The Shadow of Ararat

by Thomas Harlan

  Ahead, the elder Atreus turned aside from the road and halted on the inner edge. Maxian followed suit, as did the three Goths. Within moments figures appeared in the mist, rising like the bodies of the dead from a disturbed pool. A long line of men and women, stripped naked, their necks bound with wire collars and tied in a coffle, staggered past. Legionnaires trotted alongside in soot-stained armor, swinging spiked truncheons, urging their charges forward with the crunch of a club or a kick if they faltered. The feet of the captives were bloody and the roadway was puddled with crimson when they had passed.

  Maxian stared after them as they disappeared into the mist. "Father, won't they ruin the value with such treatment?"

  The elder Atreus laughed and looked over his shoulder. "They have no value, boy, they are heading straight for the crucifix. Within the day they will all be dead, ornamenting the road from here to Narbo. More will come too, so close your heart to them."

  "Father, who are these people? Are they rebels? Barbarians?"

  The governor snorted, then clucked at his horse and cantered up the road. Maxian, his face red with embarrassment, followed after.

  The road became a track and Maxian and his father were forced to halt six more times before they reached the end of it. Long gangs of captives passed them, bloody, burned, their eyes vacant and desolate. Many showed grievous wounds and the bite of the lash and the truncheon. Maxian quailed away from the dead eyes that stared at him as they stumbled past. At the top of the trail, a great tower of pale limestone blocks rose up from the dark stones. The massive shape was pierced by a long tunnel, ill-lighted and slippery. At the mouth, soldiers were hauling bodies of men out of wagons and throwing them down the mountainside. A gutter cut into the rock of the road at the lip of that black mouth was chuckling merrily with a stream of frothy red water. Bones floated past as the horses stepped over it. Maxian's horse balked at the smell of the tunnel, but he could not allow that, so he lashed it with his riding crop and it cantered forward into the darkness.

  Pale sunlight etched the courtyard beyond. The elder Atreus had pulled his horse aside and sat upon it, unmoved by the carnage that filled the space between the gate tower and the central building. Here there was no distant air to attenuate the crackling roar of the flames that consumed the basilica. Squads of soldiers in blackened armor jogged past into the tunnel, weapons crusted with gore slung over their shoulders. A centurion trotted past after the men and raised his arm in salute as he came abreast of the governor. Maxian stared up at the flames leaping from the windows of the house.

  A deep grinding sound came, and then the entire upper story of the building caved in with a roar. The ground trembled at the shock, and a great burst of sparks and new smoke flew out of the top of the ruin to join the black pall that blocked out the sky. Maxian covered his face, for now hot coals were raining out of the sky and the air was thick and hard to breathe. The elder Atreus took his son's bridle and kneed his horse forward again. The gray mare high-stepped through the twisted piles of dead that were scattered around the courtyard, and they climbed a stone ramp on the side of the outer wall to a platform that stood on the side of the rampart.

  All around them clouds and smoke billowed. The rest of the castle was aflame, with Roman soldiers running through the smoke, carrying what loot they had scavenged from the dead. The clouds had grown dark and were rising, obscuring the top of the trail and closing upon the gate. Maxian looked out over a sea of white foam, with the hot breath of the dying castle blowing past him. His father got down and tied his horse off on a broken stub of wood at the top of the stone ramp.

  "Do you understand this, son?"

  Maxian swayed on his horse, near to tears. "No, Father, I don't understand. Who were these people? Why did they have to be slaughtered in such a way? Were they rebels against the Emperor?"

  The elder Atreus stared up at his son, his face bleak. "No, son, they weren't rebels. All they desired was to live in their villages and practice their faith in peace. They harmed no one, they did good works, they raised their children to fear the gods and to be honest with men. In all Gaul and Hispania they were respected and welcomed wherever they went."

  Maxian began to cry, his voice breaking as he tried to speak. "Then why did they die? Were they bad? Why were they punished?"

  The governor stepped to the withers of the horse and reached up to take his son down. The boy clung to him and cried. The horrors of the day were too much for him.

  The elder Atreus stroked his son's hair and held him close. "Son, they died because they would not make the proper sacrifice at the altar of the Emperor. They called him a man, and not a god, so not deserving of their faith. They held to a belief that only their twin gods were worthy of the respect of worship. But the Emperor or the state cannot countenance what they did.

  "You see, the Empire is like a family, and the Emperor stands at the head of the table, the leader and the protector. All look to him for guidance, for judgment. Like the father of the family, the Emperor protects the people from the barbarians and from civil disorder. Like the father, the Emperor provides an example to the young peoples who are under his protection. The Emperor judges when there are no other judges. The Emperor brings life, providing seed for each new generation. In all of this, he must be respected. He sits, as the father does at the head of the table, between man and the gods.

  "But without respect, without the filial duty of his children—his subjects—the Emperor cannot govern. The father who does not have the respect of his children is weak and the family divided. The sons fight among themselves and the daughters are their prizes. There is civil disorder in the cities and mutiny in the countryside. In this matter of faith, the Empire has always been a loving father—forgiving and accepting—allowing each race of peoples under its protection to worship their own gods in their own way. But for the health and the prosperity of the family, each man and woman must also pay their respects—in the temple or the home—to their father, the Emperor.

  "These men," he said, his free hand indicating the ruined citadel, "though all judge them goodly men, refused this. They refused to respect and honor the Emperor. They refused, even when put to terrible pain, to venerate his name. They met in secret and urged others to follow their path. In them, in all seeming piety, was worse faithlessness than in any man. In their temples there was no respect, only the slighting of the Emperor's name. This cannot be countenanced. You see their end. One that will only be whispered of in time to come. A final judgment upon them and their Persian creed."

  Maxian could not stop crying and burrowed deeper into the warm shelter of his father. The old man stood on the parapet for a long time, holding his son. The limestone walls and pillars of the ruined temple hissed with green flame and the pyre of black smoke rose higher and higher, into the darkening sky.

  —|—

  Krista knelt on muddy ground among the high bushes of the side garden. The day was cold and gusty, so she had tied her hair back with a scarf and wore a pair of knit breeches she had stolen from the old man. They were made of wool, dyed a dark green, and they stopped the wind far better than some flimsy tunic. She had cut an oblong hole five or six hands long out of the ground with a sharp-bladed shovel and carefully placed the turf aside. Into the little muddy hole she placed a bundle wrapped in cotton batting and string. Then she unscrewed the top of a heavy ceramic jar she had borrowed from the basement and carefully sprinkled the gray-green dust inside over the top of the bundle. There was a very sharp smell and she turned her face away while she finished. She closed the top of the jar and put it aside, then she covered the bundle with rocks.

  The turf went back on over the rocks and she tamped the grass back down. Still crouching over the hole, she cleaned up the rest of her mess and put the shovel and jar back into her carrying bag. She sighed and leaned over the hidden place.

  "Rest easy, little brother," she said, and made the sign of farewell and blessing. Though the grass would soon grow back over the cut turf, she
sprinkled wine and wheat grains over the grave. She hoped that the little boy's spirit would find its way to the green fields beyond the Lethe. Then she slipped off through the bushes, heading for the front of the house. This time no one saw her.

  —|—

  "I fear that I am a poor commander for this desperate venture," Maxian said, his voice still hoarse. He sat in a wooden chair with upswept arms, covered with a quilt. His face was still pale, though he had nearly recovered all of his strength. While he still looked young, there was some shadow around his eyes that made him look far older than he had the week before. Krista sat behind him, on the edge of the bed, with the little black cat on her lap. The dead man and the Persian sat in the other chairs, but only Abdmachus seemed comfortable in them. He was sitting cross-legged after the fashion of his people.

  "I have put us all at risk with a very ill-considered approach at dealing with this problem. I was thinking of this... thing... as a contagion, a disease. It is not, it is a curse, a construction of forms and patterns in the unseen world. It must be dealt with as such." Maxian raised his hand to stop Abdmachus, who started to speak.

  "I know, my friend, that many other sorcerers have gnawed at the edges and come away empty-handed or dead, but this thing operates within boundaries and rules of its own. It is not a disease and I do not believe that it can be treated like one, a single patient at a time. Everything that this is fits together, like a puzzle, or the stones of a bridge. If the one keystone can be removed, properly removed, the entire edifice will come apart. I believe that if we can effect that, the entire curse will be lifted."

  Abdmachus stirred, his white eyebrows perking up. "What, Lord Prince, is the keystone?"

  Maxian smiled, but he did not answer. His face twisted a little then, becoming grimmer. "I also know that regardless of how much you might praise my current powers, they are wholly insignificant in the face of what will be required. I must have access to a vast reservoir of power, far more than is contained within mere rocks and stones, or even in the three of us. Where can I get it?"

  The Persian quailed at the hard stare he received from the Prince. He looked to Gaius Julius, but the dead man was smiling genially and only raised an eyebrow in question. Krista was ignoring the men entirely, for the little black cat had rolled on its back and was batting at her braids with its paws. It caught one and bit at the end of the hairs.

  Abdmachus turned back to face the Prince, who was still staring at him with an almost hungry gaze. "O Prince, I... I do not know of such a power! The exhumed dead are repositories of strength, as you have seen from your experiences in the tomb. You see the pool of necromantic energy that Gaius here provides. I do not know! Perhaps another Emperor, as well loved as he? Perhaps we could find the body of Augustus Octavian and..."

  "Bah!" Gaius Julius' voice was harsh in the close room. "No one makes a pilgrimage to his temple! There are no parades on the day of his birth. Do I ken you, Prince, that you need the very power of the gods? That you need enough strength to topple a mountain by pulling out the single stone at its heart?"

  "Yes," Maxian whispered, his eyes still fixed on the Persian, who was beginning to tremble a little. The Easterner raised a hand to his mouth and wiped sweat from his lip. "Yes, Gaius, I need the power of a god."

  "Well, then," the dead man said, rising from his chair and circling behind Abdmachus, who looked up at him fearfully, "barring that we storm the gates of Olympus and drag Jupiter out by his short hairs to serve us, we must find the next best thing. Persian, you do know what that is, don't you? And I'll wager from the palsy in your hands that you know where it is as well."

  "What do you mean?" Abdmachus' voice was a strangled whisper. A terrible fear had begun to blossom on his face.

  "I mean," Gaius Julius said, gently placing his hands on either side of the little Persian's neck, "that I have read the Histories. I know that the Tomb is empty, that it has been empty since the disaster of the Emperor Valerian's capture by Shapur of Persia three hundred and sixty years ago. I know what price Rome paid for his ransom. What I don't know is, where is the Sarcophagus? Can you tell me that? Can you tell me where the King of Kings, this Shapur the Young, hid it?"

  "No, no! I do not know such things! They are forbidden! The mobehedan are the only ones who know such secrets! I am only a low moghan, not one of the great ones!"

  Gaius Julius' fingers, ancient and weathered like the roots of oaks, dug into the little Persian's neck. Abdmachus squirmed as the nails cut into the nerves, but he did not have the breath to scream. The dead man leaned close, his mouth close to the little Persian's ear. "They trusted you enough to send you here, to the heart of the enemy. They trusted you to carry their plan into the house of the enemy. You are strong enough to build the ward that holds this house safe from what must be the strongest power in the world, save the gods themselves."

  The fingers began to crush the little man's windpipe, fractions at a time. Abdmachus struggled desperately to breathe, but there were only little gulps of air to be had.

  "Where is the Sarcophagus? Tell me!"

  Gaius Julius released the chokehold, suddenly, for Maxian had made a small gesture with his left hand. The Persian gasped for air. When he had recovered, the Prince gestured again and Gaius Julius, with an unpleasant smile, gave him a glass of wine. Abdmachus drank deeply and then put it aside. He glanced fearfully at the dead man but then focused on the Prince.

  "Lord Prince, please, surely this is not necessary? I have served you faithfully! I am Persian, yes. I was sent here as a spy in the capital of the enemy. But I am your friend, I have thrown my lot with you! Please do not ask these things of me!"

  Maxian leaned forward, his face in shadow. His voice grated like stones crushing the bones of the dead. "Abdmachus, you are faithful, but there is no way out of the trap save victory. If you do not give me freely what I need, then I will draw it from your dead skull. Gaius Julius will take great pleasure in killing you and I will raise you up again, only wholly my creature, and your secrets will be mine. If you serve me freely, and me only, then you will live and have free will. But you must choose, and you must choose now."

  Abdmachus quailed away from the face of the Prince, but there was no respite from his will. During the Prince's speech, the dead man had drawn out a wire-wrapped cord and now held it ready behind the Persian's head. Krista looked up from playing with the cat, frowned, and gathered up the little creature before leaving the room.

  "Lord Prince..." Abdmachus started to speak but then stopped. Fear, cunning, and despair flitted across his face, but in the end there was only hopeless resignation. "Yes, I will do as you say."

  Maxian smiled, but there was no laughter in his eyes. He rose from the chair and put aside the patterned quilt. He leaned down and took Abdmachus' head in his hands, raising it up so that he could meet the Persian's eyes. A hum rose in the room, like a hive of bees, and the Persian twitched suddenly. Maxian released him and smoothed the tousled gray hair back.

  "Where," said the Prince, "is this Sarcophagus?"

  Abdmachus groaned and fell on his knees to the floor. A trembling hand went to his forehead and then flinched back, finding a mark there. Though he could not see it, it was that of an inverted pyramid and bound to his flesh more surely than any tattoo. Tears dripped from his eyes as he knelt before the Prince, forehead to the floor.

  "I have heard that the great King Shapur took the Sarcophagus to the mobehedan-mobad. The high priest had demanded it of the King of Kings as recompense for the murder of Shapur's brothers. The Sarcophagus was taken to the East, to a hidden place, for the magi feared that their enemies would seize it from them." Abdmachus halted, his voice weak with fear. "They built a new tomb of gold and lead to hold it, for none could open the Sarcophagus, though many tried. The greatest of the mobehedan died trying to unlock its secrets. I do not know where the great magi hid it, only that it is somewhere deep in Persia... Please, it cannot be found!"

  Gaius Julius smiled now and fondly
patted the head of the traitorous Persian. "Boy, nothing is impossible if a man puts his mind to it." He looked at Maxian, who was slouched in the chair again, exhausted from his small effort. "That Sarcophagus contains all the power you need, Prince. All we have to do is find it and retrieve it."

  The dead man idly toyed with his knife. It was quite old; he had purchased it from a dealer in rare objects in the city. Now he drew the blade and the rasping sound of iron on bronze brought a sickly smile to the Persian's face.

  "Where might we find someone who knows where the old wizards took this body, Persian friend?" Gaius Julius' bald head gleamed in the firelight as he bent close to the little Easterner.

  Abdmachus swallowed and cringed away from the dead man. "Please, Lord Prince! This thing is a great secret. It is spoken of only in the barest whispers among my people. The agents of the mobehedan would murder any man in Persia who ever spoke of such a thing!"

  "Then," Gaius Julius said, sliding the flat of the blade along the Persian's chin, "perhaps someone who is not Persian might know? An Egyptian? A Chaldean?" The point of the blade pricked at the corner of Abdmachus' eye.

  "Aaah! Please... there is a man, a man in Constantinople. He collects rare things: books, objects of art, secrets! He may know where the Sarcophagus was taken. Aaa!"

  Blood oozed from around the tip of the dagger and the dead man grinned in delight.

  "I have met this man before! Please, I will take you to him. If you have gold or secrets to sell, you can get anything you want from him!"