The Storm of Heaven (55 page)

The steps ended and all around, the horizon bent away into darkness. Six muscular attendants walked to the center of the platform. Gracefully, they knelt and set the ornamented chair on the ground. The rest of the mourners entered the circle, pacing to either side until they filled the edges of the peak. The torches wavered in a slight wind, casting moving shadows on the stones.

The drums ceased, the drummers laying hide kettles on the smooth flags. Flautists and women with bells and triangles halted their gentle noise and knelt. A ripple passed through the maidens standing near the head of the stairs and they parted, like the white sea before the prow of a black-hulled ship. The Matron entered, her face hidden by a wax mask, her fine white hair loose around her shoulders. Two others accompanied her, a younger version of herself and a slim woman of indeterminate age with pale golden skin. They too wore masks, all the same visage of a stern woman with curling hair.

The bearers brought forth urns of oil and pitch, then waited while the Matron entered the middle of the circle and stood before the seated girl. The Matron bore a pomegranate, a quarter cut away, revealing red seeds. Her voice was firm and strong from behind the mask:

"Here is a pyre a hundred feet in length and breadth.

Borne aloft, the corpse is laid with aching, heavy hearts.

Droves of fat sheep and shambling crook-horned cattle

Are led before the pyre, skinned and dressed.

Here, the great-hearted goddess flenses fat from all,

Wrapping the corpse with folds, from head to foot.

Then she heaps the flayed carcasses round the corpse.

Here are set two-handled jars of honey and oil beside her,

Leaned against the bier."

The night wind softened as the Matron sang, and then died as she finished. Her two companions joined her, each facing out, standing back to back. The Matron raised her hand and the bearers approached the body of the girl. Singing softly, they anointed her with oil from the urns and poured pitch around her feet. Shallow channels in the stone captured the dark liquid, which spilled into a triangle.

"Here is our sister, fallen in battle, heroic and glorious. She died honorably, striving to cast down our foes. Let all praise her and remember her name! She is Krista, daughter of Anna, child of thrice-blessed Achaia."

The assembled women gave a great, deep shout and held their torches aloft. In the still air, the brands sputtered, sending up aromatic white smoke. The Matron turned so that she faced the north. The golden-skinned woman faced the chair and the girl. Now the bearers wrapped the spiritless body in lengths of waxed cloth with gentle fingers.

"But the pyre does not burn," Mikele sang, lilting voice rising like a flight of birds. In her hands she held a chalice of beaten gold, worked with hawks and falcons around the rim.

"The swift runner thinks, what to do?

From the pyre she prays to the two winds,

Zephyr and Boreas, West and North—promising splendid victims

Pouring generous, brimming cups from a golden goblet,

Begging them to come, so that the wood might burst in flame

And the dead burn down to ash with all good speed.

Iris, messenger, hears her prayers, rushes the message on

To the winds that gather now in stormy Zephyr's halls

To share his brawling banquet."

The Chin woman poured thick wine into the channel at her feet. It mixed, swirling ruby and black, with the pitch. The bearers finished with their task, leaving the girl wrapped in gentle cloth, covering her limbs and body, all save her face, which was calm and still, staring out upon the mourners.

The three women turned again, and now the Matron's disciple faced the girl. In her hands there was a slim candle of beeswax, unlit. She, too, sang, her eyes closed.

"No time for sitting, cries the swift-winged messenger to the assembled hall.

I must return to the Oceans running stream, the Aetheopian's land.

They are making a splendid sacrifice to the gods,

I must not miss my share of the sacred feast.

But hear me, I bring the prayers of the daughter of Artemis!

She begs you come at once, Boreas, blustering Zephyr,

She promises you splendid victims—come with a strong blast

And light the pyre where a brave warrior lies in state

And all the Argive women mourn around her!"

The young disciple touched the lit candle to the dried flowers. Around the circle of the platform, the mourners raised their voices in song, all in harmony, ringing like a great bell. Fire flared and sparked in the petals, leaping up in orange and green. The disciple stepped back, as did the Matron and Mikele, and cast the candle into the pitch.

Flame roared up, licking along the circumference of the seated girl. The wax cloth dripped and then caught, burning a clear blue. Within an instant the center of the platform was a writhing column of fire and smoke, leaping towards the sky. The faces of the assembled women gleamed with firelight.

The massed voice of the sisterhood sang:

"At that hour, the morning star comes rising up,

To herald a new day on earth, and riding in its wake,

The Dawn flings out her golden robe across the sea,

The funeral fires will sink low, the flames dying.

And the wings will swing round, heading home again,

Over the Thracian Sea, and the heaving swells will moan.

Then at last Artemis, turning away from the corpse fire,

Will sink down, exhausted. Sweet sleep will overwhelm her,

Giving her ease, sending these dreadful thoughts away."

The Matron turned her face away from the pyre. She walked slowly, stiffly, to the head of the long stair. Her old bones would feel every step as she descended to the city hidden below. One by one, each of the women on the mountain peak approached the raging fire and bowed, throwing her torch into the conflagration. In the end, as the rising sun filled the east with pink and gold, only Mikele remained, watching the dawn.

The funeral ash rose up in a gray cloud, thick and heavy, then scattered to the west, across the jagged cliffs and steep slopes of the island, lost amongst tumbled boulders and black sand. Within a few grains, the platform was swept clean and the Chin woman turned her face from the rising sun, cold, swift wind nipping at her gown. Then she, too, descended.

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 Zoë'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
.