“We traveled as quickly as any courier might have,” Cassius said, cutting him off. “You may dismiss the troops and take me to your headquarters.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned and issued orders to a centurion behind him, then turned back to face Cassius.
“Your name?’ Cassius asked.
The officer was flustered. “Marco Liberalius, General.”
“Tribune Liberalius, this is Centurion Falco.”
Falco snapped a quick salute at the senior officer, who returned it.
“Where is the commander?” Cassius asked.
“Legatus Flavius is, uh, sir, he is indisposed at the moment.”
“An interesting choice of words,” Cassius noted. He pointed toward the wooden stockade on the top of the hill overlooking the dock. “Shall we go?”
“There will be horses here in a few minutes,” Liberalius said. “My centurion is seeing to it.”
“I prefer to walk,” Cassius said. He headed toward the hill on which the large fort was perched, Liberalius hurrying to keep up with him, waving off his squire, who had approached with his horse. There were tents pitched outside the walls, along the low ground, something Falco found interesting. He estimated at least two-thirds of the legion was camped outside the fort, if he subtracted the usual number of patrols and outlying outposts that should be deployed about the region.
As they went up the dusty road, men came out of the tents to stare at them from a distance. Most of the soldiers were swarthy, with dark hair braided tightly against their skulls, definitely not Romans. There were also the usual camp hangers-on at the outskirts of the legion tents: whores, washerwomen, traders, gamblers. It is said wherever the Roman army camped for more than a night, a city sprang up.
Several legionnaires opened the gates to the fort, and they entered. Barracks were built along the inside of the walls, and a blockhouse was centered in the middle. The troopers who peered out of the inner barracks were predominantly Roman, Falco could tell, as if the commander was protecting himself from his own non-Roman troops, which might well be the case.
Liberalius hurried his step toward the blockhouse, getting in front of Cassius. “General, I should announce your arrival.”
“I think it has already been announced,” Cassius said as the door swung open and a man dressed in breeches and tunic, over which he had hastily thrown his robe fringed with red, appeared.
“Legatus Flavius,” Cassius nodded a greeting.
“General Cassius,” Flavius nodded in return, no love lost.
Liberalius extended the orders, and Flavius quickly read them. When done, he laughed. “You are welcome to my command, General. Or should I say Legatus Cassius? Most welcome. It’s about time Rome remembered to bring me home. I see there is a new emperor,” he added, indicating the scroll that Titus had signed and fixed his imperial seal to.
Knowing how Titus viewed the XXV Legion, Falco thought the legatus a bit naïve in the thought about returning home, but since Cassius said nothing, Falco stood mute.
“Your current strength?” Cassius asked. There were figures moving in the doorway behind Flavius, and several other tribunes appeared, a few of them staggering as if drunk.
“Strength?” Flavius turned and addressed one of his officers, relaying the question.
“Sixty percent,” the officer answered.
“Deployed?” Cassius snapped.
“We have two patrols out,” the officer said. “A century each.”
Falco was amazed at that. Only two patrols and no outpost? His mind had already done the math. A legion at 60 percent was slightly over three thousand men. Two deployed centuries was about two hundred men out in the field. Being on the edge of barbarian territory that was living very dangerously.
“Ah, only fifteen percent of our strength,” the officer added, “is from the original force.” A not-so-subtle way of telling Cassius how many of the men were Roman.
“It appears that fifteen percent is all gathered here inside the fort,” Cassius noted.
Flavius laughed once more, his face flushed. “Damn right. Can’t trust these provincials.
“You may depart on the imperial courier ship that brought me,” Cassius told Flavius, then he pointed at the tribunes one by one. “And the rest of you are relieved and will depart also.”
Falco could see the shock on their faces as Cassius walked forward, brushing by Flavius. Falco followed closely behind. They entered the blockhouse, the interior of which was dimly lit. It stank of wine and sweat and the stale odor of sex.
“Throw open the windows,” Cassius ordered, and Falco hurried to do so. He paused as he noted two figures huddled under blankets on low-lying couches: women, naked under the blankets. From their skin and hair, he knew they were locals.
“Get them some clothes, give them some money, and apologize to them on behalf of the Roman army,” Cassius barked.
“Yes, General,” Falco said.
“Then summon all the centurions, along with the Liberalius fellow. And bring Kaia up from the boat.
“Yes, General.”
Cassius held up a hand, causing Falco to pause before carrying out the tasks. “We march at dawn tomorrow. We do not have much time.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Loomis was seated in the pilot’s seat, Colonel Shashenka in the copilot’s with a link to the gun turret and targeting screens in front of him. Dane and Ahana were behind them, watching over their shoulders at the video monitors that showed what was outside. They were still on the deck of the Grayback, but it was submerging, and they could see the ocean wash over the gray metal in front of the Crab. Soon the water reached the Crab and began climbing up its side until they were submerged, going down with the submarine.
“Releasing umbilicals and locks to the Grayback,” Loomis announced. He flipped a switch, and the Crab shuddered. “We’re on our own.”
With one hand, Loomis pushed forward on the throttle while with the other he turned them toward the north. “Under way,” he said.
“How long until we reach the gate?” Dane asked.
“Five minutes until hold position,” Loomis answered. “We’re going to stand off at one kilometer and wait until Professor Nagoya opens our doorway.”
Dane glanced at a monitor above and to the right. It showed the view the camera strapped to Rachel’s back. The Crab appeared briefly as Rachel turned toward them, then an empty ocean view as she turned on a parallel course, indicated by the small red symbol on the master display set in the console between Loomis and Shashenka. The Russian’s hand was on the butt of the pistol in the holster attached to his belt, an unconscious gesture that Dane knew indicated the man’s feelings.
Dane could feel the darkness of the gate looming ahead.
Nagoya was surprised to see that his hands were shaking. All the years he had spent theorizing and studying the gates had not prepared him for this moment, when he would actually attempt to open one. He sat in front of the computer, in what was normally Ahana’s position, staring at the screen, trying to hide his trembling hands from Foreman, who was seated next to him.
“We still have a fix on both probes,” Nagoya said.
“The Crab is in position.” Foreman had a laptop open on his lap, the data from the Crab and Rachel being relayed to him via satellite link.
Beneath their feet, the FLIP extended over two hundred meters into the ocean, ending at the muon receiver that Nagoya had rigged to also project.
“Everything is ready,” Nagoya said. He had only a hope that this theory would work, a most unsettling feeling for a scientist. He was used to proving a theory with experimentation before committing himself to it, but here he was not only putting his reputation on the line but the lives of the people in the Crab and beyond that, the fate of the planet.