The Storm of Heaven (100 page)

The
clip-clop
of horses approaching drew Mohammed's attention and he tucked the remains of the fig into his cloak. He turned his flea-bitten mare, leaning forward on the saddle. Around him, arrayed on the hill, were his Sahaba, their camp torn down and packed. Each man was mounted and armored, lance gleaming softly in distant lantern light. The lean shape of Odenathus appeared out of the gloom, with Khalid following. Both men seemed tense, but then, everyone in the army was on edge. Mohammed raised a hand, beckoning the two young men to his side. Shadin moved up, out of the ranks of the
qalb
lined up on the crown of the hill.

"What news?" Mohammed spoke softly, though anyone with eyes to see from the walls of the city knew that the enemy was on the move. "Are there any changes?"

"No, Lord Mohammed." Khalid's eyes were alight with amusement. Odenathus turned his horse to stand by Zoë and the two cousins exchanged a brief hand clasp. "The Boar is already enraged with the slowness of his men breaking camp. Even the Avars are already crossing the stream." The young man pointed off in the darkness to the northwest.

"Very well. Is the road still clear?"

"Yes, lord." Shadin's voice was gruff but confident. "Our scouts secured the bridge over the stream last night. The Romans have not been seen on the far bank." The hulking swordsman pointed at a dim gleam of light tracing a path down the hill. Lanterns hung from trees or posts.

"Excellent." Mohammed raised his voice so that all of the men and women around him could hear clearly. "As agreed, we have the right flank of the army. We will follow the path laid out for us by the
muqadamma
. We will need to move swiftly to avoid clogging the road. Beyond the stream there are rising hills to the right. By dawn, if the great and merciful Lord blesses us, we should be in position on those hills, screening the Persian right flank."

Shadin and the others nodded. Mohammed and Zoë had taken them over the plan in detail the previous day. They, and the Persians and Avars, faced difficult ground on both the left and the right of the plain. To the left, there were both the remains of the Arab fortifications and then the ditch before the walls. After some argument, Shahr-Baraz convinced the Avar
khagan
Bayan the key to the whole battle lay there, under the gray battlements. The nomad chieftain wanted to command the right wing. Shahr-Baraz insisted the Avars take the left. Mohammed kept quiet during this bickering. He did not want his army exposed to bow shot from the city walls, or broken in two by the double ditch-and-wall of the circumvallation.

The Persians would array themselves across the center of the plain, where the ground was best for their heavy horse and masses of spearmen and archers. Mohammed didn't care about the presumed honor, but he was glad to have the right under his command. Low sloping hills covered with old walls and copses of trees broke up the ground, but most of his force was actually the heavy infantry of the Decapolis. They would do well there. He assumed that they would face the main body of the Western legions. His precious band of heavy cavalry, the
qalb
of mounted Arabs and Palmyrenes, would cover the join between his line and the Persians'.

"Zoë, Odenathus and I will go first," he continued, "with the
qalb
directly behind us. Then the
maisarah
and the
maimanah
will follow with all speed. The heavy horse and the
muqadamma
will protect the infantry until they are in position."

Everyone nodded, so Mohammed clucked to his horse and she ambled down the hill, following the trail of lanterns. Behind him, tens of thousands of men began to move, armor rattling and clinking in the gloom. A whispered chant filled the air, raising the hackles on the back of his neck.

"Praise be to God, Lord of the Universe,

the compassionate, the merciful,

sovereign of the day of judgment!

You alone we worship, and to you alone

we turn for help.

Guide us to the straight path,

the path of those whom you have favored,

not of those who have incurred your wrath,

nor of those who have gone astray."

Dawn was starting to break in the east, shedding a gray light. Dwyrin and Rufio stood in the shadow of the Great Gate, looking out across the plain. Drifts of mist and fog clung to the ground. The Hibernian could hear, though. The tramp of booted feet and the rattle of hooves on the stone road carried across the fields. Rufio laid a hand on his shoulder. "Can you see them? The legions marching?"

"Yes." Dwyrin blinked and the mist faded away from his sight. "They are coming down the road in long columns, shields shining in the light of their torches."

"Yes..." Rufio squinted into the gloom. Long lines of lights appeared, winding down out of the hills. Some branched off like rivers of fire flowing into the east. "All right, lad, time to make our standard burn like the sun."

Dwyrin smirked, cracking his knuckles. Directly behind him, filling the gate, was the tall icon of the Emperor. The black canvas had been removed and an especially sturdy troop of the Faithful were waiting for orders. Rufio called out, voice sharp in the cold air. "Raise the standard!"

The Faithful were quick to heft the platform to their shoulders. The visage of the Emperor rose up, rocked back and forth for a moment, then steadied. Dwyrin opened his hand, thoughts far away. The background of gold and pearl began to shine, glowing like the rising sun. The Emperor's portrait lit with carefully applied colors, the pigments as fresh as the day they were first applied.

Rufio smiled, then paced out onto the road. With a measured stomp, the Faithful advanced behind him, the Emperor riding high on their shoulders. Light spilled out from the icon, lighting up the road, the ditch half filled with debris, the broken teeth of the Arab wall. Dwyrin walked alongside, one hand on the platform. Vladimir paced him, keeping between the boy and the misty plain.

Where the light fell, gray mist fled and within a few grains, as the procession walked west, more and more of the plain was revealed. The golden radiance lit even the grim towers flanking the gate. In the city, bells began to ring, pealing in the cold air. All along the vast wall, men stirred themselves from sleep and stared out in wonder.

"The Emperor goes forth!" rang the massed voices of the Faithful. "The Emperor goes to battle!"

At the head of the procession, Rufio smiled grimly, hand ever on the hilt of his sword. Before him, the mist parted and was driven back by the golden light. Soon the helmets and spears of the Western troops hurrying down the road would appear.

White fog drifted between the trees, leaving them shining and dark with moisture. Jusuf urged his horse forward, letting it find its way across the stubbled field. High grass stood in clumps, the long stems bent down by heavy dew. On either side of the Khazar, columns of riders moved slowly forward, feeling their way through the mist. A line of trees rose up out of the gloom and Jusuf ducked under a branch.

"Hold up," he called to the men on either side. The ground descended. The trees made a windbreak at the top of the hill. A slope covered with low bushes fell away below his feet. He whistled, the fluting call of a marsh gant. "Dahvos?"

The brushy ground swallowed the noise of horses' hooves, making the
khagan
and his escorts appear as suddenly as phantoms. Dahvos was fully armored, with a conical steel helm sporting a horsetail plume. His guardsmen wore solid-iron masks, worked with geometric designs, and heavy mail fell in a swath around their shoulders and necks. Much like the Roman knights, they wore vambraces and greaves of spliced metal strips. Just behind the Prince, a rider held the banner of the house of Asena socketed into his stirrup. The flag was barely visible in the poor light, hanging limp, but the green field and red horse were plain.

"Order both columns to halt on this ridge," the
khagan's
voice snapped with authority, carrying easily, even in the heavy air. "Send scouts forward and to the wings. Particularly the right—find the Roman Legion there; it should be the Tenth Fretensis. We must close up with them."

Couriers peeled off from the escort, cantering off through the mist. Dahvos turned to his brother, blue eyes intent. "What do you think?"

Jusuf shook his head, lips pursed. "We should slow up and make sure we're in line with the Roman advance. There must be a swale between these hills, probably marshy ground down there. Shall I take a party forward?"

"No." Dahvos had grown into his duties during their long ride around the fringe of the Sea of Darkness. Though he would often consult with Jusuf, the younger man knew his own mind. Jusuf was pleased by his half-brother's maturity—he would make a good
khagan
for the people. "The Western cohorts must travel farther, on foot, than we. We will wait and let this fog lift and make sure that our flanks are secure." The
khagan
turned in his saddle, gesturing for another courier to come up to him. One of the young men, not yet warriors, rode up, his face eager.

"Zachar, go along the crest of this ridge and make sure that everyone has come up and stopped. No one is to go down the valley without my command. Only the scouts are to advance." Dahvos turned back, peering forward into the murk. "Is this a foggy country? How long will this last?"

"Not long," Jusuf said, shifting the hilt of his sword forward in its scabbard. "This is some freak of the weather—it's high summer here! I think it will burn off soon, though the day may be cold."

"Good. When the air clears a little, I want you to take command of the far left. I am going to shift the heavy horse to the right, more towards the Romans, and I don't want any surprises behind me."

"I understand." Jusuf raised an eyebrow. "Remember—the ground in this swale will be soft; a charge might founder."

"I know." Dahvos grinned. "The Western troops are nearly all infantry, though. The Persians are sure to try and turn their flank with their own
clibanarii
. When that happens, I'd like to be able to strike as they turn."

Jusuf was about to answer, but a rider came spurring up the hill, his horse's mane flying. Both men turned, watching as the scout made the last length up to the crest. "My lords!" The man heeled his horse around, pointing out into the fog. "The valley is shallow and only a half-mile or so across. The hills on the other side are low, but there are many men there."

"Persians?" Dahvos' expression sharpened, becoming predatory. "Or Avars?"

"Neither, lord! These are men I've never seen before! Their skin is dark and they ride under a green and white banner—a sword and letters I cannot read."

Jusuf rubbed his chin, feeling the oily curls. "These must be the Arabs from the desert."

Dahvos nodded in agreement. "How are they armed? How is the ground?"

"All afoot," the scout said, "but they stand in close ranks, like the Romans, with bows, square shields and longish spears. Some horsemen chased us off—a few arrows, though they do not seem to be great shots. There is a shallow stream and the ground is soft and muddy."

"They do have some lancers," Jusuf interjected crisply. "But they come from Roman cities, these rebels, so they will fight like the Legion. Triple lines of infantry in a shield wall, with archers and javelins in support."

"Where are the Avars, then?" Dahvos mused, tapping the helmet with the back of his hand. "Not in the center, certainly; they must hold the far right flank of the enemy line."

"Do we advance?" Jusuf's fingers were busy, testing straps and buckles, making sure nothing was loose or frayed. "Or wait?"

"We wait. No sense in charging across soft ground and then up a hill. Let these townsmen come down into the flat, then we'll see what they're made of."

Dahvos nodded to the scout and the man trotted away down the hill. Jusuf unhooked a wineskin from his belt and took a long drink. Even in this cold air, the armor encasing him was hot. If he was right, it would just get hotter as the day progressed.

"Here they come. At last!" Shahr-Baraz felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. The King of Kings stood at the center of the Persian line, a hundred yards behind a huge sprawling block of spearmen. He sat astride a high wooden seat, formed of precut timbers, draped with cloth of gold and silk cushions. His engineers assembled the watchtower in darkness, guided by torches and markings cut into the logs. There were no protective shields or hides, but it offered him a huge advantage—he could see clearly from the hills on the right to the walls of the city on the left. Armored gloves shaded his eyes, and he saw, across the plain, long lines of soldiers pouring out of the city. "He is coming out!"

Forward of the tower, a great mass of archers and slingers and javelineers stood at ease, some sitting on the dew-soaked ground, others counting their arrows or sling-stones. A space of a dozen paces separated them from the backs of the spearmen, who waited silently in uneven rows, wicker shields facing front, in five deep ranks. Armored
diquans
paced between masses of lightly armored infantry, helmets glowing in the diffuse light. Groups of men in heavier armor, armed with maces and long, straight swords, were interspersed amongst the militia spearmen. The mass of the Persian infantry needed some stiffening to face the Roman legionary one-on-one.

Behind the tower, standing beside their horses, talking in low tones, were the Immortals, the
pushtigbahn
, Shahr-Baraz's reserve. Each of the noblemen were armored from head to toe in overlapping mail coats, and armed with heavy spiked maces, lances, long swords, and the heavy recurved horse bow they had inherited from their Parthian predecessors. Nearly six thousand of the finest fighting men in the world. Shahr-Baraz could name only three other nations that fielded so professional and skilled a force.

Of course, all three of those powers faced him across the field. The King of Kings was not concerned. He didn't need to win this battle, only fight to a bloody draw. That would be enough. The mere fact the Eastern Legions issued forth from their city made him giddy with relief. Everything depended on Heraclius coming out to give battle. Shahr-Baraz saw the battle emblem of the Eastern Emperor glowing and flickering like a star in the mist. The Eastern troops were having trouble negotiating the Arab fortifications.