The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  – |The Emperor watched the litter leave from an upper window in the library. "Are you quite pleased with yourself?"

  "Perhaps. Maybe. I shall have to think about it." Helena was sitting on a curving window seat. The louvers were angled out, letting afternoon sun fall into the room. There was an untidy pile of scrolls around her. A wax tablet lay on the windowsill, along with an ivory stylus. "Why were you so hesitant? The circuses and the gladiators are part of the daily routine of the city. It's not like you to fly in the face of tradition."

  Galen paced across Persian carpets that had come out of the sack of Ctesiphon. "I have never loved the games! They are traditional, they are part of the business of being Emperor, they are part of Rome-but that does not mean that I enjoy them. But the people love them, you love them. I see their place in showing the power and the generosity of the state. I just…"

  He paused, searching for the right words. Helena looked up at him, dark hair lying smooth and sleek on her shoulders. She waited, smiling, letting him grope and fumble in his heart.

  At last he said, "I think the games are wasteful. They burn gold and lives and even animals in enormous numbers-I have reports, love, on my desk from the praetors of Africa and Numidia; they report that the ibex and the gazelle and the elephant and the tiger are gone, hunted out, impossible to find. For what? I sum the ledgers showing the vast sums invested in these entertainments, and I see granaries and bridges and dredged harbors and aqueducts and baths. I see the lives of the people made better, rather than titillated by the antics of the pantomimes and the deadly heroics of the gladiators."

  Helena shook her head and rose, the silk train of her dress sliding from the window seat like snakeskin. She looked up at her husband and took his head in her hands. She was frowning, giving him a look which said she was perplexed and amused at the same time.

  "Dear husband, you are a fine emperor, but you do not understand the people at all. All the classes of the city, the patricians, the workers, the craftsmen-they don't care about these bridges and aqueducts. They are dull! Oh, surely they must have them, they must exist-grain must move, trade be conducted, rivers flow within their banks-but the man who mills the bread or hauls a bale of goods, he is concerned with three things. Three things only."

  Galen raised an eyebrow, then took her hands in his. "What three things?" He was wary of her sharp tongue.

  "These three things." Helena smiled gently. "First, that he and his family have bread to eat."

  "Surely," the Emperor said, "which weighs heavy on my mind! This Egyptian business-"

  "Shush!" Helena put a slim finger to his lips. "Listen. Second, that his family is safe, that he may live in peace and undertake his trade undisturbed. And yes, you have done this. But third, oh, third! You must not forget the third thing-there was a poor, lonely emperor who once lost a great deal for his miserliness!-the People must know that their emperor loves them and is one of them. That he is not a god. Here, husband, is your failing."

  Galen tried to turn away, his face sour, but Helena held him close, looking up at him with extremely serious gray eyes. "Will you be Tiberius, dying alone and friendless on some corrupt island?"

  "No!" Galen shook his hands free. "I will not be Prince Caligula or Commodus either and live within the confines of the circus!"

  "No one asks you to!" Helena's voice was sharp. "But if you become distant from the people, if you deny them the due that has been theirs for many centuries, their hearts will turn away. They must see you and know that you love them. They must take bounty from your hand and not from another. Even a great man like Gregorius will not suffice. If you do not partake in this, it will make your troubles worse, not better."

  "Fine," Galen snapped, eyes narrowing. "Let the people have their circuses. Bread is the true test of their loyalty. I will not stint them."

  Then he stalked out of the library, shoulders set in anger. Behind him, Helena threw up her hands and let out a breath in a long, slow hiss. She was angry too, but someone needed to tell the pig-headed, self-centered, ignorant clerk of a man the truth. "Hah! We are such enlightened sorts ourselves."

  Helena laughed to herself, then bent to pick up the stylus and the tablet. She was collecting ancient gossip from the early chapters of Suetonius' De Vita Caesarum. One of her correspondents, Artemesia, had begun tweaking her about ancient follies. Helena did not intend to take the worst of such an exchange. She tucked the stylus behind one ear and wondered if the long-dead historian's invective against Tiberius and Caligula and Nero was affecting her judgment. "Men! Live or dead, they trouble me."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Near Tyre on the Coast of Phoenicia

  A cold night wind blew from the sea, causing Khalid to wrap a heavy silk-lined cloak close around his broad shoulders. He was sitting in the ruins of a Hellenic temple, astride a broken marble bench. The young general had kindled a small, smokeless fire among the tumbled stones, just enough to warm his feet and give him a little light. The camp, thronging with Sahaban light horse, sprawled across the slopes of the hill below, overlooking the sweeping harbor of Tyre.

  Khalid spat into the darkness, frowning out at the battlements of the island city. His small army had made a swift advance up the Phoenician coast, seizing many towns. In some places he had been welcomed as a liberator, in others merely not resisted. This place was different. The ancient city was built on an island, connected to the mainland by a massive mole faced with granite blocks. Below the hill, a warehouse district spread along the shoreline, fronting two harbors formed by the mole itself and barrier islands offshore. A stout wall protected the warehouses, but a swift assault had carried its gates. It was the island itself that defied him. The last sixty feet of the mole had been built as a bridge, which the Roman defenders had collapsed when the Arabs reached the harbor. Khalid lacked a fleet and the docks had been carefully emptied of shipping.

  Khalid smiled, thin features half lit by firelight. "Well, Patik, what do you think? Should we leave these wolf cubs mewed up in their stone den?"

  The stolid Persian did not answer, remaining a quiet, comforting shape in the darkness beyond the glow of the coals. The mercenary was sitting with his back to the fire, horse bow on his knees, watching the night. The young Arab tossed another twig into the embers.

  "A troop of horsemen could be left, I suppose… they could watch the island-city and keep the Romans penned within. Hmm." He tapped his narrow chin with another twig. "But if Mohammed and the beautiful Zoe cannot hunt down and destroy their fleet, then each of these ports will be a spear point against our belly."

  The Arab wished the "great leader" had allowed him to move the infantry and siege equipment north from Caesarea. However, Mohammed had been strict about the operations allowed in his absence. Jalal, Uri and Odenathus were away in the south, securing the road to Egypt. Shadin held the great port itself and was responsible for mustering even more men from the towns and villages newly fallen to the Arabs. All Khalid had been allowed was a moderate force of swift-moving lancers and bowmen. Enough to scout for any Roman armies loose in the north, but not enough to assay the capture of a strong fortress like Tyre. "Perhaps, if we built some rafts, we could slip up to the seawall under cover of-"

  "Someone is coming." The Persian's voice rumbled like stone sliding downhill.

  Patik moved in the darkness and Khalid sensed a bowstring being drawn back. The Arab stood gracefully, right hand sliding under his cloak and around the hilt of a straight-bladed cavalry sword. Looking away from the fire, Khalid listened. After a moment, he heard stones rattle on the slope and then branches in the laurel trees rustling. Only a single man seemed to be approaching. Khalid turned, his boot brushing a tied bundle of grass into the embers. They sparked, sending up little yellow jets of flame, then burst alight.

  A figure was standing at the edge of the firelight. It was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a long dark cloak with a deep hood. Red glimmered on its chest, reflecting back from close-fitting scaled
armor. Its boots crunched on the broken tesserae covering the floor of the temple. Khalid could not see the face. He felt the air grow chill and he tensed to draw his blade.

  "Salaam," it whispered in a faint cold voice. "You are Khalid al'Walid."

  Khalid steeled himself, disturbed to glimpse Patik lowering his bow.

  "I am," he answered, shrugging the cloak from his right shoulder. "Who are you?"

  "A messenger."

  "What is your message?" Khalid moved to put the dying fire between himself and the figure. "Who sent you?"

  A sound came from the shape, something like laughter, but from a throat unused to such sounds. A dry hiss rattling amongst the bones of the dead.

  "You know my master," it said, remaining at the edge of the temple. "He knows you."

  Khalid felt the cold in the air steal over him. It became hard to breathe. Patik remained motionless at his side. The young man remembered a day under a burning white sky.

  Towers of brick and carved stone rose from a barren plain. The wreckage of two of the towers lay scattered about. Something had smashed them down, pulverizing the rock and marble statuary that had adorned them. Khalid crawled amongst the stones, shaking with fear. Smoke and fumes rose from the blasted soil, which hissed and steamed in agony. Only moments before the sky had rippled and fractured like bad glass drawn from the forge. He alone, of all the men in the army cowering in the hills, had dared to come down onto the dusty plain before the city.

  Trails of white smoke curled up from a ravine cracked open in the parched earth. Something dark had fallen there. Khalid had seen it. Now he crept to the edge of the crevice and looked within. There was something there in the shape of a man, curled up, skin blackened by titanic forces. Once it had worn a robe; now that was burned away. Once bracelets of gold and platinum had adorned thin wrists; now they were puddled droplets on the sandy ground. A reek rose up from the ravine like the smell of a charnel house. Khalid wrapped the end of his kaffiyeh around his face, then slid down into the crevice.

  More cloths over leather gloves protected his hands, which was wise, for the ebon skin of the shape burned like fire. Khalid rolled the figure over, then felt his mind go cold as he looked upon the face of the sorcerer. Slitted yellow eyes burned into his, making the world grow dim and faint.

  "I remember," Khalid grated, his voice distant. "What is your message?"

  "This," hissed the thing wearing the shape of a man: "the army of the Great King has seized Antioch in the north. Soon, he will come south. He comes in friendship and with open arms for all those who defy Rome. It would not be wise to resist him, for he is your friend."

  Khalid felt a shock like a blow to the face. He steadied himself, thinking of Patik's strong arm at his side. Even this thing might find it hard to overcome both of them. Still, he hesitated, remembering the power of the sorcerer. It was not wise to defy such powers. Not for a young man without any clan or tribe save that of a madman. Perhaps not even then. "How has this happened? Antioch is a strong city."

  The shape laughed again, the same rattle of dry bones. "Many strong places have fallen to the King of Kings. That city is only the least. You would do well to greet the Great King in honor, bowing before him, for he is Lord of the World."

  Khalid mustered his thoughts, though they spun and whirled like leaves in the khamsin. "When will he be here, this King of Kings? Does he come to make war upon Rome?"

  The figure turned, heavy boots scraping on the ground. At the very edge of the dying firelight, it looked over its shoulder and Khalid thought he saw two points of pale fire burning in the shadows under the hood.

  "The Great King is already at war with Rome," it hissed. "This Lord Mohammed has done him great service and he will not forget."

  Khalid sneered, but the thing was already gone. The Arab groped amongst the stones, casting more kindling onto the fire. Soon, an aromatic smoke rose up from bright flames.

  "What was that?" Khalid looked up at Patik. The Persian remained standing, his bow half drawn, looking out into the darkness. At last, he turned, his grim face still. Though Khalid felt chilled and uneasy, it seemed that the mercenary was unmoved by their night visitor.

  "It is gone."

  "What was that?" The Arab's voice rose a little.

  "A messenger."

  Despite Khalid's insistence, the Persian said no more while the night lingered.

  – |The next day was blustery but not cold. Full summer was upon the coast of Phoenicia, and the sun was hot in the olive groves and the vineyards. Khalid remained in the temple on the hilltop, watching white-sailed boats coming and going from the island fortress. They seemed insolent, mocking his siege with their flitting about on the pure blue water. His companions accounted him a devious man, but he could see no good way into the city.

  "Many strong places have fallen to treachery," he mused, liquid brown eyes roaming over the outline of towers and gates and steep walls of limestone slabs. "I wonder if there are ulcers I might stir to life?"

  Horns sounded on the plain behind the hill. Khalid did not turn to look, comfortable in the wariness of his scouts and pickets scattered through the olive groves and farmsteads radiating out into the coastal plain around the city. The Romans built well, with hard-surfaced roads and fine bridges all through this country. It was rich here on the gently sloping plain edging the sea. He wondered if all of Rome was so flush with fields and orchards and flocks of fat-tailed sheep and longhaired goats. There were even cows here, thick with heavy, fat meat. And there were so many of them! Even the nominal population of the warehouse district along the harbors far exceeded the citizens of Mekkah in the far south.

  The young man frowned, knowing from his brief travels in Persian lands that Tyre did not even approach the size of such cities as Damascus or Antioch, much less a metropolis like Constantinople or Ctesiphon.

  What does our brave leader intend? He has seen these lands, too. He must know that Rome is beyond our power to throw down. Why this mad plunge into the heart of the enemy?

  Mohammed claimed he was guided by the voice from the clear air. Refusing to believe this had become part of Khalid's view of the world. Even the miracles he had seen performed did not sway his belief. Mohammed was a man who had found power within himself to do these things. There was no god that spoke to him. The gods were long dead.

  A dim murmur rose up from the camp at the bottom of the hill. Khalid turned and walked to the edge of the temple. A troop of brightly caparisoned riders entered the camp down among the hedgerows and rosebushes. Even from this height he could make out the embroidered saddle cloths on the horses and the red and gold shields of the riders. Fifty or sixty armored men rode in from the countryside, escorted by Arab scouts. Their bows and lances were stowed on their horses and a trail of pack mules followed, heavily laden with rolls of armor and barding. A scouting party, then.

  The young general sat in the shade of the laurel trees and waited, thinking while the Persian commander labored up the hill. Khalid's agile mind worried at the problems inherent in this struggle against the Empire. How does Mohammed hope to win? he wondered. Does he intend to win? A thought occurred to him and he turned suddenly, looking for Patik. The Persian was standing nearby, his bronze single-piece helmet resting at his scale-armor-covered hip. Khalid took in the man's rugged features, the classic Persian nose, the thick arms. He wondered, then, what the mercenary thought of all this. "Patik, why did you join me?"

  The Persian looked down, flinty eyes expressionless. "You were going the way I was going."

  Khalid raised an eyebrow. The mercenary's presence was comforting but unexplained. "Did you have to flee Persia? Are you an outlaw?"

  "Does it matter?" Patik's thin lips quirked into something like a smile, but the expression was as forbidding as a scowl. "Would you send me away if I was?"

  Khalid laughed, surprised to get so many words from the stoic mercenary. He rarely spoke. When he did, a cultured baritone was revealed. "No," he said, "but I wonder
-if we must fight the Persians, whose side will you choose?"

  "We will not fight them. You will see."

  The surety in the man's voice took Khalid aback. Voices from the trail down to the camp distracted him before he could respond. The head of a man appeared among the bushes and then a stout fellow of medium height stomped into the circle of broken pillars. Like the riders Khalid had seen entering the camp, he was clad in lamellar armor of small metal lozenges, covering him from shoulder to mid-thigh. The armored man stopped within the circle and bent, pulling off his heavy helmet. "Salaam, Khalid, son of Walid, chief of the Makzhum."

  The young Arab stepped back in surprise. He knew this man, though he had never expected to see him again. "Salaam, Lord Khadames! By the prophet, General, I did not think to see you here!"

  Khadames grinned, his round face beaming behind a neatly trimmed gray beard. Khalid was surprised to see the Persian had grown markedly older in the last two years. His noble face was lined with wrinkles and he seemed to carry a heavy burden. His hair was streaked with white and gray. Despite this, he smiled genially, nodding absently to Patik, and sat down on one of the broken columns. "You've come up in the world, lad. That's a hardy troop of men you've down below-and I hear you and your friends have tasted sweet victory over Rome."

  "We have," Khalid said cautiously, sitting himself. Patik had disappeared into the brush, leaving the two of them alone. "An… ominous… messenger came last night, bringing word that you were coming. That one said the Great King rides to war on Rome again. Is this true?"

  The shadow in Khadames' face returned, but the old general turned his face to the noonday sun and sighed, visibly drawing strength from the gentle warmth. "It is true. The Great King's army captured Antioch. Our… allies have seized the Cilician Gates from the Roman garrison, opening the passes. The Great King stands poised to strike into Anatolia once more."