They heard their priest in silence, the army of the king of Israel, and for a heartbeat more they held that silence, and then they lifted their new blades, and beat their hilts on the hard bull’s hide of their new shields, and the sound rocked the earth and the roots of the hills and the pillars of the sky, and surely it must also have rocked the city, wherein waited men and women in their hundreds of thousands for the king who had been promised.
Menachem opened his mouth to speak.
‘Not here. Go to the head of the spring where they can see you,’ Pantera said, and like a blind man Menachem turned, and stepped up and up to the spring’s head.
The sun cast him in gold. The spring sang out of the earth at his feet and when he bent and cupped it in his hands, and sprayed it over the men nearest, they were drenched, lightly, in liquid silver.
He raised his hands high, as the priests did on the Sabbath. The rolling thunder of hilts on shields rose and fell away. His voice rang out over the heads of his men, straight to Jerusalem.
‘I am of David’s line. I am son of my father’s father, Yehuda, the Galilean, who should have been king of all Israel, and would have been, did he only have you at his side to make it happen. Today, we shall complete what he began those many years ago when he assaulted the armoury at Sepphoris. Today, we shall drive Rome from the sacred places of our people. By tonight, all Jerusalem will be ours under one god. You have waited for this, you have worked for this, you who have been true from the start…’
He spoke to men by name, drawing them forward, naming their courage in particular battles at particular times, or brothers lost, or children dead in their absence. They came and knelt and went away again, shining with love for him and pride in themselves and their army.
Pantera backed away and stood with Gideon and Yusaf on the lower ground by the spring. ‘He looks good there, with the newborn sun at his back and the water before him. We must remember this, if he is to speak often: it is what the men will recall, later, when the terror of combat has burned away their other memories.’
‘But not our other memories,’ said Yusaf, drily. ‘Or at least, not yours. Do you ever feel true fear like mortal men?’
‘Of course. You would not believe how often.’
‘We do not believe you now,’ Gideon said, in a tone that matched Yusaf’s exactly. ‘One day you must show me how you hide it so efficiently. Meanwhile, we must find ourselves a donkey colt. Zechariah was a rambling idiot who contradicted himself with each second word, but every child knows that the king comes in righteousness and salvation riding on an ass. We can’t let it pass.’
‘We can,’ Pantera said. ‘We must. This is battle, not a coronation. He will ride Iksahra’s mare. Nothing less will keep him alive.’
‘The ass is to signify peace.’
‘And righteousness, I heard. But to get to peace, he must live through war, and this mare is battle trained. Lay your hand here, on her hide, and feel the shiver of her sinews. She knows there’s a fight coming and she’s desperate to take part. You won’t find a donkey that’ll fight for you.’
‘But-’
‘But nothing. He’ll look better mounted on that mare than on anything else, trust me, and there are prophecies enough to go round: one of them probably mentions a white horse with black feet if you look hard enough. Put your effort into seeking that out if you find yourself with time on your hands through the morning.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Six of Jerusalem’s seven gates cleared smoothly through the remaining hours of darkness. Six more pairs of legionaries fled to their barracks, carrying stories of a ghul abroad in the night, of ghostly legionaries marching to nowhere, of monsters greater than any they had seen.
Iksahra gained in stature with Naso and his legionaries with each gate, so that by the time they approached the last, set in the western wall behind the beast gardens, they were no longer drawing wards against evil when she passed them by, but were sketching instead the sign for good luck.
The process was not fast, though; the city’s cockerels were clearing their throats and the small coloured birds of the gardens and groves were already courting by the time they reached that last gate, tucked away behind the palace. The morning was lighter than it should have been; the perimeter of the beast garden was etched clearly across a grey sky.
Kleopatra caught Iksahra’s arm. ‘It’s too late; dawn’s nearly on us. They’ll see you’re not a ghul.’
‘I know. This time we have to fight. They are ten and we are seven, but we have the cheetah, and Mergus’ men have the advantage of surprise: the Guard will not expect to be attacked by men they know. Still, we need to get closer. Will you go forward now and ask them if your family has already left? Keep them talking until we get near.’
It was easier, this time, for Kleopatra to walk up the road, and, this close to the palace, the guards were civil.
‘The king left before dusk, lady, and all his family with him. You’ve missed them, but you can’t leave now. The zealot army is already outside the walls. They’ve armed themselves and moved north of the city in the night. There’ll be a battle before noon. You should be indoors.’
It was the captain who spoke, first of ten men, stationed five on each side of the locked and barred gate. Each of them held his sword out, his shield off his shoulder, ready against ghuls and zealots equally.
‘I have to join them.’ Kleopatra bit her lip and stared at her feet and found that the morning had progressed so far that she could easily see the detail of her toes. She looked back up at the guard. ‘Would it be possible to-’
His raised hand stopped her. To his men, not to her, he said, ‘Here she comes. See? It’s the king’s Berber beastwoman. I told Antonius it wasn’t a ghul. Make a line on me and advance on my word. My lady, if you could step behind us, you’ll be safer there.’
They made a line of iron and bull’s hide; men who had fought and killed all their adult lives. They guarded the gate nearest the palace, likely first focus of any assault from the north and west.
Kleopatra was pushed behind, so that she saw Iksahra through the gaps between their shields. She was walking down the road with the cheetah at her heels, making no effort at all to stretch her arms, or to appear as an apparition. She came to a halt ten feet away from the line of guards.
There followed a moment’s hush in which ten men braced themselves, waiting for an order. In her bones, Kleopatra felt the thrill of preparation run through them. She saw the captain take a breath to shout and slid her own hand into her sleeve where her knife was hidden: better to die trying to cut his throat than to see them crucify Iksahra alongside Estaph.
Iksahra lifted her arm. The captain said, ‘Steady, steady…’
Iksahra dropped her arm. The cheetah sprang forward as commanded and its fluid gold-black flight merged with Iksahra’s battle shout, for as her arm came down her thrown knife caught the first edge of the dawn and carried it forward, lancing the throat of the captain as he, in his turn, launched himself at Iksahra.
The captain tumbled forward, retching, his own blade spinning and clattering to the ground. Iksahra stooped to gather it and so ducked under the swing from the rush of incoming guards: five against one. Their blades hacked out and down — and missed.
Iksahra was as fluid as her own hunting cat, dodging, sliding, skipping back, and laughing in their faces, so that at first they did not see Mergus and his five legionaries who came out of the shadows on either side of the road, advancing fast and silent.
‘Look out!’ Kleopatra shouted, when she was sure they’d been seen. ‘Enemies to both sides!’
The men of the garrison thought her a friend and shouted thanks even as they turned, five on four, back to back in a single snatched step. Their captain would have been proud of them. He was not yet fully dead; his blood still pulsed in a dark sheet across the road, but the waves were less with each ripple and his eyes had already turned up to show the whites.