Authors: Thomas Harlan
The sun plunged down into the western sea, filling the sky with a glorious clear light. A few clouds crept across the heavens during the long, hot day and they gleamed like polished bronze. The
Bast
made good time, it seemed, down the Latin coast. Even with night falling, the captain was pleased enough with the weather to keep sailing after dark. On the shore, lights were beginning to wink on, tiny and orange against the deepening gloom. Shirin supposed there were towns and villages all along the coast, providing simple wayposts for passing ships.
She sat cross-legged, as Mikele might do, picking at the hem of her robe in irritation. An hour or so ago, she had taken a turn around the long deck—the
Bast
was almost two hundred feet long, with a deck forty feet, or more, wide. Every conceivable space was crowded with soldiers and their gear. The sailing master had mentioned nearly two thousand soldiers were aboard. Belowdecks, she supposed it was worse, with the cavernous cargo holds crowded with animals, more equipment and those men who hadn't managed to find a place to sleep up on the deck. She hadn't found anyone to sell her food. Now the Legion cooks were busy around a stone hearth behind the main yard, and the smell of frying sausages and bacon, meal cakes and fresh biscuits filled the air. Shirin's stomach growled and she clutched her middle, surprised by the pang of hunger shooting though her.
She closed her eyes and sent up a prayer to the great god watching over her people.
Please don't let my mother know I had to beg for food from a foreigner!
The thought made Shirin a little ill, but eating was far better than not eating, as her belly reminded her. Then a brief, intense series of memories plagued her—every glorious feast she had ever presided over while in Ctesiphon—the details of the roasts, the golden-glazed hens, the acres of cheese and baked breads and sweetmeats and wine, all presented themselves for her inspection. She desperately missed being an Empress.
"Foulness..." she whispered, staring gloomily out at the sea. A grunt answered. She looked around and found a grizzled-looking man with stout arms, a barrel chest and broad, stump-nosed face standing nearby. He was wearing the undertunic and leggings of a legionary and his bare arms showed puckered scars and welts like a blacksmith's anvil. Shirin felt a chill, seeing his flat eyes and the way they traveled over her.
"Your... pardon, lady," the man said, squinting. Shirin tensed, gaining the impression this soldier might not believe her story. "My lads wanted to know if you would join them at dinner, bless the food and the like, set their minds at ease."
"You are not at ease?" Shirin's nostrils flared. The soldier was staring fixedly at her breasts. She stood up, drawing the cloak around her. He blinked then, meeting her eyes.
"Can't say I like traveling on the water, no," he allowed. Shirin nodded, looking over at the soldiers sitting on the deck. They had their food on wooden plates and they were watching her, faces pale ovals in the growing darkness. "Will you join us?"
"I will," Shirin said, hunger blunting the edge of her suspicion. "My name is... Ruth. I serve Artemis, the Hunter. What is your name?"
The soldier blinked again, then rubbed his nose. "Florus, centurion of the Twelfth of the Fifth."
Shirin nodded somberly. "Well met, then, Master Florus."
Full night had fallen by the time Shirin finished stuffing herself with fried meal cakes and honey. The soldiers watched her with amusement and then in a little awe. They hadn't eaten so much—but then they'd had a meal in the morning too. When she was done, the Khazar woman set the plate on the deck, swallowed and looked around at the men with a calm expression. Inside, she wanted to shout or cheer with relief, before curling up and going to sleep. She had not eaten so well since diving off the
Pride of Cos
. Grubbing in the ruins, or accepting handouts from the Imperial troops sent into the devastation were poor sources of food. In Rome, the stink of the city, its strangeness, awesome size and the howling roar of the Colloseum crowd had crushed her appetite. Sitting in the darkness, only faintly lit by a candle lantern, hearing the rigging creak and feeling the cool night air wash over her, reminded her of the long trip around Arabia and up the African coast.
She clenched her teeth, biting back tears, missing the solid warm presence of Thyatis at her side, and her cousins Kharmi, Efraim and Menahem, and her children... She felt a terrible pang, like a knife twisting in her diaphragm, fearful the voyage might prove to be the only happy time in her life. A vision of Thyatis laughing, red hair bound back behind her head, a little boy hanging from each arm, shrieking as the Roman woman spun them about on the deck, swam up into her memory.
"Thank you," she managed, driving away the cruel image. "May the Huntress' luck be with you, in war and in peace."
There was a pleased murmur from the soldiers. "Thank you, lady, we'll need it with these Persians! Though they've not faced the Fifth, by Jupiter!" Heads nodded, half-seen in the darkness.
Shirin looked over at Florus, sitting at the edge of the circle, his hands busy with oil and a cloth and a file. His armor lay out in front of him, each segment carefully arranged, the wire and leather thongs removed. The soldier was carefully cleaning each bit of metal, rubbing away rust, coating them with oil. Some of the other men did the same, though they were not paying such close attention.
"There will be fighting in Egypt, then," she said.
"Yes," Marcus answered her, sitting up. His young face caught a little of the light from the candle lantern. "They've been lucky so far, thrashing the Easterners, but they've not fought the West, not yet, not under a real general like the Caesar Aurelian!"
The other men nodded and some laughed. "We'll show them a steady line," they said.
"Have you fought the Persians before?" Shirin was curious. She had spent a long time in Persia and knew what the
diquans
said of Rome. What did their enemies think? "You've faced the
cataphracts
and the
clibanarus
—the oven-men, I think you call them—in full battle array?"
"No," Marcus admitted, grimacing. "Well, the centurion has, right Florus?"
There was a grunt from the darkness, but the centurion did not look up from his work.
"If you follow his orders," Shirin said, seeing the soldiers were very young and brave, but afraid to admit they had not faced an enemy as fearsome as the Persians. "You will do well, and fight honorably."
"Have you seen the Persians in battle?" Marcus failed to keep both curiosity and disbelief from his voice.
"I have," Shirin said, then stopped, wondering if anything she might say to these boys would matter. Soon they would fight and live, or die, by their own merits on some Egyptian field. "When I was little, before I became a... priestess, I lived near the Persian frontier. More than once, I saw the Persians ride against... my people. They make a great show on the march, bright banners and flags and great horns blowing, and they are all a-horse, great chargers with round chests. Their spears are keen, I remember, and wave like a forest of shining reeds."
"But Rome has always beaten them," Marcus interjected, his voice concerned. "Off their horses they're no match for us, not on broken ground!"
"I hope so," Shirin said. "The Huntress would be pleased to see you live. When I am home again, I will sacrifice for you, and your safety."
That pleased the young Romans, who raised their cups in salute. Shirin felt a little odd, as if she'd pulled a mask across her face and suddenly spoken with someone else's voice. Marcus lowered his cup, his face suddenly grim. "We shouldn't be too quick to discount them, though."
"Why?" called some of the other men. Shirin noticed Florus raise his big square head to watch the younger man with interest.
"They have arts we lack," Marcus said, looking around at his fellows, mouth thinned to a sharp line. "They did not throw down the walls of Constantinople by strength of mortal arms! No, their foul priests summoned up some fiend—"
"Their priests are not foul!" Shirin was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. "The
mobeds
and
mobehedan
are pious men, who serve a god of light, not darkness. Their god may be different from yours, but he too rules justly in heaven. I fear—" She stopped, throat choked closed by old anger. Her face seemed to shutter, as if a door closed on a lighted room. In dark memory, she looked upon almost-forgotten pain and turned the scenes and voices over in her thought like glittering bits of glass. With an effort, she returned her attention to the present, and the stunned, questioning faces of the young soldiers.
"I am little older than you are," she said, voice falling into a cadence she'd first heard in her father's voice, around the campfires of the people. "But I have heard a tale out of Persia, one you have not, I think. Your enemies are only men and women, like yourselves, and they are prey to many failings. They are prey to evil, and not the simple evil of lies or theft, but the kind of evil that makes the gods turn their faces from men."
Shirin stopped, looking up at the sliver of the moon and the thick wash of stars carpeting the heavens. It was very dark between the glittering lights. The Romans were silent, the pale glow of the candle lantern shining in their eyes, Florus setting down his tools and oily cloth as they watched her, as she once watched her father sitting under a Khazar sky, telling the old stories of the people.
"Many years ago, before you were born, the king of kings—the shahanshah—of the Persians was growing old. He endured a troubled reign, much plagued by barbarians called the T'u-chüeh who raided and burned and caused much grief along the northern frontier. At last the old king rode out against them with a great army, and in the way of such things, fell into a trap, and was slain. He left two sons, but they were still very young, and neither was yet a man. The greatest of the old king's generals was a stiff sort of fellow named Bahram, and his enemies called him
choban
, which means 'made of wood', when they thought he could not hear them, and behind his back.
"Bahram seized the throne of Persia and claimed he ruled in the name of the eldest of the two boys, whose name was Khusro—in Roman lands, you call him 'Chrosoes.' But no one saw the young prince, or heard him speak, for the Wooden King sent him away, to live in exile in a fortress, far from the eyes of the court and the great nobles. The younger son vanished completely and everyone was sure he had been murdered. Bahram was not a good king, but he was greatly feared, though in all matters the realm grew weak and filled with petty evil.
"Young Khusro was imprisoned in a castle set high on a mountain, near the northern frontier, and in the custody of an old and very loyal
diquan
—you would call him a knight. The old knight was loyal to a fault and he'd sworn an oath to the Wooden King and, by all the gods, he intended to keep his word. In the castle, however, lived a strapping, powerful young man—his grandson—and this boy would one day be known as Shahr-Baraz."
A low whistle went up from the legionaries. They did not set any stock by the heroes or kings of other lands, not and be Romans, but this was a name they knew and respected, for the Royal Boar was legendary even in Rome, where few barbarians gained such renown. No enemy had ever won so many victories against the Empire.
"Yes, you know him for his famous beard. The Boar was still young then, and green as spring grass, but he was restless in his grandfather's castle and yearned to see what lay beyond the barren fields and the desolate hills. Too, there was this other young man, also trapped, also eager to make his way in the wide world. This was prince Khusro, the son of the dead king, a prisoner in the old keep. They became fast friends and practiced constantly in the fighting yard, growing stronger and faster with each day. Never have there been two friends like these—each strove to best the other in all things—and each swore mighty and secret oaths they would escape their dull prison and restore Khusro to his rightful throne.
"Winter approached, one bleak year, and the old
diquan
fell ill and died. A messenger was sent to Ctesiphon to bring this news to the Wooden King. The Boar, however, did not wait for the royal courier to return. He had, as yet, sworn no oath to the king of kings on his distant throne. Instead, with a boldness that has only grown with age, he bent his knee and neck to his friend, Prince Khusro and called
him
king of kings and made himself the prince's sworn man. Now Khusro set himself against his regent and Shahr-Baraz was a rebel lord.
"Together they fled from the drafty old fort and made their way south and west by secret ways, into the great central plateau of Persia, where all her true riches lie—for there among wide plains and grazing fields are the domains of the
diquans
and their knights and the very strength of Persia. Khusro intended to find support amongst old friends of his father and raise an army to reclaim his throne. But the prince, though brave, was still young and Bahram was old and sly with treachery. Some of the great nobles rose up for the young king, but more joined the armies of the Wooden King and the prince's revolt was violently suppressed.
"Khusro escaped, and lived, only because there was no man upon that field, or on any other, who could match Shahr-Baraz with lance or sword or spear. The Boar hewed his way from the melee, slaughtering hundreds, and the two rebels escaped into the mountains. This time, the Wooden King found a body resembling the prince and carried the dead boy back to Ctesiphon in a great funeral procession. That boy was buried, as if Prince Khusro had died, and Bahram Choban made himself truly king of kings. Everyone wept, thinking the young prince had fallen.
"Secretly Bahram's men searched everywhere, quartering the mountains and the hills, urgent to find the Boar and the prince. By luck and skill, they failed, and the Boar took the prince north, beyond the mountains of Persia and into the great grasslands surrounding the Salt Sea, where terrible savages roam and the winter is nine months long."