The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  "No one else," Dummonus said, "can boast of a tandem on the wire as we make."

  Vitellix nodded, his face still glum. "There will be riots and unrest in the city soon, or so it is rumored. Perhaps the games will be canceled."

  Dummonus smiled faintly. He and Vitellix had known each other for a long time. "I think not. This is Rome, remember? The citizens love their panes et circi more than the gods."

  "True." Vitellix straightened up, drawing upon some inner strength. "I have to find us a patron, which is unlikely if we are touring the sticks. Tomorrow, friends, we shall make our way to Rome and see what we may see."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Caesarea Maritima, The Coast of Judea

  The sound of waves crashing on rocks rolled out of the darkness. The shore was close, booming like a great drum, and the wave surge under the boat echoed each crash. Zoe was tied to the short-stepped mast of the second boat. Within an hour, the sun would rise, but now she was shivering in darkness, eyes closed in concentration. Around her, men labored on the sweeps, driving the boat downshore, with the wind whispering out of the right quarter.

  The wind was supposed to die down by night. It had not. The sea had been rough when they had pushed the boats out into the surf at Krokodeilon. Two boats had keeled over in heavy waves, crushing many of their passengers, and then the rest had drowned in the rough water. There was no good harborage at Krokodeilon, only a steep beach and a landward wind.

  The only good harbor was somewhere ahead. The roar of the sea led them on, for the Romans had built a vast breakwater out from the barren shore. When Zoe concentrated she could hear a wind bell sounding over the crash of the waves. A light, dull and green in the fog, gleamed and shifted in the sky.

  "We're too close to the breakwater," Zoe called to the men on the steering oars. "Swing to sea." They struggled manfully to turn the boat away, across the rolling waves.

  Zoe let herself relax into the ropes that bound her to the mast. She grimaced at the night, feeling the enormous strain of keeping the air cold. Fog boiled and writhed around the boats as they crabbed out to sea, trying to avoid the massive breakwater lurking in the landward darkness. By any right, the wind should have torn the fog from the wavetops and pushed it inland over the miles of sandy flat lying behind the harbor. Zoe couldn't stop the wind-it had been sweeping for hundreds of miles over the open water-but she could keep the air cold above the warm sea.

  In any case, the wind was heavy from the southwest and that was exactly what she wanted. From that quarter, it blew directly into the anchorages on the outside of the breakwater, keeping the ships there battened down.

  Veils of mist parted and something loomed out of the darkness. Zoe let some of her thought seep into sight and the darkness faded, replaced by the glittering shapes of the hidden world. A towering statue hove into view as the boat rode up on the crest of a wave. A man's face a dozen feet high jutted from the darkness. Behind him stood two more towering figures.

  Supporting them, rising steeply from the massive bulk of the harbor entrance, was a slab of stone sixty feet high. The stone men faced the sea, heads turned to the west.

  "Turn in, turn in!" Zoe suddenly remembered that the men on the oars could not see in the darkness. Off to the right, the green light flickered again, eighty feet above the water. In its muted gleam, another set of colossi were revealed. The entrance to the harbor was a hundred feet wide, filled with the boil and churn of the sea. Zoe breathed a prayer that she was riding a shallow-draft fishing boat. Her witch-sight revealed jagged wrecks beneath the surging waters.

  The lead boat, shrouded lanterns bobbing at the stern to guide the following ships, passed between the colossi. Then Zoe's boat was surging into the great sweep of the harbor. To her right, the watching gods passed away into the murk, their crowns of green fire swallowed by darkness. Zoe shuddered, chilled, and turned her attention to the pattern she was holding in the sea.

  In a way, it was an easy matter to force her will in the hidden world upon the liquid gleam of the air, slowing down the flickering, gelid sparks that sped over the waters. As they slowed in their frantic dance, a vast and invisible swarm of minute bees, the temperature in the air dropped. At the same time, all that vigorous energy had to go somewhere, so she urged it into the rolling surface of the waves. Then the sea warmed, excited to infinitesimal motion. Where the chilling air and the turbid, warm sea met, mist boiled up. Zoe's forehead creased with effort. With the remaining six boats within the arms of the harbor, she could release her hold on the sea beyond the breakwater.

  Like everything the Romans did, the harbor was massive. Even in the darkness, with her witch-eyes stinging from the sea spray, Zoe could see a forest of masts lining the harbor wall. The Roman fleet was riding easy in harbor, sheltered from the wind that whined and moaned up out of the southwest. From Tyre in the north to Gazzah in the south, this was the only safe harbor for the Roman fleet. Fog and mist filled the four-mile-long basin, thickening up from the glassy waters. Zoe urged it to spill over the circular terrace filling the landward side of the harbor. There were more quays and piers there, crowded with ships. Heavy fog swallowed them, wrapping itself around their masts and flooding through the hatchways in their pine decks.

  Zoe and her boat reached a small pier along the short, northern wall of the harbor breakwater. Towers loomed out of the mist, jutting from the breakwater at regular intervals.

  Two of the Sahaba experienced with the merchant ships of the Al'Quraysh jumped from the front of the boat onto the pier. They lashed the boat to the stone mooring posts and then drew their swords. The side of the boat creaked against mossy stone, the sound muffled by the fog. They had seen no one yet, but everyone was sure that guards must be posted nearby. More sailors untied Zoe from the mast and helped her out of the boat. She felt weak. Even moving heat out of the air and into the water took a toll on her.

  If Dwyrin were here, he'd have done it without a thought.

  Zoe sighed as she staggered across the damp stones to the stairs that ran up from the dock to the ramparts of the harbor wall. She sat heavily, her legs trembling with the effort of walking. But he's not and should I see him again, all ungainly ears and that damned red hair, it will be a cold business between us.

  "You must get to some cover, my lady."

  Zoe looked up, raising her head from her hands. She had almost fallen asleep. The mist was falling over the town like slow rain, drenching the streets and rooftops with a thick dew. Blinking, she made out the face of the noble Khalid in the washed-out, gray light. He was leaning over her, his liquid brown eyes filled with concern.

  Surely concerned, snarled Zoe to herself. All his blessed plan depends on me and my skill. If I fail, he fails and his precious pride would fall hard.

  "Of course," she said, looking away, the corner of her mouth twitching.

  Khalid grunted and leaned down, sliding his arm under hers and lifting her up. He was a lithe, pretty man, with long eyelashes and a mane of rich, dark hair. It reminded Zoe of her own, back in some sunlit summer day of her youth. He seemed untouched by the cruel business of war, still young and smiling, his white teeth gleaming in a sun-darkened face. Zoe lay stiff in his arms, but he affected not to notice and strode up the steps, blade rattling at his side. The column of bowmen followed him up the stairs.

  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. Zoe 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 Zoe into a chair facing the gate.
Exhausted, Zoe 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. Zoe'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. Zoe 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 Zoe did not turn around to see the handsome face wreathed in triumph. "Do you hear the god of the wasteland speaking?"

  Zoe 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. Zoe 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 Zoe'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 Zoe, 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.

  Zoe, 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, Zoe 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 Zoe?"

  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, h
er 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, Zoe, 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.