It was a risk Pierce was willing to run; if Juvenal tried it, Pierce would charge the poet with admitting to Trajan-ist sympathies, and had no doubt that the Elders would believe their pet Christian over an unknown pagan. And that would be the end of Decimus Iunius Iuvenalis.
Seventeen
“You’re to report to the emperor in his meeting room,” the decurion told Pierce at the north gate of the palace.
“I go at once.”
The guards on the terrace took his revolver before admitting him to the meeting; obviously Martel was not relaxing security even for endo Christians sent by divine providence. Maria Donovan, in her usual chair by the wall, smiled at him as he crossed the floor to stand by her side. Pierce scanned the Elders around the table, trying to sense their mood.
Willard was chairing the meeting tonight. He nervously stroked his sandy beard, and his eyes moved restlessly from one face to the next: doing his own readings, Pierce decided, and feeling less secure than he liked.
“ … think we ought to develop a fallback plan if this rally in the Colosseum doesn’t work,” David Greenbaugh was saying. The Trainable was clearly exhausted, his face pale and slack. “We’re making an appeal to the general population, but we have to remember that those people are all clients of one aristocrat or another. There’s a chance that the aristocrats will tell their people to stay away, to reject the emperor. And that’ll just make the senate more stubborn than ever.”
The others said nothing: Old Elias Smith, a tough survivor of jails, riots, and deportation, seemed half-asleep. Matthew Knowles and Martin Armbruster sat purse-lipped and anxious, understanding Greenbaugh’s argument but not certain whether to back it.
Martel broke the silence. “What kind of plan would you suggest, Brother David?”
“Well, Dear Michael, we’re going to need the aristocrats to help run the empire. We’ve been purging the old emperor’s people, and the aristocrats who benefited from trading with the IF. That’s a lot of people, and we’ve certainly put the fear of the Lord in the rest of them. If they don’t think they have a chance under a Christian emperor, they’ll turn to Trajan. So we should develop some positive contacts with reasonable people in the elite — both the senators and the equestrians. When they see the light, we’ll bring them on side. That’s how Augustus did it when he set up the principate, and so did Caligula and Nero and Domitian. These aristocrats are always fighting each other, and there’s sure to be a faction that’ll be glad to back us up if it means they can get rid of their enemies.”
Elias’s hand went up. “With respect, Mr. Chairman, Brother David’s argument goes against the policies Dear Michael has established. We heard last night how these ancient aristocracies always hated popular leaders and called them tyrants. I’d be glad to see them all humbled. And that’s what’s going to happen after tomorrow in the Colosseum.”
Knowles nodded. “Mr. Chairman, I seem to recall reading somewhere that they had to keep promoting people into the aristocracy because it would’ve died out anyway. Let’s not worry too much about them; if we get the majority of people with us, we can pick and choose the best of them to take over administration.”
Greenbaugh looked angry. “Mr. Chairman, that’s all very well as a long-term policy once we’re firmly in control. But I’m talking about getting through the next few days and weeks, with the International Federation likely to pounce any moment now.”
Martel nodded, smiling. “We’re looking at both sides of a single answer, brothers. We need to win the support of patricians and plebeians alike; support from one will encourage support from the other. After the rally tomorrow, we’ll have both. We’ve got Comutus locked up in the basement, and he’s changed his mind about resisting us. So Comutus will endorse me as emperor, and the people will swing over to me after they hear that and see the show we’re going to put on for them. That’ll bring the aristocracy into line.”
“But what about Plinius?” Greenbaugh asked. “He’s still loose, and he could cause a lot of trouble.”
“We’ll find him.” Martel looked almost smug. “And if we don’t, it hardly matters. His term as consul is only two months, and it ends on June thirtieth. By then we’ll be firmly established, and I’ll appoint the next two consuls.”
“Any further discussion, brothers?” asked Willard. “Then let’s move on to item four, the program for tomorrow.”
Knowles raised his hand at once. “Mr. Chairman, we’ve got these lusiones, these fake combats, scheduled before Dear Michael speaks, and that worries me. It seems just as bad as the pagan emperors to be holding fights.”
“If Dear Michael would take the chair for a moment, I’ll answer Brother Matthew’s concerns,” Willard said. “Now, I know just how you feel, Brother Matthew. But these are just pretend combats, with wooden swords. No one’s going to get hurt, well, maybe bruised a little. And we’ve got to fill those seats. We get fifty thousand people in there, we’ve got five percent of the whole city. So we put on a show; no harm in that.”
The debate sputtered on a little longer, but Knowles finally acceded. Willard resumed the chair and ran them briskly through the rest of the agenda. Pierce listened with interest.
“Last item,” Willard said somberly. “Brother Dennis and his team are still missing. We’ve had patrols out in the area he was last reported in, and they can’t find hide nor hair. We know they were in the villa of somebody named Tertius, and then they went on to a place called Vallis Viridis, but they never got there. The local people say they don’t know anything about it.”
“Who were they after in Vallis Viridis?” asked Armbruster.
“A senatorial family named Aquilius. Close ties to the IF; their boy got sent uptime for Training. But the whole family’s gone. Supposedly to Capua.”
“We’ll turn ’em up eventually,” said Elias Smith. “And Brother Dennis, too.”
“Further discussion? Motion to adjourn?”
They prayed briefly before pushing back their chairs and dispersing. Martel caught Pierce’s eye and beckoned to him and Maria. When everyone but the guards had left, Martel asked:
“What success, Alaricus?”
“A little, my lord. I believe I have found a place where Christians sometimes gather. They know I am interested in contacting them; now I must wait a little. I think they are frightened.”
Martel leaned back, smiling. “Well done! How soon do you think they will come forward?”
“Perhaps a day or two, my lord.”
“Good. But they are foolish to be frightened of us.” They’d be foolish not to be frightened, Pierce thought. “My lord, the man I spoke with seemed worried about the disappearance of Plinius and the senate’s refusal to grant you the imperium. I think the Christians fear being accused of treason if they support us.”
Martel nodded. “They will learn courage. Thank you, Alaricus. Pursue your contacts, and persuade them to come forward and join us.”
“I shall, my lord.”
In English, Martel said to Maria, “He’s doing pretty well, isn’t he? Seems to have made more progress in half a day than we have in weeks.”
“I’m real proud of him, Dear Michael.”
“You have a busy day tomorrow; you’d better get some sleep.”
Outside on the terrace the guards returned Pierce’s pistol. Maria grinned as he replaced it in his shoulder bag. “Did you need it?”
“Not yet, my lady. But if we go to the Praetorian camp tomorrow, we may need it very much.”
“We’ll be going early, and leaving early. I have much to do at the Colosseum.”
“The Coloss — ah, the Flavian Amphitheater? Of course, my lady. I am looking forward to that. People are talking eagerly about it in the streets.”
“They’ll be talking about it for years.”
Outside her door, Maria said, “Are you sure you’re comfortable there in the doorway?”
“Very much so, my lady.”
“I think I’d feel safer if you slep
t inside the door.”
“Oh, no, my lady. If anyone got through the door, it would be much harder to defend you.”
She almost pouted. “I’d still like it better.”
“My lady, I do not just sleep in the doorway; I patrol all the corridors nearby. I cannot do that if I am locked inside your rooms.”
“Very well; I won’t argue. Good night, then. We’ll be up early tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Pierce smiled faintly as he heard her slam the bolt home. Under other conditions, it would be amusing to let her seduce him; but he needed freedom tonight.
For an hour he sat silently in the doorway, while the palace staff wound down the night’s activities. At last the only traffic down the corridor was a Praetorian watchman who plodded by every fifteen minutes or so. After a couple of circuits the Praetorian paused and nodded to Pierce.
“You’re the German who shoots so well,” he said in a whisper.
“At the camp? Yes, they showed me how to do it.”
“They gave me a tormentum, too, but I don’t like it.” He pulled back his sagum, a dark-gray cloak, to reveal a holstered Beretta. “Too much noise. I get into any trouble, I’ll use my sword. Then everyone sleeps peacefully,” he added with a grin.
Pierce grinned back, a comrade in arms. “Especially the one who gets the sword in his belly … I hear that the consul Plinius has disappeared.”
“So they say. We’ve got the other one, old Comutus, in a cell downstairs.”
“A cell? The consul in a cell?”
“The old fellow tried to escape when we put him in an apartment. So he’s down in the basement, just out of reach of the emperor’s wine.”
“Wine! You make me thirsty just to talk about it.”
The Praetorian winked and sidled closer. “These people don’t seem to care much for it, so a few flagons have gone missing. Fine stuff, even wines from Chios.”
“No! Here, tell me how to get there, and I’ll pay you two denarii.”
“Three.”
“Done.”
When the watchman went on his way, Pierce slipped from the doorway and headed down a nearby flight of stairs. The air chilled at the bottom: This part of the palace was underground. Corridors led in different directions, illuminated by occasional battery lamps. The watchman’s directions were good, and Pierce made his way easily to the wine cellar. It was a long room with an arched brick ceiling; amphorae, tall ceramic containers, stood three deep along the walls. Above them were shelves holding smaller flagons. Judging by the gaps, more than a few flagons had been taken recently. At the far end of the cellar, a corridor led into darkness. Pierce stepped cautiously into it, sniffing for the scent of a man, and soon found it.
The door was thick, with a gap of about ten centimeters at the bottom where a gutter ran out to a drain in the corridor. Kneeling, Pierce put his face close to the gap. The stink of old urine and excrement was dizzying. “Comutus Tertullus,” he said quietly.
“What is it?” It was an old man’s voice, but not a frightened one.
“I am a friend. Last night I warned Plinius to leave Rome.”
“They told me he was here in the palace.”
“They lied, Consul. He’s gone; before he left, he sent word to the senate to reject Martellus as emperor.”
Pierce heard a sudden intake of breath. “This Martellus is worse than Sejanus, then. He is a usurper.”
“Tomorrow he plans to display you in the Amphitheater, and to use your endorsement to persuade the senate to accept him.”
“They said Plinius would be there, too, and that he supports the usurper.”
“As I said, Consul, they lied. I must go now; think well about what these people want of you, and what history will say of your actions.”
“I shall indeed. Whoever you are, I thank you.”
“The senate and people of Rome will thank you tomorrow, Comutus Tertullus. Vale.”
“Vale.”
Pierce went back through the wine cellar, picking up a bottle of Chian wine as he went. If nothing else, Juvenal would appreciate it.
Returning upstairs, he walked quietly to Brother Kelly’s armory. The door was held by a simple padlock; Pierce unscrewed the hasp with the dagger Kelly had given him, let himself in, and found the shelf with the communications gear. A moment later he had a beeper tucked into his tunic. He went out, replaced the hasp, and returned to Maria’s door. Now, at least, he had a way to signal the helicopter when he was ready to run. It made him feel pleasantly secure.
*
In the morning, before dawn, Pierce and Maria crossed the city to the Praetorian camp. Their escort was a squad of urban cohorts, none with firearms but formidable nonetheless.
The long stretch of clear weather seemed about to break: The stars were lost behind an overcast, and dawn when it came was a gray murk. Mist swirled through the streets, mixing with the smoke of countless charcoal fires to form an eye-stinging smog.
Pierce felt better than he had in days. A few more caps of Pentasyn had dulled the symptoms of B&C, leaving his senses sharp. The beeper was safely tucked in his shoulder bag. He had slept well after returning from the palace basement, and looked forward to the day.
Striding along beside him, Maria seemed equally cheerful. “This will be a great day in the history of Rome, Alaricus. Today Rome becomes truly a Christian empire.”
“But it is already, my lady.”
“We have a Christian emperor; by tonight we will have a Christian city. You will see marvels, miracles.”
“I have seen marvels ever since I was granted my vision of you, my lady.”
She touched his cloaked shoulder. “You are a fine man.”
Brother Jeff the rangemaster was up and busy when they reached the camp. His men were setting up new targets, and a fresh crew of trainees stood stamping their feet in the dawn chill.
“Morning, Sister Maria.” He smiled at Pierce. “Ave, Alaricus.”
“Well,” said Maria in English, “we got our boy his own shooting iron, Brother Jeff.” She reached into Pierce’s shoulder bag and brought out the revolver. Brother Jeff looked at it and nodded.
“Not bad, but I think he can handle a Mallory.”
“Well, let’s see him try.”
The rangemaster brought out a Mallory .15, a twin of the one Pierce had lost. Pierce listened attentively as Brother Jeff explained the difference between bullets and flechettes, between low and high impact.
“This tormentum is very quiet, but very powerful. I will show you.” At impact 10, Brother Jeff exploded the head of one of the statue targets.
“But I didn’t even hear it!” Pierce exclaimed. “May I try this wonderful weapon?”
With the familiar grip in his hand, Pierce had to force himself to shoot awkwardly at first. Brother Jeff pointed out his errors; he nodded, and shot more accurately. While the Praetorians potted away with AK-47s, he smashed target after target. Brother Jeff stood beside him, barking out impact numbers: “Duo! Sex! Decern!” while Pierce’s thumb rolled the knob to the correct setting before firing.
At last the rangemaster turned to Maria. “Sister, if you don’t believe now that marksmanship is a God-given skill, I don’t know what it would take to convert you.”
“I’ve seen the light,” she said with a smile. “You know I practiced with a Mallory once for three weeks and couldn’t hit a blessed thing with it. Too light — I’d keep twitching my hand and putting the flechettes all over. But he’s got a steadier hand than those statues, doesn’t he?”
“Alaricus,” said Brother Jeff in solemn Latin, “I declare you a qualified marksman. And I hereby give you this weapon and its ammunition.” He handed over two clips.
“You are too kind,” Pierce protested. “This is too fine a weapon for me.”
“You deserve better than this piece of iron.” Brother Jeff smoothly unloaded Pierce’s revolver and put it into a wooden crate with an assortment of other handguns. “When you hav
e the time, come back and I’ll see what you can do with a rifle.”
The Mallory had a nylon holster that clipped to Pierce’s tunic belt. It felt good, almost too good: He would have to control the urge to massacre the Elders as he had the Praetorians at Aquilius’s villa.
*
They returned to Domitian’s palace, once again passing between the gladiators’ school and the Amphitheater. It was late morning, and people were already milling about. Scalpers hawked the yellow tickets that had been given away free, while vendors peddled snacks to people waiting for the Amphitheater gates to open.
“We’re going to have a lot of people today,” Maria said.
“Not all of them will be friends, my lady. I hope the Crucifers are prepared.”
“We will be.”
*
Palace cooks were sent over to the Amphitheater to feed the Militants, Praetorians, and slaves working to set everything up. Maria’s job was to oversee the security for Martel and the Elders; they would be seated on the pulvinar, just where Domitian had died less than a week ago. Maria watched a crew of slaves installing a four-strand barbed wire barrier around the pulvinar and the seats immediately above it. Martel and his entourage would be entering through the imperial gate; onlookers would be able to see him, but could not approach closer than twenty meters.
On either side of the barbed wire, Praetorians would stand guard; they would be armed only with swords and spears, however. Pierce approved: The Praetorians had already shown they could be bought and sold.
“When the emperor arrives, Alaricus,” Maria said apologetically, “I will have to take your tormentum also. I hope to make you a Crucifer someday, but for now you must yield your weapon.”
“I understand, my lady. As Shimon told us, ‘Satan lies in wait for the unready.’”
“O Lord,” Maria said softly in English, her eyes fixed on Pierce’s. “Dear Michael’s very words. If ever I doubted, I repent.”
Rogue Emperor (The Chronoplane Wars Book 3) Page 20
