'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.
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.
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.
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
—|—
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Mare Internum, East of Sicily
