The Gate of Fire (79 page)

Dwyrin dropped his hand and the fires died as one, all across the hillside and along the canyon floor.

Nicholas raised his head and peered around, his eyes streaming with tears from the thick smoke. The boy still sat astride his pony, though he swayed a little from side to side. Nicholas spat, trying to clear his throat. He stood, his legs shaking with the blood-fire from his near death and what had come after.
Brunhilde
trembled in his hand, keening softly in fear. He raised her up, caressing her hilts and smooth worn pommel, then he put her away in the close soft darkness of her sheath. She quieted.

Nicholas looked up the road and saw that it was deserted, though billows of smoke drifted across it like winter fog. Even the sun seemed dim, shining through the gray haze that had risen up over the battlefield. He turned back in time to see Dwyrin slump off of his pony into the waiting arms of Vladimir. The Walach grinned back at Nicholas, and his teeth and face were red with blood.

Nicholas whistled softly to himself and motioned for Vlad to wipe his face clean.

"On, then," he said in a low voice no one could hear. "On to Aelia Capitolina."

Another hot dry dusty day ended with the hills of Hierosolyma rising up before them. Nicholas reined his horse to the side of the road and let it rest for a moment, head low, panting in the heat. The city spilled down the sides of the hill in a maze of winding streets and dirty white-and-tan buildings. The old town rose on the summit of one hill, surrounded by ancient-looking walls rising up above newer houses. There was an outer wall for the suburbs and the city flowed over a second pair of hills to finally end in a maze of orchards and gardens. In the fierce sunlight, it seemed to be quiet and peaceful. There was a constant breeze from the east, but the air was still hot. Nicholas sighed in disgust and goosed the horse, urging it back onto the road.

The engineers' wagons rolled past, raising a pall of tacky white limestone dust that clung to everything. Nicholas walked the horse, letting the
redii
rumble down the highway. Ahead of them, a triumphal arch squatted athwart the road. It was still a hundred yards or more from the nearest building, standing alone in a field of stones. Three arches opened in it, allowing the road to pass through the central one. Nicholas shook his head in disbelief. These Romans tacked an arch on anything in sight. He had not seen one freestanding before. In a moment, Dwyrin and Vladimir rode up, chatting amiably. They fell in beside Nicholas. He smoothed the sharp points of his mustache.

"Seems a peaceful town," he ventured.

Vlad and Dwryin nodded sagely. "Oh yes," they said, "very peaceful and quiet."

Nicholas glared at them and fell silent, wondering what troubles awaited him now. They rode under the arch and he looked up, shaking his head again at the wind eroded statues and inscriptions. Whoever had built it was long gone, swallowed by the gulf of time. Even their monuments were decaying.

The city was sleeping—the doors and windows locked up for an afternoon rest during the worst of the heat—and they reached the northern gate of the old city itself before they encountered anyone out and about. Even there, under two crumbling square towers, the gates were standing open and there was no guard posted. A local man hurried past, his head wrapped in a headdress, carrying a lamb with its forelegs tied with hemp twine over his shoulder.

"I'll bet he stole it," whispered Dwyrin to Vladimir as they sat on their horses behind Nicholas.

The centurion turned and gave them both a frigid glare. The engineers had halted their wagons, crowding a half-circle piazza that opened up inside the gate. Sextus stood upon his wagon seat and waved Nicholas forward. The Scandian rode around the line of wagons and past a carved column that rose from the center of the public space. Like the arch outside of town, it was worn down by the elements and many surfaces had been defaced by graffiti.

Marcus was here
, read one large carving. Nicholas snorted in amusement.
That's original!

"What is it?"

Sextus frowned and pointed forward. At the edge of the piazza two streets plunged into the town. Unlike most Roman cities, the
cardo
or secondary street was not a broad avenue, but rather a very narrow street snaking off between shuttered shops toward what seemed to be the citadel, which rose on their left. The buildings stood so close that the road quickly disappeared in a dark tunnel made by overhanging roofs. The whole inner town, within these decaying walls, seemed to be built very small.

"There's no way we can get the wagons through there. We'll have to make a camp outside of town."

Nicholas nodded, turning in his saddle. The rest of his century was backed upon the road and in the piazza. He felt a queer crawling sensation and suddenly knew that the locals were watching them from behind the shuttered windows and laughing.

"All right. Sextus, Vladimir, get everyone turned around and out of town. Scout the other gates, if there are any, and find out if there's a Legion encampment here. If not, find one of these springs that Frontius is always going on about and make camp there—a fortified camp, too. Until we set things right, this is hostile country, understood?"

"
Ave!
" Sextus made a half-salute, grinned, and jumped down off the wagon. He scrambled back along the line of the
redii
shouting orders. Nicholas motioned to Dwyrin.

"Come along, lad, we'll find the governor and introduce ourselves."

The streets of the inner city twisted into a maze of dark shadowy corridors. Little temples and shops crowded every available space and the slope of the hill made for a steep climb. Finally, after thirty minutes of trotting along deserted alleys, Nicholas and Dwyrin came out into a tiny square, which abutted against a substantial bridge. The arch of the bridge rose up to the east, their left, and ran through a long tunnel cut into the side of a massive wall.

Nicholas was impressed. Nearly everything that he had seen was built small, but this edifice rising fifty feet over his head was massive. The stones were the size of wagons and fitted in alternating courses. A pair of square towers cut from the same stone loomed over the roofs of the houses, showing archaic-style battlements. The buildings of the town were built right up to the wall, unfortunately, and the ramp rose up over what had been—at some time in the distant past—a moat. Now it was covered over by shops and houses. This gate, too, stood open.

Here, at last, were two Roman soldiers standing watch. Nicholas dismounted at the bottom of the ramp and led his horse up. Dwyrin's pony ambled up, with the Hibernian leaning forward over its head.

"
Ave,
" said Nicholas, saluting the two guards, who were sitting on triangular wooden stools in the deep shade of the gateway. "I've come to report to the praetor of the city."

One of the guards opened an eye and pointed back down the street, across the tiny square. The other continued to sleep, his stool tilted back and his head resting against the big square blocks of the city wall.

"The
praetorium
is that way," he said gruffly. "This is the Temple of Jupiter. Go past the tetrapylon and you'll come to the Jaffa gate. It's on the left."

"Thanks," grunted Nicholas as he swung back upon his horse.

Dwyrin nodded to the one man who was awake, but the soldier ignored him. Both of the legionnaires were wearing only stained tunics and broad leather belts. Neither was clean shaven. Their helmets, rectangular shields, and
pila
were piled in a heap behind them against the wall. Even their sandals were kicked under the chairs. The gruff man settled back to sleep, idly brushing a fly away from his nose as they rode away.

Like everything else in the city, the
praetorium
was a hastily built building, three stories high, packed into a space behind the Jaffa gate. Of a wonder, it had a cleared space around it, though Nicholas could see that during market day the area was crowded with temporary stalls, lines of donkeys, and heaps of rubbish. The rubbish was still there, along with the donkeys' contributions to the close, fetid smell of the city. However, less than a block to the south of the
praetorium
building, which was heralded by an Imperial standard leaning drunkenly from a second-floor window, there was a real wall of dressed stone and a closed military gate.

Above the military gate, another pair of standards hung limply in the hot afternoon air. Underneath them was a wooden placard covered with blocky Latin letters.

Dismounting, Nicholas nodded at the closed gate and gestured for Dwyrin to take his reins.

"There is a Legion encampment of some kind, lad. Make sure the horses are taken care of."

Dwyrin opened his mouth to say he was a sorcerer, not a stable hand, but Nicholas had already stalked off into the shadowy doorway of the
praetorium
, his back stiff, and the Hibernian sighed and made the best of it.

Besides,
he thought,
I can get the latest gossip from the lads in charge of the horses.

"Come in."

Nicholas pushed open a door of light green-painted wood and stepped into the office of the military governor of Aelia Capitolina. The dingy building had indeed proved to be the offices and residence of the praetor. It was just as grim looking inside as out, showing quite a bit of empty corridor, bare wall, and minimally furnished chambers. A sleepy attendant on the ground floor had given Nicholas directions. Despite the close-packed nature of the city buildings, he was beginning to wonder if anyone actually lived here. He had seen barely a dozen people since entering the walls.

"Nicholas of Roskilde, centurion on detached duty, reporting, sir." Nicholas snapped a salute, arm clenched over his heart, then extended, fingers stiff. The man behind the desk raised an eyebrow and motioned to a low wing-backed seat by the side of the marble table that served as a desk. Nicholas handed his travel orders to the man, then sat, his face impassive, and looked the praetor over with a gimlet eye.

"Well met, Nicholas. I am Bardanes Turcus, praetor of Judea and governor of this city. What brings you to Capitolina?" Bardanes took a moment to stack the scrolls in an untidy pile.

Nicholas paused a moment, weighing his words. The lax defense of the city troubled him greatly, particularly since a large and well-armed force of bandits had attacked his century barely a day away. Examining the bodies—or what was left of them after Dwyrin's fire had burned out—had revealed that many of them bore arms and armor of Imperial origin. Nicholas had read over his briefing papers carefully the following night, hunched in his tent with a small candle-lantern for illumination, and there had been no indication that local garrison units had joined the "bandits." Unless there had been a recent defeat for Roman arms, the only other way for such a quantity of weaponry to have gotten into indigenous hands would be for it to have been sold to them. This Bardanes was a stout, almost squat man with thick black hair on his head and forearms. His face was almost square, with a pug nose and close-set eyes. Today, sitting at ease in his office, he was wearing a fine quality cotton tunic in green with gold edging and lace-up leather boots. The fellow had an open seeming face, but Nicholas was wary. The man reminded him of a badger.

Nicholas had never been fond of badgers.

"Lord Bardanes, I have been sent by the Imperial Offices in Constantinople to see about the... bandit... problem the province has been suffering. As my orders relate, I am to base myself and my men here in the city and see that order is restored in the surrounding countryside. A letter was supposed to have been sent to you. Have you received it?"

Bardanes shook his head slowly and opened the orders packet, his thick fingers spreading the documents out on the top of the desk. "I have received no notice of this in the usual dispatches. What bandits were these?"

Nicholas felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. The man was either utterly ignorant of conditions in the countryside or a brazen liar.

"Reports, sir, had been received in the capital that at least one band of brigands had caused unrest in Judea and that other trouble was expected. A request was made for additional assistance. It was indicated that the local garrison was already occupied."

The praetor smiled genially and put down one of the papers. "There has been a great deal of trouble, Centurion, across the river in the Decapolis. But here? Sheep thieves, petty crime, drunkenness... those are the kinds of problems that we suffer here. Capitolina is a sleepy town on the edge of nowhere. Now, across the river, I have heard they have some troubles... wandering bands of Persian soldiers, desert raiders, all that sort of thing. Did you have any problems on the road from Caesarea?"

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!"