A log creaked. Khalid woke with a start, disoriented. The sky had grown dark, the sun long down in the west, plunging the land into a close, warm darkness. A shape appeared out of the night, booted feet illuminated by a softly glowing paper lantern.
"Hello, Khalid." Zoe was limping a little, but she settled beside him on the logs with her usual deft grace, a covered basket in one hand. "I brought you some food." She folded back the cloth and Khalid felt dizzy-the smell of fresh bread and roasted lamb flooded up from the basket. Greedily, all good manners brushed aside by sudden hunger, he tore into the crispy loaf and dripping meat. After a moment, Zoe-nose wrinkled up at his haste-handed him a water flagon. Thirsty, he drank until the damp leather was dry and pinched. When he was done, he looked sideways at her, face stiff as a mask, suddenly embarrassed.
"Thank you," he managed, in a very formal tone. Zoe nodded slightly in response, hands clasped around her knees. She was looking out into the darkness, watching lines of torches wiggle among the Roman works. Like the young Arab, she seemed tired, exhausted by the day's struggle.
After a moment, Khalid shifted a little, growing nervous. He turned toward her, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why did you bring me the food?"
Zoe did not answer. She continued to watch the slow procession of yellow and orange lights across the canal. With the sun gone to his night bed, the surface of the canal reflected the Legion fires and lanterns, making shimmering warm constellations in the oily water.
Khalid, watching her now by the same dim, flickering light, realized she was overcome by sadness. Faint pearls of moisture gathered at the corner of her eyes and her bow-shaped lips were pressed tight against welling emotion. He drew back, unsure of what to say or do, and drew the cowl of his cape over his head. To his disgust, the linen was scored with charred holes. Shaking his head in dismay, he poked a finger through one of the larger openings, then snorted with laughter. "Roman moths."
"Hmmm." Zoe looked sideways at him, the faint ghost of a smile emerging from her desolate mood. "I don't think cedar shavings will keep them away from your cloak."
Khalid pulled the cloak onto his knees, then sighed in dismay to see soot blackening the fabric. Most of the cloth was burned away or reduced to a tangle of threads. He made an equally sad face. "Ruined."
Zoe stood. "You'll get another. The King of Kings would be pleased to gift you something rich-with golden thread and rich, soft silk. Far better than these scraps."
Khalid looked up, shaking his head. "I don't want a new one… the Teacher's aunt made this cloak for me, before we left Mekkah." He rolled the fabric between his fingers, watching flakes of charred thread pill away under his thumb and forefinger. "It was my favorite."
Zoe rose, making a sharp, dismissive motion with her hand. "It's just a cloak," she said. "A Persian one will fit you just as well."
Khalid stared after the Queen as she padded off down the slope. For a moment, she was a pale shape against the engulfing night, then she was gone. A peculiar sick feeling coiled in his stomach. He wondered how many of his men would be wearing Persian tunics, cloaks, armor when the sun rose again. Too many, he thought. Too many.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Mare Internum, East of Sicily
"I don't know," Betia said slowly, biting her lip, looking from the imposing figure of Mithridates, late afternoon sun gleaming from smooth, glossy muscle, to Vladimir, bare-chested and peeling red. "They both look equally large…" Her bright blue eyes traveled back to the African.
"Perhaps if you flexed them again, I could tell." Smiling, she kicked her heels against the boards of the foredeck anchor housing. A hundred feet of tarred rope lay coiled within, threaded through a cored-out marble bust. When they had last anchored, off the Sicilian shore, the head of Perseus had rested on a sandy bottom, where Betia could trace the taut line of the cable plunging through clear, sapphire water.
Grunting, the two men clenched their fists, biceps bulging. In truth, Betia was having a hard time determining which man's arms were larger, whose muscles were more tightly corded. She put her chin on her palm, paying close attention. The African grimaced at the Walach and Vladimir squinted back ferociously, baring long, white incisors.
"Hmmm…" Betia said, distracted again. "This is very difficult."
Thyatis settled onto the deck beside Nicholas, her long cavalry sword in one hand, a bundle of rags, a whetstone and oil in the other. With the sky still warm with summer, she had stripped down to a short linen kilt and a Persian-style shirt. Nicholas looked up, surprised-the woman's bare feet made no sound on the smooth deck-and his nostrils flared in response to her smile.
"Nice blade," she said, sitting cross-legged. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his immediate frown and there was an abrupt click as he slid the steel back into a battered, worn leather sheath. An afterimage lingered for a moment-sunlight burning on a slick, oiled metal bar three fingers wide, a long series of squared-off glyphs flaring as they vanished into darkness. "True steel?"
"Yes," Nicholas said gruffly, averting his eyes.
Nodding companionably, Thyatis slid out her own blade, a heavy spatha-style sword, the surface mottled with the waterfall pattern typical of Eastern swordcraft. Pursing her lips, Thyatis hefted the sword, turning it this way and that in the sunlight, squinting at the surface. Then, with careful deliberation, she picked a clean cloth out of the bundle and began to oil the blade.
"This one's Rajput work," she said after a bit, when Nicholas' breathing had settled. "My second one. The first was… ah… lost in a bad fight. The Duchess was kind enough to find me a replacement."
"Good," Nicholas said, after sitting in silence, listening to the careful burr of the whetstone along the steel. "Hard to get a good blade these days… the Legions or the generals take them all."
"Expensive, you mean," Thyatis said, lifting the sword again and letting the sun slide slowly down the edge, eyes intent, watching for imperfections, scratches or oily fingerprints. Across the deck there was a sharp grunt and the Roman woman looked up. Mithridates had his arm out, stiff, and Betia, small, pale hands gripping his teak-dark forearm, was doing pull-ups. The Walach was watching, a huge grin on his face, and laughing. Thyatis froze for a moment, letting painful memories rise, then fade. The past, she thought sadly. Not today. Then she forced a smile. "Vladimir seems a good companion-you two been together long?"
"Three years, almost." Nicholas settled the battered sheath across his knees. Quick, nimble fingers rooted among his own gear, finding a bottle of heavy, dark oil. He began to treat the scabbard, working the oil in with his fingers. "I was working for the Eastern Office, doing cleanup work, odd jobs, you know the kind of thing… there was a sea attack on the city. We were on the same boat. I went overboard, to cut a tangled line free… he jumped in after me, the oaf!"
"Can he swim?" Thyatis turned her sword over and began to work on the reverse.
"He can now." Nicholas shook his head. "The big idiot was wearing scaled armor-like he is today! — must weigh sixty, seventy pounds; but he's strong, very strong. Between the two of us, we kept from drowning. He doesn't like the water, though… makes him nervous just to see a boat."
"Like a cat," she said, deadpan.
"Huh. Like a cat." Nicholas looked sideways at her. "You've met a Walach before?"
"I've heard some tales," she replied, keeping her voice light. "He get hungry much?"
"Sometimes…" Nicholas sighed, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. "He counts us all as family, though… he won't think your maid a tasty snack or something."