Shadow of Ararat

NEAR THE TOWN OF GANZAK, NORTHERN PERSIA

H

The cohort was sitting at the side of the road, their wagons pulled over onto a verge of stubbly brown grass. Most of the veterans slept. Zoe, Odenathus, and Dwyrin were perched on a wall made of fieldstone, their backs to the yew trees that had grown up behind the wall. Behind them a fallow field stretched off to another line of trees. Behind that the valley rose into low rounded hills capped with terraces and green bands of trees. The air was heavy with dust and it was hot in the bare shade of the yew trees. In the mountains behind them, to the north, snow was falling and the air bit like ice. Here, in the sheltered valleys of what the locals called Azerbaijan-the land of fire-it was still a warm autumn.

A troop of clibanari trotted past in single file, their helmets slung over their backs on leather thongs, lances drooping from slings, raising more dust. The three young mages were coated in it and had been for weeks as the army had wound its way down out of the mountains. They had heard that the armies of East and West had split into two great columns that were advancing south along the axis of the valley, each army taking care to leave nothing useful in its wake. For his part, Dwyrin had seen nothing but an endless succession of burned-out towns and looted villages.

The horsemen passed, leaving the road empty for the moment.

Dwyrin, who was twisting two soft reeds together for lack of anything better to do, looked up. He heard the swift clatter of a running horse.

“Someone…” he started to say to Zoe‘, but the rider cantered around the curve of the lane, ducking his head under low-hanging branches. “… is coming.”

The dispatch rider slowed down, stopping his horse by the front of the resting cohort. The young man was streaked with mud and pasty with road dust. He had the riding leathers and broad-brimmed hat of an Eastern Empire courier. A long sword was tied to the side of his saddle and a quiver and bow were slung over his back with crisscrossed straps. He bent over, speaking to Colonna and Blanco. From where Dwyrin sat, he was sure that the centurion and the ouragos had not gotten up. The fellow on the horse did not outrank them, then.

Dwyrin went back to plaiting the reeds together. Zoe was dozing, leaning against his side, and Odenathus was flat asleep, snoring a little. The army had pushed south fast after the victory at the Kerenos River. The Persians had scattered in front of their advance, making little effort to deny the Romans the passes above Dastevan. There had been little rest for the thaumaturges, and less to do. Just march, fall down in a temporary camp, get up and march again. Two of their wagons had been lost in a stream crossing and no time had been taken to build or steal new ones. Dwyrin had been keyed up all day, unable to sleep like the others. He kept his hands busy with the reeds.

“MacDonald!” Blanco had roused himself from his nap. He waved the boy over. Dwyrin scrambled down from the rocks and jogged to the end of the line of sleeping men. The dispatch rider hadadismounted and was stretching his legs, leaning against his horse. The courier was young looking, though like everyone in the army of the Two Empires, his eyes were getting older and older each day. He seemed exhausted, with deep lines of exhaustion marking his face. Blanco jerked a thick thumb toward the Hibernian as Dwyrin reached the three men.

“Here’s your specialist,” the centurion said. “Just put him back where you found him.”

“Centurion?” Dwyrin tried to look unconcerned. Blanco lay back down, pulling the hat over his face. Colonna winked and leaned back against the wall as well. Dwyrin, without an option, turned to the courier. The young man was scratching furiously at his beard.

“Ah… sir?”

The courier looked Dwyrin up and down. He frowned. “You’re a thaumaturge?” The courier seemed too tired to sneer.

“Yes, sir. Dwyrin MacDonald, third of the third, Ars Magica cohort.”

“Good enough, I suppose. You’re to come with me back to headquarters. Get your kit. They need an expert and I guess you’re it.”

The courier didn’t even get Dwyrin to headquarters, wherever that was. Two miles back down the road, at a bridge over a swift stream, they met a troop of Varangians in their red cloaks and shirts of ring mail. A young Greek with a thick brown beard and piercing eyes was in command. The courier handed the Hibernian off and sat down at the side of the road to watch them ride away. Dwyrin was confused, but he urged his horse forward and fell in behind the Greek officer as they took a side road off of the main line of march.

Silently the troop of men cantered up into the hills along the side of the valley, passing through vineyards and orchards that had been heavy with olives and oranges. Now many were scorched and burned. The manor houses between the fields seemed empty-not even dogs yapped at them as they passed the gates. At the end of the day they came up over a hill and Dwyrin whistled silently.

A great building rose on the side of a terraced bluff. Three broad decks thrust forth from the flank of the mountain, each twice as high as a normal building. Rows of pillars bounded each floor, tall and white. In the twilight they gleamed like white candles. Vaulted roofs covered the first two floors, but the third rose to a peak and was surmounted by a great circular tower. A red glare blazed from the height of the tower, illuminating a drifting cloud of smoke that hung over the great building.- Ablaze with light, it seemed eerily abandoned and quiet.

The Greek officer pulled his horse, a gorgeous red stallion, up next to Dwyrin. The man leaned close, resting his arms on the saddle horns.

“This is the Shrine of the Living Flame, young lad. It is the holy of holies for the Zoroastrian faith. Do you know of their god, Ahura-Mazda, and his prophet, the man called Zoroaster?” The Greek spoke fine Latin, with barely an accent.

Dwyrin met his eye and felt an almost physical shock. The man at his side was someone. Someone used to the exercise of power and a decisive nature.

“No, lord,” he replied, pulling his horse around. It was shying from the stallion. “I have heard that they worship a living flame and sacrifice to it.”

“Babies, no doubt,” the Greek said with a wry tone, “thrown alive into a maw of iron…”

Dwyrin flushed and shook his head. “I.have not heard that, sir. But I do not know much of their faith.”

“Well, lad, this is the crux of it-that building, yonder, now held by Imperial troops-by men under my command-is the focus of their faith. Every fire temple in all this land, even in the great cities of Ctesiphon and Selucis, has a living flame drawn from this, the first flame of their faith. In that building is a fire that has never died, not since their great man, this Zoroaster, lit it to drive back the darkness and corruption of the world of woe.”

Dwyrin looked back across the valley, seeing the vast size of the building, the rich gleam of the marble and woods that formed the walls and floors. Monumental reliefs and carvings decorated its surfaces. The sky continued to darken and the faint roar of the fire in the cylinder could be picked out among the sound of night birds and the muttering of the troops around him.

“Why am I here, sir? The courier said you needed an expert, but I know nothing of this god or these priests. My talent is to call fire…”

“Exactly,” the Greek officer said. “Come, and I will show you what you must do.”

A great ramp of steps rose a hundred feet from the bottom floor of the building to the entrance at the base of the cylinder on the top floor. Marble panels decorated with bas-reliefs of religious acts lined the corridor. Red-cloaked guardsmen with axes and spears stood along the stairs, holding torches to illuminate them. The Greek officer led, his long legs taking two steps at a time, and Dwyrin trotted along behind him. The man seemed tireless, though Dwyrin guessed that he had been spending long days in the saddle. At the top of the stairs, there was a great vaulted archway, leading into a long arcade that stretched off to the left and to the right.

The pillars of the arcade were carved into the semblance of flames licking up from stolid bases. The round supports at the floor were further carved with figures in torment, lashed by demonic creatures with cruel faces and men without eyes. Above, at the, capitals, winged figures with beatific expressions looked down, helping the figures of men and women rise up in the draft of the fire. Dwyrin shivered. There was something odd about the air in this place. He felt a strange sense of memory crowding around him. They walked forward on floors of red-veined marble, through two more doorways, each more massive than the last, past squads of Germans and Sarmatians. The barbarians seemed nervous, and their eyes darted to the shadows as the Greek and Dwyrin passed. It was very quiet, with only the distant roar of a fire filling the air.

The hallway opened out into a vast round room, filled with a stepped platform like an amphitheater that led down to the edge of a great pit. Around the circumference, more great pillars, each thicker at the base than a tall man, rose up to support the round ceiling. That ceiling was painted with a night sky, filled with constellations and moons and planets. The stepped platforms were lined with seats, enough space for thousands to sit, facing the pit and the flame.

Behind the fire a statue rose, crouched on bended knee. Its face was the face of a dreadful king, majestic and wise. Its limbs were mighty, like the sinews of Hercules, thick with muscle. On its back it bore planets and the heavens, cast in bronze and cunningly painted. Its thews were covered with a kilt of pleated metal. Dwyrin had never seen such a gargantuan work of art.

“They worship Atlas?” His voice seemed faint and small in this place.

“No.” The Greek laughed, looking aside at him. “That is

Chrosoes, King of Kings. He does not lack ambition, I will warrant.“

Below the figure of the godlike king, in the pit lined with black-faced obsidian, a fire roared. It was white-hot and radiant, yet it did not fill the great room with a terrible heat. Dwyrin stepped forward without thinking, to the edge of the top ring of seats. The Greek officer followed him, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his cavalry saber. The pillar of fire did not touch the floor of the pit; it was suspended a dozen feet above the floor. It leapt up, unquenched, fuelless, to roar in the cylindrical opening in the top of the domed room. Rings of mirrors filled the inside of the opening, reflecting the light of the eternal flame upward out of the temple. The clouds above roiled in the draft, glowing, a sight to be seen for miles and miles.

Dwyrin felt his perception peel away, and this time he did not resist. The flame filled his sight, his entire perception, everything in the universe. In his sight, it expanded to fill the room, then the world. He was suspended at the center of a whirling maelstrom of fire. A great oblate sphere filled his sight, seemingly far away. Long tendrils of fire lurched across its surface, some licking out in long, soaring arcs that sprang away from the surface of the sphere and then plunged back into the unguessably vast surface. The thing, this sphere, this universe of light, was alive. He could feel the incredibly complex pattern of forms and energies that boiled and smoked at the center of the light.

He rushed toward it. Where before he had been consumed by fear and had felt that he would be destroyed by the attenuation, by the dissolution in something so vastly greater than himself, now he accepted it. He entered the outer shell of the burning light, feeling some etheric wind rush past him. The surface of the sphere contorted, opening before him like an unfolding lotus blossom. Something bright was inside. He rushed closer.

He snapped awake, feeling a heavy hand shaking his shoulder. Dwyrin looked around, blinking dizzily. The face of the Greek officer was close to his. “Can you make this fire die?”

“What?” Dwyrin shook his head. It was hard to hear the man; he seemed far away, his voice echoing as if he stood at the bottom of a deep well. Dwyrin realized that his ears were ringing.

“You can call fire from dead stone-I know, I was at Tauris. Can you send it back as well?”

Dwyrin stared at the man, then back at the pillar of fire, then he looked around, seeing for the first time the grim-faced guardsmen and soldiers that loitering among the pillars. He did not see a single priest. The Greek shook his shoulder again, turning Dwyrin to face him squarely.

“Can you do this thing?” The brown eyes were intent and focused. “It must be done.”

Dwyrin felt a tightness in his chest. He could feel the will of the officer beating upon him, driving him to obey. At the same time, the beauty of the infinite flower called to him, singing in his mind. Here was a thing that he had long sought but had not realized he craved like water in a desert. He stared back af the officer, only peripherally aware that the German guards were edging closer, their faces bleak and terrible. The thought that such a thing as this could die, be put forth from the world, tore at his heart. What will happen to the light?

“Can you do this thing?” The officer had a hand on either shoulder now, his eyes fixed on Dwyrin’s. “Tell me, boy. It is incredibly important.”

“What will happen?” Dwyrin had trouble speaking, but he managed. “What will happen when the fire goes out?”

“Then,” the officer said, straightening up, “the will of the priests of Ahura will die with it. We are a long way from home, MacDonald, in a hostile land, surrounded by enemies. Their faith, their priests, give them the will and focus to resist us. If we show that our power, our gods, are stronger than theirs, then many will bow down before us.

Others will lose heart. The Emperors need every advantage that can be crushed from rock and stone. This is one. Can you kill this fire?“

No! cried part of Dwyrin’s mind, grappling for control of his tongue, his voice. This fire cannot die-must not die! Should it fail, darkness will creep across the land, unleashed from the chains that Zoroaster bound it with!

“Yes,” he said, though he blinked in surprise to hear it. Other powers crept through his mind. His left shoulder burned with a cold like rotten ice. He tried to force words, his own words, out, but they did not come. “I will kill this fire.”

The Greek officer smiled, taking his hands away. The guards drifted off, talking among themselves once more. Dwyrin turned, though inside his mind he scrabbled to find some control. There was nothing he could grab hold of. His body descended the stairs, one at a time, with steady, even steps. At the bottom of the steps, a broad ring of marble tiles surrounded the edge of the pit. They were cool and slippery under his feet. He walked to the edge and raised his arms.

Before him the pillar of fire hissed and roared, twisting within the confines of the cylinder. He looked down, seeing only the flinty bricks that made the cavity and the floor. There were no logs or charcoal. The fire sprang forth from the air, burning first a brilliant blue, then this tremendous white. He looked up again, seeing the far circle of night that hovered overhead. The clouds boiled and turned over the temple.

“Fire, come to me,” he said, crossing his hands on his chest. He closed his eyes.

In his self, there was a struggle. The cold surged across him, raising a chill and then a sweat on his face and arms. Another fire echoed the pillar, curling in his center, flickering at the base of his spine. Ice leached across it, killing the embers one by one. Finally there was only a pure burning point of flame settled just above his stomach.

Distantly the sound of men crying out in fear came to his ears. Wind blew against him, a fierce gust, and he felt a blow to his stomach. Dwyrin’s eyes flew open in alarm. Living flame had leapt from the side of the pillar, a streamer of white-hot fire that burrowed into his chest. He staggered back, but the current did- not let go. He began screaming in fear, but the fire did not consume him. The incandescent point in his diaphragm spun and whirled, drawing in the pillar. A molten stream of flame sizzled down into a great depth, all hidden in a single point. Ice raged around it, and Dwyrin lost sensation in his fingers and toes.

The pillar shrank suddenly, rushing with a great noise down into the pit. The room shook with a booming sensation and without warning there was complete darkness. Dwyrin collapsed on his hands and knees to the cold marble tiles. Frost had formed on his eyebrows and skin. He shivered uncontrollably. All through the great room, a light ashy snow fell out of the clear air. It was terribly cold. Above, on the deck at the top of the room, the Greek officer and his men clambered to their feet, stunned and horrified in the darkness.

Dwyrin curled into a ball, trying to warm his limbs. It was so cold. His body shuddered, filled with a bone-deep buzz of delight and pleasure. Dwyrin felt sick; he had never felt like this before. The snow continued to fall, carpeting the floor and the rows of seats with a pale-white coverlet. Flakes settled onto his face, dusting his long braids.

The bloom of late summer was gone now, the cold air that had been held back from the valleys curled along the stream bottoms. The Roman army marched southward in bitter cold fogs and intermittent rain. Dwyrin bent his head, feeling chilly rain patter on his straw hat. A woolen cloak hung over his shoulders, and over that a cape of raw fleece. His boots slipped in the muck of the road-the rains had begun to turn the tracks that wound south toward the Euphrates into muddy rivers. The weather reminded him of home, though he was sure that his mother was not waiting at the end of the day, in a warm firelit house with a big bowl of mutton stew thick with onions. Instead, it would be a cold camp by the side of the road and moldy bread with a bit of salt pork.

Dwyrin was last in the column of thaumaturges, even behind Colonna, so he did not notice that they had entered a village until he had passed two or three ruined houses. When he looked up, he saw that the column ahead was turning left down a lane bounded by whitewashed houses and garden fences. The windows of the houses were barren and open, with smoke stains marking the walls above them. Their roofs were gone, or only a jumble of beams with charred ends. The mud in the street was thick with soot and ash, making a black muck that stuck to everything. The Hibernian shivered in his cloak-not from the cold, which was not nearly so biting as in his homeland, but from some unseen chill that seemed to fill the spaces between the houses.

At the little crossroads, where one road started up the side of a hill to the left and the path of the army wound down to the right, heading for the bottomlands of the river, he stopped. He heard a ting-ting-ting sound, like metal on stone, from the left-hand road. He looked ahead, seeing nothing but the backs of his comrades hunched under their hats, slogging down the road. The sound came again, a hammer or a pick it seemed. Rain continued to spatter out of a dark overcast sky. He hitched up his leather belt and adjusted the straps that held his bedroll and bags of sundries on his back.

Dwyrin hurried up the left-hand road, finding cobblestones under the sheet of mud that covered the path. At the top of the hill, set aside a little from the other buildings, was a solidly built square house with a peaked roof. Two dirty-white columns flanked the door, which had been broken and pushed aside. Unlike the houses on either side, it did not show signs of being burned, but then the roof was slate tiles. He paused in the doorway.

Within there was a central room, bounded by an arcade of columns. At the center, in a stepped depression, was a circular pit lined with dark stones. Dwyrin felt a chill on the back of his neck. He rubbed his arms. Weak gray light filtered in from a hole in the peaked roof. An old man, bent with great age, was sitting at the edge of the pit, striking two stones together. Below him, in the bowl of flint, there was a little pyramid of twigs and grass. Beside the pit a few lengths of wood had been gathered. In profile, Dwyrin could see that the old man had a strong, almost hooked nose and thick bushy white eyebrows. His cheeks were sunken, the skin stretched tight over the bone. His beard was long and parted into a fork.

“Are you cold, old father?” Dwyrin’s voice echoed a little from the domed roof.

The old man looked up, his eyes dark in the dim light of the ruined building. “Everyone is cold, lad. The fire has gone out. See?”

Dwyrin stepped to the side of the pit, seeing that old coals still remained in the bottom in a thin layer of rainwater. The water was glassy and swirled with the shimmer of oil. The old man continued to strike one stone against the other, trying to bring a spark to the little pile of tinder. Dwyrin leaned over and slid the gear from his back. It clattered on the tiled floor.

“Let me,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I can make it go.”

The old man looked up, his eyes bright under the ridge of his brow. He shook his head.

“No,” he said in a gravelly voice, “this is my fire. I will take my time in lighting it.”

Dwyrin sat, wrapping his arms around his knees, facing the old man. “Aren’t you cold? The roof is broken, the rain… winter is coming.”

“Yes,” the old man said, nodding his head, “it will be a harsh one. Much rain, snow in the mountains. It will be difficult for all the people. But it is my fire, I need to take the proper time of it.“

Dwyrin frowned. Fire-was not something that took time. He saw that the old man’s hands were trembling from the effort of striking the rocks together. He sat up, leaning closer.

“I’ve a flint…” he started to say, but the old man glared at him and moved to put his thin body between the pile of tinder and the Hibernian.

“This is my fire,” the old man said, his voice even but insistent. “If you desire your own, make your own. Mine is not to be rushed or hurried. Fire will come at its own pace, in its own way. I make fire with two stones-one from the mountain of Ormazd and one from the mountain of Ahriman. In this way, the world is lighted.”

The old man turned his back on Dwyrin. Ting-ting came the sound of the rocks. Dwyrin swallowed a curse and stood. Rain dribbled down his back from the hood of his cloak. He snarled. It would take the old man hours, or even days, to start his fire. Through the round hole in the roof, he could see the clouds lowering. They were heavy and dark-it might even snow. Ignoring the old man, he stepped to the edge of the pit and looked down into the filthy pool at the bottom.

The slick of oil was spattering out in rings as raindrops fell into it. The old dead coals were almost submerged. Dwyrin thought of the pillar of flame in the temple, now days behind. That whole valley had been dark when the Greek and his men had ridden forth. Dwyrin had not looked back, feeling ill and weak. The ancient building was pitch black, without even the light of the moon to illuminate it.

Dwyrin raised his hand, feeling power bubble up in him, rushing and quick, like a spring stream. The coals in the bottom of the pit began to hiss and the water to steam. This is so easy, he thought with a grin. One of the coals turned a ruddy orange and the sludge of water began to bubble and boil. Steam curled up from the surface as another coal caught, burning under the water. Raindrops spattered down, but they hissed away into more steam before they could touch the fiercely bubbling water.,

“See, here is your fire for winter!”

Flames roared up, wrapped in scalding steam, and the room was suddenly hot. The water hissed away, leaving burning coals and a bright fire in the pit. Dwyrin turned, silhouetted against the flames, his face cast in red-orange relief by the hot light. He was grinning.

The old man had stood as well, his face dark as a summer thunderstorm. His eyes flashed in the firelight. “I see nothing. The way is finding the flame that is hidden and allowing it come forth of its own volition. You are a crude boy, without restraint.” The old man’s voice was muted thunder.

Dwyrin stepped back, suddenly sick at the reproach and pity in the bright eyes.

“Flame that comes quickly dies quickly.” The old man stepped forward and Dwyrin stumbled back over his bedroll. “A flame to light the world takes a long time to come, nutured, steady and slow, it might take years or decades or centuries. This witch-light is nothing, a passing fancy.”

Dwyrin scrambled up in a dark room. The fire in the pit had guttered down to nothing, only some cracked stones and a faint hissing as more rain spattered in through the hole in the roof. A sense of terrible shame pressed at his heart. He gathered up his baggage and ran out into the street. The rain was heavier now, and the air colder. He slid down the cobblestones toward the other road.

Ting-ting came the sound, faint in the patter of the rain.

B(»(())‘(0MQW(M»(()MQH()W()HQHQMM)H0H(MM)H0H0HQH0h()1 THE PALACE OF SWANS, CTESIPHON . H

Despite the hour, late after the rising of the moon, the halls of the palace were filled with light. Thyatis, following an unusually ebullient Jusuf, glanced sidelong at grand colonnades of marble pillars, slim and topped with acanthus capitals. On every pillar lanterns burned brightly. The broad floors, a pale.azure color, were clean swept and the walls were covered with incised murals of the victories of the kings of Persia. Thyatis was garbed in a delicate silk gown under a supple dark robe. Only her slate-gray eyes, edged with kohl, showed amid the headdress. As befitted a woman of her station, she kept a pace behind Jusuf and a step to the side.

In turn, he was gorgeously appointed in blue and green linen with a silk scarf draped around his neck. His shoes were jeweled and curled up at the pointed tips. The afternoon had been spent carefully waxing his beard and sharpening the points of his mustaches. Now he cut a dashing figure, one that was completely in place, and thus invisible, in the palace of the King of Kings. Far more demure in her dark cloak and robe, Thyatis was also invisible, though her nerves had been on edge since their carriage had been admitted to the grounds of the stupendous palace. The servant whb was escorting them paused before a tall doorway with a pointed arch. He bowed to the two guards, massively built black men in leather and iron, and whispered to them.

The guardsmen, somber in a dull red and black, returned the bow and opened the door behind them. Soft music drifted out and Thyatis forced herself to remain behind

Jusuf as he bowed to the room and entered in stately fashion. The servant sidled up to the Bulgar and Jusuf bent his head to listen. A bag of heavy coins was pressed into the eunuch’s hand and the plump little man bowed again before closing the doors behind him as he left the room.

Thyatis balanced forward on the balls of her feet. Raw boldness had gotten them this far, and the last of their gold had bought entrance to this room, but now she fretted at the prospect of Jusuf carrying off the last of his little stratagem.

Three days before, sitting on the mud-brick wall of a second-rate caravanserai on the outskirts of the sprawling Persian capital, Thyatis had frowned at the taciturn Northerner.

“My friend,” she had said, “do not take it wrongly, but as a matter of course, you are a gloomy fellow. You are brave and quick with a sword or bow-true-but you do not, as a rule, have a sunny disposition. In fact, you have the demeanor of a lemon.”

Jusuf, grinning smugly, had remained before her, brown arms crossed over his broad chest. He was grinning particularly at Nikos, who was eyeing him with his usual distaste.

“Well?” Jusuf said. “Here we are, but there are no Armenians to raise up in revolt. Any good we might do to help the Emperors must come from being properly placed in the city when, at last, their armies come before the gates.”,

The Bulgar turned and pointed off across the roofs of the city. Thousands of whitewashed mud-brick buildings rose up on a low hill at the edge of the Tigris. Above the tenements, on a great raised platform of brick terraces, stood the palace of the King of Kings. Actually, one of three palaces. This one shone in the hot sun like a beacon, its roofs plated with gold and the delicate architecture of its towers and dome a sharp contrast to the crowed narrow streets and dark bazaars of the city.

“What better place to be, when that day comes, than within the Palace of Swans?”

Nikos coughed and made a face at the barbarian. “Thyatis has an unusual fondness for underground places, friend Jusuf, but it does not seem likely to me that the sewers of the Imperial Palace are going to be unguarded. How do you propose getting into the palace, much less at the proper time?”

Jusuf rocked from one foot to the other. His grin, if anything, grew wider. “Because, my good Roman friends, I know someone in the palace. Someone important.”

The disbelief on Thyatis’ face must have been obvious, for the Bulgar snickered.

“Who?” She did not believe it. There was no way this steppe-rider had a contact in the second biggest city in the world, or within the palace of an Emperor.

“You’ll see,” Jusuf said, still smiling that big grin. “How much gold do you have left?”

The round chamber was softly lit by tall lanterns of copper and amethyst. Deliciously thick carpets covered the floor and spilled through the doorways. No bare wall was visible, save at the edges of the doorways, for heavy tapestries and hangings covered them. Brass chains hanging from the ceiling held more lanterns and the air was touched by the sweet smell of incense. Somewhere, through one of the doorways, a lyre played, a haunting sound pitched low enough to permit quiet conversation.

Jusuf stopped and stood waiting, the richness and subtlety of the furnishings making him seem garish and clumsy in his costume. Thyatis counted doors-three-and eyed the rooms beyond. If anything, they were more gorgeously appointed than this entryway. A severe-looking dark-haired woman dressed in dull gray entered through the doorway on the left. Amid the soft luxury of the rooms, the matron’s harsh figure was a shock. She frowned, her face clouding with anger when she saw them.

“You must leave,” she said in a clipped voice. “My mistress is not entertaining visitors at this hour.” Her voice, though thickened by anger, was naturally melodious and her Persian flawless.

Jusuf bowed, his hands at the sides of his thighs.

“Please, my lady,” he said in his best Persian, his voice quietly sincere. “I come from the north and have urgent news for the Lady Shirin. I beg you, let me speak with her. My news is for her ears alone.” -

The woman paused, halting an incipient tirade. Her head cocked to one side. Coupled with the pile of deep black hair pinned up on her head, she reminded Thyatis of a raven eyeing a shining stone. Her eyes narrowed and she nodded. “Very well. I will convey your message and see if the lady will receive you. Wait here.”

When the matron had gone, Thyatis whispered: “What news, O mysterious one?”

“You’ll see,” Jusuf answered, still smiling.

A moment later the matron returned, a trace of puzzlement on her face. She stood in the doorway and motioned them to enter. Once they were past, she drew closed a curtain behind them. Thyatis listened, but could hear no footsteps on the thick carpets.

“Most gracious lady,” Jusuf said, bowing deeply, “we are honored by your hospitality.”

Thyatis bowed as well, her eyes canvassing the room. The lyre music had stopped.

Half the chamber was walled with glass doors open to a garden of lush flowers and a sward of short-cropped grass. Paper lanterns hung in the trees, and their light reflected from an ornamental pool set among mossy stones. The delicate placement of the flowers, bushes, and rocks made Thyatis’ eyes widen. The gardens around the house of the Duchess seemed poor and ill-made in comparison. This room, these chambers, the garden, all seemed to shimmer with a luxury she had never realized existed. It struck Thyatis that the lanterns, the carpets, the couches, even the gob let of wine on the side table were all the finest that could possibly be acquired.

The woman who had risen, sylphlike, from a pool of warm light and linen pillows matched the room and made it complete. She was of medium height, though her slim-ness made her seem taller. Gorgeous brown eyes dominated a face of perfect curves and planes. Sleek upswept eyebrows and long lashes framed them. She smiled, her graceful dark lips suggesting laughter and merriment. Wavy dark-brown hair with russet highlights cascaded over smooth olive shoulders and down her back. A rich red gown with a scoop neckline that accentuated her full breasts clung to her body. Thyatis felt a bright spark of jealousy flare in her heart, but then it faded. The woman who returned Jusuf’s bow, laughing, her eyes sparkling with joy, could not be hated or reviled, only adored.

“Uncle!” She laughed, her voice husky. “I never thought to see you here, or in such a costume!” She looked upon Jusuf in amazement, and he turned slowly, arms outstretched, showing off his robes. “What could possibly have overcome you to don such frippery?”

Jusuf bowed again, beaming. “I could not come to see my favorite niece without dressing for the occasion! Besides, they would not let me into the palace dressed like a ragamuffin.”

A, slim-fingered brown hand covered the lady’s face as she tried to stifle a laugh. She failed, but then her eyebrows rose in surprise, taking in Thyatis for the first time. The woman stepped past Jusuf and made a graceful bow to the Roman woman, a single lock of her long wavy hair falling in front of her face.

“Uncle, you are remiss! You promised to write me but you never do and now I do not know the name of your wife!”

Thyatis grunted in surprise and touched her face. She had forgotten she was veiled in traditional garb. Jusuf laughed, seeing the movement. The woman spun on her heel, little golden bells tinkling at her ankle.

“Uncle! Do not laugh at me!”

Jusuf held up his hands to ward off the spark of anger in his niece’s eyes. “Wait, wait! Your mother has not married me off yet! This is a traveling companion of mine. Please… may I introduce you in the proper manner?”

The niece turned away, her face haughty, her arms crossed under her breasts*. “I suppose.”

Thyatis grimaced under her veil and tugged at the cloth. It didn’t want to unwind. She bent over and untucked the tail of the scarf from her neck.

“My dear, may I present the lady Thyatis Julia Clodia of the House of Clodia?”

Thyatis threw her head back, long golden-red hair spilling out, and brushed the tangle of locks from her face. She breathed a great sigh-it was suffocating in those things. The niece’s eyes widened in surprise. Thyatis grinned, her even white teeth flashing in the light of the crystal lanterns.

“Thyatis, my niece, the Princess Shirin, the junior wife of Chrosoes, King of Kings. Our host here in the Palace of the Swans.”

“Pleased to meet you, Princess. Nice place.”

Thyatis made a sketchy bow, trying to remember what the Duchess had taught her about foreign royalty. The only thing that came to mind was Anastasia’s voice saying and stay out of their bedrooms!

Shirin took a step backward, amazement and anger warring in her face. She placed her hands on her hips and turned to Jusuf, her brow clouded with dismay. “Dear uncle, this woman is a Roman!”

“Yes,” Jusuf said with an innocent expression on his face, “so she is.”

“You can’t bring a Roman into the Palace of Swans! If you hadn’t noticed, my husband is at war with the Empire of Rome!”

Jusuf rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful.

“Why,” he said slowly, “I believe that you’re right. We are at war with Persia.”

Shirin, her finger raised and poised for a tirade, stopped, her mouth open. Fear crept into her expression.

“We are at war with Persia?”

“Yes,” Jusuf said softly and took Shirin’s hand, leading her back to the couch. “We left Tauris weeks ago, but the Roman Emperors and the Kagan were in accord. Even now they may be marching on this city.”

Shirin sat heavily, a bleak look on her face. Thyatis looked away and wandered to the doorway to the garden. Behind her, Jusuf also sat down on the couch, holding his niece’s slim little hand in both of his.

“The Emperor of the East,” Jusuf said, “made an alliance with the Kagan. Ziebil brought forty thousand men into the south with him. The best forty thousand of our warriors. That is why we are here.”

“Oh, Jusuf, how could Sahul do this? He promised Chrosoes peace at our wedding! How can he be allied with murderers?”

Thyatis looked around and pinned Jusuf with her gaze. “So… friend Jusuf, you want to explain how our missing companion fits into this?”

Jusuf met her stare but then looked away. Shirin stared at Thyatis with concern.

“Sahul is missing?” Shirin’s voice was faint. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said Jusuf, slumping back into the couch, “he was as hale and hearty as ever when last I saw him in Tauris.” He raised a hand to ward of the explosion about to erupt from Thyatis. “Please, my lady, the Kagan asked me to say nothing to you until he saw you again himself.”

“That’s a pretty low trick, friend Khazar, to let me think he was dead for all this time!”

“I’m sorry,” Jusuf said. “My brother found it relaxing, I think, to be one of your troopers for a while. He didn’t want to make your task more difficult in Tauris.”

“Surely!” Thyatis spat, “kings usually give the orders to centurions, not the other way around!”

“Wait!” Shirin said, holding up both of her hands, jeweled platinum bracelets tinkling. “Tell me the entire story, then the two of you can bicker like crows in a farmyard. Where did you meet and why? Then what happened?”

“And then,” Thyatis finished, “your uncle got a wild hair and decided to bust into the palace and see someone important.” She swirled the wine in her porcelain goblet and then took a long drink. Storytelling was thirsty work. The wine was a joy on her tongue, like rich velvet. Shirin, curled up around a velvet pillow with her small feet tucked under her, stirred under the quilts she had dragged out of a closet.

“You really made Sahul follow your orders,” she said sleepily. “And Dahvos and Jusuf? They always ignored me when I was little. He was the worst,” she muttered, pointing a long lacquered nail at her uncle, who was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, his back leaning against the end of the couch. “He picked on me all the time and put frogs in my hair.”

Thyatis smiled, remembering her own- brothers. “That just meant he loved you.”

“Maybe.” The Princess yawned. “Can I see your sword?”

Thyatis nodded and sat down next to the Princess. She had carried the blade with her into the palace, strapped to her back under the heavy robes. Now it gleamed in the lantern light as she slid it slowly out of the silk-lined sheath. The metal shimmered, the watery surface seemingly filled with glowing light. Shirin traced the patterns with her fingers, but she did not touch the surface of the blade. She fingered the leather hilt, her fingertips tracing the grooves worn by Thyatis’ hand.

“It’s sleeping,” Shirin said, “and warm. Have you killed many men?”

Thyatis returned the blade to its sheath and tugged the leather strap over the hilt to hold it snug. She turned to the Princess, her gray eyes distant and shadowed.

“I’ve killed men,” she said simply. “I take no joy in it.”

Shirin hugged a pillow beaded with tiny pearls to her chest, peering over the top at the Roman woman. Thyatis felt a tingle in her arms and stomach when she met the Princess’s eyes. They seemed bottomless, a liquid brown, swimming with vulnerability.

“Are you going to kill my husband?”

Jusuf hissed in alarm and began to rise from the floor. Thyatis waved him back down.

“Shirin,” she said, “my lord, the Emperor of the West, sent me into Persia to prepare the way for his army. Your husband and my nation are at war. I am beholden to do everything I can to help win this war for my lord. But…”-she paused-“I am not here to murder your husband.”

“What will you do, then?” Shirin’s voice was even, though Thyatis thought there was a tremor of fear or panic hiding behind it.

The Roman woman shrugged her shoulders at Jusuf. “He’s the one who wanted to come see you.”

Jusuf levered himself off of the floor and knelt by Shirin, holding her hand. “Little bug, I know you love the King of Kings, but the stories I’ve heard made me fear for you. I came here, and, yes, Thyatis, I came because of Shirin, not because of your mission, because I thought you might need help.”

Shirin stared at her uncle and took her hand back. “My husband has not been well since Maria died.” Her hand crept to her face, “He thinks that he is ugly now, scarred and disfigured by the fire.”

Thyatis shook her head in puzzlement, saying: “I don’t understand. What fire? Who was Maria?”

Jusuf sighed and sat back down. He looked up at Shirin, but she saw only her own fears.

“Maria was the first wife of Chrosoes,” he began, “the daughter of the Emperor of the Eastern Empire, Maurice.“

“A Roman!” Thyatis said slowly, remembering Galen’s words in his tent at Tauris. “How…” Jusuf glared at her and she shut up. “Please,” he said, “let me tell the story. ”When Chrosoes was a very young man, younger than you, his father-the great king Hormazd-was murdered by one of his generals, Bahram. Chrosoes himself was set up as a puppet king for this warlord, but in time he escaped from Ctesiphon and fled into the north. He would have died in the wilderness, even with the help of his good friend, the Eastern lord Shahr-Baraz, but he had the good luck to stumble upon a camp of the Khazars.

“My brother was the leader of that band of men and took Chrosoes in. When he learned who the boy was, he decided that he would help him. Chrosoes and Baraz traveled with us for a winter and we took them, Sahul and I, to Constantinople. Sahul thought that Chrosoes would find safety in the court of the Emperor Maurice.

“At first, we told no one who the Persian boy was, but Sahul gained a private audience with the Emperor’s son, the Prince Theodosius, and convinced him that with the Empire’s aid, a grateful Chrosoes could be restored to the Persian throne. The Prince convinced his father, who became good friends with Chrosoes, and together, they overthrew Bahram.”

Jusuf stopped and shook his head in sorrow. “That was a good time. We rode with Chrosoes and Sahul stood at his side when Bahram was killed in the battle outside of Dastagird. That was when Chrosoes met Shirin, in the tents of our people. The boy had already agreed to marry Maurice’s daughter Maria to seal the peace between the two empires, but anyone could see that he loved Shirin from the moment he saw her.”

The Princess’s hand crept out of the covers and Jusuf took it in his own.

“And there was peace,” he continued, “until Maurice and all of his children were murdered by the usurper Phocas. That turned Maria against the Empire, I think, to hear that her father and mother and all of her brothers and sisters had been hewn down and their heads paraded in the streets of the capital before cheering crowds. Even when Heraclius overthrew Phocas her mind did not change.“

“It is true,” Shirin said, her voice muffled by the quilts, “she urged my husband to war upon the Empire and restore the true Emperor to the throne. She had great influence over the King of Kings.”

“True Emperor?” Thyatis was careful to seem puzzled.

“Her son, Kavadh-Siroes,” Shirin said, “is the only remaining male descendant of the Emperor Maurice.” Thyatis’ eyes widened.

“He has always held me first in his heart,” Shirin mused, her voice sad, “but Maria bore him a son first and was very brave, coming with him to live in a foreign land like she did. She was a strong woman.”

“What happened? A fire in the palace?”

Shirin shrugged, her face a mask. “No one knows, save Chrosoes and the dark one. The Queen was furious with the lord General Baraz for not having smashed the Eastern Empire in the first year of this war. She struck upon some stratagem with the connivance of the black priest. There was a fire and the River Palace was destroyed. Chrosoes tried to pull her from the flames but it was too late. He bears the scars to this day… my poor husband.”

Jusuf smoothed her hair back over her ear and stood up.

“It is very late,” he said. “We should all sleep.”

“Oh,” Shirin said, “you must be tired from your journey. Please, there are couches in the other chamber. You will not be disturbed.”

– The Princess rose, shedding quilts and pillows. She yawned, stretching her lithe body, and bowed to Thyatis. Jusuf gathered her into his arms and held her close for a long time. Shirin put her head on his chest. Thyatis slipped out of the room into the garden. The air was soft and filled with a heady scent of blooms. The moon rode low in the western sky, but the silver light fell among the trees like dew. It was very peaceful.

The glassed-in doors of the sitting room closed with a click and Thyatis felt Jusuf step into the garden. She turned around and said, “You niece is very lovely, both inside and out.”

“Yes.” Jusuf sighed. “We all wished her nothing but happiness.”

“Why did Sahul break his treaty with the King of Kings?”

Jusuf shook his head. “I don’t know. Shirin always wrote to him regularly, he must have divined something from her letters. Last year he began speaking seriously with the embassies of the Eastern Empire. They gave him many presents, but he spent all of the money on armor and weapons. He feared something, but he never said what. Dahvos and I were very surprised when he declared that he would go to war against his son-in-law.”

Thyatis put her hand on Jusuf’s shoulder, feeling him start in surprise at the touch.

“My friend,” she whispered, “when the time comes, we’ll get her out.”

Jusuf looked down at his feet. It was hard to tell in the darkness if he was blushing, but Thyatis was sure that he was.

Two little brown-skinned children ran past, giggling, their white tunics in disarray and splotched with grass stains. Thyatis smiled, her face shadowed by the broad-brimmed straw hat she wore to keep from burning her nose in the fierce sun. Around her a warm winter day had settled upon the gardens at the center of the Palace of the Swans like a comforting blanket. She sipped from a tall, cut-crystal glass filled with lemon juice in water. It was sweet and tart at the same time, delighting her tongue. She sat in a wooden chair at the edge of the grassy sward outside of the domed building that held Shirin’s private quarters. The Princesses’s children were playing with Anagathios and Nikos.

The Illyrian was hiding in the rosebushes, making growling sounds like a lion. The little girls were shrieking and jumping up and down, hiding behind their brothers, who were giggling and darting forward, daring the lion to pounce on them. Anagathios was bounding about, turning cartwheels and pretending to be afraid of the terrible beast. As Thyatis watched, a callused brown hand snaked out of the bushes and seized the unwary foot of the older of the two boys.

The boy wailed in surprise and beat furiously with his little fists on the dreadful claw. His sisters jumped up and down, yelling in delight, as the lion slowly dragged their brother to his certain doom. The other boy latched onto his brother’s head and began trying to drag him back. The Prince started yelling louder as his well-meaning brother had laid hold of his ears. Anagathios became a mighty hunter and leapt into the bushes. A terrible racket began and clods of dirt and leaves flew up. Thyatis reached behind her and touched the sheath of her sword with her fingertips. It was still there. She leaned back in the chair, content to watch the flight of sparrows above the domes of the palace.

Something moving at the edge of her vision drew her attention. Shirin was descending a flight of steps that led down into the garden from the balconies on the second floor of the palace. The Princess moved slowly, one hand on the marble railing. She was dressed in a deeply cut pale-yellow silk gown, long and sheer-almost transparent-with a flocked bottom. Her hair had been done up into a sweeping cloud, shot with golden pins and sparkling amber threads, leaving her long neck bare. Thyatis got up, leaving the glass on the ground, but swinging the sword over her shoulder. She too had changed clothes, adopting a loose blouse of fine white Egyptian cotton and baggy forest-green Armenian pantaloons. Her feet were bare. The children continued to rumpus behind her, scaring a flight of white doves out of the fruit trees.

Shirin had stopped at the bottom of the stairs in a patch of shade. The Princess leaned against the carved wall, her fine olive hand laid against the shoulder of a bearded archer in shown in silhouette. Thyatis joined her, setting her back to the granite panel. It was cool in the shade. Shirin looked pale and worried.

“What is it?” Thyatis said, her voice soft. The Princess shook her head, though her hands were trembling slightly. Thyatis caught her left hand and turned the Princess to face her. Shirin would not look up. This close, Thyatis could smell her subtle cinnamon perfume.

“Some news of the war?”

Shirin nodded, her hand clenching Thyatis’ tightly. She covered her face with the other.

“Bad?”

“There was a great battle in the north.” Shirin could barely speak. “The army of the King of Kings was destroyed. All of the captains of the army were slain or captured by the Romans. Even the Boar was killed, or so the messenger said.”

Thyatis flinched as the Princess collapsed into her arms, fighting tears. She gingerly put her arms around the crying woman. The Duchess had left this part out of her training.

“The… the King of Kings has heard that Khazars rode with the Roman army against Persia. I…” The princess stopped, unable to continue. Thyatis held her close, relaxing enough herself to allow Shirin to slump against her. The Princess was solid and warm. It felt odd, holding another woman this way. Thyatis wrapped her arms around Shirin, holding her close. “I have been placed under guard. I cannot leave the palace without my husband’s permission.”

Thyatis tipped Shirin’s head back with a finger under her chin. Tears had rained the artful makeup around her eyes. Thyatis smiled crookedly and wiped the worst smear away with her sleeve.

“Then, Princess, we will have to spirit you away.”

“How can he love me yet not trust me? My children and I are prisoners! We will be hostages against my father… why did he do this?”

Thyatis stared at the Princess, trying to decipher which he she was angry with.

“Shirin. Shirin!” Thyatis waited until the Princess had focused on her.

“My lady,” she said in a clear, even, voice, “abide by the wishes of your husband. When the time is right, my men and I will get you and your children out of the city, safe and sound. But for now, be at peace with your husband. If he suspects you, or suspects that we are here, it will be impossible.”

Shirin seemed at last to take notice of what Thyatis was saying and gave her head a little shake. Her eyes cleared and she stood away from Thyatis, wiping her eyes. Her hands lingered on Thyatis’ forearms. “Yes, you’re right.”

Shirin turned and looked into the garden. Nikos was rolling around on the ground with four small laughing figures swarming over him, tickling him. Laughter pealed to the heavens.

“My children will be safe. Thank you, Thyatis.”

The Roman woman leaned hack against the cool stone, biting her lip. That was clever. Now what? She wondered. Four noisy kids, all of us, plus the Princess and probably a gang of servants in tow as well… I should have kept the circus wagon.

“So,” Nikos said in a slow drawl, “our original mission was to whack or bag this boy Prince-Kavadh-but now, in midstream, you want to change horses.” He made a wry face and stared at Thyatis. She shrugged, sitting in the cool gloom under the trees in the back of the garden. Her back was to a mossy wall of old stones. Little yellow flowers grew out of the cracks.

“You can see what the Princess means to Jusuf. You heard the same news I did. The King of Kings made his big throw, and it failed. Now the two Emperors are moving south at all speed. Within a month they’ll be here and then things will get ugly.“

Nikos nodded, but he did not let go of his point either. “Centurion-I think the heat is getting to you. Our mission is to bag the kid. Jusuf has done us a hell of a favor, getting us in here on his niece’s word, but she is not the mission”

“Nikos.” Thyatis sat up a little straighter/her hands cupping her left knee. The other leg was out straight in front of her. “Jusuf is our friend. He has stood with us in dark places. We are Shirin’s guests here. We owe them assistance.”

Nikos was still frowning; he did not like changes like this. They just made more trouble later. Maybe a lot of trouble. Still, his commander seemed set, and there was something about the tightness of her lips that said she had already made up her mind.

“Centurion,” he said formally, “are you changing the mission?”

Thyatis sighed and scratched the side of her nose.

“Yes,” she said softly, “I am changing the mission. Now the mission is to spirit the Princess Shirin and her children and ourselves out of the palace at the soonest opportunity.”

“All right,” Nikos nodded, his sense of decorum satisfied. “Good by me.”

Thyatis shook her head. Some days the Illyrian gave her a headache.

“The first thing we have to do,” she said, “is get the other Khazars into the palace. We need more hands for this, particularly those snaggle-toothed ruffians.”

“I will go,” said Jusuf, his grim expression clamped back on his long face. He, Thyatis, and Nikos were sitting in the small room that Shirin had given the Roman woman for her own. By the standards of the palace, it was small and cramped, which meant that it was big enough for an entire lochaghai of legionnaires to camp in and only featured one window. The window, however, looked out over a rooftop with no view of any kind, which was why Thyatis had gladly accepted it. Too, it was tucked away at the end of the hallway.

The Khazar Prince refused to sit and was pacing restlessly on the tiled floor. Nikos was sitting on the bed, his back against the wall, eating a pomegranate. Thyatis glared at him and the Illyrian stopped spitting the little pits behind the headboard. Thyatis looked up at the Khazar as he passed her again. She had taken the lone chair and was sharpening and oiling one of her daggers.

“And if you get caught?” she asked. “Everyone in the palace will know that you were plotting to get your niece out and she and the children will wind up in the pits under the palace.”

Nikos spit, the seed sailing through the open window.

“No pits,”, he said with a finger in his mouth to dig out another seed from between his teeth. “They put ‘em in a tower over by the river-they call it the Tower of Darkness-’cause once you go in, you never see the sun again. Grim-looking place, all dark stone and funny-looking stains.”

“Then who?” Jusuf snapped, turning back to face Thyatis. “You? Him? The same problem applies-if they question the servants, then they’ll know that we’re the guests of the Princess. We’re safe here only while no one knows we’re here!”

Thyatis smiled, her best shark-grin. “Silly boy. Of course not. We send an expert.”

Nikos looked up, his face pinched in surprise. He had expected to take care of it.

“I’ll send Anagathios. He came into the palace dressed as a woman, so no one will be able to match him up with •us, and they can’t really make him talk, can they?”

“An actor!” Jusuf fairly spit he was so angry. “You’ll send an actor to do a man’s job? This is ludicrous.”

Thyatis stood up, the long knife glittering naked in her hand. The look on her face brought Jusuf up short. “Listen, Prince, we do this kind of thing for a living, so why don’t you just let us carry on? And another thing, Anagathios is twice the man either of you are, and I should know. So until you can perform as well as he can, stay off the stage!”

Jusuf stepped back from the snap in her voice and the angry gleam in her eye. He raised his hands in surrender. “Pax! Enough, you want to send the pretty boy, send him. I’ll tell Shirin what we’re about.”

“No,” Thyatis said in a flat voice. “No one knows but the three of us.”

“Hey,” Nikos said, sitting up from the bed. “Anagathios is twice the man either of us is?”

“At least,” Thyatis said primly. There was a wicked gleam in her eye. Nikos held his thumbs up and looked at them, whistling. Jusuf stared from him to Thyatis and back again.

“What?” He sounded petulant.

Thyatis just laughed.

“You wanted to see me, Princess?”

Shirin looked up and smiled to see Thyatis at the door of her sewing room. The Princess put aside a piece of lace she had been working on and beckoned for the Roman woman to enter. Thyatis sat down on the end of the couch and clasped her hands in front of her.

“Yes. The Lord Zarmihr came to the city yesterday when I was summoned to the presence of the king of kings. I had never met this lord before; he is from the far eastern provinces of Tokharistan. He had been upon the field of Kerenos in the north, where the army gathered by Gundarnasp was broken by the Two Emperors.”

Thyatis perked up, her whole attention focusing on the princess. Shirin seemed oddly at peace, her features calm and her voice light.

“This was the first witness of the battle to reach the cap ital. He had ridden very hard, killing many horses. It was as had been rumored. The Boar was laid low and his standard captured. All of the great lords and captains were killed or taken by the enemy. Of the two hundred thousand men who marched north, only a few thousands escaped to the south. Gundarnasp fell, as did the Lord Rhazames and many others known to me.“

“And the Roman army?” Thyatis held her breath.

“Messengers came too from Nineveh in the north, on the Tigris. The Romans are only a few weeks away. They must have marched swiftly to reach the warm lands before winter closed the passes in the north. The governor of Nineveh has ordered the bridges over the rivers and canals destroyed.”

Shirin paused, staring at Thyatis with that same calm look.

“What else?” Thyatis asked, disturbed by the equanimity of the princess.

“No Khazars have come south with the Roman army. Zarmihr saw that many barbarians were in the army of the two Emperors but did not know their banners. The King of Kings questioned him closely as to the presence of my kinsmen, but Zarmihr saw none of them.”

Thyatis pursed her lips and considered the Princess, who looked down, her face lit from within by a smile, and resumed stitching. “You are free to leave the palace again?”

“No,” Shirin said, looking up briefly, her lips in a moue, “but soon I will be. My husband will soon be at ease. The magistrates and lords who whisper to him will have nothing to say. My children will be safe.”

“You see no reason,” Thyatis said slowly, considering her words carefully, “to leave the palace in secret, with your uncle and me?!‘

“Oh, no,” the Princess said. “Within the month things will as usual again.”

The Roman woman rubbed her nose, thinking, then rose. “My lady, this is excellent news. I will tell your uncle and we will make preparations to take our leave. I am sorry you had a fright.“

“Oh”-Shirin laughed-“it’s nothing! In a few days you’ll be able to leave peacefully.”

“Talk to me,” Thyatis said, her voice clipped, once more mewed up in her room with Nikos, Jusuf, and Anagathios. “What are the servants and slaves saying?”

Nikos frowned, his broad face grim. He exchanged looks with Anagathios. “It is very bad. ‘Gathios saw three of the lesser nobles leave today with their families. Those were the smart ones. More will be slipping out tonight. The word in the baths is that the King of Kings has slipped right over the edge. He declared that this disaster at the Kerenos is only a minor setback. He collared two of the remaining big hats here and sent them off to raise a new army from the citizens of the polis. He wants a hundred thousand men.”

Jusuf snorted, shaking his head. “If two hundred thousand men were slaughtered up north, there aren’t another hundred thousand fighting men in the whole empire. What is this King of nothing going to do, arm the slaves?”

Nikos face settled into grimmer lines. “Women and children is what I heard. Kitchen knives and sharpened poles. Whatever they can find in the city. Old men too, I’d imagine.”

“Will they do it?” Thyatis said, her fingers twitching on the hilt of her sword. “Are they afraid enough of Chrosoes to drive the citizens out into the fields to face Galen?”

Jusuf laughed at her, but his voice was trembling.

“Nikos, are the palace guards and city watch enough to do that?”

The Illyrian met her eyes and shook his head. “No, there are only a handful of guardsmen left-maybe a hundred- and the city watch isn’t going to drive their families out onto the swords of the legions. Besides”-and he smiled a little, his lip curling up-“the two nobles set to this task have already bolted. They left everything behind, concu Shadow of Ararat bines and all, and shot out of the city like a stone from a mangonel.“

“Good.” Thyatis stared out the window, her eyes distant. “I promised Shirin I would not kill her husband.” She turned to the Syrian. Anagathios, she signed, are you sure about this water gate in your hidden garden?

The actor shrugged, his hands languid as doves in the close air of her room.“

You didn’t ask the Princess? he replied.

No, I was going to ask her today, but now we’ll have to do it without her help.

Then I cannot say for sure. It seems that the garden is part of the King of Kings personal quarters and the lower gate must lead down to the water side. But without getting a boat and checking the bank, I cannot say.

Thyatis punched her thigh in frustration. Jusuf and Nikos, who had only caught a little of the.quick conversation, watched her in concern.

“Everything is a bad bet,” she snarled. “So we go for the Venus throw. Nikos, get everything and everyone ready- quietly-for a quick exit. Jusuf, you have to stick to Shirin like glue. When things finally come loose around here it’s going to be very ugly. We don’t want to lose her or the children in the confusion. ‘Gathios-you’ve got to find a better way into that garden. I don’t think Shirin is going to be able to climb down a drain like the rest of us.”

She stood up. The three men nodded. “Good, get to it.”

After they were gone, she stood at the window, clicking the sword in and out of its sheath. The sky was turning dusky purple. The rooftops were already steeped in darkness. She sighed, rubbing her nose. Sahul, why didn’t you come south? What happened in the north?