The Gate of Fire (74 page)

"I thought you dead when we saw your banner fall..." Zamanes plucked nervously at his beard. "My men and I only fought free at great cost and scattered to the south. We heard that the Queen escaped with some portion of her army, but the Persians filled the countryside."

"It was very close," Mohammed said, a fingertip touching a scar on his neck and face. "But the Queen held us together. I woke in a litter on the road to Palmyra." He put the thought away and turned again to Zoë and Odenathus. "What are your names, children of that city?"

"I am Odenathus, son of Zabda." Odenathus rose, slowly, mindful of the guards close at hand, and bowed, touching his fingers to his forehead. "Now captain of the host of Palmyra, such that it be."

Mohammed bowed in turn, returning the salute. His dark eyes turned to Zoë, who had said nothing, sitting like a stone in her chair, hands clasped in her lap.

"And you, lady? What is your name?" His voice gentled as he took in the dark shadows around her eyes and the thin, wasted look in her face.

"I am Zoë," she said at last. "Regent for the Queen, Zenobia Septima. These men command in my name and hers in war."

"Regent?" Mohammed was puzzled, and he looked first to Zamanes and then to Odenathus. They could not meet his eyes, and at last he looked back to Zoë. "What do you mean, Lady Zoë? I saw the Queen laid in her tomb myself; with my own hand I carved the blessing on her resting place."

Zoë looked up, her face filled with fear and loss. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse and thick. "The Queen does not lie dead, Lord Mohammed. She but sleeps, waiting to awaken. She rides with us. Even now she is without the city, patient, resting that she may enter in splendor."

Zoë stood, one thin, white hand on her stomach, the other trembling on the tabletop. "Did you see her fall, so wounded that she lay as in death? Were you there, on that last day?"

Mohammed stepped back, seeing madness burning in the young woman's eyes. "Yes," he said slowly, eyes searching the face of this apparition. He could see, now that he looked past the lines of sorrow and pain, the echo of Zenobia's smile and laugh and smooth white cheek. This must be—not a daughter, for he knew from his time with her that Zenobia had borne no living children—but her sister's daughter. "I was there on the last day. I saw the sorcerer come forth and raise his hand against us..."

Odenathus listened, his heart sick and torn, as the desert chieftain related the tale of the fall of the city in his deep, carrying voice. With each word, the Palmyrene felt anew the pain of his city's death. His sorrow and loss were renewed, and with it, his resolve to bring down the powers that had wreaked such betrayal and slaughter.

"...so it was that I have come into Roman lands again with a host of men."

A litter of plates and cups lay on the table. Servants had come and gone, and Odenathus had eaten his fill. Zamanes had done his appetite proud, as well, and even Zoë had picked at the grouse and hen and sliced fruit that the kitchens had conjured up. During the course of the tale, many of the Arabs had also joined them, coming quietly and sitting on the floor around the table. Looking at their faces, Odenathus realized that many of them had never heard the full story before.

Mohammed took a long drink of water and sighed. The room was quiet, save for the hiss of the little oil lamps.

"What do you intend?" Zoë's voice, still hoarse, broke the silence. "Will you pit your strength against Rome, or against Persia?"

Mohammed leaned forward, his face partially in shadow as he moved. "The Persians killed my dear friends and put the torch to your city, but they came against us in open battle. The great and merciful God weighs all men in the scales of His justice, and I know that the Persians traffic in dark arts. The God who speaks in the wasteland will see to them. Even now Persia is in disarray, shattered by civil war. Rome... Rome has taken a faithless course, betraying states and peoples that have stood by it for six hundred years. On this day, Rome is my foe... more, Emperor Heraclius himself is my enemy."

Odenathus stirred, thinking of the oaths that he and Zoë had sworn when they entered the Legion. Did they bind him now? He thought not, for they had completed their service and mustered out. It was still strange, hearing the Emperor impugned in such a way.

"My enemy," Mohammed continued, "is not the Roman people. They did not betray us, leading to the slaughter of tens of thousands. It is not the army of Rome—no, it is a man, this fool Heraclius, who saw fit to send the armies of the Decapolis and Palmyra and Nabatea forth as bait and a lure. The blood and bone of those cities served him well, delaying the Persian army until he could strike the head from the Persian monster. This thing I cannot forgive. I will see it done that he pays for this crime."

There was a murmur from the Arabs, and Odenathus joined in. Zamanes, the Prince, also nodded and raised a cup in salute of the desert chieftain. "You speak truly, Lord Mohammed. All throughout the ten cities, the name of the Emperor is reviled. There is no family that did not send a son, or sons, north to fight Persia. Now nearly all are dead. Our lands and cities are numb with grief, but hate burns there, too, a guttering spark... but one that could be coaxed to open flame."

Zamanes stopped and looked around, meeting Odenathus' eyes for a moment, then surveying the assembly in the hall. He stood, turning to address everyone. "The son and daughter of Palmyra came into my lands with a ragged band. I had heard from the
cursus publicus
that bandits and landless men were on the loose, so I took what few bowmen and lancers remained to me and sought them out. I found them by the spring of Goliath, watering their horses. I looked upon them from cover, seeing the gaunt weariness in their faces and the paltry number of their men. Then, I looked again and saw that they bore the standard of the royal house of Palmyra.

"These did not seem to be bandits! I came forth and spoke with them and heard of the destruction of that city. Now, hear me! All the cities and towns of the Decapolis and Judea have heard of the Emperor's great victory in Persia. All have heard of his conquests and his triumphs. Rome bestrides the world, unmatched in power. All the lands beyond the two rivers will come under the sway of Rome. These words made me sick at heart, for I see only the grave markers and funereal processions that bought Heraclius this glory."

Zamanes turned, bowing his head toward Zoë. She stirred, inclining her head as well.

"Even as Lord Mohammed has done, Lady Zoë had taken up arms against Rome. Her hurts are deep, and the stain upon the honor of Palmyra is black. Yet she does not flinch from the task. I dwelt in thought a long time, there by the waters of the spring, before I pledged myself as well. Gerasa and the ten cities will rise up against Rome the betrayer."

Zamanes turned back to Mohammed, who was watching him intently.

"Lord Mohammed, you are well skilled in battle, as are your captains. Will you accept my hand in alliance and brotherhood against Rome?"

Mohammed stood, his face grave, though his dark eyes were glittering with delight. "Prince Zamanes, Lord of Bostra and Jerash, King of Gerasa, I will take your hand. The Lord of Battles looks down upon us and smiles, seeing that we have delivered ourselves into his keeping."

The two men clasped wrists and bowed. Odenathus made to rise, but Zoë had already risen, her pale face and long dark hair making a still mask. She placed her thin white hand over the two men's. "The Queen speaks. She says this: Palmyra stands with you." Her voice was cold, like a sound from the tomb. Her fingers curled around Mohammed's wrist, and her fingernails dug into his skin. "Death to Rome."

"Death to Rome," the two men echoed, and then, after a pause, the whole room followed.

Odenathus felt a chill wash over him and he shook his shoulders like a wet dog. "Roma delenda est," he whispered, fingering his Legion-issue belt.

"Lejjun? Yes, I spoke with a merchant who had visited the camp not more than a month ago." Zamanes looked puzzled, but he motioned for Mohammed to continue. The cool light of dawn shone in through round windows on the eastern wall of the palace. Odenathus rubbed his eyes, trying to drive the gritty feel of sleep from them. There had been little time to rest, and the call to prayer had come far too early. It had taken hours after the long conference with Mohammed to bring the army into the city and see the men bedded down.

He cradled a tin cup of tea in his hands, warming them. It was cold in the desert in the early morning, and when he had crossed the inner square of the palace he could see his breath. Soon the sun would blaze down over the jagged ridge that surrounded the city, and it would be blisteringly hot, but for the moment he needed his cloak wrapped around him to stay comfortable.

Lord Mohammed was taking his breakfast on the eastern terrace; a long colonnade of red stone pillars and spit-shined terracotta. It was cool under the arches, and it gave a stunning view of the city in the valley. Houses and temples filled the bowl of stone and climbed up the rocky palisade around it. Long flights of stairs had been cut from the stone, and some of the houses seemed to be driven into the very rock. Everywhere were flowers and fruit trees, and the singing of birds greeting the morning. Mohammed sat at a low wicker table with a top made of a single sheet of porphyry, cut smooth and polished to a high gloss. There was a battered tea kettle on a wooden plate, and little cups, along with a basket of fresh hot flatbread. Odenathus dug in, finding the heavy meal of the night before only a memory for his stomach.

"Has the camp been reoccupied by the Legion?" Mohammed asked, sipping from his own cup.

Zamanes shook his head, occupied with smearing honey and jam on a round of the bread. "No. The merchant—a cousin of my third wife—reported that two cohorts of Syrian archers had taken up residence, along with some Roman officers. They were preparing to reopen all of the buildings, though. There were hundreds of slaves in residence, busily sweeping out."

Mohammed nodded and seemed relieved. "Lord Prince, if my army passes through your lands to reach Lejjun, can your towns and villages supply us with bread and fodder for our animals? May we water at your wells, use your roads?"

Zamanes grinned, stained brown teeth showing briefly in the thicket of his beard. "I would be a poor ally if I did not offer you some hospitality! You intend to seize Lejjun, then? To what end?"

Mohammed put down the cup and signaled to one of the young men loitering around in the doorways to the palace proper. The lad strode over, carrying a leather packet of scrolls and maps. Odenathus looked the fellow up and down—he seemed very young, barely as old as Odenathus himself—but his green and white robes were crisp and of fine Indian cotton. His narrow face was handsome and marked not by the short beard of Mohammed, but by a closely trimmed mustache and goatee that accented his high cheekbones and sharp nose. The youth unrolled a map from the case, placing cups and oranges at the edges to hold it down.

"Lord Zamanes, Prince Odenathus—this is Khalid Al'Walid, the captain of my infantry and admiral of the fleet."

Khalid laughed at the expressions on Zamanes' and Odenathus' faces. It was a rich sound, and guileless. "Yes, my lords, we have a fleet—not more than a dozen barques and a clutch of
dhows
—but it has served us well. Pray, remember that the wealth of Mekkah comes from the sea, not from the land. We are a nation of horsemen, but the sea and its ways are not unknown to us."

Odenathus grinned back, finding himself liking this young rogue. He nodded to himself—the riches of Palmyra had been in ships and sea trade, too. Suddenly he rubbed his chin in thought. The ports along the
Mare Internum
were the home to many Palmyran ships, bought over the years and supplied with Palmyran captains and sometimes with crew. A lucrative relationship had grown up between the old Phoenician cities along the coast and the inland power. He wondered what had happened to those warehouses, ships, factors, and trade.

"Here is our intent," Mohammed said briskly, bringing everyone's attention back to the map. "At the moment we do not lack for men. There are slightly more than twenty thousand Arabs, two thousand Petrans, your thousand Palmyrans, and—by your count, Lord Zamanes—some five thousand Gerasans we can muster for this campaign."

"Perhaps more," Zamanes interjected, "if the other cities of the Decapolis will rise with us."

"Even so. Our great lack, however, is heavy equipment—shovels, mattocks, wagons, barrels, all manner of siege works like catapults and ballistae. Then there is the matter of our armor, which is spotty. We have gathered some formations of heavy horse, but most of my army is armed with javelin, bow, and perhaps only a shield for protection. If we are to deal with Rome, we need to supplement that armament."

"You intend to seize the supplies at Lejjun," Odenathus said, "if you can reach the camp before it is properly garrisoned."

Mohammed nodded at the young Palmyrene. "Exactly. With the tools of war held therein, we can strike to the coast."

Zamanes frowned. "Not at Damascus? It is the linchpin of the entire frontier defense, the hub of Strata Diocletiana, and now the richest city in the region. Should not that be our goal?"

"No," Mohammed said, his face split by a grin. "Our aim is not the conquest of Phoenicia and Syria—in truth, we do not have the men we need to garrison so much land—our aim is to seize the Roman port of Caesarea Maritima, here on the coast of Judea. Look upon the map, my friends—the Roman provinces are a long strip between the sea and the sand. All their forces have been withdrawn to the north to deal with the Persians. If we were to strike north, along the axis of the Strata, we would expose a lengthy flank. Rome still controls the sea, allowing them to land armies behind us at any point.

"Further, with Anatolia and Cilicia still unsettled from the Persian invasions, it will take more time for them to bring an army over land to meet us. The enemy will come by sea, so we must wrest from Rome the one thing that has maintained its power for all these long centuries."