The Gulf of Finike, Off the Coast of Lycia
Daughter, you must wake up. You've lessons today.
Zoe's eyes flickered open and she saw the beamed roof of a ship's cabin. Wavering sunlight, reflecting through a porthole, danced on the ceiling. Tentatively, she flexed her fingers and then sat up. For a wonder, she felt fine and well rested. Something about the room seemed out of place, and after a moment she realized that this was not her cabin on the Jibril. The memory of a soft, familiar voice speaking to her faded, and she shook her head, swinging out of bed.
Her clothing was laid out on a cot and she slipped on her customary pantaloons and tunic. As she did so, she realized her skin was incredibly smooth, even glossy.
"How odd…" It was strange to feel so clean. She laughed at herself, realizing that it had been months since she had really been clean-hair, skin, even her nails. She had been so focused for so long-since learning Palmyra had been destroyed-being clean seemed unnatural.
"Well," she said aloud, binding up her hair with a black ribbon, "where are we?"
Stepping out onto the deck of the ship, she squinted in brilliant sunlight. A crisp wind caught her hair, flicking curls around her face. She felt a charge in the air-tension, anticipation, fear-and her head came up. Fully awake, she took the steps to the rear deck of the galley two at a time. The air was tainted with ozone, as if a storm were building in the clear air.
Mohammed stood at the rail, one hand on the curving stern post of the ship. Zoe looked around, trying to find her bearings. The fleet spread out to either side in a long line, white sails filled with a strong following wind. The iron beaks of the galleys surged through the water, throwing up a white spray. Every deck was filled with men.
"Lady Zoe," the desert chieftain said, distracted, "it is a good day to wake."
She turned, following his gaze. Another fleet bore down upon them at an angle, surging through choppy waves. A bleak shore, studded with barren hills, framed the enemy ships. Their red and orange sails were startlingly bright against a dim blue sky and washed-out mountains. "The Romans?"
"Yes, they have found us at last."
Mohammed turned, smiling, focusing on her for the first time. "How do you feel?"
"Alive!" She laughed, flipping the raven's tail of her hair over her shoulder. "I feel… well. Awake!"
"Good." The corners of his eyes crinkled up and she felt the warmth of his affection like a physical heat on her face. "I cannot offer you a quiet day of cruising amongst the islands. There will be a struggle. Do you feel the air?"
"Yes." She turned away, afraid she would blush. It felt strange to be greeted with such open warmth and relief. Zoe wondered how long she had lain unconscious.
Who washed me? she suddenly thought, feeling embarrassed. Was it him? She wrenched her thoughts back to the matter at hand. "Their thaumaturges are working against us?"
"I don't know." Mohammed laughed, running fingers through his beard. "I cannot see into their world, not as you can."
"They are trying to work something up." Zoe frowned, concentrating. She began to bring the patterns and symbols of the Entrance to her mind, but then stopped. Memory flooded back like water through a sluice gate and she felt suddenly ill. Afterimages of a brilliant white light echoed in her vision. She clutched convulsively at the railing. "Lord Mohammed?"
"Yes?" He turned back to her, startled by the alarm in her voice.
"You've not… prayed, have you?"
"Ah." He frowned, bushy white eyebrows drawing close like twin caterpillars. "The voice from the clear air is close, but it has not spoken. Not yet. Are you afraid?"
"Yes," she said, feeling sick. "I don't want to venture into the unseen world if that… power… will suddenly come upon us. I remember what happened."
Mohammed raised his chin a little, acknowledging her concern. "Our numbers seem even," he said, indicating the oncoming Roman fleet. "There may be no need to call upon the voice and its power. Can you block their sorcery?"
"By myself?" Zoe was alarmed at the prospect. "I'm not that strong! These ships are fragile creatures-if they send fire against us, or even stir up waves or winds, it will go very badly! If Odenathus were here, we might be able to interfere enough with their sendings…"
Mohammed squinted into the sun, gauging the hour and the wind. He had never commanded at sea before but it seemed the wind would not be an ally today. Nearly all of the ships on either side were dromons, the heavy war galleys of the Imperial Navy, which relied on a triple bank of oars to maneuver. Indeed, the stiff white sails would be a liability once the fleets closed to arrow and scorpion range. They were flammable. With these steeds of wood, tar, cordage and canvas, fire was a deadly enemy.
"Can you keep fire from our ships?" he asked, catching her hands in his. They were thin and wiry, strong-Zoe didn't carry a cavalry blade for show. At the moment they were very warm. "As you did at Caesarea?"
"Perhaps. The sea will help." She retrieved her hands. Her fingers were tingling. "But that will leave them free for other deviltries."
The Yemenite captain hurried up, a legionary's helmet rattling, too large, on his head. Like his men, he was clad in thick cork armor. With his stubby tanned arms and round face, he looked like a seagoing pig with a mustache. "Lord Mohammed, we will be within range in a few grains. Do you have any orders?"
Mohammed laughed, a cheerful sound which carried easily over the heads of the men standing to in the rowing gallery. The sails were taut with wind, the ship making good speed. The rowers held their oars inboard, waiting to close to battle. In only moments they would have to bend their backs… but not yet. The Quraysh chieftain smoothed his mustaches and looked out over his fleet plowing through the dark green water.
"Signal our fellows this-that God is great and his will is victory!"
The Yemenite nodded sharply, then shouted orders to his signalmen on the foredeck. Colored flags were raised, fluttering in the breeze, waving and dipping as the men passed the message on. In the rowing gallery, the Sahaba looked up, seeing the great green banner of their Lord rise up to the top of the mast. It snapped smartly, trailing stiff in the wind.
"Allau Akbar!" The sound was a great roar, amplified by the curving shape of the hull. It carried across the water, borne by the wind. "Allau Akbar!"
Zoe marshaled her thoughts and tried to calm her queasy stomach.
You need not fear, daughter. You have looked upon the furnace and lived. This will be a little matter.
The Palmyrene girl's head snapped around in alarm, looking for the speaker. There was no one standing on the deck. She felt a touch, a caress on her forehead.
There is nothing to fear.
Zoe swallowed-her throat was unaccountably dry. These hallucinations were a distraction, but they could be ignored. She slipped down the steps and latched the door to her own room behind her. The oaken walls of the ship would give her a little protection, far better than trying to concentrate on the open deck. Seating herself on the bed, she closed her eyes. A dodecahedron flowered before her, constantly in motion.
– |Mohammed swung from the top of a ladder into the elevated fighting platform on the rear deck of the Khuwaylid, feeling the ship pitch and roll under his feet. It wasn't quite a spirited horse, but the motion reminded him of riding into battle. The Yemenite captain and a pair of Sahaban marines were waiting, crouched behind wicker shields lining the platform. From this vantage, the full length of the deck was visible. Sailors were hauling the mainsail down and furling the canvas into a long box-shaped bin running along the spine of the ship. In the rowing gallery, the oarsmen had run their oars out and the leaf-shaped blades waited above the water.
Mohammed glanced across the line of his fleet. Thirty ships led his first wave, all holding roughly even with their black-painted hulls hissing through the water. On their foredecks, men hurried to wind the scorpions that were housed behind wooden panels. In a peculiarly Roman touch, the platforms were painted to look like fortress towers of stone. Marines-mor
e Sahaba in shining helmets and bulky armor-swarmed on the decks. On each ship, like on the Khuwaylid, were a pair of boarding ramps. The long ramps, modeled on the ancient corvus, were lying respectively to the fore and rear decks. An anchor pole with a fitted iron ring allowed the ramps to swing to either side, supported by a pair of corded ropes that fed through pulleys on the mast. The beak of each ramp was armored with iron spikes that, when the ramp was dropped, would pierce the decking of the enemy ship.
The Quraysh captain smiled grimly to himself. It had been centuries since someone tried to fight a land war on the waters of the Mare Internum. The sailors in the opposing fleet were professionals, well trained and experienced. His Sahaba were reckless, wild fellows used to fighting on land, from a horse. Even with a leavening of Yemenite sailors, there was no way they could win a naval battle against the Imperials. But in hand-to-hand, on the crowded decks of a pair of ships, he would put his men against the best of the Romans.
They just had to get to grips, denying the Imperials room to maneuver.
Flutes trilled on the deck below and oars plunged into the water. Three banks of oars on either side bit, then pulled, and the Khuwaylid, which had been slowing without sails up, surged ahead again. Behind the flagship, the following galleys picked up speed. On the fighting platform, the Yemenite captain eyed the fleet with a worried expression.
"Only a few grains now, only a few grains." He was muttering under his breath. Mohammed noticed he was sweating. The Quraysh shaded his eyes with a hand, watching the Roman fleet begin to move. The enemy lines were splitting, fanning out on either flank. Their ships moved with a delicate grace, striding over the water on long, flashing limbs.
"Prepare to fire scorpion for range!" The captain's bellow carried easily to the foredeck. The crew of the weapon swarmed into action, manhandling a smoothed stone into the throwing cradle. Other men cranked furiously on spoked wheels, drawing the curving wooden bar of the "sting" back.
Mohammed took a firm grip on the railing of the platform, then closed his eyes. O Lord of the World, we place ourselves in your hands, knowing your mercy. Here is our enemy, and our hearts are pure and filled with devotion. Grant us victory this day!
– |The sea burned with blue fire to the limit of Zoe's perception. Each ship spidered across translucent foam, the resistance of the water to the cleaving prow a burning white lattice. The matrices of the water surface cracked as the bronze rams cut through, sending out rippling shockwaves not only in the liquid itself but through the pattern in the hidden world. The Roman ships were even brighter, outlined with intent and fear and hope and anger. Two of the Roman dromons, hanging back from the main line of battle, glittered within gold domes. Brassy glyphs and signs drifted across the spheres like shadows thrown on a wall.
Zoe was surprised; it felt like there were only two enemy thaumaturges.
But they might have learned caution, she thought to herself. Until a mage attempted to impose her will upon the fabric of air and water and wood around her, she might evade detection. As yet, Zoe had not raised a ward of defense. It was Legion doctrine to do so, but if she distorted reality around her, a wary eye might find her in the chaos of the battle. With a shiver, she suppressed instinct, letting her self open itself to the hurrying lights and blazing, cold fires of the unseen.
See, Zoe? The sand lizard's coloration, whispered a soft voice, lets it hide among the rocks.
Zoe shook her head again, trying to drive the sound away. Ahead of her, a building pyramid of potential suddenly fractured and a shining sphere flew away from the fighting platform, falling with a cracked, glassy burst into the sea a dozen yards from the leading Roman ship.
Now, she thought, the fight begins.
– |Mohammed saw the scorpion stone plunge into the sea, throwing up a tall gout of water. It was short of the lead Roman galley. The bloom of spray cascaded down, splashing over the deck of the dromon. The rowers on the enemy ship didn't break their stroke, plunging ahead through the boil of water. The crack of scorpions on the other Arab ships sang in the air. Stones flickered through the air. Some of them crashed into the foredecks of the Roman ships. Most fell into the sea between the flashing banks of oars.
Mohammed raised an eyebrow, seeing that the Imperial galleys had not yet fired back.
Sahaba marines crowded forward on the Khuwaylid, their round shields raised. More than half of the men had arrows notched to their bows, waiting for the word to loose. The men that controlled the corvus stood ready, their hands on the guide ropes. Hanging over the edge of the fighting platform, the Yemenite captain shouted down to the flautist that controlled the stroke of the oar-banks.
"Prepare for double-time!"
Then he turned, calling to the men at the steering oars.
"Prepare to heel right!"
Mohammed braced his legs wide. The two ships rushed towards each other at a dizzying rate. From his high perch, it seemed that he could look directly into the eyes of the Roman soldiers on the foredeck tower of the other ship. They were shouting, their shields raised. The Imperial captain would be watching, even as the Yemenite master was, waiting for just the right moment.
"Double stroke!" The shout rang down from the rear deck. Flutes shrilled and the Sahaba on the rowing benches gave an answering yell, hauling fiercely at their oars. Leaf-blades flashed in the water, spilling sea-foam as they rose, then plunging down into the dark water again.
"Heel! Ship right oars!"
The steering oars bit the sea, digging deep on the right side of the ship. Sunlight flashed on the bronze beak as it cut up out of the water. Khuwaylid heeled slightly, swinging to the right. Oarsmen in the right rowing gallery hauled feverishly on their oars, sliding them inboard. Smoke rose from the thole ports as the waxed oars squealed in. The Sahaba raised a great cry and shook their spears and swords in the air. On the deck of the Roman ship, the Imperial marines, responding to the chopping signal of their centurion, loosed a cloud of arrows into the Arab galley.
Gray fletching suddenly sprouted from the mast and the fighting platforms. Sahaban fighters too slow to raise their shields in time toppled backwards, limbs askew. Blood suddenly puddled on the decking. The Khuwaylid turned in savagely on its enemy, but the Roman captain and crew were already in motion. With a great squeal of wood on wood, the three banks of birch oars on the near side of the Roman galley slid inboard. At the same time, the enemy ship heeled and turned as well, trying to swing away from the Arab ram.
"Corvus away!" Shouted the Yemenite captain.
The flank of the Khuwaylid surged past the rising oaken wall of the Roman ship. Sailors in the rowing galleries stared across as each other, catching a glimpse of white and brown faces as the ports whipped past. The Sahaban archers loosed at point blank range, sending their iron-tipped arrows into the mass of Roman marines. The legionaries had raised their rectangular scuta as well, though some of them fell back, blood gouting from wounds, as well.
The ramp of the corvus plunged down, loosed from its restraining ropes and splintered through the railing of the Roman ship. Soldiers leapt away from the heavy spike, stumbling into their fellows. The spike struck the deck of the Imperial galley with a screeching sound, then bounced back. Mohammed flinched back as the two ships rushed past each other. The corvus failed to get purchase on the Imperial deck and slid along the aft decking, bouncing and jiggling. Roman marines screamed in fear, but the impromptu scythe mowed down a dozen men. The iron spike tore through four men, gutting them as with a giant flensing knife. Then it slammed into the aft piloting deck, the planks of the corvus snapping like an over strung bow. Splinters knifed across the Roman deck, cutting down one of the pilots.
On the Khuwaylid, the restraining post that held the base of the corvus groaned under the sudden stress, then cracked lengthwise with a bang. The iron ring twisted into a figure eight, then burst its bolts and decapitated the nearest sailor before he could flee. It bounced away across the deck, then plunged into the rowing gallery. Mohammed heard
shouts of alarm rise up from below. At the same time, he ducked and a gray fletched arrow spiked into the wall of the fighting platform beside his head, humming like a lyre.
His own archers continued to fire as fast as they could draw and loose, littering the Imperial deck with dead marines. The Romans gave as good as they took, too, the Khuwaylid's deck was slicking with blood and urine. With a splash the corvus, now loose from either ship, plunged into the sea. The Yemenite captain cursed, staring ahead. The bulk of the Roman fleet was upon them.
"Keep turning!" The men on the steering oars held on, digging the planes into the water.
A sharp crack echoed from the Roman ship and Mohammed looked up in time to see the Imperial galley continue turning. The ships were parallel again, but rapidly reversing their course. Now the Imperial scorpion fired, hurling a stone at point blank range into the Arab galley. The missile crashed into the starboard side of the Khuwaylid, ripping through the railing and smashing six Sahaban marines into a gray-red paste. Then the stone bounced across the deck, skipping on the hardwood and sailed off the opposite side and fell into the water.
– |Zoe's patience was rewarded as the first two lines of galleys crossed. The even lines of ships almost immediately dissolved into a swirling melee, but the two big Imperial galleys forged straight ahead, protected by a wedge of smaller, single-banked ships. The shape and pattern of the air around the two dromons began to flex and a distinct gradient formed, coiling and writhing. Thaumaturges on the enemy ships were drawing power from the air and the sea, preparing to unleash it upon the Arab fleet.
Time to get to work. Zoe grimaced, narrowing her concentration to a pinpoint. The enemy galleys rode through a writhing storm of energy, reflecting off the glowing wards, refracting up from the surface of the water. The division of air and sea rolled endlessly, as sharp in the hidden world as it was in the physical. Zoe sent her perception winging out, then plunging like a cormorant into the sea. There was a moment of resistance, a tugging, and then she was below the waves in a completely different realm of shifting subtle patterns and deep abysses. Sharks flew past, drawn to the spreading red stain in the waters above. The hulls of the ships plowed overhead, leaving a swirl of countless tiny vortices in the hidden world. It was difficult to guide her sight at first, but she managed.
The storm of Heaven ooe-3 Page 39