Nonetheless chill tingled through him as he peered. Someone crouched, flattened close to the ground, a paleness amidst the shadows. Naked? “What is this?” he hissed.
“I need help,” came back at him. “Can we speak alone? Behold, I am unarmed.”
He believed he knew that voice. Often had he had to make quick decisions.
“Abide,” he said low. The imploring hand released him. He stepped around to the front of his tent and slipped past the flap, with care that little light flash forth. Within, the camel’s-hair fabric enclosed a measure of warmth. A clay lamp dimly showed his bedroll spread out for him, water pitcher and basin and two or three other minor comforts ready, his body servant hunkered down. That person brought knees, hands, and brow to earth in salutation and asked, “What is my master’s desire?”
“I expect a visitor,” Nebozabad told him. “Depart cautiously, as I arrived. When I have secured the entrance, let no one else seek to me, nor ever speak a word of this.”
“On my head be it, master.” The slave glided off. Nebozabad had chosen and trained him well; he was wholly loyal. When he was gone, Nebozabad looked out for a moment, murmured, “Come now,” and drew back again.
The other scuttled through, straightened, confronted him. Despite his half knowledge, he gasped. A woman indeed. Oh, woman’s very self!
He remembered the danger, muttered a curse, hastened to secure the entrance. Then he dared try to deal with her.
She had lowered herself to knees and toes, hands laid across her lap. Midnight tresses flowed over shoulders, down past her breasts. He guessed flittingly that that was not quite by chance. Nothing else had she for garment, except grime, a streak of clotting blood on the left forearm, sweat that shimmered in the lamplight, and the gloom. Her body might have belonged to an ancient goddess, lithe, firm-bosomed, slim-waisted, round-hipped. The face she turned to him was broad across the cheekbones, straight of nose, lips full above the cleanness of chin and jawline. Her skin was faintly golden and the great eyes, beneath arching brows, were hazel. In her, Roman of the West, Roman of the East, Hellene, and Persian had mingled with Syria.
He stared down at the sight. She seemed a maiden, no, a youthful matron, no, something for which he had no name. But he knew her.
Her voice trembled husky. “O Nebozabad, old friend, there is no hope left me save in you. Help me, as once my house helped you. You have known us all your life.”
Forty-odd years. The thought struck like a dagger. His mind flew back across more than thirty of them.
2
Aliyat both longed for Barikai’s return and dreaded it. She would have the solace of his embrace and of giving him her own upbearing love. So had they stood together when they lost other children; but those were infants. First, though, she must tell him what had happened.
He was elsewhere in Tadmor, talking with the merchant Taimarsu. News from the front was evil, the Persians inflicting defeat after defeat upon the Romans, thrusting into Mesopotamia, with Syria’s defenses thin on their left. More and more, commerce with the seaboard pulled into its shell and awaited the outcome. Caravan masters such as Barikai suffered. Most were, themselves, chary of venturing anywhere. He, bolder, went off to persuade the traffickers that they should not let goods molder in warehouses.
She imagined his heartiness, his laughter: “I’ll convey them. Prices in Tripolis or Berytus will be at a peak! Rewards are for the brave.” She had encouraged it. Daughter of a man in the same trade, she was closer to her husband than most wives, almost a partner as well as his mate and the mother of his children. It eased the wistfulness that tugged at her whenever she stood on the city wall and watched his train move off beyond the horizon.
But today— A female slave found her in the garden and said, “The master is here.” Aliyat’s spirit twisted within her.
She called up courage as women must, in childbed or by deathbed, and hastened. Her skirts rustled through a silence full of eyes. All the household knew.
It was a fair-sized household in a good-sized building. Until lately Barikai, like his father before him, had done well. Aliyat hoped it would not become necessary to sell off any slaves; she was fond of them. She was instituting frugality... What mattered such things?
The atrium lay dim with eventide. Her glance fell on the image of the Virgin that stood In a niche, its blue and gold aglow against whitewash. For a little while she had knelt before it, silently praying that the news not be true. The image had merely stared, changeless.
Barikai had just given his cloak to a servant. Beneath it he wore a robe decorated with gold thread, to show power, confidence. Time had grizzled the dark hair and furrowed the lean face, but he still walked springily. “Christ be with you, my lady,” he began, as was seemly in the presence of attendants. His gaze sharpened. He reached her in three long strides and took her by the shoulders. “What is wrong?”
She must swallow twice before she could beg, “Come with me.” His mouth drew tight. Wordlessly he followed her back into the garden.
Enclosed by the house, it was a place of cool calm, refuge from the world. Jasmine and roses grew around a pool where water lilies floated. Their fragrances drenched the air. Overhead, heaven had gone royal blue as the sun went below the roof. Here two people could be alone.
Aliyat turned to Barikai. She doubled her fists at her sides and forced out, “Manu is dead.”
He stood unmoving.
“Young Mogim brought the word this morning,” Aliyat told him. “He was among the few who escaped. The squadron was on patrol south of Khalep. A Persian cavalry troop surprised them. Mogim saw Manu take an arrow in his eye, fall from the saddle, go down under the hoofs.”
“South of Khalep,” Barikai croaked. “Already. Then they are coming into Syria.”
She knew that man-thought was only the first poor shield he could lift. She saw it break in his grasp. “Manu,” he said. “Our first-born. Gone.” The hand shook with which he crossed himself, over and over. “God have mercy on him. Christ take him home. Help him, holy Georgios.”
I too should pray, Aliyat thought, and knew with a wan surprise that any wish to do so had withered.
“Have you told Aqmat?” Barikai asked.
“Of course. Best, I think, best leave her and her children in peace for a while.” Manu’s young wife had lived in terror of this since he was called to war. The fact had fallen on her like a hammer.
“I sent a messenger to Hairan, but his master has dispatched him to Emesa on some business,” Aliyat went on. The younger of their sons worked for a dealer in wine. “The sisters mourn at home.” Their three living daughters were married, well enough that she was glad of the earlier struggle to amass good dowries for them.
“I think now—to carry on my trade—I think I will take Nebozabad to apprentice,” Barikai mumbled. “You know him, do you not? Son of the widow Hafsa. Only ten years old, but a likely lad. And it would be a kindness. It might make the saints smile a little on Manu’s soul.”
Abruptly he seized her, painfully hard. “But why do I chatter like this?” he yelled. “Manu is gone!”
She loosened his hands, guided his arms around her, held him very close. They stood thus for many heartbeats, while shadows rose in the garden and light drained from the sky.
“Aliyat, Aliyat,” he whispered at last, shakenly, into her hair, “my love, my strength. How can it be that you are what you are? Wife of mine, mother, grandmother, and yet you could well-nigh be the girl I made my bride.”
3
When the Persians occupied Tadmor, they first levied a heavy tribute. Thereafter they were not bad overlords— no worse than the Romans, thought Aliyat in secret. Zarathushtrans who held fire sacred, they let