It was close to pitch dark inside to eyes that had been under an open sky. The two men facing the newcomers were only figures in silhouette against the glow of the cookfire in a wall niche. The agent did not need the details he would get when his eyes adjusted, however, to read the others’ stance as that of archers with their bows drawn.
“What in blazes is that thing?” Perennius asked. He threw his back to the door in a disarming pantomime of terror at the dragon outside. At the moment, the agent’s greatest concern was for the arrow pointed at his midriff. It would not advance the situation to admit that, however.
“If it gets in, you bastards,” said the man who had joined them at the gate, “it’s your fault. Jupiter preserve us if it gets the horses. We’ll never get clear of here on foot!”
“Where do you come from?” demanded one of the bowmen. Like the other speaker, his Latin had a pronounced Gallic accent. The head of his arrow was beginning to wobble with the strain of holding the bow fully drawn. The man relaxed slightly, a good sign but dangerous in case his fingers slipped while the weapon was still pointed as it was.
“Well, from Tarsus,” the agent said. His companions were extending to either side of him along the wall of the room. The Gaul who had first spoken was sidling to join the archers. It was clear that if the stand-off exploded into violence, the three of them were dead even if the arrows hit home. “They talked about Typhon and dragons, but blazes! I had a wool contract and I don’t make my living by listening to bumpf from silly women. But …” Perennius gestured back with his thumb, then added ingenuously, “You fellows part of a garrison from hereabouts?”
That the three of them were soldiers was as obvious as their Gallic background. Their professional bearing, bowstrings drawn to their cheeks; their issue boots; the youthful similarity of the men themselves – all bespoke army. The question was, whose army? And Perennius was beginning to have a shrewd notion of the answer to that one, too. The alleyway in Rome and the Gallic voices closing the end of it whispered through his memory.
“Slack ’em, dammit,” grunted the first speaker. As the archers obeyed, he added, “Yeah, we were, ah, going on leave and this thing . . .” Then, “Magnus, Celestus – I’m going to check this goddam thing from the tower.”
The arched doorway in a back corner led to the crenelated tower above the roof proper. Perennius stepped forward to join the Gallic – non-com was more likely than officer. “Gaius,” the agent said, “you others – be ready to get the donkeys in if that thing moves away, right? Don’t
take chances, but we need to get them closed up or they’ll draw him back themselves.”
Perennius was off before either of the archers could decide to stop him. The agent’s boots made precisely the same echoing clatter on the stairs as did those of the man in front of him. The meeting could not be pure coincidence, but the agent strongly hoped that it was not as – someone, some thing, had planned either.
The dragon was hissing into the courtyard at the donkeys. The sound was like that of flames in ripe wheat. The creature did not appear to notice the men rising behind the battlements of the tower, but something else invisible to them made it turn abruptly. “Have you tried shooting it?” the agent asked.
The Gaul snorted. “Do I look crazy?” he demanded. “This is how it acts when it’s not pissed off!”
The dragon’s turn was complicated by the length of the rigid tail which balanced the body. It did not spin as a man would have done. Instead, the creature backed as it rotated like a swimmer reversing at the end of a pool. The new object of its attentions veered into sight also. It was a donkey, the one Sestius had ridden. By now it had shed its saddle and all accoutrements. Instead of bolting into the courtyard with the remainder of the party, it had broken away and run around the building in panic.