The herald nodded, his face creased by a slight smile. “Be it so, O Queen. My master makes one final offer, then, though if you call him faithless, then it bears no weight on the balance of your judgment. He will send a champion forth, one man, to face the champion of the city. In single combat, here on the plain before the gates, they will fight. The man who stands the victor will carry the day. If youi champion triumphs, my master will withdraw and his army with him. Palmyra will remain free. If my master’s champion triumphs, then Palmyra will accept the friendship of Persia and open her gates.“

The herald bowed deeply in the saddle and then turned his horse about. The Persian nobles turned as well, though the red-faced man had to be helped by two of his companions. The embassy rode away, seemingly small under the white glare of the sun. Zenobia remained on the wall, watching, until they disappeared into the dun-colored hills. Then she turned away and, surrounded by her guardsmen, descended the broad stone stairs to the courtyard below. Her face was pensive with worry.

“All rhetoric and disputation aside, my lady,” ibn’Adi said, his face grave, “I have never heard that Shahr-Baraz was faithless. He has always served Chrosoes with honor, even when the King was a prisoner in his own keep. Did he not go into exile with the young King to Rome, leaving behind all lands and family? If he swears this, he may well mean it.” The sheykh leaned back in his chair, stroking his long white beard in thought.

Zenobia looked around the gathering, gauging the reactions of the men she had assembled in her study to advise her. Her younger brother, Vorodes, and the Southerner, Mohammed, were eyeing each other, seeing who would offer first to bear the honor of the city. The high priest of • Bel, old Septimus Haddudan, was sunk in deep depression. Though in his youth he had been a firebrand and a kingmaker in the politics of the city, now he was tired and withdrawn. Once the General Zabda would have sat at her council as well, but since his failure at Emesa she would have nothing to do with him. Ahmet she looked to last. His eyes were troubled, but his face was calm.

“The fate of one against the fate of the city,” she said slowly. “I too have heard that the Boar is an honorable man. His position is tenuous, trapped here in the desert at our gates. Men in such a place often look for a bold throw to give them victory at little cost.“

Her fingernails, long and carefully shaped by her handmaidens, tapped on the smooth surface of the table by her chair. Ahmet watched her, seeing something of her thoughts in her face.

“I shall accept the challenge,” she said after a moment of reflection. “Mohammed, send one of your rascals to the Persian camp, under truce, to carry word of my acceptance. Tell the Boar that my champion will meet him on the field before the city tomorrow morning, at dawn.”

Mohammed raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You think that he will stand forth himself?”

Zenobia smiled, saying: “Has he ever lost a fight, man to man? No. Or so his legend holds. He is not the kind of man to send another to defend his honor for him. It will be he.”

“Then,” Vorodes said, breathlessly, “his defeat would wound Persia twice-once in their failure to capture the city and once in his death, for he is their strongest arm!”

A grim look passed over Zenobia’s face and her lips thinned to a harsh line. “Yes, that is the prize.”

Ahmet woke in full darkness. Zenobia was curled up in the curve of his body, her head tucked into his shoulder. Her breath whistled softly at his ear. The room was dark; even the narrow band of eastern sky that was visible through the windows was as black as pitch. Gently, he eased out from under her, leaving her among the pillows and quilts, frowning in her sleep. In the faint light, she seemed more beautiful than ever, a perfect alabaster statue among the dark blankets. He pulled on his breechcloth and tunic, smoothing back his hair. He did not bind it, but he did find his longer robe. The door opened silently on well-greased hinges and he went out into the passage.

The wall that girdled the palace formed the southeastern point of the city. Ahmet walked along the parapet in the dim light of torches placed in iron brackets along the battlement. Two of the city guardsmen followed him at a discreet distance, keeping an eye on the shadowed hills to the west. The Egyptian walked slowly, tasting the air, trying to divine what it was that had waked him. There was something, some pressure in the air, that raised hackles along his back. He dimly sensed forces gathering the darkness, out among the narrow canyons and ravines that edged the fertile plain around the city.

He stared out into the night, seeing only the faint light of watchfires among the Persian tents. Soon dawn could come. He shook his head, still uneasy, and went back inside.

Pink and amber streaked the sky in the east. Zenobia came to the Damascus gate, riding on a stout-chested mare with Ahmet and Mohammed at her side. Vorodes and the royal guardsmen were waiting, torches held up to banish the lingering night. The Prince was unhappy, and he did not bother to disguise it as he looked up at his sister.

“Peace, little brother,” she said. “I am the better swordsman. I should not have to prove it to you again before you open the gate.”

The Queen was clad in dull dark armor; a breastplate of iron, worked with the signs of the city, wrapped her torso. Her shoulders and arms were covered with a lamellar mail, a supple coat of iron rings that flowed with her motion. The broken wings had been restored to her helm, and it was snugged tight under her chin. A long sword laid across her saddle, cased in a metal scabbard ornamented with lions and elephants. An inch of the blade peeked out, showing a watery surface that caught the light of the lanterns and held it, glowing like a jewel. Overlapping plates of iron covered her legs, tucked in against the sides of the horse. Tough leather riding boots and gloves protected her hands and feet. Another sword, this one plain and well worn, was clasped behind her on the side of the saddle, and she balanced a long, slim lance with a steel leaf-shaped blade on the right side of the horse.

Vorodes had a sick look in his eyes, and he grasped his sister’s stirrup fiercely. “Please, let me go instead. If you die, then the city will lose its heart. If I die, then you will still stand. The Boar has your reach; he outweighs you by a hundred pounds! He is a giant, and though you are faster with a blade than any man I’ve seen, he will crush you with sheer strength.”

Zenobia smiled and ran her hand through his hair. “I love you too, little brother. It was my folly that brought us to this day; it is my responsibility to make amends for it if I can.”

The Queen looked around at the faces of the men, their faces somber in the flickering light. “My friends, it has been an honor for me to stand with you in battle and in peace. I have bent my thought to this moment for a day and a night. I am a better swordsman than my brother. You, ibn’Adi, are too old, though I see in your heart and in your tears that you would go forth if I asked you. You, Mohammed, you I might send if you were of the city-but you are a stranger here, though Bel bless us that you have come. Without you and your bravery on the field at Emesa, I fear none of us would have escaped alive. And you, Ahmet, dear Egyptian, have you ever held a sword in your life?”

Ahmet laughed, seeing the sparkle in her eyes, and the Other men laughed as well. The dreadful tension was broken, just for a minute, and Zenobia looked around gaily, her face lit with great happiness. “Open the gate. Let us be done with this.”.

Vorodes gestured to the guardsmen arrayed on either side of the gate. There was a clanking sound and then a grinding as the huge iron bolts that secured it were withdrawn into the rock of the towers. Windlasses creaked as men labored in hidden rooms to turn the wheels that withdrew the foot-thick iron bars. When they had receded, the guardsmen put