Shards of Empire

by Susan Shwartz

  “You think there is treasure in there?” She met her father's eyes. Merchant that he was, she had grown up familiar with the feel of the finest silk in her hands. She could count the knots on the rugs loaded upon the swift, sullen Bactrians that plied the caravan routes. She was as able to judge the flaws in rubies as in pomegranates. But it was not such treasure that she sought below the earth—little as any of her father's friends or the villagers of Hagios Prokopios might believe her.

  Asherah sought knowledge and the uses to which that knowledge could be put. Knowledge that, thus far, she had not gained, but that she planned to continue to seek.

  “I came out to tell you,” said her father. “The packs from Babylon arrived. There is a shipment of clay ... no, not the pottery, but clay bricks, unglazed, and marked with symbols such as I have seen before. We shall see if they are words that we can try to read.”

  He pulled a tablet from his belt. Asherah closed her hand eagerly upon the clay. In the light of the full moon, she saw marks she had last seen at the feet of an idol. Or thought she had: half the inscription and almost three quarters of the image had been smashed by previous travelers, whether Christian, Jew, or Muslim, indignant at such abomination.

  The hope of knowledge, of secrets plumbed and known, prickled along Asherah's spine. There had been great mages among the Chaldees. Perhaps these tablets held their secrets.

  One of the drovers gestured urgently.

  Joachim came alert. “Quick! I hear something,” he whispered.

  Asherah scrambled onto her waiting horse. She might have had an Arab, but the rocks here would have been unkind to such a pretty creature. Better to ride one of the ungainly horses she had seen in her travels in Persia and Ferghana, valuing them for their strength and endurance. Not for the first time, she was glad she could mount by herself and ride. It was quicker, if far less proper, than any closed chair or carriage, quicker even than the veiled enclosures perched atop camels that had borne her in the deserts east of Persia and in the highlands where a noble woman must be secluded.

  They set out quickly. Beside her, Joachim set up a humming on several notes, a song of passage that she knew carried other meanings as well. She joined her voice to his, setting protections that had nothing to do with the armed men who surrounded them, invoking the archangels to surround them, a second and far more powerful circle of protection.

  Pass unnoticed, like sand falling in the night. Pass unnoticed, like moonlight bathing ripples of water. Pass unnoticed. We are safe within the circle of archangels. You do not see us. You sense only the rhythm of the night. You see nothing: a trick of the light—no more.

  Sometimes, it even worked.

  The full moon made their path clear over the rubble-strewn ground: just as well, lest their horses step awry on the track, perhaps on one of the sharp pieces of obsidian that glinted darkly before them. Asherah's humming took on words, becoming a soft-voiced chant. She drew the light and strength of the full moon to help her. So much depended on the moon, which, for the Muslims as well as for her own people, established the times and seasons of the year and its holidays. Moon-bright: Asherah was certain she had seen mentions of a female power, if not the false beings worshipped by the ancient Greeks, in Muslim texts. But in her own holy words? God was God; and that was all there was. Yet Wisdom was a woman, and the moon governed women as surely as the tides.

  As above, so below: as within, without; the ebb and flow of tides of the seas and the blood tides within a woman's deepest privacy. It was woman's magic, this looking to the moon. She had learned it for herself. No need to tell her father: if it protected him, she would take the blame for any idolatry upon herself and atone for it when the moon proclaimed it to be time.

  Her mare settled down from her initial trot to a smooth walk she could keep up for the hours the trip home would take. She too would not be dazzled by the moon nor spooked by the shadows cast by the rocks through which they rode, but would gain strength, Asherah hoped.

  Ahead of her were two men riding, one far taller than the other. She reached out with her senses in the way she had been taught—a fragile tendril of awareness she thought of as a shining thread spun from her mind and soul and body. Yes, others waited for them. She could hear their horses shift from hoof to hoof. The men moved to stand on either side of the road. An ambush, then?

  She could hear them cough, or mutter to each other; she could even hear their breathing, smell the wine upon their breath. The heated courage inspired by the wine was cooling now, but a cold anger underlay it.

  They waited for their enemy. The murderer of their lord. Kinsman to the hated man who had stolen his place, and who had—less important, if more immediate—faced them down. He was but one, and his friend, though fearfully strong, was only one more: they could take both men and make certain ...

  Asherah shuddered. Death ruled the watchers’ minds. They would kill the men they stalked and then, no doubt, hide them in the underground ways. In times of trouble, Asherah knew, people died in those caves. The dead were carefully preserved in special crypts until they could receive proper burial. She had never found such places, but she had no wish to come upon some moldering thing during her explorations.

  The two men rode closer. A moment more and they would ride right into the ambush she foresaw.

  She tugged at her father's sleeve.

  “They mean murder!” she whispered.

  Joachim signaled for the guards he trusted most.

  “Get her away!” he ordered in a hiss.

  With a shout, the ambushers surged up and over the men for whom they had lain in wait. The moonlight let Asherah see them clearly, even to the details of their clothes and weapons. Young nobles, eager to prove themselves, if not to put themselves in much danger. Fine warriors, those. Contempt, more chill than anger, made her dizzy. Such men, such noble men to lord it over an Empire and oppress her people and kill strangers.

  In an instant, they'd have their victims off their horses.

  “We must stop them!” she whispered. A man reached to take her reins and lead her safely away. She jerked her horse's head away.

  “You must be safe!” her father said. She was what he had, and all he had left. But if she allowed herself to be put in safekeeping like some useless treasure, what, indeed, did he have? A scroll of wisdom kept wrapped up because it was too precious to be read? That was stupid!

  They were down now, or at least one man was. She saw his face as he fell ...

  Salomon had her bridle now, was drawing her away. By now, Gershom would probably have had to gag Tzipporah unless she convinced herself that this would mean another attack upon the People unless she kept silent.

  The other man cried out as the nobles clubbed him.

  “We'll dump them in the city for now. They'll keep until we decide how best to bury them. You sought our treasure, Imperial Highness? The rock and shadows that are all you robbers left us? You'll sleep with it till doomsday!”

  She could feel his eyes and hearing go wild as he searched for help. That man's face, strained and pale, its dark eyes flashing up to the moon, around, as if seeking help ... I lift up mine eyes unto the hills whence cometh my help ...

  She heard the name “Ducas.” She knew that face. And she knew whence his help must come.

  She had felt this kind of rage before, when her powers failed and she had been swept up by officers into the soldiers’ camp. She had demanded to draw her own shard in the hideous lottery that would determine which of her people would have an Emperor's death upon his untried hands: one less chance that the lot would fall to her father. Failing in that, she had been escorted to where the Emperor's last sight would be of her.

  He had spoken fairly to her, summoning his courage lest she be more afraid than she was. He had even sent his servant to stand by her, a man he treated as his son. His hand had shaken as he guided her, but she had gained courage from his will, not to fail before one given him to protect. And he had seen her and the others
safely from the camp.

  He had a life's claim upon her.

  “Father,” she cried despairingly as Salomon pulled her reins from her hands, “this is the man who saved me!”

  Joachim would know which man she meant and where.

  “The man we saw in the town? The one I told to come see me if he needed work? I shall see to this, child. Go home.”

  She would have stamped her feet and shrieked if she had time or safety for such display.

  She brought her nails down upon Salomon's hand and when his grip faltered, wrenched her reins free. The way her horse jerked her head, its tender mouth aching from this treatment, only fueled her anger.

  What was the point of training a daughter like a son—and the Wise Son at that—if, at the slightest danger, she was to be led away like a solitary, precious lamb? Lambs too could be sacrificed: she would far rather go down fighting.

  The man about to die understood, had understood when she refused to hide under the guise of tender lady and be led from his Emperor's sight when there was a kindness she could do. He had treated her like a comrade and an equal. He should not die if she could save him.

  “We must not be involved!” her father whispered. “You most of all.”

  She wavered, seeing the fear in his eyes, not just for her, his only surviving child, but for her, because of her visions, her powers in a world that would treat her as a witch.

  “He would not have forced Menachem to blind the Emperor. He helped me tend him!” She had never begged in her life and would not begin now.

  But she had begun to shake. It made her furious as well as terrified. This was the worst of it, had always been the worst of it. As a child, to know what would happen and never, never to be believed. As a woman, to know and to understand, but never, never to be allowed to take a hand in events.

  “If Moses had not listened to his sister, we never would have crossed the Red Sea!” she cried. Like Miriam, Asherah was a prophet. Her father had tested her, trusted her: why could he not make use of her gifts?

  She flinched as she heard the young aristocrat groan. If they fancied themselves alone, they might take their time in slaying him, might kick him to death, judging from the sounds she heard.

  “They're killing him!”

  Salomon had wrested control of her horse from her again. Asherah slipped from its back.

  “Mistress, this is a bad time...” He dared argue with her as if she were some creature fit only to bake bread and tend babies? He knew better than that.

  “Asherah, my child, my child, wait!”

  Joachim's footsteps grated on the rocky soil.

  Wait. Again, wait. Time, time, it was never time to do. Always, they must speak softly, wait, hide, flee, bide their time—and for what? Until the Messiah came? And she had seen her mother killed, her friends and family dispersed. She had been spied upon for madness, had lost homes without count, and would never, never, never be trusted to be the mere bread-baker and baby-tender that Salomon tried to make her.

  “Why couldn't God save her?” she had asked during the days of mourning for her mother, too young then to see her father flinch at the grief her question had renewed.

  Why, indeed? Why had God not saved her mother? Why not their friends, their cities, their holy kingdom? Why have powers at all if they were only a study, not a weapon?

  Indeed, they must wait until the Messiah came to bring them courage, if nothing else.

  All during her childhood, Asherah had railed at that and had been told, “If we showed what we know, all the nations of the world would band together just long enough to wipe us out. Truly, we exist—we must exist—only to praise God. And to keep alive that a remnant may be saved and, at the end of days, rebuild God's Temple. That is why we are alive, not tossed onto the shoals of time like the powers we have outlived—as we will outlive this one too.”

  But, Lord of Hosts, it was hard to take the long view when a man was being blinded or kicked to death before your eyes.

  This time, she would not wait. She ran toward her former rescuer, her hand going to a little dagger she always wore.

  If she waited much longer, another man would die. And his help had saved her, and perhaps all the Jews in Cotyaeum.

  Her father ran up behind her, old as he was. He caught her by the arm. She had not the heart to pull free, assuming that she could.

  She looked up at him and let the tears of anger come. “He was kind to me. And...”

  “Because of that, daughter...” Joachim might wish to hide her away like an unread scroll, but he seldom refused her anything else she asked.

  “But you will let me lead.”

  She obeyed, glad to seem meek now that she had gained her will.

  Joachim extended his hands. No humming now, but the full-throated invocation, here beneath the moon and stars.

  Power prickled along Asherah's spine and grew to be a roaring in her ears. Her father had not yet begun, but she could feel the strangeness start within her, the roaring in her ears and heart and brain that meant, as it always had, some use of magic. She was floating, floating above the battlefield. In an instant, she would see ...

  An actual roaring drew her back to the world, as if a beast leapt from a cliff into the midst of a den of thieves. Joachim and Asherah whirled around, Asherah's hand, with its puny dagger, going up before her, her father pushing her behind him and drawing the sword he had learned to use, after a fashion, unlawful though it doubtless was.

  A creature had indeed leapt between the murderers and their prey. Half man, half beast, it seemed and wholly huge, like some demon ravening out of the Persian hills. Its long muzzle opened, it bayed at the moon, showing darkened teeth, as a man broke and ran shrieking from the carnage on the ground. The creature leapt after the man and onto his back, bringing him down with what appalling grace.

  The ambushers’ horses screamed and broke free. They were too well trained to do that, except in the case of fire, or blood—or something completely unnatural.

  “Demon,” she whispered.

  To her astonishment, Joachim chuckled. “I heard such tales of men from the North and never thought to believe them. And yet ... yes.” He drew a deep breath, a warrior finding the weapon of his choice.

  “Now,” he demanded, “will you believe there are some things in which I am still your teacher? I shall restrain the Northerner. You, since you wish to be a second Deborah, guard your old guardian.”

  The moon was high now, occluded only by a few fast-moving clouds. Asherah could feel Leo's desperate grasp on awareness fade, like a man struggling back over the lip of a cliff, whose fingers scrabble and falter. He was fighting to live, and yet—she screamed with the pain she felt, roused to panic at the sight of a dagger held before his eyes, silver-bright, not red-hot, but just as deadly ...

  Again, the creature, the man-beast snarled, its voice rising into a howl of fury and, much to Asherah's surprise, anguish.

  Joachim's hand gripped her shoulder. Yes. That was the way. Closing her eyes, Asherah added her strength to his, invoking the archangels, especially Michael the Warrior, whose dark hair and eyes had reminded her of this man's ever since he had led her from an Emperor's execution.

  When she could open her eyes again, she saw that the young man was up and fighting as best he could. His sword was long lost; they had disarmed him before anything else. Yet, he was trying now to defend himself with the shreds of his cloak wrapped about one arm and what looked like a dark light glinting in his hand. Asherah turned her attention to his weapon: it was a dagger chipped from black stone, the sort of crude, final weapon someone might use only if he had nothing else, not even hope.

  How long had it been since this man had dared to hope? Since before his Emperor lost his eyes?

  She knew him again now, remembered his name. Ducas. Leo Ducas, his name was. God protect him. Light formed about her and her father, a sphere of protection, moon-shining, that expanded until it touched the fighting men. As the light brus
hed one of them, he screamed and ran. Leo dropped to his knees and slashed at the calf of another: hamstringing was highly effective, if not at all the type of blow Asherah expected an aristocrat of Byzantium to resort to. His chest was heaving, and his head moved from side to side as if his vision faded and blurred. He was losing strength.

  What they had done was not enough.

  And with the sphere of light came sigils. A star of five points. A star of six points—the seal of Solomon, greatest of mages, to bind and to control the wild creature that had once walked like a man in the marketplace.

  The light grew brighter and brighter, sun-bright, and then exploded in a conflagration like a burning ship when its supplies of sea-fire are breached.

  The last attacker took to his heels. If their working had been spectacular enough, perhaps that, combined with the apparition of whatever creature he had seen, would suffice to silence him. It might even be enough to prevent him from trying to kill again by stealth and in the dark.

  Asherah had escaped peril of her life before, and on less assurance.

  But it still was not good enough! Her mind screamed in rage. She was a stranger in a strange land: this man was one of this land's own.

  As if the beast that leapt onto four legs from two could hear her, it loped after the last attacker and brought him down with a casual swipe of a huge paw across his neck.

  The people here would never, never think Turks capable of such a killing, would they? she asked herself, afraid that even the help of that creature would not avail them much.

  They feared. They hated. They would think the Turks capable of anything.

  Better the Turks than her own people, she thought, and hated herself for it. Hatred, within the wards themselves: another sin for which she would have to atone.

  Asherah wanted to run to the man whose life she had helped save, but the wards of protection must be taken down, the powers thanked, and her father seen to, lest this working have proved too great a strain upon his heart. Though the time seemed long, it was only perhaps a moment or so until she could drop to her knees by the young Ducas. He lay prone, his head in the dust.