Shadow of Ararat

THE ROAD TO CTESIPHON, LOWER EUPHRATES PLAIN

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l-J ain fell in sheets, obscuring the road and the lines of JL X.palm trees on either side. Thick clayey mud dragged at Dwyrin’s boots and caked his legs. The rain was not heavy but it was constant and it had been with the army for days. The canals the road paralleled had risen, lapping at the tops of the dykes that held them back from the endless fields that stretched to the horizon. In the odd times when the rain lifted or the clouds broke, Dwyrin could see towns and cities pass by, raised up on great mounds of earth. The land seemed empty-no peasants, no shepherds. Even the empty walls of the cities were barren of life. Dwyrin put one foot in front of the other, feeling his boot suck up out of the mire. It made a popping sound as it pulled free, then he put it down a pace ahead. The tan

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– | ires lit the plain, red and gold under an overcast night A sky. The clouds scudded past, reflecting ruddy light from bellies fat with rain. Thyatis stood on the roof of Shirin’s house of marble and jade, her nostrils filled with the clean smell of rain on the desert. She stretched her arms wide, feeling the damp wind ruffle her hair. A deep breath filled her with a curious peace. The city was dark around her, with barely a light showing. The Roman army had come to the gates of the city of the King of Kings, but the populace had not seemed to notice.

Thyatis felt the air move behind her and she shifted her weight. Nikos climbed up onto the roof next to her.

“Is everyone ready?” Calm settled over her. Violent action was close at hand.

“No,” he cursed. “Jusuf had to take a leak and when he came back, Shirin was gone. Her handmaiden says that a messenger came from the King of Kings to summon her to his presence.”

“Mithras! Where are the children?”

“Anagathios has them in hand. Dosed their fruit juice with some poppy. They’re sleeping hard. The Khazars are with him, though.”

“Something… maybe enough. Well, we can use the drainpipe then. Take ‘Gathios and the Khazars over the rooftops. Jusuf and I will go the other way and see if we can catch up with… what?”

Nikos smiled, his grin a white line in the darkness. “Jusuf already left. Just grabbed his sword and ran off after the girl.”

Thyatis considered wasting a good five grains cursing luridly but put that pleasure aside for later.

“Great… I’d better be quick about it. Get the children to the water gate.”

“Ave, centurion.” Nikos turned to go, but then stopped and held out a hand. Thyatis clasped it, feeling his firm familiar grip. The Illyrian’s expression was unreadable in the darkness.

“Good luck,” he said. Then he hustled down the rooftop to the window to her room.

Thyatis stood up and slowly turned around, her eyes surveying the city. She could hear people running in the streets, but there were no fires and no smoke. People had come in from the farms outside of the city the-previous day, shouting the news that the Romans were upon them. Few heard them, for Ctesiphon had been emptying for the last two weeks. She wondered who was left in the darkened buildings. The palace was abandoned, save for the royal guard and a few remaining servants. No one had seen the King of Kings in days. Had he decided to flee, she wondered, or simply to die in the ruin of his dreams?

Her room was empty, her travel gear already packed up for her by Nikos. She slung the bag over her shoulder and checked the straps and belts. She laced up her boots, tying the tops off just under her knees. Rolling from side to side on the balls of her feet, she settled the weight on her shoulders.

The door closed under her hand and she forgot about the room. Downstairs, in the common room where she had first set eyes upon the Princess, Anagathios, Nikos, and the Khazars were pulling on their own packs, laden with supplies and food. The Illyrian was sporting a variety of weapons as well.

“You sure you want to haul that bow over those roofs?”

Nikos looked up and smiled, fingering the leather case tied to the side of his pack.

“Never know when you might need it,” he said.

Thyatis tested the leather straps that held the four sleeping children to the backs of the Khazars. She clasped hands with the men, searching their bearded faces for signs of fear or dismay. All of them met her gaze with level eyes.

“Kahrmi, Efraim, don’t misplace this baggage, you hear? The owner wants it back.”

The Khazars laughed, their white teeth sparkling behind their bushy brown beards. Thyatis turned to Anagathios and signed, two quick motions. Don’t wait for me at the water gate.

The Syrian frowned but bobbed his head in acknowledgment. Thyatis nodded once to all of them and then strode off through the rooms of the Princess’ apartment.

Nikos stepped to the door and watched until Thyatis had disappeared from sight. Once she had rounded the bend of the corridor outside, he closed the teak panel and latched it.

Anagathios, he signed to the Syrian, take the Khazars to the garden and begin climbing out.

The actor shook his curly locks, his face mournful. Dear Nikos, why do this thing? Chances are passing small that anyone will find out what the centurion is doing. And if she finds out, it will go badly for you!

Nikos shook his head in negation. He had already made up his mind.

It must be done, he signed, otherwise her gamble may be for nothing. This way it will be a long time before anyone suspects.

You are mad, replied Anagathios, she would never countenance such a thing.

True enough, Nikos answered, sighing quietly, she would never think of bringing unhappiness to the Princess. But we are her true friends, and I will do this thing for her, taking the onus of it upon myself, out of my friendship for her.

Anagathios shook his head again. He did not believe the Illyrian was right.

Go, I will clean up here.

Anagathios spread his hands wide and signed something about the gods. Then he slipped out of the other doorway into the garden and the waiting Khazars. Behind him Nikos went through the room carefully, checking in the trunks and behind the curtains for anything that might have been left behind. Once he was done he scoured the other rooms as well-the room of glass where music had played, the banquet room, the Princess’s bedchamber, the quarters of her maidservants. In the little room at the back of the servants’ area, he found that one of the Khazars had left a copper buckle under a chair. Frowning, he pocketed it. As he left each room, he left the door open, sometimes propping them with the edge of a chair or table.

In the last room, the entrance to the baths, a cool stone-floored chamber, he paused, grim eyes counting the men and women trussed on the floor. Of them all, only the lady-in-waiting, Ara, was awake. She had stopped struggling with her bonds when he had appeared in the door. Now she stared at him with a blazing fury in her eyes. -Nikos nodded to her and put down a bundle of clothing he had been carrying on the stone bench inside the door of the room. He slipped an amphora of fine oil off his shoulder and carefully leaned it up against the bench. Ara made a muffled sound, but this too he ignored.

He pulled a knife, long bladed, almost a shortsword, from a scabbard slung over his shoulder. It was a Persian weapon, one quietly taken from the guardroom of the House of the Black Swan where the King of Kings slept. Its edge was keen and the blade itself gleamed in the soft light of the single oil lamp. Nikos knelt and turned the first of the servants over. His thumb rolled back the eyelid of the man-he was still unconscious. With quick sure movements, he cut the simple garments from the man, leaving him naked on the floor.

Nikos looked up, checking the other captives. Ara had rolled over and was watching him with brown eyes wide with fear. The Illyrian looked away and punched the knife junder the rib cage of the man with a single strong blow. The man twitched and his mouth opened silently. After a moment his chest stilled and a trickle of blood spilled out of the corner of his mouth. Nikos, his face still expressionless, quickly dressed the dead man in fur-lined boots and the rough homespun trousers and shirt of a Northern barbarian. This done, he rose and surveyed the others.

Too little time, he thought as he stooped over the next man.

In the end, Ara stared up at him, her eyes sightless with fear, as he bent over her.

Thyatis jogged through the halls of the palace. Great rooms, filled with treasures and glorious murals, blurred past. Her boots fell on expanses of intricate mosaic tile, showing scenes of wonder and delight. The crystal lanterns were falling dark with no one to refill the reservoirs of oil. In those places where there were torches, they had already guttered out. She climbed a great flight of stairs, each step carved from sea-green marble in the shape of breaking waves. In darkness, she hurried through a vaulting chamber lined with a thousand pillars containing a stepped pyramid. Atop the pyramid a throne of silver and gold sat in the darkness, waiting for a claimant. Behind rich red drapes, she found an open door banded with iron and clattered down a narrow sloping stairway. “ •

Hexagonal rooms passed, filled with couches and wardrobes bulging with clothes. A closet door stood half open, showing rows and rows of jeweled shoes. Ahead of her, she could hear faint voices, raised in anger. She crossed a bedchamber dominated by a four-poster bed with a canopy of purple silk sewn with diamond stars. The bedclothes were shoved all to one side, a mountain of fine-brushed Egyptian cotton and silk. Water tinkled from a bowl-shaped fountain. The western wall of the room was composed of wooden doors framing hundreds of squares of colored glass.

There was a garden beyond the bedchamber, filled with thousands of white flowers. The sky was very dark, save in the east, where a dull red glow lit up the low clouds. The flowers gleamed, pale and nacreous, in the light of hundreds of rose-colored paper lanterns hung from the trees. The garden stepped down toward a looming dark wall, in three great terraces. A stairway with steps carved from cedar logs descended the length of the garden. Thyatis came to a halt on a circular platform of wooden slats outside of the bedchamber.

Shirin stood in the darkness on the stairs, a pale-yellow flame in the long dress, her hair undone. Below her, on the second tier, Jusuf stood in the path, his blade glittering in the light of the lanterns. His dark-green robes and tunic blended into the grass and bushes, leaving only his long face illuminated by the rosy light. A heavyset man with very broad shoulders and dark curly hair stood behind Shirin, her arms twisted behind her back in his grip. His own blade, a long cavalry saber, was angled toward the Khazar Prince.

“Stand aside, boy.” The voice of the heavyset man was oddly muffled, echoing. Thyatis drifted to the side of the platform, her left hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword. The face of the heavyset man gleamed golden and, with a start, she realized that the smooth features and high brow were a mask of cunningly worked gold.

“No, Chrosoes King of Kings. Leave Shirin be. She does not go with you tonight.”

“Jusuf… ah!” Shirin cried out as Chrosoes twisted her arm, her face grimacing in pain.

“Be still, wife. You, boy, once we accounted each other friends. Now you come to my house in the company of enemies and demand my property of me. I will not countenance it. Stand aside and I will allow you life. If you do not, then you will die, faithless, like your brother.”

Thyatis hissed in surprise, but the sound was covered by a growl of rage from Jusuf. “Servant of the Lie! My brothers ride south with an army to end your madness!”

Chrosoes threw back his head and laughed, a long echoing sound. He thrust the heavy sword into the ground, point first, and flipped a length of cord from his pocket around Shirin’s wrists. She struggled furiously, but it was too late. Jusuf rushed to the bottom of the steps but did not throw himself up the height. Thyatis began sliding her blade out of its sheath, her breathing even and slow. The sight of Shirin’s face twisted in pain excited a trembling in her hands. Anger flared in the back of her mind, a dull red coal growing steadily brighter.

“Your oathbreaking brother is dead,” crowed the King of Kings. “He fell at Kerenos, pierced by many spears. His body was carried from the field upon a shield of the House of Asena, born aloft by a hundred lances.”

Shirin cried out again in pain and stumbled to her knees, her hands bound tightly behind her back.

“I’ve no time for a hobble, my wife, but this will suffice.”

The King of Kings plucked the sword from the ground and spread his feet wide. “Come then, thief, and steal my property if you can.”

Jusuf, his face bleak, moved to launch himself up the steps, but Thyatis called out in a clear, strong voice. “No, Jusuf, I forbid it.”

Chrosoes whirled, dropping into a guard stance. His mask gleamed in the lanterns, his eyes murky pits.

Thyatis stepped down off of the circular platform and the water-steel sword moved lazily in her hand. “We have no quarrel, Chrosoes King, if you will let the Lady Shirin choose her own way.”

“A Latin Roman?” the King of Kings wondered, circling to the left. “And a woman! What strange days are these? Are you Jusuf’s pet? He always loved exotic things.”

“I am no pet,” Thyatis answered, her feet light on the ground, matching the movement of the Persian. “Jusuf is under my authority. Will you let Shirin choose her own way?”

“No!” the King of Kings thundered his voice harsh and metallic. “She is my property, given freely in marriage by her family. Where I go, she goes. Neither you nor this dishonored whelp will steal her. If you desire her so much, come and let us gamble in blood for her.”

“I will not kill you, King of Kings. I promised Shirin that I would spare your life.”

“You promised her?” Chrosoes’ voice was incredulous. “A possession cannot promise another possession! Does the hawk promise the hound? Does the ox hold the sheep to account for its honor? Your words are meaningless.“ He turned away in disgust.

“Do you think that she would not choose you, if you asked her?” Thyatis’ voice was sharp.

Chrosoes stopped, shocked, looking down at Shirin, who had struggled to her knees, the long gown torn off of her shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast. Her hair was a tangled mess and mud from the soft earth was smeared on the side of her face where she had fallen.

“Why would she choose to come with me?” he whispered, a thick-fingered hand going to the mask of beaten gold on his face. “Who would choose a monster, disfigured, unworthy to be a king?”

“You are a king, my love,” Shirin said, her eyes filled with tears. “You have always been a great ruler, mighty and proud. Please, there is no need for more blood to be spilled.”

“You would not choose me,” he said distantly, his fingers brushing against the crown of her hair. “I am a ruined thing, fit only for dark places.”

“No!” Shirin wept. “I do choose you. I have always chosen you. When I look at you, I see the face of my husband, my love, not just the flesh of your body.”

Chrosoes turned away, his fist tight on the hilt of his sword. Thyatis stood only feet away, her knees slightly bent, the water-steel blade pointed away and to her left.

“See?” she said, her voice soft. “Ask her! She will choose you. Then Jusuf and I will stand aside and you can go to the water gate. The night is dark and the Romans have no boats. You can get away on the river…”

The King’s sword rose, its edge glittering. The red glow in the sky was spreading and, very faintly, Thyatis could hear a great murmur of thousands’of men shouting and screaming. The Roman army was loose in the city.

“You mock me,” Chrosoes grated. “It is a lie! No Roman ever spoke truth to me, save one, and he is dead for long years. Only lies and deception and murder spring from your hateful stock.“

Thyatis’ right foot slid back on the wet grass and her body turned, subtly, into line with her sword. Her mind cleared and she became aware of a thousand tiny sounds in the garden: the soft mutter of birds, the tink of Anagathios descending a rope at the base of the garden, the harsh breathing of the man facing her.

The King’s sword blurred overhand and Thyatis was in motion, a burst of fire jolting her blood. The heavy saber rang like a.bell on the base of her blade and she slammed her shoulder into Chrosoes, locking sword to sword at the hilt. The King grunted and Thyatis sprang back, her upper arm numb. He was a like a mountain. She could barely hold onto the hilt of the sword, her fingers were so stunned by the shock of his blow. Chrosoes shouted and leapt forward, sword slashing.

Thyatis leapt back, the tip of her blade flicking his stroke aside. Chrosoes pressed, raining blows upon her like a summer storm. Her defense was a blur of glittering steel, fending off each attack. Her arms raged at her in pain. Every stroke was a hammer blow to her upper body. She gasped for breath, giving ground. Fine cuts welled blood on her shoulders and arms. Chrosoes laughed, a high wild sound.

Thyatis spared a breath to shout. “Jusuf! The gate, get to the gate!”

The Khazar paused at the top of the steps, his hand reaching for Shirin. He looked over his shoulder. The Kha-zars, precious bundles strapped to their backs, were climbing down the mossy wall of the garden on long ropes.

Shirin hissed angrily at him. “Get my children out, you oaf!”

Jusuf turned on his heel and bounded down the steps, taking them three at a time.

Thyatis dodged sideways, feeling the air part where her head had been. She kicked out, catching the King of Kings’ knee. Her boot bounced away, but he gasped in pain and switched stance to put the injured leg behind him. Thyatis gulped air and fell back a step herself.

“A Roman relying on skill in battle?” Chrosoes voice was mocking. “It is an age of wonders!”

Thyatis settled her grip on the sword, both hands wrapped around the long hilt. Her palms were slick with sweat, but the wire and leather were like an old familiar glove. She feinted at the King’s shoulder, her blade flashing like summer lightning. He beat the stroke aside and bulled in, howling a war cry, catching her in the chest with his elbow. The iron rings of her vest crumpled around the blow, but the leather backing swallowed most of the force. Dampness spread under her armor. Thyatis flew backward into a sapling.

The tree cracked and she spilled to the ground. The water-steel blade slithered out of her hand, and she rolled up off of the ground, hands wide. The King of Kings circled around the tree, his boot kicking the gleaming shape of the blade away across the grass. Thyatis crouched down, scuttling to one side. He attacked again, laughing in joy, the heavy blade whirling around his head.

She ducked away from the saber twice, then kicked at his bad knee again and had to backflip away from his counterblow. She found herself balanced on the brick wall that divided each terrace, wavering, her arms outstretched. Chrosoes laughed again and blinked sweat from his eyes. The mask had been knocked askew and he took the moment to tear it off of his face. It sailed into the rosebushes.

Thyatis’ eyes narrowed, seeing him fully in the glow of the lanterns. He had been very handsome once, with a proud nose and full strong lips. His eyes were dark, with long lashes and his cheekbones would have made many a Roman matron swoon and bat her eyes at him. Now he was terribly scarred, with one eye almost closed by the ravaged tissue. His beauty was marred, shattered by glassy skin and ridges of tormented flesh.

“You see!” he howled, seeing the flash of repulsion in her eyes. “Nothing like a king!”

He leapt in, slashing diagonally, his full weight behind the blow. Thyatis jumped up, high in the air, her legs curling up under her. The sword carved empty air and the King stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of the terrace. Thyatis stormed in, her fists and elbows smashing at his face. Chrosoes screamed as his nose shattered again. She snap-kicked his sword hand, catching the thumb at the joint. The saber clattered off down the steps to the second terrace.

The King of Kings swung wildly, his heavy fists bunched like tree roots.

Thyatis wove between the blows and spun, the back of her boot clipping Chrosoes on the side of his head. The skin ruptured, spewing blood. Hot rage welled up in her, giving her fists lightning speed. Chrosoes fumbled, trying to block her blows, but he was slowing. She hammered at his face and diaphragm again and again.

The tip of her boot flashed into his groin and he screamed, a high keening sound, and doubled up. Her right elbow cracked on the back of his neck, driving him to the ground. Her fingers clawed into his hair and dragged his head up.

A slim hand caught her raised fist as she pulled back for a strike to crush his larynx.

“No! Thyatis… you promised!” The Roman woman turned, the gray tunnel that had focused her entire world down to the bleeding, crushed face of the King falling away. Shirin held her hand. The Princess was muddy, with her hair a rat’s nest of dirt and leaves. Her hands, clinging tightly to Thyatis‘, were streaked with blood and dark bruises where she had sawn the cords away with the water-steel blade. The pale-yellow silk dress was utterly ruined, sopping wet, clinging to her in tatters.

“Leave him be,” Shirin said, pulling Thyatis away from the moaning shape on the ground. “He made his choice.”

Behind the Princess, fire suddenly blossomed from the roof of the palace. Shouts of excited men echoed from the windows. The low clouds were dark and glowing with the red of fires below. Ctesiphon was burning.

“The gate…” Thyatis whispered, suddenly feeling very weak. Shirin slid under her shoulder, her slim arm wrapped around Thyatis’ waist. Shirin started to drag her toward the steps, but Thyatis turned clumsily. Rain had started to fall, slanting through the glow of the flames that were licking around the domes of the palace. “My sword…”

Shirin cursed and propped Thyatis against the trunk of an apple tree. The Roman woman clung to it, feeling the blinding pain in her ribs and forearms for the first time. The Princess cast about on the grass, swearing like a sailor. The drizzle of rain began to swell, hissing through the leaves of the trees. Thyatis turned her face up to the sky, letting the falling water sluice across her face, cooling her skin.

The Princess ran up, soaked to the skin, her long hair plastered to her shoulders and back.

“Here,” she said, pushing the sword into Thyatis’ hands. “We must go.”

There was a sound of glass shattering and red light bloomed in the upper terrace. Shirin held Thyatis close and they stumbled down the steps. Thyatis looked back, seeing the palace outlined in roaring flame and steam. More glass shattered as the soldiers looting the chambers of the King began throwing things through the glassed doors. At the bottom of the garden Nikos was waiting, water running down his face, at the little gate. He was grinning fit to burst. He loved the wet.

Shirin dumped Thyatis into his arms and he ducked under the lintel, carrying her to the boat. The Princess turned back, wiping muddy water out of her eyes. Above her, the domes of the Palace of the Black Swan were blossoms of fire. Flames roared from the windows and smoke and steam climbed into the clouds in a great column. Helmeted figures capered on the balconies, throwing furniture and rugs into the courtyards below. At the top of the garden, outlined by the bonfire, a heavyset figure staggered. Shouts rang out.

Shirin wiped water from her face, her shoulders trembling. She turned away, pulling the iron door closed and putting her shoulder into the bar that held it closed from the other side. It was rusty and creaked for a moment before it slid home. With the door closed, the screams and crackle of falling timbers shut off.

The boat was a long skiff with a covered cabin at one end. Nikos stood in the stern, his bare toes gripping the planks of the deck, a heavy pole in his hands. Two Khazars reached up and helped Shirin into the boat. The Princess stepped gingerly to the little cabin and ducked down to crawl into it. Thunder rumbled in the heavens above. Lightning flickered from cloud to cloud. The Khazars cast off the mooring rope and Nikos dug in with the pole. The stones of the dock backed away, pooling with water in the downpour.

The boat slipped away into the storm, water pouring down all around it. Nikos, soaked to the bone, began singing a song of his youth as he held the tiller steady. The surface of the Tigris was broad and flat, dimpled with thousands of falling raindrops. Darkness folded around them. The Khazars put their backs into the stroke. The far shore was nearly a mile distant.

In the close darkness of the cabin, Shirin wormed herself into the woolen blankets, gathering her sleepy children around her. They murmured but fell asleep again, smelling her perfume in the night. It was warm, and the blankets were soft. The boat rocked gently from side to side with the stroke of the oars. The Princess drowsed, her babies in her arms, Thyatis’ exhausted breath soft in her ear, one scarred forearm curled across Shirin’s smooth stomach. Tears leaked from Shirin’s eyes, even after she had fallen into a deep sleep.