A Long Time Until Now (63 page)

He was impressed with the Americani. Their camp palisade was taller and stronger than the Roman one, and they had only the ten people. The Americani were respectable. The barbarians in camp weren’t worth much even with proper tools. They were doing odd chores, as they did for the Romans.

He was cautious of those two others, the “Cogi.” He didn’t like that name. What exactly did they know? He’d seen them only at a distance, and their gear was even more bewitched, almost godlike.

He was met at the gate by the one who looked almost Latin, who said, “
Toma tus armas a Optio Regina Alexander ahi dentro.
”

He parsed that, and carried his arms to the command hut, which appeared very much to be some sort of wagon with a lot of doubled wheels.

The Roman influence on this future culture was obvious. But was the optio tribuni really named Regina Alexander? That was a rather arrogant name for a woman, nevermind the ridiculous concept of women in the Army.

“Here are my arms, Optio,” he said slowly. Their language was bastardized with Germani and some other stuff, but they could communicate well enough slowly. But by the gods, they were terrible with cases. Imperative could be deduced, and sometimes Accusative, but that was about it. Nominative and Genitive might as well not exist. It was an awful language.

“
Gratias
,” she said, and pointed. “Put
hic
.”

She sat at a stool with three illuminated tablets in front of her. They glowed from within, due to some magic from the gods they’d learned to control, like fire only smaller and cooler.

On the leftmost, she touched an image and moved it. It just followed her finger. On it were letters. Latin letters.

Of course an optio was literate. He just had trouble imagining a woman optio.

“Your army also requires staff to be literate, I see.”

“
Omni est
,” she said. Gods, it was comprehensible, but savage. But all of them?

“All of you? If you are from a headquarters that is a useful thing.” They were all tesserarii or optii, none of them pedes.

She obviously thought over her response, before she carefully said, “
Integer pedes literate. Nos mandate it to scribo
.”

“Impossible!” She must be joking with him.

“Very possible. We commence educating it at
ano quarto
.”

She tapped small stones in front of the tablets, and more words appeared, very fast, so much faster than scribing them or cutting them. He watched for a moment. She dragged another stone and a section lit in blue, disappeared, and appeared on the rightmost screen.

“What are you inscribing?” he asked.

“I am recording our levels of commisaria and loges.”

She had a fine arse, excellent teats, and that striking straw-colored hair with blue eyes. A northerner for certain. A barbarian woman. Yet she was optio to the tribune, literate, and apparently a soldier.

Their banduka were faster shooting, tremendously more powerful and better crafted than those the Mughal barbarians had. They could see in the dark, light the dark, and their Optio Valetudinarii Arminius, the African, was very good with surgery. Truly the gods blessed these men and women, but here they were, consigned to the savage world of stone-chipping barbarians.

The other female arrived to take him to the forge, where he was to work with Centurio Martin. She carried one of the banduka and a knife almost as big as a gladius, but single edged.

“I am Optio Statorum Jennifer Caswell,” she said slowly.

“Why is your uniform blue, Optio?” he asked. She was wearing the shapeless silky covering they wore for exercise and casual work. The others he’d seen were gray.

“I am from a different . . . separate . . . legio,” she said.

“Oh? What is your legio?”

“Aeronauticus.”

“Air and sea?”

“Solo air. Felix is a mares. Barker used to be.”

“Nauta,” he offered.

“Gratias. Nauta. Felix is an inquisitor. Our navis are a tertia of a mile long, travel thirty miles in an hour, and have great guns that can demolish cities.” She used her hands for emphasis and counting as she walked.

He did not think she was joking.

“What is aeronauticus? To navigate with air?”

“
Aer perum et caelo,
” she said. “We fly.”

“With Apollo’s help?”

She grinned. “We have an aerovehicle named Apollo, actually. You’re aware straw rises in flame from the calor. Suffice calor, ventus impetus, can levitate a vehicle into the air. We fly across continents. That’s how we came to Asia from the occidens.”

It was hard to translate, and sounded ridiculous. Was that true?

“How fast do you go?”

“Say that again, please.”

“What velocity is achieved?”

“Ah. Inter duo cento miles in an hour to tri milles, depending on what type of craft.”

Not even the gods could travel that fast. But they must. Unless she was lying. He didn’t think she was lying. “That would span the Empire in a hour.”

“Yes, easily. Our . . . well, I suppose it is an empire, stretches tri milles miles across a continent, and we travel to other continents to fight, trade and visit. The Nauta has craft that fly from ships, too.”

She delivered him to Centurio Martin and Tesserarius Robertus, who had a brisk fire in their forge. It was a bit odd-shaped of a forge, but certainly hot enough.

He realized he’d been completely distracted from Jenfer’s striking green eyes and pale skin. Oh, to sire sons on her.

“Gratus, Publius,” Martin welcomed him.

“Greetings. Your women tell fanciful tales of flying through the air and of all your troops being literate.”

Martin smiled oddly and said, “I’m literate in our language, somewhat in Latin, in Germanic and in Gaulish.”

“I see,” he said, not entirely believing. It was almost as if they were trying to impress him. Trying hard. On the other hand, that was how diplomacy worked. But he was only a smith, not a centurion.

“Well, we nullus cognosci a multitude. Multum ferro work is by carborundum magnum segmentum cum tools. Forging is limited. So we request assistance. Especially as we mostly work with optimum ferrum, hard and clean.”

“I see your wagons are made of iron,” he said.

“Yes, milles of libre of it. We have no way to separate one, though.”

Thousands of pounds of iron? He looked at the wagons. Yes, thinking about it, they had to be. That was a Vulcan-blessed lot of metal. He had trouble with the last part, but it was about making pieces from it, he thought.

“Grind it,” he said.

Robertus said, “It would take forever.”

“If you have a century of men with hard lime, you could create a powder of good ore.”

The two looked at each other.

“That’s not impossible,” Martin said. “It’s not for now, though.”

“Well, what can I show such masters as yourselves?” he asked, not entirely joking. Their Latin was laughable, but he could puzzle it out with pantomime. They knew a lot of bases, but had no grasp of grammar. They had a lot of Germani in there.

Martin handed him a hammer, and it was the nicest hammer he’d ever held. The grip was shaped to swing in the hand, of some very strong wood. The head had a flat face and a peen, and its balance was very sweet. He let it drop in his hand, and it fell right where he wanted.

Martin showed him several tools.

“I can manage tangs and sockets, after a fashion. I need to fabricate improved sockets. I’m no bueno cum cavum shapes, either.”

“Show me what you are doing.”

Publius watched the two of them work, and tried not to smile. They worked hard, pumping, heating, beating. For basic drawing and upsetting, Martin wasn’t bad. However, he was charitably at the level of apprentice.

To be fair, his anvil was rock, and without a good large furnace, making a proper iron one would be difficult.

“It’s easier to raise bowls over a form than dish them,” he said. “Can you find a domed stone and set it in a wooden block?”

“I can. Sic dishing plates—cavum fasciendum? for making hollows, though. I just don’t possess unum.”

“Those are for shallow items only.”

“Ah.”

“You are welding too hot.”

“I know. I’m experience cum materia that require extreme calor.”

“What flux is that?”

“Straw ash.” He had to examine it to determine the words. Yes, that was marginal.

“You have salt, yes? Salt and clean sand with some iron filings will work much better.” He had to demonstrate with latter with their sharp file on a scrap piece, and point at the streambank for sand.

“Huh. That makes sense. It’s not what we used at home.” Martin might be a good centurio, but he was not much of a smith.

He talked and showed how to dome metal and planish it evenly. The granite anvil wasn’t flat, but did give enough resistance. It was hard, sweaty work.

Their hammers were amazing, though. He’d never held anything like them. They were heavy, but very balanced and effective.

He became aware that Optio Regina was pointing something at them, and the two “Cogi” were staring from a short distance. He raised his head to look at them.

“I am making engravings,” she said.

“Engravings?”

“Using a similar method to my screens. We call them photo graphs.”

“Screens?”

She sketched a rectangle in the air.

“Ah, your tablets.”

“Yes, gratias.”

He stepped back, panting, and Martin took over while Robertus pumped the bellows for him.

Optio Regina turned her device around, and there was a tablet on it, with a miniature picture of him working, as if seen by eyeball. It was not engraved or painted. It was flat, and it was completely perfect. It was a light-picture. It was so perfect it scared him. Then he thought how well it could relay information.

“How does that work?” he asked.

“The light is gathered and stimulates small cells like a fly’s oculus. Each cell, called a ‘pixel,’ appears on the tablet. They are identified by location on the tablet and color for reconstruction later.”

“But there must be thousands of them,” he said. It was a picture as vivid as the eye showed.

“Decem millions,” she said. “The camera has a modus to sort them.”

He could well believe the ten of them could easily fight the entire Roman century, given their devices and knowledge. Yet they were ignorant of charcoal making and basic smithing.

Martin stepped back from the rock anvil and held up the piece he was working on. It now looked like a deep ladle with a long handle welded on. Martin seemed pleased with himself.

Publius decided not to mention that he’d done better ones by age twelve.

“That is the way,” he said. “But you will need more practice.”

“I’ll be getting it,” Martin said. “Would you like to examine our baths? I wonder how they compare to yours.”

Publius understood they were using hospitality to gain information. The centurio had warned of that, but they hadn’t asked about anything the Romans had in the way of weapons or tactics. They didn’t seem to care about those things at all.

But atop the wagon, the one called Felix sat with that large banduka that could fire dozens of projectiles in a moment, through solid logs. It would destroy the century in seconds if turned on them.

They understood Latin adequately, but there were obvious Germani words in their speech. He recognized them from his first campaign. Had future Rome become so corrupted by barbarians?

He would not want to fight them, however.

At lunch, they served a salted fish and salted pork, with nuts. He sat under the awning for the purpose, and continued talking to Martin and Robertus.

“Your double bellows is impressive.”

“Thank you. I wish I had more practice. We appreciate the trade.”

Publius wasn’t sure exactly what was being traded. Just that he was helping them with smithing, and something in return was coming to the Romans.

Another sat down next to him, with light hair, bronze skin and solid muscles. A definite warrior.

“I am Richard Dalton. Tesserarius in line.”

“Publius Horatius Naevius.”

“I am pleased to meet you. May I offer you wine?”

“Of course you may, and thank you.” He accepted a kidney-shaped metal cup with wine in the bottom third. It was full of sediment and a bit sour, but strong and clean enough. It washed down the salted meat just fine.

“What year are you from in Rome?” Tesserarius Richard asked him.

“The ninth year of Claudius Imperator.”

Richard grinned and clapped. “Perfect. You’ve heard of Jesus Christ?”

“I don’t know that name.” The fish was some form of river trout. Quite good. There were herbs with the salt. There were no crops here, but there were wild herbs and the Americani knew of them, it seemed. He might ask for those, too. The gods knew the food in camp was mostly rice and boiled goat.

Tesserarius Richard said, “A Nazarene . . . priest, I guess. In Judea.”

“I have not served in Judea.” This was an odd query.

“He performed miracles, and was executed by Pontius Pilate. He ambulated on water, fed five milles people with only a minuscule basket of food. And after being crucified, he vivified on the third day.” It took Publius a bit to determine what all that meant. It sounded like any number of stories.

He asked, “Which gods did he invoke?”

“The one true God of the Jews, and now the Christians, named after him.”

“I haven’t heard of this. There are a lot of priests all over Judea, though.” One god? That was the Jews. This man claimed to worship the Jewish god?

The man was insistent. “He would have mortare only a few anno ago.”

“I have not heard of this priest you revere.”

The answer obviously frustrated Richard, who said, “Very well. Gratias for assisting with your responses.”

“Thank you for the fish,” he said. “It is delicious.”

He saw Centurio Martin smile, and wondered what the joke was.

Their bath wasn’t very good, either, but it was quite warm and clean.