"I'll take her!" He shouted at the longshoremen holding the cables, preparing to slip the mare free of the net. They stepped back and Khalid eased up, clucking softly. "Here girl, here's an apple…"
The mare snuffled wildly, tossing her head. Khalid nipped in and caught her bridle. She flipped her big square head to the side, but the apple was waiting. Cautiously, a soft nose snorted around the crisp, red fruit, then the apple disappeared into a horsy mouth with a crunching sound. "There, see, not so bad…"
Khalid rubbed the horse's neck until she quieted, then led her-still hooded-down the long dock. The air was filled with noise; the squeal of ropes through pulleys, the shouts of men, a dull boom as wooden crates swung from ship holds onto the quays of the port, shrieking gulls wheeling among the masts. Sixty ships were moored in the inner harbor of Caesarea, hiding from a constant, tugging wind surging out of the northwest. Beyond the calm oval of the main harborage, beyond a pair of towering sandstone lighthouses, the sea boomed against a marble-faced breakwater three miles long. The Judean shore, particularly here, was open and desolate, without any kind of natural harbor. Only the awesome power of Rome had lifted Caesarea from the sand. Another fifty ships of the Sahaba fleet were tied up on the southern docks, outside the breakwater, protected from the constant wind and a wicked current by the bulk of the port itself.
Khalid reached the end of the dock, weaving his way through lines of men in loincloths and plain white headdresses laboring in the burning sun. They were hauling wicker amphorae frames out of a fat-bellied Roman troop transport. Wine and oil and salt and olives. Khalid grinned, watching the men with an eagle eye-they were working hard, heads bent, moving with quick, jerky motions. They were afraid.
As well they should be, Khalid thought. They have a hard master. Not one so lenient or so familiar as Rome.
Atop the harbor towers, looming over a narrow channel filled with angry water, two flags fluttered in the strong breeze; the golden sunburst of Persia and the green field and white moon of the Sahaba. Al'Walid grinned again. That is my banner now. Mine.
The horse bumped him again, trying to get nimble lips into the pockets of his cloak. Sadly, there were no more apples. He rubbed her nose, then untied the hood and let her blink away the sun. Satisfied she had her land legs, Khalid swung onto her back and nudged the mare to follow the main street of the port. The road was crowded with wagons, but men parted before him, and the Sahaban fighters policing the port recognized him.
"Make way!" they shouted, pressing back the crowd with their spears. "The Eagle passes! Make way!"
Khalid flashed a smile at two kohl-eyed prostitutes leaning on their balcony and the girls waved, giggling. His heart soared, seeing fear and desire alike in their eyes. But not today, there is work to be done. He urged the mare on, and she was glad to pick up the pace, clattering up the long boulevard bisecting the Roman town. The young chieftain was glad to feel hot, dry wind on his face. The ships were close and cramped, filled with the noxious smell of sweating, unwashed soldiers. Even the strength of the sun, burning on his face, was welcome.
Caesarea was crowded, filled with soldiers disembarking, marching in long columns up from the docks. The Arabs and Greeks were happy, laughing and chattering like blackbirds. A vast quantity of loot was being hauled ashore. When Khalid reached the Capitolina gate, he found the passage jammed with wagons stacked with bundles of spears. Not all of the treasure torn out of Constantinople was gold or ivory. Khalid had spent three days walking through armory rooms in the old Imperial fortress of the Golden Gate, counting bushels of arrows, suits of mailed armor, swords, spears, daggers, scorpion engines, axes, bows, mangonels, shovels, picks, iron helms, shields, sheaves of javelins, bales of tunics, boots, barrels of hobnailed sandals, cornicens in copper and bronze, bucinas, even a water organ built on a wagon… He laughed aloud, filled with furious exaltation. My army is stronger every day. Every day!
"Clear the gate," he shouted and the Sahaban sergeants trying to control traffic turned. Seeing him looking down from an eager horse, his dark face silhouetted against the brassy sky, they redoubled their efforts. Khalid was restless and each grain while the teamsters strained to get their wagons through the portal was an eternity.
Outside the city, the dappled mare stretched herself, galloping along a broad military road arrowing up into the hills. A mile beyond the dusty white walls of the city, a huge camp sprawled on either side of the road among scrub and salt trees. Dozens of banners snapped in the offshore wind and Khalid cantered down a broad lane lined with tents on either side. Persians and Huns looked up as he passed and the swarthy-faced nomads shouted their appreciation of his horse. Khalid flashed a grin, then rode on.
The arrival of the fleet in Caesarea had found not only the Sahaban garrison Khalid expected but fresh regiments of Persian troops. While the armies of Persia, Avaristan and the Decapolis struggled before Constantinople, the King of King's empire-still weak, but gathering strength-amassed a new army and sent it west. Al'Walid knew the faces of men better than most and he kenned the Persian numbers were greatly swollen by mercenaries. Beside the long-mustached Huns, there were Bactrians with their silk banners and huge-chested stallions; countless numbers of Arabs from the eastern fringes of the great desert; thousands of hill-men-Kushans? — with brocaded tabards and leaf-bladed spears; even Indian knights from the hot lands beyond the great sea. Seeing the vast tent of the shahanshah rising above the lesser tents of the diquans and the feudal lords, Khalid slowed the mare, ignoring her whuffling protests and prancing hooves. The day was hot and al'Walid thought she had sweated enough.
Shahr-Baraz's tent rose three stories high, a monstrous confection of silk and canvas and colored banners. A great gate stood open at the front, revealing a vast interior space filled with muted light and endless numbers of thick rugs. Khalid swung down from his horse, tossing the reins to a groom-one of a huge crowd of servants loitering around outside, jockeying for shade near the door. The entrance itself was empty, save for-just within-two dark shapes, one on either side.
Khalid strode past the Shanzdah, ignoring the unsettling emptiness of their helms, suppressing a shudder as he felt some nameless, cold effluvium wash over his exposed skin. He slowed his pace, letting his eyes adjust to the filtered, golden light falling from translucent panels set into the upper storeys. Shahr-Baraz might be a man of action, a king ruling from the saddle, but his empire had a vigorous bureaucracy and court that rushed here and there, trying to find the Boar and pen him safely in elegance and luxury.
A throne of sandalwood and mother-of-pearl glowed in the falling light. Khalid passed through knots of men-nobles, soldiers, merchants, great lords and small-to approach the center of power. He slowed, watching the faces of those he passed with careful eyes. He schooled his expression to a calm smile, eyes glinting with secrets. He stopped, stepping in front of the hulking swordsman, Shadin. The grizzled, white-bearded Sahaba looked aside and nodded in greeting. Khalid's eyes flicked across the tableau before him and he was forced to suppress a snarl.