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 duxit!"
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.