The Dark Lord

CHAPTER NINE

The Port of Misenum, Campania

Where will I go? Shirin pondered, holding the corner of her cloak across her face. Ash billowed up in the sea breeze, driven off the docks and warehouses of the port. The answer came to her swiftly, as if on the sooty wind. I will go home. Dahvos and Jusuf will be waiting for me.

Misenum had been a bustling port before the eruption had roused the sea to wreck the warehouses along the stone quays, grinding the ships to kindling along the oval bay. Now the port was twice as crowded as before, with work crews swarming over the ruins, and barges and dredging ships in the channel and harbor. Shirin walked down the central avenue, keeping to the tufa-slab sidewalks, mind distant from her feet.

The roads were crowded with wagons and soldiers, all inching their way down to the harbor. Legionaries watched with interest as she passed, stepping lightly among their piled gear, the bundles of stakes and shovels, tents of spears, bawling donkeys and sullen mules, white faces and black. Shirin wore a vaguely priestess-like robe and gown, her thick black hair held in place by copper pins. The garments were bulky, disguising her lithe figure. Soot and weariness stained her face. She passed a rank of standards, shining gold-and-silver eagles lashed to the sides of a wagon and made a fleeting bow. The centurions and aquilifers sitting in the shade of a storefront noticed the motion and frowned or smiled, as conscience demanded.

Few would think to pay respects to the spirits of the dead thronging around the Legion standards, hungry for blood and sacrifice, thin voices keening hopelessly. Shirin's people held similar beliefs, and she had been raised among warriors. No soldier wanted to be forgotten and the men carrying the Legion standards took their duty very seriously. Every battle was remembered and the names of the dead were scrupulously recorded in leather-bound books. Those who lived took strength from the memories of the fallen. Every legionary knew Rome herself watched over them.

Brilliant sun glittered from the harbor, illuminating sea-green depths. Drowned ships lay on the floor of the bay, leaning masts still jutting above the waves. Colored banners flapped on the mastheads, marking the wrecks. Of sixteen quays, only three were in operation and Shirin frowned, seeing the only ships in harbor were massive grain haulers, wooden flanks rising two or even three stories high. Their masts towered over the buildings and rivaled the twin pharos at the entrance of the bay for height.

Spying the harbormaster's office, Shirin turned towards the low building, though her quick eyes saw only soldiers boarding the huge ships. She entered the offices of the port, relieved to escape the heat. There were a dozen men inside, sitting at low tables, scribing furiously on long parchment sheets. Drawing a veil over the bottom half of her face, Shirin stepped gracefully past them, to a raised platform where a very thin little man was working among a pile of wooden tablets filled with beeswax inserts. Two centurions were standing at the desk, muttering angrily to the little man in low tones.

Waiting, Shirin saw everyone was drawn and haggard, exhausted by the weight of their labors. I feel the same way, she thought. Who here has not lost his family, or part of it? Even the floor was sticky with ash. Shirin had given up hope of being clean weeks ago. The feeling settled into her skin, coupling with grinding exhaustion and an endlessly hollow space in her gut. The centurions departed, disappointed, ignoring her as they argued in harsh voices.

"Yes, my lady?" The thin little man did not look up from his work. He was counting tallies from the wax tablets with sets of glazed pottery beads. His fingers were quick, shuffling the beads from one pile to another.

"Are those ships heading east?"

"Yes." The man looked up briefly, his eyes dark brown on brown, with barely any white around them. The tone of his skin matched his eyes. "All shipping goes to Alexandria by the Emperor's orders! Grain and refugees out, soldiers and supplies in."

"Nothing going to Ephesus or Pergamum?" By Shirin's reckoning, the old Greek cities were the closest she was likely to get to the Sea of Darkness, at least without entering the Hellespont. With the Persian army and fleet crouched at Constantinople, her easy road home was blocked. However, if she could make her way to the Asian shore then she could make her way overland to the Pontian coast on the southern rim of the Sea of Darkness. From there a ship might be found heading for the northern shore, and Khazaria. And then, at last, she would be home.

The thought of seeing her aunts again and sitting in the great round yurt and eating among the cheerful, bickering crowd of her family overcame her with longing. Her knees felt weak and she gripped the edge of the work table.

"No." The man shook his head sadly. A smear of ink underlined one eye like a bruise. "The Asian shore is too dangerous… quartered by Persian pirates and every kind of evil. We've not had a ship from beyond Egypt for months."

"Which ship can take me to Alexandria, then?"

The harbormaster finally looked up and actually saw her. One eyebrow raised, and he pointed at her with his chin. "You are not a Roman."

Shirin nodded. "I am a priestess of Artemis, from the great temple at Ephesus. I was sent here just before the eruption, to tend a shrine above Baiae." It was easy to bring a desolate tone into her voice and to let her face fill with grief. "It has been destroyed, and all the priestesses, save myself, killed. I must go back, and tell the high priestess what happened."

The harbormaster nodded, his own dark eyes distant. "I understand. The Bast is the nearest ship. She will leave in the morning, once all of these cursed soldiers are aboard. Her sailing master is named Calvus-he will want a fee from you. Do you have any money?"

"A little," Shirin allowed, looking worried.

"You will need to eat." The harbormaster rummaged on his desk and found a punched copper ticket. "Take this scrip," he said, pressing the token into her hand. "Calvus should be happy to have a priestess on board; it'll bring good luck. If he makes trouble, show him the scrip and tell him you're traveling on municipal business, on my business."

The harbormaster stared at her for a moment longer, then shook his head. "Good luck."

"Thank you." Shirin tucked the copper scrip away and hurried out. The Bast seemed very large, though she supposed the grain-hauler would shatter like any ship, if a large enough wave roared up out of the deep to swamp her. The Khazar woman was not happy at the prospect of going aboard-the quarters would be cramped and hot, and filled with soldiers. One slim hand crept under her cloak and touched the hilt of a long iron knife she had taken from the ruins. The cold metal made her feel better. The heavy weight of the jewel between her breasts was comforting too, though thinking of the gift turned her thoughts onto an unhappy path.

Gangs of shallow-draft tugs herded the Bast out to sea when the wind turned in late afternoon. Shirin managed to find a spot on the upper deck among some lashed-down crates. She was watching the rowers straining at their oars, bare backs glistening with sweat. The grain-hauler edged out to sea, passing between the pair of pharos. The wind was light, but it bellied the sails enough to let the heavy ship make headway. Shirin watched the Latin coast drop away, still dominated by the ragged cone of Vesuvius. Her memories of the ruined villa and the little graves already seemed faint, clouded and indistinct. She turned away, looking out to sea, watching the blue waters flash in the sun.

The sailing-master of the Bast hadn't troubled her, not when he saw she bore the sign of the Huntress. Shirin was very glad-she didn't know enough about this foreign religion to deceive a real believer-but her time on Thira had acquainted her with the basic themes. Despite what she'd told the harbormaster, she did have enough coin to purchase food during the voyage to Egypt. But it was not wise to boast of such things, not to a stranger.

"Mistress?" Shirin turned, hand automatically sliding around the hilt of her knife. A legionary, a very young one, was standing beside her at the rail. His brown hair lay flat on his head like a leather cap, and his warm eyes were filled with worry. "Will you say a prayer for us, for the voyage? To keep this flimsy boat from splitting open and spilling us into the sea?"

Shirin looked where he pointed and saw a group of soldiers sitting not far away. They already looked bilious and pale, which almost made Shirin smile. Until Thyatis had snatched her out of the burning ruins of Ctesiphon, she had never been on a boat larger than the hide coracles her brothers made to fish in the Rha or in the marshes along the Salt Sea. Three months in a dhow dogging the coast of Arabia and Africa exposed her to the real ocean, and against the heavy waves and tides of the Mare Erythraeum, this Inner Sea of the Romans was a flat, placid lake.

"What is your name?" she said, keeping her voice and face solemn. She supposed some priestesses might smile, but was not a good idea, not for a single woman on a ship filled with legionaries. She did not feel like smiling anyway. The soldier swallowed visibly, then bobbed his head.

"I'm, ah, Marcus Flaccus, my lady. We're from the Immortal Bulls, the Legion Fifth Macedonia."

"Do you have a sacrifice, to placate the gods and Poseidon Sea King?" Shirin knew her voice was cold and forbidding, but the little spark of fear in the soldier warmed her. "A hen, a lamb?"

The soldier shook his head sadly. "No, lady. We hoped you would spy out any poor omens… and avert them, you know, by speaking for us to the god."

Shirin nodded, looking out to sea again. The sky was clear and the horizon a slightly bowed line of dark blue. She turned back to the boy and fixed him with a gimlet eye. "The captain had omens cast, before we boarded?" Marcus nodded, looking a little queasy. "They were poor?"

"Oh, no!" Marcus raised a hand to his lips. It veered close to bad luck to mention poor omens aboard ship. "They were good, very good. The priest sneezed-to the right-during the ceremony. A good sign."

"Then why are you worried?" Shirin essayed a thin smile. "If you are not impious while aboard, if you do not swear, or curse the gods, and suffer no dreams of dark water, then all will be well. We will be in Alexandria in a week or a little more. I will watch for signs the gods have changed their mind."

"Yes, my lady. Thank you." Marcus bowed and scurried away. Shirin watched him with interest. She had not been raised to be particularly religious; she was the daughter of a kagan, not a rev, and the hand of omen and portent lay lightly upon her. These Romans, though, they seemed a frightened lot, filled with concern over the flight of birds, or the color of the sky, or whatever phantoms of drink and poorly cooked meat plagued their dreams. Hiding a smile again, she settled on one of the heavy crates the Legion had brought aboard and wondered what she would do about food and water. She did have some money, but it occurred to her that on a ship of soldiers, there might not be anyone to purchase food from. Usually a big ship like this carried at least one merchant, selling tents, capes, sun hats, food, wine and fruit to the passengers. She scowled, wondering if she would have to beg from the crew.

The sun plunged down into the western sea, filling the sky with a glorious clear light. A few clouds crept across the heavens during the long, hot day and they gleamed like polished bronze. The Bast made good time, it seemed, down the Latin coast. Even with night falling, the captain was pleased enough with the weather to keep sailing after dark. On the shore, lights were beginning to wink on, tiny and orange against the deepening gloom. Shirin supposed there were towns and villages all along the coast, providing simple wayposts for passing ships.

She sat cross-legged, as Mikele might do, picking at the hem of her robe in irritation. An hour or so ago, she had taken a turn around the long deck-the Bast was almost two hundred feet long, with a deck forty feet, or more, wide. Every conceivable space was crowded with soldiers and their gear. The sailing master had mentioned nearly two thousand soldiers were aboard. Belowdecks, she supposed it was worse, with the cavernous cargo holds crowded with animals, more equipment and those men who hadn't managed to find a place to sleep up on the deck. She hadn't found anyone to sell her food. Now the Legion cooks were busy around a stone hearth behind the main yard, and the smell of frying sausages and bacon, meal cakes and fresh biscuits filled the air. Shirin's stomach growled and she clutched her middle, surprised by the pang of hunger shooting though her.

She closed her eyes and sent up a prayer to the great god watching over her people. Please don't let my mother know I had to beg for food from a foreigner! The thought made Shirin a little ill, but eating was far better than not eating, as her belly reminded her. Then a brief, intense series of memories plagued her-every glorious feast she had ever presided over while in Ctesiphon-the details of the roasts, the golden-glazed hens, the acres of cheese and baked breads and sweetmeats and wine, all presented themselves for her inspection. She desperately missed being an Empress.

"Foulness…" she whispered, staring gloomily out at the sea. A grunt answered. She looked around and found a grizzled-looking man with stout arms, a barrel chest and broad, stump-nosed face standing nearby. He was wearing the undertunic and leggings of a legionary and his bare arms showed puckered scars and welts like a blacksmith's anvil. Shirin felt a chill, seeing his flat eyes and the way they traveled over her.

"Your… pardon, lady," the man said, squinting. Shirin tensed, gaining the impression this soldier might not believe her story. "My lads wanted to know if you would join them at dinner, bless the food and the like, set their minds at ease."

"You are not at ease?" Shirin's nostrils flared. The soldier was staring fixedly at her breasts. She stood up, drawing the cloak around her. He blinked then, meeting her eyes.

"Can't say I like traveling on the water, no," he allowed. Shirin nodded, looking over at the soldiers sitting on the deck. They had their food on wooden plates and they were watching her, faces pale ovals in the growing darkness. "Will you join us?"

"I will," Shirin said, hunger blunting the edge of her suspicion. "My name is… Ruth. I serve Artemis, the Hunter. What is your name?"

The soldier blinked again, then rubbed his nose. "Florus, centurion of the Twelfth of the Fifth."

Shirin nodded somberly. "Well met, then, Master Florus."

Full night had fallen by the time Shirin finished stuffing herself with fried meal cakes and honey. The soldiers watched her with amusement and then in a little awe. They hadn't eaten so much-but then they'd had a meal in the morning too. When she was done, the Khazar woman set the plate on the deck, swallowed and looked around at the men with a calm expression. Inside, she wanted to shout or cheer with relief, before curling up and going to sleep. She had not eaten so well since diving off the Pride of Cos. Grubbing in the ruins, or accepting handouts from the Imperial troops sent into the devastation were poor sources of food. In Rome, the stink of the city, its strangeness, awesome size and the howling roar of the Colloseum crowd had crushed her appetite. Sitting in the darkness, only faintly lit by a candle lantern, hearing the rigging creak and feeling the cool night air wash over her, reminded her of the long trip around Arabia and up the African coast.

She clenched her teeth, biting back tears, missing the solid warm presence of Thyatis at her side, and her cousins Kharmi, Efraim and Menahem, and her children… She felt a terrible pang, like a knife twisting in her diaphragm, fearful the voyage might prove to be the only happy time in her life. A vision of Thyatis laughing, red hair bound back behind her head, a little boy hanging from each arm, shrieking as the Roman woman spun them about on the deck, swam up into her memory.

"Thank you," she managed, driving away the cruel image. "May the Huntress' luck be with you, in war and in peace."

There was a pleased murmur from the soldiers. "Thank you, lady, we'll need it with these Persians! Though they've not faced the Fifth, by Jupiter!" Heads nodded, half-seen in the darkness.

Shirin looked over at Florus, sitting at the edge of the circle, his hands busy with oil and a cloth and a file. His armor lay out in front of him, each segment carefully arranged, the wire and leather thongs removed. The soldier was carefully cleaning each bit of metal, rubbing away rust, coating them with oil. Some of the other men did the same, though they were not paying such close attention.

"There will be fighting in Egypt, then," she said.

"Yes," Marcus answered her, sitting up. His young face caught a little of the light from the candle lantern. "They've been lucky so far, thrashing the Easterners, but they've not fought the West, not yet, not under a real general like the Caesar Aurelian!"

The other men nodded and some laughed. "We'll show them a steady line," they said.

"Have you fought the Persians before?" Shirin was curious. She had spent a long time in Persia and knew what the diquans said of Rome. What did their enemies think? "You've faced the cataphracts and the clibanarus-the oven-men, I think you call them-in full battle array?"

"No," Marcus admitted, grimacing. "Well, the centurion has, right Florus?"

There was a grunt from the darkness, but the centurion did not look up from his work.

"If you follow his orders," Shirin said, seeing the soldiers were very young and brave, but afraid to admit they had not faced an enemy as fearsome as the Persians. "You will do well, and fight honorably."

"Have you seen the Persians in battle?" Marcus failed to keep both curiosity and disbelief from his voice.

"I have," Shirin said, then stopped, wondering if anything she might say to these boys would matter. Soon they would fight and live, or die, by their own merits on some Egyptian field. "When I was little, before I became a… priestess, I lived near the Persian frontier. More than once, I saw the Persians ride against… my people. They make a great show on the march, bright banners and flags and great horns blowing, and they are all a-horse, great chargers with round chests. Their spears are keen, I remember, and wave like a forest of shining reeds."

"But Rome has always beaten them," Marcus interjected, his voice concerned. "Off their horses they're no match for us, not on broken ground!"

"I hope so," Shirin said. "The Huntress would be pleased to see you live. When I am home again, I will sacrifice for you, and your safety."

That pleased the young Romans, who raised their cups in salute. Shirin felt a little odd, as if she'd pulled a mask across her face and suddenly spoken with someone else's voice. Marcus lowered his cup, his face suddenly grim. "We shouldn't be too quick to discount them, though."

"Why?" called some of the other men. Shirin noticed Florus raise his big square head to watch the younger man with interest.

"They have arts we lack," Marcus said, looking around at his fellows, mouth thinned to a sharp line. "They did not throw down the walls of Constantinople by strength of mortal arms! No, their foul priests summoned up some fiend-"

"Their priests are not foul!" Shirin was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. "The mobeds and mobehedan are pious men, who serve a god of light, not darkness. Their god may be different from yours, but he too rules justly in heaven. I fear-" She stopped, throat choked closed by old anger. Her face seemed to shutter, as if a door closed on a lighted room. In dark memory, she looked upon almost-forgotten pain and turned the scenes and voices over in her thought like glittering bits of glass. With an effort, she returned her attention to the present, and the stunned, questioning faces of the young soldiers.

"I am little older than you are," she said, voice falling into a cadence she'd first heard in her father's voice, around the campfires of the people. "But I have heard a tale out of Persia, one you have not, I think. Your enemies are only men and women, like yourselves, and they are prey to many failings. They are prey to evil, and not the simple evil of lies or theft, but the kind of evil that makes the gods turn their faces from men."

Shirin stopped, looking up at the sliver of the moon and the thick wash of stars carpeting the heavens. It was very dark between the glittering lights. The Romans were silent, the pale glow of the candle lantern shining in their eyes, Florus setting down his tools and oily cloth as they watched her, as she once watched her father sitting under a Khazar sky, telling the old stories of the people.

"Many years ago, before you were born, the king of kings-the shahanshah-of the Persians was growing old. He endured a troubled reign, much plagued by barbarians called the T'u-chueh who raided and burned and caused much grief along the northern frontier. At last the old king rode out against them with a great army, and in the way of such things, fell into a trap, and was slain. He left two sons, but they were still very young, and neither was yet a man. The greatest of the old king's generals was a stiff sort of fellow named Bahram, and his enemies called him choban, which means 'made of wood', when they thought he could not hear them, and behind his back.

"Bahram seized the throne of Persia and claimed he ruled in the name of the eldest of the two boys, whose name was Khusro-in Roman lands, you call him 'Chrosoes.' But no one saw the young prince, or heard him speak, for the Wooden King sent him away, to live in exile in a fortress, far from the eyes of the court and the great nobles. The younger son vanished completely and everyone was sure he had been murdered. Bahram was not a good king, but he was greatly feared, though in all matters the realm grew weak and filled with petty evil.

"Young Khusro was imprisoned in a castle set high on a mountain, near the northern frontier, and in the custody of an old and very loyal diquan-you would call him a knight. The old knight was loyal to a fault and he'd sworn an oath to the Wooden King and, by all the gods, he intended to keep his word. In the castle, however, lived a strapping, powerful young man-his grandson-and this boy would one day be known as Shahr-Baraz."

A low whistle went up from the legionaries. They did not set any stock by the heroes or kings of other lands, not and be Romans, but this was a name they knew and respected, for the Royal Boar was legendary even in Rome, where few barbarians gained such renown. No enemy had ever won so many victories against the Empire.

"Yes, you know him for his famous beard. The Boar was still young then, and green as spring grass, but he was restless in his grandfather's castle and yearned to see what lay beyond the barren fields and the desolate hills. Too, there was this other young man, also trapped, also eager to make his way in the wide world. This was prince Khusro, the son of the dead king, a prisoner in the old keep. They became fast friends and practiced constantly in the fighting yard, growing stronger and faster with each day. Never have there been two friends like these-each strove to best the other in all things-and each swore mighty and secret oaths they would escape their dull prison and restore Khusro to his rightful throne.

"Winter approached, one bleak year, and the old diquan fell ill and died. A messenger was sent to Ctesiphon to bring this news to the Wooden King. The Boar, however, did not wait for the royal courier to return. He had, as yet, sworn no oath to the king of kings on his distant throne. Instead, with a boldness that has only grown with age, he bent his knee and neck to his friend, Prince Khusro and called him king of kings and made himself the prince's sworn man. Now Khusro set himself against his regent and Shahr-Baraz was a rebel lord.

"Together they fled from the drafty old fort and made their way south and west by secret ways, into the great central plateau of Persia, where all her true riches lie-for there among wide plains and grazing fields are the domains of the diquans and their knights and the very strength of Persia. Khusro intended to find support amongst old friends of his father and raise an army to reclaim his throne. But the prince, though brave, was still young and Bahram was old and sly with treachery. Some of the great nobles rose up for the young king, but more joined the armies of the Wooden King and the prince's revolt was violently suppressed.

"Khusro escaped, and lived, only because there was no man upon that field, or on any other, who could match Shahr-Baraz with lance or sword or spear. The Boar hewed his way from the melee, slaughtering hundreds, and the two rebels escaped into the mountains. This time, the Wooden King found a body resembling the prince and carried the dead boy back to Ctesiphon in a great funeral procession. That boy was buried, as if Prince Khusro had died, and Bahram Choban made himself truly king of kings. Everyone wept, thinking the young prince had fallen.

"Secretly Bahram's men searched everywhere, quartering the mountains and the hills, urgent to find the Boar and the prince. By luck and skill, they failed, and the Boar took the prince north, beyond the mountains of Persia and into the great grasslands surrounding the Salt Sea, where terrible savages roam and the winter is nine months long."

Shirin paused, thirsty, and drank from her cup. When she looked up, she saw more men had come out of the darkness and squatted or stood around the little circle of light from the candle lantern. No one spoke while she drank again and settled herself more comfortably on the deck.

"They would have died in that cruel winter, both the prince and the Boar, if they had not been found by a hunting party of the Khazar people, who rule those lands. Now, know this-the Persians and the Khazars are old enemies, who long fought over the land called Albania, and there was long enmity between them. Yet, know this as well; there have never been two braver men than Shahr-Baraz and Khusro. The two were taken to the camps of the Khazar kagan and made his guests and they spent a long winter there, in peak-roofed Itil, on the banks of the black-watered Rha. Khusro was without fear and he put his case to the kagan and asked him for help to reclaim the throne, which had been stolen from him by the Wooden King.

"Now, in those days, the Khazar people were ruled by a kagan whose name was Sahul Ziebil and despite his short years, he was very wise. Sahul saw Khusro was a man of honor, with a great heart, and-perhaps-peace might be struck between the two nations. Sahul himself was not without daring and when spring came he sent a strong party of riders to guide the prince, and Shahr-Baraz, to the Roman port of Chersonessos. With them went a letter, for the Khazars and the Eastern Empire long maintained a correspondence, particularly in regards to matters of Persia, their common foe.

"So it was that Prince Khusro and his champion, Shahr-Baraz, came to Constantinople, the city of gold, and met in secret with Emperor Maurice. The Emperor was astonished-he had thought to be meeting a Khazar delegation-not the lost king of Persia! Yet he treated Khusro with honor and as an equal, placing a seat at his side for the young prince. All three realms were exhausted by endless war and longed for peace. Maurice and Chrosoes made a pledge that summer in Constantinople and Maurice sealed the pact with the marriage of his daughter, Maria, to the young prince. An Eastern army, and Maurice's aid, were her dowry. Khusro would yet be king of Persia."

Shirin stopped speaking, her voice grown hoarse. It had been years since she told such a long story. The crowd of young Romans had grown again and some sailors hung from the rigging to listen. She smiled at Florus and Marcus. "Your pardon, I am tired and my voice is failing. I will finish the story tomorrow."

With that she stood and left the circle of faces. In the darkness outside of the lantern light, Florus stopped her, his face shadowed and indistinct. Shirin stiffened, wondering if he would try and overpower her. The iron knife was in her hand, hidden under the robe.

"That was well told," Florus said gruffly. "Takes their mind off this cursed voyage. Here."

Shirin felt something thick and woolen press into her hands and she took the blanket. "Thank you."

The centurion mumbled something, then padded off into the darkness on his bare feet. The centurion looked a little bilious in the poor light. Shirin curled up among the crates, glad to lie out under a starry sky, in the open air, the blanket folded under her head as a pillow. Sleep stole over her gently, and for the first time since she woke on the Pride of Cos to a vast rumbling sound, like giants banging on a bronze gong, she slept without nightmares.

Shirin settled on the deck, at the edge of a rough circle made by Florus' soldiers. Marcus, blushing a little and ignoring the comments of his fellows, passed her a blanket for a cushion. Shirin was a little disappointed the great crowd of soldiers and sailors who listened the previous night were nowhere to be seen. But, really, it didn't matter. The group of young soldiers fed her again and she felt pleasantly full. That was welcome change enough!

"So," she began, "Prince Khusro invaded Persia at the head of a Roman army, accompanied not only by his boon companion Shahr-Baraz, but by his father-in-law Emperor Maurice and many other Persian exiles. The Wooden King was not well loved and as Khusro marched against Ctesiphon from the west, many lords who loved his father flocked to his banner. There were battles in the land between the two rivers and Bahram Choban was defeated, his supporters scattered, and Khusro set upon the Peacock Throne, adorned with gold and pearl.

"There was peace too, between Persia and Rome-for Khusro found a new father in Emperor Maurice-and between Persia and the Khazars, who had rendered him such timely aid. Khusro became a great king-he restored order and law to the Persian lands-and he defeated the T'u-chueh who so plagued his father. He was happy with his wives and Empress Maria bore him a son. The wise men of the court named him 'Anushirwan'-he of the great soul. In all things, it seemed the young king would preside over a glorious age of peace."

Shirin's face darkened, and she stopped, taking a drink from her copper cup. There was a sour taste in her mouth.

"One day, a messenger arrived in haste from the West. The man brought terrible news-Empress Maria's father, Emperor Maurice, had been overthrown and murdered, along with his entire family. A base-born centurion named Phocas seized the Eastern purple. Khusro was outraged-a man he honored as a father was dead-and Maria was distraught. Her own brothers and sisters strangled, her mother hacked to bits on the highway, their heads displayed in the Forum. She demanded Khusro punish the murderer Phocas. He demurred-there was a treaty, an honorable peace… Maria did not care, she wanted vengeance and more, she wanted her son Kavadh-Siroes to sit on her father's throne."

A stir went through the circle of Romans and Shirin heard them hiss in surprise.

"Yes," she said softly, "the boy was heir to the Eastern throne, the grandson of an Emperor, son of the king of kings. In him, by blood, both Persia and the Eastern Empire united. Yet Khusro heeded his advisors, who counseled peace. Shahr-Baraz was first among them, urging his oath brother to abide by the treaty. Phocas, as fate revealed, was a cruel and rapacious man and quite mad. Shahr-Baraz believed the Romans would soon overthrow him. Then, said the Boar, when Phocas was dead-Kavadh-Siroes might be welcomed as Emperor.

"So Khusro waited and watched events in the west, and Maria became angrier and angrier. One day she was walking in the Imperial gardens, which stretch along the Euphrates for miles, filled with every kind of flower and tree and glorious bird, and she found a young man sitting under a tree. He seemed very familiar to her, but he introduced himself as a stranger, and said his name was Rustam. He said he was a priest and he could help her avenge her father's death."

Shirin took a breath, and made a sign before her, a warding against evil. She looked around at the tense faces of the young soldiers and her face settled into grim lines.

"You are young, but you must know there are gods not spoken of by pious men. There are monstrous powers who act in opposition to the great gods in heaven. The old Greeks called them the Titans. In Persia they name the king of darkness Ahriman. And he is locked in eternal battle with the lord of light, Ormaz. Now this young man speaking to Empress Maria in the garden was a priest of this same Ahriman and a vessel of dark powers. He was not a priest, as you might think of them, but a sorcerer instead.

"Rustam lived in secret in the palace for some time, while Maria accepted his instruction in the dark arts. Khusro at last relented in this matter of the war against Rome-Shahr-Baraz was sent west to raise an army and test the frontier defenses. Heraclius, who had been nothing but the son of a provincial governor, overthrew Phocas. Khusro wrote to the young general, urging him to accept Kavadh-Siroes as his Emperor, as was proper."

The Khazar woman essayed a small smile, seeing incomprehension on the faces of the soldiers.

"You must understand," she said, "that in Persian lands, the king's descent of blood must be pure. The usurpation of Bahram Choban-who was not of the Imperial line-had caused great outrage. Khusro knew this, as he knew his own lineage for thirty generations. For him, to see a base-born man ascend to the Roman throne, when his own son was the rightful ruler, was a grave insult. Heraclius denied the boy's claim and Khusro determined to see Kavadh-Siroes rule on his grandfather's throne.

"Shahr-Baraz smashed the Eastern armies and broke through the frontier like a maddened bull. He drove on to Constantinople, only halted by the Imperial fleet in the straits of the Propontis. Despite his victories, however, Maria was not satisfied. The sorcerer filled her thoughts with poison, and she conspired with the dark man to raise a terrible spirit, a winged shade to cross the leagues to Constantinople and murder Heraclius. Maria did not think the new Emperor any better than the murderer Phocas.

"She and Rustam set about their blasphemous ceremony in secret, in the old River Palace, but they had not counted upon the sudden appearance of Khusro himself, who had been warned trouble was afoot. The ceremony went awry and there was a great fire. Maria perished and Khusro himself was nearly blinded, his face disfigured and burned. Rustam the sorcerer escaped, carrying the king of kings out of the inferno. Then, gasping for breath in the gardens, as pillars and towers shattered in the tremendous heat, Khusro looked upon the face of his rescuer-whom he had never seen before that moment-and saw his long-lost younger brother yet lived.

"Yes, Rustam the sorcerer was the missing prince, Khusro's own brother, who had vanished so long ago. The king of kings was filled with despair and delight in equal turns. No one knows what passed between the two men that night, but thereafter the king of kings possessed a weapon no ruler had ever dared wield-a sorcerer unbounded by conscience or fear of the gods-a dark spirit to do the king's bidding without thought of remorse or mercy. In this way, my friends, the Persians gained a terrible weapon."

A hiss of breath met Shirin's last words and the soldiers shrank back from her and from the light of the candle lantern.

"But," Marcus whispered, "Chrosoes, king of kings, was killed, slain by his own men in his own house… We've never heard of a brother… surely he was killed too?"

Shirin raised a hand and halted his words. "Men who taste the power of the dark one will not set the draught aside. It is said Chrosoes himself came to rely more and more upon his brother's power. It is like the lotus-one taste and a man thinks of nothing else. Shahr-Baraz may be king of kings in name, but I think Rustam is at his elbow."

"That is bad news," grumbled Florus from the darkness. "If this Rustam is what broke into Constantinople. How can we stop a sorcerer?"

"Bravery," Shirin answered and a strange feeling came over her, a hot flush flooding her chest as if she plunged into steaming water. She looked down, distracted. Distantly she heard herself saying: "Men can stop such horrors, if they do not yield to fear."

Between the smooth olive curve of her breasts, the jewel was glowing softly, shining red like a rising star.