The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  "Your Lord is the One who propels ships for you at sea, so you may seek some of His bounty. He has been so merciful toward you! Whenever some adversity strikes you at sea, anyone you appeal to beside Him leaves you to a dreadful fate; yet whenever We bring you safely to port, you all turn away evasively. Man has been so thankless!

  "Do you feel so safe that He will not let the land cave in beneath you, or send a sandstorm down upon you? Then you will find no agent to act on your behalf! Or do you feel so secure that He will send you another chance, withholding a smashing gale that would drown you because you have disbelieved? Then you will not find anyone to help you against Us. We have dignified the Children of Adam and transported them across land and sea. We have provided them with wholesome things and favored them especially over many of those whom We have created.

  "The day comes when We will call upon the sons of man, whom We have given such shelter. Shaitan is loose in the world. He speaks untruths and turns the unwary from the Straight Path. Men must stand against him, men who follow the Righteous Way.

  "Such has been the practice with any of Our messengers whom We have sent before you. You will never find any chance in Our course!

  "Keep up prayer from the decline of the sun, until full night comes; and observe the Recital of Our words at daybreak, since reciting at daybreak will be witnessed!

  "When you recite, say, 'My Lord, let me enter through a proper entrance and leave by an honest exit! Grant me supporting authority from Your presence.'

  "Appeal to God, or appeal to the Mercy-giving: whichever name you may invoke, He still has the Finest Names. Do not shout in your prayer nor say it under your breath; seek a course in between. Praise be to God Who has adopted no son and has no partner in control. He needs no protector against pettiness. Magnify Him greatly!"

  Zoe felt a chill pass over her, an invisible wind that cut through her woolen cloak and even the breastplate of iron scales she wore under her tunic. The last words trembled in the air, repeated in a susurrus of hushed voices. Full night had come, covering the sky. It was dark on the summit of the High Place, for no torch or lantern was lit. The moon threw a pale light, but tonight it seemed faint. She felt utterly alone, though she could feel the heavy warm presence of Jalal and Shadin on either side of her. They smelled of horses and oiled metal and well-worn leather and she took great comfort from them. In her heart, she could feel the Queen smiling and it warmed her like the sun.

  There was a rustling sound, and Mohammed descended from the high altar. His face was weary and his step uneven. It had taken a great deal from him to let these words find shape in the air. The Tanukh closed around him, supporting his arms. A warm yellow light sprang up. Shadin had lit a small candle-lantern. In the pale light, Zoe could see Mohammed turn to her.

  "O Queen," he said, his eyes sparkling in shadow, "summon the captains of the host: Odenathus your cousin, Khalid of the Al'Walid, the Lord of the Ben-Sarid, the Princes of the Decapolis. When the sun comes again, we will leave this place. Lejjun awaits, and then the coast."

  Zoe bowed and made to go, but the thin handsome face of the youth Khalid was already there, pushing his way through the crowd. No one had left the High Place, all were waiting for Mohammed to descend the steps. Among all that throng, only Khalid moved. The young man stepped in front of Mohammed and made a deep bow, settling to one knee. A package wrapped in loose cloth was in one hand.

  "Lord Mohammed, pause awhile. I have carried a gift from those left behind, your kinfolk in Mekkah and the stalwarts of the city. They cannot join you-being infirm or possessed of responsibilities, but they would have you remember, always, that you are in their hearts. They send you this."

  Khalid unwrapped the cloth and the plain unmarked hilt and sheath of a sword stood revealed. With downcast eyes, the youth presented the blade, hilt-first, to the Quraysh. Mohammed paused, looking down, his right hand on his own blade.

  "I have a sword," said the Quraysh. "It suffices."

  "Put it aside," said Khalid, his voice solemn. "This is a blade of the heart, not just steel. Draw it, lord, and see what faith has wrought."

  One of Mohammed's eyebrows flickered, but he put forth his hand and gripped the hilt. Zoe, watching from the crowd of men, saw his face change at the touch, lighting from within like the sun parting clouds. There was a slithering rasp and the blade flowed free from the sheath.

  Zoe gasped.

  It was blacker than the barren sky, ebon and indigo. It swallowed light and compressed space. Every eye fixed upon it, seeing infinity in its depths. Colors she could not name crawled across the surface. It was pure and whole, balanced like the tripod of the sun. Mohammed raised the blade above his head and Zoe felt the world shift and center. For an instant, her thought turned to the hidden world, to perceive that which the men of Mekkah had summoned from their forges.

  She could not. Such a thing could not be looked upon in life.

  "He sings!" Mohammed said, wonder filling his voice. "It is the maker of night."

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Caesarea Maritima, Palestine

  Banners and pennants snapped in a brisk offshore breeze. Surf beyond the twin breakwaters boomed vigorously. Beyond the twin sea towers, whitecaps stretched to the horizon. On the stone quays, the wind whistled through a forest of masts and sang in the ropes. Nearly a hundred huge grain freighters were tied up. At each massive ship, four gangways-two to a side-had been let down to the docks. Men disembarked in a constant, steady stream from the upper decks. Below them, where the heavier ramps had grounded, wagons were being unloaded, and wobbly horses and mules were being led out.

  On the steps of the port master's office, in the shade, Theodore stood with his staff. The Prince wore a heavy red cloak with a purple silk lining. A gilt breastplate molded with rippling muscles shone at his chest. As befitted the commander of an Imperial army, his barbers had shaved his beard close to the jaw and his thick unruly red hair was coifed back. Exquisitely tooled boots with a red stripe, as befitted the brother of the Emperor, were on his feet.

  The Prince fairly gleamed in the midday sun, though his staff were similarly well appointed. Theodore did not look kindly upon subordinates who let their armor and helmets be marred by stains or rust. Too, they were men like him, younger and more vigorous than the doddards who served on Heraclius' staff. The Prince had chosen each one from the ranks of the army that had conquered Persia. He understood them well.

  Theodore cast a possessive eye over the lines of men marching past. The army still numbered far too many infantry for his taste, though they did make a stirring sight as they swung past with their spears and bowcases over their shoulders, belongings tied up in a sack on a pole. The tramp of those thousands of feet on the paving stones sent a shiver up his spine.

  These are mine, he gloated. My army, at last.

  With the restoration of Imperial authority over the highlands of Anatolikon and the departure of the Avars to their lands beyond the Danuvius, a flood of manpower had offered itself up to the Emperor. Theodore, acting in his brother's place, had seized upon the fresh levy with alacrity. Nearly half of his banda were green troops, but he knew that they would train up quickly. The Anatolians, in particular, were natural soldiers. More to the point, they would form an army that had never known another commander. They had never served under his brother and gained that grating loyalty that seemed to follow the Emperor wherever he went.

  The first of the cavalry regiments paraded past, the equities raising their arms in salute to the Prince. Theodore grinned, his heart swelling with pride. Here were the finest fighting men in the world, the cataphracti of Rome. Today they rode past with their conical helms slung from a strap on their high, four-cornered saddles. Their long curved bows were safely cased away at their sides and the wicked spatha were sheathed. Lamellar mail, bound of hundreds of metal lozenges on a leather and felt backing, shimmered in the sunlight. In battle, their horses would bear heavy felted barding, sewn with metal plates. Wagons carried the
ir armor now, for the disembarkment procedure was difficult enough without the extra weight.

  The Prince raised his arm in salute and a cheer went up, ringing off the limestone facing on the warehouses and port offices.

  "Come," said the Prince, ebullient. "We must make our way to camp and sort things out. Things will be in a right mess there, I am sure. Within the week, once all ships have unloaded, we march to Damascus to see about the suppression of this rabble in the desert and the extension of the rule of law."

  The staff officers smiled back, their faces shining with thoughts of victory and conquest. The armies of the frontier states-Palmyra and Nabatea and the Decapolis-had been scattered and destroyed by Persia. The inland cities, grown fat on the Indian trade and the staggering profits of Chin silk, would be a rich prize. Four new provinces were planned, each under the direct rule of a newly appointed Imperial governor.

  Theodore stamped down the steps and swung up onto his horse, a massive coal black stallion he had chosen from the stables of the Imperial palace. He felt joy fill him, seeing this pure blue sky and the dry hills above the port. Here was his Empire, waiting for him. He spurred the horse and it clattered up the street, its mane blowing in the wind of his passage.

  Behind him, another cohort of infantry marched past the offices, swords and spears jangling. Out at sea, another hundred of the massive transport ships were waiting, heeled against the wind, protected by the prowling galleys of the Imperial fleet. Nearly twenty thousand men would come ashore over the next week.

  On the near dock, a centurion cursed at the green troops under his command. They had fouled a line and their supply wagon had tipped, spilling its cargo of arrows, sharpened stakes, bags of millet, and barrels of acetum onto the dock.

  "Move it, you offal!" His baton made a meaty sound on their backs. The men rushed to turn the wagon back over.

  The centurion wiped his brow. It was dreadfully hot here. Soon it would be worse as full summer came. He squinted at the dry hills, snarling in disgust at the thin grass and scrawny trees.

  Colonna hated Judea. It was always bad luck to serve here.

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