The Storm of Heaven (99 page)

"Well," the Scandian youth said, "I guess Grandma was right about those juniper berries!"

Rufio did not answer immediately, black eyes bare slits. Martina stood over her husband, a shaft of sunlight falling on her, sparkling in the tumble of brown hair cascading down around her shoulders. She seemed very beautiful. She was smiling at her husband and her son.

"Your grandmother was a wise woman, Sviod. A wise woman."

Wake! You are at the balance of fate.

Mohammed's eyes opened, at first seeing nothing but darkness. Then a glimmer of firelight appeared, illuminating the roof of his tent with orange and gold. He lay still, feeling the warmth of his bed, the heaviness of the horse blanket lying over him. The world outside was cold and dark. Men passed by outside with torches. He felt the motion of the earth and knew the time to rise had come. Throwing back the blanket, Mohammed stood, his head bent to the south.

O Lord of the World, you have guided me to this day in all ways. I have believed and I have been delivered. Give me the strength to throw down your enemies, to free the world, and I will yield up blood, bone and heart in your service.

"There is no god but Allah," he said aloud to the darkness. He was awake and alert. Stepping to the door of the tent, he looked out. Torches and lanterns dimly lighted the tents of the Sahaba, but the men were rising, breath puffing white in the cold air. The two guards in front of his tent were awake and looking up at him.

"Bring something hot to drink," he said. One of the men rose, armor clinking softly, and went off in the direction of the cook tents. Mohammed went back inside. His hand found an oil lamp on the folding table by the head of his bed. A moment's effort with flint and steel had the wick lit and a soft yellow glow filling the tent.

"Zoë, it is time." Mohammed put the back of his hand against the Palmyrene woman's cheek. Her wounds had healed well, leaving only tiny, glassy scars around her ear and the side of her throat. In this soft light, they were almost invisible. Her hair lay across the folded quilt like a glossy black fan. She woke silently, eyes flickering open, then turned towards him. A warm hand emerged from the blankets and covered his, pressing it against her cheek.

"Hello." Her voice was very soft and filled with sleep. "It's cold."

"I've sent for something hot to drink." Mohammed smiled, kneeling on the heavy carpets covering the floor of the tent. "You have to get up. Today is the day."

"Oh." Zoë slid deeper under the blankets, leaving only her dark brown eyes visible. "Is everyone else up?"

"No." Mohammed tried to keep from laughing but failed. "You have to get up now."

"It's cold." Zoë's forehead creased in a frown.

"Yes, it is."

"But I have to get up, even though I can see your breath in the air?"

"Yes."

"Oh, very well." Zoë made a face but sat up, pulling the blankets around her shoulders. Her bare feet poked out from under the covers, then slid hastily back. "It's very cold."

Mohammed was saved from having to answer by a soft whistle at the door. The guard handed the Quraysh two copper flagons. Steam rose from the surface of the liquid they held. Mohammed sniffed it, then wrinkled his nose. "Hot mare's milk with honey."

Zoë took her cup with a wary look. "Who drinks milk? It'll spoil."

"Not in this cold," said Mohammed, draining his flagon. "The Avars make it, I think. Not bad."

Ignoring Zoë's foul look, Mohammed stripped off his sleeping robe. His body was firm and muscular, the benefit of years in the saddle and unstinting physical labor both in war and peace. He had put on some muscle since escaping from Palmyra. The Sahaba ate far better than they had during the siege! Rummaging in one of the soft bags at the foot of his bed, he drew out a pair of woolen pantaloons and tugged them on. A thick tunic followed, then a stained felt vest. By this time, Zoë had managed to finish her drink. She helped him pull a shirt of heavy iron links over his head, his beard tucked out of the way. Her hands clasped a leather belt around his trim waist and drew it snug. The weight of the iron felt good on his shoulders, comfortable and familiar. Thick pads were sewn into the inside of the shirt, protecting his neck and upper chest. He sat on the blankets and began to wrap lengths of fleece around his feet.

Zoë retrieved his boots from near the door and helped him tug them on. They were heavy, with three layers of leather stitched together. Vertical iron slats were fitted between the layers, reinforcing the sides of the boots and protecting the tops of his feet and his shins. Standing again, he wiggled his feet around until they seemed to fit. A dark green surcoat went over the mail shirt. Zoë straightened it in the back, then held up his
djellabah
. Arms extended behind him, Mohammed stepped into the desert robe. Another belt secured it and he untangled the hood before laying it flat on his shoulders and back.

"Good." Zoë smoothed back his white-shot hair, standing on tiptoe. "You'll frighten the enemy for sure." Mohammed smiled, catching her hands as they withdrew. A helmet and reinforced leather gloves lay beside the bed.

"Thank you," he said, bending towards her. Her eyes met his and she smiled faintly. "Things are much easier with you at my side."

"Hmm." She gave him an arch look. "That's almost a compliment."

"It is." Mohammed turned away, untangling his beard with his thick fingers and arranging it on his chest.

Behind him, Zoë rolled her eyes, then slipped out of her sleeping robe. Beneath it, she was wearing only a thin breast-band crossed behind her neck and a loincloth. Like him, she drew on long woolen Persian-style trousers and a light tunic. Her felt vest was heavier, clean and didn't smell like a camel.

"It's safe to turn around." Zoë sat cross-legged on the bed, hands busy behind her head plaiting the riot of dark hair into a long, snakelike braid. She curled the braid around and tucked in the end to make a cap. Besides making a moderate cushion for her helmet, it would stay out of her eyes. "Help me, please."

With Mohammed's assistance, Zoë wriggled into a very light shirt of mail covering her body and arms down to her wrists. Unlike his heavy disks of flattened iron, hers was a supple gleaming snakeskin of tiny, perfectly fitted rings on a lambskin backing. The shirt had been originally made for her aunt as a girl, and came to Zoë as an heirloom. Even on her, it was getting tight around the shoulders. The Palmyrene breathed in and out, letting the mesh settle across her chest.

Mohammed lifted up a polished steel breastplate, his muscular arms easily taking the weight. The armorers of Palmyra had done a fine job fitting the gleaming metal to her torso. The armor was made in three parts, one solid section running from throat to waist, then two hinged half-pieces in the back that met in a row of clasps and hooks along the spine. Zoë held her arms out in front of her and stepped into the armor. Mohammed folded the backplates in, letting them meet behind her, then hooked each clasp in turn. "Good?"

"Oh yes," she groused, "I feel like a statue now."

"But a safe one." Mohammed strapped curved steel vambraces to each of her forearms. Gloves made of the same fine mail slipped over her hands, padded inside with leather and backed with a solid metal plate. A pleated, Roman-style skirt of heavy leather tongues circled her waist and fell down to her knees. The Quraysh shook his head in dismay, running his hands down her legs. "You should wear something to protect your knees."

"If I do that," she said in a grumpy tone, "I won't be able to walk. Besides, I'm not supposed to be fighting on the front line, am I?"

"No." Mohammed gathered up her
djellabah
. "You and Odenathus are far more valuable defending us in the hidden world."

"True." A bleak expression suddenly overcame the woman's features. She was thinking of the strength of their enemy. "Will you help?"

Mohammed paused, staring at her. "If the Lord of the World decides to help us, then..."

Zoë sighed and held up her hand. "I understand. You cannot control the power that moves through you. We will suffice, if we must."

"Can you stop him?" Mohammed had not discussed the matter of the Roman firecaster with Zoë, but he could see it weighed upon her. Odenathus had not raised the subject either, keeping to himself or spending his time with Khalid.

"I don't know," Zoë said after a moment. "To win, we must."

A great number of torches illuminated the tunnel of the Great Gate. Hundreds of giant men packed into the broad space, helmets gleaming in the ruddy light. Clouds of smoke drifted up, pooling in the arches of the building. Nicholas was fully armored, a conical helm with a T-shaped eye slit tucked under one arm. The Latin officer was trying to keep from losing his temper. "Captain, Vladimir and I and the boy are a
team
. We've fought together before; we have a system. His body needs to be protected while he's working his power. An arrow or spear could kill him just as easily as you or me!"

Rufio nodded, his face thrown half in shadow by the torchlight. "Centurion, I understand, but I
have
to leave someone I can trust in the palace. That means either you or me. We have to go forth with both the Hibernian and the standard or we're dog meat. Now, if this works, then Theodore will follow and someone will have to deal with him. That means me. You have to stay in the city."

"I don't like this..." Nicholas felt queasy, but he couldn't refuse an order. He looked sideways at Dwyrin, who was fairly vibrating with eagerness. "Will Vladimir be enough to protect your back?"

"Yes, sir." Dwyrin grinned at Nicholas, white teeth brilliant in the darkness. "We'll be fine. The Emperor is more important anyway."

Nicholas rubbed his face with an armored hand, shaking his head. "This doesn't feel right. Vlad?"

The Walach was draped in heavy iron armor and a huge black cloak. Never a small man, he looked positively enormous in this light, yellow-gold eyes glittering. Vladimir smiled, showing long incisors and strong sharp teeth. A long ax lay over his shoulder. "He'll be safe with me."

"Centurion, I can do this." Dwyrin rubbed his hands together, though he wasn't cold at all. An invisible sphere of warmth surrounded the boy. Nicholas assumed it must be a tiny exercise of the art, but it seemed wrong and out of place in this bitterly cold predawn. "Go back to the palace."

Nicholas looked back at Rufio with a grim expression on his face. "I hope this works."

"It will." The captain's confidence seemed unshakeable. Nicholas saluted, then nodded to Dwyrin and Vladimir. "All right, then. I'll see you tonight."

The Hibernian waved at the retreating back of the northerner. Dwyrin felt good, very good. His sleep had been deep and free of dreams. Rising early, when the first of the Faithful stirred, he had dressed quickly and run down to the massive gate. Vladimir, grumbling and complaining, had followed. Something about the city night did not sit well with the Walach, and he was constantly looking behind him. The Hibernian didn't care—today was the day of days! A subtle tension in the air heralded battle.

From the watchtowers on the Great Gate, Dwyrin could see across the long plain lying before the city. Just before the double ramparts, there was a dry ditch. Then a space of a hundred yards or so and the ragged shape of the Arab circumvallation describing a long arc. Beyond the wall was a long slope dotted with burned-out farmhouses and temples rising up into irregular hills. At some time in the past, there had been orchards, gardens, fields of wheat. All of those things were gone, leaving acres of stumps and tumbled-down walls. Shallow streams ran down from the hills, making spots of marshy ground.

Dwyrin reached the gate before anyone else, so he had a good view of the Faithful assembling, marching out of the darkness with their thick fur cloaks and round helms. Huge round shields hung over their backs, adorned with black figures of crows and ravens on red backgrounds. Each man carried a long single-bladed ax and a heavy straight sword on a baldric slung over one shoulder. Their deep voices carried up to him as he sat on the tower wall. The captain, Rufio, had followed soon after, accompanying a regiment of men carrying something draped in black canvas.

"Well, lad, can you make something glow?" Captain Rufio turned to him, dark eyes glinting under a heavy iron helm.

"Yes, sir!" Dwyrin clenched his fists, concentrating. After a moment, soft white light spilled from between his fingers. "Will this do?"

"It will." A flicker of something—it couldn't be despair, could it?—crossed the captain's face. "But not yet, not yet. When we march out, then I will need your aid. But first, we must watch and wait."

Rufio motioned to a man leaning out of a door high on the side of the tunnel. The man nodded, then ducked into a room inside the wall. Almost immediately there was a deep, grinding sound. Before Dwyrin and Rufio, the outermost of the massive gates of the city began to open, swinging in on huge hinges. A dozen men guided each door, walking alongside. Night yawned before them. The sun was still an hour from peeking over the eastern horizon. A faint light was growing in the east, but in the torchlight spilling out onto the road everything seemed pitch black.

Mist and fog rose from the ground in wisps. A cold gray day was in the offing.

The Persian camp sprawled across the Galatan hills in an untidy mass, fitfully lit by torches and lanterns. The muffled sounds of thousands of men moving carried easily in the night air. Mohammed and Zoë watched with interest from a hill just north of the stream feeding into the Golden Horn. Nearly a half-mile of water separated their vantage from the ramparts of the Roman city. Constantinople was invisible behind a wall of fog curling up from the water. Mohammed finished a ripe fig. Zoë had refused to eat any breakfast.

"It will be cold," Mohammed said. Zoë nodded, face wrapped in the tan linen tail of her riding cloak. The Quraysh studied the sky, making out a film over the stars. "It may even rain."