The Shadow of Ararat

by Thomas Harlan

  The tramp of a hundred feet sounded from the far end of the hall. Siroes glanced up, peering out from under the brim of the heavy ornamental hat he was forced, by ceremony, to wear. A phalanx of dark-skinned men, each no less than six feet tall, preceded the King of Kings. They were dressed in burnished gold-scale armor, with helms of brass and silver that hid their faces. Their arms and legs were bare, showing mighty sinew and muscle. Each man held a tall staff before him, surmounted by a pennon showing the crest of the House of Sassan.

  Behind them three lines of attendants gowned in linen and samnite advanced, alternating those who bore the cupped fire of the Lord of Light, Ahura-Mazda, and those who held small copper pyramids of smoking incense. Behind these, at last, came the wall of guardsmen—swordsmen from the Hindic kingdoms of India—in ornamented armor of interlocking plates that covered them from head to toe. Their metal shoes rang on the azure and crimson floor tiles. Each armored plate was scribed with signs of defense and victory in gold inlay. Tall plumes bobbed from their helmets. Only dark slits revealed the hidden presence of eyes. Each guardsman bore a blade of watery steel, held before him in a scabbard of tooled leather.

  Siroes flinched to see his father. The Great King, Chrosoes, King of Kings of Iran, Shahanshah of the Persians, was carried forward on a platform raised on the shoulders of sixteen massive Ethiops. He wore a mask of gold, as had been his custom for the last nine years, exquisitely carved to emulate the features of the ancient Achaemaenid King Darius the Great. A beard of gold curled at his chin, and his eyes peered out from under cunningly crafted eyelids. His robes, a dazzling midnight purple in the finest silk, fell from broad shoulders. He wore a close-fitting tunic in gleaming white beneath them. He lounged on a smaller throne of ivory that sat amid a platform strewn with fresh-cut flowers. As he passed, the assembled court rose, filling the air with the rustling of their gowns, tunics, and robes. Behind the rear rank of guardsmen, four slaves in short cotton kilts walked, holding great palm-shaped fans that stirred the air for the King of Kings.

  As the royal litter approached the dais of the throne, Siroes, like all the other great ones assembled on the steps, pressed his forehead to the floor. The attendants who accompanied the King of Kings peeled away as they approached the throne, until only the finest of the guardsmen ascended the steps and took up positions on the second step, each facing outward. Two pageboys scurried out from behind the pedestal and carefully unrolled a carpet from under the massive onyx-, amethyst-, and jewel-studded throne. The special carpet held dried, aromatic flowers within its roll, and the King of Kings stepped down on rose petals and the hearts of lilies. Chrosoes mounted to the throne, where he carefully arranged his robes and sat.

  The trumpets pealed again, and there was the rattle of hidden drums. Gundarnasp, the commander of the gyanavsyar, the Companions of the King, stepped forward on the lowest step and raised a cone of enameled brass to his lips.

  "The King of Kings has come," he proclaimed, his voice echoing from the trumpet. "Great Chrosoes, he who bestrides the world like a Titan of old, receives you. Stand forward to seek his judgment, his mercy, his love!"

  Siroes groaned inwardly and picked at the stiff collar of his raiment. It chafed and always gave him a rash. He hated to spend hours in the court—and there was no day in court that did not involve six or seven hours of standing, as still as could be managed, at the side of his father. He thought longingly of Barsine and the other concubines waiting in his quarters to ease his fears and while the time away.

  Below, the embassy from the Prince of Samarkhand approached, swarthy men with deep blue-black-colored robes and hair swept back like a raven's wing. Siroes sighed; this would take forever! The vizier Khomane nudged him from behind, and the Prince straightened up, keeping his face impassive. The appearance of the court and the endless ceremonial that it engendered consumed a great deal of the Prince's time, yet all the wise heads agreed that it was absolutely necessary to reassure the people and the subject nobility of the strength and permanence of the Empire.

  —|—

  There was a final clash of cymbals and the last troupe of dancers fluttered off the raised platform at the center of the dining chamber in a cloud of feathers and trailing, translucent silks. Servants entered and began clearing away the silver and gold platters from the long tables that surrounded the platform on three sides. The fourth side fell away from the dining room through a wall pierced by many arches onto a long series of terraces. The gardens led down to the reflecting surface of the great square Lake of Paradise that Siroes' grandfather had ordered built. Now it was the domain of birds and fish and a thousand reeds. The gardens that occupied the terraces that marked the northern side of the palace were redolent with orange and jasmine and rose. The smell, when the wind turned over the lake, was heady and thick in the rooms along the border of the garden. Siroes drained the last of the wine, a Luristani vintage, and discarded the goblet—silver and ruby on bronze—under his couch. He smiled weakly at one of the serving maids as she passed, her arms laden with heavy platters and goblets.

  She failed to smile back, her attention focused on keeping the crystal glass and heavy gold flatware from toppling onto the floor. He frowned after her, then dismissed her from his mind. There were a thousand more women, each more beautiful than the last, at his disposal. He could choose as he pleased. He picked at the sweet grapes and sliced fruits garnished with sugar and honey that were on the low table before him.

  "Bring the map of the world!" The gold mask lent a strange echo to his father's words. Siroes glanced up, his long dark eyelashes covering his eyes. He sniffed. His father was mounting the steps that led up to the platform of the entertainers. The heavy purple robes had been cast aside, showing the strong shoulders and forearms of the King of Kings. From behind one could see the leather straps that held the gold mask onto the King's face, that and his thinning hair. Siroes snapped his fingers and a slave, a Greek by his look, was quick to bring him a fresh goblet of wine.

  Chrosoes looked up, his arms akimbo.

  Above him, the ceiling descended—a vast disk of mosaic tile. Winches and pulleys groaned in the background and ropes squealed as they slithered through the workings of the apparatus. The center of the room, dominated as it was by the elevation of the platform, was matched in a stair-stepped ceiling with a circular center. Now that center descended and, as it did, it began to swing down until, at last, as it reached the level of the floor, it stood vertical, a great round disk thirty feet high. Above, the ceiling was revealed to house a hidden chamber filled with ropes and chains and diverse mechanisms. On the face of the disk, illuminated by many candles and lanterns that the other servants had quietly rushed forward to install, was a map of the entirety of the world, picked out in tens of thousands of tiny colored tesserae.

  The great map was centered, as was held proper by the Lord of Light and man, upon the city of Ctesiphon, where the court of the King of Kings now sat. It stretched west to the rim of the known world, the Island of the Dogs on the endless ocean that the Roman named Atlanticus. South, the wild coasts of Axum and Canoptis were lined with tiny pictures of terrible beasts and strange races of men. East, beyond India to Serica and Sinae, the map faded out into wastelands and jungles. North, high above the head of the King of Kings, the vast steppes of Scythia and the Hunnic lands ended in endless forest and snow. But at the center, where Chrosoes stood and spread his hands wide, the thousand cities, towns, and fortresses of Persia were carefully laid out.

  "We stand on the verge of victory," the Great King proclaimed. "The Roman enemy has been defeated again and again. Our armies stand within sight of his capital. Our allies besiege his walls. The great Prince Shahin and Lord Rhazates will soon sweep the coast of the Levant and seize Egypt from him. Without the grain of Egypt, Rome and Constantinople will starve."

  A servant in the pale-tan robes of a scribe mounted the steps with a long pointing staff in his hands. He went to stand behind the Great King. Chrosoes paused, his
hidden eyes sweeping the assembled generals, viziers, and Princes. His gaze paused for a moment on Siroes, who looked up guiltily from where he had been nibbling at a slice of candied meat. The Prince flushed, meeting the stern eyes of his father. The Great King's attention passed on and Siroes slumped back in his seat, relieved. What can he want of me? The Prince was constantly confused by the expectations of his remote and forbidding father.

  "The harvest has been gathered, noble lords, and the enemy has at last moved against us. Recent reports from Shahr-Baraz at Chalcedon..." The servant raised the pointer to indicate the shore opposite the Roman city of Constantinople in the upper left quadrant of the map, where the Sea of Darkness and the Mare Aegeaum met in a narrow strait. "...indicate that the army of the thrice-defeated Emperor Heraclius, he who will be my vile and insensate slave, has departed with a fleet to the north, to cross the Sea of Darkness to land, doubtless, at the city of Trabzon." The servant moved the pointer east, along the long coast of northern Pontus to the eastern end of the Sea of Darkness.

  "From this place the Roman dog can slink south through the mountains to attack us from the north. The Boar, most beloved of my generals, has already marched his Immortals east to the new city of Tauris on the lake of Matian." Now the pointer moved to the southeast, to where a lake had been depicted in blue and white, amid high mountains. A tiny symbol stood on the eastern shore, a city with red walls and domes. "Any advance of the Romans east from Trabzon must force a passage through Tauris. The Boar and his army wait for them."

  "There are rumors that a Roman army has landed at Tarsus on the plain of Cilicia." The servant scurried to the left, moving the pointer to a bay on the eastern end of the Mare Internum, north of the Roman-held island of Cyprus. "My spies in the capital of the enemy suggest that this is a small army of Western Romans, led by Emperor Martius Galen Atreus."

  Chrosoes stopped, a bubbling chuckle escaping his lips and then thundering from the roof as he threw his head back in great humor and howled with laughter.

  "Two Emperors will attend me," he shouted, "and be my slaves! There will be no ransom for them; they will live at my side, sightless, tongueless, for a hundred years! When they die, they will be decorations of the court. Embalmed by the finest craftsmen, their bodies shall be stuffed with spices and salt. They will bow before the throne of the King of Kings for all time! So shall all traitors and kin murderers be treated."

  In his couch, Siroes shrank from his father's outburst. The King of Kings had been more and more given to fearsome display of late, leading his son to sequester himself more and more in his private chambers.

  He is insane, Siroes thought mournfully. My father is mad. How can I love someone who has become inhuman?

  "I see your eyes, I know that you are afraid! We have never held Rome so close to utter defeat. Never, even under the glorious reign of my ancestors, have we been poised to recapture everything, everything that the cursed Greek took from us! Three armies stand against us, but they are small, and weak, and widely separated. We have every advantage and will crush them each, one by one, and line the boulevards of my city with a forest of Roman skulls!"

  Chrosoes paused and the echo of his shouting died in the high alcoves of the great room. The generals and viziers gathered before the platform stirred, their robes rustling. The Great King looked down upon them, and they were silent and looked away. Siroes looked up again, afraid, as his father's gaze settled to rest upon him at last.

  "Great King," the Prince mumbled as he struggled to stand up. His knees were watery and he clutched at the heavy velvet of the couch arm. "O King of Kings, how... how will we defeat them? Only... only two of our armies are in the field. The Boar is far to the north, while Shahin is far to the south. If this Emperor Galen strikes from Antioch against the capital, there will be no one to stand against him."

  The King of Kings, the light of the torches glinting off his golden face, gravely descended the steps of the platform. The nobles and viziers drew away from him silently, leaving a clear aisle to the figure of the Prince, who trembled slightly as he stood by the couch. Chrosoes stopped before his son and looked down upon him. Siroes felt pale and weak compared to the mighty figure of his father. Chrosoes was taller by a hand, and his shoulders were broad and his arms corded with muscle. Only the pale glimmer of his mask detracted from his physical presence. In his youth, his face had matched his clean-lined body. Now unwinking eyes stared down at the Prince.

  "The Great Prince Shahin could march back to the capital, son of my first wife," the King said. "But then the rabble of the desert that stands against him would advance in his wake and find easy prey amongst the cities of the northern plain. The Boar could ride down from the north, with his ten thousand Immortals, and crush this invader, but then the Romans in the north would ravage the highland provinces." He laid his hand on his son's cheek. Under the mask's permanent smile, his own lips stretched gruesomely to form a matching expression.

  "Is not Persia the greatest empire in the world?"

  The Great King turned, his gaze lashing the nobles, who shrank back from him.

  "Is not Persia the greatest Empire in the world!" His voice was a shout.

  The nobles bowed, falling on their knees before him. Their voices echoed off of the glassy smooth marble floor.

  "O King, Persia is the greatest empire in the world!"

  Chrosoes nodded and chuckled. "Loyal subjects... raise a new army, the greatest army that the world has seen. Forty thousand Romans march from Tarsus—let four hundred thousand Persian warriors meet them! When these things are done, the enemy will lie in rows, rotting under a Persian sun. Gundarnasp... loyal guardsman..."

  The commander of the palace guard rose from the floor, his broad face impassive. He was the most loyal of Chrosoes' men, a devoted tool to be used at the whim by the King of Kings. He smiled in anticipation of his master's wishes, the black bristles of his beard framing a mouth filled with teeth of gold. Scars lined his face, old memories of years spent in the fighting pits of the city. The fish-scale armor of the Immortal Guard clinked softly as he stood. A full helm, with only a narrow eyeslit breaking its smooth golden surface, was tucked under one arm.

  "Command me, Great King." His voice was a growl, ruined by years of shouting over the tumult of battle and the screams of the dying.

  "Gather me this army," the king said, pacing back through the assembled nobles. "See that all, even the lowest or the highest, give their due in men and weapons and gold. The harvest is done, the canal walls are strong, and the storehouses are filled with grain and olives. This victory shall be so great, even the least specimen of Persian manhood will stand on the field of victory and raise his spear in triumph!" He mounted the platform steps again.

  "Any man who does not stand with us on that field will be base, stripped of honor. He shall be driven from his house and his wives taken from him. His lands will be given to those who have honor, those who shall stand with us against Rome. Let this word be known! Persia's honor will not be tarnished by cowardice."

  Siroes sat down heavily on the couch and gestured weakly for another goblet of wine. A servant, head bowed low, crept up to him, the cup trembling in his hands. The King of Kings remained on the platform, staring up at the great disk of the world, his back turned to the nobles. They stood quietly for a time, then slowly realized that the Great King was done with them. Gundarnasp moved among them, smiling like a shark in a school of minnows. Many of the nobles crept out, hoping to go unnoticed by the guardsman. In time, all of them were gone, even Gundarnasp, and Siroes was alone with his father.

  —|—

  The torches had burned out, and even the four great braziers that surrounded the platform and lighted the disk of the world were ebbing when Siroes woke suddenly. His father had ignored him, and the Prince had drifted into a nervous sleep filled with strange dreams. Now he came fully awake, his hands and feet touched by an unexpected chill. Cautiously he rolled over.

  His father still stood on
the platform, his hands clasped behind his back, but he no longer studied the disk. Instead, he looked out into the darkness of the garden. Siroes peered that way too, into the gloom. Though the moon should have risen over the ornamental pools and cast a silvery light upon the fruit trees and acres of flowers, the space beyond the arches was black as pitch. The braziers suddenly flared, casting his father's shadow huge and swollen across the face of the world, and then died. Only a single flame burned in the brazier farthest from the arches. A chittering came from outside, and the light sound of boots on marble tile. Siroes lay utterly still, for a cold draft now blew over him and rustled the curtains behind him.

  "Lord Dahak." Chrosoes voice rumbled low, seeming distant and faint.

  "My King..." came the answering whisper, and a figure resolved itself out of the darkness that pooled between the fluted columns in the garden. A tall thin man glided forward, his pale skin glowing in the faint light. A loose robe of dark silk fell around his thin shoulders, revealing a white hairless chest mottled with a tracery of shining skin, puckered and twisted over terrible wounds. His face was sharp, though it too was horribly marked by a spiderweb of scar tissue and glassy flesh. Chrosoes hissed in alarm at the sight, a strange whistling sound from beneath his mask.

  "Oh, yes, my King. I emulate you too well now. My visit to the city of the Eastern Romans had an abrupt and rather unfortunate end." The thin lips curled in a sardonic smile, revealing fine white teeth. A long thin finger traced the scars along the dark man's neck and chest. "Some presents are best left unopened."