The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  "I'm sorry, Lord Gaius, I hadn't realized we had met." Vitellix seemed a little flustered that the Roman patrician knew his name. The man waved a hand negligently in the air.

  "Oh, we've not met personally," he said, smiling again, this time at Diana and Ila. "But I have many men out and about, seeing those troupes and acts that are performing. You were most recently at Narni, I believe, with some stage tumbling and some… unexpected wire work."

  Now Lord Gaius smiled directly at Diana and she felt a chill shock, as if she had plunged her face into icy water. The man looked at her in such a raw way that she could almost feel his desire like a physical touch. With great effort she kept her face calm and smiled slightly, meeting his eyes.

  That brought a second shock, for there was something strange about them. Though surrounded by a patchwork of laugh lines and wrinkles, they seemed cold and flat, like the many-lidded eyes of a reptile. Then he looked away, back to Vitellix.

  "My agents say that your troupe is part of a very ancient and well-respected temple, the Ludus Solis. Is this true?"

  Vitellix nodded slowly, though to Diana's eye he became even more guarded than before. The Roman did not seem to notice the change.

  "Delightful! I am both honored and pleased, then, to make your acquaintance. I have not had the pleasure, despite being in Gaul more than once, to observe your temple's ancient rites."

  Vitellix cleared his throat, looking sideways at the Roman.

  "Lord Gaius, our temple is no longer so well respected. Indeed, only our small band is left of the ancient cult. Our people are much reduced since the conquest of Gaul. Yet we strive to keep the traditions alive in this modern time."

  Gaius Julius nodded, his face serious. "I understand, Vitellix," he said, touching the Gaul's arm lightly. "Many good and worthwhile things have fallen by the wayside. It seems many worthy traditions have been lost. Still, there must be hope for your temple if it has such skilled and beautiful acolytes."

  Vitellix did not look aside at Diana, keeping his eyes on the Roman. "Is there some hope that we may find a place in your agenda for these games, then? You have not seen us perform-this theater is too small for our skills."

  Gaius Julius made a dismissive gesture, indicating the seats and the backdrop and the villa with an airy wave. "This is no proper venue for the capabilities of your troupe, friend Vitellix! You need something grander, I know, with the proper machinery and some space in which to show your skill." Gaius smiled at Ila. "You cannot ride a horse in this place, young mistress! No, the likes of the Flavian are for your accomplishments."

  Diana felt Ila begin to smile and then swallow her reaction, making a terrible grimace. She felt the same way. It would be joyful indeed to show her skill, to fly in tandem with Dummonus high above a cheering crowd. The Flavian sat at the heart of Rome, the most magnificent amphitheater in the Empire. What performer did not dream of appearing there? It would certainly fill Vitellix's purse with coin.

  "We would be honored and embarrassed by your generosity, Lord Gaius, if you would consider us for a role in your production." Vitellix bowed his head, graciously, as should a client to a noble patron. Gaius Julius stood, holding out his hands.

  "Dear Vitellix, I have always wanted to see the Ludus Solis perform. It honors me that you would choose my small production for such a sacred act." He bowed as well, though not so deeply as had Vitellix. "One of my men will come to your camp tomorrow with a contract."

  Vitellix bowed again, reclaimed his hands and started up the stairs. Ila was hard on his heels, her cloak pulled tight around her. Diana felt like running swiftly up the steep marble steps herself, but she refrained and followed at a normal pace.

  "Lady?"

  Diana did not intend to turn, but Gaius Julius caught her cloak in such a way, as she stepped up, that the cloth fell away from her head and shoulder. She turned, her face impassive, and looked down upon him. Gaius had stepped up as well, catching both hems of her cloak in his hands. He looked upon her with delight, the corners of his mouth turning up.

  "You are as beautiful as they said. Would you stay a little while with me?"

  "I am sorry, Lord Gaius," she said in a toneless voice, "I must go."

  One eyelid flickered as he digested her refusal. Diana could feel the others watching from above. Vitellix's anger seemed palpable in the air, interwoven with the sharpness of Ila's fear. Gaius Julius smiled again.

  "My dear, there is no reason to hurry. The night is still half formed, an infant! It would please me and gain much for your temple." He took her hand in his and she quailed inwardly. He was cold, too, like a stone. "Tarry a little and I will show some of the wonders of this house."

  "I will not," she said, her voice rising minutely. She turned her hand from his grip with an easy motion. A flicker of anger crossed his face and he grabbed at her wrist. Without thinking, she slipped from his grasping hand and hooked his thumb with her fist, turning it over in one swift motion. Gaius Julius hissed in pain and found himself on his knees, arm bent behind his back. Diana pressed for a moment until he gasped aloud, then let go.

  "My apologies, Lord Gaius, I almost slipped. Thank you for your hospitality."

  Diana turned and strode up the steps, anger boiling in her like water in a steam kettle. When she came abreast of Vitellix and Ila, they were watching her with shocked eyes.

  "Let's go, lass." Vitellix pushed her ahead of him and they left the theater at a quick walk. "Ay, so much for that soft life we wanted to lead, reaping the benefits of the heir's birthday celebration!"

  "We'd not like being reaped ourselves," Ila whispered in a serious voice. "He was a bad man."

  "Yes," said Vitellix, looking over his back as they entered the arcade. "I hope he is not too angry."

  – |Gaius Julius picked himself up. He brushed some dust from his toga and then looked around. The theater was silent and dark, quite deserted. He sighed in relief. It had been a close business to remember to express pain. With interest he flexed his fingers. He had felt nothing of the woman's crushing grip.

  Well, well, well… Alexandros was right.

  "Oh, a fine thing that was," he said, shaking his head. "Just charge in like a bull in heat… that works wonders." He sighed and drew the hood of the toga up over his head. Just the sight of her, tall and slim, self-contained and so utterly composed had fired desire in him. Before that moment, he had forgotten the flesh and its pleasures. Even his dalliance with Alexandros had been calculated. Gaius found himself at the top of the stairs, his feet urging him to hurry after her. He began to grin, thinking of the swift motion of the girl's hand. "I shouldn't want to face that one with…"

  He paused, one hand on the arch of the doorway, his face transfixed with an inner vision. "…a blade in her hand."

  A delicious twist to the game had sprung to mind, full formed and vigorous with a shock of short red-gold hair and burning gray eyes. With it, he felt a tremendous giddy rush of delight, better than conquering any woman or nation.

  "O you blessed gods, you swift Huntress and mighty Apollo! Did you see her move? Her speed! These informants are too cautious, I think. I will reward that one, though. He shall have a fine seat in the circus and coin in plenty to spend!"

  With that, humming a tune he had learned from one of Gregorius' musicians, the old Roman made his way up the steps, thinking of his plans for the coming funeral games and celebrations. He had seen many interesting things tonight and the procession of acts, of intervals, of men and women in his great show was beginning to come clear. In the garden, he took a moment to smooth his tunic and his hair. It would not do to look like he had tried to tumble a maid in the bullrushes.

  I have to see her again, he mused to himself, and I will. But not in such romantic settings as these.

  – |The chariot ride was much quieter this time and Vitellix drove with care, avoiding the delivery wagons crowding the streets after dark. Diana stood at his side, saying nothing, holding the rail with one hand and Ila with the other.
After a time, they left the walls through the Tiburtina gate and were passing through the countryside surrounding the city.

  "Vitellix? May I ask you a question?"

  Diana's voice was barely audible over the rattle of iron-rimmed wheels on the hard surface of the road. The Gaul slowed the chariot, clucking at the horses. They were still at least a mile from their camp, rolling amid acres of vineyards and wheat fields bounded by stone walls.

  "Of course." Diana heard the tension in his voice and softened the words she used.

  "What god do we serve with these performances? I must be quite dense, not to have realized it before, but you are a priest, aren't you?"

  Vitellix laughed and seemed to relax.

  "I am," he said ruefully. "A high priest, even, of a forgotten and neglected cult. I am frankly surprised that this Lord Gaius knew us at all. His agents must be well informed! But to your question-we serve Lugh the Many-Handed, the Lord of the Sun and Creation and Song. Ours was once, as the man averred, a rich and powerful temple in Narbonensis. The sacred games of the sun, the 'ludus solis,' were attended by thousands. No more… in the time of the Conquest there were over a thousand priests. Now there are just the four of us."

  "And me!" Ila growled, hitting Vitellix with her fist. "And Diana! Girls can serve the Many-Handed too!"

  "Yes." Vitellix laughed. "In the old days, women were not allowed in the ranks of the priests, but that has changed. Ila's mother was the first, but she died of the cough, and now there are the two of you. In truth, I think the god delights in all expressions of art. Ours is just harder to express than most."

  "Thank you," said Diana, hugging Ila and Vitellix. "I feel better now, refusing that man's advances. The god will protect us if we serve him well."

  "I suppose…" Vitellix's face was indistinct in the darkness, but Diana thought that he was worried. "We still need to eat and feed the horses, though."

  "I have cost us a place in these games." Diana bowed her head. "I am sorry."

  "That was too high a price to pay," Vitellix said, flipping the reins and getting the horses going again. "Tomorrow I will go into the city again and see if I can find another patron, one less, ah, devoted to the arts."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Aelia Capitolina, Roman Judea

  A hundred of the Sahaba sprinted forward, leaping over broken white gravel and crumbling fieldstone walls. Half the men carried ladders, the other half great wicker screens. The air above them filled with a hissing cloud of arrows. More of the Arabs shot from cover, aiming to keep the defenders' heads down.

  "Allau Akbar!" All along the mile-wide front, the fierce cry of the Sahaba roared from thousands of throats. The sun was rising, pale gold light brushing the city towers. More Sahaba poured out of shallow trenches. Hierosolyma sat atop a rocky hill. The fields along the northern wall were poor and thin.

  Arrows splintered on the limestone battlements, forcing the Roman defenders to duck. The Sahaba charging across the barren swath before the wall ran all-out. If they could reach the base of the wall, there would be shelter from the stones and arrows of the defenders. At the central gate on the Damascus road, the Romans were shooting back with winch-driven crossbows and slings. A siege tower three stories high, clapped together from looted planks, rumbled down the road, pushed by four hundred Arab warriors. It swayed and jiggled, forcing the men in the top to cling for dear life. Roman arrows filled the air, pincushioning the wooden facing of the tower. Suddenly one of the Sahaba crouched down in the top coughed and there was a tinny ringing sound. He fell back among his fellows, the side of his helmet caved in by a lead bullet. A moment later they pitched him over the side of the tower, letting him fall with a crunch onto the rocky soil below.

  In the shelter of the smashed triumphal arch, Odenathus sat cross-legged, his eyes barely slits. The trap that had incinerated a good quarter of the Ben-Sarid cavalry on the first day had seared the bricks, giving them an odd, glassy sheen, and knocked down part of the arch. A band of Jalal's troops squatted around him, restless eyes watching the hills and the road. Each man's spear was laid on the ground close to hand and they had arrows on the bow. The main body of the Sahaba army was fully engaged in this assault, so it paid to keep a weather eye out for sorties from the city.

  The siege tower approached the wall, still shaking and rumbling on the stone surfaced road. The huge wheels made an enormous racket. The front of the tower was thick with arrows and bolts. Some of the arrows had been dipped in pitch and were still burning. Though the face of the tower was draped with wet hides, parts of it were aflame, shrouding it in a haze of dirty white smoke. Archers in the top were firing back now, trying to hit their adversaries on the gate towers. Beside and behind the tower, more Sahaba crowded forward, wicker shields held up between themselves and the wall.

  There was a snapping sound off to the right of the triumphal arch. One of the scorpions the Sahaba had captured at Lejjun let fly. The huge machine rocked back hard, dust spurting from its wheels. A long throwing arm of Lebanese cedar quivered in the air, bouncing against a restraining bar. The sixty-pound stone shrieked towards the walls. Sahaban engineers scurried around the machine, preparing to crank it back with great toothed wheels and load another stone.

  The stone crashed into one of the square towers rising from the main length of the wall. Fine white dust billowed back from the impact and there was a ripping sound. The dust rose up in a cloud as the tower trembled. The hurled stone bounced on the ground at the base of the wall. Then a section of the stone flaked away, tumbling down into the ditch below. The tower remained. Romans staggered to their feet on the roof.

  Odenathus turned back to watch the business on the road. The fighting tower was very close, only a dozen yards from the gate, and it was burning fiercely now, though the Sahaba continued to roll it forward, their efforts punctuated with repeated cheers.

  "Allau Akbar! Allau Akbar!"

  The lead edge of the tower crunched into the bastion flanking the gate. Smoke gouted up, clouding the air around the wooden tower and the wall. The Sahaba in the top raised a great shout and dropped a toothed wooden plankway onto the battlement. Romans crowded there, their mail glinting in the morning sun, swords already stabbing at the Arabs crowding out of the tower.

  Odenathus tore his eyes away from the distant scene. He concentrated, reaching out slowly and carefully into the hidden world.

  I should have done something by now! The Palmyrene was nervous. Jalal would be getting impatient, waiting with the main body of the Sahaba a mile away on the other side of the city. The northern wall of Hierosolyma ran from northeast to southwest. It turned southwards on the eastern side at the verge of the steep-sided Valley of Kidron. Similarly, to the southwest, it turned to follow a ridge that ran under the western flank of the city. Two main gates opened in the circuit of the wall-the northern, or Damascus, gate, and the western, or Joppa, gate. The western gate stood under the brooding flank of the Roman praetorium, a stout-looking citadel built directly into the wall. This was approached by a sloping road that ran under the wall itself, dropping from the ridge down into the Hinom Valley.

  During the night, while the main body of the Sahaba made noise in the north, Jalal and two thousand of his best men had crept into the western valley to hide among the olive and lemon groves. Partially shielded by the ramp of the road, they were waiting for Roman attention to be focused in the north. In particular, the Roman wizards had to show themselves. Jalal intended to have his men scramble up a forty-foot stretch of rubble to reach the ramp, then cross thirty feet of open marble-surfaced road to the gate. It was an approach completely devoid of cover. Once there, they would have to storm the gate without the support of their one wizard, who was crouching on the other side of the city, waiting to engage the attention of their enemy.

  The fighting on the wall by the siege tower grew sharper, with more Sahaba climbing out of the burning structure. The fighters had seized part of the wall. Ladders were going up all along the battlem
ents, heaved up by eager hands, some men climbing the rickety rungs even before the ladders had touched down. Most of the men climbing the wall wore the clan signs of the Ben-Sarid twisted into their armor or kaffiyeh. Odenathus closed his eyes.

  The unseen world was furious with activity. Thousands of men running, fighting, dying, putting forth all their will to survive clouded it with dizzying waves of sparks and half-seen flames. Even the flow of power in the ground rippled and contorted, influenced by those struggling above. It made any kind of work very difficult. This complication usually limited sorcery in battle to defense or subtle effect.

  Odenathus concentrated, focusing his will, and fixed his thought on the siege tower. He had spent the night placing simple patterns of defense on the wood. He had also etched a watching eye, squeezing his own tears into the cut wood. Now, with his intent upon it, that mirrored eye opened in the hidden world and he was there, atop the tower, wreathed in flame and smoke and shouting men.

  The top of the wall was thick with men, pushing and shoving, shields locked, hewing at one another with axes and swords. Some of the Sahaba wielded spiked maces. A horrendous banging sound filled the air, mixed with the screams of the wounded. Before the heedless frenzy of the Ben-Sarid, the Romans fell back, yielding a thirty-foot section of rampart. Odenathus scanned the wall, looking for the telltale traces of a hidden pattern or the enemy himself.

  There! On the nearest tower, a hundred feet away, a mage-ward swirled and reflected. In the shelter of the arch Odenathus made a motion with his hand, tracing the pattern of a shield mnemonic. His shadow counterpart on top of the siege tower duplicated the action. The glittering blue orb of the Shield of Athena sprang up around the fighting platform. Odenathus could feel the hidden world flex and de-form as the power on the wall tower became aware of him.

  Time compressed, seeming to drag slowly, and Odenathus reached deep into the earth. There were hidden springs and rivers beneath the barren land, each a glowing blue current of power. He felt it rise, strengthening his shield, but it was slow work. The dim figure on the wall tower moved and the hidden world was filled with a violent reddish light.