The Storm of Heaven (52 page)

"Oh, go to bed yourself," he muttered and stomped off.

Daughter, you must wake up. You've lessons today.

Zoë's eyes flickered open and she saw the beamed roof of a ship's cabin. Wavering sunlight, reflecting through a porthole, danced on the ceiling. Tentatively, she flexed her fingers and then sat up. For a wonder, she felt fine and well rested. Something about the room seemed out of place, and after a moment she realized that this was not her cabin on the
Jibril
. The memory of a soft, familiar voice speaking to her faded, and she shook her head, swinging out of bed.

Her clothing was laid out on a cot and she slipped on her customary pantaloons and tunic. As she did so, she realized her skin was incredibly smooth, even glossy.

"How odd..." It was strange to feel so clean. She laughed at herself, realizing that it had been months since she had really been clean—hair, skin, even her nails. She had been so focused for so long—since learning Palmyra had been destroyed—being clean seemed unnatural.

"Well," she said aloud, binding up her hair with a black ribbon, "where are we?"

Stepping out onto the deck of the ship, she squinted in brilliant sunlight. A crisp wind caught her hair, flicking curls around her face. She felt a charge in the air—tension, anticipation, fear—and her head came up. Fully awake, she took the steps to the rear deck of the galley two at a time. The air was tainted with ozone, as if a storm were building in the clear air.

Mohammed stood at the rail, one hand on the curving stern post of the ship. Zoë looked around, trying to find her bearings. The fleet spread out to either side in a long line, white sails filled with a strong following wind. The iron beaks of the galleys surged through the water, throwing up a white spray. Every deck was filled with men.

"Lady Zoë," the desert chieftain said, distracted, "it is a good day to wake."

She turned, following his gaze. Another fleet bore down upon them at an angle, surging through choppy waves. A bleak shore, studded with barren hills, framed the enemy ships. Their red and orange sails were startlingly bright against a dim blue sky and washed-out mountains. "The Romans?"

"Yes, they have found us at last."

Mohammed turned, smiling, focusing on her for the first time. "How do you feel?"

"Alive!" She laughed, flipping the raven's tail of her hair over her shoulder. "I feel... well. Awake!"

"Good." The corners of his eyes crinkled up and she felt the warmth of his affection like a physical heat on her face. "I cannot offer you a quiet day of cruising amongst the islands. There will be a struggle. Do you feel the air?"

"Yes." She turned away, afraid she would blush. It felt strange to be greeted with such open warmth and relief. Zoë wondered how long she had lain unconscious.

Who washed me?
she suddenly thought, feeling embarrassed.
Was it him?
She wrenched her thoughts back to the matter at hand. "Their thaumaturges are working against us?"

"I don't know." Mohammed laughed, running fingers through his beard. "I cannot see into their world, not as you can."

"They are trying to work something up." Zoë frowned, concentrating. She began to bring the patterns and symbols of the Entrance to her mind, but then stopped. Memory flooded back like water through a sluice gate and she felt suddenly ill. Afterimages of a brilliant white light echoed in her vision. She clutched convulsively at the railing. "Lord Mohammed?"

"Yes?" He turned back to her, startled by the alarm in her voice.

"You've not... prayed, have you?"

"Ah." He frowned, bushy white eyebrows drawing close like twin caterpillars. "The voice from the clear air is close, but it has not spoken. Not yet. Are you afraid?"

"Yes," she said, feeling sick. "I don't want to venture into the unseen world if that... power... will suddenly come upon us. I remember what happened."

Mohammed raised his chin a little, acknowledging her concern. "Our numbers seem even," he said, indicating the oncoming Roman fleet. "There may be no need to call upon the voice and its power. Can you block their sorcery?"

"By myself?" Zoë was alarmed at the prospect. "I'm not that strong! These ships are fragile creatures—if they send fire against us, or even stir up waves or winds, it will go very badly! If Odenathus were here, we might be able to interfere enough with their sendings..."

Mohammed squinted into the sun, gauging the hour and the wind. He had never commanded at sea before but it seemed the wind would not be an ally today. Nearly all of the ships on either side were
dromons
, the heavy war galleys of the Imperial Navy, which relied on a triple bank of oars to maneuver. Indeed, the stiff white sails would be a liability once the fleets closed to arrow and scorpion range. They were flammable. With these steeds of wood, tar, cordage and canvas, fire was a deadly enemy.

"Can you keep fire from our ships?" he asked, catching her hands in his. They were thin and wiry, strong—Zoë didn't carry a cavalry blade for show. At the moment they were very warm. "As you did at Caesarea?"

"Perhaps. The sea will help." She retrieved her hands. Her fingers were tingling. "But that will leave them free for other deviltries."

The Yemenite captain hurried up, a legionary's helmet rattling, too large, on his head. Like his men, he was clad in thick cork armor. With his stubby tanned arms and round face, he looked like a seagoing pig with a mustache. "Lord Mohammed, we will be within range in a few grains. Do you have any orders?"

Mohammed laughed, a cheerful sound which carried easily over the heads of the men standing to in the rowing gallery. The sails were taut with wind, the ship making good speed. The rowers held their oars inboard, waiting to close to battle. In only moments they would have to bend their backs... but not yet. The Quraysh chieftain smoothed his mustaches and looked out over his fleet plowing through the dark green water.

"Signal our fellows this—that God is great and his will is victory!"

The Yemenite nodded sharply, then shouted orders to his signalmen on the foredeck. Colored flags were raised, fluttering in the breeze, waving and dipping as the men passed the message on. In the rowing gallery, the Sahaba looked up, seeing the great green banner of their Lord rise up to the top of the mast. It snapped smartly, trailing stiff in the wind.

"Allau Akbar!"
The sound was a great roar, amplified by the curving shape of the hull. It carried across the water, borne by the wind.
"Allau Akbar!"

Zoë marshaled her thoughts and tried to calm her queasy stomach.

You need not fear, daughter. You have looked upon the furnace and lived. This will be a little matter.

The Palmyrene girl's head snapped around in alarm, looking for the speaker. There was no one standing on the deck. She felt a touch, a caress on her forehead.

There is nothing to fear.

Zoë swallowed—her throat was unaccountably dry. These hallucinations were a distraction, but they could be ignored. She slipped down the steps and latched the door to her own room behind her. The oaken walls of the ship would give her a little protection, far better than trying to concentrate on the open deck. Seating herself on the bed, she closed her eyes. A dodecahedron flowered before her, constantly in motion.

Mohammed swung from the top of a ladder into the elevated fighting platform on the rear deck of the
Khuwaylid
, feeling the ship pitch and roll under his feet. It wasn't quite a spirited horse, but the motion reminded him of riding into battle. The Yemenite captain and a pair of Sahaban marines were waiting, crouched behind wicker shields lining the platform. From this vantage, the full length of the deck was visible. Sailors were hauling the mainsail down and furling the canvas into a long box-shaped bin running along the spine of the ship. In the rowing gallery, the oarsmen had run their oars out and the leaf-shaped blades waited above the water.

Mohammed glanced across the line of his fleet. Thirty ships led his first wave, all holding roughly even with their black-painted hulls hissing through the water. On their foredecks, men hurried to wind the scorpions that were housed behind wooden panels. In a peculiarly Roman touch, the platforms were painted to look like fortress towers of stone. Marines—more Sahaba in shining helmets and bulky armor—swarmed on the decks. On each ship, like on the
Khuwaylid
, were a pair of boarding ramps. The long ramps, modeled on the ancient
corvus
, were lying respectively to the fore and rear decks. An anchor pole with a fitted iron ring allowed the ramps to swing to either side, supported by a pair of corded ropes that fed through pulleys on the mast. The beak of each ramp was armored with iron spikes that, when the ramp was dropped, would pierce the decking of the enemy ship.

The Quraysh captain smiled grimly to himself. It had been centuries since someone tried to fight a land war on the waters of the
Mare Internum
. The sailors in the opposing fleet were professionals, well trained and experienced. His Sahaba were reckless, wild fellows used to fighting on land, from a horse. Even with a leavening of Yemenite sailors, there was no way they could win a naval battle against the Imperials. But in hand-to-hand, on the crowded decks of a pair of ships, he would put his men against the best of the Romans.

They just had to get to grips, denying the Imperials room to maneuver.

Flutes trilled on the deck below and oars plunged into the water. Three banks of oars on either side bit, then pulled, and the
Khuwaylid
, which had been slowing without sails up, surged ahead again. Behind the flagship, the following galleys picked up speed. On the fighting platform, the Yemenite captain eyed the fleet with a worried expression.

"Only a few grains now, only a few grains." He was muttering under his breath. Mohammed noticed he was sweating. The Quraysh shaded his eyes with a hand, watching the Roman fleet begin to move. The enemy lines were splitting, fanning out on either flank. Their ships moved with a delicate grace, striding over the water on long, flashing limbs.

"Prepare to fire scorpion for range!" The captain's bellow carried easily to the foredeck. The crew of the weapon swarmed into action, manhandling a smoothed stone into the throwing cradle. Other men cranked furiously on spoked wheels, drawing the curving wooden bar of the "sting" back.

Mohammed took a firm grip on the railing of the platform, then closed his eyes.
O Lord of the World, we place ourselves in your hands, knowing your mercy. Here is our enemy, and our hearts are pure and filled with devotion. Grant us victory this day!

The sea burned with blue fire to the limit of Zoë's perception. Each ship spidered across translucent foam, the resistance of the water to the cleaving prow a burning white lattice. The matrices of the water surface cracked as the bronze rams cut through, sending out rippling shockwaves not only in the liquid itself but through the pattern in the hidden world. The Roman ships were even brighter, outlined with intent and fear and hope and anger. Two of the Roman
dromons
, hanging back from the main line of battle, glittered within gold domes. Brassy glyphs and signs drifted across the spheres like shadows thrown on a wall.

Zoë was surprised; it felt like there were only two enemy thaumaturges.

But they might have learned caution,
she thought to herself. Until a mage attempted to impose her will upon the fabric of air and water and wood around her, she might evade detection. As yet, Zoë had not raised a ward of defense. It was Legion doctrine to do so, but if she distorted reality around her, a wary eye might find her in the chaos of the battle. With a shiver, she suppressed instinct, letting her self open itself to the hurrying lights and blazing, cold fires of the unseen.

See, Zoë? The sand lizard's coloration,
whispered a soft voice,
lets it hide among the rocks.

Zoë shook her head again, trying to drive the sound away. Ahead of her, a building pyramid of potential suddenly fractured and a shining sphere flew away from the fighting platform, falling with a cracked, glassy burst into the sea a dozen yards from the leading Roman ship.

Now,
she thought,
the fight begins.

Mohammed saw the scorpion stone plunge into the sea, throwing up a tall gout of water. It was short of the lead Roman galley. The bloom of spray cascaded down, splashing over the deck of the
dromon
. The rowers on the enemy ship didn't break their stroke, plunging ahead through the boil of water. The
crack
of scorpions on the other Arab ships sang in the air. Stones flickered through the air. Some of them crashed into the foredecks of the Roman ships. Most fell into the sea between the flashing banks of oars.

Mohammed raised an eyebrow, seeing that the Imperial galleys had not yet fired back.

Sahaba marines crowded forward on the
Khuwaylid
, their round shields raised. More than half of the men had arrows notched to their bows, waiting for the word to loose. The men that controlled the
corvus
stood ready, their hands on the guide ropes. Hanging over the edge of the fighting platform, the Yemenite captain shouted down to the flautist that controlled the stroke of the oar-banks.

"Prepare for double-time!"

Then he turned, calling to the men at the steering oars.

"Prepare to heel right!"

Mohammed braced his legs wide. The two ships rushed towards each other at a dizzying rate. From his high perch, it seemed that he could look directly into the eyes of the Roman soldiers on the foredeck tower of the other ship. They were shouting, their shields raised. The Imperial captain would be watching, even as the Yemenite master was, waiting for just the right moment.

"Double stroke!" The shout rang down from the rear deck. Flutes shrilled and the Sahaba on the rowing benches gave an answering yell, hauling fiercely at their oars. Leaf-blades flashed in the water, spilling sea-foam as they rose, then plunging down into the dark water again.