The Storm of Heaven (66 page)

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, Zoë, 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?"

Zoë 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 Zoë. "Do you know why I am Queen?"

Mohammed shook his head
no
.

"I will tell you." Zoë 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."

Zoë 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 Zoë 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." Zoë 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..."

Zoë 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."

Zoë 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," Zoë 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?" Zoë 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?" Zoë'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." Zoë'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. Zoë 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. Zoë 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. Zoë 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 Zoë 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!" Zoë 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.

Zoë 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, Zoë 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. Zoë 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.

His camel groaning, Nicholas topped the crest of a long, striated dune. The sand was soft here, driven by a steady wind off the sea, and the creature's splayed, three-toed feet dug into the loose slope.

"Heyup!" Nicholas slapped the camel with a thin cane, making the beast lope down the side of the dune. Weeks of practice kept him in the saddle, though the swaying motion made most of the legionaries ill. Years on the heaving pine deck of a Dansk
drakenship
had given the barbarian a great tolerance for such things. The motion was oddly comforting. Behind him, in an irregular line, the rest of his small command descended the long sweep of the dune. The ground was rockier below, though ahead he could see a line of palms and the spreading green of a canebrake and mud flats. They had come, at last, to the edge of the great delta.

Nicholas wheeled the camel, drawing another
gronk
of outrage, and waited for his companions to join him. Vladimir loped up a moment later. Despite some half-hearted attempts, the Walach had given up on getting the camels to carry him. They shied from his smell and tried to bite or kick. Instead, Vlad's gear rode on one of the pack animals and he jogged alongside the line of march, stripped down to a pair of dark green breeches. His heavy pelt would have been impossibly hot, save for Dwyrin's power.

The Hibernian rode up, cane rod snapping against the flanks of his camel. The young man looked rested and cheerful in his white
kaffiyeh
and desert robes.

"Pelusium should not be far away," the Hibernian called as he switched his camel's ear. The beast had been trying to bite Nicholas' leg. "Then the channels of the delta—we'd make better time on a ship."

Nicholas nodded. The lad was their Egypt expert. No one else had been there before. "What? Give up these fine friends and their smell and noise and ill-humor?"

Dwyrin smiled lazily, leaning forward on the saddle pommel. "At least these ones aren't attracting flies."

Vlad laughed, squatting on the ground and letting his legs rest. The Walach liked to run, but this heavy sand was hard going for him. He didn't have the advantage of four big splayed feet. "I don't miss the flies or the heat, Dwyrin. I think we'd have shriveled up without your help."