The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  For some reason the port was nearly empty of ships, so the coaster had found a tie-up close to the tall white shape of the Pharos at the southern end of the docks. Vladimir groaned behind him; the Walach hated bright sun even worse than Nicholas did. Only Dwyrin seemed happy. Despite moping over some sprig of a girl for the last week, this landfall had made him positively cheery.

  "Ah… warm at last!" Dwyrin stretched his arms and grinned, viewing the sand dunes and dusty brown hills that rose up behind the port with delight. Nicholas shook his head in dismay-he had thought that Greece was hot, but this? It was still the edge of spring but the air shimmered with heat like the haze over a hot griddle pan. What would it be like in full summer?

  "Is it usually like this?" There was an aggrieved tone in Vladimir's voice. He was squinting ferociously.

  Dwyrin nodded, breathing deep of the arid desert air. "It is. This is a fine day, in fact. Look at that sky! I'd almost forgotten how blue it can be… Don't worry, Vlad, you'll love it here!"

  "Of course," snarled the Walach, "just as soon as my eyeballs dry up and I go blind."

  Dwyrin clapped Vladimir on the shoulder in a companionable way. "Don't fret so," he said. "Just drink lots of water."

  "Water?" Nicholas turned from his survey of the tan-and-white warehouses, offices, and boatsheds. "Is it fit to drink? Wouldn't we be safer with wine?"

  The Hibernian shrugged and hitched his carry bag upon his shoulder. Nicholas saw that the boy had produced an evil-looking straw hat from somewhere and had crammed it down over his long red braids. He made a note to get one too. The sun was already burning on the back of his neck.

  "Wine makes you thirstier. The water has a funny taste, but better than in Constantinople. Take it from me, Centurion, you don't want to go short of aqua in these parts."

  "Fair enough. Let's find some lodgings and our new comrades."

  Vladimir led off, making a beeline for a series of buildings stacked in a row along the road that wound out of the port side. Even from here, Nicholas could see the garish sign boards and ornamental wooden statues that advertised strong drink, cheap food, and sympathetic women. He sighed and hurried up. They needed a billet in the Legion camp, not a doss-house by the docks. The thought made him itch already.

  Dwyrin started whistling a tune. By his estimation, if they made their way to this Aelia Capitolina, they would be only a week's ride from Damascus. He guessed that Zoe would wind up there if it was true that her city was destroyed. She would need supplies and food and water-what better place to get them?

  – |"You're the First Century, Ninth Cohort, Sixth Ferrata?" Nicholas unfolded the briefing sheet and turned it over so he could read the names. "Gnaeus Parsos commanding?"

  He looked up, his eyes running over the crowd of men that had risen from their bunks when he had rapped on the door to the barracks building. By his count there were nearly the hundred the Magister Militatum's Office had promised, which surprised him. The Ferrata had just been posted back to Judea from the war against Persia and would not have had time to replace any men lost or invalided out of service. He was perplexed by the men he saw-they were all dark-haired and Latin looking, with hardly a blond or redhead among them. Not the usual run of Eastern troops. True, they seemed stout fellows with muscular frames and thick wrists, but in the brief moment he had been in the doorway he had seen a marked lack of scars, missing ears, broken noses, or any of the other impedimenta that Legion soldiers tended to acquire. They weren't even particularly tan and he expected that veterans of the Ferrata, which had been garrisoning the Judean frontier for almost four hundred years, would have caught a little sun.

  One of the soldiers looked around quizzically and then stepped forward. He was a balding fellow with sleepy-looking eyes, week-old sunburn, and a neck like a tree trunk. Nicholas squinted at his rank insignia. It didn't look quite right, being formed of a circular wheel with some kind of a triangle within it. The man coughed and said something that Nicholas did not quite catch.

  "Sorry," Nicholas said, speaking slowly, "Latin is not my best tongue."

  The man nodded and then, with the air of someone dredging his memory for words, said, "Centurion, we're not from the Sixth Ferrata. And there's just no Gnaeus Parsos here."

  Nicholas was taken aback and looked over to Vladimir and Dwyrin who were lounging against the doorposts sharing a bread roll with cheese and salami that they'd gotten from a caupona on the way to the barracks. Vladimir, his mouth filled with flatbread and cheese, shook his head in amusement. He was no help.

  "All righ!" Nicholas gestured at the men standing around. "You're the First of the Ninth of the Sixth by this mustering order! You're assigned to me for the duration of this mission. Everyone should bunk out their kit so that I can inspect it."

  The man with the funny-looking insignia shook his head. "But sir, we're not them! This is the Fourth Engineer's cohort of the First Minerva! I'm Sextus Verus, lead surveyor. Are you Nicholas of Roskilde?"

  Nicholas frowned, thinking of delightful torments to apply to the clerks at the Office of Barbarians.

  "Yes," he allowed grudgingly, "I am."

  "Oh good! We've been waiting weeks for you to show up." Sextus dug into a wallet he had hung from his shoulder on a stout leather strap. It was filled with folded sheets of paper, unsharpened quills, and a stoppered bottle of blue ink. Dwyrin peered into it with interest-there were all sorts of odd pieces of metal and string in the wallet. Sextus closed it with a snap and a frown and Dwyrin stepped back, grinning in apology. The surveyor handed a sheet of parchment over to Nicholas.

  It was an order writ, signed by the tribune in charge of military assignments at Antioch. Nicholas read it with a face that grew longer and longer. His century of canny grizzled veterans was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he had been assigned a gang of mathematicians and hydrologists.

  "What do you do?" Nicholas put the writ away and looked around, a perplexed look on his face. "You're all listed by these Latin technical terms, which I, for one, do not know!"

  "Oh," said Sextus, brightening. He had lost one of his teeth in the front. "These are the lads-normally, you know, we're attached to the Minerva, building bridges and aqueducts and the like-Batavia is a messy country for water…" He waved a hand at the men standing around.

  "Batavia?" Nicholas snapped in irritation. "That's a humid, low-lying, half-inundated, gnat-infested Western Empire province." He looked at his order sheet again. "You're supposed to be veterans of the Judean frontier, and Eastern troops to boot!"

  "Oh no," said Sextus sadly, shaking his head. Some of the other men shook their heads in disgust. Most had returned to their bunks to play draughts or cards or sleep. If there was some cock-up with the orders, the centurions could sort it out. "We're Western troops all right. Stuck here on the edge of nowhere… You know, there's not a good aqueduct in this whole province? Everything is wells and these underground channels! What good is that? There's hardly any gravity feed on an underground channel…"

  "Stop." Nicholas frowned his best Centurion-in-a-bad-mood frown. "What happened to the men from the Ferrata?"

  "They bunkered off," interjected a thin-looking man with a squint. He had lank dark hair cropped close above his eyes and chipped fingernails. "I heard it from the optio when we were back in Damascus. That lot had been thrown in the lock up for breaking up a taverna." The man punctuated each word with a nod as he spoke. Nicholas glared but the man blithely ignored him.

  "From who?" Sextus did not believe it. "From that fat bastard Crassus?"

  "No," said the thin man, making a waving motion with his hands. Nicholas saw that they were stained with ink. "From Martus-we had a drink right before we got our orders. We were talking about the public sewer and the pooling problem in the east quarter. You know, the one where the temple foundation had settled and tipped the conduit…"

  "Enough!" Nicholas moved physically between the two men, his hand over Sextus' mouth before he could reply. "You-squinty-what's your name?"r />
  "Julius Frontius Alba, sir, begging your pardon."

  Nicholas leaned close to Frontius and smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "You'll get no pardon from me, squinty, if you don't keep on the road with your story. What happened to the men from the Ferrata?"

  Frontius squeaked a little and backed up, his hands fluttering in front of him. "They got sent off on some bandit-chasing expedition, sir! Really, it's true!"

  "Settling foundations!" Sextus was ready to spit nails. "Why didn't you tell me that then? Now we're three provinces away from our real posting and you…" He jabbed a finger at Frontius, "knew why the whole time!"

  "I did not," Frontius said, leaning around Nicholas to wag a finger at the surveyor. "No one knew that the Ferrata First and Ninth was supposed to come down here!"

  Nicholas clapped a hand over Frontius' mouth and silenced the man with a steely glare.

  "You, Sextus, what was your assigned posting before you were sent here?"

  "Ah, Centurion!" Sextus grinned wistfully. He put his hand over his heart. "That would have been a bonny job! We'd been left off by Emperor Galen as loaners to the Eastern wigs to take care of infrastructure shortfall and the legate-before he left us for home-said we'd drawn the ticket for Mesopotamia."

  "Mesopotamia?" Nicholas made a face. He had heard tales of the land between the two rivers from soldiers returned with the Imperial Army. An endless bog of mud, flies, bad water, rivers too wide to see across, a vast and hostile native population, and truly pitiful wine. "What's so great about Mesopotamia?"

  Both Sextus and Frontius sighed, shaking their heads and sharing a long-suffering glance. Who knew where the Empire got these officers?

  "Bridges by the hundred," said Sextus brightly.

  "Canals by the mile," put in Frontius. "And dams and dikes and water mills bigger than the Saepta Julia!"

  "Don't forget the sewers," answered Sextus. "Ctesiphon had nearly five hundred thousand citizens before the big boots knocked it over. That's nearly two hundred miles of conduit! We were right glad for the opportunity to show these effete Persians how to deal with such things, too. But here we are, sitting beside as fine an artificial harbor as ever built, five hundred miles from Babylon and all its ancient wonders…"

  Frontius sighed again. "And barely a serviceable aqueduct in the whole province."

  Sextus turned to Nicholas, his face grave, and put his hand on the thin man's shoulder. "Aqueducts are what Frontius here does best. He's one of the masters of the craft."

  Frontius shook his head severely and raised a finger. "No, I am but an apprentice. No Vetruvius I!"

  Nicholas pressed his fingers to his forehead, hoping to forestall an incipient headache.

  "I don't suppose," he said slowly and carefully, "that any of you are actual legionnaires? Like the kind who march on roads, with say a pilum or spear or perhaps a scutum among you?"

  Sextus and Frontius stared at him in surprise, taken aback.

  "Why surely, Centurion!" Sextus gestured to a stack of tools set beside the barracks door. A collection of hardened leather lorica, iron helmets with hinged neck flaps, short swords in wooden cases, and throwing spears lay against the wall in neat bundles. "Every Legion engineer has to train beside his fellows. We're just…" He paused, then smiled and said, "We're specialists!"

  "I'm a specialist too," sneered Nicholas, "but it's rather more specific to what we're actually supposed to be doing than you are."

  Frontius frowned, his face quizzical. "Centurion, you always need an engineer along. You're just blessed by having a whole century of them! How much luckier could a field commander get? Often I've heard a tribune or general complain about the lack of sappers or engineers."

  "Or surveyors," interjected Sextus, looking solemn. "Can't have too many surveyors about! You know, sir, there's many a time I've had to sneak about under the noses of the Germanii-it's not an easy life of draughts and wine cups for a librator, no indeed!" He picked up the hem of his tunic, showing a length of hairy thigh marked with a curling puckered scar. "Got that from a Frankish throwing axe I did, when we were putting a pontoon bridge across the Rhenus at Bonna. That was a close thing."

  Nicholas looked around and sat on the nearest bunk. The previous inhabitant, seeing that the centurion was coming his way, had decided he really needed to use the privy. The Scandian laid his orders packet on the thin cotton sheet and put the palms of his hands over his eyes. He wondered for a moment if it were too early to get a stiff drink at the caupona they had passed.

  "Tell me," he said after a moment of reflection, "what you do… what your specialties are."

  Sextus narrowed his eyes and surveyed the room, taking a tally in his head. Dwyrin and Vladimir, seeing that things were going to go on for a while, made themselves scarce. Nicholas was sure he could find them later in the caupona, half-sick from strange local food and too many overripe olives in garlic pickle.

  "Well, sir, we've nine lead surveyors with me as their chief, a senior-and a junior-level man each as assistants. Then there are the stonemasons, another dozen, with about twenty apprentices for the smoothing, tunneling, and the detail work. Frontius has his pack of carpenters, calculators, and copyists-that's an easy fifteen fellows right there. We've two cooks, that's a bit of luck for you there, sir, you won't have to eat the local food. Oh wait, Frontius has two more draftsmen who work for him-his assistants really. How many does that make?"

  Nicholas sneered, saying, "Eighty and two. And the rest of these layabouts?"

  "Ah," said Sextus sagely, "those will be the semaphore men-for six-and the runners for the last four. I always forget about them… but, sir, you'll miss them if they're not about!"

  "Fine," said Nicholas, rubbing his chin. "Have you any experience riding?"

  Sextus beamed and rubbed the top of his head. "Sir, we ride everywhere."

  "On horses?" Nicholas gritted his teeth. It had better not be shanks-mare!

  "Not at all, sir. Nasty balky beasts, always biting you when you're not looking! No sir, like any engineer's cohort we've a good twenty military reda for the equipment, plus the cook's carruca. We can all fit quite handily on board. You needn't worry, Centurion, we've got all our kit, baggage, and mules ready to go."

  "Those things you mentioned," said Nicholas, racking his brain for what little Latin he had gathered while in the Empire, "those would be… wagons?"

  "Yes, Centurion, fine steel-sprung wagons, too. Very comfortable."

  Nicholas grimaced, then fought down a surge of bile.

  "Sextus," he asked politely. "Have you ever chased bandits over hill and dale in your… wagons?"

  The engineer thought for a moment and then shook his head sadly, no.

  The Scandian repressed another sigh and opened one of the sheets of his briefing packet. He spread it out on the bedsheet.

  "Our orders are to proceed from the port here…" His thumb indicated the symbol for Caesarea. "…to here, Aelia Capitolina, to deal with some provincial troubles. I expect that those troubles will involve bandits who will take great delight in flitting about on horses over the local hills while we are stuck on the local roads with these wagons…"

  Frontius sniffed and turned up his nose. "No aqueducts for Capitolina. No need-whole town's fed by springs right within the walls. A silly place to build it too, right on the highest ground thereabouts… can't get water to run uphill, you know." He paused. "Well, that's not exactly true… you can get it to run uphill, but you need a big mountain to start from."

  Sextus shrugged, saying "well, sir, I suppose we can swan about on horses with the best of them."

  "Good," muttered Nicholas, gathering up his papers. "We leave in the morning."

  – |It got worse, as far as Nicholas could see, the farther inland you went. Barren dry hills rose upon either side of the road and the bottomland wasn't much greener. Even the olives and junipers were stunted and the air had a funny brittle quality to it. All the villages seemed to be crouched on hilltops and were mean
places with reclusive citizens, stout walls, and an angry feeling in the air. Nicholas' heart sank the higher they went into the hills. The only birds seemed to be crows and buzzards.

  "This has all the signs of a badly managed province," he muttered to Vladimir, who was riding at his side, wrapped in a white-and-tan striped cloak and a sun hat. The Walach grunted in agreement, keeping his hands inside his cloak. Vladimir's pale skin had started to burn on the voyage from Constantinople and now he was peeling and in a particularly bad mood. "This may take some doing."

  Nicholas wheeled his bay mare around and dropped back to allow the first engineer's wagon to catch up with him. He and Vladimir had been in the lead, a dozen paces ahead of the first wagon, with the surveyors out in front of them as scouts. The rest of Sextus' apprentices and the semaphore men made the rear guard. In his usual good humor, Sextus grinned at the centurion as he came alongside. Despite his fear that the engineer's wagons would slow him down, Nicholas was impressed by the conveyance.

  The reda was a four-wheeled box with high hinged sides and an elevated riding seat for a driver and passenger. A long wooden tongue ran out to harness four fast-stepping mules. The wheel rims were of a standard size and covered with layers of heavy canvas, which seemed to reduce the noise and rattle that wagons usually generated. Nicholas had inspected the wagons before they had left the Legion camp at the port. They were impressive; carefully packed full of all the materials and tools that the engineers would need in their work. Spades, picks, mauls, adzes, axes large and small, chisels, precut support timbers, five big dioptra for taking sightings and finding levels, broken-down leveling tables called chorobates, metal fittings for ballista and onagers, water screws, and barrels and barrels of nails and precut wooden pegs. Each man had his own kit, too, in addition to the light leather armor cuirass of a Legion auxillia; a saw, a heavy hand-hammer, a plane, and a hand-held water level as well as plumb bobs and a groma for finding straight lines and right angles. The stonemasons had a whole other set of gear in their wagons, too, all designed for finding, cutting, moving, finishing, and cementing stone. Each wagon had its own packing order, which had really impressed Nicholas-used, as he was, to the lax logistical methods of the Scandian tribes or the Eastern Empire-which was tracked by square-cut leather tags tied to each piece of equipment.