"I think he is dead," she managed, then covered her mouth with a mud-caked hand.
Odenathus leaned over the body, lips a thin, tight line. Gently, he removed the remaining pieces of the mask. The man on the ground was thin, cadaverous-a once-handsome face badly scarred by old wounds. The lips were black and stretched tight against jaw and teeth. The young Palmyrene pressed his hand against a hollow cheek, leaning close, listening.
"Nothing…" he started to say.
Black lips opened with a wet, rattling gasp. Odenathus jumped back in surprise, eyes wide in fear. The body twitched, fingers scrabbling on the muddy logs. Then the head rose, and sunken eyes blazed with sullen green flame. "There is still an edge on this knife," echoed a dreadful voice from a dead throat.
Khalid drew back, the blade of night halfway free from its sheath. Odenathus stared in horror, watching slow life rise in the corpse limbs, muscles swelling with strength, the skin flushing with warm color. The Queen stiffened, her face growing tight. A tic began at the corner of her jaw, then she turned away, covering her face with the charred corner of her cloak.
The dead man rose, joints creaking. The head swiveled, looking to the west, mouth stretching into a cruel grin. "Where are the busy bees now?" it coughed wetly. "Dead, dead in the hive…"
"Heave!" shouted a diquan, helmet slung on a strap over his shoulder, tightly curled beard shining with sweat. "Heave!"
Two hundred men, stripped to the waist, muscled backs gleaming with sweat, moved as one. A thunderous shout of "ho!" boomed out. Cables drew taut and then a plank roadbed rumbled forward. Palm logs splintered, rolling under the weight of the bridge section as the wooden truss edged over the lip of the canal. Persian soldiers splashed away from falling logs, then the section slid out, cables stiff, and ground into place atop the first wooden pier.
Shahr-Baraz stood atop the Roman wall, looking down on the outer canal. He smiled, a broad, feral grin shining through the sweep of his mustache. Delighted, he slapped his thigh with a gloved hand, turning to the men standing beside him. "Well done, captains! At this rate we'll have four bridges across the outer canal by nightfall."
"And then what?" Khalid squatted on the wooden platform, face lined with exhaustion. He pointed with his chin. "The Romans have cut down every man who managed to get across the ditch. The gaps in their wall are already repaired… their bastions on this wall by the sea still hold out. You expect us to attack across a flooded canal, up that spike-strewn slope and into the teeth of their javelins, spears, swords?"
The Boar nodded absently, pacing across the decking. The burned remains of a Legion mangonel listed to one side, half pushed from its base. The sun, swollen to an enormous orange disk by the smoke-heavy air, almost touched the western horizon. He paused at the edge of the platform, boot braced against the wooden sill, lean face painted with dying golden light. Already the canal was deep in gloom-dark purple water rolled slowly past-and beyond, the Roman wall was studded with lamps and torches. Two of his Immortals moved up, as quietly as their iron-shod boots allowed, big oval shields in hand and placed themselves between the king and his enemies.
"This is a narrow place," he said, rumbling voice quiet in rumination. "The barrier of the flooded canal is not so great-the water is shallow, the width only fifty feet. They cannot surprise us again with a flood. They have no bridges of their own-or none they will risk to our fire arrows. Tonight I will send fresh men forward and we will root the Romans from their nests on the first wall. They will not expect a night attack. Tomorrow, if we clear the forts at the canal mouth, we will strike again." A broad hand stabbed from north to south. "We will attack along the length of the wall, all at once. The Immortals will form a reserve, ready to leap into any breach."
The Persian captains shifted uneasily, but no one spoke out against the king. Shahr-Baraz turned, eyes gleaming under a golden circlet as he took their measure. Only Khalid showed his disapproval openly, with a black scowl. "We are not without means," the Boar said. "The power that threw down the Roman sorcerers today is still with us-unharmed! Our bridges will soon ford the first canal. There are light boats to be brought forward… our men will not struggle in the water."
Shahr-Baraz fought to suppress a grin of triumph as he spoke, but enthusiasm and confidence welled up in him, spilling out in vigorous gestures and a steadily rising voice. Slowly, the Persian captains began to nod, to agree. Some, like the prince of Balkh, Piruz, were desperately eager to attack. Despite the losses suffered in their foray across the second canal, the Immortals were set on proving themselves. The loss of nearly eight hundred of their number-trapped on the further rampart, pinned between the Legions and the flooded canal-had not dampened their appetite for glory.
Only the Arab, Khalid, remained unconvinced. The Boar watched the young man out of the corner of his eye. He's thinking about today, Shahr-Baraz realized. He reckons the number of his dead-and does not like the tally! I will have to hold back his men from battle tomorrow… The King of Kings suppressed a frown. The valor of the Arabs would be sorely missed. His Greeks and Persians were skilled soldiers, true, but they lacked the heedless bravery of the Arabs-the men from the south did not fear death, embracing a chance to join their Teacher in death's paradise. Their attack was like a thunderbolt… perfect to break open the orderly Roman line.
Shahr-Baraz put the thoughts aside. His men needed to see utter confidence from their captains, to forget the closeness of the day's struggle, to forget the rows of the dead or those swept away by the sudden flood. Nearly three thousand Persians, Arabs and Greeks had fallen today. Who knew how many Romans had died? Not quite so many, Shahr-Baraz guessed. But the enemy had lost their first line of defense, and they had not expected such an outcome. A feral grin welled on his lips. Tomorrow will bring the same result…
The Boar turned away from the riot of color in the western sky, from the Roman fortifications and the shadow-filled canal. He looked to the east, and his eyes-still keen despite advancing age-quickly picked out darkness against darkness. The Serpent, crouching fearfully among his Huns and iron wands. Your great fear was unfounded, little snake, he thought, smugly pleased. Only the Legion thaumaturges faced your servants today. Your "great enemy" is not here!
Shahr-Baraz was sure the Romans had suffered terrible losses among their magi. Tomorrow, the Serpent would reveal himself, his power unfettered by fear or caution. There would be a great slaughter and the Legions would break like glass.
"Come," the King of Kings boomed. "Come my friends. Let us go down to my tents, where a fine, rich feast is ready upon the table. Maidens are waiting, with wine in silver cups, with flowers in their long hair. You are hungry and tired. But victory is ours and your labors will be rewarded!" The king swept through the cluster of men, slapping some on the shoulder, meeting the eyes of others. They moved to follow him automatically, without a second thought, drawn in by his good humor, his confidence, the undimmed sun of his bravura. They descended the slope in a clatter of metal and tired, cheerful voices.
Only Khalid remained on the platform, sitting in shadow, exhausted, his face drawn and pale. His eyes were drawn to the west, to the Roman limes, where the legionaries were still at work by torchlight, digging and shoring, strengthening their walls of stone and earth and wood. Preparing for another day of battle.