A week and a day had passed since the failure of the first Persian assault. The Jackal's master had regained his power, gathered his wits, seen the wisdom of the Boar's plan and labored a long time beneath dark and moonless skies among the tombs and fields surrounding the city. Undisturbed by the Roman thaumaturges hiding in the city, the Lord of the Ten Serpents had hidden his foul work with night and distance.
A dry rustling chattered in the air and the Jackal leapt lightly up onto the top of a broken, splintered brick wall. Immediately, figures shambled forward below him, first one—groping sightlessly forward, eyes black pits, fingers skeletal twigs—then another, and another.
Within moments, a vast crowd of dry brown shapes crawled and shuffled out of the fields, emerging from the mist, their outlines indistinct in the steadily fading light. A dull green haze advanced in the upper air, roiling across the sky, tendrils rushing forward, then curling around some unseen obstacle before oozing onward again. A clacking murmur began to rise from the host shuffling towards the wall.
The Jackal turned, looking south. A mile away, at the Nile Gate, a figure in radiant white turned as well and she raised pale cream arms, wrapped tight with gold and silver. The Raven answered his unspoken thought. Their power moved in the hidden world, motivating desiccated limbs to jerking, fumbling motion. The two figures turned to the city, looking out over the advancing host of the uneasy dead.
On the wall, motion stirred, then feeble sunlight glanced from a helmet. The day grew dark as the oily clouds advanced. Shadows deepened in the ruins and under the eaves of the buildings.
On the plain below, the dead began to shamble forward, almost at a run, and their dry limbs rubbed and scraped, a forest of winter-bare twigs and branches shaken by an invisible, irresistible wind. The first of the dead began to climb the slope. One drove itself, unthinking, unheeding, upon a sharpened stake. The wood tore through ancient, withered skin, then jabbed from the corpses' back. Black dust puffed from the wound. Undaunted, the shape clawed forward, leathery body tearing in half with a dry, ripping sound. Relentless, the head and torso crawled up the slope. Severed legs beat violently in the dirt.
A long, wailing cry sounded, ringing back from the towers and ramparts. On a fighting platform atop the wall, a torsion arm snapped against a hide-wrapped wooden bar. With a loud twang, a wicker ball caked with pitch arced into the air, crackling and burning, trailing black smoke. The missile plunged into the vast, jostling crowd advancing across the field. Pale green-and-orange fire blossomed, consuming a dozen, two dozen of the dead. Without a sound, they marched on, dry flesh making ready tinder, puffy white smoke rising to join the dark oily effluvia of naphtha. More corpses staggered, heedless, into the bonfire.
A brownish-gray tide rose against the wall, scrambling and crawling up the slope. Where one corpse fell, tangled in thorns or pierced by a stake, twenty crawled on, grinding the fallen into dust beneath skeletal feet. A clack-clack-clack of splintering bone rose, swelling into the heavy air.
Distantly, the Jackal heard men shouting in fear. More scorpions thwanged and more missiles lofted into the afternoon sky. Bombs fell, billowing into flame with a snap and rush of igniting air. Figures on the wall began hurling stones that crashed and bounced among the silent, advancing mob. At the Gate of the Sun, burning oil fell in sheets of flame onto corpses and withered skeletons crowding at the portals themselves. Huge clouds of smoke boiled up and the dry rattling jerked into a cacophony of burning skin and cracking bone.
Still, the dead continued to swarm across the fields.
Atop his wall, the Jackal trembled, power rushing through him like water in a mining sluice, eroding his tattered soul. A mile away to the south, the Queen shuddered as well, her still-living body suffering the piercing, red-hot pain of the sorcerer's working. Sweat blinded her, yet she did not fall. Instead, she stood alone atop a half-burned siege tower, a golden diadem shining in her dark hair, plainly visible from the walls.
This she did by choice, for she would not turn her face from the destruction of such a fair city.
—|—
"Loose!" Khalid screamed, trying to make himself heard above the din. His archers perched on the temple roofs shot, bows singing with a flat twang-twang. The Romans on the barricade ducked, black shafts flashing past. The young Eagle glanced left and right, gauging his men—they tensed in the shield wall, eyes glittering beneath shadowed helms—then slashed his saber down. "Charge!"
Shrieking, the Sahaba stormed forward down the road. More arrows flicked past overhead, and the Roman archers in the jumble of carts and crates loosed as well. Khalid heard something hiss past his ear as he ran forward. He picked up speed, howling a war cry, then sprang up onto the barricade.
A Roman stabbed at his legs and Khalid blocked the stroke deftly with his shield. Laminated pine splintered with the blow as Khalid hacked down at the man's head. The Roman ducked away and Khalid jumped into the midst of the enemy, saber whirling in a flashing, black streak. One of the militiamen jerked around in surprise, just in time to take the blade across the bridge of his unprotected nose. Bone shattered, a fine spray of blood-and-white fragments splashing across the faces of his fellows. Khalid slammed the shield into the Roman's broken face with a wet crunch. More Sahaba scrambled over the barricade. The Romans stabbed back fiercely with spears and javelins. Men toppled, guts spilling out in shiny coils of gray and white.
Khalid took two blows on his shield in succession—a legionary in full armor pressed him, short sword flickering like a snake's tongue—then drove the man back with a sharp rush. The black blade keened in the air, cutting at the Roman's elbow. The man, squinting furiously, gave a step. Finding no room to maneuver in such close quarters, Khalid abandoned any pretense at skill, slamming in with his shield. The Roman took the blow with a grunt, then smashed his own rectangular scuta against Khalid's smaller, round buckler. The young Eagle's boot skidded in something wet and he went down with a clatter.
Stunned, Khalid tried to scramble up. Someone stepped on his chest, pinning him under a heavy wet boot. Robes billowed around his face, blinding him. Frantic, Khalid slammed the pommel of his sword into an obscuring leg, heard a bellow of fear, then the offending Sahaba toppled aside, one eye a bloody ruin. The squinting Roman's gladius whipped back, streaked with blood.
Shouting in fury, Khalid scrambled up, leading with the point of his blade. He thrust, catching the Roman on the shoulder-plate. The saber bent on impact, skittering across curving iron. Shouting in alarm, the legionary blocked sideways with his short sword. The point of the Arab blade bounced away, leaving a deep scratch in the metal. Khalid recovered, whipping his sword into a figure-eight parry. For an instant, he locked furious gazes with the Roman, then the entire enemy line of battle was retreating.
Somewhere, a horn blew wildly amid the drone of deep-throated tubas. The Romans—legionaries and militia alike—fell back onto the causeway. Khalid caught his breath, slumping to his knees. Droplets of crimson oozed from the edge of his blade, joining a thick paste of urine, feces and blood on the ground.
"Press on!" Khalid croaked, fighting for breath. He was winded. Two of his men grasped his shoulders and dragged him to his feet. The young Eagle called for his standard bearer, seeing the man a dozen yards away, a stained cloth against the side of his face. "Bannerman! We must move—"
A deep whump! caused Khalid to swing round. The Romans, falling back along the causeway, had set fire to a wagonload of oil. The wooden cart spilled sideways as Khalid watched, lips thinning in dismay. Hundreds of amphorae cascaded to the ground, already wreathed in pale yellow flame. A huge cloud of heavy black smoke surged up into the hazy air. Sheets of fire rushed forward on the paving stones.
"Spears!" Khalid shouted, skipping back. The vanguard of the Sahaba fell back, shields and cloaks raised to protect their faces from the roaring flames. "Sand and wagons and spears!"
Some of his men ran off to gather tools. The young Eagle looked away, terrific heat beating against his lean face. Both harbors were nearly empty. Off to his right, the only ship in sight was a huge Roman grain hauler near the merchant docks. Khalid fingered his beard, keen eyes trying to pierce the haze between himself and the distant vessel. Another daring ploy, he thought, but did it gain us anything? Has Usama seized the warehouse district? Or does he lie dead?
Men returned with long poles torn from the ornamental facade of a funeral temple. Khalid roused himself, wiping sweat from his face. The qalb filled the causeway from railing to railing, every man's face eager to press ahead.
"There," the young Arab pointed, "push the wagon away!"
With a cadenced shout, a hundred men advanced, long poles held by five or six men each. In an instant, the pikes plunged across the roaring flames, thumping against the charring wood of the cart. The soldiers strained, digging in their feet. The cart creaked and groaned, spilling oil onto the ground. Fresh flames jetted up. Amphorae shattered in the heat, consumed by flame, flinging red-hot fragments of pottery into the faces of the Arabs. Everyone ducked, still pushing for all they were worth.
"Heave!" Khalid shouted. His men answered with a basso roar. "Ho!"
The cart squealed aside, crunching into the low stone wall lining the edge of the causeway. Boys ran forward with heavy baskets, flinging sand onto the pools of burning oil.
"Heave!" Khalid shouted. The men on the poles, faces glowing with effort, sweat streaming into their armor, gave a groan of effort. The cart tipped, boards shattering. One of the wheels spun away across the causeway. "Heave!" Another massive effort and the cart teetered on the wall, then plunged over the side in a billowing rush of smoke. A great splash fountained up. Oil and smoke spread on the waters.
An arrow fluttered down out of the sky, shattering on the paving stones near Khalid.
"Archers, forward!" The young Eagle pointed with his saber. Nabateans ran up, their long bows taut, shafts to the string. More men handed baskets of sand and dirt from hand to hand, and the oil began to flicker and die, smothered by the advancing fire crew. Arab bows began to sing, flinging arrows into the half-seen line of the Romans beyond the roiling smoke.
"Qalb-men to me!" Khalid strode forward. Fighters appeared out of the band of soldiers on the causeway, each man in heavy armor, with longer, oval shields. These men were armed with maces, heavy swords, stabbing spears. "Prepare to rush!"
Khalid fell back a step, letting the Sahaba run past and form up in a line of three ranks.
Arrows continued to snap back and forth between the opposing lines. The smoke was beginning to blow away, carried in a desultory afternoon breeze. Khalid felt sweat pooling in his shirt and against his spine. Hot work out here, even with the water so close...
"Charge!" Horns and trumpets echoed his scream and the qalb rushed to the attack, iron-shod boots trampling through the flames still licking on stone. There was a breathless, still moment as they stormed forward. Then the Roman line appeared out of the murk and there was a massive crash! as iron met iron, shield against shield. Men began to shout, a deep, angry roar, and a din of blades and spears and shields drowned all other noise.
Khalid waved more men forward. Now they would see whose arm was the stronger, whose heart the steadier.
—|—
"What is happening on the outer wall?" Aurelian's voice snapped in the dimly-lit room.
One of the runners stared at him with wide eyes, gasping for breath. The Egyptian had just run the length of the city, from the commandery at the Gate of the Sun. Everyone in the headquarters grew silent, waiting for him to speak.
"There are too many," the boy panted. "They're attacking everywhere, along the entire length of the wall, from the lake to the sea."
"Impossible!" Aurelian's angry response was instant. "They don't have the men to—"
"My lord!" The boy was on his knees, hands clasped. "It's true! It's true! I saw fighting everywhere..."
Aurelian snarled, grinding a fist into his thigh. "How can there be so many?" he shouted, glaring at his aides and clerks. "The wall is three miles long!"
A commotion in the entrance distracted him and the prince's eye lit up to see one of his Praetorians push into the room. The big German's helmet was missing, his lank blond hair matted with sweat and an ugly cut oozed yellow serum from the side of his neck.
"Carus! What happened at the ship?" Aurelian leaned forward eagerly.
"Greek pirates," shouted the man in answer, "but we were ready. They are all dead. The ship is ours. But there—"
"Excellent." Aurelian grinned. Then he heard a strange sound rising outside. "What is that?"
Everyone turned to the windows, staring out into an unnaturally dark afternoon. The entire sky was a sickly, corroded-copper green. Strange thread-like clouds writhed in the sky. Aurelian squeezed to the nearest window, head canted as he listened.