The archers shouldered their bows and quivers of arrows, their bare chests slick with sweat. They wore only short cotton kilts, now drab with mud and dust. The captain saluted and began shouting at his men. They jogged off to the east in a column of twos. Baraz shaded his eyes, staring at Khadames’ horsemen on the far right. The banners of the horsemen dipped in acknowledgment of the order. The shining mass of men began to shift and disperse as they formed up into ranks to charge up the hill against the Romans.
Baraz grunted and waved his men to follow him. He turned back and rode toward the center of the line. Khadames would carry that wing or not; it was out of Baraz’s hands now.
“What do you mean, they refuse to advance?” Zenobia’s eyes flashed in anger.
The courier bowed, saying “The captain of the knights says that he moves upon Aretas’ order, not yours.”
Zenobia was dumbfounded. She stared up at the bluff where the Prince and his priests were still conjuring in their tent. The Palmyrene right wing had swept down the hill with a combined force of Nabatean infantry and her archers and slingers. They had clashed with a smaller force of Persian light infantry and pushed it aside, fouling the flank of the main Persian infantry. There had been a large force of Persian cataphracti behind the spearmen, but it had withdrawn, leaving the spearmen and now bands of archers to fight it out with the Nabateans in chain mail, longswords, and shields at close quarters. The more heavily armored Nabateans were slaughtering the Persians, many of whom only had a wicker shield and spear for arms.
Over the roar of battle-men screaming and dying, the clash of arms, running feet, the whistle of arrows-Zenobia shouted louder to make herself heard to her bannermen. “Send a dispatch rider to Aretas. He must order his cavalry to advance on the right! We can turn the entire Persian flank if they charge now!” Two of her riders galloped off.
“Curse him!” Zenobia wiped sweat out of her eyes. The day had grown hot and she and her command group were in constant movement. She had changed horses twice, keeping a fresh mount beneath her. Ahmet nodded absently, his vision focused inward. The slaughter on the field was seeping through into the hidden world. Eddies and vortices of hatred and fear and the flash of the dying were forming in the unseen world around the battlefield. The Nabatean priests had halted their attack on the black sphere, and even it had begun to flake and fade away under the disrupting stress of the battle. The Persians, though, had begun to attack in turn, sending traceries of ultraviolet stalking invisibly across the field. Now Aretas and his minions were hard pressed to hold back the strength of Persia.
One dark tendril whipped out toward Ahmet and Zenobia, its tip sparking with green lightning. Ahmet’s will crystallized and the shield of Athena flared into almost visible brilliance. The ultraviolet lightning struck the sphere and slithered across its face, burning fiercely. Ahmet gasped at the strength in the blow and struggled to draw more power from the land around him. The stones and rocks had already been leached dry by Aretas. Furious, he snatched at the emotion in the air, and the blue geometries of his defense flared up long enough to hold back the lightning. It snapped away, leaving him exhausted.
“The enemy wizards are incredibly strong, my Queen,” he whispered into Zenobia’s ear. “Aretas cannot aid you, his whole attention is upon the enemy.”
“Then I will move his men myself! Ha!” The stallion leapt away and Ahmet clung for dear life as the Queen stormed up the slope to the bluff.
Mohammed spun his horse and cantered to the left of the massed Tanukh. His banner men hurtled along with him, wither to wither. He leaned forward and slashed his hand forward. As one, the three thousand Tanukh wheeled with him and launched themselves forward, a long curving line, like a scimitar blade, against the Persian horse that was advancing at a walk up the hill. Mohammed felt a fierce burst of pride at the responsive movement of his men. The chestnut mare flew across the rocky ground, and he raised his voice in a long ululating scream of battle. Three thousand throats answered him and the Tanukh thundered down the shallow slope, their lances flashing down to face the Iron Hats. Mohammed had never felt so alive and focused in his life. The Persian ranks, still separating into charge intervals, swelled in his vision.
Zenobia’s head snapped around as the distant sound of a terrible war cry reached her, attenuated by the dusty air and the distance. She had almost reached the blocks of Naba-tean tagma who were still sitting ahorse under the eaves of the bluff. She rose up, and dimly, though the clouds of fine dust, she saw a line of horsemen slam into the advancing Persians on the far left wing of her army. She blanched at the dull crash that echoed across the field to her. Her fist clenched until the knuckles were white.
“Dispatch rider,” she whispered, then shouted. One of the Tanukh rode up, his face pale. “Find Zabda on the left wing and tell him, by Hecate, to charge the Persian line!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Find the mercenary knights and tell them to ride to Zabda as fast as they can.” There was a sick feeling curdling in her stomach. Regardless, she tore her attention away and back to the small group of Nabatean officers who were standing next to their horses in the shade of a pavilion.
Zenobia’s face was grim and set as she walked the dun horse up to the Nabateans.
“I sent orders for you and your tagma to advance in support of the infantry fighting on the right wing,” she said, her voice calm and controlled.
The middle officer, a plump man with Aretas’ nose and tightly curled hair peeping out from under his helmet, bowed to her. “My lady, we are under strict orders from our Prince and King to stand ready to move on his command. He made it quite clear that we were to move on his order, and his order only.”
Zenobia turned the horse and stared down at the Nabatean officers. “Your precious King and Prince is well occupied in his own battle, my lords. He cannot spare the time to give you orders. I am giving you orders. You will attack on the right in support of your own civil infantry arithmoi and turn the Persian line. Is that clear?”
The plump officer stuck out his chin defiantly and his eyes hardened. His people had been powerful on the desert frontier for centuries before a quirk of the Twin Rivers made Palmyra rich and elevated a motley collection of tribesmen into a principality. Too, the man was sure of the favor of his king.
“We ride on the orders of Aretas, Lady Zenobia, and no other!”
“Fool!” Zenobia snapped, losing her temper. “The battle hangs in the balance and you dawdle here and posture! You will advance your men, or I will remove you from command!”
The plump officer’s hand snaked to the hilt of his sword, but Ahmet suddenly spoke harshly. “Something is happening! Aretas is beset…”
In the hidden world, the Persians had finally tired of the game and had sent forth their full power. Aretas and his priests screamed in fear, the sound echoing in the confines of their tent. Their servants rushed forward, but then staggered back in utter horror. The Prince stumbled out of the tent, clawing at his eyes, which had suddenly filled with blood and then burst, spewing red gelatin on the first servant to rush to his aid. Aretas screamed again, clawing at his face, his fingers tearing long bloody strips from his cheekbones. His body convulsed and the servants cried out to see his flesh ripple and bunch, as if thousands of worms or snakes were trapped under his skin. Aretas stumbled forward and then spread his arms wide and stepped off the edge of the bluff.
The falling body, seen by all of the horsemen crowded below, fell for what seemed to be an eternity, and then it was suddenly wrapped in flame and struck the ground with a thudding shock. It shattered, sending burning fragments of the Prince in all directions.