Thomas Harlan - The shadow of Ararat

Near the Town of Ganzak, Northern Persia

The cohort was sitting at the side of the road, their wagons pulled over onto a verge of stubbly brown grass. Most of the veterans slept. Zoe, Odenathus, and Dwyrin were perched on a wall made of fieldstone, their backs to the yew trees that had grown up behind the wall. Behind them a fallow field stretched off to another line of trees. Behind that the valley rose into low rounded hills capped with terraces and green bands of trees. The air was heavy with dust and it was hot in the bare shade of the yew trees. In the mountains behind them, to the north, snow was falling and the air bit like ice. Here, in the sheltered valleys of what the locals called Azerbaijan-the land of fire-it was still a warm autumn.

A troop of clibanari trotted past in single file, their helmets slung over their backs on leather thongs, lances drooping from slings, raising more dust. The three young mages were coated in it and had been for weeks as the army had wound its way down out of the mountains. They had heard that the armies of East and West had split into two great columns that were advancing south along the axis of the valley, each army taking care to leave nothing useful in its wake. For his part, Dwyrin had seen nothing but an endless succession of burned-out towns and looted villages.

The horsemen passed, leaving the road empty for the moment.

Dwyrin, who was twisting two soft reeds together for lack of anything better to do, looked up. He heard the swift clatter of a running horse.

"Someone…" he started to say to Zoe, but the rider cantered around the curve of the lane, ducking his head under low-hanging branches. "…is coming."

The dispatch rider slowed down, stopping his horse by the front of the resting cohort. The young man was streaked with mud and pasty with road dust. He had the riding leathers and broad-brimmed hat of an Eastern Empire courier. A long sword was tied to the side of his saddle and a quiver and bow were slung over his back with crisscrossed straps. He bent over, speaking to Colonna and Blanco. From where Dwyrin sat, he was sure that the centurion and the ouragos had not gotten up. The fellow on the horse did not outrank them, then.

Dwyrin went back to plaiting the reeds together. Zoe was dozing, leaning against his side, and Odenathus was flat asleep, snoring a little. The army had pushed south fast after the victory at the Kerenos River. The Persians had scattered in front of their advance, making little effort to deny the Romans the passes above Dastevan. There had been little rest for the thaumaturges, and less to do. Just march, fall down in a temporary camp, get up and march again. Two of their wagons had been lost in a stream crossing and no time had been taken to build or steal new ones. Dwyrin had been keyed up all day, unable to sleep like the others. He kept his hands busy with the reeds.

"MacDonald!" Blanco had roused himself from his nap. He waved the boy over. Dwyrin scrambled down from the rocks and jogged to the end of the line of sleeping men. The dispatch rider had dismounted and was stretching his legs, leaning against his horse. The courier was young looking, though like everyone in the army of the Two Empires, his eyes were getting older and older each day. He seemed exhausted, with deep lines of exhaustion marking his face. Blanco jerked a thick thumb toward the Hibernian as Dwyrin reached the three men.

"Here's your specialist," the centurion said. "Just put him back where you found him."

"Centurion?" Dwyrin tried to look unconcerned. Blanco lay back down, pulling the hat over his face. Colonna winked and leaned back against the wall as well. Dwyrin, without an option, turned to the courier. The young man was scratching furiously at his beard.

"Ah… sir?"

The courier looked Dwyrin up and down. He frowned. "You're a thaumaturge?" The courier seemed too tired to sneer.

"Yes, sir. Dwyrin MacDonald, third of the third, Ars Magica cohort."

"Good enough, I suppose. You're to come with me back to headquarters. Get your kit. They need an expert and I guess you're it."

– |The courier didn't even get Dwyrin to headquarters, wherever that was. Two miles back down the road, at a bridge over a swift stream, they met a troop of Varangians in their red cloaks and shirts of ring mail. A young Greek with a thick brown beard and piercing eyes was in command. The courier handed the Hibernian off and sat down at the side of the road to watch them ride away. Dwyrin was confused, but he urged his horse forward and fell in behind the Greek officer as they took a side road off of the main line of march.

Silently the troop of men cantered up into the hills along the side of the valley, passing through vineyards and orchards that had been heavy with olives and oranges. Now many were scorched and burned. The manor houses between the fields seemed empty-not even dogs yapped at them as they passed the gates. At the end of the day they came up over a hill and Dwyrin whistled silently.

A great building rose on the side of a terraced bluff. Three broad decks thrust forth from the flank of the mountain, each twice as high as a normal building. Rows of pillars bounded each floor, tall and white. In the twilight they gleamed like white candles. Vaulted roofs covered the first two floors, but the third rose to a peak and was surmounted by a great circular tower. A red glare blazed from the height of the tower, illuminating a drifting cloud of smoke that hung over the great building. Ablaze with light, it seemed eerily abandoned and quiet.

The Greek officer pulled his horse, a gorgeous red stallion, up next to Dwyrin. The man leaned close, resting his arms on the saddle horns.

"This is the Shrine of the Living Flame, young lad. It is the holy of holies for the Zoroastrian faith. Do you know of their god, Ahura-Mazda, and his prophet, the man called Zoroaster?" The Greek spoke fine Latin, with barely an accent.

Dwyrin met his eye and felt an almost physical shock. The man at his side was someone. Someone used to the exercise of power and a decisive nature.

"No, lord," he replied, pulling his horse around. It was shying from the stallion. "I have heard that they worship a living flame and sacrifice to it."

"Babies, no doubt," the Greek said with a wry tone, "thrown alive into a maw of iron…"

Dwyrin flushed and shook his head. "I have not heard that, sir. But I do not know much of their faith."

"Well, lad, this is the crux of it-that building, yonder, now held by Imperial troops-by men under my command-is the focus of their faith. Every fire temple in all this land, even in the great cities of Ctesiphon and Selucis, has a living flame drawn from this, the first flame of their faith. In that building is a fire that has never died, not since their great man, this Zoroaster, lit it to drive back the darkness and corruption of the world of woe."

Dwyrin looked back across the valley, seeing the vast size of the building, the rich gleam of the marble and woods that formed the walls and floors. Monumental reliefs and carvings decorated its surfaces. The sky continued to darken and the faint roar of the fire in the cylinder could be picked out among the sound of night birds and the muttering of the troops around him.

"Why am I here, sir? The courier said you needed an expert, but I know nothing of this god or these priests. My talent is to call fire…"

"Exactly," the Greek officer said. "Come, and I will show you what you must do."

– |A great ramp of steps rose a hundred feet from the bottom floor of the building to the entrance at the base of the cylinder on the top floor. Marble panels decorated with bas-reliefs of religious acts lined the corridor. Red-cloaked guardsmen with axes and spears stood along the stairs, holding torches to illuminate them. The Greek officer led, his long legs taking two steps at a time, and Dwyrin trotted along behind him. The man seemed tireless, though Dwyrin guessed that he had been spending long days in the saddle. At the top of the stairs, there was a great vaulted archway, leading into a long arcade that stretched off to the left and to the right.