Rogue Emperor (The Chronoplane Wars Book 3)

by Crawford Kilian

  Aquilius touched the screen at a point north of the city, near the Via Flaminia. The map flashed into fine detail of a region about five by eight kilometers.

  “Our villa is here,” he said. “It’s called Vallis Viridis, Green Valley. We’re only half a day’s walk from Rome. Perhaps you could put us down there.”

  Pierce shook his head. “It’s too open there, and look at all the villages nearby. Someone would be sure to report the landing. We need a place where we can land and disappear.”

  “That looks like your best chance,” said the pilot. He pointed to the VDT, and the screen obligingly showed a narrow ridge in the countryside about fifteen kilometers north of the Aquilius estate. “Little village to the south; they’ll hear us, and maybe see us, but we’ll just be strange lights in the sky. You come down the hill at first light, get on the Via Flaminia, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” Pierce nodded and went back to his seat while Aquilius kept the pilot company. Whoever was giving Uzis to the Praetorian Guard would soon hear of the strange lights in the sky, and might investigate, but by then he and Aquilius should be safely distant.

  He was exhausted; the assassination of Domitian seemed to have happened both moments and years ago. Perhaps when they were on the ground he could catch a couple of hours’ sleep, though insomnia was another hazard of Briefing and Conditioning.

  The helicopter crossed the coastline where the Aeroporto Leonardo Da Vinci stood on Earth, at Fiumicino just north of the Tiber’s mouth. A few tiny lights were burning in the streets of Ostia, and a few more to the east, in Rome itself. Night flight on the downtime chronoplanes could be unsettling: first the endless darkness, and then the faint, humble signs that people lived down there.

  As the helicopter passed over Rome, Pierce wondered what the Romans would think of the distant roaring in the night sky, assuming they could hear it over the endless squeal and rumble of wagons in the streets. Another portent?

  With no warning the Sikorsky began to descend. Pierce pinched his nostrils and blew, equalizing the pressure in his ears. The helicopter’s floodlights swept over a steep hillside, pale-green grass a matrix for the darker green of olive trees. At the top of the hill, a clearing ran along much of the ridge. The pilot put them down with an efficient lack of ceremony. Pierce was surprised to hear the engines die; he had expected a quick drop under turning rotors.

  “Don’t worry,” the pilot said; his voice seemed unnaturally loud in the absence of the engine noise. “I’ve never been downtime before. Wanted to take a quick look.”

  Pierce opened the door in the side of the helicopter. Warm, muggy air poured in. The pilot laughed.

  “Smells like damned Sicily. Roma antica. You fellows are welcome to it.”

  “We’ll see you again in three days?”

  “I’ll come through. If I pick up your homing signal, I’ll come and find you. If the signal’s not on, I go back through the Screen and try again two days later.”

  “Good.” Pierce shook the man’s hand; so did Aquilius, who then jumped from the doorway to the rocky soil of the ridge. Pierce used a penlight to guide them away from the drop zone and into a grove of olive trees. A minute later the engines came to life again and the helicopter rose darkly, in a storm of dust and leaves, into a starry spring sky. In seconds it was gone. When its clatter had faded away, Pierce and Aquilius heard dogs barking furiously down in the village, and a woman’s shrill and frightened voice.

  They walked a few steps to the southern edge of the clearing. Beyond it the ridge fell away steeply into darkness. A couple of orange sparks moved in the distance below: torches or lamps, burning in the village streets. Men called to one another while the dogs kept up their alarm.

  “Welcome home,” Pierce said.

  “What now? They’ll be up here soon.”

  “We go down the other side of the hill, then go around and pass the village before it’s full light. We’ll get on the Via Flaminia and reach your family’s villa in time for cena.”

  “Very well.” For the first time, Pierce heard him chuckle. “They will certainly be surprised to see us.”

  Aquilius turned and led the way across the clearing to the north. They began a rapid descent, guided by their shielded penlights along a narrow footpath. To the east the sky was beginning to brighten, with Venus gleaming above the sharp outlines of the Apennine peaks. Crickets clicked; frogs creaked. The air smelled of sheep dung and charcoal smoke.

  Pierce paused to look out across the still-dark plains of Latium. “This is a beautiful world,” he murmured.

  “They are all beautiful.”

  “But you prefer this one?”

  “I am glad to be back, but I am sorry for the people here. My world is doomed by yours. Your people have taught me Roman history that will never happen here.”

  “We lost our history, too. On Ulro and Urizen, my cognate — the person I was on those chronoplanes — was shot almost seven years ago.”

  Those worlds had not gained the accidental rescue of the I-Screen; they had plunged over the precipice into war, plague, and revolution, and had recovered only to be destroyed by Doomsday. Pierce had seen the report on his own torture and interrogation and execution, a trivial footnote in an encyclopedia of catastrophe.

  “So you have a second chance at life, and you spend it risking death here.”

  “Some of us never learn,” said Pierce.

  The footpath reached a narrow gully and followed it west along a noisy brook until it reached a small stone bridge. Left would take them into the village; right would lead away from the Via Flaminia.

  “Are we presentable enough?” asked Pierce. “Will they suspect something’s wrong?”

  “The only people who travel at night are farmers on their way to market, and those who guard them. Better to wait here until well after dawn.”

  Pierce nodded and climbed down the creek bank to get under the bridge. Aquilius followed.

  “What happens once we reach Rome?” he asked.

  “We ask questions. We watch. As soon as we know enough, we get back out where the helicopter can pick us up.” Pierce leaned back against the stones, pulled his cloak tighter, and dozed off for a while.

  It was full light when Aquilius touched his shoulder. They crept out from under the bridge and set off toward the village. The path, deeply rutted, led past small fields turning green with spring wheat. Cypresses lined the path and marked off many of the fields. Birds sang in the slanting light of the early-morning sun.

  The village was a cluster of one-and two-story brick buildings that looked more like barracks than like farmers’ homes. The dark-yellow stucco on the walls was marked with countless graffiti, mostly political: Gn. Statilius S. is the best choice for aedile, Farmers support C. Albus, Vote for Honorius. But Pierce also saw a symbol he had noticed often on his journey north from Rome to the Alps: a little fish, identical to that displayed by bumper-sticker Christians during Pierce’s boyhood in New Mexico.

  The air was thick with the smells of charcoal smoke and dung. In a smithy facing the village’s single street, a wiry man pounded furiously on a red-hot iron rod, while another man threw firewood into a furnace. Women filled clay jugs from a lion-faced fountain nearby, and children ran about, giggling at the strangers.

  Aquilius led the way to a popina, a little cookshop set in the first floor of a taberna overlooking the village street. A thin, acned girl stood behind a counter in which three kettles were set; beneath each, charcoal glowed in a bronze brazier.

  “Two bowls of porridge,” Aquilius ordered. “I’ll have mine with olives.”

  “I’ll have mine plain,” said Pierce.

  The girl took a few coins from Aquilius and ladled out two small wooden bowls of gray-brown porridge. She added a handful of black olives to one, and passed the bowls, with paddle-like wooden spoons, to the men. Aquilius stirred in his olives and ate with gusto. Pierce thought his porridge coarse and tasteless, but ate it anyway; he had eaten worse
on his first trip to Ahania.

  “What news from Rome?” Aquilius asked the girl.

  “The emperor was slain in the Flavian Amphitheater — have you not heard that?”

  Aquilius feigned surprise — rather poorly, Pierce thought. To distract the girl, he said: “The emperor Domitian, slain! May the gods preserve Rome. How did it happen?”

  “Each traveler brings a different tale. Most say he was struck by a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, just as the omens foretold.”

  “What omens?” asked Aquilius.

  She looked genuinely frightened, but also excited. “Truly, the heavens have warned for months of great changes. We’ve heard of many omens, but last night was the strangest of all. A demon came close to here last night.”

  “A demon?” Pierce repeated incredulously. She nodded, almost complacent in her superior knowledge.

  “We all saw its fiery eyes, up there.” She pointed to the hill where the helicopter had landed. “And it made a terrible roaring. It came from Rome and returned toward Rome. I was very frightened.”

  “Indeed, it does sound frightening. We live in strange times,” said Aquilius. “Perhaps it was a demon that slew the emperor yesterday.”

  “I do not know.”

  “Did the Christians foretell this death?” asked Pierce.

  She looked anxious. “I have heard something like that. But that’s just slaves’ talk. I’m freeborn.”

  “And a credit to your father. Why would slaves talk about such prophecies?”

  “Slaves talk about anything. We have a couple who talk nonsense all day long.”

  Pierce cleared his throat of the heavy porridge. “Are those slaves by any chance Christians?”

  She looked scandalized. “In my family, we all respect the gods.”

  They handed back their bowls for a casual wiping, and said farewell to the girl.

  “It’s good to be home,” said Aquilius cheerfully as they walked down the street. “Things smell right here. I know it’s all unhealthy, but it still feels comfortable.”

  “That’s why I wanted you to come with me. How did you read that girl’s answers?”

  “She knows a little more than she said, but not much. Her family slaves are probably Christians, and the family keeps it quiet.”

  “Christianity has made more progress than I’d realized. We used to think of it as a fringe cult among urban slaves, yet the ichthyos is on almost every wall here.”

  Aquilius smiled sourly. “Rome is always ready for a new sensation. Nero’s persecution of them gave them notoriety. Even so, most still think of Christians as subversives.”

  “Do you?”

  “Knowing what I do, of course.”

  *

  From the outskirts of the village, the path curved southwest past small wheat fields, each fenced by stones. Where the land was infertile, it was put to some other use: a brickyard, a mill, a smithy and slagheap. Pierce noted that, as in his first journey on Ahania, people were always in sight. They washed clothes in a stream, herded sheep, chased crows, trotted along the road bearing wicker baskets of potter’s clay or vegetables or even a whole slaughtered pig, its severed head staring blindly at the sky.

  “Most are slaves,” Aquilius muttered.

  “How can you tell?”

  The young Roman looked surprised. “From the jobs they are doing.”

  “Do their owners ever fear a revolt?”

  “Once, the senate considered dressing all slaves alike. Then they realized the slaves would only draw courage from seeing their own numbers. Sometimes a slave will rebel, and even draw others into his folly. Most are too sensible. They know they could win freedom by good service; my father has freed scores of slaves, and he is not unusual.”

  “And if a slave murders his master, all the slaves in the household will be put to death,” Pierce said.

  Aquilius looked at him, squinting in the sunlight. “Mr. Pierce, after what I learned uptime, I understand how cruel slavery can be. But Rome cannot be supported any other way, at least until it gains uptime technology.”

  “Which will only create still more unemployed people, as slavery itself has.”

  “Your own world cares very little for such people.”

  Pierce laughed briefly. “True enough.”

  Not far to the west, a long row of cypresses marked the Via Flaminia. They cut across a field to reach it.

  The highway was crowded. Like all Roman roads it was exactly 4.8 meters wide, enough to allow vehicles to pass one another. The pavement was made of large stones, each shaped to fit its neighbors tightly and showing grooves made by countless vehicles. Like teeth, the cobbles had pointed roots sunk deep into an underlying bed of gravel. On either side, a narrow gravel shoulder ran beside a gutter. Foot traffic stayed on the shoulder, while carts rumbled over the cobbles. Most were simple oxcarts carrying sacks of early vegetables or last year’s grain; they moved at less than walking speed. Occasionally a two-wheeled chariot racketed past on iron-rimmed wheels, the standing driver shouting and swearing at anyone in his way.

  The cypresses gave welcome shade; it was already warm and muggy. The two men walked steadily along the shoulder, occasionally passing other persons with a brief greeting or pausing to ask the latest news. Few knew much, beyond the fact of the emperor’s death. One man said he had seen the Hesperian embassy in flames — “Such a pity, old Maecenas poured millions into that place” — but knew nothing about what had happened to the Hesperians themselves.

  Late in the morning they came to a mutationis, a rest stop and changing station for official travelers. It was a tidy compound on the edge of a fenced meadow where horses grazed. The main building, built of bricks and faced with white stucco, had a shaded porch where two men sat on a bench munching bread. Each was dressed in a leather cuirass over a blue cotton tunic and wore a leather hat much like a twentieth-century British infantryman’s round helmet. Between them were two leather shoulder bags, oiled against bad weather. They were postmen, members of the cursus publicus; their bicycles, two Norco mountain bikes painted glossy gold, leaned against the wooden porch pillars. Ten or twelve children clustered near the bikes, fascinated but afraid to touch.

  “Hail, friends,” Aquilius greeted them. “Are you coming out from Rome?”

  “We are,’ said the younger of the two. He was a youth with a big nose and hard eyes.

  “Please tell us the news. We heard the emperor was slain yesterday.”

  “You heard right,” said the older postman; he had a ruddy, scarred face and greasy hair. “Saw it myself, I did, in the Flavian Amphitheater, just after cena. The myrmillo Astavius was just getting going with a useless retiarius, fellow who looked like he’d never seen a net before. All of a sudden, a thunderclap, with not a cloud in the sky, and then smoke and flames and everyone running for the exits.”

  “So much we’ve heard. And what has happened since then? Has the senate met? Who is the successor?”

  “Trajan for sure,” said the younger postman. “There’s a fine general! We’re bound north to send him the word of the emperor’s death, and if he’s as smart as he’s supposed to be, he’ll come south like old Caesar himself, with a good big army at his back.”

  “May the gods forbid another year of civil war over the succession,” said the scar-faced man. “My father fought for old Vespasian,” he said proudly. “He always bragged about that, helping restore peace after the year of the four emperors.”

  “Who has sent you on this journey?” Aquilius asked.

  “General Drusus of the Praetorian Guard. Guess that tells you who the next emperor will be, eh? Can’t stop a man with the Praetorians behind him.”

  “We hear the Hesperian embassy was burned,” Pierce said.

  The postmen looked at him and grinned. “A German, eh?” said the younger man. “Bet you’re a Goth.”

  Pierce grinned back. “You win your bet. And what of the Hesperians?”

  “They’re said to be sorcerers. The P
raetorians stormed the embassy and slew them all. I hear the guards have some kind of new slings, throw little stones hard enough to kill a man. Make a great noise, too. But we haven’t seen them.”

  “The Hesperians couldn’t be much at sorcery if they’re all dead,” said Pierce with a broad, cold smile. The postman nodded and laughed, but the scar-faced one looked warily at Pierce.

  “Will the consuls govern until Trajan arrives?” asked Aquilius, nervously changing the subject. Pierce made himself relax; if his anger was showing, he must conceal it.

  “I expect so,” said the younger postman with a cynical grin. “And the Guard’ll keep them from doing anything foolish.”

  Pierce reflected on a hazard of Roman government: to prevent a return to monarchy, the Romans elected two consuls every year to govern them. Each could override the commands of the other, and so protect the rights of the senate and people. Since Julius Caesar, and especially since Caesar’s nephew Augustus, the system had become a mockery. To give all the aspirants some experience, the consulship was now only two months long, and little more than a ceremonial post and a stepping stone to more powerful positions like provincial governorships. The current consuls were Comutus Tertullus, an old man, and a young patrician named Plinius Caecilius — Pliny the Younger, nephew of the Pliny who had died in the eruption of Vesuvius. Technically, those two men were in charge of the government until the senate officially conferred power on the new emperor. As prominent members of Domitian’s government, however, they were likely to be murdered. The Praetorian Guard would then proclaim its choice for emperor, and the senate would obey.

  It had been a little simpler on Earth’s timeline: there, Domitian’s assassination had led to the short reign of Nerva, who in turn had adopted Trajan and put him in line for the principate. Here on Ahania, Domitian had named no successor, Nerva had died without becoming emperor, and Trajan would have to rely on courage and his legions to seize power without the aura of legitimacy.

  “We must hurry,’ said Pierce. “A good journey to you both, and a good journey home.”

  “And to you,” said the scar-faced man. He got up, stretched, and meticulously checked his bicycle. As Pierce and Aquilius walked back onto the road, they heard the jingle of the bicycles’ bells. The mob of children ran shrieking after the two postmen, who were soon out of sight.