"To arms!" Zoe shouted, her voice magnified, rolling like thunder. "To arms!"
– |Dwyrin did not pause at the flash. He had seen the sudden surge of power behind the enemy line, the spiking gradient indicating a sorcerer at work. He ran forward, his own witch-sight showing the rocks in the road, the twists and turns of the path. Vladimir was right behind him, relying on his own preternaturally keen vision. Nicholas huffed along at the rear, trying to keep both of them in sight. He flinched away from the blinding radiance.
"What in Hel's name was that?" He sounded surprised. The Hibernian was not.
"The enemy just figured out we're coming," Dwyrin shouted over his shoulder. "They've their own thaumaturges, you know."
An hour before, Dwyrin had presented himself at the thaumaturges' encampment. He had been met by an all-too-familiar set of dour faces. The Western sorcerers did not approve of having an Eastern neophyte foisted on them. It spoiled their charts of organization and hierarchy. Worse, the intruder was a mere boy and only a second-circle apprentice at that. After some vigorous discussion between Nicholas and the tribune in charge of the thaumaturges, it was grudgingly agreed that he would act as a "skirmisher" in front of the main body of the army.
Dwyrin stayed out of the conversation, telling Nicholas sotto voice that the Western Emperor Galen had used junior thaumaturges in such a way during the Persian campaign. The historical precedent did not appease the Western mages. They had a plan for the coming battle, and it depended on the skill of many working together. Dwyrin felt a chill in his stomach when the Western tribune deigned to explain it to him.
When he and Zoe and Odenathus and Eric had worked together, they could have done such a thing. Now, with their five scattered by fate and reduced by death, Dwyrin didn't have the training or the rapport with these Western sorcerers to attempt such a working. In the battle today, he would be a dangerous irritation.
Running in the darkness, letting his physical body work up a sweat, was an excellent distraction for his angry mind. Of course, most of the Western plan had just been thrown out the window, too, so that was fine. Now he could improvise! He skidded to a halt. The column of legionaries he was following poured past a farmhouse with a stone barn. He grabbed Vladimir and Nicholas, drawing them off the road. "There's a barn here. We can get on the roof. Come on."
"The roof?" Nicholas panted, his armor weighing heavy. Long sea voyages filled with a lot of eating and sleeping did nothing for his physical conditioning. "Why?"
"So I can see the enemy. Come on, you've got to keep my body safe."
"We do? Who would want to eat you?" Vladimir made a face, but Dwyrin was already scrambling up the side of the barn. "Ah, Nicholas, the barn is this way."
"Right. Climb a barn in the middle of battle." Nicholas found the wall with an outstretched hand. He hated being the blind one. "A fine plan. Sounds like one of yours!"
– |The attack is here, Zoe snapped, feeling Odenathus' surprise through the battle-meld. Opposite the second military gate. Around the base of the tower, the Sahaba swarmed up onto the wall, many carrying their helmets and armor. The last two days had been quiet, interrupted only by scattered clashes between Khalid's light horse and the Roman picket lines in the woods. Yesterday there had been a fight near the northern end of the circumvallation. Sahaban troops cutting firewood had been attacked by a Roman cohort, but Shadin's heavy horse had driven off the Western troops after a brief melee in the olive groves. Mohammed and Khalid had been sure the enemy would wait for more troops to come up from the port at Perinthus before they attacked.
Yes, tell Mohammed it's the whole bloody Roman army. I can see them from here. Zoe ignored her cousin's imprecations, turning her attention to the broad swath of barren ground before the wall. Arab archers crowded the parapet, stringing their bows, dragging up baskets of arrows to sit beside them. The sea voyage from Caesarea had given the Sahaba plenty of time to cut, trim and fletch. Men in heavier armor were waiting close by, ready to swarm up to the fighting platform when things came to hand strokes.
Zoe frowned, watching the enemy moving forward, swiftly, even in the darkness. Patterns began to emerge, cohorts and maniples forming up. They came on at a steady pace, ignoring the fading brilliance in the sky. The faint blue glow of a battle-ward rolled forward with them. Now, as she watched, it strengthened and the muted noise of an army on the march swelled. They are adapting, she thought, her mouth dry. Where are Mohammed and Odenathus?
The Palmyrene queen decided to take matters into her own hands. Even on fast horses, the two men would take at least an hour to reach her position. "Blessed Dusarra, stand by me," she whispered, raising her arms to the sky. Silvery mail rippled, her cloak falling behind her. Power flowed in the air and the ground, some hidden deep, some riding on the surface. Her fingers dragged at the flow, summoning strength. "Smite our enemies," she shouted, stabbing out a fine-boned hand at the advancing ranks of the Romans.
– |The earth shook and there was a deep-throated boom. The barn trembled, spitting dust from cracks between the stones, but did not collapse. A half-mile away, on the sloping plain, a huge blossom of flame roared up. Even at this distance, Dwyrin could hear the screams of men and the panicked shouting of their fellows. The Shield of Athena that the Western thaumaturges had been extending over their soldiers rippled, fracturing. The Hibernian nodded to himself, fists clenching and unclenching.
"Gods!" breathed Vladimir. "They've a firecaster!"
"No." Dwyrin's voice was hollow. "Here is a firecaster."
In his heart, the sign of fire blossomed, and he knew that his time had come at last. His talents and fate had led him to this place and this day. Now, with a grim face, the boy from a distant island would show his power. He chopped a hand down, letting the sign fly free.
The hidden world shuddered, a brilliant trace of pure white light leaping from the barn roof to the distant wooden tower. The arc of lightning shrieked above the heads of men, driving many to the ground, cowering in fear, and struck the base of the tower like the hammer of the gods.
– |BOOM!
Zoe screamed, hurling herself into the air in a mad effort to flee. Her personal ward was suddenly slammed with an enormous, sky-encompassing blast of fire and light and shattered wood and vaporized, superheated mud. She tumbled in the air, flying over the camp of the Sahaba, and slammed to the ground against the other parapet wall. Behind her, the tower was gone, flung skyward in a thousand burning fragments. Men shrieked, burning, thrown down in drifts by the blast. The roar of flames and the rush of a huge column of smoke swallowed their cries. White clouds boiled up, painted violent red and orange by the lake of flame leaping and hissing where the tower had been.
The Palmyrene queen rolled over, groaning in pain. She hurt all over, but the ward had deflected the brunt of the explosion. She rose, dripping with mud, clods of earth clinging to her armor. Someone was there, out in the darkness, a familiar figure, a power that she had once tutored herself. Tantalizing familiarity reached out to her, a missing place in the battle-meld.
O Great and Merciful One! Dwyrin?
– |"I hear you, Zoe," The Hibernian was glowing, a shining orange sphere rotating around him. Even Nicholas could see it in the darkness, a mottled, translucent surface brilliant with signs and arcane symbols. The northerner cowered on the roof of the barn, hoping that the straw did not burst into flame. Orange shadows danced around him, thrown by the glittering ward. "You should not be fighting me. You swore an oath, once, have you forgotten?"
Dwyrin's mouth continued to move, but Nicholas could no longer hear the words. A rushing sound filled the air, like the passage of a vast flock of birds. Wind sprang up out of the west. Through the shifting sphere, Nicholas could see the boy etch a sign in the air, then stab out his hand again.
The earth shook. Nicholas curled up into a ball, armored hands clasped behind his head. Another flare of azure light filled the sky with a shattering roar. A half-mile away, the Arab wall erupted skyward. Bur
ning logs catapulted through the night, trailing smoke and sparks. More fires were burning on the plain where flaming debris had landed. A vast billow of smoke was mounting into the sky, lit by flames from below.
"You should not have betrayed me." Dwyrin's voice was rising, catching a strange edge. His fist curled and drew to his heart. Nicholas grabbed Vladimir and together they rolled off the roof, landing heavily in the yard. The pair scrambled to the wall, pressing themselves against the cold fieldstone. The earth heaved, rippling with the echo of a titanic blast, and a hot wind rushed over them. The straw roof finally caught fire.
– |Zoe staggered away from the burning ruin of the wall, her face streaked with blood. Everything behind her was aflame, wrapped in smoke and jets of steam hissing out of the earth. The air was filled with drifting embers and sparks. Some touched her cloak and clung, burning. Hundreds of men fled past her. Some of them were wreathed in flame, yet they still ran. Her shields flickered into sight, then faded again. Desperately, she turned, crouching on the ground. The second wall had been smashed down as well. She had crawled in the mud, struggling out of the ditch that faced the city.
Odenathus! Her cry was faint, but he was there instantly. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a horse's neck and rushing wind. Dwyrin's here! He's stronger than I am! Help me!
We're coming was his reply, breathless and hurried, and there was wind rushing past. Fall back to the north, if you can.
Another explosion ripped the night, throwing another watchtower into the air. Zoe pressed herself to the cold earth. Burning logs smashed down around her, bouncing across the ground, spewing sparks and smoke. A man a dozen feet away leapt up, screaming, and tried to run. A log toppled out of the night and crushed him, grinding him into the earth. Vast pyres burned in the wreckage of the wall. Every tent seemed to be alight.
Zoe limped away, to the north, throwing aside her charred cloak. Transient blue patterns gleamed in the air around her, though in the face of the power that was walking upon the earth to her west, she knew they were little defense.
Light stabbed in the north, and there was a ringing like a great bell being struck. Odenathus was putting forth his own power.
Is Mohammed there? Zoe tried to run and found that her left leg was weak. She stopped, running her hand along the muscle. Something was sticking out of her leg. A splinter had arrowed through the center of one of the links in the mail. Gritting her teeth, she knelt and yanked it out. Fresh pain flooded her leg and she gasped. Odenathus! Answer me!
The sky lit up, furious bolts of azure and crimson arcing out of the west. Three sharp explosions followed and the battle-meld with her cousin vanished. Zoe grimaced, fighting back tears, and fumbled at her leg. She needed a bandage.
"Sahaba! Sahaba, to me!" Zoe's voice was hoarse. Smoke bit at her throat. Men ran in the darkness, fleeing past her. None of them stopped. She ripped the sleeve from her shirt, wrapping it around the wounded leg. "In Allau's name, to me!"
The bandage clenched on her thigh and the pain ebbed, but she was weak, very weak. Smoke drifted over her, glowing orange and vermilion in the light of the burning walls and towers. She crawled towards the north, mud squelching under her fingers. Behind her, in the huge gap torn in the Arab circumvallation, Roman soldiers appeared, scrambling across the ruins. As they advanced, the fires died, guttering out, swallowed by the earth.
Something came, a spectral orange glow that crept across the ground. A figure was at the center of the radiance, drifting across ditches choked with charred bodies. Lines of armored men hurried forward on both sides, their faces in shadow.
– |Mohammed turned from the south, face black with anger. The horizon was a sea of flame. Great clouds of smoke covered the land, lit from within by infernal lights. The Quraysh's face was half lit by the terrible radiance. "Is this your help, King of Kings? My men are dying, but you will do nothing?"
Shahr-Baraz shook his head. His visage was grim, mustaches gleaming in the firelight. "Lord Mohammed, I do not believe my men could do any better in the inferno than yours, even with the hearts of lions. Come, order your army to fall back upon our camp. Let my priests join their power with yours and Prince Odenathus. Perhaps together we can defeat this daeva the Romans have brought against us."
Mohammed's eyes glinted dangerously, but he restrained his anger. Staring into the darkness, he saw the fires were beginning to die down. No messengers had come, which must mean disaster. He mounted his horse, the same old flea-bitten mare he had ridden since the Sahaba ventured forth from Mekkah. Looking down at the King of Kings, standing in the gate of the Persian camp, he nodded his head. "Very well. If the Romans have broken the wall, then we will fall back and take up positions here. Be ready."
The King of Kings, resplendent in golden armor, returned the nod with a raised hand. At his side, Khadames scratched his nose, then turned away and began to bellow orders. The Persians had leapt to arms, scrambling out of their tents, at the sound of the first explosion in the south. Now they would have to take up positions along the ramparts raised at the end of the bridge. The general would also have to prepare for thirty thousand Arabs to pour into the camp, baggage and all.
Mohammed rode off into the darkness, accompanied by a troop of heavy cavalry. Their banners fluttered in the darkness. Shahr-Baraz watched them go, tugging softly at his mustaches. He was not smiling, though on another day he might have, to see his ally humbled. He had exchanged words before with Lord Mohammed about the vast effort the Arab army had invested in the long fortification. Now their fleet would have to anchor directly off his camp, rather than on the far side of the city. It would make the blockade more interesting…
"Now, this is a puzzling turn." He frowned at the south, watching lines of flame advance across the fields. "What is this power that the Romans have woken-an Egyptian, a druid? They have never been blessed with something this strong before." The Boar turned his head, raising his chin in summons. One of the Shanzdah stepped out of the darkness, the eye slit of his helmet showing only darkness. "Go south and see what walks in the fire. Tell your master, and tell me."
The silent figure bowed its head, then turned silently and loped off into the darkness. Shahr-Baraz felt a chill on his neck, seeing the creature go. This trafficking with dark powers made him uneasy-but now, with the Romans coming against him in strength, he would not gainsay their help! He looked east, his lip curling in a snarl. A line of lights marked the ramparts and towers of Constantinople. He hated the city and its invincible defenses. Of all the battles and campaigns he had ever undertaken, only this place had defied him.
"Not this time," he hissed. "Not this time!"
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
The Villa Castimonia, Outside Roma
Pipes and flutes wailed, carried by wild drumming. A ring of gladiators, their oiled bodies gleaming in the lamplight, danced, a young woman on each arm, their faces bright with laughter. An entire wall of musicians produced a swirling, hypnotic sound, much to the delight of hundreds of revelers packed into the main hall of the villa. Anastasia, her face swathed by a gray veil, pushed her way through the crowd on the staircase. Helena, even more heavily gowned, with two veils and a positively prudish hood, followed close behind. Vitellix, his face smiling and open, led them, his shirt a virulent mustard yellow. He was wearing red-and-white-checked tights, his head freshly shaved. The Duchess kept close behind him, letting his wide shoulders clear them a path.
The creamy-white marble steps of the grand staircase were already stained with spilled wine, crushed candied figs and drifts of young men and women in all states of undress. The lanista descended the stairs into thick crowds of people who were packed around the dancers. Eeling his way through, he reached the wall, Anastasia's hand clinging to his belt. It took nearly five grains to reach a doorway only a dozen feet away.
Anastasia felt faint and ill. The air was close and hot, filled with spices and incense and the battling pomade and perfume of a great number of sweaty people. Even in her own pa
rties-which had, in their time, been noted for their decadence-she had never seen such indulgence. Every gladiator in the city had been invited to Narses' victory party, and they hauled with them the wild patrician youth, the prostitutes and acrobats and actors and pantomimes and hustlers who thronged the Aventine and made the Subura so dangerous by night. Vitellix shouldered aside a drunken youth, his toga slipped to the floor, a crown of holly tangled in his hair, who was feverishly copulating with a young girl pressed against the door. Faces flushed, the girl crying out, they barely noticed being pushed aside.
The Duchess squeezed past, turning her head. She had seen such things before, even done them, but since the eruption of Vesuvius she had lost her taste for senseless abandon. The frenzy in the air grated on her. She saw despair hiding behind the glad smiles and the violent dancing. Is everyone desperate to feel alive? They entered the chamber beyond, Helena treading close on Anastasia's heels.
This room was dimmer, filled with thick, bitter incense. The Duchess blinked, catching sight of Vitellix stepping carefully across the floor. Deep-pile rugs, fabulously expensive, covered the room. There were many more people, most of them naked or nearly so, writhing in their own lost dreams. Some of them had the glazed eyes of lotus eaters, others were making use of the couches and cushions. The Duchess swallowed, feeling the air bite at her throat. She hurried forward, oiled limbs brushing against her ankles. A doorway flanked by porphyry naiads led into an arched hallway. Vitellix was waiting, his head cocked, listening.
"Narses has done well by the school," Helena commented in a dry tone, looking around at the walls faced with dark green marble striated with gold. "I had no idea the salary of a lanista was so generous."
Vitellix blushed, then pointed with his chin. "This villa is owned by a patron of the school. I was here once before; these rooms are reserved for the master's guests. If Diana is in such favor, she will have one or more of them for her own."
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