Reading sample The Eagle and the Dragon

THE PAST IS PROLOGUE: CARRHAE, 53BC

Marcus Lucius, centurion of III Cohort, Legio III Crassiana, stood at attention, bareheaded in the blazing sun, hands bound behind his back. His mind struggled to find a way out, his men waiting their turn to die before a jeering mob of Parthian soldiers. No, not today. But how?

Marcus’ heart swelled with pride for the doomed remnants of the shattered III Cras, formed up on the sands of Carrhae. Unable to wrest victory from the Parthians, they had chosen to show them how Roman soldiers die, with dignity and courage. To a man, the five hundred who had survived the battle had chosen last night to march to their execution, formed up in ranks with gaps marking the places where men and whole centuries no longer existed… all that remained of Marcus’ cohort was less than fifty men, out of five hundred.

“Gods take the incompetent Marcus Licinius Crassus – he led us into this disaster,” muttered the soldier behind him.

“Be still! This is not yet the end,” Marcus hissed over his shoulder.

He heard the centurion of the last century of II Cohort, outwardly stoic, give a hoarse, choked order, the last he would ever give, and the crunch of feet on sand as his century marched forward, someone softly calling cadence. They halted, then went to their deaths eight at a time with barely a sob or a groan, presenting their necks on the gory chopping blocks to face their untimely end… no one begged for mercy. The heavy, coppery stench of blood clogged Marcus’ nostrils as it pooled in front of the blocks, slowly soaking into the sand. The swish and thunk of the scimitars, the drone of flies gathering for the feast, and the mocking laughter of the Parthian soldiers filled his ears. He would soon have to give the men of III Cohort behind him their final order, to march forward and die.

He had no plan, but he was never very good at accepting inevitable fate. He considered his options as he toyed with the ropes binding his hands, to the sound of the butchery to his left. I will not go like a lamb to the slaughter!

When Marcus was a child, his father, a carpenter, had made him increasingly difficult puzzles where he had to free a key from a wooden block, or untangle rings that could not be disentangled. There wasn’t a puzzle that Marcus hadn’t been able to solve. They all began with one starting point somewhere, like the knot behind his back, and there wasn’t a knot he couldn’t untie. Even behind his back. The next move would then present itself. Like one of those puzzle boxes his father had made for him so long ago, the first piece fell into place as the knot loosened.

Marcus shivered from the horror, despite the sweat running down inside his baking leather corselet, drawn out by the merciless Syrian sun. His mind raced, the beads of sweat running down his back, as he worried the knots binding his wrists. In the distance behind the Parthian soldiers, he could see the gold and blue canopy shading King Orodes from the sun as he observed the executions, accompanied by his senior officers and some foreign ones in unfamiliar battle gear.

One of the foreign soldiers stepped out from the canopy, the crowd of Parthians parting before him, his bright yellow cloak swirling in the hot wind. An obviously senior individual, a commander of some status. He came up to another foreign soldier on Marcus’ left, by the Parthian officer observing the execution. By age and carriage, Marcus determined that one to be something of a short and stocky centurion like himself, clad in blue, thickly quilted battle gear, wearing a black conical helmet. As the senior officer approached, the man presented his fists together stiffly before his face, and bowed his head low, holding it until the senior acknowledged him. A salute of sorts. Respectful, not subservient. His next move began to form.

Watching the foreign soldiers from the corner of his eye, he gave no hint as he worked the rope free from his wrists and dropped it to the ground. The soldier behind him subtly swept it away with his foot, not knowing Marcus’ intentions. Indeed, Marcus himself wasn’t sure. But as crazy as the half-made plan seemed, he couldn’t remember a time when one of his plans had failed. He kept his head front, wrists still behind him.

The bearded Parthian officer strutted up to face Marcus Lucius, flanked by the two foreign soldiers, peculiar looking men with unfamiliar features: thin narrow eyelids perforated by dark eyes set in a bronze-colored skin. The senior man’s yellow cloak had a fine sheen to it, unfamiliar to Marcus, with finely-detailed dragons embroidered on it.

It’s time. Heart thudding, Marcus turned to the two foreigners and slammed his unbound hands together in front of him, as he had seen them do, and bowed deeply to the senior.

The Parthian officer gasped and took a step back in surprise, reaching for his sword, but the foreigner restrained the man’s hand firmly and barked something unintelligible. The Parthian relented, glaring at Marcus. The foreign officer waited a moment, then acknowledged him with a grunt. Marcus straightened up, returning the man’s intense narrow-eyed gaze. The man said something in his own language, and Marcus said the first thing that came to his mind in return: “Morituri te salutamus!” We, who are about to die, salute you. The gladiators’ salute. One of the soldiers behind him gave a choked laugh, which brought a smile to Marcus’ lips, unbidden, his piercing blue eyes twinkling.

The foreign commander chuckled also, giving him a wry smile in turn, nodding his head several times in approval. He stepped back a few paces, summoning the Parthian and his subordinate to join him. They conversed intensely for several minutes while the executioners to Marcus’ left lolled on their bloody swords, confused by the delay.

After a few minutes, the Parthian officer came back. Marcus was so focused on controlling his emotions that he missed the first few strongly-accented Latin words the Parthian officer spoke. “…yer Roman barstids! Look today yer lucky. Friends from east think yer worth more to them alive than dead. You and remaining soldiers march with them. Pack fer long walk!” He paused and looked into Marcus’ eyes, almost smiling. “Crazy Roman barstid. Crazy brave Roman barstid!”

The paradigm had shifted, the executioners were dismissed and the remaining men were roughly unbound by grumbling Parthian soldiers. They marched themselves back to their encampment to eat and sleep for the first time in days. The next day, Marcus negotiated with the Parthians to retrieve their battle gear along with their cohort and century standards. He then ordered the remnants of III Cras to form up and march out of the death camp, re-equipped with a motley collection of damaged swords and ill-fitting blood-stained helmets, carrying their wounded on litters, led by a squadron of the foreign soldiers on horseback. They were heading somewhere east, he judged by the sun, not west and home to Rome, but they were alive and going as soldiers. Someone picked up their marching song, and the whole troop joined in:

The verses quickly deteriorated to unofficial lyrics dealing with their officers, wine and women, amidst the rude gestures of the Parthian soldiers sending them off.

CHAPTER 1: ROME, 98AD

The sun shone through windows set high in the Senate’s Curial House, creating shafts of sunlight in the dusty air. The sunlight reflected off the four-tiered blue-veined marble benches lining each side of the long walls, on which about a hundred senators sat, their chalk-whitened togas emblazoned with the wide purple laticlavian stripe of their rank.

On the top row sat Senator Aulus Aemilius Galba. Sweat dampened his tunic underneath the woolen toga in the July heat as he waited for the arrival of the Princeps and the diplomatic party, his mouth dry in anticipation. A large fly buzzed noisily near his head, trying but failing to distract him from his concerns. This could be the day I lose my flagship and all that I have. He thought of the clean lines of the Aeneas, her pleasant way on the waters. But she was in far-away Alexandria, mortgaged to the masthead to rent shipyard space a year in advance to construct her sister ships on the Red Sea, the note due in months. And if this doesn’t happen today, I can’t pay it. Tens of millions of sesterces… I bet it all on this one deal. Bankrupt, I could lose my seat in the Senate, even our home.

He thought of his new wife Livia. Would she stay with me? Young and beautiful, she could do better than a bankrupt balding senator. She says she would stay… but maybe I should make it easy for her. Divorce her, return her dowry, let her start over with a better prospect.

The Princeps should propose the funding today, and the mortgage will be paid. Should! His staff assures me that he is enthusiastic about the plan, but none will make a commitment for him.

Aulus sighed. This is not the first time that I have bet everything on one throw of the dice. Everything that can be done has been done, deals made, bribes paid. If he proposes it, the Senate will pass it. The Fates will now determine the outcome.

In the front wall, massive latticework doors stood partly open, admitting a view of the Forum Romanum below. Outside, trumpets blared to announce the Princeps’ arrival. Aulus rose with the rest of the Senators to greet him as he entered, wearing a solid purple toga and accompanied by an administrative assistant in a white tunic, followed by twenty-four Praetorian Guardsmen acting as lictors. He took a seat on an ivory curule chair on a small dais, and the administrative assistant took his place by a basket of scrolls next to him. The Guardsmen took their places behind the dais, remaining at attention.

Aulus eyed the fifteen-foot marble statue of the Goddess of Victory, painted in life-like colors rising over the dais, holding aloft the olive branch crown in one hand and a sword in the other. Wish me luck, my Lady Victory!

Nine men and one woman, with eastern visages seldom seen in Rome, then entered, inexplicably wearing Roman garb, the men in plain white togas, the woman in a yellow stola ankle-length gown. They came to stand beside the Princeps on the dais.

Twenty other men from the Distant East, clad in multi-colored silk robes, hair bound up in black intricate buns, entered and smoothly rearranged themselves in two rows facing the Princeps Trajan. One man stepped forward and approached the dais. He brought his hands, concealed by the broad sleeves of his cloak, forcefully together in front of his deeply bowed head in a salute, and held that pose stoically until Trajan acknowledged with a slight nod. The man dropped his hands, head still bowed, and backed away. The group then seated themselves fluidly on the floor, cross-legged, their expressionless eyes respectfully focused downwards.

The Princeps stood straight as a lance, his slender face leathery from years in the field as a military commander.

“Conscript Fathers and the people of Rome! A century and a half ago, three of our valiant legions suffered a great tragedy at Carrhae, stricken from our military rolls after defeat by the Parthians, and believed wiped out to a man. But not all were wiped out. Some were taken to the land of the Han as mercenaries, to guard their far-flung borders. Those survivors took wives, and raised their children as Romans, however far from home they were. And their children, in turn, preserved among themselves their Romanitas, our language and our customs.

“Today, the Hanaean Emperor has honored us by sending our children back to us, as translators for his delegation seeking diplomatic association. Standing before you are the sons and daughters of Carrhae, accompanied by the representatives of their emperor. They have brought us a great gift!”

A military trumpet blew shrilly and drums began to beat as a contingent of Praetorian Guards marched stiffly into the Senate Curia, carrying four battered cohort standards on eight-foot poles, their phalerae battle awards long faded by time. The Guards halted in front of the dais and did an about-face, grounding the standards with a solid thud.

“I give you the standards of the lost cohorts of Carrhae, coming home with the descendants of the survivors who bore them!” The Senators applauded enthusiastically amid cries of “Hear, hear!”

As the tumult subsided, the emperor continued, turning to address the Roman-clad Hanaeans to his right. His administrative assistant turned to pick up eleven scrolls from the scroll basket by his side.

“Our administrators have researched your ancestors. They found each of them recorded in the rosters of the legion, all citizens of Rome. You are the descendants of those valiant soldiers, to the fifth and sixth generation. As the offspring of a citizen is a citizen by birth, I present to you official proof of citizenship, as cives Romani.”

His administrative aid opened and read the inscription. “To all, be it known that the above named person is a citizen of Rome, with all privileges and responsibilities thereto, given this day, Princeps Senatus Caesar Nerva Trajan, son of the Divine Nerva, the August and Most Capable Ruler.” As the aide called out their names and ancestor, each of the toga-clad Orientals came forward to receive a scroll, with a handshake and an embrace from the most powerful man in Europe. The last man called was Marcus Lucius Quintus, then finally the woman, Marcia Lucia, both descendants of Marcus Lucius, Centurion of III Cohort. At the conclusion, the Senators again applauded enthusiastically.

The last scroll was for Gan Ying, the lead member of the Hanaean delegation, who rose, walked to the center of the hall to stand stiffly, eyes expressionless, mouth downturned, head slightly bowed. The scroll was read, certifying that Gan Ying and his party were representatives of the Hanaean emperor and under the personal protection of the Senate and the People of Rome. One of the togate Hanaeans on the dais translated the reading into the peculiar sing-song language of the Hanaeans. Gan Ying then stepped forward and approached the dais. He once again saluted with his hands before him, head bowed, until the Princeps nodded again in acknowledgment. Gan Ying stood upright and stepped onto the dais to accept his scroll. He then stepped off and backed away, to resume his place on the floor at the head of the delegation.

Trajan continued: “Please be seated.” There was a rustling of clothing as the Senators rearranged their bulky togas to take their seats. “As you all know, a member of our august body has been actively seeking to expand our Indian Ocean trade with a new class of merchant ships that will carry more goods faster and farther than any ship has done before. He has been seeking the backing of the Treasury of Rome for this venture.”

This is it! It is happening!

“Senator Aulus Aemilius Galba, could your ships, if built, make the passage directly to the Hanaean lands?”

Aulus leaped back to his feet. “The gods willing, yes!”

“The sons and daughters of Rome have come a long way to us to represent their mothers’ country. Would you be willing to carry them back, to represent in turn their fathers’ country?”

“Yes!”

“Then let it be proposed before the Senate, that funding should be provided to launch this effort!” For the third time, the senators applauded amid cries of “Hail, Trajan!” The motion passed and Galba exhaled deeply.

The Fates had been kind today.

CHAPTER 2: THE JOURNEY BEGINS, 100AD

Gaius Lucullus, prefect of the First Cohort, entered the headquarters tent to meet with the legatus commander. He was unsure why he had been summoned, but he hoped that it would deal with a proposed meeting of the eastern legions in Byzantium. Such meetings were rare due to the great distances and long absences. As senior tribune of the Legio XII Fulminata, he was certain to accompany legatus Lucius Julius Maximus, or even represent him alone. The trip would take him halfway to Italia, and he could certainly argue for another month or so to visit his wife and family in Neapolis.

The guards saluted crisply, right hand across the chest, and his eyes adjusted slowly from the noonday brilliance of the desert to the dim lamp-lit interior. The headquarters tent was spartan, even ascetic. A curtained partition separated the consul's living quarters from the main body of the tent that served as office and command center. The legatus sat in a simple canvas campaign chair behind a desk of rough-cut wood, a wax tablet in his hands, clad in a plain white tunic with the broad purple stripe of a senator.

"Your Excellency," Gaius said, softly interrupting the legatus from his reading.

"My good Gaius, do come in, come in. I am pleased to have your company this morning,” he said, putting down the wax tablet. The legatus rose, welcoming him with a warm handshake and ushering him to one of two chairs facing the desk. Having seen Gaius to his seat, the legatus seated himself, legs crossed, arms across his chest, an air of informality.

“Have you picked your delegates to the Byzantium meeting, your Excellency?” Gaius asked, almost immediately regretting his abrupt over-eagerness.

“I have. The tribunes Livius Osculus and Porcius Tullus will be going in my stead,” said Lucius Julius with a slight smile.

Gaius nodded, swallowing hard to hide his disappointment. They were junior to him, but going as the legate’s representatives. Perhaps if he had not asked so hastily?

“I didn’t know you were related to a Senator,” Lucius Julius said with a smile.

“That would be Aulus,” Gaius paused, and then tacked on the full name to avoid the appearance of name-dropping. “…Aemilius Galba. He married my cousin Livia two years ago, so we are related by marriage. I hope he is not trying to post me to the Praetorian Guards,” answered Gaius.

The legatus laughed. “You are too straightforward to do well in that posting. Has he hinted at that?”

“More than hinted,” answered Gaius, relieved. “He suggested that he could arrange it last year when I was home in Neapolis with my wife Camilla and the children. But Praetorian Guardsmen are political pretty boys, not soldiers.”

“Unfortunately, most of them are, and you don’t want to turn your back on the ones that aren’t. But the Senator has something better in mind for you.” He slid the expensively-filigreed black wax tablet across the desk to Gaius.

Gaius picked it up and recognized Aulus’ meticulous uncial script. He read the usual florid greetings between two senior people who didn’t know each other, then stopped to read and re-read the last paragraph.

“You find it interesting?” asked the legatus.

“Hmm... I don’t know where to start to ask questions.”

The legatus retrieved a small bottle from the drawer of the deck. “It’s not yet noon, but would you care for some wine?” he asked, offering the tribune a brass goblet. “I doubt if I could answer them, but go ahead.”

“Yes, thank you, your Excellency,” said Gaius, accepting the goblet while the legatus filled it, though uneasy about the unexpected familiarity.

“How is the wine? It is a local vintage.”

The wine had a tart taste, most refreshing. “Very fine, your Excellency. But let me assure you,” Gaius said with a chuckle, “I seldom indulge this early in the day!”

“I thought you would find his offer interesting. You have heard of the Hanae?”

“I have, but what is fantasy, what is real… I don’t know.”

Lucius Julius rose and walked over to a fine map finished in fine gold and rich colors, covering all of Europe from Britain to Judea, and on eastward to India. And beyond India, still further, and from the Hyperborean north far south into Africa. Gaius recognized the Mediterranean coastline, but that familiar part of the map seemed disturbingly small and far to the left. He pointed out the distant easternmost boundaries of the map.

"Gaius, the Hanae are very real,” he said, “and they control an empire located about here. I presume you have bought some silk, or have at least seen it?" asked Lucius Julius. Gaius nodded. "The Hanae make silk. From, of all things, some sort of spider or insect, it is rumored. We trade indirectly with them for that and for many other things, by ship through India.” His finger traced the route on the map. “A long trip, but not too bad, the sailors say. Our traders tell us that the Hanae are our equals in art and science, population and size of territory. We expect they are militarily strong as well. We need to know more about these people. They may be potential allies, to serve as the anvil to Rome's hammer against the Parthians. On the other hand, it might be better if Parthia and ourselves settled our grievances to ally together against the Hanae, as they might be more formidable than either of us alone. We don’t know. In any event, only a few thousand miles separate our borders now. That gap could close in our lifetime.” Lucius Julius returned to his seat, and took another sip of wine. "You've had an excellent career so far. Risen to cohort command, elected tribune of soldiers by the men. That’s quite an honor. The troops do not pick their leaders because of family connections. A gifted fighter, leader, and orator, with extensive experience in combat. Senator Aulus Aemilius is offering you an opportunity for you to master new skills in diplomacy and politics."

Gaius' heart sank. “Your Excellency, politicians make poor soldiers and soldiers make poor politicians. The two are incompatible."

"Nonsense, Gaius. As a legion commander, politics will be your business. As a field officer, you have been trained to fight. As a potential commander, we must teach you when not to fight. We maintain our empire with just thirty-six legions,” Lucius Julius sighed. “And almost all in the wrong place at the wrong time. The legions hold the Empire together with politics, the art of the possible, the science of perceptions. We use force when necessary, like we did thirty years ago to put down the Judaean rebellion. That message was not lost on our Parthian friends, who had helped instigate the uprising."

He paused, then continued in a softer tone, “But for every display of force, we have to manage our forces to make fighting unnecessary, and guarantee that any fights we do take on will be victories. That way we look invincible, even when we are vulnerable. And that is the job of the commander, Gaius.” The legate lowered his voice still further, sounding almost fatherly.

“The Senator needs you to accompany him to grasp the military and technical aspects of this mission, to learn how the Hanaeans handle armies, organize their cities. In short, you will be a soldier, a scholar and a spy. So, again, do you find his offer interesting?"

Gaius was flattered and interested at his nomination to be his cousin’s military aide, but the task was clearly daunting. "Yes, your Excellency. How long would this mission be?”

“It is hard to say, Gaius, but I would expect it to be two or three years.”

Gaius’ heart fell, the idea of a family visit becoming more and more remote.

“Aulus Aemilius expects me in Alexandria around the Ides of March. Do you know when he expects to leave?”

“You will have to ask him that when you get there.”

Nothing to negotiate! Getting to Alexandria by then would mean weeks of hard riding, and it will be unlikely that he will give me two or three months to go to Neapolis. Three years cut off from Camilla. So bargain hard, make him give me a reason to turn this down.

“Aulus… Senator Aulus Aemilius asked for me and such as may accompany me. How large a group might I take?"

"A small group. Two, to be precise. You and one of your choosing. That’s all I can spare. Do you have anyone in mind?”

"I have one man, your Excellency, that I insist accompany me. That man is Antonius Aristides."

"Aristides! The primus pilus? Not only am I losing you, my best cohort commander, but the legion’s first lance as well! From the same cohort! Why him? Why not one of the younger tribunes?"

"We have served together since I was a green subaltern on the Danube. I see things from the commander’s perspective. He sees things from the soldier’s perspective. I need one person that I can trust totally. He is that person."

"Well, I hope we don't have any action here the next year or so while we put the First Cohort back in order. Very well.” The legate scribbled on the scroll on his desk, then dropped a glob of hot wax onto it and sealed it with his iron senatorial ring. He picked it up and blew on it to cool it. "Very well. I have inked in both your names to the imperial order assigning you this task.” He passed the scroll to Gaius. “You may now read your orders."

Gaius accepted the scroll, the highest quality Augustan papyrus, reading quickly: From Caesar Nerva Trajan… skip all the titles… Legatus Gaius Lucullus… what, legatus? Must be a mistake! Accompany the Senator Aulus Aemilius Galba, and proceed to the kingdom of the Hanae…assist him in his actions as my personal emissary… my greetings and best wishes to the King of all the Hanae… two talents of gold as my personal token of respect. Gaius calculated in his head, about five hundred thousand sesterces. It is the intent of the Senate and the people of Rome to gain in mutual knowledge of each other's lands, cultures and language…our two kingdoms to be united forever in friendship. Report to me personally upon your return. Given this day, the Nones of February, in the Eight Hundred and Fifty Third year of the founding of the City of Rome, Caesar Nerva Traianus, Imperator Senatus Consulto, etc., etc..."

At the bottom was the flourishing signature of the Emperor himself, and his personal seal. At the left was the legatus' signature and seal.

"Very well. Do you accept these orders, Gaius Lucullus?"

Gaius’ thoughts whirled in his head, delaying his response. Imperial orders signed by Trajan? That is way above my cousin’s wax tablet letter request. And promotion to legate! I don’t think I ever had any choice in this matter. But Camilla? My being gone so long?

"Y..Yes, your Excellency!"

"Very well. You are now a legatus without a legion, but if you have any success, I am sure we can find you one. Just remember, there are no posthumous commands, so try not to get killed along the way!” Lucius Julius chuckled. “Don’t worry, this looks like an easy trip. See the librarii clerks on the way out. They will prepare your promotion to legate, and imperial orders to requisition supplies and transportation as needed. Check in with Quintus Albus, the legate of the III Cyrenaica in Alexandria. My correspondence will go through him, so no loose ends due to missed mail. Keep me posted on your itinerary as far as Sabaiae.

“Good luck, Gaius. Oh, and one more thing... I wish I were twenty years younger. I’d make the trip myself!"

They shook hands, then Gaius Lucullus turned briskly to depart the Praetorium for the officia, where the librarii clerks had already prepared the promotion, properly sealed, travel money and a year’s advance pay totaling twenty thousand sesterces.

Antonius was dozing on his bunk in the centurions’ tent when Gaius patted his boot to awaken him. “Special assignment on imperial orders, Antonius. You’re going with me to the land of the Hanaeans as my aide-de-camp,” he said grinning, knowing the reaction he would get.

He got it. Antonius hurled himself erect, wide-eyed at the news. "Begging yer pardon, sir, but yer have signed me on as what? Where?” The centurion fumed, angry and confused at leaving a prestigious position for some political adventure about which he knew nothing. “This legion is fallin' apart an' here we are skippin' off ter visit some mythical land? On imperial orders, no less? Me young tribune, people get their heads lifted from their shoulders muckin' about with politics they don't understand. Yer free ter go, of course, and the gods go with ye, but why take me? I got no head fer that work. Me, I'm a straight-talking, sword-slinging, foot-sloggin', mud-lovin', whoremongerin' soldier what's got two years to me diploma an’ me equestrianship. Beggin' yer pardon, but please let me stay on here and turn these miserable ragamuffins into soldiers of the Empire. I was just gettin' the hang of talkin' with these Judaeans an' Syrians. Yer don' want me muckin' up some court floor with me muddy shoes. I'd be an embarrassment ter yer, tribunus." Antonius’ Latin grew even coarser when he was upset.

Gaius Lucullus smiled at the centurion's consternation. "Go on with yourself, Antonius. I wouldn't expect so much noise if I had asked you to crucify yourself. You just named all the good reasons why I want you along. You're a straight-talking, sword-swinging, foot-slogging soldier. Just what I need. I do regret having signed you onto this journey without telling you about it. But I had about as much choice in these orders then as you do now. The legatus was nicer about it, of course, Senatus Populusque Romanum SPQR stuff, but in the end, the ambassador had picked me to fulfill these imperial orders and I was going whether I liked it or not. Oh, and promoted me to legatus to sweeten it. So in fine Roman army tradition, profluit ex satio, it has all flowed downhill. Who are you going to pick for the new primus pilus?"

Primus pilus, the "first lance", was the senior centurion of the legion, the most coveted position a humble foot soldier could hope for. He represented his soldiers, supervised their training, and advised commanders on tactics. He was loved and feared by the troops, despised and needed by the officers. The first lance was critical to the legion. Antonius took this responsibility seriously, and if he had to give it up, he would give it up to someone capable.

"Well, it ain't goin' ter be me optio second in charge, legatus,” said Antonius, accepting the inevitable. “Lad don't have the backbone ter take on the orficers on their own terms. Maybe more experience, he be strong enough, but not yet. Maybe Lucius Ratullus, in Third Cohort..."

Gaius Lucullus smiled and left the crusty Greek centurion to his devices. This could be good for Antonius. This assignment really doesn’t look particularly difficult. Language will be the biggest problem, but other than that, we will be going in with official paperwork, representatives of Rome. Espionage can get one killed, but if it we limit ourselves to watching troops train, and maybe observing a few real battles, that isn’t quite the same as riffling through secret files or meddling in court intrigues. Maybe start a dictionary and grammar, some maps, some names. And bring all this back to the emperor in a nice report. Antonius could figure prominently in the report and retire properly with a nice bonus. He deserves more than just forty acres in some barren place no one else could farm.

But what about Camilla and the children?

CHAPTER 3: THE BULL AND THE DOVE

Gaius Lucullus and Antonius rode with a vexillatio detachment of cavalry to Alexandria from Syria. They arrived in the early morning, skirting the city walls on their way to the fort west of the city where the Legio III Cyrenaica was garrisoned.

“Seems a shame not ter at least go through the city after three weeks of travelin’” muttered Antonius, watching the low walls roll by on his right.

“I think after three weeks of traveling, if this vexillatio went in the east gate, it might be hard to get them out the west gate and on the road again,” said Gaius, grinning. “It’s been a long trip.”

“Worst was Judea. You’d think if yer’d lost the war as bad as they did thirty years ago, they’d not keep tryin’ ter fight on. Bandits and rebels! Me shoulder blades was itching, thinkin’ I was goin’ ter stop an arrow with ‘em!”

“Well, that was why we didn’t go alone,” said Gaius with a wry grin.

After another hour, the stone fort came into view. Riding in through the gates, they exchanged amused glances about the lax security.

“Guards saluted us, legatus, but they never asked who we was nor what we was doin’,” quipped Antonius, scowling.

“I guess you just come and go as you please here. Rough life here in the III Cyr, stuck on the outskirts of ‘the Pearl of the Mediterranean.’ Let’s check in with the librarii at the headquarters officia over there,” said Gaius with a wry smile.

They dropped off their well-worn horses for a much-needed rest at the livery, conveniently next to the officia. Antonius arranged for fresh mounts for tomorrow, then they walked over to the building. “Let’s get checked in and refreshed. I am going to the praetorium across the street to make an appointment with the legatus. Let’s get together after lunch and I’ll let you know the schedule.”

“Right, sir! I’ll be stayin’ at the centurions’ quarters. I got some former messmates from the Danube there, if they’re still here.”

“To be sure,” replied Gaius. “Have your parade dress kit laid out handy, I will let you know when our meeting with the legatus will be then. Hopefully not today, and certainly not in this traveling gear.”

They checked in, apparently expected when they identified themselves. Antonius was given a shell inscribed with a number to identify his bunk in his quarters, and headed off, lugging his gear. Gaius was given a swarthy Egyptian slave, clad only in a white linen kilt, to carry his baggage and escort him to his quarters. They made a brief stop at the praetorium across the fort’s main east-west street, the slave waiting outside. There Gaius found mail waiting for him, another one of Aulus’ elegant wax tablets, and most importantly, a letter from his wife Camilla, written on expensive paper, scented with her perfume and rolled in a tube, sealed with the family crest. And mercifully, the young soldier informed him that the III Cyr legatus was with the governor in Alexandria, and would not be available till mid-morning tomorrow. On a whim, Gaius got directions for the Library in the city. “Easy to find, sir, just follow the camp road to the Moon Gate on the western side. The big highway inside they call the Canopic Way, the Library is a huge columned building, maybe a quarter-mile on the right, opposite the Temple of Poseidon,” said the young soldier. “Can’t miss it, it’s a popular spot. I like to read the Greek love poems.”

Gaius smiled and nodded at the lad. Some Greek love poetry could get pretty explicit, and he suspected that appealed as much to the soldier as did its iambic pentameter.

In his quarters, he changed from his dusty battle gear worn the past several weeks, the leather dark with sweat and salt-stained, the helmet and body armor in need of polishing. He handed them to the slave, and slipped his sweat-soaked tunic over his head to add that to the pile in the man’s arms. The slave nodded wordlessly and left to tend to his gear.

Gaius went to the fort’s bath area, took a massage from another Egyptian slave in the pool area, then returned to his room, clad only in a towel. He snagged an apple from a bowl of various fruits and sat down on his bed to read his correspondence. Aulus’ wax tablet was inscribed with directions to his villa on the west of town, fortuitously also on the camp road. He wanted Gaius to join him at sunset on the night he arrived. And the Twelfth had thoughtfully passed on the letter from Camilla, forwarded in Maximus’ own handwriting.

He was slow to open his wife’s letter. He opened his locket to gaze at a tiny miniature painting of Camilla, not two inches across. It captured her carefully-done blonde hair and shy smile. It was his most valuable possession, done at great cost during his last extended time home. He hadn’t been home since then, a year and a half ago.

He finally unrolled Camilla’s letter and read it. She was her usual effervescent self, going on about the children and their progress. Gaius Secundus was almost ten, and making great progress in oratory and Greek. Lucia Luculla was eight and a terrible tomboy. Gaius started to compose an answer, but decided to wait to ask Aulus about a trip home before departure. Three years! He hoped he might be back before his son turned fourteen and donned his man’s toga.

Antonius checked in, refreshed himself and changed into a light white tunic. He then went to find the Third’s travel clerks. He had begun some research on this area before detaching from the Twelfth. Each legion’s librarii maintained, among everything else in their files, maps, travel reports, travelers’ and merchants’ accounts of various areas near their area of responsibility. While the Red Sea was far removed from the Twelfth’s area, the legion was responsible for providing vexillatio detachments for security at the customs entry point at Coptos and the two main Red Sea ports, Myos Hormos and Berenice, and had all the necessary information to get them there. Antonius chuckled to himself, as he thought of the riff-raff the Twelfth had scraped up to meet their annual commitment of a century of troops to support them. Both ports had naval squadrons stationed there. Piracy was a day-to-day occurrence in the Red Sea, attracted by the gold and silver going out and valuable trade goods coming in. Antonius wondered what sort of security would be on the ship, what sort of weapons? Perhaps he should think about helping train the crew? Questions to ask later. Right now, he wanted to confirm what he learned in Syria with local information, and get a feel for booking passage on the Red Sea, if perhaps their ships were elsewhere.

Antonius approached a librarius. “Lad, I’d like ter be getting’ information on shippin’ through the Red Sea.”

The librarius, a blond-headed youth of perhaps nineteen, did not appear to shave regularly as yet. But he came alert at Antonius’ words, looking up from the pile of wax tablets on his small desk. “Are you embarking at Myos Hormos or Berenice?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” answered Antonius.

“We can get you up the Nile and overland to either port. We have passes for the Imperial Post riverboats as far as Thebes, then caravan passes across the desert on the new road. You can make your own arrangements, of course, but this is safest, fastest and cheapest. It’s how we keep up the garrisons there.”

“What about shipping out from there ter, say, Sabaea?” asked Antonius.

“You’re pretty much on your own for that, sir. What few troopers as come and go there, go by way of the merchants. Go down to the Western Harbor, and find the Tavern of the Bull and Dove. Bull and Dove is at, lessee, the Street of the Lampmakers and Avenue of Astarte. Sort of behind the temple of Poseidon, about three blocks. Just ask. Everyone knows where it is. The merchants hang out there and they have some sailing schedules posted. The best of the lot is Hasdrubal, a convoy master from Tyre. III Cyr tries to make most of their arrangements through him. He’s expensive but supposed to be first-class...”

“Anyone to avoid?”

“A devil named Ibrahim bin Yusuf. Unfortunately, no one seems to know just what he looks like, except he’s pock-marked. Been wanted since before I was born, and the price on his head gets bigger every year. Took four passengers on a little outing south of here on the Red Sea a few months back. Of course, they never did make their destination. The men were found floating off the beach, face down; the other two was wife and daughter to one of them, never seen again. Probably slaves to some Bedouin now. They was a patrician family, too. Real high-born. If you hear the name, just let the urban cohort know right away, though he’s almost certain not to be seen in a place like the Bull and Dove.”

“Keep it in mind. I be off now.”

“Well, when you get more information I can get you there easily. Good luck downtown.”

A niggling doubt intruded in Antonius’ mind. It almost seemed like he knew exactly what to tell me, as though he had rehearsed just that answer. Who, what, when, where. But no, he is just a young enthusiastic lad, wantin’ ter show off what he knew.

Antonius knocked on the door, interrupting Gaius’ revery. Gaius opened the door, still wearing just the towel, and Antonius immediately noticed his sad expression. “Excuse me, sir, did I interrupt somethin’? Yer lookin’ glum, sir. Bad news?” he asked with a look of concern; Gaius seldom allowed bad emotions to show.

“Oh, no, Antonius, concerned about my family, that’s all. I won’t be seeing them for a while.” He cleared his throat. “We have an appointment with the legatus at mid-morning tomorrow, and Senator Aulus Aemilius would like us to meet him at his country taberna this evening. In the meanwhile, I thought I would visit the Library here. An opportunity to learn something about the Hanaeans there, I am sure. Would you care to join me?” He seemed to be regaining his usual good humor.

“I’ll be checkin’ on some travel things in Alexandria, sir, or I’d be glad ter join yer. But we can ride in an’ back tergether. As fer the Senator, such things make me uncomfortable, I think I’ll just return to the fort, if yer don’t mind.”

“Nonsense, Antonius. The three of us are going to spend a lot of time together for the next year or two, so you might as well meet him now as later. You’ll find him a most affable sort of person.” Gaius shrugged on a fresh white tunic.

Antonius grumped, but acquiesced.

They walked over to the stables to check out horses and set out for Alexandria, the fresh cool sea breeze in sharp contrast to the broiling desert heat that they had endured in body armor for the eight hundred mile trek from the Twelfth’s camp.

“So you think you’ll learn something about the Hanaeans at the Library, sir?” he asked Gaius as they rode along.

“They have hundreds of thousands of books, from every language. If it’s written down, it’s in there.”

“And if yer can find it, sir.” Antonius chuckled.

“Yes, and I am hoping they have assistants for that.”

“Just be careful how many questions yer ask, sir. Someone might notice, someone we don’t want ter meet.”

“To be sure. Good counsel, centurion.”

Alexandria loomed into view shortly, alabaster white against the deep Mediterranean blue, its famous lighthouse on Pharos towering over the city. As they watched, the top of the lighthouse flashed briefly but brilliantly, and within a minute, it flashed again, and then again, piquing Gaius’ curiosity. “I wonder how it does that?”

“Don’t be knowin’ sir, but they got real marvels here, temple doors what open by themselves, some little steam engine that spins so fast yer can’t see it.”

They entered the western Moon Gate to the Canopic Way, the two mile colonnaded thoroughfare through the center of the city. The main thoroughfare was easily fifty paces wide, broader by far than the most spacious avenue in Rome, with carts, wagons and horses, and an occasional camel, proceeding with an order that would never be found on a Roman street. Opposite the Library, they found a livery for the horses.

“All right, Antonius, you go your way - what did you say, the Bull and the Dove? – and I’ll go across the street to the Library. Be back here about sunset.”

“Right, sir and enjoy yer visit.”

Antonius dived into the city stews north of the Canopic Way. He had not liked turning down Gaius’ offer to join him in the visit to the great Library. But he was Gaius’ centurion, and first things first… he had to get a feel for the details of the first part of the journey, let the legatus deal with what they would find when they got there.

The streets were narrower by far than the broad thoroughfares of the ‘uptown’ Alexandria, and not paved. Water from discarded baths, night pots and the gods only knew what else, pooled in muddy puddles in the streets. Drunks staggered across the streets or dozed in alleyways, although it was just after noon. Vendors hawked their wares under tents in many languages... some Antonius understood, some he recognized, and some he had never heard before. He rounded one corner onto Astarte Street, and two men erupted from the doorway of a bar, landing in the fetid mud with a splash. As a crowd gathered, they both came to their feet facing off against each other with short daggers. On the periphery of the crowd, he heard men begin to take bets on the two...”The short fat one, five to one. I’ve seen him fight...”

Antonius pressed on, not glancing backward at the sounds of the fight. Further up the street, women of every race were propositioning passers-by from the balconies of apartments on either side of the street, ranging in age from barely children to well past matronly, from flaxen-haired Germanic-looking maadchen to ebony Nubians. Well, at least he could tell Lucullus that he got in to see the whorehouse district.

At last the neighborhood improved a bit as the alley opened out onto the Street of the Lampmakers. The peddlers in human flesh and misery gave way to vendors in pearls, wine, glassware and fine cloths. A shabby merchants’ taberna loomed into view, a wooden signboard with a faded painting of a bull and a once-white dove announcing it as the Bull and Dove.

Antonius entered the swinging door, his eyes blinking in the dark. He took a rough chair by a table near the rear. This kept his back to the wall, and his eyes on the bar and the front door. Next to him was a rough curtain of dark cloth, that might once have been red, and in the candlelight behind, servant girls washed dishes. The smell of charcoal and cooking mingled with stale wine and Egyptian barley beer. To his left, some well-dressed men in Arabic garb argued explosively in Aramaic two tables over, their hands gesticulating violently. Other patrons in shabby garb sat alone or in small quiet groups, one fondling a girl who appeared to be a professional.

“Wine or beer?” a servant asked, giving the table a perfunctory wipe with a filthy rag.

“Wine. Watered by half.” Keep yer wits about yer. This place smells like trouble.

“Sure.” The servant, a skinny type from somewhere in Asia Minor, returned with a bowl of red wine, Egyptian style. Antonius tossed some copper coins on the table. “I understand this is the place to come for shipping information,” asked Antonius.

“Shipen... Inform? No speak...much Greek.”

“That’s all right. Nothing.” The boy just speaks enough Greek to serve the customers, Antonius growled to himself. “All right,” he repeated again in Aramaic, waving him off. Should have spent more time learning that accursed Aramaic. This don’t seem like much of a merchants’ shipping office, just yer basic dive. Think the kid just steered me wrong. I’ll just have some wine and move on to see the sights in town. Shoulda gone ter the Library.

A weasely-looking man slipped out of the shadows, and took a seat opposite him at the table, uninvited. “Looking for shipping information, are you, my Lordship?” He said in Greek, with a rasping Nabataean accent.

“Off with you. I am just enjoying some afternoon wine,” Antonius replied.

“I can get you a day trip for you and girlfriend. I can get you girlfriend if you have not. Very romantic… and cheap.”

“Not interested. Bugger off!” Antonius was getting distinctly annoyed. Weedlers like this are tryin’ ter set yer up fer bein’ robbed or kilt. He put his hand on his dagger, loosening the strap on the thigh sheath.

One of the well-dressed men who had been arguing loudly turned slightly to watch the exchange. Dressed in the thick white robes of the Arabian style, he had a green headcloth which draped to his shoulders, an intricately braided headband holding it place. He barked something to the weasel in a language Antonius did not recognize; the weasel gave him an irritated look and scuttled off to find someone else to annoy.

The man turned to Antonius and smiled widely. “My apologies to you, great sir. Such scum bring great disgrace on the good merchants here at the Bull and Dove.” He spoke nearly flawless Greek, with the slightest of accents that was difficult to place.

Antonius was only slightly grateful. More than once, he had seen such weasels used to earn someone’s trust in such situations, trusts quickly betrayed.

“He paddled off quickly when you challenged him. He must know you. Are you in the shipping business?” inquired Antonius.

“I own but a few antiquated craft that ply only the safest of waters. But I would be happy to put these vessels at your disposal, if it is within my capability to ascertain your destination.”

“I get seasick easily. I actually was just sightseeing, and this looked like a place for a quiet bowl of wine. A cut above the places on Astarte Street.”

“Are you with the III Cyrenaica?”

“What makes you think I am under the eagles?”

The Arab laughed pleasantly. “You are either in the army, or you are a gladiator, and that is not a popular sport here in Alexandria. Or maybe an oarsman on a trireme. No one else has such a physique! And judging by your age, I would expect you to be a centurion, maybe a senior one. I know most of the Third’s centurions, and don’t recognize you, so I presume you are new. May I refill your bowl to welcome you to the finest city in the world?”

“You’re very observant. I’ll take another bowl, watered, please.”

“So from where do you hail?”

This guy is good, too good. A Parthian spy, perhaps? “Up north. Vindebona on the Danube in Noricum with the XX Gemina.” All the better for being partly true. Just not recently. Skip the more recent tour opposite Dura Europos on the Syrian border.

“I understand it is quite cold up there.”

“In the winter. Sometimes cold enough to freeze the river over. But the summers are nice. Rough country, the mountains come right down to the river’s edge, thickly forested on both sides.”

“When did you arrive?” asked the Arab.

“Just yesterday. But forgive my rudeness. I have quite forgotten your name.” Forgot nothing! The bastard never gave it, just been pumpin’ me for information.

“Oh, but please forgive me. It was I who forgot to introduce myself, I am Ibrahim.”

Antonius went cold inside and struggled to bring his breathing under control, not betraying his recognition of this name. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.” In the dim light, he could make out a pock-marked face behind the wiry gray and white beard. Somehow, he had expected someone more obviously evil, more like the denizens of Astarte Street, than this urbane and obviously highly-educated Arab. And he certainly hadn’t expected him to give his real name. No wonder this man had so easily lured a patrician family to their death. If he was this man, if that story were true. His mind spun, as he sought a way out of this dilemma. His senses tingled, remembering what the lad had said: Go to the Bull and Dove. Find Hasdrubal and avoid Ibrahim. Had that innocent-looking lad just set him up, and for what purpose?

“Ánd your friend?” asked Antonius, nodding at the second man at Ibrahim’s table.

“He is a fellow merchant, but wishes to remain anonymous. We are supposed to be competitors, but sometimes we collaborate on the side. It would not matter to you, but walls have ears in this place. You understand, I hope.” The second man looked at Antonius and nodded politely, saying nothing.

Antonius took the man’s face in at a glance, while trying not to appear to pay him too much attention. It may be important to remember what Ibrahim’s anonymous friend looked like. Black beard, dark hard eyes, square leathery face, like someone who spent a lot of time in the sun. Fortyish, medium build and stout, not gone to fat. Cowl covering his head, apparently not wanting to be recognized.

“And you are…?” asked Ibrahim.

“Antonius.” He had to offer him something to keep the conversation going, then find a reason for getting the hell out of here and back to the safety of the camp, without revealing his suspicion of the man’s identity. “Forgive my evasiveness, my good Ibrahim. I wished to know with whom I spoke. How did you come to be such a wealthy merchant prince?” When in doubt, flatter. And Greek is such a good language for flattery.

“My father was a sailor, who died several years ago leaving me my poor flotilla.”

“So…. to where do you sail?”

“Here and there. I carry people and cargo as best as I can handle.”

“Any trouble with pirates?”

Ibrahim’s eyes grew sharp as he returned Antonius’ gaze. “No more than any other merchant. I have lost some ships and crews, of course. Most sad,” said Ibrahim with a smile.

“Some passengers, too?” Watch his reaction.

“There have been some passengers lost, yes.”

“On one of your ships?”

“No, on a colleague’s ships. Very sad. A lot of attention from the authorities on us poor merchants, as though this were our fault.”

“Hmm, sure did attract attention. Especially since they were a very high-born family, close friends and relatives of Trajan himself.” A crock of manure, that bluff. Will he buy it? “Understand the emperor was real put out. Wants to know what’s going on down here in Alexandria, personal report and all.” Give the line a good tug, see if he bought it.

The waiter came up, noting Antonius’ empty bowl. “Another, sir?”

Antonius affected a small slur to his speech. “Yes. But this will be my last, as my purse is running low and I must be back in camp by nightfall.” Pretend to get a little drunk, then give him a reason to let me walk out of here alive. Hm, yes, maybe this will work.

“Oh, do not worry, my good Antonius. It would give me great pleasure to buy you this next bowl.” The Arab laid a leather bag on the table. Several silver denarii spilled out through the bulging open mouth. He casually picked out four denarii with his fingertips and separated them from the rest. When the waiter returned with the bowl, he slid them across the table. “This bowl is on me, for Antonius, my good Roman friend. So…when may this report go out?”

“No idea… I just got here, and picked this up from conversations with my messmates today. Expect a lot more attention, especially if any more Romans start disappearing around here.” There, that might let me get back safe. Or not. Antonius finished his bowl of wine, noting that it was not watered, then stood up. “I need to be getting back.”

“Please sit down again, Antonius. At least let me buy you another drink. Waiter! another!” he gestured at the skinny servant, sliding more denarii across the table.

Alaia jacta est. The die is cast. If he buys this crock, I get to see daylight tomorrow, and explain all of this to Lucullus. Or wind up in some Alexandrian alley, my purse and dagger gone, my throat cut, no one knowing what happened to me.

Ibrahim sat silently, stroking his beard, his eyes turned inward for a moment.

“No, thank you, my good friend Ibrahim, I must be back before sundown. By the sun’s angle, there’s perhaps an hour’s worth of daylight left.”

Ibrahim rose with him, bowing to him graciously with his arms spread wide in supplication. A huge gold chain around his neck swung free, glinting in the late sun streaming through the door. “It is a pleasure to talk with one as astute as yourself. I look forward to our next meeting.”

“As do I. Such time as we get together again.”

To his great relief, Ibrahim accepted his departure, and Antonius affected a stagger as he rolled unsteadily to the door.

“Would you like someone to accompany you? The back streets of Alexandria can be dangerous for the unwary stranger.”

“Uh, no, thanks. I’m a rough, tough centurion, built like a bull. I’ll be fine.”

As Antonius left, Ibrahim returned to his seat scowling. He snapped his fingers at the weasel who had first accosted Antonius and said, in Aramaic, “Yakov! Go thou and be as a shadow to yonder man. If he not depart to III Cyrenaica’s encampment...” he drew his finger beneath his bearded throat.

“So be it, master.” Yakov rose and slipped out the door.

“What makest thou of that man?” whispered the other man about the table, hiding his face in his brown cowl.

“I do not yet know. He was not drunk, therefore he is a liar. Yet some parts of his story may be true. And if parts are true, then perhaps the part about the report also. What fate can place that report in my hands?”

“You shall have it, the gods willing!”