Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

Dwyrin's eyes narrowed to slits, hidden anger threatening to boil forth in fire, but he repressed the urge to call forth the embers hiding in the creature's blood. He wiped his forehead, which had beaded with sweat during the exertion of summoning the ward. It seemed more difficult now-he had grown used to feeling Zoe's touch, and Odenathus', through their battle-pattern. He kept waiting for them to slide into the matrix, adding their own strength to his.

"Come," Nicholas said, clearing some dirty plates off of the little folding table. "We will be underway soon, and I need to tell you what we are about."

– |"…and that is about it." Nicholas tapped his teeth idly with a stylus. Night had fallen on the nameless ship and it rolled easily, cutting across the swells coming up from the south. Vladimir had lighted a small lantern with a body of brass and thin windows of close-cut mica. The stone had been poorly shaved, so the light was muted and dim, but it was better than an open flame in the cabin. Round shutters had been pulled back from the windows, too, and the fresh breeze off of the sea made the little room pleasant. Dwyrin sat on the edge of his bunk, his eyes never far from the hunched shape of Vladimir. The "man" had put on a loose shirt of white cotton with large sleeves to go with his dark leggings.

Dinner had been a thick fish stew, spiced with an inordinate amount of garlic. Dwyrin had almost gagged at the taste, but Nicholas and the Walach had dug in with such relish that he felt he had to go along. His throat was still burning, and he knew that he would be tasting the bulb for a long time. Some loaves of bread, purchased fresh from a bakery in the city that morning, and watered wine completed their meal. The Hibernian toyed with a crust, thinking that it was one of the better meals-not counting the garlic, of course-that he had enjoyed in the past year. Legion food was not much to speak of. Nicholas had made the stew, which explained the garlic and the robust flavor.

"Have you been to this place before? This Aelia Capitolina?" Vladimir's mouth was full, but he managed to get the words out, anyway. The way his long white teeth worried at the bread set Dwyrin on edge, but despite his first impression, the man was not one of the dead-that-walked. The set of his eyes, though, reminded the Hibernian far too much of the Bygar Dracul. That one was dead, but the memory remained like a lesion on his spirit.

"No," Nicholas said, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood. "Constantinople is the farthest east I'd been before this. Lad, have you been there?"

Dwyrin shook his head. Aelia Capitolina was one of the hill-cities in Judea, across the wasteland of the Sinai from Egypt. He had heard a little about it-a rough land with rocky valleys and hilltop orchards-but had never set foot there. "Sorry, Centurion, I've been in Egypt at the School and up in Armenia. We kind of skipped the whole middle part…"

Nicholas sighed, then flicked the splinter out the window. "No matter. We're supposed to meet up with the rest of the century in Caesarea, and they-by this roster-are all veterans. They'll know the lay of the land, I'm sure. That will bring our strength up to just over a hundred men. Hopefully it will be enough to deal with these bandits. Hmm… I hope they can all ride, otherwise they'll be in for some rough instruction!"

Dwyrin nodded, though his thoughts were far away from the little cabin on the ship. Aelia Capitolina was not so far from Palmyra; perhaps he could work a finding pattern on his friends-if they could bring themselves to speak to him again. The raw pain throbbed in his gut again, and he reached for his beaker of wine. The sweet grape brought relief from the memories of Zoe's face and her terrible anger.

Nicholas looked over and grinned at Vladimir. The lad had fallen asleep, curled up in the bunk, his gear-bag under his head as a pillow. The Walach shrugged, but he seemed to have relaxed a little. "You're too nervous, my friend. He's a good soldier-he'll follow orders if nothing else. He won't singe your tail…" Vladimir grimaced at the jibe and put his head in his hands. Nicholas watched him carefully. The nervous energy that had marked the Walach the day that they had met the two girls during the Triumph was absent, but something was preying on the dark-haired man's mind. Nicholas' fingers drifted to Brunhilde's hilt, which was close to hand. The touch calmed him, and her whispering voice settled his nerves. Despite what he had told the boy, he kept a very close eye on the Walach. They could not afford another incident, not while on a mission.

"Vlad, something is troubling you. What is it?"

The Walach looked up, his liquid dark eyes filled with lingering fear.

"We left just in time…" Vladimir whispered. "The dark Queen came to me in my dreams last night. If we had not left today, she and hers would hunt me tonight. I care not where we go, as long as it is away from that cursed city."

Nicholas nodded sagely, feeling the weight of his coin purse. It was a good day to leave-before a certain moneylender realized that the Gothic merchant he had lent so much coin to was not a merchant at all. Vladimir got up and crawled into his bunk, his face turned from the dim light of the lantern. Nicholas sat up, and went over the maps and scrawled notes he had received from the office. He was puzzled by the mission. The rapacity of desert bandits was trouble, to be sure, but not usually the kind of thing that he undertook. His masters back in Rome usually set him to hunt a man. This business of a whole province was new.

Rummaging in the dispatch bag, he took out a copy of the original report. It was penned in a straight, strong hand and had come from this hill-town in Judea, this Aelia Capitolina.

To the Magister Militatum, Eastern Empire, Constantinople.

Greetings,

Noble sir, I wish to draw your attention to the depredations of fierce bandits that have taken to infesting the hills around our town. As you know, this place has long been a hotbed of rebellion, religious fanatics, necromancers, and thieves. It pains me to admit that the local garrison, though loyal, is not able to deal with the troubles that beset us. To understand this, I must relate some of the history of this old city, once called Hierosolyma in the time of the Divine Emperor Trajan, or-in the native tongue-Jerusalem…

Nicholas read on, seeing a litany of feuds and wars and petty death. At last, his eyes grimy with exhaustion, he put the documents away and climbed into his own bunk. The roll and slap of the waves lulled him to sleep in moments. Soon they would reach the coast of Judea and get all these troubles straightened out.

Jabal Al'jilf, Outside Petra, Capital of Roman Nabatea

Mohammed crouched down, his black beard and face thrown in sharp relief by the light of the hooded lantern he held in his hand. The lantern was a bronze box with an iron loop and a wooden handle. The candle inside was of the best beeswax that his foragers could find and it burned cleaner than he had hoped. His hand moved over the planed surface of the tunnel wall, feeling a rough patch. At some time in the past there had been an earth tremor, and the underground passage had been damaged. Part of the mountain that the tunnel bored through had slipped a foot or more. Artisans whose skill did not match the craft of the men who had first cut the tunnel had repaired it, leaving a jumble of bricks and plaster at the slippage point. Mohammed held the lantern out, peering into the tunnel beyond.

The passage continued, though it would be a bit of a squeeze to make it through the break. The Quraysh turned and nodded to the men behind him. Then he ducked down and crawled through on one hand, the other holding the lantern just above the dusty floor. Like the long flight of steps that he and his army had ascended to reach the passage, it was cut from the raw sandstone of the mountains.