The Shadow of Ararat (99 page)

"He asked if the new army had been raised from the people of the city. No one spoke. I looked around and saw only old men and servants around me. All of the great lords have fled—to Ecbatana or beyond, back to their estates. Aunt, we are abandoned!"

Shirin sighed and pulled the shawl closer around her shoulders. Her hair had been loose while she had been singing for Thyatis; now she began to braid it.

"Nephew," she said, her voice soft, "there are many pressures upon the King of Kings. This war does not go well, the people—even the nobles—are afraid. If he shows that fear he holds himself, then there will be a panic and all will be lost. It is natural to feel fear, each of us, man and woman, does. But you must not let it master you. Be strong for your father, stand by his side, bend your bow as he does."

Her voice trailed off, seeing the desolation in Kavadh's eyes. He stood, shaking his head.

"No one is coming to save us. The Boar is dead, the great Prince Shahin may be as well. There are no armies to succor us if we hold out in siege and no one to hold the walls against the Romans. Our only choice to survive is to flee now down the river or into the moutains. This I will say to my father, for there is no other choice."

Shirin watched him, her luminous eyes filled with worry. She held up a hand and he stopped as he would stalk out the door. "Your father honors courage and bravery above all things, dear nephew. Do not anger him when you say these things. He is quick to take offense." Kavadh made a half smile while one hand picked at the drape of his shirt. "You mean he accounts me a base coward, hiding behind my dead mother's skirts? That he will ignore and revile me if I speak the truth to him? I know, but I am by rights the son of a King. I should speak honestly to my father in this." He bowed and left the room. Behind him, the Princess stared out the tall windows. Thyatis closed the drape, though she had to restrain herself from stepping in and putting her arms around Shirin. Instead, she waited in the dim corridor, patient and quiet. She wondered if the boy-Prince would be killed by his father in an insane rage.

Rain fell in sheets, obscuring the road and the lines of palm trees on either side. Thick clayey mud dragged at Dwyrin's boots and caked his legs. The rain was not heavy but it was constant and it had been with the army for days. The canals the road paralleled had risen, lapping at the tops of the dykes that held them back from the endless fields that stretched to the horizon. In the odd times when the rain lifted or the clouds broke, Dwyrin could see towns and cities pass by, raised up on great mounds of earth. The land seemed empty—no peasants, no shepherds. Even the empty walls of the cities were barren of life.

Dwyrin put one foot in front of the other, feeling his boot suck up out of the mire. It made a popping sound as it pulled free, then he put it down a pace ahead. The tan and brown fluid slid over his foot, trapping it again. Ahead of him, the other mages toiled forward as well, their heads low, their hands on the sides of the wagons for support. Riders splashed past in both directions, urging their weary horses forward through the sodden road.

The Hibernian wondered if they would ever see an end to the mud, if their destination would ever rise out of this endless plain of fields and towns and rows of palms and other trees. The army had come down out of the mountains above the city of Nineveh in a break in the weather. For a brief few days they had marched down firm roads under sunny skies. The air had been crisp and cool, with miles passing away under their marching feet. But past the great northern city they had entered the plain between the two rivers, a vast expanse of mud and deep loamy soil.

Then the rains had come again, and the world had dissolved into endless leagues of gray sky and muddy road. He put one foot, dragging it out of the muck, in front of the other. He was weary, very weary. Zoë looked back over her shoulder, her face drawn and grim. He was falling behind. She motioned for him to catch up. Dwyrin sighed and pushed harder through the mud.

Fires lit the plain, red and gold under an overcast night sky. The clouds scudded past, reflecting ruddy light from bellies fat with rain. Thyatis stood on the roof of Shirin's house of marble and jade, her nostrils filled with the clean smell of rain on the desert. She stretched her arms wide, feeling the damp wind ruffle her hair. A deep breath filled her with a curious peace. The city was dark around her, with barely a light showing. The Roman army had come to the gates of the city of the King of Kings, but the populace had not seemed to notice.

Thyatis felt the air move behind her and she shifted her weight. Nikos climbed up onto the roof next to her.

"Is everyone ready?" Calm settled over her. Violent action was close at hand.

"No," he cursed. "Jusuf had to take a leak and when he came back, Shirin was gone. Her handmaiden says that a messenger came from the King of Kings to summon her to his presence."

"Mithras! Where are the children?"

"Anagathios has them in hand. Dosed their fruit juice with some poppy. They're sleeping hard. The Khazars are with him, though."

"Something... maybe enough. Well, we can use the drainpipe then. Take 'Gathios and the Khazars over the rooftops. Jusuf and I will go the other way and see if we can catch up with... what?"

Nikos smiled, his grin a white line in the darkness. "Jusuf already left. Just grabbed his sword and ran off after the girl."

Thyatis considered wasting a good five grains cursing luridly but put that pleasure aside for later.

"Great... I'd better be quick about it. Get the children to the water gate."

"
Ave
, centurion." Nikos turned to go, but then stopped and held out a hand. Thyatis clasped it, feeling his firm familiar grip. The Illyrian's expression was unreadable in the darkness.

"Good luck," he said. Then he hustled down the rooftop to the window to her room.

Thyatis stood up and slowly turned around, her eyes surveying the city. She could hear people running in the streets, but there were no fires and no smoke. People had come in from the farms outside of the city the previous day, shouting the news that the Romans were upon them. Few heard them, for Ctesiphon had been emptying for the last two weeks. She wondered who was left in the darkened buildings. The palace was abandoned, save for the royal guard and a few remaining servants. No one had seen the King of Kings in days. Had he decided to flee, she wondered, or simply to die in the ruin of his dreams?

Her room was empty, her travel gear already packed up for her by Nikos. She slung the bag over her shoulder and checked the straps and belts. She laced up her boots, tying the tops off just under her knees. Rolling from side to side on the balls of her feet, she settled the weight on her shoulders.

The door closed under her hand and she forgot about the room. Downstairs, in the common room where she had first set eyes upon the Princess, Anagathios, Nikos, and the Khazars were pulling on their own packs, laden with supplies and food. The Illyrian was sporting a variety of weapons as well.

"You sure you want to haul that bow over those roofs?"

Nikos looked up and smiled, fingering the leather case tied to the side of his pack.

"Never know when you might need it," he said.

Thyatis tested the leather straps that held the four sleeping children to the backs of the Khazars. She clasped hands with the men, searching their bearded faces for signs of fear or dismay. All of them met her gaze with level eyes.

"Kahrmi, Efraim, don't misplace this baggage, you hear? The owner wants it back."

The Khazars laughed, their white teeth sparkling behind their bushy brown beards. Thyatis turned to Anagathios and signed, two quick motions.
Don't wait for me at the water gate.

The Syrian frowned but bobbed his head in acknowledgment. Thyatis nodded once to all of them and then strode off through the rooms of the Princess' apartment.

Nikos stepped to the door and watched until Thyatis had disappeared from sight. Once she had rounded the bend of the corridor outside, he closed the teak panel and latched it.

Anagathios,
he signed to the Syrian,
take the Khazars to the garden and begin climbing out.

The actor shook his curly locks, his face mournful.
Dear Nikos, why do this thing? Chances are passing small that anyone will find out what the centurion is doing. And if she finds out, it will go badly for you!

Nikos shook his head in negation. He had already made up his mind.

It must be done,
he signed,
otherwise her gamble may be for nothing. This way it will be a long time before anyone suspects.

You are mad,
replied Anagathios,
she would never countenance such a thing.

True enough,
Nikos answered, sighing quietly,
she would never think of bringing unhappiness to the Princess. But we are her true friends, and I will do this thing for her, taking the onus of it upon myself, out of my friendship for her.

Anagathios shook his head again. He did not believe the Illyrian was right.

Go, I will clean up here.

Anagathios spread his hands wide and signed something about the gods. Then he slipped out of the other doorway into the garden and the waiting Khazars. Behind him Nikos went through the room carefully, checking in the trunks and behind the curtains for anything that might have been left behind. Once he was done he scoured the other rooms as well—the room of glass where music had played, the banquet room, the Princess's bedchamber, the quarters of her maidservants. In the little room at the back of the servants' area, he found that one of the Khazars had left a copper buckle under a chair. Frowning, he pocketed it. As he left each room, he left the door open, sometimes propping them with the edge of a chair or table.

In the last room, the entrance to the baths, a cool stone-floored chamber, he paused, grim eyes counting the men and women trussed on the floor. Of them all, only the lady-in-waiting, Ara, was awake. She had stopped struggling with her bonds when he had appeared in the door. Now she stared at him with a blazing fury in her eyes. Nikos nodded to her and put down a bundle of clothing he had been carrying on the stone bench inside the door of the room. He slipped an amphora of fine oil off his shoulder and carefully leaned it up against the bench. Ara made a muffled sound, but this too he ignored.

He pulled a knife, long bladed, almost a shortsword, from a scabbard slung over his shoulder. It was a Persian weapon, one quietly taken from the guardroom of the House of the Black Swan where the King of Kings slept. Its edge was keen and the blade itself gleamed in the soft light of the single oil lamp. Nikos knelt and turned the first of the servants over. His thumb rolled back the eyelid of the man—he was still unconscious. With quick sure movements, he cut the simple garments from the man, leaving him naked on the floor.

Nikos looked up, checking the other captives. Ara had rolled over and was watching him with brown eyes wide with fear. The Illyrian looked away and punched the knife under the rib cage of the man with a single strong blow. The man twitched and his mouth opened silently. After a moment his chest stilled and a trickle of blood spilled out of the corner of his mouth. Nikos, his face still expressionless, quickly dressed the dead man in fur-lined boots and the rough homespun trousers and shirt of a Northern barbarian. This done, he rose and surveyed the others.

Too little time,
he thought as he stooped over the next man.

In the end, Ara stared up at him, her eyes sightless with fear, as he bent over her.

Thyatis jogged through the halls of the palace. Great rooms, filled with treasures and glorious murals, blurred past. Her boots fell on expanses of intricate mosaic tile, showing scenes of wonder and delight. The crystal lanterns were falling dark with no one to refill the reservoirs of oil. In those places where there were torches, they had already guttered out. She climbed a great flight of stairs, each step carved from sea-green marble in the shape of breaking waves. In darkness, she hurried through a vaulting chamber lined with a thousand pillars containing a stepped pyramid. Atop the pyramid a throne of silver and gold sat in the darkness, waiting for a claimant. Behind rich red drapes, she found an open door banded with iron and clattered down a narrow sloping stairway.

Hexagonal rooms passed, filled with couches and wardrobes bulging with clothes. A closet door stood half open, showing rows and rows of jeweled shoes. Ahead of her, she could hear faint voices, raised in anger. She crossed a bedchamber dominated by a four-poster bed with a canopy of purple silk sewn with diamond stars. The bedclothes were shoved all to one side, a mountain of fine-brushed Egyptian cotton and silk. Water tinkled from a bowl-shaped fountain. The western wall of the room was composed of wooden doors framing hundreds of squares of colored glass.

There was a garden beyond the bedchamber, filled with thousands of white flowers. The sky was very dark, save in the east, where a dull red glow lit up the low clouds. The flowers gleamed, pale and nacreous, in the light of hundreds of rose-colored paper lanterns hung from the trees. The garden stepped down toward a looming dark wall, in three great terraces. A stairway with steps carved from cedar logs descended the length of the garden. Thyatis came to a halt on a circular platform of wooden slats outside of the bedchamber.

Shirin stood in the darkness on the stairs, a pale-yellow flame in the long dress, her hair undone. Below her, on the second tier, Jusuf stood in the path, his blade glittering in the light of the lanterns. His dark-green robes and tunic blended into the grass and bushes, leaving only his long face illuminated by the rosy light. A heavyset man with very broad shoulders and dark curly hair stood behind Shirin, her arms twisted behind her back in his grip. His own blade, a long cavalry saber, was angled toward the Khazar Prince.