Near Pelusium, Lower Egypt
His camel groaning, Nicholas topped the crest of a long, striated dune. The sand was soft here, driven by a steady wind off the sea, and the creature's splayed, three-toed feet dug into the loose slope.
"Heyup!" Nicholas slapped the camel with a thin cane, making the beast lope down the side of the dune. Weeks of practice kept him in the saddle, though the swaying motion made most of the legionaries ill. Years on the heaving pine deck of a Dansk drakenship had given the barbarian a great tolerance for such things. The motion was oddly comforting. Behind him, in an irregular line, the rest of his small command descended the long sweep of the dune. The ground was rockier below, though ahead he could see a line of palms and the spreading green of a canebrake and mud flats. They had come, at last, to the edge of the great delta.
Nicholas wheeled the camel, drawing another gronk of outrage, and waited for his companions to join him. Vladimir loped up a moment later. Despite some half-hearted attempts, the Walach had given up on getting the camels to carry him. They shied from his smell and tried to bite or kick. Instead, Vlad's gear rode on one of the pack animals and he jogged alongside the line of march, stripped down to a pair of dark green breeches. His heavy pelt would have been impossibly hot, save for Dwyrin's power.
The Hibernian rode up, cane rod snapping against the flanks of his camel. The young man looked rested and cheerful in his white kaffiyeh and desert robes.
"Pelusium should not be far away," the Hibernian called as he switched his camel's ear. The beast had been trying to bite Nicholas' leg. "Then the channels of the delta-we'd make better time on a ship."
Nicholas nodded. The lad was their Egypt expert. No one else had been there before. "What? Give up these fine friends and their smell and noise and ill-humor?"
Dwyrin smiled lazily, leaning forward on the saddle pommel. "At least these ones aren't attracting flies."
Vlad laughed, squatting on the ground and letting his legs rest. The Walach liked to run, but this heavy sand was hard going for him. He didn't have the advantage of four big splayed feet. "I don't miss the flies or the heat, Dwyrin. I think we'd have shriveled up without your help."
Nicholas knew that was true! Their flight from Aelia Capitolina had veered into rough water once they left the inhabited regions south of the city. A long stretch of barren wasteland separated the southernmost Judean towns from the coast at Gazzah. Beyond the crumbling, half-abandoned port was a worse passage across the top of the Sinai wilderness. There was no water to speak of, and the heat of summer baked the land. By great good luck, the boy recovered from his exertions in the siege before they had ventured out of Berosaba.
"Just doing my job," Dwyrin said, looking out at the cane fields and the blue line of the sea beyond. Flocks of birds were slowly rising and falling over the mud flats, feasting on dark clouds of insects hazing the air. "I'm glad I figured out how to do it. I hate the heat."
The rest of the engineers rode up, making a milling crowd of camels, mules and stubby-shouldered horses. Sextus and Frontius cantered up to join Nicholas and his little command group.
"Ave, centurion!"
"Gentlemen, I think we've come to the end of our journey. If Dwyrin is right, Pelusium is not far ahead through these palms and cane. By rights, there should be a Legion outpost. Hopefully we'll be able to find someone in charge and report in."
The surveyor and the engineer nodded, though they looked a little disappointed.
"We'll be reassigned, then," lamented Sextus. "Parceled out to some other unit."
"Scattered to the winds," Frontius complained. "Like so much straw on the threshing floor."
They both sighed. Frontius jerked his head at Dwyrin. "Centurion, can we keep the lad on?"
"I think not," Nicholas growled. "We're sticking together. It's… ah…" He grinned. "It's cooler."
Sextus groaned and put his hands over his eyes. Frontius just shook his head.
"Centurion!" One of the surveyors was pointing towards the sea. Nicholas turned, shading his eyes. There were riders there, silhouetted against the sparkling blue waters. They seemed to be hurrying towards the palms. As they moved, there was a slow rippling across the mud flats and a great cloud of flamingos rose up, shifting and sparkling in the sun. The birds had been feasting amongst the shellfish in the muddy pools.
"Oh, that is fine." Nicholas raised his hand to signal the men. "We've been seen and the blind fools are sure to think we're bandits or the whole Arab army! Come on, let's go find the sentry pickets."
With another chorus of groans and bleats from the camels and some whickering from the horses, the column shook itself out and ambled across the sandy scrubland, heading for the road running beside the sea. They kept away from the coastal road during their long journey, fearing possible Arab patrols. Now they were forced to the coast by the mud and bogs and quicksand that sprawled out from the easternmost arm of the Nile.
Dwyrin took up his accustomed place at the middle of the group, lazing in the saddle, attention only partially focused on the camel. The rest of his effort, such as it was, spun slowly in the hidden world, a faint purple disk around the entire group. The hair-thin layer passed heat out and cooler air in. Too, above the column, it diffused the rays of the sun, providing a veneer of shade for the men riding below. The strength to reflect the sun came from the air itself as it calmed and grew cool. Flies and other insects were unable to penetrate the barrier, providing welcome relief from their biting and buzzing.
The Hibernian was heartened by the speed of his recovery from the effort of the siege. It seemed to him that his core self, that indefinable mote that spun and glowed at his heart, was growing stronger. He could shrug off the illusions and phantasms once tormenting him. A great sense of focus and solidity had come upon him as they crossed the desert. The emptiness let his mind find strength. His skill, though still raw, was growing. Over any kind of heat or flame, he wielded swift and encompassing power. Dwyrin thought of his friends and was glad that he had not killed Odenathus in their struggle.
The row of palms and waving green cane grew closer.
– |"Halt! Quo vaditis?"
Nicholas let his camel amble to a stop, a hand raised in greeting. The line of palms disguised a shallow, meandering channel filled with saltbush and waxy-leafed scrub. Beyond the stream, a high bank of black soil led under more date palms to a crumbling brick building. The road in front of the customhouse was half buried in sand. Nicholas hadn't expected there to be much here, so he wasn't disappointed by the dilapidated buildings.
The legionaries appearing out of the brush, swords bared, were a different matter. It took Nicholas a moment to realize what was wrong, but by the time that two iron spear points were pressed against his chest, he raised both hands. The grim-faced men in plumed helmets and shining lorica were Western troops, not Eastern. It was disorienting, since Egypt was an Eastern province.
"Whoa, there, lads! I'm Nicholas of Roskilde, centurion of the Fourth Engineers cohort of the First Minerva… you can put the pointy sticks away."
Behind Nicholas, the rest of the column came to a halt, surrounded by more soldiers in the brush and among the palms. Despite the tension in the air, none of the men around the column seemed to have noticed the clouds of flies under the palms were suddenly gone, or the steady drop in air temperature. Dwyrin, Sextus and Frontius pushed their way up to the head of the line.
"The First Minerva?" The Western commander stomped up to Nicholas' camel, glaring suspiciously. The man was sweating heavily. "You're a little lost, I think."
Sextus doffed his straw hat and clambered down off the horse.
"We were loaned out to the Easterners," the surveyor said. "Barely got out of Judea alive."
The Western centurion glowered at the rest of the column, then tugged absently at his chin strap. "You're the first men down this road in weeks. Been mighty quiet."
"Yes," Nicholas said, leaning forward on his saddle pommel. "The Arab army is in Gazzah, I imagine. No one's going to come down the road except them now."
"Well," the centurion said, looking sour, "you lot look Roman enough. I've orders to take anyone who comes out of the desert to the legate, so you'd better hop along. I'll get my horse."
Nicholas sat back and exchanged a bemused glance with the others. The centurion did have a horse, a nag with a mottled face, but it got along well enough and didn't mind the camels. The rest of the Western troops in the scrubby trees disappeared again and the column, after some jostling about, managed to get moving.
– |For a mile or two past the customhouse the land was thick with stands of green cane and muddy pools. The road was still in disrepair, blown with sand and dangerous with loose paving stones. Slender trees grew thick on the banks of the channels, hiding mottled green logs sleeping in the hot sun. Gleaming white cranes stepped through the water, hunting for frogs. Then, after passing through a belt of tall, willowy trees, the column passed under an ancient archway flanked by huge sandstone statues of men with tapering beards. This was the first time Nicholas had seen the detritus of the ancients. Dwyrin ignored the pharaohs, chewing on a piece of flatbread, but the centurion craned his neck to look up at them as they passed. Even the stone was cracked and chipped, dilapidated, oozing hoary age. Beyond the archway, everything changed.
Great plumes of dust rose from a land crawling with men. Suddenly, the road was clear and wide, lined with columns of workers trudging along under bundles of freshly cut stakes. Roman soldiers were everywhere, directing traffic and keeping a close eye on thousands of fellaheen digging under the blazing sun. The Western centurion urged his mount onwards and Nicholas had to swat his camel hard to get it to keep pace. Winding their way through crowds of laborers hauling dirt up out of a dry river channel, Nicholas and his men passed over a great wooden bridge.
The northerner looked down in awe at the river bottom. It was swarming with workers, digging furiously with mattocks and spades. A dark haze buzzed and drifted over the riverbed-flies and darting shapes of thousands of small brown birds preying upon them. Endless lines of brown men in white loincloths bent under the effort of hauling thick black dirt out of the excavation and up a series of ramps to the western side of the river. Even the bridge, obviously ancient, had been torn down to huge stone plugs on the riverbed. The ancient stone span had been replaced by a wooden road.
Upstream, past clouds of slowly rising yellow dust, the sloping face of a dam filled the channel.
"What is happening?"
The Western centurion looked back, grinning. "The legate likes to dig!"
They trotted down off the bridge, through another decaying triumphal arch and onto a crowded road. On this side of the dry river, dirt was rising into a sloping berm running in either direction as far as the eye could see. It too swarmed with brown men and soldiers. In some places, the top of the long wall was finished and Nicholas made out stonemasons and carpenters busily erecting a wall of fired mud-brick. Below the parapet, lines of fellaheen worked, pounding stakes into the outer face with mallets. The sky ahead was dark with smoke, rising from hundreds of brick pits.
An opening in the berm, shored up with massive stone blocks, let them through the barrier. Behind the sloping wall there was a half-mile-wide area stripped clear of brush and trees. The rear face of the berm was sharp and built up with a fighting platform and packed-earth ramps leading up to the walkway. Ahead of them, they saw the edge of a second river channel. Here there was less activity and another wooden bridge. As before, the roadway had been torn down to the pilings, though the water was high, rushing past in a brown flood. Western soldiers manned a pair of towers on the far side. A second wall of packed earth rose up at the water's edge.
Lines of camels and mules passed through the gates, carrying bundles of wicker, straw and cane. Nicholas and his escort waited for a dozen grains while the caravan passed by.
"This channel is wet," Nicholas remarked to the centurion. "Is the work finished here?"
"Not started yet," the Western officer grumbled. The man made a shooing motion in front of his face, though no flies had bothered him for over an hour. Nicholas assumed the motion had become automatic. At the edge of the invisible barrier riding around Dwyrin, little drifts of dead flies were piling up while Nicholas watched the camels and mules pass. Now the caravan was laden with fresh bricks wrapped in straw.
"The dam isn't done for this section yet." The centurion pointed off to the south.
Nicholas shaded his eyes, squinting, and made out-two or three miles away-a low ridge of earth and stone being built across the channel of the river. Like the river bottom they had passed, the levy swarmed with men, visible at this distance only as a rippling motion on the great mound of earth.
"They need to finish dredging the first channel," the Western officer continued. "Then they'll divert this channel into that one and close this dam. Then everyone will fall back here and finish this wall."
Nicholas looked north along the line of the berm and saw that it only ran a quarter-mile and then petered out. Obviously the bridge crossing needed to be defended first. "How long has all this taken?"
The Western officer grinned. "We've only been under way for six weeks. Not bad, eh? That's what you get from His Worship! Swift action. Come on."
The last of the mules passed and the column wound its way through the gate. A mile ahead, Nicholas could see the outskirts of a town and rising above it, squat and ugly as all sin, a whitewashed brick fortress hard on the sea. Banners and flags flapped in a desultory breeze, but they were obscured by the reek and fume of fires burning in the flat between the last bridge and the town. A huge camp sprawled in all directions. The ground on either side of the road fell away, gouged out for brick pits. Between the bowl-shaped excavations there were wilted fields of corn and onions. Legionaries and fellaheen passed in the opposite direction in a steady stream. Their progress slowed.
It was worse in the camp. Nicholas recognized the general outline of a traditional Legion encampment, but the tent city that housed the workers sprawled riotously in thickets of dirty tan tents. The brick-surfaced road was clogged with people coming and going. It was worse in the dust and mud off the highway. Nicholas schooled himself to patience, closing his nostrils against the humid stink of thousands of unwashed bodies, dung, flies, oil, smoke from green wood and the stench of bricks drying in the sun. Slowly, the walls of the fortress rose up, closer and closer.
– |Inside Pelusium, the crowds thinned, replaced by grim-faced couriers and legionaries on every corner. It seemed the city had been emptied of citizens, everyone turned out for billets and workshops. Still riding, Nicholas passed a long, low building. Through the open windows, he saw rows and rows of women squatting on the floor, splitting marsh cane for wicker and weaving it into mats.
"We use it to stabilize the face of the wall," the centurion commented. "Or to make brick forms. Need a lot of it."
At the center of the town was a plaza serving mainly to frame a giant gate into the fortress. The gate was flanked by huge round pillars and a flat, squared-off roof. Carved into the walls of the gate were figures of men and gods and tall ibis. Both doors were chocked open by column roundels and guarded by a full cohort of Western troops. The standards and battle emblems of four legions hung above the portal.
Nicholas whistled, seeing that two of the ensigns were brand-new, lacking the metal plaques depicting famous victories. It was strange to see the bronze eagles shining new and fresh in the sun, without the nicks and patina of age that marked their fellows. The other standards did show their age, though, and Sextus slapped his thigh in delight.
"Frontius, my friend, we've come home! I thought I saw Scortius directing the workers on the first bridge. Centurion…" Sextus pointed, drawing Nicholas' attention. "That's the standard of the First, by the gods, our own blessed Minerva, may she watch over us!"
Nicholas smiled at the good humor in the faces of the engineers. They would have quite a tale to tell to their comrades when they were reunited.
"Dismount and follow me, centurion." The Western officer swung off his nag and led them through a crowd of slaves waiting inside the fortress gate. Nicholas followed, making sure that Vladimir and Dwyrin were right at his side. He didn't want to lose track of them in this mob. Following the centurion, they crossed a yard of sun-baked brick and entered another monumental gate, this one guarded by twin sphinxes painted as lions. White plaster walls rose up behind them, etched with long rows of writing. Nicholas could not read the signs, but he didn't care. Sextus and Frontius, without an invitation, hurried to join them.
– |The centurion pushed open a door of polished cedar twice the height of a man and they entered a long, cool room. It was open on two sides, to the north and west, giving a fabulous view of the green fields of the delta and the sea. An arm of the ancient Nile lay alongside Pelusium and from the top of the fortress, broad brown water could be seen, rolling slowly north to the sea. High above the fetid stink of the town, the room was airy and comfortable. A breeze rustled through the windows. The rest of the chamber was cluttered with long tables, a mismatched collection of chairs and numerous staff officers, sitting and writing.
"Legate, ave!" The Western officer saluted a tall redheaded man standing over the largest table. Nicholas saluted as well, but said nothing. An immensely detailed map covered the big table. Even from his poor angle, Nicholas could make out the two channels they had crossed and the main river. He guessed, from the profusion of marks, that three lines of defense were being prepared.
"Centurion?" The redheaded man looked up, square face framed by a rich, curly beard. Like the officers hunched over the tables, he was wearing a segmented breastplate of hooked iron bands over a red tunic. A pleated kilt almost reached his knees, doing little to disguise powerful thighs and thick calves. "What news?"
"A cohort of the Fourth Engineers of the First has come in from the desert, sir. This is their commander, Nicholas of Roskilde. You wanted to see anyone from the East, quick as may be."
Nick stepped forward and made a half-bow to the man. The legate smiled, his whole face lighting up, and reached out a thick hand, clasping Nicholas' wrist. "Well met, then! You've come from Judea?"
"Yes, sir. I'm an Eastern officer, but my men are Western. This is Vladimir, my aide, and Dwyrin, our thaumaturge, and these fellows are-"
"Sextus and Frontius," finished the legate, grinning like a fool. The two engineers saluted sharply, sunburned faces wreathed with unexpected smiles. "I know them from when I commanded the First myself. Good to see you, lads. I'm glad you're not dead!"
"Not a chance, Your Worship!" Sextus jabbed at Nicholas with his thumb. "Centurion wouldn't hear of it! Bit of a close shave, though."
"True," Frontius interjected, rubbing his chin. "Nary a whisker left!"
The redheaded man shook a thick finger at Sextus. "None of that 'Your Worship' business, Sextus. You know I hate it."
"Your 'Worship'?" Nicholas said, feeling peeved at being left out of the joke. The man turned back to him, nodding.
"Sorry, centurion. I am Aurelian Atreus, Caesar of the Western Empire and commanding legate of the expeditionary forces in Egypt. Come, sit and tell me what you've seen and done. Someone will bring us something to eat, I think."
– |Aurelian did not lie, and a large and highly spiced lunch was laid out for them. Nicholas found the Western Prince forthright and blunt. It took a long time to relate everything that had happened since he had set foot on Judean soil, but when Nicholas was done, Aurelian was nodding to himself as if much once hidden had been revealed.
"These Arabs are well equipped with siege equipment, then?"
Nicholas, Sextus and Frontius all nodded in agreement. Dwyrin and Vladimir had fallen asleep in the cool room, stuffed full, but the three officers remained alert and focused. Being interviewed by a prince of the Empire had an invigorating effect. Two scribes joined them, quietly writing down everything they said.
"Would you say that they've fielded a real army, then?" The Prince was curious, watching Nicholas with interest. "Regular camps, siege works, infantry and cavalry-thaumaturges to support their efforts?"
"Yes, sir. It's very clear they are not some raiding band, or even rebellious militia. They have clever commanders who adjust to circumstance and attack weakness with strength."
Aurelian nodded, rubbing a fist against his chin. His eyes narrowed. "You're thinking of the way they caught out the boy, sending phantoms against him."
"Yes," Nicholas answered. "Whoever is in command of the army that rooted us out of Capitolina is a canny fellow-he knew he couldn't get in the front door, so he made sure we were busy watching it while he unlocked the back."
"Good." Aurelian smiled, rubbing his hands together. "You've seen our little earthworks effort, then?"
"I have." Nicholas sounded impressed because he was. The massive effort to fortify the approaches to Pelusium beggared anything he had ever seen the Eastern army attempt. There was a great deal of professional rivalry between the two armies, though from everything Nicholas had seen since taking service with the Eastern Empire, the Western Legions were far superior in logistics, planning and discipline. Very few of the Eastern officers had the technical skill to direct such a project. None of their troops would have been willing to dig, either, but that had always been a foundation of the Western army, even in the days of the Republic. "I doubt they will be able to get through."
"I know." Aurelian sprang up, seemingly filled with limitless energy. "I don't expect them to, really. I just want them to go around for that back door, but the way I want. Plus, it gets my men in shape. Too many of them are recruits, so we alternate days of drill, marching and digging."
Nicholas swallowed a laugh, but the Prince caught his expression and grinned back.
"No, centurion, I'm not a popular commander right now. They hate me, I'd guess, but they have to get used to it. Our desertion rate is high, but most come back after a week or so. Men don't really like to leave, once they've been in the Legion awhile. The citizens outside"-he pointed out the window at the town and the fields beyond the river-"don't understand us so well."
"Lord Aurelian? What happens to us?" Sextus got up and took a parade rest, feet wide, hands clasped behind his back. The Prince nodded at him, acknowledging the question.
"Well, I'm keeping you and your cohort here, Sextus. I have a project in the south, down by the Reed Sea, that will be to your liking. I've been putting it off because my other surveyors and engineers were busy up here with the diversion channels and the dams. You'll have a few days to rest up the men and get your gear sorted out-I'd guess you had to abandon your wagons and tools in Aelia?"
"True, sir!" Sextus and Frontius both groaned, shaking their heads in dismay.
"Better your heads stay on your necks," Aurelian growled. "Those can't be replaced."
"And us, sir?" Nicholas straightened too, though he had never been drilled in the various forms used by the Western troops. "Do you have a place for us?"
"I do." Aurelian sighed, looking over the three of them. "But you're Eastern property, according to the agreement between the two emperors. I'll have to put you on the next courier boat for Constantinople, though I'd rather keep you. You seem a man with a good head, Nicholas, and I have few enough of them under my command. Your young friend would be a boon, too, but he is strictly off limits."
"Sir?"
Aurelian grimaced, but spread his hands wide. "Heraclius and my brother struck a deal last year, where Egypt would be placed under Western administration so that Eastern troops, clerks and staff could be moved east into Persia to form the core of a new administration in the captured provinces. Under the terms, the taxes are split half and half, but all military personnel of Eastern origin are remanded to the offices in Constantinople. Most everyone left last fall, but you're here now and you're Eastern. A pity."
Nicholas nodded in understanding, though he was disappointed. Dwyrin had been telling him about the vast monuments and temples of the land along the river. Nicholas had already seen more of Constantinople than he had ever wanted to see. The prospect of spending some time amongst the tombs and dead cities of this ancient land had intrigued him.
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate your candor and your hospitality. The pickled eels were particularly good."
"Aren't they? My brother always complains about my taste, but everything's better with garlic, I say."
Nicholas smiled, delighted to find the Prince a man after his own heart.