The Shadow of Ararat

by Thomas Harlan

  —|—

  Again Thyatis stood on the railing at the sharp beak of the Mikitis. Clouds swallowed the eastern horizon, a darker blot against the night sky. Above, cold stars gleamed down. A chill wind cut out of the north and filled the sails of the sleek ship. One hand was wrapped in a guy-line, the other steadying herself on the prow. Wind rushed past her and the ship seemed to soar across the waters. The hiss of the waves was loud. Before her, across the Sea of Darkness, lay Trapezus and the beginning of their mission. She smiled in the darkness. This was far more than she had ever dreamed of. She wondered how things were faring for the Duchess, so far away to the west.

  The Mikitis rode onward, dark sails fresh with the wind. To the south, the Anatolian shore passed away in the night, only sparsely lit by the lights of farmhouses.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Plain of Jerash, The Theme of Arabia Magna

  Ahmet walked back into the camp, his staff making a faint tap-tap sound on the cold ground. Night was upon the plain and the sky above was a vast dome of stars. The moon, narrow, rode over his left shoulder. One of the Bani Hashim guards stirred as he approached, then settled back into the velvet shadow of the boulder that he was leaning against. On the other side of the stones, the dim light of a fire barely illuminated the tents of the caravan guards. The priest picked his way among the tent ropes to where Mohammed sat on a folding canvas chair. The merchant looked up as he approached, putting aside the heavy scroll that he had been squinting at in the light of a candle stub.

  The caravan had been traveling north for six days from the city in the hills. The dusty metropolises of Philadelphia and Gerasa were behind them. In each place the signs of the mobilization of the Nabatean state were apparent. They had passed two bands of infantrymen sitting by the side of the road outside of Gerasa the day before. This whole day they had climbed up a long rocky slope that led up from the valley of the stream called the Jerash. The sun had beaten at them like a smith in the forge. With the fall of night, there was a little relief from the heat, though the stones continued to be warm to the touch for hours after sunset.

  Ahmet was a little awed by the open desolation of the countryside. Endless leagues of towering rocky hills and barren plains had passed as they rode north. Stinging winds cut at them from the deserts to the south and east. Intermittently, tribesmen appeared out of the heat haze with flocks of sheep or goats. Widely separated oases offered some hope of water and relief from the sun. When he had said as much to Mohammed, the Southerner sneered.

  "This is easy land," he replied, his hand light on the reins of the chestnut mare he favored. "In the south, beyond the An'Nafud, the land is harsher. There my people live, on the edges of the great sand. There it takes skill to survive."

  It was a long way from the fertile valley of the Father of Rivers. Ahmet had shaken his head and urged his camel onward. Night fell and they were still far from the nearest rest house. Mohammed led the caravan into a low saddle between two hills where the rise of the land offered a little shelter and had them make camp.

  Ahmet sat down next to the merchant, folding his legs under him.

  "What do you believe?" he asked the man sitting next to him.

  The merchant stirred. "I do not know," he said. "My people believe in many gods. There are four goddesses who rule the heavens and the seasons. The god Hubal, who dwells in the stone house at the well of Zam-Zam, is said to be the first among these gods. I have seen his shrine, and it is unremarkable save for the black stone that is the altar there. The priests say that it fell from the sky, bearing the blessing of Hubal. There are other gods too, but I do not know all of their names."

  "My homeland is possessed of ten thousand gods," Ahmet said. His voice showed the shadow of his homesickness for the green olive groves and palms of the school.

  "What do you believe, priest? Do you believe in this Hermes Trismegistus?"

  Ahmet laughed softly. "Hermes Trismegistus is not a god, my friend. He is a symbol of what man may accomplish. The doctrine of my faith is that though there are gods like Set and Apollo Ra and the others, the focus of man's existence is upon his own betterment. Hermes Trismegistus was the first teacher of our sect, a powerful sorcerer who first learned how to see beyond the world of the eye and the nose and the mouth."

  Ahmet motioned to the stars, the tents, the camp. "All of these things that you see are only reflections of what the ancients call a true form. Like shadows on a wall. Even you and I are not what we appear to be. We are echoes of our true selves, what my people call the ka, or the Jews the soul."

  Mohammed carefully rolled up the scroll and slid it back into the case. "I have been reading this book, the torah. It speaks of a pair of gods, one male and one female, who made the world and all of the things in it. It says that man is the final creation of these gods, who are not named. Does your Trismegistus believe that?"

  Ahmet shook his head, though the motion was almost undetectable in the dim light of the fire. "No. Trismegistus teaches us that the totality of existence was created a very long time ago by a single force. There was a breath of creation that made all that is, but not in the forms that we see now, around us. This one force is the only true god, the creator. Every race of men knows that some power beyond them created the world and gave it shape and meaning. Trismegistus teaches that all of the gods that men worship are reflections of the ultimate form of this first, true creator. In my land we call the first creator Ptah. All other gods sprang from Ptah. Trismegistus would say that all other gods are reflections of the true god."

  Mohammed grunted and combed his beard with his fingers. "How do you worship, then, this god without a face? Are there no idols to give it form?"

  "No," Ahmet answered, "we do not believe in idols. The mind of man, we believe, is the temple of this god of creation. Of all creatures only man is blessed with the knowledge of god and the ability to apprehend the magnificence of the god. We live simple lives, we do not collect goods or riches. We give ourselves up, in a way, to the apprehension of god in all the works that it has formed."

  "But where did man arise, then..."

  They sat by the dying, then dead, fire for long hours, talking. Above them, the wheel of stars turned in its course until, finally, the eastern horizon began to lighten.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Roma Mater

  Maxian rubbed his eyes. They were weary from days of poring over hundreds of account books and histories that he and Gaius Julius had recovered from the Imperial archives or purchased from booksellers in the city. He was attacking the problem of the curse from the viewpoint of a physician. Something, some event or carrier, had started the contagion upon the people and the city. It had a source of infection. If that could be discovered, it could be lanced or burned away. Then, perhaps, the city and the people would be able to recover. Exhausted, the Prince rose from the stiff-backed chair and walked to the counter built into the wall of the apartment room. He poured a glass of wine from the amphora there.

  At the far end of the room, the little Persian was working too. Unlike Gaius Julius, he did not read Latin well, but he had a more pressing task. Soon after the three men had taken up residence in the apartment, odd things had begun to happen. Things fell over and broke or caught fire suddenly. After a week of an increasing series of disturbances, Abdmachus had taken it upon himself to open his awareness and keep watch, both in the physical world and in the unseen world, for a day and a night. When he roused himself at last he reported to a grim Maxian and an unconcerned Gaius Julius what the Prince had suspected from the beginning.

  The contagion was collecting, like rainwater in low ground, around the building. The Prince seemed to be the focus. Careful examination of the walls, floors, and other rooms then revealed a subtle, but swiftly acting, corrosion of the plaster, the wood of the walls, the tiles of the floor. The dark tide was washing up around the building and wearing it away.

  So today, like the days before, Abdmachus slowly worked along the wa
lls of the rooms that they used, muttering and chanting. Pots of paints lay by his side, and from them he daubed a constant series of sigils and glyphs upon the cracking, eroded plaster. Maxian looked around in mild disbelief. Every surface—wall, floor, and ceiling—was etched with ten thousand signs of warding and protection. To the hidden eye, the rooms were filled with a flickering blue glow, shining forth from the writing on the walls. Now it was safe to work within the rooms, though the tension of the quiet siege wore on all three of them.

  The back door of the flat banged open and Gaius Julius sauntered in. Now he wore a toga of soft white wool, with a dashing light-blue half-cape and hood thrown over one shoulder. He bore a great load of new books, parchments, and scrolls that he unceremoniously unloaded with a great clatter on the one piece of bare table in the main room.

  "What ho, citizen! Still drudging about, I see, Persian. Perhaps you could pick up around the place and sweep while you're kneeling down there?"

  Maxian put the glass of wine aside, untasted, and stepped up to the dead man. There was something odd about him today, and not just his good humor. That had surfaced only a few days after their return to the city. Compared to the Prince's restrained demeanor or Abdmachus' polite quietude, the dead man was a veritable volcano. Maxian eyed him closely while the dead man stacked the new acquisitions into different piles. Suddenly, the Prince seized the dead man's shoulder and spun him around. Gaius Julius' hot retort died to see the naked fury on the Prince's face.

  "What have you done?" the Prince hissed. "Abdmachus, come here!"

  The little Persian carefully put down his paints, brushed his hands off, and joined the Prince, who had the dead man by the ear and was checking his pulse with the other hand. "What is it, my lord?"

  Maxian pinched the cheek of the dead man, his voice harsh. "Look at the flesh; it's warm and flexible. See the pulse of blood at his throat, the texture of his hair. Our dead friend has been up to something. What have you been doing, Gaius?"

  The dead man stepped back, rubbing his ear. "Nothing of note, priest. I do admit that I feel better than I have in... well, centuries!"

  Maxian scowled at the easy laughter of the dead man. He turned aside to the Persian, keeping his voice low. "He's becoming more alive each day—what could cause this? Is there some way for the dead to restore themselves to full health once they are raised?"

  The Persian squinted at the dead man, who had shaken his head in disbelief at the concerns of the living and was unloading fresh apples and pears from the pockets of his cloak.

  Abdmachus turned back to the Prince. "I hesitate to bring up the possibility, my lord, but I have read in some of the older tomes that the risen dead can restore vitality to their corrupted bodies by the ingestion of the fluids of the living..."

  "By drinking their blood?" The Prince's eyes widened in shock. This was fast becoming some Greek tragedy. He turned back to the dead man, who was leaning against the big table, noisily crunching an apple between broad white teeth. "Gaius Julius, what have you been up to? I want you to tell me everything you did today, and I do mean everything..."

  The dead man leered at Maxian, saying, "Everything? I'm surprised that such a young man would need to resort to the voyeurism of the old!"

  Maxian's hand twitched and his fingers formed a brief, quickly traced sign in the air at his side. The dead man suddenly staggered, the apple dropping from his hand, half eaten. Gaius Julius' face trembled and a shockingly rapid white pallor flooded his flesh. He bent over, moaning in terrible pain, collapsing to the floor on his hands and knees.

  "In another place and time, old man, your levity would be welcome. But right now, with very little room for error, we cannot afford it."

  Maxian bent down and dragged the dead man's head up with one hand. Drool spilled from his mouth. The Prince leaned close. "Tell me everything that you did. Now."

  Gaius Julius rolled over on his side, gasping, as the Prince restored some of the necromantic energy that sustained life and thought in his ancient limbs. "Pax! Pax! I will tell you.

  "I left in the morning with a sullen disposition, as I'm sure you noticed. These dreary rooms wear on me. I went to the Palatine and renewed my acquaintance with the master of the archives. After a few cups of wine and some silver, he allowed me to search through the old Legion and city militia records. After several hours of digging in the dust and sneezing, I took a break to have lunch. I had gathered almost all of those items on the table.

  "Ah, the sun served to lighten my spirits tremendously. I purchased a meat pastry with pepper and a cup of weak wine from one of the vendors on the square of Elagabalgus and found a place to sit in the garden on the north side of the hill, not too far from the archives. While I was sitting, I happened to catch the eye of a young lady on an errand and, by some fine words, convinced her to sit with me a while and share my wine."

  A tremendous smirk flitted across the face of the dead man.

  "She was a fine beauty—long legs, tousled raven hair, the disposition of a minx. Not so much chest, but I am rather fond of such a woman. No matter. We passed some enjoyable time together and then I shooed her out of the archives and went back to work. The master of the archives was taking a nap, so I thought it might be best if I brought the things that I had found back here, rather than spending the rest of my failing eyesight copying them.

  "Oh, and I purchased some pears and apples from the stall at the end of the street."

  Abdmachus, who had returned to his paints and chanting, looked up, his brush poised only inches from the wall. He and Maxian exchanged glances. The Prince's face was cloudy with tremendous anger. His fists clenched and unclenched unconsciously at his side. Abdmachus felt the ambient power level in the room rise.

  "Old man, what did you tell this stripling of a girl about your work?"

  Gaius Julius spread his hands. "Nothing, nothing at all. We chatted about inconsequential things."

  "Did you tell her your name?"

  "Of course, I introduced myself quite politely."

  "Did she recognize it?"

  Gaius Julius smiled broadly. "Of course, but it is a common name, she had no inkling of who I truly am. Doubtless, if she thinks of it at all, she will assume that my family is of poor nature but great ambitions. Really, my Prince, who is going to think of me being me?

  Maxian shook his head sharply. "Did she tell you her name? Was she, perhaps, a slave in the garb of one of the great houses?"

  Gaius Julius paused, thinking. It was evident that he had not thought it important to remember the cognomen of his afternoon's dalliance. By the wall, Abdmachus muttered something under his breath as he resumed painting.

  Maxian had caught it, though, and repeated it aloud, his grim humor melting a little. "Husband to all the wives, and wife to all the husbands."

  "I have it," said the dead man, now sitting up. "It was Christina, or Christiane, or something like that."

  Maxian snarled, his face contorted with rage. "Not Christina, but Krista. She wore an emblem of three flowers intertwined with the head of a ram. Her hair is wavy with curls and it falls just past her shoulder. She has deep-green eyes. She is a slave."

  Gaius Julius blinked in surprise. "That is the very woman!"

  Maxian dragged the dead man up off the floor as if he weighed nothing. There was a blur of dim radiance along his arm, and he threw the dead man against the nearest wall. Gaius Julius, his mouth open in an O of surprise, crashed heavily against it and then slid down with a sickening crunch to the floor. The Prince stalked across to where the dead man lay, gasping, on the ground.

  "Fool! You would bugger your way into our common destruction! That slip of a girl, all breezy ways and innocent desire, is the agent, the very eyes, of the mistress of the Imperial Office of the Barbarians!"

  Abdmachus caught his breath and turned his full attention, at last, to the confrontation between the two men. Maxian had seemingly grown in the last little while. His rage was palpable in the room and the barely har
nessed power that the Persian had tricked out of him in the tomb under the Via Appia was leaking into the air around him. The scrolls on the table rustled and glass tinkled in the other room. Despite the late-afternoon sun outside, within the long narrow room it had grown dark. Gaius Julius cringed on the floor, seeing his final and utter dissolution reflected in the enraged eyes of the Prince.

  "Office... Office of Barbarians?" he wheezed.

  "Yes," Maxian bit off. "Her mistress, well known to me, is Anastasia de'Orelio, the so-called Duchess of Parma. She sits in the shadows behind the Emperor and pulls many strings. Though I have long accounted her a friend, both personally and politically, she knows nothing of what I have discovered and is unlikely to apprehend it even if I did tell her. Further, since I have accepted the assistance of our Persian compatriot here, I could now be well accounted a traitor. Coupled with my mysterious absence of several weeks, I expect that she has her agents about, quietly looking for me."

  Gaius Julius flinched away from the Prince and his scathing voice but pulled himself back to his feet, leaning against the wall. His voice was quiet, showing restored composure. "Enough. I am no stranger to plots and politics, boy. You can destroy me, but then you will not have my skills or service or leverage. If this de'Orelio is on the lookout for us, then we will have to move, disappear. I can deal with anyone, man or girl, that is watching us."

  Maxian continued to stare at him, anger smoldering in him.

  Gaius Julius stepped away from the wall and made a little, hesitant half bow. "Apologies, Prince Maxian, I did not mean to endanger our enterprise. I will make sure that it does not happen again."

  Abdmachus held his breath for a moment, but then the Prince nodded and turned away, going back to the books on the table. Gaius Julius looked after him for a moment, then shrugged. He had plenty of perspective on the matter; he had already been dead once.

  "Ah, my lord," Abdmachus said.

  Maxian looked up, his face a rigid mask.