The Imperium Game

by K. D. Wentworth

  “Identity confirmed,” the computer said after scanning. “Gaius Clodius Lucinius. Game status: freedman, gladiator trainee.”

  Kerickson tugged the musty cloak around his shoulders as the door slid aside. He stepped into the chilly night air and breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut behind him, locking out the police and the outside world and all his troubles—for the moment, anyway.

  This particular gate was in the Southeast Quadrant, located in the side of one of the seven hills of Rome and masked by several boulders. He gazed down on the playing field, taking in the odor of horses, damp earth, and stone, trying to be thankful that at least Wilson hadn’t been stupid enough to enroll him as a slave.

  Beside the hill, the two buildings of the Gladiatorial School were dark and quiet at this hour. Since they were all in training, gladiators were supposed to retire early. He huddled into the worn cloak and threaded his way down through a maze of exceedingly realistic rocks, muffling curses every time he stubbed his toe.

  The Coliseum also loomed ahead, adjacent to the school. Its massive black outline stood out against the simulated night sky, but he saw no sign of Wilson yet. Well, he was probably a few minutes early. Flapping his freezing arms, he crunched across the sandy soil to the far end of the empty arena, then paced back again.

  Down in the nearest street, he saw several members of the Praetorian Guard returning from the Subura, one of the Game’s less reputable districts, their steps unsteady and their voices boisterously loud.

  He edged back into the shadows, wishing for his watch; of course, few wore such innovations in here where authenticity counted above everything else, and sundials didn’t fit well on the wrist. The soldiers stumbled past and their exuberant voices faded.

  Kerickson surprised himself by wishing that he were down there with them. His six-month term as a guard when he had first been hired by HabiTek had been fun in a lot of ways. He missed the camaraderie he had known then, and even the drilling, the working out, the sense of physical fitness.

  But none of that had been real, he told himself. The Imperium was just a giant playpen for people who had too much money and free time, both of which were problems he’d never had to worry about.

  He took a deep lungful of the bitingly cold air, then exhaled. His breath hung mistily in the air. His feet had gone numb in the scanty scandals without socks or hosiery. Dammit, where was Wilson? Gritting his teeth, he took another turn around the edge of the Coliseum, wishing for a coldtorch or even a proper Roman one.

  “Kerickson?” a hesitant voice asked.

  “Over here!”

  “Where?” Wilson’s voice demanded.

  Orienting himself to the approaching footsteps, Kerickson turned around and made out a faint shape coming toward him. “Will you hurry up! I’m about to freeze my—”

  “Patience, my boy, patience.” Glancing over his shoulder, Wilson panted up the hill. “Sorry I’m late, but for a few minutes there I thought I was being followed.”

  “Followed?” Taking Wilson by the arm, Kerickson pulled him deeper into the blackness of the arena’s shadow. “Who would be following you at this hour?”

  “Probably no one. Everyone is restless since Micio died.” Wilson leaned back against the bricks. “You know how it is. Things won’t settle down until there’s a new Emperor.”

  “Yeah, well, now that you’ve got me out here in the middle of the night, let’s quit wasting time. Just what did you think you found out?”

  “Well, you know that little mix-up with Amaelia?” Wilson hesitated. “It was no accident. I searched Vesta’s temple and found a note sent to Amaelia Metullus signed by her father, telling her to meet him at the Public Baths. It was a setup.”

  “So?” Kerickson tried to rub some feeling back into his arms. “That’s the whole point—everyone is trying to become Emperor. Micio was bound to have a whole stadiumful of political enemies.”

  “Yes, but how many of them would be able to interfere with the god programs? It wasn’t a coincidence that Minerva was down on the very same day we had a fatal fire. Once I analyzed the stats, I found that her buffers were being randomized by a self-renewing program, guaranteed to keep her out of action until it was deleted.”

  “But—” Kerickson looked around, then leaned in closer. “But no one has access to the Interface except you and me.”

  “And HabiTek.” Wilson stared straight into his eyes. “It’s so obvious. Don’t you see?”

  “See what?”

  Nearby in the velvet-black darkness, a sandalled foot slipped in the sandy soil. The two men glanced sharply at each other, then pressed back against the coldness of the arena’s granite wall.

  “We can’t be seen together,” Wilson whispered. “I’ll have to meet you again tomorrow night.”

  Kerickson caught his arm. “Where?”

  “I’ll let you know.” Wilson pulled out of his grasp, then hesitated. “Give me your dagger.”

  Surprised, Kerickson started to unbuckle his belt and hand it over.

  “No, just the dagger.” Wilson glanced down the darkened hill. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

  “No problem.” He drew the wooden-handled dagger from the short scabbard and passed it to Wilson. “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, old son.” Wilson hefted the dagger. “I’ve programmed Mars to look after me.”

  That wasn’t particularly reassuring. Kerickson watched his former coworker pick his way back down the hill, heading toward the center of the Imperium and the safety of the Interface.

  Then he looked around, trying to decide what to do. It was hours before the school would open, and he didn’t want to attract attention. Finally, he headed into the graceful open arches of the Coliseum to find a likely spot to bed down. Tomorrow would be soon enough to present himself at the school as Gaius Clodius Lucinius, freedman and new student in the ancient arts of mayhem.

  * * *

  Lying there, all alone in that great big Imperial bed, Demea scrunched her eyes closed, reflecting what a very disagreeable thing light was so early in the morning. Why, it had to be no later than seven o’clock, and here the sun was, rising merrily as though everyone had to be up and get about their business, which she, of course, did not.

  Frowning, she stretched her arms above her head. Perhaps she would petition Juno to keep the sun down until at least ten A.M. After all, what use was influence unless you wielded it? And one of the best points of living in this place was that here, unlike the dreary outside world, the gods sometimes answered your prayers.

  A soft, hesitant whisper broke into her thoughts. “Mistress?”

  “Go away!”

  “Mistress, please!” Quick, light footsteps crossed the floor to the side of her bed. “He says he won’t go away without speaking to you. He says he’ll just have to take his business elsewhere if you don’t get up and speak to him right now.”

  Demea opened her eyes just the slightest crack and winced. “I’ll sell you, I swear I will, Flina, if you don’t get out of here right this minute!”

  “But mistress, it’s one of them, from the Spear and Chicken.” Flina’s fingers tugged insistently at the silk coverlet tucked around Demea’s body. “You know.”

  For a second she couldn’t think what the little wretch was getting at. “The Spear—and Chicken?” Then she remembered Micio talking about that place and some sort of special deal on the side he’d had with them. “Oh . . .” She pressed the heels of her hands against her aching eyes. “Yes, well, I suppose you had better show him in.”

  “In here, mistress?”

  Blinking against the horrid, yellow, glaring sunlight, she scowled at Flina’s smooth dark face. “Yes—or would you rather I entertain him in the Palace Baths?”

  Tucking her hands behind her back, Flina dropped her dark-eyed gaze to the mosaic inset into the pink floor.
>
  “Then go and get him.” She watched the young maid retreat. “Robot.” she whispered to herself. Flina had to be a robot. It would be positively illegal for a human to be so poised and graceful this early in the morning. She leaned her head back against the carved teak headboard and reflected that it was too bad the rules forbade physical punishment; she would just love to have the ungrateful wench beaten to see if welts would indeed appear on that firm young back.

  Flina reappeared in the doorway, followed by a stocky, middle-aged man in a greasy green tunic. “Publius Barbus, mistress, of the Spear and Chicken,” Flina announced.

  “Greetings, your ladyship.” The man’s broad face split into a craggy, gap-toothed smile. “Nice digs you got here.” He winked. “Not to mention a high sort of quality help.” As he spoke, his hand slipped down behind Flina’s backside and gave her a pinch.

  Flina jerked slightly, but otherwise gave no indication of having noticed. Demea narrowed her eyes. “That will be all, Flina,” she said frostily.

  “As you wish, mistress.” Flina’s crown of black braids bowed respectfully; then she backed out and closed the door behind her.

  “Thought she’d never leave!” Striding forward, Barbus plopped down on the bed and stared expectantly at Demea.

  Inwardly cursing Micio for dying and leaving her to deal with this low-life on her own, she pulled the pink coverlet up to her chin. “How may—I help you, Publius Barbus?”

  “Just call me Harry, your Imperialness.” Looking thoughtful, he scratched at a wart on his impressively arched nose. “I don’t really go for them sissy Roman names, and anyway, it’s really more like how you and I can help each other.” He leaned closer, and she detected the delicate aroma of garlic and sour wine. “It’s almost the Saturnalia, you know—only a few days to go now, and so much to do.”

  “Yes, well . . .” She tried breathing through her mouth. “I’m sure you understand that Micio always handled these details. I’m rather at a . . . loss at the moment.”

  “Heavens, don’t you go worrying your pretty little head about nothing, your Empressness.” Leaning in still closer, he patted her hand. “Just give old Harry here the word and things’ll go on just the same as always. You won’t have to lift one tiny pink finger.”

  “That’s very kind of you—Harry,” she said, shuddering under his touch. “I’m gratified to know there are those upon whom I can count in this time of need.”

  “’Course . . .” He laid a finger beside his beaky nose. “If I handle all the details on my own, I’ll have to take a bigger share of the profits to cover my expenses. That’s just good business. “

  “How—big a share?” she asked, wishing that he would just go away and let her sleep.

  “Oh, double should do the job.” He produced a rusty-looking dagger and began to pick his nails. “Unless something comes up.”

  “I should think half again your old share would be more than generous.” Her hand clasped the sheet tighter. “And nothing had better come up!”

  “It takes a powerful bit of money to keep mouths closed in a place like this, your royalness.” His face dropped into sorrowful folds. “And of course, his formerness, your late husband, he understood stuff like that. Had a real head for business, he did.”

  “In fact, I’ve changed my mind.” Sliding onto the cold floor so that the bed was between them, Demea clasped the silk sheet to her breast and concentrated on looking her most dignified. “I will handle the details myself, just as my beloved Micio did. You will resume only your old duties, nothing more.”

  “Unless you know where all the so-called bodies are buried, I wouldn’t be so hasty, your ladyness.” Publius’s thick eyebrows arched. “And as a betting man, I’d say you have no idea what I’m getting at, do you?”

  “Bodies?” she said faintly.

  “Himself knew everything about everyone, and as they say, information is always money in the right hands.” He winked, then stood. “I’ll just be on my way now. Don’t you worry one hair on that lovely head of yours. Things ought to run just as smooth as ever, maybe even more, now that old Harry’s got the reins.”

  Feeling like a fool, she watched him swagger out the door. So that rat, Micio, had known things, had he—important things he hadn’t shared with her. Somehow she had to find his information stash, or this whole setup was going to slip right through her bejeweled fingers.

  * * *

  The cooing of doves woke Kerickson from wild dreams in which police robots mounted on fiery, snorting horses chased him down the long winding streets of the Imperium and into the frigid, racing waters of the Tiber River.

  For a moment, lying there flat on his back, staring up at winged shadows flitting from arch to arch, he couldn’t remember where he was or what he was doing there. Then it came back to him—the fire, Micio’s death, his own dismissal by HabiTek, and Wilson’s overly dramatic insistence that he come back to put things right.

  Sitting up on the unpolished granite bench, he rubbed at his knotted neck, hating himself for being so stupid and gullible. Not one cobblestone of this place was his concern anymore. After giving six years of his life to make the Imperium run smoothly, he didn’t owe its idle, rich inhabitants one damn thing.

  And of course, to make it all much worse, there was no prospect of real coffee unless he hiked all the way down into the tourists’ restaurant district, and that would take too long. Shaking the dirt out of his cloak, he shrugged the heavy wool around his shoulders, then looked out into the blue-gray winter sky and estimated the time as after eight; he must have slept soundly after all.

  He walked through the arched outer halls of the arena, then trudged down the sandy path to the larger of the two adjacent Gladiatorial School buildings. Perhaps he could at least get some breakfast there.

  When he opened the door, a large brute with a broken nose and sinews that could have been made of iron crossed over to him. “And just who are you?”

  “Gaius Clodius Lucinius.” Kerickson glanced past the man’s dingy loincloth at the huge practice floor and the pairs of sparring students. The air was thick with sweat and oil and rotting food. Several good-sized rats were fighting over the remains of a half-eaten meat roll from under the nearest bench. “I’m sure that if you’ll check with Marcinius Flatus, you’ll find I’m expected.”

  “Well, that might be difficult, unless you’ve a mind to visit the Underworld.” Drawing a huge dagger, the man ran a thumb along the edge, leaving a bright line of blood behind.

  Kerickson winced. Bladed weapons were illegal in the Game. First chance he got, he’d have to alert Security to search this place.

  “There’s been a slight—accident.” The man’s scarred lips twisted, displaying his stained teeth in a skull-like grimace. “Flatus is dead. I’m the new owner.”

  “Oh.” The back of Kerickson’s shoulders began to itch. “And you are?”

  “The great Nerus Amazicus.”

  “I see.” He recognized the name of a popular but unscrupulous gladiator, known for causing real injuries in a sport where simulation was the rule. Peering around the enormous, grimy, muscular chest, he tried to think how to play this. “Are you still taking new students, then, or should I apply elsewhere?”

  “You—a gladiator?” Amazicus threw back his head and laughed all the way from his hairy belly up. “What have you got—two, maybe three hit points at the most? You wouldn’t last five minutes with a real pro.”

  Kerickson glanced down at his Game bracelet—half a hit point. This had all been a miscalculation, although he could see why Wilson thought no one would ever look for him here.

  “Now, I suppose we could use an undersized runt like you as arena bait for teasing the tigers, or perhaps you could spar with the girls.”

  A chuckle ran through the sweaty room. Kerickson backed toward the door. “Never mind—”

  “Don’
t you lay one finger on that delicious blond head!” a female voice screeched. “I want him!”

  Laughter roared. Kerickson felt for the door handle behind his back as a towering, broad-shouldered woman clad in two small scraps of worn cloth elbowed her way through the snickering students. Her cropped brown hair was slicked back from her face with perspiration, and a purpling bruise slashed across her cheek. She weighed at least two hundred pounds without an ounce of fat.

  “Oh, yeah?” Amazicus threw his chest out. “And what if I say you can’t have the little twerp?”

  “Then I’ll fight you for him.” Brandishing a trident, she flashed him a wicked grin full of broken teeth. “He doesn’t look as though he’d have much go in the arena, but I bet he could warm a girl’s blankets at night—couldn’t you, sweet thing?”

  Kerickson’s groping hand found the doorknob and pulled.

  “Not so fast, runt.” With a twist of his wrist, Amazicus sent him sprawling on the mats, then turned his attention back to the woman. “And just how much are you willing to bet?”

  “Name your price, turdface.” She knotted her dingy brown hair back with a leather thong.

  Amazicus’s nostrils flared. “At least I didn’t lose my lease down on the Via Nova from lack of customers!” He thrust his furry chest out. “From what I hear, Ivita, you couldn’t even give it away!”

  She dropped into a fighting crouch and sneered back at him. “How would you know? According to what I hear, you’ve never had any!”

  Light danced over the pair’s rocklike muscles as the two rushed together like speeding airtrains. Kerickson was just scrambling for the door when the air between them came alive with a thousand sparkling blue lights.

  “FINALLY!” Settling himself on a divan that hadn’t been there a moment ago, a small, round-faced man nodded approvingly.

  “Mighty Mars, respected God of War.” Ivita hurriedly dropped to one knee and bowed her head. “Tell us how we can serve you.”