Shadow of Ararat

NEAR DASTAGIRD, THE LOWER EUPHRATES PLAIN

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A cold wind blew out of the north, driving sheets of dust before it. Nikos and Anagathios huddled in the lee of a tumbled mud-brick building. Their horses clustered in front of them, tied to stakes driven into the loose sandy soil. The sky was dark, the sun only a dim circle through the howling wind and dust of the storm. The yellow-brown grit got into everything, even when they were, as now, bundled up tight in their robes with scarves over their faces. They sat, not bothering to speak, waiting for the storm to pass. The wind hissed and wailed around the building.

A figure appeared momentarily in the dust, between flying sheets of sand. The figure was wrapped up too and leaned forward into the wind howling out of the north. Nikos made to rise, but Anagathios grabbed his arm and sat him back down. The approaching figure continued to battle against the wind, but finally reached the poor shelter of the wall and sat down heavily next to them. Nikos and Anagathios leaned close, straining to hear.

“… a city of… there.” The figure pointed off into the brown murk.

Nikos shook his head-he couldn’t make it out over the sound of the storm. The figure shouted again but was still unintelligible. Finally the other gave up and settled back against the wall. The horses continued to stand, heads down, and the sand began to pile up around the feet of the three waiting travelers.

The storm passed and the stars came out in a deep blue velvet sky. The sun had begun to set while the trailing edge of the sandstorm had passed. The travelers shook the dust from their cloaks in clear red-gold light. There was still a high cloud of thick dirty brown and the rays of the sun slanted in under it, painting the desert with rich full colors. Jusuf, Nikos, and Thyatis stood at the edge of a canal a hundred yards from the tumbled-down wall. Across the gurgling water of the canal, beyond a belt of date palms and greenery, a great city rose around a broad, flat hill. It had no walls, only a gate that they could see. A huge building rose at the center of the city, a stepped pyramid a hundred feet above the flat roofs of the houses. Sand had invaded its precincts, burying the streets and agora. Pillars thrust from the dunes, leaning at odd angles. The windows of city were dark, the only light a dull orange flame coming from the top of the ziggurat.

“That place has an odd feel to it,” Jusuf said, scratching at his beard, which had finally recovered something of its usual fullness. “There should, be lights, noise, something.”

“And walls,” Nikos added, peering through the night, trying to see if anything was moving in the silent city. “The Arabian desert is not far off-there might be raiders.”

Thyatis felt something too, a prickling at the back of her neck. She looked up and down the canal. The water was a black pit holding the stars, wavering, in its heart. There seemed to be no bridge or crossing.

“Some things,” she said softly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, “do not bear investigation. Get the men mounted up-we press on down this canal. We need a bridge if we’re to get to the Tigris…”

Thomas. Harlan

Dawn was close when the dark engine descended out of the sky. A wailing high-pitched roar and the rush of flames shattered the quiet of the night. Ruddy light scattered over the dunes as it touched down, limbs flexing as they settled into the sand. Flames hissed and then died, leaving the desert quiet again. Molten sand bubbled and popped where the talons of the engine had touched. A door, hinged at the top rather than the side, swung open and pale-yellow light spilled out onto the dunes. Figures climbed out, stretching and groaning after the long flight from the north.

One, taller than the rest, strode to the top of the nearest dune. Two shorter figures followed, one on either side. Beyond the dunes, across rippling white ridges, the shape of a buried city rose, dark and desolate. Behind them other figures were busy unloading supplies and tents from the belly of the engine.

“So,” the first figure said in a conversational tone, “this is the city of the magi.”

“Yes, great lord,” the shortest figure said, a tremulous note in its voice, “the forbidden place. Dastagird of the Kings of old. Once it was the residence of the King of Kings-a city of marble palaces and beautiful gardens- but the priests coveted it and made it their own. Now the gardens are buried in the sand and the palaces are filled with shadows.”

The Prince pulled the cowl of his robe back and shook his shoulders out. He was nervous, but there was little to fear. He had powers on his side too, strong powers.

“Gaius?” He turned to the other figure. The old Roman stood at ease, his hands clasped behind his back. “Suggestions?”

The dead man nodded, his leathery face creased with the smallest of smiles. “First we take a look around, and see what there is to see, Lord Prince. Then we show ourselves. With your permission, the Valach and I will go out tonight and find the lay of the land.”

Maxian nodded sharply, then turned around and de scended the dune. The others were still unloading crates. He was tired and hoped to find sleep soon. Behind him the little Persian took one last look at the darkened city and then hurried after him. Gaius Julius took his time, watching the silent buildings and the empty steps of the great ziggurat for a long time. Two other figures joined him, squatting in the sand at his back. When at last he turned back to the engine, he found both of them waiting for him. The dead man smiled, looking upon his little army. “Alais. Khiron. Are we ready?”

“Yes, lord,” they whispered. “We are ready.”

“Good.” He checked the shortsword at his hip and the fit of the bracelets on his arms. “We go.”

Dust blew in the street, and steppe thistle bounced past out of an alleyway. Gaius Julius strode down the middle of the pavement, feeling the edges of the bricks under his sandals. The sun had just risen when he and his companions entered the city through the eastern gateway. Pale-pink light fell on dark bricks and stone and was swallowed. Beside the wind and his shadow, sprawled out before him on the street, nothing moved. Alais paced him on the right, shrouded in a voluminous black cloak and cowl. Even her face was hidden in the depths of the cloak, only a pale-white shadow peeping out. The creature, Khiron, was on his left, garbed in dark-brown wool and a thin desert robe over that. Khiron’s face, too, was hidden; he had wound his kaffieh around his head, hiding everything but his eyes.

Gaius alone showed his face. He wore only a simple tunic and kilt, with his thick leather belt cinched tight and his sword slung over his shoulder. His leathery brown face was set and his nearly bald head gleamed in the sun. The buildings narrowed, hanging over the street, but then fell away to either side. At the center of the city, a plaza was open to the sky. On the western side of the square, before them, the ziggurat rose up in mighty steps. Gaius Julius halted, the thin fringe of white hair around his head ruffled by the hot breeze. The city was quiet, but Gaius felt that its tenor*had changed since they had come into the heart of it.

“Eyes are watching us,” the homunculus said. Its voice was still raspy and harsh. Even great quantities of pig and calf blood had not restored it to full health. Gaius Julius nodded absently. He felt a familiar tickling sensation at the back of his mind. A brief memory surfaced: a deep-green forest and blue-painted warriors creeping, their long red hair thick with grease and mud. The others made to move forward and mount the flight of steps that led up the imposing side of the ziggurat, but he raised a hand and they stopped.

Gaius Julius stood, waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes narrow slits against the light. Khiron, as was his wont when action was not required, froze into immobility. Alais drifted closer to the dead man, close enough for him to smell her perfume. It was a bitter scent, reminding him of rose petals that had withered and died still on the thorn.

A man appeared on the second level of the ziggurat. He was elderly, with a long white beard and bushy eyebrows. His skin was very dark and shone like a polished walnut burl. Gaius could feel the power in him. The man was wearing a long dark-blue robe and leaned heavily on a tall staff. His head was bare, allowing his snowy mane of hair to flow behind him.

“You are not welcome here, dead man.” The booming voice emanated from the ziggurat, filling the square and echoing off the blank faces of the buildings. “Begone.”

Gaius Julius hooked his thumbs into his belt and squinted up at the elderly man.

“My master bade me come,” he shouted back, his voice clear and strong, though not the overpowering volume of the other, “and I came, doing him honor and you as well. My master bears you no ill will. He does not come with armies or with fire. He comes openly, seeking knowledge.

Will you admit him to your precincts? Will you treat him with hospitality?“

The elderly man did not respond, the hot wind ruffling his robes out to the side. Two more men appeared, one on either side. They seemed equally ancient.

“No,” came the booming voice. “We felt the passage of your master in the night. He is not welcome here, as you are not welcome, corpse man.”

Gaius Julius, having taken the measure of the empty town and the men on the ziggurat, bowed deeply, held the pose for a beat, and then turned on his heel. Alias and Khiron fell in behind him. The wind escorted them out of the city, whistling through empty doorways and barren windows. The watching eyes followed them too, until they were well past the gates. On the first dune ridge, the old Roman turned, his eyes measuring distances and elevations.

“What is it, Gaius?” Alais’ voice was sweet and only for his ear, not that Khiron had the slightest interest. He turned and his mouth stretched in a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “Nothing, only a fancy. We must apprise the Prince of our welcome.”

Maxian nodded, unsurprised at the news. He stood in the shade cast by one of the wings of the engine. It made a broad canopy, though it cast an odd jagged shadow on the ground. Krista stood at one shoulder and Alais at the other. Gaius Julius and Khiron leaned against one of the massive iron claws that dug into the sand. The Valach boys squatted on the ground under the curve of the belly. Beyond the shade, the sun beat harshly on the sand.

“Khiron, what did you feel?”

The eyes of the homunculus opened and turned to the Prince^ swiveling like the turret of a siege engine. “Master, three men we saw, standing on the platform of the ziggurat, but others watched us in secret. Some were not men, though none were as I or as Gaius Julius is. Nor the Lady Alais. I smelled fifteen or twenty in the buildings. They were afraid.“

“Alais?” The Prince barely turned, keeping the old Roman in his sight.

The blond woman moved forward and curtseyed deeply, as was her wont. “My lord, all the town stank of abandonment. It is the residence only of dogs and crows. Only in the ziggurat are there living men. Too, my eyes saw vents high on the side of the pyramid, vents that billowed hot air. My thought leads me to suspect that the domain, the residences, of the magi are beneath the ziggurat.”

Maxian turned to Abdmachus, who alone among them all was sweating heavily in the heat. “My friend?”

“Master,” the little Persian choked, “it has been so long… I barely remember any details!”

Khiron moved at some unseen gesture from the Prince, swift as a snake, and his mottled hands were at the Persian’s throat in an instant. Abdmachus gobbled in fear as the cold fingers tightened around his larynx. Maxian smiled pleasantly. Behind him Krista frowned slightly.

“Abdmachus, please, this is important to me. Khiron and Gaius Julius will help you remember. Alais, assist them. Make sure that we have as good a map as can be drawn.”

The three escorted the little Persian, gently but inexorably, into the belly of the engine. Alais’ white face appeared in the doorway for a moment as she swung the hatch closed. Maxian looked away and sighed. Krista remained in the shadow, her face a serene mask. He went to her and bowed slightly, drawing a small frown.

“My lady, would you care to join me on a short walk?” His phrasing was very formal.

She nodded and drew part of her scarf over her head. The sun was fierce.

The Prince led the way, up over the huge dune that rose above their little camp. On the other side, the slope fell steeply away and it was slow going to descend. Beyond it there was an area of rippled sand and-incongruous among the wasteland-a ruined circle of marble pillars, fluted, and crowned with acanthus capitals, rose from the sand. The Prince led Krista there and sat down on one of the fallen pillars. Krista remained standing, her hands demurely clasped in front of her, looking down upon him.

“Tonight,” he began, “there can be a pair of horses here, with water and food and supplies. The riding horse will have a bag of Persian eagles on the saddle. Five or six hundred aureus worth, I guess. I borrowed an invocation from Abdmachus-the shoes of the horses will leave no trace in the sand. These are my gift for you, this and one other thing.”

He reached into his robes and drew out a heavy roll of parchment, sealed with rich purple wax. He held it out to her, and after a moment Krista took it.

“You are a free woman now, free of any obligation to the Duchess. This is an Imperial writ with the stamp of the Emperor upon it expressing that in no uncertain terms.”

“Why?” Krista’s voice was even, though her mind was afire with concerns and questions.

Maxian smiled, a brief, wan expression that quickly fled his face.

“This business of the city of the magi,” he said, “will be a cruel one. I see myself embarking on a path edged with darkness. The excision of this corruption… it will require blood to be spilled. I would not see you on that same path, regardless of how much I might desire you at my side. Go east, to Taporobane or Serica. Build a new life for yourself, free of the past, free of the curse, free of me.”

“It is a kind gesture, Lord Prince.”

“Then you will take it?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “I would not care to give the white witch the satisfaction.”

Maxian’s eyebrow quirked up. “Jealous?”

“Competitive,” she said with a slow smile. “I have seen enough to know that you may be right. My mistress’ duty my duty-is to sustain the Empire in the face of constant disaster. So I will stay.“

Maxian stared at her for a long time, his face troubled. He wondered, briefly, if she knew of his excursions into the night in the company of the Valach woman. Finally he stood up and brushed the sand out of his kilt. “So… very well. Thank you.”

She shook her head, saying: “Thank me when this is done, if you are still alive.”

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