Ahmet stopped at the side of the cluster of men, who were talking in low tones, and bowed deeply to her. Zenobia inclined her head slightly and her almond-shaped eyes slid to the side. Ahmet looked and saw that Mohammed was sitting on a low stool behind Ibn'Adi at the edge of the circle of chairs. He sat down next to his friend.
"Lords of the city, please, sit with me and partake of wine."
Zenobia made a small gesture and servants came from openings behind the tapestries with plates of cut fruit dusted with sugar and honey. Others bore flagons of wine. The richly dressed men milled about for a moment and then seated themselves. Some took wine, but many did not. When they were settled, the Queen made a small gesture toward her brother, who sat at her side.
"Welcome, friends," Vorodes said, raising a cup of beaten gold. He took a small sip.
"A difficult time has come upon us," he continued, setting the cup down. "Morning has come and brought with it the sight of a great host of Persians encamped in the hills and their riders circling the city. As has happened only twice before in our long history, the city is besieged."
There was a muttering among the noble men, and Ahmet saw that some of them cast curious or angry glances at the Queen. She remained quiet, staring at some point above the heads of the men she ruled, her expression calm.
"Persia, as we feared, has come against us. Now the Boar waits outside and will soon begin works against us. Already the flow of water out of the aqueduct from the west has slowed to a trickle. Soon it will be dry. Given time, the Persians will build a wall around the city and pen us in. But, my lords, you know the strength of our position. Our cisterns are deep, our storehouses filled with grain. We can wait a long time while the Persians are reduced to eating their camels and horses, then their shoes, then nothing. Even water will be short for them—the streams are not reliable."
The Prince paused, surveying the faces of the clan lords and the great merchants. Ahmet studied them as well and saw men who had eaten too well for too long. He wondered if they had the stomach for such a battle. The city had grown mighty on trade and goods. Now there was no trade, and no goods flowed from east to west and back again.
"The Queen has decided to stand firm," the Prince continued. "We will not negotiate with Persia, nor will we surrender."
One of the magnates stirred at this, his long face marked by many days under the desert sun.
"Lord Prince," he said in a deep gravelly voice, "forgive my impertinence, but we are far from aid. The unfortunate setback that the army has suffered has removed our Nabatean allies from the field as well as the militias of all of Syria. As there are no Imperial Legions to succor us, we seem to have few options save..."
"Rome," the Queen said in a quiet voice, "will not abandon us."
The merchant turned a little, meeting the calm azure eyes of the Queen. His face was grim. "My lady, please, we are not children. The Roman army has withdrawn to defend Egypt. We are abandoned. The only hope of the city's survival is in negotiation. We have been strong allies of Rome; we can serve Chrosoes as well."
Zenobia made to rise, her perfect mask beginning to crack, but she restrained herself and remained seated.
"Chrosoes," she said in the same quiet voice, "will destroy us all. He is mad. He traffics with foul powers. Rome will win and will return. Our hope is to stand until that day."
The merchant shook his head in dismay. His dark eyes were filled with sadness. "If that is your will, my lady, then we shall honor it, but there is no hope for the city. There will only be the long horror of a siege and then death, or slavery."
Zenobia looked around the circle of faces, seeing the same despair in the eyes of the other lords of the city. Of all the men seated there, only the desert men to her left were unbowed. Ibn'Adi's old eyes flashed with the same fire that had ever filled them. The Al'Quraysh looked positively eager. She glanced at Ahmet. He smiled, just a little, and she took heart from it.
"There is hope, my lords," she answered. She reached into the folds of her garment and drew out a heavy bronze scroll case, well worn and dented. One end unscrewed and from within it she drew out a heavy piece of fine white papyrus. A purple string tied it up. She removed the string and smoothed out the paper on her lap.
"This," she said, "is a letter from the Emperor of the East, Heraclius. It was sent from Constantinople by courier soon after our army marched north from Damascus. It reached us on the road from Emesa. We have told no one of its contents until now."
She paused and took a breath.
"Daughter,
"Lady Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, dux Romanorum Oriens
"Greetings from your Imperial Father, Heraclius, Augustus Caesar
"Know, O Queen, that the legions that were promised to the defense of Damascus and the eastern lands under your protection have been delayed in Alexandria by plague. When the foul disease has run its course, the legions shall march to your assistance."
She stopped, rolled the scroll back up, and carefully put it into its case. She looked around at the men seated before her. She smiled, and the smile was a fierce one, filled with anger and bitter fire.
"The Boar is trapped here, unable to abandon the siege that he has committed to. Thirty leagues lie between him and the nearest water. Soon the armies of the Empire will close the trap behind him, and then it is he that will be annihilated. His bones will bleach in the sun, like so many of our enemies' have done before. This is why we will stand fast and bleed the Persian on the walls of the city. Help is coming, my lords, and if we are patient, we will have victory."
The lean merchant frowned, but he held his peace. The others, Zenobia saw, were heartened and began whispering among themselves of the stories they would tell their grandchildren of the defeat of Persia before the golden walls of the city. The Queen nodded slightly to Ibn'Adi, who presumed to wake from his nap.
"In the matter of the defense of the city," she said firmly, interrupting the murmuring of the nobles. "We have decided to entrust the matter of command to the noble sheykh, Amr Ibn'Adi, who has long been a good friend of the city. My brother, Vorodes, shall command the walls as his second, and the noble Mohammed Al'Quraysh shall have the matter of harassing the enemy and making his stay with us as unpleasant as possible."
Some of the nobles looked around, their faces filled with questions, but then they saw that Lord Zabda was not among their number. The general should have held command of the city if Zenobia or Vorodes did not take it upon themselves. They wondered if he had fallen at Emesa, for none had spoken of him since the return of the army.
"Then, if there are no objections, let us concern ourselves with matters of detail..."
Ahmet considered the beauty of the room and relaxed into a state of light meditation. Many hours would pass now in discussion.
—|—
The sun was setting again, and once more Baraz looked upon the city in twilight. On the great walls, lights twinkled on as the sun began to dip beyond the western hills. He sat on the summit of the tallest of the tomb towers west of the city, the sun at his back. His legs dangled over the edge, kicking idly at the crumbling bricks and masonry of the upper story. A hot wind ruffled his long curly hair, leaching the last bits of moisture from his skin. The bulk of his army remained in the hills, building a camp and laboring to dam the stream. The horses needed a lot of water.
Lord Dahak sat beside him, cross-legged on the flat stones that made the roof of the tomb. As was his wont, the wizard had drawn his cowl over his head. With his long limbs and ragged cloak, he seemed a great raven perched on the height. Only part of one hand was visible, curled around the bone staff.
"Are you strong enough to break the city by yourself?" Baraz's voice was contemplative.
Dahak shifted and the Boar felt the cold eyes of the sorcerer on him. "Have you not an army? They must do more than eat and sleep and shit."
Baraz looked sideways at the wizard, to see if he was angry. If he was, then the Boar would not live long, not in this
tiny space circumscribed only by darkening sky and a drop of thirty-five feet on every side. He could not make out the sorcerer's features in the shadow of his cowl.
"My men are exhausted from the trek across the desert. The horses are nearly dead. Our supplies are low, and there is precious little in this wasteland to feed them with. The longer we wait here, the weaker we will become. There is little wood here, and what there is will not suit for siege engines. My King bids me make haste, so I must consider every stratagem, every..." He paused. "...every weapon."
Dahak stirred, then said: "The King of Kings bade me assist you in all ways, Lord Baraz. It is my duty to obey. What would you have me do?"
Baraz grunted and stared back at the looming walls of the city. Throughout the day he had made a slow circle around the city, viewing its walls and towers and defenses from all sides. It was a long city, running beside the stream, with each narrow end coming almost to a point. At the eastern end, a low hill bore the great palace—an imposing bulk of golden stone and many pillars. At the western, by the great Damascus gate, there was another sizable building. Within there must be markets and gardens and storehouses. Tens of thousands of people must live inside the walls. And all around, on every side and facing, towering walls of vast blocks of stone. Thirty feet was the lowest wall, and that above a deep cleft where the stream ran along the base of the walls. Fifty feet in the other places, with regularly spaced towers.
"It is strong," Baraz said. "But as necessity directs, the gate is the weakest point. We have no ladders, no siege towers, precious few mantlets. We must storm the gate if we are to carry the city. Some rams we could fashion, given time. Can you break it? Can you sunder the gate and let us into the city?"
Dahak seemed to stare out at the distant walls, though it was impossible to tell. "There is a power in the city, Lord Baraz, something that I felt before on the field at Emesa. It is strong, though not as strong as the Red Prince that I slew."
"Another sorcerer?" Baraz was startled. He had thought that Dahak had murdered all of the wizards the Romans could gather. "How did he escape your sending?"
"He did not put himself against me," Dahak mused, his voice almost inaudible. "He only watched on the fringe of the struggle. Perhaps he is clever, this one. Perhaps he wanted to gauge my strength in the unseen world. Then again... he may be weak, or a captive. No... Something held a ward around the Bright Queen through the battle and shielded her from harm. It must be this one."
"What does this mean?" Baraz asked, pulling one leg up and resting his chin on his knee.
"The city is not without barriers and wards unseen," Dahak said. "The gate is no exception. They are strongest there, in fact, as it should be. Many priests and wizards have labored over them for many years. Yet—a gate's purpose is to open. If I have time enough, and the strength, I can make it yield to me."
"But?" Baraz could hear the question in the wizard's voice.
"This clever one, he might have will enough to hold it closed against me. If he can be removed from the board, then the city will be yours. If not, then the sun is fierce here and your bones will bleach quickly under it."
Baraz snorted and turned his attention back to the city. After a time he said: "In the world of men, it is easier to defend than to attack. Is it so with wizards as well?"
"Yes," Dahak said. "What do you intend?"
"If this sorcerer were to come forth and test his strength against you, man to man, could you destroy him?"
Dahak laughed, a sound of falling stones crushing limbs and bodies. "If he were to come forth, I could best him. But how would such a thing be contrived?"
"Honor," Baraz said, a grim smile on his face. "Mine against that of the Queen of the city."
"Honor?" Dahak sniffed, rising easily, like a serpent from the stones. "Honor brought us here—honor and duty to a dreadful King. I spit upon honor. But if it will serve us here, then let it."
—|—
Rich red light fell across the marble wall of the Queen's garden room in broad slanting beams. The setting sun glowed through rice-paper panels set around the western edge of the garden. Zenobia sat on the edge of a couch with a plush velvet cover, her gowns and robes discarded. She wore the purple shirt loose around her waist and had pulled on long cotton pantaloons, so finely woven that the outline of her pale legs could be seen through the fabric. The couch was on a raised platform made from a pale-tan wood. Around the platform the rich earth of the garden was filled with flowers and herbs. Slim white pillars, delicately fluted, with flaring capitals held up a dome of wooden slats over the platform. The Queen was peeling an orange and watching the sun set. She idly tossed the peels in a bucket of chased silver. Her hair was loose and fell over her shoulders in a wave. She bit down on an orange slice.
Ahmet sat behind her, his long brown legs straddling her to either side. His fingers kneaded her back, finding the knots of tension that were hiding among her muscles. The Queen gasped as he found a particularly tight spot. The Egyptian smiled and eased it out with deft hands.
"That was clever," he said, "producing the letter today."
Zenobia glanced over her shoulder, eyes reflecting the setting sun in gold.
"An exiled teacher should not mock a Queen," she said with some asperity.
Ahmet shook his head and gathered her into his arms. He had put aside the tunic and his broad chest was bare. She sighed and leaned back against him, her fingers curling around his forearms. The western horizon was a glorious display of orange and red and deep blue-purple.
"I was not mocking you, O Queen. They took heart from it, and how shall they know different? By the time it becomes clear that Rome will not come to our aid, it will be too late."
"True," she whispered. "They will fight to the last for the city."
"And for you," he said into her ear, "and for you." She clutched him close and buried her face in his shoulder. The sun slid down beyond the western hills, and the sky alone retained its memory. The garden, built out from the top of the palace, fell into darkness. Below it the lights of the city brightened, ten thousand fireflies in the night.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Tauris, Persian Armenia
Heraclius and Galen picked their way through the rubble of the gatehouse. Their guards stalked through the ruins beside them. Smoke and fumes rose from the wreckage of the bastion, fouling the air. Beneath their boots the bricks of the inner courtyard steamed and cracked as they passed. Legionnaires with cloths bound over their mouths and noses were dragging bodies out of the buildings and piling them into wagons. The great middle gate had been torn from its hinges; it lay across the entrance to the city at an angle. Heraclius climbed up over a drift of fallen masonry and saw that there were several Romans standing in the shade of the gatehouse.
One of them was the tribune who had commanded the III Augusta in the attack. He saluted the two Emperors as they strode up, ignoring the scattered bones and rotting limbs that were washed up against the wall like driftwood. The tribune was a heavyset man, with a short salt-and-pepper beard. One side of his face was badly burned and a raw red color. He saluted smartly, though his left arm was bound across the front of his body with strips of cotton cloth.
"Ave, Augustus. The citadel has been secured and the city as well. Most of the Persians are dead, though many surrendered and are being held in the square beyond the gate."
"Good," Heraclius said, his sharp eyes roving over the others who stood behind the tribune. None of them was familiar to him. "And these men?"
"Our... allies, Augustus. They broke through to the middle gate when my men were trapped in the central courtyard. If they had not driven the Persian archers off of the wall, we would have all been dead men."
Heraclius nodded sharply. The assault on the gate, even with the destruction wreaked by the thaumaturges, had been a near disaster. Though the cohorts of the Third Augusta had rushed past the first gate, the inner yard was a trap, covered on all sides by Persian archers. Over four hundred men had di
ed in a struggling mass, unable to retreat due to the pressure of new cohorts crossing the bridge. The Eastern troops had failed to carry either of the outer walls, suffering heavy casualties in the attempt. Only the unexpected appearance of friends had broken the trap.
"Good work, men," the Eastern Emperor said to the soot-stained and bedraggled men who stood behind the tribune. Their armor was battered and dented. Their swords were nicked and dull. All five were coated with black ash and the ragged remains of cloaks and leather armor. None seemed to have escaped injury. Heraclius' eyes narrowed, focusing on the leader, the tall red-haired man in the middle. There was something familiar about him...
The red-haired man stepped forward, favoring his left leg, and made a military salute. Heraclius' eyebrows raised, for the man had faced Galen, to his right.
"Ave, Augustus Galen. Thyatis Clodia of the Sixth Victrix reporting as ordered. I am sad to report that nearly all of my men perished in the effort, but the objective was secured."
Galen, keeping a smile to himself, returned the salute. "Well done, centurion."
The red-haired man turned smartly to face Heraclius and saluted as well. "Augustus Heraclius. If I may, it is my pleasure to present to you our ally, the Prince of Tauris, Tarik Bagratuni. Without the aid of his clansmen, our effort would have failed."
Heraclius frowned at the short man who stepped forward, his chain mail torn from many blows. The little man grinned, his teeth bright in the sooty darkness of his face. The Armenian bowed and hitched his thumbs into the broad leather belt that supported a profusion of knives and a stabbing sword.
"Well met, Bagratuni. We shall have to speak..."
The Shadow of Ararat Page 60
