The Storm of Heaven (57 page)

Nick staggered into the four-square space of the tetrapylon. The domed roof above his head was lit by flickering light from a bonfire that had been set in the center of the crossroads. The building was not large, barely twenty feet across, but it was crowded with militiamen. They were staring out into the night in fear, looking up the roads to the south and the west. Nick schooled his face to calm and shouldered his way through them. The townsmen were milling about, panic rising in their voices. Most had little more than a hunting spear or a light bow in their hands.

"Where is your captain?" Nick shouted as he reached the eastern archway of the building. Some of the nearest men turned to him, their faces lighting with recognition.

"The centurion! The Centurion's here!"

"We've no captain," they shouted. More men turned towards him, eager for news.

"The northern way is closed," he said, pitching his voice to carry over the heads of the crowd. "Half of you go to the gate at the Praetorium and defend that place. The Armenian mercenaries are there, find them and follow their orders. The rest of you, go south, to the Dung Gate, and help the engineers."

There was confused shouting as men tried to sort themselves out. Nick slid towards the darkness in the eastern doorway, Dwyrin's weight on his shoulders slowing his steps. Somehow, the boy had gained weight! He could hear some of the older men berating their neighbors.

"The southern gate has fallen!" A man ran into the tetrapylon from the southern road. "The Arabs are over the wall!"

A groan of fear rose from the men in the plaza. Nick cursed to himself and jogged down the eastern road, Dwyrin heavy on his shoulders. A dozen paces past the arch and the tall pillars that flanked it, he turned sharply into a rug shop. The doorway stood open, the proprietor fled. Nick turned sideways, fitting the boy through a low archway in the back of the shop. It was dark, but he welcomed the shadows. Outside in the street men were running past, overtaken by panic. A wailing rose up, all too familiar to the northerner. The villagers in the coastal towns often made that sound, when the men of Dannmark came upon them in the night.

He stepped carefully down the steps in the little stairway. In his haste, he failed to close the curtain behind him. At the bottom of the steps was the hidden street. Careful examination by Sextus had found more than one hidden doorway that opened from the underground way into the basements or stairwells of the buildings above. A tiny oil lamp sat on the dirt at the base of the stairs. Nick kicked it over as he turned right and began jogging heavily down the hidden way to the east.

By the time Nicholas found the others, they were crowding into the white cistern. He squeezed out of the narrow tunnel and gasped in relief to come out into the vaulting room. He had pushed Dwyrin, now half awake, in front of him the last fifty feet.

"Hoy, it's the centurion! Optio!"

Nicholas nodded to the nearest legionaries, who stood back from the opening, swords bare in their hands. It was hot and close in the chamber, but it was still better than being in the dark passage. He looked around and found Sextus coming towards him, a glad look on the engineer's face.

"Sir, we were about to give up on you and the boy!"

Nicholas scowled, but was glad to hand off the red-haired Hibernian to the nearest soldiers. "See he gets some water and a lie-down, lads. He's a bit used up, I think. Sextus, I heard on the way down that the south gate has fallen."

The surveyor nodded, his grin wiped away. "Vlad and Frontius went down the tunnel first. They sent a runner back to say the enemy put his main strength against the southern wall. I'd guess that all the storm and thunder in the north was a ruse?"

Nicholas nodded sharply, thinking hard. "Yes," he said absently. "They took the boy right in—some kind of phantom army, filled with noise and motion. He surely drew everyone's attention with his response! Listen, Sextus, we need to start sending the men through the tunnel. Someone upstairs is
sure
to notice that we've disappeared. You know the temper of the men left in the city—those Armenians, for one, will change sides immediately. The rest will be out for our blood."

"I know, sir." The surveyor's humor returned. "I left a little something to delay them, though. A Phyrgian gift, as it were, which I hope will be as good as any Dionysus ever gave."

"What?" Nicholas was scowling again. He was supposed to know what was going on, by the gods!

Sextus fingered a heavy chain around his neck, turning it to the light of one of the lamps his men were carrying. It glinted ruddy red gold in the light. "A whole wagonload of treasure—coin, specie, jewels, chain like this, statues, everything to incite greed and lust in a man's heart—is scattered across the great ramp leading up from the
decumanus
to the temple platform. More than any single man could carry—when these bandits reach it, I think there will be some time wasted."

Nicholas shook his head, wondering if that were true. These weren't bandits. "Perhaps," he said. "How long will it take to get everyone out of the tunnel? Who has the robes?"

"About two hours to get everyone out," Sextus said, rubbing his nose. "Each man is carrying his kit and clothing on his back. We started as soon as Frontius' runner came back."

"Not great, but it'll have to do. Send two men back down the narrow passage. Make sure our tracks in that hidden road are wiped out and any litter picked up. Then start knocking down this tunnel, try and fill it in behind us."

Sextus stared at the centurion for a moment. Nicholas could see the man's thoughts—the narrow passage and the hidden road were their only way out if the enemy found the springhouse entrance to the tunnel. The engineer didn't want to be trapped in the stifling dark with no way back. For his part, Nicholas didn't either, but it seemed more likely that pursuit would come from inside the city.

"Do it," Nicholas growled and the centurion nodded sharply before turning to his men. The northerner went to the side of the cistern where Dwyrin was laid on a cloak. The boy looked bad, his face sheened with sweat. He looked pale and empty, like a vessel that had been poured out on the ground.

"Hey, lad." Nicholas knelt by the boy's side and put the back of his blistered and swollen hand against Dwyrin's forehead. "How do you feel?"

Dwyrin didn't speak, but the anguish in his eyes said the Hibernian knew the enemy had played him for a fool.

"Rest now, we'll be moving soon." Nicholas turned the corner of the cloak over Dwyrin's chest, then sat down, his back against the wall. Dwyrin closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. Nicholas was determined to be the last out of the cistern. It would be a long wait, here in the close darkness, watching as his men dropped, one by one, down into the tunnel. The pain in his hand was almost blinding, but he pushed it away. There just wasn't time for that now.

Odenathus rode through the gates in a weary daze. The huge statues paid him no heed, for he was part of a flood of Sahaba trooping up the long ramp. Men and women of the city were mixed in amongst the soldiers, all a pressing, noisy mass spilling out of the gateway into the gardens surrounding the towering shape of the Temple of Jupiter. Every inch of the Palmyrene's body cried out in agony, for he had sustained his illusions and phantasms for nearly two hours before he felt the bright ravening flame of Dwyrin go out like a snuffed candle. It had been enough. Much of the city was still burning, lighting the night sky and throwing a reddish light down from the clouds. The white pillars of the temple seemed stained with blood.

The Palmyrene let his horse find a patch of grass and stop. Then he crawled down out of the saddle and fell asleep on the ground. The horse, which was accounted wise among its kind, moved to stand over the exhausted sorcerer and continued to graze with its rubbery lips on the leaves of the tree. These humans were quite foolish, needing a calm head to watch out for them.

Not far away, within the towering halls of the temple, a lone man crossed a broad floor of hexagonal marble tiles. His lean face, long ago burned dark by the desert, was filled with fear and wonder in equal parts. His dark robes, made from the finest cloth, were tattered and worn, scarred by war and long travel. His boots, which had been worth two mares to acquire from a Persian merchant, made a soft sound on the tiles. Uri Ben-Sarid, the chief of his people, came to the sanctuary of the temple and looked upon the seated figure of Jupiter Maximus, god of the Romans. The marble sculpture was twenty feet high and painted in the likeness of a brawny man with riotous dark hair. A fierce look of disgust passed over Uri's face, but then he put such things aside.

"Cursed shall be the idolators," he whispered to himself. In this thing, he and Mohammed understood each other perfectly. The Ben-Sarid did not believe, in his heart, that his old friend heard the voice of the nameless god speaking from the clear air. There could be no prophets in this debased and corrupt time. But he did know Mohammed was a wise man, a cunning leader and a man filled with hate for Rome. Even as the Ben-Sarid hated. Slowly, his eyes intent on the floor, he circled the statue. Behind the platform, screened by the bulk of the figure, there was an opening and a stairway that descended below the floor of the temple.

"Oh, my good and gracious Lord..." Uri felt faint, seeing that it was possible to descend below the elevated platform. It might, he thought in rising panic, be possible to step below and stand... stand upon the rock of the hill itself. There might be a stone, in the darkness below, a stone that had once crowned this low mountain. A slab of pitted gray basalt where...

"No." Uri backed away, frightened by his impious thoughts. He bit his thumb, trying to keep from crying out. Despite all that he had learned at his father's knee, he felt compelled to walk down into the darkness. His people, at last, had returned to the holy place, to the temple of their fathers, and he could not descend, he was not allowed to look upon the most sacred place of all the tribes.

He was not a
Kahane
; he was not of the sacred line. The priesthood had been slaughtered long ago, the survivors scattered to the four corners of the earth, if any had lived through Ben-Yair's apocalypse. His blood was weak, diluted, perhaps even contaminated by the blood of lesser peoples. This, his heart's desire, the prize the lives and blood of the Ben-Sarid had paid for on the walls of the city, was beyond his reach.

Uri leaned against the flank of the Roman statue, cold stone burning against his arm. His other hand covered his face, trying to stifle the desire tormenting him. Tears seeped between his fingers and fell, one by one, sparkling to the marble floor.

Outside, the Sahaba reveled in their victory, raising their swords and spears to the burning red sky, raising thunderous cheer after thunderous cheer. Jalal strode among them, a giant among men, his face split by a tremendous grin. Mohammed would be pleased!

Allau Akbar! Allau Akbar!

Shuddering at the noise, Uri turned away from the stairway. He had to find the Arab general and make sure that no one went down those steps. No one.

The Emperor sat in the rooftop garden amid a drift of white parchments covering a camp table fitted with golden legs. Two well-muscled Africans stood nearby, ready to adjust the canopy of white Indian cotton protecting Galen from the midday sun. The palace staff ignored the long years Galen Atreus had spent in the field with his Legions, exposed to the rough elements.

Gregorius Auricus entered the garden, toga snow white and thinning ivory hair oiled back. In place of his usual jeweled rings was a single golden band on his left hand. Likewise his tunic, though of exceptionally fine linen, was plain and unadorned. Gaius Julius followed the senator at a respectful distance, weighed down by a thick sheaf of parchments. The plans and schedules for the games grew heavier by the day. Like his patron, Gaius Julius was dressed very simply, though he had taken care not to rival the quality of his benefactor's garb. Instead, he had selected a cut of cloth which said
middle-rank bureaucrat
to the discerning eye.

Of course, with the monies he was accumulating, he could afford much better. Impatience in such matters was his enemy, he reminded himself, particularly today. It was much wiser to hide himself in anonymity. So, with his eyes downcast, he entered the garden of the Lord and God of the Empire as the very picture of humility.

"Gregorius! Welcome, old friend. Sit, sit." The Emperor sounded cheerful.

Galen took the older man's hand and led him to one of the swan-back chairs beside the camp table. Gregorius met him in kind, embracing the younger man.

Gaius could hear the warmth in the Emperor's voice as pleasantries were exchanged. He could see the elderly senator was equally pleased.

"Galen," Gregorius said. "Have you met my secretary? This is Gaius Julius, of notable name, and with a great and welcome passion for hard work." Gaius smiled at his patron's kind words and bowed to the Emperor.

"I have not had the pleasure," the Emperor said, seating himself. He nodded to Gaius, dark eyes examining him carefully. Gaius felt a chill, seeing Maxian's likeness refined in his elder brother and feeling the strength of his intellect and personality. "You are well recommended to us, Gaius, and
not
for your name. I have had reports of you, from the military commanders in Campania."

The Emperor paused and Gaius leaned forward slightly, a concerned look on his face. "Nothing untoward has happened?" he said, expressing businesslike concern. "The bridge at Beneventum hasn't collapsed again?"

"No." The Emperor laughed. "I understand it was a bit of trouble to rebuild. No, all I have heard of you is good. We are grateful for your assistance in this troubled time."

Gaius nodded in acceptance of the praise, forcing himself to blush slightly. He had found, to his amusement, that such things had to be considered in this new... body. "It is my duty, Lord and God."