"Light of the Coming Sun, your uncle comes with a strength of twenty thousand men, all pledged to your cause."
All around the room was a titter of incredulity and some small hiss of fear. The disaster at Kerenos River and the failed campaigns of the dead King Chrosoes had beggared Persia for men and treasure. Once an army of twenty thousand would be the matter of mustering a great Prince's country estates, but now it was a force to be reckoned with and more. Purandokht had opened her mouth to make a scathing remark, but now she closed it with a snap and sought her sister's eye.
Azarmidukht remained composed and raised an eyebrow. "And when, priest, may we expect our uncle to attend us?"
Arad rose, leaving the staff lying on the floor, and met the eyes of the two Queens. "Within moments, Blessed of the Flame That Does Not Die. I hurried ahead to bring you this news, lest there be confusion, fear, or unwary words. Here, your uncle bade me bring you these tokens of the love that he holds for you."
Arad removed a package of cloth-of-gold from his robe and ascended the steps. The Pushtigbhan behind the thrones, a full score of them, tensed. Purandokht caught the eye of their captain and shook her head slightly. Arad knelt on the step at their feet, fighting hard to keep from sneezing. A slowly shifting cloud of myrrh and rose-attar surrounded the Princesses. He unwrapped the package, untying silk twine and showing first an inner covering of silver mesh and then, in his upraised hands, two slim black bracelets.
Purandokht started in utter surprise, her hand flying to her mouth, the rattle of her garments as she made to rise echoing loud in the expectant quiet of the court. Her sister's fingers tightened on the arms of the throne, and a thin hiss of rage escaped her lips.
"Where:?" Azarmidukht could barely speak.
Arad separated the cloths, taking one bracelet in cloth-of-gold and the other in silver mesh. He turned to his left, to Azarmidukht, and held the bracelet up to her.
"In the last days of her life your mother gave this into the keeping of your uncle. She commanded him to bring them to you when her husband, your father, at last lay dead. Rustam protested, knowing that these things should go to you straightaway, but she insisted. Now he sends them to you, a token of his love and hers. Pray, lady, take it as your mother intended."
Arad cursed himself for a coward, raging at himself in his mind. Still, he could not prevent his hands from slipping the thin black bracelet- its fine mesh of scales glinting in the light of the lanterns- around the pale white wrist of the Princess. Azarmidukht stared down at it as it closed on her wrist, sliding snug, and in her eyes the priest could see the reflection of a band of white gold blazing with emeralds. In that brief moment Arad saw into the heart of the Princess and felt the crushing weight of love long thought denied. The sorcerer's will kept him from tears at this betrayal, but he turned and slid the other onto the waiting arm of Purandokht, who was already crying, her tears cutting deep tracks in the arsenic paste makeup that kept her skin so pure and white.
"Your uncle bade me say this." Arad's voice sank to a whisper that did not reach beyond the ears of the two young women. "As she lay dying, your mother said to him that she loved you both very much and was so proud of you. She regretted the long coldness she had showed you, but it was necessary. To come to this day, as you stand Empresses of all Persia, it was vital that she make you strong. These tokens, things that were denied you in life, she passed on that you would know, today, that you were her most beloved."
Arad felt the doors to the hall open, and he stood, turning, and took the hands of the two Princesses. Even Azarmidukht was crying now, though she did not speak. Purandokht was gasping for breath, feeling the long years of bitter hatred she had held for her mother crumble and collapse. The rush of emotion washed over Arad like a shock of icy water, and his hatred for the sorcerer had never been greater. Even so, he helped them rise.
The Lord Dahak entered the chamber. Khadames and a dozen Pushtigbhan were at his back. He strode across the marble; rich brown hair tied back behind his head, ruddy pink in his cheeks, and knelt with impeccable grace before the two princesses. "Beloved nieces, it has been too long. You were so small when I saw you last." His voice filled the room with a rich baritone, and every heart there leapt at the surety of command ringing in those words. Dahak raised his eyes, meeting each Princess in turn. Behind them, Arad stepped away behind the golden thrones, unleashed from his master's will for just a moment. Dahak brought the two young women into a close embrace, bending his head to speak softly to each. Azarmidukht was sobbing now, seeing love and acceptance and guileless welcome in the sorcerer's eyes.
In this light, under these lanterns, the face of the sorcerer was the very image of the dead king.
Roma Mater
The wagon rattled through hills of debris rising higher than a villa roof. The road here was elevated on an embankment and sealed with close-fitted paving stones. Krista dozed lightly, leaning back on a frayed cushion wedged against the wooden back of the driver's seat. The little black cat was a warm presence on her chest, where it had curled up inside her cloak. This close to the city a haze of wood smoke clouded the sky and lent the air a bitter taste. The road ran straight as a die, coming out of the valley behind and running ahead to the rising wall of the city. A vast tumbled pile of broken pottery, wine jars, and amphorae rose up on the left. To their right, acres of discarded furniture, substandard building tile, cracked brick, and splintered barrels humped toward the horizon. Among the hills, curls of smoke rose up from funerary temples and the camps of rag pickers and vagrants.
Even with most of the debris of the city being carried down to Portus on barges returning to the great port to pick up new shipments of trade goods, the waste heap of the ancient capital was enormous. Clouds of tiny brown birds swept and dove over the hills, sometimes blocking the sun.
Krista had a bag on her lap as well, with her hand inside, riding on the hilt of a cheap iron knife. The wagoneer was a surly man with an evil black beard and a sullen disposition. He had taken her copper coin and let her ride with him, but he kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye and, despite being exhausted, she did not sleep. Even this catnap seemed to have encouraged him, and she felt the wagon slow. She cracked an eyelid and measured the distance to the Via Appia gate. No more than a mile, she supposed. I could get out and walk, she thought.
She yawned, stretching, and sat up. The driver's hand snatched away from over her knee. Krista stared at him, and he looked away. Clouds were edging into the sky from the east, threatening to cut off the pale sunlight. Krista shivered and wished she had thought to bring a heavier cloak. It could be quite cold in Rome, even in summer. The wagon jounced and banged as it crossed a bad section of road. Krista slid the little cat into her bag, ignoring the plaintive mew of protest.
Motion on a nearby mound of cracked olive jars and discarded racing chits drew her eye. A man in a dirty brown-and-white cloak was scrambling up the side of the road embankment. His face and hands were wrapped in grimy linen. Krista snapped the iron knife out of its sheath and whirled around. The driver, startled by her motion, looked back toward her. Four more men had appeared out of the rubble on the other side of the road and were running toward the wagon. The driver shouted in fear and cracked his whip over the heads of the oxen.
Krista rolled off of the seat as the cart jerked forward, hitting the ground hard on the balls of her feet and then bouncing back up. The bag with the little cat was clutched tight to her chest. The four men reached the road, ignored the cart, and ran toward her. The lead man was shouting something, but the rags that covered his face muffled the sound. Krista dodged across the road toward the single man who had just managed to make it up the road embankment. He was just standing up, brushing dirt from his tunic, when she spun into him, her right foot flashing around and up to crack against the side of his head.