The Dark Lord (35 page)

Out of the area immediately around the great harbor, the sailor turned left and they wound through smaller and smaller streets, swiftly leaving the broad avenues and regular streets of the Roman city. Shahin took solace only from the faces of the passing men and women. They looked familiar and Eastern; neither the angular faces of the Romans and their German allies nor the dark-eyed Egyptians. He raised his head, looking forward, and was rewarded by the sight of a temple portico faced with red stone, stair-stepped, and showing the blazon of the Lord of Light, Ahura-Madza.

"Is that where we're going?" He thumped the sailor on the shoulder, pointing at the Persian-style temple. The man glanced over his shoulder with a bemused expression.

"No..." The sailor stopped suddenly, causing Shahin and his men to crowd behind him like lost sheep. "That place is closed—the Romans are not fools!" He pointed and the big Persian saw the doors of the fire temple were boarded up. City militiamen sat on the steps, throwing dice on a blanket. The rest of the porch was filled with peddlers selling live parakeets and steamed shellfish from copper buckets.

"Where are we going?" Shahin leaned down, trying to keep his voice low. But in this constant noise, who would be able to tell what he said? The sailor paused, waiting for a dozen bearded men, round flat-topped hats on their heads, long black tunics flapping above their sandals, to walk past. The men were chanting, papyrus rolls held in their hands. They did not look up as they passed and Shahin frowned after them. The city was filled was strange sights.

"There is an inn, where we can find rooms. Not far now." The sailor slipped deftly into the flow of the crowd and Shahin, less used to such things, was forced to press after him, pushing aside three women carrying cane platters of bread on their heads. The bakers, insulted, shouted viciously at the Persians as they hurried past. Mihr, bringing up the rear, got a bruise on his shin from a sharp kick.

The street turned and turned again, and the crowd suddenly dissipated. Shahin felt a chill; they walked swiftly past crumbling houses with empty windows and doors. He realized, after they passed a tall raven-headed statue looming in an alcove on the left-hand side of the street, they had entered a burial district. A mangy dog lifted its head, yawning. It rose stiffly, back arched, watching them with cold eyes. Mihr walked backwards for a time, making sure it did not follow.

"Here it is!" The sailor sounded relieved. They entered a small plaza, thronged with people, surrounded on each of the four quarters by small, dilapidated temples. A confusing array of roads and narrow alleys opened onto the open space. Shahin felt relieved—he could see laundry hanging from balconies, housewives chatting from their windows, children playing. Young people talked while they filled their urns and pitchers from a cistern. The sailor climbed a flight of steps, ducking his head to enter a doorway. Shahin paused, puzzling out the letters cut into the white plaster beside the door. He failed, but traced an outline of spreading horns with his thumb.
Mithras, the Sun,
he realized. Then he did feel better. The Dying Bull was a Persian cult, but an old one, from his father's father's time.

"You
are
of the house of Suren! How delightful."

Shahin looked up in surprise, his mouth filled with porridge. A man of some age, his oval face defined by a short, neat beard and carefully combed white hair, stood beside the common-room table. The Persian swallowed, looking around suspiciously. None of his men were in sight. Most were sleeping on the roof, under spreading flower-heavy trellises, trying to escape the heat of the day.

"May I sit?" Without waiting for Shahin's leave, the man slid onto the facing bench.

"Who are you?" The Persian squinted at the stranger, examining his threadbare brown robe, mended tunic, proud nose and nimble, calloused fingers stained with ink. "Have we met before?"

"Not at all. My name is Artabanus." Casually, the fellow looked around. The common room was nearly empty at this hour, the usual tenants having departed for their day's labors. He produced a silver coin from his sleeve, presenting it to Shahin. "You've come on the king's business, I understand."

"The king? No." Shahin frowned suspiciously as he picked up the silver piece. A bearded man, notable for long mustaches, was stamped on the face. The minting was nearly fresh, barely worn at all. A bust of the king, large mustaches prominent, filled one side, while the reverse held a brief sketch of a fire altar and two attendants. "Prince Rustam sent me on this errand."

"I do not know the name." Artabanus seemed dubious. The man retrieved the coin, making the silver disk vanish from his fingers. He grinned at the trick, though Shahin did not find it amusing. "I am the king's man. Are you?"

"Yes," Shahin nodded, feeling a little odd to claim his old enemy with pride. But he
was
proud. The Boar was an honorable lord, far more trustworthy than the prince... "The prince does the king's work in this. I am looking for an old device."

Artabanus nodded, scratching his ear. The coin, now gold, appeared in his hand. "The messenger, a very peculiar-looking fellow with jaundiced eyes, said you needed to get to Memphis, or perhaps further south, to Saqqara."

Shahin nodded minutely. The owner of the hostel clattered down the stairs from the upper floor, his arms heavy with blankets. Nodding genially, he passed out onto the street. Shahin licked the last of his porridge from the spoon, then pushed the wooden bowl aside. "I have a drawing."

The mage nodded, raising an eyebrow when the papyrus was placed before him. For a time, the man examined the paper itself, then he muttered his way through the letters partially visible on the decaying sheet. Finally, he looked up again and sighed.

"This is very incomplete," he said, "I can only make out bits and pieces. Do you know anything more about this machine?" A well-trimmed thumb indicated the interlocking wheels and gears.

"A little." Shahin rubbed his nose. "It was named to me as the
duradarshan
. The device is made of bronze and gold and likely affixed to a block of jade the size of a chest." The Persian indicated the reputed size with his arms.

"Better..." Artabanus rolled the coin across his knuckles, back and forth, then made it disappear again. "In different times, I would go across the street, to the matron of the temple of Artemis. She is a font of old knowledge—a true Egyptian, I believe, not a half-Greek mongrel like the rest—but I don't think the king's purpose would be served by consulting her, do you?"

"No." Shahin growled, eyes narrowing. "You are friends with this Egyptian woman?"

"We've known each other for a long time, my lord." When he spoke, it was with long-held fondness. "Penelope is pleasant company and very well read. Also—rare for this fractious, theological city—she can see both sides, or more, of an argument. Besides, we are in the same business. Not so strange, not here, not in Alexandria."

"What
is
your business?" Shahin asked, sounding more suspicious than he intended.

"You mean," Artabanus said, looking around with a comically guilty expression, "beyond being a
spy
? I am the custodian of the fire temple—now closed, as you may have seen. Like Dame Penelope, I watch over a disused and mostly forgotten residence of the god. Sadly, there have been no riots, no protests by the common people over this outrageous act of the provincial government! And very little for me to do anymore..."

Shahin gave the man a quelling, gimlet stare. "The prince felt you could lead me to the device. Can you?"

"Perhaps..." Artabanus considered the scrap of papyrus again. His brows narrowed and Shahin was relieved to see the man was concentrating on the matter at hand. "This is an ancient form of the Old Kingdom's writing. The name you mentioned—the
far-seeing-eye
—is in an equally ancient tongue. The writing shown in the sketch is older still. If memory serves, the oldest ruins are found at Memphis, where the Nile divides and enters the delta, and further upriver, at Saqqara." Artabanus frowned, pursing his mouth as if he tasted something foul. "Saqqara has a bad reputation—we should avoid the slumped pyramid, I think."

Artabanus examined the papyrus again, then sighed. "There is a scholar I know... his name is Hecataeus; he works in the Imperial Library. He knows
everything
about Old Egypt. He might have seen such a device mentioned."

The big Persian raised an eyebrow, glaring at the mage. Artabanus coughed.

"Not such a good idea, I suppose... he might mention our questions to the Roman authorities! I can take you to Memphis, if you desire, and we can see what might be found among the ruins of the old city."

Shahin rubbed his nose, thinking.
Such a faint track to follow... but what else do we have?
"I was told," he said, eyeing the mage suspiciously again, "you could lead me to this thing, and swiftly too. You do not seem sure of yourself."

Artabanus shrugged. "I am honored by the king's confidence and I am learned in these matters... but what have you brought me? Little more than the shadow of a memory out of ancient times. Yet Egypt is filled with old mysteries and some still live today. There are books I can consult, and friendly priests upriver with whom we can speak." The mage grinned. "Rome is not loved here and we will be welcomed in some houses with wine and honey, where Rome receives only millet."

"Very well," Shahin said. "We will leave as soon as you are ready."

Artabanus smiled, spreading five Roman coins, all alike, on the tabletop. "As I said, son of the house of Suren, I have little to do. We can leave today, if you like."

The Emperor pressed a short note into his tablet, reed stylus cutting into gray wax. His narrow face was smudged with exhaustion—dark circles under his eyes, a febrile quality to his skin. Anastasia thought he was falling ill. The others in the library were silent, waiting for him to finish. A muted scratching from the back of the room mixed with the tapping sound of fans rotating slowly overhead.

"How long until your flying machines are complete?" Galen put down the reed.

"Another four months." Prince Maxian, equally worn, young face made old by sleeplessness, slouched in a heavy chair opposite his brother. The table between them was strewn with fine Chin porcelain, half-empty cups of wine, bits and pieces of glazed duck, bread rounds, scraps of cheese and half-eaten apples. "But I have installed the fire heart in each steed. The foundry foremen in Florentia can complete the rest of the work without me—at least until my final invocations are required."

"And then?" Galen's expression was pinched. Despite considerable discussion, he was uneasy with these new weapons his brother promised. Mechanical devices—
toys,
he thought—were Aurelian's passion. The big redheaded horse should be
here
keeping an eye on Maxian, not in Egypt facing down the Persians. He would love this project: all gears, metal,
pneuma
and
spiritus
. "Each... steed... will need a thaumaturge to make it fly?"

"No." The prince sighed, knuckling his eyebrows. "That is what has taken so long. The fire-drake can accept the guidance of anyone—well, anyone the drake is
directed
to obey. These new ones will not be quite so fast, or so strong as the first one, but they will serve."

"Why aren't they as fast?" Galen squinted. The corner of his left eye was twitching. The Duchess hid a wry expression of compassion. A headache was stealing up on her as well.

Maxian breathed out in a long, irritated hiss. "Because, brother, when I built the first one, I was a student, following the direction of a master... and now, I can't remember everything old Abdmachus told me. At the time I was rushed... I wasn't paying close enough attention." The prince bit angrily at his thumb. "But they are far beyond anything Persia has... these young drakes cannot reach Albania in two days of flight, but they will be able to reach Egypt in four."

"Can they fight? Are they worth two Legions of troops?" The Emperor stared at parchment sheets laid out on the table, obviously tabulating the ever-rising expense of Maxian's project. "We could fit out a dozen heavy galleys for this cost."

"A single fire-drake is worth a dozen galleys." The prince tried to keep his voice level. "A fire-drake can fly against the wind, over storms, even through hail! From such a height, a man can see hundreds of miles, spying the enemy at a great distance. A fire-drake can—"

"I've heard all of this before." Galen glared at his brother. "Very well, press ahead. You'll need more money, I suppose..." He pinched his nose, eyes squeezed shut. When they opened, everything was the same. The Emperor swallowed, tasting something bitter at the back of his throat. "Duchess?"

Anastasia stirred, sitting up straight. She was tired too. "We have done well with the telecast, my lord. The work is draining for the thaumaturges assisting us, but the results are spectacular." She made a wry smile, clasping her hands. "Though the visions do not always show us what we desire to see. Not all the time, at least. First—the
comes
Alexandros has advanced within sight of Constantinople—and it seems, if we count fire pits and tents aright, the armies of the Avar khagan have decamped. They are probably already back in Moesia by now."

"Really?" Galen sat up straighter himself. "How can you tell?"

Anastasia tried to maintain a neutral expression, but it was very difficult to keep a smirk from her lips. She inclined her head towards Gaius Julius, who was sitting quietly beside the prince, being unobtrusive. "A famous Roman historian once described the encampment practices of the barbarians, finding them as unique to a people—between, say, the noble Carnutes and the savage Belgae—as costume or language. In my experience this holds true for the camps of the Romans—unmistakably orderly when viewed from above—the Persians and even the Avars. A Persian army is encamped within the ruins of Constantinople and Alexandros' without. There are no Avar camps—distinguished, I must say, by admirable efficiency and professionalism, as well as a peculiar ringed shape—within a hundred miles."