The Dark Lord (30 page)

"Our goal is this," the Boar said, voice settling into a basso rumble. "To strike down upon Roman Egypt like a storm, overpower her defenses and seize the great port of Alexandria. We do not aim to capture the whole of the country, not yet, but we
must
secure the port of Pelusium—the first barrier we will encounter—and then Alexandria. With both harbors under our control, we choke off the flow of grain to Rome." Shahr-Baraz smiled, showing fine white teeth amid the thicket of his beard.

Khalid nodded absently, turning his head a little. Where was—a cold shock made him flinch. Behind the king, hidden in shadow, surrounded by four more of the Shanzdah, stood a slim, dark figure.

Prince... Rustam.
Khalid's heart hammered, then slowed. He licked his lips.
My... ally.

The prince was watching the King of Kings as well, standing at ease, hands clasped behind his back. Khalid's eyelid twitched. A gleam passed across the prince, making his skin shimmer and twist, as if scales caught the light of a candle. Al'Walid forced himself to remain upright, though a terrible, pressing desire to kneel came over him. He swayed and Shadin—his gruff face pinched in disapproval—caught his arm and held him upright. Khalid wrenched his attention back to Shahr-Baraz.

"The fleet," Shahr-Baraz continued, "under the command of the noble Odenathus, will parallel our course. I expect—no, I
know
—the Roman fleet has regrouped. They will come against us as soon as we show our intent. Odenathus, you will have to fight, and perhaps you will have to flee."

The Palmyrene was surprised by the shahanshah's sober tone and he shook his head. "My lord, we will not abandon you!"

"You will," Shahr-Baraz said, raising a hand to forestall further protest. "The fleet is our only advantage; it
must
be preserved. Because of this, the army will march on land with all supplies necessary to cross the desert to Pelusium. Once we are within the Nile delta, we will forage for what we need. But while we engage the Romans ashore, the fleet must keep out of danger."

"Very well." Odenathus nodded dubiously.

"Good!" Shahr-Baraz beamed at the assembly, tugging at the ends of his mustaches. "Now, the rest of you... the lands between here and Pelusium are harsh, with little water, no feed, no browse for our horses. Therefore we must march swiftly, taking advantage of the fine Roman road along the coast. We must reach and take Pelusium before we starve." The King of Kings smiled broadly.

Khalid frowned at the various commanders around him.
These fat Persians make such a bold march? I think not... my Sahaba have been tempered on the An'Nefud, the anvil of the lord! The Huns are canny men and used to long days in the saddle with few rations—they will pass the test. Even the men of the Decapolis are hardy and used to the sun... but these
diquans
from their fat, well-watered land?
He stifled a derisive laugh.

"You
will
be ready in three weeks and your men
will
keep up. If they do not, they will be left behind, without wine or grain." Shahr-Baraz drew a long knife from his belt. He considered his profile in the mirror-bright blade. "A man might live a day without water, perhaps two, under this sun. His death will be slow and agonizing as his skin burns black and ants consume his eyes. This pleases me—I would not want to sully my steel with the blood of a fool or a coward!"

Off to Khalid's left, a tall, broad-shouldered Persian stepped out of the crowd. "Great king," the man declared, sweeping the assembly with a fierce gaze. "We will reach Pelusium at your side and we will crush the Romans as your lightning arm! Nothing will stop us!"

"Well spoken, Lord Piruz." Shahr-Baraz smiled at the man. Khalid looked closer, disturbed by the gaunt features of the Persian lord. There was a brittle spark in the noble's eyes and the Arab found his attention drawn to a flash of black silk at the man's throat.
Ah, one of Purandokht's suitors... then he is mad, and reckless for honor too.

"Consider this," Shahr-Baraz said, stepping away from the throne. His voice took on a considered tone, as if he spoke to children in the temple. "The army of Persia can usually travel ten to fifteen miles in a day. Pressed, my old army of Syria—veterans every one—did twenty. A Roman legion—men accounted throughout the world for their stamina and speed of march—account twenty-five miles a day excellent progress. Between Gazzah, the last town of note before the desert, and Pelusium are no less than one hundred and twenty miles of sand and barren stone. There are no wells, no
qanats
, no oases. Once we reach the edge of the delta, we must fight our way through the Roman army to the arm of the Nile. Our wagons and pack camels can carry enough food, water and feed for our strength for seven, perhaps eight days."

Khalid whistled, impressed. That was an enormous amount of baggage. The army encamped at Caesarea numbered sixty or seventy thousand men.
How many skins of water will a man drink, unused to this sun? Too many.
Al'Walid had seen men, overcome by the heat, drink so much from a well their stomachs burst. He hid a grin.
Soon they will all look like the lovesick Piruz,
he thought, scratching his short-cropped beard.

"Great king?" Khalid turned to the voice, unable to help himself. Zoë stirred, stretching, and smiled in a languid way at Shahr-Baraz. "Many of these men—the princes of the Decapolis, the Sahaba, even the T'u-chüeh—are used to swift movement over poor ground. But your Persians... how will they make twenty miles a day? They have so much baggage, so many servants..."

The Persian
diquans
bristled at the Queen's tone, and she smiled at them like a cat, eyes half-closed. Khalid felt a stab of anger, then quelled his temper.
She taunts us, with her body, with her place of favor... does she kneel for the King of Kings, or
—Khalid snuck a glance sideways at the dark corner where prince Rustam stood—
for him?

"We do not need servants," Lord Piruz barked, one lean hand sliding to the hilt of his sword.

"Really?" Zoë cocked her head to one side, considering the northern prince. "Who will bathe you, Lord of Balkh? Who will tend your wounds, or repair your boots after the sand wears away the stitching?" She smiled lazily, the pink tip of her tongue appearing for an instant between white teeth. "Who will cook your food and keep your tent warm at night? Your squire?"

Piruz snarled and took a step forward. The rasp of metal on metal was very loud as his sword slipped from the sheath.

"Peace, Lord Piruz. Peace." Shahr-Baraz's hand was on the prince's wrist and the sword clicked back into the scabbard. "Do not taunt brave men, Queen Zoë. They are unused to this land."

Zoë bowed her head gracefully, inclining her body towards the King of Kings in obeisance. Khalid bit back a hiss as her gown slipped aside, exposing the smooth curve of her breasts and her flat stomach. He felt a shock in his gut and forced himself to look away. When he did, he saw Prince Rustam smiling from the shadows.

"You are both right," Shahr-Baraz rumbled, clasping both hands behind his back. "Our army cannot cross the desert in time enough if we are burdened by camp followers, servants, maids and pleasure women. Yet—we cannot fight, we cannot campaign—without their skills, their goods, their labor. But all these things are known to me. Prince Odenathus and his fleet supply our answer."

The Palmyrene prince's eyebrow rose, then a quick smile flashed across his lean face. He nodded in appreciation.

"Our soldiers will march," the King of Kings said, pacing back to the throne. "Our servants will ride—in the fleet—which, by happy circumstance, escorts a large number of shallow-draft boats that can easily land on a sandy beach. And between here and Pelusium, my friends, there is no lack of beach and sand!"

Khalid laughed with the Boar, grasping the careful planning and foresight required to resolve such a thorny problem. The other lords laughed too, but they only laughed because their master did. Khalid felt a weight ease from his shoulders and he realized he had been worrying at the same problem in the back of his mind.
And who,
he chided himself,
is the master general here? Who has campaigned for thirty years or more, ever victorious? Not I! Not yet.

"Now, noble lords," Shahr-Baraz said, voice booming again, "to your commands! You all have a great deal of work to do. Do not disappoint me."

Khalid waited, watching the other lords and captains flood out of the tent. He hoped to have a word with the King of Kings, but Shahr-Baraz had already slipped out. Prince Rustam and the Shanzdah were also gone, and the tent felt warmer, more open, for their departure. Only Zoë remained and the young Arab stiffened as she approached.

"Lord al'Walid. Are you well?"

"Yes," Khalid said, his skin prickling with unexpected heat. The Queen touched his sword hand and her fingertips seemed hot. "Why do you ask?"

"You have such a look on your face... are you angry with me?"

"No," he managed to say, though he
did
feel a spark of fury gutter in his stomach.
I should rule the Sahaba and the Decapolis alike!
He was surprised at himself. He was angry with her. Everything he had won, she was taking away. "I... you've changed, Lady Zoë. What has happened to you?"

"Me?" Zoë bit her lower lip, staring up at him with concern. Her eyes were very, very blue. Khalid shook his head, suppressing the urge to brush something—gnats?—from his face. She was still touching his hand and her warm fingers slid over his. "Have I? Perhaps."

Zoë paused, looking away, into some abyss of memory. "Yes. You are right. I was very angry when we first met... but the Teacher showed how to leave that behind." She met his eyes again, and such genuine warmth and good humor was shining there Khalid smiled back reflexively, though a bitter, oily feeling swirled in his stomach.

She's stealing my kingdom!
part of his mind growled.
I could kill her... reach out and crush her throat...

"It seems strange," she said, pressing closer. "I grieved for my city, for my aunt. I don't anymore. I know... the lord Mohammed showed me things... I know Palmyra will live again. And Zenobia..." The Queen laughed softly, nails digging into Khalid's hand. "I feel her close to me, every day."

Khalid blinked, eyes tearing, and he stepped back. His feet seemed to drag through mud or deep, heavy sand. Her fingers slipped softly from his wrist. "My lady... I need to see... to my troops."

"You are a wise commander, Lord al'Walid. The King of Kings is lucky to have you as a friend, as an ally."

"Yes." Khalid felt speech return and his mind starting to work again. He thought of Shahr-Baraz and the plan for the campaign. There was so much to do... he would need to meet with Jalal, Shadin and Uri immediately.
We must see to our own supplies,
he thought, narrowing his eyes.
These Persians will run out... and they will be begging for charity in the wasteland.
"Good day, my lady."

"Good day, Khalid," Zoë said, hands clasped at her waist. "Oh, the lord will have need you later—after dinnertime. There are some private matters to be discussed."

"Very well." Khalid nodded.

"He will send for you when he needs you." Zoë said, turning away. Again, he was struck by the brilliance of her eyes as she looked back over her shoulder. She drew a cloak over smooth brown shoulders, then padded away across the carpets. He noticed she was barefoot and frowned, unaccountably uneasy. Servants were entering, bringing long tables and benches. Khalid watched the Palmyrene girl until she disappeared through one of the curtains.

Then he shook his head, brushing away the gnats tickling his face, and strode out.

The King of Kings will summon me? When he needs me... am I his servant? I am a king!

"You will come with me."

Khalid looked up in irritation. One of the Shanzdah filled the door of his tent. The cowled shape was black against the night sky, barely illuminated by lanterns hanging from the tent pole. Khalid sat cross-legged, the sword of night at his right hand. Jalal, Shadin, Uri ben-Sarid and the big Persian mercenary Patik were also in the tent, squatting or sitting around a confusion of parchments, papyrus scrolls and counting boards. Shadin's mouth closed with a snap. The burly swordsman had been accounting the cavalrymen in his
qalb
, their arms, armor, mounts and provisions.

"Will I?" Khalid put down a waxed tablet. He was already tired, though the night was still young. Shahr-Baraz tasked them vigorously with this march on Egypt. "Who asks for my presence?"

"That one," the Shanzdah continued, its voice a cold hiss, pointing at Patik, "will also come."

Khalid settled his shoulders, glaring up at the shape. The messenger's eyes could not be seen in the deep recesses of the iron helmet. Patik rose and shrugged on his cloak. The desert night was cold, even with the day wind died down to a mild breeze. Without a word, the Persian stepped past the armored shape of the Shanzdah and into the night.

"Curse this... we've work to do..." Khalid grumbled, but the creature was not going to leave. He too rose, slinging the sword of night over his shoulder on its leather baldric and ivory-and-cloth sheath. Already in a poor temper, the al'Walid frowned at his captains. None of the three men looked pleased. "I will be back as soon as I can."

"Oh, surely," Uri said, a thread of mocking laughter in his voice. Khalid's eyes glinted in response, but he said nothing, controlling his anger. The ben-Sarid chafed under his authority. The friction was intermittent, but it grew with each day.

Not now,
Khalid promised himself,
but soon. The ben-Sarid are eager for glory—they will have their fill, once we are at grips with the Romans...

Khalid's disquiet deepened as the swift, dark shape of the messenger passed among the tents. Patik, with his long legs, kept pace easily, but Khalid was forced to hurry. They did not turn in the direction of the great king's tent, but rather to the east. After a little time they reached the watch fires at the edge of the camp. The Persians and their allies had not bothered to build a palisade or ditch, relying instead on regularly spaced bonfires, tended by a mixture of sentries. There were other lookouts too, hiding in the darkness or loitering on the nearby sand hills. The land around Caesarea was quiet, almost devoid of settlements. There were few men able to scratch a living out of the sandy soil and barren coast. Any approaching enemy would be visible miles away.