The Dark Lord

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Office of the Harbor Master, Alexandria

"Caesar! Caesar! A ship is entering the port! It's one of ours!"

Aurelian turned away from a high, narrow window, brow furrowed in unease. Why have the dogs stopped barking? Following his usual custom, the prince was wearing the full armor of a common legionnaire, heavy, red hair hanging greasily around his shoulders. The last of his servants had been sent away as medical orderlies, leaving Aurelian to see to his own kit and toilet.

One of the local boys swerved between rows of tables crowded into the big room, brown face slick with moisture. Aurelian held up a hand, making the lad skid to a halt. The prince was uneasy; he had been peering at the sky, which was turning an odd green color with the onset of late afternoon. The street outside the building was empty too, which was strange. Usually a constant, noisy throng trampled every square foot of ground inside the walls, particularly with the city population swollen by men and women fleeing the fighting in the countryside.

"What did you see?"

The boy wiped his face, catching his breath. A light rain was falling outside, presaging the usual grumble of afternoon thunderstorms. Grayish haze lay over the city, discharging a tepid, oily drizzle. As summer advanced in the delta, the weather grew more and more oppressive. Even sunset brought no relief, the city sweltering throughout the night in a bath of its own heat and sweat. Aurelian mopped the base of his neck with a damp rag. He really hated this place.

"A grain hauler, master! Four decks of sails, as tall as the Lighthouse!"

Aurelian squinted through the window at the sky again. "Which direction?"

"From the west," the boy answered, flashing a smile. "A Roman ship!"

"Is it?" Aurelian swallowed, feeling a cloying thickness in his throat. He turned, glowering at the men laboring over the desks. The flight of the civil government from the city had left him with only a few dozen competent clerks, who labored in the headquarters occupying the harbormaster's offices near the junction of the Heptastadion causeway and the city. The vast complex of the Bruchion-the usual governor's residence-was crowded to the rafters with refugees from the delta and upriver.

"Phranes!" One of the clerks turned to face him, leathery old face drawn tight with fatigue. "Hasn't the grain fleet been rerouted to Africa?"

Phranes nodded. "Aye, my lord. We're expecting nothing from Rome."

Aurelian's face twisted into a sour grin at the dry cynicism in the man's voice. Not a single ship had arrived in port for the past eleven days-not so much as a fishing barque or a courier boat. The prince guessed the Roman fleet was being held back-At Syracuse? Or Lepcis Magna? — while the Emperor prepared a counterblow. But relief will not come for another… week. If then.

"Lad, were there flags or banners of any kind?" Aurelian's fingers curled around the pommel of his gladius, a habitual, unthinking action. The heavy weight of metal on his shoulders and chest was comforting.

"Just the usual ones, Caesar." The boy shrugged, spreading his hands.

Aurelian looked out the window again. The queer copper coloring was spreading through the clouds like ink spilling into a murky pool. His lips tightened. The city had fallen silent.

"Runners!" The prince spun on his heel, sharp voice booming across the quiet room. Scribes and clerks jerked around, staring at him in surprise. "Phranes-gather everyone up and issue spears, knives, whatever is to hand! Barricade the windows and doors. You boys, get to the wall commanders instantly-the Persians are about to attack. You, my lad, tell the commander of my Praetorians in the atrium they're down to the docks at a run, to keep your grain hauler from landing, or to capture the vessel if naught else."

Everyone was frozen for a moment, then Aurelian snatched up his helmet and bolted from the room at a dead run, weapons and armor jangling.

"To arms!" he shouted, jogging down the steps onto the broad dockside avenue. Messenger boys sprinted past; a dozen brown whippets unleashed. "Romans to arms!"

His guardsmen leapt up from their pallets, weapons in hand. They immediately poured down the steps behind him, a mob of men in stained, battered iron armor. Every man-whether he had been sleeping, gambling or complaining-was ready to fight; spears, axes, swords already in hand. Aurelian flashed a grin, seeing their grim faces intent upon him.

"A ship filled with the enemy is closing upon the docks. Take her if you can, else burn her to the water. If she's truly ours, get back here to me as fast as you can. I'll need your strong arms! There will be bloody work today. Sound the alarm as you go, and go swiftly!"

Aurelian slid the helmet on, tightening the strap under his chin. The Praetorians flooded past, shaking out into column as they scrambled out of the building. Their boots rang loudly on the paving stones. High above, on the roof, someone began ringing an alarm bar, a clashing, tinny sound that fell flat in the leaden air. The prince strode out into the avenue, staring up at the sky.

The green stain continued to crawl across the heavens and its shadow was dark on the rooftops.

Where shall I go? he wondered, limbs trembling with bloodfire, a nervous, grainy edge to his thoughts. He yearned to rush down one of the deserted streets, screaming a battle cry. Instead, to his disgust, he realized there was nothing to do but go back inside and wait for messengers to come to him.

With a last, furious look around, Aurelian stomped back inside.

Khalid al'Walid splashed through the surf, feeling stones and gravel roll under his boots. A low island lay before him, the highest prominence a golden roof rising above a brood of accompanying temples. The beach was crowded with men in green-and-tan, clambering out of long boats and barges and skiffs. More boats filled with dark-bearded men maneuvered offshore, sails white against a brassy sea. The young Arab grinned in delight, feeling warm water slosh against his calves. The strand was empty, without so much as a fisherman in sight.

"Forward!" he shouted, clear young voice rising above the slap of the water and the shouts of the Sahaba as they disembarked. Threads of fog rolled overhead, hiding the sun and obscuring the flat, green sea behind them. Khalid trudged up through golden sand, aiming for an opening between the buildings ahead. Arab skirmishers scattered across the beach, bows in hand, heads high and alert.

"Form on your banners," the qalb section commanders yelled at their men. "Form up! Form up!"

Horns and trumpets wailed, adding to the racket. Arab and Greek soldiers milled on the beach, searching for their tent-mates and rallying standards. More boats ran in to the shore and men leapt down into the water with abandon. The barges in the first wave backed oars, trying to clear the beach. Most of the soldiers clinging to the railings were pale-faced, but they splashed into the water, desperately eager to reach steady ground. All possibility of organization had been lost as soon as the flotilla had put to sea from Canopus, seven miles away at the mouth of the Boutikos channel. "Forward! Forward!"

Blank walls etched by the wind and sea rose up at the crest of the beach. Khalid jogged up, now surrounded by a mass of Sahaban fighters in heavy Persian-style armor. The young general's sharp beard and flowing green-and-gold robes were easy to recognize, even in the confusion of the landing. Men gathered around him, seeing his eagle banner snapping in the landward breeze. Between the ancient tombs, an alley led off into a maze of buildings.

Khalid slowed, reaching the entrance to the lane. Sea grass crept to the foot of the walls and scraps of plaster clung to bare stone. The young Arab squinted down the twisting passage, surprised by the heavy quiet pervading the island.

"An island of tombs," he said aloud. "Is anyone alive here, save ourselves?"

Shaking his head, Khalid looked about, spying the hulking figures of Jalal and Shadin among the men climbing up from the beach.

"Generals!" The Eagle stepped out of the phalanx of his guardsmen. The two older Arabs looked up at him with tight, closed expressions. "Jalal-take charge of the landing. Get everyone ashore and formed up. Shadin-you take half the men around that way…" Khalid pointed towards the gleaming red roof and terraces of a massive temple rising at the eastern end of the island. Statues lined the rooftop, most of them gleaming white where their colorful paint had been stripped away by the sea wind. "Capture the lighthouse and the harbor entrance. I'll strike across the island for the causeway."

Both men nodded silently, eyes invisible in the shadow of their helmets. The young Arab could feel their disapproval of his command, but they said nothing. Khalid stared after them as the older men turned away, gesturing for their own aides, messengers and guardsmen. For a moment, he considered calling them back, but put the thought aside. They are Sahaba, he reckoned, and they will fight for the memory of the Teacher, if not for me.

"Forward," Khalid shouted, striding into the lane. With a rasp, he drew the ebon blade once carried by Mohammed from its jeweled sheath. In the diffuse, limpid sunlight the weapon gleamed with a twisting inner flame. A cheer went up at the sight of the blade of the city, and Khalid felt his heart soar at the sound. "With me, lads," he cried, grinning, feeling a wild, unrestrained joy rise in his breast.

At the head of his thousands, the young general strode down the deserted street between ancient, crumbling tombs. What remained of the day's strange quiet immediately dissolved into the commotion of running men in armor, sandals and boots slapping on the paving stones.

"Hold up a moment." Sextus stood, wiping sweat from a suntanned brow. He stared out to sea, across the flat, placid waters of the Great Harbor. The engineer held a large sledge in his hands, but the hammer was forgotten for the moment as he bit his lip in concentration. Frontius paused, sitting up, hands on his knees. Both men had been squatting near the edge of a great arched vault, examining the stonework around a keystone supporting the central section of the massive Heptastation causeway.

A crowd of local workers-fellaheen in white breechclouts and turbans-watched the two Romans suspiciously. The locals were laden with a profusion of iron bars, hammers, mallets, buckets of water and wooden splitting wedges. A handful of Roman citizens in mismatched armor stood near by, watching both the Legion officers and the fellaheen with jaundiced expressions. The citizens had been drafted from their businesses, homes and offices to provide a city militia. Despite the continuing siege, most of the locals seemed content to let the legionaries fight.

"Something is happening." Sextus' voice was flat and Frontius started in alarm, then stared out to sea, following the sharp angle of his friend's pointing arm. Almost two thousand feet away, across the open waters of the harbor, he could barely make out the dark smudge of the sea-intermittent flashes of white from crashing waves outlining the long rubble-filled breakwater.

"I don't see anything…" Frontius stood up as well, squinting ferociously. Off to the left of the breakwater, the towering shape of the Lighthouse-the famous Pharos-made a gleaming white outline against the lead-colored sky. A brilliant disk on the summit of the forty-story building flashed in the dimming sun. The engineer cursed the fickle stars who had burdened him with poor sight. "What is it?"

"Fog," Sextus said in the same flat voice. The older engineer shook himself, then bent down and began jamming his tools and books into a leather shoulder bag. "Rising fast too, all along the breakwater."

"It's afternoon," Frontius said in a disbelieving voice. "There's never any…"

Sextus looked up, eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun glittering from the water. "Sorcery, my friend."

Frontius blanched. He had seen enough horrors in the last four weeks. Still, he was a legionary and if something was happening on the breakwater. Frontius turned, squinting at the low, green shape of the Pharos island lying at the outer end of the causeway. "You don't suppose-"

"You men!" Sextus bellowed, startling the citizens and fellaheen alike into wide-eyed attention. "With me, all of you! Double-time!" The engineer began running north along the Heptastadion towards the palace-crowded island. Frontius caught up with him in a moment, wiry legs easily meeting the pace.

"What do you-" One of the citizens, a baker by trade, was left with his mouth hanging open.

The other Latins stared after the two engineers, then hurried to pick up their jumble of weapons and tools from the ground. A moment later, they too jogged off into the haze rising from the harbor. Watching the Romans disappear into the fog, the fellaheen looked warily at one another, then turned and scuttled towards the city as fast as they could.

Khalid burst from the avenue at a run, shield snug against his left arm, a dim, mist-veiled sun gleaming in the curving blade of his sword. A guttural roar boomed from his men as they saw the enemy. The road wound out between low buildings and onto a broad causeway flanked by a retaining wall on either side and stout pillars carved with dolphins and cranes. The entrance to the Heptastadion was blocked by overturned carts and building materials. Khalid caught sight of Romans crouched behind the barrier, some in armor, some not. Their faces were only blurs as he ran forward, shouting, "at them!"

The Sahaba rushed forward, more and more men spilling out of the alleyways and down the street. Khalid leapt forward at an easy run, seeing the barricade loom before him. Then, only ten paces or so away, the Romans stood up and Khalid shouted a warning.

"Javelins!" He swung up his shield, turning his body away from the flying spears and stones.

Something heavy smashed into the laminated hide and cedar of his shield. Khalid staggered, startled by the strength in the cast, then rushed ahead again. He leapt over the body of an Arab youth choking on his own blood, a short-hafted spear jutting from his chest. The triangular tip had punched clear through the boy's scaled breastplate, leaving thin streams of crimson crawling across polished metal.

Khalid felt his shield drag and cursed-a javelin was stuck in the hides, head twisted, wooden shaft banging against his knees-pausing to knock the missile away with his sword. Arabs and Nabateans pushed past, surging against the barricade. Shouts and screams tore the air and the clanging racket of iron on iron beat at Khalid's ears. The javelin clattered to the ground and the young general tried to push forward through the press of sweating, close-packed men.

Khalid's effort failed. Too many armored backs crowded in front of him. The Romans met the charge with a brisk play of blades and spears on the barrier, throwing the Sahaba back, leaving scattered bodies trapped in the jumble of carts and logs and blocks of stone. Khalid cursed again, this time at himself and wormed his way back towards the rear ranks.

"Shields!" he screamed, trying to be heard above the din. The Romans were shouting insults now and flinging amphorae into the crowd of Arabs. The crash of breaking pottery and the sting of vinegar filled the air. Khalid's throat was already hoarse and the day's battle was only minutes old. "Form shield wall!"

He broke free of the crowd and immediately began dragging men back by their belts and helmet straps. "Everyone back! Form a line!"

More Sahaba pressed toward the barrier, running up out of the confusing maze of tombs and temples covering the island. On their barricade, the Romans were laughing. Some men with bows now shot from between the wagons, knocking down Arabs trapped in the press of the crowd.

"Everyone back a pace!" Khalid shouted again and now his banner leaders began to repeat his command, beating on their soldiers' helmets and shoulders with the flat of their swords. Slowly, the mass of Arabs, Nabateans and Greeks fell back, letting their shields come into play. More dead littered the ground before the barricade. The dusty ground clotted with blood and wine.

The Jackal stepped forth from the remains of a farmhouse a hundred yards from the Roman rampart. Before him loomed the doubled towers of the Gate of the Sun, a pair of granite and sandstone monsters rising four and five stories above the plain. On either side, the sloping berm of the fortification ran off into cloudy, humid air. The ancient stone was scored with jagged black streaks and glassy, star-shaped craters. Thickets of stakes and tangled brush-most burned and withered from terrible fires-covered the slope on either side of the gate.

Not a single man could be seen on the wall, for the Romans had finally learned prudence.

The Jackal's mask had been repaired and repainted, chalky eyes bright, the lolling tongue fresh as blood. Even the shattered ear had been reforged and replaced. His body, twisted with scars and puckered wounds, was filled with new life-strong, muscular, shining with sweat in the dreadful heat. A clean white kilt fell from a belt of dark leather. His bare feet dug into the rich, loamy black soil of the delta.

The Jackal raised his hand and the sullen green sky rippled with slow waves. Distantly, a long, drawn-out rumble of thunder answered his motion. The presence within the mask felt the air pressure change and shift, saw gradients of power surge in the land-dark blue leaching up from hidden waters-bricks crumbled in the ruined building and grass withered as the Jackal summoned power to his rising hand.

Fists clenched, then pointed towards the looming wall.

A week and a day had passed since the failure of the first Persian assault. The Jackal's master had regained his power, gathered his wits, seen the wisdom of the Boar's plan and labored a long time beneath dark and moonless skies among the tombs and fields surrounding the city. Undisturbed by the Roman thaumaturges hiding in the city, the Lord of the Ten Serpents had hidden his foul work with night and distance.

A dry rustling chattered in the air and the Jackal leapt lightly up onto the top of a broken, splintered brick wall. Immediately, figures shambled forward below him, first one-groping sightlessly forward, eyes black pits, fingers skeletal twigs-then another, and another.

Within moments, a vast crowd of dry brown shapes crawled and shuffled out of the fields, emerging from the mist, their outlines indistinct in the steadily fading light. A dull green haze advanced in the upper air, roiling across the sky, tendrils rushing forward, then curling around some unseen obstacle before oozing onward again. A clacking murmur began to rise from the host shuffling towards the wall.

The Jackal turned, looking south. A mile away, at the Nile Gate, a figure in radiant white turned as well and she raised pale cream arms, wrapped tight with gold and silver. The Raven answered his unspoken thought. Their power moved in the hidden world, motivating desiccated limbs to jerking, fumbling motion. The two figures turned to the city, looking out over the advancing host of the uneasy dead.

On the wall, motion stirred, then feeble sunlight glanced from a helmet. The day grew dark as the oily clouds advanced. Shadows deepened in the ruins and under the eaves of the buildings.

On the plain below, the dead began to shamble forward, almost at a run, and their dry limbs rubbed and scraped, a forest of winter-bare twigs and branches shaken by an invisible, irresistible wind. The first of the dead began to climb the slope. One drove itself, unthinking, unheeding, upon a sharpened stake. The wood tore through ancient, withered skin, then jabbed from the corpses' back. Black dust puffed from the wound. Undaunted, the shape clawed forward, leathery body tearing in half with a dry, ripping sound. Relentless, the head and torso crawled up the slope. Severed legs beat violently in the dirt.

A long, wailing cry sounded, ringing back from the towers and ramparts. On a fighting platform atop the wall, a torsion arm snapped against a hide-wrapped wooden bar. With a loud twang, a wicker ball caked with pitch arced into the air, crackling and burning, trailing black smoke. The missile plunged into the vast, jostling crowd advancing across the field. Pale green-and-orange fire blossomed, consuming a dozen, two dozen of the dead. Without a sound, they marched on, dry flesh making ready tinder, puffy white smoke rising to join the dark oily effluvia of naphtha. More corpses staggered, heedless, into the bonfire.

A brownish-gray tide rose against the wall, scrambling and crawling up the slope. Where one corpse fell, tangled in thorns or pierced by a stake, twenty crawled on, grinding the fallen into dust beneath skeletal feet. A clack-clack-clack of splintering bone rose, swelling into the heavy air.

Distantly, the Jackal heard men shouting in fear. More scorpions thwanged and more missiles lofted into the afternoon sky. Bombs fell, billowing into flame with a snap and rush of igniting air. Figures on the wall began hurling stones that crashed and bounced among the silent, advancing mob. At the Gate of the Sun, burning oil fell in sheets of flame onto corpses and withered skeletons crowding at the portals themselves. Huge clouds of smoke boiled up and the dry rattling jerked into a cacophony of burning skin and cracking bone.

Still, the dead continued to swarm across the fields.

Atop his wall, the Jackal trembled, power rushing through him like water in a mining sluice, eroding his tattered soul. A mile away to the south, the Queen shuddered as well, her still-living body suffering the piercing, red-hot pain of the sorcerer's working. Sweat blinded her, yet she did not fall. Instead, she stood alone atop a half-burned siege tower, a golden diadem shining in her dark hair, plainly visible from the walls.

This she did by choice, for she would not turn her face from the destruction of such a fair city.

"Loose!" Khalid screamed, trying to make himself heard above the din. His archers perched on the temple roofs shot, bows singing with a flat twang-twang. The Romans on the barricade ducked, black shafts flashing past. The young Eagle glanced left and right, gauging his men-they tensed in the shield wall, eyes glittering beneath shadowed helms-then slashed his saber down. "Charge!"

Shrieking, the Sahaba stormed forward down the road. More arrows flicked past overhead, and the Roman archers in the jumble of carts and crates loosed as well. Khalid heard something hiss past his ear as he ran forward. He picked up speed, howling a war cry, then sprang up onto the barricade.

A Roman stabbed at his legs and Khalid blocked the stroke deftly with his shield. Laminated pine splintered with the blow as Khalid hacked down at the man's head. The Roman ducked away and Khalid jumped into the midst of the enemy, saber whirling in a flashing, black streak. One of the militiamen jerked around in surprise, just in time to take the blade across the bridge of his unprotected nose. Bone shattered, a fine spray of blood-and-white fragments splashing across the faces of his fellows. Khalid slammed the shield into the Roman's broken face with a wet crunch. More Sahaba scrambled over the barricade. The Romans stabbed back fiercely with spears and javelins. Men toppled, guts spilling out in shiny coils of gray and white.

Khalid took two blows on his shield in succession-a legionary in full armor pressed him, short sword flickering like a snake's tongue-then drove the man back with a sharp rush. The black blade keened in the air, cutting at the Roman's elbow. The man, squinting furiously, gave a step. Finding no room to maneuver in such close quarters, Khalid abandoned any pretense at skill, slamming in with his shield. The Roman took the blow with a grunt, then smashed his own rectangular scuta against Khalid's smaller, round buckler. The young Eagle's boot skidded in something wet and he went down with a clatter.

Stunned, Khalid tried to scramble up. Someone stepped on his chest, pinning him under a heavy wet boot. Robes billowed around his face, blinding him. Frantic, Khalid slammed the pommel of his sword into an obscuring leg, heard a bellow of fear, then the offending Sahaba toppled aside, one eye a bloody ruin. The squinting Roman's gladius whipped back, streaked with blood.

Shouting in fury, Khalid scrambled up, leading with the point of his blade. He thrust, catching the Roman on the shoulder-plate. The saber bent on impact, skittering across curving iron. Shouting in alarm, the legionary blocked sideways with his short sword. The point of the Arab blade bounced away, leaving a deep scratch in the metal. Khalid recovered, whipping his sword into a figure-eight parry. For an instant, he locked furious gazes with the Roman, then the entire enemy line of battle was retreating.

Somewhere, a horn blew wildly amid the drone of deep-throated tubas. The Romans-legionaries and militia alike-fell back onto the causeway. Khalid caught his breath, slumping to his knees. Droplets of crimson oozed from the edge of his blade, joining a thick paste of urine, feces and blood on the ground.

"Press on!" Khalid croaked, fighting for breath. He was winded. Two of his men grasped his shoulders and dragged him to his feet. The young Eagle called for his standard bearer, seeing the man a dozen yards away, a stained cloth against the side of his face. "Bannerman! We must move-"

A deep whump! caused Khalid to swing round. The Romans, falling back along the causeway, had set fire to a wagonload of oil. The wooden cart spilled sideways as Khalid watched, lips thinning in dismay. Hundreds of amphorae cascaded to the ground, already wreathed in pale yellow flame. A huge cloud of heavy black smoke surged up into the hazy air. Sheets of fire rushed forward on the paving stones.

"Spears!" Khalid shouted, skipping back. The vanguard of the Sahaba fell back, shields and cloaks raised to protect their faces from the roaring flames. "Sand and wagons and spears!"

Some of his men ran off to gather tools. The young Eagle looked away, terrific heat beating against his lean face. Both harbors were nearly empty. Off to his right, the only ship in sight was a huge Roman grain hauler near the merchant docks. Khalid fingered his beard, keen eyes trying to pierce the haze between himself and the distant vessel. Another daring ploy, he thought, but did it gain us anything? Has Usama seized the warehouse district? Or does he lie dead?

Men returned with long poles torn from the ornamental facade of a funeral temple. Khalid roused himself, wiping sweat from his face. The qalb filled the causeway from railing to railing, every man's face eager to press ahead.

"There," the young Arab pointed, "push the wagon away!"

With a cadenced shout, a hundred men advanced, long poles held by five or six men each. In an instant, the pikes plunged across the roaring flames, thumping against the charring wood of the cart. The soldiers strained, digging in their feet. The cart creaked and groaned, spilling oil onto the ground. Fresh flames jetted up. Amphorae shattered in the heat, consumed by flame, flinging red-hot fragments of pottery into the faces of the Arabs. Everyone ducked, still pushing for all they were worth.

"Heave!" Khalid shouted. His men answered with a basso roar. "Ho!"

The cart squealed aside, crunching into the low stone wall lining the edge of the causeway. Boys ran forward with heavy baskets, flinging sand onto the pools of burning oil.

"Heave!" Khalid shouted. The men on the poles, faces glowing with effort, sweat streaming into their armor, gave a groan of effort. The cart tipped, boards shattering. One of the wheels spun away across the causeway. "Heave!" Another massive effort and the cart teetered on the wall, then plunged over the side in a billowing rush of smoke. A great splash fountained up. Oil and smoke spread on the waters.

An arrow fluttered down out of the sky, shattering on the paving stones near Khalid.

"Archers, forward!" The young Eagle pointed with his saber. Nabateans ran up, their long bows taut, shafts to the string. More men handed baskets of sand and dirt from hand to hand, and the oil began to flicker and die, smothered by the advancing fire crew. Arab bows began to sing, flinging arrows into the half-seen line of the Romans beyond the roiling smoke.

"Qalb-men to me!" Khalid strode forward. Fighters appeared out of the band of soldiers on the causeway, each man in heavy armor, with longer, oval shields. These men were armed with maces, heavy swords, stabbing spears. "Prepare to rush!"

Khalid fell back a step, letting the Sahaba run past and form up in a line of three ranks.

Arrows continued to snap back and forth between the opposing lines. The smoke was beginning to blow away, carried in a desultory afternoon breeze. Khalid felt sweat pooling in his shirt and against his spine. Hot work out here, even with the water so close…

"Charge!" Horns and trumpets echoed his scream and the qalb rushed to the attack, iron-shod boots trampling through the flames still licking on stone. There was a breathless, still moment as they stormed forward. Then the Roman line appeared out of the murk and there was a massive crash! as iron met iron, shield against shield. Men began to shout, a deep, angry roar, and a din of blades and spears and shields drowned all other noise.

Khalid waved more men forward. Now they would see whose arm was the stronger, whose heart the steadier.

"What is happening on the outer wall?" Aurelian's voice snapped in the dimly-lit room.

One of the runners stared at him with wide eyes, gasping for breath. The Egyptian had just run the length of the city, from the commandery at the Gate of the Sun. Everyone in the headquarters grew silent, waiting for him to speak.

"There are too many," the boy panted. "They're attacking everywhere, along the entire length of the wall, from the lake to the sea."

"Impossible!" Aurelian's angry response was instant. "They don't have the men to-"

"My lord!" The boy was on his knees, hands clasped. "It's true! It's true! I saw fighting everywhere…"

Aurelian snarled, grinding a fist into his thigh. "How can there be so many?" he shouted, glaring at his aides and clerks. "The wall is three miles long!"

A commotion in the entrance distracted him and the prince's eye lit up to see one of his Praetorians push into the room. The big German's helmet was missing, his lank blond hair matted with sweat and an ugly cut oozed yellow serum from the side of his neck.

"Carus! What happened at the ship?" Aurelian leaned forward eagerly.

"Greek pirates," shouted the man in answer, "but we were ready. They are all dead. The ship is ours. But there-"

"Excellent." Aurelian grinned. Then he heard a strange sound rising outside. "What is that?"

Everyone turned to the windows, staring out into an unnaturally dark afternoon. The entire sky was a sickly, corroded-copper green. Strange thread-like clouds writhed in the sky. Aurelian squeezed to the nearest window, head canted as he listened.

Far away, a dull, roaring sound boomed down empty avenues. A moment later, the prince could feel the floor under his feet begin to shake. "Sorcery?" He turned, eyes searching for Phranes. "Where are our thaumaturges?" Aurelian barked, a sudden queasy feeling turning his stomach. The clerk started in alarm, then pushed off through the crowd.

"Carus, where are my guardsmen?"

"At the causeway," the German shouted, waving his arm. "There is fighting on the causeway!"

"Look out!" Sextus yelled desperately. Frontius glanced over his shoulder, cursing, and staggered as an Arab axe slammed into his turning back. Metal plates splintered and wires snapped. The engineer was driven to his feet, blood oozing between the metal plates of his lorica. Sextus fell back himself, fending off a questing spear jabbing at his groin. A confused melee spilled around the base of the white pillar standing at the junction of the Heptastadion and the city proper, swirling knots of men struggling across the circular plaza. One of the enemy, dark brown face split by a mad grin, lunged at Sextus again.

The engineer banged the spear aside with his shield. Wildly, he searched for Frontius among flashing blades and rushing men. The Arab stabbed overhand, triangular iron point flashing at the Roman's eyes. Sextus slewed his shield into the path of the spearpoint, catching it square. Metal ground on wood and Sextus-grimacing furiously-lunged in, stabbing with his gladius. The Arab danced back, the shorter blade missing cleanly.

The clatter of boots on stone rose up behind the engineer, but he was fully occupied trying to keep the spear from slashing open his knee or the inside of his thigh. A huge crash sounded and burly men with red cloaks suddenly rushed past the engineer. Sextus gasped with relief, staggering back out of the line of battle. A cohort of Praetorians tore into the Arabs and the spearman was hacked down by a long, heavy blade wielded two-handed by one of the Germans.

"Frontius!" Sextus scrambled sideways, towards the water's edge, rolling bodies over, searching for his friend. Rumpled corpses lay in clots on the plaza, Roman and Arab alike. The roar of men and the clash of arms was very loud, but the engineer ignored the stiffening melee around the base of the pillar. His hands, black with grime and sweat, searched among tormented bodies. Many groaned as he moved them, blood spilling from slack mouths, eyes rolling wildly, but he could not find Frontius.

Fighting shoulder to shoulder, the Praetorians drove the Arabs back. Many of the more lightly armed and armored desert men found their shields splintered, helms driven in, arms beaten down by the massive Germans. Horns wailed and the attackers fell back. The Praetorians halted their advance, dressing their line. Militiamen dragged the wounded back from the line and into the shelter of the buildings fronting the plaza.

Sextus reached the water's edge-the dockside ended in a smooth marble wall overlooking turgid, dark water-and cursed sadly. His squint-eyed friend, the veteran of so many campaigns and scrapes, was nowhere to be found. Mastering himself, Sextus turned back to the plaza, surprised to find a chipped gladius still clutched in his hand. His arm began to shake as the rush of bloodfire dwindled. He hadn't had a moment to think since they'd run to the end of the Heptastadion and found the road filling with rebel mercenaries…

A steady stream of Arabs in green-and-tan jogged down the causeway, swelling their numbers on the far side of the plaza. Sextus looked around, feeling sick. A line of Praetorians blocked the main part of the road junction, but they were swiftly becoming outnumbered. The engineer stared back towards the main docks and the building where the prince made his headquarters. We need reinforcements, he thought wildly. But who…

A crowd of men in tunics was running up the docks towards him, a tall, redheaded figure in the lead. The clerks? And Caesar Aurelian? Sextus felt unaccountable relief, even at the odd sight of such a motley band coming to their aid. Taking heart, he groped for a shield among the dead, finding one still intact, and quickly slipped his arm into the loops.

"Allau ak-bar!"

The dreaded cry roared from hundreds of throats. Sextus looked up in alarm in time to see the mass of the Arabs surge forward, every man screaming defiance of Rome. The line of Praetorians tensed, then rocked back with the charge. The Germans began their own hoarse, bellowing chant, stabbing and hacking with abandon as the enemy came to grips with them. The legionaries gave three paces, then stood firm. A brutal hammering smote the air and men fought and died locked shoulder to shoulder with their fellows. Men from the second and third ranks stepped up as those in the first fell, faces grim and filled with terrible purpose.

Aurelian ran up, long hair streaming. A ragged band of clerks and scribes followed at his heels. Sextus moved to join the prince, who threw himself into the fray around the white pillar, when he caught a strange sound-no, two strange sounds. The engineer slowed, turning, and saw one of the avenues leading into the plaza fill with running people.

They were citizens, not soldiers, and they were screaming, a mad, wild sound filled with utter fear. Sextus froze, goggling at the huge mass of men, women and children packed into the street. They came on like the tide, every face mad with panic. In the brief instant he watched, a dozen or more fell and were trampled beneath relentless, hammering feet.

"Sextus!" A gasping voice caught his ear and the engineer crouched, eyes searching the littered dead. A hand waved weakly, a body trapped under the corpses of two Arabs. Sextus leapt to his friend, grasping a bloodstained arm and dragging him into the sickly gray light. Frontius choked, coughing, and spit hair and torn bits of bloody flesh from his mouth. "Help me… up."

"I've got you," Sextus grunted, rolling a body away with his boot. Frontius was heavy, one arm hanging limp, a thin red stream spilling from his leather sleeve. "Can you stand?"

Frontius nodded weakly. One eye was half-closed by a massive purple bruise and his helmet was gone. Sextus got a shoulder under the man, then stood. Frontius gasped, head rolling back, eyes bulging, but did not cry out. Without waiting, Sextus began dragging the other engineer towards headquarters and the medikus, all thoughts of standing and fighting gone.

The mob swarmed into the plaza moments later as the two engineers trudged west along the docks. A hopeless screaming mass of people flooded around them. Half-naked men leapt into the harbor waters. Some began swimming for the island offshore, others simply disappeared under the dirty brown water. Sextus staggered, slammed in the side by a woman in a patrician gown. She shrieked, clawing at his face. Frontius groaned weakly as the engineer swung him out of the way. Sextus' bunched fist cracked across the woman's nose, throwing her to the ground. She vanished under a pressing, pushing mob. The air stank of fear and sweat and a dry, musty odor like the dust in a long abandoned room.

Grimly, Sextus struggled west along the dock, forcing his way through the steadily worsening crowd. The citizens had seen something, but the engineer didn't have the time to discover what had driven them into flight. Something bad, he hazarded, knocking aside an elderly man in a bathing towel. A phantasm or terror sent by the enemy, no doubt.

His whole attention focused on gaining another yard towards the dubious sanctuary of the headquarters, Sextus ignored the stabbing yellow heat lightning rumbling and cracking in the low clouds, as well as the drumming roar echoing down the streets from the east.

The Gate of the Sun shuddered, heavy iron-bossed cedar panels shaking with the blow of a ram. The roadway below the looming towers was crowded with thousands of Persians in heavy armor. Sunflower banners danced above their heads and golden masks gleamed in the pale sun. Once more, the pushtigbahn threw their shoulders into the ropes guiding an iron-sheathed ram.

"Swing!" chanted a bull-voiced sergeant. The ram swung back, then slammed into the gate with a crash! Wood splintered and ancient hinges groaned. Crouched along smoke-darkened walls, swordsmen tensed, waiting for the panel to shatter. "Swing!"

Dahak leapt from the roof of his rune-carved wagon, dark cloak trailing, flying above massed ranks of diquans and spearmen and sappers with shovels and picks. A shining gradient buoyed him up, cutting the tether of the earth and he landed, bare feet slapping down on soot-blackened stone, atop the northern gatehouse tower. The air around him shimmered and flexed with the faint remains of the Roman ward, but the prince's lips stretched back over chisel-sharp teeth. Feet covered with fine ebony scales stepped down among crushed, mangled bodies. Not a single legionnaire remained alive atop the tower. The shattered, twisted remains of a siege engine littered the wooden roof.

"All things fail," he growled, then muttered words in a tongue lost before the Drowning swallowed the glory of the antediluvian world. A whirling sign formed in the air around him, rotating counterclockwise, blazing with subtle, iridescent light. The sign expanded, twisting and distorting the air. The Roman pattern shattered, crumbling into flickers of light and slowly falling rain. The Lord of the Ten Serpents raised both hands, his will pressing on stone and timber and the invisible bindings of the ancients. Geometric forms splintered, power draining away into the silty earth and a flash of sullen green light lit the entire length of the rampart. "The work of men not least."

The floor under the sorcerer shook again with the blow of the ram and his flattened ears caught the sound of splintering wood, then a roar of victory from the living men crowded into the road below. The panels squealed open, pushed by hundreds of hands, and the Persian army poured into the city. Dahak smiled, lifting his head to look upon Alexandria the Golden.

So, hated child, your handiwork is cast down again… I told you I would triumph in the end!

Already, the restless dead overwhelmed the wall at a dozen points. Against their limitless numbers, the Romans lacked the men to repel every assault. Columns of shambling figures crawled over the rampart as far as the eye could see. A few of the Roman towers continued to hold out, flame spilling down sandstone, men struggling on the parapet, stabbing and hacking at the ghoulish horde surging up from below. Yet, even as Dahak watched, he saw a wall topple, borne down by the weight of so many animate corpses and the dead flood into the breach, a seething carpet of brown ants, withered hands and rotted teeth dragging down the legionaries fighting within.

Dahak laughed in delight, seeing living men torn apart by the grasping talons of the gaatasuun.

The city spread out before him, a rumpled carpet of terra-cotta roofs, temples and marble spires. Smoke billowed up from scattered points-fires set in fear or caught by accident-sending up towering pillars of black and gray to mix with the uneasy green sky. Off to his left, Dahak could see the arcades of a Roman theatre rising above clustered apartments, to his right a dense agglomeration of three- and four-story buildings, richly painted, with flat white roofs. One of the buildings was burning fiercely, flames jetting from tall, narrow windows, flinging tiny white specks into the sky. The roof tiles glowed cherry-red with heat from some tremendous inner conflagration. The sorcerer squinted, bending his attention upon the roaring fire, and suddenly barked a foul curse.

Thousands of sheets of papyrus and parchment were being born up on columns of flame.

Pages? The Library? My Library! Dahak turned towards the distant port, seeing more smoke rising, and very distantly, the sparkle of spears and armor on the long causeway connecting the island of the Pharos to the middle of the city. Khalid and his men are still fighting to enter, he realized, eyes swinging sickly back to the burning Library buildings. I need those books…

Voice speaking like thunder, the sorcerer leapt into the air again, invisible servants swarming to him, a glistening flight of loathsome birds to hold him up. He sped north with unseemly speed, his will reaching out heedlessly in the hidden world to damp the flames and hold back the roaring conflagration from the library stacks.

Behind him, the Gate of the Sun echoed with the tramp of marching boots and the cheers of the Persian soldiery as they entered the city.

Confusion reigned in the plaza around the white pillar. Mobs of frightened citizens continued to pour out of the city, throwing the Roman line into disorder. The Praetorians dissolved into knots of individual soldiers fighting to keep together. The Sahaba fared no better, pressed back by screaming, weeping women. Khalid bounced from foot to foot, shouting commands to his men. The roar of the crowd, a vast, frightened baying, drowned his voice. The mob pushed the Arabs back, forcing them to lock shields and dig in their feet to hold back the human tide.

"They're getting away," Khalid shouted, pointing with his sword. A mass of legionaries were fighting their way west along the docks. The young Arab could see a tall Roman-the man had to be an officer with his commanding presence-rallying the legionaries to him. "Follow me!"

Khalid darted off to the right, hacking around him with the blade of the city. The shining dark edge sheared through a scrawny neck, then into the arm of a fat woman cradling a baby. The child flew off into the crowd, the woman wailing, pudgy fingers clamped over a spurting wound. The Sahaba hesitated, many of the men unwilling to strike down the innocents sobbing around them, but then rushed forward, following their general. In a grain, their faces were tight, unfeeling masks as they stabbed and chopped their way forward. With the main body of the Sahaba leaving the causeway, the citizens flooded past towards the island.

Blade dripping crimson, Khalid broke out of the mob, loping forward among the fallen. Ahead, the legionaries had resorted to pushing their way through the mob by brute force. They had locked spears into a wedge and advanced step-by-step, forcing aside the crowd by main strength. The harbor was white with foam, dozens of people plunging into the water.

The red-bearded officer was in the middle of the rear rank, a commanding voice shouting to his men, an outstretched arm holding a Roman cavalry sword out to mark their line as they backed up. Khalid sprinted up, suddenly filled with perfect, icy determination. He did not recognize the man's face, but every instinct screamed general! to him. The Sahaba rushed soundlessly after him, lean wolves hot on the scent.

Khalid leapt a sprawled body, the blade of night darting out, just as the Roman turned his head.

The man blocked, spatha whipping up to smash Khalid's stroke aside. The Arab was stunned, obsidian blade nearly torn from his fingers, and skipped back wildly. The Roman blade clove the air where he'd stood, powering through a tight arc. One of the Sahaba, charging up to help his commander, met the blur of steel with a lunging spear. The Roman turned sideways, the spear point slashing past, and the return stroke clove the Arab's head from his shoulders.

Khalid goggled, lean, dark face spotted with blood. The Sahaban fighter's head bounced away, gargling, and crunched into the retaining wall beside the dock.

"Form up," bellowed the Roman, warning his men. Khalid dodged in, trying to circle, finding himself hemmed on three sides by the crowd and the line of soldiers, the other by the harbor waters. Where's Patik when I need him? he wailed inwardly, blocking an overhand cut. The ebon blade sang with a shrill note, taking the blow, and Khalid nearly lost his grip again. Fear sparked in his heart, draining strength from his limbs, and he fell back, parrying wildly. The Roman laughed, trading blows with another of the Sahaba. Almost contemptuously, the red-beard knocked the man's mace aside, then transfixed his throat with a sharp jab. Six inches of steel sprouted from the back of his neck, then withdrew in a blur.

The fear curdling in Khalid's heart disappeared in a blaze of fury. No man laughs at me!

He leapt at the enemy, flinging his shield aside. Taking the blade of the city in both hands, he powered in, the full strength of his wiry shoulders in an arcing cut. The Roman blocked, matching strength for strength, and the Arab's stroke cracked against an immobile barrier. Wincing, Khalid parried weakly, and the Roman drove his sword into the ground, steel springing back from marble paving.

The Sahaba surged around the two captains, stabbing overhand, and were met by massed shields and the grim faces of the legionaries. Again, a brisk play of long cavalry blades, maces, axes and spears sparked on the docks. Khalid hung back a half-step, watching his enemy. The Roman did not abandon the front rank, wielding his hand-and-a-half blade with aplomb. Another Arab was struck down, helmet crushed in, neck severed from behind by a looping, sideways strike.

Gods, Khalid breathed, what a champion! Even Patik might find his match!

The Sahaba fell back, leaving a handful of bodies on the pavement. The Roman line stood unshaken. Khalid felt the air change, momentum shifting around him. The panicked crowds had thinned, through the ground still jumped with an enormous, drumming beat. The dead are coming, Khalid realized.

Someone started shouting behind the Roman lines and Red-beard turned, falling back a step. Khalid cursed as another legionary stepped smoothly into his place. Some kind of courier ran up, gabbling at the general.

Khalid glanced around at his own men, seeing weary faces, though they were still game for another go. He licked his lips. He'll know he's trapped… the dead will be upon us soon and there's no way out. Perhaps… perhaps he will surrender! The young Arab's heart leapt at the thought, for the honor and unsurpassed bravery of the Roman general touched even him.

"Roman!" he shouted, stepping out of the wary line of Sahaba. "Roman, listen!"

Red-beard turned towards him, wiping sweat out of his eyes. "What do you want, rebel?"

"Your city is lost," Khalid called into sudden, encompassing silence. Everyone fell quiet, the men on both sides staring at him in speculation. A few citizens ran past, faces haunted, but they spared no attention for the two opposing lines of soldiers. The young Arab pointed to the east. "Great Persia enters the city-his armies swollen by the risen dead-and you have no hope but honorable surrender. Yield your swords to me, and I will protect you!"

The red-beard gave him a considering glance, then leaned down, speaking softly to the messenger. The man nodded sharply, then bolted off down the docks. The Roman smiled, a grim, wintry expression without humor or malice. "Romans do not surrender," he called, voice ringing in the air. "If you wish our swords, you'll take them from the dead, as the ghouls you are!"

A laughing shout rose from the legionaries and many of the Germans clashed their swords and axes on their shields, raising a drumming, raucous noise. In response, the Sahaba growled and Khalid's face set, graven stone showing no mercy or remorse.

"Allau ak-bar!" the Sahaba roared, taking a step forward in unison. Fresh reinforcements joined them from the causeway. Khalid caught sight of Jalal and Shadin from the corner of his eye, and felt fresh hope jolt through him. The Romans matched the shout with their own: "The City! The City!"

A wordless cry ripped from Khalid's lips and he bounded forward. His men followed a breath later and a ringing crash echoed from the buildings and the water. Again, a fierce melee raised a vicious din on the docks, as Roman and Sahaban soldiers grappled, trading blows. Men toppled from the line of battle, slicking the ground with their fresh

A pack of gaatasuun were feeding in the entry hall of the Sema as Dahak entered. The sorcerer's face darkened with rage, pale eyes passing swiftly across the scattered bodies of priests and attendants. The prince's tunic was scorched and riddled with ash-burned holes. His usual poor humor deepened into simmering rage as he took in the carnage filling the tomb hall. There was dark, drying blood everywhere and the floor was slick with greasy-white entrails and offal. One of the corpse-men squatted on the floor, desiccated flesh peeling from a mottled black-and-gray back, as it pounded a newly dismembered head against the tile paving. The skull made a sharp, cracking sound as the blow split open the cranium. The gaatasuun's withered fingers pried aside bone, letting a long black tongue dip into the opening. A thick slurping sound followed.

Dahak made a sharp motion, no more than the effort of a man brushing aside a fly and the dozen or more corpses feeding in the chamber stiffened-motive force denied-and then crumbled to dust. The skull-suddenly released-clattered across the floor and came to rest at the prince's feet.

The Lord of the Ten Serpents bent down, face twisted in a grimace-half amused, half irritated. Black fingernails bit into bone and he lifted the skull. Once, a man with a neatly trimmed beard and a powerful nose had worn this ragged, bloody scrap of flesh and glistening white. There was a gelatinous sloshing sound as the head rolled between Dahak's fingers.

"Where is the Sarcophagus?" A snap of command, echoing with a trembling hum, filled the prince's voice. His high brow creased in mild concentration.

The skull stiffened in his hands, a leprous white glow sparking in empty eye sockets-no more than red-rimmed holes, where dusty fingers had lately gouged-and the jaw twitched and spasmed. The tongue, at least, remained whole and a gargling sound issued from the broken head. Dahak grunted, finding the words unintelligible.

"Speak clearly!" the prince commanded, and sinews crawled like worms under torn flesh, muscle knitting to bone, arteries swelling with a thick, dark gray humor-not blood, no, but close enough to serve. Watery charcoal-colored fluid spilled from the mouth and Dahak held the thing at arm's reach, so as to keep his long pantaloons free of such offal. "Where is the body?"

"Not…" croaked the priest's dead tongue. "…here… taken."

"What?" A hiss of rage followed and black talons squeaked through fibrous bone. "Who has taken the Pretender's body? When?"

"Persia…" The head sighed, more fluid spilling from the mouth and staining the prince's hands. "Shapur the Young took him… away."

"Shapur?" Dahak stared at the leaking head in dismay. "Shapur the Manichean?"

The head tried to nod, but could not. The leprous radiance dimmed in the eye sockets and Dahak's face contorted into unbridled rage. His fist closed with a convulsive jerk and the skull shattered into fragments. Spitting furiously, the prince cast the bits and pieces away. As they flew, black flame enveloped them and only dust sifted to the ground.

"Curse him, curse the child and all his debased house!" Dahak turned slowly, blazing eyes sweeping across the dumb stone faces of ancient kings and gods. They did not amuse him, these stiff Ptolemies and weak-faced animals grafted to human bodies. The prince stalked among the rumpled shapes of the dead priests, searching for another whose cranium was intact enough to question.

After a moment, he sighed in despair. The gaatasuun had been swift to satisfy their hunger.

"All this effort, for nothing…" Dahak leaned against a wall, suddenly weary. The vast effort of revivifying the tomb-lost dead and drawing them forth from the ground, sending them in crashing, endless waves against the Roman walls, imbuing each dead husk with enough of a spark to motivate hands and legs, began to tell. The prince stared around, feeling defeat leech the strength from his body. "We have taken an empty coffin-only dust and worms and vermin hiding in the walls."

He pressed a hand across his eyes. They burned with fatigue and even the thin, greenish sunlight slanting down from high, close-set windows hurt. So much time wasted. The Sema empty and my agents will have to search the length and breadth of Persia for the Pretender… An old, half-heard voice emerged from black, turgid memory. Shapur raised a great edifice at Taq-I-Bustam-perhaps he hid the body there-I will send the Shanzdah to shatter mountains and cast down cliffs to find out!

Dahak rose, face set, the moment of weariness past. His will asserted itself, banishing weariness and despair alike. Eyes narrowing to burning slits, he turned his attention outward, sending his thoughts winging across the leagues to the west.

Where are my faithful ones, he asked the void. Have they found our other prize?

Faintly, the Shanzdah replied, feeling his will searching for them. We are here, they called.

Dahak frowned again. He caught a sense of limitless emptiness, of heat, of fist-sized black stones lining a narrow track winding between desolate hills. The first of the Shanzdah was walking, leather boots sliding in fine sand. Where are you? Where is the duradarshan? Where is Lord Shahin?

We failed, came the cold reply. Dahak snarled silently, feeling nothing but truth reaching across the leagues to him. The Romans were here-and the witches helped them-they stole the device. This shape… A sensation of chill humor echoed… was almost destroyed.

"Enough!" Dahak released the connection violently, mocking laughter ringing in his thoughts. The prince stared around the old temple with a sick, conflicted expression. "Lost in the desert… witches interfering again! Why didn't I crush them all long ago…" He realized he was muttering and closed his mouth with a snap. Fixing his attention on the nearest wall, Dahak breathed slowly until his racing heart slowed to a walk. The wall was painted with scenes of men giving sacrifice to the sun, whose golden disc encompassed them in beneficent rays, carrying Amon's blessing. All the races of the earth were represented, from the pale hair of the northmen to the shining blue-black of the southern tribes.

His reptilian face twisting in despair, Dahak pressed his fingers against the fresco, slowly tracing yellow-painted lines, a round solar disk flanked by spreading hawk wings, rich fields of corn and wheat. A strange sound echoed in the chamber, throbbing among the roof arches. Dahak started, staring around, one hand raised in the beginnings of a pattern sign.

There was no one in the funerary temple. He was alone.

What was that? The prince's eyes slid closed, one transparent lid sliding over another. Even in the hidden world, there was nothing around him, no invisible adversary, no spy, no secret watcher. Was that someone crying?

The prince looked back to the painting and his jaw tightened. The sun in the middle of the composition mocked him, so perfectly round, fulfilling and sustaining the world of men. Dahak turned his face toward the ceiling, letting his sight peel away the stone arches, the tiled roof, then a sea of air, the thin white clouds so far above the curve of the earth, then an abyss of distant fire and the cold, dead moon.

I do not need to see this, Dahak thought, wrenching his attention away from the void. The Hyades have not risen and Al-Debaran still hides behind the world. There is still time. His hand, still resting upon the wall, convulsed, iron-hard nails digging through plaster into the stone below. But not much, no… not much. Not even as men measure the hours.

"Row!" A Praetorian, long blond hair wild around his head, screamed at a dozen soldiers. The men shied away from the barbarian, but their hands already wrapped around the long, polished pine handle of a huge oar. Sextus caught a glimpse of the men straining, faces red with effort, as he staggered up the gangway. Frontius flopped on his back like a marlin, drooling vomit on his shoulder. The wounded engineer was not doing well.

Two legionaries at the top of the gangway seized both of them with rough hands and threw them bodily onto the boarding deck of the grain hauler. Moments later, axes thudded into hawsers and the entire wooden ramp plunged into dirty brown water. Sextus rolled over, groaning, his hip twinging with sharp, stabbing pain. "What…"

Four enormous oars bit into the water and the grain hauler-despite her mass-jerked away from the dockside. Her holds were empty, making her surprisingly light on the water. The engineer bounded up, panic driving away the throbbing in his hip. "What are you doing?" Sextus threw himself to the railing, staring down at the dock. The two legionaries were busy lashing a wooden panel across the opening, closing off the space where the gangplank had laid.

Two men splashed in the water below, hands groping against the smooth marble facing of the harbor wall. A crowd pressed against a stone balustrade above them, staring at the ship with wild, wide eyes. Everyone ignored the men-stonemasons by the colored cords twisted into their tunics-as they struggled helplessly in the water. A guttural moan of despair rose from the mob, though no single person seemed to have raised their voice in a shout.

Sextus grabbed the nearest legionary's shoulder. "We can't leave," he hissed, pointing down the harborside. The crowd was beginning to mill, disturbed by some commotion. Light flashed on metal, though the sun had grown very dim, shrinking to a pale disc hidden in heavy viridian clouds. "There are still Romans trapped ashore!"

"Get away from me." The legionary turned on Sextus, shoving his hand away. He looked sick, face sallow behind a stiff black beard. He clutched the axe with both hands, knuckles white against the close-grained wood.

"Those are our tent mates," Sextus said, voice rising in horror. "We don't leave them behind!"

"Get away!" The man shouted, pushing Sextus back with the axe handle.

On the deck, Frontius stared up, lips nearly white with pain. "Sextus…"

"Look at them," the engineer shouted, turning on the other soldiers standing by the railing. He waved at a band of men in armor pushing through the mob. Other men pursued, swords and spears hacking and stabbing, striking down men and women packed so closely together they could not flee. "They need us! Stop rowing! Turn the ship!"

The sweeps continued to dip into the harbor and the massive ship inched away from the dock a yard at a time. A good twenty feet of open water now separated the hull from the marble facing. One of the stonemasons had vanished under the slowly roiling brown surface. The other managed to dig his fingers into a mossy crevice between two stones. He was shouting weakly, begging for help.

The crowd ignored him, staring at the grain hauler. Aboard, the legionaries at the railing stared back. No one spoke, and the oars dipped again, opening the distance another yard.

"Ho, the ship!"

A strong, familiar voice rang out. A tall man with a singular red beard shoved through the crowd to the retaining wall. Barely a half-dozen men still fought at his side, several of them sorely wounded. Only yards away, through the mob, Sextus saw the Arabs pressing, blades rising and falling in fierce, brutal cuts. People were screaming now and the entire mob seemed to wake with a start. It moved, a herd surging, spooked by summer thunder. Twenty or thirty people-those jammed closest to the water-were shoved into the harbor with a mighty splash. Sextus jerked as if struck with a whip.

"Throw them ropes," he shouted, turning again to the other legionaries. They stared back, faces blank. "Fools!" the engineer snarled at them, then ran along the railing. He found a heavy rope knotted at intervals and snatched up the coil. He ran back, screaming curses at the other men on the ship.

He reached the gangway and knelt, hands quick as they wound the rope into a heavy bolt stapled to the deck. Sextus braced his foot, standing, and hurled the coil into the water. On the dock, the legionaries turned at bay, forming a too-small circle with their shields. The engineer leaned out, screaming at the top of his lungs-"Here! Here! Swim to the ship!"

The red-bearded man looked back over his shoulder, a spatha bare in his hand. Sextus recognized him at last. "Lord Aurelian! Here, Lord Prince, here!"

Shrieking, the mob parted, men and women trampling those too slow to flee. The Arabs pushed through behind a thicket of spears. The legionaries on the wharf locked shields and the ring and clatter of steel on steel drifted across the water. Sextus bit his thumb, silently begging the prince to leap into the water. Instead, his powerful head was clearly visible among the others, his long blade flashing, driving back the first rush of the enemy.

Oars rose, shedding brown, silty water, and the ship crabbed out into the harbor. Two burly legionaries bent to the steering oars on the rear deck, trying to turn the grain hauler to catch the wind. The sails-huge squares of stitched canvas-luffed as the ship turned. For a moment, forward motion ceased, though all four oars dug deep into brown water, the crews on the sweeps groaning with effort.

"Here, my lord," Sextus screamed again, beckoning.

A towering Arab clashed with the prince and the two men-each head and shoulders above his companions-exchanged a fierce series of cuts and slashes. The ringing clang of blade on blade was clear even on shipboard. The prince held his own, then advanced, whirling the spatha in a driving attack. The Arabs fell back, stabbing at his feet and head with their spears. A clear space emerged, though in the brief interlude, two more of the legionaries-already wounded-had been stricken down.

More green turbans pushed through the crowd and the engineer realized the avenues leading down to the docks were now filling with a rustling, shuffling mob far different from the panicked citizens who had first rushed down to the shore.

"My lord," Sextus wailed, hand hanging in the air. "Please!"

The Arabs rushed forward, shouting a sharp, high cry. Aurelian met their attack head-on, smashing one man to the ground, then slashing his blade back, catching another behind the head. The Arab toppled, helmet smashed down over his eyes, spine bared white to the sky. The others jostled, trying to get at the prince. Spinning, Aurelian took two, long racing steps and leapt over the retaining wall. His trim, powerful body speared into the water with a sharp splash.

Sextus shouted in relief, leaning over the side to grasp the knotted rope, flipping it out towards the shore. The Arabs rushed forward, the last legionnaire slumping back against the marble wall, four or five spears grinding into his chest, his neck, his armpit. Blood splashed across white stone. A young man with a sharp face and neat, coal-black beard leapt atop the wall.

The engineer threw the rope again, though he could not see Aurelian beneath the turgid surface, not yet.

A forest of green-and-tan crowded at the wall. The young Arab shouted, pointing. Aurelian's head burst from the waters, more than halfway between the ship and shore. He took his bearings, then struck out for the hull, swimming strongly. Sextus felt a chill, realizing the prince was still in full armor. The strength of ten! his mind gibbered, calculating the weight of metal and leather. "Here, a rope!"

The knotted line flew out again, splashing into the water only yards from the prince. Aurelian caught sight of the rope and turned, muscular arms cleaving through the low waves.

On the retaining wall, the young Arab was arguing with his soldiers, gesturing violently toward the man swimming in the water. Two of them-older men with heavy beards-shouted back. The sound of defiance in their voices drew Sextus' attention. One, a tall, hook-nosed man carrying a long, curved bow shook his head sharply in refusal. The young Arab turned away, face twisted in fury, and snatched a spear from one of his fellows.

"Dive, my lord!" Sextus screamed at the prince, seeing the Arab take a hurling stance, shoulder sliding back, the iron head of the spear poised at his chin. "Dive!"

Aurelian doubled his pace, surging through the water. The rope was only feet away. The Arab whipped around, spear leaping from his fingers, arcing into the sky. Aurelian grasped the rope and slid under the waves, the weight of his armor dragging him down. Sextus hauled, feeling the line stiffen and spring out of the water. Other hands grasped hold, a whole crowd of men around him, and they pulled for all they were worth.

The prince's head shot from the water, his arm tangled in the line, and a wake foamed around his shoulders. Glittering, the spear flashed down. Sextus shouted again, though there were no comprehensible words. Aurelian twisted, flinging himself away from the missile. The spear plunged into the water, only a hand span away. On the ship, a hundred legionaries cheered lustily in relief. Sextus continued to haul, rope burning between his fingers. A moment later, as more spears plunged into the water, Aurelian was dragged against the side of the ship. Arrows flashed past the prince's head, burying themselves in the oaken planks of the ship with a meaty thack!

A dozen hands reached down, dragging Aurelian up to the railing. The knotted rope wound tight around his arm and shoulder, biting deep into bruised flesh. Sextus grasped hold of the prince's shoulder strap, hauling him-clanking, water spilling from his armor-over the side. Everyone collapsed to the deck in a sodden heap, Aurelian's pale, drained face framed by wet iron and glistening leather.

"My lord," Sextus cried, tears streaming down his grimy face. "You live!"

Aurelian grimaced, bluish lips drawing back from clenched teeth. His fingers clutched Sextus' hair. "Do I?" the prince gasped, shuddering, and Sextus looked down. Blood flooded from Aurelian's side. A long gash tore open his lower stomach, some unseen blow severing the prince's armored skirt. His belt was missing and the lower edge of the lorica was twisted and bent.

"No!" Sextus pressed desperately against the wound, feeling gelatinous, coiled tubes squirm away under his fingers. "No! We saved you, my lord, we saved you!"

Aurelian's face drained of color, though someone was trying to force the nipple of a wineskin into his mouth and his body shook with a racking cough. Blood covered Sextus' forearms and the prince died, there on the deck of the ship as she wallowed out into the harbor, away from the fallen city.

"Oh no." Frontius leaned over the prince, his face gone ashy white. The other men drew back, and a mutter of despair coursed from dozens of lips. Sextus, his arms washed red, laid the prince down, taking care his head did not crack against the planks. Still kneeling, the engineer turned to stare back at the docks. The hosts of the enemy crowded the wharfs, and even at this distance Sextus could see the young captain and the two older men.

They raised their spears and swords in salute, a bright forest of flashing steel. A great basso shout rang out over the turgid waters and a thousand naked blades thrust to the sky in a single, sharp movement. Frontius stepped to the railing, staring in incomprehension. Again the blades flashed, and the roar of sound rolled out. The sound seemed to fill the air, driving back the heavy pressure that had grown over the city. Then again, as the Roman ship reached the long sandstone breakwater.

"What are they doing?" Frontius looked back at Sextus. The engineer stood, thin streams of blood spilling from his arms.

"They praise a brave man," Sextus said, though his voice was nearly unrecognizable. "As we will praise him. As he deserves." The engineer turned to the crowd of legionaries crowding the deck. Every man seemed as one dead-eyes hollow, faces caked with soot and sweat, armor dotted with blood-yet their gaze turned to him as he raised a hand.

"Bring a priest-if any survives among us-and a winding shroud. We will not burn our lord Aurelian at sea, but upon our homecoming. For him, we will spill the blood of beasts, of men. For him we will spill wine, and send a great smoke to the heavens. He will not go into the dark alone, without servants, without grain, without wine. He will not suffer in darkness, for we-the Legion-will always remember him!"

There was a stir among the crowd and the men parted, letting a white-haired centurion approach. Sextus was greatly relieved. Here was a priest of Mars Ultor, come to give a soldier a soldier's rites. Frontius gripped his shoulder. "Father Wolf," Sextus called, kneeling again beside the prince. "Give our comrade a blessing grace, to carry him across the Dark River. You men-where are the eagle standards, the golden plaque, where is the name of the city? Here is a son of Rome-its bravest son-and he needs know we pray for him, the city prays for him, that he is not alone in the cold darkness."

Again the crowd on the deck parted and the banners and sigils of the Legion approached, passed hand to hand among the soldiers. The ship was beginning to roll, buffeted by northerly waves and the sails filled with wind, driving them west at a steady pace. Someone in the mass of men packed onto the deck began to beat a drum. Father Wolf bent down, seamed face pinched tight in grief. The priest of Mars reached down, as the legionaries began to chant the "passage of the fallen" and closed Aurelian's eyes for the last time.