Thomas Harlan - Oath of Empire 1 - Shadow of Ararat

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Book Information:
Genre: Epic Fantasy
Author: Thomas Harlan
Name: Shadow of Ararat
Series: Oath of Empires, Book 1
======================
Shadow of Ararat
By Thomas Harlan
DELPHI, ACHAEA: 710 AB URBE CONDITA (31 B.C.)
The Greek woman raised her arms and her face, pale and regal, was revealed as the purple silk veil fell away.
Deep-blue eyes flickered in the dimness of the narrow room. A mass of raven hair cascaded down over her pale
shoulders. The smokes of the crevice rose up around her as she stood in supplication. Far away, behind her, the low
beat of a drum echoed in the sun-baked little plaza in front of the temple. She waited, patient and calm.
Finally, as the irregular drumming settled into her blood and she grew light-headed in the haze of bitter-flavored
smoke, a figure stirred in the darkness beyond the glow of the brazier. Strands of long white hair gleamed. Withered
fingers brushed against the lip of the corroded bronze tripod. A face appeared in the smoke, and the queen barely
managed to keep from flinching back. Unlike the gaudy display at Siwa, here there was no grand chorus of priests in
robes of gold and pearl, no vaulting hallway of stupendous granite monoliths, only a dark narrow room in a tiny
building on a steeply slanted Grecian hillside. But at Siwa, when the oracle spoke, there had been no
stomach-tightening fear.
Here the Sybil was ancient and wizened, her eyes empty of all save a sullen red echo of the flames now leaping in
the pit below. The mouth of the crone moved, but no sound emerged. Yet the air trembled and the queen, to her utter
horror, felt words come unbidden to her mind, forming themselves pure and whole in her thought. She flinched and
staggered back, her hands now clawing at the air in a fruitless attempt to stop the flood of images. She cried out in
despair. The empty face faded back into the darkness beyond the tripod and the crevice. The fire sputtered and
suddenly died.
The Queen lay, weeping in bitter rage, on the uneven flagstones as her guardsmen entered the chamber to see what
had befallen her. The vision had been all that she desired, and more.
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SOUTH OF PANOPOLIS, THEME OF EGYPT: 1376 AB URBE CONDITA
A boy walked in darkness, his head outlined against the sky by the dim radiance of the River of Milk. His skinny
legs were barely covered by a short kilt of rough cotton homespun. He scrambled to the crest of the dune. Beyond it
the western waste spread before him cold and silver in the moonlight. A chill wind, fresh with the bitter scent of the
desert, ruffled his shirt and blew back the long braids from his face. Breathing deep, he felt his heart fill with the
silence. He smiled, broad and wide, in the darkness. Laughing, he spread his arms and spun, letting the huge vault of
heaven rotate above him. The great moon, a dazzling white, filled the sky. The river of stars, undimmed by clouds,
coursed above him, the Zodiac forming in its eddies and currents.
He sighed deep and laughed again. He sprinted along the ridge, feeling his muscles surge and thrust as he hurtled
forward. Gaining speed, he lengthened his stride and kicked off hard as he reached the curling lip of the dune. For a
moment, the wind rushing past, he was suspended in the
starry dark. His long braids lashed back as he fell through deep shadow.
The water was a slapping shock as he struck the surface. He plunged through broiling murk and felt his feet strike
against the sandy bottom. Surging upward, he breached, throwing his head back. The stars glittered down through the
arching palms, and Dwyrin rolled over and stroked easily to the reed-strewn shore. Gripping a low branch, he pulled
himself from the inlet of the Father Nile. He squeezed muddy water from his braids and coiled them at his shoulder. His
tunic, sodden and caught with long trails of watercress, he stripped off. Cold wind brushed over him but he did not
feel it.
Pushing through the tall cane break at the edge of the inlet, he looked for a moment out across the broad surface of
the Nile. Near a half mile of open water, running silent under the moon, to the far bank. There he could pick out the
lights of the village, dim and yellow in the night. His right hand checked absently to see if the oranges were still secure
in his cord bag. They were and he took to the trail leading south along the margin of the river.
Beyond the narrow strip of fields and palms, stones and boulders rose from a long tongue of hills that arrowed out
of the waste into the Nile. Here, where the river had long ago curved about an outcropping, men of the Old Kingdom
had raised a siege of pillars and great monoliths. Dwyrin clambered up through the debris that marked the fallen
northern wall of the temple. A looming shape hung over him, ancient face blurred by the desert wind. Swinging over
the massive stone forearm, Dwyrin squeezed through a small space beneath the fallen statue. Within the ancient
temple, long rows of pillars arched above him. The wide stone passages between them were littered with blown brush
and sand. Dwyrin picked his way to the great platform that fronted the temple. From it three great seated figures stared
north, down the Nile, to the distant delta and their realm of old.
At the center reigned the bearded king, his arms crossed upon his chest, broken symbols of divinity and rule held
in massive sandstone hands. His eyes were dark as he looked to the north and the havens of the sea. To his left sat
the languid cat-queen, his patroness, her face still and silent in an ancient smile. One great pointed ear was sheared off,
showing dark-grained stone beneath the smooth carving.
Her, Dwyrin avoided, for her long hands were tipped with claws and she always seemed cool and aloof. Instead, he
turned to the rightmost statue, that of the mightily thewed man with the head of a hawk. He climbed up, over the pleats
of the old god’s kilt, and sat in the broad curving lap, his legs swinging over the edge. Beneath him the Nile gurgled
quietly.
He sat and peeled his oranges, one by one, and waited for the return of Ra from the underworld. He ate them all,
juices staining his fingers and lips. They were tart, and sharply sweet.
Dwyrin reached the edge of the school grounds with his breath coming in long ragged gasps. His sandals, tied
around his neck by their thongs, bounced against his back. He vaulted the low fence bordering the vegetable plots
without breaking stride and rounded the corner into the sta-bleyard. Distantly, over the whitewashed rooftops of the
school, he could hear the morning chanting of the monks. Ra was only just over the horizon, but he had lingered too
long at the old temple, skipping broken pieces of shale from the platform into the dark green-brown waters. The stable
boys looked up in amusement as he ran across the hard-packed mud of the yard to the rear garden gate.
Sprinting to the wall, he leapt up and caught the top of the bricks with both hands. With a heave, he swung up and
over, landing hard on the low grass inside and rolling up. He dodged through the long row of columns that skirted the
garden, sliding to a stop at the door to the junior students’ dormitory. Within he heard faint grumbling and the
snores of the Nubian boy at the end of the bunk line. Glancing both ways down the colonnaded breezeway, he
eased the door open and slipped inside. He stripped off the tunic, now dry, and hung his sandals on the pegs by the
door.
The thick woven cane door at the far end of the hall swung open and the sharp clack of the journeyman master’s
cane rapped on the pale rose tiles. Dwyrin froze by the doorway. Master Ahmet, he saw, had turned back to say
something in passing to the master of the older boys’ section. He had not yet looked fully into the room.
Dwyrin dove to the floor and rolled under the nearest bunk. In it, one of the Galatian students turned over in his
sleep. The rapping of the master’s cane resumed and the first sharp slap of cane stick on bare foot resounded from the
end of the hall. The boy nearest the far door woke, groggily, and rolled out of bed. Dwyrin slid forward under the bunk
and on to the next.
Unfortunately, his bed was on the far side of the hall, across the walkway, and halfway down. He slithered forward
on his belly, checking the progress of the master’s broad feet through the bedposts. Opposite his own bunk, he stole a
look down the walkway. The master had turned away from the line of bunks where Dwyrin hid. Dwyrin reached into his
rolled tunic and dragged out the rinds of orange within. Heart beating furiously and hands shaking just a little, he
waited until the master had turned away again. With a flick of his hand, he skated the rinds down the row of bunks to
lodge nearly soundlessly against Kyl-lun’s bunk, where the ball popped apart and spilled its remains in an unsightly
pile by the head of the bed.
Dwyrin drew his feet up under him and edged out into the space between the beds. The master reached Kyllun’s
bunk and gave him a sharp switch on his exposed foot. Then the master paused, dark eyes narrowed, spying the
rubbish by the side of the bed. His hand was quick as he turned and grasped the sleep-befuddled Kyllun by one large
sun-browned ear.
“So! You are the rascal who has been into the orchards of the holy monks!” Kyllun barely had time to yelp before
the cane swatted him sharply across the buttocks. “You’ll not be doing so again, my lad!” the master cried, and
sharply marched him to the far end of the room, giving him the cane as he went. Kyllun was wailing by the time he and
the master reached the end of the room. While the master was turned away, Dwyrin scooted across the gap and into
his own bed. Safe.
Kyllun’s wailing had roused the rest of the boys now, including Patroclus, whose bunk was next to Dwyrin’s. The
Sicilian boy eyed Dwyrin with distaste as the Hibernian slid under the thin cotton sheets of his bed and assumed a
peaceful expression of sleep.
“You owe me your sweet at dinner,” Patroclus hissed as he cast back his own sheets and ran long, thin boned
hands through his lank black hair.
“You might as well get up now, everyone else is,” he whispered at Dwyrin, who responded with a semi-audible
snore and rolled over artistically, his sheets askew and one bare white leg sticking out. Patroclus shook his head and
rubbed sleep from his long face with both hands.
The master returned and paused by Dwyrin’s bunk, eyeing the Hibernian’s recumbent form. One almond-shaped
eye, keen and dark, widened a little at the sight of the boy’s foot and the cane twitched in his olive hand.
“Lord Dwyrin,” he cooed, “it is time to rise and greet holy Ra as he begins his long journey through the heavens.”
Dwyrin snored again and buried his head underneath the thin straw pillow. “Oh, Dwyrin… Get up, you lazy, thieving,
treacherous, duplicitous lout!” the master shouted, and caned the backs of Dwyrin’s legs fiercely. Dwyrin shot up out
of the bed like a porpoise sporting in the Aegean waves. The quick dark hand of the master secured his protruding red,
freckled ear and dragged him into the walkway. Dwyrin yelled as the cane was sharply laid across his bottom.
“Young men who sneak out at night,” the master growled, “should take pains to clean the grass stains from their
feet before they reenter the dormitory!”
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Dwyrin wailed, as he too was frogmarched to the end of the long room. The other boys stared in
amazement as the red-headed boy was dragged into the master’s cubicle at the end of the dormitory. The master
dismissed Kyllun with a quick motion and the Cilician went quickly, rubbing his ear and glaring sheer hate at the
unrepentant Dwyrin.
“Now, young master Dwyrin,” the dorm master said as he closed the door behind him, “let me see if I can remember
the punishments for stealing, breaking curfew, and causing the unjust punishment of another student.”
Dwyrin gulped as the door slammed shut.
Day’s end came at last, the ship of Ra dropping once more beyond the western hills to begin its journey through
darkness. Dwyrin looked up from the basin at the back of the kitchens to see the sky turn gold and purple, then fade
into deepest blue. Two of the cooks came out of the low door, bearing another heavy tray of bowls and cups. Bone
weary, his hands red and sore, Dwyrin heaved the copper bucket onto his shoulder and stumbled to the well at the end
of the rear court. His hands throbbed as he cranked the wheel around, dropping the bucket and its corded hemp line
into the cool darkness below. There was a distant splash and the too-familiar gurgle of the bucket tipping over and
filling. Dwyrin leaned on the wheel against the growing weight. His bronze-red hair was gilded by the setting sun.
There was laughter from the court within; the junior boys were leaving dinner and going to the night studies. “Ho!
Dwyrin! Thanks for doing the dishes!” Patroclus and Kyllun leaned over the top of the wall, smug smiles broad upon
their faces. Each held an extra sweet, dripping with honey and crumbs. Their self-satisfied faces, Dwyrin thought, were
loathsome to look upon. He
made the horns at both of them and cranked the wheel back around. The bucket dragged heavy, even against the
wheel and its pulleys. The two, hooting with laughter, disappeared from the wall and ran off, sandals slapping on the
tiled walkway. Dwyrin cursed silently as he winched the heavy bucket out of the well.
/ could have stayed home and done this, he thought bitterly. Learning to be a thaumaturge sure takes a lot of
lifting and carrying …
The curled edge of the bucket bit into his shoulder as he stumped back to the basin. The monks had come again
and the basin was filled with cups and bowls and broad wooden serving platters. Dwyrin groaned as he leaned over
the edge, spilling fresh water into the curved marble trough.
Holy monks and priests, particularly ones who can call the wind or summon lightning, should be able to clean
their own bowls!
The moon was high and clear, well into the sky, when Dwyrin staggered through the corridor to the dormitory. His
bed, he thought, would be most sweet. He washed in the cubicle at the end of the dorm, farthest from the master’s
quarters. His hands were shaking with fatigue, his mind dulled. At last his bed was there and he could slide under the
sheets, pulling them up over his head. Buried under the pillow, he allowed himself a whimper. But only one; Pa-troclus
was doubtless listening from the next bunk.
His leg itched. He scratched it. His left side itched. He scratched it. There was something tickling at his belly. He
rolled out of bed, his legs beginning to prickle. Turning back the sheets, he grimaced at the nettles and cockleburs
liberally strewn within.
Patroclus laughed softly in the next bunk. Dwyrin, after a struggle, mastered himself and did not fall upon the
Sicilian with knotted fists. He gathered up the bedding, trying hard not to spill any of the burrs or thistles within, and
quietly crept out of the dorm. His hands and shoulder were already throbbing at the thought of drawing another
bucket
of water. Things, he thought as he bent over the washboard at the laundry, would have to change.
The masters barely teach us enough to summon a fly, he grumbled to himself. How can I…
He stopped, a slow wicked smile creeping onto his face. Suddenly he didn’t feel so tired.
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ROMA MATER, ITALIA
A thin slat of daylight filtered down from above to cast a pall on the face of the young woman in the stained blue
robe. Unconcerned with the thick crowd thronging the narrow alleyway, she pushed through mendicants, draymen,
butchers with hogs’ heads slung over their shoulders, and off-duty aediles to finally reach the end of the sweetmeat
lane. At the corner, she sneezed in the dust of the wider city street and then quickly crossed between two crowds of
chanting priests. Each troupe bore a profusion of banners, small figurines on stands, and a cacophony of drums,
trumpets, and rattles. The faithful moved slowly along the street, chanting and singing at the direction of their priests.
On the far side, under the awning of a pastry shop, she tucked a loose curl of deep red-gold hair back into the patched
hood of the threadbare robe and idly glanced up and down the street.
A half block away, Nikos was looking in her direction, his stubbly face turned up under a broad straw hat. He
caught her eye and nodded, then touched the brim of the hat with a thick finger.
From her great height of almost six feet, she could pick him out as he melted into the flow of traffic, pushing stead-
ily in her direction. Distantly, there was a trumpeting sound and the rattle of gongs. It was hot in the Subura district
and the air was heavy with a long familiar stench. Thyatis turned the other direction, casting her eye to the opposite
side of the avenue. The crowds continued to spill in their disorderly way into the street, blocking traffic and causing
the girl to weave her way slowly forward.
The crowd thinned as the road made an inelegant turn into the dye-makers’ district. Her sharp nose flared, catching
the wretched smell of old urine. She trembled a little, though the sun was hot in the lane, as bitter memories picked at
her thoughts. She snorted in disgust and mentally pushed them away. Then her clear gray-blue eyes widened as she
caugli^ight of the Persian.
He stood in the doorway of a tannery, oblivious to the noxious reek that was billowing from the arched windows
piercing the wall above the door. He was of a moderate height, only four feet and odd inches. A beaded round
brim-less hat clung to his head, and a fine watery green robe, bordered with a dull crimson, was draped around his
shoulders. He was speaking to a brown-faced man in a brown leather apron, brown cowhide boots, and a sullen brown
disposition. As he spoke, the Persian repeatedly pointed across the street to the closed door of a linen shop. Gold
bracelets wrapped the Persian’s wrists and held back the cuffs of an immaculate white linen shirt.
One of the Roman girl’s eyebrows crept up unconsciously as she took in his supple silk pants. She was surprised
that the tanner, obviously of old Roman stock, would even trade words with such an obviously decadent Easterner.
She turned and pulled back the hood of her robe. A cascade of deep gold-red curls spilled down her back, only barely
constrained by two dingy ties of cotton cloth.
Consciously forcing herself to look to the right as she crossed the street, away from the Persian to her left, she
loosened the cheap copper clasp of the robe. The robe fell back from her lightly tanned shoulders, drawing the eyes
of the tannery workers in the immediate vicinity. She smiled briefly at the nearest one, but the quirk of her plush red
lips did not reach her eyes and the young man averted his gaze.
Unseen beneath the robe, one hand loosened the short stabbing sword in the sheath tied to her right leg. Her left
hand rose, bunching the flap of the cloak and drawing it across her front. It slid away from her right thigh, revealing a
short cotton kilt, a generous expanse of smooth golden-tan leg, high doeskin boots coming almost to her knee, and the
loosed sword, clasped lightly in the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. With unhurried steps, she walked up the
narrow brick walkway to the front of the tannery. The Persian, gesticulating with his left hand and raising an
exasperated voice to the tanner, was utterly unaware.
Something nickered at the edge of her vision.
Only feet from her victim, Thyatis leapt to the left, crashing sideways into two slaves carrying great bales of raw
Egyptian cotton. A javelin shattered against the tannery wall, causing the Persian and the tanner to turn in surprise.
Snarling, Thyatis surged to her feet, her cloak falling away behind her, the sword darting out like a steel tongue. The
Persian, his eyes wide with astonishment over a small mustache and a neat goatee, screamed loudly and bolted past
the tanner into the building.
Without sparing a glance for Nikos or her other backup, Thyatis bounded after him. For a moment she rushed
forward blind, but then her eyes adjusted and she caught sight of the Persian’s green robe fluttering around a corner
on a landing at the end of the narrow work-hall. She took the stairs three at a time, then skidded around a corner into a
whitewashed room filled with tables, surprised clerks, and clattering shutters as the Persian exited the other side
through the window.
Beyond the window, she found a narrow brick balcony looking out over the sprawling yard of the tannery. The
space between the buildings was crammed with vats, tres-
ties, and brawny half-naked men laboring to raise stinking hides on long iron-hooked poles from the great barrels.
An acrid stench billowed up from the hundreds of vats. She ran lightly along the balcony, ducking under twisted hemp
lines strung across the space to hold laundry and rugs. At the far end of the balcony, the Persian staggered to a stop,
looked both directions, and then sprang outward, arms outstretched.
The Roman woman sprinted to the end of the balcony and kicked off, her legs flashing in a brief passage of sunlight
that had worked its way down between the haphazard brick tenements. Like the Persian, her reaching hand caught a
heavy guy-line that was holding up a decrepit banner between the back of the tannery and the building across the
alley. For a moment a sea of marveling faces flashed past below her, then she was through a poorly scraped sheepskin
window with a loud ripping sound and crashing through a light framework of slats into the room beyond.
She went down in a welter of rough parchment, filthy sheets, and the crushed remains of a flimsy bed. Thyatis
rolled up, slashing with the shortsword, but her blade caught nothing. The enormous ebony man that had sprung up
from the bed wailed with fear and scuttled backward, toppling a bedside table and an amphora of water. The hanging
that served as a door had been ripped from the rod that held it, and Thyatis rolled up and darted through it without a
second thought. The dingy walls and reed-scattered floor receded as the edges of her vision clouded with gray. A
fierce grin stretched her face, but she was unaware of her appearance.
A hallway filled with tiny doorways flashed past. At the end, a narrow flight of stairs rose up into smoky gloom.
Thyatis bounded up the crumbling steps but found them blocked by old chests and empty grain jars. Cursing, she
leapt back down the steps’four at a time and ran to the one doorway where the hanging was pushed aside. A room
occupied by a puzzled-looking naked legionnaire and an irate
lupa blurred past before she slid the sword back into its sheath and leapt up to grab the sides of the window
casement in her hands. With a heave, she hauled herself up and leapt out through the window.
A sloping tile rooftop met her as she spilled out onto it. She tried to get to her feet, but the tiles cracked with a
sound like ice breaking and she slithered down the slope of the roof. Flailing wildly, she managed to grab the cornice
before pitching off into the garden below. For a moment she swung by one arm, suspended fifteen feet above a
confusion of squatters’ tents, then managed to hook her foot on the edge of the roof and dragged herself back onto
the tiles. Levering herself up, she glanced about. There was no sign of the Persian. Below her, the old widows and
immigrant families living in the courtyard of the building stared up at her in amazement.
“Hecate!” she cursed. Teetering, she stood up on the tiles, her eyes running along the windows, rooftops, and
disreputable roofs of the nearest buildings. Nothing. She turned back to the window, finding it occupied by the
amused faces of the young soldier and the younger prostitute. She grimaced.
The sound of cracking tiles snapped her head around. At the far end of the tile roof, near the back wall of the
garden, the Persian had crawled out of a similar window, now without either his hat or his expensive silk robe. He
scuttled down the tiles to land heavily on the edge of the garden wall. Thyatis whistled, a long piercing sound that
drew the attention of every face in the garden below.
“A handful of denarü for his head,” the Roman shouted as she flexed her knees and jumped down into what little
clear space was below her. “He cheated me at dice!”
A shout went up in the garden and there was a sudden flurry of movement as out-of-work animal tamers, lazy day
laborers, paid mourners and their wives began running toward the back wall. Thyatis sprinted at an angle across the
garden. The Persian, knowing his own business, had ig-
nored her imprecations and was quickly walking along the top of the crumbling mud-brick wall, his arms
outstretched for balance. Thyatis reached the corner of the garden wall only an instant behind the Persian. She
scrambled, up a squishy pile of offal and broken pots to snatch at his heel.
He skipped aside and swung around the side of the building, his hands catching at a series of knock-off Etruscan
bas-reliefs that studded the brickline between the floors. Thyatis hissed in rage at missing him and swung up onto the
roughly finished wall-top, cutting a long scratch in her leg. Nimble fingers slid a flat-bladed, hiltless knife from her belt,
and for a moment she leaned out over the tiny alleyway between the garden wall and the warehouse beyond, gauging
the distance for a throw. A shout from behind her caught her attention and she glanced over her shoulder.
A burly man in a striped black and yellow shirt had clambered up onto the wall behind her, and with a start she
realized that he was one of the Persians’ confederates. He lunged toward her, his knuckles wrapped in leather
bindings. The sun glittered off the hooks set into the leather, She swung away out over the alleyway, her left foot
wedged against the corner of the wall, her left hand clinging to the embrasure, as his fist flashed past. Her right foot hit
the opposite wall of the alley and she pushed off, levering against her grip on the wall to the left. There was a
snapping sound as the bronze-shod tip of her boot flashed into the wrestler’s throat. Her leg whipped back into a half
flex and then she kicked him again in the stomach. Slowly he crumpled at the waist and then pitched backwards off the
wall into the refuse pile.
When Thyatis turned, the Persian had almost reached the far end of the tunnellike space between the buildings.
Biting back a stream of lurid curses, she reached out for the next bas-relief, praying that the cheap pressed-concrete
statuette would hold her weight.
Two streets over, the stocky bald Illyrian, Nikos, dumped the body of the javelin thrower back behind a great pile of
crates and other rubbish. Wiping sweat and blood from his hands on ill-treated leggings, he peered out into the
crowded street. He had seen Thyatis vanish into the tannery, though he had been preoccupied with rushing the
gladiator who had tried to skewer her from behind. Quietly he joined the flow of traffic on the street.
Within minutes he had jogged into the alleyway behind the tannery, seen no sign of either his team leader or the
quarry, and then rejoined the bustle on the street of coppersmiths.
Fugitives run in a straight line, he worried as he pushed his way through the throng. / hope this one knows what
he’s supposed to do.
The street ran into a round plaza where it met with two other roads coming in at odd angles. A great religious
procession was clogging the intersection, trying to reach the temple of Helios that stood three and a half blocks up the
hill to the left. Nikos hissed in fury; there were hundreds of supplicants, priests, and a whole cavalcade of mules,
horses, litters, and no less than three elephants. The din was tremendous, between the braying of the animals, the
trumpeting of unhappy elephants, and the clashing of gongs and cymbals in the hands of the priests.
The crowd surged and Nikos found himself ground into the brickwork front of a wineshop by the press of bodies.
Gasping forbreath in the throng, he grasped an awning pole and swung himself up onto the sheet of taut canvas.
Sweat ran off his bald pate, stinging his eyes. Standing the heat in the densely packed city was not his forte.
See the greatest city in the world, they said, have an exciting life, they said.
Shaking his head, he scrambled along the narrow lintel over the awnings. From this new height, he could see that
there was a commotion halting the procession.
The Persian’s booted foot slammed against the side of Thyatis’ head and she slid back a foot or more on the back
of the elephant. Her feet dangled over the heads of a crowd of angry, shouting priests. The blur of white sparks that
clouded her vision passed and she dug in with her boots to climb back up. The Persian staggered in the howdah as the
elephant, distressed by Thyatis climbing up his tail, heaved against the heavy iron manacles that bound its feet. The
driver, screaming imprecations, lashed at the Persian with his prod, cutting a long gash in the man’s arm. The Easterner
hauled himself back into- the little platform and snatched at the darting metal hook. Seizing it, he slammed it back into
the driver’s face. There was the crunch of bone and the driver howled in pain before disappearing off the front of the
elephant.
Thyatis swung over the side of the howdah and crashed into the Persian, her leg lashing out to cut his feet out from
under him. The elephant, frantic, reared up, and the Persian and the Roman were thrown into a tumble at the back of
the fragile wicker box. The slats broke away and both spilled out onto the street. Almost unmarked amid all the
commotion was the sound of the iron links on the elephants’ manacles snapping.
The Roman girl hit the cobblestones in a half crouch and was only partially stunned by the shock. The Persian was
not so lucky, falling heavily on his side with a sickening thud. The Helian priests scrambled back, leaving a widening
circle around the two and the elephant. Thyatis struggled shakily to her feet and slipped a long knife out of her girdle.
The Persian, cradling a broken and bleeding arm, eased up into a crouch, his face streaming with tears of pain. Thyatis
started to circle, crouched, the knife in her right hand.
“ ‘Ware!’ came a shout from above, and the sound of a frenzied elephant bellowing cut through Thyatis’s
concentration. Alarmed, she sprang to the side as the elephant,
now berserk, suddenly stampeded in the street. The driver, thrown from his perch, was crushed under massive feet
with a despairing scream. The other elephants, hearing the distress of their fellow, also began rearing and trampling.
Thyatis, her eyes wide with fear, was frozen for an instant. Then she saw the Persian crawling away from the street,
heading for a taverna door.
The rampaging elephant now shed the howdah in a cloud of splinters, wicker, and rope and was dancing in an odd
circle. It smashed into the shopfronts and hurled supplicants and priests this way and that. Thyatis dodged across the
street to snatch up the Persian from the doorway. Grunting with the strain, she hauled him up over her head and into
the waiting arms of Nikos.
A moment later Nikos punched in the window of a second-floor room with the Persian’s head and tumbled the
fugitive and himself into a storeroom filled with baskets, pots, and old cheese wheels. Thyatis followed only moments
later. Outside, the screams of the elephants rose and rose, blotting out the din of the city.
In the darkness, Thyatis dragged the Persian up and slammed his broken arm into the wall, raising a cloud of plaster
dust. The Easterner started to scream but was cut off by Nikos’ scarred fingers closing off his windpipe like a
vise-clamp. v
The woman’s face leaned close to the Persian’s, blood trailing down from the cut on her scalp. She smiled, all white
teeth in the dim light of the little room. Her fingers dug into his thick dark hair and pulled his head back.
“No man could capture Vologases the Persian,” she whispered, “and none did. But / did.”
A sense of deep contentment filled Thyatis as she stared down at the Persian agent. Nikos’ broad hands were
busy, binding the Easterner’s wrists behind his back. She smoothed her hair back and smiled again. Well done, she
thought, very well done.
BQMQMOHOWQHOMQMOM()HOM()MQHQMOW()MOHQMQHOWOWOMOH(P
THE SCHOOL OF PTHAMES
H
Dwyrin squatted in the last row of boys in the dim room, his back against a plastered wall. He smirked to himself,
watching Kyllun and Patroclus out of the corner of his eye. They had come in late, heads together, and had not
noticed him among the other boys.
“Attend me,” came a curt voice, cutting across the murmur of the boys talking among themselves. “Today we will
consider the ways of seeing.”
Dwyrin looked up, his hands palm down on his knees. Master Fenops stood in a clear space before the score of
boys. He was their instructor in the matter of simple thau-maturgy. His deep voice was out of proportion to his body,
which was thin and shriveled with age. Bushy white eyebrows crawled over deepset eyes. Dwyrin paid him close
attention, for this was the one thing that brought him joy in this dusty old place.
“Yesterday I discussed the nature of this base matter that is all around us.” The teacher stamped a sandaled foot on
the packed-earth floor. “I said that it was impermanent, having only the appearance of solidity. You did not believe me,
that I saw in each and every face!”
Fenops smiled, briefly showing broad white teeth in beetle-dark gums. “Today I will provide you with a
demonstration of the porosity of matter.
“But first, let us consider the nature of man and the nature of animals. What sets a man apart from an animal?”
Fenops’ old eyes swept across the boys, seeing their dis-
interest, their boredom, their incomprehension. He clicked his teeth together sourly and continued.
“You.” His gnarled finger stabbed out at one of the boys in the first row. “What sets you apart from a dog?”
The boy, a lank-haired Syrian, stared around him at his fellows, then answered in a truculent voice: “I walk on two
legs! I can speak. I know of the gods.”
Fenops nodded.
“An ape can go on two legs,” he said. “Cats speak, if you know how to listen. The gods… enough said of the gods.
This answer is passable, but it is not the true difference between men and animals.”
Dwyrin sat up a little straighter, trying to see over the heads of the other students.
“The thing that truly sets you, a man, a human being, apart from the animal is your mind. Not solely that you use a
tool, or can spark fire, no—you have a mind that can see the world.”
Fenops rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Understand that the eye, the tongue, the hand are
organs of flesh and blood. They are physical! They touch, taste, and see things that are material. The eye, in particular,
cannot see all that we can touch, or hear, or taste. These organ”—he spread his flat-fingered hands wide and turned,
showing his palms to the class—“are limited. They do not relay to the mind all that there is to see, or hear, or taste.”
Fenops stopped, his face pensive, and studied the faces of the boys in front of him.
“A barbarian with some small wit about him once said that the world that we human beings see is the reflection of
another world, a world of perfect forms. He used an analogy of a cave, where the physicality that we feel or see was
created by the shadows, or reflections, of these pure forms. His postulation was incorrect, but it was a fair attempt to
describe the true world.”
Fenops stopped pacing, standing again in front of the Syrian boy. “Stand, my friend. I will demonstrate porosity
and impermanence to you and your classmates.“
The Syrian boy stood, towering over the teacher. Fenops smiled up at him, taking the boy’s right wrist between his
fingers. He raised it up, spreading the fingers apart.
“Here is the hand,” said Fenops, his voice filled with curiosity. “Through it we feel the solidity of the world. See, it
is self-evident that the world around us is solid.” He poked his finger into the palm of the boy’s hand, pressing hard.
“His hand is solid, my hand is solid. They are material, they have shape, size, weight, dimension. All this could not
be clearer!”
Fenops turned to the boys and spread his own hand, fingers wide apart. “But, I tell you, and I will show you, that
this is not the truth of the matter. In truth, there is no solidity around you. The world and everything in it is composed
of patterns, of shapes, of forms. And these patterns are insubstantial. We exist among great emptiness. When you can
truly see, you will see an abyss of light filled with nothing. Even the patterns and forms are insubstantial. See?”
The wizened little man turned and placed his hand on the Syrian’s back. For a moment he bowed his head and the
air in the room seemed to change, becoming colder. Then Fenops smiled, his eyes distant, and pushed his hand
forward, out of the boy’s chest.
Dwyrin stopped breathing, seeing the old man’s fingers sliding out of the thin cotton shirt that covered the
Syrian’s chest. The palm followed, then his forearm. Fenops peered over the boy’s shoulder, his eyes bright as a
raven’s, and then the old master stepped through the boy.
In the front row, one of the Roman boys fainted dead away. The Syrian boy stood stock still as the instructor
passed through him and then stood, whole and hale, before -the assembled boys.
“The spaces between the patterns that make up this boy are so vast that if my own are properly aligned, I can pass
through him. He is emptiness, as are we all. A fragile vessel filled only with the will.“
Fenops shook out his hands and arms, kinking his shoulders up and then down again. The Syrian boy, trembling,
scuttled back to his place in the front row. The old man rubbed his hands together briskly. A tremendous smile
flickered on his face. “So! How does one actually see the world as it truly is? Among our order, we use a technique of
the mind called the First Opening of Hermes…”
A week after the incident of the oranges, Master Ahmet was summoned into the scriptorium by a great outburst of
shouting. Pushing though the cluster of boys at the door to that ancient and musty room, he found the junior boys’
class in a welter of confusion. Large bees, quite angry ones, were buzzing about the room. The Cilician boy, Kyllun,
was receiving the worst of their attentions as he rolled about screaming under a table. Ahmet scowled, and his thin
face, normally a dusky olive, turned a remarkable dark red. The boys near him, by the door, caught a glimpse of this
and fled with unseemly haste, drawing startled shouts from two monks in the corridor.
Ahmet made two sharp passes in the air with his hand, and the bees quieted, turning in their angry hunt, to swarm
and then pass with an audible buzz out the door and into the open air of the great court. Ahmet watched them from the
doorway as they spiraled up into the clear blue sky and then turned south before flying over the red tile roof of the
main building. The two monks paused in their decade-old argument over the physicality of the gods and looked in
astonishment upon Ahmet. The master smiled tightly and bowed to them before closing the heavy cedar doors of the
scriptorium.
The boys stood in a short, irregular row between two of the great heavy tables, sweating despite the cool air in the
thick-walled room. He turned to the lesser of the two tables. It was strewn with ink pots, quills, decorative paints,
sheets
of papyrus, and parchment. Under it, lodged against one of the heavy carved feet, was a dented bronze scroll tube.
Ahmet picked it up. He shook it slightly, and a narrow chunk of honeycomb fell out onto the tabletop. He ran his finger
around the inside of the tube and tasted it.
Then, stilling a smile that had briefly formed, he turned to .the five boys who stood before him. All, he noted, were
now anointed with red sting marks, the Cilician, Kyllun, worst, but the flame-haired Hibernian, Dwyrin, and the Sicilian,
Patroclus, had not escaped without incident. The other two, both Greeks, were sporting only two stings apiece. Ahmet
gave all five his best scowling glare and all five paled.
“Sophos, Andrades; go and fetch the physician.”
The Greek boys slipped away like shadows. Ahmet studied the remaining three closely. Kyllun looked positively ill,
Patroclus and Dwyrin were eyeing each other warily out of the corners of their eyes. Ahmet sighed. It was like this
every year.
“The punishment,” he said slowly, gaining their complete attention, “for disturbing the studies of your fellow
students and for destroying the property of the school”—he tapped the dented scroll case against the edge of the
table—“is rather severe.” He smiled. “All three of you will suffer it to the fullest extent.” He smiled again. All three
boys began to look a little faint.
“Ah,” Ahmet said, looking to the door, “the physician.” He waited with fine patience until the various bites and
stings had been salved and anointed, then he took the three boys out of the scriptorium and down the hall.
It was four days before Dwyrin could sit down without wincing, and the laughter and snide remarks of the other
boys was worse. Ahmet had taken them into the main dining hall during the evening meal and had them stripped, then
he had given each of them a fierce switching until they were bawling like babies. This before the monks, their
teachers, and the junior and senior boys. Patroclus, in particular, had taken it badly, Dwyrin thought, and now
refused to so much as look at Dwyrin. Kyllun was more subdued, but his desire to beat Dwyrin into a bloody pulp was
evident.
The three were denied evening free time, and Dwyrin continued to labor in the kitchens washing the dishes. Days
dragged slowly along, and Patroclus and Kyllun began to spend their time together at meals and during studies.
Dwyrin paid them no mind, for Master Ahmet was watching him like a hawk, and he felt himself repaid in full by the
sight on Kyllun’s face when the black bees had boiled out of the scroll tube in a dark angry cloud. Dwyrin studied and
even improved at his lessons and pleased his teachers. Dwyrin noted that Kyllun, despite hours hunched over the
moldy scrolls and ancient tomes that were the focus of their studies, did perhaps worse than before. Patroclus
improved, bending his efforts to besting Dwyrin. Master Ahmet remained watchful, giving none of them time to
explore further mischief.
[j(M0MM»(()MOHQHQMOMQMQM0MQMQMQWQH()WQH0H(MQHQM()fl
THE PORT OF OSTIA MAXIMA, ITALIA H
The heavy oak door of the brick building thudded solidly under the young man’s fist. Around him, twilight settled
upon the town, the sun sliding into the western sea through a haze of cookfire smoke and the rigging of a thousand
ships. From over the high wall of the shipwright’s compound, he could hear the waves of the harbor slapping on the
stone border of the long slip. Beyond that there was a murmur of thousands of dockworkers, mules, and wagons
busy loading and unloading the ships that carried the life-blood of the Empire.
“Ho!” shouted the young man, his^embroidered woolen cloak falling back, a dark green against his broad
sun-bronzed shoulders. He had a patrician face, strong nose, and short-cropped black hair in the latest Imperial style.
Gloom filled the street around him as the sun drifted down into Poseidon’s deeps. There was still no answer.
Puzzled, the noble youth tried the door latch, but it was firmly barred on the far side. He rubbed his clean-shaven
face for a moment, then shrugged. He knocked once more, more forcefully, but still there was no footfall within or
inquisitive shout over the wall. Idly he glanced in each direction and saw that the street was empty of curious
onlookers. He dug in the heavy leather satchel that hung to his waist from a shoulder strap, his quick lean fingers at
last finding a small dented copper bell. Blowing lint from the surface of the token, he squinted slightly and shook the
bell at chest height by the door.
Within, there was a scraping sound and then the door swung inward. Smiling a little, the young man stepped inside,
his calfskin boots making little sound on the tiled floor.
“Dromio? It’s Maxian. Hello? Is anyone home?” he whispered into the darkness. There was still no answer.
Now greatly concerned, Maxian fumbled inside the door for a lantern. His fingers found one suspended from an
iron hook, and he unhooded it in the dim light of the doorway. Fingertips pinched the tip of the oil wick and it
sputtered alight, burning his forefinger. The young man cursed under his breath and raised the lantern high. Its dim
yellow light spilled over the tables in the long workshop. Tools, parchments, rulers, adzes lay in their normal
confusion. At the far end of the hall, it widened out into the nave of the boat shed, and a sleek hull stood there, raised
up on a great cedarwood frame.
Maxian padded the length of the workshop, his eyes
drawn to the smooth sweep of the ship, its high back, the odd tiller that seemingly grew from the rear hull brace like
a fin. Standing below it, he wondered at its steering—there were no pilot oars hung from the sides of the ship, nor any
sign that they were intended.
“Such a steed as Odysseus could have ridden from the ruin of Troy,”—he signed to himself—“cleaving a
wine-dark sea before its prow.”
A door opened behind him, ruddy red light spilling out. Maxian turned, his face lit with delight. A stocky figure
stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on the frame.
“My lord Prince?” came a harsh whisper.
Maxian strode forward, switching the lantern to his right hand as his left caught the slumping figure of the ship
wright.
“Dromio?” Maxian was horrified to see in the firelight that his friend was wasted and shrunken, his wrinkled skin
pulled tight against the bones, his eyes milky white. The shipwright clutched at him, his huge scarred hands weak. The
prince gently lowered him to the tiles of the doorway.
“Dromio, what has happened to you? Are you ill, do you have the cough?”
The ancient-seeming man wearily shook his head, his breath coming in short sharp gasps.
“My blood is corrupt,” he whispered. “I am cursed. All of my workers are sick as well, even my children.” Dromio
gestured weakly behind him, into the living quarters at the back of the dry dock. “You will see…”
Maxian, his heart filled with unexpected dread, took a few quick steps to the far end of the room, where small doors
led into the quarters of the shipwright and his family. In the dim light of -the lamp, he saw only a tangle of bare white
feet protruding from the darkness like loaves of bread, but his nose—well accustomed to the stench of the Imperial
field hospitals and the Subura clinics—told him the rest. The left side of his face twitched as he suppressed his
emotions. Quietly he closed the door to the unexpected
mortuary. The sight of the dead filled him with revulsion and a sick greasy feeling. Though he had followed the
teachings of Asclepius for nine years, he still could not stand the sight and smell of death. It was worse that the
victims were a family that he had known for years.
Long ago, when he had been only a child, he had ridden with his father, then the governor of the province of
Nar-bonensis, to see the great undertaking of the Emperor Jaen-ius Aquila. They had ridden up from the city of
Tolosa, where they had lived for three years, through the pine woods and open meadows of the hills above the
flowering river valley. Under the green shelter of the pines, they had sat and eaten lunch on a broad granite boulder,
their feet in the sun, their heads in the dim greenness. Servants had ridden with them and brought them watered wine,
figs, and cooked pies made of lamb, peas and yam. The governor, in his accustomed raiment of rough wool shirt,
cotton trousers, and a heavy leather belt, had sat next to his son in companionable quiet. After eating, they sat for a
bit, the elder Maxian whittling at a small figurine of Bast with a curved eastern blade.
Behind them, their Gothfc bodyguards sat silently in the shadow of the trees, their fair hair bound in mountain
flowers that they had gathered from the margin of the road. The long buttery-yellow slats of sunlight cutting through
the trees gleamed from their fish-scale armor. The servants retired to the pack mules and lay down in the sun, broad
straw hats shading their faces as they took a quick nap. The young Maxian felt safe and at peace. It was not often that
his father took him out of the city or even paid attention to him. This was an unexpected treat.
After almost an hour, the governor roused himself from his introspection and turned to his son. His bushy white
eyebrows bunched together and he rubbed his nose with a broad hand. For a long time he looked at his youngest son,
and then, with a masklike expression, gestured for the boy
to get up and follow him. They walked to the horses, now held ready by the servants. The Goths filtered out of the
trees after them, weapons now loosened in scabbard, quiver, and belt. Together, the small party rode up the road and
down into the narrow valley on the other side.
Maxian shook his head, clearing the memory away. Cautiously he set the lantern on the mantel of the brick fireplace.
With quick hands he lit a small fire in the grate and found another lantern to join the first. Dromio remained on the
floor, his breath coming in quick, harsh, gasps. With the room lit, Maxian sorted through the plates, cups, and bowls
on the table. He examined them all, quickly but thoroughly. His eye found no sheen of metallic poisons, his nose no
odd, acrid stench. He separated those items containing liquids from those containing solids and made a neat pile of
each on the broad sideboard. These things done, he knelt by the side of his friend. Dromio’s hand weakly rose up and
Maxian took it in both of his.
“Fear not, my friend, I will drive this sickness from you,” the Prince whispered.
Dawn came creeping over the tile roofs, pale squares of light trickling in through the deep casement windows set
high in the wall above the kitchen table. In time the warm light puddled on the ashen face of the young man who lay
slumped over the thick-planked table. Flies woke and slowly droned around the room, lighting at the borders of pools
of blood. Drinking deeply, they struggled to resume flight, clumsily flitting toward the meat rotting on the sideboards.
In midnight one large blue-green bottlefly stuttered in the air and then fell with a solid thump to the tabletop. Then
another fell. Maxian twitched awake, one hand brushing unconsciously the litter of dead flies from his face. Shaking
his head, he half rose from the table. One hand brushed against a pewter goblet, half-melted as from some incred-
ible heat. The goblet struck the floor and collapsed in a spray of sand.
The healer turned around, trying to puzzle out where he might be. His head throbbed with an unceasing din, a gjeat
sea of sound like the Circus in full throat. Again he brushed his long hair, now unbound, back from his temples. He
started with surprise, then ran a hand through long dark hair that fell over his shoulders in an unkempt sprawl. He
came fully awake and looked quickly around him.
A grim scene came hazily into view.
Gods, what I must have drunk last night! What happened to my hair?
The kitchen was a ruin of smashed crockery, crumpled bronze cookpans, cracked floor tiles, and drifts of odd white
dust. Dark-red pools, almost black in the early-morning light, covered most of the floor. The walls, once a light-yellow
whitewash, were speckled with thousands of tiny red spots. Maxian flinched at the sight, then gagged as he realized
that the tabletop behind him was littered with hundreds of bones, some large, most a forest of small finger bones, ribs,
and scapulae. Without thinking, he summarized the debris—three adults, one larger than normal, four children …
The Prince froze, for now the reality of the place forced itself to his conscious mind. The shipyard. The house of
Dromio, his wife, brother, and children. The rest of the long and harrowing night came sliding back up out of depths of
memory and Maxian doubled over in horror, his hands clawing at the tabletop to hold himself up. The bones rattled
and slid as the table tipped over, sighing to dust as they clattered against one another.
THE SCHOOL OF PTHAMES
H
Near the flood time, when storms came racing out of the desert in fierce squalls and the wind carried the sweet scent
of fresh rain striking the dust, Dwyrin was at last released from his dinner chores. He and some of the other boys,
Kyllun among them, wheedled the gatekeeper into letting them go out to swim in the river. Ahmet they roused from his
afternoon nap to watch over them. The master acceded to their bright eager faces and came, bringing a parasol and
some scrolls he had been meaning to read again. The sun was bright, filling the sky, there was a little breeze, and even
Ahmet was pleased at the thought of an excursion.
Downhill from the school, a path ran through the palms and thick reeds to the edge of the river. The boys ran in the
sun, whooping and yelling, to the bank. A shelf of sand rose up there and ran against the shore, making a shallow,
sheltered bay. Ahmet fanned himself as he settled under a palm. The boys were waiting eagerly by the shore. Ahmet
looked up and down the river for suspicious logs, particularly those with eyes. He closed his own briefly, then nodded
to the boys fidgeting behind him on the trail.
Dwyrin splashed into the water. He had not been swimming like this in a long time, not since his illicit visit to the
temple of the Hawk lord. The river was forbidden to the boys, for other than the currents and deep holes, the sacred
crocodiles lurked in its depths, always ready to take a sacrifice out of season. Sophos splashed water at him; Dwyrin
cupped his hands and squirted back. Sophos yelled
and leapt at him. Dwyrin danced aside, laughing.
The boat of Ra settled into the west, its naming wings touching the thin clouds, marking them with streamers of
deep rose and violet. Ahmet looked up from the Libre Evion to see Dwyrin hurling through the air at the end of a long
rope. At the top of his arc the boy let go and, with a wild whoop, plummeted into the river with a mighty splash. The
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