Thomas Harlan: The storm of Heaven

"We give shelter to women, grown and child, but never to men."

The Queen winced, for the harsh snap of the older woman's voice carried well over the water. There was no wind to break up the sound, or drown it with the crash of surf on the rocky shore.

"He is your get, you must care for him. This is the rule of the Order, as it has been from the beginning."

The Matron turned, flipping the edge of her woolen cloak, black and marked with white checks, over her shoulder. The Queen flinched, feeling the rebuke in her bones. She turned, staring back up the beach to the awnings and pavilions of her camp. The bright colors of the pennants and the cloth that shaded her son and the waiting servants seemed dull and grimy in this still, hot air.

"Have I not given enough?" Despite her best effort, the Queen's voice cracked and rose, shrill and carrying. "Must I give up my son for your faith? He is all that remains of our dream-his father murdered, his patrimony stolen. Hide him for me… just for a few months, perhaps a year!"

The women in the galley's rowing deck, responding to the shrill whistle of a flute, raised their long leaf-bladed oars as one. The Matron's figure descended from the platform and paced, slowly, to the foredeck of the vessel. She did not turn or look back, and the angle of her head was canted towards the horizon. A single bank of oars dipped into the water, and the galley turned, swinging easily in the calm sea.

The flute trilled, and the ship slipped across the water, gaining speed with each flashing plunge of the oars.

The Queen felt great weariness crash down upon her, pressing on her shoulders with thick, gnarled fingers. She swayed a little, feeling the sand beneath her feet slip, but then righted herself. Her right hand clutched at a diadem around her neck, slim white fingers covering a golden disk filled with an eight-rayed star.

It would not do, she thought, to be carried up from the baleful shore by my servants.

– |The Queen walked in darkness, her head bent in weariness. A bare gleam of firelight from the bonfires by the ships touched a curl of hair. Now her feet were bare, the wet slippers long discarded, ruined by the salty water. At the very edge of the firelight she stopped and turned, staring out at the gloomy sea. It lay flat and still, windless, as it had done for days, stranding her fat-bellied troopships in the port.

"Your son is beautiful, daughter. I see him standing by the fire, light gleaming on his limbs."

The Queen stiffened, feeling the air grow chill. She raised her head sharply, nostrils flaring at the languid voice in the darkness. There was a woman, there in the shadow, just beyond the edge of the light. A rustle of cloth and a flash of white caught the Queen's eye as a hood was drawn back.

"Who…? I know you." The Queen's voice turned brittle and hard. "Why are you here?"

Laughter drifted, dying leaves in the fall, cascading down on chill autumn air. "You need me, Pharaoh, to save your son and your dream."

A hand came out of the darkness, thin and elegant, with long, tapering nails. Their surface winked in the dim firelight, glossy and black. Thin gold bracelets jingled a little as the woman stepped closer. The Queen raised her own hand sharply, though the imperious gesture seemed futile against the presence in the darkness. "I will not give him to you. I did not summon you. Go away."

The figure stopped and paused, and the Queen sensed a lean head turning in the night, considering her. A faint wind began to rise, brushing the Queen's curls and softly fluttering the silk draped around her shoulders. Pale red caught in the eye of the figure, gleaming with the bare echo of one of the bonfires.

"Then he will die, spitted on the blades of your enemies, or strangled in some cold cell. Is this your desire? To see your son placed on a pyre of scented wood? To see the flames leap up around his beautiful face?"

The Queen shuddered, feeling her gown cold as a shroud under her fingers.

"Give him to me," hissed the darkness, "and he will grow strong and powerful. He will learn many arts lost to the race of men… everything that you dreamed for him will come true…"

"No!" The Queen ran. Sand sprayed away from her feet, but the cold breath on her neck gave her feet wings.

Behind her, far from the firelight, a figure moved, gathering its consorts. Silently, on padded feet, they went away in the night. The pale woman turned on the height above the town, looking down upon the dim lights in the windows and the torches burning on the steps of the temples.

"So did old Pelias run," the woman mused, amusement stealing over her. "When his daughters came singing, bearing a cauldron of ruddy, red iron…" She settled her cloak on thin shoulders and turned her face to the stars in the dark sky, smiling.

The Yarmuk Plateau, Southern Syria Coele, 624 A.D.

"This is it! Form up by ranks, you lot!"

Colonna, centurion of the Third Cyrene, wiped his face with a dirty white cloth wound around his helmet. The sun had risen only moments ago, wallowing up huge and pale orange in the eastern sky, but the air was already hot. The Roman tried to spit but his mouth was too dry. Around him, legionaries staggered to their feet, strapping on belts and pulling on rivet-studded helms.

Dust puffed into the sky, forming a slow-moving, yellowish cloud over the stirring army. Orders had come before dawn, and Colonna, at least, had seen his men fed before the chill of night fell away. Thousands of soldiers shuffled into formation on dry grass and stony ground. Mindful of the flags of his banda commander, Colonna walked along the line of his men. He kept his face grim and impassive, but in his heart he sighed, seeing painfully young faces squinting out from under metal helmets.

A fresh army; those were the words that the Imperial Prince Theodore had used when they had first landed at the great port of Caesarea Maritima, down on the Judean coast. One destined for victory and glory.

"You men, listen close." Colonna stopped, settling a hard glare on his face. He scowled at the legionaries in his squad and paced slowly back down the line. They were fit enough, with kit barely a year old and clean weapons. Their ranks were trim; his hobnailed boot had been on their backsides enough in the last month. The baby fat was gone, burned away in the Syrian sun as the Imperial Army marched endlessly, searching for the enemy.

"This is the day. No more running up hill and down valley, trying to bring these bastards to heel. This is the day they stand and fight."

Colonna half turned, shading watery-blue eyes with a sunburned hand. He looked east, squinting in the glare of the morning sun. The land was open and uneven, marked with tumbled hills of black rock and shallow washes filled with scrawny trees. A slight slope descended from the Imperial camp, down toward a dry watercourse. Beyond that an equally gentle slope rose up, thick with tufted grass and scattered fist-sized stones. There, anchored by a high tor of crumbling black rock on the left, and by the edge of the plateau on the right, massed the enemy. A lone outcropping of dark stone rose up just behind the enemy's right wing.

The centurion pointed, one cracked finger stabbing at the foe.

"Look, lads." His voice was soft and some of the men bent forward to hear him. "There they are, this rabble that we have chased about, these bandits that the Prince rails against. Do you see them?"

None of the men turned to look. Colonna had a quick reward for rash action!

"Arrayed in ranks, four divisions, with flags and banners and horns. Half our number, if that… Do you see them? They stand ready for battle. We are still knocking the sleep from our eyes yet they are already in battle line…"