Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (40 page)

Being bride to a Persian did not fill me with joy. Still, as Queen of the Sassanids, my city would be safe and prosperous. I could protect Hatra, and lay favor on it from afar, in a way that even Atar’atha could not.

When I told my father of my thoughts, the rage that illuminated his face was like nothing I had ever seen. “Shapur has already taken my son from me. I will not let him take my daughter!”

“Please, Father,” I said. “Hatra has been cut off from our trade routes; the grain stores are running low. If I am Queen to Shapur, then Hatra can rise to prominence again as part of the Sassanid Empire! If I only—”

But my father’s enraged bellow cut me off. “I will not hear of such a thing! Hatra has stood independent for five hundred years. It has withstood the onslaughts of Roman Emperors, of Lakhmid Kings, and it will damn well withstand a Persian whelp!”

“Our walls may stand,” I said, “but our people will starve! Shapur is smart, and cunning, not like the Romans, who were too full of themselves to pay attention to the gods. He rotates his men out of the front lines to keep them fresh; he does not let his supply lines languish; he even ensures that his army camps are kept clean and free of rot. Sickness does not take hold there, and he has priests of his own to counter my prayers. He will come, and he will wait, and until we give him what he wants, nothing will dissuade him.”

My father grit his teeth. “This madness that you counsel—I will not hear it!” He stood up, but clenched his back almost immediately, wincing in pain. He glared at me as he sat back down. “You wear the Talisman of Hatra around your neck, Daughter. Never forget. You are bound to the city now, and its fate is tied to your own.”

I bowed my head. “I will always be loyal to you, Father. I am the High Priestess of Hatra, and I will always fight for its people.”

My father nodded. “Then go to the temple and pray for our victory.”

=[]=

But there are no more prayers to be offered. I stand on the steps of Atar’atha’s temple, dressed in my finest robes, with flowers laced through my hair, when Shapur’s army storms the gates. Without the talisman’s magic holding the walls secure, the gates breach easily, and his men pour inside.

Shapur is a fair conqueror. He gathers all the people in the square, but it soon becomes clear that there will be no massacre, no collection of slaves. He is not a demon like the Lakhmids, or a brute like the Romans. He cares for his people, even those he has just conquered.

He lays claim to the Palace, and sits on my father’s throne. My heart aches to see a foreigner sitting there, but I push those feelings aside; it does not matter who sits on the throne of Hatra, as long as the city prospers.

When he calls me before him, I am struck by how young he is; I knew he was not old, but he looks even younger than me. His eyes are green and piercing, and when he looks at me, I return his gaze.

I am defiant, confident, and I smile when he turns away first. I have seen that reaction in countless men. He is intimidated. Good.

Then my breath catches in my throat; two soldiers are dragging my father to Shapur’s feet. They drop him to the ground, and he lies prostrate, but Shapur barks an order and the soldiers help him up.

“We found him in his bedroom, my Lord,” says one of the men. “He was preparing to commit suicide with a dagger.”

Shapur rises and walks down the dais to my father, until he is standing only a few paces away. The ‘whelp’ looks strong and kingly in comparison. It is clearer than ever now: my father is the past. The man who would be my husband is the future.

“Suicide?” Shapur says. “I would have expected better from the King of Hatra. Should you have not been standing on the walls, the legendary Talisman of Hatra in your hand, rallying your troops to defend your city?” Scorn lines his face. “And you call yourself a king.”

My father’s head is bowed. “My daughter wields the Blessing of Atar’atha; the Talisman is hers. But it has failed to protect our city.” His voice fades to a whisper. “The power of the Goddess is broken.”

Shapur turns to me, and for the first time, speaks. “Princess an-Nadira. The rumors of your beauty pale in comparison to the reality.” He offers his hand, and when he presses his lips to my fingers, there is genuine warmth in his kiss. “If the City of Hatra will accept me as its Master and rightful Lord, there is no further need for strife or bloodshed. Your father and your family will be well-treated. And you will return with me to Persia and reign by my side as Queen.” He smiled. “What say you?”

I bow before him. “You do me a great honor, Shapur of the Sassanids. I would be honored to be your Queen.”

Then my father rises and spits at Shapur’s feet. Strength has returned to his eyes, and he pulls himself loose from his guards.

Shapur raises his hand. “Your spirit does you credit, Sanatruq, but you have been beaten in battle. Hatra rightly belongs to the Sassanids now and to me as their King.”

“Hatra can only be defeated,” my father grimaces, “by treachery and lies! As long as the Talisman of Hatra is worn by one of the royal bloodline, the gates will stay intact!”

“And yet here we are,” Shapur smiles. “My forces have been victorious, and Hatra lies defeated.” He turns to me. “Show your father that my victory was honorable. Show him the Talisman.”

I grit my teeth, but I do not regret my decision. “The talisman is no more. It lies melted in the fires of the palace forge.”

It is hard to say who looks more shocked, my father or Shapur. I glare at my father, whose shock turns to disbelief. “I counseled you to yield to Shapur,” I tell him, “but you did not listen. You would rather have our city starve behind a siege, or wither from a years-long blockade, as people died behind its sacred walls. Hatra may be conquered, but it will survive!”

My father opens his mouth, but no words come out. I can almost see the last of his sanity giving out under the hurt of my betrayal, and I turn away.

Then Shapur speaks. “Your father gave you the Talisman, did he not?”

I look to him, hoping to find refuge in his warmth, but there is only disappointment in his eyes. “Yes,” I say.

“You were the keeper of the Talisman, and yet you destroyed it. You betrayed your father, your family, even your goddess.”

Not Shapur, too! “I did it to save Hatra. The Power of the Talisman would have suffocated us until we died!”

Shapur shakes his head, and gestures to the guards. “I must think on this. Take them both away.”

They throw us in the dungeon. My father has gone silent; he lies on the cot, staring at the ceiling. I huddle in the corner, facing the wall, and pray to Atar’atha, but I can feel that her power has left me. My words are just words now, and nothing I can say will bring my goddess back.

I am trapped now, with the man I have betrayed, surrounded by the walls of the city that is no longer mine. All night, my wailing echoes through the tiny dungeon, but the pain in my ears and throat is only the tiniest shadow of what lies in my heart.

=[]=

I have no strength left, and my dreams and hopes are crumbling around me. Word of my deed has spread, and people line the street, pelting me with rotten food. A rock hits me, and I stagger to my knees, only to be yanked to my feet by a guard.

Shapur has set up a pavilion in the main city square, and his army is assembled. I limp through a narrow corridor between the soldiers, to the foot of his throne. I stand straight and look him in the eyes, determined not to show him weakness. I cried everything away last night. My father was right—this man is nothing more than a whelp.

Unlike yesterday, Shapur does not turn away under my gaze. And when he speaks, his voice booms across the square. “Soldiers and warriors of Persia, long have I fought by your side as your leader and your king. And through it all, I have always done right by you, have I not?”

The soldiers shout, and I wince at the raucous cheering, the swords banging on shields, the sound of spears, and feet thumping against the ground. The cheering goes on so long, I think it will never stop, until Shapur raises his hands. “I carry no jewels in my crown, or fancy robe, or retinue of servants. I may be your king, but I am also your fellow soldier.”

The cheering is even louder this time, and I close my eyes to brace myself against the onslaught. When it finally dies down, Shapur’s voice sounds again. “And do you know why? It is because I value not gold or jewels or spoils of war, but loyalty, pride, and Persia!”

The cheering sounds again, and I have no doubt that these men would happily die for their king. How can even a Sorceress fight such power?

“Through loyalty and honor we gain our strength. I came to Hatra to find a Queen worthy of that honor, a Queen whose devotion was so strong that she had been entrusted with the very power of the gods. And when I got here, what did I find? A Queen who had betrayed her father, betrayed her Goddess, betrayed her people!”

“No,” I whisper. “No, I love my people.”

But Shapur does not hear. “How could I ever accept such a treacherous woman as queen?” He shakes his head. “To do so would be to betray the very principles that make us strong!”

Then he makes a quick gesture, and I am roughly seized from both sides. My hands and feet are bound, and my robes are stripped from me. I am pushed roughly to the ground, and through the pain, I feel wetness on the dirt . . . blood. I look up at Shapur, and for a moment, I see pity in his eyes. Then the rope attached to my arm jerks, and I roll on the ground, and terror fills me. The other end of the robe is being tied around the neck of a horse. The horse has no reins or saddle, and it bucks against the ropes that hold it. It’s clearly untamed; a wild horse, captured from one of the herds that roam the desert oases.

“Let an-Nadira be dragged through the streets and the deserts, to die as she deserves. Hatra will be razed to the ground, and its ruins left to be claimed by the sands. It is tainted by treachery now, and if I add it to my Empire, that treachery will taint us in turn. Honor must be preserved. Only by doing so will Persia thrive!”

Using every bit of strength I still possess, I struggle to my knees, and tears splash down my cheeks for Hatra’s fate.

In the depths of my disgrace and despair, I suddenly feel a tiny whisper in my mind, a whisper that grows, until it turns to a surging of power, like it used to during my most intimate prayers. Atar’atha is within me!

“You think you are so mighty, King of the Sassanids, but your reign will be short and brutal.” My voice is quiet, but I can tell there is power in my words. “Destroy Hatra if you wish, but your own great cities will fare no different. You think you value loyalty, but in killing this woman you betray the person who would give you power; who would make you the mightiest Emperor east of Rome! Instead you will fall, and your name forgotten to history.”

I take a deep breath and shout, “So sayeth an-Nadira, the Princess and High Priestess of Hatra, the Sorceress of Atar’atha!”

Shapur looks stunned for a moment, then he raises his hand, and I can hear behind me as the horse’s ropes are let go. It bolts for the gates, and when the rope pulls me off my feet, Atar’atha’s presence leaves me, and the world turns to screaming agony.

=[]=

Andrew S. Williams
is a speculative fiction writer living in Seattle. His work has appeared in
Every Day Fiction
and
Jersey Devil Press
. You can find his thoughts on writing, life, and more modern civilization at
http://www.offthewrittenpath.com
.

Jonathan Vos Post

=[]=

It’s hard to find someone else who has as many and as varied accomplishments as Jonathan Vos Post (see bio). In the course of one month, when I requested status of a rewrite, he politely informed me that it was, “in progress,” while during that time he had also written two more complete novels, submitted a dissertation for yet another PhD, and was running multiple businesses, all while teaching at colleges and conferences. How he had time to write this in the first place, is beyond me. The following story,
Sumeria to the Stars
, was originally written as a novella and integrated excerpts of the latest research papers in quantum physics and algebraic theories and other subjects I cringed at in school. Now condensed, it still maintains its original triple plot which explores the discovery and subsequent research of ancient clay tablets, suggesting man’s past is not quite what we think it is. Oh, and there’s still a bit of that quantum physics and algebraic theories stuff, too.

=[]=

1. Cuneiform Clay Tablets as Computer Memory

Before today’s nanotech molecular memories, or the previous generation’s Blue-ray discs; before the earlier DVDs and CD-ROMs, floppy discs, videotapes, audio 8-track cassettes, mimeographs, typewriter paper, parchment, or even papyrus, was the first widely used recording medium: the enduring clay tablet of cuneiforms, made by the hundreds of thousands in the Old Babylonian period. What we are staggered to now realize is that these discs suggest around 1700 B.C. in Mesopotamia, the secret of a starship civilization was buried.