The Dark Lord (29 page)

"What would you have me do?" The Quraysh was curious.

"Leave this place!" Mōha gestured at the pale-barked trees and the short-cropped grass. "Go home! Take up the banner of your moon and star—drive out the traitor, as your father drove out his fathers. Take back what was yours... Look, there is your future. She is waiting for you." The man pointed, off through the trees.

Mohammed closed his eyes, turning away from golden sunlight falling through the clouds. A man and a woman were riding on fine, brightly caparisoned horses. They were laughing and the air around them was clear and filled with song. Their companions followed at a discreet distance, road-weary but smiling, for soon they would be in the city and many old friends would be reunited. Mohammed banished the image, driving glorious brown eyes from his memory.

"No," he said, though his chest was being crushed by an enormous weight. "The world will continue to turn without me."

"But... look at her!" Mōha's voice was anguished. "Look..."

Light blossomed upon Mohammed's face and this time, to his surprise, he felt real warmth and smelled the sea. The sound of water curling away from the prow of a ship was loud in his ears. Startled, unwary, he opened his eyes.

Zoë stood at the prow of a sleek, lateen-rigged ship, racing over a blue-green sea. Raven hair flowed over brown, tanned shoulders, and her eyes were closed, cheeks streaked with tears. Heavy gold ringed her neck and her strong arms were circled by silver and brass. Her image swelled and Mohammed beheld encompassing grief in her face. She was crying, and each heave of her shoulders cut at his heart. Anguished, he reached for her.

Zoë's eyes opened, and they were brilliant blue, the shade of crushed sapphire swirling in milk. Mohammed froze, hand—seemingly—only inches from her face.

"No," he said aloud and turned away. The light went out, and the cold stillness of the forest folded around him. He hid his face with his hands. For a moment, hidden from Mōha and the forest, he allowed himself a tiny dram of grief. Burning like a hot iron, a single tear oozed from his dusty eyes and puddled in his hand. "Go away."

Some time passed. Mohammed opened one eye a fraction. Mōha was watching him, chin resting on his arms. "I said... go."

"You need to go back," Mōha said, spreading his hands imploringly. "She needs you. Your friends need you. Won't you help them escape Khalid's snare?"

"Each man," Mohammed said, "is responsible for his own fate. The creator of the heavens and the earth has set us here, each alone, to find our way to him, or to corruption. Zoë will choose her own way, as will Khalid, and the others. They have free will. I will not take the gift from them."

"Very well." Mōha stood, shaking his head in dismay. The tight ringlets of his hair cascaded over broad shoulders. "But if they die, or fall into dark places, the fault will be upon you, who could have saved them."

"They will save themselves, creature, by following the straight and righteous path. Or they will fail, by themselves." Mohammed paused, his throat hoarse from speech. Mōha looked down upon him with pity, great compassion on his perfect face. "The great and merciful one," Mohammed managed to gasp out, "keeps a ledger of all our days and acts, and each man and each woman's tally is their own. For good or ill, when final judgment is made and every soul weighed on the balance of good and evil, each of us stands alone. This is the gift of the lord's breath upon the clay, and it is precious."

"So you say." Mōha was unconvinced, his mouth tight with concern. "I see my brother in the desert and his foot is upon a scorpion's back—I run to give him aid—to stand by his side. Would you let him die, if your swift action could save his life?"

"Each man—and even
you
, spirit—must make his own choice. I may save my brother, but I will not imprison him to keep him from danger."

Mōha shook his head in disbelief. "Then return home and take your own path—never see them again—wander the earth, friendless and alone!"

"No," Mohammed said. "I will rest here, under this tree, and see what may transpire."

Distressed, Mōha turned away and descended the grassy sward towards the city.

Mohammed waited until the man was gone. When he was, at last, alone, he relaxed minutely, weary with grief and loss. He missed Zoë terribly. He was not surprised Khalid had become chieftain of the Sahaba. This was the way of the world, for the young to supplant the old and with each passing generation the world changed. The tides were unceasing, the sun rose and set, even as the lord of the wasteland desired.

He opened his hand, and the tear glittered on his cracked, seamed palm like a drop of mercury. Mohammed, seeing the liquid quiver and roll in his hand, became very thirsty. Even a moment's respite from the dust in his throat would be a blessing.

The Quraysh leaned back against the tree and felt the trunk bend with him. Above, leaves rattled in the branches. They were turning yellow, curling up at the edges, and the buds were small and hard. "You are thirsty too," he said to the tree.

He closed his parched lips, trying to swallow. Dust filled his nose and mouth. Mohammed tilted his hand and the tear slid onto the roots of the fig. The drop of water vanished instantly into the mottled gray bark. Mohammed closed his eyes.
I am so tired.

Khalid shaded his eyes, squinting into a brassy Levantine sky, and gritted his teeth. One of his horses—a dappled, strong-legged mare—dangled from a ship's crane above the dock. Though a mask covered her eyes and a canvas sling was snug under her round chest, the horse kicked furiously. A Palmyrene dock foreman waved commands to the men working the winch and she swung back and forth, then lighted on the sandstone surface of the quay. Khalid breathed out, relieved.

"I'll take her!" He shouted at the longshoremen holding the cables, preparing to slip the mare free of the net. They stepped back and Khalid eased up, clucking softly. "Here girl, here's an apple..."

The mare snuffled wildly, tossing her head. Khalid nipped in and caught her bridle. She flipped her big square head to the side, but the apple was waiting. Cautiously, a soft nose snorted around the crisp, red fruit, then the apple disappeared into a horsy mouth with a crunching sound. "There, see, not so bad..."

Khalid rubbed the horse's neck until she quieted, then led her—still hooded—down the long dock. The air was filled with noise; the squeal of ropes through pulleys, the shouts of men, a dull boom as wooden crates swung from ship holds onto the quays of the port, shrieking gulls wheeling among the masts. Sixty ships were moored in the inner harbor of Caesarea, hiding from a constant, tugging wind surging out of the northwest. Beyond the calm oval of the main harborage, beyond a pair of towering sandstone lighthouses, the sea boomed against a marble-faced breakwater three miles long. The Judean shore, particularly here, was open and desolate, without any kind of natural harbor. Only the awesome power of Rome had lifted Caesarea from the sand. Another fifty ships of the Sahaba fleet were tied up on the southern docks, outside the breakwater, protected from the constant wind and a wicked current by the bulk of the port itself.

Khalid reached the end of the dock, weaving his way through lines of men in loincloths and plain white headdresses laboring in the burning sun. They were hauling wicker amphorae frames out of a fat-bellied Roman troop transport. Wine and oil and salt and olives. Khalid grinned, watching the men with an eagle eye—they were working hard, heads bent, moving with quick, jerky motions. They were afraid.

As well they should be,
Khalid thought.
They have a hard master. Not one so lenient or so familiar as Rome.

Atop the harbor towers, looming over a narrow channel filled with angry water, two flags fluttered in the strong breeze; the golden sunburst of Persia and the green field and white moon of the Sahaba. Al'Walid grinned again.
That is my banner now. Mine.

The horse bumped him again, trying to get nimble lips into the pockets of his cloak. Sadly, there were no more apples. He rubbed her nose, then untied the hood and let her blink away the sun. Satisfied she had her land legs, Khalid swung onto her back and nudged the mare to follow the main street of the port. The road was crowded with wagons, but men parted before him, and the Sahaban fighters policing the port recognized him.

"Make way!" they shouted, pressing back the crowd with their spears. "The Eagle passes! Make way!"

Khalid flashed a smile at two kohl-eyed prostitutes leaning on their balcony and the girls waved, giggling. His heart soared, seeing fear and desire alike in their eyes.
But not today, there is work to be done.
He urged the mare on, and she was glad to pick up the pace, clattering up the long boulevard bisecting the Roman town. The young chieftain was glad to feel hot, dry wind on his face. The ships were close and cramped, filled with the noxious smell of sweating, unwashed soldiers. Even the strength of the sun, burning on his face, was welcome.

Caesarea was crowded, filled with soldiers disembarking, marching in long columns up from the docks. The Arabs and Greeks were happy, laughing and chattering like blackbirds. A vast quantity of loot was being hauled ashore. When Khalid reached the Capitolina gate, he found the passage jammed with wagons stacked with bundles of spears. Not all of the treasure torn out of Constantinople was gold or ivory. Khalid had spent three days walking through armory rooms in the old Imperial fortress of the Golden Gate, counting bushels of arrows, suits of mailed armor, swords, spears, daggers, scorpion engines, axes, bows, mangonels, shovels, picks, iron helms, shields, sheaves of javelins, bales of tunics, boots, barrels of hobnailed sandals, cornicens in copper and bronze,
bucinas
, even a water organ built on a wagon... He laughed aloud, filled with furious exaltation.
My army is stronger every day. Every day!

"Clear the gate," he shouted and the Sahaban sergeants trying to control traffic turned. Seeing him looking down from an eager horse, his dark face silhouetted against the brassy sky, they redoubled their efforts. Khalid was restless and each grain while the teamsters strained to get their wagons through the portal was an eternity.

Outside the city, the dappled mare stretched herself, galloping along a broad military road arrowing up into the hills. A mile beyond the dusty white walls of the city, a huge camp sprawled on either side of the road among scrub and salt trees. Dozens of banners snapped in the offshore wind and Khalid cantered down a broad lane lined with tents on either side. Persians and Huns looked up as he passed and the swarthy-faced nomads shouted their appreciation of his horse. Khalid flashed a grin, then rode on.

The arrival of the fleet in Caesarea had found not only the Sahaban garrison Khalid expected but fresh regiments of Persian troops. While the armies of Persia, Avaristan and the Decapolis struggled before Constantinople, the King of King's empire—still weak, but gathering strength—amassed a new army and sent it west. Al'Walid knew the faces of men better than most and he kenned the Persian numbers were greatly swollen by mercenaries. Beside the long-mustached Huns, there were Bactrians with their silk banners and huge-chested stallions; countless numbers of Arabs from the eastern fringes of the great desert; thousands of hill-men—Kushans?—with brocaded tabards and leaf-bladed spears; even Indian knights from the hot lands beyond the great sea. Seeing the vast tent of the shahanshah rising above the lesser tents of the
diquans
and the feudal lords, Khalid slowed the mare, ignoring her whuffling protests and prancing hooves. The day was hot and al'Walid thought she had sweated enough.

Shahr-Baraz's tent rose three stories high, a monstrous confection of silk and canvas and colored banners. A great gate stood open at the front, revealing a vast interior space filled with muted light and endless numbers of thick rugs. Khalid swung down from his horse, tossing the reins to a groom—one of a huge crowd of servants loitering around outside, jockeying for shade near the door. The entrance itself was empty, save for—just within—two dark shapes, one on either side.

Khalid strode past the Shanzdah, ignoring the unsettling emptiness of their helms, suppressing a shudder as he felt some nameless, cold effluvium wash over his exposed skin. He slowed his pace, letting his eyes adjust to the filtered, golden light falling from translucent panels set into the upper storeys. Shahr-Baraz might be a man of action, a king ruling from the saddle, but his empire had a vigorous bureaucracy and court that rushed here and there, trying to find the Boar and pen him safely in elegance and luxury.

A throne of sandalwood and mother-of-pearl glowed in the falling light. Khalid passed through knots of men—nobles, soldiers, merchants, great lords and small—to approach the center of power. He slowed, watching the faces of those he passed with careful eyes. He schooled his expression to a calm smile, eyes glinting with secrets. He stopped, stepping in front of the hulking swordsman, Shadin. The grizzled, white-bearded Sahaba looked aside and nodded in greeting. Khalid's eyes flicked across the tableau before him and he was forced to suppress a snarl.

How has this happened? She was leaving, a penitent on a long journey into emptiness!

Shahr-Baraz, the Royal Boar, Emperor of the Persians and the Medes, stood beside the throne, one booted foot lodged carelessly against the precious wood. His massive torso was girded in mail, his long salt-and-pepper hair tied behind a thick neck with rawhide.

"Within the week," Shahr-Baraz boomed, his voice a little less than a roar, "the fleet will have completed unloading our men and goods. Within two weeks, our wagons will be filled, our regiments ordered. I say, my friends, in four weeks we shall move south in full array."

Standing on the other side of the throne, her hair combed back in a glossy wave, stood Zoë, queen of Palmyra. She eschewed the Boar's martial display, her neck framed with gold and electrum, smooth arms kissed with silver circlets. Khalid hid a sneer, seeing her brilliant blue eyes enhanced with powdered pearl and antimony. Even her gown, clinging like a skin to her young, lithe body was opulent—a golden-hued silk, like the sky at dawn, cinched with supple kidskin. The Queen was smiling, watching Shahr-Baraz declaim. Beside her, the Palmyrene prince Odenathus leaned on a staff. Khalid tried to catch his friend's eye, but the Palmyrene's attention was focused on the King of Kings.