The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Alexandria, Roman Egypt

Shahin, noble brow covered by a wide-brimmed leather hat, waved cheerfully to an approaching customs boat. The Persian sat astride the portside railing of their coaster, one sun-bronzed leg dangling over the side. Like the Palmyrene crew, he wore only a short kilt-like cloth around his waist.

"Ho, the boat!" An Egyptian waved from the foredeck of the galley. The Roman ship was old, painted eyes peeling and the decking splintered and gray from the sun. Shahin kept a cheerful, open expression on his face, though he took a count of the men in the approaching boat. His own crew was substantially outnumbered. Despite their ship's age, the Egyptians turned deftly at their captain's command and slid to a stop alongside the Palmyrene ship.

The Duchares was equally decrepit, weather-beaten and sunburnt, her rigging frayed, square sail mottled with patches. Shahin leaned down and grasped the Egyptian official's hand, swinging him up onto the higher deck. The man bowed in thanks, then looked around with an idle-seeming air. The big Persian noted the archers on the galley had arrows nocked. They seemed alert.

"Port of origin?"

"Ephesus," Shahin said, stretching his Greek to the limit. "By way of Rhodes."

"Huh. See any pirates, any Persians?"

Shahin shrugged and shook his head. The captain-a Palmyrene-hurried down the deck from the tiller, wringing his hands. The big Persian looked away, though he listened carefully to the discussion between the two men as he leaned on the railing. There was a matter of port taxes and entry fees and the Emperor's tithe for commerce.

Alexandria was impressive, he thought, squinting into the morning sun. Even from the sea, here at the edge of the grand sweep of the mercantile harbor, the city made itself felt upon the mind, the eye and the spirit. To his left, as the coaster rolled slowly up and down on the swell, a long, low island lay baking in the sun. Brightly colored buildings crowded along a sandy shore. Directly ahead, a sandstone causeway ran out from the city to the island, studded with square towers and lined by a crenellated battlement. Beyond the fortified mole, another island held a impossibly tall building surmounted by a lighthouse. Shahin felt envy, measuring the height of the edifice by eye. Rome can build, he thought, keeping a sneer from his face. He had never seen such a building-ones larger, perhaps, like the Great Hall of the palace in Ctesiphon-but none so high. On the summit, set on a tapering brick platform, a golden disk blazed in the sun.

The city sprawled along the shore from west to east, mile after mile of tan-and-white buildings baking in the sun, none more than two or three stories high. Shahin could hear, over the creak of the hull and the slap of the oily brown water, a vast, constant murmur. The city was filled with noise. Crowded, hot and pestilential, he realized. How delightful.

Then the wind shifted and a thick miasma rolled out across the water. Shahin staggered as the smell washed across him. O lord of light! What a stench! How many people live here? How many pigs? During his time in the desert, or at sea, he'd forgotten how foul a human city could become.

The Egyptian customs officer slapped him on a bare, powerfully muscled shoulder as the man passed. "Don't worry," he said in a cheerful voice. "You'll get used to it if you're here long. When the Nile floods, it gets better. All the refuse gets washed out to sea."

Shahin grunted, then helped the man-heavier by a substantial bribe-down into the galley. The Palmyrene captain leaned on the railing, waving good-bye. The desert man had a sick look on his face too. With the Egyptians gone, the Persian turned his attention back to the city. How are we going to find the prince's agent in that morass?

The noise was the worst. Shahin felt physically ill-not from the close, hot streets or the cloying smell of rotting vegetation-but from the constant assault upon his eyes and ears. Led by a Palmyrene sailor who had shipped to Alexandria before, Shahin and his men spent most of the day trudging through crowded streets, making their way from the port to the temple district. The press of humanity-dressed in a dizzying array of colors and hues, with brown, black, white and tan faces-surged past them in a constant flow. Shahin's arms were tired from holding his belongings aloft in a bundle while pushing through the chattering, shouting crowd. They passed streets of metal workers, vigorously hammering away, through lanes filled with shrieking birds and animals, past block-long temples lifting a droning chant to the sky.

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."