The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  The Quraysh started to speak, but paused. Something in Mōha's voice had changed and the creature now seemed smaller, wizened, reduced. The glamour of towering strength, of an undimmed flame, faded and Mohammed found his heart filled with pity for the creature trapped between life and death.

  "The world," he said slowly, considering his words, "contrives against men who would follow the path of righteousness. On every side, enemies tempt and distract men from the blessing offered by the Compassionate One." Mōha started to speak again, but Mohammed raised his hand, quelling the outburst.

  "Lust," Mohammed said, "is the first enemy; the second a dislike for higher life; the third is hunger and thirst; the fourth is craving; the fifth is torpor and sloth; the sixth doubt; the seventh falsehood; the eighth glory; the ninth exalting oneself and despising others, the last—the last is the fear of death."

  Mōha flinched away from the ringing words, crouching against the ground and moaning softly.

  "These are my enemies," Mohammed boomed. "No feeble man or woman can conquer them, yet only by overcoming them does one win bliss. Shame upon me if I am defeated! Better for me to die striving in battle than to live quietly in defeat!"

  "You do not know the burden of such a life," Mōha whispered, unable to raise his head.

  "I do," Mohammed said, sharp eyes glinting. "I choose to live. Regardless of what may come."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Square of Four Temples, Alexandria

  Pressing through a sullen, listless crowd, Thyatis turned into a narrow, shadowed alley. Even here between a pair of crumbling apartment buildings, ragged men, women and children squatted on the ground, watching bitterly as she passed. The Roman woman had not bothered to assume a pleasing guise or hide her armor beneath a matron's gown. Instead, she walked quickly, left hand riding on the hilt of her sword, grimy cloak fluttering behind her in the steaming air. The half-hidden fear percolating through the streets and offices of Alexandria had blossomed into open panic.

  Thyatis tasted a heady, stomach-churning mixture of despair and anticipation in the air. No official news was posted in the city agora or on the walls of the temples, but the steady stream of families entering the city through the Nile Gate revealed the course of battle. Somewhere in the east, beyond the massive rampart and moat under construction at the edge of the suburbs, the Roman Legions were fighting a delaying action, hoping to buy time for the city. Their failure to halt the Persian advance burned in Thyatis' stomach like acid, making every grain precious, the relentless passage of the sun a goad lashing her impatience.

  Heedless of who might see, Thyatis stomped down a flight of ancient steps and into a dark-walled alcove. Her fist, gloved in leather and iron chain, slammed on an age-blackened door. The portal rang hollowly, once, then twice. There was no answer.

  Thyatis squinted from beneath the cowl of her hood, noting with interest the absence of anyone sleeping or sitting in the alcove. She smiled grimly. The Hunter watches over all places, both the low and the high.

  Time was short and the Roman woman turned back to the door. Her fist slammed against the ancient wood again, making a dull booming sound in the room beyond. She began to consider how to break down the portal.

  —|—

  "What are you doing here? You should leave!" Penelope, old wrinkled face twisted into a ferocious grimace, leaned on a reed cane in the doorway of the dining hall. Shirin rose from a bench, laying down a jeweled clasp on a neat bundle of her clothing. The pin was bent and she had been examining the fragile copper to see if the tip of her hand knife would do for repairs. The low-ceilinged hallway outside the hall was filled with women hurrying to and fro. Everyone was packing in great haste, loading wicker baskets and wooden trunks with the contents of the Temple.

  "I wish to speak with the Priestess," Shirin said, a sharp tone in her voice. "Is she still in the temple?"

  Penelope laughed, limping into the room. The Temple healer had poked and prodded the swollen, purplish bruises, eliciting a hissing gasp from the old woman. Shirin guessed the ankle was broken, though she refrained from comment. She doubted Penelope would accept any advice.

  "You'll see no one, now, dearie." Penelope pointed with her sharp chin to the east. "An old enemy rushes closer—and we'll soon be gone." The Egyptian woman laughed, deep-set wrinkles crinkling up around her eyes. "Like ghosts, into the sand and sea."

  Shirin's lips thinned in anger. "What about the duradarshan? Will you leave the weapon for the Persians to find? To use against Rome?"

  Penelope stared at her for a moment, then sat gingerly on the edge of the table. "You've not been long in the Order, have you?" The old woman eyed her suspiciously. "The Daughters of the Hunter care little for the empires of men... we are not Roman slaves! I do not know," she said in a haughty voice, "how things are done in the house of the Queen of Day, but here, here you are in Egypt and our kingdom is ancient, far older than these Roman upstarts! They are only flowers on the desert—come and gone in a season."

  "You will be Persian slaves soon," Shirin replied testily. "Their priests are not fond of other faiths, not like open-handed Rome. You will find life under their sway far less pleasing! But I care nothing for Rome either—what of the device? You looked in the tomb and found nothing—does it lie somewhere else?"

  "I don't know," Penelope said, shrugging thin shoulders. "The annals of the Old Time say two of the duradarshan were brought into Khem—which is Egypt—after the Drowning. Legend and rumor say Kleopatra the Betrayer found one, carrying it to her grave. Yet you and I both stood in her funeral chamber and saw nothing—only withered bone and bandages." The old woman spread her hands. "Perhaps the rumors were lies, the legends baseless..."

  "And the other?" Shirin stood over the own woman, her smooth forehead wrinkled in irritation. "Where does it lie?"

  "Bah!" Penelope stood abruptly, then staggered, forgetting her weak ankle. Shirin caught her by the shoulders and helped her take up her cane. Penelope's expression grew sour and she pushed the Khazar woman away. "I do not need your help, Roman. Why should I tell you such a thing?"

  Shirin stepped away, reining in growing anger. "I oppose these Persians, even if you do not. They serve a dangerous priest, allied with the enemy of all which lives! I will see their plans and stratagems confused and set to naught, with or without your help."

  Penelope grunted, raising an eyebrow at her bravado. "There is no one here who can help you. Our mistress has already departed for a place of safety and soon we will join her. You may do as you wish." Again the bitter laugh. "If you can do anything at all."

  Shirin stared at the old woman, restraining bitter words. The desire to strike the obdurate Egyptian swelled in her breast. Violence wins nothing here, she reminded herself, struggling to control her temper. Shirin decided to try a different trail in the prickly grass. "Tell me one thing, Penelope. You said Kleopatra was the last of the Temenid kings of Macedon—how did this happen? I thought..."

  The question drew a guffaw of mocking laughter from the old woman. She grinned evilly at Shirin, wagging a wrinkled bony finger. "A pretty piece of gossip, child. Why should I say anything at all?"

  Shirin's hand darted out and snatched the woman's cane away. Penelope goggled, shocked by such rude behavior and Shirin caught her as she fell. The Khazar glared at the Egyptian, teeth gritted, incisors bared. "I saved your life in the tomb. Now tell me."

  "So you did." Penelope groped for the cane, sweat beading on her seamed old face. "Great Alexander had a son—a posthumous son—by the Empress Roxane. Young Alexandros was sent to Macedon to rule as king on his father's throne. But his grandmother Olympias, who proved a veritable tyrant, seized the boy's regency. One of her enemies was Cassander, who raised rebellion against her and overthrew Olympias' regime."

  The old Egyptian smirked, making a ripping motion with her hands. "The mob beset Olympias and tore her to bits—limb from limb." Penelope laughed hollowly, enjoying her ghoulish tale. "A Bacchanalian end for her.
Her wiles could not deliver her from the rage of the commons. Poor Roxane was strangled, dying far from home and her family, without friends, amid so many enemies. The boy Alexandros? He was thought dead as well, drowned or left with his throat cut."

  "But he did not die," Shirin snapped. "He came to Egypt? Saved by who? By the Daughters?"

  "Hah! Never." A feral light gleamed in Penelope's eyes and she made a crushing motion with her hand. "Wily Ptolemy stole the boy away, while Cassander slaughtered Olympias' supporters and stole her armies. Young Alexandros was brought to Egypt in the company of Ptolemy's new queen, Eurydice. The court was told the child had been born on Cos... his old name was never spoken and the young boy took his new father's name, Ptolemy the Second. In this way, the blood of Zeus and Herakles flowed down into Pharaoh."

  "I see." Shirin released the woman and put the cane in her hands. "Now, tell me—"

  A loud crash interrupted, causing both women to turn in surprise. Out in the hallway the Daughters carrying baggage stood frozen, staring in surprise down the passage. One of them hurried into the dining hall, sweating and wide-eyed.

  "Mistress Penelope! There's a Roman soldier here—she broke down the outer door with her bare hands. She demands the priestess attend her immediately!"

  "What?" The old Egyptian woman spat on the floor. "Throw her out!"

  "We tried," the messenger said, rubbing a violent bruise on her cheek. "She's a Daughter, from the Roman temple."

  "Two in a day?" Penelope turned to Shirin, but the Khazar woman was gone, making the old woman blink in surprise.

  —|—

  Thyatis growled, storming down a narrow passage, head tilted to one side to avoid the low, triangular ceiling. She had her spatha in both hands, blade partially drawn. A clutch of women fell back as she advanced, hampers and baskets held before them in a wicker barrier. "Where is the priestess in charge of this pestilential hole?" Thyatis felt no qualm at shouting in the sacred precincts.

  The acolytes cowered behind their baggage, but an arched opening appeared on her right. In the room beyond an elderly Egyptian woman was sitting at a table, a perplexed expression on her face, chin resting on her hands, curled around the head of a cane.

  "Are you the Hunter's Daughter?" Thyatis stabbed the sheathed sword at the old woman.

  "And you would be?" Yellow teeth bared in a cheerless grin.

  "Thyatis Julia Clodia," the Roman woman said briskly, stepping into the room. She swept back her hood, revealing a grim, suntanned face. "Agent of the Duchess De'Orelio. I need your help."

  "Do you?" the woman grunted. "My name is Penelope. You sent a messenger before—the little snip of a Gaul?"

  Thyatis nodded, snapping the spatha back into the sheath. "Yes. You sent agents to remove the telecast from the tomb in the wasteland of spires?"

  "We were there," Penelope allowed, looking the Roman woman up and down with ill-disguised curiosity. "Come to check on our work, have you?"

  "I don't care about your work," Thyatis said, pacing up and down the chamber. She felt nervous, on edge, filled with restless energy. A score of acolytes peered into the door from the hall, so she bared her teeth at them, making a rumbling growl low in her throat. The women fled, letting a drape fall over the opening. Thyatis laughed. Two other passages opened into the chamber, but they too were closed with heavy, dark-green hangings. "As long as the device is out of Roman and Persian hands, I'm happy."

  Penelope snorted in laughter, her upper lip curling in disdain. "Why are you here, then?"

  "There is another telecast," Thyatis said, feeling the air thicken with pressure. She was getting a headache from all this. Things used to be so much simpler, she groused to herself, feeling old. "At Siwa, in the west."

  The old woman stiffened in surprise. "Who told you that?"

  "A little bird," Thyatis replied, feeling her stomach clench at the Egyptian's sudden alarm. It's true then, she realized with dismal certainty. "She sang very sweetly once my companions put her in a cage with iron bars."

  An expression of disgust flickered in the Roman woman's face. Nicholas had kidnapped the little librarian without consulting her. Another rash act, leaping to the last lap of the race without forethought. He hoped to win the crown and please his masters in Rome, with or without Thyatis' consent. "Time is very short, Priestess. I've been told the trek to Siwa takes twelve days. How fast can you and yours be there?"

  "In the same time," Penelope bit out. "We are not gods to fly across the land."

  "You'd best run then," Thyatis said, taking another turn around the room, restless hands examining cups, dishes, the bronze sconces for lamps lining the walls. "We will leave at first light by ship—the Duchess' own Paris—for Paraetonium on the Libyan coast. The governor's approved our port passes with goodly speed, which is amazing. With the current winds, we'll be ashore in the port in two days. My lieutenant is impatient. By camel, I'd guess we should take ten days to reach the oasis."

  "Huh." Penelope sagged back against the table, bitter exhaustion lining her face. "We couldn't reach there any faster ourselves." A gleam entered her eye. "But there's no need... we can be in Paraetonium before you, if we take oar tonight and once you and your men are in the desert, riding south, we'll beset your party and slaughter everyone." The old woman sat up, rapping the cane sharply on the floor. "Easy work, with your help."

  Thyatis stiffened, coming to a halt beside a bench laden with someone's baggage. Her nostrils flared and she turned to Penelope, an outraged expression on her face. "Murder?"

  "Yes!" Penelope jabbed at her with the cane. "Your loyalty to the Order surpasses your service to the Emperor. If these men threaten to find the duradarshan then they must be slain." The Egyptian frowned, eyes narrowing as she considered Thyatis' conflicted expression. "The Queen of Day would have no qualm about such an act—didn't she send you out specifically to prevent the Emperor from gaining such powerful, dangerous tools? Well, now, here's a perfect answer to your puzzle! There are bandits and brigands aplenty who prey on the pilgrim routes to the temple of Amon-Ra. No one will be surprised if your party is attacked."

  Thyatis felt her throat constrict. Murder Nicholas and Vladimir? Strike them down while they sleep, or are at sword strokes with the foe? The tight, twisted feeling in her gut grew worse. I can't kill them—they're not friends, no, but they are comrades in arms. Without Vlad, I'd have died in that tomb, crushed under rubble or suffocated. Nicholas... There were times she'd be glad to strangle the man or chop him into tiny bits, but he was a fellow soldier and a good one. He shouldn't be used up, betrayed by these schemes. But what else can I do?

  Heartsick, she sat down, bending her forehead against the blessedly cool boss of the sword hilt. "Mother, I can't use them so callously. They don't deserve to be discarded—"

  "Bah!" Penelope rose, leaning heavily on the cane, face stiff in disapproval. "Foolish child. They are only men, only soldiers. They will not be missed. Have they told anyone else of their discovery?"

  "Perhaps." Thyatis put her head in her hands. "I learned less than an hour ago."

  "I will send a galley to Paraetonium tonight," Penelope said, voice filling with authority. "With those Daughters who know the use of weapons. One of our agents can supply us with camels and supplies. If any man has learned of the treasure buried under Siwa, we must remove it with all speed."

  Thyatis felt relief and a sudden desire to let the old woman handle matters. Would your hands be so clean, answered a mocking voice in her thoughts, if Vladimir and Nicholas died by another's hand, when you knew what fate awaited them? The illusion of surety vanished. Thyatis found a jeweled brooch in her fingers. Pressing the sharp edge of the clasp into the edge of her thumb felt good. The pain focused her thoughts, slowing the spinning sensation in her chest.

  "I can delay us," Thyatis said, thinking aloud. "Make sure we reach the oasis late... then we will search and find nothing. Disappointed, we return to Rome with empty hands."

  "Hah!" Penelope laughed so
ftly at her naivete. "Just kill them and have done."

  Thyatis stood, still rubbing the edge of the clasp against her thumb. She felt calmer. The Egyptian's bloody answer had raised another concern. "No. We can't just kill them. My companions are agents of a rival lord. If they find nothing at Siwa and are satisfied with their efforts, there will be no further search. Everyone will assume the devices were lost in the distant past, destroyed or stolen."

  The Egyptian woman made a face, then a sharp cutting motion with her hand. "Why risk?"

  "My mistress' enemies are already suspicious—and what about the Persians? We've fought them once and only won through because the men you revile stood at my side." Thyatis pinned the brooch to her cloak, feeling oddly lighthearted. The pressure of events seemed negligible now, bearable. Time, however, was fleeting and she had a great deal to do before they departed for the west.

  "Get to Siwa first," Thyatis ordered the old woman, her confidence returning. "Take the telecast away. If things go awry, don't wait for me!"

  "We wouldn't anyway." Penelope sniffed, looking down her nose at the Roman. "You've no need to know where the Eye may go." A ghoulish smile crept into her wrinkled face. "You might be captured and tortured by the enemy."

  Thyatis ignored the old woman's cackle, stepping out into the hallway. In the doorway, she paused, squinting at the bundle of clothing. Something was naggingly familiar. The drapery behind the bench had fallen away from the wall. A slender olive hand was partially visible, ringed with gold and silver bracelets. Thyatis felt the world spin to a halt, every grain of dust in the air perfectly clear, the motion of the old woman limping across the floor towards her dragging slow. Her hand rose, touching the brooch, remembering the ornament at last.

  Shirin?

  The drape billowed, driven by some current in the air, and the hand vanished.

  Thyatis blinked.