Nikos was in the third cell, leaning against the wall, asleep. Thyatis snarled silently. He was really asleep, not just shamming. She knelt and cut off the tip of one of the leather thongs that bound her boots to her calf. It was a hard little nub of well-cured leather. She flicked it through the bars, and it hit Nikos in the right eye. He started and his eyes flickered open. A piece of sharpened copper was in his right hand. Warily he looked around, his eyes widening in utter surprise when he caught sight of Thyatis peering in the window. She put a finger to her lips. He nodded.
Gently she raised the bar on the outside the door, easing up the slip-latch that held it down. Once it was off, she laid it flat oathe floor next to the door and slowly eased the heavy panel open. Nikos was waiting on the other side, having stepped lightly across the sleeping bodies of his fellow prisoners. Thyatis signed for him to step out. She closed the door behind him.
For a moment they stood staring at each other, and a parade of emotions passed over Nikos’ face like a triumph in the Forum. Thyatis just grinned hugely and then hugged him close to her hard enough to make him oof in surprise. He broke free and rubbed his arms in chagrin.
Which way is out? he signed.
A question, first, she replied. Do any of these others have level heads?
He looked at her dubiously, then his fingers danced, saying: What do you intend, foolish one?
She mugged an innocent face, then: We’re getting everyone out if we can. If we do, the local tribes will owe me a favor for every head. I need them to take the city for Caesar.
Nikos started to look sick. Then he noticed the bag on the floor behind her. What’s in the bag? He asked.
Oh, nothing… just your body.
NORTH OF EMESA, THE THEME OF SYRIA MAGNA
Empress!“ One of the Tanukh riders, his kaffieh streaming behind him in the wind of his passage, galloped into the command camp. Nabatean spearmen, guarding the entrance to the camp, dashed out of his way. His horse was lathered and coated with dust from the road. Zenobia, her hair still undone, stepped away from the cluster of sleepy officers who surrounded her at the doorway of her great tent. With the army on the march, she wore hunting leathers-a pair of soft kid trousers with a stout vest over a loose cotton shirt. Her hand, quick as a hawk in flight, snagged the bridle of the horse and the man drew to a halt. The horse blew, heavily, and Zenobia patted its long nose.
“The Al’Quraysh sends his greetings on this fine morning, Empress, and says that the Persian army is athwart the road to the north and is deploying for battle.”
The Queen flashed a brilliant smile. Her camp had been made on a low hill beside the main road north from the Roman city of Emesa, now some three leagues behind them, to the smaller town of Arethusa on the Orontes River. A copse of trees marked the crown of the hill, and the brightly colored tents of her servants and commanders were settled among the junipers and scrubby pines. Curlicues of smoke rose from their campfires. To the north, other hills blocked her view of the long slope down to the Orontes. Behind her, a fine view of Emesa and the fertile valley around it could be seen. The morning sun, just over the eastern horizon, bathed the land in a pale-pink light. The air was still quite cool from the night and the horse’s breath was a cloud in the air.
“It is a fine morning. Tell the Al’Quraysh that we will be with him presently.”
The man reined around and cantered away through the line of trees in a swirl of dust.
Zenobia stared north with a sly grin on her face and slapped her thigh with the riding stick she favored as a pointer for staff meetings. The Persians had turned to face her at last. Today was the day that she would equal her distant ancestor and set her people free of both Empires. She turned and strode back to the gathering of her men. At one side of the cluster of officers, Ahmet sat on a camp stooj, calmly eating his morning porridge. He glanced up as she passed into the tent. The Queen was in a good humor.
Ahmet jounced up and down, his tailbone complaining bitterly, his hands around Zenobia’s slim waist as they trotted up over the last rise. He had added a kqffieh, a loose headpiece of flowing cotton and a band of corded rope to hold it on his head, to his usual robes over a loincloth. In previous days he had walked alongside the wagons carrying Zenobia’s personal effects and her household, but today the Queen made haste, so he rode behind her.
Beyond the rise, the hills had dropped away and a broad plain, shaped like the head of a spear, pointed to the northeast. A stream ran along the farther edge of the plain, where another range of low hills rose up. The Emesa road cut at an angle down the near slope, crossed the stream at a ford, and then rose up into those hills. The ground in between was littered with rocks, small boulders, scrubby grass, and low gray bushes. Zenobia surveyed the terrain with a glint in her eye.
“Overgrazed,” she said, turning to the east on the great black stallion that she favored and riding along the line of the crest. “Firm ground, good traction for horses and men.”
“A pity the Persians turned back before they stumbled onto your gift at Lake Bahrat.”
Zenobia glanced over her shoulder at the Egyptian, her eyes smoldering with anger.
“The first stroke of good sense the Great Prince Shahin ever had in his life!”
Ahmet nodded and clung tighter to her as they crossed some rough ground. Zenobia’s army was disgorging onto the southern side of the plain from the main road and several other tracks that Mohammed’s scouts had found leading through the hills. The Palmyrene and Nabatean heavy cavalry was trotting out in oblong formations, five and six men deep, their lances raised like a forest of steel reeds. Banners rose and fell over the formations as their commanders attempted to coax them into a line of battle. Bands of Syrian and Nabatean infantry, arithmoi to the Romans, spilled out of the trails on either side. Black-skinned men with tufts of feathers worked into their hair, carrying bows and javelins, ran past the command group down the slope. Zenobia was heading for a bluff to the right side of the main road. A band of men in red armor was already deployed on the height. Aretas and his priests, Ahmet thought.
“You’re sure that Shahin still commands the Persian host?” His voice was quiet, though the clatter of the horse’s hooves on the rocky ground was sure to drown out anything but a shout.
Zenobia nodded, though she frowned in concentration.
“One of our scouts must have been discovered,” she said, “to make them abandon the camp in such haste.” She snarled in anger, striking her riding boot with the crop. “Just one more day and we would have had them on the plain at Bahrat. Ha, we would have had him already if Mohammed could have kept those Tanukh bandits from looting the Persian camp. Ah, it is as my father always said-the time of battle is never chosen and the field is never favorable!“ She pointed out at the plain they were facing.
“This is almost perfect for him, though, the Persian eunuch! His clibanari and cataphracti will have a fine day against us if we are not aggressive.”
She stopped talking for a moment as the stallion surged up the side of the bluff and she rode into the midst of Aretas’ guardsmen. The Nabatean’s servants had already thrown up an open-sided tent and the Prince, clad in enameled red armor composed of overlapping metal lozenges secured with leather bands, was seated on a stool at the front of the tent. Around him, his servants were busy preparing small tables laden with bowls of water, twisted pieces of metal, and a wide range of curious artifacts. Behind him, in the shade of the tent, the twelve hooded men who accompanied him were seated, a tremulous hum coming from their cowls.