Gently she raised the bar on the outside the door, easing up the slip-latch that held it down. Once it was off, she laid it flat on the floor next to the door and slowly eased the heavy panel open. Nikos was waiting on the other side, having stepped lightly across the sleeping bodies of his fellow prisoners. Thyatis signed for him to step out. She closed the door behind him.
For a moment they stood staring at each other, and a parade of emotions passed over Nikos' face like a triumph in the Forum. Thyatis just grinned hugely and then hugged him close to her hard enough to make him oof in surprise. He broke free and rubbed his arms in chagrin.
Which way is out? he signed.
A question, first, she replied. Do any of these others have level heads?
He looked at her dubiously, then his fingers danced, saying: What do you intend, foolish one?
She mugged an innocent face, then: We're getting everyone out if we can. If we do, the local tribes will owe me a favor for every head. I need them to take the city for Caesar.
Nikos started to look sick. Then he noticed the bag on the floor behind her. What's in the bag? He asked.
Oh, nothing... just your body.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
North of Emesa, The Theme of Syria Magna
"Empress!" One of the Tanukh riders, his kaffieh streaming behind him in the wind of his passage, galloped into the command camp. Nabatean spearmen, guarding the entrance to the camp, dashed out of his way. His horse was lathered and coated with dust from the road. Zenobia, her hair still undone, stepped away from the cluster of sleepy officers who surrounded her at the doorway of her great tent. With the army on the march, she wore hunting leathers—a pair of soft kid trousers with a stout vest over a loose cotton shirt. Her hand, quick as a hawk in flight, snagged the bridle of the horse and the man drew to a halt. The horse blew, heavily, and Zenobia patted its long nose.
"The Al'Quraysh sends his greetings on this fine morning, Empress, and says that the Persian army is athwart the road to the north and is deploying for battle."
The Queen flashed a brilliant smile. Her camp had been made on a low hill beside the main road north from the Roman city of Emesa, now some three leagues behind them, to the smaller town of Arethusa on the Orontes River. A copse of trees marked the crown of the hill, and the brightly colored tents of her servants and commanders were settled among the junipers and scrubby pines. Curlicues of smoke rose from their campfires. To the north, other hills blocked her view of the long slope down to the Orontes. Behind her, a fine view of Emesa and the fertile valley around it could be seen. The morning sun, just over the eastern horizon, bathed the land in a pale-pink light. The air was still quite cool from the night and the horse's breath was a cloud in the air.
"It is a fine morning. Tell the Al'Quraysh that we will be with him presently."
The man reined around and cantered away through the line of trees in a swirl of dust.
Zenobia stared north with a sly grin on her face and slapped her thigh with the riding stick she favored as a pointer for staff meetings. The Persians had turned to face her at last. Today was the day that she would equal her distant ancestor and set her people free of both Empires. She turned and strode back to the gathering of her men. At one side of the cluster of officers, Ahmet sat on a camp stool, calmly eating his morning porridge. He glanced up as she passed into the tent. The Queen was in a good humor.
—|—
Ahmet jounced up and down, his tailbone complaining bitterly, his hands around Zenobia's slim waist as they trotted up over the last rise. He had added a kaffieh, a loose headpiece of flowing cotton and a band of corded rope to hold it on his head, to his usual robes over a loincloth. In previous days he had walked alongside the wagons carrying Zenobia's personal effects and her household, but today the Queen made haste, so he rode behind her.
Beyond the rise, the hills had dropped away and a broad plain, shaped like the head of a spear, pointed to the northeast. A stream ran along the farther edge of the plain, where another range of low hills rose up. The Emesa road cut at an angle down the near slope, crossed the stream at a ford, and then rose up into those hills. The ground in between was littered with rocks, small boulders, scrubby grass, and low gray bushes. Zenobia surveyed the terrain with a glint in her eye.
"Overgrazed," she said, turning to the east on the great black stallion that she favored and riding along the line of the crest. "Firm ground, good traction for horses and men."
"A pity the Persians turned back before they stumbled onto your gift at Lake Bahrat."
Zenobia glanced over her shoulder at the Egyptian, her eyes smoldering with anger.
"The first stroke of good sense the Great Prince Shahin ever had in his life!"
Ahmet nodded and clung tighter to her as they crossed some rough ground. Zenobia's army was disgorging onto the southern side of the plain from the main road and several other tracks that Mohammed's scouts had found leading through the hills. The Palmyrene and Nabatean heavy cavalry was trotting out in oblong formations, five and six men deep, their lances raised like a forest of steel reeds. Banners rose and fell over the formations as their commanders attempted to coax them into a line of battle. Bands of Syrian and Nabatean infantry, arithmoi to the Romans, spilled out of the trails on either side. Black-skinned men with tufts of feathers worked into their hair, carrying bows and javelins, ran past the command group down the slope. Zenobia was heading for a bluff to the right side of the main road. A band of men in red armor was already deployed on the height. Aretas and his priests, Ahmet thought.
"You're sure that Shahin still commands the Persian host?" His voice was quiet, though the clatter of the horse's hooves on the rocky ground was sure to drown out anything but a shout.
Zenobia nodded, though she frowned in concentration.
"One of our scouts must have been discovered," she said, "to make them abandon the camp in such haste." She snarled in anger, striking her riding boot with the crop. "Just one more day and we would have had them on the plain at Bahrat. Ha, we would have had him already if Mohammed could have kept those Tanukh bandits from looting the Persian camp. Ah, it is as my father always said—the time of battle is never chosen and the field is never favorable!" She pointed out at the plain they were facing.
"This is almost perfect for him, though, the Persian eunuch! His clibanari and cataphracti will have a fine day against us if we are not aggressive."
She stopped talking for a moment as the stallion surged up the side of the bluff and she rode into the midst of Aretas' guardsmen. The Nabatean's servants had already thrown up an open-sided tent and the Prince, clad in enameled red armor composed of overlapping metal lozenges secured with leather bands, was seated on a stool at the front of the tent. Around him, his servants were busy preparing small tables laden with bowls of water, twisted pieces of metal, and a wide range of curious artifacts. Behind him, in the shade of the tent, the twelve hooded men who accompanied him were seated, a tremulous hum coming from their cowls.
"Lord Prince," Zenobia said, deftly bringing the stallion to a halt. Small rocks thrown by the horse's hooves skittered into the tent. "Are you and your men prepared for battle?"
Aretas looked up from the scroll he was studying, his face bland and his kohl-rimmed eyes languid. He was freshly shaven, and his beard was now only a sketch of dark hair along his lip and cheekbones. A trapezoid had been painted in a dark-red ink on his forehead.
"Of course," he said in a polite voice. "I am prepared, as are my assistants." A hand wrapped in a glove of fine steel links over soft leather indicated the hooded men. "My tagma are riding into positions even now. The infantry arithmoi are soon to follow. Is there ought else you require of me today?"
Zenobia frowned but controlled her temper. "Can you repel the efforts of the Persian magi? Can you master them and their powers?"
Aretas smiled, a wintry thing that touched only his lips and did not crawl up to his eyes, which were cold and dispassionate. He opened his right hand
, the fingers uncurling like a claw. A dark light spilled from between his fingers, rippling with lightning.
"I think that I will do as honor demands," he said, and banished the glamour. "Rome will prevail this day, I think. The Persians did not expect us to field such strength of men."
A dangerous glitter entered Zenobia's eyes at the mention of Rome, but she let it pass.
"Then, if all do their duty, we shall have victory this day," she said, and saluted the Prince. "Tell your dekarchoi to await my signal before they commit to the battle. We must prepare our Persian guests for such a meeting first!"
Aretas inclined his head and stood. Zenobia nodded back and turned her horse and galloped away. From the bluff, as they rode down onto the field, Ahmet could see that the army of the desert cities had managed to reach the plain. The bluff formed the right wing, with Aretas' cavalry tagma clustered in a dull red mass at its foot. In front of them, a hundred yards down the slope, the Nabatean infantry arithmoi formed a line of blocks of spearmen, archers, and slingers reaching to the west. More cavalry, these lighter armored, trotted past behind the infantry to take up positions at the far right end of the Nabatean line.
Zenobia and her officers, including a pack of Tanukh, rode along the length of the line. Her Bactrian guards, now kitted out in furs and heavy armor, rode in a block around her, their lances socketed into cups at their right stirrups. At the center, two great blocks of infantry—one of the Palmyrenes who had joined them at Emesa under the command of Zenobia's brother Vorodes, and the other formed of the cohorts of the cities of the Decapolis under Akhimos Galerius—were slowly gathering. Zenobia rode past and shouted instructions at Galerius, the commander of the Decapoli arithmoi. He waved back at her and then resumed his argument with the commanders of the various bands of city militia.
Behind the gangs of infantry, clad in shields and carrying spears, was a motley collection of mercenary horsemen—the expatriate Persians in full lamellar mail from head to toe and cone-shaped helmets, the Indian knights in bright tabards and glittering chain mail with long bows that stood up their saddles. Another band of Axumite javelin men ran past, down the road, heading for one of the avenues that had been left between the blocks of infantry. Zenobia took up a position on a rise to the left of the road, fifty or sixty yards from the mercenary horse. Ahmet was pleased beyond measure that they had stopped for a moment, for it gave him an opportunity to relax against the constant fear of being thrown from the horse.
Farther to the left of Vorodes' infantry, a great block of Palmyrene knights stood at the ready. Clad in half-armor for the riders and felt barding studded with metal plaques for the horses, the assembled nobles of Palmyra, Damascus, and the other cities of the Decapolis anchored the western, or leftmost, end of the line. Beyond them, the Tanukh light horse was a haze of small bands of riders screening the knights and the flank of the army.
Zenobia stood up in her stirrups and stared out over the battlefield. Unobtrusively Ahmet supported her legs, her thighs firm and strong under his hands.
"That is Shahin's banner, all right, and his usual flock of pretty birds are with him."
The Persian army had drawn up on the near side of the shallow stream in a shallow crescent. From the greenery along the banks at the eastern end of the plain, it seemed that there was a marshy area along the streambed. The Persian line began on the far right with a wedge of medium cavalry. From where he sat astride the stallion, Ahmet could barely make out a thicket of lances strapped to the backs of the riders, their tips gleaming in the morning sun, and dull armor. The horses seemed unarmored, and the men were holding bows at the ready, resting on their pommels.
Next, the center of the Persian line was composed of four blocks of infantry—first a rank of spearmen with wicker and leather shields, then archers, then more spearmen. Though the bands of men were not as precisely ordered as a Roman army, there were sharply defined breaks between each block. Behind the infantry, almost at the ford where the road crossed the stream over a broad wooden bridge, there was a great green tent, and before it, mounted on a shining white horse, was the small figure of the enemy commander. His armor reflected the sun with a golden glow and around him his companions were brightly attired in silks and jewels. Behind him, a great standard with a white wheel on it had been hung from a tall pole. Two parasols shaded the enemy commander, each of green silk.
"They seem better suited for a hunting party and picnic than battle," Ahmet mused.
Zenobia snorted. "At Nisibis, when the Boar smashed the army of the Eastern Empire and opened the road to Antioch, Shahin had command of the right wing—it is said that he and his cronies spent the day in a pleasant feast while ten thousand men died on the field of battle. He is the King of King's cousin, and well beloved of Chrosoes, but he is a poor leader of men. While he holds command, we will win the day."
To the left of the Persian spearmen, there were two large wedges of heavy cavalry—and these men, Ahmet could see, were clad in mail from head to toe, as were many of their horses. Many banners danced in the air above the Persian horse. Finally, a hundred yards in front of the Persian army, many lightly armed archers in kilts and metal caps were deployed in a long line. The black men, the Blemmenye who served Zenobia, had also advanced before the line of the Palmyrene army, and now the air between the two hosts was briefly marked by the sparkle of arrows in flight. A few men fell, but Ahmet could see no great purpose in their action.
"Odd..." Zenobia whistled and one of the Tanukh couriers pushed his horse through the throng of Bactrians deployed around the Queen. He grinned saucily when he pulled his horse alongside Zenobia's.
"Gadimathos, I see no light horsemen to screen the Persian line from our archers. Where are they?"
The Tanukh shrugged easily, his lean brown face wrinkled in a smile. "The Lakhmids are afraid to face the true men, the Tanukh. They refuse to fight."
Zenobia shook her head in dismay. "Go to ibn'Adi and Al'Quraysh and tell them to watch for the Lakhmids. They must be somewhere about—send out scouts to cover the flanks. They may be trying to ride around our line."
The Queen reached back and squeezed Ahmet's leg as the command troop cantered forward. "Worry not, priest, soon the battle will begin in earnest and you'll forget your fear of riding!"
Ahmet held her a little tighter and she laughed, her voice gay. They turned and rode back along the length of the Palmyrene line at a slower pace.
"Why is the absence of these Lakhmids a cause for concern?" Ahmet was confused.
Zenobia frowned again and pointed back to the west, where the Persian knights were lined up. "Without their own horse-archers to protect their heavy cavalrymen, our Tanukh will spend the day shooting at them with arrows. The heavy horse cannot catch these desert raiders, so they'll do nothing but bleed! I had heard that Shahin had employed a tribe of the Lakhmids to provide him with light horse for scouting and such work in battle. Another mistake. If they are not here, that will cost him dearly."
Ahmet nodded.
"What is happening in the unseen world?" she asked suddenly. It took Ahmet a moment to focus; the ether had begun to crackle with invisible forces.
"Aretas is putting forth his strength," Ahmet said, his voice breathy. It was sometimes difficult to breathe and speak and see in the world of the unseen all at the same time. "The Persian magi have raised a shield to protect their men from anything we might send against them. He is probing it, seeking weakness or a crevice. The Red Prince is strong!"
Zenobia nodded and looked quizzically out over the battlefield. There was a tang in the air, like before a storm, but the sky was clear and blue. Trumpets rang out, and there was a rattle of drums among the Persian battalions. The Persian center, to her surprise, began to advance at a walk up the slope. Their spears moved in a shining wave, falling forward. She stood in the stirrups again and looked east and west. To the right, on the east, opposite the Nabateans, bands of light infantrymen—wearing no more than woolen kilts and carrying long spears
—had run out between the end of the infantry line and the cavalry at the end of the Persian front. These men, too, advanced up the slope toward the Blemmenye skirmishers. Arrows were flying a little thicker now.
To the west, the two wedges of Persian heavy cavalry remained at rest, though their banners and flags were dipping and rising in response to those of the main command group at the bridge. Along the center of the line, the Persian archers began to fire over the line of Palmyrene slingers, ranging for the blocks of infantry behind them. Zenobia considered the movement of forces.
"This is strange," Ahmet whispered from behind her. "The Persian shield is proof against Aretas, even though the air boils with his power and the strength of his priests. And, it advances in concert with their men."
"Why is that strange?" Zenobia said absently. She whistled again and called out to her own officers. "Send the Tanukh against the Persian cataphracti and clibanari." One of the couriers spurred his horse away and pelted off toward the west. At the same time, two of her banner men raised a dark flag with a white symbol on it and dipped it twice. Soon afterward, the bands of Tanukh on the left coalesced into three big groups and rode off toward the Persian lines at great speed.
Ahmet began to sweat and hum a focusing meditation under his breath. The light shield that he had raised around Zenobia and himself as soon as the word had come in the morning that the Persians were near surged with power in the unseen world, becoming a complex series of geometric lattices around them. The lattices separated, becoming shells of light that counter-rotated around him in dizzying array. The hidden world was afire to his eye. The Persians continued to advance, and the flickering dark shield that protected them advanced as well. Aretas and his priests hammered at it with increasing ferocity, their sendings cutting sizzling tracks through the universe of forms and patterns whose reflected shadows were men and stones and the sky. Ahmet could feel the power drain like a tugging on his sleeve as the Nabateans began leaching the currents under the earth and in the sky to power the cyan bolts they hurled at the dark shield.
The Shadow of Ararat Page 53
