He smiled again and fingered the supple silk doublet he wore under his armor. It was a pure gold color like nothing seen in the western half of the Empire. The Chin merchants who had sold it to him called it "dew of the sunset," and it had cost him thirty talents of silver to gain enough for a shirt. Of course, here in the west, or even farther, in the cities of the Romans, it would sell for a hundred talents or more: such was the wealth that flowed through his hands.
"Lord Piruz!" One of his guardsmen had stiffened and pointed out onto the dark plain that lay west of the city. "Someone is coming."
Piruz rose, his hand already on his saber hilt. One could not fault the Prince of Balkh for going unarmed or unready for battle. For all their wealth the lands along the Amu'Darya were not peaceful. The collapse of the Gok Turk khaghanate that had ruled from Ferghana in the east to the Russ forests in the west had not engendered stability. The men of Balkh knew battle and raid and alarms in the night from birth. Around the Prince, his men shifted to block the gate and two squads moved inside, ready to swing the massive oaken portals closed at a moment's notice. Piruz squinted out at the darkness.
There was a light on the plain, flickering and bouncing. A rider, thought Piruz.
The light grew closer, and Piruz could see that it was following the road. Then another light appeared behind the first, then another. Within a minute, Piruz whistled in alarm as the plain lit up with lines of flickering lights. One great column was advancing down the road at a walk, while two others followed on either side.
"Close the gate," he rasped, waving his lieutenants back through the passage. He stepped forward, onto the brick paving before the towers. His bodyguards closed in behind him. There was a booming sound as the portals closed and a rattle of chains as the locking bar was dropped. Piruz grounded his saber and rested his hands on it. No man would say that the Prince of Balkh fled in the face of an unexpected visitor. Many of the great spabahadan of the realm were expected here: it would not do for them to find the gate closed against them, and met with spears and arrows.
The tramp of marching feet came out of the darkness, and the bouncing lights resolved into a troop of armored cavalry riding on the road. Two figures led them on coal-black stallions. Piruz squinted again, trying to make out the crest on their banners, but failed. Every man seemed to be garbed in black, and it reduced them to faint outlines in the darkness. The horsemen were clad in mail from head to toe, in the style of the clibanari, with barely a slit for their eyes to peer forth from conical helms. Lances, bows, and heavy maces hung at their saddles. Out on the plain, the other two columns came to a halt a hundred yards from the gate, and fell out into ranks.
Piruz guessed that they must be infantry with long spears and rectangular shields of laminated wood and round iron bosses. There were many of them.
The two horsemen in the lead of the column cantered up to the edge of the light cast from the gate towers. They turned their horses, looking down upon Piruz. The Prince was impressed; their horses were as fine as any Sogdian charger, glossy and black as a raven's wing, spirited and tall in the shoulder. Like the men who stood on the plain, the tack of the two horses were black as night, fading almost to invisibility against the glossy hide.
"Greetings, noble lords." Piruz' voice hung in the air, calm and even a little cheerful despite the possible danger.
"Greetings, Captain of the Gate." The voice filled the air with power and strength. The speaker was obviously the lord of this host: a tall, thin man with a clean-shaven face and dark eyes. His skin was pale, but Piruz could see a lean, wiry strength in the set of his shoulders. Too, the charger knew his master was astride, and was calm and poised. Supple armor like a snakeskin gleamed at the man's chest, though he did not seem to bear a sword or a bow. "I have come to pay my respects and pledge to the Empresses, those known as Azarmidukht and Purandokht. Pray, noble Captain, may I enter the city?"
Piruz' left eyelid twitched at the slight implied in the man's speech. Still, the stranger was polite and possessed of strength.
"It is late, my lord. The Empresses will have retired. Too, I see that there is no room in the city for your men. I will send a messenger to the court, saying that you have come: what was your name?"
The man on the horse smiled, inclining his head a little at the rebuke. "I have been remiss," he said. "Say to them that their uncle comes to bend his knee before them. Tell them that Rustam Aparvez has returned unlooked for to aid them in this difficult time."
Piruz hissed in surprise despite himself. He had not known that the dead Chrosoes Aparvez, once Kingof Kings, had a living brother. This was news indeed. He made a half bow to the man on the horse and turned to the gate. The portal ground open a crack, and he stepped to the opening. "Send a runner to the palace in all haste," he said, his voice low. "A man claiming to be the uncle of the Empresses has come to the gate of the lions with an army." Within, Piruz' captain nodded sharply.
The Prince turned back to the men on the horses. "A delay may ensue, noble lords. Would you care to sit and take tea with me?"
Dahak smiled politely and swung down from his horse. His eyes were distant and unfocused. Khadames followed, rubbing the side of his nose as he looked around in interest. It had been some time since he had passed through Ecbatana. Little had changed. The general grinned up at the guardsmen watching from the rampart. Their faces were stony in response. Khadames did not think they would wait long at the gate; perhaps they would not even wait for the messenger to return.
Arad climbed a broad flight of travertine steps. Fat-bellied columns lined it, rising up to support a vaulted roof paneled with cypress and pine hexagons. Many lanterns blazed along the walls, though the palace was deep in slumber. The lower floors showed all the signs of a lavish feast and lengthy entertainment. The great hall that bisected the building was still being cleared by dozens of slaves. Many of the guests slept on couches against the walls, and some, in the rooms curtained off from the main hall, still celebrated. The watchful eyes of the Pushtigbhan were everywhere. A dozen of the stocky guardsmen loitered about the base of the grand staircase. Arad had shown the parchment and, again, was allowed past.
A hallway lined with sconces and flat wall panels showing scenes of the hunt and battle led him to a foyer. Here the floor was tiled with alternating silver-and gold-washed bricks. Arad looked around, marking the hanging silks and the fine stone and marble. Here, ostentation and raw wealth expressed the power of the Persian state. A memory came to him despite his resolute desire to keep all such things from his thought- a memory of a quiet garden and slim pillars of alabaster. That had been a place no less costly in construction, but it held grace and beauty and refinement. There had been peace there. This place was filled with nervous energy and the desire to impress.
But this stands, whispered the sorcerer, and that so-peaceful city is now filled with the bones of the dead.
Arad shook his head, trying to drive out the cloying words and the horror lurking behind them. It was useless. He paused, seeing that the main doorway out of the foyer was closed. No guardsmen stood before it, and there was a low mutter of voices beyond. The priest frowned and moved to the door, raising his staff to knock on the burnished cedar wood panels.