Shadow of Ararat

TAURIS, PERSIAN ARMENIA

Heraclius and Galen picked their way through the rubble of the gatehouse. Their guards stalked through the ruins beside them. Smoke and fumes rose from the wreckage of the bastion, fouling the air. Beneath their boots the bricks of the inner courtyard steamed and cracked as they passed. Legionnaires with cloths bound over their mouths and noses were dragging bodies out of the buildings and piling them into wagons. The great middle gate had been torn from its hinges; it lay across the entrance to the city at an angle. Heraclius climbed up over a drift of fallen masonry and saw that there were several Romans standing in the shade of the gatehouse.

One of them was the tribune who had commanded the III Augusta in the attack. He saluted the two Emperors as they strode up, ignoring the scattered bones and rotting limbs that were washed up against the wall like driftwood. The tribune was a heavyset man, with a short salt-and-pepper beard. One side of his face was badly burned and a raw red color. He saluted smartly, though his left arm was bound across the front of his body with strips of cotton cloth.

“Ave, Augustus. The citadel has been secured and the city as well. Most of the Persians are dead, though many surrendered and are being held in the square beyond the gate.“

“Good,” Heraclius said, his sharp eyes roving over the others who stood behind the tribune. None of them was familiar to him. “And these men?”

“Our… allies, Augustus. They broke through to the middle gate when my men were trapped in the central courtyard. If they had not driven the Persian archers off of the wall, we would have all been dead men.”

Heraclius nodded sharply. The assault on the gate, even with the destruction wreaked by the thaumaturges, had been a near disaster. Though the cohorts of the Third Augusta had rushed past the first gate, the inner yard was a trap, covered on all sides by Persian archers. Over four hundred men had died in a struggling mass, unable to retreat due to the pressure of new cohorts crossing the bridge. The Eastern troops had failed to carry either of the outer walls, suffering heavy casualties in the attempt. Only the unexpected appearance of friends had broken the trap.

“Good work, men,” the Eastern Emperor said to the soot-stained and bedraggled men who stood behind the tribune. Their armor was battered and dented. Their swords were nicked and dull. All five were coated with black ash and the ragged remains of cloaks and leather armor. None seemed to have escaped injury. Heraclius’ eyes narrowed, focusing on the leader, the tall red-haired man in the middle. There was something familiar about him…

The red-haired man stepped forward, favoring his left leg, and made a military salute. Heraclius’ eyebrows raised, for the man had faced Galen, to his right.

“Ave, Augustus Galen. Thyatis Clodia of the Sixth Vic-trix reporting as ordered. I am sad to report that nearly all of my men perished in the effort, but the objective was secured.”

Galen, keeping a smile to himself, returned the salute. “Well done, centurion.”

The red-haired man turned smartly to face Heraclius and saluted as well. “Augustus Heraclius. If I may, it is my pleasure to present to you our ally, the Prince of Tauris, Tarik Bagratuni. Without the aid of his clansmen, our effort would have failed.”

Heraclius frowned at the short man who stepped forward, his chain mail torn from many blows. The little man grinned, his teeth bright in the sooty darkness of his face. The Armenian bowed and hitched his thumbs into the broad leather belt that supported a profusion of knives and a stabbing sword.

“Well met, Bagratuni. We shall have to speak…”

Thyatis turned back to the Emperor of the West. He was smiling lopsidedly, his hair cropped shorter than she remembered. His armor was immaculate, the gilded eagle emblazoned on the front glittering in the sun. Germans with great swords and suspicious eyes crowded behind him. He reached out a gloved hand and wiped some of the grime from the side of her face.

“I did not think to see you again, Clodia. I am sorry about your men. Get cleaned up and a messenger will come and fetch you to my tent. We have things to discuss.”

The Western Emperor surveyed Nikos and Jusuf and Dahvos. They looked worse than Thyatis, ground down and exhausted from fifteen hours of battle. Nikos had taken an arrow in the arm and was nursing a slowly clotting wound. The Bulgars looked like they had crawled out of a muddy sewer behind a butcher’s shop. Dahvos looked particularly good; his right eye was oozing yellow pus from between crude stitches.

“Centurion!” Galen shouted back through the hovering ranks of his guardsmen. “Take these men to the baths and then the healer. See that they are well treated.”

Thyatis sagged into the wall, and the Emperor was there, holding her up.

“I am very proud,” he said quietly to her. “I will not forget your service.”

The gruff-voiced centurion bustled up with several men in tow. Thyatis allowed herself to be led away, through the shattered gates and across the bridge. It was fouled with reddish-brown mud that clung to their boots, and fogs and mists still hung over the river. Behind her parts of the city were still burning, filling the sky with trails of black smoke.

Steam hissed out of a copper pipe, filling the wooden bathhouse with a delicious fog. Thyatis sank into the water with a groan of pure pleasure. A Greek manservant stood by, carrying a kettle filled with hot water. She motioned for him to add more to the tub. He tipped the kettle and very hot water joined the steaming water in the wooden-sided bath. She closed her eyes and submerged, luxuriating in the clean water. The manservant left the kettle and some soap behind, along with a curved bronze strigil. She spent an hour in the bath, scraping herself clean.

There were towels too, though the cotton weave was a little bare. It did not matter to her; to be clean and have her hair free of grease for once was“ reward enough. She sat in the little wooden room for a long time, toying with the strigil and thinking of the dead. In the steaming room, no one could tell, should they enter, that she was crying.

Finally there was a polite knock on the door and Thyatis looked up. She sniffled and blew her nose, then scrubbed her face vigorously with the towel.

“Come in,” she said, wrapping the towel around her thighs.

Jusuf ducked into the room, then saw her, naked from the waist up, and blushed a bright red.

“Pardon.” He gasped and stepped back out hastily, closing the door. Outside he slumped back against the wall of the. bath, his breath a white puff in the chilly air. He closed his eyes, still flushed with the sight of Thyatis almost naked, and then they snapped open again. He ground his fist into the wooden planks of the wall. Whenever he closed his eyes she was there, her breasts dewed with steam, rich red-gold hair tumbling around her pale freckled shoulders.

“Well?” Thyatis’ voice was querulous from inside the bathhouse. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry, my lady, I had no idea you were naked. My apologies for barging in.”

Thyatis laughed and poked her head out of the door. Her hair, undone, fell in a long cascade almost to the ground. In the cold air, it began to steam and wisps of white vapor curled up around her. “I’m not naked,” she said, still laughing, “I have a towel on.”

Jusuf looked away, out over the canvas awnings and tent poles. The trees the camp was set among were beginning to tunfcolor. Soon snow would fill the mountain passes. “My lady, among my people it is customary for women to remain fully clothed unless in the presence of their husband. I meant no disrespect.”

Thyatis frowned and closed the door. Her good humor was fading slightly in the face of this barbarian’s peculiar customs. “You’ll have to wait, then, until I’m properly dressed. Tell me. Did they fix Dahvos’ eye?”

Jusuf swallowed and turned to face the wall, arms outstretched, palms flat against it.

“Yes,” he said, “they fixed his eye, he can see out of it again. He says that it’s blurry, but he’ll still be a whole man. He can still… he’s fine. The others are gating now, and everyone we could find is fine. There’s only one man still unaccounted for. My lady, I don’t…‘•’

Thyatis stepped out of the bathhouse; her hair tied back with a green ribbon, in dark-gray leggings with laced-up leather boots and a heavy woolen shirt dyed a cobalt blue. Her belt, sword, sheath, and knife hung over one shoulder. She eyed him from under her bangs while she finished tying her Hair back. “Who is missing, Jusuf?”

He turned, seeing her face set and grim. “Sahul is gone, my lady. I can’t find him anywhere. No body, nothing. He always stays with us, save if he needs to go-then he would tell at least me! Or Dahvos-someone!”

Thyatis nodded, her face a mask, but she was stunned. The thought of the quiet older brother gone was numbing. He was so reliable that she had begun to take him for granted. “He was with you at the northern gate? When did you see him last?”

Jusuf spread his hands, shaking his head. “I don’t know. We attacked the gate, and then it was dark and we were righting… I can’t get anything out of the Armenians either. Bagratuni just shakes his head and says it’s the fate of battle.”

Thyatis gripped the young man by the shoulder and met his gaze. “Jusuf, I will believe that Sahul is dead when you bring his corpse before me, cold and stiff. Until then, at least in my mind, he lives and will be with us. He probably met some girl…”

The Khazar nodded, staring at the ground. Thyatis cuffed lightly him on the side of the head and pinched his ear.

“Go,” she said. “Find any of the rest of our band of brothers and make sure they’re at our tents in a glass. I’m off to see the quartermaster about horses and equipment. Oh, and if you see a messenger from the Augustus, send him on after me.”

She stared after him as he made his way along the muddy path between the tents. She thought of her own brothers, but then pushed the memory away. That was too painful. She sighed and snugged the weapons belt around her waist and made sure that nothing was loose. Around her, the camp was gray and the trees seemed shrunken with the onset of winter.

“Centurion. Please, sit.” It was well past midnight, and Marcus Galen Atreus had finally put aside the piles of wax tablets and papyrus scrolls that filled his days. Thyatis looked around and, at the nod of the Emperor, cleared off a winged wooden stool and sat down. She had changed into a plainer tunic and had carefully restrained all of her hair. Galen looked her over; the girl he had sent out from Con stantinople on a wild throw of the dice had come back to him leaner and grimmer.

Almost a woman, he thought, but one out of legend… a Roman Boudicca, standing triumphant in the back of a war chariot, her armor flashing in the sun.

Still, even knowing that she was his tool, a dart to be thrown at the heart of the enemy, he still felt a queasy reluctance to use her. It seemed dreadfully foreign to assign a woman the rights of men-to bear arms in the service of the state-even, to use a damning word-oriental.

“This Prince of the city, he speaks well of you. He was surprised to see a woman in arms for the Empire. He calls you-what is it?-ah, he calls you Diana the Huntress.”

Thyatis smiled politely. The harried general she had last seen in the drafty palace room in Constantinople was gone, replaced by a languid man in pale robes, at ease in his tent. Something about Galen had changed, she thought. He seemed more Imperial somehow, a sense of power was apparent around him. Odd, that it would be so, here in the back end of the world, but perhaps victory brought such changes. She only felt drained and worn out.

“That was very good work that you did. Heraclius did not believe that it could be done-it cost his purse ten thousand denar? on a foolish bet! A pity that so many of your Romans were killed. But… you seem to have found new men to replace them. These Bulgars-fierce as Sar-matians, they say. Do you trust them?”

Thyatis’ eyes narrowed. The Emperor was fishing for something. “I have trusted them with my life, Augustus Caesar. They did not fail me, and they paid in blood for that service. Yes, I trust them.”

Galen nodded and idly rubbed his ear. He thought for a while, staring off into one corner of the field tent he was living in. He turned back to her, and the Imperial presence was gone. “Can you do it again?” His voice was honest, without the echo of a disputation in the Forum. “Can you take a band of men into hostile lands again and do what you have done here?“

Thyatis stiffened in her chair, and her head turned a little to the side as her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, Augustus Caesar? You have more work for me?”

Galen nodded ruefully.

“There will always be work for you,” he said with a wan smile. “You are a rare leader, even among men. If I have you in my quiver, should I not put you to the bow and loose? The Easterners are still astounded at my daring and at your success. Do you know, they still think you are a man? It surpasses their comprehension for you to be a woman! Fools.”

Thyatis grinned a little. Then she frowned, considering what he had said. “Augustus Caesar, I am a soldier, you are my commander. Command me. It is my honor to obey. Those men who followed me from Rome will follow me still-the others? I cannot say. I will put it to them, but whether they come or go? That is their decision.”

Galen pursed his lips in consideration, but then rose and walked to the worktable he inflicted upon his household servants to carry from Rome to the Eastern capital to Tarsus to here. It disassembled into manageable pieces and was cunningly fitted together with wooden pegs. He ran a finger across the worn varnish on the top. Once it had been in his father’s study, in Narbo, when he had been a child. When Galen had left Hispania with his Legions to fight against the pretenders and to claim the purple for himself, it had traveled with him. For the last decade, the office in the Palatine had housed it, and now it was here. He pushed aside a pile of tablets and dragged a parchment map up from under the other debris on the table.

“See here, Centurion, we are at Tauris, in these mountains…” His finger began to trace a path on the map. Thyatis came to his shoulder and leaned over the table herself, listening to him speak, following the finger. “And here, here is Persia proper. Our intent now is to move north into the valley of the Kerenos River, which runs from these mountains down to the Khazar Sea-the Mare Caspium- and join the army of the Great Khan Ziebil.“

The Mare Caspium was a large oblong of blue, slanting from north west to south east. The map showed a rampart of mountains rising at its southern end.

‘There is a pass,“ Galen continued, his forefinger resting among those mountains, ”through what the Persians call the El’Burz, and beyond it the highlands of Parthia. These lands are rich beyond counting-the heartland of the Sas-sanid realm. With our combined army-Roman and Khazar-we will wreak great havoc upon those lands.“

Thyatis looked up, seeing a grim smile on the face of the Emperor.

“No Roman army has ever penetrated into Parthia itself,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “It has always been their surety, their fortress we could not breach. It is the purpose of this campaign, but the prize-ah, the prize- is Ctesiphon.”

His hand drew her eye back west, and south, across the mountains that bounded the land of the Two Rivers and the sweep of the plain of Mesopotamia. Hundreds of small notations marked cities, canals, roads. At the south, where the Euphrates and the Tigris drew together, almost touching, was a golden symbol.

“The capital of Persia. The residence of Chrosoes, King of Kings, regnum parthorum. The heart of his realm. A city of nearly a million people, housing all the mechanism and artifice of government. This is your target, if I am to draw you to the bow again.”

Thyatis measured the distances on the map. It was a long way to the enemy capital. “And you desire that I deliver it to you, a neat package wrapped with twine?”

“No,” Galen said, shaking his head, his eyes dark with worry. “For all its importance, Ctesiphon is not well defended. Rome has higher walls and it is nothing to match the defiance of Constantinople. It is a city that can be de fended only by a field army. If we reach it, it will be ours. I want you there, within the city, in secret, when our armies arrive-as insurance.“

He paused, his gaze settling upon her. Thyatis straightened up. There was some odd emotion behind the eyes of the Emperor. After a time he sighed and looked down at the map again. “You are well capable of seizing an opportunity, should it present itself. You cannot do that if you do not know what an opportunity is. This is little known, centurion, but the first wife of the King of Kings, Chrosoes, was a Roman princess-Maria, daughter of Emperor Maurice of the East. Yes, Maurice who was murdered by the usurper Phocas, whom Heraclius then slew. The sons of Chrosoes are claimants to the throne of the Eastern Empire. Indeed”-the Emperor of the West stopped and drew a breath-“with a better claim than Heraclius himself, should the matter be argued in the court of law.”

Thyatis let out a low, soft whistle. Then she clasped her hands behind her back and waited.

Galen rolled the map back up and slid it into the tube of ivory. He met her eyes with a level gaze. -

“Law has nothing to do with this,” he said. “This is a matter of strength and the contest between empires. We will win, because our victory means peace over the whole of the world. I want you, and your men, in Ctesiphon when our armies arrive. If fortune smiles, I want you to take any advantage offered to ensure that the children of the Princess Maria either”-He paused-“do not survive the fall of the city or come into my protection.”

Thyatis felt a chill pass over her. A reckless, political mission with almost no chance of success. Death seemed to hover at her shoulder, whispering in her ear. The Emperor looked away.

“Ah… Augustus, do you mean that the children are not to fall into the hands of the Eastern Emperor or his agents?”

“Yes,” he said, still looking away. “In my hands, or none.”

“Very well.” Her response was toneless and clipped short.

Galen turned back to her, his eyes haunted.

“We will reach Ctesiphon,” he said in a low voice. “I will look for you in the ruins.”

Thyatis sat on a boulder, huge and gray, half covered with dark-green lichen. Pale morning sunlight fell across her, making her red-gold hair glow. Below her, below the huge trees that surrounded the boulder and its clearing, there was a rumbling sound. The Roman army was crossing the bridge at Tauris, heading north with a long train of wagons. Between the giant boles of the trees, she could see regiments passing up the road to the Araxes and the north. The sun, even through the scudding clouds, sparkled on their spear points and gleamed from their helmets. Behind her a roan horse cropped contentedly on the little white and yellow flowers that grew in the clearing. Among the trees, uphill, Nikos and her men were sitting on a mossy slope, sharpening new weapons or repairing armor or mending clothes.

She looked back down, to the valley. The outline of the great camp was still visible, but all of the tents were gone; even the bathhouse had been disassembled and the great copper kettles loaded up on to wagons. She picked at the lacing on her leather leggings. One of the laces made a corner, and she absently played with it, rubbing her forefinger over the sharp edge. The clip-clop sound of a horse came through the dim greenness under the trees. Dahvos, his eye still covered with a patch, rode up.

The young Bulgar looked older, much older than the day Thyatis had found him and his brothers hiding in a thicket. His face was still drawn with the memory of pain, though the wound to his eye would not disfigure him. He seemed to have grown within himself. His armor, a shirt of iron scales chased with silver and cunningly worked to fit like a skin to his broad chest, sat easily on his shoulders. The horse followed his lead, and his eyes were wary, watching the forest.

Thyatis sighed and raised her hand in greeting.

Dahvos pulled up close, looking up at her perched on the boulder. He wore fine kid leather gloves and had acquired a heavy furred cape with a hood to go with the armor and the profusion of weapons slung on the saddle of his horse. His long legs were wrapped in dark-green woolen pants stitched with burgundy thread. He was wearing his hair in a long braid. His face was troubled. “My lady.”

“Lord Dahvos,” Thyatis said, her expression sad. “Is there news of your brother?”

Dahvos shook his head, looking away. Thyatis noted that his jaw was clenched.

“And you? North with the army to meet the KhazarsT

He looked back, his eyes filled with pain and an unexpected anger.

“Yes, my lady.” He sighed ruefully. “My people think that I’ve done well enough to command for ‘real’ with the host of the kagan Ziebil. An umen of ten thousand lancers is my reward for seeing half of my friends die.”

He turned in the saddle and pointed down at the long lines of spearmen and archers and horsemen crossing the river. “We all go north, to the Araxes, and then down the white river to the land of Albania on the shores of the mare Caspium. There Ziebil will be waiting and the armies of the People.”

He looked up at the sky, only a narrow strip of washed-out blue peeking through the green roof overhead. “Winter is close. Both armies may winter in rich Albania. In the spring, Rome and Khazar both can strike south, into the Persian highlands: A daring campaign…”

Thyatis stood up, brushing her hands off on her woolen leggings. She stared down at the young man on his swift horse. “Command will suit you well, Dahvos. Be well. If, by chance, you should find your brother, tell him that he owes me for giving me such a fright as to think him dead.

We must go too, and we will see you in the spring.“ Her lips quirked into half a smile.

Dahvos smiled back. “Ha! By the time that we reach Ctesiphon, you will have torn down the Empire of Sassan and made yourself a Queen on Chrosoes’ throne! Take care of my brother. I only have only four left now and would begrudge another to the Crow Goddess.”

Thyatis shook her head as she climbed down from the boulder and swung up onto her own horse. “Jusuf is a fool to come with us. The Emperor is fond of brilliant stratagems that either fail utterly or are spectacular successes. He should be with you, watching your back and carrying your banner in battle.”

Dahvos shook his head, all light gone out of his face. “He is too devoted to you, my lady. Be careful of him. He is often moody and given to reckless action. I think… well. It is not my place to say. Good hunting and a clear sky!”

Thyatis stared after the Bulgar as he cantered away down the slope, deftly weaving his horse through the great mossy boulders and massive trees. She missed him and his irrepressible Jiumor already.

“Enough!” she said to herself, and turned the horse to walk uphill to her men. Spring would come soon enough.

Nikos rose as she reached the men. The others remained sitting, weapons or clothes or tack in their hands. Thyatis turned her horse, looking down at the lot of them. Two of Bagratuni’s sons had shown up, bristling with knives, axes, and spears, the day before. Efforts to run them off had failed, and now they were sitting together near the horses. Jusuf had brought four of his men, survivors of Tauris and the battle at the gate. Anagathios made ten.

“Mount up, lads. We’ve a long journey to make before the snow comes.”

Jusuf and Nikos both nodded sharply and turned to deal with the men. Each noticed the other and stopped, staring. Thyatis almost laughed-they were bristling at each other like barnyard dogs! Neither spoke, glaring at the other. “Jusuf,” Thyatis said in a calm voice, “I am used to Ni-kos being my second. When I am not here, he leads.” The Bulgar met her eyes with barely repressed anger. For a moment she thought that Jusuf would test her will, but then he nodded and turned away. Nikos looked at her, his brown eyes filled with worry. Dissention among such a small group was a quick ride to disaster. She shook her head, signing /‘// talk to him later. Nikos shrugged and turned back to the men. “Check your gear, check your horses, check your water! We ride out in ten grains!”

The wagon rattled over the bricks that paved the bridge, and Dwyrin bounced up and down, clutching at the planks of the bench seat to keep from being thrown off. Squeezed. in next to him, Zoe grinned a little, though her dark eyes were somber. Dwyrin matched Her smile with one of his own, wedging his arm in behind her to get a good grip on the backboard. Odenathus was crammed into the back of the wagon with bales of hide tents and other supplies. He did not bother to disguise his morose expression. His battle partner was gone, swallowed up by the dark river and the flames at the gate. Now he seemed the outsider. “Hey-yah!” Colonna snapped the reins, and the four mules yoked to the wagon snorted and flicked their tails from side to side. The speed of the clapboard wagon picked but he could see that it made no difference to her. The Roman army wound through the streets of Tauris like a steel snake. The buildings echoed to the stamp of thousands of booted feet, all marching north. Ahead of the wagon, Dwyrin could see the helmeted heads of a troop of infantry, their spears dancing over their shoulders. The Westerners were singing, a rude song about the bathhouse maiden“. A few of the townspeople watched from the shelter of the deep doorways they favored in this land. The women were veiled and the men watched with closed faces. Dwyrin frowned at the ill-concealed hostility. ”They are not angry,“ Zoe said in his ear, her breath warm on his cheek. ”They are patient, waiting for us to be gone. Then the city will begin to come alive. But they have as little love for Rome as they did for Persia.“

“Why?” he said, turning to face her. She drew back a little. “These people, like my own, have been a prize for the great Empires for centuries. First they are a Persian province, then a Roman, then a Persian again. Never ruled by their own King. Who is free of Rome? No one.” Dwyrin demurred, saying “My people are free, under their own Kings. Romans come to trade and barter, true, but not to conquer.” Zoe frowned at him, then lifted her fine nose in the air. “That is because you are barbarians.” Then she sniffed. “Who would want to rule you?” up, and they trundled forward through the streets of Tauris. The ouragos was heavily bundled up, with two shirts and a heavy cloak wrapped around him. Zoe huddled in an equally thick bundle of clothing and a fur-lined robe. Dwyrin was still in his linen shirt, with dirty blue leggings. At last, he thought, some reasonable weather! His breath puffed a little, white in the chill air. Despite the numbness that he felt for Eric, he smiled broadly and grinned at the other two passengers. Zoe was not amused and turned her face away. His fell-the day was beautiful

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