Thomas Harlan - The Dark Lord

A mob of Persians moved slowly uphill towards him-he doubted they even realized his Companions were shaking out a confused, disordered line-they were certainly in no better order. But there were a great many of the enemy and there were so many ships offshore, crowding the sea with dozens of smaller craft. He glanced to the north.

In the distance, outlines shaded by humid air, he could make out the rooftops of a small town rising on a rocky headland. Catania, he thought, wishing suddenly he'd stopped the army in the little city at dawn. They had marched down from Messina with heedless speed. A day and night's march toward the looming cone of Aetna had been draining to men and horses alike. Now, today, they had put on another burst of speed-the prince had said the enemy would make landfall on "the beaches"-and here they were.

Seeing their numbers, the Macedonian felt a cold chill in his bones. If we'd regrouped at the port, we could advance like a scythe, from north to south along the beach and slaughter these lambs as they came ashore, our lines orderly, our wings entirely in my sight. Now, Alexandros was all too aware he'd scattered his forces piecemeal among the farm lanes and tracks behind of the beach. Where is my vaunted skill now? he thought harshly. I should have been patient and sent out my scouts to spy the land and the positions of the enemy.

Alexandros felt his stomach roil. He'd advanced recklessly, trusting to speed and surprise to overwhelm the enemy. "Krythos was right," he muttered under his breath. "I need to stay back."

"Orders, sir?" A captain of the Companions was standing at his foot, grizzled face looking up expectantly.

"Two ranks deep, Ostrys, and extend the line as far on the flanks as we can. Keep the Persians from getting off the sand." Alexandros squinted at the sky, taking some faint hope from the dwindling light. "When the pike syntagma gets here, form three ranks deep and advance in a wedge." He pointed down at the beach. "Cut your way to the waterline, then hold. If more men come up, expand the wedge to the left and the right."

" Ja , my lord." The Goth grinned. "Keep them in the sea, where they can drown before our shield wall."

"Yes," the Macedonian said sharply, "and keep them from gathering their forces!"

Now where should I be, Alexandros thought as he turned Bucephalas away from the sea. I need to find the rest of my army. He rode towards the thicket, though slowly, the big black forcing his way through a countervailing flow of pikemen. Long spears danced around him, a thicket of ash and iron, and the footmen swung past with a grin and a rousing shout. They were glad to be out of the claustrophobic trees as well. How am I going to find anyone? The Macedonian clucked, nudging the horse to the side of the road. A new column of men jogged towards him in the golden, late afternoon sunlight, through sparkling clouds of dust. He realized there was literally no way he could find anyone else-Chlothar, Krythos, any of his commanders-in the sprawl of hedges, meadows, streams and orchards behind the beach.

Grunting in dismay, Alexandros turned the stallion, then stopped abruptly, his eye hanging on something passing strange. The approaching column tramped smartly out of the lane, three banners-a golden hand, a silver eagle and a square plaque bearing a horned ram-leading the first ranks. These men were smartly equipped, oval shields slung on their arms, long spears in hand, feathered conical helms snug under shaven chins. A Roman officer-he could be no other, not with such a proud nose and grim expression-paced them on the left and Alexandros found himself staring down in surprise at the man.

"Who are you?" the Macedonian asked, feeling a chill to see the man's iron breastplate no more than shadow or mist and his speaking mouth like glass, showing trampled leaves and mud.

First Legio Roma, the ghost answered, saluting smartly. The centurion's eyes were dark pits, without even a gleam in their shadows. Pale teeth showed in a grin. The Consul said the Epirotes are coming ashore? We're ready for another go at them, by Mars! We've waited a long time to even the score for Ausculum.

"The… yes, they are landing from their ships, just over there." Alexandros pointed over the downs towards the sea. "My men will hold the center. You… take the right flank."

Ave! came a soundless response and the centurion turned away, broad hand chopping at the air. The ghostly ranks clashed spears silently on bronzed shields, then jogged on, a long, ceaseless line. The Macedonian watched them with slowly mounting fear eating away at his composure. By his count, at least four thousand men marched past, not one more than a pale outline, casting no shadow on the sunny ground, but in the dimness under the trees, they seemed almost solid.

Unwillingly, Alexandros looked to the sky and saw the sun touching the mountain peaks to the west. It will be dark soon, he thought. Will I hear their battle cries then?

A brace of Palmyrene sailors, stripped down to loincloths, bronzed limbs flashing in the water, ran the longboat ashore. The Queen swayed a little as the keel breasted on the sand, then her men braced the boat and she stepped down into shallow water. More boats followed, carrying her guardsmen from the Asura . The cool water felt good on her bare feet, splashing against armored greaves covering her trim calves. Zoe stood ready in the back of her mind, the center of a glittering dodecahedron of shifting light and half-seen patterns. Can you feel him yet? Zenobia asked.

No, but something is happening… there is a veritable army of lights snaking towards the beach from inland. Not men-not living men-but not these husks the Serpent has stirred to life either. They are very angry, I can feel that much!

"The Romans are coming," the Queen called to her captains. She saw the Palmyrene sailors and pilots had done well, keeping their flotilla together, the ships anchored to form a barrier against the wind. The Persian fleet-and she allowed herself a cold, satisfied smile-was in confusion, ships yawing against the breeze, some fouled in another's anchor chains. "Skirmishers and archers forward in a screen, form up the qalb and the maimanah as they come off the boats. Lord Khalid!"

The young Arab turned, brief anger flitting across his face at her preemptory command. The usual gang of Sahaba was around him, all younger men culled from the cities and towns of the Decapolis. His recklessness had turned many of the more experienced Arabs from his faction. Odenathus was first among Khalid's confidantes, but the Queen knew his friendship restrained the Eagle from openly flaunting her authority.

"You must command," she said firmly, raising her voice to be heard over the rattle of oars and men shouting as they unloaded. "Lord Odenathus and I will be busy in the hidden world. The Romans are sending some power against us, not just mere legionaries, and we must turn our attention away." Zenobia singled out two of the Sahaban captains of heavy foot. "Malik, Duraid-you must watch over us while our minds are distant-find a hundred men and form a square, girding each of us in a fence of steel."

Both men nodded sharply, then set to work gathering up likely men. The Queen beckoned Khalid close, though she had yet to step out of the rushing surf. The day was hot and the sea pleasant between her toes. "Our armies are scattered," she said as the young Arab approached, "and everywhere I see confusion. Victory will be more likely won today by clear thought than bravery or strength of arms. The footing is poor on this sand and we have no horses, so we must strike inland as quickly as we can."

Khalid nodded in understanding, looking sharply to Odenathus and then back to Zenobia. "Will you each ward a flank, north and south? We may be attacked from either side…"