You will need to eat." The harbormaster rummaged on his desk and found a punched copper ticket. "Take this scrip," he said, pressing the token into her hand. "Calvus should be happy to have a priestess on board; it'll bring good luck. If he makes trouble, show him the scrip and tell him you're traveling on municipal business, on
my
business."

The harbormaster stared at her for a moment longer, then shook his head. "Good luck."

"Thank you." Shirin tucked the copper scrip away and hurried out. The
Bast
seemed very large, though she supposed the grain-hauler would shatter like any ship, if a large enough wave roared up out of the deep to swamp her. The Khazar woman was not happy at the prospect of going aboard—the quarters would be cramped and hot, and filled with soldiers. One slim hand crept under her cloak and touched the hilt of a long iron knife she had taken from the ruins. The cold metal made her feel better. The heavy weight of the jewel between her breasts was comforting too, though thinking of the gift turned her thoughts onto an unhappy path.

Gangs of shallow-draft tugs herded the
Bast
out to sea when the wind turned in late afternoon. Shirin managed to find a spot on the upper deck among some lashed-down crates. She was watching the rowers straining at their oars, bare backs glistening with sweat. The grain-hauler edged out to sea, passing between the pair of pharos. The wind was light, but it bellied the sails enough to let the heavy ship make headway. Shirin watched the Latin coast drop away, still dominated by the ragged cone of Vesuvius. Her memories of the ruined villa and the little graves already seemed faint, clouded and indistinct. She turned away, looking out to sea, watching the blue waters flash in the sun.

The sailing-master of the
Bast
hadn't troubled her, not when he saw she bore the sign of the Huntress. Shirin was very glad—she didn't know enough about this foreign religion to deceive a real believer—but her time on Thira had acquainted her with the basic themes. Despite what she'd told the harbormaster, she did have enough coin to purchase food during the voyage to Egypt. But it was not wise to boast of such things, not to a stranger.

"Mistress?" Shirin turned, hand automatically sliding around the hilt of her knife. A legionary, a very young one, was standing beside her at the rail. His brown hair lay flat on his head like a leather cap, and his warm eyes were filled with worry. "Will you say a prayer for us, for the voyage? To keep this flimsy boat from splitting open and spilling us into the sea?"

Shirin looked where he pointed and saw a group of soldiers sitting not far away. They already looked bilious and pale, which almost made Shirin smile. Until Thyatis had snatched her out of the burning ruins of Ctesiphon, she had never been on a boat larger than the hide coracles her brothers made to fish in the Rha or in the marshes along the Salt Sea. Three months in a dhow dogging the coast of Arabia and Africa exposed her to the real ocean, and against the heavy waves and tides of the Mare Erythraeum, this Inner Sea of the Romans was a flat, placid lake.

"What is your name?" she said, keeping her voice and face solemn. She supposed some priestesses might smile, but was not a good idea, not for a single woman on a ship filled with legionaries. She did not feel like smiling anyway. The soldier swallowed visibly, then bobbed his head.

"I'm, ah, Marcus Flaccus, my lady. We're from the
Immortal Bulls
, the Legion Fifth Macedonia."

"Do you have a sacrifice, to placate the gods and Poseidon Sea King?" Shirin knew her voice was cold and forbidding, but the little spark of fear in the soldier warmed her. "A hen, a lamb?"

The soldier shook his head sadly. "No, lady. We hoped you would spy out any poor omens... and avert them, you know, by speaking for us to the god."

Shirin nodded, looking out to sea again. The sky was clear and the horizon a slightly bowed line of dark blue. She turned back to the boy and fixed him with a gimlet eye. "The captain had omens cast, before we boarded?" Marcus nodded, looking a little queasy. "They were poor?"

"Oh, no!" Marcus raised a hand to his lips. It veered close to bad luck to mention poor omens aboard ship. "They were good, very good. The priest sneezed—to the right—during the ceremony. A good sign."

"Then why are you worried?" Shirin essayed a thin smile. "If you are not impious while aboard, if you do not swear, or curse the gods, and suffer no dreams of dark water, then all will be well. We will be in Alexandria in a week or a little more. I will watch for signs the gods have changed their mind."

"Yes, my lady. Thank you." Marcus bowed and scurried away. Shirin watched him with interest. She had not been raised to be particularly religious; she was the daughter of a kagan, not a
rev
, and the hand of omen and portent lay lightly upon her. These Romans, though, they seemed a frightened lot, filled with concern over the flight of birds, or the color of the sky, or whatever phantoms of drink and poorly cooked meat plagued their dreams. Hiding a smile again, she settled on one of the heavy crates the Legion had brought aboard and wondered what she would do about food and water. She did have some money, but it occurred to her that on a ship of soldiers, there might not be anyone to purchase food
from
. Usually a big ship like this carried at least one merchant, selling tents, capes, sun hats, food, wine and fruit to the passengers. She scowled, wondering if she would have to beg from the crew.