The Storm of Heaven (43 page)

"True," Gaius Julius allowed, shaking his head. "But the core of the matter is that you can follow a team over many races. There are standings—drivers move up and down; there's an ultimate goal, to win the season. It's not an individual contest, a single man on a single man, but something bigger. A whole team of drivers, handlers, grooms, horses, chariots... the people identify with the teams. Now, true, the senators and other idlers like to track individual gladiators and their schools, but there isn't as much there as at the races. Even the betting is more complex!"

"And so..."

Gaius Julius grinned, finally showing some of his hidden delight. "So, these funeral games will last thirty days. My intent is to field teams of gladiators in a tournament of champions. The best against the best, school pitted against school, with each contest of a different style and setting. It will be a great deal of work, but you and your staff can pull it off, I'm sure. Not simple killing, mind you, but each struggle with a goal and a purpose. In the end, there will be an individual champion and a winning team. The victors will go free."

"Huh." Ovinius did not seem convinced. "That might work..."

"Good. I will have a messenger bring you the initial plans tomorrow and you can begin drawing up a budget and setting your craftsmen to work on the sets."

Ovinius nodded, but he was still troubled. "Is that all?"

"No," Gaius Julius said, "there is one other matter. Even with this change in format, there needs to be a new element, something never before seen on the arena floor. Something to shake up the old rivalries between schools and trainers. Do you know what the people love?"

"Roasted duck, delivered hot right to their seats?"

Gaius Julius chuckled, waving a finger at the procurator.

"No, my dear Ovinius, they love the underdog. They love the fighter with no reputation, of ignoble birth and uncertain antecedents, who makes good by sheer will and determination. They love the man who exceeds the strictures of his birth, who triumphs over all obstacles and receives the crown of laurels no one,
no one
expected."

"Hah!" Ovinius laughed. "No one is unknown and unexpected in the games! Every school extols the virtues of its fighters. They spy on each other constantly. Who could survive in the arena without training? Where will this underdog come from and live more than one bout?"

Gaius Julius smiled coldly. "That, dear Ovinius, is where I need your help. I know of such a person, but this individual is not a gladiator. He's neither taken the oath nor enrolled in a school. This person is currently in Rome, but he is free... How may this parlous state be rectified? How will this prize be brought onto the sandy floor?"

"Well..." Ovinius scrunched up his face in thought. "Is he a citizen?"

"No, a barbarian, visiting from the provinces."

"Easy, then." the procurator smirked. "We bribe an urban prefect to charge him with one of the crimes punishable by service in the arena. Some men seize the poor fellow from a street at night and he gets put below until it's time to rise into the sun. A simple matter, requiring only the judicious application of gold."

"Excellent." Gaius Julius smiled. "You'll see to it, then, won't you?"

Ovinius blanched and a nervous finger tugged at the collar of his tunic. "Me?"

"You," Gaius Julius said, standing up. "Syphax is content, for the moment, but only while he receives your interest regularly from my purse. Find this malleable prefect and gather men to bag our dear barbarian. When you are ready, I will provide the locale and time to strike."

Ovinius swallowed and stood as well. "How... how will I get word to you?"

Gaius Julius smiled broadly. "Don't worry. When you are ready I will know."

The old Roman departed then, bending his head under the lintel and disappearing into the passageway. Ovinius wiped his forehead, his stomach churning. He peered out the door, but his visitor was already out of sight in the warren of tunnels.

"He's never been below, has he? But he knows the way out..."

A gleaming iron beak clove through the water. White foam boiled away, washing over eyes painted on the ship's prow. The sea was a summery blue green, rolling softly between the galley and the pale, dust-colored line of the shore. Three banks of oars dipped in unison, driving the ship forward. Its square sail, striped brown and cream, was furled. A flute called an easy rowing stroke, letting the sailors in the benches stretch their muscles without exhaustion.

It was a still, hot day with calm, easy water. The
trireme
plowed unhurriedly northwest along the Lycian coast. Another hundred warships followed in two columns. Most were two-decked
dromons
, though a brace of swift, single-banked galleys flanked the main body of the fleet. On the rear deck of the lead ship, the
Jibril
, Mohammed sat in the shade of a draped awning, looking out upon the quiet sea. The captain of the
trireme
, a Yemenite merchant, sat nearby. Zoë stood at the landward railing, face shaded by a straw sun hat.

"A placid sea," the captain said, dark face accented by a beard of small, tight ringlets.

"Yes," Mohammed said. "Nothing like the rough waters between your homeland and India. How do you feel about the fleet?"

"Good," the captain said, voice sharp and filled with pride. "The men have taken to the oars well, and my sailors have mastered this crude yardage and sail. A Yemenite
dhow
could cut closer to the wind, but these ships will do. They are solidly built."

"The Romans," Mohammed said, "are not an idle people."

"Where will we find them?" Zoë turned at the rail, her face pale and pinched-looking. "Why this shore and not another?"

Mohammed looked at her, meeting her eyes. "When we left Cyprus," he said, "I prayed and the voice from the clear air bade me sail north, along the coast, until the water turned dark. There, it said, I should turn out to sea."

"That is all?" Zoë's voice held a petulant snap. "If we burned out these cities as we passed, they would come looking for us."

The captain made to answer, but Mohammed quieted him with a gesture. The Quraysh chieftain stood, stretching his arms, and walked to the railing. The sea hissed past, foaming along the flank of the ship. The water gleamed and flickered, breaking the white ball of the sun into thousands of fragments.

"Can't we go any faster?" Zoë glared down into the rowing gallery, where three staggered decks of benches were filled with brawny men laboring over the oars. "Can they row faster?"

"They can," Mohammed said softly. "But they are learning on this voyage to row as one, to follow the commands of the flautist and the captain. If we rush to battle, or find ourselves trapped against the shore, they will not have the strength to row us out again."

Zoë stared at him, dark eyes glowering. Her anger faded. Her temper was still volatile, but the corpse of her queen remained in Caesarea Maritima. In its absence, her brittleness had begun to fade. "Are you afraid of battle?"

Mohammed shook his head, turning his gaze out over the waters. Mountains marched along the distant shore, thick with dark blue-green trees. A fruitful and prosperous land, with little cities and towns along the coastal plain. Sometimes, if the wind turned, the Quraysh could smell lemon and orange. There were orchards under the flanks of the mountains and fields of grain.

"Zoë, the Merciful and Compassionate One will provide, for I have submitted myself to his will. His voice bids me sail north until the sea turns, so I shall."

The young woman cursed, clenching her hand into a fist. "You have this faith, Lord Mohammed. I do not! I cannot see or hear what you see or hear. I must take you at your word—what if you are deceived? What if you are mad? Then we all die, and my vengeance will be unfulfilled."

Mohammed touched her shoulder and she turned back to him. His face was gentle. "You have seen what I see. Do you forget? With your skills, with your art, can't you tell that I speak the truth?"

Zoë flinched, not from Mohammed, but from burning memory. "I have seen... things. They did not fill me with your confidence."

"Then sit with me and pray, as I do." Mohammed held out his hand. Zoë stared as if the tanned, calloused palm and strong, tapering fingers were vipers. Her eyes met his and they were filled with feat and confusion.

"I am not you," she whispered hoarsely. "If I look upon that face, hear that voice, I will be destroyed. The power that speaks through you is beyond comparison, like the sun to a candle. I will not do it."

"That is fear talking." Mohammed put down his hand and turned to the railing. "But I will not press you. At nightfall, I will pray and see what may be."

With a star-filled sky, the fleet rode at anchor, masts illuminated by sea lanterns. A rocky, treeless island lay between the ships and the farther shore, shielding them from prying Roman eyes.

On the raised rear deck of the
Jibril
, Mohammed knelt on a rectangular mat. He faced the south, knowing that at a great distance, the Ka'ba stood at the center of a city at last at peace. Mohammed bent his forehead to the thick pile of the tug and emptied his mind of all thoughts.

In that inner quiet, he could hear the voice of the Maker of the World. In truth, it filled the sky and the water all around him, singing softly in the rigging. Yet, like all men, the confusion of the day, the shouting of sailors, the matters of eating and breathing and tilling the soil distanced him from that single, pure voice. He closed his eyes, letting a litany of simple prayer wash all these cares away. As he did so, he felt a sensation blossom in his chest, as if a pure, joyous sound pressed against his ribs. He felt the spirit that moved the wind and tide drawing near.

You are almost there, O man,
the voice whispered, as if from a great distance.
Your enemy is coming. He comes in wickedness and sin, filled with fear and anger. He will destroy himself in rage. He is—

"Mohammed, what..."

The decking beneath Mohammed's fingertips trembled. He sat up, ears ringing. To his amazement, he saw a burning white light illuminating the sails, the rigging, the sailors... everything within sight was harshly etched. Zoë seemed frozen, one hand flung up to cover her eyes, one hand on the railing of the steps. Mohammed tried to speak but no words came forth. He stepped forward, then froze himself. The source of the light moved as he moved, shadows swinging wildly.

Zoë crumpled, falling back down the stairs. Mohammed leapt to catch her. The light went out abruptly. Suddenly blind, he staggered, trying to grab hold of the railing. His knuckles cracked on wood. At their touch, the lacquered pine crumbled and fell into dust. Mohammed fell heavily on his knees. The deck under him quivered and the once-so-solid boards seemed frail.

"Zoë? Captain?"

A chorus of groans replied, and Mohammed felt his tunic softly flaking away, settling onto the deck like wood ash. Delicately, stepping as lightly as he could, Mohammed descended the steps. The wood felt spongy and feeble, and he wound up crawling to Zoë's side, where she lay sprawled on the main deck. Distraught, his fingers brushed her throat, seeking a pulse. His heart was hammering.

Have I done this?
His thoughts whirled like cranes in an updraft.
Have I become dangerous?

She was alive, her chest moving, soft breath issuing from her lips.

"Praise the Merciful One," Mohammed said, vastly relieved.

"Mohammed." A rich, cultured voice issued forth from the prostrate girl. Her lips did not move. "You are being deceived."

The Quraysh bolted backwards, slamming his head against the stairs. His vision clouded for a moment with floating white sparks and he grimaced in pain. His heart beat furiously, like a runaway horse. There was a roaring in his ears, and he shook his head, trying to clear the pain away. "This is impossible!"

The night was dark and silent. The wind had fallen off, leaving the air still. Even the sound of the waves lapping against the hull of the ship seemed faint. He crouched forward, staring in astonishment at the supine body on the deck.

Zoë moaned, twitching, caught in some terrible dream.

"Impossible." Mohammed could not believe it.

"
Comes
Alexandros! A messenger approaches."

The Macedonian turned in the saddle, squinting into a cold wind. Dark trees lining the farm track bent in the gusts. Like his men, Alexandros was wearing a woolen tunic beneath a thick felt shirt. Above that was a mail hauberk reinforced with banded iron plates. An iron helmet with decorative horsehair plumes and hinged cheek guards was hooked to his saddle. Despite the threat of a blow to the face, he preferred being able to see.

A rider cantered up the trail into the meadow, his horse shining with sweat. It was one of the scouts. Alexandros waved the man over, and the companions crowding around him in an iron hedge parted, horses dancing aside to let the man ride up to his side. Ermanerich moved his horse closer, leaning towards Alexandros with a delighted expression.

"It could be a raid across the river," the Gothic prince said. His blue eyes gleamed with anticipation. Like Alexandros, he was armored from head to toe, both in the Roman-style
lorica
and in mailed leggings ending in heavy, reinforced leather boots. Ermanerich had declared himself the first of the "Companions." Alexandros did not attempt to dissuade him, though the moment gave him pause until he remembered the youth had a copy of Arrian's
Anabasis Alexandrou
amongst his belongings. "If it is, there will be some action."

The other Goths, hearing a fragment of Ermanerich's words, grinned in delight.

Alexandros held up a hand, quieting the Prince while the messenger caught his breath.

The scout was dressed in boiled-leather cuirass, reinforced with metal studs. His horse was dark brown, as were his accoutrements and armor. He work a dark gray woolen cloak, broken by inset patches of green cloth. A cylindrical leather quiver rode at his left stirrup, and he was armed with one of the new bows, stored in a wooden case. Like all of the riders in the new army, his saddle was fitted with the Sarmatian stirrup.