The Gulf of Finike, Off the Coast of Lycia
Daughter, you must wake up. You've lessons today.
Zoe'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. Zoe 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 Zoe," 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. Zoe 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." Zoe 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?" Zoe 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-Zoe 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!"
Zoe 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.
Zoe 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 Zoe'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.
Zoe 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, Zoe 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, Zoe? The sand lizard's coloration, whispered a soft voice, lets it hide among the rocks.
Zoe 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.
"Heel! Ship right oars!"
The steering oars bit the sea, digging deep on the right side of the ship. Sunlight flashed on the bronze beak as it cut up out of the water. Khuwaylid heeled slightly, swinging to the right. Oarsmen in the right rowing gallery hauled feverishly on their oars, sliding them inboard. Smoke rose from the thole ports as the waxed oars squealed in. The Sahaba raised a great cry and shook their spears and swords in the air. On the deck of the Roman ship, the Imperial marines, responding to the chopping signal of their centurion, loosed a cloud of arrows into the Arab galley.
Gray fletching suddenly sprouted from the mast and the fighting platforms. Sahaban fighters too slow to raise their shields in time toppled backwards, limbs askew. Blood suddenly puddled on the decking. The Khuwaylid turned in savagely on its enemy, but the Roman captain and crew were already in motion. With a great squeal of wood on wood, the three banks of birch oars on the near side of the Roman galley slid inboard. At the same time, the enemy ship heeled and turned as well, trying to swing away from the Arab ram.
"Corvus away!" Shouted the Yemenite captain.
The flank of the Khuwaylid surged past the rising oaken wall of the Roman ship. Sailors in the rowing galleries stared across as each other, catching a glimpse of white and brown faces as the ports whipped past. The Sahaban archers loosed at point blank range, sending their iron-tipped arrows into the mass of Roman marines. The legionaries had raised their rectangular scuta as well, though some of them fell back, blood gouting from wounds, as well.
The ramp of the corvus plunged down, loosed from its restraining ropes and splintered through the railing of the Roman ship. Soldiers leapt away from the heavy spike, stumbling into their fellows. The spike struck the deck of the Imperial galley with a screeching sound, then bounced back. Mohammed flinched back as the two ships rushed past each other. The corvus failed to get purchase on the Imperial deck and slid along the aft decking, bouncing and jiggling. Roman marines screamed in fear, but the impromptu scythe mowed down a dozen men. The iron spike tore through four men, gutting them as with a giant flensing knife. Then it slammed into the aft piloting deck, the planks of the corvus snapping like an over strung bow. Splinters knifed across the Roman deck, cutting down one of the pilots.
On the Khuwaylid, the restraining post that held the base of the corvus groaned under the sudden stress, then cracked lengthwise with a bang. The iron ring twisted into a figure eight, then burst its bolts and decapitated the nearest sailor before he could flee. It bounced away across the deck, then plunged into the rowing gallery. Mohammed heard shouts of alarm rise up from below. At the same time, he ducked and a gray fletched arrow spiked into the wall of the fighting platform beside his head, humming like a lyre.
His own archers continued to fire as fast as they could draw and loose, littering the Imperial deck with dead marines. The Romans gave as good as they took, too, the Khuwaylid's deck was slicking with blood and urine. With a splash the corvus, now loose from either ship, plunged into the sea. The Yemenite captain cursed, staring ahead. The bulk of the Roman fleet was upon them.
"Keep turning!" The men on the steering oars held on, digging the planes into the water.
A sharp crack echoed from the Roman ship and Mohammed looked up in time to see the Imperial galley continue turning. The ships were parallel again, but rapidly reversing their course. Now the Imperial scorpion fired, hurling a stone at point blank range into the Arab galley. The missile crashed into the starboard side of the Khuwaylid, ripping through the railing and smashing six Sahaban marines into a gray-red paste. Then the stone bounced across the deck, skipping on the hardwood and sailed off the opposite side and fell into the water.
– |Zoe's patience was rewarded as the first two lines of galleys crossed. The even lines of ships almost immediately dissolved into a swirling melee, but the two big Imperial galleys forged straight ahead, protected by a wedge of smaller, single-banked ships. The shape and pattern of the air around the two dromons began to flex and a distinct gradient formed, coiling and writhing. Thaumaturges on the enemy ships were drawing power from the air and the sea, preparing to unleash it upon the Arab fleet.
Time to get to work. Zoe grimaced, narrowing her concentration to a pinpoint. The enemy galleys rode through a writhing storm of energy, reflecting off the glowing wards, refracting up from the surface of the water. The division of air and sea rolled endlessly, as sharp in the hidden world as it was in the physical. Zoe sent her perception winging out, then plunging like a cormorant into the sea. There was a moment of resistance, a tugging, and then she was below the waves in a completely different realm of shifting subtle patterns and deep abysses. Sharks flew past, drawn to the spreading red stain in the waters above. The hulls of the ships plowed overhead, leaving a swirl of countless tiny vortices in the hidden world. It was difficult to guide her sight at first, but she managed.
The hulls of the two great galleys loomed up. Even here, under the water, the glittering shields of the wards shone in the dimness. In truth, there was no less light than above, but it was obscured, scattered, fouled by sparkling motes of plankton and microbes. Everything in the sea, even the density of the water, distorted raw perception. Zoe struggled with the roving Eye. It got harder to control the farther it flew from her.
She sped closer to the wards and saw, as she closed in, that they were weak and diffracted by the constant motion of the water and the ship. They swelled up before her, glittering and splitting her vision of the black-tarred hull above her into a dozen distorted images. For a moment she hung just out of the pattern of the ward, waiting.
A crosscurrent surged past, thrown out by the churning oars of another ship. As it washed across the ward, the pattern fractured and Zoe leapt into the breach. There was a burning sensation and then the curving hull was directly before her. In her sight, ghostly fingers stretched out, giving shape to her intent. Fingertips caressed the black tar Imperial shipwrights used to seal the planks. A dozen coats had been applied during the last careening. Only a few barnacles had managed to attach themselves.
Zoe bent her will to the incredibly complicated pattern of the tar. It was smooth and composed of uncountable flat ribbons sliding across one another, intertwining like a coil of snakes. The structure formed a watertight barrier, but it was filled with hidden fire. Zoe brushed invisible fingers across the ribbons, calling on a fragment of the sign of fire that Dwyrin had shown her.
A white-hot spark lit in the surface of the ship's hull.
Zoe released her Eye, snapping violently back into her own locus of perception.
– |The Khuwaylid cut in across the wake of a Roman galley, ram breaking free of the blue-green waters, then plunging down again. Mohammed clung to the railing, feeling the whole ship flex as it plowed down into the trough. On the deck, sailors slid amongst sea spray and blood fouling the channels along the rowing gallery. They were busy stripping the bodies of the dead. Naked corpses were thrown over the side. The Imperial galley had turned away, but the Khuwaylid had not given up the chase. Another Roman galley was busily stroking forward, directly across the Arab ships' line of sail. The Yemenite captain shouted for a double-stroke and the flautists shrilled wildly.
Mohammed felt the air tremble and looked up.
A mile away, through a drifting forest of ships' masts, he saw a massive, four-banked Imperial galley shudder violently. The huge ship, main deck easily fifteen feet higher than his own, advanced at a stately pace through the battle. The air around the galley was hazed with mist. Red banners flew from the foredeck and painted eyes snarled at every enemy in its path.
Then the sea heaved around her flanks, and a blinding flare of red-orange fire bloomed out of the water. Mohammed's jaw dropped open and he raised a forearm to shield his eyes. A tremendous boom snapped across the water as the Imperial galley convulsed, rising up in the air, spilling men and oars into the sea. Fire rippled up the hull, burning white-hot, and steam billowed from every oar port. Blazing fragments of mast spiraled into the sky, trailing curlicues of smoke.
The debris slammed back down in a concussive roar, disappearing into the boiling sea. Waves leapt up, hissing and steaming, swamping the nearest single-bank galley, which was turning away. Even across the distance, Mohammed's blood ran cold as he heard the shrieks and screams of agony from the doomed ship. Boiling water smashed into the smaller ship, turning the galley sideways, then swamping her. The men within perished in the scalding water, swallowed up in the dark sea.
"Ramming speed!" the Yemenite captain screamed, completely focused on the enemy ship dead ahead. Oars dug deep into the water and the Khuwaylid leapt forward. Mohammed bowed his head in prayer, wishing the souls of the dead a swift journey into Paradise.
The Khuwaylid ground into the flank of the Roman ship, bronze beak shearing through oaken planks and hide-wrapped shields. An enormous screeching followed as the ram crushed through the planking. Water poured into the wound, drowning men trapped in the wreckage of their oars. Sailors clawed out of the rowing gallery, dragging their fellows down in panic The Imperial galley shuddered, then began to list to one side.
"Back oars!" the Yemenite captain howled. Obediently, the rear half of the Khuwaylid's oarsmen began rowing in reverse. The fore half had shipped oars back into the body of the ship to avoid having them fouled or shattered in the collision. The bronze ram scraped and squealed out of the stricken galley. The sea poured into the gaping hole, causing the Imperial ship to wallow deeper into the waves. Sailors plunged into the water. Grayish-black shapes were already busy in the wreckage, rolling and diving, fins cutting above the water.
Mohammed heard another crack and caught a glimpse of a scorpion stone, wreathed in green fire, whirling through the air towards him. With a warning shout, he leapt from the fighting platform. He hit the deck hard, but managed to get his legs under him and rolled away. The stone shattered the platform with a boom, then rolled out of the wreckage and bounced across the rear deck. Fire spattered from the missile, leaving burning trails on the deck. Splinters scythed through the air. Mohammed flinched, wiping blood from his cheek. One of the Yemenite captain's legs was lying on the deck. The rest of the round little man was nowhere to be seen.
Mohammed picked up a helmet and tied the strap tight under his chin. The battle was growing fiercer. He stood scanning the horizon. The first two lines of Arab ships were fully engaged with the Imperial fleet. Driven by the wind, the entire battle was drifting towards shore. Mohammed's reserves were hanging back, though the right wing of the Imperial fleet was trying to swing upwind.
The shattered Imperial four-banked galley burned furiously, sending up a thunderhead-shaped pillar of smoke. Steam boiled from the sea around the wreck. Mohammed's lips drew back in a snarl. The sinking ship was still burning underwater, lighting up the dark sea with a shimmering blue-white light.
Wizardry! He did not like this kind of war. He felt very tired for a moment, but roused himself. There is work to be done. He stepped away from the burning deck. A pair of Arab sailors ran up onto the rear deck with buckets of sand. There was nothing to be done about the captain or the archers. They were just gone.
"Signal the reserves," he shouted to the remaining signalman. "Go after the Roman wing with all speed."
The sailor, face half covered with blood, nodded weakly and began running up banners on the rear signal mast. Mohammed turned back to more immediate concerns. A pair of Roman galleys were cutting in from the Khuwaylid's port beam. Unlike the Arab ship, neither vessel boasted a ram at its prow. Its decks were thick with men.
They'll want to board us, Mohammed thought, fingers drifting to the hilt of his sword. Well, now; that we can accommodate!
– |The big quinquereme continued to burn like a star, even as the sea swallowed it. Zoe had to block it out of her perception, for the fury of the combusting tar was furiously bright in the hidden world. The golden sphere around the ship had winked out just a grain after the ship had exploded, which filled Zoe's heart with a grim humor. The other four-banker had swerved away from its stricken sister and the glitter of its protections had doubled or tripled at the same time.
Eager to keep the Roman thaumaturges distracted, Zoe bent her will upon the sea itself, trying to rouse the choppy waters to new heights. In moments, she realized she had made a serious mistake. The sea had its own mind about such things. Affecting the waves required a long reach and greater power. The gelid patterns in the water slid away from her intent, leaving her drained and the sea undisturbed. Worse, the effort flared bright, drawing the attention of the enemy.
Violet fire licked across her pattern, hissing and snapping in the matrices forming her battle-ward. Zoe sweated, still kneeling on the quilts. At least two more thaumaturges had been lying low amongst the Roman ships and now they attacked. By great good luck, neither had taken the time to raise his efforts into the realm of the physical. They strove against her solely in the hidden world.
Zoe invoked a quicksilver lattice, a shining gradient drawing away the stabbing power, dissipating it into the body of the sea. Even that response was too weak and too slow. While she deflected one attack, the other struck. Heat flashed through her and she gritted her teeth, retreating behind a hasty blue sphere. The poorly formed shield buckled and cracked within half a grain, crushed by licking black flame.
I need help! she wailed. If Odenathus, or even Dwyrin were here, he could have easily overmatched these children! There were vast reservoirs of strength in the long-familiar matrix of her cousin's mind.
Here, here, my child! See the brightness? See the strength it offers you?
The whispering voice returned. Distracted, Zoe rocked back, flung against the wall of the cabin by a hammer blow from the Romans. Desperate, she collapsed the remains of her other shields and curled back into a spiky violet tetrahedron. Brightness swam close at hand, a singing glow waxing and waning with the beat of her heart. More black fire raged around her, the tetrahedron cracking under the attack. Zoe wept, seeing annihilation sweep in upon her.
You've stood in the furnace, the voice snapped, now quite clear and familiar. You're just afraid! You'll die if you don't act!
Zoe gurgled, blood seeping from her mouth. The Romans, sensing victory, redoubled their attack; the woolen quilts began to smoke. The Roman mages drew swiftly closer, their efforts strengthening. It was becoming difficult to breathe.
The Roman attack suddenly slackened and Zoe caught a glimpse of arrows zipping through the windows of a cabin much like hers. A young man with flowing blond hair was throwing himself to the floor, shouting in alarm. She snarled, white teeth bared in defiance. There was no more time for quibbling. She reached out to the close white radiance as she had done so many times with Odenathus and Dwyrin. Zoe's pattern mingled with encompassing warmth and the shining power folded around her. Raw strength poured in, rushing like a wadi in a spring flood. For an instant, her concentration frayed, overwhelmed, but the voice was there, hectoring her, and she composed herself. Her control would be crude but far better than nothing! Mohammed does not have the skill for this, she realized, though this splendor flows through him.
Her attention turned, hawk swift, to the enemy and saw they were very close.
– |The Khuwaylid shuddered, oars snapping as the lead Roman galley swerved into its side. In the rowing gallery, men were crushed between the twenty-foot long oars. A dreadful screaming rose up, but Mohammed blotted it out. He had been a grain slow to call for them to ship oars. Bitter anger at his failure welled up, but he pushed it aside. There was no place for hate or anger in this business. He willed himself to be cold, to ignore the dead and the maimed that thrashed in the bloody gallery below his feet.
"Ship oars," he called at last, his clear voice carrying well over the tumult. "Weapons!"
On either side, the Roman galleys were sliding closer, their decks filled with armed men. Arrows soared from both ships, plunging down onto the deck of the Khuwaylid. Some of the Arab archers returned fire, but most of the fighting men still on the deck crouched down behind their shields. Below the deck, the remaining rowers stowed their oars, then scrambled to pull on helmets and find their weapons. Like the tribes of the far north, Mohammed's rowers were soldiers first. The Yemenite crew scurried out of the way, gathering on the rear deck with their own arms and armor.
A grinding sound cut through the noise as the port side of the Khuwaylid felt the brush of the Roman galley. It had shipped oars as well and iron grapples flew across the shrinking distance between the two dromons. Neither Imperial ship was equipped with a corvus, but they had plenty of rope and shorter ladders. The two ships ground belly to belly and the first of the Roman marines sprang across the gap, shouting fiercely.
"The Emperor and the City!" shouted the man, just before the Arab fighters on the deck rose up as one. The marine was flung back against the railing by a dozen spears and died, bright red blood flooding from his mouth as his armor was pierced again and again. Then a flood of Roman marines and sailors swarmed over the railing, stabbing swords flashing. The Arabs raised their own cry in return, the rowing benches emptying. "Allau Akbar!"
Then a din of metal on metal and the cries of the dying and the wounded drowned the sound.
On the rear deck, Mohammed drew the sword of night, eliciting a gasp from the Yemenite sailors around him. Even in the bright sunshine, it gleamed like the dark vault of heaven. The sun reflected in it, a dim and bloated orange disk. In it, Mohammed felt the hopes and dreams of his city and his people. As ever, it quivered in his hand like a live thing. Strength seemed to flow from it and memories of his daughters, his wife, his friends came to him.
Then he staggered, feeling as if the voice had come upon him, but there was only a great roaring sound in his ears. The Yemenites, shouting in dismay, leapt to support him. A gray haze seemed to cloud his vision and he glimpsed the second Roman galley swinging alongside and its crew preparing to leap aboard the Khuwaylid.
"At them," he croaked, pointing with his sword at the new enemy. The Yemenite sailors turned, their faces painted with indecision. "At them, by the great and merciful lord!"
The Imperial ship was only a dozen feet away, its crew hanging on the railing, quiet as wolves. The Sahaba fighters on the deck of the Arab ship were fully engaged in a pitched battle with the other crew. Finally, the Yemenites mustered themselves and leapt down the steps to the main deck, howling a warning to their fellows. Mohammed, struggling against this strange weakness, lurched to the opposite rail.
An arrow flashed in the sun, spiraling in towards him. It seemed to be moving so slowly. He could see the fletching turning as the bolt flew towards his chest. Mohammed dragged at the sword of night and it leapt in his hand, vaulting up to slap the arrow aside.
Normal motion resumed with an almost audible snap and the broken arrow fell into the sea. Mohammed found himself on the lower deck, running towards the starboard railing. Already some of the Romans from the new ship had leapt aboard and were trading swordstrokes with the Yemenites.
"Allau Akbar!" His voice boomed like a roll of thunder over the dry desert.
At the same instant, blue-white flame jetted from the windows of the rear cabin on the Imperial dromon. The back quarter of the ship shuddered and cracked, lifting skyward. Smoke billowed from the gangway and the oar tholes. Roman sailors, perched on the railing, were pitched violently into the sea. The Yemenites howled in laughter, shaking their spears. Some of the Arab archers took the opportunity to feather those men still clinging to the railing of the enemy ship. The Imperial galley slewed drunkenly, loosing way as its steering oars, burning, fell into the sea. The dry wood and caulking tar of the liburna caught alight with wicked speed.
"Mohammed, beware!"
Mohammed spun in surprise at the shout, the slim ebon blade knocking aside a spearpoint. Some of the Roman marines had broken free from the mass of struggling men and ran at him. Mohammed felt old skills, now rarely used, spring to life. He slapped aside the spear, then lunged. The black sword screeched through the marine's armor, then slid into his chest. Mohammed drew back violently, feeling the edge of the blade catch on a rib, then shear through the bone. Two more marines attacked, one from either side, crouching slightly behind their shields. Mohammed plowed into the one on the left, beating aside his blade, then powered the blade sideways through the man's helmet. The poor quality iron, quartered and riveted, sparked as the edge of the blade cut in, parted and then the man's skull took the rest of the blow.
The second marine lunged, stabbing with his gladius. Mohammed tried to turn back to block his thrust, but the blade of night snagged in the heavy bone behind the dying marine's brow. He felt a freezing moment of anticipation, waiting for fatal metal to penetrate his side.
Lightning blazed instead, booming across the deck and the Roman was silhouetted for a moment in actinic light. Then his corpse was flung across the planks, smoking and hissing. The metal buckles on his leather armor scattered in molten droplets. Mohammed stood back, the blade of night dripping blood in his hand. He was half-blinded by the violent radiance, but his vision began to clear after a moment. Zoe was standing at the top of the steps from the cabins, her hand raised, her hair fanned behind her in a dark cloud.
"My debt, lady Zoe," he said, raising the sword in salute to her.
"I am still in yours," called the young woman, but there was an odd double echo in her voice.
Mohammed started, sheathing his sword with unusual speed and stepped quickly to Zoe's side. She stared up at him with wide liquid-brown eyes. He made to speak, but saw the edge of fear in her pale face. He realized that he was looming over her, beard bristling. There was no time for this mystery now. The fleets were still locked in battle all around them. He squeezed her hand briefly, sketching a quick bow.
"Seize their ship," he shouted, turning back to the melee that still surged back and forth across the bloody deck. "We've need of swift hulls!"
The Arabs, seeing that their captain was with them, raised a great shout and stormed forward, all eagerness for battle. The Romans, seeing that their fellow ship had foundered and was now afire, fell back. They still fought fiercely, but their hearts were no longer in the struggle. Mohammed waded into the fray, his long blade drinking deep of the enemy. None of the leather and cork armor could blunt its edge or still his overhand stroke. Within moments, the Sahaba were leaping across the gap into the other galley, their war cries shrilling loud in the smoky air.
– |Zoe felt light, insubstantial. A giddy sensation plagued her focus, but she concentrated, bringing to mind old, familiar sequences of the basic signs and transformations. As she progressed through the sixteen symbologies, her mind calmed and familiar patterns reasserted themselves. The flush of power faded, but she did not relinquish control. There was still need of the blazing flower and its strength.
She cast about for the remaining quinquereme and found the ship pulling away under all oars. The golden lattice of wards and glyphs had doubled and trebled since her first glimpse of the enemy. Smiling grimly, she perceived the interlocking maze of signs reaching under the ship as well as above.
They've not liked the taste of us. She laughed to herself. We bite!
Then she put forth her will, drawing power both from the shining radiance and from the sea. The defenses shrouding the great ship were angled to block any blow she might strike in the hidden realm. There were other ways… she could tap power that rivaled the ancients'!
The sea groaned, whitecaps flattening, and then a single swell rose up, sliding past the rear ranks of the Roman fleet. It picked up speed, aiming for the quinquereme.
Zoe laughed, feeling the will of the Roman thaumaturges suddenly shift in alarm. The golden dome flickered and then dimmed. The wave rushed closer, rising and rising. An Imperial liburna rode up on the face of the swell, crew clinging to every stay and mast in horror. Then the wave passed and the single-banked galley slid down the following slope, oars askew, rolling wildly.
There was a flash of power and the front of the rising wave lit up like the sun. Zoe laughed again, a gay, glad sound, for the thaumaturges on the Imperial ship had tried to shatter the interstices of the form driving the wave. But there was none. It was only simple water, relentlessly following an ancient pattern. Zoe had set it in motion miles away. Light stabbed in the deep, glowing blue-green through the wave. The wave towered over the ship, which had been frantically crabbing, starboard oars pulling hard while the port rowers reversed with all their strength.
The Roman quinquereme had managed to turn only a quarter of the way to face the wave when the swell crashed down on the deck. Zoe blinked, momentarily blinded by a flare erupting as the golden dome crumpled under thousands of tons of water. A hollow bang echoed across the waves from the impact of the wave front on the deck. A grinding sound followed and then the wave was sluicing from the starboard tholes and running in rivers from the deck. For a moment, the quinquereme wallowed, spinning back onto its original heading. The four banks of oars were hopelessly tangled, splintered and shattered. The upper decks were empty.
Too, the hold flooded and now the ship listed hard, rolling to port. Zoe wondered if anyone inside could free himself from the tangled wreckage of oars and dying men. Probably not, she thought with satisfaction. Memories of the plaza of bones and skulls greeting her homecoming came to mind. Here is my justice! echoed in her thoughts.
The quinquereme settled in the frothy wake of the swell. One side dipped under the waves, seawater pouring through the oar ports. The galley slid beneath the waves.
"One by fire, one by water." Zoe clenched her fist, feeling wonderfully alive. She grinned in delight, eyes hungry for the next ship she could touch with her power.