Shadow of Ararat

CTESIPHON

H

The city had burned for three days and three nights before the rain quenched the last of the flames. Now the stones hissed and popped, still cooling, as Galen walked amid the ruins of the great palace that had stood by the river. His Germans walked a fair distance away, a rough circle that traveled where he traveled. It was a gray day, both in the sky, where clouds heavy with rain jostled one another over the river, and below, where a fine coating of ash lay over everything. The Northerners were still chortling with glee over the vast sums of booty they had received from the looting of the city and the palaces. Each man was nearly choked by chains of gold, and rings bulged on every finger. Every man in the army of either Emperor was going home laden with as much booty as he could carry.

Galen frowned as he climbed a broad staircase littered with cracked pillars and burned timbers. The precincts of the imperial residences were coated with a thick slurry of mud made from ash and rainwater. The city was in ruins, its people fled. From the height, he turned and looked back up the river, seeing the broad gray-green surface surging up against the dykes and retaining walls that the farmers and the citizens of the city had labored for generations to build and maintain. The water curled against the top of the earthen ramparts. Soon, if the rains held, it might spill over the top.

The Emperor shook his head, thinking, There’s no one left to repair the earthworks.

Heraclius stood in the center of what had once been a great room. His staff officers were a crowd of red cloaks, muddy boots, and silk behind him, his own bodyguards scattered through the ruins around the platform. The walls were tumbled down, the bricks cracked open by tremendous heat. Great soaring arches had once enclosed the space, and a domed roof had covered it. The dome was gone; only its rocky skeleton remained. A very light rain, no more than a mist, settled down through the gaping holes. The Eastern Emperor was gazing down at an enormous shattered disk of mosaic tile. Galen walked up to him, feeling his bodyguards fade back to the edge of his vision.

“Greetings, brother,” he said to Heraclius.

The Eastern Emperor looked up, his eyes bright. His red beard bristled.

“A pity this was destroyed,” he said, gesturing to the scattered remains of the world map that had covered the disk. “But a Roman one would be more accurate, I think.”

Galen’s left eyelid twitched in surprise, but he ignored the comment.

“A pity the entire city has been destroyed,” he replied. “It was rich and filled with fabricae and merchants.”.

Heraclius laughed, standing back from the mosaic and spreading his arms wide. “We will build a new city here, even greater, more glorious, but it will be a Roman city! The capital of a Roman Persia…”

A faraway look crept into Heraclius’ eyes and he took Galen by the shoulder. Together they walked toward the open side of the chamber, where a series of arches had once stood, looking out over a luxurious garden. The rest of the officers and nobles drifted slowly along behind them.

“Persia lies at our feet, prostrate, smashed to rubble. Their army is scattered, the Khazars rampage through the highlands, looting and pillaging. It will be decades before a King rises to rebuild this empire.” Heraclius stopped and turned to Galen, his face creased by a broad smile.

“This is our chance, brother, to end the centuries of struggle between east and west. The Eastern frontier will stretch all the way to India!”

“And Chrosoes?” Galen said, his voice wry. “What of him?”

“Here,” Heraclius said, his smile that of a cat in cream. He kicked a bundle on the ground, something heavy, wrapped in canvas. “Sviod! Show the Western Emperor what you found.”

The Varangian, a mountain of a man with a smashed-in nose and a bald head like a boiled egg, gripped the edge of the canvas and unrolled it. Something slopped out, something black and bloated, crawling with worms and ants. Galen stared down at it in undisguised revulsion. The hand of the thing flopped at his feet, the skin of the fingers stretched tight over rotted flesh like overstuffed gray sausages. The Varangian smiled, showing gaps in his teeth. The Western Emperor held a cloth over his mouth and nose. The stench was tremendous.

“You see,” Heraclius said, apparently unaffected by the smell, “the King of Kings is otherwise disposed.”

“Where… did you find him? Are you sure that this is the King of Kings?” Galen fought to keep from gagging.

Heraclius motioned for the Varangian to roll the canvas back up. He turned away and paced slowly back to the knot of officers by the broken map.

“Some of your men, all unknowing, speared him like a fish the first night. Apparently he was already badly wounded, even bleeding. His body lay in the garden of one of the palaces for two days before one of the surviving Persians found him. I rewarded that servant well, for it was a precious gift he brought me.”

The Eastern officers looked up, smiling, at the approach of Heraclius and Galen. One of them was the Eastern Emperor’s brother, Theodore. He had his arm around the shoulder of a slightly built young man with a despondent face. Galen arched an eyebrow-the boy was almost pretty, though there was an odd look about him. His clothing, skin and hair were those of a Persian, but his eyes and nose, even his mouth, reminded the Western Emperor of someone…

“Ah, my friend,” Heraclius said, bowing to the boy. “Theodore, let him stand on his own.” The Eastern Prince pushed the young Persian forward. The boy looked up sullenly, his mouth trembling. Galen put his hands on his waist.

“And this?” he said, looking steadily at Heraclius. The Eastern Emperor smiled and ran a finger over his mustaches. He looked back over his shoulder at the bundle of canvas that the Varangians were dragging down into the garden. One of the Scandians had a shovel over his shoulder. The Eastern officers nudged each other and smiled at some secret jest.

“Am I satisfied?” Heraclius said, seemingly to himself. “A nation with which a treaty obtains assails my state. The armies of my enemy plunder my cities, enslave my citizens, loot my farms. I send embassies of peace to this nation, and severed heads, pickled in brine, are returned to me. I send letters, seeking the nature of the grievance against me, and I am called a vile and insensate slave in return. I learn, by other means, of the nature of the quarrel between my house and that of Chrosoes. I send the very head of the murderer of the friend of the Persian Emperor as a token of peace!”

Galen looked around the circle of faces. The Eastern officers were grinning, their faces flushed with some secret hunger. The Persian had stopped trembling and his head had come up. The Western Emperor frowned to himself again; this boy seemed terribly familiar!

“I seek to protect myself and the citizens of my state, and armies are sent against me. Tens of thousands die, and more cities are set to the torch. Yet, in all this, though the people of my city beg me to remain in the safety of my capital, I persevere. I come forth, with the aid of by brother Emperor, and assert my authority.“

Now Heraclius, at last, met the eyes of the Persian boy. Behind the fellow, Theodore and two of his cavalry officers moved in close. Galen took a step back, feeling the ugly mood running through the young officers with their neatly clipped beards and red cloaks. He signaled his guardsmen. The Germans perked up their ears and sidled closer, brawny hands creeping to the hilts of their weapons.

“I bring ruin and thunder. 1 break armies. I shatter cities. I stand above the body of my enemy!” Heraclius was shouting, his face red, pressed close to the face of the Persian boy. “Am I satisfied? Am I satisfied? No! I am not. There is blood between your house and mine, Kavadh-Siroes, blood that still obtains between us!”

The Persian boy did not flinch, though now Galen’s eyes widened in understanding.

Ah, the Western Emperor thought sadly, then I did not win the throw.

“Would his murder sate you?” the Western Emperor said in a voice of steel, his hand on Heraclius’ shoulder. “Did Phocas’ death make you sleep better at night when you became Emperor?”

“Yes,” Heraclius growled, pushing Galen’s hand away. “There will be an end to this struggle. A clean break with the past. Only the Queen Shirin will remain, once this sapling is cut down, and she I have promised to Theodore.”

Galen’s eyes narrowed and he stepped in front of the Persian boy, turning to face Heraclius squarely. The Eastern Emperor stepped back, regarding him with a calculating expression.

“And then,” Galen said, “your brother would rule the Persian lands, with a Persian Queen at his side?”

“She is beautiful, I have heard,” Heraclius said, hooking his thumbs into the broad leather belt around his waist. “She bears strong sons. But Persian? No… she is, what?

Armenian? It does not matter. She will be a fitting prize for my brother.“

Galen turned, his eyes seeking out Theodore. The young man was grinning, his face flushed with the prospect of a crown of laurels for himself. The Western Emperor’s eyes were like flint, and Theodore stepped back, suddenly pale. Galen reached to his belt with his right hand and drew out a short, broad-bladed knife. All around the room, men froze at the sound of metal rasping on metal. The Varangians made to rush forward, their axes raised, but then they stopped in confusion. They could not lay hands upon the Emperor of the West.

“A young man should have a peaceful household,” Galen said in a loud voice so that all in the chamber could hear him, “not one stained by blood. This man before you is a Roman, born of a Roman woman. He is the grandson of an Emperor of Rome, he called Maurice, who was murdered by the degenerate Phocas. He is the last of that line, the son of an Emperor himself.”

Galen put his left hand on the hand of the Persian boy, raising it up over his head. “By the right of blood, this man should be your Emperor. By the right of blood, he should rule both Persia and the Eastern Empire as one undivided state.”

Heraclius made to exclaim at this, but Galen caught his eye and the Eastern Emperor stilled, though his face was thunderous with anger.

“But rule is in the hand of the man who rules. It is the responsibility of the pater, the head of the household, to obtain order in his house, to see that civil cordiality is maintained. This, by ancient usage among the people of Rome, extends even to the brother of a brother. I would not have my brother’s brother have a household filled with anger and rancor.”

Galen’s left arm stiffened and the flat-bladed dagger sank into Kavadh-Siroes’ side, sliding sideways between his ribs.

The boy turned dreadful eyes upon Galen and clutched at the blood oozing around the knife. The Western Emperor pulled the dagger out, the blade making a popping sound as it sucked free. Kavadh-Siroes’ eyes grew even wider and he gasped. Galen lay the boy down gently onto the pavement. Blood spattered on the tiny blue tiles. The Western Emperor bent over and kissed the boy on both cheeks. Breath hissed between the boy’s teeth, then failed.

“Good-bye, cousin,” Galen said, and stood up. He wiped the blood from the knife on the dark-purple hem of his robe. He looked around at the stunned faces of the Eastern officers, at Theodore, at Heraclius.

“This is the duty of an Emperor,” he said, his loud clear voice dripping with acid. “Now there is peace, both in your house, brother, and in the world. And your hands”-he held forth his own, spotted with blood-“are clean.”

Theodore looked away, unable to meet Galen’s eyes.

Dwyrin sat on a soot-blackened brick platform near the public gardens at the edge of the palaces. A statue had been raised on the platform before the Romans came. All that was left were.the stumps of the legs and the head, rolled across the street against the front of an abandoned tavern. The thaumaturgic cohort camped in the gardens themselves, which had escaped the great fire. The sound of axes cutting wood filled the air. The Hibernian’s heels kicked at the bricks. Zoe sat next to him, neither close nor far. Odenathus was lying on the bricks too, one leg crossed over the other knee. The day was gray, the clouds had not departed.

“What now?” Dwyrin wondered aloud. He fingered a heavy string of gold coins that he had draped around his neck. Holes had been punched in each coin so that they could be carried easily. He had new boots too, taken from the house of some well-to-do Persian who did not need them anymore. Zoe had acquired so many lengths of silk

The Shadow’of Ararat and linen and fine cotton weave that she had almost doubled in size.

“What now?” Odenathus said with a wry tone in his voice, raising his head up to look at the Hibernian. “Now you go home, to Rome, and another twenty years of this.” He waved his hand airily at the ruined city.

Dwyrin grimaced, fingering his identity disk, still on its leather thong around his neck. He turned to Zoe, catching her by surprise. She seemed sad, but she gave him. a cynical smile.

“And you, leader of five? Do you and Odenathus stay too?”

“No,” she said, shaking her long braids, “we go home to the house of my aunt, in the city of Silk. She sent us to the Legions to learn, not to stay. Now that the war is over, we’ll go home and serve in the army of the city.”

Dwyrin sighed. He had feared that it would be so. Zoe reached over and squeezed his hand.

“You might be stationed in Syria,” she said, her voice hopeful. “Then we can come visit you at the great legion camp of Denaba. It’s only a few days’ ride from our city.”

“I suppose,” he said, feeling his throat constrict. “I would like to see Palmyra. It must be beautiful.”

“It is,” Zoe said, her face lit by a smile. “It is the most beautiful and gracious city in the world.”

“MacDonald!” Colonna stamped out into the square, his voice rattling the shutters. “You’ve duty. Get your lazy barbarian backside over here! And you too, little miss!”

Dwyrin grinned at Zoe and they slid off of the platform. Odenathus got up more slowly and brushed the sand and soot off his trousers. Then he clambered down and jogged across the square to join them.

Galen stood in a small stone room, his arms crossed over his chest. Around him, the walls were blackened by fire and the roof had cracked and fallen in. His boots were muddy and his cloak stained with the tenacious black mud that had been birthed from ash and rain. Two of his Germans grunted as they turned heavy blocks of cut stone over.

“Are you sure of this?” The Western Emperor’s voice was tinged with sadness.

“Aye, lord,” the chief of the Germans said, his blond beard smeared with soot. “One of the palace geld-men we caught knew the ring and the band of silver.”

The German reached down and gingerly picked up a withered, fire-blackened limb from among the debris on the floor. A partially melted silver band clung to the arm, and a gob of gold clung to one skeletal finger.

“A woman with dark hair, my lord, wearing the signs of the Princess Shirin. Dead, I think.”

The arm fell back onto the muck on the tile floor with a rattle. Galen turned away, looking around the room. The door, too, had burned away, but he could see the bite marks of axes on its outer face.

‘There was a struggle?“

The German nodded, pushing one of the other bodies aside with his boot. The body, even burned and withered, showed a thick gash in the sternum. In the mud, the Emperor could see the glint of broken rings of iron mail and the edge of a sword.

“Some fought, but then they fell and the others-the women-were murdered.”

“What else?” the Emperor said, frowning at the ruin of the room.

“This.” The German dug in a leather pouch on his wide belt. His grubby fingers drew out a disk of tin, pierced with a drilled hole. The fire had scored it, but portions were still readable. Galen took it, turning it over in his hand. The letters, driven into the face of the metal with a hammer and punch, were disfigured but still readable.

“Dardanus Nikolaeus. Nikos. A fifteen-year man.” The Emperor felt a brief disappointment.

“This tells me enough. Bury the rest and tell the quar termaster to mark this name and those of any others you find among the list of the dead.“

A pity, the Emperor thought as he walked through the ruins, the cowl of his cloak turned up. She and her men seemed to have the very luck upon them.