The storm of Heaven ooe-3

by Thomas Harlan

  "It's the Arab army!" Dwyrin was dumbfounded. They seemed to have come so far from Aelia Capitolina, escaping the rebels, and here they were again. "They've built a wall along the valley."

  Nicholas nodded, then picked up his bag and pole, slinging them onto his shoulder. "They have. My eyesight isn't as good as your trick there, but I'd venture to say that it stretches all the way around the city, one wall facing out and one in."

  Vladimir hurried to catch up and Dwyrin stumbled after, dispersing the pattern he had formed from the air. "Why would they want to do that?"

  "It's an old Roman trick. One wall keeps the people in the city penned up, the other keeps their friends on the outside from getting in to help them. The first Caesar did the same thing once, at a Gaulish town called Alesia."

  "We can't get into the city, then?" Dwyrin looked down into the valley again. His power might be able to make them an entrance. Logs could burn, and even stone and earth could crack in the heat, if the fire was hot enough. "Are we going to try?"

  "Perhaps." Nicholas looked over his shoulder. "First I'm going to see if I can find someone who can tell us what's going on."

  – |"You men! You're Eastern troops, aren't you?"

  Nicholas looked behind him, then back to the Western centurion walking quickly towards him. The three friends had been angling towards the cookfires set up by the farmhouse. Nick figured the cooks would know all the latest news. "Me, sir?"

  "You." The centurion was scowling already, but Nicholas waited with a placid expression on his face. "You're not one of our troopers-and that boy is wearing the caduceus and lightning flash. What's your name and rank?"

  "Nicholas of Roskilde, sir, centurion of the Eastern army. These are Vladimir and Dwyrin." Nicholas turned towards them, motioning with his hand. "But we're on assignment already. Official business, if you know what I mean."

  "Too bad," the centurion growled, brown eyes narrowing. "The legate wants to know where in Hades the Eastern army is and what's going on!"

  "Sir." Nicholas kept his voice even, but he matched the Western officer's glare. "We just got here, we don't know what is going on. I can't help you right now."

  "Really?" The officer sneered. "Let me see your transit papers."

  Nicholas sighed but made a shushing motion at Dwyrin, who was starting to get a mischievous look in his eye. The boy's confidence had improved a thousandfold since they escaped Aelia Capitolina. His color was better, he was cheerful, even the small exercises of his power seemed ably done. Best, he no longer drifted into the dream state afflicting him during the siege. However, he was becoming fond of using his skill to make trouble. Nicholas drew out the pass Caesar Aurelian had provided, though he was loath to do so. Unfortunately, he had no other papers to hand. "Here. Read it carefully, centurion."

  The Western officer unfolded the parchment. His face, which could not be called pretty in the best of times, grew forbidding as he read. When he was done, he nodded, then jerked his thumb towards the command tent. "You're free to go, centurion, but I'd appreciate it if you took a minute with the legate."

  "Fine." Nicholas nodded at Dwyrin and Vladimir. "Can my friends get a bite to eat while they wait?"

  The Western centurion nodded sharply, then turned on his heel and walked back up the hill towards the farmhouse. Nicholas let out a slow hiss of breath, shaking his head. "Vlad, Dwyrin-don't talk to anyone, understand? And hide that damned badge."

  Dwyrin nodded guiltily and unclasped the bronze snakes-and-lightning from his tunic, slipping it into his bag.

  "I'll be back soon."

  – |True to form, Nicholas was left to sit, sweating in the afternoon sun. The Western centurion stormed off, on "important business," and did not return. Messengers came and went; officers wandered by, deep in conversation with one another. Servants hurried into the tent with food and drink but didn't offer Nicholas any. The northerner fumed and tried to find some shade. Two hours passed and the sun began to set. At last, as he was about to give up and leave, the centurion suddenly reappeared.

  "Legate Dagobert has time for you now." Nicholas considered punching the man. His tone implied Nicholas had been making a nuisance of himself. "Inside."

  Like most command tents, the pavilion was large and crowded at the same time. Clerks sat on the floor, writing desks on their laps. Couriers loitered against the walls, trying to be helpfully unobtrusive. Two staff officers eyed Nicholas as he walked in, then ignored him. A portable field desk dominated the northern wall of the shelter, occupied by a tall man with long hair. Nicholas raised an eyebrow at this, seeing that the commander of the Western army was a Frankish barbarian, and probably a noble to boot.

  "Nicholas of Roskilde, centurion, assigned to the Eastern Office of the Barbarians." Nicholas followed his terse delivery with a sharp salute, arm raised to his shoulder. "Reporting as ordered, legate."

  The man turned, pale gold eyebrows raised, and nodded to the centurion. The soldier sidled off. "You've come from Aurelian, in Egypt?"

  Nicholas nodded soberly, taking his measure of the man. The barbarian was stoutly built, with fine-boned features. His armor was serviceable and lacking the usual silver wash and filigree sometimes afflicting Eastern officers. His eyes were mournful. Nicholas didn't know if this was the man's usual countenance, or if he had suffered some recent calamity.

  "You've a thaumaturge in your care?" Nicholas nodded again. "Aurelian directs you be given all aid in reaching Constantinople so you can rejoin your unit. In particular, I see he is being a stickler about this sorcerer of yours-they are supposed to be under direct Eastern command. You wouldn't happen to know where the Eastern army is, do you?"

  "Ah… no, legate, we've just arrived in these parts." Nicholas was nonplussed. What kind of question is that?

  The legate nodded, though more to himself than to Nicholas. "Things in the capital seem to be… confused. I expected to sail into Constantinople itself, but I find an enemy fleet blockading the approaches. We advance on land and find our way contested by the enemy, again. He has matched his seaborne efforts with the same on land. Have you seen their circumvallation?"

  Nicholas nodded again, mustering the courage to ask, "Does it go all the way round, sir?"

  The legate nodded, long face looking even more mournful than before. "My scouts tell me it does, though the northern end is still under construction-but there they found the Persian army, in all its numbers."

  "The… Persians, sir?" Nicholas felt the news like a blow to his stomach. Through the three years the city had been besieged before, the Persians had never been able to get across the Propontis. Of course, he cursed silently, they hadn't had a real fleet in the strait, either. "How many Persians?"

  The legate shook his head. "We've no idea, centurion. There has been some fighting between our scouting parties and their light horse. Now, this business of your travel pass-I'm not going to ignore Caesar Aurelian's directive, of course, but I can't help you go any farther. Indeed, it would be unwise of me to let you try yourself, as this precious thaumaturge might be killed."

  Nicholas kept his face still, though he had the usual feeling of nausea that accompanied meddling from on high. The legate shuffled some papers on his desk, then drew one out, looked it over and put it back.

  "By my order, you and this sorcerer are temporarily attached to the third cohort of the Ars Magica, attached to the Tenth Legion. You'll report to their mess and get acquainted. When we have cleared our way to the city, of course, you're free to report to your own commander." The legate laughed, in an irritating sort of way. "This thaumaturge can help us across that ditch and wall. It must be fate."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The Field of Black Birds, Moesia Superior

  The Goths were singing as they marched in the rain, voices rising in rough harmony above close-packed pine and fir.

  "Dux grandis vetusque Eboraci,

  decem milia habuit!

  quos ad summum collis

  et rursus ad imum d
uxit!"

  Alexandros turned Bucephalos off the road. The stallion was glad to get off the metaled surface-Legion roads were not built for horses, but for men in hobnailed boots. Traditionally, a horse path would have paralleled the main roadway. Here in this rough country, that had proved impossible; on the road was laid through high-sided cuts faced with local stone. The horse cantered up a steep grassy hill standing over the road. The Macedonian was wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak with a hood, though he didn't mind the rain and wind. Not as much as his men, anyway. Alexandros heeled the stallion around and swung down, boots crunching on the rocky soil.

  "Cum eis ad summum, superpositi,

  cum eis ad imum, depositi,

  Sed cum eis in semicollem,

  Nec ad summum nec ad imum fuerunt!"

  Rumpled hills covered with thick dark forest stretched away in all directions. Isolated tors of barren slate rose out of the woodland, harboring eagles and great-winged hawks. Coupled with the heavy, low clouds, the forest was claustrophobic. The Macedonian felt his heart lift each day the army pressed south, winding down narrow roads and tracks, following the Imperial highway towards Greece and the sea. These highlands reminded him of home, with their lightly settled wilderness and staunch, proud people. He counted the centuries since he had seen green Macedonia. In his first life, he had reached India and the Hydaspes but had never returned to Pella and Macedon. Alexandros laughed, turning his face to the gray sky. Rain spiraled down, spattering on his face.

  It felt good to be alive. So good. He held up his hand, catching the rain.

  "General?" Alexandros wiped his face with the corner of his cloak and turned. Chlothar climbed the hill, armor rattling and jangling. Mud caked the man's boots and legs, and his stringy blond hair was plastered back against his head. His face was grim, high forehead creased with worry. "We've come to a bridge-it's too weak for the wagons. The stream is high, too, and running fast."

  Alexandros grinned in good humor, thumping the man on his broad shoulder. "There's no way around, I suppose. No other bridge, no ford?"

  Chlothar shook his head, a morose expression on his face. "No, Lord Alexandros. There are heavy woods on all sides and the span is ancient and high, two courses of stone-I went out on it myself-well cut, but old, too old. Some of it has fallen away on one side, taking away the retaining wall."

  "Good." Alexandros breathed deep, smelling wet pines and stone, hearing ravens quarreling in the trees crowning the hill. "There are some engineers with us in the siege cohort. Send them forward to examine the bridge. I will speak with them after they have had a chance to see it themselves. The men are to break out by syntagma and make camp-the file leaders must choose the ground well; we will be here for a time."

  Chlothar grimaced, wiping water from his eyes. "What do you intend, lord?"

  "We'll rebuild the bridge, like new, or better if we can."

  – |Water roared over black rocks, swirling white between the foundations of the bridge. Broken branches, mud, grass, leaves, pine needles and bits of bracken swept past. Chlothar had not lied; it was a mighty span, nearly a hundred feet high at the center of the stream. Four massive pilings rose up from the swollen flood below, forming a series of heavy brick arches. The roadbed ran on a second, lighter series of arches faced with fieldstone and slabs of granite. Alexandros stepped over a dark brown log, shining with rain, and looked down upon the side of the bridge. His engineers clustered behind him, taking shelter among the pines. The sky was even darker now, with heavy gray clouds rolling out of the north.

  "Two of the upper supports, my lord, have cracked." The lead engineer pointed. Alexandros nodded; he could see the fifth and sixth upper pilings had lost their facing, revealing a core of thin red brick. Weather and rain and wind had gouged away nearly a third of the roadbed. The other pilings looked bad, too, with sections of facing missing. "Water seeps in through the breaks, then freezes in the winter, splitting the bricks."

  Alexandros nodded again, looking up and down the stream. The water plunged through a steep-sided ravine, cutting across the base of the valley. He already knew, just from the fold of the hills and the thickness of the trees on the far side, that there was no other way through. The old Romans were fond of building in straight lines, but this highway wound back and forth like a snake.

  Here, in this rough country, they had followed the path of least resistance. This would be the only place suitable to put a road across. "We will have to tear down the last two pilings, hopefully only to the foundation pier, and rebuild them."

  "Aye, that is probably so." The engineers muttered among themselves, but Alexandros knew the sound-they saw a great deal of hard, dangerous work ahead of them. "If we're lucky."

  "Can you do it?" Alexandros faced them, eyes hard, chin out, challenging. "Do you have the skill?"

  The lead engineer stepped back at the sharp words, face screwed up in disgust. "Sir! We're Romans, my lord, not these Goths and Germans you've got in the ranks. Our kin built this bridge and we can make it good as new."

  "Good." Alexandros grinned, still challenging them. "How long, to build in stone?"

  "Four weeks," the lead engineer snapped, brown eyes flashing.

  "And wood, just for the two broken pilings and the roadbed?"

  "Two-maybe less."

  "I want stone," Alexandros' voice was cold, cold as the rain falling in a steady sheet around them. "In three weeks. Tear out the damaged piling; throw the debris in the river. You'll want a wooden roof over the whole road, too-a pitched one, so it won't collapse under winter snow. Each syntagma will be tasked for stone or lumber or road work. Chlothar, you and I will decide who does what. Dismissed."

  The Macedonian leaned against one of the pines, digging his fingers into the mossy bark. A rich, woody smell, redolent of mushrooms and rotting vegetation, filled his nostrils. It made him feel clean, invigorated. There was a cough from behind him. He turned and found Chlothar, looking morose again. "Chlothar, you're a fine officer, but you don't have to look like you've had to sacrifice your last white bull all the time. What is it?"

  The Frank handed over a message packet, then ducked under the eaves of the pine. Next to the trunk, the body of the foliage blocked the rain. Alexandros held up the parchment, swiftly scanning the chicken scratching. "Huh. You read this?"

  Chlothar nodded, brawny arms folded over his chest. "Yes. They want us to hurry."

  "We won't." Alexandros folded the parchment up and put it back in the oiled leather packet. "We will get to the Eastern capital as fast as we do-no more, no less. There will be other delays like this bridge. At a guess, I'd say we will reach the Hellespont in six weeks."

  "They sound desperate." Chlothar had learned some caution. He kept his voice neutral.

  "It doesn't matter." Alexandros rubbed the side of his jaw, thinking. "These men are not ready for a campaign yet-not a hard one. They are just starting to be soldiers-not that they lack courage, but they must learn to move and fight and think as one. The bridge will help. Is there a goldsmith among the servants?"

  Chlothar nodded, puzzled again.

  "Good. Send him to me. We have need of three crowns-one gold, one silver and one bronze. Each week, the three syntagmae that complete their tasks swiftest shall win a crown."

  Alexandros turned away from the swollen river and the rain-slicked trees. Bucephalos needed currying and his feed. The stallion's wounds had already healed, but the Macedonian was keeping a very close eye on the animal. Already, as he and Chlothar descended the hill, the sound of adzes and axes was echoing through the dark wood. Above, the sky was a slate gray, pregnant with more rain.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  The Pits Beneath the Flavian

  An iron grate rattled open, and Hamilcar, First Sword of the Ludus Magnus, entered a high-ceilinged room. Thyatis looked up, her face still and grim. Two slaves were lacing her into a suit of Legion armor. She had her arms up over her head. Agrippina and Candace were just finished getting into their armor. The s
laves whispered that today was the last day in the Flavian, the massive culmination of month-long celebrations. The Amazons had been moved up to the second to last act, past a battle between bestiarii and a poisonous snake of unusual size. The best of the gladiators would follow, putting on a bloody finale.

  "I've brought you a mouse," Hamilcar chuckled, pushing a slim little figure in front of him. "I caught it in my pantry. She wanted to meet the 'famous Diana,' so here she is."

  Thyatis stood and clasped Ila, who was shuddering, her face bruised, to her breastplate. "Did you strike her?"

  Hamilcar laughed, teeth flashing. "She struggled while we were digging her out of her hole. Someone may have been rough, but even mice can give a nasty bite."

  The African was freshly bathed and oiled, his armor and leathers gleaming. His usual languid grace was even more apparent-a sign to Thyatis that he was mentally prepared for the arena. He seemed more like a hunting cat than ever, as his well-muscled hand smoothed back his dark hair. She showed her teeth in a humorless grin. "I understand that we will not meet on the sand. You must be very disappointed."

  Hamilcar shrugged, drawing a tendril of fine black hair in front of his face. "I have seen the posted schedule, but you know? I do not believe it. I think that the gods mean for us to test each other, pretty girl. I am looking forward to matching skill with you."

  "Good." Thyatis put Ila behind her, pressing the little girl into Agrippina's waiting hands. She stepped close to the African, meeting him eye to eye. Hamilcar was not used to facing men his own height, much less a woman. He grew still but did not back away. "I would be happy," she said, "to see that day."