Once more before his men, the tribune turned, surveying them. “The Emperor is watching, and through him, the city and the Senate and the people. Do not disappoint them.”

Dwyrin felt a chill in his mind and throat, but it was not from the air.

“Do you think there will be battle tomorrow?” Dwyrin’s voice was soft in the darkness. With Eric gone, they had taken to sleeping in one tent, even though it was crowded. The nights were cool enough that the warmth of the three of them filled the hide walls. Even by morning it was not unpleasant-at least until you had to go outside. He knew that Zoe was awake-he could feel her moving under the woolen blanket. She was thinking, as he was, wondering what would happen in the next day.

“No,” she said, turning over to face him. Even in the very dim light filtering through the small opening in the front of the shelter, he could make out the planes of her face, the darkness of her eyes. Dwyrin wondered if Oden-athus were awake. Probably not, he thought, he sleeps like a stone. He struggled in his own bedding and managed to free a hand to scratch his nose.

“The scouts,” she continued, “are still coming and going from the command tents. When the enemy is close enough, we will march. Then we will know that battle is close.”

“Have you been in a battle before-one like this, not like the city?”

“No.” Dwyrin stopped rubbing his nose. It seemed that Zoe was unsure-a strange emotion for her. They had worked together for weeks now, practicing together, learning to fight as one. Eric’s death had wrecked their original plan to fight as two pairs. Now they were learning, again, to fight as a three. In some ways it was much easier this way. Both Zoe and Odenathus were quite skilled, though they lacked the raw power that Dwyrin could summon. They could bind a shield of defense far faster than he could, but while they covered him, he could bring fire or cast it with blurring speed. Colonna, watching them train, had commented that they reminded him of the old Thebans, who would fight in pairs, each with a different, specialized weapon.

“I have never seen a great battle.” She paused. “Before Tauris, I had never seen battle at all. No struggle to the death, no corpses piled up like sheaves of wheat beside the road. No friends die.” Something caught in her throat and she turned her face away from him. Dwyrin felt a rush of pain too, thinking of what it meant to lose their friend.

“Zoe,” he said, touching her hair, “I miss Eric too. It was just bad luck that he was thrown into the river.”

She mumbled something, but he could not hear what it was, her face was still turned away. He stared up at the ceiling of the tent, feeling his own tears well up in his chest, clenching at his heart. But, like her, he did not cry out loud, letting them trickle down his cheeks instead. Finally he slept, his fingers still touching her hair.

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A cold wind blew out of the north, driving sheets of dust before it. Nikos and Anagathios huddled in the lee of a tumbled mud-brick building. Their horses clustered in front of them, tied to stakes driven into the loose sandy soil. The sky was dark, the sun only a dim circle through the howling wind and dust of the storm. The yellow-brown grit got into everything, even when they were, as now, bundled up tight in their robes with scarves over their faces. They sat, not bothering to speak, waiting for the storm to pass. The wind hissed and wailed around the building.

A figure appeared momentarily in the dust, between flying sheets of sand. The figure was wrapped up too and leaned forward into the wind howling out of the north. Nikos made to rise, but Anagathios grabbed his arm and sat him back down. The approaching figure continued to battle against the wind, but finally reached the poor shelter of the wall and sat down heavily next to them. Nikos and Anagathios leaned close, straining to hear.

“… a city of… there.” The figure pointed off into the brown murk.

Nikos shook his head-he couldn’t make it out over the sound of the storm. The figure shouted again but was still unintelligible. Finally the other gave up and settled back against the wall. The horses continued to stand, heads down, and the sand began to pile up around the feet of the three waiting travelers.

The storm passed and the stars came out in a deep blue velvet sky. The sun had begun to set while the trailing edge of the sandstorm had passed. The travelers shook the dust from their cloaks in clear red-gold light. There was still a high cloud of thick dirty brown and the rays of the sun slanted in under it, painting the desert with rich full colors. Jusuf, Nikos, and Thyatis stood at the edge of a canal a hundred yards from the tumbled-down wall. Across the gurgling water of the canal, beyond a belt of date palms and greenery, a great city rose around a broad, flat hill. It had no walls, only a gate that they could see. A huge building rose at the center of the city, a stepped pyramid a hundred feet above the flat roofs of the houses. Sand had invaded its precincts, burying the streets and agora. Pillars thrust from the dunes, leaning at odd angles. The windows of city were dark, the only light a dull orange flame coming from the top of the ziggurat.

“That place has an odd feel to it,” Jusuf said, scratching at his beard, which had finally recovered something of its usual fullness. “There should, be lights, noise, something.”

“And walls,” Nikos added, peering through the night, trying to see if anything was moving in the silent city. “The Arabian desert is not far off-there might be raiders.”

Thyatis felt something too, a prickling at the back of her neck. She looked up and down the canal. The water was a black pit holding the stars, wavering, in its heart. There seemed to be no bridge or crossing.

“Some things,” she said softly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, “do not bear investigation. Get the men mounted up-we press on down this canal. We need a bridge if we’re to get to the Tigris…”

Thomas. Harlan

Dawn was close when the dark engine descended out of the sky. A wailing high-pitched roar and the rush of flames shattered the quiet of the night. Ruddy light scattered over the dunes as it touched down, limbs flexing as they settled into the sand. Flames hissed and then died, leaving the desert quiet again. Molten sand bubbled and popped where the talons of the engine had touched. A door, hinged at the top rather than the side, swung open and pale-yellow light spilled out onto the dunes. Figures climbed out, stretching and groaning after the long flight from the north.

One, taller than the rest, strode to the top of the nearest dune. Two shorter figures followed, one on either side. Beyond the dunes, across rippling white ridges, the shape of a buried city rose, dark and desolate. Behind them other figures were busy unloading supplies and tents from the belly of the engine.

“So,” the first figure said in a conversational tone, “this is the city of the magi.”

“Yes, great lord,” the shortest figure said, a tremulous note in its voice, “the forbidden place. Dastagird of the Kings of old. Once it was the residence of the King of Kings-a city of marble palaces and beautiful gardens- but the priests coveted it and made it their own. Now the gardens are buried in the sand and the palaces are filled with shadows.”

The Prince pulled the cowl of his robe back and shook his shoulders out. He was nervous, but there was little to fear. He had powers on his side too, strong powers.

“Gaius?” He turned to the other figure. The old Roman stood at ease, his hands clasped behind his back. “Suggestions?”

The dead man nodded, his leathery face creased with the smallest of smiles. “First we take a look around, and see what there is to see, Lord Prince. Then we show ourselves. With your permission, the Valach and I will go out tonight and find the lay of the land.”