The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FORTY

The Nile Canal Gate, Alexandria

"It's your turn." Frontius sat with his back against pitted old sandstone, squinting sideways at his friend. Both men were in a scrap of shade thrown by a merlon rising from the tower wall. The sun was a huge, brassy disk in the morning sky, its heat magnified by sodden delta air.

"I think not!" Sextus replied, between gulps of tepid brown water from a cup. A bucket sat beside him, wedged into the corner of a stone embrasure. Two more buckets filled with river sand completed the fire-brigade station. "Who was cutting the cables on the Heliokonpolis bridge while the Jackal came on at us, thundering like the gods and spitting fire?"

"You," Frontius allowed, closing his weak eye. Sweat oozed in a steady, slow stream down the side of his nose. "And handily done too. But I took the last look-see. It's your turn now."

Groaning, Sextus peered over the edge of the embrasure, helmet crammed down tight on his head, a sweat-dark leather strap biting into his stubbled chin. The sky growled and rumbled with muted, distant thunder, but there were no clouds on the horizon. Instead, a heavy grayish haze hung over the fields and canals facing the city. The engineer's armor clamped tight against his chest and upper arms, the metal burning with sweat. He blinked a trail of salt out of his eyes, searching the irregular, rumpled landscape for the enemy.

The irregular wind out of the north fluttered to a stop. A suffocating pressure began to build in the humid air.

All along the Roman lines, a sloping, packed earthen berm two miles long, faced with slabs of scavenged stone and brick, riddled with sharpened stakes, topped by a fighting platform reinforced with palm logs, mud-brick and irregularly placed towers, the Legions tensed. Every man crouched down, pressing himself into the muddy corduroy walkway. Sextus counted himself lucky, on one hand, for their position stood at the Nile Canal gate-a proper fortification of sandstone and cement, long predating the earthworks-and on the other, he was shivering with fear, for the exposed bastion of the gate towers were sure to draw the full attention of the enemy.

The engineer had seen the strength of the Persian sorcerers-more than once-and the rush of blood in his veins was loud in his ears. A half-mile of lumpy ground, denuded of vegetation, buildings and every scrap of brick, stone and wood faced the wall. Flocks of white birds pecked among the waving, knee-high grass. Sextus wiped sweat from his eyes, searching for the Persian lines, for the glint of watery sunlight on spears and helms…

There!

The air twisted, a monstrous shape winging towards the Roman lines. The heat-haze rippled, bunching and roiling around a swift sparkling mote speeding like Apollo's arrow towards the gate. The birds spurted up from the ground in a panicked cloud of white feathers. Screeching in alarm, they darted away across the bobbing grass.

"Down!" Sextus screamed, kissing the stone. Every man in the tower did the same, eyes screwed shut against the expected flare of brilliance. A wild rushing sound ripped overhead, then a colossal thwang reverberated through stone and air. Sextus' eyes flew open in surprise, staring up, and his mind-normally quick, even in exhaustion-took a moment to grasp what he saw.

A furious black spark whirled and sputtered in the air. Curlicues of lightning danced around the edges, illuminating-just for a fraction of a grain-a queer distortion in the air. The shuddering pocket of flame flared, leaping across some invisible surface and the engineer gaped to see the ravening destruction unfold, spilling away from him, lighting the sky, the tower and the rampart for thousands of yards in either direction, but held in the air like a stone distending a taut cloth. A rumbling, deafening crack-crack-crack rocked the engineer, throwing him to his knees, but the hissing, spitting destruction he expected to rip across the top of the tower, incinerating the defenders, cracking stone, scorching their scorpions and ballistae, stalled in the wavering air. Flame roared away, flooding down into the ground, into the foundations of the tower, like water spilling from a millrace.

In the blink of an eye, the blast was gone, leaving only sizzling earth and clouds of steam boiling up from damp fields. Sextus shook his head, trying to clear his mind, then he saw the previously empty plain surging with the enemy. The northerly wind resumed, stirring turgid air.

"Here they come!" The engineers leapt to their ballista. Frontius scrambled up on the far side of the machine, grasping hold of a metal-faced plate set in the firing port of the wall. Sextus took hold of a smooth wooden handle with his left hand, then seized hold of the firing lever with the other. Frontius, ducking, dragged the metal plate aide, revealing the fields and the road below.

Thousands of Persians and Greeks swarmed forward, shrieking war cries, running across the rumpled field towards the wall. Nearly every man, Sextus saw in the brief instant he spared to survey the attack, bore a shield and they came on in two distinct waves. The first ranks were men with climbing ladders, shields, axes, long spears-then the second were archers, already advancing in staggered line, some men lofting arrows towards the defense, the others drawing shaft to string as they jogged forward. The sky darkened with flights of shafts.

On the road itself, a three-story-high tower rumbled forward on massive wooden wheels. A huge crowd of Persians packed the road behind the siege engine, pushing for all they were worth. On the fighting top, a dozen men in glittering, head-to-toe armor crouched behind wicker and hide shields. Sextus cursed, dragging the heavy ballista up and around. A four-foot-long wooden shaft lay in the aiming groove, tipped by six inches of triangular iron. Wooden slats flared from the butt-end of the bolt.

"Aiming!" Sextus cried, narrowing his left eye as he sighted against a curved iron brace set above the bolt. Regularly spaced marks were etched in the metal. His right hand tightened on the lever. Frontius and one of the boys assigned to the engine scuttled aside, taking up positions behind and beside each torsion arm, hands light on matching wheels. Another legionnaire was ready at the engineer's shoulder with a second bolt.

The top of the fighting tower clanked into sight through the iron loop. Sextus slammed the lever down. Oiled metal squealed in release and the big triple-corded cable snapped with a sharp thwack against rope-padded stays. The entire ballista rocked violently forward. The bolt flicked away, faster than Sextus' eye could follow. He stayed focused on the Persian siege tower, ignoring the frenzied activity of his crew as they reloaded.

The bolt smashed through a wicker screen and into a Persian soldier's breastplate. The man sprang backward, as if by surprise, jerked by the massive blow. The soldier behind him tried to duck aside, but the bolt tore through the diquan's chest, out through his right shoulder and punched into the second man's mailed chest with a ringing tonk!

"Range one hundred yards!" Sextus barked. "Three-quarters tension!"

Frontius and the other soldier at the iron wheels immediately began cranking them 'round as fast as they could. Sextus waited, watching the siege tower rumble closer, listening to the thunderous boom of Persian drums, the splintering rattle of arrows hitting the parapet, sweating more from fear now than heat. His eye caught another shining mote speeding through the air towards the tower, leaving a coiling tail of disturbed air behind. He clenched his teeth, willing his bladder to hold firm. The clank-clank-clank of the winch jumping back with each turn of the iron wheels filled his ears.

Somewhere out on the plain, Old Snake's voice raged, summoning hellish powers to ripple the air, draw thunder from a clear sky, sending destruction upon his enemies. Sextus had never seen the face of his enemy-few living Romans had seen any of the Persian magi-but every legionary, from the lowest servant to the Caesar himself, knew the sound of their voices. Every soldier had drawn their own mental picture of the tormenting sorcerers, fueled by the shock of battle and the grudging, exhausted respect earned by both sides. The disaster at Pelusium had nearly broken the Romans, but they had rallied to duty and honor and a bedrock faith in the Eternal Empire.

The brilliant mote slammed into some invisible barrier in the murky air and again Sextus saw the sky twist and deform. Azure tongues of flame lapped out in a twisting cone and the mote blossomed into a blinding flash. A wave of heat rolled over the top of the tower, but the furnace blast was attenuated and weak, barely a fraction of its full power. Again, the unleashed power wicked down into the earth, spilling like molten iron across the face of the old towers.

"Hah!" Sextus raised a fist against the malefic power hidden out in the haze-shrouded fields. "Rome builds to last, serpent!"

Old Snake was their most implacable foe-a cruel, hateful voice filling the heavens with abominable sounds, sending fire and choking smoke, or crawling death, or simple annihilation in a curdling green blast-but the Crow was little better, a furious apparition, a woman's voice shrieking in hate, her actions shrike-swift. There was no mercy in her, though the legionaries dying in the mud, or fighting hand-to-hand with the Arab and Greek fanatics wearing her colors, swore she was the beauty of the night, rather than the day. There were other lesser lights, the sly Hawk who wrapped the Persians in smoke and mist, hiding their movements from all but the most discerning eyes, and the formidable Jackal, whose blunt, irresistible attack had smashed the Fourth Scythica into oblivion at Heliokonpolis, coming within a hair of seizing the great bridge before the span had plunged, foaming, into the Nile channel.

Sextus could not say why he knew the face of the enemy-save their will was so strong, their awesome presence so widely felt, every man agreed upon their name and number.

"Loaded!" barked the soldier at his side, snapping Sextus' attention back to the moment at hand. A fresh bolt lay in the channel, the twin windlasses drawn back, Frontius shouting at him, stepping aside. Sextus sighted, saw the siege tower eighty yards away, swung the aiming handle a fraction, then slammed the release lever down again.

The ballista rocked forward, cable slammed into padded rope, another bolt flashed toward the enemy. Frontius leapt back to his wheel, cranking for all he was worth. Tanned muscles worked under a linen tunic and Sextus watched the jerking progress of the windlass bar with eager eyes.

The screams and shouts below the tower changed timbre and the first Persians scrambled up the sloping embankment, weaving their way through a forest of sharpened stakes and tangling brush. Legionaries on the fighting platform began to hurl stones and javelins, or shoot at point-blank range with bows. Turbaned men toppled and fell, sliding on the greasy, soft slope. More scrambled past, their war cry ringing against the heavens.

Allau ak-bar!

The siege tower rumbled on, face studded with arrows. Flames licked among the hides and wicker shields. A corpse fell from the fighting top, limbs loose in death, to plunge into the mass of soldiery crowding forward below. Sextus' hand danced impatiently on the firing lever, waiting for the bolt to slide home.

A third and fourth wave of Persians, Greeks and Arabs swarmed out of the fields, loping forward past the corpses of their fellows, a waving forest of steel spear points and wild, mad faces. A corner of Sextus' mind measured the roaring wall of sound, the mass of the enemy and realized their main weight had fallen here, on the old gate.

Right in the thick of it, aren't we?

"Loaded!" shouted the legionary. Again, Sextus adjusted his aim, squinting, sweat streaming into his eyes. His hand slammed down on the lever.

Caesar Aurelian, his dented, chipped armor streaked with rust, jogged up a log-paved ramp. His Praetorians paced him in a rough square, their gear equally worn, faces blank with fatigue. Hard experience had taught them to set aside their crimson cloaks and distinctive horsetail helmets. Like Aurelian, they wore only the simple armor of a legionary, without signs or flashes of rank. The aquilifer ran alongside, his golden eagle wrapped in cloth and held at his shoulder. No Roman would fight without the sign and sigil of the city behind him, but raising the aquila on this battlefield would only invite dangerous attention.

The top of the battlement was crowded with armed men, both those struggling on the fighting platform, stabbing or shooting at the Persians swarming up the slope below, and wounded men lying or sitting on the plank road behind. Medical orderlies trotted down the ramp, canvas stretchers in hand. Aurelian forced himself to look away, catching a glimpse of a young man-no more than a boy-being carried past, one hand clutched desperately over the stump of his arm, blood oozing through dirty brown fingers. A wooden dowel was slowly splintering between his teeth.

A ripping sound smote the air and everyone not actually locked in hand-to-hand combat on the wall ducked. Aurelian crouched down, watching with narrowed eyes as the sky quivered and flashed, streaked with carnelian flame. Heavy clouds of smoke drifted across the battlement, making vision difficult. Some of the clouds were tinged yellow or green. As they passed, men choked and fell to their knees. A few died, vomiting black fluid, a steady wind out of the north holding back the latest Persian deviltry.

"It's Old Snake for sure," one of the Praetorians hissed, rising from the ground. Aurelian nodded.

Shielded on both sides by men with heavy, laminated shields, the Caesar climbed up onto the fighting platform. Two legionaries moved aside automatically as he grasped one of the support poles and squeezed between them. Below, the Praetorians glanced around nervously, sweating with fear at the exposure their commander risked. Aurelian kept his head below the top of the rampart, glancing quickly to the north.

The fortification stretched towards the sea, curving slightly to follow the line of the ancient Ptolemaic wall. Smoke boiled from burning buildings behind the line and he could see men fighting here and there. Arrows slashed through the air in both directions, but in comparison to the conflagration around the Nile Gate towers, the rest of the front was quiet.

To the south, Aurelian saw much the same-the line of the wall studded with smoke and activity, then the glittering waters of Lake Mareotis on their flank. Again, he cursed the Persians and their fleet of river barges. Against another enemy, the lake would be a broad moat protecting the southern side of the city. Now, he was forced to keep nearly an entire Legion back, deployed along the shore to prevent landings behind the main wall.

A brilliant flare of light cracked overhead and men screamed in fear. Aurelian's head whipped around and he saw a section of the nearer tower burning furiously. Some kind of clinging flame dripped down battered, scored stone, heavy black smoke rolling up in oily waves. A siege catapult atop the tower burned as well. A man, wrapped in flame, plunged from the height, mouth open in a soundless, flame-encompassed scream. The prince blanched, eyes swinging to the sky, but then he realized the catapult itself had broken a torsion arm, spilling naphtha across the stone platform.

Bless the gods, the prince thought wildly, it was only a fire arrow!

A frail shield protected the legionaries fighting on the battlements and towers. A thin, gossamer veil standing in the hidden world between mortal men and the full might of the Persian sorcerers. Those few remaining Roman thaumaturges were cloistered back in the heart of the city, sweating with effort to sustain the pattern of wards and defenses lining the rampart. By sheer luck, Aurelian had made two critical, seemingly unrelated decisions regarding the defense of the city.

First, he had ordered his new fortifications built atop the foundation of an ancient wall. Unbeknownst to him, the intricate patterns of defense laid down during the time of Ptolemy the Savior, the first Macedonian king of Egypt, remained intact, though weakened by the theft of the wall stones themselves. Still, like begat like, and the new Roman wall inherited a measure of the ancient strength.

Second, the disaster at Pelusium had laid low so many thaumaturges and priests, Aurelian had shipped them all back to convalesce in Alexandria. The horrendous retreat across the delta, despite the horrific casualties suffered by his legionaries, had not cost him a single thaumaturge. Stunned by the strength of their enemy at Pelusium, the priests had labored furiously to strengthen the ancient ward line ringing the city.

Still holding, Aurelian prayed, watching the queer distortion in the sky.

A basso roar of anticipation boomed beyond the wall as the Persians reacted. Aurelian popped his head up, face grim. The old highway was littered with wreckage. Two siege towers had come within a dozen paces of the walls and both were still burning furiously. Thousands of Persians swarmed below, sending up flight after flight of arrows. As Aurelian watched, one of the burning towers toppled away from the road, pushed by a forest of hands. In its place, a heavy ram rolled forward on a wooden frame, pushed by lines of men in full armor, silver battle masks down.

The sharp twang of a ballista bolt cut through the din, firing from the remaining tower. A Persian pushing the ram toppled, struck through. Stones and burning pitch rained down in sheets of flame. The dead carpeted the ground and the wounded crawled among corpses, desperate to escape the rain of destruction. Persian orderlies dragged away those who might live, or cut the throats of men wounded beyond succor.

Aurelian ducked back down, then slid from the fighting step. "They've a ram," he barked to his guardsmen. He waved sharply for his aide. "Phranes, get down from here and find the tribune commanding those two cohorts of the First on reserve in this sector. Get him up and into the gatehouse immediately. You lot, with me!"

Ignoring the anxious expressions of his guardsmen, Aurelian jogged along the rampart, heading for the rising iron-kettle din of battle around the smoke-shrouded towers. As he ran, the prince loosened the spatha bouncing at his waist and settled the grip on his shield. It was clear to him the Persians were throwing their full weight at the gate and by the gods, he intended to stand with his men, not hide in some tomb down in the city. Left behind, Phranes cursed wearily, long face twisted into a grimace and then ran off down the ramp past a constant stream of wounded descending towards the hospital.

The sky groaned, tormented by hidden forces, rising columns of smoke splintering into mirror fragments.

The Paris pitched up a long, rolling swell, sails taut with a quartering wind. The courier ship scudded northwest from the merchant harbor of Alexandria, the long low island of the Pharos falling away to starboard. Thin sheets of smoke hung over the water, fragments of an enormous black cloud building over the port. On the foredeck, Thyatis leaned against a guyline, hip pressed against the railing, staring back at the embattled city.

Night was falling, a warm orange glow lingering in the western sky and only the distant light of burning buildings illuminated her face. Footsteps padded on the deck, soft and faint, but Thyatis heard and turned. Shirin approached, her oval face framed by a dark cloak, smudges of fatigue darkening her glorious eyes.

"There's food," Shirin said, sitting on the deck. Her legs dangled over the lip of the rowing gallery. Below her, the off-watch crew was already asleep, curled up among the benches in an untidy mass of blankets and pillow rolls. The Khazar woman unwrapped a loaf-fresh this morning from a bakery near the port-and broke it in half. Thyatis settled in next to her, the meal between them on the deck. Shirin moved her leg, sliding her bare foot over Thyatis' toes.

"Thank you." Thyatis cut a hunk of bread from the heavy oval. She smeared oil and garlic paste and soft cheese across the spongy surface.

They ate in silence for a few grains, listening to the creak of the rigging and water hissing past under the bow, watching the southern horizon flicker and blaze with fire. Occasionally, bright sparks lofted above the city, then guttered out. Thunder rolled continuously, though the sound grew faint as they drew steadily away. Thyatis felt grainy, drained, her thoughts-if not harshly driven back on course-turning always to the city and the Legions fighting there. A tiny voice muttered in the back of her mind, urging her to return, to take up sword, spear, bow and climb the walls to fight beside her brothers.

"I want to ask you a question," Shirin said in a low voice. Thyatis looked over. The Khazar woman was methodically paring slivers of cheese from the round with her knife. They made a little pile on the deck. "Once you promised to stand beside me, to share my life. Do you still?"

"I do." Thyatis moved to take Shirin's hand, but stopped, the gesture quelled by a fierce expression on the Khazar woman's face.

"Do not take me lightly, Roman," Shirin warned sharply. "I am of the house of Asena, and my fathers ruled from distant Chin to the Roman border, from the ice to the mountains of Persia. Our numbers are like the grass, limitless, and our hearts stronger than your steel." She paused, full lips drawn in a tight line. "You say this Prince Maxian caused the eruption that destroyed Baiae? Which laid waste to so many towns and villages? Which strangled my children while they slept, burning the flesh from their bones, wrapping their skeletons in ash?"

Thyatis nodded grimly, understanding the venom in Shirin's voice all too well.

"Then I give you leave to separate yourself from our hand-fasting." The Khazar dug a hand into her gown and drew out a thumb-sized jewel on a heavy chain. The cabochon blazed as it emerged from hiding, catching the last gleam of the fires raging around Alexandria. Thyatis' lips pursed in surprise and she shook her head automatically.

"Shi-the Eye of Ormazd is yours. Given freely, not a token of binding."

Shirin pressed the jewel firmly into Thyatis' palm. "You gave this to me when we parted on Thira, against our time of meeting again. That day has come and I wish you to choose again, without doubt. I know where I am going, but you do not have to ride beside me."

"What do you mean?" Thyatis understood, even as the words flew from her mouth.

"I laid my children in the ground without grave gifts," Shirin said. "I believed accident took them, sky-father gathering them up with gentle hands, as he does those who die before their naming. But if this prince is the cause, if he sacrificed them so he might live, if he murdered them, then they do not rest easy. They do not run in green fields, golden flowers in their hair, rejoicing in the light of the sun through the trees." The Khazar woman lifted her knife, turning the mirror-bright blade to catch the last feeble gleam of the southern horizon. Deep and abiding anger flared in her harsh voice. "They are lost in darkness, shades without sustenance, helpless without weapons, forced to walk without mount or bridle, lacking even the grave gifts to buy entrance into the house of the dead."

"No," Thyatis said firmly, mustering her thoughts. "Not so. Not so. This much I have done, Shirin, I have laved the earth with blood to feed the uneasy dead, to lighten their burden in the sightless world. Thirty warriors I've sent to join them, an honorable guard to bear their cups, to carry their burdens. A dozen ferocious beasts I've offered up, hot blood spilled in fair contest on the sand!"

Shirin's dark eyes widened, understanding dawning in her face. "The arena! I watched you fight-your face was wild, mad, transported… is this the Roman way, to honor the dead with living men's blood, spilled in combat?"

Thyatis nodded, feeling suddenly weak, emptied again. Memories crowded around, thick as Nile mosquitoes, faces emerging from darkness, mouths wide in anger or fear. My men. Our children. Nikos. "Yes, this is the Roman way."

Shirin clasped her hand over Thyatis, enclosing the jewel. "I would put a dog of a slave at my children's feet, my gift to lighten their burden in the world of shades. This is how things were done in my grandfather's time. Will you help me?"

The Roman woman shook herself, feeling a spark flare in her breast. "Shi-you don't know how dangerous this-"

"Yes, I do." The Khazar woman nodded, eyes glittering again, but now her fury was banked, glowing hot behind a shield of purpose. Hidden in their hands, the jewel gleamed with an inner fire. "I swear I will kill this prince of Rome."

Gape-mouthed horns blew mournfully, sending a long, ululating wail out across the fields before the city. Exhausted soldiers raised their heads at the sound, looking up from beside the raised highway, their faces painted with the ruddy, red light of a vast, smoke-bloated sun. Fires continued to burn among a long swathe of grass and drifts of fly-infested corpses. A bitter white haze drifted over the Roman wall, swirling around shattered towers and obscuring the forest of stakes sprouting from the disordered earth.

The horns winded again and men began to limp away from the fortifications, retreating by ones and twos across the fields. Night came winging out of the east, swallowing the land in a black throat and none of the Persians cared to remain among the dead after sunset. All along the wall, points of light began to flare as the legionaries cast pine torches down upon the slope.

The squat shapes of the two gate towers were lit from below by the smoking remains of the great ram, glowing coal-red from the fires that had consumed the wooden frame. The ancient sandstone blocks were burned dark by countless blows. The jagged, gappy parapet of one tower stood black against a sullen orange sky.

Shahr-Baraz, King of Kings, turned away from the doleful view. His army fell back, bloodied and beaten, from the Roman fortifications. On this depressingly flat plain he could not see the full sweep of the disaster, but what lay within sight was enough. A full day had passed in relentless, repeated assault. Four times, the pushtigbahn had stormed forward against the gate. Four times, the legionaries had thrown them back in disarray. Though other attacks had gained the rampart on more than one occasion, sharp Roman counterattacks had driven them back each time. His heart heavy, the Boar paced into the loose collection of tents forming his headquarters.

Bastard Romans… they've denied us even a roof over our heads. Despite the inconvenience, Shahr-Baraz was impressed. The enemy had not wasted any time in recovering from the disastrous retreat across the delta. The approaches to Alexandria had been stripped bare; every house, gyre, barn, temple and chicken coop had been demolished and hauled away. Stone and brick had gone into the massive wall, everything else into the bellies of the Roman soldiers or hidden in the vast city just out of sight. The Boar ducked into his tent, idly twisting the ends of his mustache to even sharper points. He sat in a canvas field chair, hearing the old walnut legs creak with his weight and sighed, rubbing his face with both hands.

A distinctive chill mist crept into the tent, flowing across the damp floor in eddying waves. Shahr-Baraz looked up, weary anger simmering in his eyes. The dark, angular shape of Prince Rustam appeared in the entrance, flanked by the gaunt shapes of his two apprentices.

"Come in, then." Shahr-Baraz gestured to the cots and camp chairs his servants had dumped under the canvas. He tapped an oil lamp with a thick, scarred finger. The wick had dimmed to a pinpoint with the sorcerer's approach. Shahr-Baraz breathed softly, letting the flame catch again and spread a slow, yellow light across table and chairs.

Hiding a mirthless grin, the King of Kings cocked an eyebrow at the sorcerer. "You look well."

Rustam bared his teeth in response, dark lips wrinkling up from long, white incisors. A dry hiss issued from the creature as he sprawled in a canvas seat, but he hadn't the energy for anything more.

Shahr-Baraz nodded to the other two figures, tilting his head to indicate the other chairs.

Pale oval face drawn with fatigue, Zenobia limped stiffly to one of the cots, her jaw pinched as she lay down on the hard boards. The Queen's robes were caked with mud, her hands bruised and streaked with blood. She turned her face towards the King of Kings, brilliant eyes dulled to fractured jewels, barely able to move. Her hands folded on her breast, withered doves lost in the dark, ragged pleats of her gown. "My lord," she whispered, though even so much seemed to drain her.

The jackal-headed man said nothing, squatting on the ground inside the door, his iron mask scored and dented. One ear, never properly repaired after the conflagration at Pelusium, was now entirely torn away, leaving a gaping hole in the metal, showing matted black hair and a pale scalp covered with scars.

"Have we failed?" Rustam managed to lift his head enough to speak. The king observed him closely, seeing the usual glamour fading, leaving the mottled, reptilian skin of the creature exposed. Inwardly, Shahr-Baraz sighed in despair, seeing the truth of his ally laid bare by such great exhaustion. The familiar princely face was no more than a comforting shell around something dark and lean, all spidery muscle and long, tapering ears flat against an inhuman skull. Something abhorrent, which should be cut down and cast into cleansing fire. The Boar's lips twisted into disgust, then settled-driven by implacable will-into a tight, flat line. Khadames was right about our dear prince. But I've made my choice.

"No," Shahr-Baraz said after a moment, "but today was costly, very costly."

He cleared his throat, realizing he was tremendously thirsty. "Bring wine and food," he called to the servants hiding in the darkness outside the tent. The rustling sound of running feet answered him and he turned his attention back to the sorcerer. "What happened?"

Rustam stirred again, nictating membranes rippling back from dark eyes. His voice was thready and weak. "We should not have kept attacking."

"I know that." Shahr-Baraz felt his temper stir. "You assured me the 'ward' was frail and easily destroyed. Just once more, you declared, and the towers would crack, the rampart split and we would be within the city."

A thin-fingered hand raised in protest, then fell wearily away again. "The Romans… no, the Egyptians are clever. We should have taken more time… divined their purpose, examined their defenses! I would have seen what they prepared, with just a day…"

Shahr-Baraz snarled, waving away the protest. "Useless words. We all agreed to strike with speed, to try and overwhelm them before they had more time to prepare. We were overconfident and have paid for our hubris! Tell me what happened today. Tell me what we can do to avoid such a debacle again!"

The sorcerer started to speak, then stopped and took a breath. He settled deeper in his chair and the Boar realized the creature was trying to muddle through his memories. The king leaned back for a moment himself. Despite his admonition to the others, his own thoughts turned unerringly to what he might have done, should have done…

The Persian army had rushed down the Nile with all speed, trying to catch the retreating Legions before they found shelter in Alexandria itself. Unfortunately, despite destroying nearly an entire Legion in a pitched battle at Hierakonpolis, they had failed to seize the crossing. Roman engineers had collapsed the causeway, blocking the river channel to Shahr-Baraz's flotilla. For their part, the bargemen brought in from Mesopotamia had reacted swiftly, building a pontoon bridge across the arm of the Nile. The king had thrown his army across, then raced down the highway into Alexandria's suburbs.

His wild lunge had fallen short. The surviving Roman Legions entered the city in time to occupy a freshly built ring of fortifications. Shahr-Baraz was impressed, again, at the speed and efficiency of the Romans in siege work. Very early this morning, he had felt a pang of regret as well-all that work, he thought, would soon be rendered useless-shattered by the power of the Lord of the Ten Serpents. Even with his army weary from the forced march down the Nile, Shahr-Baraz had elected to attempt an immediate, full-scale assault. Pressing hard had broken the Romans before, why not here too?

"I was deceived," Rustam said, rousing himself from thought. "I looked upon their battlements and saw only newly turned earth, freshly raised stone. So similar to that we faced at Pelusium…" His voice trailed off in a weary hiss, razor-edged nails making a clicking sound on the arm of his chair. Rustam's thin face contorted in disgust. "There must be an older wall or foundation beneath the new construction. Something built by the ancients… deep with strength. These crawling, pus-drinking, shit-eating Egyptians must have known! They have made a new pattern atop the old-the very likeness of a battle ward-but they are keeping well back. I can barely feel them, hiding in the city…" He began to mutter and hiss, voice fading into unintelligible curses.

Shahr-Baraz sighed openly now, turning his attention to the Queen. Slitted blue eyes met his.

"They are clever," Zenobia said in a husky, exhausted voice. "We strike and the force of our blow bleeds into the earth. We press and the shield bends. Flame is swallowed, lightning grounded. We can feel them at a distance. They are wary and careful, working only through tokens set in the earth." The Queen's eyes crinkled slightly in amusement. "They will not face us in the open field or pit might against might. They are not fools."

"No, they are cowards!" Rustam straightened, the tip of his black tongue flicking between needle-like teeth. He stared hollowly at the king. "We must sleep and regain our strength."

"How long?" Shahr-Baraz knuckled a heavy fist against his chin, meeting the sorcerer's gaze.

"Days, at least." The prince's expression tightened. "Dare nothing while we recover!"

Shahr-Baraz raised an eyebrow at the brusque order. "This shield, does it hold out my men's spears and arrows?"

"No." Rustam's face contorted into a foul grimace, reminded again of his failure.

"Then we will take the city regardless, if we have sufficient men and time."

The sorcerer's eyes narrowed reflexively, shoulders hunching up. The king hid a spark of interest at the reaction and he waited, patient as a hunter lying beside a mountain trail.

"We do not have… time or men." Rustam's eyes flickered with a sullen glow. "We must press them, before they receive…" His voice changed tone subtly. "…reinforcements. The Emperor is sure to send more men to hold the city-they cannot afford to lose Egypt!"

"Really?" Shahr-Baraz leaned closer, watching the sorcerer with open curiosity. "Why is that?"

Rustam stiffened again, lip twitching into the beginning of a sneer. "Don't be a fool-Rome is drunk on foreign grain! You've seen the great ships-there will be riots in the Forum if the bread dole is reduced!"

Shahr-Baraz blinked slowly, like a lion waking from full-bellied sleep. He watched the sorcerer intently, exhaustion forgotten. "You're speaking of Constantinople," the king said softly, mouth thinning in well-contained anger. "Where so many citizens now lie dead, they will not riot for lack of grain or wine. Rome draws her bread and meal from Africa, from Sicily, even from Spain." He made a sharp, dismissive gesture with his hand. "The Romans fight for Egypt because it is theirs. They fight to deny us. But the Empire will survive without the province."

Rustam scowled, glaring at Shahr-Baraz. "The longer we wait, the stronger they become."

"Certainly." The king nodded in agreement, putting both hands on his knees. "We need more soldiers. We need time to prepare for a proper attack along the entire length of the wall." His face twisted, but no one could have called the resulting expression a smile. "Khalid needs time to clear away the barrier at Hierakonpolis. I need those riverboats. And of course, you must recover your strength. You will need every ounce." The king bared blunt yellow teeth.

The sorcerer eyed him warily, still struggling against bone-deep fatigue. "I won't be able to just brush aside their barrier," he rasped. "And you've not the soldiers to attack the whole length of the wall. Nor are you likely to get them-we're eight hundred miles from Ctesiphon! There are no more soldiers coming, nowhere to levy fresh troops…"

Shahr-Baraz's cold humor did not abate. "Not so. There are reinforcements in plenty, all around us."

Rustam blinked, staring at the king in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"You are tired," the king replied, waving his servants into the tent. The women entered, eyes downcast. With trembling hands, they set platters of cold meat, hard-crusted way bread and flagons of sour wine on the table. "Sleep, lord prince and when you wake look about you. You will find allies in plenty, I think."

At the edge of the tent, Zenobia's eyes flickered open in alarm. She stared at the king, watching him in profile as he drank deep. A sick expression crawled across her fine-boned face, then she closed her eyes with a shudder. She understood his meaning all too well. How low have the lords of Persia fallen? Where is their fabled purity and devotion to Ahura-Madza?

"Allies, here among the enemy?" the sorcerer said in a querulous, weary voice.

Shahr-Baraz nodded again, amused. "All around. You will see."