Everyone was frozen for a moment, then Aurelian snatched up his helmet and bolted from the room at a dead run, weapons and armor jangling.
"To arms!" he shouted, jogging down the steps onto the broad dockside avenue. Messenger boys sprinted past; a dozen brown whippets unleashed. "Romans to arms!"
His guardsmen leapt up from their pallets, weapons in hand. They immediately poured down the steps behind him, a mob of men in stained, battered iron armor. Every man—whether he had been sleeping, gambling or complaining—was ready to fight; spears, axes, swords already in hand. Aurelian flashed a grin, seeing their grim faces intent upon him.
"A ship filled with the enemy is closing upon the docks. Take her if you can, else burn her to the water. If she's truly ours, get back here to me as fast as you can. I'll need your strong arms! There will be bloody work today. Sound the alarm as you go, and go swiftly!"
Aurelian slid the helmet on, tightening the strap under his chin. The Praetorians flooded past, shaking out into column as they scrambled out of the building. Their boots rang loudly on the paving stones. High above, on the roof, someone began ringing an alarm bar, a clashing, tinny sound that fell flat in the leaden air. The prince strode out into the avenue, staring up at the sky.
The green stain continued to crawl across the heavens and its shadow was dark on the rooftops.
Where shall I go? he wondered, limbs trembling with bloodfire, a nervous, grainy edge to his thoughts. He yearned to rush down one of the deserted streets, screaming a battle cry. Instead, to his disgust, he realized there was nothing to do but go back inside and wait for messengers to come to him.
With a last, furious look around, Aurelian stomped back inside.
—|—
Khalid al'Walid splashed through the surf, feeling stones and gravel roll under his boots. A low island lay before him, the highest prominence a golden roof rising above a brood of accompanying temples. The beach was crowded with men in green-and-tan, clambering out of long boats and barges and skiffs. More boats filled with dark-bearded men maneuvered offshore, sails white against a brassy sea. The young Arab grinned in delight, feeling warm water slosh against his calves. The strand was empty, without so much as a fisherman in sight.
"Forward!" he shouted, clear young voice rising above the slap of the water and the shouts of the Sahaba as they disembarked. Threads of fog rolled overhead, hiding the sun and obscuring the flat, green sea behind them. Khalid trudged up through golden sand, aiming for an opening between the buildings ahead. Arab skirmishers scattered across the beach, bows in hand, heads high and alert.
"Form on your banners," the qalb section commanders yelled at their men. "Form up! Form up!"
Horns and trumpets wailed, adding to the racket. Arab and Greek soldiers milled on the beach, searching for their tent-mates and rallying standards. More boats ran in to the shore and men leapt down into the water with abandon. The barges in the first wave backed oars, trying to clear the beach. Most of the soldiers clinging to the railings were pale-faced, but they splashed into the water, desperately eager to reach steady ground. All possibility of organization had been lost as soon as the flotilla had put to sea from Canopus, seven miles away at the mouth of the Boutikos channel. "Forward! Forward!"
Blank walls etched by the wind and sea rose up at the crest of the beach. Khalid jogged up, now surrounded by a mass of Sahaban fighters in heavy Persian-style armor. The young general's sharp beard and flowing green-and-gold robes were easy to recognize, even in the confusion of the landing. Men gathered around him, seeing his eagle banner snapping in the landward breeze. Between the ancient tombs, an alley led off into a maze of buildings.
Khalid slowed, reaching the entrance to the lane. Sea grass crept to the foot of the walls and scraps of plaster clung to bare stone. The young Arab squinted down the twisting passage, surprised by the heavy quiet pervading the island.
"An island of tombs," he said aloud. "Is anyone alive here, save ourselves?"
Shaking his head, Khalid looked about, spying the hulking figures of Jalal and Shadin among the men climbing up from the beach.
"Generals!" The Eagle stepped out of the phalanx of his guardsmen. The two older Arabs looked up at him with tight, closed expressions. "Jalal—take charge of the landing. Get everyone ashore and formed up. Shadin—you take half the men around that way..." Khalid pointed towards the gleaming red roof and terraces of a massive temple rising at the eastern end of the island. Statues lined the rooftop, most of them gleaming white where their colorful paint had been stripped away by the sea wind. "Capture the lighthouse and the harbor entrance. I'll strike across the island for the causeway."
Both men nodded silently, eyes invisible in the shadow of their helmets. The young Arab could feel their disapproval of his command, but they said nothing. Khalid stared after them as the older men turned away, gesturing for their own aides, messengers and guardsmen. For a moment, he considered calling them back, but put the thought aside. They are Sahaba, he reckoned, and they will fight for the memory of the Teacher, if not for me.
"Forward," Khalid shouted, striding into the lane. With a rasp, he drew the ebon blade once carried by Mohammed from its jeweled sheath. In the diffuse, limpid sunlight the weapon gleamed with a twisting inner flame. A cheer went up at the sight of the blade of the city, and Khalid felt his heart soar at the sound. "With me, lads," he cried, grinning, feeling a wild, unrestrained joy rise in his breast.
At the head of his thousands, the young general strode down the deserted street between ancient, crumbling tombs. What remained of the day's strange quiet immediately dissolved into the commotion of running men in armor, sandals and boots slapping on the paving stones.
—|—
"Hold up a moment." Sextus stood, wiping sweat from a suntanned brow. He stared out to sea, across the flat, placid waters of the Great Harbor. The engineer held a large sledge in his hands, but the hammer was forgotten for the moment as he bit his lip in concentration. Frontius paused, sitting up, hands on his knees. Both men had been squatting near the edge of a great arched vault, examining the stonework around a keystone supporting the central section of the massive Heptastation causeway.
A crowd of local workers—fellaheen in white breechclouts and turbans—watched the two Romans suspiciously. The locals were laden with a profusion of iron bars, hammers, mallets, buckets of water and wooden splitting wedges. A handful of Roman citizens in mismatched armor stood near by, watching both the Legion officers and the fellaheen with jaundiced expressions. The citizens had been drafted from their businesses, homes and offices to provide a city militia. Despite the continuing siege, most of the locals seemed content to let the legionaries fight.
"Something is happening." Sextus' voice was flat and Frontius started in alarm, then stared out to sea, following the sharp angle of his friend's pointing arm. Almost two thousand feet away, across the open waters of the harbor, he could barely make out the dark smudge of the sea—intermittent flashes of white from crashing waves outlining the long rubble-filled breakwater.
"I don't see anything..." Frontius stood up as well, squinting ferociously. Off to the left of the breakwater, the towering shape of the Lighthouse—the famous Pharos—made a gleaming white outline against the lead-colored sky. A brilliant disk on the summit of the forty-story building flashed in the dimming sun. The engineer cursed the fickle stars who had burdened him with poor sight. "What is it?"
"Fog," Sextus said in the same flat voice. The older engineer shook himself, then bent down and began jamming his tools and books into a leather shoulder bag. "Rising fast too, all along the breakwater."
"It's afternoon," Frontius said in a disbelieving voice. "There's never any..."
Sextus looked up, eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun glittering from the water. "Sorcery, my friend."
Frontius blanched. He had seen enough horrors in the last four weeks. Still, he was a legionary and if something was happening on the breakwater. Frontius turned, squinting at the low, green shape of the Pharos island lying at the outer end of the causeway. "You don't suppose—"
"You men!" Sextus bellowed, startling the citizens and fellaheen alike into wide-eyed attention. "With me, all of you! Double-time!" The engineer began running north along the Heptastadion towards the palace-crowded island. Frontius caught up with him in a moment, wiry legs easily meeting the pace.
"What do you—" One of the citizens, a baker by trade, was left with his mouth hanging open.
The other Latins stared after the two engineers, then hurried to pick up their jumble of weapons and tools from the ground. A moment later, they too jogged off into the haze rising from the harbor. Watching the Romans disappear into the fog, the fellaheen looked warily at one another, then turned and scuttled towards the city as fast as they could.
—|—
Khalid burst from the avenue at a run, shield snug against his left arm, a dim, mist-veiled sun gleaming in the curving blade of his sword. A guttural roar boomed from his men as they saw the enemy. The road wound out between low buildings and onto a broad causeway flanked by a retaining wall on either side and stout pillars carved with dolphins and cranes. The entrance to the Heptastadion was blocked by overturned carts and building materials. Khalid caught sight of Romans crouched behind the barrier, some in armor, some not. Their faces were only blurs as he ran forward, shouting, "at them!"
The Sahaba rushed forward, more and more men spilling out of the alleyways and down the street. Khalid leapt forward at an easy run, seeing the barricade loom before him. Then, only ten paces or so away, the Romans stood up and Khalid shouted a warning.
"Javelins!" He swung up his shield, turning his body away from the flying spears and stones.
Something heavy smashed into the laminated hide and cedar of his shield. Khalid staggered, startled by the strength in the cast, then rushed ahead again. He leapt over the body of an Arab youth choking on his own blood, a short-hafted spear jutting from his chest. The triangular tip had punched clear through the boy's scaled breastplate, leaving thin streams of crimson crawling across polished metal.
Khalid felt his shield drag and cursed—a javelin was stuck in the hides, head twisted, wooden shaft banging against his knees—pausing to knock the missile away with his sword. Arabs and Nabateans pushed past, surging against the barricade. Shouts and screams tore the air and the clanging racket of iron on iron beat at Khalid's ears. The javelin clattered to the ground and the young general tried to push forward through the press of sweating, close-packed men.
Khalid's effort failed. Too many armored backs crowded in front of him. The Romans met the charge with a brisk play of blades and spears on the barrier, throwing the Sahaba back, leaving scattered bodies trapped in the jumble of carts and logs and blocks of stone. Khalid cursed again, this time at himself and wormed his way back towards the rear ranks.
"Shields!" he screamed, trying to be heard above the din. The Romans were shouting insults now and flinging amphorae into the crowd of Arabs. The crash of breaking pottery and the sting of vinegar filled the air. Khalid's throat was already hoarse and the day's battle was only minutes old. "Form shield wall!"
He broke free of the crowd and immediately began dragging men back by their belts and helmet straps. "Everyone back! Form a line!"
More Sahaba pressed toward the barrier, running up out of the confusing maze of tombs and temples covering the island. On their barricade, the Romans were laughing. Some men with bows now shot from between the wagons, knocking down Arabs trapped in the press of the crowd.
"Everyone back a pace!" Khalid shouted again and now his banner leaders began to repeat his command, beating on their soldiers' helmets and shoulders with the flat of their swords. Slowly, the mass of Arabs, Nabateans and Greeks fell back, letting their shields come into play. More dead littered the ground before the barricade. The dusty ground clotted with blood and wine.
—|—
The Jackal stepped forth from the remains of a farmhouse a hundred yards from the Roman rampart. Before him loomed the doubled towers of the Gate of the Sun, a pair of granite and sandstone monsters rising four and five stories above the plain. On either side, the sloping berm of the fortification ran off into cloudy, humid air. The ancient stone was scored with jagged black streaks and glassy, star-shaped craters. Thickets of stakes and tangled brush—most burned and withered from terrible fires—covered the slope on either side of the gate.
Not a single man could be seen on the wall, for the Romans had finally learned prudence.
The Jackal's mask had been repaired and repainted, chalky eyes bright, the lolling tongue fresh as blood. Even the shattered ear had been reforged and replaced. His body, twisted with scars and puckered wounds, was filled with new life—strong, muscular, shining with sweat in the dreadful heat. A clean white kilt fell from a belt of dark leather. His bare feet dug into the rich, loamy black soil of the delta.
The Jackal raised his hand and the sullen green sky rippled with slow waves. Distantly, a long, drawn-out rumble of thunder answered his motion. The presence within the mask felt the air pressure change and shift, saw gradients of power surge in the land—dark blue leaching up from hidden waters—bricks crumbled in the ruined building and grass withered as the Jackal summoned power to his rising hand.