Caesarea Maritima
The wooden flank of the Khuwaylid slid past a limestone quay and came to rest, guided by gentle oars and ropes flung from the ship. Sailors swarmed from the ship, tying up and running out a gangway. The planks flexed under Mohammed's boots as he strode ashore. He found the heat of the day pleasant, though anyone else would find it oppressive. The white buildings and wharfs flung the sun into his eyes, but he squinted with the ease of long practice. Behind him, the rest of the Arab fleet was entering the huge harbor. Mohammed was delighted to see a large number of merchantmen tied up at the docks, busily loading and unloading bales and crates of goods.
Commerce endures. The thought was very comforting.
"My lord, welcome!" Khalid was waiting, handsome face wreathed with a smile. The young man bowed before Mohammed, bending his knee and putting fingertips to his forehead. The Quraysh tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to rise.
"Greetings, young Eagle. Well met, Odenathus! If you are here, then the road to Egypt must be open in the south!"
"It is." The Palmyrene smiled, bowing. "Though there was some difficulty. Cousin! Oomph!"
Odenathus and Zoe embraced, her dark hair flipping around her neck. Mohammed smiled, seeing the young woman was allowing a little happiness to show. He left the two of them to make their greeting, turning back to Khalid. "Is Shadin here? Good. Let's find somewhere to sit and have a cool drink."
Khalid gestured toward the graceful three-story building that served as the port offices. "My Lord Mohammed, I've made this building our headquarters. Your staff is billeted there, and… we have a guest. A royal guest. You will be surprised to meet him, I think."
Mohammed raised an eyebrow at the stress the young man laid on the word royal. "Do we?"
– |Zoe shaded her eyes with a hand, staring at the merchantmen riding at anchor in the harbor. "Is that the Tigranes? It surely looks like her…"
"It is," Odenathus said, walking at her side along the quay. "I found the Palmyrene factor still in business here when we returned from Aelia Capitolina. He was surprised to see me, and very glad. I bade him send out messages to all the ships owned by the city-they are gathering here; a few arrive each week."
Zoe smiled, teeth brilliantly white in a very dark face. The time at sea had burned her dark brown. She tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. "That is marvelous! The city is not dead, then."
"No." Odenathus nodded in agreement. "We still own warehouses and ships throughout the whole of the Mare Internum and down into the Sinus Arabicus. Many citizens who were abroad are gathering here, as they hear that the Queen lives. They are heartened by your presence, Zoe, and they are very angry with Rome."
"Good," Zoe said, dark eyes shining in delight. "We need more ships to carry men and supplies. Did our courier galley reach you?"
"Yes. It arrived yesterday!"
Zoe frowned, shaking her head. "How strange! We sent it away days and days before we turned back from the Roman shore… No matter. What matters is that the way is open to Constantinople. The Imperial fleet is scattered and many ships were destroyed or captured."
"That is good news," Odenathus said, but something in his voice made Zoe stop.
"What is it?"
Odenathus shook his head, raising a hand. "Nothing, I suppose. I just… Dwyrin was at Aelia Capitolina when we were besieging the city."
Zoe's eyes widened. "He was?"
"Yes. He was aiding the defense, you know. They must have posted him there, after we left him at Antioch. Oh, Zoe, he's so strong! I never would have guessed it… not the way he was when we were together."
Zoe looked ill and sat down on one of the stone mooring pillars that lined the quay. She stared at Odenathus with a sick expression. "You didn't…"
"No. I think he lives. At least, he did not fall by my hand. Some of the Romans in the city escaped through a hidden tunnel. Very clever, really! The whole city is honeycombed with secret passages and adits. Jalal was beside himself!" Odenathus sat as well and Zoe took his hand.
"Did he hurt you?"
"No." Odenathus shook his head ruefully, squeezing her hand. "But it was close! His fire-calling power is incredibly strong. Luckily, he doesn't seem to be able to do much else-but don't get in front of him. You'll be a cinder!"
"It must have been strange to match power with him for real. I mean, not in training."
"It was very difficult. You know, I found something… after the first time. You see, the first time we fought, I couldn't bring myself to strike at him, not really. I couldn't… I didn't mean it, if you know what I mean."
Zoe made a face, shaking her head. "No, I don't understand."
Odenathus laughed, scratching the back of his head. "I didn't either. Jalal almost ran me through for cowardice in the face of the enemy. No… there was a geas upon me, a pattern. A working that turned my mind from fighting Rome with my full strength."
The Palmyrene rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, showing the scar of a mark on his upper arm. "See this? The Legion brand they put on me when we enlisted to fight the Persians. Do you remember?"
"Yes," Zoe said, running slim fingers over the waxy flesh. "I didn't have to swear, not like you or Eric, because I was a woman… did it mean something?"
"It did." Odenathus pulled his sleeve down. "When we swore the oath, we accepted a binding-not to raise arms against the Empire. When Dwyrin came at me, I couldn't really fight him. I was lucky to escape alive. The geas is very weak."
"Clever," Zoe allowed begrudgingly. "A good idea to keep rebels from really fighting!"
"Just so." Odenathus wagged his finger at the town. "Everywhere we go, I watch the citizens. Many join us, hating Rome, but never the old soldiers. They swore this oath, too, and they fight us. It's difficult through this whole province-any settlement of retired legionaries has to be watched. They raid our supply caravans if we don't."
Zoe sighed, rubbing her face with both hands. "It doesn't matter. Mohammed intends to pack up the entire army and strike against the Imperial capital in one massive blow."
"Oh," said Odenathus, taking the concept in. Zoe seemed suddenly tired. "He won't have to worry about garrisons, then."
"No," she said, rising and wiping her hands on her pantaloons. "Let's go inside."
– |Mohammed stopped sharply just inside the room. It was a large, dim chamber with a high-beamed ceiling. A long table of burnished oak stood in the middle. The Quraysh felt a chill, seeing who was rising from a seat at the head of the table. Khalid stopped behind him, waiting.
"Lord Mohammed," the youth said in a clear voice. "This is the King of Kings, Shahr-Baraz, Shahanshah of the Persians and the Medes, Lord of Many Lands. Your… guest."
Mohammed took two steps into the room, hand light on the hilt of his ebon sword. The towering man behind the table inclined his head in greeting. Another man was standing against the wall behind him, a thickset gray-beard wearing a close-linked shirt of mail. The big man smiled, showing fine white teeth behind a vigorous thicket of beard and mustache.
"Good day," the Emperor of the Persians said. "I apologize for my early arrival, Lord Mohammed, but I was in haste."
The Quraysh waited until Khalid had entered the room. Shadin followed, his heavy frame and ready sword easing Mohammed's mind.
"You are unexpected," the Quraysh said, voice cold. "And not welcome, I must say."
Mohammed turned to Khalid, his face a mask. "Have you broken bread with this man?"
"Yes, lord." Khalid gulped, seeing the strict displeasure on Mohammed's face. "He arrived two days ago on a spent horse, with only Lord Khadames and an escort of lancers in tow. He spoke of peace, so I let them stay."
Mohammed's eyes glinted in anger, but he mastered himself and walked to the head of the table. Shahr-Baraz topped him by a full head or more. Mohammed looked up at his old enemy, lips compressed in a thin line. "Do you think that you can fight your way out of this place?"
"No," Shahr-Baraz said, shaking his massive head. "My life is in your hands. You are king here, not I."
"I am not a king," Mohammed said. He placed the sword, still sheathed, on the table. "Men follow me by their own choice. I rule only myself."
"More than most can say," Shahr-Baraz rumbled and he too placed his sword on the table. "I have a proposal for you, but if you do not wish to hear it, I will leave."
"There is little that you can say to me," Mohammed snapped, letting some of his anger show. "Persia, and you in particular, have little honor in my eyes."
The Boar raised a bushy eyebrow in surprise, but then he nodded, remembering. "Ah… you were at Palmyra. I had forgotten. Yes, you would think that I acted faithlessly there. But I did not-let us not dispute the past, but the present. Much has changed since those black days."
"Has it?" Mohammed paced to the far end of the table, his head bent. "Khalid, bring us something to eat and drink. Find Zoe and Odenathus and bring them here."
The young man stared at Mohammed, his face one of plain entreaty. The Quraysh stared at him, scowling, until Khalid turned and left, his boots rapping sharply on the tiled floor. "You say things have changed. Your mad emperor is dead, I understand, and you now rule in the name of his daughters."
"Yes," the Boar said, seating himself. He spread his huge hands wide. "More has occurred since last we tested wills across the sand and battlements of fair Palmyra. Rome has destroyed both our capitals. Chrosoes is dead, his dismembered body buried in a common grave. I have taken his daughters under my protection. Some measure of order has returned to Persia. You have broken the back of Rome in the East."
A flinty smile passed over Mohammed's face, but he remained silent, listening.
"I am tired of war." Shahr-Baraz leaned forward, face serious and intent. "I have fought my whole life-first against the T'u-chueh on the Oxus, then against the Usurper, then against Rome. I have won battles and lost them. Now, I am king and I want one thing-peace."
"When a Persian speaks of 'peace,' " Mohammed quoted, "he wants a piece of your land. Tell me, O King, what have you heard of me? Have you heard that the voice from the clear air, the voice of the Maker of the World, has spoken to me? He tells me that a struggle is coming, one between light and darkness. I have seen that evil-it stood at your side, it was your champion when you tested the honor of Zenobia."
The Quraysh paused, seeing Zoe and Odenathus entering the room. Both of them looked perplexed, then Zoe saw the man sitting at the table and her face turned white with rage.
"Abominations! A Persian?" The Palmyrene girl's mouth twisted into a snarl. "Strike him down, Mohammed, or I will!" Her fingers curled, sketching a sign in the air. A chair rattled behind Mohammed, but he stepped forward, interposing himself between Zoe's anger and their visitor.
"Do nothing," Mohammed barked, catching Zoe's hand in motion. A cold fire burned among her fingers, but at the Quraysh's touch the flames flickered out. "He is our guest, for the moment."
Mohammed saw Odenathus was equally outraged, but he caught their eyes with his own and shook his head. "Control yourself. Patience." Mohammed's voice was a sharp whisper.
He released Zoe's hand and turned back to the Persian. Shahr-Baraz was sitting again, though General Khadames had come forward and was standing just behind him.
"You serve a monster," Mohammed said. "I had intended to strike against Rome, against Heraclius, but if you have restored Persia, then you had best ride swiftly, for my anger will be hard on your trail. The Romans are in disarray. I can leave them be for now."
Shahr-Baraz opened his hands, palms out. "Lord Mohammed, I know what you believe. I know what you are thinking. The late Chrosoes trafficked with dark powers. He entertained demons. Servants crawling from the pit of Ahriman's domain flocked to him.
"But I am not Chrosoes! I am not his wife, Maria, who first threw wide those doors, whose desire for revenge upon her father's murderers led down this evil path. I am the Boar! Shahr-Baraz! I do not serve evil. I am my own master."
Mohammed snorted, sounding very much like a camel. "Prove it."
"I will," Shahr-Baraz said, motioning to Khadames. The general bent down and, with a grunt, hoisted a barrel onto the tabletop. It was old and grimy, stained almost black with age. It sloshed as the general set it down. The Boar, making a face at the smell oozing from the barrel, snapped the clasp of a chain holding the lid closed with his bare hands.
The smell worsened and Mohammed felt the hairs on his arms rise up. An aura of indefinable evil washed over him as the lid of the barrel came away in the Boar's hands. Lord Khadames turned away, his face pale. A gelid sound of something slopping back and forth filled the air. Steeling himself, Shahr-Baraz reached into the barrel and dragged forth a head.
Mohammed stepped back, heart thudding with remembered terror. Behind him, there was a hiss of indrawn breath from Zoe, Odenathus and Khalid. Only Shadin, in his stoic way, did not react. The Boar raised the face of a demon from the barrel. It dripped with viscous slime and it was dark, blacker than pitch, dark as coal. Despite the advanced state of decay, some recognizable features remained.
"That is the one," Mohammed rasped, mind filled with violent memories. "That is the creature that strove against Ahmet on the Plain of Towers, that threw down the gates of the city."
"This is the head of the demon Azi Tohak," Shahr-Baraz rumbled. "I hewed it from his body myself. He was a servant of uttermost darkness, of Ahriman, of the chaos that boils and bubbles at the center of the universe."
Surprisingly, a sad look passed over Shahr-Baraz's face. "He was once the younger brother of my friend, dead Chrosoes. Their father banished Rustam when he was very young and he fell into evil ways. After Chrosoes reclaimed his throne from the usurper Bahram Choban, his brother returned to the court. But Rustam had a new name and a new face. No one knew the truth, not until Empress Maria was seduced and destroyed and the King's face ruined."
Mohammed stepped closer, though every instinct screamed he should flee. Up close, the thing's face was even fouler. In some ways it approximated the human, but in every plane and feature it revealed an alien, inhuman nature. Overlapping black scales formed the skin, smoothing to delicate fluted plates around dead eyes. Sharp, pointed teeth jutted from the rotting jaw, and the ears folded back into an elongated skull. At the neck there was a jagged tear revealing nacreous-green bones. The Quraysh felt ill simply looking upon the remains.
"It is a token to reclaim my honor," the Boar said, leaning close. "I had already left Palmyra when the city was destroyed. I will rue that decision for the rest of my days. I did not mean it to happen-it was this thing, this Dahak, that shattered the city of Silk."
"Will that bring back the people of my city?" Zoe's voice rose like an arrow. She strode forward, her face cold and still. "Will it bring back my aunt? Will it restore the dead to life?"
"No," Shahr-Baraz said, sadly shaking his head. "It will not."
"And you expect to leave this place alive?" Zoe made to raise her hand, but Mohammed took it in his own.
"Lady Zoe, only the great and merciful god can restore the dead to life. No power on this earth can give you back your aunt, or your city, as it was in life. All things pass, whether we desire it or not."
"You accept his apology then?" Zoe snarled and snatched her hand away from the Quraysh. "Is Persia your friend?"
"No." Mohammed's voice was firm. "We will not bow to either empire. Lord Baraz, if you desire peace between us, you will go and leave us to our own devices. If what you say is true, if you have turned your back upon evil and walk the straight and righteous path, then the Lord that moves the sun and the tides will reward you. But if you lie, if this is a trick, then you will surely burn in torment, tortured for all eternity."
Shahr-Baraz nodded, shoving the head back down into the barrel. His face was screwed up against the stink. "I do not lie," said the Boar. "But I would say something to you, as a king to a king."
"Go on." Mohammed's voice was very cold.
"There will be no peace for your realm, or mine, while Heraclius is Shah of the Romans. We have both seen the depth of his treachery. He is a murderer, faithless, without conscience or honor. He will not rest while either of us lives."
Mohammed nodded in agreement, but his face was stiff and remote.
"This is why you press him so hard," Shahr-Baraz continued. "You smash his armies, wreck his fleets, you drive him before you with whips. He cowers in his city of stone, unable to resist you. Victory, Lord Mohammed, is very close at hand."
The Boar paced to a window overlooking the port. He tugged at the long silver tips of his mustaches. "You have done what Persia has never done, broken the Roman control of the sea. You can strike directly at Constantinople, blockade the city, cut off all supply. You know, I think, what an advantage you have gained. Oh, there were many days when I stood on the shore of Chalcedon and begged great Ormazd for a fleet…"
Shahr-Baraz turned away from the window, almost snarling at the memory. He put his hands on his hips and stared at Mohammed, a blunt expression on his face.
"Together, Lord Mohammed-"
"No!" Zoe shouted, throwing off Odenathus' arm and striding to Mohammed's side. "We will not have an alliance with this dog! He is tomorrow's enemy. We should kill him now, while we can. Then Persia will be thrown into chaos again, and we will have time to deal with Rome."
The corner of Mohammed's mouth twitched up. He settled back against the table. "Lord Baraz, your… offer will be discussed. Good day."
The Persian king nodded, then strode out of the room. The gray-beard followed him, nodding amiably to Khalid and Odenathus. Zoe watched the two men go with ill-disguised hatred. When they were gone, she turned to Mohammed, smoldering. He raised an eyebrow, then sighed. "Khalid, where is that food?"
– |Shahr-Baraz walked along the seawall of the port, his attention idle on the waves rolling against the sloping wall of rubble. Khadames paced along beside him, head sunk in thought. The Boar stopped, looking out upon the broad waters of the Mare Internum. He had seen it before, many times, as his armies marched along the Roman shore. "I have always wondered, old friend, if Egypt is as grand as travelers say."
Khadames snorted, hooking his thumbs into his belt. "I don't think we'll see, my lord. Not without some blood spilt."
The Boar laughed, a big, booming sound that drowned out the waves for a moment. "We've spilled so much, you and I. Why not a little more?"
The general frowned, pursing his lips. His eyes seemed very old. "Not so long ago, you said that you wanted a realm at peace. You vowed it, in fact. Have you changed your mind?"
Shahr-Baraz tugged at his mustaches. "I have not. But, do you see another way? I cannot."
Khadames shook his head, feeling very weary. "We do not have to fight. We can go home-aren't Antioch and the lands around it enough? Our nation is still splintered, racked by chaos. Let us set things right there, in the land between the two rivers!"
Shahr-Baraz looked out to sea, watching the late-afternoon light glitter on the water.
"My lord," Khadames continued, his voice low and urgent. "You are Shahanshah now! King of Kings-you have all the choice in the world. Let us go home."
The Boar's chin rose a little as he looked to the west. "Rome is weak now, stunned by these two defeats. If that dog of a Hun is right, the road lies open from Antioch all the way to Chalcedon."
"We have been on the shore of the Propontis before!" Khadames' voice was almost shrill. "It gained us nothing. Constantinople is invincible. We would waste another ten thousand lives trying to break her walls. Yes, even with this fleet of Mohammed's! The Western Empire will come to Heraclius' aid and we will have to fight two empires on their own ground."
"If Mohammed accepts my help," Shahr-Baraz said, grinning, "then there will be two empires to match against these Romans. You know the power I can command now. It would be enough to break even Constantinople!"
The old general cursed then, violently and for a long time. His face turned beet red under the thick, graying beard.
"You are a fool," Khadames said at last, when he had mastered himself enough to speak intelligibly. "I have seen this power you dote on. You do not control him. That is a charade! This strength will control you, if you use it. You have not seen the pits under Damawand, or the forges and furnaces that labor there, unceasing."
"I am King of Kings," the Boar snorted, standing up from the wall. "I rule Persia now. You forget yourself, Khadames. Even the power of Damawand bows to me."
"Does it?" Khadames coughed, feeling a little faint. "You forget that I have seen the true master there, though it almost destroyed my mind. The will of a king is insignificant."
"Old woman." Shahr-Baraz snorted, sounding like his namesake, rooting in the forest. "Well, then, since you are overwrought, I will say this-if the Arabs accept my offer, we will make war on Rome. If they do not, we will go home and I will see just what occurs in this mountain valley of yours."
Khadames nodded weakly, heart thudding violently in his chest and vision blurring.
– |"Zoe, listen to me." Mohammed maintained his composure, even when the Palmyrene woman's tirade reached particularly violent levels. She stopped, breathing heavily, and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Do you just want revenge? Nothing more, just to destroy your enemy?"
Odenathus, Shadin and Khalid had been watching in interest as the Quraysh and the Queen went back and forth. An hour or more had passed. Neither side had budged. Mohammed wanted to discuss the Persian offer, Zoe did not.
"If that is all that you want, then we will reject this offer. Indeed, we should try and capture Shahr-Baraz and his men and hold them for ransom, at least. But if you want anything more than to destroy the nations who brought down Palmyra, then we will have to consider this."
"He," Zoe jabbed a finger at the window, "set that monster upon the city. This noble Boar of yours fed my family, my people, my home into the furnace. It does not matter that he left-if he had not been there, this creature would have been elsewhere too. You urged me to strike against Rome first, and I agreed, for we thought Persia would be mired in civil war for a decade or more. We were wrong! Well, now chance comes around again, driven by the Fates. Let us seize this moment and strike a double blow!"
"Do you only want revenge?" Mohammed, at last, raised his voice a little. "Does your city mean nothing to you?"
"It means everything!" Zoe glowered at the Quraysh. "But it is dead and buried in the sand."
Mohammed shook his head, pointing at the harbor with his chin. "I saw the ships come in, just as you did. Palmyra was a mighty trading empire, not just a single city in the desert. Thousands of her citizens are still alive, scattered and disheartened. They are not dead. The city is not dead. It can rise again, built by Palmyrene hands, repaired by Palmyrene wealth. But it can only do that if there is peace."
Zoe was silent, her fists on the tabletop. She looked over her shoulder at Odenathus. "Cousin, what do you think?"
"I think," he said, his long, tanned face grave, "the city can live again, but it will be a mighty undertaking. We are rich, true, and many of our people still live, but our city was a fragile thing, balanced at the edge of the desert. It had been carefully cultivated over hundreds of years, built up stone by stone. All of that has been destroyed. Perhaps it cannot be regained. Perhaps we should abandon that dream of a new home."
"Is revenge enough?" Mohammed's voice was soft, making Zoe turn back to him. "Would you rather have victory? A victory where Palmyra is once again the queen of cities, mighty and cultured? If that is what you want, then revenge will not suffice."
"I want," Zoe said, grinding her fist into the table, "my aunt back, my mother back, all the dead haunting me back. But I will not get that, will I? No, there is only this war and this struggle. What do you intend, Lord Mohammed? Shall we make peace with this Persian? Shall we ally ourselves with him to defeat Rome? What then? What happens after Rome is cast down?"
Mohammed nodded, rubbing his nose. "That is the crux, Lady Zoe. What happens after victory?" He sighed and picked up a cup of water from the table. It was cool on his throat.
"Lord Mohammed?" Khalid ventured to break the silence. "I have not asked before, since there seemed to be no point… but can we, ourselves, take the Imperial capital?"
"No," Mohammed said, smoothing his beard with a scarred hand. "It is far too strong for us to take, even with this fleet and the army we have gathered."
Odenathus looked around, surprised, then coughed.
"Yes?" Mohammed was smiling.
"Then what did you intend?" Odenathus was nonplussed.
"I hoped," Mohammed replied, "to draw Heraclius into a field battle outside the city. With a fleet to blockade the ports, he would have to come out to drive us off so food could come into the city. I knew we could not possibly field and ship an army large enough to capture the Imperial capital, but we could lure the Emperor out to crush us."
Khalid laughed and slapped his thigh in delight. "Like baiting a leopard out of its den!"
"Yes, just so. Then, in open battle, I could kill this faithless emperor and have done."
Zoe raised an eyebrow, summoning a ghost of a smile on her weary face. "That was enough for you, then, just the death of one man? This smacks of revenge, Lord Mohammed."
"It does." Mohammed smiled back. "It does. It is romantic, too, one man against one man. The kind of thing that would appeal to any warrior of the tribes. Great honor could be had that way, for the daring."
Zoe stepped to Mohammed's side and put her hand on his weathered old face.
"You didn't think anyone would follow such a reckless romantic, did you? You've been surprised all along that an army came to you, and a fleet, and victory after victory."
"Yes, I was surprised." He took her hand and held it in his, searching her face. "But I should not have been, for the voice from the clear air guides me and it has the power to overcome all obstacles."
Zoe blushed at the softness of his voice and drew back her hand.
"What will you do now?" Odenathus pulled a chair out from the table and sat. "What comes after victory?"
"Peace, I hope." Mohammed stepped away from Zoe, smiling gently. "I think we must take this Persian offer, if for only one thing." The Quraysh glanced at Khalid, who nodded in agreement.
"For time," Zoe growled, pacing across the room to the window. "We cannot fight both Persia and Rome. Did you see his face when he spoke of standing on the shore of Chalcedon?"
Mohammed nodded. "I did. It galls him like a cancer. For all his valor and cunning, he could not defeat those walls. It is a lure for him, too. You saw the expression on his companion's face, I imagine." The Quraysh laughed softly. "The Boar could not live in peace. He is a man of war, of violent action; it is a drug to him. This Khadames sees the truth, but I wonder if the Boar kens his own nature."
Mohammed looked around the room and saw, in the faces of his companions, decision. "Very well. Khalid, send a runner to Lord Shahr-Baraz. We shall sit and eat and strike a bargain with this fellow, something suitable to both parties."
"Suitable?" Zoe snorted in laughter. "You've a merchant's tongue!"
Mohammed did not smile. A distant look passed over his face, reflecting loss. "I suppose," he said, "but a wise man once told me that there is no finer path in life than to weigh fairly and in full measure in all your dealings, no matter how small or how great. So does the merciful and beneficent Lord weigh the lives of men."
– |A sharp wind gusted out of the southeast, snapping the banners of the Sahaba on the masts of the harbor towers. Mohammed stood on the docks, a troop of men in full armor behind him. A Palmyrene coaster was loading from the main quay. Persian soldiers filed aboard while their horses, eyes covered, were being hoisted into the hold of the ship. Luckily, the Romans had equipped the port with big, double-winch cranes. The Quraysh watched the commotion with an experienced eye, finding a simple joy in the practiced motions of the harbor crew. The Persians were very nervous, going aboard ship with their horses. Mohammed supposed that it was quite new to them. Persia was not renowned as a maritime power.
"Lord Mohammed?" Shahr-Baraz approached, accompanied by a pair of horses and grooms. "My thanks for lending me the ship. It will cut days off our journey to the port at Seleucia Peria and then Antioch."
"You seemed a man in haste," Mohammed replied evenly. "Allies should help each other. It is my pleasure to speed you on your way."
The Boar laughed at the gibe, wiping a tear from his eye. "Well said. You are a rare man, Mohammed, a king without a crown or throne. We shall see each other again, I expect, before the city of the enemy."
"Yes." Mohammed nodded at the other quays and wharfs, where thousands of men were in motion, beginning the long process of loading the army of the Sahaba onto the Imperial fleet and the merchantmen the Palmyrenes had summoned. It was a huge effort, for the soldiers had stripped the warehouses and Legion armories of everything they might need. Long lines of wagons and mules crowded the roads into the city as well, hauling food and other supplies and fodder in from the countryside. Detachments of Arab troops placed in garrison throughout the highlands were marching in, too. Mohammed had resolved to sortie forth with every man he could put under arms. "You will have to march swiftly to join us in time. It is a long and weary road from Antioch to Constantinople. If the good god smiles upon us, we will hold the crossing for you."
Shahr-Baraz grinned, running a thick-mailed hand across the heavy breastplate on his chest. "That will be a sight! It has been a long time since a Persian army crossed the Propontis. I have dreamed of such a day."
"I know," Mohammed said in a wry voice. "Do not tarry."
"We will not!" The Boar nodded fiercely. "Here, brother king, I've a gift for you."
Shahr-Baraz motioned and the grooms led two horses to the King's side. Each was alike as to be a twin: glossy black with long fetlocks and wild manes. There were no markings on them save the whites of their eyes. Even the hooves were coal dark.
"These fellows are from the stable of the Shahanshah, bred to the wind and foaled from the storm. They are my gift to you, to seal our bargain. There are suits of armor, too, for I would not lose my new friend to an errant blow, and blades-Indian steel-finer than any seen in Roman lands! Please, take them; they are yours."
Mohammed raised an eyebrow, hand smoothing his beard. He walked around the horses but he did not touch them. They were powerful creatures, very tall, and they watched him with liquid, intelligent eyes. They looked strong, strong enough to run a day and a night. Strong enough to carry a man in full armor and not tire.
"They are Bactrians," Mohammed said, smiling in delight. "They are very fine."
He ducked down, then stood again. "Ungelded yet. A rich gift, Lord Baraz."
"Will you take them?" The Persian king rubbed his hand across the shoulder of one of the chargers. The horse blew at him and nosed his armored shoulder, looking for an apple or a biscuit.
"No." Mohammed shook his head sadly. "They are a king's gift and I am not a king. Your generosity, sir, does you proud. But I will not take them and I do not mean offense by this. I have a horse, a sword, armor, a helm. I carry them in the name of my city, and I will not dishonor my home by bearing another's gear."
Shahr-Baraz nodded, but Mohammed could see the man was disappointed. The merchant in the Quraysh yearned to take the horses and send them south to stud the horse herds of Mekkah. Such fine animals were very rare. At the same time, he was certain that he should accept no gift, however small, from the Boar.
"Well," said Shahr-Baraz, "I will see you again, not-king, and our enemies will know despair!"
With that, the Boar turned and strode up the gangway into the ship, his men hurrying after. Mohammed watched him go. Then, when the ship had cast off its mooring lines and the longboats were towing it out to sea, he turned away and walked back to the praetorium. Unaccountably, his heart was heavy and he wondered if he had done the right thing.
– |The wind died at sundown, leaving a limpid, warm night. Mohammed was walking on the terrace of the praetorium, letting darkness wash over him, smelling the sweet scent of hyacinths and whiteflower vine. A trellis covered most of the veranda, supporting a riot of flowers. It was peaceful there, far from the eating hall and the barracks. He stopped, looking out at the nighted city, seeing the pale yellow glow of lamps shining from many windows.
"Lord Mohammed?"
The Quraysh turned, surprised to find anyone on the terrace. A slim figure was seated on a bench, well in shadow. "I am sorry, Zoe, I did not mean to intrude."
"It's nothing," she said. "I'm just hiding."
Mohammed sat down. "Why are you hiding? Do you want to keep hiding by yourself, or can I join you?"
Zoe laughed and the sound was blessedly free of her habitual brittleness. Mohammed wondered, sitting in the warm darkness, if she even visited her aunt's catafalque anymore. Since they had returned from the sea, the girl seemed almost herself. Mohammed did not assume the vitriolic, insanely angry woman he had first met was the true Zoe. "Do you know why I am Queen?"
Mohammed shook his head no.
"I will tell you." Zoe smoothed back her bangs, which had grown overlong and were constantly getting in her face. "My aunt Zenobia was the eldest child of the old king, Hairan. He doted upon her and, when time came to declare an heir, he chose her over his younger son, Vorodes. My mother, Antonia, was the middle child. Time passed, as it does, and Zenobia became queen of the city. Despite tremendous pressure, she did not marry. Always, she would say to the city fathers that she would marry soon, or next year."
Zoe sighed, and Mohammed heard an echo of despair. "Mama Antonia bore me and tended me, but Auntie Z was always there. When I raced in the city games, she was waiting at the finish line, a crown of laurels in her hands, just for me. When the witch-finders said I had this talent, she brought me the finest tutors and teachers. When the call came from the Empire to fight against Persia, Auntie clasped the winged eye on my cloak. She said I was her daughter, even if Antonia had done the hard work."
There was a rustling sound and Zoe unfolded her hands, revealing a golden brooch. In the soft darkness, the metal gleamed with a pale inner light. Mohammed touched the ornament gently, tracing a rimmed eye, double wings and a clasp pin.
"When we set out, she sent an escort of archers with us and bade me hurry home. Later, Mama Antonia sent me a letter-Auntie had issued a will, saying that I was her heir. Vorodes signed too, for he had no desire to be king. He liked hunting and playing too much."
Mohammed folded the girl's hands over the brooch again, shutting out the gleam of light.
"And now?" His voice was soft, befitting her gentle, quiet tone.
"Now I am Queen." Zoe put her hands over her face. "Odenathus is such a… man sometimes. He has been busy, writing letters, sending messengers, buying drinks for strangers. He is gathering all of our people, slowly, in fits and starts, but steadily in his Odenathuslike way. There must be thousands of us in the city now. They all want me to be Queen… I mean, to rule them. To judge their disputes, to issue writs and edicts… I don't know how to do those things."
"I know what you mean." Mohammed's voice was filled with laughter. "Khalid and Odenathus spend too much time together, I think. They are always plotting. Did you know Khalid has a man who writes down everything I say? He says it will be important someday. I wonder…"
Zoe nodded, leaning back against the carved wall. Marching soldiers flanked her, passing mutely in the stone. "You are a king, despite what you told that Persian braggart. You rule armies and cities, even nations. You see how Prince Zamanes is-he should be a king himself, yet he defers to you in all things. Ha!" She laughed, a liquid sound. "You are a king of kings."
Mohammed snorted, folding his arms over his chest. "Foolishness. Hubris."
Zoe turned, bringing her legs up before her and wrapping arms around her knees. She looked at him in the darkness, barely able to pick out the noble nose or the short, neatly trimmed beard. "You might think him foolish, but this is real. You are a king and make a king's decisions. Do you know why Khalid has that man writing down what you say?"
"So his own place in the histories will be assured, I warrant!" Mohammed sounded vexed.
"No," Zoe said, poking him in the side with a finger. "He calls it the Shari'a-the law-and the lives of your men, of all the tribes and cities who follow you, are guided thereby. Like the Romans, he believes every man should know the law, so it might direct his life."
"My words? The law? Oh, that is a sure course for confusion!"
"Is it?" Zoe sounded pensive. "Would the Lord of the World, who speaks from the clear air, guide you astray? Shouldn't men, exposed to the revealed desire of the Creator, follow his precepts?"
Hot words on Mohammed's lips were quenched and he put a hand to his chin, thinking. "If they are the words of the Great and the Beneficent One, then yes, man should abide by those strictures, keeping to a straight path. But what if the words this scribe takes down are only my words? Then I may speak from my human heart and mind, which may be confusing or misleading. I may be wrong in what I say."
"Are you?" Zoe's hand slipped over his. "I think this power has changed you. I can hear the echo of a mighty voice, even when Mohammed the man is speaking."
Mohammed shook his head, his hand curling into hers. "No. I am not an infallible deity. I am little more than a mirror to reflect the glory of god."
"Hmm." Zoe's nose twitched. "Perhaps."
Then they sat in the quiet darkness for a long time, undisturbed.
– |The wind shifted again, coming out of the south, hot with the smell of the desert. Almost a month of backbreaking labor had been completed and the army of the Sahaba was, at last, boarding the fleet. Zoe stood on one of the smaller quays in the merchant harbor of Caesarea. A fat-bellied merchantman was tied up, allowing the dockhands to run out a double-wide loading ramp. The Palmyrene ship was painted a sea green with yellow eyes. Zoe had chosen the coaster for its capacious hold. Even as she watched from the shade of a papyrus parasol, fifty men were carefully rolling the catafalque of Zenobia onto the deck of the ship.
The funeral car had sat for weeks in a Palmyrene warehouse, watched over by the Sahaba. Craftsmen labored over every detail with care, expanding the simple ornamentation added while they had waited in Petra. Plates of gold and silver covered the sides and the canopy was colored with paints made from crushed jewels. Even the coffin within had been replaced with a thin-walled alabaster sarcophagus. Zoe had added her own touches, making the wheels run light and smooth. Khalid donated a pair of glossy black stallions to draw the catafalque.
It was beautiful and precious and Zoe bit hard on her thumb, watching the dockhands grunt and strain to roll the heavy wagon, inch by inch, up the ramp. As the catafalque moved, slaves walking alongside slid bracing logs behind the wheels so that it could not break free of the ropes and crash back to the dock. On the deck, men waited with hooks that would let the cranes lift it up and lower it into the hold. Creaking, the wheels topped the ramp and rolled onto the deck. A dozen men slowed the wagon, bringing it to rest.
"Oh, this is too much to watch!" Zoe turned away, trying to push thoughts of disaster out of her mind. She walked along the quay, armor jingling, sword rustling at her side. Despite a general improvement in her humor, she had not set aside the silvered helm or the long knives slung at her waist. The only touch of vanity she allowed herself was freshly trimmed hair and regular baths. The air of the port resounded with the creak and groan of wood and ropes and men loading the last of the equipment and supplies.
She passed a sleek galley, newly flagged with the green banner of Lord Mohammed. The newly repaired Jibril was a wicked-looking thing, all smooth lines and curving rails. A hooked prow surmounted its foredeck. A line of Arabic script ran along the outboard above the oars: There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.
Zoe smiled, for she knew this to be true.
Walking, her boot touched something and she heard it skitter away, making a jingling sound. Puzzled, she stopped and searched the ground. After a moment she found a single earring caught in a crevice between two heavy flagstones. She squatted, one hand on her knee, and carefully worked it loose.
A single black Gerrhaenid pearl, set in gold, gleamed between her fingers. She rose and looked around. There was no one else in sight who might have dropped such a bauble. Pursing her lips in annoyance, Zoe turned it over in her hand, wondering what to do. The dark pearls of the Sinus Persicus were extremely valuable, and the setting and workmanship of this one were exceptional. Zoe had not gone unchanged by her time in the court of Zenobia; she had gained a fine awareness of valuable things.
A horn sounded in the distance, a mournful, wailing sound. It was the signal for the first ships to leave the harbor. She needed to be aboard. Shaking her head at the folly of some women, she put the earring in her right ear, just to keep it safe until she found it a good home. Then she hurried away, her boots jingling on the quay.
A little distance away, on the rear deck of the Jibril, Khalid al'Walid raised his sun hat with a thin finger and watched the Queen of Palmyra depart. He smiled, teeth white in the tanned darkness of his face.
"Well," he said to Patik, who was sitting next to him on the deck, carefully oiling a suit of lamellar armor with a rag and an unghent from a small clay bottle, "she has some appreciation of beauty."
The Persian looked up, his long face calm under his short, curly beard. When Khalid had first made his acquaintance, the mercenary had been clean-shaven, but now he was letting it grow out. It promised to be mighty. "You should not play this game. Leave this to the powerful."
As always, Khalid was impressed by the rich tones and cultured voice hiding behind that stoic, even mulish face. "Please, Patik, how will I grow great if I do not emulate those who are?"
The Persian did not respond, turning back to his careful work. Al'Walid wondered if he should have taken the Persian's gifts. Too late now! Setting aside these qualms, Khalid leaned back, letting the hat slide down over his face. The weather promised an easy journey to Constantinople and he intended to make the most of it. There would be little rest once they were at grips with the Romans.