The Dark Lord

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Caesarea Maritima, On the Coast of Judea

Khalid shaded his eyes, squinting into a brassy Levantine sky, and gritted his teeth. One of his horses-a dappled, strong-legged mare-dangled from a ship's crane above the dock. Though a mask covered her eyes and a canvas sling was snug under her round chest, the horse kicked furiously. A Palmyrene dock foreman waved commands to the men working the winch and she swung back and forth, then lighted on the sandstone surface of the quay. Khalid breathed out, relieved.

"I'll take her!" He shouted at the longshoremen holding the cables, preparing to slip the mare free of the net. They stepped back and Khalid eased up, clucking softly. "Here girl, here's an apple…"

The mare snuffled wildly, tossing her head. Khalid nipped in and caught her bridle. She flipped her big square head to the side, but the apple was waiting. Cautiously, a soft nose snorted around the crisp, red fruit, then the apple disappeared into a horsy mouth with a crunching sound. "There, see, not so bad…"

Khalid rubbed the horse's neck until she quieted, then led her-still hooded-down the long dock. The air was filled with noise; the squeal of ropes through pulleys, the shouts of men, a dull boom as wooden crates swung from ship holds onto the quays of the port, shrieking gulls wheeling among the masts. Sixty ships were moored in the inner harbor of Caesarea, hiding from a constant, tugging wind surging out of the northwest. Beyond the calm oval of the main harborage, beyond a pair of towering sandstone lighthouses, the sea boomed against a marble-faced breakwater three miles long. The Judean shore, particularly here, was open and desolate, without any kind of natural harbor. Only the awesome power of Rome had lifted Caesarea from the sand. Another fifty ships of the Sahaba fleet were tied up on the southern docks, outside the breakwater, protected from the constant wind and a wicked current by the bulk of the port itself.

Khalid reached the end of the dock, weaving his way through lines of men in loincloths and plain white headdresses laboring in the burning sun. They were hauling wicker amphorae frames out of a fat-bellied Roman troop transport. Wine and oil and salt and olives. Khalid grinned, watching the men with an eagle eye-they were working hard, heads bent, moving with quick, jerky motions. They were afraid.

As well they should be, Khalid thought. They have a hard master. Not one so lenient or so familiar as Rome.

Atop the harbor towers, looming over a narrow channel filled with angry water, two flags fluttered in the strong breeze; the golden sunburst of Persia and the green field and white moon of the Sahaba. Al'Walid grinned again. That is my banner now. Mine.

The horse bumped him again, trying to get nimble lips into the pockets of his cloak. Sadly, there were no more apples. He rubbed her nose, then untied the hood and let her blink away the sun. Satisfied she had her land legs, Khalid swung onto her back and nudged the mare to follow the main street of the port. The road was crowded with wagons, but men parted before him, and the Sahaban fighters policing the port recognized him.

"Make way!" they shouted, pressing back the crowd with their spears. "The Eagle passes! Make way!"

Khalid flashed a smile at two kohl-eyed prostitutes leaning on their balcony and the girls waved, giggling. His heart soared, seeing fear and desire alike in their eyes. But not today, there is work to be done. He urged the mare on, and she was glad to pick up the pace, clattering up the long boulevard bisecting the Roman town. The young chieftain was glad to feel hot, dry wind on his face. The ships were close and cramped, filled with the noxious smell of sweating, unwashed soldiers. Even the strength of the sun, burning on his face, was welcome.

Caesarea was crowded, filled with soldiers disembarking, marching in long columns up from the docks. The Arabs and Greeks were happy, laughing and chattering like blackbirds. A vast quantity of loot was being hauled ashore. When Khalid reached the Capitolina gate, he found the passage jammed with wagons stacked with bundles of spears. Not all of the treasure torn out of Constantinople was gold or ivory. Khalid had spent three days walking through armory rooms in the old Imperial fortress of the Golden Gate, counting bushels of arrows, suits of mailed armor, swords, spears, daggers, scorpion engines, axes, bows, mangonels, shovels, picks, iron helms, shields, sheaves of javelins, bales of tunics, boots, barrels of hobnailed sandals, cornicens in copper and bronze, bucinas, even a water organ built on a wagon… He laughed aloud, filled with furious exaltation. My army is stronger every day. Every day!

"Clear the gate," he shouted and the Sahaban sergeants trying to control traffic turned. Seeing him looking down from an eager horse, his dark face silhouetted against the brassy sky, they redoubled their efforts. Khalid was restless and each grain while the teamsters strained to get their wagons through the portal was an eternity.

Outside the city, the dappled mare stretched herself, galloping along a broad military road arrowing up into the hills. A mile beyond the dusty white walls of the city, a huge camp sprawled on either side of the road among scrub and salt trees. Dozens of banners snapped in the offshore wind and Khalid cantered down a broad lane lined with tents on either side. Persians and Huns looked up as he passed and the swarthy-faced nomads shouted their appreciation of his horse. Khalid flashed a grin, then rode on.

The arrival of the fleet in Caesarea had found not only the Sahaban garrison Khalid expected but fresh regiments of Persian troops. While the armies of Persia, Avaristan and the Decapolis struggled before Constantinople, the King of King's empire-still weak, but gathering strength-amassed a new army and sent it west. Al'Walid knew the faces of men better than most and he kenned the Persian numbers were greatly swollen by mercenaries. Beside the long-mustached Huns, there were Bactrians with their silk banners and huge-chested stallions; countless numbers of Arabs from the eastern fringes of the great desert; thousands of hill-men-Kushans? — with brocaded tabards and leaf-bladed spears; even Indian knights from the hot lands beyond the great sea. Seeing the vast tent of the shahanshah rising above the lesser tents of the diquans and the feudal lords, Khalid slowed the mare, ignoring her whuffling protests and prancing hooves. The day was hot and al'Walid thought she had sweated enough.

Shahr-Baraz's tent rose three stories high, a monstrous confection of silk and canvas and colored banners. A great gate stood open at the front, revealing a vast interior space filled with muted light and endless numbers of thick rugs. Khalid swung down from his horse, tossing the reins to a groom-one of a huge crowd of servants loitering around outside, jockeying for shade near the door. The entrance itself was empty, save for-just within-two dark shapes, one on either side.

Khalid strode past the Shanzdah, ignoring the unsettling emptiness of their helms, suppressing a shudder as he felt some nameless, cold effluvium wash over his exposed skin. He slowed his pace, letting his eyes adjust to the filtered, golden light falling from translucent panels set into the upper storeys. Shahr-Baraz might be a man of action, a king ruling from the saddle, but his empire had a vigorous bureaucracy and court that rushed here and there, trying to find the Boar and pen him safely in elegance and luxury.

A throne of sandalwood and mother-of-pearl glowed in the falling light. Khalid passed through knots of men-nobles, soldiers, merchants, great lords and small-to approach the center of power. He slowed, watching the faces of those he passed with careful eyes. He schooled his expression to a calm smile, eyes glinting with secrets. He stopped, stepping in front of the hulking swordsman, Shadin. The grizzled, white-bearded Sahaba looked aside and nodded in greeting. Khalid's eyes flicked across the tableau before him and he was forced to suppress a snarl.

How has this happened? She was leaving, a penitent on a long journey into emptiness!

Shahr-Baraz, the Royal Boar, Emperor of the Persians and the Medes, stood beside the throne, one booted foot lodged carelessly against the precious wood. His massive torso was girded in mail, his long salt-and-pepper hair tied behind a thick neck with rawhide.

"Within the week," Shahr-Baraz boomed, his voice a little less than a roar, "the fleet will have completed unloading our men and goods. Within two weeks, our wagons will be filled, our regiments ordered. I say, my friends, in four weeks we shall move south in full array."

Standing on the other side of the throne, her hair combed back in a glossy wave, stood Zoe, queen of Palmyra. She eschewed the Boar's martial display, her neck framed with gold and electrum, smooth arms kissed with silver circlets. Khalid hid a sneer, seeing her brilliant blue eyes enhanced with powdered pearl and antimony. Even her gown, clinging like a skin to her young, lithe body was opulent-a golden-hued silk, like the sky at dawn, cinched with supple kidskin. The Queen was smiling, watching Shahr-Baraz declaim. Beside her, the Palmyrene prince Odenathus leaned on a staff. Khalid tried to catch his friend's eye, but the Palmyrene's attention was focused on the King of Kings.

"Our goal is this," the Boar said, voice settling into a basso rumble. "To strike down upon Roman Egypt like a storm, overpower her defenses and seize the great port of Alexandria. We do not aim to capture the whole of the country, not yet, but we must secure the port of Pelusium-the first barrier we will encounter-and then Alexandria. With both harbors under our control, we choke off the flow of grain to Rome." Shahr-Baraz smiled, showing fine white teeth amid the thicket of his beard.

Khalid nodded absently, turning his head a little. Where was-a cold shock made him flinch. Behind the king, hidden in shadow, surrounded by four more of the Shanzdah, stood a slim, dark figure.

Prince… Rustam. Khalid's heart hammered, then slowed. He licked his lips. My… ally.

The prince was watching the King of Kings as well, standing at ease, hands clasped behind his back. Khalid's eyelid twitched. A gleam passed across the prince, making his skin shimmer and twist, as if scales caught the light of a candle. Al'Walid forced himself to remain upright, though a terrible, pressing desire to kneel came over him. He swayed and Shadin-his gruff face pinched in disapproval-caught his arm and held him upright. Khalid wrenched his attention back to Shahr-Baraz.

"The fleet," Shahr-Baraz continued, "under the command of the noble Odenathus, will parallel our course. I expect-no, I know-the Roman fleet has regrouped. They will come against us as soon as we show our intent. Odenathus, you will have to fight, and perhaps you will have to flee."

The Palmyrene was surprised by the shahanshah's sober tone and he shook his head. "My lord, we will not abandon you!"

"You will," Shahr-Baraz said, raising a hand to forestall further protest. "The fleet is our only advantage; it must be preserved. Because of this, the army will march on land with all supplies necessary to cross the desert to Pelusium. Once we are within the Nile delta, we will forage for what we need. But while we engage the Romans ashore, the fleet must keep out of danger."

"Very well." Odenathus nodded dubiously.

"Good!" Shahr-Baraz beamed at the assembly, tugging at the ends of his mustaches. "Now, the rest of you… the lands between here and Pelusium are harsh, with little water, no feed, no browse for our horses. Therefore we must march swiftly, taking advantage of the fine Roman road along the coast. We must reach and take Pelusium before we starve." The King of Kings smiled broadly.

Khalid frowned at the various commanders around him. These fat Persians make such a bold march? I think not… my Sahaba have been tempered on the An'Nefud, the anvil of the lord! The Huns are canny men and used to long days in the saddle with few rations-they will pass the test. Even the men of the Decapolis are hardy and used to the sun… but these diquans from their fat, well-watered land? He stifled a derisive laugh.

"You will be ready in three weeks and your men will keep up. If they do not, they will be left behind, without wine or grain." Shahr-Baraz drew a long knife from his belt. He considered his profile in the mirror-bright blade. "A man might live a day without water, perhaps two, under this sun. His death will be slow and agonizing as his skin burns black and ants consume his eyes. This pleases me-I would not want to sully my steel with the blood of a fool or a coward!"

Off to Khalid's left, a tall, broad-shouldered Persian stepped out of the crowd. "Great king," the man declared, sweeping the assembly with a fierce gaze. "We will reach Pelusium at your side and we will crush the Romans as your lightning arm! Nothing will stop us!"

"Well spoken, Lord Piruz." Shahr-Baraz smiled at the man. Khalid looked closer, disturbed by the gaunt features of the Persian lord. There was a brittle spark in the noble's eyes and the Arab found his attention drawn to a flash of black silk at the man's throat. Ah, one of Purandokht's suitors… then he is mad, and reckless for honor too.

"Consider this," Shahr-Baraz said, stepping away from the throne. His voice took on a considered tone, as if he spoke to children in the temple. "The army of Persia can usually travel ten to fifteen miles in a day. Pressed, my old army of Syria-veterans every one-did twenty. A Roman legion-men accounted throughout the world for their stamina and speed of march-account twenty-five miles a day excellent progress. Between Gazzah, the last town of note before the desert, and Pelusium are no less than one hundred and twenty miles of sand and barren stone. There are no wells, no qanats, no oases. Once we reach the edge of the delta, we must fight our way through the Roman army to the arm of the Nile. Our wagons and pack camels can carry enough food, water and feed for our strength for seven, perhaps eight days."

Khalid whistled, impressed. That was an enormous amount of baggage. The army encamped at Caesarea numbered sixty or seventy thousand men. How many skins of water will a man drink, unused to this sun? Too many. Al'Walid had seen men, overcome by the heat, drink so much from a well their stomachs burst. He hid a grin. Soon they will all look like the lovesick Piruz, he thought, scratching his short-cropped beard.

"Great king?" Khalid turned to the voice, unable to help himself. Zoe stirred, stretching, and smiled in a languid way at Shahr-Baraz. "Many of these men-the princes of the Decapolis, the Sahaba, even the T'u-chueh-are used to swift movement over poor ground. But your Persians… how will they make twenty miles a day? They have so much baggage, so many servants…"

The Persian diquans bristled at the Queen's tone, and she smiled at them like a cat, eyes half-closed. Khalid felt a stab of anger, then quelled his temper. She taunts us, with her body, with her place of favor… does she kneel for the King of Kings, or-Khalid snuck a glance sideways at the dark corner where prince Rustam stood-for him?

"We do not need servants," Lord Piruz barked, one lean hand sliding to the hilt of his sword.

"Really?" Zoe cocked her head to one side, considering the northern prince. "Who will bathe you, Lord of Balkh? Who will tend your wounds, or repair your boots after the sand wears away the stitching?" She smiled lazily, the pink tip of her tongue appearing for an instant between white teeth. "Who will cook your food and keep your tent warm at night? Your squire?"

Piruz snarled and took a step forward. The rasp of metal on metal was very loud as his sword slipped from the sheath.

"Peace, Lord Piruz. Peace." Shahr-Baraz's hand was on the prince's wrist and the sword clicked back into the scabbard. "Do not taunt brave men, Queen Zoe. They are unused to this land."

Zoe bowed her head gracefully, inclining her body towards the King of Kings in obeisance. Khalid bit back a hiss as her gown slipped aside, exposing the smooth curve of her breasts and her flat stomach. He felt a shock in his gut and forced himself to look away. When he did, he saw Prince Rustam smiling from the shadows.

"You are both right," Shahr-Baraz rumbled, clasping both hands behind his back. "Our army cannot cross the desert in time enough if we are burdened by camp followers, servants, maids and pleasure women. Yet-we cannot fight, we cannot campaign-without their skills, their goods, their labor. But all these things are known to me. Prince Odenathus and his fleet supply our answer."

The Palmyrene prince's eyebrow rose, then a quick smile flashed across his lean face. He nodded in appreciation.

"Our soldiers will march," the King of Kings said, pacing back to the throne. "Our servants will ride-in the fleet-which, by happy circumstance, escorts a large number of shallow-draft boats that can easily land on a sandy beach. And between here and Pelusium, my friends, there is no lack of beach and sand!"

Khalid laughed with the Boar, grasping the careful planning and foresight required to resolve such a thorny problem. The other lords laughed too, but they only laughed because their master did. Khalid felt a weight ease from his shoulders and he realized he had been worrying at the same problem in the back of his mind. And who, he chided himself, is the master general here? Who has campaigned for thirty years or more, ever victorious? Not I! Not yet.

"Now, noble lords," Shahr-Baraz said, voice booming again, "to your commands! You all have a great deal of work to do. Do not disappoint me."

Khalid waited, watching the other lords and captains flood out of the tent. He hoped to have a word with the King of Kings, but Shahr-Baraz had already slipped out. Prince Rustam and the Shanzdah were also gone, and the tent felt warmer, more open, for their departure. Only Zoe remained and the young Arab stiffened as she approached.

"Lord al'Walid. Are you well?"

"Yes," Khalid said, his skin prickling with unexpected heat. The Queen touched his sword hand and her fingertips seemed hot. "Why do you ask?"

"You have such a look on your face… are you angry with me?"

"No," he managed to say, though he did feel a spark of fury gutter in his stomach. I should rule the Sahaba and the Decapolis alike! He was surprised at himself. He was angry with her. Everything he had won, she was taking away. "I… you've changed, Lady Zoe. What has happened to you?"

"Me?" Zoe bit her lower lip, staring up at him with concern. Her eyes were very, very blue. Khalid shook his head, suppressing the urge to brush something-gnats? — from his face. She was still touching his hand and her warm fingers slid over his. "Have I? Perhaps."

Zoe paused, looking away, into some abyss of memory. "Yes. You are right. I was very angry when we first met… but the Teacher showed how to leave that behind." She met his eyes again, and such genuine warmth and good humor was shining there Khalid smiled back reflexively, though a bitter, oily feeling swirled in his stomach.

She's stealing my kingdom! part of his mind growled. I could kill her… reach out and crush her throat…

"It seems strange," she said, pressing closer. "I grieved for my city, for my aunt. I don't anymore. I know… the lord Mohammed showed me things… I know Palmyra will live again. And Zenobia…" The Queen laughed softly, nails digging into Khalid's hand. "I feel her close to me, every day."

Khalid blinked, eyes tearing, and he stepped back. His feet seemed to drag through mud or deep, heavy sand. Her fingers slipped softly from his wrist. "My lady… I need to see… to my troops."

"You are a wise commander, Lord al'Walid. The King of Kings is lucky to have you as a friend, as an ally."

"Yes." Khalid felt speech return and his mind starting to work again. He thought of Shahr-Baraz and the plan for the campaign. There was so much to do… he would need to meet with Jalal, Shadin and Uri immediately. We must see to our own supplies, he thought, narrowing his eyes. These Persians will run out… and they will be begging for charity in the wasteland. "Good day, my lady."

"Good day, Khalid," Zoe said, hands clasped at her waist. "Oh, the lord will have need you later-after dinnertime. There are some private matters to be discussed."

"Very well." Khalid nodded.

"He will send for you when he needs you." Zoe said, turning away. Again, he was struck by the brilliance of her eyes as she looked back over her shoulder. She drew a cloak over smooth brown shoulders, then padded away across the carpets. He noticed she was barefoot and frowned, unaccountably uneasy. Servants were entering, bringing long tables and benches. Khalid watched the Palmyrene girl until she disappeared through one of the curtains.

Then he shook his head, brushing away the gnats tickling his face, and strode out.

The King of Kings will summon me? When he needs me… am I his servant? I am a king!

"You will come with me."

Khalid looked up in irritation. One of the Shanzdah filled the door of his tent. The cowled shape was black against the night sky, barely illuminated by lanterns hanging from the tent pole. Khalid sat cross-legged, the sword of night at his right hand. Jalal, Shadin, Uri ben-Sarid and the big Persian mercenary Patik were also in the tent, squatting or sitting around a confusion of parchments, papyrus scrolls and counting boards. Shadin's mouth closed with a snap. The burly swordsman had been accounting the cavalrymen in his qalb, their arms, armor, mounts and provisions.

"Will I?" Khalid put down a waxed tablet. He was already tired, though the night was still young. Shahr-Baraz tasked them vigorously with this march on Egypt. "Who asks for my presence?"

"That one," the Shanzdah continued, its voice a cold hiss, pointing at Patik, "will also come."

Khalid settled his shoulders, glaring up at the shape. The messenger's eyes could not be seen in the deep recesses of the iron helmet. Patik rose and shrugged on his cloak. The desert night was cold, even with the day wind died down to a mild breeze. Without a word, the Persian stepped past the armored shape of the Shanzdah and into the night.

"Curse this… we've work to do…" Khalid grumbled, but the creature was not going to leave. He too rose, slinging the sword of night over his shoulder on its leather baldric and ivory-and-cloth sheath. Already in a poor temper, the al'Walid frowned at his captains. None of the three men looked pleased. "I will be back as soon as I can."

"Oh, surely," Uri said, a thread of mocking laughter in his voice. Khalid's eyes glinted in response, but he said nothing, controlling his anger. The ben-Sarid chafed under his authority. The friction was intermittent, but it grew with each day.

Not now, Khalid promised himself, but soon. The ben-Sarid are eager for glory-they will have their fill, once we are at grips with the Romans…

Khalid's disquiet deepened as the swift, dark shape of the messenger passed among the tents. Patik, with his long legs, kept pace easily, but Khalid was forced to hurry. They did not turn in the direction of the great king's tent, but rather to the east. After a little time they reached the watch fires at the edge of the camp. The Persians and their allies had not bothered to build a palisade or ditch, relying instead on regularly spaced bonfires, tended by a mixture of sentries. There were other lookouts too, hiding in the darkness or loitering on the nearby sand hills. The land around Caesarea was quiet, almost devoid of settlements. There were few men able to scratch a living out of the sandy soil and barren coast. Any approaching enemy would be visible miles away.

The Shanzdah vanished into the darkness beyond the campfires and Khalid followed more by hearing than sight. Thorny brush tugged at his clothes and spiked plants stabbed at his boots as they crossed the plain. Khalid's night vision slowly settled and he found himself approaching another camp, unlit by fires or lights. Even the stars seemed dim. The moon was down, making the land ghostly in faint starlight. The night grew colder with each step and Khalid steeled himself, recognizing their destination.

Your ally, a girlish voice laughed in his head, making Khalid blink, trying to drive a vision of the Queen from his memory. The… prince.

The messenger paused, raising a hand in the darkness. Starlight gleamed from a mailed fist. Patik stopped as well. After a moment, Khalid became aware of a soft noise-something like crickets or beetles rustling on the ground. A very faint sound of chirping flirted with the edge of his hearing. The messenger moved sideways and Patik followed. Khalid peered ahead in the gloom and made out a tall iron pole thrust into sandy ground. Black against black, the metal rose to head height.

Shaking his head again-the intermittent chirping grew louder-Khalid followed the others. The Shanzdah weaved off to the left, stepping around bushes and stones, then back to the right. They passed another metal pole, then two more. Khalid felt chilled and drew his cloak tight around his shoulders. Then the chirping stopped and the cold deepened.

A dozen yards away, a black wagon sat within a cluster of felt tents.

The T'u-chueh, Khalid thought, wrinkling up his nose. Even in this winter-like air, he smelled rancid butter and urine. He closed his nostrils, then put his head down as they walked swiftly through the encampment. Nothing stirred among the yurts, but Khalid caught glints of metal and lamplight out of the corner of his eye. He did not see any horses, which was puzzling. But what animal could stand to exist within this dread circle? How can these barbarians? Yet more arrive each day… flies drawn to rotting meat.

The wagon loomed up, easily twice the height of a tall man, and Khalid saw wooden steps-ornately carved with spiky letters and coiling, eye-dizzying designs-leading up to a door. The Shanzdah stepped aside, his mailed arm raised.

"They are waiting," the creature said. The voice was very faint, rasping and scuttling inside the iron helmet.

Khalid tried to clear his throat, grimaced and mounted the steps two at a time. Patik followed, quiet as a shade. For the first time, the young Arab did not feel safer with the Persian at his back. Instead, his shoulder blades crawled with a prickling sensation.

"Lord al'Walid, come in!" A cheerful voice greeted the Arab as he stepped into warm, golden light. Inside the wagon was a spacious room, rich with bright carpets on the floor, the walls hung with heavy embroidered fabric. Lamps hung from the ceiling, burning bright with scented oil. The slim, elegant figure of Prince Rustam sat cross-legged behind a low writing desk. He had set aside his cloak, wearing only a slate-colored shirt. His hair was loose, falling behind his head in an ebon cloud. "Please, sit."

Khalid looked around, quietly calculating the cost of the golden lamps, the fine carpets, the polished wood paneling. Still in the doorway, he eased off his boots, as was polite, then knelt on a plush, deep-woven Samarkand. Long-bodied hounds intertwined with flowering trees on the carpet. The silk threads felt like fine glass under his fingers. "Good evening, my lord."

"Do you thirst? Do you hunger?" Rustam gestured to one side and Khalid almost hissed aloud in surprise. Zoe knelt against the wall, leaning on one hand, cheek resting on her shoulder, watching him with a smile. Her hair fell behind her shoulder and arm in a black wave. In this golden light, her skin seemed to have grown pale-almost alabaster-with a milky shine. For a moment, Khalid couldn't speak, then he seemed to come back to himself, from far away.

"No?" Prince Rustam nodded gravely. "Lord Shahin, please sit. It's you I've summoned, in truth. But since you have been so ably serving Master Khalid, I felt it best to speak with both of you at the same time."

"Who?" Khalid looked around again, but found only Patik kneeling beside him. The Persian's expression was bleak with unexpected despair. His high cheekbones were pronounced and Khalid realized the mercenary was gritting his teeth. "Who is… Patik? You… you are the Great Prince Shahin!"

"Yes," the big Persian said, deep baritone filling the room. He looked sideways at Khalid, then away. "Do not laugh."

"Why would I laugh?" Khalid put a hand over his mouth. He was trying not to guffaw. The man was his friend. They had shared wine, water, bread… thousands of miles in wretched desolation. Khalid did not want to offend Patik-no, Shahin, he reminded himself. "You've always been a mystery! So the secret of your so-extensive education is revealed. Well. Well, well."

Rustam coughed politely, and both men froze, then turned to face him. The prince's affable manner remained and Khalid breathed a little easier. Even Shahin relaxed minutely. "There is business to discuss," Rustam said. "You know the shahanshah intends to drive the Romans from Egypt."

Khalid nodded, darting a glance sideways at Shahin. The matter seemed very obvious now-Khalid had even been one of the Great Prince's couriers, during the Persian invasion of Syria three years previous. There had been trouble-the Persians had nearly blundered into a fatal trap at Lake Bahrat. Shahin's command was stripped away by the fortuitous arrival of the Royal Boar himself, arriving all unexpected in the middle of the night, in the company of… Khalid's eyes slid back to Prince Rustam, who was watching him with a slight smile. A peculiar pale light gleamed in the prince's eyes and the brief moment of comfort vanished. Khalid shuddered, meeting the burning light in the prince's pale, translucent gaze.

"Khalid… do not trouble your mind. True, Shahin was relieved of his command. True, he has lost his rank, his titles, his lands… even his family is sure he is dead. But-as you have seen-he has won back his honor." Rustam lifted a long fingered hand, his fingertips broad and flat, like some kind of a climbing lizard. Shahin stiffened, transfixed. "He may grow a proper beard again, and oil and curl his hair, as he once did. Perfumes, perhaps, will be made available, and pomades. My lord, do you desire such things?"

"No," Shahin growled, still meeting the prince's lambent stare. "I do not."

"You choose this life? Sand and dust, a rough bed among thorns? Only steel for comfort, not silk, not down pillows?" The prince's voice was soft, caressing. Khalid shuddered again, feeling his flesh crawl.

"I do choose this," Shahin said, narrowing his eyes. He seemed unaffected by the prince's glamour. "I will fight beside my friends. For my king. For Persia."

Rustam leaned back and Khalid could feel the heat of the lamps again. He could hear Shahin and Zoe breathing. "You surprise me, Prince Shahin. And I am glad."

Khalid thought his heart would stop, hearing-seeing-honest appreciation in the face of the prince. How… how can… He tried to stop from babbling, even in the privacy of his thoughts. The prince stared at Shahin and the odd, mottled quality of his flesh faded. The queer light in his eyes died, leaving them a pale amber color.

"You have become an honorable man, Shahin." Rustam managed a half-smile. "You were such a… fop, a dandy, a fool! Zenobia nearly trapped your whole army, because you could not be troubled to set watches, or pay your guides, or keep on the mercenary scouts Chrosoes King of Kings gave you! You prevaricated, you lied, you stole the wages of your troops… you were a coward."

Shahin's face grew colder and colder with each word, the tendons in his arms stiffening, his face slowly filling with a dark flush.

"Where is that man?" Rustam raised his hands, amazement clear on his face. "I do not see him now. I see a Persian diquan, a worthy man, a man the King of Kings can respect. That I can respect. Welcome, Shahin. Welcome."

The prince bowed his head in greeting, and silently Zoe walked forward on her knees, a wooden platter in her hands. Gracefully, she placed a simple bevel-rimmed bowl on the carpet between the two men. Beside it, she laid a loaf of flat, slightly burned bread. Salt trickled from her hand, making a small pile.

"Water from my wells," Rustam said, raising the bowl. He drank, then passed the cup to Shahin. The man drank. The bowl itself was turning dark with water oozing through the cheap clay. Khalid saw a vein at Shahin's throat throb, then settle. As the Arab watched, tension drained bit by bit from the nobleman.

"Bread from my fire," Rustam said, breaking the crumbling loaf in half. He chewed the heavy, unleavened bread, then swallowed. Shahin did likewise, his hands trembling for a moment. Then this too passed.

"Salt." The prince pressed the white grains against his teeth. Shahin did so as well. Rustam offered his hand and the Persian gripped his wrist, still tentative.

"This is your name: Eran-Spahbodh Shahin Suren-Pahlav." Rustam enunciated the words slowly and deliberately. "Son of Shapur and Erandokht, grandson of Soren-Nersi, scion of the house of Frataraka, let there be peace between us. Let all past wrongs be stricken from the tablets, all harsh words forgotten. Know, Prince Shahin, the King of Kings remembers you and accounts you a friend."

The big Persian blinked, then released Rustam's hand slowly, as if in a dream. "That is not my name… not anymore. I am only Patik."

"Yes, it is your name." Rustam drew a roll of fine parchment from his writing desk. A heavy wax seal and Tyrian purple string closed the document. "Here is your name, Shahin, and your family, returned to you by the grace of the King of Kings, Shahr-Baraz."

Rustam pressed the papers into Shahin's hand. The big Persian shook his head in disbelief. "But… why now?"

"Yes," Khalid said in a dry voice. "What do you need from him?"

Rustam's head turned slightly, fixing Khalid with a cold glare. "I did not give you leave to speak, Arab." The prince blinked and the angles of his face subtly changed, a pale gleam entering his eyes. Khalid recoiled, seeing something of the prince's true nature shining through. "But you too have served well. This is why I have summoned you both. Lord Khalid, this man Patik is no longer yours to command. He is, once more, the great Prince Shahin. I tell you this in courtesy, for you are a fine general, and tonight I rob you of an able captain."

Khalid's nostrils flared and he fought down a reckless urge to protest. How do you deny the moon? Or a meteor?

Rustam's forehead furrowed and he pinched his lip. He began to speak, then fell silent. Khalid watched in slow, growing amazement. The sorcerer seemed to be at a loss for words. At last, the prince made a gesture with his hand, as if he threw something away.

"Lord Shahin, here is what you must do," Rustam said. "Gather a few men, no more than five or six. You will take a ship we have lately captured down to Egypt. The ship, and you, and your men, will be disguised as Tyreans. That island city is still in Roman hands-this will allow you to enter Roman territory without undue trouble." The prince grinned, showing long white teeth.

"Once you are in Alexandria, a man will find you. He is a servant of the king. You will know him, by certain signs, when you meet. He will lead you to a device." Rustam lifted a ragged bit of papyrus from his writing desk. Khalid saw part of a diagram on the ancient paper, some kind of interlocking mill wheel. "This device is buried in a secret place, perhaps a tomb, certainly somewhere desolate and remote. Be careful! In earlier times a rather dangerous order of priestesses watched over the duradarshan. They, or their degenerate cult, may still abide. Regardless, you will secure the device and return to Alexandria and the ship. You will bring me the mechanism as swiftly as you can."

Shahin looked down at the bit of papyrus, eyes narrowing. "How large is this?"

"Large." The ghost of a smile flitted across Rustam's lips. "Large and heavy."

"Can two men carry this… device?"

"No." Rustam was still smiling. "The duradarshan is made of bronze and gold, and likely affixed to a block of jadeite the size of a chest. You will need assistance."

Shahin placed the paper back on the edge of the desk. "How many of the Shanzdah will accompany me?"

"None. They are already busy." The prince grimaced. His thin hands rustled on the desk like large white spiders, finding two clay tablets, each the size of a palm. He lifted them gingerly, regarding them with an ambivalent expression. Then he made a queer half-smile and placed them in a metal box by his side. The lid closed with a snap, and he handed the box to Shahin. "When you reach the duradarshan, smash one of these tablets on the ground. A… servant… will come forth to carry the device."

"What kind of servant?" Shahin and Khalid spoke as one. The Arab felt a creeping sensation on the back of his neck and turned suddenly, looking behind him. There was nothing, only the door, now closed. He turned back, his gaze lingering on Zoe, who was still kneeling beside the wall. She smiled at him, eyes half-closed, white hands resting on silk-wrapped thighs.

"Nothing which need concern you," Rustam said. "As long as you hold the other tablet you will be quite safe. Once you reach the port, throw the box and the remaining tablet into the sea. The servant will depart."

"Very well." Shahin bowed. "I will do as the King of Kings commands."

Rustam's face darkened. Khalid tensed. "You will do as I command," the prince hissed.

Shahin regarded him levelly. "I am the king's man, my lord. Not yours."

"Wait," Khalid said, before Rustam could respond. "I will go in Lord Shahin's place."

"No," snapped Shahin and Rustam at the same time. The two men glared at one another. Shahin's jaw clenched, then released. "I will find the eye… the device, lord prince. For Persia."

"I see," Rustam said, but his voice was thick with anger. Khalid, watching the two men, thought the sorcerer might strike down the nobleman. But the creature controlled himself. "Leave tonight. One of the Shanzdah will show you the way to the boat."

"I will." Shahin stood, pocketing the metal box. "Lord prince, my lady." He bowed courteously to Zoe, nodded to Rustam and left. Khalid flashed a half-smile at the Queen, bowed to Rustam-still fuming, his eyes hooded-and hastily departed.

Zoe stirred and closed the wagon door. The cold air raised goose pimples on her arms. With her face turned away from the sorcerer, anguish showed plain for an instant, then her face composed into a calm mask once again.

"You taunt the Arab," Dahak said, sibilant anger in his voice. "Why?"

"Why not?" The Queen turned, settling to the floor in a smooth motion. The sorcerer shed his pleasant guise. The room filled with odd shadows in the corners and the lamps guttered down to a dim, pale flames gleaming on his mottled, slick skin. "If they fear me, they will obey. Your will is my will, is it not? If they fear me, they will fear you more, for you are the master."

Dahak's eyes narrowed and the Queen shuddered, feeling his thoughts upon her like snakes squirming over her skin. She swallowed, forcing down bile, and remained impassive. The sorcerer's eyes gleamed with a feral yellow light. "They look upon you with desire, with lust. You move your body to entice them, you fill their minds with confusion and dreams. This distracts them from doing my will."

"No," she managed to gasp. "The Greeks and Arabs scurry to do your bidding. They abase themselves before you. Armies and nations move as you command. I only occupy their idle moments-when thoughts of treachery might creep in-yet do not, for daydreams of my lips, my thighs, my breasts are there instead. I am a trophy, a prize to flaunt, even as their desire for the Twin Radiances drives the Persian knights to such furious bravery."

Dahak's lip curled up, exposing long, chisel-like incisors. "True… but a waste of time! A crude tool. Men are moved by fear best of all. I may seize their minds myself, if they stray!"

The Queen swayed, feeling tremendous relief as the sorcerer's will receded. She hissed, supporting herself with trembling arms. Her hair came loose; spilling in rich, dark curls around her shoulders. "But, great lord… I am your willing servant. If you are distracted, gone on more important business, then I can control them. Your reach is the greater, your will refined, focused."

Dahak laughed, the black tip of his tongue flickering between pointed teeth. He leaned back against the pillows. "Yes… you did crawl before me, begging for life. Do you enjoy your new body? Does it please you to breathe, to walk under the sun, to see the living, green world?"

"Yes, great lord." The Queen pressed her forehead into the carpet. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes, but she squeezed them shut until no moisture escaped. "Thank you for this gift."

"A pleasant sentiment," he said, pleased. "But you should not have to rely on these tricks and ploys-this flesh wields true power, can reach into the hidden world. The child you ride has some strength…"

"Yes, great lord," the Queen said, forcing her voice to sound complaisant. "But these things are new to me. In life, I owned no talent for sorcery. Forcing these secrets from her is difficult. A long road, filled with false turns and trails fading in the sand."

The sorcerer rose up, anger lighting in his eyes again. One hand curled into a claw. "You chose to live, proud queen! If you cannot master the girl and wield her strength in my service, then what use are you to me?"

"I am a willing ally," the Queen said, keeping her eyes downcast. "While she will struggle and fight every moment. You will have to drive her with whips, with pain. I go willingly where you bid."

"Perhaps…" Dahak rose, his attention turned away from her, into the night. "So you gain a day, perhaps two. Make yourself useful or I will discard you." He smiled again and the lights flickered even lower. The Queen began to shiver, feeling all heat leach from the air. "I have many servants, of which you are the least."

"Yes, great lord."

Dahak raised his chin. "The King of Kings desires my counsel. Arad! Attend me."

The air beside the door shifted and a man's shape resolved from nothingness, his head enclosed in an iron jackal mask. Without a further word, the sorcerer swept down the steps, his servant, silent as ever, close behind. The Queen kept her face to the floor, though when they were gone, she slumped against the carpet, shaking with relief. Alone at last, she unclenched her hands, letting tiny points of blood seep from where her nails had cut into the flesh. As she did so, her skin shaded back to an olive tan. Her eyes clouded with brown.

Shahin was already at the edge of the camp, following the swift dark shape of the Shanzdah. Khalid hurried to catch up. Moments later, they trudged together across a sandy plain, squinting in the dim starlight. At least the night seemed very warm after leaving the palisade of iron wands.

"Who," Khalid gasped, a little short of breath, "are you taking?"

Shahin was only a vague outline in the night. "Asha, Tishrya, Amur and Mihr. The men who crossed the desert with us."

And helped us murder Mohammed, Khalid realized with a start. Very wise. I wonder if they will return? He squinted at Shahin, trying to make out some expression on the man's face. "I will miss you at my side. This campaign will be dangerous without your steady hand."

"I would rather stay, Lord al'Walid." Even in the gloom, Khalid thought the man was smiling. "But I will do this thing. How can I refuse?"

The young Arab was curious. "Could you have refused, before your name was restored?"

"Yes," Shahin said. "Then I was only Patik, a mercenary, a man without honor or a noble name. Now…"

"Now you must do his bidding." The land began to slope down under their feet, and Khalid could hear the surf booming on an empty shore. "Do you know what this thing is? This… eye?"

There was a soft chuckle. "I made a mistake to say even so much."

"What is it?" The last of the salt brush fell away behind them and Khalid could see waves glowing as they broke on the wide beach. A light winked in the darkness, bobbing up and down.

"I do not know… only what the old word means."

"The dura… dashani?"

Shahin stopped, his boots sinking into wet sand. Surf hissed towards them, the front edge bubbling white. The water stopped a yard away, then receded. Khalid could see the outline of a mast against the stars, and a single lantern illuminating a wooden prow. "The duradarshan. The 'eye of shadow.' An ancient word, one I have never heard spoken aloud before tonight."

Khalid pointed at the metal box. "Like the writing on those tablets? You can read the spiked letters?"

"I can." Shahin began to walk forward again, his cloak bunched in one hand to keep it dry. "My house is very old and some knowledge of the beginning of things has not been lost."

Khalid stopped, water surging around his ankles. The sea seemed terribly dark, even compared to the abyssal empty sky. He did not want to go any further. He did not like the water. "Perhaps we will meet again, at Pelusium or beyond."

Shahin turned, his head silhouetted against the lantern. "You're not rid of me yet, al'Walid. I will be in camp later, to gather up those men."

Khalid wanted to say more, to tell the big Persian he had redeemed his honor with brave service, but could not. Something held him back from saying those things aloud while Rustam's servants waited in the darkness. The Persian turned away and splashed through the waves. On the boat, men lowered a ladder and Shahin scrambled up the wooden rungs, sea foam spilling from his legs. Khalid splashed back towards the shore, throat tight. Then he cursed, muttering in the darkness. There were still accounts and rosters to review.

"Lord ben-Sarid?"

Uri raised his head, sweat running in thin streams down his neck. He was bare-chested, the sun gleaming on a whipcord-thin body. The lady Zoe stood only a few feet away, her tanned face shaded by a loosely wrapped burnoose. Despite the sweltering heat, she seemed perfectly at ease, long hair tucked up behind her head, slim body shrouded in voluminous desert robes. "My lady?"

Uri let the horse's leg down and stepped away, out of range of a bite or kick. The mare tossed her head, disgusted. He palmed his hoof pick and flipped a stone off into the sand.

"Are your men ready to ride?" Zoe's eyes gleamed over a thin lace veil. Uri shook his head, trying to focus on her words. Her eyes were very blue, like the sky, or the deep sea.

"Yes," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. He squinted across the camp. The noon sun was very bright, among the sandy hills. His men were sleeping under dun-colored tents or sitting quietly in the shade. "Khalid says we're the advance guard and must be ready to ride tomorrow… he wants us to clear the road to Gazzah and secure the town before these Persian sluggards arrive." Uri's lip curled slightly. "Easily done."

"There has been a change," Zoe said, stepping closer. As she moved, a trim foot in thin leather sandals appeared from her robes, revealing a smooth ankle. Uri wrenched his eyes away, focusing on her chest, which was decently covered. "The matter of the Hierosolyma garrison has come up."

"What? Did something happen?" Uri's idle daydream of a pert bosom and nut-brown nipples vanished like dew or honey cakes at a wedding.

"No," Zoe said, eyes crinkling up in a smile. "I fear something will happen. These foreigners are not familiar with the long history of our land. Who knows what might happen if a Persian or Arab garrison is left in the city? Certain holy places… might be entered and despoiled. That would cause a great deal of trouble."

"Yes," Uri breathed, suddenly feeling a little sick. The temple!

"You are the best man to watch over the city," Zoe said, putting her hand on his arm. She was standing very close. A faint, sweet smell of orange blossoms tickled his nose. "Take your men to Hierosolyma. You must make sure nothing is disturbed and proper veneration is paid to the temples and shrines."

"Yes…" Uri felt a cold knot grow in his stomach. I will rule our city, he thought, stunned. For the first time in five hundred years… "Does Khalid know?"

"I will tell him," Zoe said confidently. "I am the Queen and Shahr-Baraz approves. When can you set out?"

"Soon," Uri said, frowning and rubbing his noble nose. "We are almost ready. By dark, or morning at the latest, we will be on the road."

"Well done." Zoe smiled again, squeezing his hand. Impulsively, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek. "The city will be in excellent hands. You must write me if anything happens."

"Yes, my queen," Uri said, breathing in a heady perfume of spices, oil and sweat. "I will."