Rogue Emperor (The Chronoplane Wars Book 3) Page 15

  Pierce handled the questions slowly but without difficulty. His Briefing on Ahanian Rome had included a good deal of new information on the barbarian tribes of northern and eastern Europe; he even had a rudimentary vocabulary in three German dialects. Years as a senior Field agent had given him plenty of experience with false identities and cover stories. The questioning was far from intense: The Elders clearly wanted to believe him.

  A silence fell at last. Martel looked around the table. “No further questions, brothers?” He seemed to nod at Pierce, but Pierce realized he was signaling someone at his back. An instant later he sensed someone stepping toward him. Crouching, Pierce spun to his right, and saw a Militant in Crucifer’s uniform swinging a blackjack. The blackjack was already descending; Pierce clamped onto the Crucifer’s wrist, pulled gently, and hauled the man off balance. The Crucifer reflexively put out his left hand to break his fall, while Pierce twisted the man’s right wrist. The snap of his radius was clearly audible just before the man hit the floor.

  “What’d I tell you?” Willard Powell exclaimed. “What’d I tell you? Isn’t he something?”

  “You are very quick, Brother Alaricus,” said Martel. He seemed impressed despite himself. “You must be among the great warriors of your people.”

  “Emperor, you give me undeserved honor. I am much slower than most of my brothers and cousins. And it was just such an attack as this that put this wound in my skull today.” He helped the Crucifer to his feet. “Brother, please bear me no ill will. I thank you for your sacrifice; may we stand together in battle for Christ.”

  “What’s he saying, Brother David?” the Crucifer said through clenched teeth.

  “He’s apologizing for hurting you, Peter. Says he hopes he’ll fight by your side someday.”

  “Praise God he’s on our side,” Peter said.

  “Amen,” said Greenbaugh.

  “Well, Sister Maria,” said Martel, “you’ve recruited a useful person. I’ll assign him to you in whatever capacity you like. He’d be a good bodyguard, but perhaps you’ll find other jobs for him.”

  “Maybe our first endo Crucifer,” she said with a smile. “I can’t wait to teach him something about guns.” She turned to Pierce and switched to Latin. “The emperor has graciously accepted your offer of service. Henceforth you shall be my satelles, my bodyguard.”

  “Allelulia! Thanks be to God and to His emperor! Only tell me what I must do, lady.”

  “For now, come and stand beside me. When the meeting is over, we will assign you to a room and give you arms.”

  Pierce strode to her side, put his back to the wall, and folded his arms across his chest. He smiled proudly at the other guards and looked alertly about the room.

  “Item six,” said Greenbaugh. “The official accession to power. Brother Willard.”

  “We have a slight problem here, brothers. Uh, the Guards have proclaimed Dear Michael as emperor, all right, but the consuls and the senate seem to be stalling us. Officially, the consuls have to put the emperor’s name to the senate for ratification, and the senate has to assign power to the emperor.”

  “Bad as the old days in Washington,” said Martin Armbruster, triggering a laugh.

  “I’m not arguing,” Powell went on. “Problem is, we’re going to have some trouble on our hands if we don’t go through the motions. These people are amazingly like American idolaters — they don’t care what you do to them, long as you do it properly. Now, we’re the de facto government, but the mob could get nasty if it thinks we’re not legitimate.”

  Elias Smith shook his head. “Brother Willard, we predicted the death of Domitian, we took out the IF embassy, we purged the Jews, we even put on the fireworks show last night. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “Brother Elias, it counts for a great deal. Even so, we’ve got a political hurdle to get over, and logistic hurdles after that. The senate only has to ratify Dear Michael, and that’s the political hurdle. After that we’ve got to make sure the grain ships keep coming so all these people don’t starve, and when all that’s settled we have to get Trajan down here to settle that problem. But we can’t do one thing until we’ve done the one before it. If we’re not ratified, the governors in Egypt and North Africa will hold up the grain ships until they know who’s really in charge here. If we can’t feed Rome, we’ll have riots on our hands. And if we have riots, Trajan could hold off until we’re not a problem anymore.”

  Another Elder, Matthew Knowles, raised his hand. “With all respect, Brother Willard, aren’t you being awfully pessimistic? If we figure we can lick a couple of Roman legions, surely we can handle a few rioters.”

  “I’d like to think so, Brother Matthew. But just remember we’ve only got five thousand Praetorians and a couple thousand urban cohorts, plus maybe a thousand of our own people in combat-ready condition. This city’s got over a million people, and a quarter-million are on the dole. They don’t get their grain, they’ll come looking for it. Maybe we could suppress them for a while, but don’t forget the long-term political problem. When we’re back in touch with Earth officially, the IF will try to discredit us any way it can. If they can blame us for food riots, or spitting on the sidewalk, they will. We’ve got to show them, and the people on Earth, that we’re doing the Romans a lot of good. The legions are a simple problem compared to this one.”

  “So we’ve got to get the senate to ratify Dear Michael,” said Elias Smith. “If the consuls won’t cooperate, can’t we have the senate appoint new ones?”

  “We’d get ourselves into a premature civil war if we did. The original consuls could declare us usurpers, or recommend Trajan, and call on the senate to reject us. Now, I’m ready to do that if I have to, Brother Elias, but I’d rather do it nice and regular.”

  “So we have to work on these consuls a little,” Smith said. “Especially Plinius. You know, on Earth Plinius persecuted the Christians of Bithynia in A.D. 113. The Lord took his life for it. Once we get him cooperating, we should send him to his reward a little early. Move we order General Drusus to seek out the consuls and bring them before this council.”

  “Second,” said Knowles.

  “Moved and seconded that General Drusus bring the consuls before this body,” said Greenbaugh. “Discussion? Hearing none, I’ll call the question. All in favor … ”

  Five hands went up. Martel, Pierce saw, did not vote. Maria jotted down a note in a steno pad. Reading over her shoulder, he saw that she and Powell were to be the ones to pass the word to the Praetorian general.

  The meeting, closely following Robert’s Rules of Order, went on to items seven, eight, and nine. Pierce listened and learned while pondering a frustrating question: How could he get to the consuls Plinius and Cornutus before the Praetorians did?

  Thirteen

  Marie Donovan’s Casio digital watch read 10:15 when the meeting adjourned after a brief prayer. Pierce’s head hurt; he wanted to go to sleep.

  “Come with me and Brother Willard for a moment, before we settle you in your quarters,” she said. “We must have a word with Sextus Calpumius.”

  “As my lady wishes.”

  Calpumius was a centurion, the head of the Praetorian liaison group in the palace, with an electrically lit office not far from the north gate where Pierce had arrived that afternoon. Tall for a Roman, Calpumius nevertheless had to look up to Maria and evidently didn’t like the experience.

  “The emperor commands that the consuls Plinius and Cornutus be brought before himself and his councilors.” Calpumius looked at Powell and asked, “Does he wish it this night?”

  “Perhaps the best idea would be to bring them to the palace tonight, to wait on the emperor’s pleasure,” said Maria with an edge in her voice. The Praetorian, still focused on Powell, raised his hand in salute.

  “How long will it take to bring them in?” Maria asked. “And look at me when I speak to you.”

  Reluctantly and insolently, he did so. “Comutus is at his country villa, outside A
lsium; if I send some men tonight, they could have him here by tomorrow afternoon. Consul Plinius is in Rome, in his house on the Esquiline.”

  “Then go and collect him.”

  “If I may presume to advise, domina, the consul meets with the senate tomorrow morning. His absence might cause some confusion. Perhaps we might simply meet him after he leaves the senate.”

  Maria and Willard Powell looked at each other. “Makes sense,” said Powell.

  “Very well, Calpumius. Ensure that a Praetorian escort is waiting for the consul at the senate. And get your men off to Alsium at once.”

  “Domina; dominus.” Calpumius bowed to Maria and Powell in turn. Maria nodded imperiously and left the Praetorian’s office. Powell and Pierce followed.

  In the corridor, Militants were still scurrying back and forth; hammering and sawing echoed off the marble walls. Maria led them into another section of the palace, far less ornate though still elegant: the staff quarters. Here fluorescent lamps gave way to bare electric bulbs, glowing at long intervals in the dark corridors. Maria knocked once on a door and then pushed it open.

  The room inside was surprisingly large, illuminated by a single hundred-watt bulb burning above a table near the door. Extending into the darkness on all sides were tall shelves and racks, all bearing weapons: swords, spears, axes, daggers, shields, and helmets. Farther back in the darkness, Pierce could see and smell firearms — AK-47s, Uzis, and the special tang of AB-4 from Spanish wire-guided missiles.

  Even more interesting to Pierce was a shelf of communications gear, some of it certainly scavenged from the Hesperian embassy. He saw several beepers and made a note to steal one at the first opportunity.

  A hard-jawed Militant in khaki trousers and shirt stood behind the table. “Sister Maria!” he boomed with a gap-toothed grin. “An’ Brother Willard. How are ya? What can I do for ya?”

  “We’ve got a new recruit, Kelly. He’s an endochronic named Alaricus.” She gestured toward Pierce, who smiled and nodded at the mention of his name. “Dear Michael’s assigned him to me as bodyguard. We’ll get him qualified on firearms in the next few days, but for now we just need a sword and dagger. Gladius et sica?” she added to Pierce. He nodded.

  “Awright,” said Kelly, scratching his chest. “Got a nice little number here, good edge, nice balance.” He lifted a scabbarded sword from a peg and tossed it to Pierce, who caught it and drew the blade. Kelly had been right: The blade was a passable form of steel, scrupulously kept sharp and free of rust. The hilt was iron, the grip and pommel brass shaped to resemble a snake’s body and head. It was a well-designed killing tool and beautiful as well. If Signor Bruckner, the art dealer in uptime Rome, had survived deep interrogation he might have paid fifteen thousand New Dollars for it, in expectation of a five-thousand dollar profit.

  The dagger, while not as beautiful, was a serviceable weapon. It reminded Pierce of his lost Spetsnaz knife with its spring-loaded blade. If the men who mugged him had fooled with it, triggering the spring, one robber might well have killed the other. It was a cheering thought.

  “And here is your insignia.” Maria pinned a very ordinary uptime lapel button to his tunic. It was white, with a yellow cross like the ones on her sleeves. “It will be your pass anywhere you go. Tomorrow or the next day we’ll begin your training with tormenta,” Maria said as she signed for the weapons and led Pierce and Powell outside. “For now we’ll show you your room.”

  “Is it next to my lady’s?” Pierce asked.

  “Of course not, Alaricus.”

  “I am your bodyguard; I must guard you in your sleep as well. I care nothing for a room. Only give me a cloak, and I will sleep in your doorway, my lady.”

  Maria looked startled and a little amused. “Makes sense, Maria,” said Powell. “If you’re trusted him with your life, I suppose you can trust him with your virtue as well.”

  “I suppose so.” She switched back into Latin. “Come on, then. We’ll see if we can find you a mattress, anyway.”

  Her room was actually a suite, complete with a toilet, on the second floor overlooking a tiny garden. Pierce insisted on exploring the suite carefully, looking out the window to ensure that no one could enter by climbing vines. Satisfied, he accepted a well-woven cloak of gray wool and allowed himself to be stationed in the recessed doorway between the suite and the corridor, with a thin straw mattress. Powell said goodnight. Maria stood in the doorway as Pierce settled himself. He felt a strong sexual tension between them: a message of pheromones and gesture and eye contact.

  “Good night, Alaricus. I believe God has sent you to us as a sign of our success.”

  “My lady, it is you whom God has sent. Sleep well; I shall pray for you.”

  “And I for you.” The door swung shut, leaving Pierce curled up on his mattress with his new sword in his hand. He heard her throw the bolt on the door. Good. Quite apart from what B&C had done to his sexual competence, he had had a long enough day as it was. The fluorescent lights and the comings and goings in the corridor did not trouble him at all; exhausted, he fell asleep.

  *

  Sometime long before dawn he woke. The palace was still, the corridors empty at last. Pierce got up, stretched, and went down the hall to the nearest latrine. Someone had put up a digital clock on the wall outside it; it was not quite three A.M. He had at least two hours before the palace would begin to stir itself.

  He found his way to the north gate; two Praetorians were asleep there, and two others played knucklebones by the light of a battery lamp.

  “And who are you?” one of the sentries asked with a grin.

  He tapped his button. “Alaricus, bodyguard of the lady Maria. I am on an errand; you are commanded to secrecy. You saw no one, heard no one.”

  “By whose command?”

  “The emperor’s.”

  Pierce walked on swiftly into the noisy, torchlit darkness of the Rome night. He was soon outside the Amphitheater, slipping between one cart and another in search of one of the pervigiles popinae, all-night bars that catered to whores, criminals, and young aristocrats.

  He could hear it before he saw the two oil lamps burning above its door: a crowd of drinkers, some city people and some peasant farmers stopping for a quick cup of wine before going on to the markets. Pierce walked in, covering his insignia button with his cloak.

  At one table, four or five men were bawling a song while two whores screamed at each other. Two toughs were playing dice on the bar at the back. The place stank of bad wine and vomit.

  The popina was lit only by a few candles and oil lamps, but Pierce’s eyes soon adjusted. He wanted a city man, reasonably well bred, and not too drunk. Soon he spotted a balding man of forty or so, dressed in a threadbare blue synthesis, a light tunic and cloak worn for formal dining. Evidently he had come from some dinner party to this place. His face was flushed, but he seemed in control of himself.

  “Salve, amicus,” Pierce said, sitting at the man’s table. The man slowly turned his head to look at Pierce.

  “What do you want, German? Looking for a roll in bed?” His voice was clear and vibrant, reminding Pierce of recordings he had heard of Dylan Thomas.

  “Looking for the consul Plinius Caecilius.”

  The man burst into laughter. “Don’t look for him here. He’s very proper, our consul.”

  “I must speak with him. Can you tell me where he lives?”

  “On the Esquiline. Among other places here and in the countryside.”

  “What street? What house?”

  “Ironmongers’ Street. Everyone knows the house.”

  “I’m a stranger to Rome.”

  “Indeed. Well, go along to Ironmongers’ Street and look for the house with the most clients waiting outside.”

  “I must see him now. Show me where the house is.”

  “Go out in the streets? At this hour? I’m not that drunk, thank you.” He cleared his throat and recited: “‘A man who goes out to dinner without having made his will is li
able to a charge of carelessness.’ And a man who leaves a popina at this hour would be convicted on that charge.”

  Pierce smiled. “You quote Juvenal.”

  “None has a better right; I am Decimus Iunius Iuvenalis. And why would a German barbarian recognize my work?”

  “Men are not always what they seem, or you would not need to write satire. I am a great admirer of yours, though from your works I would not have expected to find you, of all people, in such a place as this.”

  “Ah, my friend … ” Juvenal sadly put a hand on Pierce’s shoulder. “In such times as these, one must find consolation where one can. Sleep itself is denied us by the horrors of the day. Better to drink here than to weep oneself dry in one’s own wretched little flat. Mm? Which reminds me: I need another cup of wine.”

  “Take me to the consul’s and I’ll buy you a flagon.”

  “If you plan to murder the consul, please don’t. He’s a good fellow, and he has troubles enough, what with the sorcerers and Christians and portents in the sky.”

  “The consul is in grave danger. I must warn him.”

  “Good luck to you, then. And to our beloved consul.” The poet was drunker than Pierce had thought. He began to fall asleep. Pierce gripped Juvenal by his arms and lifted him to his feet. Tossing the man’s cloak over his shoulders, Pierce guided him to the street.

  “Now. Show me.”

  They lurched through the night streets, Juvenal humming songs and pausing once to vomit in the gutter. Pierce kept his sword in his hand and the occasional passersby kept well clear of them.

  “It’s all to do with these foreign Christians, isn’t it?” Juvenal demanded suddenly.

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it. I knew it. One superstition or another — Chaldeans, Commagenians, Hesperians, Phrygians, Isaics, Jews, Christians — all the same, mm? Selling the blessings of their gods for a fat goose and a slice of cake, promising youthful lovers and big inheritances, if only their believers will befoul themselves in some obscene rite, or crawl naked on hands and knees into the frozen Tiber, or slice their own testicles off. And then they suddenly go for our throats, murder the emperor with witchcraft — mind you, he was no real loss — and seize power. But who would have thought it would be the Jews? Mm?”