coastal villages before intelligence found the culprits. Jomon nationalists, sneaking into their neighboring island nation to wreak havoc. To make things look better, the villages were said to be allied with the Jomoni. Some in the international media didn't believe this but it didn't matter. The legion moved to Jomon and did its duty there. Victory was assured before the first boot touched sand.
A cart moved before the balcony, holding the shackled perpetrators of the attacks. Terrorists not aligned with their government. They had been tried and convicted in Tiberian courts. Tomorrow, once the Triumph was complete, they would be executed. With the sword of the Magister stabbed into his desk, the president of Jomon was only too happy to comply and hand over all the information and people the invaders wanted.
Caesar thought again of Ouranos and Gaia. They seemed like any other people. He thought it possible that it was part of some elaborate Attican ruse, but his own intelligence consul confirmed Donovan's spy reports. Baraz was disenchanted with Attica. She was highly intelligent and capable. Her firm could have done this. A small team working for years had done it.
"I want them," Ceasar told Consul Carmen.
She shook her head, "Imperator, it would not be as simple as the Nandian operation."
"Why?"
"BBM has a great deal of security. The labs are below ground level. It would require a full military operation and not a simple extraction team."
Caesar was snapped from his memory by the thunderous roar of the crowd. The ancient chariot bearing High Legate Toma Marcus came around the corner and entered Viminal Square. Confetti and streamers were launched into the air and caught by the breeze. He wore his formal dress uniform, swathed in a purple toga as a symbol of the Caesar's approval. His face was not painted red; that was a privilege saved for the Triumph of an emperor. The mementic stood behind Marcus, holding the golden wreath above his head and saying the words that only a recipient of the Triumph would ever hear.
The chariot stopped before the balcony and the imperator spoke. "My Magister," the crowd quieted some, but they cheered at the use of the rare title. "High Legate Toma Marcus, Senator of Brixia …" A clutch of people in the crowd cheered loudly again. "Your fellow Senators have conferred upon you this great honor and I gladly bestow it." The people respectfully applauded and Marcus lowered his head. "From this day forward, Toma Marcus, you will be called Triumphator!" The Caesar cast his arms high and the people roared again.
Marcus put his fist against his chest and spoke loudly, "Thank you, Lord Imperator!"
The chariot lurched forward and carried him to the second half of his route. The soldiers of his primary company, without weapons, followed, bearing flowers and treats from the Iberian islands they raided. They cast them into the crowd and took more from the float in their midst.
The Caesar backed into his palace before the company finished their parade past the balcony. He moved his puppet to its closet while the attendants cleared the path of chairs and people.
"A spectacular Triumph, lord," Prefect Gallian said. The Caesar automaton didn't look at him. The man was nearly eighty and his weight was four times that. "Surely there will be more in the future."
While the body was snapped into place, the imperator pondered whether this was a question. "Of course there will be more Triumphs, prefect." The closet doors were pushed shut and the dozen or so elites turned their attention toward the blinking gray and black cube. "It is only a matter of time."
"Indeed, great Caesar," Prefect Titus said.
Sycophants, the box thought. Hangers on.
"And the games, imperator?" Titus asked.
"Three days worth," the room's speakers crackled.
Gallian hobbled over on his cane and looked about the room. "Where is Doctor Donovan, lord? I had hoped to speak with him."
Certainly you did, Caesar thought. "He is busy. Redoubling his efforts after recent events."
Gallian seemed disappointed. "I see."
"Hoping to buy your way into a cube like mine?" Caesar said.
The prefect stopped still and his lips parted. He made no sound but his eyes darted toward the other prefects. Caesar could see their expressions. They, too, wanted Donovan.
Gallian lowered his head and said, "Truthfully, Caesar, yes. I fear Crius may call me to his realm sooner than I am prepared."
"I appreciate your honesty." The prefects sighed and relaxed. "You may call on him with my blessings. Perhaps having more boxes to tend will spur him toward new horizons."
The prefects all bowed and thanked him. As they did, Caesar turned his mind toward the Triumph. Marcus still had a few kilometers remaining on his route before the feasts and parties of the night. The people clamored for him. A hero. Something they've not had for some time.
If he sought to supplant me, he thought, he could be victorious. I have no children. My brother is mad and in exile. A triumphator has taken over the line of succession before …
Lucius Sullivan.
If the Caesar still had a mouth, he would have spat.
I will keep Marcus within sight.
XVIII
THE MESSENGERS
156 Years Before the End
In Ghattaffan, the female tender spent her time with Minah Gaber and her family. Nine people lived in a single, small home and they were all faithful to the tenets of Ramani beliefs.
This intrigued the Messenger. For a year, she observed and listened to all that these people did and thought. Their minds were turned toward "God" so often. Even when evidence did not point toward the intervention of a divine entity, it still was praised.
A few months ago when a drought gripped the area, the farmer for whom they all labored considered laying them off and not paying them. This could have meant their starvation so Minah and her family prayed constantly for rain. Six more days passed after the farmer told them of his dire situation before a drop fell. When it did, the family rejoiced and praised God for their fortunes. The farmer said he could keep them on, after all. The same storm caused flooding at a different farm and also swept away three people to their deaths. Somehow, though their deity got the credit for the rain and the good news, it was not blamed for the related deaths and destruction.
It was fascinating.
The Gabers were sitting down to their nightly meal. Meager, by most standards, but they smiled and were happy.
"Be quiet, Jarrek," Minah said. The young boy became still. "My God," she began, "we thank you so much for all that you have given us. Thank you for the fields and the food that comes from them. Thank you for the work that busies our hands and provides all we have. Thank you for the teachers who give our little ones their lessons."
She continued to pray but the Messenger left the common room and entered a dark bedroom nearby. There she found Nami, Minah's eleven-year-old daughter. She had a fever and an infection racked her lungs. She grew weaker each day. The tender stood near her and listened to her labored breathing. Then it stopped. The girl opened her eyes and she looked at the ceiling. Her breathing began again and she thought.
God, please make me better. I promise I will be good. I will do whatever you want. Please, make me better.
The Messenger heard Nami pray this way before. Her condition only worsened and her thoughts grew more plaintive. The tender searched the girl's mind and found that she was already "good." She committed no wrongs against others. There was teasing among her siblings and friends, but she repented of that and got their forgiveness. What more could she do?
Nami's eyes drifted to the left and the Messenger felt that they landed on her.
A flood of thoughts befell her. She was a being beyond their understanding. Could she cure the child? She looked within the girl's lungs and saw the infection. The tender could eradicate it all … but that would be too much. "Subtle urgings," she had said. To interfere so directly would run counter to their mission. She peered through the haze and
saw no outcome where Nami survived and contributed to the tree beyond her few years.
The door opened and Minah came in. "Hello," she whispered. The girl smiled and tried to sit up, but her mother touched her shoulder and shushed her. "Stay still. Chicken broth tonight."
"Good," Nami said.
As the girl sipped from the spoon, Minah thought, Please, God, make my child well. She paused and then thought, If it is not part of your plan, … I will try to understand.
The Messenger was again intrigued. A belief in a kind of predestination. That this "God" has a plan for all beings. The tender wondered at this and thought of The One and the Plan to which the duo was committed.
She resisted the urge to intervene this time. The Plan was for the continuation of life, even though this child's life would end.
The male tender was again drawn to conflict. He found it daily in the shattered nation of Susso. Regions of the southern continent were ruled by petty tyrants and the central government was powerless to stop them. After centuries of mining, their deposits of gold had been exhausted yet their spending continued unabated. Decades passed and the people suffered as a lack of work and support fell. The malicious took control.
The Messenger saw it repeatedly. One warlord espoused a view of his deity using holy works as justification and rampaged over the plains. Thousands were killed, including many who believed in the same deity, yet their interpretation of the same holy
Lords of Kobol - Prelude: Of Gods and Titans Page 13
