Thomas Harlan - The shadow of Ararat

"My master," the herald said, "bade me bring you his best wishes on this day. He inquires if you would consider yielding the city to the might of Persia and receiving his clemency and gratitude."

Zenobia sneered, her full lips-outlined with dark henna-twisting into a semblance of a smile. "Give your master my condolences for his imminent death. Assure him that after the buzzards and vultures have picked his bones clean, I will see that his widow receives the remains in a fine burlap sack. I will give honor to his family and grind the bones to powder myself! The city does not desire the clemency of bandits and thieves. Tell your master that we will not bow our necks to him. He, however, may come to me and beg forgiveness of his trespasses. My mercy is well known throughout the whole of the world."

The herald nodded, taking a moment to fix her words in his memory.

"My master," he replied, "the great General Shahr-Baraz, he who is known as the Royal Boar, the favorite of the great King Chrosoes, the King of Kings, is well known for his mercy, O Queen, and for his honorable word."

Zenobia cocked her head to one side, staring down at the brown man. "And what, pray tell, does his honor have to do with murdering my people and looting the tombs of the fathers of the city?"

Overnight there had been odd cracking and thudding sounds from west of the city. Mohammed's men, having slipped out of the city at dusk, returned before dawn with news that the Persians had been looting the tower tombs and carrying off their contents to the Persian camp in the hills. Zenobia had been forced to isolate the scouts in the basement of the palace to keep the word from spreading. If the people of the city learned that the honored ancestors were being violated in such a way, they would have thrown the gates wide and charged out themselves with kitchen knives to take revenge upon the Persian army.

"My master's honor is unimpeachable, O Queen. He has no quarrel with you or your city. His quarrel is with Rome and the murderers of his great and good friend, Emperor Maurice. He does not desire to cause you harm-he desires only peace between the great and noble realm of Persia and the renowned city of Palmyra."

"He expresses his friendship," Zenobia said, her voice languid, "in a strange way. Thousands are dead in this peace, and many more will die here in the dreadful heat before his peace is done."

One of the Persian nobles began to breathe heavily, leaning sideways on his horse. The other nobles glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes, but no one moved to help him. The noble began to flush a bright red and his breathing became more labored.

The herald ignored the soft noises behind him, continuing to watch Zenobia with a mild expression on his face. "O Queen, if this disagreement is pursued to its conclusion, you and all of your people will be slain or driven into the desert. Your city, if it resists, will be utterly destroyed. No stone will remain on stone. Its name will disappear from history, buried by the sand. But peace… peace and friendship with Persia will make you mighty. The entire world will hear of the glory of Palmyra and wonder at the magnificence of it. Do you not chafe under the auspices of Rome? That mean, gray old man who clutches at you with greedy fingers? That miserly father who demands that you pay and pay, without hope of a return? Where is the investment in this? Where is Rome now? You stand alone, brave and glorious, against the might of Persia. None can say that you have not done your duty-the honor of the city is satisfied. Why continue to fight?"

Zenobia leaned forward, resting her palms on the hot ashlar stones of the battlement. "Tell your pig master, this Boar, that Zenobia will not be foresworn. His master is a whoring pustule of evil and his honor is worthless. Palmyra will stand against him."

The herald nodded, his face creased by a slight smile. "Be it so, O Queen. My master makes one final offer, then, though if you call him faithless, then it bears no weight on the balance of your judgment. He will send a champion forth, one man, to face the champion of the city. In single combat, here on the plain before the gates, they will fight. The man who stands the victor will carry the day. If your champion triumphs, my master will withdraw and his army with him. Palmyra will remain free. If my master's champion triumphs, then Palmyra will accept the friendship of Persia and open her gates."

The herald bowed deeply in the saddle and then turned his horse about. The Persian nobles turned as well, though the red-faced man had to be helped by two of his companions. The embassy rode away, seemingly small under the white glare of the sun. Zenobia remained on the wall, watching, until they disappeared into the dun-colored hills. Then she turned away and, surrounded by her guardsmen, descended the broad stone stairs to the courtyard below. Her face was pensive with worry.

– |"All rhetoric and disputation aside, my lady," ibn'Adi said, his face grave, "I have never heard that Shahr-Baraz was faithless. He has always served Chrosoes with honor, even when the King was a prisoner in his own keep. Did he not go into exile with the young King to Rome, leaving behind all lands and family? If he swears this, he may well mean it." The sheykh leaned back in his chair, stroking his long white beard in thought.

Zenobia looked around the gathering, gauging the reactions of the men she had assembled in her study to advise her. Her younger brother, Vorodes, and the Southerner, Mohammed, were eyeing each other, seeing who would offer first to bear the honor of the city. The high priest of Bel, old Septimus Haddudan, was sunk in deep depression. Though in his youth he had been a firebrand and a kingmaker in the politics of the city, now he was tired and withdrawn. Once General Zabda would have sat at her council as well, but since his failure at Emesa she would have nothing to do with him. Ahmet she looked to last. His eyes were troubled, but his face was calm.

"The fate of one against the fate of the city," she said slowly. "I too have heard that the Boar is an honorable man. His position is tenuous, trapped here in the desert at our gates. Men in such a place often look for a bold throw to give them victory at little cost."

Her fingernails, long and carefully shaped by her handmaidens, tapped on the smooth surface of the table by her chair. Ahmet watched her, seeing something of her thoughts in her face.

"I shall accept the challenge," she said after a moment of reflection. "Mohammed, send one of your rascals to the Persian camp, under truce, to carry word of my acceptance. Tell the Boar that my champion will meet him on the field before the city tomorrow morning, at dawn."

Mohammed raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You think that he will stand forth himself?"

Zenobia smiled, saying: "Has he ever lost a fight, man to man? No. Or so his legend holds. He is not the kind of man to send another to defend his honor for him. It will be he."

"Then," Vorodes said, breathlessly, "his defeat would wound Persia twice-once in their failure to capture the city and once in his death, for he is their strongest arm!"

A grim look passed over Zenobia's face and her lips thinned to a harsh line. "Yes, that is the prize."

– |Ahmet woke in full darkness. Zenobia was curled up in the curve of his body, her head tucked into his shoulder. Her breath whistled softly at his ear. The room was dark; even the narrow band of eastern sky that was visible through the windows was as black as pitch. Gently, he eased out from under her, leaving her among the pillows and quilts, frowning in her sleep. In the faint light, she seemed more beautiful than ever, a perfect alabaster statue among the dark blankets. He pulled on his breechcloth and tunic, smoothing back his hair. He did not bind it, but he did find his longer robe. The door opened silently on well-greased hinges and he went out into the passage.