The Storm of Heaven (29 page)

Mist drifted over the ramparts of the seawall, spilling between the merlons like sea foam. Khalid paced to the gates of the tower of the colossi, his burden light in his arms. Zoë struggled to keep her eyes open, but the warmth of the man's flesh and the smell of some subtle perfume tugged her towards sleep. Even the cold air seemed banished by his presence.

A towering vault passed overhead and they were in a warm, flame-shot darkness. Men were talking in low tones and there was a sound of wooden furniture being dragged across a stone floor.

"Is the tower secure?" Khalid's voice rang from the ceiling, low and penetrating.

He stooped and slid Zoë into a chair facing the gate. Exhausted, Zoë folded her hands in her lap. Perhaps she could sleep for a moment. There was still a little time until she was needed again.

Thunder rattled, growling like a giant dog in the sky. Zoë's eyes flickered open.

The gates to the tower were open, showing her the town in the early dawn light. A barricade of benches, tables and barrels had been erected across the lower half of the doorway. Her chair had been moved up onto the last table so that she could see out over the harbor and the streets of the city. Zoë cursed. She
had
fallen asleep.

In the east, beyond the red rooftops and the shining bulk of the temple of Roma Mater, thunder rumbled and there was a bright white flash.

"Mohammed is coming," said a voice from behind her. It was Khalid, the hem of his cloak dripping seawater. His voice was smiling, but Zoë did not turn around to see the handsome face wreathed in triumph. "Do you hear the god of the wasteland speaking?"

Zoë almost laughed aloud, for her empty eyes were focused on the infinite distance between the harbor tower and the unseen gate of the city. Mohammed and his army were raging at the gate, swarming forward under a storm of arrows and heavy stones flung from siege machines the Sahaba had taken from the great Roman camp at Lejjun. On those walls, Roman soldiers hurled down stones and shot crossbow bolts and arrows into the white and tan horde that surged forward with ladders and rolling towers. Lightning rippled along the gates of Caesarea, but it was not the power which moved the wind and the sun that flared so brightly.

If that power had come, the entire nine-mile circuit of the wall would have shattered, bricks burning with lime-white fire. The brick-and-tile houses would have burst, blown down in dust and ash, before such a presence. The sky would have darkened and the sun grown faint.

"I hear a proud boy pretending to hear his father knocking on the gate of heaven."

Khalid hissed in anger, then jumped down from the table. Zoë caught his eye, her face cold and forbidding.

"Lord Mohammed," she said, "does not rely solely on the power of the voice from the clear air. He owns many powerful servants, all of whom do his bidding."

She smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. This young man irritated her with his dashing looks and languid eyes. He always seemed to preen and strut, like a pampered hunting bird on the jess. His hood was invisible to most, that was all. She bit her lip to keep from laughing mockingly at him. The Queen whispered his secrets in Zoë's ear, but she withheld that knowledge from him. "Has the chain been raised?"

Khalid nodded, his nostrils flaring at the tone in her voice.

"Good," said Zoë, and she slumped back in the chair. Now she must exceed her night's effort. She folded her hands over her heart and settled her breathing.

Once more, her heart ached, wishing Dwyrin were here. This was his specialty.

Thinking of him, she called forth from her memory the sign of fire, as he had once shown her as they sat under a starlit sky, the air heavy with the smell of highland pines and burning resin. It had been cold and the air sharp. The stars bright and steady, without the flickering that they evinced in lowland climes. The sign trembled in her memory and she traced it, swiftly, in the hidden world.

Around her, in the room, the torches and lamps suddenly burst into violent flame, hissing and spitting. Sparks showered down, burning bright for a moment on the flagstones. Khalid cursed, shaking embers from his cloak.

"Outside," he shouted to the men in the room. They left quickly, climbing over the barricade.

Zoë, her face running with sweat, inverted the sign and drew greedily on the power in the air and the sea. Cold and wet she called to her, feeling her nerves burn with effort. The lamps and torches and the fire in the guardroom suddenly died. The air filled with the smell of the sea and ice. Unseen in the new darkness, she raised her hand.

All across the harbor, on every boat and barque, on the terraces and in the temples and whorehouses that crowded the edge of the docks, fire died. Lamps, candles, forges, lanterns, matches, flints all turned cold. In the temple of Roma, the priests had just lit the sacred flames, letting the finest oil burn blue white in a slender flame above the lamp dish. The high priest, stunned with horror, cried out as the fire flickered and died, leaving only a cold, dead feeling in the air.

In her chair, in the tower of Drusus, Zoë shuddered, sweating, feeling vast resistance slowly build against her. The inverted sign trembled in the hidden world and tried to right itself. But she dared not let fire bloom within the harbor, not with acres of ships riding at anchor. Ships of dried pine and tar and hempen rope, always eager to catch alight and burn fiercely right down to the water. Lord Mohammed had commanded the fleet be captured whole.

Mohammed walked along the harbor wall, his face smudged with soot. His cloak was ripped and spattered with dried blood. The Romans had fought hard here, on the rampart, trying to break through to the guardian towers flanking the harbor entrance. They had tried to break through the barrier in the seaway, but the chain-wrapped cordage had held. That had been some fierce business, fighting on the decks of the crowded galleys, keeping the Roman axmen from the chain.

Bodies sprawled on the bricks, caked with blood, heads bare, puddles of entrails and dried, sticky black fluid around them. These seemed to be citizens, clad only in bits of armor and their tunics. Their spears lay splintered on the stone walkway.

At the tower gate, the Sahaba were hauling the dead away and throwing them into the sea. The bodies fell, naked, and plunged with a sharp slap into the gray water. Their arms and armor, if they had any, were already stacked up along the platform.

Nothing shall be wasted,
he had said to his commanders.
Our enemy shall arm us.

The water at the base of the wall heaved, crowded with slick white bodies. Waves ground them against the harbor wall, leaving a bright red stain on the limestone. Gray shapes moved in the waters, serrated teeth digging into a thigh or torso, before pulling their cold feast down into the darkness. Mohammed looked away, silently chanting a prayer for the souls of those who had died in battle. At the gate, the Sahaba parted before him.

"Lord Mohammed, welcome." Khalid was just inside the door, holding a lantern. Despite its warm light, his face was drawn with weariness.

"Khalid, I am pleased to see that you are still alive."

The youth smiled, forefinger rising to trace a fresh cut along his cheek and the side of his head. Blood was caked around his ear and fouled his beard. "They tested us, but the merciful and beneficent Lord delivered us."

Mohammed shook his head. The young man was much taken, of late, with such aphorisms and sayings. The truth of the matter was the fearless strength of the Sahaba had held the tower and the seawall. Two hundred men had set forth in the boats, in the darkness. Mohammed looked around, his face heavy with sadness. Perhaps twenty remained, leaning exhausted against the wall of the tower. There were a few more down in the boats guarding the chain across the harbor mouth, sleeping, lulled by the rise and fall of the swell. Twice that many Romans lay dead, most of them just the citizens of the town, who had tried to fulfill their duty to Emperor and state.

Anger, bleak and hot like the anvil of the An'Nefud, welled up in Mohammed. For a moment, he felt sick and exhausted and tired and ready to set everything aside. Murdering clerks and cobblers in their nightshirts was not what he wanted. He put his hand, stained with gore, to his forehead. Where was the light that illuminated the world? Did it countenance this?

Listen, O man, listen to the sound of the world in the dawn time, when it was fresh and new.

Mohammed listened, hearing wind rustling in the leaves of the trees. It was a good sound. When, at last, he looked up, his exhaustion and weariness had dropped away. He saw with clear eyes once more. He stood straight again. "Where is Lady Zoë?"

Khalid gestured with a newly bandaged arm, pointing to a cot set against one wall of the octagonal room. Mohammed went there and knelt down, his face half in shadow from the nearest lantern. The girl was sleeping, deep in exhaustion, her face at peace. The Arab chieftain laid his hand on her forehead, feeling the warm heat in her skin. He smiled, his bristly white beard brushing her chin. She was snoring softly.

"Sleep, Zoë, and know that you did well."

She mumbled and turned her face to the wall. Mohammed tucked the ratty woolen cover around her before standing up. Shadin and Khalid were waiting, leaning on a table. Some of the other captains had entered and were speaking in low tones. Mohammed scratched his beard and joined them.

"Are the city and harbor ours?" He looked over them, marking wounds and leaden arms, dead eyes and stained hands.

Khalid nodded, saying, "Yes, we hold the full circuit of the wall and the town."

Mohammed tapped a blunt finger on his nose. "How many ships were lost?"

The younger man grinned. It was his plan to seize the seaward towers, tying a noose around the Roman fleet, trapping it in the great marble harbor. Khalid guessed the Romans would try to burn the ships, if they thought the "desert bandits" might capture them.

"Not many, lord. Only sixteen."

"Just those nearest the town, then." Mohammed felt a constriction in his chest ease.

"Yes, lord. Mostly merchantmen, as far as I could see from the tower. Ships newly come to the port."

"And the others?"

Khalid motioned to one of his lieutenants, a tall, quiet Persian named Patik. The man dragged a leather case of parchments up onto the table and unsnapped the bronze latch. Like many of the brigands and ruffians who rode with the young Eagle, the Persian's background was unknown to Mohammed. Many men placed themselves in the custody of the Great and Merciful One. Their past was immaterial.

Khalid spread the papers out. Each sheet was covered with neatly lettered lines of text. "This is the harbor master's tally of ships in port and their condition. The fleet has been here for some time; four months at least, since they offloaded Prince Theodore and his army. Each ship is duly accounted for here. Bless these Romans, for they are fond of their records."

Mohammed made a half-smile. The boy was taking his time, taunting Shadin and the other, older Sahaba with his cunning. He let it pass, for it inspired the other commanders to greater effort.

"How many?" Mohammed let a tone of impatience creep into his voice.

"Two hundred and nineteen, lord. Most are
triremes
and heavier galleys. Many are those big, round-bellied transports, fitted to take horses, wagons, all manner of supplies."

Mohammed let out a long hiss of breath. He was relieved. He was pleased. A spear had placed itself in his hand, as the voice had foretold.

The Great and Merciful Lord will provide
came a voice in his mind, speaking from the clear air.
See what bounty I have laid before you?

"God is great," he said, smiling upon the faithful who had followed him into this place. "Prepare the fleet to sail. Time is short, though luck has favored us."

The great gate on the road to Aelia Capitolina closed at last, as the final wagons rolled into the city. The last wagon was shrouded in dark cloth, drawn by fine black horses. In the gloom, even with the light of the torches at the gate to illuminate it, it seemed ethereal and indistinct.

The Persian, Patik, rode on the driver's board, his hands resting easy on the reins. The horses knew his will and went quietly, their heads low, their hooves ringing on the flagstones of the street. The mercenary was always gentle with them and showed long experience with all kinds of horses and riding animals. In the wagon a casket of wood and gold rode easily on a bower of pine boughs. The crushed needles sent up a sharp scent that masked the fetid smell of long-dead flesh. Patik did not notice the stench. He was oblivious to many inconsequential things.

He flipped the reins and the horses turned down one of the avenues that bisected the city. Moonlight followed the wagon but did not disturb its occupant.

The dead Queen entered the city, victorious.

Alexandros walked quickly along a colonnaded hallway, passing gardens on his right. After a moment, he heard the chuckling sound of water falling. A fifty-foot-wide vault opened to his left. Fat-bellied pillars of red granite marked a set of wide, shallow steps leading up into the
nymphaeum
. The Macedonian turned and strode up into a room in the shape of a half-circle. As he did so, the temperature cooled noticeably.

Gaius Julius was sitting on the far side of the room, in a pool of sunlight slanting down through the half-dome overhead. The opening faced the south, allowing the sun to shine directly into the
nymphaeum
without exposing the room to the blustery elements. Behind the old Roman was a platform lined with statues of the gods, the fathers of the city and notable emperors.

At the center of the rear wall, flanked by heavy figures of Apollo and Zeus, was a three-story-high fountain. Water spilled from ranks of maeneads and porpoises at the top, falling in a hazy spray over tritons and naiads writhing around the central figure of Poseidon. The passage of so much water, over so many years, had left a thick crust of salt-white rime on the outer figures. Most of Poseidon's face had been worn away.