Thomas Harlan - The storm of Heaven

The thin line of Arabic camelry on the far left wing gave way in the face of a massed charge by Vahan's Armenians. The bandits fell back in haste. Some dismounted and shot with their bows from behind their ungainly mounts. All that stood on the enemy's wing was a camp of lashed-together wagons and carts at the base of one of the tumbled lava cones. Theodore smiled, seeing the opportunity open for Vahan to turn and roll up the entire enemy line. "Well done!"

– |Dust plumed from the dry ground and the Armenian general reined in his horse. Around him, his kinsmen crowded with their armored horses, sun glaring from their armor. It was burning hot in the neck-to-toe suits of iron. An arrow spiraled out of the sky and glanced from his breastplate. The cheap iron tip shattered, but the Armenian only grunted. The bandits had scattered before his charge, but they were still lurking about, sniping with their bows.

"Get those bastards away from that camp! Wheel to the right," he shouted, voice booming from the helmet. He chopped his hand towards the slopes of the hill. The legionaries were still grinding forward, toiling up the slope. His bannermen heard him, and their tall flags dipped and swayed, indicating the direction of movement. It would take a bit to rein in all his men. Some had ignored orders and were nosing about the camp, doubtless out for a bit of loot.

Cataphracts milled around, trying to redress their lines. Some of the men unshipped long horse bows and were shooting at the Arabs hiding behind their camels and in the circle of wagons in the pass between the big hill and its lesser cousin. The ground was getting rough, littered with head-sized stones and larger boulders. Crossing the wadi had been difficult, but now the ground was worsening.

"Advance at a walk!" Vahan turned his own horse and lumbered up the slope towards the cone-shaped hill. "In good range, shoot, then close with sword and mace."

The Armenians, still scattered across the swale between the two hills, began to drift to the right, following the wail of their trumpets and the signal flags. Vahan motioned to one of his lieutenants, a cousin, who commanded his light horse.

"Vargir, screen that camp and keep the camelmen off our flank. That bastard Prince will get his victory, I suppose, but it will be hard going up this hill."

The man nodded, pushing a blue-felt cap back on his head. Like the other horsemen in his band, he wore a leather jerkin reinforced with iron rings, and was armed mainly with a horse bow and a stabbing sword. "As you say, lord."

Vahan turned away, ignoring the motion of the scouts as they peeled off from his main force. The ground was worsening, and the Arabs had turned the end of their line. Now they faced him at an angle, with crowds of men with spears and brightly painted shields among the boulders and rocks. He swore, but urged his horse forward. At least he was facing out of the sun.

– |"Run!" Odenathus tugged hard at Zoe's arm, then scooped her up in one motion. Despite her weight and his own burden of armor and fatigue, the young Palmyrene Prince sprinted away from the outcropping of rock. The infantry screening them from the battle had been swallowed up in the racket of steel and iron downslope. Despite the addition of Hadad's fighters, the Decapolis troops had been forced back again. Boys carrying amphorae hurried along the line, bringing water to groups of men that were resting just out of the battle. A constant stream of wounded staggered up the slope from the rear of the rebel line.

The ground was littered with the bodies of those who had failed to flee.

The air over the outcropping convulsed, distorting like heat rising over a campfire. For an instant, the clouds in the sky behind the distortion could be seen reflected a thousand times, faceted like the surface of a jewel. Odenathus threw himself to the ground, covering his cousin's body with his own, and clapped his hands over his ears.

The ground where they had stood spasmed violently and then burst into a whirl of violet fire. Men in the rear ranks of the Decapolis regiments screamed in fear and then burst into flame. A huge boom echoed across the battlefield and splinters of rock rained down on the two Palmyrenes as they cowered on the ground.

"So much," Odenathus croaked, wiping blood out of his eyes, "for our battle sorcery."

He could barely move. His limbs cramped painfully. The two of them had held the Roman thaumaturges at bay for almost five hours. Despite the agony in his muscles, he hooked his cousin's arm in his and began dragging himself across the ground, away from the outcropping.

– |"We are Your servants, O most mighty and merciful Lord. Your will is our will."

Mohammed stood, cloak flapping in a stiff breeze blowing up from the east. His face was grim and set, for he saw now, having opened his eyes at last, that his army had been ground back against the base of the hill. The right flank had been bent back perpendicular to the main line of battle. Where the camelry had been driven back, the last of the Decapolis reserves had shored up the line, fighting amongst jagged black boulders. The slope there was getting steep, which let the infantry gain an advantage over the Roman cavalry for the moment. Even from this distance, he could pick out individual men fighting, struggling in the mass of melee, their shields and swords streaked with blood. A steady stream of the wounded spilled away from the back of the line. The Romans were pressing hard against their foe.

But still, the Arabs fought on, falling back slowly. Their spears and swords were still sharp and the ground where the battle passed was littered with the dead and wounded, with shattered armor and broken shields. Beyond the fighting, the Arab encampment was surrounded by a swirl of Roman auxiliaries exchanging bow shot with defenders crouched behind wagons and carts. Most of those in the camp would be women or servants or older men who could no longer stand in the main line of battle.

A woman of the people, Mohammed thought, who knows the drawing of a bow, is blessed.

The sun was beginning to fall to the west, but the full heat of midday was strong on the land. The sky had faded from blue to dusty white. The heat shimmer from the valley floor was thick, distorting sight and confusing distance.

Too, forces worked in the air. Green flame stabbed out of the sky, lighting amongst a troop of Arab cavalry rushing to shore up the right wing of his army. Horses screamed and men died, wrapped in a fire that burned flesh and armor alike. Mohammed snarled in rage, seeing the power of his enemies at play among his troops, unfettered.

He squinted, but could not make out the banners of the Palmyrene regiment that he had set to defend Queen Zoe and her cousin. If they are dead… He halted the thought. Khadijah was dead, too, and his family left far behind. There was a power that called to him, that directed his thoughts and his actions. There was no need to wail at fate.

His hand came to rest on the hilt of his saber. The men and women of his city forged this blade. He could feel their faith trembling under his hand. The sword carried the sense of the black stone resting in the shrine of the Ka'ba, in the most holy place of his people. When he touched the ebon metal, he felt the presence that dwelt in the empty places.

"O Lord of the Heavens, most gracious and most merciful, put forth Your strength…"

Sunlight winked on armor and lance tips, there behind the conical hill rising behind the embattled camp off to the north. Green and white pennons snapped in the rising wind.

– |Cornicens blew, ringing clear in the air. Colonna ignored them, though they sounded the call to stand down and re-form the line. The man in front of him, a man in half-armor and a sharp conical helmet wrapped in white linen, was busy hewing at his shield. The man's curved sword bit into the edge of the big rectangular scutum and Colonna felt the blow slam against his arm. Other men were struggling all around them. The Roman line had splintered on the rough slope, losing cohesion. Luckily, the enemy was exhausted and unable to exploit the opportunity. He stabbed, hard, with his gladius and the Arab skipped aside.