A look of despair and longing flitted across her face. “Oh, Ahmet… I cannot. I have duty and honor to discharge. My hubris has led my people into disaster. How could I face my father in the House of Bel if I abandoned them? Please, my friend, go. There is nothing you can do here.”

Ahmet shook his head again and twitched the bridle. The camel snorted and ambled forward. The Egyptian looked back at the lonely young woman. “Come, the city waits for its beloved Queen.”

The Damascus gate was flanked by two huge towers, each rising seventy feet or more to a crenellated battlement studded with triangular teeth. Above the lights at the gate, the tops of the towers were lost in the night sky. A long passage, thirty feet across and open to the sky but walled on either side by the bulk of the towers, led up a ramp to the gates, which stood wide. They were stout panels of Lebanon cedar, each twenty feet high. The crest of the city, the sigil of the God of the Desert, was inlaid in each panel in brass and silver. Guardsmen, attired in silver mail that reached from head to below the knee, stood in ranks on either side of the portal, arms presented. A hundred torches flickered, lighting the entrance. Zenobia rode through with Ahmet at her side, her head held high, her long hair loose, flowing down her back like a wave. She was covered with grime and her eyes were hollow pits, but no one could have mistaken her for less than a Queen.

Beyond the gate they rode down a short ramp into a square. More guardsmen stood in lines on either side of the paved road, their arms held wide to hold back the crowd. Beyond the mass of dark clothing and pale faces, great pillars rose up, making a colonnade around the square. Fires burned on the top of the colonnade, casting a shifting light upon the scene. The avenue before them arrowed north into the city, and it too was lined with mighty fluted columns. Between the columns, platforms rose up above the crowd like marble islands in a sea of quiet, waiting people. On the platforms, statues of kings and gods rose, their painted faces come alive in the firelight.

Zenobia rode forward and Ahmet fell slightly behind her. She stared straight ahead. The sound of the hooves of her horse on the pavement, and the jingle of its tack were the only sounds. Even Ahmet’s camel was quiet. They rode down the aisle of the city in utter silence. The snap of logs in the fires atop the columns was muted. Tens of thousands of people lined the arcade, staring with desolate eyes at the Queen. Ahmet slowly realized that the entire city presumed that it was now doomed to desolation. Still, they came to look upon her and share her grief.

A thousand feet into the city, the avenue turned to the right at a sharp angle and Zenobia entered the great colonnade that formed the heart of the polis. The avenue widened and Ahmet swallowed a gasp at the sight that met his eyes. Now the columns were even higher, soaring thirty or forty feet into the air, and the press of people occupied a wider street. Tens of thousands of torches blazed, filling the avenue with light. The men of her army had fallen out and now stood in formation at either side of the pavement. As she passed, they raised their arms in salute yet made no sound.

They passed through a circular plaza that surrounded a great house of four parts, each faced with four massive pillars. Hundreds of priests in robes of white and pale yellow stood on the steps that led up to the house. They bowed, a rustling wave, as the Queen passed. Beyond this, Ahmet could now see that the avenue sloped upward to ‘ ward a great platform that dominated the eastern end of the city. A vast building, with white walls faced with marble, rose up behind walls of its own. Great carved friezes lined the walls, showing men marching, hunting, sailing the seas in swift ships. A pair of mammoth winged lions flanked the entrance ramp to that building. -

Three men stood on the ramp, halfway up, in their tattered robes and armor. The firelight gleamed on their helms and from their eyes. Zenobia halted her horse at the bottom of the ramp and stared into the weary eyes of her brother.

“Welcome, Zenobia, Queen of the city.” His voice was hoarse but clear, and it carried across the ramp and to the mass of people who had filled in the avenue behind Zenobia’s passage. “The great god Bel welcomes you in the name of his people. Enter your palace, O Queen, with his blessing.”

Zenobia sagged forward in the saddle, then, with a trembling hand, slid down to the ground. Ahmet dismounted as well, the camel kneeling to the stones of the plaza that faced the great building. Surreptitiously he touched her shoulder, and she jerked slightly as a spark of pale-orange light passed from his outstretched finger to her. She nodded and straightened her back. Head high, she walked forward to where her brother, Mohammed, and Ibn’Adi waited.

They bowed, Vorodes first, then Mohammed and the old sheykh. The Prince of the city fell to one knee and extended a circlet of pale-white gold to the queen. Zenobia stared at the tiara for a moment and then took it in both hands. While she did so, Ahmet led the horse and the camel away to the side. The Queen turned, raising the crown above her head. There was a great murmur from the thousands and tens of thousands who waited in the avenue below.

“While one Palmyrene lives, the honor of our city shall not die.”

Her clear voice, high and strong, rang off of the pillars and walls.

“We have gambled with Mars and lost, but our city will withstand the Persian storm. Rome will come to aid us, as they have always done, and then the Persian will perish in the sands, of thirst and the merciless sun. Palmyra will stand, free and strong, as it has always done.“

She placed the crown upon her head, and it laid heavy, winking white amid her raven curls. Then the Queen turned and mounted the ramp, slowly and alone. When she reached the top of the ramp, where all could see, she raised her slim white arms to the sky.

“Bel bless us and stand with us. The love I hold for my people will sustain all.”

Then she turned and entered the citadel, and the people in the streets and the avenues raised a long slow wave of sound, the prayer of Bel. Then they bowed as one toward the great building and the Queen who symbolized their city. Ahmet stood at the base of the ramp with some of the palace guardsmen, staring out upon the throng. A strange power was in the air, and the small figure of the Queen, now gone, was its focus. He tasted the air and felt some promise there.

Two figures stood on the crest of the escarpment, staring down into the valley. The moon had not yet risen and the land was dark, but they could see the blaze of light from the plaza at the center of the city. Fires burned on the walls, showing many men watching the approaches to the gates. A faint sound reached them in the quiet night air, the rumor of thousands of voices raised in song. The taller figure scratched at the grime in his beard.

“Little water,” he said in a voice made harsh by the dust. “Our men are nearly dead of the heat and sun.”

The other figure stirred and peered through the darkness. Narrow fingers wrapped around a staff of pale bone. “Dam the stream and make a reservoir. Cut the aqueduct. We shall have plenty and they none.”

The taller figure nodded, rocking back on his heels. The city lay in the night, safe behind strong high walls and the vigilance of its protectors. “This will take time, time that mires us here, leagues from where we should be, at the gates of Damascus.”

The smaller figure smiled in the darkness, his sharp white teeth flashing. “She would fall on your flank like a leopard and claw you again and again until you bled to death in the sand.”

“Yes.” The taller man laughed. “She should not have mewed herself up in the city. An error made by a tired mind. Now she cannot maneuver or escape into the desert. We can destroy this enemy utterly. Then there is nothing between us and Egypt.”