The Dark Lord

'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!'

—|—