THE SWORD OF GOD RUSSELL BLACKFORD For Damien Broderick ‘The future shudders, cracks, breaks, re-forms. Every minute it shudders; every minute it re-forms, and is still itself.’ Simeon Africanus, the sorcerer of blood and time, speaks softly. But, within the confines of Zenobia’s dimly lit throne chamber, his voice carries well enough for those present to hear - the Queen herself, two hand-picked guards, the neoplatonist philosopher Longinus, and an ancient eunuch servant. At the feet of one of the guards there lies the sorcerer’s sheathless weapon, a black-bladed Persian scimitar. Simeon was born in Carthage, but since then he has served many polities, kingdoms and empires. Now he has slipped under cover of darkness into Palmyra, oasis city, focus of imperial conflict in the hot, arid Syrian desert. He has sought wine and an audience with Queen Zenobia. Control of the world is in a crazily swinging balance. ‘It clings to itself. But, on occasion, my Queen, a mighty hand can reshape it.’ Syria, Palestine, most of Egypt and the East have rebelled against Rome, paid Zenobia homage. Great cities such as Alexandria and Antioch. But now her home city is under siege and the future is with the violent Imperator of Rome, Aurelian, who calls himself ‘restorer of the empire’. The sorcerer shrugs and drinks quietly from a goblet fashioned of gold and jewelled with emeralds and sapphires. Zenobia’s hospitality is in the decadent style of Egypt or Persia. The goblet is deep and massive, filled copiously with dark wine. Even so, it is little more than a toy in Simeon’s strange hands - hairy and elongated, they are hands like the paws of a carnivorous animal. Simeon is very tall, leanly powerful. Smooth-skinned, clean-shaven and apparently youthful, he is as fluid in his movements as the wine he drinks. He smiles, but it is more a kind of snarl; there is a display of sharp yellow teeth, like a mountain wolf’s. His eyes are other than human, huge orbs, a kind of deep apricot-brown. Straight, thick, glossy hair spills over his shoulders in a tawny brown mane. He sets down the goblet and waits. The neoplatonist, Longinus, speaks up, catching the Queen’s eye. ‘This is strange philosophy. But we shall hear more.’ Zenobia speaks, her voice strong and surprisingly deep, almost like a man’s. ‘Prepare quarters for this traveller. Take his sword and cloak. Then bring us more food and wine.’ Simeon stands and removes his mud-brown hoodless paenula, his long traveller’s cloak. ‘I do not need food,’ he says. ‘The wine is enough for now. Also, I must keep the sword. Before this evening is over, I’ll demonstrate it to you.’ Zenobia catches Longinus’s eye; the philosopher nods slowly. ‘Very well,’ says the Queen. ‘But some of us must eat.’ The round-cheeked eunuch takes Simeon’s paenula, and departs. Outside, he calls in his high voice to other servants. Simeon reclines and stretches his long limbs, comfortable in a short linen tunic. ‘Advice and assistance comes from unexpected quarters,’ says Longinus. ‘Tell us more, Magus.’ ‘Magus is the wrong word. I do not worship Ormazd or the hero Mithras, though I am prepared to serve whatever gods will aid me.’ Simeon addresses the Queen directly. ‘Lady, what of you? I have been told you are a votary of the Palestinian sky god, Yahweh.’ Zenobia actually laughs, flashing her extraordinary white teeth. ‘What an odd way to put it,’ she says. ‘No, I am no Jewess, if that is what you mean. Like my people, I worship Zeus-Bel... or, otherwise,’ - a knowing look - ‘whatever gods will aid me.’ ‘Very well. You must understand, my Queen,’ - he returns to the true subject, looks directly into her intense black eyes - ‘I’ll never discern what must be. But I have had my vision of what will, alas, be: Palmyra fallen, Aurelian in triumph, yourself taken prisoner, paraded before the Imperator’s chariot in Antioch and then in Rome itself. And, of course, beheaded.’ When he says of course, it is with an offhand flicking of his tawny hair. ‘Firmus in Egypt and your kinsmen in this city will continue the revolt against Rome, fighting in your name, but they, too, will be put down by Aurelian.’ He relaxes again, silent, picks up the goblet, sips more wine. ‘I am sorry to say these things,’ he says at last. The eunuch returns with spiced meat and dates, which he sets down. Longinus picks at the food with delicate, manicured fingertips. Simeon ignores it. The eunuch pours more wine, dark as blood, and Simeon drinks. ‘Palmyra’s strategoi are the equal of Rome’s,’ the Queen says evenly. ‘We have suffered some defeats of late, but we have won victories, even over Rome itself. My strategos Timagenes destroyed Probus in Egypt, and I myself, with Septimius Zabda, crushed the army of Heraclianus when it entered Palmyra’s territories. Our cavalry are superior to the Romans’. Our camel-mounted dromedarii and our archers are famed across the world.’ ‘Yes, but Aurelian has already defeated your full cavalry not once but twice. Surely the future is his. And now he lays siege to Palmyra itself. You have cause to fear him.’ For all her martial affectations, Zenobia is ravishing, the more so now she is angry. Her eyes seem to flash black fire. Part Saracen, part Egyptian, the Palmyran queen claims descent from the Cleopatras and Ptolemies of Egypt, but she is more warlike than any of those ancestors. Perhaps the generations of Saracen desert warriors in her blood are the true explanation of her temperament. She dresses not as a Syrian woman or in the manner of the Persians whom she follows in other things, but as an Imperator of the Romans. She is bare-armed, wrapped in a purple toga over a simple tunic. Her costume is held together by a ribbon of silk about her waist, tied at the centre with a brooch of the jewel known as cochlis - an agate stone shaped uncannily like a seashell - and dyed the rich purple prepared in Palmyra from Indian sandyx. Black hair falls freely about fine shoulders. Her eyes are far deeper brown than Simeon’s, close to true black, so that the pupil is difficult to separate from the iris. Her teeth are white as pearls, seeming to sparkle against the black of her hair and the smooth, swarthy skin of her face and arms. Zenobia is strong in profile, with a straight nose, high cheekbones, a slightly jutting chin that conveys terrible determination. ‘Don’t speak to me of defeat and death,’ she says. ‘Of course not. But those serving you are not mighty enough, Lady. I have lived many centuries on this earth and provided these hands of mine to many kings and queens who have been thankful for the service.’ He extends them, palms upward. ‘For a small price the future can be changed.’ ‘And why should I believe all this superstition?’ ‘If not, why do you bother listening to it?’ ‘Because we know more than you might think,’ says Longinus. ‘That is why. You were with the Sassanid usurper, Ardashir, when the Parthian host fell before him at Hormizdagan. Strange events took place on that battlefield. We still adjudge you worth listening to, but I warn you that the Queen will not listen forever.’ Zenobia stands and paces, taller in her Roman ankle-boots, flat-soled leather calcei, than most men. ‘Longinus is right: I get tired of all these words. Convince me you can aid Palmyra.’ ‘My Queen, the battle of Hormizdagan was nearly fifty years ago. Look at me. I appear young, do I not? If you credit what Longinus tells you, you must know that I am not a mortal man.’ She smiles genuinely now, no bitterness. Eyes twinkle and the right corner of her wide, red-lipped mouth turns up, revealing the famous pearly teeth. ‘So be it. And you tell me Palmyra’s future ... but then you say you can alter it. How, then? I’m still waiting to be convinced.’ Simeon places the goblet gently upon Zenobia’s table of white marble. He stands. ‘Lady, if I may take my sword?’ She does not reply, but Longinus makes a small gesture of assent. Simeon fetches his curved scimitar, holds it up proudly in both hands, pointing outwards from his chest. ‘In the court of the Shahanshah in Ctesiphon,’ he says, ‘there are poets who have named this blade “The Sword of God”, the symbol of world dominion. So much for poets, Longinus might say. And rightly so. Of course, this scimitar has no special powers, despite what poets may fabricate or vulgar men may think. Those powers lie deep within its wielder. I fought beside Shapur when he overran Hatra and when he crushed the might of Rome at Ctesiphon and again at Antioch. Then I departed his service. Your friend Firmus disturbed me at my studies in Alexandria and sought my aid for you. Here I am. Shall I convince you by demonstration?’ The Queen merely drinks more wine, calls to her eunuch to refill her goblet. Yet, she is thoughtful; she does not put it to her full lips. ‘Very well. What is required?’ ‘How much do you value your bodyguards? Could you let me have their lives?’ ‘You wish to lower yourself to swordplay, great sorcerer?’ says Longinus, mockingly. And Zenobia’s eyes flash sarcasm. ‘I wish to demonstrate what can be done with this simple blade, yes, but scarcely to lower myself. There is no shame in the way of a warrior.’ ‘Very well,’ says Zenobia. ‘You wish to fight them both? Together?’ ‘Lady, I do.’ Zenobia gestures to her guards. Each takes one step forward. They draw short Roman swords from their belts. One man is over four cubits tall, though even he needs to look up at Simeon. The other is smaller but square-built and hard. Both have hair close-cropped, faces grim and blue-stubbled. Imperial veterans. ‘If you can kill these, you are worth many men. Fight, then.’ She addresses the bodyguards. ‘Beware of sorcery, Gaianus.’ She looks earnestly from one to the other. ‘Sextus, good luck to you.’ The two guards advance toward Simeon, who steps away. He fed one day ago, in his own manner, and he is still strong enough to deal with these two. From his perspective, their movements slow as he eludes them, as if they move in a ritual dance. His scimitar slashes and removes the sword hand of the tall veteran, Gaianus. Blood flows from the severed wrist and Simeon steps in, keeping Gaianus between himself and chunky Sextus. With a swift movement, Simeon grips the severed arm, takes it to his mouth, and tastes the sweet blood; he sucks down as much as he can, and his strength is renewed. He swings Gaianus by the bleeding arm, shifting him with a speed that the slowly moving Sextus cannot elude. Sextus stumbles. Simeon flicks his scimitar and cuts Gaianus’s head almost from his shoulders; he puts his mouth to the gashed neck and drinks down more blood. Then, as the world perceives time, it is over in the blink of an eye. Sextus gains his feet, but, as Simeon Africanus sees the world, everything freezes. The whole throne chamber is a still tableau, held by the sorcery of time. The Carthaginian sorcerer steps through it, takes two short paces. His scimitar slashes backhanded and cleaves directly through Sextus’s strongly muscled neck. Momentarily, the head seems frozen in place, though detached from the shoulders that supported it. Then time restores itself, shrieking, and the head flies, an obscene thing, through the air, more blood spraying the chamber, the veteran’s strong body jerking, then collapsing, with the life taken out of it. Zenobia looks shocked. Blood from the two guards has sprayed her clothing, her hair, her face and arms. The eunuch servant rushes, waddling, to her aid. Though she composes herself, shaking her head, gesturing the eunuch away, her dark skin is ashen. ‘What did you see, my Queen?’ ‘You moved like a hungry wolf and you attacked like one. Your face is covered in blood. Then, in the end, you were ... a falcon’s shadow, a mere blur. You crossed to Sextus and slew him before he could even move.’ ‘Yes, my Queen. And so can I do to Aurelian, or any of your enemies. Keep me fed. The Imperator is devotee of a mighty god, Sol Invictus, the unconquerable sun. But he does not know the meaning of the word unconquerable. As for you, philosopher, you have seen the sorcery of blood and time. Some of it. Are you impressed?’ When Longinus does not answer, Simeon adds, ‘There is more. Watch carefully.’ He crouches beside the body of Sextus. ‘I shall soon be even stronger.’ His lips and his long, supple tongue caress the severed stump of the soldier’s neck. Ah, sweet blood. He takes his fill until he is sated, then he looks up at the Queen. ‘Now you know what I want in return for my service. Blood, Lady. Merely keep me fed. I need fresh human blood. Normally, that of your enemies will be sufficient. But I shall also demand special favours. Favours you may consider unpleasant.’ No one attempts to interfere with him, but disgust is obvious on the face of Zenobia and the others. Gaianus and Sextus had good blood, but Simeon knows he will have to give up what he has gained if he is to win the Queen’s trust. ‘How much did you value these men?’ he says. She appears not only repulsed but frightened, yet not wishing to show it. ‘Very much.’ Simeon nods slowly. ‘They were both strong men. Good men. For the moment, I have grown very powerful on them. Observe what happens next, and remember. But before you observe, you must close your eyes for some seconds until I ask you to open them. You have to trust me, my Queen. If I desired you harm, nothing here could prevent it.’ She obeys his wish. He closes his own eyes, visualises behind them what he wishes to see, suddenly opens them. The chamber is again free of blood. All except what has dried on Simeon and Zenobia themselves. Time has flowed backward. Gaianus and Sextus are whole. They step toward Simeon, who easily slips away. Yet, he is now a feeble creature. He has exerted his powers to the limit, displacing what has been. He is so weak it is a positive thing, not a mere absence of strength. Everything else is as it was, but he has displaced his past self ... and Zenobia’s. Both remember. ‘Open your eyes, my Queen,’ he says softly. She does so. Looks almost as horrified as before. ‘Lady, please stop these men from attacking me.’ ‘As you were, guards,’ she says. ‘You heard him.’ Gaianus blinks but halts, puts a hand on his companion’s shoulder. Of course, they, Longinus, the eunuch, all remember nothing. Zenobia moves her head from side to side, not shaking it, but seeming to search for some explanation of what confronts her. She looks down at the blood which still stains her clothing, attempting to reconcile two realities in her mind. ‘Leave this chamber. All of you, leave. You too, Longinus. Leave me with the sorcerer.’ Guards and the eunuch exchange disbelieving glances. Longinus begins to protest, but obviously thinks better of it. ‘Leave,’ Zenobia says. ‘I must be left alone with this man. I know that he will not harm me. Can’t you hear me? Leave, I said.’ And, hesitantly, they do finally leave. ‘I am very weak,’ Simeon Africanus says. ‘What you saw has taken away some of my own life. But you will help me. Are you brave enough to nurse a wolf? If you wish to destroy Aurelian and reshape the future of Rome, step over here, come to me, Zenobia.’ She winces at being addressed simply by her name, but she walks cautiously to him. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Hold out your arm to me, slowly. That’s right.’ He takes her small hand. ‘Without this I will die.’ Her skin is exquisite, dark, soft, high-veined, her palm sword-callused. He paws the underside of her wrist with its network of blue veins. Beneath his fingers, blood seeps slowly from the pores of her skin. He takes the bleeding wrist to his mouth, sucks lasciviously, as her entire body stiffens in outrage. But he feels the strength return. Blood of a woman who is nearly a goddess! So much power from so little blood ... He will always remember this. A few seconds is enough. Simeon removes his mouth from her wrist, wipes over the wrist with the palm of his hand, and the bleeding stops. ‘Now,’ he says. ‘I am much stronger. All the same, I must sleep. When I have done so, let us consider this latest epistle from Aurelian.’ ‘Come to my personal chamber at dawn. You will be allowed in, and we can discuss it.’ ‘As you wish ... my Queen.’ * * * * The braggart Aurelian has written in Greek, styling himself, typically, as Imperator of the Roman world and recoverer of the East, calling upon Zenobia and her allies to surrender. ‘Your lives will be spared,’ the letter says, ‘but only on conditions. You and your children will live wherever I and the noble Roman Senate appoint a place for you. Your jewels, gold and silver, your silks, your horses and camels and other animals are to be forfeited to the treasury of Rome.’ ‘He forgets himself,’ says Zenobia. ‘I am still well placed to survive this siege. My strategoi are seasoned and clever. There are many allies who abhor Aurelian more than they fear me. The Shahanshah of Persia has promised to send me an army.’ ‘And is the city loyal?’ ‘It is. The people still love me. My children, especially Vaballathus Athenodorus, and my other kinsmen in Palmyra still trust me, even though I am, as men say,’ sardonically, ‘just a woman.’ ‘Have you replied to the Imperator?’ ‘I have drafted a reply,’ says Zenobia. ‘It is here. I have written in Syriac, for my Greek is not as learned as the Imperator’s. But Longinus can translate and embroider it so that it becomes far more elegant.’ She lowers her voice confidentially. ‘The outside world thinks of us as merchants turned warriors. They’re right. But Palmyra has also become, with Alexandria, the most scholarly city of the world.’ ‘May I see what you’ve written?’ The future cracks; Simeon Africanus has begun to interfere. She hands over the parchment and he takes it, reads aloud. ‘From Zenobia, Queen of the East, to Aurelian Augustus. Conquest must be gained by deeds of valour, not by the pen. Would my ancestor, Cleopatra, have submitted upon receiving such a letter? Like her, I would rather stand and die a Queen than kneel and live. You are not invincible. Most who have died in this siege have been Romans, not Palmyrans. When aid arrives in the city you will put away your arrogance.’ ‘It lacks some polish,’ she says. ‘Longinus can add that.’ ‘It’s an excellent response, my Queen. But let me to make one suggestion of my own: tell Aurelian that he has set himself against the Sword of God.’ * * * * And each day they continue the fight from their battlements. Palmyra’s fortified walls are laid out in a semi-circle about the city, incorporating even a section of the splendid oasis lake. At all points the walls are augmented by mighty catapults and other engines of war, which hurl boulders and Greek fire upon the besiegers. The Romans reply with arrows and spears, and they form their testudines, their shielded tortoise formations, to undermine the walls. So far, they are frustrated. Each day they are repelled from the stones of the city. It is true that few Palmyrans have yet died. But that changes. The Romans bring out siege ladders to scale the walls, and the Palmyrans are soon hard-pressed. The combat goes badly despite the efforts of Simeon himself, the courage of the Palmyrans and the might of the city’s walls and engines. Aurelian has an inexhaustible supply of men from the vast territories of Rome. His army is made up of a mixture of Dalmatian cavalrymen, now required to fight without their horses, regular infantrymen drawn from the empire’s Gothic legions, and contingents of Easterners - Mesopotamians, Syrians, Palestinians - some of them armed with heavy clubs and staves rather than swords. While the Palmyrans are great archers, horsemen and dromedarii, their morale suffers when they are so outnumbered, and cooped up in the city day after day. And, most importantly, they suffer in the desert heat, even though born to it. Somehow, the terrible heat of the spring sun drains away their strength without affecting that of the Romans. Indeed, the longer the day goes on and the sun shines, the fresher and more encouraged the Romans seem to become, until late afternoon, when the sun begins to wane; it is as if the sun itself is fighting for them. Each day, Simeon feeds upon the sweet veins of Zenobia; though she is obviously still repulsed, she allows him this, knowing he is by far the most dangerous of all her warriors. Her courage and resolve fascinate and enchant him. Seemingly, she will do anything to overcome the might of Aurelian and Rome. There is one way Simeon can perceive to end the conflict quickly. Aurelian is foolhardy enough to enter himself into the midst of the melee at the city walls; he does not seem to care that he puts himself in danger. If Simeon can reach him in the press of the fighting, Aurelian must die. Surely then, isolated on enemy territory far from Rome, any new Imperator elected by the legion will wish to retreat from the East to deal with rivals. Simeon conserves his strength. Even without sorcery, he is a formidable warrior, fluid, strong and skilful with the scimitar. Early one afternoon, the Romans launch a full-scale assault, wheeling up their towering siege ladders. Simeon sees Aurelian close by on the city wall. He and a group of his followers are in the middle of the south wall, above the city’s agora and banqueting hall. Shouting goes up, and the clash of iron and bronze. Smoke pours forth where Greek fire is hurled at the invaders. Heavy stones are thrown down from the walls and clang on the Roman testudines, which bend and grunt but do not break up. Palmyran swordsmen, led by grizzled Septimius Zabda, young Vaballathus and Zenobia herself, attempt to drive back the climbers and isolate those who have already stepped on the parapet. In the din and the rushing chaos, Simeon finds himself facing a pair of club-wielding Palestinians. They are dark, brawny, sweaty fellows, doubtless two of the heroes of Immae. There Aurelian’s Palestinian infantrymen bruised and crushed Palmyra’s armoured cavalrymen, who were confounded when resisted by strong-armed brutes wielding clubs that could smash bones, even through coats of mail. Simeon treats them warily; Zenobia has described to him the deceptive speed and accuracy with which these clubs can be swung. He slips away, moving to his right toward a stairwell that leads down to the porticoed laneway of the city. He lets the Palestinian clubmen pursue. He feints at their heads with his scimitar as they come closer, then slips away again. It is hot and sticky in his bronze mail. His two enemies are bare-armed and full of roaring energy. The sun beats down, glaring and intolerable, making Simeon feel strangely nauseous in the pit of his stomach, even as the clubmen rush after him, their massive shoulders and upper arms gleaming and slick with sweat. For all that, they cannot catch him. He melts away from them, then into their embrace, his scimitar slicing quickly across the line of their throats before they comprehend what has happened. Both fall, one with his throat slit wide open, choking quickly and dying, but the other very much alive, if hurt. He has taken only a shallow wound in the side of the neck, missing the main blood vessels. All the better. Simeon returns his scimitar to its chain-linked belt, falls bodily upon this living prey before he can recover himself, drags him kicking and protesting back behind the press of the fighting. The fellow has dropped his club, but he tries to wrestle with Simeon for his life, clutching and pushing and kicking. The man’s energy is uncanny. How can he retain it in this heat and even as blood drains from him? They grapple and slip in dirt and blood, almost falling onto the city’s weathered steps. Hysterical strength tests Simeon; arms squeeze against him like thick, tightening cords of nautical rope, yet Simeon’s own inhuman strength prevails - as they struggle, kneeling, the sorcerer’s shoulder presses into the Palestinian’s chest, long arms about the thick waist. Simeon pushes, pushes, grimacing and snarling with the strain, until he feels the sudden slackness, and hears the anxiously awaited crack of bones breaking. His hands find their way into the shallow wound on the man’s neck, opening it up with the smallest effort of blood sorcery, tearing away skin and garments as he stretches the bleeding area, deepening it, hands digging through muscles and arteries and veins. Then his mouth finds the delicious wound; blood pumps out freely and Simeon drinks it hungrily. The man was a warrior and a hero among his people. His blood is strong. Simeon jostles his way back to battle, rejuvenated, covered in life-giving blood. More Romans fall beneath his scimitar. Today is the day. He faces Aurelian. The self-styled recoverer of the East appears startled to be descended upon by this bloodied effigy, man or demon. But then, astonishingly, he smiles! Dirt and gore mar his lined face and his simple armour. He is not overly tall and he must be all of sixty years of age, yet there is an animal vitality about him. He does not appear to sweat in all this heat and he stares coldly into Simeon’s dreadful blood-smeared face. Aurelian holds his short sword, point upwards, like a duellist with a knife. Time stops. Aurelian is frozen with the rest of the besiegers and the besieged. His hour has come to die; but when Simeon tenses to pounce at the Imperator something goes wrong - his scimitar appears to turn and struggle in his hand like a venomous snake. Simeon is feeling dizzy and faint as if with sunstroke; a spirit is fighting him, possessing his sword, draining his strength. He finds himself reeling, wobbly-legged, in the wrong direction, away from the Imperator. His sorcery is shattered. Aurelian comes to life. And the sun has grown huge, an ocean of liquid yellow fire across the whole sky, seeming to burn like the Christian Hell. Aurelian rushes bull-like at Simeon, who finds he is able to flow out of the Imperator’s way, but not to retaliate. Aurelian smiles grimly. ‘Your time has gone, creature of blood,’ he says in gruff Latin, ‘whatever you call yourself. I am the future. The priests of Sol Invictus chose me to restore the world for Rome. I am under their protection and that of their deity.’ He plods forward stolidly and thrusts quickly with his sword, striking Simeon glancingly in the side but not breaking through his shirt of bronze mail. ‘Sol Invictus is the world-conquering god. Did you believe that your ancient sorceries could prevail against his?’ Desperate fighting goes on all around. In the uproar of the battle, Simeon is not sure how much of this he actually hears and how much he reads from the movements of Aurelian’s lips or even his thoughts. Swords clash, the black blade again seeming to fight against Simeon and for the Imperator, jerking about in his hands, seemingly wishing to avoid Aurelian or his sword and aiming itself for Simeon’s unprotected lower leg. It is all he can do to avoid wounding himself. Palmyrans and Gothic legionnaires struggle by close to them, and in the fray Simeon is parted from the Imperator. But now he knows how difficult it will be to kill Aurelian. Even with this warning of Aurelian’s powers, he is not sure that he could ever do it. Victory is no longer assured. Like a hollow skull, defeat laughs mockingly at Palmyra. * * * * Nonetheless, only isolated besiegers obtain any foothold upon the city parapets, and they are forced to retreat. The siege continues. If Zenobia had sufficient forces she could attack at night, but she is greatly outnumbered and must fight behind Palmyra’s fortifications. Aurelian has the advantage unless reinforcements arrive. Simeon has made a terrible mistake in allowing himself to become obsessed with Zenobia, who seems to wince from him as one might from some loathsome shaggy beast, even as she continues to use him. When the Romans finally take the city, as they must do next time they mount a full attack, she will have no use for him, except as one of the men she can blame for leading her, a mere woman, astray. He will need all his powers simply to escape the doomed city. Perhaps, with her phenomenal beauty, Zenobia can still reshape the future sufficiently to have her own life spared if she is captured by the Imperator. Perhaps. But for her to be enchained, led in triumph, violated by the army, and in the end most likely beheaded, is an evil Simeon cannot allow. They meet in the Temple of Zeus-Bel, beside Palmyra’s peaceful lake, to make their preparations. Evidently, Aurelian has been able to cut off Zenobia’s reinforcements from Persia and Armenia, from the Saracens, the Blemmyae and others. The siege is unrelieved, and the city’s finest soldiery are dead. But Zenobia is undaunted. She and Longinus have devised a last plan. If she could escape to Persia or Egypt where she still has rich and powerful friends, her kingdom might yet prevail. The new Shahanshah, Hormizd, is only a shadow of his father, sharp-minded and great-bodied Shapur, who ruled among the Sassanids for thirty years. But if the wealth and population of the Sassanid empire could be combined with Zenobia’s undoubted military prowess, even Aurelian would be halted in his ambitions. Again, there is mighty sorcery available in Persia among the Shahanshah’s Magi. If this could be directed to the right ends, the priests of Sol Invictus might find that their god is not, after all, unconquerable. Zenobia slips out of the city, fleeing into darkness; Simeon insists upon accompanying her. He is strong, for she has provided him with the blood of one of the city’s suspected spies. They ride mounted high on female dromedaries. In desert terrain, these can outrun any horse. Zenobia has planned carefully. Once they reach the Euphrates River near Dura, they will be able to sail downstream to Seleucia - twin city to the Persian capital Ctesiphon - lying between the Euphrates and the Tigris where the great rivers come closest together, before finally meeting one hundred miles further south above Ferat. From Seleucia, they can cross the Tigris to seek audience of the Shahanshah in his palace in Ctesiphon. Once they reach the Euphrates and the lands of Hormizd, Aurelian will pursue them at his peril. And yet, Simeon Africanus has seen even this in his visions of the future: Palmyra surrendering without its Queen to lead the fighting and maintain morale; Zenobia captured on the dhow-rigged boat that would have taken her to safety and possibly to allies. If the future is to crack and break, not merely shudder, there must be a better way, and Simeon’s own hands must do the time-breaking. They ride at night, a time when the bright powers of Aurelian and the priests of Sol Invictus are surely at their weakest, wrapping woollen cloaks and blankets about them, for the desert cools rapidly in the evening. They are prepared with gold and jewels, with skins of water and with days’ worth of rations for Zenobia to eat: sun-dried fruits, spices, and smoked meats. ‘Do you despise me, after all this?’ Simeon asks her. He cannot see her face in the dark. ‘No. You have fought genuinely for me. Whatever manner of creature you are, I took you into my service and I cannot doubt your loyalty.’ They ride on. Stars glitter in the clear sky but there is no moon. A chilly breeze bites through cloaks and blankets. ‘What will happen to Palmyra without me?’ Zenobia asks. ‘Don’t you believe we will be able to bring reinforcements before the city falls?’ ‘Sorcerer,’ she says, ‘I do not even believe we will live beyond tomorrow. Aurelian will find us. This is a desperate chance we take, for all our preparations. What will happen to the city?’ ‘If what you say proves true, Palmyra will surrender. The men fight less for the kingdom and the city than they do for you, yourself. You inspire ... their devotion.’ Almost, he says our devotion, but thinks better of it. ‘Perhaps the best thing your kinsmen could do is open the gates of the city, provide Aurelian with gifts and throw themselves on the Imperator’s mercy.’ ‘He is too bloodthirsty to have mercy.’ There is a silence. Then Simeon reminds her of Tyana, Aurelian’s first major conquest in his vaunted restoration of the East. ‘They say that he threatened the city, boasting that if it did not surrender he would not leave so much as a dog alive.’ ‘So they say. The city defied him until one of its rich merchants, a fellow called Heraclammon, betrayed it. At that point Aurelian entered in triumph. His soldiers pressed him to violate the women, slaughter the inhabitants and take their possessions as booty of war. They reminded him of what he said, that he would not leave so much as a dog alive. So how did Aurelian respond?’ ‘Then kill all the dogs.’ She looks at him oddly. ‘Well ... we keep many dogs in Palmyra. Camels, horses, goats, all sorts of animals.’ Rueful laughter. ‘If by any chance I do survive this, I will have my revenge, ten Romans for every life, man, woman or animal, taken in Palmyra. I have told you what I think. What odds do you give that we will reach Ctesiphon?’ Now he must confirm her fears. ‘The priests of Sol Invictus will discover our escape. They are powerful sorcerers. Expect to be followed at dawn.’ He can hear her take in breath. ‘By fleeing you have taken but a small risk, Lady. I have seen your future, but you now have an advantage I did not foresee - you have me with you.’ ‘What are you telling me?’ ‘Lady, sorcery aside, our camels can outrun any horses that follow us from Aurelian’s siege-tents at Palmyra. Yet, you are right: we cannot avoid the Romans as far as Ctesiphon.’ ‘Yes, but if we are to die many Romans will die first.’ ‘I’ve told you your one advantage. Aurelian knows that many of his soldiery will die if they must confront me. So he himself will join the pursuit. That was not a factor in my vision. He will put himself at risk. We have already changed the future, my Queen. All things are possible. You must try to trust me.’ She has no choice. They ride on in complete silence. * * * * Night cannot last forever. In the morning, they roll away blankets and change into long, hooded paenulae of white linen, hastily prepared by Zenobia’s seamstresses, which cover them from brows to feet for protection from the sun. Later, as the sun ascends a merciless spring sky, Simeon climbs an isolated stony hill amidst miles of rolling sand, and looks into the distance behind them, waiting for horsemen to appear on the horizon, following their path. He is not long disappointed. There are about six of them, not galloping, but cantering hard. He returns to Zenobia. ‘They’ll reach us soon, Queen. Of course, their horses must be tired. Our dromedaries are fresh enough. We could stay ahead of them for now, but not until nightfall. Not if I understand Aurelian’s sorcery. Trying would be foolish.’ Indeed, he thinks, the sooner the Imperator confronts us the better. If we need contend with only six Romans, we have a chance. But not yet. Not quite yet. ‘They’ll be watching out for us, because they expect us to proceed with deliberation. The time is soon coming to deal with them.’ They are far now from Palmyra’s oasis lake, on the one hand, and far, on the other, from the blue waters of the Euphrates. They proceed slowly, sharing one of the water skins they have brought. The day is growing hotter as morning approaches noon. When the horsemen become visible, appearing above a dune across the rolling desert plain, Simeon decides to run, to bring the play to its end. In a manner of speaking, they run, the dromedaries loping across desert sand and stones, kicking up a wake of dry dust, beginning to pull further ahead of the Roman horsemen. Looking behind, Simeon sees that the horses are being urged on to greater efforts, though not breaking into full gallop as yet. Soon, they are gaining once more, but the dromedaries have energy aplenty in reserve. ‘We’ll go yet faster, Queen.’ They do so, but only to an extent where the pursuers neither gain nor begin to fall away. ‘Our camels can do this forever. Aurelian’s horses will soon have had enough.’ ‘Normally, Zenobia. Normal horses.’ She does not seem to mind being called simply Zenobia in this time of crisis. ‘With the sun in the sky, I believe that the Imperator’s power will be able to sustain them. Is your dromedary yet tiring?’ ‘She is still strong.’ ‘My mount also. His power has not extended to us. There must be limits to its range.’ ‘Yet, the sun appears to take strength from his enemies across a whole battlefield. How close may we let him approach?’ ‘We’ll have to guess. But he must have limits, otherwise he could have brought down your city with exhaustion from Antioch or even Rome. Besides, the weakness which your armies have suffered when opposing him is a gradual one over a day; whereas when he defeated me with sickness and vertigo it was at close quarters.’ The chase proceeds into the afternoon. As the sun becomes hotter in the sky, Zenobia suggests they pull further ahead - perhaps the range of Aurelian’s power becomes greater as the sun itself grows stronger. Simeon takes her advice, but once they have doubled the distance between themselves and Aurelian they do not allow the gap to increase; Simeon does not wish Aurelian to lose heart, if that were possible. He wishes to tempt the Imperator into consuming his strength. Late in the afternoon, before the sun wanes, Aurelian acts. There is a long downward slope between him and his quarry, and his horses put on a fresh spurt, finally breaking into full gallop across the desert. Zenobia and Simeon run their camels hard, but at least they can use the dromedaries to fritter away some of Aurelian’s power. Eventually, Aurelian gains on them, and he gets close enough for Simeon to feel his exhausting presence. No use fleeing any longer. Simeon and Zenobia stop and dismount, lay down their weapons, stand waiting for what must seem their inevitable capture. They fold back the hoods of their paenulae, making their identities plain. It will take perhaps a minute for the horsemen to be upon them. Simeon uses the time well. ‘I’m sorry, my Queen,’ he says, ‘for what I must now do.’ ‘What!’ The horsemen are close. Time stops; Zenobia’s speech is halted, her mouth left gaping open. The whole desert freezes. Aurelian and his soldiers are suspended in dusty blue air; a hawk, high in the sky, hangs frozen; even gnats are fixed in position, like dots of ink on parchment; isolated tussocks of desert grasses lock into bent shapes made by an intermittent dry wind. Simeon walks calmly to his dromedary, draws from its sewn straps the Sword of God; for that instant, his arm and the black blade are the only things in the desert that move. It is now many hours since he has had his fill of blood; he can sustain this effort for only a few more heartbeats. He concentrates, walks purposefully back to Zenobia, seizes her roughly by the wrist. ‘Ah, if this moment could last,’ he says softly, to her unhearing ears. Ever so gently, he holds her narrow wrist, calling to her blood, feeling a pulse begin, though her body is otherwise as frozen in the moment as the rest of the desert. Red blood wells under her skin and flows for him, another visible movement among frozen sand and stone and time. Reverently, he puts his mouth to her arm. And drinks her. Dry. It is a perfect draught, as strong as he has ever tasted. The blood of a demi-goddess flowed in her veins - no wonder he loved her! Now it flows in his. There is a power in him. His mind is a sharp blade. His body was a wolf’s; now it is a lion’s or a huge German bear’s. He is stronger than he has ever been. Time unfreezes as Simeon conserves his powers; the horsemen approach. Horror in their faces. Simeon is half-crouched, the scimitar held at an angle across his body, in the attitude of a man prepared to die fighting. Aurelian’s spirit is pulling at him, trying to suck the sorcerer’s strength away. But Zenobia’s blood seems to turn to golden power whatever it touches within Simeon’s body. For the moment, he resists and turns back the might of Sol Invictus. ‘Stay behind me,’ Aurelian growls to his men. ‘I don’t want any of you dead in the confusion.’ Then, grimly, ‘I shall finish this task.’ Simeon buries his scimitar, point first and almost to the hilt, in the desert sand as Aurelian charges upon him, short sword pointed at Simeon’s heart. A drumming of hooves on sand and a guttural shout. ‘Die at last, creature of evil!’ Simeon feels the huge new strength from Zenobia’s blood start to siphon away, as Aurelian’s sorcery asserts itself, close up and under the grim Imperator’s conscious control. Time will not freeze ... but it slows ... enough. Simeon avoids the charge and crouches low as the panting, whinnying horse rushes past; he seizes Aurelian by his leg, dragging him out of the saddle as he passes. Both fall to the ground, Aurelian losing his sword, but kicking powerfully with a thud into Simeon’s chest and crawling away. Simeon springs upon him and they are wrestling; Simeon cannot concentrate on slowing or stopping time, and Aurelian’s sorcery waits to fall upon his own like a huge iron hammer smashing upon a floor of glass. The Imperator’s strength is enormous, and he seems to glow from inside with heat, heat which quickly burns away Simeon’s own reservoir of strength. They wrestle like titans, Zenobia’s blood renewing itself within Simeon. She must not have died for nothing! And now each is draining at the other’s strength, for Simeon’s long fingers have tightened on the Imperator’s throat; he is calling in his mind to Aurelian’s blood, and it hears ... It comes to him; it seeps out under strange, long, hairy fingers. Bruised, they roll and struggle, but then Simeon’s mouth finds the side of Aurelian’s neck where the carotid pulses; blood spurts, splashing Simeon’s face and tawny hair - some of it, enough of it, going down into the hollow of his belly, sustaining, strengthening him further. Within seconds, it is over. The Imperator’s body is white and limp. As the remaining horsemen charge upon him, time finally freezes like blue ice. The rest is sheer carnage: Simeon tears them limb from limb ... The priests of Sol Invictus created well. Aurelian’s blood is as potent as Zenobia’s. Simeon closes his eyes and concentrates. He must work his greatest act of sorcery: displace everyone in sight, everyone except Zenobia. The power of Aurelian’s blood boils in him. First, he looks behind his eyes at what he wishes to see. And opens his eyes. The scene is changed. A hawk flies against the sun. Gnats zigzag in the air. Occasional tussocky vegetation waves in the intermittent breeze. There is a charnel house of death about him. Horses run wildly back and forth, arching their necks and shaking their reins, startled to find that their masters have vanished from their backs. But, in the other direction, a tall dark-haired woman dressed in a white linen paenula is beginning to mouth the word, ‘What!’ She looks about her, where she stands, confused, beside her Palmyran dromedary. Her dark-skinned Saracen face is as shocked as the first time she saw Simeon’s bloodthirsty sorcery. But she says nothing. Simeon draws his blade out of the dry, fine sand. Somewhat raggedly, he saws from its shoulders the sneering head of Lucius Domitius Aurelianus Augustus, the Imperator of Rome known as Aurelian. Simeon speaks to the head in Latin: ‘You set yourself against the Sword of God, Imperator.’ Satisfied, he grips the trophy by its cropped hair, turns toward Zenobia, sagging to one knee. ‘What happened here?’ she says. He is mute with sickness and confusion. That last effort, displacing six dead men plus himself to a time several minutes in the past, has taken all the strength he had; it has almost killed him. Yet, he remains glutted with Aurelian’s blood. No longer a source of strength, it is evil, lifeless stuff within him. It weighs sickeningly upon his bowels. ‘You cannot imagine what I have had to do here, and I am too weak to explain it or just what it has done to me,’ he says. He sits back on his haunches and throws the blood-drained severed head so that it lands at her feet. ‘My strength is gone. I am no protection to you. I may not live beyond the next minutes. Perhaps in some of these corpses there is a little poor blood to sustain me back to Palmyra.’ ‘I still have all my blood.’ Zenobia suppresses a shudder of disgust. ‘Take some of it.’ Yes. He has room in his belly for a last small draught of Zenobia. ‘Lady, there will need to be a new Imperator of Rome. Your fortunes will turn, now.’ She walks to him. ‘You cannot talk. Be quiet.’ ‘Zenobia, you are, as they say, just a woman, and you cannot be Imperator. I propose your son, Vaballathus Athenodorus.’ ‘Indeed, he has always been a dutiful boy. Be quiet now.’ She crouches to him, extends her arm towards his hungry mouth, her hand bent backward at the wrist, veins upward. * * * * The future shudders; it cracks open like an egg; it breaks, shatters. And is reborn. First published 1996.