“Mithras bless us!” Colonna breathed, making the sign of the bull. A troop of Roman cavalry in short red cloaks and leather armor cantered into the square through the open gate. They were Eastern troops, with light bows at their backs and long spears set into leather holsters at their feet. The lead officer, a swarthy fellow with a bushy black beard, reined his horse in before the well. Dwyrin looked up at him, face pale and drained. For a moment the fire in his mind threatened to leap out and consume the officer staring down at him with a puzzled look on his face, but then, with an audible groan, the boy swallowed the whirlpool of flame and sagged to his knees in exhaustion.
Colonna grabbed his shoulder as he fell and propped him up. He smiled broadly at the officer and saluted. “Not used to the heat, sir, he’ll be right with some more water.”
IBOM()H()H(M)M()H()M(M)H(MM)M()H()W()M0HOMOWOHOM(M)MQB| DAMASCUS, THE THEME OF SYRIA MAGNA
Ahmet sat in the shade of an olive tree, his hat turned upside down in his lap. It was late afternoon on the hillside, and of all of Mohammed’s men, only he was still awake. The others, even the guards, were sleeping in the shade under the trees in the grove. The camels and horses were grazing on the low grass between the trees. Even the flies were quiet, only a few buzzing around the Egyptian’s head, and they were slow and lazy. He was eating an orange and putting the peels in his hat. From his vantage, he could see down the slope of the low hill to the gates of the great city. A pall of dust and smoke shrouded the road from the south. Ahmet finished peeling the fruit and popped a section into his mouth. Strong white teeth bit down and he savored the taste.
A river, broad and swift, lay between the hills and the walls of Damascus. Drovers on the road the previous day had named it the Baradas. Twin bridges, long wooden spans on great pilings of gray stone, arched over it, carrying the elevated road to the gates. A great bastion of towers and gates met the bridge there and gave entrance to the teeming streets of the city. Marshlands and water gardens surrounded the city on the southern and eastern sides, channeling all traffic onto the three raised roads that came to the gates from those directions. Ahmet was not impressed. Alexandria was ten times larger than this provincial town. The road leading to the river remained a confused snarl, as it had been the night before. A constant stream of people was leaking out of the fastness of Damascus, heading south by foot, by camel, by horse, by litter, and by wagon. At the same time, bands of fighting men on horse and afoot were trying to move north. As Ahmet watched, another column of horsemen with brightly pennoned lance tips trotted past the base of the hill, forcing their way down the crowded road. A distant murmur of voices raised in anger drifted on the slow afternoon air. The armies of the Eastern princes were trying to get north of the barrier of the Baradas. Even the noblemen were backed up at the bridge.
Near dusk, the men roused themselves and began gathering wood for a fire. Ahmet stood at the edge of the grove, his hands clasped behind him, looking across the shallow valley toward the lights of the city. Great black and silver clouds of birds rose from the marshes and wheeled away across the sky, hunting for insects before nightfall. With the gloom of twilight creeping across the valley, the Egyptian could see the lights of encampments along the northern and western roads to the city as well. The pale sandstone walls of the old city were joined by new, bustling suburbs of canvas and wood.
Stars had begun to show in the darkening sky over the peaks of the mountains to the west of the city when Mohammed at last returned. He labored up the slope to the olive grove with a heavily laden horse in tow behind him and two bags thrown over his own shoulders.
“Ho, priest!” Mohammed said, wheezing with effort. “Take a poor working man’s burden.” He swung one of the bags off his shoulder and Ahmet caught it, grunting with effort. It was very heavy. Some of Mohammed’s cousins ran up to take the other and the reins of the horse. The merchant straightened up and stretched his back.
“Ah, better, better! It’s Shaitan’s own pit of torments in there, I’ll tell you. The place is a madhouse.” Mohammed looked around, counting noses. Satisfied that everyone was present, he shooed his men away and crooked a finger at Ahmet. They walked together, away from the camp, up the slope to the top of the hill. A tumble of stones crowned the summit. Mohammed sat down on a flat rock and began unlacing his sandals. Ahmet sat nearby, his shape muted in the dim light.
“I looked for your friend,” the southerner said, kneading his sore foot between powerful fingers. “But there are no Roman legionnaires in the city. There’s every other kind of fighting man in the eastern half of the Empire down there, but no Romans. There are Arabs, Syrians, Pal-myrenes-a whole host of Palmyrenes-Nabateans, Palestinians, Goths, Turks, Ethiops-but no Roman Imperial troops.” Mohammed paused, looking off into the night, toward the bridge over the Baradas.
“If I knew no better, I’d say the city was a mutiny against the Empire waiting to happen, but every man’s voice is raised against Chrosoes of Persia. I spoke with everyone I knew from the times I’ve been here before, and not one of them said that there were any Roman troops in the city. The governor maintains a civil guard, but-and this from my friend Barsames the glassworker-the two cohorts of the Second Triana that had been stationed in the city were withdrawn to Tyre on the coast almost a month ago.”
Ahmet shook his head in puzzlement. “I don’t understand,” he said. “The quartermaster in Alexandria was quite specific that the Third had been sent to Damascus, along with another Legion.”
Mohammed shrugged. “No matter, my friend, this man you seek is not here now. These Legions may arrive soon that is a common rumor in the markets-but until then…“
Ahmet stood, his face filled with confusion. He paced around the cairn of rocks.
“I shall go to the coast then,” he said at last. “To Tyre, or wherever the Legions are.”
Mohammed turned a little to keep his friend in view. “This fellow, you are certain you must find him? Do you owe him so much?”
“Yes,” Ahmet said in a sad voice, “I owe him a great deal. I doubt, no, I am sure that he does not know that I am seeking to find him. But I cannot countenance what was done to him, not and remain an honorable man.” Mohammed spread his hands questioningly. Ahmet sighed and sat down, his head in his hands. “Weeks ago now I was a priest-teacher at a school in Upper Egypt. A school devoted to teaching the works and philosophies of Hermes Trismegistus and the other ancient savants. This school is moderately well known, and many rich families send their sons to learn the techniques and practices of the art of sight and power. I was the youngest master of the school, a teacher.
“Then one day a message came from the father temple in Alexandria that we had to answer an Imperial levy-a sorcerer of the third order must be sent to the muster of the Legions. The master of the school chose to send Dwyrin MacDonald, one of my students, to fulfill this obligation. I protested this decision, but Dwyrin was sent anyway.“
Mohammed raised an eyebrow; he had guessed bits and pieces of his quiet Egyptian friend’s background from the way that he spoke and how he thought, but he had never realized that he had been traveling in the company of a man who commanded the hidden powers. Inwardly he chuckled; he could not have chosen a better companion for the road!
“Did this Dwyrin not want to go? What did he think of it?”
Ahmet snorted in disgust. “I am sure that Dwyrin was elated to be so chosen-but, my friend, Dwyrin is, or was, a sorcerer of the third order in only the most flimsy legal sense. He is not even the best of my students! A boy of sixteen-with talent, yes-but nothing of the discipline of a master. Ah, I should have gone in his stead to begin with.”