"Sviod, the blond youth, he says that among his people this affliction is not unknown. He says that if certain medicinal leaves and berries can be acquired, the Emperor may be cured."

Martina stared at him with such a blank expression that Rufio feared she had retreated into her own madness.

"Empress?"

"Oh. Yes, Rufio: what did you say?"

The guard captain, quelling an impatience that pressed him to shake her until she came to her senses, repeated what he had said before. The Empress was openly puzzled.

"How can I help you? My husband will not even admit me into his presence, much less allow physicians or priests to attend him. I am imprisoned in my quarters: I have no friends or allies: His brother hates me and conspires against my son!"

Rufio sighed. The Empress had a great love for the ancient classics, and histories and all matter of obscure things about the natural world. Her education in the matter of palace intrigue, however, was sorely lacking. He raised a finger and pressed it to her lips, halting the flow of words. Her eyes widened in shock, but she remained silent.

"My lady, the medicines that Sviod desires are also used for the treatment of diverse women's ailments. It would be very odd indeed if one of the Faithful were to be seen purchasing such a thing. Your handmaids, however, could seek out a merchant in the lower city and acquire them with ease. No one would think anything of it. Will you help me?"

"Yes," Martina nodded vigorously. "How will you make him take it? I have heard he refuses all medicines:"

Rufio nodded, saying, "this is so. But when he sleeps, I believe that his lips may be moistened with the elixir and he will not even be aware of it. His body craves the things he denies- food, sleep, water. While his mind is in the arms of Morpheus, we may yet save him."

Martina smiled and took Rufio's hand in her own and squeezed. The guard captain barely felt the pressure through the sword calluses and muscle. He did not return her smile. His thoughts were occupied with all the things that might go wrong. The Prince Theodore was gone from the city at last, but his adherents and supporters were many in the palace. Soon, the mere possession of the Emperor's body would be crucial.

Petra, Nabatea

An old man with a snow white beard lay sleeping. Heavy quilts, stitched with squares of green and cream and gold covered him like a mountain. Thick down pillows lay under his head. Long butter yellow slats of sunlight crept down a wall above the bed. The wall was plastered and painted a deep mottled sandstone, though at the joint of the wall and the roof there was a line of black-painted figures and block script. The man's breathing was even and steady, his mustaches riffling with each breath. His beard had been combed out in a fan across the top of the quilts. At his side, her head cushioned on her arms, a young woman was folded up in a wicker chair. Its cushions were skewed under her, and a cotton blanket had been laid over her during the night.

Full day ruled outside the room, though the vines and flowers that grew in the window almost shut out the light. What sun did enter found a dim green place. Circular pipes along the upper course of the walls allowed a breath of air to enter.

The young woman's long black hair was tangled and matted with burrs and dirt. Grime streaked her high-boned cheeks and collected under her fingernails. Despite this, and the filthy tattered clothing she wore, she slept deeply and without dreams. By habit, a knife was clasped in one hand, its sheathed blade resting under her cheek.

The sun settled along the wall, drooping lower and lower until the light, now almost fading, touched the old man's face. His noble nose twitched and he stirred. The heavy quilts made it difficult to move. An eyelid flickered and then opened. Then the other joined it. For a moment, they stared in interest up at the ceiling, seeing a pattern of cross-hatched slats and plaster. Then they became aware and the old man turned his head, seeing the young woman in her chair and then a low table bearing a pottery jar, dark with water sweat.

"Zoe?" The old man's voice was at odds with his snowy beard and thick bushy eyebrows. It was the voice of a man of middle age, strong and powerful, used to making itself heard over the din of battle or the wail of a sandstorm. "Wake, O Queen."

The girl stirred, scratching at her nose and then she too opened her eyes. A flicker of darkness was in them for a moment, and then it passed. The young woman smiled, seeing the face of the old man. "You' re awake."

"Help me up and bring some cups. I am thirsty."

Zoe nodded, stretching and yawning. She was sleepy and relaxed. A heavy earthenware cup was fetched from a cupboard and she poured it full.

The old man drank deep of the water, draining three large cups. Zoe laid back the quilts and the sheets beneath. Despite her motion, she still seemed half-asleep, quiet, and introspective. When he had drank his fill, the man put the cup on the table and caught the young woman' s hand.

"Are you well?"

Zoe met his eyes with a puzzled look. "I thought I was dreaming," she said. "There was darkness and then a light. Do you remember what happened?"

Mohammed nodded. He remembered.

"Send word to my captains. We will go to the High Place tonight, as the sun is setting, and I will speak to the multitude. I have seen what must be seen. We are ready."

A thin cold wind gusted, fluttering the green-and-black banners of the Sahaba. Mohammed stood on the altar of stone that stood at the summit of the Jabal al'Madhbah. Sheer cliffs surrounded him on three sides, plunging down a thousand feet into the valley of Petra. The sun, enormous and gold, hung just on the western horizon. From this vantage, the rumpled hills that surrounded the hidden city were a maze of fading golden light and shadow. In the east, the sky was already dark and shadow crept- purple and blue- across the land toward him. There was a smell of night falling in the air. Below him, where night had already filled the canyon of the Siq, he could hear the squeak of bats hunting.

He turned away from the chasm, looking upon the faces of those gathered in the High Place. The pool had been drained and filled with dirt and stones, the altar stone scrubbed until the dark stains faded. The air here, now that the sun and wind had looked upon it, was clean and clear. Even Mohammed could barely feel the lingering echo of the evil that had been done in this place.

Now it was crowded with the nobles of the city, the captains of the Sahaba, the lords of the Decapolis and the Palmyrenes. Hundreds of men and women stood, silently waiting, their robes and veils rustling in the wind. There was no other sound, only the quiet voice of the Lord of the Empty Places gusting over them. The rest of the army stood below, in the canyons and plazas and amphitheaters of the city. It seemed impossible that they would be able to hear him if he spoke from the mountaintop, but certainty rose in his heart.

Leaning on a staff of wood, he took a breath and then, in a strong carrying voice, began to speak.

"The merciful and compassionate one came to me in darkness, saying:

" 'You alone of men have opened your heart to Our truth. Go forth and travel by night from the Red City to the Farther Mosque whose surroundings We have blessed, so that We might show you Our sign. The Lord of the Air is the Alert, the Observant! A time of great testing is close at hand, and We have warned you.

" 'When the first of these warnings came, we dispatched servants of Ours to inflict severe violence upon you. They rampaged through your home, and it served as a warning that you acted upon. Then We offered you another chance against the enemies of men, and reinforced you with wealth and children, and granted you many followers.