Thomas Harlan - The shadow of Ararat

The barren land lay quiet under a dim sun. Crows circled over the city.

Ctesiphon

The city had burned for three days and three nights before the rain quenched the last flames. Now the stones hissed and popped, still cooling, as Galen walked amid the ruins of the great palace that had stood by the river. His Germans walked a fair distance away, a rough circle that traveled where he traveled. It was a gray day, both in the sky, where clouds heavy with rain jostled one another over the river, and below, where a fine coating of ash lay over everything. The Northerners were still chortling with glee over the vast sums of booty they had received from looting the city and its palaces. Each man was nearly choked by chains of gold, and rings bulged on every finger. Every man in the army of either Emperor was going home laden with as much booty as he could carry.

Galen frowned as he climbed a broad staircase littered with cracked pillars and burned timbers. The precincts of the imperial residences were coated with a thick slurry of mud made from ash and rainwater. The city was in ruins, its people fled. From the height, he turned and looked back up the river, seeing the broad gray-green surface surging up against the dykes and retaining walls that the farmers and the citizens of the city had labored for generations to build and maintain. The water curled against the top of the earthen ramparts. Soon, if the rains held, it might spill over the top.

The Emperor shook his head, thinking, There's no one left to repair the earthworks.

– |Heraclius stood in the center of what had once been a great room. His staff officers were a crowd of red cloaks, muddy boots, and silk behind him, his own bodyguards scattered through the ruins around the platform. The walls were tumbled down, the bricks cracked open by tremendous heat. Great soaring arches had once enclosed the space, and a domed roof had covered it. The dome was gone; only its rocky skeleton remained. A very light rain, no more than a mist, settled down through the gaping holes. The Eastern Emperor was gazing down at an enormous shattered disk of mosaic tile. Galen walked up to him, feeling his bodyguards fade back to the edge of his vision.

"Greetings, brother," he said to Heraclius.

The Eastern Emperor looked up, his eyes bright. His red beard bristled.

"A pity this was destroyed," he said, gesturing to the scattered remains of the world map that had covered the disk. "But a Roman one would be more accurate, I think."

Galen's left eyelid twitched in surprise, but he ignored the comment.

"A pity the entire city has been destroyed," he replied. "It was rich and filled with fabricae and merchants."

Heraclius laughed, standing back from the mosaic and spreading his arms wide. "We will build a new city here, even greater, more glorious, but it will be a Roman city! The capital of a Roman Persia…"

A faraway look crept into Heraclius' eyes and he took Galen by the shoulder. Together they walked toward the open side of the chamber, where a series of arches had once stood, looking out over a luxurious garden. The rest of the officers and nobles drifted slowly along behind them.

"Persia lies at our feet, prostrate, smashed to rubble. Their army is scattered, the Khazars rampage through the highlands, looting and pillaging. It will be decades before a King rises to rebuild this empire." Heraclius stopped and turned to Galen, his face creased by a broad smile.

"This is our chance, brother, to end the centuries of struggle between east and west. The Eastern frontier will stretch all the way to India!"

"And Chrosoes?" Galen said, his voice wry. "What of him?"

"Here," Heraclius said, his smile that of a cat in cream. He kicked a bundle on the ground, something heavy, wrapped in canvas. "Sviod! Show the Western Emperor what you found."

The Varangian, a mountain of a man with a smashed-in nose and a bald head like a boiled egg, gripped the edge of the canvas and unrolled it. Something slopped out, something black and bloated, crawling with worms and ants. Galen stared down at it in undisguised revulsion. The hand of the thing flopped at his feet, the skin of the fingers stretched tight over rotted flesh like overstuffed gray sausages. The Varangian smiled, showing gaps in his teeth. The Western Emperor held a cloth over his mouth and nose. The stench was tremendous.

"You see," Heraclius said, apparently unaffected by the smell, "the King of Kings is otherwise disposed."

"Where… did you find him? Are you sure that this is the King of Kings?" Galen fought to keep from gagging.

Heraclius motioned for the Varangian to roll the canvas back up. He turned away and paced slowly back to the knot of officers by the broken map.

"Some of your men, all unknowing, speared him like a fish the first night. Apparently he was already badly wounded, even bleeding. His body lay in the garden of one of the palaces for two days before one of the surviving Persians found him. I rewarded that servant well, for it was a precious gift he brought me."

The Eastern officers looked up, smiling, at the approach of Heraclius and Galen. One of them was the Eastern Emperor's brother, Theodore. He had his arm around the shoulder of a slightly built young man with a despondent face. Galen arched an eyebrow-the boy was almost pretty, though there was an odd look about him. His clothing, skin and hair were those of a Persian, but his eyes and nose, even his mouth, reminded the Western Emperor of someone…

"Ah, my friend," Heraclius said, bowing to the boy. "Theodore, let him stand on his own." The Eastern Prince pushed the young Persian forward. The boy looked up sullenly, his mouth trembling. Galen put his hands on his waist.

"And this?" he said, looking steadily at Heraclius. The Eastern Emperor smiled and ran a finger over his mustaches. He looked back over his shoulder at the bundle of canvas that the Varangians were dragging down into the garden. One of the Scandians had a shovel over his shoulder. The Eastern officers nudged each other and smiled at some secret jest.

"Am I satisfied?" Heraclius said, seemingly to himself. "A nation with which a treaty obtains assails my state. The armies of my enemy plunder my cities, enslave my citizens, loot my farms. I send embassies of peace to this nation, and severed heads, pickled in brine, are returned to me. I send letters, seeking the nature of the grievance against me, and I am called a vile and insensate slave in return. I learn, by other means, of the nature of the quarrel between my house and that of Chrosoes. I send the very head of the murderer of the friend of the Persian Emperor as a token of peace!"

Galen looked around the circle of faces. The Eastern officers were grinning, their faces flushed with some secret hunger. The Persian had stopped trembling and his head had come up. The Western Emperor frowned to himself again; this boy seemed terribly familiar!

"I seek to protect myself and the citizens of my state, and armies are sent against me. Tens of thousands die, and more cities are set to the torch. Yet, in all this, though the people of my city beg me to remain in the safety of my capital, I persevere. I come forth, with the aid of by brother Emperor, and assert my authority."

Now Heraclius, at last, met the eyes of the Persian boy. Behind the fellow, Theodore and two of his cavalry officers moved in close. Galen took a step back, feeling the ugly mood running through the young officers with their neatly clipped beards and red cloaks. He signaled his guardsmen. The Germans perked up their ears and sidled closer, brawny hands creeping to the hilts of their weapons.

"I bring ruin and thunder. I break armies. I shatter cities. I stand above the body of my enemy!" Heraclius was shouting, his face red, pressed close to the face of the Persian boy. "Am I satisfied? Am I satisfied? No! I am not. There is blood between your house and mine, Kavadh-Siroes, blood that still obtains between us!"