Shadow of Ararat

PALMYRA, THE CITY OF SILK

Towers of pale-gold sandstone rose from the desert floor on either side of the road. Ahmet stared up them as his camel padded past on the hard-packed road. The towers were square and built of heavy blocks of stone. At a height, windows and doors leading into empty air pierced the walls of the towers. One stood near to the road as they passed, and the Egyptian stared with dull eyes at the carvings of men, camels, and fat-bellied ships that adorned its sides. A familiair smell reached him, leaking from the close-fitting stones.

The smell of dead men laid to rest, embalmed with spices and salt.

The forest of tombs was scattered across the valley floor and climbed the shoulders of the hills. Their shadows, gaunt fingers in the light of the setting sun, stretched away across the rocky ground. A hawk circled high in the sky. Around Ahmet, the rattle and creak of the army echoed off of the tomb walls.

No one spoke. Weary lines of men behind them, on horses or camels, rode with heads down. Dust covered them, dulling their battered armor. Zenobia rode at his side, and beyond her, Mohammed. The Southerner sat stiffly on his horse, favoring his right side. Bandages, crusted with dried blood and sweat, wrapped his midriff. His color was poor. The long retreat from Emesa had told on him, though he was very strong. The queen had veiled her face the day after the debacle at Emesa and now met no one’s eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was faint and hoarse^

The road swung wide around a cluster of the towers and the city, at last, came into view.

Ahmet raised his eyes to the cyclopean walls, a vast expanse of golden sandstone, and strong towers that flanked the Damascus gate. Forty feet or more high, the walls of Palmyra reflected the ancient wealth of the city, slightly sloping, constructed of massive blocks. They seemed the playthings of the Titans of old. A stream lay between the marching army and the city, bridged by a broad span of wood with stone pilings. The ramparts of the city, still distant, were lined with thousands of figures. There were no bright colors there, only gray and black. The Queen had sent riders ahead with the news of her defeat.

Zenobia nudged her horse to the side and Ahmet turned as well. The Queen rode down off the road and into a wedge of flat, sandy ground. When Mohammed made to follow her, she made a slight gesture, pointing to the city.

“The army enters first,” she said, her voice faint. “I shall enter the city last of all, when my men have found sanctuary.”

Mohammed nodded, his bleak eyes rimmed with dust. He angled his horse back into the center of the road. The men continued their slow march. Zenobia sat on her horse, with Ahmet at her side, watching them trudge past. Their companies were small and many men were wounded. There was little infantry and no wagons. All of that had been lost in the mad flight from the field where the Boar had crushed Zenobia’s dreams of freedom in a vise of steel.

At last the rearguard had passed, the remnant of the Ta-nukh that had survived Mohammed’s mad charge against the Persian knights. The desert men bowed in the saddle to the Queen as they passed, though their scarred faces were gaunt with weariness. Ibn’Adi was the last to pass, his old face grim and drawn. He raised a hand in salute and Ahmet was shocked, in his tired way, to see that the sheykh had lost two of his fingers. The old man’s hand was bound with a dirty bandage.

The dust settled and quiet returned. A hawk continued to circle in the twilight sky. Zenobia reached out a hand and Ahmet took it. They sat there on their mounts for a time, holding hands. The sun was swallowed by the western hills and darkness crept over the land. Then the Queen squeezed his hand and let go, unclipping her veil.

“Those few who survived will have entered the city now,” she said in a dead voice. “I must go and face the grief of my people.”

She turned to him, her eyes bruised and darkened by tears and fatigue. Her horse stirred restlessly, but she laid a hand on its neck and it quieted.

“You could go. The trails to the south will still be open. You could make your way to Aelana and home, home to Egypt.”

Ahmet shook his head, smiling quietly. “I will remain in your service, my lady. There is nothing left for me in Egypt.“

Doggedly she continued. “If you stay,” she said, “you will doubtless die when the city falls to Shahr-Baraz. If you go, you will live. Is that not better than death?”

“If I go, my lady, will you go with me?” He struggled to keep his voice level.

A look of despair and longing flitted across her face. “Oh, Ahmet… I cannot. I have duty and honor to discharge. My hubris has led my people into disaster. How could I face my father in the House of Bel if I abandoned them? Please, my friend, go. There is nothing you can do here.”

Ahmet shook his head again and twitched the bridle. The camel snorted and ambled forward. The Egyptian looked back at the lonely young woman. “Come, the city waits for its beloved Queen.”

The Damascus gate was flanked by two huge towers, each rising seventy feet or more to a crenellated battlement studded with triangular teeth. Above the lights at the gate, the tops of the towers were lost in the night sky. A long passage, thirty feet across and open to the sky but walled on either side by the bulk of the towers, led up a ramp to the gates, which stood wide. They were stout panels of Lebanon cedar, each twenty feet high. The crest of the city, the sigil of the God of the Desert, was inlaid in each panel in brass and silver. Guardsmen, attired in silver mail that reached from head to below the knee, stood in ranks on either side of the portal, arms presented. A hundred torches flickered, lighting the entrance. Zenobia rode through with Ahmet at her side, her head held high, her long hair loose, flowing down her back like a wave. She was covered with grime and her eyes were hollow pits, but no one could have mistaken her for less than a Queen.

Beyond the gate they rode down a short ramp into a square. More guardsmen stood in lines on either side of the paved road, their arms held wide to hold back the crowd. Beyond the mass of dark clothing and pale faces, great pillars rose up, making a colonnade around the square. Fires burned on the top of the colonnade, casting a shifting light upon the scene. The avenue before them arrowed north into the city, and it too was lined with mighty fluted columns. Between the columns, platforms rose up above the crowd like marble islands in a sea of quiet, waiting people. On the platforms, statues of kings and gods rose, their painted faces come alive in the firelight.

Zenobia rode forward and Ahmet fell slightly behind her. She stared straight ahead. The sound of the hooves of her horse on the pavement, and the jingle of its tack were the only sounds. Even Ahmet’s camel was quiet. They rode down the aisle of the city in utter silence. The snap of logs in the fires atop the columns was muted. Tens of thousands of people lined the arcade, staring with desolate eyes at the Queen. Ahmet slowly realized that the entire city presumed that it was now doomed to desolation. Still, they came to look upon her and share her grief.

A thousand feet into the city, the avenue turned to the right at a sharp angle and Zenobia entered the great colonnade that formed the heart of the polis. The avenue widened and Ahmet swallowed a gasp at the sight that met his eyes. Now the columns were even higher, soaring thirty or forty feet into the air, and the press of people occupied a wider street. Tens of thousands of torches blazed, filling the avenue with light. The men of her army had fallen out and now stood in formation at either side of the pavement. As she passed, they raised their arms in salute yet made no sound.

They passed through a circular plaza that surrounded a great house of four parts, each faced with four massive pillars. Hundreds of priests in robes of white and pale yellow stood on the steps that led up to the house. They bowed, a rustling wave, as the Queen passed. Beyond this, Ahmet could now see that the avenue sloped upward to ‘ ward a great platform that dominated the eastern end of the city. A vast building, with white walls faced with marble, rose up behind walls of its own. Great carved friezes lined the walls, showing men marching, hunting, sailing the seas in swift ships. A pair of mammoth winged lions flanked the entrance ramp to that building. -

Three men stood on the ramp, halfway up, in their tattered robes and armor. The firelight gleamed on their helms and from their eyes. Zenobia halted her horse at the bottom of the ramp and stared into the weary eyes of her brother.

“Welcome, Zenobia, Queen of the city.” His voice was hoarse but clear, and it carried across the ramp and to the mass of people who had filled in the avenue behind Zenobia’s passage. “The great god Bel welcomes you in the name of his people. Enter your palace, O Queen, with his blessing.”

Zenobia sagged forward in the saddle, then, with a trembling hand, slid down to the ground. Ahmet dismounted as well, the camel kneeling to the stones of the plaza that faced the great building. Surreptitiously he touched her shoulder, and she jerked slightly as a spark of pale-orange light passed from his outstretched finger to her. She nodded and straightened her back. Head high, she walked forward to where her brother, Mohammed, and Ibn’Adi waited.

They bowed, Vorodes first, then Mohammed and the old sheykh. The Prince of the city fell to one knee and extended a circlet of pale-white gold to the queen. Zenobia stared at the tiara for a moment and then took it in both hands. While she did so, Ahmet led the horse and the camel away to the side. The Queen turned, raising the crown above her head. There was a great murmur from the thousands and tens of thousands who waited in the avenue below.

“While one Palmyrene lives, the honor of our city shall not die.”

Her clear voice, high and strong, rang off of the pillars and walls.

“We have gambled with Mars and lost, but our city will withstand the Persian storm. Rome will come to aid us, as they have always done, and then the Persian will perish in the sands, of thirst and the merciless sun. Palmyra will stand, free and strong, as it has always done.“

She placed the crown upon her head, and it laid heavy, winking white amid her raven curls. Then the Queen turned and mounted the ramp, slowly and alone. When she reached the top of the ramp, where all could see, she raised her slim white arms to the sky.

“Bel bless us and stand with us. The love I hold for my people will sustain all.”

Then she turned and entered the citadel, and the people in the streets and the avenues raised a long slow wave of sound, the prayer of Bel. Then they bowed as one toward the great building and the Queen who symbolized their city. Ahmet stood at the base of the ramp with some of the palace guardsmen, staring out upon the throng. A strange power was in the air, and the small figure of the Queen, now gone, was its focus. He tasted the air and felt some promise there.

Two figures stood on the crest of the escarpment, staring down into the valley. The moon had not yet risen and the land was dark, but they could see the blaze of light from the plaza at the center of the city. Fires burned on the walls, showing many men watching the approaches to the gates. A faint sound reached them in the quiet night air, the rumor of thousands of voices raised in song. The taller figure scratched at the grime in his beard.

“Little water,” he said in a voice made harsh by the dust. “Our men are nearly dead of the heat and sun.”

The other figure stirred and peered through the darkness. Narrow fingers wrapped around a staff of pale bone. “Dam the stream and make a reservoir. Cut the aqueduct. We shall have plenty and they none.”

The taller figure nodded, rocking back on his heels. The city lay in the night, safe behind strong high walls and the vigilance of its protectors. “This will take time, time that mires us here, leagues from where we should be, at the gates of Damascus.”

The smaller figure smiled in the darkness, his sharp white teeth flashing. “She would fall on your flank like a leopard and claw you again and again until you bled to death in the sand.”

“Yes.” The taller man laughed. “She should not have mewed herself up in the city. An error made by a tired mind. Now she cannot maneuver or escape into the desert. We can destroy this enemy utterly. Then there is nothing between us and Egypt.”

Dahak turned away, his staff making a tapping sound on the stones of the escarpment. He felt something in the air, a trace of familiar memory; he raised his nose to catch the scent. The general remained on the ridge, his eyes taking in the lay of the ground, the height of the towers, the banks of the stream. It was a strong place, but he had broken strong places before.

A puzzle, he thought, a problem of walls and towers and the wills of men. A man may make such a puzzle, and man may solve it too.

After a full glass had passed, he turned and picked his way down the slope in the darkness. The wizard was already gone, back to his wagon with the army that had halted beyond the hills at sunset. Baraz walked alone, under the cold stars, and realized that he was almost happy. Then he laughed, a full rich sound that echoed off of the rocky walls of the defile, for it was not the fate of men to be content with their lot.

Servants showed Ahmet to a small room, no more than a cell, though it boasted a fine soft mattress on a bed of ce-darwood. He laved his face and hands in a pewter bowl that stood on a three-legged table by the side of the bed. He was terribly weary, but he took the time to calm his mind and recite the prayers that let him sleep. He fell asleep under a thin cotton quilt, his eyes tracing the painted patterns that adorned the walls.

Very late in the night, as the Egyptian slept, the door to his chamber opened and a figure in a long dark cloak entered. It stood over him, face hidden by the depth of the cowl, for a time, watching him breathe, and then it left, quietly closing the door behind.

Ahmet woke to a sharp rapping sound on wood. He stared up at a white plastered ceiling crossed by wooden beams. Sunlight fell on the wall to his right, illuminating bands of geometric patterns in black and red and white. The rapping came again.

“Holy Father,” a man with a shaven pate said from the door, “your presence is desired in the Queen’s chambers.”

Ahmet rose, throwing back the thin coverlet. His thighs ached from the long trek on the back of a camel. He rubbed his face and frowned at the stubble he found there. His things were laid on a chest of light-red wood next to the opposite wall. He dressed and washed his face again. An ewer of pale porcelain sat on the table, filled with fresh sweet water. He drank his fill, then settled his tunic and headdress. He fingered his chin again but decided against shaving. It was late, the sun, seen through a narrow window in the wall, was high in the sky.

The Queen’s chambers were opulent. Ahmet stared around in undisguised wonder at the wealth represented in the silk hangings and tapestries that adorned the walls. Rich carpets three and four layers deep covered the floor, obscuring the vast expanse of marble tesserae. Fluted pillars crowned with stylized acanthus leaves held up a soaring domed roof. Light fell in pale columns from circular windows set into the sides of the dome. It was cool and light. Many men were gathered around a cluster of couches and chairs at one end of the hall. Ahmet walked slowly toward them, his eyes taking in the richness of their brocaded robes and tunics. No man there had fewer than three rings on his fingers, of heavy gold and adorned with glittering gems.

The Queen sat at the center on a great chair of carved sea-green porphyry. She leaned on one arm that curved under her into a foaming wave. Her usual garments had been replaced with long robes of pure white samnite over a rich purple shirt, and her hair was almost hidden behind a heavy gold headdress. Bracelets and armbands of gold adorned her arms and tinkled at her wrists. Her face was a smooth white and her eyes were artfully anointed to hide the signs of fatigue and weariness that had marked her so harshly on the road from Emesa.

Ahmet stopped at the side of the cluster of men, who were talking in low tones, and bowed deeply to her. Zen-obia inclined her head slightly and her almond-shaped eyes slid to the side. Ahmet looked and saw that Mohammed was sitting on a low stool behind Ibn’Adi at the edge of the circle of chairs. He sat down next to his friend.

“Lords of the city, please, sit with me and partake of wine.”

Zenobia made a small gesture and servants came from openings behind the tapestries with plates of cut fruit dusted with sugar and honey. Others bore flagons of wine. The richly dressed men milled about for a moment and then seated themselves. Some took wine, but many did not. When they were settled, the Queen made a small gesture toward her brother, who sat at her side.

“Welcome, friends,” Vorodes said, raising a cup of beaten gold. He took a small sip.

“A difficult time has come upon us,” he continued, setting the cup down. “Morning has come and brought with it the sight of a great host of Persians encamped in the hills and their riders circling the city. As has happened only twice before in our long history, the city is besieged.”

There was a muttering among the noble men, and Ahmet saw that some of them cast curious or angry glances at the Queen. She remained quiet, staring at some point above the heads of the men she ruled, her expression calm.

“Persia, as we feared, has come against us. Now the Boar waits outside and will soon begin works against us. Already the flow of water out of the aqueduct from the west has slowed to a trickle. Soon it will be dry. Given time, the Persians will build a wall around the city and pen us in. But, my lords, you know the strength of our position. Our cisterns are deep, our storehouses filled with grain. We can wait a long time while the Persians are reduced to eating their camels and horses, then their shoes, then nothing. Even water will be short for them-the streams are not reliable.”

The Prince paused, surveying the faces of the clan lords and the great merchants. Ahmet studied them as well and saw men who had eaten too well for too long. He wondered if they had the stomach for such a battle. The city had grown mighty on trade and goods. Now there was no trade, and no goods flowed from east to west and back again.

“The Queen has decided to stand firm,” the Prince continued. “We will not negotiate with Persia, nor will we surrender.”

One of the magnates stirred at this, his long face marked by many days under the desert sun.

“Lord Prince,” he said in a deep gravelly voice, “forgive my impertinence, but we are far from aid. The unfortunate setback that the army has suffered has removed our Na-batean allies from the field as well as the militias of all of Syria. As there are no Imperial Legions to succor us, we seem to have few options save…”

“Rome,” the Queen said in a quiet voice, “will not abandon us.”

The merchant turned a little, meeting the calm azure eyes of the Queen. His face was grim. “My lady, please, we are not children. The Roman army has withdrawn to defend Egypt. We are abandoned. The only hope of the city’s survival is in negotiation. We have been strong allies of Rome; we can serve Chrosoes as well.”

Zenobia made to rise, her perfect mask beginning to crack, but she restrained herself and remained seated.

“Chrosoes,” she said in the same quiet voice, “will destroy us all. He is mad. He traffics with foul powers. Rome will win and will return. Our hope is to stand until that day.”

The merchant shook his head in dismay. His dark eyes were filled with sadness. “If that is your will, my lady, then we shall honor it, but there is no hope for the city. There will only be the long horror of a siege and then death, or slavery.”

Zenobia looked around the circle of faces, seeing the same despair in the eyes of the other lords of the city. Of all the men seated there, only the desert men to her left were unbowed. Ibn’Adi’s old eyes flashed with the same fire that had ever filled them. The Al’Quraysh looked positively eager. She glanced at Ahmet. He smiled, just a little, and she took heart from it.

“There is hope, my lords,” she answered. She reached into the folds of her garment and drew out a heavy bronze scroll case, well worn and dented. One end unscrewed and from within it she drew out a heavy piece of fine white papyrus. A purple string tied it up. She removed the string and smoothed out the paper on her lap.

“This,” she said, “is a letter from the Emperor of the East, Heraclius. It was sent from Constantinople by courier soon after our army marched north from Damascus. It reached us on the road from Emesa. We have told no one of its contents until now.”

She paused and took a breath.

“Daughter,

“Lady Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, dux Romanorum Oriens

“Greetings from your Imperial Father, Heraclius, Augustus Caesar

“Know, O Queen, that the legions that were promised to the defense of Damascus and the eastern lands under your protection have been delayed in Alexandria by plague. When the foul disease has run its course, the legions shall march to your assistance.“

She stopped, rolled the scroll back up, and carefully put it into its case. She looked around at the men seated before her. She smiled, and the smile was a fierce one, filled with anger and bitter fire.

“The Boar is trapped here, unable to abandon the siege that he has committed to. Thirty leagues lie between him and the nearest water. Soon the armies of the Empire will close the trap behind him, and then it is he that will be annihilated. His bones will bleach in the sun, like so many of our enemies’ have done before. This is why we will stand fast and bleed the Persian on the walls of the city. Help is coming, my lords, and if we are patient, we will have victory.”

The lean merchant frowned, but he held his peace. The others, Zenobia saw, were heartened and began whispering among themselves of the stories they would tell their grandchildren of the defeat of Persia before the golden walls of the city. The Queen nodded slightly to Ibn’Adi, who presumed to wake from his nap.

“In the matter of the defense of the city,” she said firmly, interrupting the murmuring of the nobles. “We have decided to entrust the matter of command to the noble sheykh, Amr Ibn’Adi, who has long been a good friend of the city. My brother, Vorodes, shall command the walls as his second, and the noble Mohammed Al’Quraysh shall have the matter of harassing the enemy and making his stay with us as unpleasant as possible.”

Some of the nobles looked around, their faces filled with questions, but then they saw that the Lord Zabda was not among their number. The general should have held command of the city if Zenobia or Vorodes did not take it upon themselves. They wondered if he had fallen at Emesa, for none had spoken of him since the return of the army.

“Then, if there are no objections, let us concern ourselves with matters of detail…”

Ahmet considered the beauty of the room and relaxed into a state of light meditation. Many hours would pass now in discussion.

The sun was setting again, and once more Baraz looked upon the city in twilight. On the great walls, lights twinkled on as the sun began to dip beyond the western hills. He sat on the summit of the tallest of the tomb towers west of the city, the sun at his back. His legs dangled over the edge, kicking idly at the crumbling bricks and masonry of the upper story. A hot wind ruffled his long curly hair, leaching the last bits of moisture from his skin. The bulk of his army remained in the hills, building a camp and laborigg to dam the stream. The horses needed a lot of water.

The Lord Dahak sat beside him, cross-legged on the flat stones that made the roof of the tomb. As was his wont, the wizard had drawn his cowl over his head. With his long limbs and ragged cloak, he seemed a great raven perched on the height. Only part of one hand was visible, curled around the bone staff.

“Are you strong enough to break the city by yourself?” Baraz’s voice was contemplative.

Dahak shifted and the Boar felt the cold eyes of the sorcerer on him. “Have you not an army? They must do more than eat and sleep and shit.”

Baraz looked sideways at the wizard, to see if he was angry. If he was, then the Boar would not live long, not in this tiny space circumscribed only by darkening sky and a drop of thirty-five feet on every side. He could not make out the sorcerer’s features in the shadow of his cowl.

“My men are exhausted from the trek across the desert. The horses are nearly dead. Our supplies are low, and there is precious little in this wasteland to feed them with. The longer we wait here, the weaker we will become. There is little wood here, and what there is will not suit for siege engines. My King bids me make haste, so I must consider every stratagem, every…“ He paused. ”… every weapon.“

Dahak stirred, then said: “The King of Kings bade me assist you in all ways, Lord Baraz. It is my duty to obey. What would you have me do?”

Baraz grunted and stared back at the looming walls of the city. Throughout the day he had made a slow circle around the city, viewing its walls and towers and defenses from all sides. It was a long city, running beside the stream, with each narrow end coming almost to a point. At the eastern end, a low hill bore the great palace-an imposing bulk of golden stone and many pillars. At the western, by the great Damascus gate, there was another sizable building. Within there must be markets and gardens and storehouses. Tens of thousands of people must live inside the walls. And all around, on every side and facing, towering walls of vast blocks of stone. Thirty feet was the lowest wall, and that above a deep cleft where the stream ran along the base of the walls. Fifty feet in the other places, with regularly spaced towers.

“It is strong,” Baraz said. “But as necessity directs, the gate is the weakest point. We have no ladders, no siege towers, precious few mantlets. We must storm the gate if we are to carry the city. Some rams we could fashion, given time. Can you break it? Can you sunder the gate and let us into the city?”

Dahak seemed to stare out at the distant walls, though it was impossible to tell. “There is a power in the city, Lord Baraz, something that I felt before on the field at Emesa. It is strong, though not as strong as the Red Prince” that I slew.“

“Another sorcerer?” Baraz was startled. He had thought that Dahak had murdered all of the wizards the Romans could gather. “How did he escape your sending?”

“He did not put himself against me,” Dahak mused, his voice almost inaudible. “He only watched on the fringe of the struggle. Perhaps he is clever, this one. Perhaps he wanted to gauge my strength in the unseen world. Then again… he may be weak, or a captive. No… Something held a ward around the Bright Queen through the battle and shielded her from harm. It must be this one.”

“What does this mean?” Baraz asked, pulling one leg up and resting his chin on his knee.

“The city is not without barriers and wards unseen,” Dahak said. “The gate is no exception. They are strongest there, in fact, as it should be. Many priests and wizards have labored over’them for many years. Yet-a gate’s purpose is to open. If I have time enough, and the strength, I can make it yield to me.”

“But?” Baraz could hear the question in the wizard’s voice.

“This clever one, he might have will enough to hold it closed against me. If he can be removed from the board, then the city will be yours. If not, then the sun is fierce here and your bones will bleach quickly under it.”

Baraz snorted and turned his attention back to the city. After a time he said: “In the world of men, it is easier to defend than to attack. Is it so with wizards as well?”..

“Yes,” Dahak said. “What do you intend?”

“If this sorcerer were to come forth and test his strength against you, man to man, could you destroy him?”

Dahak laughed, a sound of falling stones crushing limbs and bodies. “If he were to come forth, I could best him. But how would such a thing be contrived?”

“Honor,” Baraz said, a grim smile on his face. “Mine against that of the Queen of the city.”

“Honor?” Dahak sniffed, rising easily, like a serpent from the stones. “Honor brought us here-honor and duty to a dreadful King. I spit upon honor. But if it will serve us here, then let it.”

Rich red light fell across the marble wall of the Queen’s garden room in broad slanting beams. The setting sun glowed through rice-paper panels set around the western edge of the garden. Zenobia sat on the edge of a couch with a plush velvet cover, her gowns and robes discarded. She wore the purple shirt loose around her waist and had pulled on long cotton pantaloons, so finely woven that the outline of her pale legs could be seen through the fabric. The couch was on a raised platform made from a pale-tan wood. Around the platform the rich earth of the garden was filled with flowers and herbs. Slim white pillars, delicately fluted, with flaring capitals held up a dome of wooden slats over the platform. The Queen was peeling an orange and watching the sun set. She idly tossed the peels in a bucket of chased silver. Her hair was loose and fell over her shoulders in a wave. She bit down on an orange slice.

Ahmet sat behind her, his long brown legs straddling her to either side. His fingers kneaded her back, finding the knots of tension that were hiding among her muscles. The Queen gasped as he found a particularly tight spot. The Egyptian smiled and eased it out with deft hands.

“That was clever,” he said, “producing the letter today.”

Zenobia glanced over her shoulder, eyes reflecting the setting sun in gold.

“An exiled teacher should not mock a Queen,” she said with some asperity.

Ahmet shook his head and gathered her into his arms. He had put aside the tunic and his broad chest was bare. She sighed and leaned back against him, her fingers curling around his forearms. The western horizon was a glorious display of orange and red and deep blue-purple.

“I was not mocking you, O Queen. They took heart from it, and how shall they know different? By the time it becomes clear that Rome will not come to our aid, it will be too late.”

“True,” she whispered. “They will fight to the last for the city.”

“And for you,” he said into her ear, “and for you.” She clutched him close and buried her face in his shoul-. der. The sun slid down beyond the western hills, and the sky alone retained its memory. The garden, built out from the top of the palace, fell into darkness. Below it the lights of the city brightened, ten thousand fireflies in the night.