Flaccus smiled. "You see? You haven't been here two hours and already you're thinking like an Archimedean philosopher."
Next they visited the yard they were most eager to see: the workplace where the flying machines were built. Marcus led them to a portico where artists studied the wings of birds and crafted wonderfully lifelike models of these wings, with every feather cleverly in place, held by bitumen.
"The eagle is the noblest of birds," Zeno said. "I would think that its wings would be the finest for flying."
"That is what I thought," Marcus said. "After all, the eagle is the sacred bird of Jupiter and therefore most suitable to fly for Rome. The Egyptians here insist that the ibis would be better. But it turns out that bird wings are not the best model for emulation. Our most successful flying devices have wings modeled after those of bats."
"The bat is a lowly creature," Izates said, "little more than a rat with wings. Surely a man should fly with something not quite so ignoble as a model."
"I'll let Timonides explain," Marcus said.
Timonides turned out to be yet another of the obsessive philosophers, his particular obsession being the properties of flight, whether those of birds, bats or insects. He showed them models built of reeds, papyrus and parchment, and explained how the unique musculature, skeletons and feathers of birds gave them their power of flight.
"This is not reproducible in a form usable by humans," he said, "although the wings of soaring birds have given me many lessons in how the wings of my gliders should be contoured. But it is the structure of bat wings that offers the greatest possibilities for imitation. A bat's wings are made up of thin struts with a membrane of skin stretched between them. This we can copy with wood and fabric. It is both light and strong."
"But they can only glide?" Zeno asked.
"Alas," Timonides said, "the propulsive, flapping actions of the wings have proven thus far impracticable. However, our fliers have discovered many unsuspected properties of the air above us that allow them to soar for extremely long times. We do not understand these properties as yet, but in time they must yield to our research. We may yet learn to fly as freely as birds."
"Gentlemen," Flaccus said quietly. Immediately all conversation stopped and the sounds of work stilled. The Greeks turned to see that a young woman had entered the courtyard. She appeared to be pure Hellene and she wore a simple, modest gown of Greek design. Her only adornment was a thin fillet of plaited silver bound about her brows. All bowed, the native Egyptians among them going to hands and knees and touching their foreheads to the ground.
The young woman walked straight up to Marcus Scipio and was about to speak when she caught sight of the Greeks and paused. Marcus introduced them to Princess Selene, consort of young King Ptolemy.
"Welcome to Alexandria, my friends," she said.
"My lady is too kind," Zeno said. "However, it is clear that you have business with our host. Please do not let us detain you. We will withdraw."
She nodded appreciation of his tact. "We will speak at dinner this evening."
They stood aside a few paces while the princess and Scipio spoke in low but urgent tones.
Izates inclined his head toward the two. "Bad news, do you think?"
"The queen perceives her situation as precarious and sometimes allows small matters to upset her. It is probably nothing."
Zeno gave the pronouncement no more respect than it deserved. These Romans would tell him nothing of real importance. He did, however, notice that Flaccus had used the word "queen," which Selene did not rate by any recognized standards. The Romans wanted her to be sovereign of Egypt for their own purposes, so as far as they were concerned she was queen.
He noted another thing: Selene and Scipio spoke with their heads close together, and from time to time she touched his arm lightly. The gesture was trifling, yet performed thus in public, by a de facto sovereign to her supposedly subordinate ally, it spoke volumes. Zeno wondered what Marcus Scipio's enemies in Rome would pay to hear about this.
CHAPTER TEN
Norbanus hadn't anticipated the effects of dust. The shuffling feet of thousands of men, the churning hooves of thousands of horses raised a pall of dust so thick that he had trouble observing the course of the battle. He thought of the lessons drilled into him in military schooclass="underline" the handling of troops; the hazards of illness, unfavorable terrain, mud, cold-all of them potentially as devastating as a well-led enemy of superior numbers. Even plain bad luck had been taken into account. Somehow, though, the lessons had never mentioned dust.
"Maybe I was out with a fever the day they covered that," he mused.
"Eh?" King Jonathan said. "Covered what?" His face was drawn and concerned. His future, his very life were the issues being contested on the field before them.
"Dust. I don't recall that our instructors ever mentioned it."
"You don't have dust where you come from?" Jonathan said, astonished.
"I suppose it rains too much."
The two stood atop Norbanus's command tower, overseeing the combat. The battle had been joined about an hour earlier, beginning with an exchange of arrows, javelins and sling-stones. These preliminaries had caused casualties only among the light-armed native troops. Roman shields and armor were proof against all such trifles.
They had found Manasseh and his army toward the southern edge of the plain called Megiddo: a natural battlefield where countless engagements had been fought. Besides the Jews, it had seen the armies of Egypt, the Hittites, Persians and Greeks clash and fall. Manasseh's army was larger, but it held no Romans. Most important, his Parthian allies had not arrived yet. When he deemed the time propitious, Norbanus had committed his legions, and the cohorts strode forth to hurl their murderous pila and draw their short, razor-edged swords. The cavalry of both sides were quickly engaged on the flanks and the dust rose.
"How can we control an army we can't see?" Jonathan asked plaintively.
"We can't. In a fight like this, the general's task is done in making his dispositions and giving his commands. Now it is a soldier's battle. The junior officers and the centurions will handle their own individual parts of the fight. This is where Roman training and drill pay off. Our legionaries can win a battle with all their commanders dead."
"I see," Jonathan said without conviction.
From the cloud before them, above the sounds of clashing metal and wood and the meaty smack of weapons against unprotected flesh, they could hear the blare and snarl of Roman trumpets. Unable to see, Norbanus could follow the progress of the fight as officers closer to the action directed their trumpeters, calling some cohorts back, sending others forward, closing up lines or putting them in extended order to take advantage of momentary weaknesses in the enemy formations.
"That's a bit risky," Norbanus noted.
"What?"
"Niger just wheeled his second cohort to catch the left flanking corner of Manasseh's formation. He must see an opportunity there. I hope he knows what he's doing. It wasn't in the battle plan."
"You can tell all that from the tooting of a trumpet?"
"It's as plain as speech once your ear is accustomed to it."
"You allow your subordinates such license?"
"Of course. Rigid adherence to a battle plan in spite of changing conditions is folly. He may have won the battle for us, in which case I'll decorate him. If it's a blunder, I'll have his hide for a shield cover."
Jonathan sweated. "This is maddening. We can do nothing, know nothing."
"We still have them," Norbanus said, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. Behind the command tower an entire legion sat on the ground, resting, ready for battle at an instant's-notice.