[What Might Have Been 01] Alternate Empires Page 2

  None of that, I barked at myself. There was work to do. “Wait,” I told Herod. “I think I shall want you to guide me elsewhere.” To Gneisberg’s trading post, if I was lucky, and thence back to the western gate and away from this lair of Ahriman. I strode to the door of the Mithraeum and turned its handle.

  The iron-bound timber stayed fast. It was locked.

  This should not be. If naught else, a Raven or an Occult should be on watch inside, to help whatever brothers might come in need of help and to keep the holy of holies untrodden by the unhallowed. He could tell me where the Father lived, which was bound to be close by. I grasped the serpent coil of the knocker and clashed it on the plate. The noise fell hollow into the furnace day.

  Herod squeaked at my back. I turned to see. The door had opened in the Shrine of the Good Mother and a woman had come forth.

  She halted a few feet off. Beneath a blue gown of Persian cut, slenderness stood taut, ready to take flight. Young, she was likely of no more than Damsel rank in her Mysteries. Tresses astray from under her scarf shone obsidian black. Her face was finely molded and light-skinned, with the great gazelle eyes of the Sunrise Lands.

  Persian women have never been as muffled in spirit as Hindi. Just the same, she astounded me with a straightforwardness well-nigh Frankish, if not quite Danish: “Wayfarer, you knock in vain. The Mithraeum is shut. The Father and the Courier of the Sun are both departed, and at their wish, all lower initiates have likewise sought what safety may be found.”

  Dismay smote me. “What, what is awry?” I stammered.

  “You know not?”

  Numbly, I shook my head. If the thanes of Mithras must flee, then Loki was loose. “I am but now come here, my lady.”

  Her look searched me. “Yes, you are a foreigner; and not a Frank, but from farther away.” Even then, I knew keenness when I met it, and somehow that put heart back in me. “A believer, a warrior.” Fire leaped in her voice. “By the faith, I require your help!”

  “What? My lady, I have a mission.”

  “As do I. Mine will not wait, and yours can scarcely be done at once. This is for the Light, against the Chaos. Mithras will bless you.”

  She offered escape from bewilderment and uselessness. Also, she was fair to behold. “What is the task, my lady?”

  “The Shrine holds certain treasures,” she said crisply. “I came to save them before the city explodes and the throngs go rioting, looting, burning. Wait while I fetch them out, and give me escort to the Basileum.” She flashed a smile that would have been lovely were her mood not so bleak. “You’ll gain a den for yourself, and thus outlive the night—we may hope.”

  In a whirl of cloth, she sped back. I almost followed, but stopped myself at the threshold men may not cross. “The Basileum?” I mumbled. “What is that?”

  “I think the noble lady must mean the House of Sorrows, lord.” Herod’s voice startled me; I had forgotten him. He tugged at my cloak. “Take me along. Should my lord and lady meet danger along the way, I know many a bolthole.”

  “We are in a powder keg, then,” I said slowly.

  “And sparks dance everywhere, my lord,” the boy told me. “I should be glad of a snug hiding place too, where I may heed my master’s every bidding.”

  “Better you go home to your mother.”

  He shrugged. The sigh of an old man blew from the wizened small face. “She will have enough to do keeping herself alive, my lord. I have heard that when men go wild in the streets, they go mad in the joyhouses.”

  “What in the name of evil has befallen?”

  “I am only an alley rat, master. How shall I eavesdrop on the councils of the mighty?” He drew breath. “However, the word flying about is that yesterday the rais was overthrown by a follower of the Prophet Khusrev who had smuggled men and arms into this city. The ispanyans have all drawn back into their fortress, and other Europeans have taken refuge there as well. So, perhaps, have the high priests and priestesses of these twin dewali. Far be it from me to call them craven. It was simple prudence. But I do not think my lord and lady could now shelter behind those gates and guns. This morning from a rooftop, I saw how armed men stand thick around every portal of the compound, and they wear the yellow sash of the Prophet.”

  Hard news was this. Yet the past hours had somewhat readied me for it. If only the powers, any of the powers, had foreseen! It would have been easy enough twenty years ago to send a small host into the Zagros Mountains and root Khusrev out. The Shah could have said little against it, might well have given it what feeble help was his to give. Did not this self-made Prophet cry that the Zarathushtran faith was fallen into corruption and idolatry, and that to him alone had come the saving revelation? Already then he spoke not simply of cleansing the belief and the rites, but of slaying everyone who would withstand him.

  However, the Shahdom was a ghost, barely haunting the inland tribes, while the Ispanyan Wardership kept troops only in those provinces that bordered the Midworld Sea. Khusrev had seemed merely another among untold mullahs who had sprung up in the backlands lifetime after lifetime, preached, died, and blown away in dust.

  Too late now, I thought, when the Puritans did as they would throughout Isfahan, Laristan, Kerman, and their flame went across Mesopotamia and down the Arabian Peninsula. In every other province of the empire, too, it was breaking loose. Fleetingly I wondered if somehow, something of it had overleaped the ocean. Was it just happenstance that half of South Markland was in uprising, and the latest news told how the Inca of Tahuantinsuyu had ended fellowship with the Ispanyan crown? Oh, the inborns yonder called on their own gods, but—

  Be that as it may, Ispanya had scant strength left for this part of the world. Day by day, the garrisons thinned, the grasp weakened, and men also scorned the law of the Shah.

  I stared at Mithraeum and Shrine. Even the orthodox Zarathushtrans have always looked on Mithraists as fallen halfway back into heathenism, the more so after our cult linked itself to that of the Good Mother. To the Puritans we are worse than that, worse than infidels, the very creatures of Angra Mainyu.

  Thoughts of the past went from me in a cold gust as the woman came back out the door. In her arms she carried two leatherbound books and several parchment scrolls. Mottlings and crumbly edges bespoke great age. “Let us begone,” she said.

  “Treasure—” I gulped.

  “These are the treasures.” She tossed her head. “Looters may have the vessels of gold and silver if they must.”

  Herod bounced around us. “Will my lady go to the House of Sorrows?” he twittered. “I know the safest ways, if any be safe. Give me leave to guide you!”

  The woman cast me a look. I spread my hands and half smiled. “We could have a less canny leader,” I said. “I have often met his kind. Shall I carry those?”

  She shook her head. “You already have a bag. Better you keep your sword hand free.”

  We set forth, quick-gaited. Blue shadows slithered at our heels, over the cobblestones. They had lengthened a bit. The heat had waxed. To run in it would have been berserk. As was, my tongue stirred thick and dusty: “We have no names for each other, my lady. I am Ro Esbernsson. From North Markland.”

  Her eyes widened. “Across the Western Sea? What brings you to this place of woe?”

  “An errand. What else? Perhaps you can counsel me.”

  She was bold for a Persian woman, but a shyness was built into her that she must overcome before she said: “I am Boran Taki. A votary of Isis.” Thus they call the Good Mother in these parts. “As I trust you are of Mithras,” she finished in haste.

  I nodded. “Tell me what is going on, I pray you.”

  She swallowed hard. “Yesterday— But let me first say that Zigad Moussavi, a nobleman in the Jordan Valley, was converted to the New Revelation of Khusrev some years ago. His agitation against the Shah and the Ispanyans who uphold the Shah became so fierce, an outright call for insurrection, that his arrest was ordered. He fled with his followers into the desert.
Since then their numbers have swelled, the countryside is often in turmoil, and if you traveled here alone without trouble, Mithras himself must have been watching over you.”

  My sword and pistol had something to do with it, I thought. Moreover, I went forewarned, wary, using those roads and inns that von Heidenheim had told me were likeliest to be still safe. He had eyes and ears everywhere in the province. Nonetheless, he had not looked for an outbreak this soon.

  Boran went on in her scholarly, step-by-step way: “He must long have conspired with persons in the city, officers of the governor among them. Yesterday we suddenly heard gunfire, shouting—we saw people flee from the markets like sheep from a lion—rumors grew ever more frightening—then toward sundown, the noise dwindled away. Presently criers went through the streets, guarded by riflemen who wore yellow sashes. We were all commanded on pain of death to remain indoors until morning. During the night there were more shots and screams. Today a vast silence has fallen. But it seethes.”

  I nodded again. “Clearly, this Moussavi has seized the governor’s palace and quelled whatever resistance the royal troops made. Did the Ispanyans do nothing?”

  “It went too fast for them, I think, when they had no unequivocal orders,” she answered. Yes, I thought, she might have led a sheltered life hitherto, but it had not dulled her wits. “They seem to have drawn back into their stronghold at the Moon Tower and prepared to stand siege if necessary. I suppose the Europeans among us have taken refuge with them, as well as Persians and other Easterners who have special reason to fear the new masters. As yet there has been no attack on the compound, and perhaps there will not be. Placards have gone up in public places, directing people to continue their daily lives in orderly fashion. Of course they do not heed that.”

  “You have read such a proclamation, then? What does it say?”

  “It declares that Zigad Moussavi, servant of Ahura-Mazda, has overthrown the corrupt and idolatrous governor of the Shah and taken command of Mirzabad in the name of the Prophet. It promises a great beginning to the work of purifying the faith and restoring the ancient glory of Persia. Foreigners shall be expelled and infidels brought to justice.”

  “Hm. He’s far from Khusrev country. Does he imagine he can hold this single city, all by himself?”

  “He is no dolt. A madman, perhaps, but not stupid. I have studied his career as it progressed. Surely he expects by his example to ignite the entire province. To that end, although he calls for public order, he does nothing to enforce it. His warriors have not replaced the police patrols they drove off. More and more people are taking to the streets. They mill to and fro, they quarrel, they listen to ranting preachers and to songs of blood. Anything at any moment may bring on the eruption. After that is over, the city will have no choice but to heed Moussavi: because if the Shah’s rule comes back, so will his headsmen.”

  “But I thought— Are the Persians in this city not largely orthodox Zarathushtrans?” I remembered those I had met in Europe, and the few who have made their way to Markland. They keep much to themselves, but are soft-spoken, good-hearted, hard-working folk with a high respect for learning.

  Her tone was stark: “They too have things to avenge.”

  Well, yes, I must allow. In most countries of Europe, Zarathushtrans may not own land; in some, they are made to live in wretched, crowded quarters of the towns. Also, here at home they have seen foreigners swaggering where once their kings rode under golden banners.

  “True. And many will not dare sit still, whatever their inward feelings,” I foretold. “They will think they also must show zeal, so that afterward the Puritans will let them get on with their lives. Moreover, the bulk of the dwellers, Aramaics and Edomites and all the rest, will snatch at this chance to take out old grudges against each other, or simply to wreck and plunder.”

  Her look rested awhile on me. “You know the world well, Ro Esbernsson,” she said low.

  “And you seem wise beyond your years,” I began. That and my smile died.

  Herod heard first, and halted. Half a minute later the sound reached our older ears. It grew as we stood stiff, a racking growl through which sawed screams, the sound of a man-pack unloosed.

  “The Mother help us, it has begun,” Boran whispered.

  “They are bound this way,” Herod said. He cast about as a dog does, then he beckoned and his slight form shot on down the street. We loped after.

  Where a slipper painted above a doorway marked the house of a shoemaker, and it shuttered and barred, the boy darted aside. We followed, into the sudden gloom and half-coolness of an alley. Flies buzzed over the offal that made its cobbles slick. It twisted among windowless buildings, more lanes joined it, Herod took us through a maze and brought us out in a court. This too was filthily littered, though vines trailing over one of the walls around it told that the garden of somebody well-to-do lay on the other side.

  Herod stopped. “I think we will be safe here for a while, if we are quiet,” he said. The calm of a seasoned man had fallen over him. “Yonder is the home of Haidar Aghasi, the wine merchant. He’ll be with strong, well-armed hirelings to guard his wealth. The rioters ought to know that and pass by.”

  “Might he take us in?” I wondered.

  “No, master, he would be witless to link himself with a European, today. Would he not?” Herod replied, and I felt myself rebuked for my childishness.

  Boran clutched the books to her breast. “Besides, I must bring these to my father,” she said.

  Well, if they meant so much that she dared go forth after them—I settled myself to wait. The grisly racket loudened.

  Herod yelped, Boran gasped. I swung on my heel. The sword sprang into my hand. A man stumbled into the court.

  For a moment he stood panting. We glared at each other. He was burly, red of hair and beard, freckled of snub-nosed face. His skin had once been fair, but Southern sun had made leather of it. The shirt was half ripped off him and blood oozed from three shallow wounds. He gripped a staff, long and heavy, in a way that said that to him this was a weapon. In his left hand gleamed a sheath knife.

  I knew such features and shape of blade. My sword lowered. “You are from Eirinn,” I murmured in Danish such as they speak in England. A Gaelic sailor would be bound to understand me.

  He swallowed a few more draughts of air, grinned, and said with the lilt of his folk, “Sure and this is an unlikely place to be meeting the Lochlannach.”

  “Hush,” Herod begged. The man and I nodded. Without need to plan it, we turned back to back, covering both sides from which attack might come.

  It snarled on by. Inch by inch, we reached the knowledge that we would live a bit longer.

  The man and I faced around again. He put away his knife, took staff in left hand, and held out his right. “A good day to ye, your honor,” he said merrily. “Ailill mac Cerbaill I am, from Condacht through Markland, China, and points west. My greetings to the little lady. If only I could speak her tongue, I’d be paying her the compliments that luckier men certainly do.”

  I smiled and clasped the hand. It was thick, hard, from years of fisting canvas and winding capstans. I gave him our names and asked what brought him so far from the sea.

  “Och, it’s not many miles,” he said.

  Herod jittered about. “My lord, my lord, we should begone,” he urged. “The pack—I think they will smash and loot in the Street of the Comfit Makers, who are mainly Turks, but they may not, and whatever they do, they will shortly return this way.”

  “Come,” I agreed. A thought struck me. “Ailill, are you astray?”

  “I am that,” the seaman said. “The landlord at my inn sent me off this morning for an outland unbeliever, and never counted what bedbugs of his I took with me. Then as I wandered the streets, that gang swept about a corner and set upon me. I thought I heard the wings of the Morrigan beat overhead, but Lug Long-Arm strengthened mine enough that I broke free.”

  For a heartbeat I envied him his gods, that to a Gael
are still real beings. What are the gods of our forebears to us Mithraists, save names in the rites? Mithras himself is no longer the embodiment he once was. At that, we are better off than the Saxonians, who never had a higher religion and whose olden sacrifices are now no more than a show of loyalty to the Hauptmann.

  “Join us,” I offered. “We’re bound for shelter, where I daresay they can use another doorkeeper.”

  He was glad to. Herod led us out and thence widely roundabout. Boran looked askance at the uncouth newcomer, though when I gave her my thought she said that I was right, if he was trustworthy.

  Therefore I sounded Ailill out. It was easy. He had gotten drunk in Sicamino and missed his ship. On the beach, he learned of a venture that needed men, smuggling tobacco down from Turkey and past the Persian customs. The stuff came in at Joppa, which has a bad harbor and so is not much watched. Because unrest in the countryside had aroused banditry, inland shipments wanted guards. Ailill chose to go along with the camels headed for Mirzabad; he had heard of its time-gnawed wonders. I gathered he was not altogether a deckhand and roisterer; he had a touch of the skald in him like many among his folk.

  “Well, there I was, stumping down the Street of the Magi—What bit you, my friend?”

  I clamped my jaw. The Bremer Handelsbund kept its warehouse, shop, quarters for the factor and his workers, on the Street of the Magi. “Was anything … plundered, burned … there?” I asked.

  “It was not. I think the violence had only just begun. But those are some grand houses, and when the weasels have been at easier chicken coops and tasted blood, they will be back, I think.”

  I nodded. “We may have a few hours.”

  “Eh? …What might this port be that you’re steering for?”