The Shadow of Ararat

by Thomas Harlan

  Galen scowled, seeing the toll that the experience had taken upon his sibling.

  "It tired you, then?" he asked. "How do you feel? Could you essay the sphere again?"

  Aurelian grimaced at his brother. "I think that the lad needs a rest and a bath, brother mine, he is plainly worn out."

  Galen's face clouded with anger for a moment, then cleared.

  "You are right," he allowed. "See that the slaves take him to the bathhouse and give him a good scrub. We'll talk over dinner." The Emperor turned back to the sphere, but it had collapsed back into the plate of bronze rings. His mood darkened, and he paid no attention to the exit of his brothers, Aurelian holding Maxian up with a broad arm.

  Galen brushed his fingertips across the bronze, but nothing happened. He shook his head in disgust, then turned back to the great map. In his mind, he dismissed the telecast from his plans and stratagems. The toy had too high a price for him to countenance its regular use. There would be time for it later.

  —|—

  Maxian looked up, smiling, as the slave bent over the back of his couch, pouring rich purple-red wine into his goblet. Shyly the slave smiled back, her long dark hair falling around the delicate oval of her face. Maxian drank, his eyes following her as she passed to Aurelian and refilled his cup as well. Across the low table, Galen smiled a little. He waved the wine slave off when she moved to refill his own glass. The Emperor picked at the scallops in garlic and basil butter that still littered the plate before him.

  "Brother," he said, drawing the attention of both Aurelian and Maxian. "Did the fatigue come upon you immediately upon using the telecast, or as time passed?"

  Maxian frowned, remembering. "At first, it was effortless in response to my command. Then, as we watched the Eastern Emperor fighting on the wall, it became harder and harder to focus. I began to have to strain to keep its vision upon the scene."

  Aurelian scratched at his beard. "Perhaps it can only see for so long?"

  "Or the focusing upon a scene is more difficult," Galen responded. "Max, did it want to see another scene or just to cease viewing at all?"

  Maxian nodded. "That's it! It felt pulled away from what we saw, as if there were some other scene it desired to show." He paused, thinking again, reliving the experience in his mind. He looked up. "Is there another telecast!"

  Galen smiled. "Yes, the Eastern Emperor has the other of the pair. By the account of the letters that I have received, it stands in his study, as mine does here. The thaumaturges of the East, however, have not been able to make it work." The Emperor smoothed back his thinning hair, looking quite pleased. "If, with your help, we can make them work, each in concert with one another, then that will be a vast boon indeed."

  Maxian rubbed his chin, his mind turning the ramifications of this development over and examining all sides. At last he said, "A powerful weapon. Better than ten legions. With such a device, or more, if they could be built, each division of the State could act in concord with the other."

  Galen rose from his couch, a quiet smile on his face. A slave stepped up and draped a light cape over his shoulders. The Emperor drew it close and the Nubian pinned it closed with a clasp of amethyst and gold. The night breeze off the bay cut through the high windows to the dining court. The tapers and lanterns flickered. Aurelian yawned and stood up as well. Maxian drained the last dregs of wine from his cup and handed it to the nearest slave, which by chance happened to be the dark-haired girl. She smiled and bowed low to receive it, her tunic slipping a little.

  "Come," the Emperor said. "Let us view the moon in the bay."

  —|—

  Less than half a moon gleamed in the waters below the Summer House. At the point of the hill that the house sat upon, a circular temple had been built in the time of Maxian's grandfather. Slim marble columns rose up, a soft white presence in the moonlight. Below the little temple, the broad sweep of the bay lay before them. Glittering lights danced upon the water where countless ships rode in the harbors of Neapolis and Baiae. In the distance, the smooth cone of Vesuvius rose to cover the stars. The cool breeze was sharper here, and carried the salt tang of the sea. In this familiar darkness, Maxian felt the unease and worry that had shadowed him from Ostia melt away. Only a few feet away, Galen was a dark indistinct shape in his deep crimson robe.

  "The weight of the Empire is not upon your shoulders, little brother, so you cannot know the burden that it is to me." Galen's voice was a whisper in the gloom. "There are ten thousand details to keep in mind, a hundred interests to satisfy with every decision. It is not as I had imagined it when we set out from Saguntum. I am a powerful man; some would say a god. Yet there are so many things, so many pressing factors over which I have no control."

  Galen felt his brother turn and sit on the ledge that ran around the edge of the temple.

  "Each day I struggle, and the thousands of men who are my hands and feet, spread across all the Empire, struggle. Every day the tide of time and men washes away a little more of the edifice that we maintain. Every day we pile on more bricks, more mortar, more blood. And the tide keeps wearing away at the rocks, the stones, until there is nothing left." Though his words were those of despair, Maxian could sense no defeat in his brother's voice.

  "This can end, my brother. The Empire can know peace again, free from fear of barbarian invasion, even of civil war." In the darkness, Galen's voice assumed the cadence of an orator, though it remained low and direct. "After hundreds of years of strife, the West is at peace. Beyond the Rhenus the Franks and Germans are quiet. They have at last attained some semblance of civilization. They live in towns, welcome merchants, till the soil and build homes of stone and wood. To the west there is only endless ocean, to the south only vast deserts. Only in the east do enemies remain."

  Maxian, sitting quietly in the darkness, stirred. "The barbarians we saw today, in the vision?"

  Galen laughed. "No, the Avars and their subject tribes are an annoyance, not a threat. They have overrun most of Thrace and Moesia, but they will not hold that land long. The true enemy, my brothers, waits in the true East, in Persia. Even today, though we saw it not in the vision, one Persian army is encamped on the eastern shore of the Propontis, viewing the ancient walls of Constantinople with avaricious eyes. Another is gathering in northern Syria, preparing to strike at Egypt. By good luck, my brother Emperor is still in possession of a strong fleet, and the Persians have none. So they are held at bay—for now."

  Maxian spoke. "Then by use of this device, you will coordinate the relief of the city with Heraclius? Some thousands of men could be sent, I suppose, upon our fleet to reinforce the city and convince the barbarians to abandon the siege."

  "In a way," Galen answered, his voice smiling, "we will convince them to abandon the siege. But, still, the real enemy is not the horse-riders but Persia. It is Persia that we must defeat to attain a true peace for the Empire. Peace for both the East and the West. Your plan is fair, my brother, but far too limited in scope. Heraclius and I, through our letters, have struck upon a permanent solution."

  It was quiet in the circle of the temple, though now the moon had settled below the great oak and yew trees. A silver light filled the temple and Maxian could see both of his brothers. The healer suddenly felt cold and there was a sensation much like that which had pervaded the boathouse in Ostia. With slightly trembling fingers he drew his own cape closer and wished for a heavier wrap. The wind died down.

  "My brother Emperor proposes, and I agree, that Rome and Constantinople—both Empires—must invade Persia itself and destroy it. Once this is done, there shall be no treaty, no border agreements, no tribute. Persia will be a province of the Empire and will serve us forever. Then there shall be peace."

  Maxian coughed, his throat constricted by an unreasoning fear. He spoke, though—unaccountably—it was a struggle to force the words from his lips. "Brother, this is... an unwise plan. The West is only beginning to recover from the plagues and the last civil war. Our realm is at peace, true
, but the people are still recovering, the army is still rebuilding. An effort to raise the siege of the city of Constantine, yes, I agree it must be done. But to invade Persia itself? That would be mad..."

  He stopped, coughing. A sense of great pressure surrounded him, more than could be accounted for by the angry look on his brother's face. Maxian held up a hand for a moment, all his attention focused inward. His mind was flooded with confusion and unsettling images, but he managed to calm his conscious thought with the Meditation of Asklepius. Once he began its well-remembered lines the confusion faded and the pressure eased. It did not depart, but now he could feel its boundaries and strength.

  With an effort of will, he spoke again: "Persia is vast and its armies uncountable. It has been at peace for decades. Chrosoes is a strong king, ably served by his generals. It is wealthy even by the standards of Rome. To assail it, you would need tens or hundreds of thousands of men. The cities of the West are still half empty from the plague, the cities of the East no better. Where will you find the men to fight for you without baring our throats to the barbarians?"

  Galen gave a sharp nod, saying, "A cogent point, brother, and one that Aurelian and I have been pondering for some days. Our most recent calculations show that we can field a temporary army, a vexillation if you will, of almost sixty thousand men to fight alongside Heraclius in the East. Ah, now hold your peace, we have thought upon this most carefully."

  The Emperor stood and began pacing, his sandals making a light slapping sound on the marble tiles of the temple floor. "In the West, there are currently fourteen legions deployed from Africa to Pannonia to Britain. Beyond these forces, we have many other garrisons scattered about. Too, we count several tribes in Africa and Germania as our allies. By the count of the Office of the Equites, the Western Empire commands just over one hundred thousand men under arms. We are removing none of these legions from their duties; instead we will withdraw select units and cohorts from them. At the same time, we are instituting what Aurelian here, with his penchant for invention, calls a levy, to replace all of those men with fresh recruits. While the expedition is in the East, the remaining veterans here in the West will train a whole new army."

  Maxian shook his head in amazement, saying "And where do you expect to find an extra sixty thousand citizens of suitable age and temperament for the legions? Do not forget, brother, that I was at your side on the march from Saguntum to Mediolanum to Rome. I have seen the empty cities and barren fields turning back to forest."

  Aurelian coughed expectantly. Galen turned a little to look at him, his face shadowed in the moonlight. He gestured to his brother to proceed. Aurelian clasped his hands before him, then said, "We, ah, we do not intend to induct citizens into the army. We intend to, well, to induct slaves and noncitizens."

  Maxian flinched as if struck. A white-hot pain shot through the side of his head as the strange pressure that he had felt all around him in the temple suddenly became unbearable. A vast sense of crushing weight bore down on him, and his mind struggled to resist it. For a long moment of silence, he battled within himself to speak, to regain control of his limbs. As if from a great distance, he looked down upon himself sitting in the little temple, facing his brothers in the darkness. For a brief moment, as his sight hung suspended in the evening air, he caught a glimpse of a vast whirlpool of smoke and dull sullen fire spreading out from the three of them over the land and the sea. In the smoke, faces and phantasms roiled, indistinct.

  Then there was a popping sensation and the pressure was gone.

  "Slaves?" he croaked, barely able to speak. "The Senate will have a fit to hear of it..."

  Galen smiled, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. "The prospect of Persian gold and estates and military commands pleases them more than the induction of slaves and non-citizens does. The beauty of Aurelian's plan is that the levy is not voluntary. Each province and city must provide its share, and since the levy is not upon the citizens, they will support it wholeheartedly. Sixty thousand fresh legionnaires in the West will make a great difference, both now and in the future, when they are done with their service."

  Maxian shook his head. "I don't understand. What will happen when they are done with their service?"

  "Why, then they will become citizens and will receive their grants in land and coin. Those half-empty cities will be filled again, my brother, with a new generation of Romans. Ones who will be loyal to me and to our house."

  Maxian snorted in amusement. "The Legions are already loyal and have been from the time of Augustus. The legions in the west are loyal to you, the Emperor, today. You do not have to replace them." He paused, looking at his brothers in the dim moonlight.

  "I do not think," he continued, "that this plan of yours and the Eastern Emperor's, is a good one. There is more to your effort than meets the eye. The relief of Constantinople would end this fighting in the East. The Persians would go home. Peace would return. If you are so worried about Egypt, you would send your armies directly there."

  Galen raised a hand, shaking his head. "Your objection, brother, is noted. But our plan will proceed. There are great things at stake here, much greater than the simple issue of barbarians or Egypt. I have made up my mind. I will go to the East, to aid Heraclius and to destroy Persia."

  Maxian shrugged, seeing only more death to come of it. "Well, then. That is that, I suppose."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On the Father of Rivers

  The smile of Ra glittered back from the slow current of the river. The prow of the little ship cut through long troughs of deep-green water, spray falling back in languid waves from the pitted wood and tarred rope dangling from the front of the boat. Dwyrin's legs kicked idly inches from the swirling brown and green surface. The heat of the god was a heavy blanket upon him. His eyes were closed but the meditation of the masters had overtaken him and he saw the land sliding slowly past as a flickering vista of deep russet color and strong deep-blue currents under the earth. One hand rested lightly on a trailing guy-line, feeling the sinuous flex of the boat moving through the water flow back into his fingers. The footsteps of the crew on the deck trickled over his hand like rain spilling from the rope, itself a musty deep green.

  Three days now the dhow had followed the father of rivers north, winding past the sunken tombs and the deserted, dead cities of the Old Kingdom. League after league of desert paced them, spilling down to the edge of the river, washing around the towns on the eastern bank and the narrow strips of cultivation that supported them.

  Two weeks had flown past since the early-morning dream of the crane-headed man, weeks spent in close seclusion with Nephet. The little old man had shown him marvels and delights, ripping back the veils of ritual and ceremony around the path of the sorcerer. Dwyrin had been afraid at first, realizing that he was being inducted into mysteries that were denied to even the journeymen of the school. Secrets of fire, wind, and the slow hard energy of the earth were revealed. There was a constant hissing current of power that ran in the back of his mind now, occasionally leaking into his consciousness like the calling of many invisible birds. During the day he struggled to keep his vision clear of the shimmering coils of power that slithered and shifted within the captain and the sailors. The deck and rigging of the dhow had an unfortunate tendency to melt away, leaving him staring down into the surging blue-green deeps of the river at the flickering bright flashes of the fish within it.

  After six days of travel the river began to swell, spreading out. The high hills that had bounded it from the narrows at Tel-Ahshar now fell back to the horizon. The fields grew, reaching back from the river. More boats began to appear, filling the waterway. Sleek long galleys passed them in either direction, the heaving backs of the rowers glittering with sweat under the eye of Ra. Towns grew more frequent and great ruins began to crowd the western bank. Barely a league passed without the stark white bones of palaces, temples or tombs rising above the olive trees and palms.

  On the ninth day the dhow pulled ashor
e for the night just beyond a thriving village on the eastern shore. The captain and the crew tied the boat to a piling of stone jutting from the bank, and all the crew save one went off, laughing, toward the lights of the town. Dwyrin stood on the high raised deck at the back of the dhow, staring after them, seeing them shimmer and waver between the cool purple-blue of the sleeping trees. He blinked and the vision settled back, flickering, to the dimness of the starlight and the thick cane breaks that lined the shore. The sole crewman left behind settled onto a mat near the steering shaft at the end of the deck. Soon he nodded off.

  For a long time Dwyrin sat in the darkness, feeling the river and the land breathe around him, his mind and eyes filled with the whispering of the wind, of the rocks and trees that lined the shore, the slow glittering passage of crocodiles in the deep water. As Neket, the guardian of night rose in the west, Dwyrin slid entirely out of conscious thought. The thin walls that he had raised up to constrain his vision fell away entirely, leaving his ka floating in air above his now-recumbent body.

  The land was filled with dim radiance, the trees, palms, and brushy undergrowth damped down by the flight of Ra into the underworld. In the fields beyond the boat, sullen red flames marked the cattle asleep under the swaying trees. Dwyrin spun slowly up into the air, seeing the land in slumber, even the deep currents of the earth muted. The river itself rolled on into the north, filled with green radiance and slow pulses of blue-violet. He turned to the western shore.

  There he recoiled, his ka shying back from a cold white radiance. Beyond the line of palms and tall sawgrass on the farther shore a rising mount, crushed in on one side, flickered and burned with a pearlescent light. Around and about the hill a great city lay, outlined in silver and white. Dwyrin garbed himself in the aegis of Athena, his mind tumbling over the weaving spell. Those parts of himself that had begun to fray and slide away in that harsh glare returned. He drifted forward over the river.