The Gate of Fire (31 page)

The power that had wrecked the city had spared nothing. She could feel the echoes of it still ringing in the broken paving stones and toppled statues. A great power had walked here in incandescent rage, striving to break the spirit and memory of the city. Little was left of it, all those spirits and lives that had walked in the shaded streets, or sung love songs on the balconies under a starry desert night—they had been consumed. The power that had crushed bone to ash and stolen the lives of the thousands and the ten thousands of citizens had taken the memories, too. Sitting there, cold and alone on the height of the city, she knew its purpose, this power. It intended that no one would remember her city, or the vibrant people who had lived in it. It thought, in its malignant power, that no one remained, that there was no one to sing the tale of her city. It thought it had killed Palmyra and torn out its heart.

Zoë's face darkened, and a little wind sprang up around her, swirling first this way and then that. Her fingers, dark and thin in the desert sun, made a mark in the air, and it hung there shimmering softly for a moment.
I remember
, she thought grimly,
and I will remind the whole of the world that the city still lives
.

Below her, on the long boulevard, a movement caught her eye. Her head turned, canting like a hunting hawk, and she peered down from her perch high on the ruin of the palace hill.

A man was in the city, walking carefully among the bones, leading three camels.

Thin streams of dust fell from the cracked rubble above, filtering down through slanting beams of sunlight. Three stories below the level of the street, Odenathus picked his way carefully across a mountain of paving stones. Below, in the darkness, he could hear water falling into some kind of pool. The sound, magnified by the curving walls, made him terribly thirsty. He negotiated a fallen lead drainage pipe and found himself on a set of steps that emerged from the debris. Heartened by this, he made his way down.

At the bottom, a pool of green water spilled over a section of tessellated floor. Dolphins, mermaids, and high-backed ships cavorted on a pale blue surface. Letters marked out with small black chips of stone spelled the name of a notable merchant house of the city. Odenathus paused at the edge of the floor, looking for a way around to the wall beyond where he could see a bent pipe sticking out, spilling a tiny stream of water. The tumble of stones on either side seemed precarious, though.
No matter
, he grumbled to himself,
you've gotten your boots wet before!
He stepped out onto the mosaic floor, still moving carefully. A stone rattled past from above and splashed into the water. He looked up. Something dark blotted out the light coming from above. He threw up his arm and was smashed down by a heavy weight.

"Roman pig," someone snarled above him in the sudden darkness. "Water-thief!"

Odenathus went down hard, feeling
tesserae
crack under his back. The weight on his chest squirmed, and he felt a knee drive into his stomach. He gasped and tried to roll to one side. The assailant clipped him on the side of the head with a fist, but got more floor than flesh.

"Ay! Bastard!" the voice squeaked in pain. Odenathus shoved up, catching something that felt like an elbow. He tore at the rough fabric around his head and snagged a finger on a leather strap. The cloth ripped, and he rolled again, suddenly losing the weight. He threw the bristly cloth away. He was soaking wet.

A man in ragged clothing stood over him, wiping water out of his face. Odenathus scrambled up to his feet, though the footing on the wet floor was treacherous. The man scuttled back, fumbling at his belt for some kind of knife. Odenathus slid forward, keeping his boots to the floor, and grabbed the man's shirt. The old stained fabric tore in his fingers. The man twisted away, snarling. "Hands off, Roman pig!"

Odenathus punched the man in the face, then grabbed hold of his hair and kneed him in the stomach. The man's face bulged, and a croaking sound came out of his throat as he fell to his knees. Odenathus reached down and plucked a bone-handled knife out of nerveless fingers. Without looking, he tossed the knife away into the shadows. "Friend," Odenathus said, "you shouldn't attack people trying to get a drink of water."

"You've no friends here, Legionary."

Odenathus turned slowly, hearing now the breathing of dozens of men in the darkness around him. Four stood in the slanting light from the street above, bows in their hands, arrows nocked to the shaft. Behind the four, a stout woman was making her way down the slope of rubble with a long, Persian-style spear for support. The young man raised his hand, raising an eyebrow at the rabble who had inched out of the dim recesses of the cistern. He recognized them well enough; the detritus of a destroyed city, living by scavenging the food, coin, and goods that had been left, or forgotten, by the victors. He had seen the same faces when the Imperial Army had marched out of flood-drowned Ctesiphon. Then he had pitied them and thrown a few coins from the back of the wagon he was riding in.

Anger suddenly bubbled up in his breast—these were
his
people in
his
city, and they would not slink and prowl about in the darkness like rats. He looked around, straightening up, his face grim. "I am not a Roman," he said in a blunt tone. "I am a lord of the great city of Palmyra, Queen of the Desert. Who are you?"

The woman, who had reached the watery floor, laughed bitterly. "The great city? There is no place by that name, stranger. It is in ruins, destroyed. Its people are nameless and faceless—who are
you
to question those who have the advantage of you?"

"I am Odenathus, son of Zabda, cousin of the Queen of the City." While he spoke, he had raised a fist, and fire trickled between his fingers. Tongues of orange flame flickered up, and the room was suddenly filled with light. The scavengers flinched back, and their shadows grew suddenly great against the crumbling walls. The old woman leaned heavily on her spear, her head turned slightly away. Even so, Odenathus could see that her right eye was a milky sightless orb.

"Odenathus?" Her voice echoed hollowly in the domed ceiling of the cistern. "He is dead. All of that house are dead, ground down by pride and the darkness. Dead or fled away into the desert. Not one of the noble House of Nasor still lives."

"Not true," Odenathus said, stepping forward, his boots splashing in the water. "I live and I am here. The Queen is here, and while she lives, the city lives." His words echoed around the chamber. The fire he had called to his fist drifted up and away, forming a slowly spinning circle over his head. The light it cast filled the watery floor with blood, where the dolphins swam in a sea of red. The old woman, both her eyes destroyed, turned to face him fully.

Odenathus' step faltered, and the ring of fire flickered, almost going out. He stopped, stunned. "Mama?"

In a hollow formed by the fallen statue of Bel, Zoë cleared a space among the chipped ceiling tiles and charred beams. Now, with the sun set and full night upon the valley, she huddled in a woolen cloak she had taken from the baggage on the camels. A tiny fire flickered in a ring of stones. Beneath it broad blue-and-white hexagonal tiles could be seen—once they had decorated the floor of the entrance hall to the Little Palace. The ever-present wind still blew in from the desert, making the air chill and cold. Across from her, wrapped in his own blankets and a hood of thick wool, an old man with a bushy white beard was gnawing on a hunk of bread. It had come, like the wine mulling at the edge of the little fire, from the supplies that Odenathus had so carefully carried from distant Antioch.

"Grandfather," Zoë whispered, trying to keep her teeth from chattering, "what did you see?"

The old man ignored her and stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth. His fingers were cracked and grimy, only partially covered by cloth wrappings. With the bread gone, he rummaged in the bowl she had found for him and found some last morsel.

Zoë frowned. The old man was just going to eat her food and say nothing. She reached out and moved the ceramic bottle of wine away from the fire, closer to her. The old man watched her, his black eyes shining with a tiny reflected flames.

"Tell me, Grandfather, what did you see? You said you had seen something important."

"Wine?" he croaked, edging a little closer to the fire. His eyes followed the bottle.

Zoë frowned again, and the bottle disappeared into the folds of her cloak. "No wine," she snapped. Her fingers curled around the hilt of a Legion
gladius
laid on the ground at her side. "Tell me what you saw, and you will have wine."

The old man drew back again, folding into the cocoon of blankets and sweat-stained cloaks that he carried with him. Only his firelit eyes remained visible in the darkness. He made a snuffling sound. "I saw..." He paused and suddenly looked up. The line of his body tensed, and Zoë's eyes widened to see a long, curved knife suddenly catch the edge of the firelight. "Someone is coming."

Zoë stood and waved her hand over the fire. It went out, plunging the hollow among the ruins into complete darkness. The moon had not risen, so only the glittering firmament of stars overhead shed any light. Out on the rubble was the clink of a brick shifting and a low mutter. Zoë squinted, then breathed out slowly, summoning focus. Her vision wavered, and then the tumbled mounds of broken building and snaglike pillars sprang into view. Even in starlight the methods of the Legion thaumaturges could lend her sight. At the edge of the royal platform, where the crumbled gate lay, figures—more than one—were moving in file toward her. Instinctively she opened her awareness and began drawing the power for a Shield of Athena from the air and wind and sky. Its pale blue tracery began to build, whirling, in the air between her and the strangers. The dim red shape of the old man flickered at her side, the fire of his spirit low and guttering. Across the field of rubble, at least one bright shape moved, burning with its own powerful flame.

"Men are coming," the old man whispered, creeping to her side, his knife at the ready. "Many men."

"I see them, Grandfather, but one of them I know. Do not be afraid."

The shield spun down and dispersed. Zoë sat again, and the fire sparked in the stones and leapt up, making a beacon in the night. The old man flinched from the sudden light and scurried back into his nest of blankets. Zoë pulled the bottle of wine out and waved it at him. "Tell me what you saw."

The old man bowed his head to the broken tiles twice. "Yes, mistress," he muttered. "I was in the hills to the north, when the
dhole
smashed the gates of the city. I was looking for wood in the ravines and gullies. The Persians, my lady, they were paying well for firewood."

Zoë's faced darkened with rage, and the old man paused, then groveled on the stones. "Please, my lady, I am just an old man with no family! I must eat! I only did what I had to do."

The girl looked away and, when she looked back, her face was calm again. She motioned for him to continue.

"My mules ran off when the
dhole
was sent away. That was a great noise! Like the gods raging in the clear sky. I hope never to hear such a thing again... It took me days to find them all and bring them back together. Then I went to the city—but it was gone!" The old man rocked back and forth, wringing his hands. "Everything was destroyed... even the stream had dried up and the aqueducts were torn down. I could not find any water. It was very hot, so I went into the city. Oh, it was dreadful: All the bodies withering in the sun... I went into a house that still stood, hoping to find a pan of water. There was nothing. But when I was coming out, I heard a noise. I hid, thinking that the Persians had come back... but it was not the Persians, oh no." The old man's voice ran down, mumbling and cursing to himself.

Zoë frowned and coughed to get his attention. "Who came to the city? Romans?"

"Oh," the old man said, looking up with a puzzled expression on his wrinkled face. "Not Romans, oh no. Bandits, desert bandits, in their long robes and fierce beards. They had sabers, you know! I saw them at the gate."

"Bandits? What tribe? Why did they come to the city?"

"Oh, they came for..." The old man began muttering again.

"For what?" Zoë's patience was wearing very thin. Too, she could hear the clatter of boots coming across the rubble. Odenathus would be here very soon, with these strangers. "What were they looking for?"

"Oh!" The old man looked up, his eyes suddenly bright. "They came for her! Well, for her body, for it was nailed up over the gate then—but they took it down, and very gently, too. Very mannerly, for bandits—"

"Her?" Zoë's voice was as cold as morning frost. "Who was nailed above the gate?"

"Her... the most radiant one." The old man mumbled again, then his voice strengthened. "One of them had a scar; he said that she would be put away, safe from ravens and wild dogs. They bore her off on their shoulders. They were singing a dirge, as is right. I saw it all, I heard it from the house inside the gate. I say that it is so!"

"The radiant one..." Zoë felt her world spinning out of turn. "It can only be Zenobia."

"Oh yes!" The old man brightened. "That was what they called her, these bandits."

Tiny beads of sweat spilled down Anastasia's brow, pooling in the hollow of her neck. The sweat gleamed in the light of hundreds of beeswax candles placed around the periphery of the room. Anastasia's face was contorted in a grimace of pain, and the thin cotton shawl that had been draped around her shoulder slipped. Her carefully trimmed and polished fingernails bit into the muscular arm of the attendant standing behind her chair. A thin trickle of blood seeped from underneath her nails.

"Aaaaa!" Another contraction ground a low moan out of the Duchess. She panted heavily. "Oh, Goddess," she gasped, "blessed Medea was right... aaaahh!"

Between her legs, the midwife looked up, smiling. The woman had short brown hair and a pleasantly plump face. The sleeves of her dark red gown were rolled up and tied back with strings. The
obstetrix
seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease. Anastasia, her body in the grip of excruciating pain, briefly envisioned the woman—still smiling—being torn apart by wild dogs on the hot sand floor of the Flavian. Beyond her, the Duchess was dimly aware of the other two attendants—young women of her house who had borne strong sons—kneeling on the floor, holding long tapers. These four women were her only companions, here in her bedroom.