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  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, even Titus is going to have to retire now. The colonia—that’s his job now, for all the grumbling.” A morning of trying to deal with complaints from the colonists, the veterans who would be left behind on this world, had soured Quintus’s mood, even before this business of the intruders. Nothing will grow in this foreign muck, Centurion . . . You can’t leave me on the same planet as Caius Flavius, Centurion; he’s had his eye on my wife since the Valhalla Superior campaign and now he’s leering at my daughter! . . . I swear, Centurion, I swear . . .

  Gnaeus said tactfully, “Well, those aren’t any of our veterans down there, sir, or their families. Nor are they any of the remiges.”

  He was right. Eight subjective years after leaving Terra, including five years cooped up on the ship itself, Quintus was sure he would recognize any of the Hammer’s crew and passengers, even the lowliest slave. The complement of the Malleus Jesu was a few hundred, not counting the slaves, with the core of it being the eighty men of Quintus’s century, and an equal number of remiges, the ship’s crew—known by an archaic term deriving from a word for “rowers”—mostly Brikanti, with their own hierarchy and their own officers under the sullen Movena, along with their families. But he did not recognize the intruders below.

  “They look like Brikanti—you have to give them that,” he murmured. “Those odd clothes. Jackets and trousers rather than tunics and cloaks. Peculiar colors, aren’t they? Packs on their backs. And what’s that pale sparkle on their shoulders? Looks almost like frost, melting . . . Impossible, of course. No frost on this world, not on the day side anyhow.”

  “And no sign of weapons,” Gnaeus said practically.

  Quintus grunted. “I’d want to strip them down and turn out their packs before I could be sure of that. At least they’re not Xin.”

  Gnaeus pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, sir. The Xin empire is larger than ours, and includes many ethnicities. Even if not Xin themselves, they could be provincials, agents, even mercenaries.”

  Quintus sighed. “The tripolar politics of Terra reaching out to us even here, eh, optio? Us, the Brikanti, and the Xin.”

  “Well, the Brikanti are our allies, sir. And we’re not actually at war with the Xin.”

  “You mean, we weren’t when we left home.”

  “True, sir.”

  The craft was descending now, with a rattle of chains as ground anchors were dropped from a lower deck. Quintus grabbed his cloak from where he had flung it over the back of a chair and tied it around his neck, checked his sword and ballista were at his belt, and jammed his plumed helmet on his head.

  Gnaeus frowned his lips. “You’re going to interrogate them yourself, sir?”

  “By Christ’s tears I am.”

  “I think it’s best if you approach these people with an open mind. If I may say so.”

  “Hmm. If they are Brikanti or Xin, I need to observe the proper diplomatic protocols before I throw their arses in the brig—is that your thinking?”

  “Sir, we didn’t bring these people here. I mean, on the Malleus Jesu. And so the only way they can have got here—”

  Somehow this elementary observation hadn’t impressed itself on Quintus’s consciousness. “Unless they walked hundreds of miles from one of the indigenous Hatches, the only way is through that Hatch. Which we ourselves constructed—”

  “And which has evidently connected itself to the wider network of Hatches, just as it should. But we don’t know where that connection will have been made to. Perhaps to some place even more exotic than the cities of far Xin.”

  Quintus, through his temper, saw the sense behind this reasoning. “So we don’t know where they’re from, how they got here, or what they can do. Therefore we don’t know what threat they may represent to us, the ship, our mission. Even the Empire.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, the sooner we find out the better. Let’s get this over with. Back me up, optio.” And he strode without hesitation to the stair to the lower deck.

  Behind him he heard the optio snap out commands, hastily assembling a guard unit from on-duty legionaries.

  It was a relief for Quintus to hit the ground at the bottom of the ladder, to leave the confinement of the aerial whale and to be able to stride out toward the intruders, putting all his energies into the simple action of walking. To work out his frustrations in motion, in physical exercise: that had been his way since he had been a young bull of a raw recruit in Legio XC Victrix, unable to combat the shadows of privilege, preference and nepotism that had blighted his career in the army from the very beginning. Walking was one thing, but having somebody to punch out would be even better.

  But that didn’t appear to be a likely option today. The two elderly intruders just stood there by the Hatch emplacement, watching him approach. They looked somewhat startled—as you might, he thought, if you had just passed through the mysteries of a Hatch itself—but they did not seem afraid, did not seem daunted by the prospect of a fully armed centurion of the Roman army bearing down on them as if he had a kernel up his arse.

  One of them, the man, even called out—something. The words sounded vaguely familiar to Quintus, the accent odd, stilted.

  Time for a parade-ground bellow, Quintus decided.

  3

  The craft overhead was like a tremendous airship. It moved smoothly, silently. It bore a symbol on its outer envelope, crossed axes with a Christian cross in the background, and lettering above:

  S P Q R

  Anchors of some kind were dropped from a fancy-looking gondola. When the craft had drifted to a halt, a rope ladder unrolled to the ground. And as Yuri Eden and Stef Kalinski watched, astonished, a hatch opened, and a man clambered down the ladder.

  As soon as he reached the ground, the man started toward them. He wore a plumed helmet, and a scarlet cloak over what looked like a bearskin tunic. His lower legs were bare, above strapped-up boots. He had a sword on one hip, and a gaudy-looking handgun in a holster on the other.

  Yuri called, “Who the hell are you?”

  The man, striding steadily, started shouting back: “Fortasse accipio oratio stridens vestri. Sum Quintus Fabius, centurio navis stellae Malleus Jesu. Quid estis, quid agitis in hac provincia? Et quid est mixti lingua vestri? Germanicus est? Non dubito quin vos ex Germaniae Exteriorae. Cognovi de genus vestri prius. Bene? Quam respondebitis mihi?”

  Always another door, Yuri thought. “Let me handle this.” He spread his hands and walked forward, toward the angry stranger.

  • • •

  “I think I understand your guttural speech. I am Quintus Fabius, Centurion of the star vessel Malleus Jesu. Who are you, and what are you doing in this province? And what is that mongrel tongue of yours? German, is it? From Outer Germania, no doubt. I’ve dealt with your sort before. Well? What have you got to say for yourselves?”

  The fellow said something to his female companion, and walked forward, apparently undaunted. But at least he spread his hands, Quintus observed, showing he was unarmed.

  Gnaeus Junius caught up with Quintus, panting. Glancing over his shoulder, Quintus saw a small squad of legionaries had followed the optio, all according to regulations. “You’re out of breath, Gnaeus. Double your daily exercise period for the rest of the month.”

  “Thank you, sir. Do you really think they’re from Outer Germania? Well, I suppose you should know.”

  “And why’s that, Gnaeus Junius? Because, even though my mother tongue is a purer Latin than yours, my father was from Germania Inferior and my mother was from Belgica, which to the likes of you means I may as well be transrhenus myself, is that it?”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “We’re not all moon worshippers and bear shaggers, you know.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it, sir.”

  “And my ancestors did
put up a hell of a fight. The legions had to drive us all the way to the coast of the Mare Suevicum before they were subdued.”

  “As you’ve pointed out before, sir.”

  “So don’t try to flatter me, Gnaeus Junius.”

  “Sir—”

  “You’re very bad at it—”

  “Sir. The intruder is doing something with his pack.”

  Quintus saw that the man had turned away from his companion, the woman, and she was opening up the pack on his back for him. Quintus and Gnaeus immediately drew their ballistae, their handguns. Quintus heard the senior man of the squad behind him murmur brusque commands.

  The male stranger, seeing the Romans’ reaction, spread his empty palms wide once more and again called out.

  “We should jump them,” Quintus said.

  “Give them a moment, sir,” Gnaeus said. “They’re speaking again. That tongue does sound more Germanic than not. But, you know, I would swear I can hear a third voice, neither the man’s nor the woman’s.”

  Quintus glanced around sharply. The two strangers were alone. “Your hearing is either better than mine, optio, or worse.”

  “As if it’s coming from the pack on the man’s back . . .”

  “A belly-speaker? But we are rather far from any theater here. I’ll not be amused by trickery.”

  The woman was closing up the pack now. Evidently she had found what she wanted. She held two compact nodules of a smooth, white substance, like small marble pebbles.

  “Whatever that is,” Gnaeus murmured, “it’s surely too small to be a weapon.”

  “Now who’s jumping to conclusions?”

  The woman handed one of the nodules to her companion. They were both watchful of the Romans, and were evidently endeavoring to make sure Quintus’s men could see everything they were doing. Cautiously, they each pressed a nodule into one ear.

  And when the man spoke again, Quintus was startled to discover he could understand his words.

  “Is the translation correct? Can you understand me?”

  “He speaks Latin,” Gnaeus breathed. “Rather stilted, formal Latin.”

  Quintus growled, “If they could speak Latin all the while, why address us in German?”

  “Perhaps they could not speak it,” Gnaeus said, puzzling it out. “Perhaps it is those nodules in their ears that speak it for them. For I think I hear a trace of the German behind the louder Latin words . . . Or perhaps it is the little fellow they carry in the pack on the man’s back who knows the Latin.”

  “And who belly-speaks for the other two, I suppose? Your imagination runs away with you, optio.”

  “This is a strange situation, sir. Perhaps imagination is what we need.”

  “Let’s get down to reality.” Quintus put his weapon back into its loop at his belt and stepped forward, bunched fists on hips. “What is your mission here?”

  The strangers exchanged glances. “We have no mission. We are,” and here the speaker stumbled, as if searching for a precise term, “we are scouts.” The two of them pulled the white pods away from their ears and spoke in their own tongue, briefly.

  “Scouts? For what army? Are you Brikanti or Xin or Roman? To which emperor do you pay your taxes?”

  Gnaeus murmured, “The Brikanti don’t have an emperor, sir.”

  “Shut up.”

  The woman said now, “Our speaker has not the right word. We are,” another hesitation, “philosophers. We came through the, the door—”

  “The Hatch,” said Gnaeus.

  “Yes, very well, the Hatch. We came to discover what is here, on this world. Not as part of a military force.”

  “They’re saying they’re explorers, sir.”

  Quintus grunted. “They’re lying, then. Romans don’t explore, any more than Alexander did—not for any abstract purpose. Romans discover, survey, conquer.”

  “But they aren’t Romans, sir.”

  Quintus repeated, “What emperor do you serve?”

  The strangers exchanged a glance. “We serve no emperor. Our province is unconquered.” Again they looked uncertain at the translation.

  Quintus scoffed. “Nowhere on Terra is ‘unconquered’ save for the icy wastes of the south. Flags fly everywhere—somebody’s flag at least, and more than one if there’s a war in progress.”

  The woman tried again. “We recognize none of the names you mentioned. None of the polities.”

  Gnaeus said, “Then you can’t come from Terra.”

  The woman looked at him frankly. “Not from your Terra.”

  Gnaeus’s eyes widened.

  Quintus was baffled, and frustrated. “What do you mean by that? Perhaps your country has vanished under conquest, like the kingdom of the Jews. Perhaps your people are slaves.”

  “No,” the woman said firmly. “We are not slaves.” She seemed to listen for a moment. “Very well, ColU. I’ll emphasize that. We are freeborn.”

  Gnaeus asked, “Who are you speaking to? Who is . . . Collu? Collius?”

  “We are freeborn,” the woman said again. “Strangers to you, strangers in this place, but freeborn. We ask for your protection.”

  “Protection?” Quintus rapped his breastplate. “What do you think I am, a vicarius, a Bible scholar? So you don’t have nations. You don’t have owners. Do you have names? You?” He jabbed a finger at the woman.

  “My name is Stephanie Karen Kalinski.”

  “And you?”

  The man grinned, almost insolently. “Yuri Eden.”

  Quintus glanced at Gnaeus. “What do you make of that? ‘Stephanie’ sounds Greek—respectable enough. But ‘Yu-ri”—Scythian? Hun?”

  “Their names are as exotic as their appearance, sir,” Gnaeus murmured.

  “Oh, I’ve had enough of this. We’ve a lot to get done before the Malleus Jesu can leave this desolate place—the sorting-out of the veterans and their colonia for a start. I’ve no time for philosophical conundrums. Disarm them, take them as slaves—find some use for them, if they have any. And if all else fails, find a suitably economical way to dispose of them.”

  Gnaeus looked unhappy, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  The woman stepped forward sharply. “Quintus Fabius. You’re making a mistake to dismiss us. We can be useful to you.”

  He laughed. “How? You’re too old to be a concubine, too flabby and soft to fight—what, can you cook?”

  She tapped her skull. “We have knowledge. Knowledge you don’t share.”

  Gnaeus said hastily, “She may have a point, sir. We still don’t know anything about these people, how they came to be here. The Greeks have a saying: ‘Knowledge is the most potent weapon.’”

  Quintus grunted his contempt for that. “A phrase no doubt cooked up by some shiny-domed philosopher when Roman legionaries first came to his hometown waving their swords.”

  “He’s right,” the woman said. “It would be irresponsible of you to discard us without being sure—”

  Quintus roared, “Irresponsible? Do you presume to tell me my duty, woman?”

  But Kalinski held her ground. “For example, perhaps we have knowledge to share of a common enemy.” She thought it over. “An enemy of Rome, stronger and more wily than even the Xin and the—”

  “The Brikanti,” Gnaeus prompted.

  Quintus demanded, “Of what enemy do you speak?”

  She gestured at the installation behind her. “I speak of whoever wishes these Hatches to be built to straddle the stars. And who manipulates the destinies of mightier empires even than your Rome to make it so . . .”

  But now the man, Yuri Eden, seemed distracted by something. Apparently oblivious of the conversation, he took a step forward.

  The legionaries reacted, drawing their weapons and pulling closer to their commander. Quintus too made to draw his ballista.
r />   But Gnaeus laid a restraining hand on his arm, and pointed into the sky. “It is the sunrise, sir. He is puzzled by it.”

  Remus was rising, the second star of this double system, brighter than Luna or Venus, brighter than any star in the sky of Terra. Everywhere the shadows became doubled. Romulus never shifted in the sky of this world, but Remus did, following a convoluted apparent path that even the ship’s Arab mathematicians had had difficulty puzzling out.

  And a runner came dashing from the anchored cetus. “Centurion! There’s a report of a riot at the colonia. The men are in the granary, and are threatening to burn down the principia—”

  “What, again?” Quintus raised his head to the sky and let out another roar. “Father of the Christ, why do you goad me? With me, optio.” And he stalked off back to the cetus.

  Yuri Eden watched the second sun rise, entranced.

  4

  For lack of any clearer orders, it seemed, the troops who had followed their commander out to meet Yuri and Stef waved their short swords, and ordered the two travelers to follow Quintus back to the airship. “No funny stuff, mind.”

  Stef helped Yuri hitch the pack on his back as they followed the men, listening to their gruff speech. She murmured, “So they’re all speaking Latin.”

  “Or a lineal descendant of classical Latin anyhow,” the ColU said. Reduced to its processing center, the remains of the autonomous colonization unit rode in Yuri’s backpack, and whispered in their ears through the plugs it had provided, projecting translations of their words at the Romans.

  “But,” said Stef, “even I can tell there’s a whole bunch of accents in there.”

  “Rome always was an amalgam of many nations,” the ColU said. “A forced joining. In the latter days, in the west, provincials—who had been regarded as barbarians in ages before—rose to high command in the Empire. Stilicho, for instance, the best military leader of the late Empire in western Europe.”