The Dark Lord

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Roman Camp at Pelusium, Lower Egypt

"What was that?" Sextus raised his head, nostrils flaring. He stopped, reining in his mule, and held out a hand to bring Frontius up short. Both men were riding along the military road atop the interior wall of the Roman fortifications, heading for a mile-fort where-they were informed-the Caesar Aurelian was encamped. The fighting platform rose up directly to their right, reinforced with palm logs and slabs of looted stone. Men were sleeping along the rampart, wrapped in their field blankets, helmets and scabbarded swords close at hand. Pyramids of spears and javelins stood every dozen yards. At intervals, sentries leaned against the wall, watching the eastern darkness.

"I didn't hear anything." Frontius squinted around, raising his lantern. Butter-yellow light spilled across a roadway of planed logs. Off to his left, fields of stumps lay under a starry sky. A mile or more away, torches and bonfires outlined the square shape of a Legion camp. The moon had already set in the west, leaving nothing to dim the vast sweep of the river of milk. To the north, the engineer could make out a gleam of starlight flashing on the waters of the Inner Sea.

"I smelled something." Dismounting, Sextus scrambled up the fighting platform and climbed onto a wooden step behind the wall. Frontius, cursing mildly, followed. Peering over the embrasure, he saw more darkness-the dry river channel fronting the long earthwork, crisscrossed by lines of stakes-then the dim lights of the first wall and its garrison. Beyond that, there was nothing-only velvety darkness and the night.

"What time is it?" Sextus whispered. Frontius looked at the sky, searching for the gleam of Venus or Mars. They were low in the west, chasing the moon.

"Nearly dawn," he replied. His nose tickled. "Feh! What is that?"

Sextus thumped him on the shoulder. "The wind is turning from the east. That's an entire army awake and pissing out in the desert."

Frontius' eyebrows raised, then he sneezed. Disgusted, he wiped his nose. "We'd better hurry. His lordship needs to know about the dam."

The two engineers rode up to the gate of the mile-fort in haste, mules bleating in protest. The portal was open, torches blazing all around, an entire century of grizzled-looking veterans standing watch. Sextus slid from the mule, slapping away a customary bite, and saluted the centurion in charge. Runners were leaving the gate in a steady stream, each man holding a paper lantern at the end of a carry pole. The watch had weapons drawn and bare, their helmets cinched tight under stubbled jaws.

"I'm Sextus, First Minerva, a message from Scortius-to see the Caesar Aurelian."

The watch commander eyed him suspiciously and lifted his chin at a man-a priest-standing nearby. The Egyptian had his eyes half-closed, oblivious to the constant, quiet bustle all around him. "Menkaure? These two clean?"

After a moment, the priest nodded. At the same time, Sextus felt a tingling sensation, as if soft feathers brushed against his ears and neck. He shuddered, tossing his head. Frontius was scratching his nose furiously, scowling at everyone.

"Go on," the centurion said. His men parted, allowing the two engineers to hurry inside the fortress. Like its companions along the length of the fortifications, it was a hollow square, surrounded by a high, raised earthen wall and a palisade of palm logs, mud brick and-at the corners, where watchtowers loomed against the black sky-blocks of carefully hoarded stone. The lower delta was bereft of most building materials save mud and palms. Sextus squished across the muddy courtyard, weaving his way through groups of soldiers. The men were in full armor already, drinking from steaming cups, chewing on flat bread. Kitchen slaves moved among them, handing out cloth bags of bread and dried meat. The courtyard was poorly lit and it took Sextus a moment to find the Caesar's tents.

Within, a blaze of white light illuminated everything. The engineers halted, squinting, half-blinded by radiance spilling from crystalline globes hung from the ceiling in nets of bronze chain. When they could see again, Aurelian was waving them into the main room of the tent. The Caesar was surrounded by a phalanx of clerks and scribes, runners kneeling nearby, and two thin old Egyptian priests lurking behind his worktable.

"Sextus, Frontius-Mercury speeds you into the arms of Mars tonight!" Aurelian smiled, teeth white in the bushy thicket of his red beard. "The sun will be up soon and the Persians will be coming at us, I think."

Sextus nodded, saluting the prince. "You can smell them, my lord. The wind has turned from the east."

"I know." Aurelian rubbed his own nose. "The men on the first wall can hear them moving. Sound travels well over the desert." The prince motioned them closer, then said: "How stand things among the reeds?"

Sextus waggled a hand in the air. The huge project twenty miles up the arm of the Nile had been giving the Romans quite a time. "Well, my lord… things could be better."

Aurelian frowned, bending close. Even here, in a tent crawling with his own men, under the aegis of his own thaumaturges, the prince was minded to be circumspect. "What do you mean? Scortius sent no word of trouble."

Both engineers shrugged. "You know how poor this soil is, my lord, all bogs, quicksand and alluvial mud. No bone to this land, no stone, no spine! There was a subsidence yesterday; it collapsed part of the western dyke. The weight of the dam was too much for the ground to hold." Sextus shook his head, hands spread wide. "So do the gods will."

"How many feet of water did we lose?" The prince bit at his thumb, brow creased in concern.

"Only two or three," Frontius said, leaning in. His squint was worse in this brilliant light. "We rushed hods of fresh earth and stone to the breach and sank a barge filled with cane bundles in the gap."

"Scortius had us check the entire length of the dam for settling…" Sextus continued, lips pursed. "The whole face is starting to crack. You know the project has been a rush from the beginning-well, we've never sealed the inner face of the dam-and now the levee itself is soaking up the river water, getting heavier and heavier. Without deep stone pilings, the entire structure is just too massive for the underlying silt to support."

"I understand." Aurelian's face cleared. The prince snapped his fingers, and a runner jumped up. "A message for Scortius, at the Reed Sea dam," he said to the boy. "The Persians are preparing to attack. The dam must hold for another day. He must stand by for a mirror signal. Hurry!"

The boy scrambled off through the crowd and was gone. Aurelian turned back to the two engineers. "Have there been any Persian raids on the area around the dam?"

Sextus shook his head. "In that morass? No, my lord. All quiet."

"Very well." The prince looked down at the parchment map on his table, thoughtfully stroking his beard with powerful fingers. The paper showed the environs of the town, with the Nile channel just to the west, then the four Legion camps arrayed between the outskirts of Pelusium and the secondary, inner wall of the fortifications. A dry canal between the secondary wall and the first, facing the Persians in the east. Another dry channel-an old irrigation canal-fronted the forward Roman position. Each half-mile along the outer works, a square bastion jutted back from the earthworks. The second wall was also provided with strong points, each offset from their companions in the forward wall.

"We expect a massive, sharp attack somewhere along the line today. There is no 'funnel' in the ground to the east, no natural avenue of advance. It's all open, rolling dunes, salt scrub and scrawny trees." The prince measured the map with his hand. "Their army is mixed, horse and foot alike. Were it mostly horse, I think they would attack along the axis of the old road-the footing is better. But now… I think they may attempt to strike at the southern end of the fortifications."

Sextus and Frontius examined the map. The Roman walls ran south into the huge extent of swamps and bogs making up the reed sea. Another five miles south of the last Roman bastion, the dam lay hidden among the sprawling wetlands. The junction of the marsh and the fortified walls was held by offsetting way forts, the two dry canals and-behind the entire defense-the camp of the First Minerva, their own veteran Legion.

"You think they'll try and break through, to swing south of the town," Frontius said. "Cutting us off from retreat, save over the Nile bridge. We'd be bottled up in Pelusium itself."

Aurelian nodded, but he did not seem convinced. "There's no reason to besiege the town-not if they can isolate us here and go around. Then we'd be forced to abandon the entire position, to fall back and defend the delta and Alexandria. The bridge is narrow-we'd take some time withdrawing across the span. So-I want the two of you at the southernmost mirror tower by daylight. If the Persians break across both ditches, I want the dam opened."

Sextus saluted, acknowledging the order. "Should we give the men in the forward works time to fall back across the second canal, if the first wall is breached?"

Aurelian's lips quirked into a grim smile. "Once the dam is opened, the canals will flood all the way to the sea within two hours. Time enough for the Persians to get their neck out of the trap. But I will not be there, Sextus. You will have to use your own judgment. Of course, when I send the signal-"

"— we will obey instantly, Caesar!" Frontius managed a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Good. Now, go." Aurelian turned away. Servants were waiting with his armor, a single-piece breastplate of Indian steel, etched with the eagle and laurel crown of Rome and designed to fit over a mail shirt. Other slaves held his long single-edged cavalry sword, a plain, battered helmet, and a broad leather belt. Both engineers saluted, then hurried out. The southern mirror tower was five miles away, down roads sure to be crowded with men moving up to the fortifications.

In the east, the sky was still dark, without even a hint of the coming sun.

Zoe knelt on the rolled-up edge of her cloak, among a field of stumps, beside the old Roman road. Lines of men in armor tramped past along the raised highway, starlight glimmering on their helms, each man watching his file leader, following the bare gleam of hooded lanterns. The armies of Persia, the Decapolis and the Arab tribes had been in motion for more than two hours. Zoe shut the sound of boots and sandals on stone and sand out of her mind, fingertips pressed to her temples. She let her mind settle, let her thoughts calm.

One by one is one, she thought, two by two is four. Three by three is nine. Five by five, twenty-five. Seven by seven… The pattern steadied her, let the physical world fall away, a veil of silk unclasped. The so-familiar image of a dodecahedron spun in her thoughts, burning bright, brighter than the pale stars. Only a bitter taste in her mouth and a half-heard chirping of crickets sullied the vision. The presence of the lord Dahak was constantly upon her, a greasy tight film on her flesh, hidden iron in her mind.

The sorcerer crouched in the fallen orchard as well, though he wore the tall, powerfully muscled shape of his servant, Arad. The iron mask, the jackal snout, were bent as if in prayer. Zoe turned her attention away, banishing a familiar distraction.

He is well made, whispered a faint, thready voice in her mind. My beloved.

The dodecahedron swelled, split apart, fractured into dozens of similar geometries, then split again. A flood of shining motes darted away and Zoe looked upon the hidden world, blazing bright.

The columns of soldiers shone with ruddy light, the road a dull blue streak, the distant fortifications of the Romans a shining golden wall. Immediately to hand, the shape of the jackal was a black void, without the inner fire of a human soul or even the flickering pattern of an animal or bird. Behind the sorcerer, beside Zoe, Odenathus was also preparing himself, a steady forge-red pattern, all confidence and strength.

Auntie, be quiet, Zoe thought, only the barest fraction of attention upon her mind's companion. I must prepare. There are Romans to kill. Despite everything, the prospect roused a trickle of anticipation in her heart. The voice dimmed, though the Palmyrene girl could half-sense loss, sadness, and a flicker of electric blue eyes. Our master is distracted, but he is not a fool.

I understand. The Queen's voice receded into an inner, unmapped distance. Dusares watch over you, child.

Zoe grimaced, though her waking mind continued its plunge into the matrices of the hidden. A pattern of defense built around her, swirling with half-seen glyphs and words of power. She reached out to Odenathus, felt his familiar thoughts, then the shield of Athena was complete, a steadily burning blue-white sphere. One edge of the pattern enclosed the jackal, though the ebon power within the dead shape distorted the smooth surfaces, making them bend and dip like cloth pressed down by a leaden weight. The Palmyrene woman concentrated and the shield sluiced away, leaving the jackal alone and outside its aegis. The blue-white dome strengthened.

Ready? Zoe's thought brushed against her cousin.

Yes, he said and a warm sensation of eager confidence washed over her. Do you hear the horns?

Zoe let her awareness recede a step, allowing her physical senses to flood back into focus. Her skin tingled with the chill of the night; her ears heard the soft wail of horns, the quickening steps of men on the highway, the snort of horses.

The attack is beginning. She rose gracefully, feeling the mailed shirt bind against her chest, the weight of her helmet tight upon her head. The jackal echoed her motion, though the man Arad was nearly naked, only a loincloth of white cotton around his hips. Odenathus stood as well. The two Palmyrenes looked to the jackal, poised, ready to strike at the enemy.

We wait, came the powerful, crushing thought of the Lord of the Ten Serpents. Let the armies become locked in battle, all fury and hate rising up, the sky filled with spears, arrows, stones. Then the Roman wizards will be distracted and we will move against them.

His will gripped them like a vise, holding them powerless. Zoe felt darkness flood into her, felt the Queen flee deeper into the inner void, felt her limbs twitch with Dahak's intent, nerves burning with fire. She hunched down, bowing at his side.

Yes, great lord! Zoe's and Odenathus' screams were indistinguishable.

Good. Good. The power turned away for an instant, focusing on the rippling, incandescent wall of golden light. Zoe gasped for breath, wild thoughts hurrying through her mind.

What happened? Tears spilled on the ground, her arms and legs spasming. He's not afraid! He was afraid before!

She froze, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Dismay rose in her, icy water spilling into a shattered hull. What if he was only pretending fear? A ruse to snare treachery?

With a tremendous effort, bringing to mind a calming meditation, she drove the thoughts of murder and insurrection from her mind. A cold clarity settled over her.

Sextus jogged south, measuring his stride, conserving his breath. Frontius was lagging, still cursing under his breath, anger radiating from every pore.

"Dick-licking bastards! How could they steal our mules?"

Sextus ignored his friend, swerving around a wagon rumbling past. The road on the second wall was crowded with men; cohorts tramping past, torches held overhead, wagons filled with bundles of arrows, coffers of sling stones, more spears, healers in white cloaks, caduceus staves over their shoulders. The engineer pushed through a crowd of Blemmyenite archers, feathered plumes dancing over shaven heads. Sextus broke through into a clear section of the road. Furious himself, he glanced over his shoulder for Frontius. "Don't waste your…"

The eastern sky was glowing a pale pink. Tiny, crescent-shaped clouds caught the dawn as she climbed up over the rim of the world, burning like spilled, molten gold.

"Shit!" Sextus scrambled up the nearest steps to the fighting wall. A dim light spilled across the land, picking out the roofs of the watchtowers on the first wall, ignoring the deep cavity of the dry canal. Frontius clambered up, puffing, unable to speak, his breath spent. Sextus wiped his forehead, fingers brushing against chilled metal. He stared out across the sprawling fortifications.

The edge of the sun peeked over the horizon, a single burning golden dot.

Sextus swallowed. The world seemed very quiet, still, without motion or sound.

Distantly, attenuated by the cold air, a drum boomed out a solitary deep note.

Frontius leaned on his knees, gasping for breath.

The drum boomed again and the eastern sky was suddenly filled with a black cloud, winking with silver. Sextus watched the arrows rise-so many! How could there be so many! — and then plunge down into the forward works. The sound of metal rattling on metal, raining down on wood and stone, reached across the distance. An abrupt roaring sound followed and Sextus saw a mangonel set behind the Roman lines wind back, pause, then release with a thrumming snap. Flaming pitch flew up, arcing into the sky, trailing smoke in a spiral. Thousands of tiny figures, red cloaks black in the poor light, rose up along the forward fighting wall, javelins, spears, bows at the ready.

A great shout rang back from the heavens. Flights of arrows plunged down. All along the Roman lines, mangonels and scorpions bucked and heaved, flinging burning stones, red-hot pitch, spears into the killing zone within the outer canal. Tiny figures of men toppled back from the wall. At this distance, Sextus could not see their wounds, but his memory supplied the bloody, crushed faces, the sightless eyes.

"Come on," Frontius grabbed his shoulder. "We've got to get to the signal tower."

Dust began to puff up into the sky. The sun, huge and distorted, was over the horizon, blazing light slanting down, right into Sextus' eyes. Half-blinded, he turned away. They started jogging again.

Khalid slid down the side of the dry canal, dirt spilling away under his feet. Two dozen of his men crowded around him, shields raised. His boots sank into the soft, muddy soil at the bottom of the watercourse. He was in shadow, but the Roman fortification rising up a hundred feet away was bathed in lucidly clear morning sunlight. Thousands of Sahaba swarmed across the ditch. A huge shout belled out from every throat. Khalid joined them, slipping and sliding in the mud as he tried to run forward. His bodyguards struggled alongside.

Allau ak-bar! The men climbing the far slope struggled through bundles of thorny brush intertwined with sharpened stakes. In some places, the dried thorn was already on fire, belching white smoke into a perfectly clear sky. Arrows hissed past. Khalid heard a thunk and looked over to see the iron point of a Roman shaft sticking through the nearest shield.

"Forward!" he shouted, strong, clear voice ringing out over the canal. "Forward!"

He ran on, cursing the sticky black mud clinging to his boots. Bodies littered the canal, splayed in the surprise of death, feathered with arrows or pinned by javelin bolts. A huge burning stone plunged out of the sky, spitting flame and smoke. It crashed into three of the Sahaba running ahead of Khalid. He threw himself down, shouting in alarm. The stone bounced up, splintering into hissing chunks of green flame and flew past over his head. Khalid threw aside a flame-wrapped cloak and struggled up. Most of the men around him were dead, or afire, screaming.

Gasping, he plowed onward, coated with heavy mud. His shield was gone, lost in the mire, but his right hand still clenched the blade of night in a death grip. The slope loomed above him and he stared up, seeing his men still clawing their way up the incline. More arrows spiraled down out of the sky, but most of the shafts were falling behind him. He looked back, face smeared with mud and spattered with the blood of the dead. The sky was streaked with smoke. Burning stones shrieked past overhead, plunging into the masses of men swarming down the side of the canal.

Sahaban arrows whickered past, lofted up by Arab archers crouched at the edge of the watercourse. Khalid forced himself upright, joining the great shout lifting up from hoarse throats.

Allau ak-bar! He climbed past a sharpened stake, the tip splintered and smeared with blood.

More of his guardsmen climbed behind him. Two scrambled past, spears in hand, shields slung over their backs. Khalid hacked at thornbush, clearing the dry brown thicket out of his path. The Roman fighting wall was only yards away. Men in tan cloaks struggled along the wall, hacking up at legionaries stabbing down with spears and javelins. The young Arab paused, drawing a deep breath.

"Allau ak-bar!" he screamed, sprinting up the last few yards. The words filled him with wild strength. A dying Sahaba fell back past him, throat torn out, blood spreading on his cloak. Khalid leapt onto a cockeyed siege ladder, then swarmed up the rungs, leading with the black-bladed sword. Spears jabbed at him, sliding between his legs. Frantic, he hacked down, the keen edge of the blade shearing through an oaken haft. The Roman soldier shouted in rage, flinging aside his ruined weapon.

Another spear slammed into his side and Khalid grunted as the metal rings of his armor took the blow. More Romans, faces obscured by plain iron helmets and cheek-guards, grabbed hold of the ladder and twisted sharply. Khalid shouted in dismay, then toppled back down the slope, crashing into four of his men climbing up behind him. All of them went down in a tangle, sliding into the thicket. Khalid's head smashed into the base of an angled stake and the world cartwheeled around. Stunned, he slid lower on the slope.

Men struggled above and more Sahaba fell, speared or shot at close range by Roman archers. Khalid blinked sweat and blood out of his eyes. The sun blazed down, blinding him. Nerveless, the young Arab groped for his sword. The blade of night was gone, lost somewhere on the slope. Groaning, Khalid rolled over, staring around wildly.

Hundreds of Arabs streamed back across the canal, their attack broken. Burning stones shrieked down out of the sky, crashing into the mud. Lakes of pitch burned furiously, filling the waterway with poisonous smoke. There were still knots of men fighting along the rampart, but they were dwindling in number. The legionaries concentrated their fire and rushed to shore up threatened parts of the wall.

"No," Khalid choked, barely able to speak. He felt sick, throat filled with bile. "No!"

Someone shouted above him. "There's a live one!"

Khalid froze, shoulder blades itching.

Out of the corner of his eye, something enormous moved in the sky.

"Hades!" Aurelian looked up in surprise, a wall of Praetorians in gleaming silver armor circling him. The priest Nephet was almost lost among their grim faces and muscle-bound arms, a thin, dry brown hawk in a plain robe. Black lightning flickered in a clear sky, reflecting in the prince's stunned eyes. The air above the forward wall shimmered and rippled with heat, revealing intermittent reflections of the earth below. The bulk of the bastion blocked Aurelian's view, but he could hear the sudden, strident din of battle. "Priest! What is happening?"

Nephet's thin old face grew grim, his eyes half-lidded. "The Persian magi, my lord, they are attacking the outer barrier." He leaned on his staff, attention far away. The prince saw the old man's arteries throb at the side of his throat. "Something is coming!"

Nephet's eyes flickered open, blazing with alarm. The hidden world was in upheaval, a vast, dark shape rushing towards him from the east. "To arms, my lord! The enemy is here!"

Zoe swept through the air, a hundred feet above the canal. Below her feet, she caught a glimpse of archers arrayed in ranks on the hard-packed earth. The Arabs were plucking arrows-thrust point-first into the sand-and fitting them to the bow. In the brief moment she perceived them, a thousand men fit fletching to thumb, lifted their bowstaves, then loosed. Iron-tipped, gray-fletched shafts snapped out across the canal, lofting high into the smoky, dust-filled air.

Before the Arabs could react to the apparition towering over them, Zoe had to look away, searching for the enemy. Dahak's will gripped her in steel fingers while she, Odenathus and Arad rushed through the air in a tight triangle. The sensation of flight was dizzying. Around them a dark haze swirled and shifted, a formidable ward radiating out from the jackal. The Lord of the Ten Serpents laughed to see their paltry shield of Athena.

You are my hounds, his thought crashed into hers. I will defend, you will attack, bright teeth deep in the Roman neck!

A vast shadow fell across the Roman fortification, mightier than the towers, spilling across the rampart, the fighting step, the crowds of legionaries staring up, eyes wide in fear, faces a sea of white ovals. Ahead, the golden wall shimmered and rippled, sheets of ghostly light falling in a slow wave down the face of the barrier. Zoe recognized the pattern-an interlocking matrix of thaumaturgic will, dozens of layers deep, constantly shifting, in endless motion to deny an enemy purchase-the battle-projection of a Roman thaumaturgic cohort. She felt the serpent's will move the colossal arm of the shadow and Zoe answered, summoning the power in the earth, invoking the flat blue shades of water, the living flame of reeds and trees. There was no stone here, not save the cut blocks of the wall's foundation, but they had been leached of power long ago.

Lightning blossomed, stabbing out from her hand as she moved her fingers in an old, old sign. The sky answered and brilliant blue-white thundered against the golden wall, ripping through gossamer, shattering delicate patterns, a sledge crashing into new-blown glass. Zoe gasped in surprise-she had never thrown such power before! A dark current boiled in her mind, flooding her senses, threatening to burst free of the binding of flesh and will. An enormous pressure crushed against her and Zoe screamed in panic, feeling the might of the Lord of the Ten Serpents flow through her.

Another bolt flashed across the narrowing distance and the golden wall shuddered. Below, in the fight still raging along the wall, men screamed in despair, throwing themselves to the earth. Wooden towers wicked into flame, pitch exploded in its barrels, scattering smoke and living green fire everywhere. Zoe felt the Roman thaumaturges reel back, stunned. Of her own accord, she struck-fist twisting into a pattern to rip the earth, to sunder stone, crack wood.

The shadow arm moved in unison with her will and an ephemeral fist smote the earth.

— |-

Khalid, still on his hands and knees, flinched back. A huge, towering figure-two hundred feet tall, his mind gibbered-strode out of the desert, skin black as night, face that of an enormous jackal, white fangs a tall man's length, red lips hideous against the ebon flesh, eyes blazing crimson. Lightning flashed, rocking the air with a stupendous boom and splintered across the sky, flooding over some invisible wall rising up from the Roman fortifications. A long, ringing tiiiiing followed, as if a stupendous crystal shattered. The Arab threw himself down the slope, thorns ripping his flesh, his arm crunching against another stake.

Behind him, the actinic glare of lightning flashed along the wall, driving men back with terrible heat, incinerating those still struggling on the rampart. When Khalid stopped rolling, the entire slope of the earthwork was on fire, wooden stakes and thornbush alike billowing flame and smoke. The titanic jackal wavered, its edges dancing with heat haze. It smashed a fist down into the center of the Roman wall. Khalid flinched and the earth jumped with an enormous crunch. A huge blast of dust roared up, logs and clods of earth flying in all directions.

For an instant, Khalid saw the sky distort, burning sparks licking off in jagged paths through the air. Pressure beat against his ears and he gasped for breath. The air itself bent, throwing insane reflections of the sky, the ground, running men. The smoke-jackal bent a vast dark shoulder, pressing at the empty air, an enormous foot grinding across the earthen rampart, splintering wood and crushing soldiers already stunned by the blasts ringing in the air into a crimson smear.

Thunder boomed out of the west and Khalid-still cowering at the base of the slope-saw blue-white lightning leap down from the sky, flaring across the jackal's shoulder and chest. The thing howled, ebon flesh incandescent where the blast had lit, then smote the air with a fist, then again. Tongues of fire slashed out of the west, haloing the monstrous creature's head with smoke. Still the air bent and Khalid realized some kind of invisible barrier was deforming under the jackal's attack. He crawled away from the smoldering brush, then remembered the blade of night lay somewhere behind, lost among the flames.

"Curse it!" he growled, hurriedly wrapping the tail of his kaftan around his face, leaving only a slit for his eyes. The fires were still sputtering, flames licking up here and there, curling bitter white smoke from the ashy ground. The young Arab scrambled up the slope, casting about wildly, desperate to find the sword of the city. His skin flushed with sweat. Where are my people?

Together! roared Dahak and Zoe's mind submerged in a rushing black flood. The hidden world convulsed with stabbing white bolts of power. The Roman thaumaturges were weighing in, furious in their assault, bending the earth and sky to crush the shadow creature mired against the golden wall. Zoe felt the serpent curse in rage, then she, Arad and Odenathus moved as one, colossal arm swinging back as they bent their power against the tattered, deformed pattern. Dimly, though the helices of fire slamming into their own wards, she perceived a huge group of desperate minds-sixty? seventy? — hurling flame, lightning, every scrap of power against them.

The shadow's vast hands tore into gossamer gold, fingers wrapped in lightning, blazing with ultraviolet, and Dahak spoke a word. The sound reverberated in the smallest stone. Men fell dead for miles around, though others staggered and lived. The shining wall froze-constant motion stilled-and Zoe saw a vast overlapping matrix of geometric forms congeal from hurrying, inconstant, undefined motion. Dahak bellowed, forcing his strength through the shuddering form of Arad, and the golden ice shattered violently, breaking away in dizzying fragments from a pinpoint blast of will.

The opposing minds vanished from Zoe's perception, blown aside like leaves ripped from the trees by a titanic gale. The golden wall crumpled, breaking into brilliant shards, each one splintering into smoke, then nothing. The jackal strode forward, shadow long upon the land.

Khalid clung to the earth, feeling mud and brick buck under him like a wild horse. A log fell past, rolling down the slope. A huge ripping sound split the sky, then a shattering boom, followed by rushing, forge-hot wind. Khalid cowered, digging into the loose earth. A colossal footstep slammed down, followed by the screams of men. The Arab looked up and saw, not more than a yard away, a bronze-bound hilt gleaming in the wreckage.

"At last!" he croaked, crawling forward to seize the hilt with both hands. The blade of night sighed free from the earth and Khalid felt his heart soar with relief. The blade was unharmed! He rose to his feet, staring to the north. The head and shoulders of the jackal loomed up, wrapped in billowing smoke and dust. The thing's face was lit with flames. Stone splintered under its tread and Khalid saw a huge section of the Roman fortification was gone, cast down, only rubble and corpses remaining.

"Forward!" he screamed, pointing with the sword. "To me, Sahaba! To me!"

In the canal bottom, those men who still lived picked themselves up, caked with mud, streaked with crimson. Khalid ran along the slope, dodging fallen timbers, leaping across the dead. His men saw him, recognized the shining ebon blade in his hand, and they raised a tumultuous shout.

"The Eagle!" they cried, running forward, spears raised, catching the sun cutting down through the dust. "The Eagle!" Thousands of the Sahaba, shaking free of surprise and fear, flooded forward into the breach.

"That's torn it!" Sextus picked himself up from the road. An earth tremor had rippled the length of the wall and the military road, shaking open huge cracks in the earthwork, jumbling the logs laid down to provide a mud-resistant roadway. "Are you hurt?"

Frontius rolled over, unable to stand. His face was a tight mask of pain, gnarled hands wrapped around his ankle. "Aiii… I think it's broken." The engineer gasped. Sextus knelt down, fingers tugging at his friend's boot. Frontius turned a funny color, lips going white. "Don't…"

Sextus stopped messing with the laces, then slipped a knife from his belt. The heavy military leather resisted for a moment, then parted with a scraping sound. Sextus worked the remains of the hobnailed boot free, jaw clenching as he saw a purplish-black bruise around Frontius' ankle and shin. "It's bad," he bit out.

The earth quivered again and now a rolling series of crashing sounds, interspersed with thunderclaps, shook the air. Grunting, Sextus got a shoulder under Frontius, then staggered to his feet. The other engineer, hanging upside-down, croaked in alarm, then convulsed, vomiting. Sextus ignored the slick wet feeling on the back of his bare legs. He cast a look behind him, over his shoulder.

Smoke obscured the center of the Roman line. Black smoke billowed up from burning, damp wood. Clouds of dust were interspersed with the smoke and leaping flames intermittently lit the haze. Sextus blinked, unsure of his own eyes. Lightning jagged and ripped through the smoke, briefly illuminating something huge moving at the center of the conflagration. The engineer cursed, suddenly realizing what he was looking at. The distortion of scale was too vast to easily comprehend.

A colossal figure a hundred yards high plowed out of the smoke. Mangonel stones smashed against its chest, bursting with green fire. Clouds of arrows leapt up from the ground, clattering away from ebon-hued skin. A vast jackal head appeared from the smoke. Fire burst upon it like spring flowers-blossoming in a hundred radiant hues, then vanishing again. The thing chopped an enormous hand down and the earth shook. Sextus staggered, shifting his balance. A flare of unnamable color burst from the moving fist and siege engines blew apart in blue-black flame.

"Set is upon us," Sextus breathed, stunned. "The gods walk the earth!"

He turned, settling an unconscious Frontius upon his shoulders and staggered off down the road. The shape of the southern mirror tower loomed up ahead, only a half-mile away. It seemed intact, the morning sun gleaming on the polished shape of the disk in its cradle. Grim-faced Roman legionaries ran past, heading for the sound of battle.

Nephet groaned, pushing weakly at a smoking, charred timber pinning him among the dead. The old Egyptian's face was streaked with blood, his nose bleeding, thin fringe of hair plastered against a skull shining with sweat. His thin arm strained, then the square-cut timber lifted and clattered to the ground. Surprised, the priest looked up to see a powerful figure crouched over him.

"Lord Caesar!" Nephet turned his head and spit blood on the dusty ground.

"Get up," Aurelian growled, lifting the frail old man up with both hands. The Roman's eyes were narrow slits against bitter white smoke drifting through the ruins of the bastion. His armor was dented and scored with black streaks, his beard fouled with mud. "Can you stand? Can you fight?"

Nephet coughed, catching a fringe of the smoke hanging in the air. A sizzling crack-crack-crack roared overhead. The priest ducked, flinching away from the noise. Aurelian's fingers dug into his shoulders.

"Can you fight?" The Roman shook Nephet roughly. Memories flooded back, chilling the old priest's blood. He and the prince had rushed forward to the bastion, alarmed at the enormous noise and the flare of light. The old Egyptian had barely reached the wall in time to watch a conflagration unfold, then the earth heaved and something had smashed him to the ground.

"Yes." Nephet turned, leaning heavily on his staff. The side of one hand pressed against his brow. The skin felt hot, but touch served to focus his mind enough to descend once more into the maelstrom of the hidden world. My brothers! To me! The old priest sketched a glyph in the air, the mnemonic guiding his thought and will into the desired pattern. A pale, feeble radiance flickered into being around him-an incomplete, weak sphere of defense. Nephet reached out, his will winging across the battlefield, searching desperately for his fellow priests. Sons of Horus, heed my call!

Destruction lay all around, echoing between the physical and the ghost shapes of the hidden.

A hundred-foot-wide section of the forward rampart was gone, reduced to jagged heaps of brick and ash. The remains of an ancient triumphal arch listed drunkenly to one side-the old gate had been completely filled in, making a strong point in the wall. Now the sandstone slabs were cracked and splintered, scattered over a sixty-foot-wide swath from the gate. The bastion opposite, where Nephet had been standing, was cloaked with smoke, watchtowers burning fiercely, a massive gouge torn out of the sloping earthen berm. Glassy slag puddled, shimmering with heat, among the wreckage. The tents inside were blown down and dead and wounded men lay scattered like grain discarded on a threshing floor.

Hurrying lights-the shapes of men-poured through the breach, surging forward into battle with struggling knots of legionaries, regrouping after the blast. Nephet struggled to think-the wound on the side of his head burned with cold fire-and took some heart to see the Roman soldiers rallying around their Legion standards. Furious ghosts and vengeful spirits clustered thick around the ancient banners, driving back the whiplash of fear and despair radiating out from the enemy. The thin cries of the newly dead bolstered the hearts of the living. Older, stronger shades crowded around the legionaries fighting in the wreckage, turning aside burning motes of misfortune flooding the hidden world.

As Nephet watched, one young centurion-fighting alone against three robed Persians-blocked a stroke, then ducked nimbly aside, warned by the spirit-shape of another, older, stronger centurion-perhaps centuries dead-who shadowed his every movement. Other ghosts flickered in the air, knocking aside Arab arrows and sling stones falling from the sky.

A vast shape, anchored by three burning stars, swung forward towards the second wall. Nephet staggered, looking upon the shape of the enemy. Part of his mind yammered in fear, faced with the horror of a god loosed upon the earth. Fool! shouted his conscious will, this is no god! They sleep, buried in the ice, imprisoned under the sea. This is illusion!

Set looked down upon him with blazing wolf-eyes, the head grown so large it blocked out the sky. The sun was reduced to a pale red disk, wreathed in smoke and the fume of battle. An ebon hand reached down, splintering the earth. Nephet felt his physical body topple over, but the Caesar Aurelian caught him in a powerful grip. The priest's attention turned away, summoning up power from the soil, from the stones, from the lifeblood of the Nile at his back.

Sons of Horus, to me! Swift thought winged across the battlefield.

This brought a second shock-worse than the first. Only a half-dozen minds responded, some faint and weak, some strong, approaching rapidly from the west. Are the others dead? Nephet called into the dark void. Then, at the edge of perception, through storms of anger, fear and despair, he caught the faint scent of panic and flight. The priest blazed bright with fury. They run? The mad fools! There is no escape now, not even in death.

Nephet whirled, those few companions rushing forward to join him.

Too late, old man. A sly tickling brushed against his consciousness. Nephet froze, startled by a vaguely familiar touch.

Bow before me, like these others, it whispered, and you will live.

The old priest settled his mind; calming his heart, letting fear wash away, sand spilling into the desert, leaving only unblemished stone. No, he answered into the void, seeing the enemy loom over him, three burning eyes blotting out the sun. I will not yield.

Khalid clambered across fallen brick and square-cut timbers. He'd snatched up a round shield from one of the fallen. The breach in the rampart was wide, but with hundreds of his men, now joined by a few Persian diquans in heavy armor, swarming through the gap, he found himself among a crowd. The Sahaba chanted as they picked their way forward in a loose, disorganized line.

Ah-la-la-la-la! The long, ululating wail raised the hackles on Khalid's neck, though he had ridden to battle with the men of the desert many times. Thin curtains of smoke rolled across the field, obscuring the enemy. Khalid trotted forward, fearless, and found himself on a rubble-strewn road of planks, looking down into a second dry canal. Staked fences crisscrossed the canal bed.

"To me, Sahaba!" he screamed, turning, waving the ebon blade. "Bannermen, to me!"

A green flag appeared among streaks of white fog, sword and crescent moon plain on the simple fabric. Khalid felt his heart swell to see the banner of his people. "Over here!"

Deep shouts belled out, then the rush of booted feet. Khalid whirled, the sword licking across the face of a Roman soldier. The legionary ducked, shoving a heavy, rectangular shield at the Arab. Khalid skipped back, feeling the planks twist uneasily beneath his feet. The Roman stabbed underhand, the triangular tip of his short blade slamming into the edge of Khalid's shield. The Arab hacked overhand and the sable edge of the blade rang away from the iron rim of the big scutum. Gasping for breath, Khalid parried another stab, then slashed at the man's feet. The shield interposed again, sending the point of the blade belling away.

A line of Romans appeared out of the smoke, moving shoulder to shoulder, their shields a solid wall of laminated wood and iron. The Sahaba howled, rushing forward, swords and spears glittering. The legionaries answered with a hoarse bark of rage, standing their ground, and a sharp melee resulted-blades and spear points darting as each side tried to gain the advantage. Two burly Arab spearmen pushed past Khalid, slamming twelve-foot pikes into the Roman shields. One shield slipped, exposing the man behind, and he screamed, taking an iron spear point in his armpit. Blood smeared the leaf-shaped blade and the Arabs yelled wildly, trying to push into the opening. The Roman soldier fell away, vomiting blood, to be trampled underfoot. Legionaries filled the gap, jostling shoulder to shoulder.

Khalid wiped his brow, catching his breath. The battle eddied around him, leaving him alone and unmolested for an instant. The vast shape of the jackal towered across the canal, wreathed in lightning, staggering under bursts of fire. A constant boom-boom-boom shook the air, deafening everyone. Khalid barely noticed now, his attention focused on staying alive for just another grain. His Sahaba were locked in a fierce, stand-up melee in the rampart breach. Roman soldiers crowded in on the roadway from either side of the gap, trying to pinch off their position. More Arabs scrambled forward over the rubble, but now Roman archers on the shattered ends of the rampart shot down at them as they ran.

A basso thwang echoed in the air and a six-foot-long bolt snapped out of the smoke, ripping through the ranks of the Arabs fighting in the breach. Khalid spun, then cursed. The jackal was writhing in flame and lightning, leaving the Roman bastions across the canal free to fire their siege engines into the crowd of Sahaba. We need more men, Khalid realized, stomach going cold. Or they'll crush us.

Blade firmly in hand, he darted off into the drifting smoke, running back towards the Persian lines.

The jackal swung round, tripartite eye blazing, and the air convulsed. Something sped at Nephet, a whirling disk of blue-black fire. Desperate, his hands slashed into a complex pattern. The shield of Athena flared sun-bright, threads of green fire leaping into the shimmering globe from earth, stone and sky. The black disk collided, shattering into ravening lightning with a howl of sparks. Nephet was thrown down, stunned by the blast. His shield wavered, splintered, then collapsed in azure rain. Shaking off momentary weakness, the old Egyptian surged up, staff stabbing at the enemy.

The colossal shape of the jackal plowed into the second wall, grappling with the weaker, newer, matrix of battle wards. Nephet wept to see how frail the anchors were, how weak the lattice vaulting up in the hidden world. He and the other priests had only worked on binding a ward of defense into the inner wall for a week. Surely not enough time to withstand this thing's power… Spirit flames roared around black limbs, the jackal's mouth gaping wide, spilling dirty gray mist. The god ground into the defense, brawny chest streaked with clinging fire, splintering stakes underfoot, massive arms smashing through golden veils.

Muttering old words, passed down from priest to priest from the time of the Drowning, Nephet slammed his staff into the earth, fist jerking in the air, clutching at emptiness, then opening in a hard, sharp motion towards the shifting, immaterial titan. A jagged arc flashed in the air, arrowing into the thing's side. There was an efflorescence of rainbow color-blotting out the sun, casting wild shadows in all directions-and the jackal screamed, overcome. The shape toppled over, crashing against the failing pale gold wall. Cracks rippled across the ephemeral surface, then the wards closed, adapting to the blow, sliding together again.

Nephet gasped, feeling his old heart race, and found himself on all fours, sweat pouring from his thin body. That was too much, he thought vaguely. Mud under his fingers smoked and steamed. He was glowing, shedding a hot radiance from every pore. The pit of his stomach was cramping, his spine burning like a star. I've got to rest. Just for a moment…

The jackal shuddered, splitting into three indistinct, wavering shapes for an instant, then rushed back together again. Those few Roman thaumaturges still alive attacked, whirling white sparks igniting in the jackal's shadow shape. Brilliant rays lanced out from each impact, eating away at the shadow. Again, the jackal convulsed, a broken mirror showing three distorted images. Nephet raised his head, snarling in delight. Clutching the staff, he forced himself to his feet, though the ancient, well-burnished wood charred at his touch. Now we have it! he exulted. It's not one monster, but three magi!

Nephet felt another priest of Horus strike, then beheld a rippling distortion blur across the field, sweeping around the faint patterns of watchtowers, walls, the hot spike of a scorpion winding back to hurl an iron bolt into the Persian ranks. Swiftly, seeing his chance, the old Egyptian slashed the air with his staff, glowing green traces shining in the void as he etched a sign of power. A viridian glyph formed, spinning out of infinity, a triangle broken into three, then into three, then into… Nephet wrenched his perception away from the abyss opening before him. He felt thin, attenuated, and realized the native power in the earth around him had guttered out, exhausted by the conflagration. Oh, great god Horus, fill me with your strength! Strike down your old enemy, the father-murderer, the eater of the dead!

The staff disintegrated, falling away from his hand as ash. His flesh withered, tightening to the bone.

Nephet forced his hands together and down, the triangular abyss compressing in an echo of his movement. Then, straining, his will fading, he shoved at the air, the blazing glyph leaping away, flashing across the field in an instant. Iridescent with power, the Eye of Horus slammed into the jackal, even as it rose, reformed, shadow shape solidifying into ebon muscle and sinew. The white sparks splashed away, unable to penetrate the revivified colossus.

Then the burning, lidless eye intersected with the dark god.

A half-sphere of darkness flared into existence as the glyph collided with a glassy surface. Then the glyph separated into three, then three again. In the blink of an eye, the sphere was engulfed in blazing green fire. Nephet held his breath, woozy, unable to stand. A shockwave ripped through the hidden world as the glyphs condensed with a ringing bang! Nephet was thrown back, crashing into a fragment of the battle ward. He slid to the ground, blinded by a blue-green flare.

The jackal was gone. The golden filaments of the battle ward scattered, driven by unseen winds. The old Egyptian blinked up at the sky, his eye drawn into the void behind the stars. Dizzy, his mind tried to grasp the totality revealed in the abyss, filled with whirling disks of glowing light, of great oblate spheres of fire, of endless darkness.

Fool-making a student's mistake! Part of his mind gibbering in fear, he wrenched his attention away. The chaos of stars faded and Nephet realized his face was wet. A ghostly, barely visible, hand rose to touch his face and his fingers came away slick with glistening blood. The shape of the Caesar Aurelian loomed over him, a white outline against the jewel-bright sky. A crown of translucent golden holly gleamed on the Roman's head and shades hovered close around the prince, guarding him from evil. They smiled down at Nephet, lambent eyes shining, teeth white and sharp.

Why didn't I see you before? he wondered, raising a hand to the mother wolf curling around Aurelian's insubstantial feet. A prickly tongue licked his fingers clean, her breath hot on his hand. Old grim-faced men, clean-shaven, hovered around the prince, ghostly javelins and swords making a barrier of steel. But the red-beard cannot see you, Nephet realized, his thoughts becoming vague, his limbs heavy with sleep. And I, only now…

The priest's heart stuttered, then stopped. Blood moved weakly in his body, but his mind was already falling into darkness. The shape of Aurelian pressed stout fingers against a frail, old neck-then shook its head. Nephet's physicality began to decay, even as he grew cold and still on the broken ground.

Across the ramparts, fires raged where the glyph had shattered through black glass. Even in the physical world, the dead lay in windrows, the fighting wall toppled, bricks sizzling with heat. Three bodies lay where one colossus had struggled. Arad crumpled in a crater of vaporized brick and mud, his powerful limbs splayed on the ground, Odenathus and Zoe cast aside, faces slack in unconsciousness. Steam hissed from the earth, silt and mud boiling.

The few remaining priests of Horus crept from the battlefield, wounded and exhausted, most barely able to move. Some-blessed with servants-were borne away in litters. Others lay fallen, struck down in the struggle or stunned by the tremendous blast. Only Zoe, sprawled on the slope of the rampart, head hanging over the lip of the canal, showed any sign of life, her breast rising and falling, hand moving weakly, as she tried to rise up.

Splinters dug into Sextus' hand, though the pain was barely noticeable against a rush of bloodfire coursing through him. Gasping for breath, he scrambled up the last section of ladder onto the mirror platform. The round, silvered disk was a man's height and blazed with a shimmering reflection of the noon sun. The metal surface was suspended in a wooden frame mounted on an iron wheel. Two Egyptian boys squatted on either side, faces wrapped with cloth, staring at him in surprise.

"You two," the engineer snapped, "swing the disk 'round to flash the dam!"

Stung by the fierce tone in his voice, the boys worked quickly, each working the arm of a screw mechanism to raise the disk. Sextus forced himself to lean back against the railing, out of the way, upper body hanging out over a dizzying sixty-foot drop. His knuckles turned white with strain while the boys rotated the screw, raising the disk a hand span. The metal ring at the base of the disk was freed from a locking pin on either side and one boy turned the disk-now rotating freely-toward the south. The other squinted across the muddy canals, over a huge, spreading swamp filled with glistening bogs, stands of green cane, acres of meandering waterway and drooping, thin-leaved trees.

Away through the mist rising from the wetland, Sextus caught a flash of light, a bright spark cutting through dirty gray haze. The lookout yelped at the same time, pointing, and both boys began making delicate adjustments to the orientation and incline of the disk.

A thudding boom echoed through the air and the engineer spun, heart thudding with fear, staring back to the north. From this southern elevation, even through trailing columns of smoke and dust, he could see both canals receding into the distance, straight as a plumb bob. The placement of the ramparts, their square-walled bastions, the even occurrence of watchtowers, the geometric efficiency of the fortifications was pleasingly regular.

A wave of flame billowed into the air-to Sextus' eye, an expanding sphere of overpressure as clear as the sun itself-blowing back smoke and dust with terrific force. Watchtowers swayed drunkenly in the hot gale, and secondary fires sparked as it passed. He saw something enormous and dark-the god? — stagger, then collapse toward the ground, vanishing like dew.

Within moments, while the boys sweated to adjust the disk, tremendous heat washed over the tower, making Sextus turn away, arm raised to shield his face. The mirror tower trembled, logs groaning, the disk rattling in its frame. Both Egyptians cried out, startled, and threw themselves onto the iron supports, clutching for dear life. The engineer hunkered down, letting the hot wind blow past, then looked again to the north.

Everything was in confusion. Even at this distance he could see tiny, still forms of the dead littering the ground. Sickened, his eyes darted to the breach in the first wall. A mass of Persians-their tan, yellow and brown cloaks clear to see-were forcing their way through the gap.

Oh gods! What do I do now? Sextus looked desperately to Aurelian's command post. The inner bastion was shrouded in smoke. Flames leapt up from hidden fires. Are they dead? Has Caesar fallen?

"Centurion?" One of the Egyptians clutched his arm. Sextus felt the world freeze, time sliding to a sickening halt. The boy's voice was hoarse with fear. "What message, Centurion? What message?"

Scorching wind roared against Khalid's face, blinding him. Shocked by the massive plume of light and heat rising over the Roman fortifications, the Arab hastily threw himself to the ground. A long, drawn out, rumbling crack of thunder echoed over the ramparts and canals, finally dying into a mutter over the desert. Cautious, Khalid looked up into silence and saw the smoke and fog gone, cleared away by the rush of wind. Less than twenty yards ahead, the Sahaba cowering in the rubble of the fallen wall stirred. Like Khalid, they had flattened with the explosion. The Roman legionaries peered back at them from the shelter of their shields. Even the Roman archers had fallen quiet and the air was free of whistling shafts.

"Men of Persia! With me!" Khalid bellowed into the silence, beating out the stentorian cry of a dozen Roman centurions by only heartbeats. The young Arab leapt up, shrugging the shield on his left arm into a secure grip, the ebon blade of the city whirling around his head. Hundreds of Persians and fresh Sahaban fighters surged up from the canal with a great shout and together they rushed into the breach. On the jagged ramparts to either side, more Persian diquans scrambled up the slope, a basso roar of "the Boar! the Boar!" ringing out.

Jalal loped alongside Khalid, his great bow strung. The young Arab stormed into the midst of the melee, where legionaries and Sahaban spearmen grappled in combat. A swift gray arrow, then another, whipped past Khalid as he ran, taking a legionary in the throat and eye only instants before the blade of night sheared through the man's guard and into his upper arm. Khalid shouted with glee, flashing a quick grin of thanks at the giant bowman, then the ebon edge of the sword flicked up, driving away a Roman's thrust.

The legionary overextended, his foot slipping on the broken ground, and Khalid turned sharply, arm lashing out, the keen edge of the sword cracking through a leather gorget and into the man's collarbone. Blood sprayed across the side of the soldier's face, then Khalid kicked him away. The Sahaba and the Persians pressed forward, driving back the stunned Romans. The young Arab saw the legionaries still suffering from the blast, which had struck them from behind, killing many and setting some afire.

A huge wedge of Shahr-Baraz's pushtigbahn crashed into the Romans along the northern roadway, their lamellar foot-to-crown iron armor proof against the legionary spears and swords. The Immortals chanted in unison, a hoarse, booming roar like the storm-tossed sea against a rocky shore. Khalid grinned again-the pushtigbahn swept the disordered legionaries back, capturing another hundred feet of roadway and rampart. On his side of the breach, the Sahaba-now reinforced by Jalal and the more heavily armed and armored soldiers of the qalb-also gained ground.

With the smoke and fog blown back, Khalid could see across the second canal. The bastion whose siege engines had been hurling stones, burning pitch and iron bolts into their attack was afire. The jackal-god was gone, leaving a huge, blackened scar on the earthen rampart. The Roman mangonels and scorpions were burning, their watchtowers wrapped in flame. New smoke billowed up into the sky. Confusion, it seemed, reigned along the second line of defense as well.

He looked down, gauging the distance across the dry canal-another fifty feet of soft earth, spotted with muddy pools and wandering triangular fences of sharpened stakes-with a grimace. The Romans had planned well. He could lead his men across the canal, slopping through heavy mud and break down the obstructing fences, but this would take time. He squinted at the bastion and rampart opposite, then froze in alarm.

Roman troops appeared along the wall, looking about in stunned surprise, the sun glinting from their helmets. Already, men were working in the huge scar, piling up earth and broken beams, hastily building a barricade of ashy brick and wagons. Below them, below their archers and sharp-eyed centurions, a pair of figures lay on the slope, unmoving, unnoticed.

Zoe! Khalid thought, feeling his gut turn over with nausea, and Odenathus. Are they dead?

"Great Mars, how poorly we've served you today…" Aurelian wiped soot from his eyes, hands black with ash. A small, bewildered group of Praetorians clustered around him, long cavalry swords drawn, faces and armor dusted dark gray. They were nervous-no Roman soldier was pleased to face magic and no one had never faced anything like this. Aurelian felt ill himself, off-balance and out of his depth. Watching the life drain from the priest of Horus had been wrenching. The hawk-faced man had seemed solid as old granite before the jackal stormed over the rampart, all smoke and fire and its single burning eye. "Runners! Where are my runners?"

One of the Praetorians turned, face white, his mouth tight with fear. "Dead, my lord."

Aurelian cursed, then took a breath to steady himself and scrambled up onto the remains of the fighting step running around the bastion. The explosion in the sky-whatever had struck down the jackal-had been devastating in the enclosed space below. Aurelian guessed he lived only due to luck and stout armor, but the crews on the siege engines, his couriers, and the priests had been without protection. Many now lay dead in heaps across the smoking, cracked earth.

Worse, the slope before him was stripped bare of stakes and entangling brush and a huge crevice split open the earthwork. The core of brick and wood had collapsed, the packed dirt falling away. Huge sections were fused into brittle, yellow-green glass. The fighting wall on the summit of the rampart was either on fire or blown down. Cautiously, Aurelian peered around the shoulder of a broken timber. Persian soldiers scrambled down into the dry canal, tan robes bright against the dark, muddy earth. The fighting in the breach on the first wall was dying down-the Persians driving back the legionaries on either side and pouring through the gap in a huge crowd.

"You'll have to do then," Aurelian barked, sliding back down the fighting step. "Manius, run to the seventh and eighth cohorts, they're waiting in reserve on the old road-get them here now. The enemy will try and rush the bastion, try to break through the broken section of the wall. Gnaeus, there are reserves on the first wall…" The prince pointed north, across the canal. The nearest forward bastion was already under attack from the inner road, robed figures climbing the sloping sides under a flitting cloud of arrows and javelins. "…in each strong point. Tell each bastion commander to detach one cohort and rush them to the breach. Titus-you go south of the attack-tell those commanders the same."

The three guardsmen sprinted off without a word. The other Praetorians leaned close, faces grim. The prince felt a strange disassociation between his thoughts-a swift torrent of considerations and decisions, his mind leaping ahead across hours, days, weeks-and the smoky air, the screams of the wounded, the peculiar brittle quality in the sky. He glanced over his shoulder again-the Persians were toiling across the canal in a mob. "The rest of you… gather up all the men you can find… shore up that wall; one of those scorpions is unharmed, get it working!"

Aurelian felt surety seize him, his confusion vanishing in a hard, bright instant of decision. His voice cleared, the hoarseness fading, ringing out. Everywhere within sight soldiers stiffened, looking towards him. The fear and confusion in their faces disappeared.

"Archers to the wall!" he boomed. "Don't let the Persians reach us in good order! Get the wounded back and hale men forward!"

Khalid gasped for breath, feet slipping in the loose, muddy earth. Persian diquans climbed past, the sun-slanting through clouds of dust and smoke-blazing from their swords and maces. The Arab took hold of a charred Roman stake and levered himself up another yard. A crowd of Sahaban fighters and pushtigbahn clambered past, silent and grim. A lone arrow snapped overhead. Behind Khalid, horns wailed in the heavy air. A glance over his shoulder revealed golden banners pouring through the break in the outer wall. Thousands of fresh Persian troops were coming up.

"Shields!" A cry echoed down from the top of the fortification. Metal and wood clashed, and a sudden wall of legionary shields appeared, horsetail helmet plumes dancing above the square-edged scuta. Khalid gathered himself, then sprinted up the slope, ash puffing up as he ran. The pushtigbahn and the Sahaba rushed forward as well, cloaks slapping against armor, breath loud and hoarse in the suddenly still air. The Romans tensed as well, the edges of their shields clanking one against the other.

"Throw!" a deep, bull-voice shouted and the Persians and Arabs threw themselves down, pressing against the earth, crouching behind their shields. Javelins flickered in the sky, falling among the attackers with a ringing clang. Immediately, the Arab soldiers rose and rushed forward again. Down on the floor of the canal, hundreds of their fellows raised a wild shout.

"Allau ak-bar!" the Sahaba screamed, charging up the last yards into the Roman lines.

Khalid scuttled sideways, ducking instinctively as a flight of arrows flashed up from the canal. The Arab archers were shooting blind, lofting their shafts high above the rampart, letting the arrows fall into the space behind the line of battle. Khalid ignored them and the men struggling along the crest of the wall-everything but the shattered earth in front of him. He slipped over the lip of the crater, wincing at the heat radiating out of the burned, glassy earth.

Two bodies lay within the blackened circle. The jackal-headed man was curled up in the base of the hollow, while Odenathus-his face streaked with blood and soot-was crumpled only a few feet away. Suppressing a cry of despair, Khalid crawled down to his friend. His outstretched hand touched cold, clammy flesh and the young Arab felt his heart race. Odenathus' head rolled back, mouth slack, eyes sightless. Khalid crouched in the crater, ear pressed to his friend's chest. A faint flutter of breath rewarded him.

"You're alive, at least…" Khalid whispered to the unconscious Palmyrene. Still keeping his head low, the Arab slid down into the hollow, boots cracking through a brittle, glassy crust. Fresh steam rushed out, scalding his leg. Gasping with pain, Khalid rolled away from the sizzling vent. Biting his lip to keep from crying out, the Arab wrapped his cloak around both hands, then crawled up the far side of the crater. Zoe's leg lay within the ashy circle, but her body was exposed on the slope.

A sudden burst of shouts and the clatter of iron made Khalid turn. A javelin whipped past, thudding into the dirt beside Zoe's foot. The Arab yelped in surprise, then scrambled up out of the crater and threw himself onto the girl. Another javelin whipped past. Some Arab archers in the canal yelled, pointing. Khalid gave Zoe's body a heavy push with his boot-the girl slid down the slope, arms flopping. The archers began climbing up, eager to reach her. One of them rose up too far-another Roman javelin plunged down out of the sky and crunched into his chest. Surprised, the man toppled back, bow flying from his hand.

A deep roar echoed from the top of the rampart. Khalid spared a glance and saw a huge mob of pushtigbahn clatter up the slope and into the melee. The Romans staggered back, the diquans wading in among them, heavy maces flashing, longswords glittering crimson. Then a brawny, red-bearded legionary stormed into their midst, smashing his shield into the face of a Persian knight, knocking the man back down the slope. The diquan smashed into two of his fellows-still toiling up the incline-and all three fell in a huge bang of metal. Khalid wrenched his attention away, scuttling around the rim of the smoking crater. Odenathus' body felt light-he was wearing only a padded mail shirt under his tunic-and Khalid grunted, taking the man's weight across his shoulders.

Staggering, his boots cracking through shattered glass, Khalid weaved back to the edge of the canal. Zoe's body had slid down to the archers. Eager hands seized her armor and cloak, dragging her into a cluster of Sahaba.

"Run!" Khalid shouted, gesturing wildly. "Take her across!"

The archers looked up, surprised. Khalid bent, spilling Odenathus down the gravelly slope. The Palmyrene slid, picking up speed, rolling over and over. Two of the archers threw themselves under him, catching the wizard. Khalid swung over the lip of the crater, shoulder blades itching in warning. A sharp rattling sound split the air. Khalid ducked, pressing himself into the hot earth. A scream echoed back. One of the archers had taken a sling stone in the face. Blood spurted, the man clawing at a ruined eye.

The Arab pushed himself down the slope, dirt spilling away under him.

"The jackal!" a hoarse, sharp voice shouted. Khalid looked up as his feet hit the bottom of the rampart, sinking into thick mud. Zoe was struggling weakly among the men carrying her. Her white face was very plain against the dark earth, the soot-stained faces of the archers, the sky filled with smoke and dust. "Get the jackal!" A mail-clad finger stabbed back at the crater.

Khalid cursed vilely. Arrows fluttered out of the sky, falling like rain. One of the Sahaba, only yards away, rose up, loosed his own shaft at the Romans high above, then ducked down again. The Eagle pulled one boot free from the mire. He wiped his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek. Zoe was still struggling, though the men holding her were far stronger. "Get the jackal!" she wailed.

"Are you mad?" Khalid pressed himself close to the rampart, trying to hide from the missiles plunging down from above. He stared back at the girl, still struggling, then fearfully at the melee on the slope above. Can't leave wizards just lying about! He might even be alive…

The young Arab clawed at the earth, pulling himself back up the wall. Cautiously, he peered over the edge. The Persian attack had broken. The Immortals lay dead in drifts along the rampart, while the Sahaba were falling back in disarray. A huge crowd of legionaries formed up on the crest of the wall, faces exhausted, but obviously game for a second go. Khalid scrambled across the crater, pulse hammering in his ears. He grabbed the jackal's bare foot, fingers slipping from a layer of sweat. Khalid tugged violently, dragging the man towards him.

Someone shouted sharply in Latin. Khalid grabbed the ankle with both hands, digging his feet in and hauled for all he was worth. The jackal slid across the crater floor towards him, shoulders crunching through glass. A sling stone slapped into the mud, splashing Khalid's face. Biceps burning, he gave another huge heave. The jackal slipped free of the mire and fell into his arms.

An arrow leapt down out of the sky, slamming into the jackal's chest. Khalid grunted, stunned by the blow. The iron arrowhead pierced the body and grated against the iron links of his mail shirt. Sick with fear, Khalid rolled backwards, slipping over the lip of the crater. A roar of Roman laughter followed him, then jeering cries.

Unable to catch himself, Khalid fell heavily into the canal, then the jackal crashed down on top of him. The iron mask cracked sharply against his forehead and the young Arab cried out. Everything was spinning, the earth shaking, a growing roar rushing towards him. Dazed, Khalid struggled under the body, heavy black mud sliding up around his arms and legs, oozing into his armor.

"Release me!" Zoe punched one of the archers in the face, feeling his nose break under the iron rings of her glove. The man gasped, falling back, and she shrugged free of the others. She felt terribly weak-her sight in the hidden world came and went in disorienting flashes-but the crumpled shape of the jackal filled her vision. "We have to get him back," she hissed at the archers.

Without waiting for their response, she staggered forward, mud sucking at her boots. The Sahaba fell back from her in confusion as someone began shouting in alarm. Zoe ignored the noise, slogging through deeper mud to seize the jackal-headed man's belt. The leather was soft and slippery but she managed to get her fingers around the band. Grunting, she leaned away, levering the corpse against her thigh. With a greasy sound, the body slid away from Khalid. The young Arab thrashed weakly as he tried to stand up. Zoe heaved again, a hiss of breath escaping gritted teeth, and turned the jackal over. The corpse was heavy and cold, the eyes of the mask dark pits, exposed flesh puckered with small stones and a dark gash where an arrow pierced the chest.

"Wake up!" Zoe kicked the dead man viciously in the side. "Get up!"

A Roman slingstone snapped past, splashing into the mud. Khalid rose up, black with mud from head to toe. "Get down yourself!" he hissed at Zoe as he crouched, eyes flickering back and forth, watching for the next missile.

Zoe knelt and rapped her hand sharply on the jackal mask. It boomed hollow, red paint flaking away among carbonized metal and soot. "Make these limbs move," she shouted into a tall, blunt-pointed ear. "We have to get out of here!"

"Captain! Captain!" One of the archers splashed towards them, pointing upstream. "Look!"

Zoe turned, dark brown eyes narrowed in anger at the interruption. She froze, eyebrow rising in surprise. A rushing hiss reached her ears, and she could see a glistening brown wall rushing down the canal towards her. "Khalid," she said calmly. "Grab hold of the other arm."

"What?" Another slingstone snapped past his ear, making the Arab duck violently. "We've no time to-urk!"

Zoe twisted his head around, sharp fingernails digging into his ear. Khalid yelped, then shouted in alarm when he saw the onrushing water. "A flood!"

"You men-" Zoe cursed, seeing the backs of the archers climbing the far bank of the canal. Heedless of the water rumbling towards her in a slick green-brown wave, Zoe crouched, digging her arm into the muck, under the jackal's body. The corpse was sinking deeper. "Khalid, help me!"

The young Arab wrenched his attention away from the slowly building wave. He was green himself, but shook free of his paralysis and grabbed hold of an arm and a leg. Together, they tugged at the body. It came free with agonizing slowness, black mud oozing away from pallid limbs. Without waiting for the legs to come completely free, they staggered together toward the eastern wall of the canal.

Distant laughter hooted in the air. The slingstones stopped falling. Zoe, forcing herself forward, foot by foot, mud sucking at her boots, had a wild, brief image of legionaries crouched on the rampart, calling bets on her, on Khalid, even on the corpse. The rushing water was close now, the hiss rising sharply to a roar. Zoe splashed on, boots filling with water. Khalid stumbled, dragging the corpse down as he fell. Zoe felt the slick, gelid dead arm slide over her shoulder. Desperately, she clutched at sinewy brown fingers. Her right foot sank deep into the mud. Khalid went down, the corpse slumping over on top of him. The oncoming water roared, drowning out all other sound.

A chill washed over Zoe, despite the close, humid air and sweat running from her temples and shoulders. Sick with fear, she dragged her left foot free, losing the boot. Khalid's arms clawed desperately at the mud, trying to keep his head above the muddy slurry rising in the canal. Zoe lunged forward, grabbed his hand, then set her legs, hauling back with all her strength. The jackal slipped sideways, falling into swiftly rising brown water. Khalid floundered up, splashing. Zoe spun him around, pushing towards the sloping wall of the canal. Brown water, thick with twigs and leaves, washed around her waist.

Tugged by rushing water, the jackal's corpse drifted sideways, head dragged down by the weight of the mask.

Zoe groped to catch the dead man, but the current snatched him away. Cursing again, she surged forward, splashing through chest-high water. The wave swept over her and the Palmyrene felt herself lifted up by rushing water. Biting her lip, she made one last grab for the jackal-caught his leg-then the wave slammed her into the side of the canal. Muddy water flooded into her mouth. Zoe choked, gasping, fingers digging into the cold flesh of the jackal's leg.

"Help!" she choked out. Hands reached down for her, filling her vision with writhing tan worms. Someone caught her hair, then her flailing arm. She slammed into the side of the canal again, breath punched from her chest. Still, she clung to the jackal with a death grip. A lasso settled around her shoulders, then the water began to fall and she was dragged free of the muddy roil by a dozen hands.

Khalid's face appeared, blocking out a blazing sun, and his teeth were very white in the dark silhouette of his face. "She looks angry," Zoe heard him say from a great distance. "She'll live!"

Zoe choked, coughed, spit nut-brown water and bits of leaves out on the ground. Gagging, she heaved, managing a thin stream of yellow bile. Her mouth was filled with fine grit, making her cough again. "Water…" she managed to say. The mouthpiece of a water skin banged her in the eye, then she managed to take a drink, spat, drank again, clearing her mouth. "Where is the jackal?"

"Here, my lady." Two of the Sahaba, tan-and-white robes stained brown to the chest, dragged the still-cold and unmoving shape of the man, Arad, to her. They dumped him on the ground, metal mask clanging dully on the logs of the rampart road.

Zoe crawled to the corpse, raising herself up on one arm. Brown water leaked from the mask, puddling under the man's head. Fingers trembling, Zoe touched his neck and throat. The flesh was cold and greasy. "Wake up," she growled. She coughed again, spitting up silt. "Wake up!"

There was a shuffling around her as the Sahaba drew away, muttering. Zoe's face contorted, a blue spark flaring in her eyes. Her hand, stiff with anger, slapped hard against the cold iron. The mask rang like a bell, ringing with tinny echoes. The girl's hand blazed blue-white for an instant and the iron mask split open. Grunting, Zoe wrenched aside the metal fragments, revealing a battered face, still and pale, without even the faintest motion of life.

"Oh, no…" The Queen's voice faltered, falling into a faint whisper.

"What is it?" Odenathus appeared, kneeling beside her. Half of his face was burned red, his cloak in tatters, tunic and armor charred. Khalid crouched at his side, noble young face stiff with worry. The Queen looked up, eyes bright with tears.

"I think he is dead," she managed, then covered her mouth with a mud-caked hand.

Odenathus leaned over the body, lips a thin, tight line. Gently, he removed the remaining pieces of the mask. The man on the ground was thin, cadaverous-a once-handsome face badly scarred by old wounds. The lips were black and stretched tight against jaw and teeth. The young Palmyrene pressed his hand against a hollow cheek, leaning close, listening.

"Nothing…" he started to say.

Black lips opened with a wet, rattling gasp. Odenathus jumped back in surprise, eyes wide in fear. The body twitched, fingers scrabbling on the muddy logs. Then the head rose, and sunken eyes blazed with sullen green flame. "There is still an edge on this knife," echoed a dreadful voice from a dead throat.

Khalid drew back, the blade of night halfway free from its sheath. Odenathus stared in horror, watching slow life rise in the corpse limbs, muscles swelling with strength, the skin flushing with warm color. The Queen stiffened, her face growing tight. A tic began at the corner of her jaw, then she turned away, covering her face with the charred corner of her cloak.

The dead man rose, joints creaking. The head swiveled, looking to the west, mouth stretching into a cruel grin. "Where are the busy bees now?" it coughed wetly. "Dead, dead in the hive…"

"Heave!" shouted a diquan, helmet slung on a strap over his shoulder, tightly curled beard shining with sweat. "Heave!"

Two hundred men, stripped to the waist, muscled backs gleaming with sweat, moved as one. A thunderous shout of "ho!" boomed out. Cables drew taut and then a plank roadbed rumbled forward. Palm logs splintered, rolling under the weight of the bridge section as the wooden truss edged over the lip of the canal. Persian soldiers splashed away from falling logs, then the section slid out, cables stiff, and ground into place atop the first wooden pier.

Shahr-Baraz stood atop the Roman wall, looking down on the outer canal. He smiled, a broad, feral grin shining through the sweep of his mustache. Delighted, he slapped his thigh with a gloved hand, turning to the men standing beside him. "Well done, captains! At this rate we'll have four bridges across the outer canal by nightfall."

"And then what?" Khalid squatted on the wooden platform, face lined with exhaustion. He pointed with his chin. "The Romans have cut down every man who managed to get across the ditch. The gaps in their wall are already repaired… their bastions on this wall by the sea still hold out. You expect us to attack across a flooded canal, up that spike-strewn slope and into the teeth of their javelins, spears, swords?"

The Boar nodded absently, pacing across the decking. The burned remains of a Legion mangonel listed to one side, half pushed from its base. The sun, swollen to an enormous orange disk by the smoke-heavy air, almost touched the western horizon. He paused at the edge of the platform, boot braced against the wooden sill, lean face painted with dying golden light. Already the canal was deep in gloom-dark purple water rolled slowly past-and beyond, the Roman wall was studded with lamps and torches. Two of his Immortals moved up, as quietly as their iron-shod boots allowed, big oval shields in hand and placed themselves between the king and his enemies.

"This is a narrow place," he said, rumbling voice quiet in rumination. "The barrier of the flooded canal is not so great-the water is shallow, the width only fifty feet. They cannot surprise us again with a flood. They have no bridges of their own-or none they will risk to our fire arrows. Tonight I will send fresh men forward and we will root the Romans from their nests on the first wall. They will not expect a night attack. Tomorrow, if we clear the forts at the canal mouth, we will strike again." A broad hand stabbed from north to south. "We will attack along the length of the wall, all at once. The Immortals will form a reserve, ready to leap into any breach."

The Persian captains shifted uneasily, but no one spoke out against the king. Shahr-Baraz turned, eyes gleaming under a golden circlet as he took their measure. Only Khalid showed his disapproval openly, with a black scowl. "We are not without means," the Boar said. "The power that threw down the Roman sorcerers today is still with us-unharmed! Our bridges will soon ford the first canal. There are light boats to be brought forward… our men will not struggle in the water."

Shahr-Baraz fought to suppress a grin of triumph as he spoke, but enthusiasm and confidence welled up in him, spilling out in vigorous gestures and a steadily rising voice. Slowly, the Persian captains began to nod, to agree. Some, like the prince of Balkh, Piruz, were desperately eager to attack. Despite the losses suffered in their foray across the second canal, the Immortals were set on proving themselves. The loss of nearly eight hundred of their number-trapped on the further rampart, pinned between the Legions and the flooded canal-had not dampened their appetite for glory.

Only the Arab, Khalid, remained unconvinced. The Boar watched the young man out of the corner of his eye. He's thinking about today, Shahr-Baraz realized. He reckons the number of his dead-and does not like the tally! I will have to hold back his men from battle tomorrow… The King of Kings suppressed a frown. The valor of the Arabs would be sorely missed. His Greeks and Persians were skilled soldiers, true, but they lacked the heedless bravery of the Arabs-the men from the south did not fear death, embracing a chance to join their Teacher in death's paradise. Their attack was like a thunderbolt… perfect to break open the orderly Roman line.

Shahr-Baraz put the thoughts aside. His men needed to see utter confidence from their captains, to forget the closeness of the day's struggle, to forget the rows of the dead or those swept away by the sudden flood. Nearly three thousand Persians, Arabs and Greeks had fallen today. Who knew how many Romans had died? Not quite so many, Shahr-Baraz guessed. But the enemy had lost their first line of defense, and they had not expected such an outcome. A feral grin welled on his lips. Tomorrow will bring the same result…

The Boar turned away from the riot of color in the western sky, from the Roman fortifications and the shadow-filled canal. He looked to the east, and his eyes-still keen despite advancing age-quickly picked out darkness against darkness. The Serpent, crouching fearfully among his Huns and iron wands. Your great fear was unfounded, little snake, he thought, smugly pleased. Only the Legion thaumaturges faced your servants today. Your "great enemy" is not here!

Shahr-Baraz was sure the Romans had suffered terrible losses among their magi. Tomorrow, the Serpent would reveal himself, his power unfettered by fear or caution. There would be a great slaughter and the Legions would break like glass.

"Come," the King of Kings boomed. "Come my friends. Let us go down to my tents, where a fine, rich feast is ready upon the table. Maidens are waiting, with wine in silver cups, with flowers in their long hair. You are hungry and tired. But victory is ours and your labors will be rewarded!" The king swept through the cluster of men, slapping some on the shoulder, meeting the eyes of others. They moved to follow him automatically, without a second thought, drawn in by his good humor, his confidence, the undimmed sun of his bravura. They descended the slope in a clatter of metal and tired, cheerful voices.

Only Khalid remained on the platform, sitting in shadow, exhausted, his face drawn and pale. His eyes were drawn to the west, to the Roman limes, where the legionaries were still at work by torchlight, digging and shoring, strengthening their walls of stone and earth and wood. Preparing for another day of battle.

A log creaked. Khalid woke with a start, disoriented. The sky had grown dark, the sun long down in the west, plunging the land into a close, warm darkness. A shape appeared out of the night, booted feet illuminated by a softly glowing paper lantern.

"Hello, Khalid." Zoe was limping a little, but she settled beside him on the logs with her usual deft grace, a covered basket in one hand. "I brought you some food." She folded back the cloth and Khalid felt dizzy-the smell of fresh bread and roasted lamb flooded up from the basket. Greedily, all good manners brushed aside by sudden hunger, he tore into the crispy loaf and dripping meat. After a moment, Zoe-nose wrinkled up at his haste-handed him a water flagon. Thirsty, he drank until the damp leather was dry and pinched. When he was done, he looked sideways at her, face stiff as a mask, suddenly embarrassed.

"Thank you," he managed, in a very formal tone. Zoe nodded slightly in response, hands clasped around her knees. She was looking out into the darkness, watching lines of torches wiggle among the Roman works. Like the young Arab, she seemed tired, exhausted by the day's struggle.

After a moment, Khalid shifted a little, growing nervous. He turned toward her, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why did you bring me the food?"

Zoe did not answer. She continued to watch the slow procession of yellow and orange lights across the canal. With the sun gone to his night bed, the surface of the canal reflected the Legion fires and lanterns, making shimmering warm constellations in the oily water.

Khalid, watching her now by the same dim, flickering light, realized she was overcome by sadness. Faint pearls of moisture gathered at the corner of her eyes and her bow-shaped lips were pressed tight against welling emotion. He drew back, unsure of what to say or do, and drew the cowl of his cape over his head. To his disgust, the linen was scored with charred holes. Shaking his head in dismay, he poked a finger through one of the larger openings, then snorted with laughter. "Roman moths."

"Hmmm." Zoe looked sideways at him, the faint ghost of a smile emerging from her desolate mood. "I don't think cedar shavings will keep them away from your cloak."

Khalid pulled the cloak onto his knees, then sighed in dismay to see soot blackening the fabric. Most of the cloth was burned away or reduced to a tangle of threads. He made an equally sad face. "Ruined."

Zoe stood. "You'll get another. The King of Kings would be pleased to gift you something rich-with golden thread and rich, soft silk. Far better than these scraps."

Khalid looked up, shaking his head. "I don't want a new one… the Teacher's aunt made this cloak for me, before we left Mekkah." He rolled the fabric between his fingers, watching flakes of charred thread pill away under his thumb and forefinger. "It was my favorite."

Zoe rose, making a sharp, dismissive motion with her hand. "It's just a cloak," she said. "A Persian one will fit you just as well."

Khalid stared after the Queen as she padded off down the slope. For a moment, she was a pale shape against the engulfing night, then she was gone. A peculiar sick feeling coiled in his stomach. He wondered how many of his men would be wearing Persian tunics, cloaks, armor when the sun rose again. Too many, he thought. Too many.