The Dark Lord

and against the heavy waves and tides of the Mare Erythraeum, this Inner Sea of the Romans was a flat, placid lake.

'What is your name?' she said, keeping her voice and face solemn. She supposed some priestesses might smile, but was not a good idea, not for a single woman on a ship filled with legionaries. She did not feel like smiling anyway. The soldier swallowed visibly, then bobbed his head.

'I'm, ah, Marcus Flaccus, my lady. We're from the Immortal Bulls, the Legion Fifth Macedonia.'

'Do you have a sacrifice, to placate the gods and Poseidon Sea King?' Shirin knew her voice was cold and forbidding, but the little spark of fear in the soldier warmed her. 'A hen, a lamb?'

The soldier shook his head sadly. 'No, lady. We hoped you would spy out any poor omens... and avert them, you know, by speaking for us to the god.'

Shirin nodded, looking out to sea again. The sky was clear and the horizon a slightly bowed line of dark blue. She turned back to the boy and fixed him with a gimlet eye. 'The captain had omens cast, before we boarded?' Marcus nodded, looking a little queasy. 'They were poor?'

'Oh, no!' Marcus raised a hand to his lips. It veered close to bad luck to mention poor omens aboard ship. 'They were good, very good. The priest sneezed—to the right—during the ceremony. A good sign.'

'Then why are you worried?' Shirin essayed a thin smile. 'If you are not impious while aboard, if you do not swear, or curse the gods, and suffer no dreams of dark water, then all will be well. We will be in Alexandria in a week or a little more. I will watch for signs the gods have changed their mind.'

'Yes, my lady. Thank you.' Marcus bowed and scurried away. Shirin watched him with interest. She had not been raised to be particularly religious; she was the daughter of a kagan, not a rev, and the hand of omen and portent lay lightly upon her. These Romans, though, they seemed a frightened lot, filled with concern over the flight of birds, or the color of the sky, or whatever phantoms of drink and poorly cooked meat plagued their dreams. Hiding a smile again, she settled on one of the heavy crates the Legion had brought aboard and wondered what she would do about food and water. She did have some money, but it occurred to her that on a ship of soldiers, there might not be anyone to purchase food from. Usually a big ship like this carried at least one merchant, selling tents, capes, sun hats, food, wine and fruit to the passengers. She scowled, wondering if she would have to beg from the crew.

—|—

The sun plunged down into the western sea, filling the sky with a glorious clear light. A few clouds crept across the heavens during the long, hot day and they gleamed like polished bronze. The Bast made good time, it seemed, down the Latin coast. Even with night falling, the captain was pleased enough with the weather to keep sailing after dark. On the shore, lights were beginning to wink on, tiny and orange against the deepening gloom. Shirin supposed there were towns and villages all along the coast, providing simple wayposts for passing ships.

She sat cross-legged, as Mikele might do, picking at the hem of her robe in irritation. An hour or so ago, she had taken a turn around the long deck—the Bast was almost two hundred feet long, with a deck forty feet, or more, wide. Every conceivable space was crowded with soldiers and their gear. The sailing master had mentioned nearly two thousand soldiers were aboard. Belowdecks, she supposed it was worse, with the cavernous cargo holds crowded with animals, more equipment and those men who hadn't managed to find a place to sleep up on the deck. She hadn't found anyone to sell her food. Now the Legion cooks were busy around a stone hearth behind the main yard, and the smell of frying sausages and bacon, meal cakes and fresh biscuits filled the air. Shirin's stomach growled and she clutched her middle, surprised by the pang of hunger shooting though her.

She closed her eyes and sent up a prayer to the great god watching over her people. Please don't let my mother know I had to beg for food from a foreigner! The thought made Shirin a little ill, but eating was far better than not eating, as her belly reminded her. Then a brief, intense series of memories plagued her—every glorious feast she had ever presided over while in Ctesiphon—the details of the roasts, the golden-glazed hens, the acres of cheese and baked breads and sweetmeats and wine, all presented themselves for her inspection. She desperately missed being an Empress.

'Foulness...' she whispered, staring gloomily out at the sea. A grunt answered. She looked around and found a grizzled-looking man with stout arms, a barrel chest and broad, stump-nosed face standing nearby. He was wearing the undertunic and leggings of a legionary and his bare arms showed puckered scars and welts like a blacksmith's anvil. Shirin felt a chill, seeing his flat eyes and the way they traveled over her.

'Your... pardon, lady,' the man said, squinting. Shirin tensed, gaining the impression this soldier might not believe her story. 'My lads wanted to know if you would join them at dinner, bless the food and the like, set their minds at ease.'

'You are not at ease?' Shirin's nostrils flared. The soldier was staring fixedly at her breasts. She stood up, drawing the cloak around her. He blinked then, meeting her eyes.

'Can't say I like traveling on the water, no,' he allowed. Shirin nodded, looking over at the soldiers sitting on the deck. They had their food on wooden plates and they were watching her, faces pale ovals in the growing darkness. 'Will you join us?'

'I will,' Shirin said, hunger blunting the edge of her suspicion. 'My name is... Ruth. I serve Artemis, the Hunter. What is your name?'

The soldier blinked again, then rubbed his nose. 'Florus, centurion of the Twelfth of the Fifth.'

Shirin nodded somberly. 'Well met, then, Master Florus.'

—|—

Full night had fallen by the time Shirin finished stuffing herself with fried meal cakes and honey. The soldiers watched her with amusement and then in a little awe. They hadn't eaten so much—but then they'd had a meal in the morning too. When she was done, the Khazar woman set the plate on the deck, swallowed and looked around at the men with a calm expression. Inside, she wanted to shout or cheer with relief, before curling up and going to sleep. She had not eaten so well since diving off the Pride of Cos. Grubbing in the ruins, or accepting handouts from the Imperial troops sent into the devastation were poor sources of food. In Rome, the stink of the city, its strangeness, awesome size and the howling roar of the Colloseum crowd had crushed her appetite. Sitting in the darkness, only faintly lit by a candle lantern, hearing the rigging creak and feeling the cool night air wash over her, reminded her of the long trip around Arabia and up the African coast.

She clenched her teeth, biting back tears, missing the solid warm presence of Thyatis at her side, and her cousins Kharmi, Efraim and Menahem, and her children... She felt a terrible pang, like a knife twisting in her diaphragm, fearful the voyage might prove to be the only happy time in her life. A vision of Thyatis laughing, red hair bound back behind her head, a little boy hanging from each arm, shrieking as the Roman woman spun them about on the deck, swam up into her memory.

'Thank you,' she managed, driving away the cruel image. 'May the Huntress' luck be with you, in war and in peace.'

There was a pleased murmur from the soldiers. 'Thank you, lady, we'll need it with these Persians! Though they've not faced the Fifth, by Jupiter!' Heads nodded, half-seen in the darkness.

Shirin looked over at Florus, sitting at the edge of the circle, his hands busy with oil and a cloth and a file. His armor lay out in front of him, each segment carefully arranged, the wire and leather thongs removed. The soldier was carefully cleaning each bit of metal, rubbing away rust, coating them with oil. Some of the other men did the same, though they were not paying such close attention.

'There will be fighting in Egypt, then,' she said.

'Yes,' Marcus answered her, sitting up. His young face caught a little of the light from the candle lantern. 'They've been lucky so far, thrashing the Easterners, but they've not fought the West, not yet, not under a real general like the Caesar Aurelian!'

The other men nodded and some laughed. 'We'll show them a steady line,' they said.

'Have you fought the Persians before?' Shirin was curious. She had spent a long time in Persia and knew what the diquans said of Rome. What did their enemies think? 'You've faced the cataphracts and the clibanarus—the oven-men, I think you call them—in full battle array?'

'No,' Marcus admitted, grimacing. 'Well, the centurion has, right Florus?'