Thomas Harlan - The shadow of Ararat

The dead man stared at Maxian with something like shock on his face. He rubbed the back of his head, then turned around and paced to the window. There he turned back again, his hands on his hips. "Octavian? That mousy little sycophant claimed to be my heir? A colorless, mewling senatorial lickspittle? All he did was follow around on my heels, snooping. I surely left no will naming him my heir…"

Abdmachus laughed. The dead man was beside himself with disgust. Maxian was more serious. The dead man continued to curse luridly, until at last he ran out of epithets.

"Whether you made out that will or not, it was presented to the Senate in your name. After a civil war he became Emperor," the Prince continued with a weak voice. "The first of many. Under his supreme rule, the Republic became a shell, and the Empire came to rule the world. It was in his time that this curse that you see reflected on the faces of the citizens began. We think, Abdmachus and I, that it was intended to protect and sustain the state and that for a long time it did. But the world is changing and the state, because of this curse, cannot change with it. The people are the ones who are suffering. The state remains, but it is becoming more and more rotten. Great changes must be made to cure this ill."

The dead man had barely heard anything that Maxian had said. "But what happened to Marcus Antonius? What happened to my supporters? Marcus should have followed me as Dictator-he was well beloved of the people! The Senate would not stand for an Emperor… did the wars continue, did Rome bleed still more?"

Maxian sighed. It was going to take a long time to bring the dead man up to date on the doings of the city and the Empire… If only his head did not feel like it was being crushed in a vise. The dead man began pacing restlessly. The nervous energy in that spare frame only made the pain in the Prince's head worse.

The Spice Road, Near the Wadi Musa, Theme of Arabia Felix

The tall Egyptian was walking along the bottom of a streambed when a bandit came rushing out of the deep purple shadows under the rocks.

A steep-sided valley soared on either side of him, littered with giant red sandstone boulders, bigger than houses. The sun was setting behind him as he trudged up the long incline, filling the western sky with a vast swathe of gold and saffron. In the wild hills of the Ed'Deir night fell quickly, replacing the searing heat of the day with chill cold. Sand and gravel, as red as the sky behind him, crunched under his feet. Ahmet had come a long way, from the upper Nile, to Alexandria, then by felucca to the Nabatean port of Aelana. The port was bustling with merchants and traders shipping cargoes from the Sinus Arabicus-that narrow sea that bounded Egypt on the east. The few coins that remained in his wallet after the trip from Alexandria were insufficient to purchase a camel in that bustling port. So he had walked.

He knew that he was only hours from the "hidden" city of Petra, nestled in these barren hills in a close valley. But he had not gotten there yet. His mind was weary and he did not recognize the slap of sandals on the smooth sandstone until it was almost too late.

The bandit was swathed in dark cloth and only his eyes glittered out of the head wrappings. He swung a long staff tipped with a nine-inch iron blade. Ahmet sprang back and the iron rang on the stones. The bandit said nothing but slashed again with the pole-arm. Ahmet dodged to the left, gasping for breath. His blood filled with the rush of fear; the narrow canyon and the lambent sky receded from his vision. Only the sharp tip of the spear filled it. The bandit lunged again, and Ahmet darted to the right. The bandit cut low and the iron bit into the side of the Egyptian's leg. Pain sparked and there was a roaring sensation in the priest's mind. He jumped inside the reach of the spear and lashed out with a knotted fist.

The blow took the bandit in the side of the head, rocking him back. Ahmet followed with a kick to the stomach and then wrenched the spear away from the man as he fell back with a choking cry. Without thinking the priest reversed the pole-arm in one motion and struck downward, all his weary rage behind the blow. The iron sank deep into the bandit's chest, like a knife into heavy bread, and then grated against the stones. The bandit twitched and spasmed around the blade pinning him to the sandy floor of the streambed. Grimacing, Ahmet jerked the blade out of the man. Blood sluiced from the weapon, spattering on the ground.

The priest stepped back, the spear raised, and he looked around. The air, now filling with the dim of twilight, seemed preternaturally clear. Shuddering, he took a series of deep breaths and calmed his heart. His racing pulse subsided. He might have friends, he thought. His focus turned inward for a moment, and he let his awareness expand to cover the great stones, the walls of the canyon, the scrubby gorse and bent little trees. There was no one else. A mournful owl called in the distance, hunting for its prey.

Ahmet shook his head and bent down over the dead man. He said a prayer to guide the soul of the bandit to the Great River and the Judges. Then he took the knife and wallet the man had at his waist and strapped them to his own kit. The body he rolled up in the desert robes and carried into the deep shadows. He found a crevice in the rocks and pushed the body into it. He gathered rocks in the darkness and piled them at the entrance. There was a little flash of soft light as he placed a ward to keep animals away from the body and ensure its rest.

Then he continued up the canyon. Above him, in the arc of sky that was not obscured by canyon walls, the firmament of heaven was filled with a thousand stars, all bright as jewels.

– |Two hours after full darkness, Ahmet climbed the last switchback of the trail at the head of the Ed'Deir and came over a lip of rock and into the valley of the city of Petra. The valley rose up in a bowl, away from him, filled with the lights of lanterns and torches. Hundreds of houses climbed up the terraces of the city before him. Above them the crags of the mountains rose, a great palisade of stone cupping the city in stony fists. There was no moon, and the gleam of the house lights cast a soft glow into the haze that hung over the city. He stood at the entrance to the canyon, leaning against his staff. From a great height off to his right, there was a blaze of firelight on the mountaintop. As he stood in the darkness at the edge of the city, he could hear the murmur of thousands of voices raised in song. The citizens were singing in the High Place.

The streets were empty and the houses shuttered and locked. Ahmet wandered for another hour before, on the far side of the city, past the dark and empty amphitheater, he found a caravansary. Beyond the squat stone buildings, a dark cleft opened in the mountains and a stream flowed out, gurgling and chuckling to itself in the darkness. Ahmet rapped on the door with the head of his staff. Eventually a small slot opened and a tired-looking man with mussed dark hair and a pale, angular face stared out.

"Good evening," Ahmet said. "Do you have room for one more traveler tonight?"

The innkeeper looked him up and down, then peered out of the slot up and down the street. It was empty and a lone man, dressed in the garb of an Egyptian priest, stood before him. The man shut the covering over the view-slot and slid back the bolts on the door. Ahmet bowed and stepped inside. The innkeeper rubbed sleep from his eyes and led the Egyptian into the common room on the right side of the atrium.

"Rooms we have," he said, over his shoulder, "a solidus a night. There's cold stew on the fire and water in the bucket. Wine is a copper a mug, if you want it."

"Thank you, no," Ahmet said. "I do not drink wine."