"Who is behind you, then?" The Macedonian's voice came in a harsh snap.
"The whole of the sixth syntagma, my lord," the man answered in a rush. "The syntagmarch said march away from the sun, great lord, but we've gotten turned around in these lanes..."
Alexandros stopped the man with a raised hand. His eyes glittered in fury. "Climb a tree, now!"
Moments later, the younger—lighter—scout was swaying in the branches of a tall poplar, shading his eyes against the last gleam of the day. He stiffened, one hand clutching the thin trunk. His free hand stabbed out, pointing left of the farm track. "There," he shouted, "a fleet! A whole fleet! Hundreds of sails!"
"How far?" Alexandros bellowed, while the cavalrymen behind him stared nervously into a dense boscage of vines, creepers, silver-barked trees and thorn between them and the presumed enemy.
"Less than a mile, my lord," the scout replied. "This track turns and swings towards open ground and grassy bluffs."
"Double-time," the Macedonian roared to his signalmen and file captains. Without waiting for the scout to clamber down from the tree, he urged Bucephalas on and the horse thundered down the lane, Alexandros leaning close to the stallion's neck, branches whipping at his shoulders. The earth trembled as the rest of the column kicked to a trot. Dust boiled up from the dry road, coating the horses' chests and making men blink.
The lead scout jumped out of the way, crushing himself against a stand of holly to avoid being trampled. His own column was only moments from marching onto the road, pikes and axes swinging and there would be a Fury's own mess if the two groups collided. Ignoring his junior, who was swinging precariously in the treetop, the lead scout crashed off through the tangled undergrowth, bawling "column halt!" at the top of his lungs.
—|—
Attend me, beloved Arad! The Lord of the Ten Serpents turned his attention from the land, where C'hu-lo and his Huns were gathering in a lean, dark circle around the copse of trees where Dahak had made his temporary command post. T'u-chüeh archers laughed in the shade of intertwined trees, unpacking long curved bows they had carried ashore wrapped in leather and waxed cloth. The sorcerer felt much at ease, knowing he would not be taken unawares. He squatted at the base of a tree, his banner flapping smartly in the wind only paces away. Have you come ashore?
The mental query was met by unexpected silence—more than the attenuation of distance or the interference of the sea—but an emptiness, a void from which Dahak's tendril of thought did not return. Arad? The sorcerer's lean head stiffened, turning to face the glittering water. Triply-lidded eyes flickered, focusing on the rakish shape of the Palmyrene flagship. The Asura rode easily at anchor, her sails furling as sailors scrambled in the yards, dragging in canvas. Where are you?
Dahak realized he had not felt the mournful wail and lament of the Egyptian priest's mind for some time. He concentrated, feeling a sickly, cold fear welling up at the back of his own thoughts. The Queen, the Boar, the Eagle, the Sixteen... he could feel all his servants, even the least, the gaatasuun and their harsh, singular thoughts of blood and sharp teeth crunching through flesh. But not the first tool he had made with his own hands.
Arad? Faithful servant? Dahak wailed, reaching out into the emptiness. Gone? Gone? How could you escape these bindings? These chains? Rage flared in the sorcerer's heart and he leapt to his feet, the air around him darkening with malefic power. Return to me!
There was no answer, though the tall poplar at his back shriveled and cracked, suddenly dead leaves falling in a drifting rain around him. "Arad!"
—|—
Shahr-Baraz splashed ashore, hairy feet bare on clinging black sand, low waves rushing past with a hiss of spray and foam. Riding boots hung around his neck on a leather thong—a cumbersome, heavy weight of leather reinforced with strips of iron—but worse still if they were wet. The soldier Patik was only a pace behind, followed by a crowd of Immortals, bannermen, trumpeters, runners and aides. The Boar found his footing on drier sand and picked up the pace, massive thighs propelling him up the beach without pause.
The shoreline itself ran in shallow, then rose up at a line of hard-packed dark sand mixed with debris from passing ships and storms. Beyond the tide line, a hundred feet—or less—of rumpled sand dunes slanted up in a gentle shelf and then the shore proper began, with scattered grass-covered dunes, stands of cork trees and the lower, marshier outlets of streams.
Shahr-Baraz found the banners of two regiments of Persian footmen standing above the tide line, surrounded by a mixed crowd of soldiers. Thousands of gaatasuun were crawling from the sea in complete disorder, wandering aimlessly in packs, forcing the living men to form a barrier of steel and wooden shields around the banners to protect themselves. Officers were shouting, trying to make themselves heard above the rush of the sea. The following wind, which had driven the fleet from Alexandria with such speed, snapped the banners taut, throwing sea spray and sand against their backs. The Boar growled, drawing the attention of those nearest to him and stormed into a cluster of men in peaked helmets and sunflower insignia.
"Who commands here?" he roared, grasping one diquan by shoulders and setting the surprised man aside by main strength. "Why are you standing about?"
A portly nobleman in the etched, fluted armor of the Kushanshahr highlands stepped forward, making a deep bow to his king. "King of Kings," he declaimed in a serious voice, "we're trying to rally our men, and gather our companies, but—" The man waved his arm to encompass the long sweep of the shore. Everywhere, there were ships—some run aground, others standing offshore, soldiers piling into longboats—and the beach itself was no better, with the sodden dead crawling through the breakers, while men came ashore in dribs and drabs, as skiffs and barges could manage. The gusting wind made the sea rougher than Shahr-Baraz had expected and as he watched, a longboat turning away from the beach took a breaker abeam. Sailors tumbled into foaming white water as the boat capsized, oars splintering against the sandy bottom.
"—everywhere there is confusion. Only a handful of my levies have found me." The Kushana finished, his own impatience and concern showing.
"Don't worry about that," Shahr-Baraz boomed, making every man in the group of officers start in alarm. "Take these men and push inland! Where you see the gaatasuun, drive them before you! Take any soldier, no matter his clan or house, under your banner. We must get off this beach!"
The Pashtun chief nodded, forked beard making a sharp shadow on his breastplate, then turned away, his own bull-like voice raised in command. "Men of Herat—with me! Persia, with me!"
The living soldiers crowded around the banners answered with their own shout, taking heart from his bold words and the entire mass of men began slogging inland through the deep sand. The Boar gestured for his own officers to attend him. "Here, you lot," he boomed, his powerful voice overreaching even the sea and the wind. "Patik—where is Prince Rustam?"
Patik had been surveying the beach, eyes shaded against the setting sun. "We've drifted north before this wind, my lord," he replied after a moment. "I see the prince's banner—he's a mile away or more south..."
"Go to him," the Boar snapped, his tone brooking neither delay nor disobedience. "Tell him to master his dead servants and send them inland. They're useless for fighting in formation, so they might as well bring confusion and despair upon the enemy."
Patik nodded, then jogged off through the sand. After a hundred paces, he swerved towards the waterline, where the footing was firmer. Shahr-Baraz immediately forgot him, turning to his other officers. "Piruz—you're a likely lad, beloved of my daughter—take a dozen men and move along the beach. Tell every officer and lord to take what men he can find and move inland with all speed! There's no time to muster properly, not in this chaos, so every diquan and lord must show boldness and daring, striking at the enemy with every means at their disposal."
The prince of Balkh nodded, sharply, his expression hungry for battle and glory.
"You boys," the Boar growled at
the spry young lads he used as couriers. "The rest of the pushtigbahn will be coming ashore somewhere near here..." Shahr-Baraz waved a huge, armored hand in a vague circle. "...find them and send them to me. We will take yonder hill—" An empty grassy mound rose behind the beach, two hundred yards away. "—as our command post. Off with you!"
The Boar grinned then, drawing his own blade, a massive length of steel that measured more than most men could lift. He swung the sword inland, bellowing: "The rest of you, with me! Forward, to victory!"
—|—
Bucephalas burst from the trees and galloped across a swale of high grass. The rich, dark soil of the bottomlands turned to grainy obsidian-colored volcanic sand. Alexandros breathed a sigh of relief to see the green ocean swell before him and to get his cavalry free of the constricted lane. Then he cursed, the stallion slewing into deep, loose sand. He reined in before the horse broke a leg and pirouetted back onto harder ground. In the brief moment, he had looked down on the sweep of the beach and his heart froze with alarm.
The sea was black with ships, the dull gray strand swarming with Persians, their banners a forest, their spears glittering stars. He drew Bucephalas to a halt, the stallion snorting in disgust, and the Macedonian took a long, hard look up and down the beach. The rest of the Companions trotted out of the orchard lane, spilling to his left and right, automatically forming a loose, irregular line. The Gothic knights unlimbering their lances, preparing for a charge.
"All sections, halt along the verge," Alexandros shouted, turning so his captains could hear him and repeat the commands. "Dismount, send the horses back. Form two ranks! Philos—find the pike syntagma those scouts were talking about and get them up here, now!"
Immediately, there was confusion as men swung down from their horses, one in five grasping bundles of reins, hurrying to tie leads to the following mares. The grassy sward filled with a huge crowd; more men riding up from behind while others tried to move back. The Gothic captains and centurions were hoarse, screaming at their dull-witted charges, trying to form ranks while men rushed this way and that. Alexandros ground a fist into his saddle. This is very bad, he realized; nervous, quick eyes scanning the beach.
A mob of Persians moved slowly uphill towards him—he doubted they even realized his Companions were shaking out a confused, disordered line—they were certainly in no better order. But there were a great many of the enemy and there were so many ships offshore, crowding the sea with dozens of smaller craft. He glanced to the north.
In the distance, outlines shaded by humid air, he could make out the rooftops of a small town rising on a rocky headland. Catania, he thought, wishing suddenly he'd stopped the army in the little city at dawn. They had marched down from Messina with heedless speed. A day and night's march toward the looming cone of Aetna had been draining to men and horses alike. Now, today, they had put on another burst of speed—the prince had said the enemy would make landfall on "the beaches"—and here they were.
Seeing their numbers, the Macedonian felt a cold chill in his bones. If we'd regrouped at the port, we could advance like a scythe, from north to south along the beach and slaughter these lambs as they came ashore, our lines orderly, our wings entirely in my sight. Now, Alexandros was all too aware he'd scattered his forces piecemeal among the farm lanes and tracks behind of the beach. Where is my vaunted skill now? he thought harshly. I should have been patient and sent out my scouts to spy the land and the positions of the enemy.
Alexandros felt his stomach roil. He'd advanced recklessly, trusting to speed and surprise to overwhelm the enemy. "Krythos was right," he muttered under his breath. "I need to stay back."
"Orders, sir?" A captain of the Companions was standing at his foot, grizzled face looking up expectantly.
"Two ranks deep, Ostrys, and extend the line as far on the flanks as we can. Keep the Persians from getting off the sand." Alexandros squinted at the sky, taking some faint hope from the dwindling light. "When the pike syntagma gets here, form three ranks deep and advance in a wedge." He pointed down at the beach. "Cut your way to the waterline, then hold. If more men come up, expand the wedge to the left and the right."
"Ja, my lord." The Goth grinned. "Keep them in the sea, where they can drown before our shield wall."
"Yes," the Macedonian said sharply, "and keep them from gathering their forces!"
Now where should I be, Alexandros thought as he turned Bucephalas away from the sea. I need to find the rest of my army. He rode towards the thicket, though slowly, the big black forcing his way through a countervailing flow of pikemen. Long spears danced around him, a thicket of ash and iron, and the footmen swung past with a grin and a rousing shout. They were glad to be out of the claustrophobic trees as well. How am I going to find anyone? The Macedonian clucked, nudging the horse to the side of the road. A new column of men jogged towards him in the golden, late afternoon sunlight, through sparkling clouds of dust. He realized there was literally no way he could find anyone else—Chlothar, Krythos, any of his commanders—in the sprawl of hedges, meadows, streams and orchards behind the beach.
Grunting in dismay, Alexandros turned the stallion, then stopped abruptly, his eye hanging on something passing strange. The approaching column tramped smartly out of the lane, three banners—a golden hand, a silver eagle and a square plaque bearing a horned ram—leading the first ranks. These men were smartly equipped, oval shields slung on their arms, long spears in hand, feathered conical helms snug under shaven chins. A Roman officer—he could be no other, not with such a proud nose and grim expression—paced them on the left and Alexandros found himself staring down in surprise at the man.
"Who are you?" the Macedonian asked, feeling a chill to see the man's iron breastplate no more than shadow or mist and his speaking mouth like glass, showing trampled leaves and mud.
First Legio Roma, the ghost answered, saluting smartly. The centurion's eyes were dark pits, without even a gleam in their shadows. Pale teeth showed in a grin. The Consul said the Epirotes are coming ashore? We're ready for another go at them, by Mars! We've waited a long time to even the score for Ausculum.
"The... yes, they are landing from their ships, just over there." Alexandros pointed over the downs towards the sea. "My men will hold the center. You... take the right flank."
Ave! came a soundless response and the centurion turned away, broad hand chopping at the air. The ghostly ranks clashed spears silently on bronzed shields, then jogged on, a long, ceaseless line. The Macedonian watched them with slowly mounting fear eating away at his composure. By his count, at least four thousand men marched past, not one more than a pale outline, casting no shadow on the sunny ground, but in the dimness under the trees, they seemed almost solid.
Unwillingly, Alexandros looked to the sky and saw the sun touching the mountain peaks to the west. It will be dark soon, he thought. Will I hear their battle cries then?
—|—
A brace of Palmyrene sailors, stripped down to loincloths, bronzed limbs flashing in the water, ran the longboat ashore. The Queen swayed a little as the keel breasted on the sand, then her men braced the boat and she stepped down into shallow water. More boats followed, carrying her guardsmen from the Asura. The cool water felt good on her bare feet, splashing against armored greaves covering her trim calves. Zoë stood ready in the back of her mind, the center of a glittering dodecahedron of shifting light and half-seen patterns. Can you feel him yet? Zenobia asked.
No, but something is happening... there is a veritable army of lights snaking towards the beach from inland. Not men—not living men—but not these husks the Serpent has stirred to life either. They are very angry, I can feel that much!
"The Romans are coming," the Queen called to her captains. She saw the Palmyrene sailors and pilots had done well, keeping their flotilla together, the ships anchored to form a barrier against the wind. The Persian fleet—and she allowed herself a cold, satisfied smile—was in confusion, ships yawing against the breeze, some fouled in another
's anchor chains. "Skirmishers and archers forward in a screen, form up the qalb and the maimanah as they come off the boats. Lord Khalid!"
The young Arab turned, brief anger flitting across his face at her preemptory command. The usual gang of Sahaba was around him, all younger men culled from the cities and towns of the Decapolis. His recklessness had turned many of the more experienced Arabs from his faction. Odenathus was first among Khalid's confidantes, but the Queen knew his friendship restrained the Eagle from openly flaunting her authority.
"You must command," she said firmly, raising her voice to be heard over the rattle of oars and men shouting as they unloaded. "Lord Odenathus and I will be busy in the hidden world. The Romans are sending some power against us, not just mere legionaries, and we must turn our attention away." Zenobia singled out two of the Sahaban captains of heavy foot. "Malik, Duraid—you must watch over us while our minds are distant—find a hundred men and form a square, girding each of us in a fence of steel."
Both men nodded sharply, then set to work gathering up likely men. The Queen beckoned Khalid close, though she had yet to step out of the rushing surf. The day was hot and the sea pleasant between her toes. "Our armies are scattered," she said as the young Arab approached, "and everywhere I see confusion. Victory will be more likely won today by clear thought than bravery or strength of arms. The footing is poor on this sand and we have no horses, so we must strike inland as quickly as we can."
Khalid nodded in understanding, looking sharply to Odenathus and then back to Zenobia. "Will you each ward a flank, north and south? We may be attacked from either side..."
"We will," Zenobia nodded, and then—with a sigh—let her mind fall back, yielding hands, eyes, legs, even the beat of her heart to Zoë. The girl surged forward, filling the body with her quick energy. "Here they come," she cried, spying the glittering flight of arrows and javelins lofting into the afternoon sky. The Arab skirmishers were already among the higher dunes. Her hand sketched a complicated sign and a wavering gleam filled the air as the wind rushed into a near-solid barrier before the advancing army.
The Dark Lord Page 83
