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,...
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