The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  Odenathus stirred, thinking of the oaths that he and Zoe had sworn when they entered the Legion. Did they bind him now? He thought not, for they had completed their service and mustered out. It was still strange, hearing the Emperor impugned in such a way.

  "My enemy," Mohammed continued, "is not the Roman people. They did not betray us, leading to the slaughter of tens of thousands. It is not the army of Rome-no, it is a man, this fool Heraclius, who saw fit to send the armies of the Decapolis and Palmyra and Nabatea forth as bait and a lure. The blood and bone of those cities served him well, delaying the Persian army until he could strike the head from the Persian monster. This thing I cannot forgive. I will see it done that he pays for this crime."

  There was a murmur from the Arabs, and Odenathus joined in. Zamanes, the Prince, also nodded and raised a cup in salute of the desert chieftain. "You speak truly, Lord Mohammed. All throughout the ten cities, the name of the Emperor is reviled. There is no family that did not send a son, or sons, north to fight Persia. Now nearly all are dead. Our lands and cities are numb with grief, but hate burns there, too, a guttering spark… but one that could be coaxed to open flame."

  Zamanes stopped and looked around, meeting Odenathus' eyes for a moment, then surveying the assembly in the hall. He stood, turning to address everyone. "The son and daughter of Palmyra came into my lands with a ragged band. I had heard from the cursus publicus that bandits and landless men were on the loose, so I took what few bowmen and lancers remained to me and sought them out. I found them by the spring of Goliath, watering their horses. I looked upon them from cover, seeing the gaunt weariness in their faces and the paltry number of their men. Then, I looked again and saw that they bore the standard of the royal house of Palmyra.

  "These did not seem to be bandits! I came forth and spoke with them and heard of the destruction of that city. Now, hear me! All the cities and towns of the Decapolis and Judea have heard of the Emperor's great victory in Persia. All have heard of his conquests and his triumphs. Rome bestrides the world, unmatched in power. All the lands beyond the two rivers will come under the sway of Rome. These words made me sick at heart, for I see only the grave markers and funereal processions that bought Heraclius this glory."

  Zamanes turned, bowing his head toward Zoe. She stirred, inclining her head as well.

  "Even as Lord Mohammed has done, Lady Zoe had taken up arms against Rome. Her hurts are deep, and the stain upon the honor of Palmyra is black. Yet she does not flinch from the task. I dwelt in thought a long time, there by the waters of the spring, before I pledged myself as well. Gerasa and the ten cities will rise up against Rome the betrayer."

  Zamanes turned back to Mohammed, who was watching him intently.

  "Lord Mohammed, you are well skilled in battle, as are your captains. Will you accept my hand in alliance and brotherhood against Rome?"

  Mohammed stood, his face grave, though his dark eyes were glittering with delight. "Prince Zamanes, Lord of Bostra and Jerash, King of Gerasa, I will take your hand. The Lord of Battles looks down upon us and smiles, seeing that we have delivered ourselves into his keeping."

  The two men clasped wrists and bowed. Odenathus made to rise, but Zoe had already risen, her pale face and long dark hair making a still mask. She placed her thin white hand over the two men's. "The Queen speaks. She says this: Palmyra stands with you." Her voice was cold, like a sound from the tomb. Her fingers curled around Mohammed's wrist, and her fingernails dug into his skin. "Death to Rome."

  "Death to Rome," the two men echoed, and then, after a pause, the whole room followed.

  Odenathus felt a chill wash over him and he shook his shoulders like a wet dog. "Roma delenda est," he whispered, fingering his Legion-issue belt.

  – |"Lejjun? Yes, I spoke with a merchant who had visited the camp not more than a month ago." Zamanes looked puzzled, but he motioned for Mohammed to continue. The cool light of dawn shone in through round windows on the eastern wall of the palace. Odenathus rubbed his eyes, trying to drive the gritty feel of sleep from them. There had been little time to rest, and the call to prayer had come far too early. It had taken hours after the long conference with Mohammed to bring the army into the city and see the men bedded down.

  He cradled a tin cup of tea in his hands, warming them. It was cold in the desert in the early morning, and when he had crossed the inner square of the palace he could see his breath. Soon the sun would blaze down over the jagged ridge that surrounded the city, and it would be blisteringly hot, but for the moment he needed his cloak wrapped around him to stay comfortable.

  Lord Mohammed was taking his breakfast on the eastern terrace; a long colonnade of red stone pillars and spit-shined terracotta. It was cool under the arches, and it gave a stunning view of the city in the valley. Houses and temples filled the bowl of stone and climbed up the rocky palisade around it. Long flights of stairs had been cut from the stone, and some of the houses seemed to be driven into the very rock. Everywhere were flowers and fruit trees, and the singing of birds greeting the morning. Mohammed sat at a low wicker table with a top made of a single sheet of porphyry, cut smooth and polished to a high gloss. There was a battered tea kettle on a wooden plate, and little cups, along with a basket of fresh hot flatbread. Odenathus dug in, finding the heavy meal of the night before only a memory for his stomach.

  "Has the camp been reoccupied by the Legion?" Mohammed asked, sipping from his own cup.

  Zamanes shook his head, occupied with smearing honey and jam on a round of the bread. "No. The merchant-a cousin of my third wife-reported that two cohorts of Syrian archers had taken up residence, along with some Roman officers. They were preparing to reopen all of the buildings, though. There were hundreds of slaves in residence, busily sweeping out."

  Mohammed nodded and seemed relieved. "Lord Prince, if my army passes through your lands to reach Lejjun, can your towns and villages supply us with bread and fodder for our animals? May we water at your wells, use your roads?"

  Zamanes grinned, stained brown teeth showing briefly in the thicket of his beard. "I would be a poor ally if I did not offer you some hospitality! You intend to seize Lejjun, then? To what end?"

  Mohammed put down the cup and signaled to one of the young men loitering around in the doorways to the palace proper. The lad strode over, carrying a leather packet of scrolls and maps. Odenathus looked the fellow up and down-he seemed very young, barely as old as Odenathus himself-but his green and white robes were crisp and of fine Indian cotton. His narrow face was handsome and marked not by the short beard of Mohammed, but by a closely trimmed mustache and goatee that accented his high cheekbones and sharp nose. The youth unrolled a map from the case, placing cups and oranges at the edges to hold it down.

  "Lord Zamanes, Prince Odenathus-this is Khalid Al'Walid, the captain of my infantry and admiral of the fleet."

  Khalid laughed at the expressions on Zamanes' and Odenathus' faces. It was a rich sound, and guileless. "Yes, my lords, we have a fleet-not more than a dozen barques and a clutch of dhows-but it has served us well. Pray, remember that the wealth of Mekkah comes from the sea, not from the land. We are a nation of horsemen, but the sea and its ways are not unknown to us."

  Odenathus grinned back, finding himself liking this young rogue. He nodded to himself-the riches of Palmyra had been in ships and sea trade, too. Suddenly he rubbed his chin in thought. The ports along the Mare Internum were the home to many Palmyran ships, bought over the years and supplied with Palmyran captains and sometimes with crew. A lucrative relationship had grown up between the old Phoenician cities along the coast and the inland power. He wondered what had happened to those warehouses, ships, factors, and trade.

  "Here is our intent," Mohammed said briskly, bringing everyone's attention back to the map. "At the moment we do not lack for men. There are slightly more than twenty thousand Arabs, two thousand Petrans, your thousand Palmyrans, and-by your count, Lord Zamanes-some five thousand Gerasans we can muster for this campaign."
>
  "Perhaps more," Zamanes interjected, "if the other cities of the Decapolis will rise with us."

  "Even so. Our great lack, however, is heavy equipment-shovels, mattocks, wagons, barrels, all manner of siege works like catapults and ballistae. Then there is the matter of our armor, which is spotty. We have gathered some formations of heavy horse, but most of my army is armed with javelin, bow, and perhaps only a shield for protection. If we are to deal with Rome, we need to supplement that armament."

  "You intend to seize the supplies at Lejjun," Odenathus said, "if you can reach the camp before it is properly garrisoned."

  Mohammed nodded at the young Palmyrene. "Exactly. With the tools of war held therein, we can strike to the coast."

  Zamanes frowned. "Not at Damascus? It is the linchpin of the entire frontier defense, the hub of Strata Diocletiana, and now the richest city in the region. Should not that be our goal?"

  "No," Mohammed said, his face split by a grin. "Our aim is not the conquest of Phoenicia and Syria-in truth, we do not have the men we need to garrison so much land-our aim is to seize the Roman port of Caesarea Maritima, here on the coast of Judea. Look upon the map, my friends-the Roman provinces are a long strip between the sea and the sand. All their forces have been withdrawn to the north to deal with the Persians. If we were to strike north, along the axis of the Strata, we would expose a lengthy flank. Rome still controls the sea, allowing them to land armies behind us at any point.

  "Further, with Anatolia and Cilicia still unsettled from the Persian invasions, it will take more time for them to bring an army over land to meet us. The enemy will come by sea, so we must wrest from Rome the one thing that has maintained its power for all these long centuries."

  The desert chieftain moved his hand across the blue-tinted map. "Control of the Mare Internum is the key. At Caesarea Maritima are both an Imperial naval base and a fleet. We will seize that fleet, recrewing the ships with our own men, and wrest Rome's monopoly of the sea from them. Then, Lord Prince, then we will see about the cities of the plain."

  "A bold plan." Zoe's voice broke in, cold and formal. The men started, for they had not heard her approach. Odenathus rose and offered her his chair, sweeping his cloak behind him as he made a slight bow. Zoe met his eyes and summoned a smile, though her own were cold and bleak. She settled in the chair, her dark gray cloak falling around her like a thundercloud. She had pulled her hair back from her face in a severe manner, and the heavy clink of iron rings came as she arranged herself. Odenathus stood at the back of the chair, worried that she had taken to wearing armor under her linen blouse. "What do you intend after that?"

  Mohammed sat again, his face grave, and he waited a moment, watching the face of the young woman opposite him. Odenathus could see that the desert chieftain was troubled by the pain and sorrow etched so clearly on the young woman's face.

  "Lady Zoe, I intend to seek out Emperor Heraclius and put him to death for the murders he had caused and the destruction he has wreaked. I hope he will come against us, as is his wont, with an army. Then I shall face him on the field of battle and the Merciful and Compassionate One will judge. But should he hide in his city of stone, then I will dig him out. For that, I need a fleet."

  Zoe smiled, though there was no warmth in it.

  "You would storm the walls of Constantinople with this rabble?"

  Zamanes flinched at the scorn in her voice, but Odenathus put a gentling hand on the Prince's shoulder.

  Zoe ignored the motion. "I served, of late, in the army of the Empire," Zoe said. "You would face not thirty thousand men, or even fifty thousand, but upward of a hundred thousand trained men. Your enemy commands fleets, he commands thaumaturges, he commands an empire. You are a desert bandit with only the men at your back to support you."

  Mohammed nodded, then said, "And you, my lady, what are you? You have taken up the same cause, to repay the death of your beloved Queen. How will you take vengeance?"

  Zoe stiffened, and her pale face became ashy. She rose from the chair, her hands curling into fists.

  "The Queen," she rasped, "is not dead! She sleeps, waiting for her time to return. She will lead us to victory. Can your great and merciful God say the same?"

  Mohammed blanched and put his hands on the arms of his chair, willing them to lie still. "The voice that speaks from the clear air has told me what I must do. My men and I will stand against the dark powers that threaten the earth. I have seen them with my own eyes. We submit to the will of the Loving and Compassionate One, and we will be delivered."

  "Will you?" Zoe sneered down at the desert chieftain. "Can your God of the Wasteland restore strength to the weak limbs of my Queen? Can He raise her up, that she might walk among us once again, hale and strong? Can He?"

  Mohammed matched gazes with the young woman, seeing horror and pain and madness there. He slowly shook his head. "The God passes judgment upon all men. If He wills that she rise again, she will. And if not, it is not our place to question His will."

  "I have no use for your God, bandit! May He rot and burn in His own fire." Zoe wrapped her cloak around her with a snap and strode away, leaving her angry words ringing in the air.

  Odenathus made to follow her, but then stopped himself and turned back to the table. "My apologies, Lord Mohammed. As you see, my cousin took the loss of the Queen badly."

  The Quraysh nodded, looking after Zoe as she walked away down the terrace. His face was sad. "She is not alone in that."

  – |A centipede, long and glistening, a deep burnished red highlighted by glossy black chitin, rippled across a floor of fitted stone. A shaft of light, sparkling with slow-falling dust, fell across the vestibule of the grave house. In the midday sun, even attenuated by its fall from the window high above, it burned like fire as it crossed the doorway. Within, past the threshold, cool darkness held sway. The air was a little thick, filled with dust, and it tickled the throat. The centipede slithered down the steps and disappeared between the stone feet of a statue standing at the side of the door.

  "Where are the gods and their divine justice?"

  The voice was raspy with exhaustion. A young woman, her thin shoulders marked by the sun, and half clad in a grimy black robe, crouched against the wheel of a wagon. Her hair fell in a tangle around her face. The wagon sat in the center of an old tomb, one of many cut from the soft sandstone walls of the canyons that ringed Petra. The doorway, broad and imposing, had been just wide enough to allow it entrance. The Queen's servants had sweated and groaned in the darkness to place it here, but now they were gone, leaving the woman and her burden behind.

  "Where are the Furies and their whips? Does not Zeus Ammon look down from on high and see the sins of men? Where is his wrath?"

  The sides of the wagon had been etched and carved by the soldiers. An echo of a city filled with prosperous families and gardens and high, arching colonnades peered out of the wood. The work was not done, only two sides of the wagon were finished. The other surfaces were marked with lines and curves in bits of chalk and cut with the tip of a knife. Slim, fluted wooden posts had been erected at each corner. These held up a canvas awning. The top was rough and unfinished, but hidden beneath, where it could have been seen only by the passenger, was a painted sun of many rays.

  The woman stood, shakily, and leaned on the side of the wagon, pressing her forehead to the smooth wood. She spoke, but did not know that the words flowed, aloud, from her mouth.

  "This man, this Heraclius, should be driven into the field with invisible whips and stings! His flesh should run red with the blood of a thousand cuts. Madness should be his reward."

  Within the wagon, laid on a soft bed of cloths and dried flower petals, the withered corpse of a woman of middle height and age lay, half curled. Robes of silk and linen had been placed upon her with care. Her flesh was dry and brittle, and broke easily, cracking into a slippery dust with mishandling.

  "Why do the gods not strike him down? Why does he rule the land in glory and splendor? Why
is his name praised to the heavens?"

  Zoe ground her fist against the stone of the tomb wall. Blood seeped from her knuckles. There was a heat in her mind, a fury and a rage, and it seeped out of her, smoking from her fingertips. It washed over the stones, cracking and discoloring the old worn surface. The spots of blood slid down the wall, hissing like a snake. Black scoring marked their passage.

  Daughter, do not despair.

  Zoe turned, her eyes wide, the world wheeling around her. The tomb seemed both infinitely vast and crushingly close. She fell to her knees, mindless of the pain. Something rustled in the wagon, the sound of garments shifting. There was a skittering sound, and the click-clack of beetles. The sound filled the space, enormously loud, and Zoe pressed her hands against her ears, crying out.

  You are the child of my heart, said a voice from the wagon, echoing in her mind. I bore no child of my own flesh, yet you came to me and filled those empty places. You are my daughter of spirit. In you, I live. In your memories and thoughts, I am still alive.

  The sound died, leaving a great stillness. Zoe crawled to the edge of the wagon and gripped the planks for support. The rustling came again, and something moved at the lip of the panel. Zoe pressed her forehead against the smooth wood again, her eyes smarting with tears.

  "Auntie, what should I do? This chieftain, this Mohammed, he desires to strive against Rome, yet the Persians who murdered you are still alive and loose in the world. How can I let you go unavenged? Fate pushes me west, yet my heart tells me otherwise…"

  Dear child, life would remain in my breast and we would be sitting in my garden, laughing and talking, were it not for the perfidy of Rome. All those things that are lost to us would be restored… You must go west, and strike down the Roman. Let that be my vengeance.