The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  Patik motioned the two figures ahead of him and waited while they slipped past. They carried a heavy cask between them on a pole, and the vessel sloshed quietly with liquid as they moved. Behind them, the noise from the big tent continued to seep out into the night air. Many men were arguing, without thought to what moved in darkness beyond the light of their fires.

  Despite the gloom under the trees crowding the shore, Patik was able to follow the two dark figures through high brush and down into an inlet. The moon rose high enough to glitter on the water, letting him make out the sleek curved prow of a ship. Patik hurried, reaching the long gangplank as the two figures stepped onto the deck of the merchantman. The Persian stepped aboard only a grain later and sheathed the dagger. No one had seen them.

  The deck of the ship was dark. There were no lanterns or lamps. Patik thought this wise, for the shoreline was well patrolled by both the Persians and the Arabs. The Romans had tried to send raiding parties across the Golden Horn in small boats. Many might question the presence of a hidden ship on the Galatan shore. The two dark figures moved carefully across the deck, the gurgling cask swinging between them. A patch of sable on indigo appeared, barely outlined by the gleam of the moon. They descended. Patik stopped at the top of the stairs, nostrils flaring at a subtle foul odor.

  "Descend." The voice was hoarse and strange, filled with a metallic echo. Patik swallowed, suddenly nervous. He was afraid of the voice in the darkness. A stronger fear moved his feet and he climbed down into the hull of the ship. Invisible hands moved, closing the hatch over his head. Now the smell was stronger.

  A black wagon sat in the hold, high round wheels touching the hull on either side. A shape moved in the darkness and a dim light sprang up, barely sufficient to illuminate the cloaked figures of the Shanzdah standing on either side of the cask, hoods thrown back, pale, leprous heads gleaming. Beside the wagon crouched a tall creature with the head of a black dog. It had the limbs of a man, smooth and muscular, but dark red outlined black pits serving as eyes. A rasping, metallic breath hissed from the iron mouth. Patik felt weak and put his hand on the wooden stairway for support.

  The Shanzdah crouched down on either side of the cask, boots crunching in the layer of earth covering the floor. There was a sound of metal under great stress, then a ping as two bolts cracked in iron fingers. The two creatures moved in unison, lifting the cover of the cask. A strange light spilled out, a deep blue that made the darkness seem light. Patik blinked, eyes tearing up as if he had been blinded.

  "Lift me up," gargled a terrible, inhuman voice. The Shanzdah rose, hands holding up a mottled, reptilian skull. Slow, thick liquid spilled away from fluted nostrils and a leering mouth lined with endless rows of tiny sharp teeth. "Ah. Now I can see. Turn me about."

  The skull rotated as the Shanzdah moved, and Patik crumpled to the ground, consumed by overwhelming fear. Pale green points of light gleamed in deep-set eye sockets. Those eyes turned towards him and he felt the air turn cold. Ghastly laughter echoed in the black hold.

  "Greetings, loyal Patik… or should I say the Great Prince Shahin, cousin of the late King of Kings, general of armies… The garb of a common soldier suits you. But here, you have done me such good service! You will be richly rewarded for your loyalty. Where is our prize?"

  Shahin struggled to rise, arms weak as jelly. Despite clawing fear, the Persian managed to grope for his belt and draw forth a square of gleaming black cloth like a handkerchief tied up with a leaden cord. "Here," the Persian gasped. "He is here."

  "Delightful!" The skull laughed, deep blue light growing stronger. Now some details of the hold could be made out, though everything was reversed, light for dark. The silent, immobile figures of two more of the Shanzdah became visible, standing against the sides of the wagon. "Give him to my beloved pet. They are old dear friends."

  Patik crawled forward, unable to rise, and pressed the black cloth into the hands of the dog-headed man. That creature made no sound but took the cloth and then stepped back.

  "Now, where is my body? Bring it here." The skull's voice tittered with laughter, though Patik thought it was the sound of crushed bone blown by a forge-hot wind. Averting his eyes, the Persian crawled back to the base of the stairs. Dreadful sounds began to issue forth from the wagon.

  – |"Hello, auntie." Zoe ran her hands along the carved top of the sarcophagus. "I'm sorry you were lost in the sea for so long. I'm sorry I haven't come to see you." The rich dark wood was grainy with salt. Khalid's divers had removed the wrack and barnacles, but the original luster was gone. The Palmyrene woman sighed, her fingers tracing the inlaid figures of cloaked men and women, the camels and fine ships with triangular sails. By her command, the casket remained sealed.

  Zoe sat down next to the sarcophagus, suddenly tired. She had put off this moment for days, hiding in her own tent. Zoe put her face in her hands, trying not to weep. The loss of Zenobia and the city forced her mind into something like madness, fueled by rage and a singular desire to destroy Rome. Then Mohammed and his gentle touch and kind words woke her from the dream of vengeance. Now he had been taken away and she felt empty. The vibrating fury sustaining her for so many months was just… gone. It felt very strange, her mind seemingly clear but purposeless.

  What do I do now? In the pavilion, the desire to take the bodies of her aunt and her friend away had been very strong. That still felt like the proper and right thing to do. But after that? Perhaps, she thought, I will leave all these lands. India is not far from Mekkah. There are many ships which ply those waters. They say the mountains looking down upon the golden cities of Mauryasana are the abode of the gods. I could climb them and see.

  Zoe was suddenly ashamed of dragging Zenobia from her mountain tomb, desecrating her burial place. She stood, lithe body rising gracefully, and turned, bowing to her dead aunt.

  "Auntie, I'm so sorry. I will take you home straightaway and see that you rest among your fathers and grandfathers. They will be missing you, I'm sure!" She turned, facing the bier holding the body of Mohammed, wrapped in white cloths. The spears had been lashed together with leather cords, each man in the army of the Sahaba contributing some portion. She supposed that, someday, men would say the leather was washed in tears, the spears in blood. The soldiers had been overcome, many falling to the ground, distraught, when the body of the teacher had been carried into the camp.

  "Mohammed…" Zoe had to clear her throat. "I will take you home, too. Shadin and I will carry you back to the desert city. Khadijah is waiting for you, I know she is. You will be happy there, lying beside her…" Tears flooded and Zoe could not continue, covering her face, shuddering. "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have been there at your side. Damn that Khalid and his thugs! They couldn't keep you safe. Not like I… should have."

  A thin tracery of fire appeared in the air, circling Zoe's head. It rippled with white and blue, crawling through the air. She was crying too hard to notice, but the glowing worm spun out from her, encircling the sarcophagus, the bier, then the whole tent. Outside, unheard, there was a shout of alarm. "Why are you gone?" Zoe could barely speak. "I just found you, my dear friend. Is this your God's work? This cruelty? Does he love you more than I do? Is he jealous?"

  Fire burned in a trembling sheet, surrounding the tent, lighting up the entire interior, glowing through the cloth walls. Waves of heat washed over her, drying her tears. Zoe looked up, startled by the brilliant light, and stared at the wall of flame, puzzled by its unexpected appearance.

  "Zoe!" Distantly, she heard Odenathus calling out to her. She turned around, seeing the wavering figure of her cousin through the leaping, silent flames. "Zoe!"

  Scowling, wiping tears away from her eyes with the back of one hand, the Palmyrene woman pressed her other hand towards the ground. With the motion, the fire settled, sinking into the earth. The light dimmed, then went out, leaving the night darker than before. Outside the tent, some of the Sahaba gathered, gawking. Odenathus waited just outside the ring of s
moking ground. He stepped into the tent, alarmed. Zoe made a face at him and turned away. The onlookers, seeing the look on her face, quietly slipped away.

  "Zoe… what are you doing?" Odenathus leaned against the sarcophagus, trying to see her face. He sounded worried.

  "Go away." Zoe wiped her eyes again. "I would like to be alone."

  "No. You've been hiding in your tent for days. I wanted to talk to you."

  "About what?" She turned again, keeping her face averted.

  Odenathus sighed, sitting back on the edge of the sarcophagus. His foot tapped restlessly against the heavy wood. "Do you want me to come with you to Palmyra and Mekkah?"

  Zoe faced him, her arms crossed. "You don't need my permission to stay here with Khalid and the army. They will need you, I suppose. The Romans still have some thaumaturges. You're pretty strong now… you could help them."

  "Zoe, I do need your permission." Odenathus was very serious. Zoe lifted her head in question. "You are queen of the city. I am in your service. By your decree in the ruins, I command our paltry forces." He made a half-smile, long face brightening.

  "Yes." Zoe sighed. "You are my subject. But I have already decided to set aside this crown, for all its riches and glory." A wry, deprecating tone crept into her voice. "Where is the empire of Palmyra? Where are the courtiers, the glorious city, the thousand maids and servants? I rule a ragged band of refugees, some ships, a great deal of broken shale and desert sand. I will not command any man or woman of the city to follow me. Shadin has volunteered, and his service I will accept."

  Odenathus' expression changed subtly, growing sad. "You won't stay?"

  "Here?" Zoe laughed, a silvery sound like icy water rushing over tumbled polished stone. "This is a dreadful country!" Something like a smile crept into her face, crinkling the corners of her dark brown eyes. "You have more here than I-Khalid and this band of brothers. The war."

  Odenathus nodded, looking at the ground. "Do you remember when we reached Antioch after the Persian campaign? You were going to stay in the Legion-you thought it suited you. I was going to leave, to go home and get married! Now, everything is reversed."

  "I'm not going to get married," Zoe said in a very dry tone. Then her voice softened. "Have you found what you were looking for?"

  "Yes." Odenathus looked up, a plaintive expression on his face, half-confidence, half-remorse. "Do you suppose that our battle-meld will still hold, even with so many leagues between us?"

  I think so, she thought, and he smiled, hearing her in his own mind. You should go back. They are still arguing… I suppose Khalid will win in the end. He will be the kalif, the successor.

  Yes.

  Zoe stepped close to her cousin, kissed his brow, then hugged him fiercely. After a long moment, they stood apart. Zoe did not watch him leave, turning instead to the cloth-wrapped body of Mohammed. Exhaustion crept upon her, making her arms and legs heavy as lead. She wanted to look upon his face, to see the proud brow, the noble nose, one last time. She yawned tremendously.

  "It can't be that late," Zoe said crossly, raising a hand. The lamps died. Darkness folded around the tent. She could see the moon, a half-crescent dipping behind the pines. "Oh, it is late."

  The thought of crossing the camp to her tent was too much for her. She laid down on the ground at the foot of Zenobia's sarcophagus, curling up, cloak laid on the ground as a bedcloth. Within a breath, she was sound asleep. A little time passed and then there was a clacking and a rustling in the casket. Something moved, sounding like a great number of crickets and beetles trapped in a stone bucket.

  Sleep, daughter, sleep. All these foul dreams will soon pass away. Sleep and dream of delightful things. Dream of home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Near the Charisian Gate, Constantinople

  Shadows crept across broken earth, oozing among the fallen. Shade gathered in the moat, among rotted corpses and crumpled armor, until the ditch was brimming with night. Above, on the walls and towers around the gate, torches fluttered. Many eyes peered down from the battlements and from arrow slits. Despite weariness, the watch from the towers did not waver. The men of the city expected an attack.

  Yet no one marked the appearance of a slim figure among the pooling shadows. It came swiftly, drifting across the road, and stopped just outside the pale flicker of the torchlight. Subtly, night deepened around the figure. A soft rustling echoed back from the massive wall, but even that sound failed to reach the ears of the men watching above. Lord Dahak knelt, dark cape clinging to thin, bony shoulders. Here, hidden by the shroud of night, he did not bother to maintain even the simplest disguise. Fine scales glinted in the web of his fingers as they placed a stone box, only a few inches long, on the ground. The Lord of the Ten Serpents grinned in the darkness, and he felt strong. His passage across the battlefield refreshed him, and his deft victory over the Voice of Heaven put chill joy in his heart. Tonight, with his armies everywhere victorious and his enemies in disarray, Dahak knelt on the cold earth and opened the stone box with anticipation. Before he had stepped beyond the threshold and looked upon the face of his master, the still-human sorcerer would have been paralyzed by fear. Even seeing such a box, looking upon such loathsome glyphs, holding such a foul object up to the sky would have been impossible.

  In the box were two gleaming white pearls, each the size of a thumb. They nestled in silk within a cage of lead and gold. The inner surface of the box was etched with dozens of tiny, almost invisible signs. Dahak let the box lie open for a moment, long fingers pressed to his temples, his attention carefully directed elsewhere. Any adept would quail away from the vortex of forces rushing and rippling in the hidden world. Enormous pressures gathered, the warp and weft of the entire earth pressing against the box, trying to drive the twin spheres from existence. Shining gradients deepened, and Dahak felt his own power pressed aside by a deluge of singing threads eager to annihilate the pearls. The stone box began to sink into the earth.

  The ground groaned, but the watchers ignored the slight rattle running the length and breadth of the city. Earthquakes were common along the Propontis. Dahak walked away from the gate and the box, which vanished beneath the loose soil. With each step he took away from the pearls, the pressure in the air lessened and his step was quicker. Curious, the sorcerer let his perception expand. After a moment, Dahak smiled. Far away and deep beneath the earth, something was stirring, uncoiling and rising from dark places. A thin, keening wail rippled through the ether, monstrous children crying out for an even more horrific parent.

  The Lord of the Ten Serpents looked over his shoulder at the looming walls of the city. He laughed softly at the impudence of the builders. Men thought they were lords of the world. They were wrong. The hidden masters, those like the abyssal shape Dahak served, truly moved the heavens in their courses. As he turned away he paused. At the edge of perception, something winked and flashed like a golden coin spinning in daylight.

  Dahak's eyes, gleaming in the darkness, widened. His head came up sharply, as if he scented something in the air. There was a brief impression of spinning bronze and a lambent, cold green flame. A long, excited hiss whistled through the sorcerer's teeth.

  An Eye of Shadow! he thought, avarice and delight stirring in his cold heart. They were not all destroyed? Ahhhh… Base thoughts stirred in the old, old brain of the creature. Clawlike fingers scratched restlessly at a glassy scar on his chest. The bite of the flint knife had been deep. Perhaps… no, surely that door is closed! The Sisterhood would not be careless, leaving such a prize within reach… Lids dipped over his eyes, flicking open and closed, one by one. He rummaged through ancient memories, turning them this way and that like discarded trinkets found in a rubbish pit. Was there gold among the dross? They sealed the land in water, to keep my hands from the burning stone, Dahak remembered, even the language of his memories changing as he reached back across an abyss of time. But with an Eye… an Eye to see all that is hidden, I might reach Atlas' drowned halls without danger.


  Very deep in the mind of the sorcerer, far below any thought that he might allow himself to peruse, the thought of freedom kindled and a fingertip, sharp as knapped flint, scratched again at the glassy scar. Shadows folded around Dahak and he slipped away into the night.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  The Palatine Hill, Roma Mater

  Late-afternoon sun gleamed from columns arrayed across the temple of the Divine Claudians. Atop the triangular pediment, dozens of brightly painted statues glowed in the direct light of the sun. Below the flight of white steps, a busy flood of humanity thronged the avenue separating the Palatine and its confusion of red-roofed palaces from the Caelian Hill and the temple. High on the side of the Palatine, below a monumental platform built by Emperor Septimus Severus to hold his new palace, the window of a third-floor apartment was open.

  The reflected light made a bright rectangle on the wall opposite the window. The room was hot and dim. Maxian slept uneasily, his dreams troubled. His feet twitched and hands trembled, sometimes grasping at empty air. Linen sheets and a woolen blanket were scattered on the floor.

  Across the little valley, a gong rang in the nave of the temple, signaling the end of the day. A reedy chorus of oboes followed and then the priests, their robes carefully arranged, tall hats on their heads, began to descend the steps, hands filled with offerings, with smoking incense on silver platters, with bundled rods and portraits of the great emperors. The procession turned upon reaching the avenue and walked north in a stately manner. The nine priests wound through the crowded avenues and into the Forum, where the temple of the Deified Caesar stood at the edge of the great public square.