Mohammed made a half bow in the saddle and then galloped off, his robes flying out behind him. The other commanders-Zabda, who commanded the cataphracti of the army, drawn chiefly from the heavily armed and armored nobles of the Decapolis, Nabatea, and Syria; and Akhimos Galerius, who led the massed infantry cohorts of the cities-bowed as well and rode off to see to their commands. Zenobia watched them go and sighed once they were out of earshot. She turned her horse again and surveyed those men who remained with her in the square.
“When Vorodes arrives with my infantry, we shall take some time to prepare before we march north.” The Queen motioned to ibn’Adi, who was seemingly sleeping on his horse, for his eyes were closed and a soft snore was fluttering his white mustaches.
“Old Father, when you wake up, go around and find those men who are familiar with these hills. Set them out to watch the roads from all directions. Should any man come, I would know of it sooner than a raven could bring it to me.”
Ibn’Adi cracked an eye open and nodded, then nudged his horse and they ambled off together toward the road from the south where the army was busily snarling itself in a half-mile-wide mob as detachments attempted to move to their allotted areas of the camp.
The Nabatean Prince, Aretas, watched the old chieftain go and laughed mirthlessly. “That one never sleeps, sister.”
Zenobia answered his cold smile with one of her own. “Brother,” she said, with only the faintest hint of sarcasm, “I will work out of the headquarters, if you and your priests would prefer the praetorium for your quarters. Will you see that the temple fires are lit and the proper accommodations made to the gods?”
Aretas inclined his head, saying: “We would be honored to occupy the house of the commander of the camp, and we will see that the army is not disturbed by ill omens or unchaste spirits.”
The Prince gestured and his guardsmen, dressed like he in dark-burgundy tabards and enameled armor, rode up to join him. He graced the other men still with the Queen with a flicker of a cold smile and rode off to find his baggage train and the cohorts of heavy horse that he had maintained for his own service. Ahmet felt a sense of unease lift from him as the Petran rode away. The King of the Southern Highlands was not well loved, nor did he care. He had given up nearly all of his army to the service of Zenobia, but he remained aloof from the discussions among the commanders and kept his own counsel. He seemed content to follow Zenobia’s lead in all things.
The Queen sidestepped her horse close to Ahmet’s and smiled. “Son of Egypt, will you take charge of the hospital and the baths? I can think of no better man to undertake such an important task. Find cousin Zabbai in that confusion at the gate and move the cooks, quartermasters, and doctors into the hospital. There must be a spring to bring water to such a large camp. Find it as well and see that there is water within the walls. We will be here for a time, and such comforts as can be garnered shall be.”
“Yes, milady,” Ahmet said, bowing a little.
The Queen smiled, her voice softening. “When you are done, come and find me, I will be in the commandery. If it pleases you, take quarters near to mine. I would like to talk to you later.”
Ahmet nodded, though he felt a little dizzy from the blood rushing to his head. Zenobia turned away, taking those brilliant eyes and flawless face with her. He shook his head to clear the vision away and turned his horse. There was a great deal of work to be done.
Ahmet and a crew of Syrian stonemasons who had been enlisted in the army to satisfy the honor of their city put their backs into a lever and groaned, straining against it. The stone that they were trying to break out of the wall of the cistern trembled and then slipped aside with a grinding noise. Water, dark and cold, spurted into the round chamber.
“Up the rope! Up the rope!” Ahmet shouted as the water flooded over him, knocking him to the ground. The stonemasons shouted in fear as one of the torches, knocked loose, hissed out in the water swirling around the floor of the room. Above them, in the square opening cut into the side of the rock cistern, the other men threw down ropes to the men at the bottom of the well. Ahmet struggled in the water, forcing himself to his feet. The stone that had sealed the old pipe from the aqueduct gave a peculiar groaning sound and then suddenly broke free in the rush of water. The Egyptian splashed aside, his heart thudding with fear, as the heavy block of basalt crashed into the thigh-deep water where they had been standing. The water was rising quickly. He looked up.
The stonemasons had scampered up the ropes like a band of monkeys and were crawling out through the hole. The men outside were dragging them through the opening as quickly as they could manage. Ahmet snared one of the ropes and wedged his foot into a crack between the stones that made the wall. The water tugged at him as the cistern filled, but he too scrambled up the wall and many rough, callused hands were waiting to hoist him through the opening.
“When it fills to the marker stone”-he gasped-“open the sluice gate so that the baths fill.”
Then he fell backward oh the mosaic floor of the cal-darium, his limbs trembling with the closeness of death. Through the raised floor, he could feel the rush of waters into the well like a stampede of bulls. Close, very close, he thought, and then rolled over on the sea-green tiles and got up.
Torches guttered in the hallways of the principia, the headquarters of the camp, filling the air with the sharp smell of juniper resin. Ahmet limped into the atrium that lay before the offices of the camp commander. Zenobia’s guardsmen, a crew of fierce-looking Bactrians with high turbans, hooked noses, and beards plaited into two jutting points, stopped him and looked him over. The Bactrians were only one group of thousands of mercenaries that the Silk Empress had summoned to her standard. The camp outside was filled with more of them-Blemmyenite archers, Axumite spearmen, Arabic light horse, Indians, Sogdian horse archers and swordsmen, the masses of the Tanukh, and even Persian heavy horse, or cataphracti, drawn by the lure of the Queen’s gold. Among them, the Nabatean cavalry and heavy infantry seemed out of place, too well ordered to fit in well with the riot of the other tribes. Satisfied that he was inoffensive, the Bactrians allowed Ahmet to enter the tribune’s offices.
Zenobia looked up from behind a heavy marble bench she was using as a desk and smiled. Her hair was braided back out of the way. Her secretaries and scribes sat at small portable desks along the walls of the chamber, and two of the maidens who served her were sitting on cushions, sewing. The Queen had shed the heavy silk robes that she favored for riding and wore a simple cotton tunic with linen leggings. The heavy torque of gold that she wore as the symbol of her rule was laid aside as well. There was a smudge of ink on her left cheek. Ahmet bowed and noticed that his kilt was torn and muddy.
“It should not be proper,” she said with a lilting amusement in her voice, “for a mere priest to bathe before a Queen.” The timbre of her voice shifted. “Did you escape injury?”
“Yes,” he said, brushing at the clods of mud that had somehow affixed themselves to his tunic. “The hospital is occupied and nearly ready. The baths are hot, and there is water in the cisterns. The Romans had blocked up the end of the aqueduct. It was little trouble to remove the stones.”
Zenobia nodded, her head tilted to one side. Her dark eyes were grave as she looked him over. Then she shook her head and pushed a pair of papyrus scrolls across the bench toward him. The rings, too, were gone from her fingers-delicate settings of lapis and emerald. Her nails were short, but trimmed, for she often rode with gloves.