"We expect a massive, sharp attack somewhere along the line today. There is no 'funnel' in the ground to the east, no natural avenue of advance. It's all open, rolling dunes, salt scrub and scrawny trees." The prince measured the map with his hand. "Their army is mixed, horse and foot alike. Were it mostly horse, I think they would attack along the axis of the old road—the footing is better. But now... I think they may attempt to strike at the southern end of the fortifications."
Sextus and Frontius examined the map. The Roman walls ran south into the huge extent of swamps and bogs making up the reed sea. Another five miles south of the last Roman bastion, the dam lay hidden among the sprawling wetlands. The junction of the marsh and the fortified walls was held by offsetting way forts, the two dry canals and—behind the entire defense—the camp of the First Minerva, their own veteran Legion.
"You think they'll try and break through, to swing south of the town," Frontius said. "Cutting us off from retreat, save over the Nile bridge. We'd be bottled up in Pelusium itself."
Aurelian nodded, but he did not seem convinced. "There's no reason to besiege the town—not if they can isolate us here and go around. Then we'd be forced to abandon the entire position, to fall back and defend the delta and Alexandria. The bridge is narrow—we'd take some time withdrawing across the span. So—I want the two of you at the southernmost mirror tower by daylight. If the Persians break across both ditches, I want the dam opened."
Sextus saluted, acknowledging the order. "Should we give the men in the forward works time to fall back across the second canal, if the first wall is breached?"
Aurelian's lips quirked into a grim smile. "Once the dam is opened, the canals will flood all the way to the sea within two hours. Time enough for the Persians to get their neck out of the trap. But I will not be there, Sextus. You will have to use your own judgment. Of course, when I send the signal—"
"—we will obey instantly, Caesar!" Frontius managed a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Good. Now, go." Aurelian turned away. Servants were waiting with his armor, a single-piece breastplate of Indian steel, etched with the eagle and laurel crown of Rome and designed to fit over a mail shirt. Other slaves held his long single-edged cavalry sword, a plain, battered helmet, and a broad leather belt. Both engineers saluted, then hurried out. The southern mirror tower was five miles away, down roads sure to be crowded with men moving up to the fortifications.
In the east, the sky was still dark, without even a hint of the coming sun.
—|—
Zoë knelt on the rolled-up edge of her cloak, among a field of stumps, beside the old Roman road. Lines of men in armor tramped past along the raised highway, starlight glimmering on their helms, each man watching his file leader, following the bare gleam of hooded lanterns. The armies of Persia, the Decapolis and the Arab tribes had been in motion for more than two hours. Zoë shut the sound of boots and sandals on stone and sand out of her mind, fingertips pressed to her temples. She let her mind settle, let her thoughts calm.
One by one is one, she thought, two by two is four. Three by three is nine. Five by five, twenty-five. Seven by seven... The pattern steadied her, let the physical world fall away, a veil of silk unclasped. The so-familiar image of a dodecahedron spun in her thoughts, burning bright, brighter than the pale stars. Only a bitter taste in her mouth and a half-heard chirping of crickets sullied the vision. The presence of the lord Dahak was constantly upon her, a greasy tight film on her flesh, hidden iron in her mind.
The sorcerer crouched in the fallen orchard as well, though he wore the tall, powerfully muscled shape of his servant, Arad. The iron mask, the jackal snout, were bent as if in prayer. Zoë turned her attention away, banishing a familiar distraction.
He is well made, whispered a faint, thready voice in her mind. My beloved.
The dodecahedron swelled, split apart, fractured into dozens of similar geometries, then split again. A flood of shining motes darted away and Zoë looked upon the hidden world, blazing bright.
The columns of soldiers shone with ruddy light, the road a dull blue streak, the distant fortifications of the Romans a shining golden wall. Immediately to hand, the shape of the jackal was a black void, without the inner fire of a human soul or even the flickering pattern of an animal or bird. Behind the sorcerer, beside Zoë, Odenathus was also preparing himself, a steady forge-red pattern, all confidence and strength.
Auntie, be quiet, Zoë thought, only the barest fraction of attention upon her mind's companion. I must prepare. There are Romans to kill. Despite everything, the prospect roused a trickle of anticipation in her heart. The voice dimmed, though the Palmyrene girl could half-sense loss, sadness, and a flicker of electric blue eyes. Our master is distracted, but he is not a fool.
I understand. The Queen's voice receded into an inner, unmapped distance. Dusares watch over you, child.
Zoë grimaced, though her waking mind continued its plunge into the matrices of the hidden. A pattern of defense built around her, swirling with half-seen glyphs and words of power. She reached out to Odenathus, felt his familiar thoughts, then the shield of Athena was complete, a steadily burning blue-white sphere. One edge of the pattern enclosed the jackal, though the ebon power within the dead shape distorted the smooth surfaces, making them bend and dip like cloth pressed down by a leaden weight. The Palmyrene woman concentrated and the shield sluiced away, leaving the jackal alone and outside its aegis. The blue-white dome strengthened.
Ready? Zoë's thought brushed against her cousin.
Yes, he said and a warm sensation of eager confidence washed over her. Do you hear the horns?
Zoë let her awareness recede a step, allowing her physical senses to flood back into focus. Her skin tingled with the chill of the night; her ears heard the soft wail of horns, the quickening steps of men on the highway, the snort of horses.
The attack is beginning. She rose gracefully, feeling the mailed shirt bind against her chest, the weight of her helmet tight upon her head. The jackal echoed her motion, though the man Arad was nearly naked, only a loincloth of white cotton around his hips. Odenathus stood as well. The two Palmyrenes looked to the jackal, poised, ready to strike at the enemy.
We wait, came the powerful, crushing thought of the Lord of the Ten Serpents. Let the armies become locked in battle, all fury and hate rising up, the sky filled with spears, arrows, stones. Then the Roman wizards will be distracted and we will move against them.
His will gripped them like a vise, holding them powerless. Zoë felt darkness flood into her, felt the Queen flee deeper into the inner void, felt her limbs twitch with Dahak's intent, nerves burning with fire. She hunched down, bowing at his side.
Yes, great lord! Zoë's and Odenathus' screams were indistinguishable.
Good. Good. The power turned away for an instant, focusing on the rippling, incandescent wall of golden light. Zoë gasped for breath, wild thoughts hurrying through her mind.
What happened? Tears spilled on the ground, her arms and legs spasming. He's not afraid! He was afraid before!
She froze, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Dismay rose in her, icy water spilling into a shattered hull. What if he was only pretending fear? A ruse to snare treachery?
With a tremendous effort, bringing to mind a calming meditation, she drove the thoughts of murder and insurrection from her mind. A cold clarity settled over her.
—|—
Sextus jogged south, measuring his stride, conserving his breath. Frontius was lagging, still cursing under his breath, anger radiating from every pore.
"Dick-licking bastards! How could they steal our mules?"
Sextus ignored his friend, swerving around a wagon rumbling past. The road on the second wall was crowded with men; cohorts tramping past, torches held overhead, wagons filled with bundles of arrows, coffers of sling stones, more spears, healers in white cloaks, caduceus staves over their shoulders. The engineer pushed through a crowd of Blemmyenite archers, feathered plum
es dancing over shaven heads. Sextus broke through into a clear section of the road. Furious himself, he glanced over his shoulder for Frontius. "Don't waste your..."
The eastern sky was glowing a pale pink. Tiny, crescent-shaped clouds caught the dawn as she climbed up over the rim of the world, burning like spilled, molten gold.
"Shit!" Sextus scrambled up the nearest steps to the fighting wall. A dim light spilled across the land, picking out the roofs of the watchtowers on the first wall, ignoring the deep cavity of the dry canal. Frontius clambered up, puffing, unable to speak, his breath spent. Sextus wiped his forehead, fingers brushing against chilled metal. He stared out across the sprawling fortifications.
The edge of the sun peeked over the horizon, a single burning golden dot.
Sextus swallowed. The world seemed very quiet, still, without motion or sound.
Distantly, attenuated by the cold air, a drum boomed out a solitary deep note.
Frontius leaned on his knees, gasping for breath.
The drum boomed again and the eastern sky was suddenly filled with a black cloud, winking with silver. Sextus watched the arrows rise—so many! How could there be so many!—and then plunge down into the forward works. The sound of metal rattling on metal, raining down on wood and stone, reached across the distance. An abrupt roaring sound followed and Sextus saw a mangonel set behind the Roman lines wind back, pause, then release with a thrumming snap. Flaming pitch flew up, arcing into the sky, trailing smoke in a spiral. Thousands of tiny figures, red cloaks black in the poor light, rose up along the forward fighting wall, javelins, spears, bows at the ready.
A great shout rang back from the heavens. Flights of arrows plunged down. All along the Roman lines, mangonels and scorpions bucked and heaved, flinging burning stones, red-hot pitch, spears into the killing zone within the outer canal. Tiny figures of men toppled back from the wall. At this distance, Sextus could not see their wounds, but his memory supplied the bloody, crushed faces, the sightless eyes.
"Come on," Frontius grabbed his shoulder. "We've got to get to the signal tower."
Dust began to puff up into the sky. The sun, huge and distorted, was over the horizon, blazing light slanting down, right into Sextus' eyes. Half-blinded, he turned away. They started jogging again.
—|—
Khalid slid down the side of the dry canal, dirt spilling away under his feet. Two dozen of his men crowded around him, shields raised. His boots sank into the soft, muddy soil at the bottom of the watercourse. He was in shadow, but the Roman fortification rising up a hundred feet away was bathed in lucidly clear morning sunlight. Thousands of Sahaba swarmed across the ditch. A huge shout belled out from every throat. Khalid joined them, slipping and sliding in the mud as he tried to run forward. His bodyguards struggled alongside.
Allau ak-bar! The men climbing the far slope struggled through bundles of thorny brush intertwined with sharpened stakes. In some places, the dried thorn was already on fire, belching white smoke into a perfectly clear sky. Arrows hissed past. Khalid heard a thunk and looked over to see the iron point of a Roman shaft sticking through the nearest shield.
"Forward!" he shouted, strong, clear voice ringing out over the canal. "Forward!"
He ran on, cursing the sticky black mud clinging to his boots. Bodies littered the canal, splayed in the surprise of death, feathered with arrows or pinned by javelin bolts. A huge burning stone plunged out of the sky, spitting flame and smoke. It crashed into three of the Sahaba running ahead of Khalid. He threw himself down, shouting in alarm. The stone bounced up, splintering into hissing chunks of green flame and flew past over his head. Khalid threw aside a flame-wrapped cloak and struggled up. Most of the men around him were dead, or afire, screaming.
Gasping, he plowed onward, coated with heavy mud. His shield was gone, lost in the mire, but his right hand still clenched the blade of night in a death grip. The slope loomed above him and he stared up, seeing his men still clawing their way up the incline. More arrows spiraled down out of the sky, but most of the shafts were falling behind him. He looked back, face smeared with mud and spattered with the blood of the dead. The sky was streaked with smoke. Burning stones shrieked past overhead, plunging into the masses of men swarming down the side of the canal.
Sahaban arrows whickered past, lofted up by Arab archers crouched at the edge of the watercourse. Khalid forced himself upright, joining the great shout lifting up from hoarse throats.
Allau ak-bar! He climbed past a sharpened stake, the tip splintered and smeared with blood.
More of his guardsmen climbed behind him. Two scrambled past, spears in hand, shields slung over their backs. Khalid hacked at thornbush, clearing the dry brown thicket out of his path. The Roman fighting wall was only yards away. Men in tan cloaks struggled along the wall, hacking up at legionaries stabbing down with spears and javelins. The young Arab paused, drawing a deep breath.
"Allau ak-bar!" he screamed, sprinting up the last few yards. The words filled him with wild strength. A dying Sahaba fell back past him, throat torn out, blood spreading on his cloak. Khalid leapt onto a cockeyed siege ladder, then swarmed up the rungs, leading with the black-bladed sword. Spears jabbed at him, sliding between his legs. Frantic, he hacked down, the keen edge of the blade shearing through an oaken haft. The Roman soldier shouted in rage, flinging aside his ruined weapon.
Another spear slammed into his side and Khalid grunted as the metal rings of his armor took the blow. More Romans, faces obscured by plain iron helmets and cheek-guards, grabbed hold of the ladder and twisted sharply. Khalid shouted in dismay, then toppled back down the slope, crashing into four of his men climbing up behind him. All of them went down in a tangle, sliding into the thicket. Khalid's head smashed into the base of an angled stake and the world cartwheeled around. Stunned, he slid lower on the slope.
Men struggled above and more Sahaba fell, speared or shot at close range by Roman archers. Khalid blinked sweat and blood out of his eyes. The sun blazed down, blinding him. Nerveless, the young Arab groped for his sword. The blade of night was gone, lost somewhere on the slope. Groaning, Khalid rolled over, staring around wildly.
Hundreds of Arabs streamed back across the canal, their attack broken. Burning stones shrieked down out of the sky, crashing into the mud. Lakes of pitch burned furiously, filling the waterway with poisonous smoke. There were still knots of men fighting along the rampart, but they were dwindling in number. The legionaries concentrated their fire and rushed to shore up threatened parts of the wall.
"No," Khalid choked, barely able to speak. He felt sick, throat filled with bile. "No!"
Someone shouted above him. "There's a live one!"
Khalid froze, shoulder blades itching.
Out of the corner of his eye, something enormous moved in the sky.
—|—
"Hades!" Aurelian looked up in surprise, a wall of Praetorians in gleaming silver armor circling him. The priest Nephet was almost lost among their grim faces and muscle-bound arms, a thin, dry brown hawk in a plain robe. Black lightning flickered in a clear sky, reflecting in the prince's stunned eyes. The air above the forward wall shimmered and rippled with heat, revealing intermittent reflections of the earth below. The bulk of the bastion blocked Aurelian's view, but he could hear the sudden, strident din of battle. "Priest! What is happening?"
Nephet's thin old face grew grim, his eyes half-lidded. "The Persian magi, my lord, they are attacking the outer barrier." He leaned on his staff, attention far away. The prince saw the old man's arteries throb at the side of his throat. "Something is coming!"
Nephet's eyes flickered open, blazing with alarm. The hidden world was in upheaval, a vast, dark shape rushing towards him from the east. "To arms, my lord! The enemy is here!"
—|—
Zoë swept through the air, a hundred feet above the canal. Below her feet, she caught a glimpse of archers arrayed in ranks on the hard-packed earth. The Arabs were plucking arrows—thrust point-first into the sand—an
d fitting them to the bow. In the brief moment she perceived them, a thousand men fit fletching to thumb, lifted their bowstaves, then loosed. Iron-tipped, gray-fletched shafts snapped out across the canal, lofting high into the smoky, dust-filled air.
Before the Arabs could react to the apparition towering over them, Zoë had to look away, searching for the enemy. Dahak's will gripped her in steel fingers while she, Odenathus and Arad rushed through the air in a tight triangle. The sensation of flight was dizzying. Around them a dark haze swirled and shifted, a formidable ward radiating out from the jackal. The Lord of the Ten Serpents laughed to see their paltry shield of Athena.
You are my hounds, his thought crashed into hers. I will defend, you will attack, bright teeth deep in the Roman neck!
A vast shadow fell across the Roman fortification, mightier than the towers, spilling across the rampart, the fighting step, the crowds of legionaries staring up, eyes wide in fear, faces a sea of white ovals. Ahead, the golden wall shimmered and rippled, sheets of ghostly light falling in a slow wave down the face of the barrier. Zoë recognized the pattern—an interlocking matrix of thaumaturgic will, dozens of layers deep, constantly shifting, in endless motion to deny an enemy purchase—the battle-projection of a Roman thaumaturgic cohort. She felt the serpent's will move the colossal arm of the shadow and Zoë answered, summoning the power in the earth, invoking the flat blue shades of water, the living flame of reeds and trees. There was no stone here, not save the cut blocks of the wall's foundation, but they had been leached of power long ago.
Lightning blossomed, stabbing out from her hand as she moved her fingers in an old, old sign. The sky answered and brilliant blue-white thundered against the golden wall, ripping through gossamer, shattering delicate patterns, a sledge crashing into new-blown glass. Zoë gasped in surprise—she had never thrown such power before! A dark current boiled in her mind, flooding her senses, threatening to burst free of the binding of flesh and will. An enormous pressure crushed against her and Zoë screamed in panic, feeling the might of the Lord of the Ten Serpents flow through her.
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