The lean merchant frowned, but he held his peace. The others, Zenobia saw, were heartened and began whispering among themselves of the stories they would tell their grandchildren of the defeat of Persia before the golden walls of the city. The Queen nodded slightly to Ibn’Adi, who presumed to wake from his nap.
“In the matter of the defense of the city,” she said firmly, interrupting the murmuring of the nobles. “We have decided to entrust the matter of command to the noble sheykh, Amr Ibn’Adi, who has long been a good friend of the city. My brother, Vorodes, shall command the walls as his second, and the noble Mohammed Al’Quraysh shall have the matter of harassing the enemy and making his stay with us as unpleasant as possible.”
Some of the nobles looked around, their faces filled with questions, but then they saw that the Lord Zabda was not among their number. The general should have held command of the city if Zenobia or Vorodes did not take it upon themselves. They wondered if he had fallen at Emesa, for none had spoken of him since the return of the army.
“Then, if there are no objections, let us concern ourselves with matters of detail…”
Ahmet considered the beauty of the room and relaxed into a state of light meditation. Many hours would pass now in discussion.
The sun was setting again, and once more Baraz looked upon the city in twilight. On the great walls, lights twinkled on as the sun began to dip beyond the western hills. He sat on the summit of the tallest of the tomb towers west of the city, the sun at his back. His legs dangled over the edge, kicking idly at the crumbling bricks and masonry of the upper story. A hot wind ruffled his long curly hair, leaching the last bits of moisture from his skin. The bulk of his army remained in the hills, building a camp and laborigg to dam the stream. The horses needed a lot of water.
The Lord Dahak sat beside him, cross-legged on the flat stones that made the roof of the tomb. As was his wont, the wizard had drawn his cowl over his head. With his long limbs and ragged cloak, he seemed a great raven perched on the height. Only part of one hand was visible, curled around the bone staff.
“Are you strong enough to break the city by yourself?” Baraz’s voice was contemplative.
Dahak shifted and the Boar felt the cold eyes of the sorcerer on him. “Have you not an army? They must do more than eat and sleep and shit.”
Baraz looked sideways at the wizard, to see if he was angry. If he was, then the Boar would not live long, not in this tiny space circumscribed only by darkening sky and a drop of thirty-five feet on every side. He could not make out the sorcerer’s features in the shadow of his cowl.
“My men are exhausted from the trek across the desert. The horses are nearly dead. Our supplies are low, and there is precious little in this wasteland to feed them with. The longer we wait here, the weaker we will become. There is little wood here, and what there is will not suit for siege engines. My King bids me make haste, so I must consider every stratagem, every…“ He paused. ”… every weapon.“
Dahak stirred, then said: “The King of Kings bade me assist you in all ways, Lord Baraz. It is my duty to obey. What would you have me do?”
Baraz grunted and stared back at the looming walls of the city. Throughout the day he had made a slow circle around the city, viewing its walls and towers and defenses from all sides. It was a long city, running beside the stream, with each narrow end coming almost to a point. At the eastern end, a low hill bore the great palace-an imposing bulk of golden stone and many pillars. At the western, by the great Damascus gate, there was another sizable building. Within there must be markets and gardens and storehouses. Tens of thousands of people must live inside the walls. And all around, on every side and facing, towering walls of vast blocks of stone. Thirty feet was the lowest wall, and that above a deep cleft where the stream ran along the base of the walls. Fifty feet in the other places, with regularly spaced towers.
“It is strong,” Baraz said. “But as necessity directs, the gate is the weakest point. We have no ladders, no siege towers, precious few mantlets. We must storm the gate if we are to carry the city. Some rams we could fashion, given time. Can you break it? Can you sunder the gate and let us into the city?”
Dahak seemed to stare out at the distant walls, though it was impossible to tell. “There is a power in the city, Lord Baraz, something that I felt before on the field at Emesa. It is strong, though not as strong as the Red Prince” that I slew.“
“Another sorcerer?” Baraz was startled. He had thought that Dahak had murdered all of the wizards the Romans could gather. “How did he escape your sending?”
“He did not put himself against me,” Dahak mused, his voice almost inaudible. “He only watched on the fringe of the struggle. Perhaps he is clever, this one. Perhaps he wanted to gauge my strength in the unseen world. Then again… he may be weak, or a captive. No… Something held a ward around the Bright Queen through the battle and shielded her from harm. It must be this one.”
“What does this mean?” Baraz asked, pulling one leg up and resting his chin on his knee.
“The city is not without barriers and wards unseen,” Dahak said. “The gate is no exception. They are strongest there, in fact, as it should be. Many priests and wizards have labored over’them for many years. Yet-a gate’s purpose is to open. If I have time enough, and the strength, I can make it yield to me.”
“But?” Baraz could hear the question in the wizard’s voice.
“This clever one, he might have will enough to hold it closed against me. If he can be removed from the board, then the city will be yours. If not, then the sun is fierce here and your bones will bleach quickly under it.”
Baraz snorted and turned his attention back to the city. After a time he said: “In the world of men, it is easier to defend than to attack. Is it so with wizards as well?”..
“Yes,” Dahak said. “What do you intend?”
“If this sorcerer were to come forth and test his strength against you, man to man, could you destroy him?”
Dahak laughed, a sound of falling stones crushing limbs and bodies. “If he were to come forth, I could best him. But how would such a thing be contrived?”
“Honor,” Baraz said, a grim smile on his face. “Mine against that of the Queen of the city.”
“Honor?” Dahak sniffed, rising easily, like a serpent from the stones. “Honor brought us here-honor and duty to a dreadful King. I spit upon honor. But if it will serve us here, then let it.”
Rich red light fell across the marble wall of the Queen’s garden room in broad slanting beams. The setting sun glowed through rice-paper panels set around the western edge of the garden. Zenobia sat on the edge of a couch with a plush velvet cover, her gowns and robes discarded. She wore the purple shirt loose around her waist and had pulled on long cotton pantaloons, so finely woven that the outline of her pale legs could be seen through the fabric. The couch was on a raised platform made from a pale-tan wood. Around the platform the rich earth of the garden was filled with flowers and herbs. Slim white pillars, delicately fluted, with flaring capitals held up a dome of wooden slats over the platform. The Queen was peeling an orange and watching the sun set. She idly tossed the peels in a bucket of chased silver. Her hair was loose and fell over her shoulders in a wave. She bit down on an orange slice.
Ahmet sat behind her, his long brown legs straddling her to either side. His fingers kneaded her back, finding the knots of tension that were hiding among her muscles. The Queen gasped as he found a particularly tight spot. The Egyptian smiled and eased it out with deft hands.
“That was clever,” he said, “producing the letter today.”
Zenobia glanced over her shoulder, eyes reflecting the setting sun in gold.