The Storm of Heaven (87 page)

"Does this woman live?" Galen's voice rang out, clear and distinct. Every single person in the vast crowd could hear him, from the senators leaning raptly forward in the first tier, to the sailors hanging over the edge of the deck at the uppermost level. "Has she breath in her body?"

"Yes, Lord and God." The attendants spoke as one. They seemed to speak from the depths of the earth itself. "She lives and is victorious."

"Then I grant her, not only the crown of the victor," Galen raised a crown of holly in his hand, showing all the prize, "but also her freedom, for she has expiated any crime, any accusation, any calumny in noble combat, before these witnesses and before the gods."

Thyatis lay on a bier of spears. There was a noise, and she raised her head, seeing above her, suspended in darkness, the face of a man. He held high a crown and she knew it was hers. Struggling, she turned to one side and raised an arm, strong and muscular, still garbed in mail, links fouled and spattered with blood, and saluted him, the Emperor, Lord and God.

"Ave, Imperator!"
Her voice was weak, but like his it carried in the silence. Then she fell back, exhausted and spent, and she knew nothing more.

High on the wall of the Flavian, Gaius Julius crept out from the stairwell. The trembling air around the Prince had suddenly stilled, then a wind had risen, fluttering the torches. The old Roman felt unaccountably weak, barely able to walk. He stumbled, then fell to the pine decking. His vision blurred; a hissing filled his ears. Gasping for breath, he crawled forward, his fingers barely touching the body of the Prince.

Gaius Julius collapsed, unable to move, his mind in a vise of pain. Just beyond him, the Prince lay, still and cold, without breath, one hand flung out. Wind rustled through his cloak.

A single lantern gleamed, hanging from the back of a wagon. Nicholas blinked sleepily, then crawled out of his tent and into the pale circle of light. Centurions moved in the darkness, passing from tent to tent, rapping sharply on the posts with switches. Men woke at the sound, yawning. The northerner rubbed his eyes and stood up. Morning was not far off, but the predawn was pitch black and cold. Even in summer, the wind from the Sea of Darkness was chill. "All right, time to get up."

Nicholas kicked Vladimir's large and hairy feet. The Walach growled menacingly but crawled out anyway. His hair was a wild mess, all tangled and greasy. Dwyrin followed, yawning cavernously. "Pack up," Nicholas whispered, beginning to gather up his own gear. "If the gods smile, we won't be back here."

"Good," Dwyrin mumbled, shrugging on his tunic. Both men pulled on their boots and laced up the straps. "A nice warm bed in the city—a feather bed!—would be better than this bramble patch."

Vladimir laughed—he liked sleeping out under the stars. "You don't sound like a barbarian to me. Always going on about baths and beds and cooked, hot food!"

"Who ever said Hibernians were
barbarians
?" Dwyrin said, an arch tone in his voice. "We're not mud people like the Britons!"

Nicholas ignored their banter, his mind dwelling on the day's battle. He pulled a heavy felt shirt, the
thoracomacus
, on over his undertunic. Getting kitted out—putting on layers of padding, then armor, then lacing up the armor and checking the straps—took almost thirty grains. Unlike the simple mail shirts of the Dann or the Germans, the Romans used a complicated, overlapping set of metal bands. When it was properly fitted, it could turn a spear or a sword. There would be plenty of use for it today.

Around the three friends, in the darkness, the Roman army roused itself, rustling and clanking, hushed voices filling the gloom. Some lanterns and torches were lit, but not too many. The legate hoped to catch the enemy unaware with a dawn attack. Nicholas snorted, thinking of the possibilities of success. An army in motion was
not
quiet!

Zoë rode in darkness, letting the mare find her way, following a rutted, muddy road winding between the outer and inner walls of the Arab circumvallation. Her heart was heavy, both to leave the warm bed in her tent, and from the summons she had received. Weeks ago she had furiously demanded immediate notification when the body of her aunt was recovered from the wreck off Sestus. She hadn't expected to be roused before dawn by an exhausted courier. A ship had docked at the pitiful harbor the Arabs had built on the Propontis, carrying the sarcophagus of the Queen. Somehow, in this chill night, the matter didn't seem urgent.

Shivering, Zoë pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. The heavy wool helped a little, though the slowly healing wound on the side of her head was sensitive to changes in temperature.
Why was it so cold in this damned damp country? Why did Khalid have to be so insistent about recovering the body? Why couldn't it have waited until dawn! Why did I get out of bed? I must be mad.

Ahead of her, the shape of a wooden tower appeared out of the gloom, gray against black. The mare turned, following the path, but Zoë's attention was drawn upwards. The men in the tower were stirring and she could hear them whispering to one another. "What is it?" Her voice carried well in the quiet darkness.

"There's a noise, upslope. The Romans are moving around."

Zoë reined in the mare and turned to the west. Sighing at the interruption, she settled her breathing and brought a litany to mind, letting the words focus her will and sight. Patterns unfolded in her mind, brilliant flowers with infinite petals. When she was done, she raised her head and looked upon the nighted world with burning eyes. The slope stood out in sharp relief, studded with burned-out farmhouses, copses of trees, hedgerows and stone walls.

In this early hour, it boiled with movement. Thousands of flamelike apparitions filed down the slope, wending their way through the hedges and yards, crowding on the roads. Zoë felt a cold shock run through her, seeing the glittering yet subtle array of patterns moving with the army, rolling across the fields. Thaumaturges walked at the head of each column, a shuttered lantern held up behind them, guiding the legionaries. Others would be crouching in the darkness, on the ridgeline, bending their will upon the Arab soldiers sleeping behind the parapet and wall, soothing their minds with thoughts of sleep and home and safety.

"Rouse the camps!" she shouted. The side of the tower was close at hand and she leapt from the back of the startled mare, seizing the rough wooden poles. She swarmed up into the tower, a battle meditation hurrying through her mind. "Sound the alarm! The Romans are attacking!"

The men in the tower gaped at her, faces glowing in her witch-sight. The enemy pattern clung to them like a gossamer web, fouling their thoughts. Zoë cursed and sketched a sign in the air, drawing power from the mud and earth below, then made a ripping motion. Both men suddenly startled awake, alert. "Now, you fools!"

Turning, she drew her hands fiercely inward, bending her will onto the stone and rock and wood surrounding her. Below the tower, pools of water dried up, hissing into the soil, and the air trembled. An alarm bar began to ring, hammered by one of the watchmen. Zoë stabbed her hands out, unfolding her palms, and light blossomed in the dark.

There was a shockingly loud
boom
and the sky lit with a brilliant white flare. All across the slope, suddenly transfixed by the burst of light, thousands of Romans halted in shock, seeing every gyre and barn and tree silhouetted by the intense radiance.

"To arms!" Zoë shouted, her voice magnified, rolling like thunder. "To arms!"

Dwyrin did not pause at the flash. He had seen the sudden surge of power behind the enemy line, the spiking gradient indicating a sorcerer at work. He ran forward, his own witch-sight showing the rocks in the road, the twists and turns of the path. Vladimir was right behind him, relying on his own preternaturally keen vision. Nicholas huffed along at the rear, trying to keep both of them in sight. He flinched away from the blinding radiance.

"What in Hel's name was that?" He sounded surprised. The Hibernian was not.

"The enemy just figured out we're coming," Dwyrin shouted over his shoulder. "They've their own thaumaturges, you know."

An hour before, Dwyrin had presented himself at the thaumaturges' encampment. He had been met by an all-too-familiar set of dour faces. The Western sorcerers did not approve of having an Eastern neophyte foisted on them. It spoiled their charts of organization and hierarchy. Worse, the intruder was a mere boy and only a second-circle apprentice at that. After some vigorous discussion between Nicholas and the tribune in charge of the thaumaturges, it was grudgingly agreed that he would act as a "skirmisher" in front of the main body of the army.

Dwyrin stayed out of the conversation, telling Nicholas
sotto voice
that the Western Emperor Galen had used junior thaumaturges in such a way during the Persian campaign. The historical precedent did not appease the Western mages. They had a plan for the coming battle, and it depended on the skill of many working together. Dwyrin felt a chill in his stomach when the Western tribune deigned to explain it to him.

When he and Zoë and Odenathus and Eric had worked together, they could have done such a thing. Now, with their five scattered by fate and reduced by death, Dwyrin didn't have the training or the rapport with these Western sorcerers to attempt such a working. In the battle today, he would be a dangerous irritation.

Running in the darkness, letting his physical body work up a sweat, was an excellent distraction for his angry mind. Of course, most of the Western plan had just been thrown out the window, too, so that was fine. Now he could improvise! He skidded to a halt. The column of legionaries he was following poured past a farmhouse with a stone barn. He grabbed Vladimir and Nicholas, drawing them off the road. "There's a barn here. We can get on the roof. Come on."

"The roof?" Nicholas panted, his armor weighing heavy. Long sea voyages filled with a lot of eating and sleeping did nothing for his physical conditioning. "Why?"

"So I can see the enemy. Come on, you've got to keep my body safe."

"We do? Who would want to eat you?" Vladimir made a face, but Dwyrin was already scrambling up the side of the barn. "Ah, Nicholas, the barn is this way."

"Right. Climb a barn in the middle of battle." Nicholas found the wall with an outstretched hand. He hated being the blind one. "A fine plan. Sounds like one of yours!"

The attack is here,
Zoë snapped, feeling Odenathus' surprise through the battle-meld.
Opposite the second military gate.
Around the base of the tower, the Sahaba swarmed up onto the wall, many carrying their helmets and armor. The last two days had been quiet, interrupted only by scattered clashes between Khalid's light horse and the Roman picket lines in the woods. Yesterday there had been a fight near the northern end of the circumvallation. Sahaban troops cutting firewood had been attacked by a Roman cohort, but Shadin's heavy horse had driven off the Western troops after a brief melee in the olive groves. Mohammed and Khalid had been sure the enemy would wait for more troops to come up from the port at Perinthus before they attacked.

Yes, tell Mohammed it's the whole bloody Roman army. I can see them from here.
Zoë ignored her cousin's imprecations, turning her attention to the broad swath of barren ground before the wall. Arab archers crowded the parapet, stringing their bows, dragging up baskets of arrows to sit beside them. The sea voyage from Caesarea had given the Sahaba plenty of time to cut, trim and fletch. Men in heavier armor were waiting close by, ready to swarm up to the fighting platform when things came to hand strokes.

Zoë frowned, watching the enemy moving forward, swiftly, even in the darkness. Patterns began to emerge, cohorts and maniples forming up. They came on at a steady pace, ignoring the fading brilliance in the sky. The faint blue glow of a battle-ward rolled forward with them. Now, as she watched, it strengthened and the muted noise of an army on the march swelled.
They are adapting,
she thought, her mouth dry.
Where are Mohammed and Odenathus?

The Palmyrene queen decided to take matters into her own hands. Even on fast horses, the two men would take at least an hour to reach her position. "Blessed Dusarra, stand by me," she whispered, raising her arms to the sky. Silvery mail rippled, her cloak falling behind her. Power flowed in the air and the ground, some hidden deep, some riding on the surface. Her fingers dragged at the flow, summoning strength. "Smite our enemies," she shouted, stabbing out a fine-boned hand at the advancing ranks of the Romans.

The earth shook and there was a deep-throated
boom
. The barn trembled, spitting dust from cracks between the stones, but did not collapse. A half-mile away, on the sloping plain, a huge blossom of flame roared up. Even at this distance, Dwyrin could hear the screams of men and the panicked shouting of their fellows. The Shield of Athena that the Western thaumaturges had been extending over their soldiers rippled, fracturing. The Hibernian nodded to himself, fists clenching and unclenching.

"Gods!" breathed Vladimir. "They've a firecaster!"

"No." Dwyrin's voice was hollow. "
Here
is a firecaster."

In his heart, the sign of fire blossomed, and he knew that his time had come at last. His talents and fate had led him to this place and this day. Now, with a grim face, the boy from a distant island would show his power. He chopped a hand down, letting the sign fly free.

The hidden world shuddered, a brilliant trace of pure white light leaping from the barn roof to the distant wooden tower. The arc of lightning shrieked above the heads of men, driving many to the ground, cowering in fear, and struck the base of the tower like the hammer of the gods.

BOOM!

Zoë screamed, hurling herself into the air in a mad effort to flee. Her personal ward was suddenly slammed with an enormous, sky-encompassing blast of fire and light and shattered wood and vaporized, superheated mud. She tumbled in the air, flying over the camp of the Sahaba, and slammed to the ground against the other parapet wall. Behind her, the tower was gone, flung skyward in a thousand burning fragments. Men shrieked, burning, thrown down in drifts by the blast. The roar of flames and the rush of a huge column of smoke swallowed their cries. White clouds boiled up, painted violent red and orange by the lake of flame leaping and hissing where the tower had been.