The Imperium Game

by K. D. Wentworth

  “Then you do not know how I feel.”

  Kerickson closed his eyes, picturing the heavy face quivering beneath a thinning layer of red hair, the deep folds around Micio’s mouth, which reminded him of a bull walrus.

  “I cannot send my only child down to the local market to be sold as a slave. I just can’t. I mean, what’s the good of being Emperor if I can’t have my way?”

  After six years working in the Game’s Interface, Kerickson couldn’t see any good at all in being Emperor, but since Micio had managed to acquire Kerickson’s own wife in the process of ascending to the pinnacle of Imperial power, it didn’t seem a point he could argue from a position of strength. He made a hasty change of subject. “Look, Micio, why don’t you just withdraw Amaelia from the Game? Send her to live outside, book her a vacation, or something like that.”

  There was a long pause. “You know very well that the Empress cannot bear to be without her only daughter.”

  “You mean stepdaughter.” Yeah, Kerickson thought, she can’t bear to be without the poor kid’s points. That was why Demea had shut her up in the Temple of Vesta, where she didn’t have access to any of them. “Well, there’s only one solution that I can think of.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you and her Imperialness get yourselves down to Delos first thing tomorrow and buy Amaelia when she comes up for bid. Once she’s your property, you can free her, adopt her, or do anything you want with her.”

  “Well, I suppose we could do that.” Micio’s tone was petulant. “But that’s bound to cost a lot of gold, and it takes a bundle each week to keep the Praetorian Guard in line.”

  “I’m sure a clever player like you will think of a way to handle them.” Kerickson punched the wristfone off, then rubbed at the knotted muscles in the back of his neck, thinking wistfully of an Imperium where all the characters were played by robots programmed to anticipate his every whim.

  * * *

  The water spraying out of the leaping dolphin’s mouth into the garden pool tinkled invitingly, but Empress Demea watched it from behind the house force field that separated her from the nasty, crudely cold air currently circulating through the dome. There were, of course, limits to authenticity, even in the Game.

  “Massage, mistress?”

  Turning her head, she met the round, night-dark eyes of her Nubian servant, Flina, wondering, as always, if the girl were human or only one of the robot surrogates used here in the Game. She’d tried to find out a number of times, but Flina was either human or the best surrogate that money could buy. “No,” she said shortly. “Leave me.”

  Bowing her graceful neck, the girl dropped her eyes and retreated from the inner colonnade that surrounded the courtyard.

  Tiresome things, slaves. Demea paced a few steps as she rubbed her aching temples with her fingertips. Outside the Game, they sounded like ever so much more fun than they actually were. For one thing, she had to give extremely explicit instructions or even the smallest chore could be totally bollixed. And then they were always watching her, no doubt trying to catch her in something un-Roman that would cost a roomful of points if revealed to the computer or repeated to the proper ear.

  And there was always this look in their eyes, as though they knew something that she didn’t, and—

  “This whole damn thing is your fault!” Striding suddenly through the open doorway, her husband’s face had that unappealing purple quality that always foretold trouble. “I told you she’d never pull it off!”

  Folding her hands, Demea reminded herself that the computer might be watching this very moment, and unmatronly behavior right here before the Saturnalia could cost them big in authenticity points. Unfortunately, they had little to spare at the moment. “Some . . . problem, my pet?”

  “Don’t you ‘my pet’ me!” Micio’s squinty eyes searched the garden, then returned to her. “Amaelia’s been blanked. You’ll have to go down and buy her at Delos tomorrow before someone else does!”

  “Delos?” Demea sniffed, then arranged herself on a backless chair so the folds of her elegantly long white tunic fell for the best effect. “I think not. The little wretch is your flesh and blood, not mine, and besides, I’m sure no true Empress would ever set foot in such a disgusting and vulgar place.”

  “Vulgar?” Micio sidled up next to her, his chin twitching. “You want to talk about vulgar? Like that little purchase of four matched male slaves fresh off the boat last week from Thrace?”

  A warm flush crept up her neck. “It’s only a role, dearest. You know that. I have to play out the expectations of a true consort in my position.” Her stomach tightened; she hadn’t realized Micio had been aware of that rather personal transaction. What else did the little sneak know? “May I remind you that my extremely in-character behavior is one source of the points that made you Emperor?”

  “Is that so?” A deep crevice appeared between her husband’s eyes, a sure sign of a coming fit. “Just whom do you think you’re basing your character on, then—Messalina, the Imperial whore?”

  She studied him—the warty chin, the jowly cheeks, that disgusting red hair. Whatever had possessed her to marry him when she might have had any number of others? Who knew? Even her former husband, Arvid Kerickson, might have enrolled if only she had tried a bit harder to persuade him. She smiled, remembering his blue eyes and willingness to please. Yes, for all his faults, Arvid had definitely had his moments.

  Micio’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I see.” Knotting his hands behind his back, he glared at her. “You realize that all of this might be avoided—if you come back to my bed.”

  “In your dreams, dearest.” She resisted the urge to reach out and twitch a fold of his toga into place. In ancient Rome a man had often been judged by how well he wore his toga; of course, Micio would never have made it there. “Give my regards to the Senate.” She watched him retreat.

  “WELL PLAYED, MY DEAR.”

  “Why, thank you, your exaltedness.” She managed a quick curtsy as she looked around for the manifestation. “But I was, of course, only following your own divine example.”

  The air shimmered, then resolved into the form of Juno as a middle-aged woman about half again as large as life, dressed in a flawlessly white floor-length gown with a daring décolletage. “KEEP THIS UP AND THERE MIGHT JUST BE A FEW EXTRA POINTS WAITING FOR YOU AT THE SATURNALIA NEXT WEEK.”

  “You’re too kind,” Demea murmured. “I don’t suppose that you could grant a few favors before the blessed event?”

  “WHAT SORT OF FAVORS?”

  “Well . . .” she began, then sighed. “Oh, I’m sure I shouldn’t put you in that position. After all, I already pleaded with his exaltedness for this teensy little boon, and he said absolutely not.”

  Juno cocked her head. “JUPITER REFUSED YOU?”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure I was entirely too forward for a mere woman, at least that’s what he said, but I—I miss my little treats so much.” She hesitated. “I just thought that maybe now, at Saturnalia, when we’re all supposed to be enjoying ourselves anyway, it might be permitted.”

  “WHAT DO YOU REQUIRE?” Juno’s blue-green eyes narrowed. “AS PROTECTRESS OF MARRIED WOMEN, IT FALLS TO ME TO SAY YES OR NO.”

  “Well, it’s nothing, really—just a crate or two of slightly illegal goodies. Nothing really harmful, you understand.”

  “DRUGS?”

  “Good heavens, no!” Demea looked shocked. “Just a little refined sugar and some pork rinds.”

  “PORK RINDS . . . AND PERHAPS A BIT OF COLA?” Juno’s eyes gleamed with appreciation. “FOOD FIT FOR THE GODS, INDEED.”

  “Then you’ll help?”

  “COME AND SIT DOWN, MY DEAR.” Juno conjured up a velvety green divan for herself, then indicated Demea’s chair with a graceful sweep of her overlarge hand. “IT JUST SO HAPPENS THAT I HAVE A BIT OF EXTRA LEEWAY AT THE M
OMENT. LET US PLAN THIS LITTLE VENTURE TOGETHER. AS I HAVE TOLD YOU MANY TIMES, NO MERE MAN CAN WITHHOLD WHAT A WOMAN IS TRULY DETERMINED TO HAVE.”

  * * *

  “A nice young morsel.” Rufus closed the door behind the City Guard, then winked at the red-haired beauty they had just delivered, his mind leaping ahead to calculate the price that this particular delicacy would bring on the block. It was an intriguing question, because as far as he knew, the Slave Market had never had the opportunity to auction off an Emperor’s daughter before.

  She met his stare without flinching. “Let’s just get on with this.”

  “In time, my little chicken, in time.” Closing his eyes, he could almost hear the credits clinking into his account this very minute. His role here as Slavemaster, after all, was such a plebian occupation, and he had known ever since his enrollment in the Game over two years ago that he, Rufus Tiro, formerly known as Vinnie Siskel on the outside, was destined for great things in the ongoing saga of the Imperium. The problem was that it not only took good Roman gold to advance in rank, but veritable mountains of it. Here, as in ancient Rome, that was just the way things were done.

  But . . . He studied the new acquisition, then suppressed a sigh. This delicate flower had such lovely skin, smooth and pale as the underside of a newborn mouse’s belly, and such eyes, green as the finest plastic, and teeth as white as . . . something, exactly what eluded him at the moment. Perhaps he should just claim her as a portion of his share for running the Slave Market that supplied all of the Imperium. He hadn’t selected anything for himself lately, what with the miserable quality of newly enrolled personnel, and profit being what it was.

  “It’s not necessary to chain me like this.” She held up her slender wrists. “I’d much rather be here than stuck back in that boring temple with Vesta.”

  “Vesta, is it?” He twined a red strand of her hair about his hand as a chuckle rose into his throat. “I should have known. We get two or three girls from Vesta every year. Virginity is so tedious, don’t you think?”

  “I think this whole place is stupid, and I—I don’t want to play anymore.” Seating herself on the divan in his office, she turned her face to the wall.

  “Oh, but this is the best of all Romes.” Pulling out his ledger, Rufus sat down at his desk and began to make notes. “The best and the truest. I’m sure you’ll come to appreciate that, once you’re purchased by your new master.”

  But although he meant to be comforting, for some reason his words only made her cry.

  ORDERING his nosy little body servant, Pimus, to stay behind, Micio Julius Metullus, current Emperor of the Imperium, huddled into a plain brown cloak and set off for the Public Baths.

  The Imperial Palace had its own facilities, of course—marvelous ones with vast expanses of white marble and gold fixtures that sprayed water out of the most imaginative orifices, not to mention deliciously naughty mosaics that portrayed everything larger than life. But the matter he needed to discuss could have been overheard in the Palace, and it was imperative this meeting be kept secret.

  Of course, there was that nagging little problem of his daughter being sold down at the Slave Market, but he had sent Quintus Gracchus, Captain of the Praetorian Guard, to make his bid. After all, a man couldn’t be in two places at once, and this was business.

  Walking along the Via Appia, he passed the expensive Trajan Inn with its red brick facade and sparkling fountains. People clad in the finest of fabrics bustled in and out of the portico, no doubt mostly tourists. He ducked his head to avoid their eyes. Even though most of them probably wouldn’t be able to recognize him, he wasn’t taking any chances—not with the Saturnalia so close and the incoming shipment.

  Oh, he knew his partners were supposed to handle those things, but it was better to keep his finger in the pie, so to speak. And it wasn’t as though he was incapable of handling the details himself. After all, one didn’t get to be Emperor without breaking a few heads.

  The arches of the Public Baths were visible just ahead, and he let himself relax a bit. Wonderful invention, the baths. Although he considered the ancient Romans an uncivilized lot on the whole, this was one institution that could enrich modern times. If he could hold on to the Emperorship long enough to complete his outside fortune, he would see what he could do about reintroducing the concept into society—or at least filthy-rich society, which was the only portion worth bothering about.

  He hurried up the broad marble steps and entered the outer reception area, queuing up in the nearest line instead of pushing them all aside, commoner and patrician alike, as his rank entitled him to do. Steam wafted out from inside, fragrant with the scent of perfumed bath oils and accompanied by laughter and shouting, no doubt from the gambling area.

  Shuffling after the tunic-garbed back in front of him, he presented his Game bracelet to the Keeper of the Baths at the door, letting him insert it in the recorder to debit his account. “Have a nice day,” the keeper said blankly. Micio examined the man’s square-jawed face closely, but saw no sign of recognition. More than likely it was only a robot surrogate, not human at all.

  “Thanks.” He dropped his head and went on into the bathing area to meet his business partner. In the changing room, he ignored the waiting bath slave, dropped his clothes to the floor, and strode on, good Roman that he supposedly was, as though nakedness meant nothing to him. Actually it made him rather nervous, but that was the way it was done here, and he knew full well that if you wanted to be Emperor, you—if no one else—had to do things the way they were done.

  He watched the elderly slave scuttle forward to pick up his clothes and hang them on a hook, then went on into the warm bath. Gratefully, he waded down the broad steps into the tile-lined pool and relaxed back in the tepid water up to his neck, ignoring the other men after a quick look around. The one he was waiting for had not yet arrived.

  But soon, he told himself and stared up at the vaulted ceiling and its inlaid stars. His contact would come. They would conclude their business, and then he would go on making money until he could jettison this stupid Game and be done with armor and Praetorian Guards and the idiot gods forever.

  The sound of water lapping against the sides of the pool echoed through the room. Micio closed his eyes and floated on his back. At some point the low murmurs of the other men ceased.

  Finally, he stood up and gazed around at the lavish blue-and-orange mosaics, realizing with a start that he was alone. Blinking, he heaved himself out of the water and perched on the tiled side of the pool. It was far too early in the day for the Baths to be empty. The facilities were available to everyone above the level of slave; this room should be crowded with men, playing roles that ranged from senator to freedman.

  Shivering, he pushed himself up and walked around the pool to reach the door to the hot bath, his feet slapping wetly on the slick tile.

  In the room beyond, the heated water beckoned his goose-bumped flesh with lazy curls of steam. Rubbing his hands over his arms, he hurried down the steps into the pool, then stopped thigh-deep to let his skin adjust to the much higher temperature.

  “Well,” a familiar voice said from the other side of the room. “I was beginning to think you were going to renege.”

  “You’re in the wrong goddamned room!” Micio advanced another step into the fragrant, steaming water. “We agreed upon the warm bath!”

  “Details, details.” The dimly seen figure waved a careless hand. “All unimportant as long as we come to an agreement today.”

  Leaving the steps, Micio started to wade across, but the water was deeper than he remembered and he was forced to dogpaddle toward the opposite side. It was a damn good thing no one else was present, he thought angrily, since he could lose authenticity points for this; the male nobility were supposed to be extremely fit and athletic.

  When the side of the pool was close enough, he flailed at the tiled edge and finally go
t enough of a purchase to pull himself to safety. Spitting out a mouthful of water, he coughed, then squinted up at his partner. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Of course.”

  “My final offer stands.” He coughed again, then rubbed at his eyes. “The next Emperor may prove to have a scruple or two and not be nearly as cooperative as I am.”

  “Five million credits is too much.”

  “This deal is cheap at the price.” Micio felt the urge to cough again, and suddenly realized the air smelled funny—acrid, hot. He looked up and saw a thin curl of smoke. Hurriedly he started to haul himself out of the water.

  “Not so fast, my Imperial friend.” A sandalled foot kicked him in the side of the head.

  Stunned, Micio lost his balance and fell backward, windmilling his arms as the hot water closed over his face. For a terrifying second he couldn’t tell up from down in the water’s diluted gravity; then he struggled back to the surface.

  As he sputtered and gasped for air, it became apparent that something was definitely wrong. “What—”

  A hand clamped down on his arm and extracted him from the water, dropping him on the floor to lie there like a beached whale, trying to breathe air that burned his throat. A racking cough overtook him again, and then he understood. “Out!” he gasped, pushing himself to his knees. “We have to—”

  “Micio, old pal, I thought the matter over while you were having your little swim.” The voice sounded funny, tinny, as though whoever it was were speaking into a metal box. “Five million is just too stiff for me.”

  His eyes were burning, brimming with tears. The air seared his throat until he could barely speak. “Help!” he croaked hoarsely, and tried to crawl in the direction of the door.