“I won’t have to,” he said cheerfully. “Just remember that whatever move you choose is purely up to you, but I will have a return for my investment in you—whatever form it takes.”
With that, he turned and left, his armor clinking. She stared numbly after him. This was only a game; she knew that, but why did it suddenly feel so real?
The maidservant caught her eye again, then looked pointedly at the pale green gown. With a trembling hand, Amaelia touched the smooth silk.
* * *
Kerickson’s head whirled as he retreated back through the bustling Market District, smothered by the aroma of sour wine, sizzling sausages, and pungent onions. It was too much to take in. Wilson was dead, murdered by Kerickson’s own newly issued dagger by the looks of things. How long before the police confirmed the registration of that dagger with Costuming and came looking for the freedman Gaius Lucinius?
And if it came to alibis, he had no one but the blasted pigeons to swear that he’d slept in the amphitheater last night. He had to find out what was going on before the computer pinpointed his whereabouts for the police.
But where to start? He couldn’t get back into the Interface, but the ultimate answers had to be out here on the playing field anyway. This had all started with Amaelia’s disgrace, followed quickly by Micio’s death, and both of those events had taken place . . . at the Public Baths.
Hoping that Wilson had provided his Game identity with a decent amount of credit, he altered his course to the north, eventually intersecting the Via Appia. Around him the players went about their own business, their arms and their slaves’ arms full of packages and bundles, apparently intent on preparing for the coming Saturnalia, now only two days off.
Then he saw the looming arches of the red-brick Public Baths. Remembering the Oracle’s words, he decided that he could do with a bath anyway. He felt grimy right down to his toenails. And perhaps someone there had seen something the morning that Micio had died, or knew something without understanding it. He would ask a few innocent questions while bathing, then be on his way. Nothing could be simpler.
The line in the outer reception area was mercifully short. A trickle of sweat rolled down his temple as he presented his Game bracelet to the Keeper of the Baths, a snowy-skinned woman with jet-black hair. She glanced at his status light, then arched an eyebrow. “Pigs are supposed to wash down at the river.”
For a second he just stared back at her, afraid that the computer had stopped his account. Then he remembered his zeroed charisma ranking. “Well, you should obviously know,” he replied coldly.
She frowned. then debited his account and waved him on in. A roar of laughter went up from the gambling room in the middle, but he followed the scent of chlorinated water into the men’s bathing area instead. That was where Amaelia had been lured, and where the fire had occurred—and where Micio had been killed.
An old slave with a face like a withered apple met him at the entrance to the changing room. He took one look at Kerickson’s lowborn clothes, then shuffled back to his bench, his lip curling in disdain. As a freedman, Kerickson didn’t rank high enough to warrant help disrobing, unless he tipped well. He started to shuck out of his clothes by himself, then thought of Micio. The Emperor no doubt had required assistance.
Fishing in his leather coin purse, he produced several coppers and clinked the coins in his hand before depositing them in the slave’s wooden bowl. Grinning toothlessly, the slave lurched back to his feet and pawed at Kerickson’s cloak. “Fine day, ain’t it, sir? Want old Tithones to send this out for a bit of a wash?”
Not a bad idea. “Sure.”
The slave’s lips parted in another gruesome grin. “That’ll be another four.”
Kerickson dug out four more coins and stood stiffly as the slave fumbled with his tunic. It always made him feel like an idiot to be undressed as though he were a helpless child. He fixed his eyes on the brightly colored wall mosaics depicting the tasks of Hercules. “I bet you see everyone come through here, all the greats.”
“I seen a few in my time.” Tithones worked the tunic up over Kerickson’s shoulders, sticking at his neck and nearly garroting him before dumping it unceremoniously on the blue-tiled floor.
“Even the Emperor?”
The slave kicked the tunic aside. “A sad case, him being offed so suddenlike, and not even getting a trip to the Underworld out of it.”
Lowering his arms, Kerickson sat down on the wooden bench along the wall and let the slave fumble at his sandals. “I don’t suppose you saw him the day that he died?”
Tithones squinted up at him from the floor, his black eyes nearly lost in a maze of wrinkles. “And what if I did?”
“Did he talk to anyone?”
Jerking off the right sandal, the slave glanced at Kerickson’s Game bracelet, then grunted. “Well, if he did, it’d take more than the likes of you to get it out of me.”
Kerickson bit back an oath. That blasted charisma ranking again! He hid his bracelet behind his back. “Even if there was a silver in it for you?”
“Silver’s no good to a fellow stuck down in Hades, if you get my drift.” Tossing the second sandal over his shoulder, the slave struggled back to his feet.
“A gold, then,” Kerickson insisted impatiently.
“Even gold can’t buy a bloke’s way out of the Underworld.”
The slave hunched over for a second, then turned back around, a gleaming dagger in his gnarled hand, “But then, why don’t you just check it out for yourself?”
A MUSCLE twitched underneath Kerickson’s eye. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said slowly. “You won’t get any points for killing a freedman. Just how long have you been playing, anyway?”
“Long enough.” The stooped old slave’s cackle echoed hollowly as he hefted the knife in his arthritic fingers. “Long enough to know which way the wind is blowing these days. Long enough.” He shuffled forward, the dagger set to skewer Kerickson’s ribs.
The air shimmered in front of the wall mosaics, then coalesced into the shining form of a huge young man hovering above the tiled floor. “GET ON WITH IT, PLEASE.” The apparition ruffled his golden curls with a manicured hand. “I’VE AT LEAST A DOZEN OTHER DEATHS TO ATTEND TODAY.”
Kerickson took in the winged helmet and sandals, the short staff with its twining serpent—Mercury, messenger of the gods, conductor of souls to the Gates of the Underworld—and the biggest prima donna in the whole pantheon. “No one’s getting killed today. You might as well flit on out of here.”
Mercury folded his arms and reclined just above their heads, “ONE NEVER KNOWS, DOES ONE?” He winked a saucer-sized eye.
“Come to conduct him to the Underworld, have you?” The slave wrinkled his face into a gaping smile. “Don’t worry, your worship, you can have him in just a moment. I sneaked a look at his stats, and he’s only got half a hit point. Won’t hardly be no trouble at all.”
“You leave my hit points out of this!” Kerickson repressed an urge to tear off his Game bracelet and stuff it down the old man’s throat. “You touch one hair on my head and the computer will zero your authenticity rating. Slaves don’t go after citizens.”
“You’re asking questions, ain’t you—questions what ain’t your business at all?” Tithones scuttled closer, whirling the gleaming tip of the dagger in a tight circle. “Since when does arena bait come sniffing around asking questions about the highborn? I got strict orders about such things. ‘Out of the Game,’ he said. ‘Put anyone who comes prowling around for answers out of the Game straight away.’”
“Who said?” Kerickson inched backward, his eyes on the naked blade.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” The slave nodded up at the waiting god’s amused face. “They say you can find out almost anything—down there. Won’t do you no good, though.”
Sweat trickled down Kerickson’s fo
rehead into his eyes. “Did this person, whoever he is, order the Emperor’s death, too?”
“That mess?” The slave grimaced. “You must be joking. That was not done well at all—no trip to the Underworld, no points gained, nothing.”
“Then tell me who talked to the Emperor.” Kerickson squatted down and groped for his tunic without taking his eyes off the old man. “I mean, what harm can it do, since you’re going to kill me anyway? No one will ever know.”
“Orders,” the slave muttered. “I have orders. I know my place.”
Obviously a loon, Kerickson told himself.
A pair of senators strolled through the door, deep in conversation. He motioned at them frantically. “Send for the guard! This slave is trying to kill me!”
The taller of the two, a rather portly, balding man, smoothed his purple-striped toga. “Well, Decius, old man.” He turned to his companion. “I suppose this means we’ll have to disrobe by ourselves.”
The other senator shook his head, then began to undrape the folds of his heavy wool garment. “Tiresome, Scipio, but nothing to do with any scenario of ours.”
Kerickson watched in amazed silence as they turned their backs, shucked out of their togas and undertunics, and strolled casually into the fragrant warm bath in the next chamber.
“HURRY UP, BOYS,” Mercury insisted from above. “I MAY BE IMMORTAL, BUT I HAVEN’T GOT ALL DAY.”
The old slave’s eyes flicked upward as the god spoke. Kerickson lunged forward, forcing the man’s knife hand back into the tiled wall. The ivory-handled blade clattered to the tile as the old slave howled in pain. Kerickson snatched it up and pressed it to Tithones’s throat. “Now,” he said angrily, “tell me who spoke to Micio yesterday!”
“MORTAL WOUND!” Mercury descended to the floor. “BE A GOOD SPORT NOW AND LET US GET ON WITH IT.”
“What?”
“ACTUALLY, I DON’T BLAME HIM FOR GOING AFTER A WORMY THING LIKE YOU. YOUR DEMISE WOULD HAVE BEEN MORE ON THE ORDER OF A PUBLIC SERVICE THAN A REAL MURDER. IF I WEREN’T DIVINE AND ABOVE SUCH MUNDANE THINGS, I’D BE TEMPTED TO DO YOU IN MYSELF.” The god regarded Kerickson with heavy-lidded eyes. “AT ANY RATE, I RULE THIS A MORTAL WOUND.” He adjusted his winged headdress. “POOR OLD TITHONES HERE IS DEAD AS A DOORNAIL, JUSTLY SLAIN BY AN ENRAGED FREEDMAN, ALBEIT ONE OF ABSOLUTELY NO CHARISMA.”
“Dead? No, you can’t take him yet!” Kerickson clutched at the slave’s clothing.
“Paws off!” Tithones pushed him away, then straightened his rumpled gray tunic with an air of new dignity. “It’s against the rules for the living to have truck with the dead without the proper sacrifices and such.”
“YES, MY TOOTHLESS, LOWBORN FRIEND, I’M AFRAID IT’S OFF TO THE DISMAL DEPTHS FOR YOU.” With a sweep of his oversized arm, Mercury indicated the door. “TOO BAD THE BEST MAN DIDN’T WIN.”
Kerickson watched helplessly as Mercury shooed the shambling old slave out the door. Off to the Underworld, was it? Well, there was more than one way to enter that part of the Imperium. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” he muttered at the departing slave’s back. Then he realized that he still held the dagger. He looked at the carved ivory handle, the gleam of fine steel—definitely not Game-issue.
He retrieved his tunic from the floor, then sheathed the dagger in his empty scabbard. One way or the other, he was going to find some answers.
* * *
Even though it was well after lunchtime, the Spear and Chicken Inn did not lack for customers. From behind the brocaded-linen curtains of her litter, Demea lounged on fat satin cushions and watched an unsavory plebian crowd flow in and out of the peeling structure.
A nasty little establishment, she decided after a few minutes—exactly what she would have expected from that nasty little man, Publius Barbus. Whatever could Micio have been thinking of when he had gone into business with such a lowborn wretch?
She absentmindedly reached for another candied fig, and one of her litter bearers chose that precise moment to shift his weight. She grasped at the curtains to keep from falling out, but the linen ripped out of the rings, and in another second she found herself nosedown in the Roman dirt.
“My lady!” The nearest bearer’s blue eyes bulged out of his handsome, rather Teutonic face.
“Don’t just stand there gawking!” she hissed as the grimy crowd of laborers and freedmen stopped to stare and point at her. “Help me up at once or I’ll have the lot of you boiled in oil!”
They hesitated for a second, a matched set of eight muscular, blond statues; then, as a single man, they dropped the litter and scurried around the dilapidated corner of the Spear and Chicken’s closest rival, the Broken Pot.
“Having a spot of trouble there, your ladyness?”
She pushed herself up from the street, staring at a pair of broken-strapped sandals crammed with large, hairy, smelly toes.
“Now, you really shouldn’t lie down there in the street and all. You’ll spoil your fine duds.”
She glanced up into the gleaming, ratlike eyes of Publius Barbus and shuddered. The stocky little man clasped her under the arm, pulled her to her feet, and brushed her off.
“Strange place for the Empress to be takin’ her rest.” He nudged her in the side with his elbow.
“Publius Barbus—” She stumbled out of reach, trying vainly to pat the drooping strands of her fallen coiffure back into place. “I’m surprised we meet again so soon.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.” Locking his hands behind his back, he walked around the Imperial litter, which lay on its side in the middle of the street. He ran an exploratory finger over the polished mahogany poles and gold-chased fittings. “Nice piece of goods, this. Make a fine present.”
“Consider it yours,” she said quickly. “Now, could you—”
A mutter of admiration ran through the rapidly assembling crowd as the workmen and slaves fingered the snowy linen-brocade curtains and wrenched at the golden ornaments.
“Hands off!” Barbus’s bullet-like head swung in a wide arc. “Ain’t none of you bums ever seen a lady come to call on her sweetheart before? Now beat it!”
Demea’s palms began to sweat. “I’m afraid that there’s been some mis—”
“Think nothing of it, your aboveness.” Barbus winked as the gaping men and women dispersed. “I am, shall we say, discreet. Wild Britons couldn’t drag our little secret out of me. Now, let’s share a nice cup of wine before we get down to—” He rubbed his hands together. “—business.”
“Yes . . . business,” she said faintly, wondering if her face could possibly be as red as it felt. “Actually, that is why I came down here to see you today—to learn as much as possible about Micio’s business.”
“Oh, that.” Snagging her arm, he dragged her toward the Spear and Chicken’s dark and foreboding entrance. “Don’t give it a second thought. Old Barbus here will take care of everything. Save your energy for more pleasantlike things.”
She hastily ducked her head as they entered a dimly lit common room filled with drunks sitting on broken benches at three-legged tables. The air was thick with the essences of fried onions, cheap wine, and rancid olive oil. She covered her mouth and nose with a corner of her veil.
“It’s not much, but we call it home.” Barbus nodded, making the yellow light shine off his bald head. “Still, the front’s just for show. It’s the back where we really take care of the—” He lowered his voice. “—business.”
If she ever caught up with those bearers, she told herself, she would have each and every one of them tortured, no matter what the Game rules said! “Yes,” she made herself answer the odious little man, “I would love to see it.”
“Well, I always was the so-called brains of the enterprise.” Barbus plunged a hand beneath his grimy, sweat-stained tunic and scratched at an elusive itch. “Your late old man, now he was good at the flash and dash
, but me, I kept things going. I—” He thumped himself on the chest. “—know where the bodies are buried.”
“So you said before,” she murmured in her best I’m-so-stupid-and-you’re-so-smart voice. “But I haven’t the slightest idea what ‘bodies’ could have to do with any of this.”
Laying a finger beside his warty nose, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Think for a moment. In the Game, when someone bites the big one, where does he go?”
“Bites the big one?”
“You know, departs this vale of tears, cashes in his chips, buys the farm.”
She swayed, close to being overcome by the noxious fumes, then steadied herself on the greasy wooden bar. “You mean, dies?”
“Yeah, when someone is killed, what happens?”
She sank down on a rough-finished bench and hiked her stola up out of contact with the filthy floor. “Well, above, they have the proper sacrifices and a funeral pyre while the player goes to the—”
“Underworld!” he finished triumphantly. “And there they stay, twiddling their fingers, cooling their respective heels, watching all the fun above on monitors, but not able to do a single bloody thing about it until the quarter is up and they can reenroll.”
“I suppose so.” She massaged her temples, fighting the headache that threatened to overwhelm her. “I never really gave it much thought before.”
“So, let’s say you’re offed right before the Saturnalia or some other such big festival, and you don’t want to spend the next three months down in the Underworld, dead as last year’s gladiator. What do you do?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.” She stared in sick fascination as an army of enormous brown cockroaches marched across the floor.
“It’s so simple. You just pay old Barbus here a bit of money and then there you are, coming and going from the Underworld any time you like, partaking in all the so-called earthly delights of the living.”
The Imperium Game Page 8
