"O Queen," he said, his eyes sparkling in shadow, "summon the captains of the host: Odenathus your cousin, Khalid of the Al'Walid, the Lord of the Ben-Sarid, the Princes of the Decapolis. When the sun comes again, we will leave this place. Lejjun awaits, and then the coast."
Zoe bowed and made to go, but the thin handsome face of the youth Khalid was already there, pushing his way through the crowd. No one had left the High Place, all were waiting for Mohammed to descend the steps. Among all that throng, only Khalid moved. The young man stepped in front of Mohammed and made a deep bow, settling to one knee. A package wrapped in loose cloth was in one hand.
"Lord Mohammed, pause awhile. I have carried a gift from those left behind, your kinfolk in Mekkah and the stalwarts of the city. They cannot join you- being infirm or possessed of responsibilities, but they would have you remember, always, that you are in their hearts. They send you this."
Khalid unwrapped the cloth and the plain unmarked hilt and sheath of a sword stood revealed. With downcast eyes, the youth presented the blade, hilt-first, to the Quryash. Mohammed paused, looking down, his right hand on his own blade.
"I have a sword," said the Quryash. "It suffices."
"Put it aside," said Khalid, his voice solemn. "This is a blade of the heart, not just steel. Draw it, lord, and see what faith has wrought."
One of Mohammed's eyebrows flickered, but he put forth his hand and gripped the hilt. Zoe, watching from the crowd of men, saw his face change at the touch, lighting from within like the sun parting clouds. There was a slithering rasp and the blade flowed free from the sheath.
Zoe gasped.
It was blacker than the barren sky, ebon and indigo. It swallowed light and compressed space. Every eye fixed upon it, seeing infinity in its depths. Colors she could not name crawled across the surface. It was pure and whole, balanced like the tripod of the sun. Mohammed raised the blade above his head and Zoe felt the world shift and center. For an instant, her thought turned to the hidden world, to perceive that which the men of Mekkah had summoned from their forges.
She could not. Such a thing could not be looked upon in life.
"He sings!" Mohammed said, wonder filling his voice. "It is the maker of night."
Caesarea Maritima, Palestine
Banners and pennants snapped in a brisk offshore breeze. Surf beyond the twin breakwaters boomed vigorously. Beyond the twin sea towers, whitecaps stretched to the horizon. On the stone quays, the wind whistled through a forest of masts and sang in the ropes. Nearly a hundred huge grain freighters were tied up. At each massive ship, four gangways- two to a side- had been let down to the docks. Men disbarked in a constant, steady stream from the upper decks. Below them, where the heavier ramps had grounded, wagons were being unloaded, and wobbly horses and mules were being led out.
On the steps of the port master's office, in the shade, Theodore stood with his staff. The Prince wore a heavy red cloak with a purple silk lining. A gilt breastplate molded with rippling muscles shone at his chest. As befitted the commander of an Imperial army, his barbers had shaved his beard close to the jaw and his thick unruly red hair was coifed back. Exquisitely tooled boots with a red stripe, as befitted the brother of the Emperor, were on his feet.
The Prince fairly gleamed in the midday sun, though his staff were similarly well appointed. Theodore did not look kindly upon subordinates who let their armor and helmets be marred by stains or rust. Too, they were men like him, younger and more vigorous than the doddards who served on Heraclius' staff. The Prince had chosen each one from the ranks of the army that had conquered Persia. He understood them well.
Theodore cast a possessive eye over the lines of men marching past. The army still numbered far too many infantry for his taste, though they did make a stirring sight as they swung past with their spears and bowcases over their shoulders, belongings tied up in a sack on a pole. The tramp of those thousands of feet on the paving stones sent a shiver up his spine.
These are mine, he gloated. My army, at last.
With the restoration of Imperial authority over the highlands of Anatolikon and the departure of the Avars to their lands beyond the Danuvius, a flood of manpower had offered itself up to the Emperor. Theodore, acting in his brother's place, had seized upon the fresh levy with alacrity. Nearly half of his banda were green troops, but he knew that they would train up quickly. The Anatolians, in particular, were natural soldiers. More to the point, they would form an army that had never known another commander. They had never served under his brother and gained that grating loyalty that seemed to follow the Emperor wherever he went.
The first of the cavalry regiments paraded past, the equities raising their arms in salute to the Prince. Theodore grinned, his heart swelling with pride. Here were the finest fighting men in the world, the cataphracti of Rome. Today they rode past with their conical helms slung from a strap on their high, four-cornered saddles. Their long curved bows were safely cased away at their sides and the wicked spatha were sheathed. Lamellar mail, bound of hundreds of metal lozenges on a leather and felt backing, shimmered in the sunlight. In battle, their horses would bear heavy felted barding, sewn with metal plates. Wagons carried their armor now, for the disembarkment procedure was difficult enough without the extra weight.
The Prince raised his arm in salute and a cheer went up, ringing off the limestone facing on the warehouses and port offices.
"Come," said the Prince, ebullient. "We must make our way to camp and sort things out. Things will be in a right mess there, I am sure. Within the week, once all ships have unloaded, we march to Damascus to see about the suppression of this rabble in the desert and the extension of the rule of law."
The staff officers smiled back, their faces shining with thoughts of victory and conquest. The armies of the frontier states- Palmyra and Nabatea and the Decapolis- had been scattered and destroyed by Persia. The inland cities, grown fat on the Indian trade and the staggering profits of Chin silk, would be a rich prize. Four new provinces were planned, each under the direct rule of a newly appointed Imperial governor.
Theodore stamped down the steps and swung up onto his horse, a massive coal black stallion he had chosen from the stables of the Imperial palace. He felt joy fill him, seeing this pure blue sky and the dry hills above the port. Here was his Empire, waiting for him. He spurred the horse and it clattered up the street, its mane blowing in the wind of his passage.
Behind him, another cohort of infantry marched past the offices, swords and spears jangling. Out at sea, another hundred of the massive transport ships were waiting, heeled against the wind, protected by the prowling galleys of the Imperial fleet. Nearly twenty thousand men would come ashore over the next week.
On the near dock, a centurion cursed at the green troops under his command. They had fouled a line and their supply wagon had tipped, spilling its cargo of arrows, sharpened stakes, bags of millet, and barrels of acetum onto the dock.
"Move it, you offal!" His baton made a meaty sound on their backs. The men rushed to turn the wagon back over.
The centurion wiped his brow. It was dreadfully hot here. Soon it would be worse as full summer came. He squinted at the dry hills, snarling in disgust at the thin grass and scrawny trees.
Colonna hated Judea. It was always bad luck to serve here.