The Storm of Heaven (112 page)

"No, my lady. There is dispute. Mohammed never spoke about such things, so we are without his guidance in this matter."

Zoë nodded, glancing at Shadin. The broad-shouldered general shook his head minutely. The old mercenary had tremendous experience in war, but he did not want the burden of rule. She pretended to consider the matter. "The Mekkans will not follow a king of the Decapolis or some other land."

A low mutter came from the collection of clansmen along the wall to her left. They were already glaring at the captains and chiefs of the old Greek cities. Zoë saw many had begun to wear their clan and city colors rather than Mohammed's simple green and tan.

She continued, her voice becoming wry. "The lords of Jerash, Petra and Judea will not follow the barbarians out of the desert. I imagine that the Palmyrenes will not follow anyone."

That brought a bark of laughter from Zamanes, then a chuckle from everyone else. The tension in the room lessened minutely. All of the men listened carefully.

"You will not," she said, "find anyone to replace Lord Mohammed. His gift will not pass on to another. No one can be anointed his successor. We cannot elect a new receptacle for the power of the Lord of the World. The power and the strength came into him alone. What came upon him in the wilderness was a miracle and such things are not repeated at the whim of men." She bowed her head, letting the hood fall over her face. She knelt gracefully, her hands clasped before her. "Lord Mohammed is dead."

There was a rustling in the tent as men knelt on the ground, knees pressing into the loamy soil. Zoë struggled for a moment with tears, her face hidden, then mastered herself. "What you must do, my friends, is to decide whether you will remain here, in this foreign land, or whether you will return to your homes."

"Return!" A bleat of outrage came from the back of the pavilion and Zoë saw the young eagle Khalid al'Walid standing, staring around him in alarm. Her dark brown eyes narrowed, seeing that while nearly all of the men in the tent had bent their heads in memory of Mohammed, Khalid had not. "We cannot return! That dog Heraclius may be dead, but his city still stands!"

"What business is that of ours now?" Zoë stood again, facing the young man. It seemed strange for a moment that they were of an age. He seemed younger to her, but Zoë supposed the years lay heavier upon her than on this rascal and whelp of the desert. No suffering touched his handsome face. "We came here following and trusting in Mohammed. We intended to punish Rome for its treachery. Now the emperor who betrayed my city and the Decapolis is dead. The Roman army has been shattered. Even without our help, the Persians press the city hard. If it falls, then Rome will suffer a defeat like none in their history."

"Lady Zoë, once you swore in my hearing to see every last Roman dead." Khalid opened his hands, including the whole assembly. "We have thrown off the yoke of Rome for the first time in over five hundred years! Each city is free, each clan, each tribe. That freedom can be assured if we, with our allies, take Constantinople. The Empire will be stunned by such a defeat. We will have years to prepare for their counterattack."

There was a stir among the chiefs and kings and Khalid looked at them sharply. "Yes, there will be a counterattack. Rome will not abandon the riches of Syria and the Indian trade. They will invade our lands again. Decades may pass before we are safe from attack. We must drive them hard, punish them, slaughter their armies, burn their cities, scatter their fleets... each victory gains us another day of freedom. We dare not leave!"

Zoë nodded absently, watching fear and confusion war on the faces of these men. It was plain to her, like a minnow swimming in perfectly clear water, that they had already discussed her suitability to lead. With sidelong glances and muted laughter, these chieftains dismissed her. On another day, when she possessed an atom of strength to rouse fury in her heart, she would task them for such a slight. Right now, on this cool summer night, in this damp and humid country, she did not care about their child's games.

"My lords." Her voice was calm and broke across Khalid's impassioned speech like a knife. "Know this. Though my city is in ruins and Rome still stands, I am putting aside my revenge. It has cost too much—too many Palmyrenes lie dead, Lord Mohammed has fallen. There is nothing to be gained here but more death. That Heraclius has fallen is enough for me."

Khalid stepped back, letting her speak, and Zoë felt a curious acceptance from the young man. He seemed pleased by this turn of events. She did not smile at him, though she knew he thought he had won some obscure contest between them. Let him.

"I am going to take the body of Lord Mohammed," she continued, "and I am going back to Mekkah, where he will be laid to rest in the house of white stones, beside his wife. This is the proper thing, and I will see it done."

Shadin stood, towering over the men around him. His lean old face was pinched with concern, fists clenched at his sides. "My lady, you will need a proper escort! Lord Mohammed should not go to rest without brave men to carry his bier, to praise the days of his life, to extol his wisdom. I will come with you. All of the Tanukh will come with you."

"Shadin," she said, smiling, "I am touched by your concern. I think that I can find my way."

"No." Shadin shook his head slowly, neatly trimmed beard making a long shadow against the wall of the tent. "Lord Mohammed did mighty things, like one of the heroes of old. He deserves a hero's burial. Our numbers are not great, but if you will have us, we will ride with you to Mekkah." A low rumble of approval met Shadin's words. Many of the older men in the tent agreed. They did not like this crowded, damp land.

"I accept your offer, Shadin, because I know your heart is true." Zoë smiled at the old fighter and made a slight bow. "I will take a ship, a Palmyrene ship, and I will leave in the morning. These things said, there is no reason for me to be here, so I will leave."

Turning, Zoë stepped out of the tent. Odenathus made to call her back, but someone called his name and he turned away. A hubbub of voices rose behind her and she smiled, looking up at the drift of stars that filled the night sky. The tents glowed with lanterns and candles, making a pretty scene in the darkness. A great weight had risen from her. The thought of trying to wrangle all of those men and their pride and their ambitions had weighed on her. She hoped Khalid received a full measure of his victory! It was a relief to see that she did not have to pick up the mantle Mohammed had let fall.

A breeze came up off the Propontis, stirring the leaves in the trees. She turned away from the tents and began to walk, content to let her feet find their own way in the darkness.

Cloaked in shadow, Patik raised a hand and the two figures behind him became perfectly still. The big Persian could not match their complete lack of sound and motion, but he settled back, looking away from the slim figure of the woman passing them in the moonlight. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he waited until she had descended the trail leading down through the Persian encampment to the beach. The Arab fleet was moored there, many of the galleys drawn up on the strand. After a little while, the crunch of gravel and twigs under her boots faded and he moved again.

Patik motioned the two figures ahead of him and waited while they slipped past. They carried a heavy cask between them on a pole, and the vessel sloshed quietly with liquid as they moved. Behind them, the noise from the big tent continued to seep out into the night air. Many men were arguing, without thought to what moved in darkness beyond the light of their fires.

Despite the gloom under the trees crowding the shore, Patik was able to follow the two dark figures through high brush and down into an inlet. The moon rose high enough to glitter on the water, letting him make out the sleek curved prow of a ship. Patik hurried, reaching the long gangplank as the two figures stepped onto the deck of the merchantman. The Persian stepped aboard only a grain later and sheathed the dagger. No one had seen them.

The deck of the ship was dark. There were no lanterns or lamps. Patik thought this wise, for the shoreline was well patrolled by both the Persians and the Arabs. The Romans had tried to send raiding parties across the Golden Horn in small boats. Many might question the presence of a hidden ship on the Galatan shore. The two dark figures moved carefully across the deck, the gurgling cask swinging between them. A patch of sable on indigo appeared, barely outlined by the gleam of the moon. They descended. Patik stopped at the top of the stairs, nostrils flaring at a subtle foul odor.

"Descend." The voice was hoarse and strange, filled with a metallic echo. Patik swallowed, suddenly nervous. He was afraid of the voice in the darkness. A stronger fear moved his feet and he climbed down into the hull of the ship. Invisible hands moved, closing the hatch over his head. Now the smell was stronger.

A black wagon sat in the hold, high round wheels touching the hull on either side. A shape moved in the darkness and a dim light sprang up, barely sufficient to illuminate the cloaked figures of the Shanzdah standing on either side of the cask, hoods thrown back, pale, leprous heads gleaming. Beside the wagon crouched a tall creature with the head of a black dog. It had the limbs of a man, smooth and muscular, but dark red outlined black pits serving as eyes. A rasping, metallic breath hissed from the iron mouth. Patik felt weak and put his hand on the wooden stairway for support.

The Shanzdah crouched down on either side of the cask, boots crunching in the layer of earth covering the floor. There was a sound of metal under great stress, then a
ping
as two bolts cracked in iron fingers. The two creatures moved in unison, lifting the cover of the cask. A strange light spilled out, a deep blue that made the darkness seem light. Patik blinked, eyes tearing up as if he had been blinded.

"Lift me up," gargled a terrible, inhuman voice. The Shanzdah rose, hands holding up a mottled, reptilian skull. Slow, thick liquid spilled away from fluted nostrils and a leering mouth lined with endless rows of tiny sharp teeth. "Ah. Now I can see. Turn me about."

The skull rotated as the Shanzdah moved, and Patik crumpled to the ground, consumed by overwhelming fear. Pale green points of light gleamed in deep-set eye sockets. Those eyes turned towards him and he felt the air turn cold. Ghastly laughter echoed in the black hold.

"Greetings, loyal Patik... or should I say the Great Prince Shahin, cousin of the late King of Kings, general of armies... The garb of a common soldier suits you. But here, you have done me such good service! You will be richly rewarded for your loyalty. Where is our prize?"

Shahin struggled to rise, arms weak as jelly. Despite clawing fear, the Persian managed to grope for his belt and draw forth a square of gleaming black cloth like a handkerchief tied up with a leaden cord. "Here," the Persian gasped. "He is here."

"Delightful!" The skull laughed, deep blue light growing stronger. Now some details of the hold could be made out, though everything was reversed, light for dark. The silent, immobile figures of two more of the Shanzdah became visible, standing against the sides of the wagon. "Give him to my beloved pet. They are old dear friends."

Patik crawled forward, unable to rise, and pressed the black cloth into the hands of the dog-headed man. That creature made no sound but took the cloth and then stepped back.

"Now, where is my body? Bring it here." The skull's voice tittered with laughter, though Patik thought it was the sound of crushed bone blown by a forge-hot wind. Averting his eyes, the Persian crawled back to the base of the stairs. Dreadful sounds began to issue forth from the wagon.

"Hello, auntie." Zoë ran her hands along the carved top of the sarcophagus. "I'm sorry you were lost in the sea for so long. I'm sorry I haven't come to see you." The rich dark wood was grainy with salt. Khalid's divers had removed the wrack and barnacles, but the original luster was gone. The Palmyrene woman sighed, her fingers tracing the inlaid figures of cloaked men and women, the camels and fine ships with triangular sails. By her command, the casket remained sealed.

Zoë sat down next to the sarcophagus, suddenly tired. She had put off this moment for days, hiding in her own tent. Zoë put her face in her hands, trying not to weep. The loss of Zenobia and the city forced her mind into something like madness, fueled by rage and a singular desire to destroy Rome. Then Mohammed and his gentle touch and kind words woke her from the dream of vengeance. Now he had been taken away and she felt empty. The vibrating fury sustaining her for so many months was just... gone. It felt very strange, her mind seemingly clear but purposeless.

What do I do now?
In the pavilion, the desire to take the bodies of her aunt and her friend away had been very strong. That still felt like the proper and right thing to do. But after that?
Perhaps,
she thought,
I will leave all these lands. India is not far from Mekkah. There are many ships which ply those waters. They say the mountains looking down upon the golden cities of Mauryasana are the abode of the gods. I could climb them and see.

Zoë was suddenly ashamed of dragging Zenobia from her mountain tomb, desecrating her burial place. She stood, lithe body rising gracefully, and turned, bowing to her dead aunt.

"Auntie, I'm so sorry. I will take you home straightaway and see that you rest among your fathers and grandfathers. They will be missing you, I'm sure!" She turned, facing the bier holding the body of Mohammed, wrapped in white cloths. The spears had been lashed together with leather cords, each man in the army of the Sahaba contributing some portion. She supposed that, someday, men would say the leather was washed in tears, the spears in blood. The soldiers had been overcome, many falling to the ground, distraught, when the body of the teacher had been carried into the camp.

"Mohammed..." Zoë had to clear her throat. "I will take you home, too. Shadin and I will carry you back to the desert city. Khadijah is waiting for you, I know she is. You will be happy there, lying beside her..." Tears flooded and Zoë could not continue, covering her face, shuddering. "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have been there at your side. Damn that Khalid and his thugs! They couldn't keep you safe. Not like I... should have."