The long eyelashes fluttered closed and her lips parted, the tip of her pink tongue visible. Maxian made a mark on her forehead, though nothing remained after his fingers had passed. The woman swayed and Maxian steadied her with a hand. Krista quietly stepped to one side, where she could see both of them clearly.

“Do you swear to abide by my will and desire? To execute my commands and to serve me in all honor? In . exchange for this I offer you the protection of my house and my servants.“

“I swear, my lord. We are strong and we can serve you well.”

“Then I banish your pain.”

The wax plug on the capsule came loose under his thumb and he dripped a little of the red fluid into her open, waiting mouth. Her tongue licked up to capture the drops. Maxian stepped back. Alais shuddered and crumpled to the ground, her limbs suddenly weak. She began gagging as her throat convulsed and her skin flushed. The Prince rubbed his chin in contemplation, watching her twitching at his feet. Krista slowly slid the spring gun out of her sleeve and leveled it on the woman on the floor. Alais groaned, a terrible sound that swelled until it filled the whole room. Then she shuddered one last time and lay still.

Maxian touched the top of her head lightly, and Alais turned her face up him. Krista hissed in surprise. The gaunt-ness was gone, a flush obvious in the woman’s cheeks. Her blue eyes were liquid and alive. Her red lips pressed against the Prince’s hand in a kiss.

“My lord, your blessing fills the world.”

The Prince smiled, his eyes narrowed in calculation. “Alais, rise up. Stand by me. You say there are others that feel as you do among your people. Bring them to me and I shall give them the same blessing, if they will swear to me.”

The blond woman curtseyed, her smile slow and languid, filled with promise.

“So you command, lord, so shall it be done.” The husky purr was back in her voice.

Krista, unseen by the Prince or the woman, rolled her eyes in disgust and slid the spring gun back into the leather sheath strapped to her arm. Maxian released Alais’ hand and the woman gathered her cloak around her. Bowing once more, showing a flash of firm high breast and smooth throat, she left. The Prince stared at the doorway for a mo ment, scratching at the stubble along his chin. Then he turned to Krista, who was standing by the inner door, her face a calm mask.

“Ah, well,” he said, “each tool to a purpose. I think that I shall give them to Gaius Julius as a diversion. He is jealous, I think, of Abdmachus and his works.”

“Jealous?” Krista raised an eyebrow. “Bored is more like it… you keep him mewed up in here, while you and the Persian labor on your creation. He wants to be out and about, putting that long nose of his where it does not belong, sniffing after the intrigues of the city.”

Maxian frowned, feeling the same sense of missed opportunity that he had felt before, when Krista had revealed her talent for languages. / had put him to work as my spy-master in Rome… “You are right. It is a waste to have him loitering around, drinking too much and trying to seduce the servants. I shall set him to work more to his liking.”

“Good,” Krista said, turning away, back to the tables filled with drawings.

PALMYRA, THE CITY OF SILK

Towers of pale-gold sandstone rose from the desert floor on either side of the road. Ahmet stared up them as his camel padded past on the hard-packed road. The towers were square and built of heavy blocks of stone. At a height, windows and doors leading into empty air pierced the walls of the towers. One stood near to the road as they passed, and the Egyptian stared with dull eyes at the carvings of men, camels, and fat-bellied ships that adorned its sides. A familiair smell reached him, leaking from the close-fitting stones.

The smell of dead men laid to rest, embalmed with spices and salt.

The forest of tombs was scattered across the valley floor and climbed the shoulders of the hills. Their shadows, gaunt fingers in the light of the setting sun, stretched away across the rocky ground. A hawk circled high in the sky. Around Ahmet, the rattle and creak of the army echoed off of the tomb walls.

No one spoke. Weary lines of men behind them, on horses or camels, rode with heads down. Dust covered them, dulling their battered armor. Zenobia rode at his side, and beyond her, Mohammed. The Southerner sat stiffly on his horse, favoring his right side. Bandages, crusted with dried blood and sweat, wrapped his midriff. His color was poor. The long retreat from Emesa had told on him, though he was very strong. The queen had veiled her face the day after the debacle at Emesa and now met no one’s eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was faint and hoarse^

The road swung wide around a cluster of the towers and the city, at last, came into view.

Ahmet raised his eyes to the cyclopean walls, a vast expanse of golden sandstone, and strong towers that flanked the Damascus gate. Forty feet or more high, the walls of Palmyra reflected the ancient wealth of the city, slightly sloping, constructed of massive blocks. They seemed the playthings of the Titans of old. A stream lay between the marching army and the city, bridged by a broad span of wood with stone pilings. The ramparts of the city, still distant, were lined with thousands of figures. There were no bright colors there, only gray and black. The Queen had sent riders ahead with the news of her defeat.

Zenobia nudged her horse to the side and Ahmet turned as well. The Queen rode down off the road and into a wedge of flat, sandy ground. When Mohammed made to follow her, she made a slight gesture, pointing to the city.

“The army enters first,” she said, her voice faint. “I shall enter the city last of all, when my men have found sanctuary.”

Mohammed nodded, his bleak eyes rimmed with dust. He angled his horse back into the center of the road. The men continued their slow march. Zenobia sat on her horse, with Ahmet at her side, watching them trudge past. Their companies were small and many men were wounded. There was little infantry and no wagons. All of that had been lost in the mad flight from the field where the Boar had crushed Zenobia’s dreams of freedom in a vise of steel.

At last the rearguard had passed, the remnant of the Ta-nukh that had survived Mohammed’s mad charge against the Persian knights. The desert men bowed in the saddle to the Queen as they passed, though their scarred faces were gaunt with weariness. Ibn’Adi was the last to pass, his old face grim and drawn. He raised a hand in salute and Ahmet was shocked, in his tired way, to see that the sheykh had lost two of his fingers. The old man’s hand was bound with a dirty bandage.

The dust settled and quiet returned. A hawk continued to circle in the twilight sky. Zenobia reached out a hand and Ahmet took it. They sat there on their mounts for a time, holding hands. The sun was swallowed by the western hills and darkness crept over the land. Then the Queen squeezed his hand and let go, unclipping her veil.

“Those few who survived will have entered the city now,” she said in a dead voice. “I must go and face the grief of my people.”

She turned to him, her eyes bruised and darkened by tears and fatigue. Her horse stirred restlessly, but she laid a hand on its neck and it quieted.

“You could go. The trails to the south will still be open. You could make your way to Aelana and home, home to Egypt.”

Ahmet shook his head, smiling quietly. “I will remain in your service, my lady. There is nothing left for me in Egypt.“

Doggedly she continued. “If you stay,” she said, “you will doubtless die when the city falls to Shahr-Baraz. If you go, you will live. Is that not better than death?”

“If I go, my lady, will you go with me?” He struggled to keep his voice level.