The Storm of Heaven (108 page)

You are finished!
Mohammed thought.
I will crush the last breath...

Distantly, his physicality heard the words "Now! He's done it!"

Then a blinding crack of pain burst behind his eyes and Mohammed, Lord of the Quraysh, Master of the Sahaba, crumpled to the ground, blood seeping from a fierce purplish bruise behind his left ear. As he fell, there was a curious sensation of distance between his body and his mind. His spirit turned, looking down from a great height, and saw his body sprawled on the grass, the powerful figure of the man Patik looming over his body. Khalid was crouched over Mohammed, hands upon his face.

An arrow?
Mohammed was confused. He reached out for his body, seeking to rise and stand and see the desolation of his enemies. There was nothing there. Darkness suddenly flooded from the ground, covering the earth. Mohammed cried out, reaching into the void.

O Lord of the World, where are you? Have you...

Then oblivion.

Khalid rolled back the white-bearded man's eyelid. Rain drummed down out of a black sky, coupled with gusts of wind blowing heavy drops at right angles to the ground. The young man grinned, his teeth white in the darkness.

"I could not have planned it better myself!" He stood, back to the wind, and gestured to Patik. His guardsmen rose, making a solid circle of bodies around them. "Quickly, now, before the Sahaba notice."

The Persian nodded, pulling a length of gleaming silk from his belt. Patik unfolded the cloth, then unfolded it again and then again. With each iteration, the size doubled until it easily covered the body lying sprawled on the ground. Deftly, Patik laid the silk on the ground, then rolled Mohammed's body onto the cloth.

"Hurry!" Khalid hissed, digging into a bag that he carried at his belt. "Faster!"

The stoic Persian ignored the younger man's command, making sure he tucked the Arab's hands and feet gently onto the rectangle. Once the body was suitably arranged, he folded half of the cloth over, completely covering Mohammed from head to toe. Then, working with precise, ordered motions, Patik folded the long length of silk over, then over again. In an instant, the cloth was once again a small square in his hand. This he put into the pouch at his belt. He was sweating heavily, though the driving rain washed the salt from his face and arms.

Khalid knelt on the muddy grass, his hands busy with a length of dark red twine coiled around a wooden spool. With one hand he drove the spool into the soft ground near where Mohammed's head had been. With the twine fixed, he spun off a long length of the cord and swiftly arranged the twine on the ground in the outline of a man. Bending close over the muddy grass, he blinked rain out of his eyes and twitched sections of the twine into a more accurate shape.

Patik stood over him, shielding Khalid from the worst of the rain and hail sputtering out of the dark clouds. Visibility across the plain was poor, now reduced to only a few hundred feet. Khalid rose up, still on his knees, and fumbled a stoppered steel bottle from his belt. Turning his head away and gritting his teeth, the young man sprinkled black dust on the muddy ground within the shape described by the twine.

Vapor boiled up out of the ground, writhing like a forest of snakes. An ominous groaning sound issued from the earth and Khalid backed away, making a sign of warning. The mud heaved, cracking open, fumes and smoke issuing forth. The young Arab made a horrible face at the foul odor. Then the clots of mud and broken earth and rainwater began to slide gelatinously together. Within the space of one or two grains, the mud and grass had congealed into the shape of a man. A tall man, broad shouldered, with a long white beard lying across his chest.

Tendrils of grass crawled across the face, slithering into eyes, nose and ears. Rain sluiced across the naked body, washing away the mud and dirt. Fumes and smoke settled on the cold dead flesh, seeping into the pores and crevices of the body. Blood congealed out of the air, marking a wound on the muscular chest.

Khalid stood, looking down, silhouetted against the storm-wracked sky. His face was impassive, shadowed against the darkness. "So are the Makzhum revenged upon the Quraysh. Put a cloak on him, then lift him up." The young Arab thought that he could feel his father and his grandfather looking over his shoulder, pleased.

Patik and the others crowded around the body, fitting boots on its feet, a tunic, lifting the cold heavy arms to slide on a cloak. Khalid saw his horse had fled in the face of the storm. Casting about in the grass, he found Mohammed's sword and gingerly lifted the weapon by the hilt, sliding the blade into his own sheath. He walked somberly forward, head bent in thought or grief. His men hoisted the body on their shoulders and followed, their passage lit by the rumble and crack of lightning in the clouds and gusts of rain. The day grew cold.

Khalid saw some of the Sahaba approaching, moving cautiously forward through the rain.

"Oh, my friends," he called to them, raising his hand, face a mask of grief. "I have sad tidings for you."

The Sahaba, seeing Patik and the others carrying a body on a bier of spears, stopped dead in their tracks. Their eyes grew huge, seeing the pain on Khalid's face.

"Who has been struck down?" one of them cried out in alarm, pushing forward through his fellows.

"God has fixed the length of Mohammed's life," Khalid answered. "Today was the last day."

The man who had spoken staggered as if struck by a heavy blow. "Mohammed, our teacher, is dead?"

"No!" Khalid shouted, voice rising above the rain and growling thunder. More Sahaba approached through the rain, drawn by the commotion. "He is not dead. He has gone to god, to the power speaking from the clear air, which sets the moon in its course, which directs the tides."

Some of the Sahaba fell to their knees, weeping, clutching their spears. Khalid looked out over their faces and saw desolation entering every heart. He did not intend to say more, but a great voice suddenly issued from behind him.

"You men," Patik boomed, head raised into the driving rain. "If anyone here worships Mohammed, let those men know Mohammed is dead. But if anyone worships Allah, let him know Allah is alive and immortal forever." The Persian paused, noble gaze passing over the great host of men gathering around him. He met every eye fiercely, and there was no sound on the field of war save the drumming of rain on the ground. "Mohammed," he said, powerful baritone rolling out, "is only a messenger, and all those messengers who came before him have also died. Now that your teacher has fallen, would you turn away from his path? Whoever turns back will do no injury to Allah, but Allah will reward those who are steadfast and follow the righteous and straight way."

Then even the Persian fell silent, though his companions stared at him in surprise, for they had never heard so many words from him at one time. Khalid stared hard at the man, but Patik ignored him and slowly, with measured steps, the litter bearers turned to the north, towards their camp and the black-hulled ships. The Sahaba turned as well, their heads bent against the cold wind and rain blowing into their faces, and followed, all in silence, each man alone with his grief.

Jusuf tilted back his broad leather hat, letting water pooling around the brim spill off onto the flagstones of the Roman highway. He and his lancers were arrayed on either side of the road, spears and swords laid across their saddles, bows carefully stowed in their wooden cases. Ahead of them, scattered across the edge of the plain, were perhaps a thousand Khazars on foot, a thin sentry line to watch for the enemy. Jusuf did not think the enemy was coming, though. Not today, not in this weather.

Long lines of Western legionaries trudged past, heads bent, many carrying wounded comrades, the standards and banners of each cohort hanging limply against their gilded poles. Even the faces of the men were gray. Jusuf watched grimly as they marched past. This was a defeated army.

As he had feared, his
tumens
had taken too long—almost two hours—to wind their way out of the orchards and off the hill. By the time he had come up on the rear ranks of the Eighth Gallica, the sky shook with awesome thunder and the tumult of wind spirits in combat. In the face of that raging storm and dreadful lightning, the horses refused to advance. The Khazars bided their time in the shelter of the hill. Now the best they could do was provide a safe haven for the retreating Western troops.

"Lord Jusuf!" One of the men on picket duty jogged up the road, long hair plastered against his head by the rain. "A band of horsemen are approaching!"

"Stand ready!" Jusuf waved at his
tarkhans
, drawing their attention. A ripple ran down the lines of horsemen as men shifted shields around and stirred themselves, ready for action. The Khazar lord nudged his horse forward. A last bedraggled cohort of Romans splashed past, the men leaning against one another. At their rear, a grizzled-looking centurion was walking backwards, shield still at the ready, a
gladius
bare in his hand. Jusuf nodded to the man as he passed. The Western officer said nothing, his eyes focused on the rain.

The mare clattered up onto the road, tossing her head, and Jusuf reined in, waiting in the middle of the road. After a moment, shapes appeared out of the rain, horsemen in scaled mail and conical helms. Rain-soaked plumes lay against their shoulders. Jusuf saw that they bore red shields blazoned with rampant dragons.

"Ho!" he called through the steady drumbeat of rain. "Who is your commander?"

A tall man in their midst looked up, then wiped water from his eyes. Jusuf spurred his horse forward, seeing that it was the Frankish legate, Dagobert. "My lord! Are there more men coming?"

Dagobert shook his head, eyes desolate. Jusuf caught his reins, halting the man's horse. The Khazar bent close, eyes intent on the face of the Roman officer. "What happened?"

"We are beaten." Dagobert's voice was barely audible. He leaned heavily on his saddle. "These are all the Sarmatians that escaped... the Third Augusta is gone, the Tenth Fretensis shattered. Did any man leave that terrible field alive?"

Jusuf leaned back, seeing that the Frank's will was broken. He had seen this before, where a strong man tasted defeat for the first time. His mind would be filled with terrors and doubt. "Many men have left the field, hale, unwounded." The Khazar projected certainty and confidence in his voice. The Frank only looked away, long blond hair lying in streaks across his noble brow and strong chin. "Your army remains, my lord."

"But so many are dead..." Dagobert's voice died away. Jusuf turned his horse, clucking at the mare to walk. Together, the two men
clopp
ed up the road. In the mist around them, the Khazars, still alert, folded in behind the Sarmatians. The Khazar pickets loped in, long-tailed caps bouncing on their shoulders. They stopped to help the wounded and then faded into the gloom.

Torches guttered, hissing in the rain, throwing a fitful light on the walls of the Great Gate. A remnant of the Faithful Guard stood in the passage, one great iron-bound door already closed, the other pulled halfway shut. Their cloaks were stained and torn, heavy with clinging mud. Armor was twisted and bent, links missing, shields hacked and split. Most of the men leaned wearily against the stone walls, eyes bloodshot and heavy with fatigue.

Only one man showed any motion, a stocky, thick-built Greek pacing back and forth in front of the gate, just out of the rain. The moat running before the
prochtisma
sparkled with rain and hail pelting down out of the sky. The clouds overhead pressed close to the earth, heavy and dark, blotting out the sun. A gloom like twilight was upon the fields, even though Rufio guessed it was late afternoon.

He worried, staring out into the rain. He could barely make out the graveyards lining the highway. The long siege had destroyed all the trees within sight of the walls, but broken pillars still marked the fringe of the old burial places.

"My lord?" The
ekatontarch
in charge of the gate garrison approached. "We must close the gate. The army has entered..."

"Not all of them!" Rufio turned on the man, livid with anger. "There is still one more soldier out there."

The Greek officer did not back away, his face rigid. "My lord, we
must
close the gate."

Rufio's eyes glinted, fury mounting. But the man was right. Emotion was clouding his judgment. The captain of the Faithful felt a familiar chill. He had seen so many men die. They would just be two more...

"Captain! Look..." The Faithful were pointing out into the darkness. "It's the Walach."

Rufio turned and saw a hunched figure stumbling down the road, half bent under some burden. The Faithful came forth from the gate, weapons ready, exhausted but still wary and game for one more struggle. Rufio walked forward, black eyes flitting from side to side, watching for an ambush. In this weather, a thousand Persians might be just out of sight, hidden in the gloom. The figure came closer, and Rufio saw it was Vladimir carrying a limp body on his back.

"I have him," the Walach gasped as he stumbled up. "I have him."

Rufio put his hand on the boy's face. His cloak and tunic were sodden with rain and Dwyrin's flesh was cold to the touch. "Inside! Everyone inside! Prepare to close the gate!"

Men crowded around them, taking Vladimir's burden. Dwyrin was lofted on their hands, his head lolling back, and they carried him into the gate on a bed of stout shoulders and brawny arms. Rufio was the last to enter the tunnel, still watching the rain-swept darkness.

Then the gate ground closed with a deep
boom
and the fitful light on the road went out.

Helena, Empress of the West, stood at a window, her face lit by flickering red light. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her makeup reduced to smudged streaks. She seemed very tired. The Empress rocked gently from side to side, a young child curled against her shoulder. The little boy was drooling on her gown. Outside, under a night sky filled with smoke, fires were burning furiously in the ruins of the Subura district. The bitter smell of hot ash and cracked brick drifted in through the window. As she watched, a great tower of sparks roared up behind the firebreak dividing the Forum from the Subura tenements. Despite the massive brick wall blocking her view, Helena knew an apartment block had just collapsed in fiery ruin, tiled roof caving in, a jet of incandescent flames leaping up, roaring out the windows.