Yes, great lord! Zoe's and Odenathus' screams were indistinguishable.
Good. Good. The power turned away for an instant, focusing on the rippling, incandescent wall of golden light. Zoe gasped for breath, wild thoughts hurrying through her mind.
What happened? Tears spilled on the ground, her arms and legs spasming. He's not afraid! He was afraid before!
She froze, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Dismay rose in her, icy water spilling into a shattered hull. What if he was only pretending fear? A ruse to snare treachery?
With a tremendous effort, bringing to mind a calming meditation, she drove the thoughts of murder and insurrection from her mind. A cold clarity settled over her.
Sextus jogged south, measuring his stride, conserving his breath. Frontius was lagging, still cursing under his breath, anger radiating from every pore.
"Dick-licking bastards! How could they steal our mules?"
Sextus ignored his friend, swerving around a wagon rumbling past. The road on the second wall was crowded with men; cohorts tramping past, torches held overhead, wagons filled with bundles of arrows, coffers of sling stones, more spears, healers in white cloaks, caduceus staves over their shoulders. The engineer pushed through a crowd of Blemmyenite archers, feathered plumes dancing over shaven heads. Sextus broke through into a clear section of the road. Furious himself, he glanced over his shoulder for Frontius. "Don't waste your…"
The eastern sky was glowing a pale pink. Tiny, crescent-shaped clouds caught the dawn as she climbed up over the rim of the world, burning like spilled, molten gold.
"Shit!" Sextus scrambled up the nearest steps to the fighting wall. A dim light spilled across the land, picking out the roofs of the watchtowers on the first wall, ignoring the deep cavity of the dry canal. Frontius clambered up, puffing, unable to speak, his breath spent. Sextus wiped his forehead, fingers brushing against chilled metal. He stared out across the sprawling fortifications.
The edge of the sun peeked over the horizon, a single burning golden dot.
Sextus swallowed. The world seemed very quiet, still, without motion or sound.
Distantly, attenuated by the cold air, a drum boomed out a solitary deep note.
Frontius leaned on his knees, gasping for breath.
The drum boomed again and the eastern sky was suddenly filled with a black cloud, winking with silver. Sextus watched the arrows rise-so many! How could there be so many! — and then plunge down into the forward works. The sound of metal rattling on metal, raining down on wood and stone, reached across the distance. An abrupt roaring sound followed and Sextus saw a mangonel set behind the Roman lines wind back, pause, then release with a thrumming snap. Flaming pitch flew up, arcing into the sky, trailing smoke in a spiral. Thousands of tiny figures, red cloaks black in the poor light, rose up along the forward fighting wall, javelins, spears, bows at the ready.
A great shout rang back from the heavens. Flights of arrows plunged down. All along the Roman lines, mangonels and scorpions bucked and heaved, flinging burning stones, red-hot pitch, spears into the killing zone within the outer canal. Tiny figures of men toppled back from the wall. At this distance, Sextus could not see their wounds, but his memory supplied the bloody, crushed faces, the sightless eyes.
"Come on," Frontius grabbed his shoulder. "We've got to get to the signal tower."
Dust began to puff up into the sky. The sun, huge and distorted, was over the horizon, blazing light slanting down, right into Sextus' eyes. Half-blinded, he turned away. They started jogging again.
Khalid slid down the side of the dry canal, dirt spilling away under his feet. Two dozen of his men crowded around him, shields raised. His boots sank into the soft, muddy soil at the bottom of the watercourse. He was in shadow, but the Roman fortification rising up a hundred feet away was bathed in lucidly clear morning sunlight. Thousands of Sahaba swarmed across the ditch. A huge shout belled out from every throat. Khalid joined them, slipping and sliding in the mud as he tried to run forward. His bodyguards struggled alongside.
Allau ak-bar! The men climbing the far slope struggled through bundles of thorny brush intertwined with sharpened stakes. In some places, the dried thorn was already on fire, belching white smoke into a perfectly clear sky. Arrows hissed past. Khalid heard a thunk and looked over to see the iron point of a Roman shaft sticking through the nearest shield.
"Forward!" he shouted, strong, clear voice ringing out over the canal. "Forward!"
He ran on, cursing the sticky black mud clinging to his boots. Bodies littered the canal, splayed in the surprise of death, feathered with arrows or pinned by javelin bolts. A huge burning stone plunged out of the sky, spitting flame and smoke. It crashed into three of the Sahaba running ahead of Khalid. He threw himself down, shouting in alarm. The stone bounced up, splintering into hissing chunks of green flame and flew past over his head. Khalid threw aside a flame-wrapped cloak and struggled up. Most of the men around him were dead, or afire, screaming.
Gasping, he plowed onward, coated with heavy mud. His shield was gone, lost in the mire, but his right hand still clenched the blade of night in a death grip. The slope loomed above him and he stared up, seeing his men still clawing their way up the incline. More arrows spiraled down out of the sky, but most of the shafts were falling behind him. He looked back, face smeared with mud and spattered with the blood of the dead. The sky was streaked with smoke. Burning stones shrieked past overhead, plunging into the masses of men swarming down the side of the canal.
Sahaban arrows whickered past, lofted up by Arab archers crouched at the edge of the watercourse. Khalid forced himself upright, joining the great shout lifting up from hoarse throats.
Allau ak-bar! He climbed past a sharpened stake, the tip splintered and smeared with blood.
More of his guardsmen climbed behind him. Two scrambled past, spears in hand, shields slung over their backs. Khalid hacked at thornbush, clearing the dry brown thicket out of his path. The Roman fighting wall was only yards away. Men in tan cloaks struggled along the wall, hacking up at legionaries stabbing down with spears and javelins. The young Arab paused, drawing a deep breath.
"Allau ak-bar!" he screamed, sprinting up the last few yards. The words filled him with wild strength. A dying Sahaba fell back past him, throat torn out, blood spreading on his cloak. Khalid leapt onto a cockeyed siege ladder, then swarmed up the rungs, leading with the black-bladed sword. Spears jabbed at him, sliding between his legs. Frantic, he hacked down, the keen edge of the blade shearing through an oaken haft. The Roman soldier shouted in rage, flinging aside his ruined weapon.
Another spear slammed into his side and Khalid grunted as the metal rings of his armor took the blow. More Romans, faces obscured by plain iron helmets and cheek-guards, grabbed hold of the ladder and twisted sharply. Khalid shouted in dismay, then toppled back down the slope, crashing into four of his men climbing up behind him. All of them went down in a tangle, sliding into the thicket. Khalid's head smashed into the base of an angled stake and the world cartwheeled around. Stunned, he slid lower on the slope.
Men struggled above and more Sahaba fell, speared or shot at close range by Roman archers. Khalid blinked sweat and blood out of his eyes. The sun blazed down, blinding him. Nerveless, the young Arab groped for his sword. The blade of night was gone, lost somewhere on the slope. Groaning, Khalid rolled over, staring around wildly.