Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

Nicholas held his temper and willed his fingers to lie still on his knees. He matched his gaze with the praetor's and considered his options. He could accuse the man openly of lying, or let it go. If he confronted Bardanes now, without anyone to back him up, it might become ugly. Nicholas smiled tightly.

"No… nothing that my men could not handle. Do you think, if there is trouble across the river, that it might spread here?"

Bardanes smiled again, seemingly a man at peace with the world. He shook his head.

"Things are well in hand here, Centurion. My garrison and the local militia are more than adequate to deal with anything that may arise. But I know that you will need to see things for yourself and make your own judgment. I think, however, that you will soon find that any disturbances have their source on the other side of the river Jordanus."

Nicholas nodded, wanting to seem like a man taking careful note of the praetor's experience.

"My lord, if things are peaceful, then my men will get a good rest. They are weary from the recent war and the march from the coast. I will send a dispatch to the legate in Damascus for further orders."

"Good!" Bardanes smiled, showing a mouth of crooked brown teeth. "I have the garrison officers over to dinner regularly-I'll be sure to invite you. Samuel!"

The praetor pulled a rope that hung from the wall. A moment later there was a distant ringing sound. Bardanes smiled again. "Samuel is the chief of my servants-he will help you barrack your men in the old Legion camp and stable your animals. While you are here, you may draw stores and feed from the Imperial granary. How many men did you bring?"

Nicholas noted that the praetor finally seemed interested in something. He smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling up.

"A full century, Lord Bardanes. Veterans every one."

There was a patter of feet outside the office and then a tall man entered, ducking under the lintel. Bardanes glowered at the man as he entered. He seemed to have dismissed the matter of Nicholas' troops.

"Samuel, you are as slow a servant as I've ever suffered in my house! This is Centurion Nicholas of Roskilde. He and his men will be occupying the old Legion quarters for a week or two before they head across the river into the territories of the Gerasans. See that they have what they need."

Bardanes nodded to Nicholas and turned back to considering the papers on his desk. Nicholas rose and saluted, then followed the majordomo out into the hallway. Bardanes was already engrossed in his ledgers. Samuel was a tall thin man with a close-cut head of very curly brown hair. He wore a simple robe of cream-colored cotton, belted, with the edge of a blue shirt peeking out at his collar. In youth he had suffered some disease that left his face marked with small half-moon scars. He did not meet Nicholas' eyes, wearing an air of indifference. He preceded the centurion, descending the stairs to the main floor with a loping gait.

"We have wagons and mules," said Nicholas as they reached the cool dim space of the main hall. "Does the old camp have sufficient room for a dozen large wagons? We can camp outside the city, if necessary."

Samuel turned, his dark eyes finally focussing on Nicholas. The Scandian felt a shock, meeting that gaze. This man was hiding deep and abiding anger. In her sheath, Brunhilde trembled a little, but so faintly that Nicholas barely perceived it. Here was a slave that did not wear the yoke of Rome gently.

"Master, the Imperial Army has leave to camp where it will. However, when the Tenth Legion was based here, it was at full strength, so I think that the camp on Zion mount will suit you."

The man's voice was soft and submissive, which made Nicholas feel a cold chill creep on his arms. Now that he saw the hatred in the man, the dissonance between his words and hidden thoughts bespoke danger.

"I saw…" Nicholas cleared his throat. "I saw no aqueducts upon our arrival. The city is watered by springs? They are all within the walls?"

Samuel paused at the door to the plaza. He turned, his head silhouetted against the brightness of the day outside.

"Master, there are some small springs outside the walls, but they are difficult to reach. The pool of Solomon, for example, or the spring of Sion are high on the cliffs that line the eastern side of the city. The camp of the Tenth is watered by cisterns. They should be full."

Nicholas nodded, his hand on the doorjamb. "I understand. I'm sure we'll find it a suitable camp. I will need a chit for the granary."

The man bowed and then handed Nicholas a tablet bearing the seal of the praetor and the city. Nicholas took it, suppressing an arched eyebrow. There was no name or other directive on the tablet. Any man that held it could, theoretically, request anything they wanted from the Imperial granaries, stables, or armory. A blank pass, he thought. Samuel, without speaking, turned away and disappeared into the gloom of the house. Nicholas took one last look around and left, though he still felt on edge as he walked out into the burning heat. A sullen and angry servant coupled with an oblivious master; that was a poor combination.

– |Dwyrin was waiting in the shade in front of the stables. As Nicholas passed under the wooden porch that lined the front of it, he saw that it was part of some larger building that had been partially torn down. The paint on the walls had flaked away in places, revealing bits and pieces of murals and paintings that had adorned the original walls. The columns, too, were not of Roman manufacture, or even Greek. Nicholas ran his hand over one of them. They were fat-bellied and tapered toward the summit. Round bands formed their bases and capitals. The garish red paint crumbled under his touch, revealing a dark finish and a fine-grained wood underneath.

"Cedar, I think," said the Hibernian, pushing away from the wall he had been holding up. "There are the same kind of columns inside, and tessellated flooring under the straw and dirt. These stables were an audience hall once, I think, and there were upper floors, not just one."

Nicholas scraped away some of the paint on the columns with his belt-knife. The wood underneath was as smooth as silk and had, in some past time, been polished to a high gloss.

"Whoever ruled before Rome, then…" Nicholas put the knife away. "No matter. What gossip did you squeeze out of the grooms?"

Dwyrin shrugged and looked about in a nonchalant matter. "Nothing worth talking about."

"Not here, you mean," said Nicholas with a wry grin. "Let's be on our way, then. I shudder to think what kind of trouble those pioneers and Vladimir are up to."

– |It only took a moment to find the engineers. They had circled the city, starting at the northern gate and going west. The hill of the city was steep on the south, the west, and the east. A barren slope dropped away from the Jaffa gate to the west. Despite this, the engineers had found that the Jaffa gate was wide enough to admit their wagons and it was a simple right turn in the public area fronting the praetorium to reach the Legion encampment.

Nicholas stood in the shade of the gate, watching the wagons roll in, their muffled wheels still loud on the limestone cobbles of the street. The Roman city sprawled away to the north on the flat, shimmering in the heat. Everywhere the land was barren and pale, overgrazed by sheep and goats and sapped by the constant dry wind from the east. Here and there bare hills of white limestone punched through the dry brown soil, assuming the characteristics of old bone under the round white disk of the sun.

"Not much for a farmer…" Dwyrin looked around in mild puzzlement. "Doesn't it seem odd that most of this land should be so grim looking, but people are still here, clinging to it?"

Nicholas rubbed his jaw, feeling the need for a shave. "Many places are like this-the people have always been here, even if it is desolate. They stay because they have always stayed. There must be fertile valleys nearby, though, or it would be abandoned. How went things with the groomsmen and servants?"