The Walls of Aelia Capitolina
Dwyrin stalked along the city wall, a cloak pulled tight around his thin shoulders. A fierce wind blasted out of the east, flinging grit and sand in a brown haze over the surrounding hills. On the battlements, it was growing colder as the day faded. As the Hibernian paced, his head bent low, he chanted to himself. A dull red glow followed him like the wake of a ship, spreading across the parapet's limestone slabs. The sentries along the wall stayed well away, either sitting on the roofs of nearby buildings or standing around in the darkening street below. After he had passed, they tentatively returned to their positions.
Dwyrin paid their fear no heed, concentrating on laying his fire-ward. Nicholas had been fretting for days. The enemy attacks had ceased. The bandits were lying low, barely stirring from their camps. The centurion was sure it meant a trick in the offing. Without sufficient troops to guard the entire wall, he pressed Dwyrin to find a sorcerous answer to the riddle. Dwyrin couldn't give him an answer-he had no idea what the enemy was up to. He had never learned the mnemonics to invoke the Eye of Mercury or raise some spirit to spy on the enemy. That, he reflected sourly, had been Zoe's job. Not mine! Not the too-young recruit, too late and too slow to learn those things.
He smiled mischievously. The next time the Arabs attacked, they would get a surprise. He might lack many skills, but he was becoming fire's master. They would burn hot, if they tried to scale these walls. The pale, white limestone was the perfect matrix; the stone would burn by itself, if sparked to the proper temperature. He could feel that yearning tugging against his feet as he walked. The sign of fire burning in his own heart inspired other flames to life.
Vladimir had banned him from the kitchen of the praetorium. It was too dangerous!
No dishes for me to wash! The memory of school brought a pang of remorse. He wondered how his teachers were doing, Ahmet and the others. He hoped that they were safe and sound, lazing on the banks of the Nile, herding the gaggle of junior boys through whitewashed halls. He shouldn't be here, locked in a death struggle with an old friend.
Dwyrin looked out over the dun fields and the scraggly line of Arab tents, his heart heavy. Twilight was on the land now, making everything hazy and indistinct. Odenathus was out there, somewhere. The Hibernian had tried to touch his friend's mind through the vestige of their battle-meld, but he had found only a blank sensation. Odenathus had more than enough skill to block him out. Too bad. Maybe if they could have talked, they could have ended this… Probably not. He sighed. I've killed too many of his friends.
He reached stairs leading up into a tower flanking the Damascus gate. The red glow dripped from his cloak and seeped into the flagstones. Below him, under the light of many torches and lanterns, the gate tunnel echoed with hammering as the Roman engineers levered blocks of stone and brick into place. Today, Sextus and his stonemasons hoped to complete work on sealing this gate. The gate tunnel near the praetorium was already closed and work had started on the Dung gate at the southwestern corner of the city.
The stairs led up into a large room with arrow slits on the outer wall and murder holes cut through the floor. Now, of course, the openings to shoot down at attackers in the gate tunnel showed only dirt and bricks. Dwyrin ignored the citizens clustered in the room. They were men of the city, clad in heavy leather jerkins reinforced by metal plates. It wasn't nearly as good as the Legion armor, but it could be turned out by the tannery and the blacksmith's shops within the city. Their arms were no better, mostly old swords dug out of attics or cellars and new-forged spears. The few militia officers were Legion veterans settled here decades ago. They were a grizzled lot, but the backbone of the defense. They ignored Dwyrin in turn, keeping the other men occupied while he worked.
Placing a hand over the middle arch of the gate tunnel, Dwyrin bent his will upon the keystone, etching a sign and pattern to tie together the fire-ward he had scattered along the rampart. A fierce glow radiated from the stone, lighting the room and silhouetting his hands as they bore down on the floor. Then he let go, feeling pressure release and a pop as the pattern locked into place. Now, while the keystone remained intact, the walls would make any assault costly.
The fire-barrier wasn't anything Odenathus couldn't overcome, but then, the Palmyrene couldn't be everywhere at once, could he?
Dwyrin wiped his forehead. It was damp with sweat. This was hot work, even on a chill evening like this. The desert weather and its moods never failed to amaze him.
It was coming on full summer, yet the nights were still bitterly cold and a stiff wind could make you reach for your cloak. The day's work done, he clattered down the stairs to the street, thinking with anticipation of a stein of corn beer in the praetorium mess hall. Maybe there would be something other than the usual mutton to eat, too. Rations weren't short in the city, but there was little variety.
" 'Ware! 'Ware!" The dissonant clanging of an alarm bar suddenly cut the hazy air as he reached the street. Cursing, he turned and leapt back up the flight of stone steps. "They're coming!"
Dwyrin frowned, hearing panic in the lookout's voice, but when he reached the top of the tower and looked out upon the darkening plain, he knew why.
The enemy had not been planning some trick, they had been waiting for reinforcements.
A vast number of lights covered the rocky fields before the walls, flickering orange and red. They advanced swiftly in winding columns of torches. A low rumble of boots and sandals thudding on the rocky ground reached the ears of the men on the tower. Where before the Arabs had come against them in thousands, now there were tens of thousands.
"Signal the praetorium!" Dwyrin's voice cracked like a whip and the men leapt to obey. A shuttered lantern, backed by a silvered mirror, was uncovered and it flashed towards the southwest. The soldiers on the wall were shouting too, calling down to their mates in the street behind the rampart. Men rushed forward, weapons in hand, struggling to pull on their helmets or armor. "Keep everyone back from the face of the wall when they put the ladders up!"
The columns of men on the plain jogged closer, their helmets and spears glinting in the torchlight. On the road there was a great racket as two siege towers rumbled towards the wall. The shouts of sergeants and captains rose up to the defenders. With a rattling of armor and weapons, the attackers began to fan out as they came within arrow range of the walls.
"Wait for it!" Dwyrin hoisted himself up on the walkway behind the tower parapet. Two of the citizens followed him, each carrying large rectangular Legion shields. While he peered out into the gathering darkness, they covered him on either side from enemy arrows. "Hold your shot until I've a chance to work."
The Hibernian closed his eyes, a soft chant on his lips. He felt the sign of fire calling, its voice irresistible. He struggled to contain the swiftly growing power. An indiscriminate release would kill thousands and set the city ablaze. Clenching his jaw, Dwyrin bore down, trying to master the sign. He felt shaky, trembling with effort. It was growing stronger.
Arrows cracked against the wall and whistled past overhead. Dwyrin turned his attention outwards, seeing the plain swarming with men. His mage-sight let him see through the darkness and make out battalions of spearmen, masses of archers and ranks of cavalry waiting on the road behind the siege towers. The towers themselves flickered with a corpse light, showing the faint tracery of fresh wards and shields. Dwyrin grimaced, half sensing the pattern of aqua and terra striving against his ignis and ventus.
He had prepared for this day, too. A word formed on his lips and he stabbed out his fist, letting a tiny portion of the sign raging within him billow forth.
Fire ripped across the plain, shattering the ranks of the first wave of Arabs. Huge jagged waves of flame consumed the men. Most of them simply disappeared in the actinic white glare. A halo of red light wavered in the air around Dwyrin, though he no longer had time to notice such things. The two shield men screamed and fell back, their faces burned. Steam hissed from their clothing and armor. Arrows filled the air, flaring bright against the fire-ward as they sought out Dwyrin's life.
On the plain, now lit by shuddering red light from pyres burning amid the scattered rocks, the massed ranks of the Arabs raised a great cry like the ringing of enormous trumpets: Allau Akbar!
Then they surged onwards, the siege towers rumbling forward in their midst.
– |Nicholas squinted to the north, pale violet eyes straining against the gloom, one hand leaning on the parapet of the praetorium tower. Lurid orange and red stabbed on the horizon. A series of thunderous booms rolled over the roofs of the town, shaking dust from the rafters and startling the dogs awake. There were fires in the city, too, but luckily most of the buildings were brick. Something was throwing up a huge column of smoke, though, which glowed from below with a baleful red light. Amid the fumes the centurion could make out the flicker of a signal lantern.
"Tens of thousands," he muttered to himself, reading the slow pulse. "Shit."
Vladimir padded up, lanky frame jingling with a coat of heavy mailed armor. The Walach bartered a sheep for the old-style hauberk of overlapping leaf-shaped plates. He wore the mail cinched with a broad leather belt and a linen surcoat. One of the townswomen had stitched a snarling cat in black and white on the chest. It was poorly made, but Nicholas kept his peace, seeing the pride filling his friend. The Roman guessed the sign was the clan-totem of his people. A long-bladed ax was slung over the barbarian's shoulder. "Runners just came in, Nicholas, there are armed men on the western ramp."
Nicholas bit his lip, then came to a swift decision. The last day had come. "Vlad, round up the engineers, as quick as you can. We're going out. I'll get the boy and meet you in the tunnel. Go!"
Raising a thick black eyebrow in surprise, Vlad nodded sharply and then bolted down the stairs, taking the narrow steps three and four at a time. Nicholas would have tripped, broken his ankle and then stove in his fool head trying such a thing. The Walach was sure on his feet, though, and never seemed to step wrong. The centurion listened, cocking an ear to the darkness. Sure enough, he could hear the clink of metal on metal and the sound of men running in boots below the western wall. He did not risk looking over the edge. The enemy counted many fine archers among their number.
Sighing, he looked out over the domed roofs of the city, taking it all in. The thunder at the northern gate was still rising in pitch, with the entire line of the wall lit up by a violent red glare. The boy was making quite a noise, but if the enemy had enough men to test the whole length of the rampart, there was no way they could hold the city.
Another command wrecked, he thought, caught by a tinge of remorse. Another lee shore in a bad wind.
He pushed away thoughts of Dannmark and the memory of men shouting in fear in the darkness. The fog-shrouded coast of Scandia was far away and those men had been dead and rotting in the cold ground for years. Shouts from below the wall roused him to action. In a moment, ladders and grappling hooks would crash against the parapet. He needed to move swiftly. Despite his haste, he took the stairs only two at a time, one hand brushing the wall to steady himself.
– |Nicholas struggled through the plaza behind the Damascus gate, pushing through fleeing citizens. Despite their solid construction, the houses along the street were burning furiously with transparent blue-white flames. The northerner crouched low, scuttling along the ground. Women and children were running in the other direction, wailing in thin, high-pitched voices. Some of them were on fire. Things seemed to have gotten out of hand atop the gate tower. He paused, trying to draw breath in the superheated air, sheltering behind a tall column standing in the middle of the plaza. The carvings of marching soldiers and triumphant emperors were hot to the touch.
In his hand, Brunhilde was keening with fear. The blade's watery surface reflected a hundred leaping flames. Another titanic boom rocked the city and clods of dirt and stone rained down into the street. Nicholas could feel power surging in the air, bitter with the smell of discharged lightning. He mustered his courage, peering around the column.
The main tower seemed intact, though a whirling orb of red light wrapped the upper third. Flashes and sparks danced against the northern face of the sphere. Nicholas gripped Brunhilde tight then thrust her forward and sprinted for the base of the stairs. She shrieked in outrage, but the blade cut through the wavering red light, leaving a whirling tunnel of breathable air. He took the stairs as fast as he could, bending his shoulder forward. There was a burning hot resistance and each step was a struggle. Brunhilde began to smoke and glow but he reached the roof of the tower alive. The rectangular space was littered with corpses, most of them charred beyond recognition.
Nicholas felt sick. These were Romans from the look of the puddled, melting armor. The stones cracked underfoot, broken by the intense heat. He skipped across them, hoping that his boots would hold out. Bending nearly double, he peered between the merlons out onto the plain before the city.
The plain burned and smoked, pitted by huge craters. Columns of Arabs continued to rush forward into the conflagration, their helms glowing orange in the flare of the sphere of fire. Pillars of smoke boiled up, clouding the sky, and fiery stones plunged from the heavens among the running men. The remains of two siege towers smoldered on the road before the gate, shattered, logs and mantlets scattered in all directions. The war cries of the attackers were faint, almost drowned out by the burning hiss of stones bursting amongst them.
Nicholas flinched back from the carnage, seeing the ground carpeted with… He stopped, then looked again. Then he did curse, violently and at length, but it was too late to do anything but what he had already done.
"Dwyrin!" His scream was lost in the ripping sound of a bolt of fire leaping from the boy's fingertips to lash down amongst a charging battalion of armored horsemen. The ground erupted at the blow, spewing dirt and rock and limp bodies into the air. Nicholas lunged to the boy's side, feeling the feeble protection afforded by his sword fail. Heat beat at him like the mouth of a furnace. He grabbed Dwyrin's arm, then stifled a cry, feeling his hand burn. "Come on, lad! It's fake, it's all fake! We've got to run!"
The boy turned, head swiveling like that of a hunting cat, and Nicholas felt his heart go cold at the sight of Dwyrin's eyes. They were slits of brilliance, blazing with incandescent light. Nick slapped him hard across the face, wincing at the pop and bubble of his flesh as he touched forge-hot skin.
Dwyrin's head rocked back at the blow and the burning light flickered in his eyes.
"Look! Look at the ground! Where are the bodies?" Nicholas pointed, his hand smoking. Dwyrin turned, staring out over the battlement. Hordes of Arabs, their armor bright, continued to pour across the blasted landscape, their banners and spears held high. They ran across empty ground. Amid the chaos of rubble and smoking craters, there were no bodies. Not even one.
An arrow flicked out of the night and burst into flame against the sphere. A droplet of molten iron struck the breastplate of Nicholas' lorica and clung there, hissing. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and dragged him away from the parapet. The sphere flared up for a moment and then suddenly went dark with an audible pop.
Nicholas stumbled on the stairs, blind in the sudden darkness, but then hauled the boy over his shoulders and staggered down. The light of the burning buildings would do to light his way. Flagstones cracked under his boots, turning to dust as he ran. Behind him, the limestone face of the tower was burning too, with a hot green fire as the rock sublimated into the air in a glowing cloud.
Allau Akbar! rang across the dark sky, roiling with columns and drifts of smoke.
– |Vladimir came to a halt at the base of a great ramp of fitted stone. It rose up above him into the gloom, vaulting up from the twisted narrow street of the decumanus to the looming wall of the Temple Mount. A few torches guttered in the high wind, but most of the entranceway was dark, the columns and soaring walls shadowed. Bronze faced doors sealed the top of the ramp, but the guards that usually stood there were gone. Dust blew in gusts across the road.
"Sextus! Frontius!" The Walach's voice boomed from the marble statues that guarded the gate of the gods. "It's Vlad! Where are you?"
The Walach cursed. He had found some of the Roman fabrii at the tetrapylon and had told them to make for the tunnel. Their two cohort leaders were still missing. One of the messenger boys had told him, breathlessly, as he was running from the southern wall to the north, that they had gone into the temple precincts. Vlad jogged up the ramp, turning his head to the north, trying to keep grit out of his eyes. The wind faltered when he came into the archway before the door. He turned, looking back along the length of the central street of the town. The platform of the temples was raised fifty or sixty feet above the rest of the city. He saw that the entire northern wall was afire and wrapped in billowing fumes.
"Damn these engineers! Where are they?"
A flicker of light to the south drew his eye. Even in this poor light, with the air hazed with smoke and dust, he could make out men struggling on the roof of the Dung Gate tower. Torches and spilled oil burned, lighting swarms of warriors in tan and white cloaks pouring over the wall. Vlad snarled, seeing disaster hemming him in on all sides. He checked the presence of his long-bladed axe with a fingertip, then swung his hand hard against the bronze plates.
They boomed, a deep sound, and he howled for the missing fabrii again.
This time a monstrous creaking sound and the rumble of iron wheels on stone answered him. The two bronze doors began to swing outwards, accompanied by a string of curses and the grunts of straining men. Vlad leapt to the opening doors and added his own strength. With the effort of his strong arm, the gates swung wide. A wagon rolled out, creaking under its own weight. Sextus was on one side, pushing with all his might, his face red with effort. Frontius and a dozen of the stonemasons from the cohort were also hauling on the wagon, pushing it across the threshold.
"Gods, what is in this thing?" Vlad was putting his full strength into the wagon, yet it barely moved at all, groaning with the slow screech of tortured wood. Sextus shook his head, unable to speak. At the top of the ramp was a channel that let rainwater spill away to either side. The front wheels of the wagon rolled to it and stopped, stuck. Vlad cursed again, but the lead surveyor let go of the front wheel with a wheeze.
"That's it! Come on lads, make for the tunnel."
The stonemasons shook out their arms, grimacing, and then gathered up their kit from the wagon. Vlad watched them run down the ramp with a puzzled eye. Each of them had a heavy bag bouncing at their shoulder, as well as their usual armor, weapons and tools.
"What is this?" Vlad poked at the jumble of statues, pots, baskets and cloth in the back of the wagon. It glittered in the light of the few remaining torches and the ruddy glow in the sky.
"A little delay," said Frontius, still breathing heavily as he crammed his helmet onto his head. A heavy chain hung around his neck. Sextus was similarly attired, though he was trying to carry a heavy scroll case under one arm. In the bad light, Vlad thought that it was made of ivory. "Are the others in the tunnel?"
"I don't know," growled Vladimir, showing long incisors. The two Romans started backwards at the deep sound. "Nick sent me to find the lot of you! I passed some of the carpenters in the tetrapylon, but the rest? Scattered to the wind for all I know. Why weren't you at your posts?"
Sextus pointed to the north, where the conflagration by the Damascus Gate was raging out of control in the close-packed buildings.
"We saw the boy call up the sun," he said, raising his voice over the wind that now howled around them. "I guessed it was the big attack, so I knew that the centurion would want us to make a dash for it. I just couldn't go without this!" He patted the scroll-case.
"He's a fool," shouted Frontius, pulling the leather hood of his cape over his head. "We should have all been in the tunnel twenty grains ago! Come on, help me with this."
Vlad bent down behind the wagon, letting it shelter him from the wind, which was growing sharp, rushing towards the blazing buildings in the north. Sextus scuttled around the wagon and he and Frontius tied a rope to a stay behind the driver's seat. With some care they then began to spool out the rope, with Frontius laying on the ramp as they descended towards the town, Sextus walking backwards behind him, playing out the line from a coil around his shoulder. Vlad, mindful of the wind, hurried after them, the heavy ivory case under one arm and his axe free in the other.
At the bottom of the ramp, they ducked into a building beside the road. The stonemasons had already entered it and had climbed down through a hole in the floor of one of the rooms. The hidden street lay just below. Vlad peered out of the shutters, seeing the sky slowly light with a spreading red light.
Beside him, Sextus yanked hard on the rope and there was a crack and then a dissonant rattle of metal and crockery on the long ramp. Coins bounced past, spinning into the dirt of the street.
– |Nick staggered into the four-square space of the tetrapylon. The domed roof above his head was lit by flickering light from a bonfire that had been set in the center of the crossroads. The building was not large, barely twenty feet across, but it was crowded with militiamen. They were staring out into the night in fear, looking up the roads to the south and the west. Nick schooled his face to calm and shouldered his way through them. The townsmen were milling about, panic rising in their voices. Most had little more than a hunting spear or a light bow in their hands.
"Where is your captain?" Nick shouted as he reached the eastern archway of the building. Some of the nearest men turned to him, their faces lighting with recognition.
"The centurion! The Centurion's here!"
"We've no captain," they shouted. More men turned towards him, eager for news.
"The northern way is closed," he said, pitching his voice to carry over the heads of the crowd. "Half of you go to the gate at the Praetorium and defend that place. The Armenian mercenaries are there, find them and follow their orders. The rest of you, go south, to the Dung Gate, and help the engineers."
There was confused shouting as men tried to sort themselves out. Nick slid towards the darkness in the eastern doorway, Dwyrin's weight on his shoulders slowing his steps. Somehow, the boy had gained weight! He could hear some of the older men berating their neighbors.
"The southern gate has fallen!" A man ran into the tetrapylon from the southern road. "The Arabs are over the wall!"
A groan of fear rose from the men in the plaza. Nick cursed to himself and jogged down the eastern road, Dwyrin heavy on his shoulders. A dozen paces past the arch and the tall pillars that flanked it, he turned sharply into a rug shop. The doorway stood open, the proprietor fled. Nick turned sideways, fitting the boy through a low archway in the back of the shop. It was dark, but he welcomed the shadows. Outside in the street men were running past, overtaken by panic. A wailing rose up, all too familiar to the northerner. The villagers in the coastal towns often made that sound, when the men of Dannmark came upon them in the night.
He stepped carefully down the steps in the little stairway. In his haste, he failed to close the curtain behind him. At the bottom of the steps was the hidden street. Careful examination by Sextus had found more than one hidden doorway that opened from the underground way into the basements or stairwells of the buildings above. A tiny oil lamp sat on the dirt at the base of the stairs. Nick kicked it over as he turned right and began jogging heavily down the hidden way to the east.
– |By the time Nicholas found the others, they were crowding into the white cistern. He squeezed out of the narrow tunnel and gasped in relief to come out into the vaulting room. He had pushed Dwyrin, now half awake, in front of him the last fifty feet.
"Hoy, it's the centurion! Optio!"
Nicholas nodded to the nearest legionaries, who stood back from the opening, swords bare in their hands. It was hot and close in the chamber, but it was still better than being in the dark passage. He looked around and found Sextus coming towards him, a glad look on the engineer's face.
"Sir, we were about to give up on you and the boy!"
Nicholas scowled, but was glad to hand off the red-haired Hibernian to the nearest soldiers. "See he gets some water and a lie-down, lads. He's a bit used up, I think. Sextus, I heard on the way down that the south gate has fallen."
The surveyor nodded, his grin wiped away. "Vlad and Frontius went down the tunnel first. They sent a runner back to say the enemy put his main strength against the southern wall. I'd guess that all the storm and thunder in the north was a ruse?"
Nicholas nodded sharply, thinking hard. "Yes," he said absently. "They took the boy right in-some kind of phantom army, filled with noise and motion. He surely drew everyone's attention with his response! Listen, Sextus, we need to start sending the men through the tunnel. Someone upstairs is sure to notice that we've disappeared. You know the temper of the men left in the city-those Armenians, for one, will change sides immediately. The rest will be out for our blood."
"I know, sir." The surveyor's humor returned. "I left a little something to delay them, though. A Phyrgian gift, as it were, which I hope will be as good as any Dionysus ever gave."
"What?" Nicholas was scowling again. He was supposed to know what was going on, by the gods!
Sextus fingered a heavy chain around his neck, turning it to the light of one of the lamps his men were carrying. It glinted ruddy red gold in the light. "A whole wagonload of treasure-coin, specie, jewels, chain like this, statues, everything to incite greed and lust in a man's heart-is scattered across the great ramp leading up from the decumanus to the temple platform. More than any single man could carry-when these bandits reach it, I think there will be some time wasted."
Nicholas shook his head, wondering if that were true. These weren't bandits. "Perhaps," he said. "How long will it take to get everyone out of the tunnel? Who has the robes?"
"About two hours to get everyone out," Sextus said, rubbing his nose. "Each man is carrying his kit and clothing on his back. We started as soon as Frontius' runner came back."
"Not great, but it'll have to do. Send two men back down the narrow passage. Make sure our tracks in that hidden road are wiped out and any litter picked up. Then start knocking down this tunnel, try and fill it in behind us."
Sextus stared at the centurion for a moment. Nicholas could see the man's thoughts-the narrow passage and the hidden road were their only way out if the enemy found the springhouse entrance to the tunnel. The engineer didn't want to be trapped in the stifling dark with no way back. For his part, Nicholas didn't either, but it seemed more likely that pursuit would come from inside the city.
"Do it," Nicholas growled and the centurion nodded sharply before turning to his men. The northerner went to the side of the cistern where Dwyrin was laid on a cloak. The boy looked bad, his face sheened with sweat. He looked pale and empty, like a vessel that had been poured out on the ground.
"Hey, lad." Nicholas knelt by the boy's side and put the back of his blistered and swollen hand against Dwyrin's forehead. "How do you feel?"
Dwyrin didn't speak, but the anguish in his eyes said the Hibernian knew the enemy had played him for a fool.
"Rest now, we'll be moving soon." Nicholas turned the corner of the cloak over Dwyrin's chest, then sat down, his back against the wall. Dwyrin closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. Nicholas was determined to be the last out of the cistern. It would be a long wait, here in the close darkness, watching as his men dropped, one by one, down into the tunnel. The pain in his hand was almost blinding, but he pushed it away. There just wasn't time for that now.
– |Odenathus rode through the gates in a weary daze. The huge statues paid him no heed, for he was part of a flood of Sahaba trooping up the long ramp. Men and women of the city were mixed in amongst the soldiers, all a pressing, noisy mass spilling out of the gateway into the gardens surrounding the towering shape of the Temple of Jupiter. Every inch of the Palmyrene's body cried out in agony, for he had sustained his illusions and phantasms for nearly two hours before he felt the bright ravening flame of Dwyrin go out like a snuffed candle. It had been enough. Much of the city was still burning, lighting the night sky and throwing a reddish light down from the clouds. The white pillars of the temple seemed stained with blood.
The Palmyrene let his horse find a patch of grass and stop. Then he crawled down out of the saddle and fell asleep on the ground. The horse, which was accounted wise among its kind, moved to stand over the exhausted sorcerer and continued to graze with its rubbery lips on the leaves of the tree. These humans were quite foolish, needing a calm head to watch out for them.
– |Not far away, within the towering halls of the temple, a lone man crossed a broad floor of hexagonal marble tiles. His lean face, long ago burned dark by the desert, was filled with fear and wonder in equal parts. His dark robes, made from the finest cloth, were tattered and worn, scarred by war and long travel. His boots, which had been worth two mares to acquire from a Persian merchant, made a soft sound on the tiles. Uri Ben-Sarid, the chief of his people, came to the sanctuary of the temple and looked upon the seated figure of Jupiter Maximus, god of the Romans. The marble sculpture was twenty feet high and painted in the likeness of a brawny man with riotous dark hair. A fierce look of disgust passed over Uri's face, but then he put such things aside.
"Cursed shall be the idolators," he whispered to himself. In this thing, he and Mohammed understood each other perfectly. The Ben-Sarid did not believe, in his heart, that his old friend heard the voice of the nameless god speaking from the clear air. There could be no prophets in this debased and corrupt time. But he did know Mohammed was a wise man, a cunning leader and a man filled with hate for Rome. Even as the Ben-Sarid hated. Slowly, his eyes intent on the floor, he circled the statue. Behind the platform, screened by the bulk of the figure, there was an opening and a stairway that descended below the floor of the temple.
"Oh, my good and gracious Lord…" Uri felt faint, seeing that it was possible to descend below the elevated platform. It might, he thought in rising panic, be possible to step below and stand… stand upon the rock of the hill itself. There might be a stone, in the darkness below, a stone that had once crowned this low mountain. A slab of pitted gray basalt where…
"No." Uri backed away, frightened by his impious thoughts. He bit his thumb, trying to keep from crying out. Despite all that he had learned at his father's knee, he felt compelled to walk down into the darkness. His people, at last, had returned to the holy place, to the temple of their fathers, and he could not descend, he was not allowed to look upon the most sacred place of all the tribes.
He was not a Kahane; he was not of the sacred line. The priesthood had been slaughtered long ago, the survivors scattered to the four corners of the earth, if any had lived through Ben-Yair's apocalypse. His blood was weak, diluted, perhaps even contaminated by the blood of lesser peoples. This, his heart's desire, the prize the lives and blood of the Ben-Sarid had paid for on the walls of the city, was beyond his reach.
Uri leaned against the flank of the Roman statue, cold stone burning against his arm. His other hand covered his face, trying to stifle the desire tormenting him. Tears seeped between his fingers and fell, one by one, sparkling to the marble floor.
Outside, the Sahaba reveled in their victory, raising their swords and spears to the burning red sky, raising thunderous cheer after thunderous cheer. Jalal strode among them, a giant among men, his face split by a tremendous grin. Mohammed would be pleased!
Allau Akbar! Allau Akbar!
Shuddering at the noise, Uri turned away from the stairway. He had to find the Arab general and make sure that no one went down those steps. No one.