The Dark Lord by Thomas Harlan Page B

whips!—and I won't have enough men to cover the whole length of wall."
    "Don't bother," Shahr-Baraz said with a decisive tone. "Within the week we'll have looted everything but the bathtubs. You'll have all those barges and the other boats we captured—you can flit across the water to safety! We don't need to hold this place, though it warms my heart to stand in the house of our enemies."
    The older general made a face, but he knew the Boar's temper and did not press the matter. The King of Kings did not need to worry about the lading of boats and turnaround times for troops loading and unloading on the further shore. That was Khadames' business and—quite to his own disgust—he found himself unexpectedly skilled in such matters. If he must evacuate the city, then he would, and that was all that mattered.
    The lines of men hauling loot continued to trudge past, loading wagons carrying the treasure of an empire down to the docks. Khadames and the Boar sat, letting the fading afternoon sun warm their bones, and dreamed quiet, simple dreams of the things they would do with such wealth, when at last they were home again.
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    A blustery dawn wind came up out of the north, carrying the smell of rain down from the Sea of Darkness. The massed fleet of the Arabs and Palmyrenes rode at anchor in the Military Harbor, preparing to cast off and begin the journey south as soon as full light settled on the waters. At the end of one long stone quay, a sleek-lined merchantman—a Palmyrene ship with broad sails and a high prow—was loading a great number of wooden crates and wicker hods holding amphorae in latticed, straw-stuffed containers. Torches hung in the rigging, casting a fitful light. The name of the ship had once been Jibril , but its new owner replaced the fluid Arabic cursive with blocky letters in an ancient script. To the learned, who might chance to decipher the spiky characters, the name now read Asura .
    The tramp of booted feet echoed on the quay and a strong force of armored men appeared, swords bared and glittering in the lamplight. The sailors and longshoremen crept aside, for a jackal-headed man preceded the little procession and the appearance of the uncanny figure presaged the arrival of something worse from the darkness.
    Behind the jackal, thirty heavy-set barbarians—long hair led in queues behind their heads, faces scored with tattoos and half-healed scars—labored under the weight of a heavy iron box, incised with thousands of signs and symbols on every surface.
    Beside it, tanned fingers resting lightly on the solid metal, walked the lady Zoë, dressed not in her habitual armor, but in a clinging silk gown shimmering like a flame, raven hair swept back behind her head, jewels winking at her throat. Many of the Arab seamen looked away, startled and embarrassed by the plunging neckline of the dress. In previous times, before the dreadful and unexpected death of the lord Mohammed, the young Queen had never exposed herself in such a way. Even the Palmyrene sailors goggled, for they had never seen such a wanton display either. At least, not upon a noble lady...
    Many of the Sahaba—those who had been the companions, in life, of the Teacher—muttered among themselves and felt great unease. Things had changed since the great, glorious victory before the Roman city. They still reeled from the death of the kindly man, the one-who-listened, their friend and teacher, Mohammed, lord of the Quraysh. Now even Zoë—whose fierce, martial demeanor gained the loyalty of many a soldier—was changed, transformed. Those watching in the dim light drew away, ashamed and afraid. From the corner of her eye, the Queen marked their furtive movement, and found some small consolation in their guilt.
    The iron box was carefully carried up, onto the ship, and then fitted with hooks from a crane. In the damp air, the box steamed and smoked with frost. The barbarians lowered it with much grunting and straining into the hold of