The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  The thin line of Arabic camelry on the far left wing gave way in the face of a massed charge by Vahan's Armenians. The bandits fell back in haste. Some dismounted and shot with their bows from behind their ungainly mounts. All that stood on the enemy's wing was a camp of lashed-together wagons and carts at the base of one of the tumbled lava cones. Theodore smiled, seeing the opportunity open for Vahan to turn and roll up the entire enemy line. "Well done!"

  – |Dust plumed from the dry ground and the Armenian general reined in his horse. Around him, his kinsmen crowded with their armored horses, sun glaring from their armor. It was burning hot in the neck-to-toe suits of iron. An arrow spiraled out of the sky and glanced from his breastplate. The cheap iron tip shattered, but the Armenian only grunted. The bandits had scattered before his charge, but they were still lurking about, sniping with their bows.

  "Get those bastards away from that camp! Wheel to the right," he shouted, voice booming from the helmet. He chopped his hand towards the slopes of the hill. The legionaries were still grinding forward, toiling up the slope. His bannermen heard him, and their tall flags dipped and swayed, indicating the direction of movement. It would take a bit to rein in all his men. Some had ignored orders and were nosing about the camp, doubtless out for a bit of loot.

  Cataphracts milled around, trying to redress their lines. Some of the men unshipped long horse bows and were shooting at the Arabs hiding behind their camels and in the circle of wagons in the pass between the big hill and its lesser cousin. The ground was getting rough, littered with head-sized stones and larger boulders. Crossing the wadi had been difficult, but now the ground was worsening.

  "Advance at a walk!" Vahan turned his own horse and lumbered up the slope towards the cone-shaped hill. "In good range, shoot, then close with sword and mace."

  The Armenians, still scattered across the swale between the two hills, began to drift to the right, following the wail of their trumpets and the signal flags. Vahan motioned to one of his lieutenants, a cousin, who commanded his light horse.

  "Vargir, screen that camp and keep the camelmen off our flank. That bastard Prince will get his victory, I suppose, but it will be hard going up this hill."

  The man nodded, pushing a blue-felt cap back on his head. Like the other horsemen in his band, he wore a leather jerkin reinforced with iron rings, and was armed mainly with a horse bow and a stabbing sword. "As you say, lord."

  Vahan turned away, ignoring the motion of the scouts as they peeled off from his main force. The ground was worsening, and the Arabs had turned the end of their line. Now they faced him at an angle, with crowds of men with spears and brightly painted shields among the boulders and rocks. He swore, but urged his horse forward. At least he was facing out of the sun.

  – |"Run!" Odenathus tugged hard at Zoe's arm, then scooped her up in one motion. Despite her weight and his own burden of armor and fatigue, the young Palmyrene Prince sprinted away from the outcropping of rock. The infantry screening them from the battle had been swallowed up in the racket of steel and iron downslope. Despite the addition of Hadad's fighters, the Decapolis troops had been forced back again. Boys carrying amphorae hurried along the line, bringing water to groups of men that were resting just out of the battle. A constant stream of wounded staggered up the slope from the rear of the rebel line.

  The ground was littered with the bodies of those who had failed to flee.

  The air over the outcropping convulsed, distorting like heat rising over a campfire. For an instant, the clouds in the sky behind the distortion could be seen reflected a thousand times, faceted like the surface of a jewel. Odenathus threw himself to the ground, covering his cousin's body with his own, and clapped his hands over his ears.

  The ground where they had stood spasmed violently and then burst into a whirl of violet fire. Men in the rear ranks of the Decapolis regiments screamed in fear and then burst into flame. A huge boom echoed across the battlefield and splinters of rock rained down on the two Palmyrenes as they cowered on the ground.

  "So much," Odenathus croaked, wiping blood out of his eyes, "for our battle sorcery."

  He could barely move. His limbs cramped painfully. The two of them had held the Roman thaumaturges at bay for almost five hours. Despite the agony in his muscles, he hooked his cousin's arm in his and began dragging himself across the ground, away from the outcropping.

  – |"We are Your servants, O most mighty and merciful Lord. Your will is our will."

  Mohammed stood, cloak flapping in a stiff breeze blowing up from the east. His face was grim and set, for he saw now, having opened his eyes at last, that his army had been ground back against the base of the hill. The right flank had been bent back perpendicular to the main line of battle. Where the camelry had been driven back, the last of the Decapolis reserves had shored up the line, fighting amongst jagged black boulders. The slope there was getting steep, which let the infantry gain an advantage over the Roman cavalry for the moment. Even from this distance, he could pick out individual men fighting, struggling in the mass of melee, their shields and swords streaked with blood. A steady stream of the wounded spilled away from the back of the line. The Romans were pressing hard against their foe.

  But still, the Arabs fought on, falling back slowly. Their spears and swords were still sharp and the ground where the battle passed was littered with the dead and wounded, with shattered armor and broken shields. Beyond the fighting, the Arab encampment was surrounded by a swirl of Roman auxiliaries exchanging bow shot with defenders crouched behind wagons and carts. Most of those in the camp would be women or servants or older men who could no longer stand in the main line of battle.

  A woman of the people, Mohammed thought, who knows the drawing of a bow, is blessed.

  The sun was beginning to fall to the west, but the full heat of midday was strong on the land. The sky had faded from blue to dusty white. The heat shimmer from the valley floor was thick, distorting sight and confusing distance.

  Too, forces worked in the air. Green flame stabbed out of the sky, lighting amongst a troop of Arab cavalry rushing to shore up the right wing of his army. Horses screamed and men died, wrapped in a fire that burned flesh and armor alike. Mohammed snarled in rage, seeing the power of his enemies at play among his troops, unfettered.

  He squinted, but could not make out the banners of the Palmyrene regiment that he had set to defend Queen Zoe and her cousin. If they are dead… He halted the thought. Khadijah was dead, too, and his family left far behind. There was a power that called to him, that directed his thoughts and his actions. There was no need to wail at fate.

  His hand came to rest on the hilt of his saber. The men and women of his city forged this blade. He could feel their faith trembling under his hand. The sword carried the sense of the black stone resting in the shrine of the Ka'ba, in the most holy place of his people. When he touched the ebon metal, he felt the presence that dwelt in the empty places.

  "O Lord of the Heavens, most gracious and most merciful, put forth Your strength…"

  Sunlight winked on armor and lance tips, there behind the conical hill rising behind the embattled camp off to the north. Green and white pennons snapped in the rising wind.

  – |Cornicens blew, ringing clear in the air. Colonna ignored them, though they sounded the call to stand down and re-form the line. The man in front of him, a man in half-armor and a sharp conical helmet wrapped in white linen, was busy hewing at his shield. The man's curved sword bit into the edge of the big rectangular scutum and Colonna felt the blow slam against his arm. Other men were struggling all around them. The Roman line had splintered on the rough slope, losing cohesion. Luckily, the enemy was exhausted and unable to exploit the opportunity. He stabbed, hard, with his gladius and the Arab skipped aside.

  The sword whipped around again and Colonna managed to drag the shield into the stroke. Splinters flaked from the back of the panel, stabbing at his eye. He cursed, hacking blindly at the enemy. Suddenly there was a gurgling cry a
nd a clatter as the saber fell to the stones. Colonna blinked, seeing another legionnaire wrenching his sword from the Arab's side.

  "My thanks," the centurion rasped. The legionary, his face gaunt with weariness, nodded dully. Dried gore caked the man's hauberk and his arms were seeping blood from a dozen cuts.

  The cornicens blew again and Colonna shook his head, wiping blood out of his eyes. Sweat leaked from his armor, mixing with the dust caking his legs. I've got to get the lads back in line.

  "Form up! Fourth of the Sixth of the Third, form on me!"

  Other legionaries stumbled towards him. The Third had suffered today, going uphill against these bandits. Unexpectedly, the enemy had been better armed and armored than the Romans. Too many of the new lads were lacking quality gear. They had been mustered too quickly. Their own cavalry trotted past and Colonna stared at them in surprise. These men were fresh, with their tunics clean and weapons dry. Upslope, the Arabs were falling back again, their lines tattered and disjointed, but they still stood firm amongst the black rocks. A column of fresh infantry came marching up the hill and Colonna ordered his men to stand aside. That bastard of a Prince isn't going to let up, is he? Good for him!

  – |Theodore took a moment to dismount and refresh himself in the shade of one of the pavilions. One of the servants brought him a porcelain bowl of water to lave his face and a clean towel. Things were well in hand on the field below. It might be time to deliver the final stroke.

  "Lord Prince?"

  Theodore turned at the voice, grinning, for he owed much to the tired-sounding man standing beside the tent. He finished drying his hands and then gestured for a chair to be brought immediately. Servants scurried off to find something suitable. "Master Demosthenes! You are most welcome! Please, sit."

  The thaumaturge slumped into a camp chair. Theodore motioned for wine and something to eat. Demosthenes was exhausted, his long face graven with weariness. His beard, usually neatly trimmed and brushed, was tangled with sweat and dust. Dark smudges colored his eyes and there was the mark of bruising and a burn on his right hand.

  Wine arrived, in a silver ewer, and Theodore poured it himself. The thaumaturge put the cup to his lips and drank greedily, though his hands were shaking. "That was hard work, today." Demosthenes' voice was a harsh whisper. Theodore leaned close to hear him. "Their sorcerers were young and strong. Well trained in the art."

  "How many were there?" Theodore had begged, borrowed and stolen every thaumaturge he could lay his hands on for this campaign, stripping the entire eastern half of the Empire, including the garrisons in upper Mesopotamia. It might be traditional for the thaumaturges to be parceled out, one or two to each legion for siege work and to block the sendings of the enemy, but Theodore had bigger plans in mind. He had seen the power the Western Empire brought to bear with a massed group of mages. The powers of the Persian priests were legendary… why not match them, strength for strength?

  "Not many," the thaumaturge said, some strength returning to his voice, "but they stood only on defense, while we must make do with attack. It is draining work, trying to twist the world that way. Still, we overcame them…" He paused, and Theodore could see that the man was sifting memory, trying to find a pattern in the day's chaos.

  "Why," Demosthenes said, surprise in his voice, "I believe there were only two! But skilled, my lord, and well used to one another… perhaps brother and sister. Great strength can be had that way, if the minds can find a common join."

  The Lord Prince stood, grinning from ear to ear. "But not enough to carry the day, master wizard!"

  Not enough. The Prince swung around, his step light. He looked west, checking the sun. There were still hours of light left. Enough time to smash the Arab army into the dust.

  "Send word to the mages' encampment," he called to a courier rider that was standing close by; "tell them their work is done for the day. Tell them to rest, to recover their strength."

  – |"All day we wait, sitting and getting fat." The Tanukh's voice was low, but it carried to where Khalid was sitting on his horse, half shaded, half covered by the overhanging branches of a thorn tree. The young commander feigned deafness, brilliant eyes focused on the clouds of dust rising beyond the pass and the two dark hills.

  "The city men, they are being heaped with glory. Soon they will rest in soft paradise, their every whim catered to by white-limbed maidens with long, rich hair…" Shadin had been dwelling overmuch on this topic throughout the long, endless day. "…each a virgin and willing, even eager, to learn from a man's hand. Soft-spoken, too, and demure, with downcast eyes."

  Khalid ignored him. The big Persian, Patik, waited quietly behind him, squatting in the shade of a thorn tree. The rest of the men were resting in whatever shade they could find, or moving quietly among the horses.

  Beyond the little pass, the battle had moved away to the left, though there was still some fighting around the encampment. Khalid ignored that. The wagons were empty, the carts overturned. The camp followers were within, it was true, along with some men wounded earlier in the campaign. The Romans were more interested in the mass of Arab and Decapolis troops now fighting on the shoulders of the hill where Mohammed's banner and tents stood. He squinted, watching a singular figure, dressed in white and brown, standing on the height.

  The Romans can see him, too, Khalid mused, his thoughts disguised behind a carefully bland face. But will they know what they see? Can they feel him, their sorcerers?

  "These men of the city, they are dying with the word of god on their lips. They will find Paradise." Shadin was still holding forth to the men of his squad, most of whom were trying to sleep, upon the world that awaited them after death. "They will find two cool gardens planted with shady trees, each watered by a flowing spring. Every tree, for I have heard it from his lips myself, will bear every kind of fruit, each in pairs."

  Distantly, horns blew and Khalid sat up a little straighter. His eyes swerved to the hilltop. The lone figure remained, standing on the dark boulder, wind blowing its robes out like a flag. The young man looked back to the pass, eyes narrowing. He could see a great flock of banners and pennons moving, as if a mass of mounted men were coming up out of the streambed.

  Khalid hissed in delight. Behind him, Patik's cold gray eyes flickered open and the Persian diquan stood. His lamellar armor of overlapping iron plates rippled like a snakeskin. Gentling his horse, the easterner mounted. The other men, roused by the movement, looked to their own horses. Shadin, interrupted in the middle of a long and detailed description of the "dark-eyed houris," scrambled to his feet.

  Khalid ignored them all, his full attention focused on the hilltop. He ignored the sky darkening behind them.

  Light flashed there, from metal turning across the path of the sun, across the mile or more of scrub and twisted thornbush. Khalid felt something like a physical shock as the tiny figure on the boulder turned and looked at him.

  "Mount up!" Khalid's voice carried, strong and clear, across the rocky hillside. Hundreds of men scrambled for their horses, armor jingling in the hot afternoon air. Ahead of them, scouts raised their heads, preparing to rise and run alongside. "Paradise is waiting!"

  – |"This is the last act," Theodore said to the cluster of courier riders waiting beside his pavilion. They were very young, these scions of the great houses. For many, this was their first campaign. As had generations before them, they would run errands and messages for the cataphracts, for the nobles who commanded the armies of the Eastern Empire, even-as now-for the Lord Prince himself. Someday these boys would carry the lance, bow and sword of the cataphract themselves.

  Theodore smiled genially, seeing their tense, determined faces. "We have held back our full strength throughout the day, waiting for the enemy to weaken. Now he has been driven back onto his camps, or onto that hillock yonder, where his tents lie. Go down into the valley and carry word to the centurions that the exhausted men are to fall back, while fresh troops take their place."

  He clapped hi
s hands sharply in dismissal and turned away. The boys scrambled for their ponies. "Boleslav!"

  "Ja, altjarl?"

  "We move, too. Have the servants break camp. I wish to see the end of this myself."

  There was laughter amongst the Faithful, for their axes were hungry. It was boring, sitting on the hilltop. Red cloaks moved swiftly as Theodore swung into the saddle of his stallion. By the time he spurred the horse onto the trail leading down to the valley floor, a cordon of great-thewed Northmen surrounded him. The Prince laughed as he walked the stallion down the slope, the Northmen running at his stirrups. The wind of his passage dispelled a little of the day's heat. It was good to feel the air on his face.

  – |Colonna stepped off the roadway, motioning for the men behind him to do the same. He had wrapped a cloth around his face to keep the dust off. The road they followed was barely a track. It meandered down from between the two dark hills and crossed a deep ravine lying behind the Roman camp. A rider had found Colonna and his detachment sitting in the shade of some stunted trees lining the little streambed. The boy directed them back to the main camp, beyond the hill and beyond the ravine. The centurion shrugged and rousted his men.

  Now the road was crowded with wounded men as they approached the bridge.

  It wasn't much to look at, this bridge, only a single arch of stone over the narrow slot of the ravine, but it was still standing. Men and horses and wagons carrying those too wounded to walk were backed up on the near side of the crossing. There was only room enough for a single wagon to cross at a time. The ravine, steep sided and choked with brush, was impossible to cross.

  "Make way! Make way!" A rider on a well-lathered horse trotted up behind Colonna and his men. A troop of men in heavy armor, their helmets held on their saddlebows, followed. They looked weary and hot and Colonna could see from the make of their armor and saddles that they were not regular Legion troopers.