The Gate of Fire (84 page)

"Lady Zoë" Mohammed acknowledged. "Are you ready?"

Zoë's face remained impassive, though one eyebrow hinted at a quirk. "My men and I have been ready for weeks. Yours also—we have sufficient camels and horses for the cavalry. Every wagon within leagues has been confiscated. The water barrels are full, the quartermaster satisfied by the count of wheaten cakes and rashers of bacon. We waste our time in these endless drills and maneuvers so dear to your puppy of a general. Even the weather has refrained from becoming too hot. Yet we wait for your command."

"We have waited," Mohammed said in a soft voice. "We have waited for word to come to me."

"Has it come?" Zoë stepped to the edge of the table, her back stiff with anger. Her impatience was legendary among the Sahaba. Jalal was fond of saying that she would flay the
khamshin
for its sloth in crossing the land.

"Are you ready?" countered Mohammed, rising himself. The strain and weariness of the listening did not take long to pass. He felt certainty and surety of purpose flood his limbs with strength. "I do not speak of your men, or your cousin, I speak of you."

Zoë sneered, her expression filled with bile. Her hair had become lank and spilled from the crown of her head in a tangled mess. Mohammed knew from his spies that she spent long hours closeted in the tomb she shared with the withered corpse of her aunt. The dead Queen had been placed in a catafalque of marble, dredged out of one of the old tombs. When she was not there, she prowled the canyons and ravines that riddled the hills around the city, poking into tombs and crevices. Odd smells and sounds often emanated from the grave-houses of the Petrans. Some of Mohammed's men had reported seeing shapes in the twilight, things like men, but smaller, creeping among the crumbling statues and tombs. Much evil had been done here. Mohammed could feel it like heat radiating off the lava fields of the An'Nafud.

"I am ready," she snapped, her mouth turned down in a grimace. "Are you?"

"Word has come," said Mohammed, bowing his head. "The power that moves the tide and lets sunlight fall has spoken from the clear air. We will leave as soon as the heat of the day begins to fade."

Zoë grinned, showing yellowed teeth. Her eyes lit up. "Praise the gods! I will inform Khalid and Odenathus immediately!" She turned to stride from the room, but Mohammed halted her with a touch on her arm. Under his fingertip, her skin was like ice.

"No," he said. "You and I will go, alone. Camels will be waiting for us under the eaves of Jebel al'Harun."

Zoë turned, her brow furrowed with confusion. Mohammed almost laughed aloud to see her so vexed. The young woman was filled with enormous impatience. Every sinew of her lithe young body strained to release rage and hate and pain in a frenzy of violence. In the palace, she was the bane of the servants. When she was in a black mood, vases and pots would crack and shatter as she passed. Marble floor tiles had been known to warp and splinter where she walked. Those men and women in the royal enclosure who were sensitive to such things had long ago been sent away. The fury that boiled and curdled in the Palmyrene Queen was dangerous when coupled with the power within her.

"Go where? Alone? Why?"

Mohammed picked up his saber and belt and strapped them around his waist. He took his time, waiting for the young woman to breathe out. At last, with a hiss, she relented and subsided a little.

"There is a city—though it is little more than a town—some days' ride from here. The voice from the clear air bids me take you there and stand upon the summit of a hill. We will ride through the night to reach it. It will not take long."

The Quraysh tugged his hood up, letting it cover his head and face. The sun did not spare anyone.

"What town?" Zoë sounded petulant and angry that he did not budge when she tried to bend him to her will. Her forehead creased, and the effort she put forth made a faint haze in the air between them. Mohammed could feel something press against his mind, but it was distant and indistinct like wind on the desert.

"Of old," he said, "men called it Hierosolyma. I name it al'Quds."

Zoë frowned, an expression that only sat well on her face with great practice. "The 'holy'?"

"Yes," said Mohammed as he strode through the door. "It is such a place."

The moon was in the heavens, vast and full, turning a white visage to the earth. Zoë felt it shining on her face, almost like the pressure of the sun, though the light was cold. They had been riding since the day-star had dipped below the rugged tan mountains beyond the Red City. As soon as the last glowing pink light of the sun had faded from the monuments and temples of Petra, Mohammed had set out. They rode two rangy black camels with tasseled tack and bit. The creatures made good speed across the desert, ambling along in their disjointed gait. Swaying atop her mount, Zoë watched the desert go past, sleeping under a wash of silver light. The moon was so bright all but the most brilliant stars were hidden.

Time passed slowly, though the camels did not falter or complain. The moon had risen first behind them, a huge bloated yellow sphere that seemed to fill half the sky. By the time that it had climbed high, they were trotting along a sandy shore. A long narrow lake of silver water lay on their right and its surface blazed with moonlight like mercury. To their left, a line of jagged cliffs and mountains blocked the horizon. Zoë had seen no lights or dwellings or sign of man for hours. Beyond the end of the lake, they climbed up into hills on an ancient road. At intervals, milestones rose up beside the path—carven oblong monoliths—and then fell away again behind.

In all this time, as they passed under the night sky, Mohammed did not speak.

Even Zoë felt no reason to break the silence. The snuffling of the camels, the rattle of stones under their three-toed paws, the creak and rattle of the saddles—those sounds were enough to fill the night. The thought of human words filled her with weariness. She dozed in the saddle, letting the camel carry her onwards. After a time, a light breeze sprang up, ruffling her robes and stirring her hair. Its touch was pleasant on her face and she raised her head.

The road wound up through hills with barren crowns. Bare stones jagged up out of fields bordered by low fences of piled rock. Below the hills, sandy valleys were filled with orchards and garden plots. The camels and their riders padded down lanes between the villages. The moon was still high, but westering. In its silver light, the buildings they passed slept. For a wonder, no dogs barked in the night. Zoë looked into the pens and yards as the camels loped along, seeing the sheep and goats and kine sleeping peacefully.

They passed through an orchard of sweet-smelling orange trees and stood at the top of a ridge looking across a bowl-shaped valley. On the far side, atop a craggy hill, the lights of a city twinkled in the night. Deep shadows lay below the hill, for the moon had consented, at last, to touch the western horizon.

"Hierosolyma," said Mohammed in a hushed voice. "We have arrived."

Zoë stared at him in astonishment. To reach the Judean hill-town from Petra should take no less than two full days and nights of travel, even on barrel-chested camels like these.

"How...?" She could think of nothing to say. Mohammed turned, his eyes shrouded in shadow.

"Those who go about in the land upon the business of the Great and Merciful God go quickly."

The Quraysh turned his camel and tapped it sharply on the thigh with a cane. It harrumphed and then jolted into a walk. The road, now broad enough for two carts to pass, wound down the hill into the dark valley. Zoë twitched her own beast into motion and followed.

Beneath the high-sided hill, orchards of olive trees pressed close to the chalky limestone. Mohammed let the camel pick its way through the trees. The moon was hidden now behind the city and it became very dark. Zoë rode with her head close to the neck of the camel and turned inward. Branches and leaves brushed against her and plucked at her cloak. The camels stopped. Boulders nestled among the tree trunks and a slope canted up above them. Mohammed dismounted and tied his mount to a sapling.

"There is a path," he said in a soft voice. "It is steep and it leads to a hidden gate."

Zoë swung down, feeling a twinge in her thighs. It did feel as if they had ridden for days. She hobbled after the chieftain. The Quraysh had already gone off through the trees and was climbing up the slope. The Palmyrene girl hurried after, cursing her balky legs under her breath.

From a distance, it did not seem that there was any trail through the tumbled stones and rugged cliffs, but Zoë found that Mohammed's footsteps led unerringly to a sloping path. It wound up through a rocky defile and then switchbacked up the face of the hill. It was very steep and her ankles began to complain fiercely at the effort. The path was littered with stones.

Thyatis padded along the line of a brick wall, her hood thrown back, the water-steel blade bare in her hand. A leather sling-bag hung on her back, holding diverse items. Her left hand brushed along the wall, guiding her in the darkness. Ivy studded with sweet-smelling flowers hung down from the top of the wall. The Roman woman had entered the villa grounds from the southeast, coming up through the overgrown vineyards. Two of the legionnaires were a pace behind her, one with a long boar spear, the other with a heavy bow in hand. The archer had a fire-arrow nocked but not lit. The long wooden shaft was topped by a sharpened copper cage in the shape of a diamond. A plug of bitumen had been packed into the cage, ready for the touch of a flame to set it hissing to life. Thyatis stopped. She had reached an arched gateway with a wooden door.

She listened, but heard nothing but the susurration of the night wind through the tall cypresses that lined the edge of the villa. Even the usual sounds of a sleeping residence were absent—no dogs, no restless horses. The place felt empty, but that could be a simple deception. She tested the lock on the gate. It was unlocked and swung open with a creak at her touch. The two legionnaires froze, their weapons raised, but Thyatis let the gate swing wide. The yard beyond was empty, save for two big wagons parked by the wall of what must be a barn.

Thyatis ducked inside, sliding to the left into the shadow of the wall. Then she waited, letting her eyes lose focus, feeling the currents of the air on her face, letting the sense of the place settle on her. It still seemed abandoned. The side of the main house rose up before her, a two-story affair with a canted, tiled roof. Rows of dark windows on the second floor stared down at her. There were no lights. The moon was enough, though, and she made a clicking sound with her mouth. The spearman entered and moved to the right, allowing the archer to take up a position in the gate.

Chopping her hand down to the left, she motioned the spearman to lead off. Her intent was to enter the house from the rear, where the kitchens should be. The spearman darted out across the space between the garden wall and the house. Thyatis remained watchful, but there was still no sign of movement or alarm. Then she followed and the archer after her.

"Nothing, not so much as a mouse." Nikos sounded disgusted. Thyatis ignored him for the moment, stooping to look under the table of planks that stood against one wall of a room near the front of the villa. She held a collapsible metal lantern in one hand. The Illyrian was kitted out in a mail
lorica
with studded leather forearm braces. The shirt of iron rings fell to his midthigh and was covered with a linen tabard. Beneath that he wore a felt undershirt and a cotton tunic close to his flesh. Unlike Thyatis, who was going bare-headed, he was wearing an old-style Legion helmet with a smooth crown and metal flaps and nose guard that tied under his chin, protecting his cheeks. He had considered a cavalry helmet with a full face mask, but that would have cost him too much peripheral vision. After his last encounter with the
homunculus
he was taking as few chances as possible.

Of course, after watching the creature eviscerate a dozen praetorians in their last match, the only sensible option would be to avoid any further test of strength at all. He had given up his
gladius
, too, for a long iron-bladed spear with a crossbar welded at the base of the head. The image of the
homunculus
dragging itself up that poor soldier's spear had stayed with Nikos. He did not fancy the same fate.

Thyatis wiped a finger across the table and it came away dusty. It was obvious that the room had been used for storage recently, there were empty shelves made of raw new pine and some empty wooden crates in the corner. Bits of spilled food lay under the table and there was a relatively fresh wine stain on one corner of the table. Anything that might have been stored here, however, or anyone who had been living in the villa was gone.

"Was there anything in the stables?"

Nikos shook his head in negation. "No. Signs of horses and fodder for them, but nothing recent. It seems that we are too late."

Thyatis nodded absently. She reminded herself of the things that the girl, Krista, had told them about the Prince and his habits. By her count, if it could be trusted, there should have been almost a dozen people living in the villa; the Prince, his
homunculus
, the two risen dead, and the Walachs. From what she had seen of the ground floor, and heard of the other buildings, it seemed that they had decamped. All signs pointed to a hurried but thorough evacuation of the premises.

"Search the grounds," she said, turning back to Nikos and the other men clustered in the doorway. "They brought many heavy crates and boxes with them, but the wagons are still here. They cannot have gone far."

Nikos nodded and turned, but halted at the doorway, one hand on the wall. He looked back in question. Thyatis raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"Search in teams of three, like we trained," she said, hitching up her sword-belt. "Check the road for tracks of a single wagon going out and any other lanes or tracks that leave these buildings. The archers are to keep a signal arrow nocked."