Beyond the gate they rode down a short ramp into a square. More guardsmen stood in lines on either side of the paved road, their arms held wide to hold back the crowd. Beyond the mass of dark clothing and pale faces, great pillars rose up, making a colonnade around the square. Fires burned on the top of the colonnade, casting a shifting light upon the scene. The avenue before them arrowed north into the city, and it too was lined with mighty fluted columns. Between the columns, platforms rose up above the crowd like marble islands in a sea of quiet, waiting people. On the platforms, statues of kings and gods rose, their painted faces come alive in the firelight.
Zenobia rode forward and Ahmet fell slightly behind her. She stared straight ahead. The sound of the hooves of her horse on the pavement, and the jingle of its tack were the only sounds. Even Ahmet’s camel was quiet. They rode down the aisle of the city in utter silence. The snap of logs in the fires atop the columns was muted. Tens of thousands of people lined the arcade, staring with desolate eyes at the Queen. Ahmet slowly realized that the entire city presumed that it was now doomed to desolation. Still, they came to look upon her and share her grief.
A thousand feet into the city, the avenue turned to the right at a sharp angle and Zenobia entered the great colonnade that formed the heart of the polis. The avenue widened and Ahmet swallowed a gasp at the sight that met his eyes. Now the columns were even higher, soaring thirty or forty feet into the air, and the press of people occupied a wider street. Tens of thousands of torches blazed, filling the avenue with light. The men of her army had fallen out and now stood in formation at either side of the pavement. As she passed, they raised their arms in salute yet made no sound.
They passed through a circular plaza that surrounded a great house of four parts, each faced with four massive pillars. Hundreds of priests in robes of white and pale yellow stood on the steps that led up to the house. They bowed, a rustling wave, as the Queen passed. Beyond this, Ahmet could now see that the avenue sloped upward to ‘ ward a great platform that dominated the eastern end of the city. A vast building, with white walls faced with marble, rose up behind walls of its own. Great carved friezes lined the walls, showing men marching, hunting, sailing the seas in swift ships. A pair of mammoth winged lions flanked the entrance ramp to that building. -
Three men stood on the ramp, halfway up, in their tattered robes and armor. The firelight gleamed on their helms and from their eyes. Zenobia halted her horse at the bottom of the ramp and stared into the weary eyes of her brother.
“Welcome, Zenobia, Queen of the city.” His voice was hoarse but clear, and it carried across the ramp and to the mass of people who had filled in the avenue behind Zenobia’s passage. “The great god Bel welcomes you in the name of his people. Enter your palace, O Queen, with his blessing.”
Zenobia sagged forward in the saddle, then, with a trembling hand, slid down to the ground. Ahmet dismounted as well, the camel kneeling to the stones of the plaza that faced the great building. Surreptitiously he touched her shoulder, and she jerked slightly as a spark of pale-orange light passed from his outstretched finger to her. She nodded and straightened her back. Head high, she walked forward to where her brother, Mohammed, and Ibn’Adi waited.
They bowed, Vorodes first, then Mohammed and the old sheykh. The Prince of the city fell to one knee and extended a circlet of pale-white gold to the queen. Zenobia stared at the tiara for a moment and then took it in both hands. While she did so, Ahmet led the horse and the camel away to the side. The Queen turned, raising the crown above her head. There was a great murmur from the thousands and tens of thousands who waited in the avenue below.
“While one Palmyrene lives, the honor of our city shall not die.”
Her clear voice, high and strong, rang off of the pillars and walls.
“We have gambled with Mars and lost, but our city will withstand the Persian storm. Rome will come to aid us, as they have always done, and then the Persian will perish in the sands, of thirst and the merciless sun. Palmyra will stand, free and strong, as it has always done.“
She placed the crown upon her head, and it laid heavy, winking white amid her raven curls. Then the Queen turned and mounted the ramp, slowly and alone. When she reached the top of the ramp, where all could see, she raised her slim white arms to the sky.
“Bel bless us and stand with us. The love I hold for my people will sustain all.”
Then she turned and entered the citadel, and the people in the streets and the avenues raised a long slow wave of sound, the prayer of Bel. Then they bowed as one toward the great building and the Queen who symbolized their city. Ahmet stood at the base of the ramp with some of the palace guardsmen, staring out upon the throng. A strange power was in the air, and the small figure of the Queen, now gone, was its focus. He tasted the air and felt some promise there.
Two figures stood on the crest of the escarpment, staring down into the valley. The moon had not yet risen and the land was dark, but they could see the blaze of light from the plaza at the center of the city. Fires burned on the walls, showing many men watching the approaches to the gates. A faint sound reached them in the quiet night air, the rumor of thousands of voices raised in song. The taller figure scratched at the grime in his beard.
“Little water,” he said in a voice made harsh by the dust. “Our men are nearly dead of the heat and sun.”
The other figure stirred and peered through the darkness. Narrow fingers wrapped around a staff of pale bone. “Dam the stream and make a reservoir. Cut the aqueduct. We shall have plenty and they none.”
The taller figure nodded, rocking back on his heels. The city lay in the night, safe behind strong high walls and the vigilance of its protectors. “This will take time, time that mires us here, leagues from where we should be, at the gates of Damascus.”
The smaller figure smiled in the darkness, his sharp white teeth flashing. “She would fall on your flank like a leopard and claw you again and again until you bled to death in the sand.”
“Yes.” The taller man laughed. “She should not have mewed herself up in the city. An error made by a tired mind. Now she cannot maneuver or escape into the desert. We can destroy this enemy utterly. Then there is nothing between us and Egypt.”
Dahak turned away, his staff making a tapping sound on the stones of the escarpment. He felt something in the air, a trace of familiar memory; he raised his nose to catch the scent. The general remained on the ridge, his eyes taking in the lay of the ground, the height of the towers, the banks of the stream. It was a strong place, but he had broken strong places before.
A puzzle, he thought, a problem of walls and towers and the wills of men. A man may make such a puzzle, and man may solve it too.
After a full glass had passed, he turned and picked his way down the slope in the darkness. The wizard was already gone, back to his wagon with the army that had halted beyond the hills at sunset. Baraz walked alone, under the cold stars, and realized that he was almost happy. Then he laughed, a full rich sound that echoed off of the rocky walls of the defile, for it was not the fate of men to be content with their lot.
Servants showed Ahmet to a small room, no more than a cell, though it boasted a fine soft mattress on a bed of ce-darwood. He laved his face and hands in a pewter bowl that stood on a three-legged table by the side of the bed. He was terribly weary, but he took the time to calm his mind and recite the prayers that let him sleep. He fell asleep under a thin cotton quilt, his eyes tracing the painted patterns that adorned the walls.