by Steve White
Tylar let the two men regard each other for a moment before filling the silence. “So, Noblissimus, you see that there will be no difficulties in this regard. Furthermore, you will have an ally. Gwenhwyvaer, wife of Artorius the Restorer and his regent in Britain. I’m empowered to tell you that she will support your claim—on one condition.”
“Condition… ?”
“Only one. You must agree to accept Britain’s independence from the Western Empire.” Sarnac gave Tylar another sharp glance, but held his tongue. “In exchange, she will recognize you as legitimate Augustus of the West.”
Ecdicius frowned. “Independence? Tertullian, I can’t set a precedent like that! Britain has been a Roman province since the time of Claudius…”
“Once again, Noblissimus, let us leave the legalisms to the lawyers.” Ecdicius’ eyes flashed dangerously, but Tylar hurried on. “Practically speaking, Britain has been independent since 410, when the Emperor Honorius gave permission for the provincials there to see to their own defense. Everyone recognized that as a de facto abandonment of the island, for an armed Britain would inevitably be a self-ruling Britain. And remember how the Restorer came to Gaul in 469 as High King of the Britons, ally of the Western Emperor Anthemius, who dealt with him as the separate sovereign he was. So you can acknowledge this accomplished fact with no loss of dignity.”
“But, Tertullian, the precedent! What if other provinces start getting ideas?”
“Given the uniqueness of Britain’s history over the last eighty years,” Tylar said smoothly, “no valid precedent will be created. So the matter need not concern you, Noblissimus; rather, you should concern yourself with the implications of having a hostile Britain to your west at the same time you’re facing an attempt at reconquest from the east.”
“Hmmm…” Ecdicius stroked his not-inconsiderable nose thoughtfully. He didn’t look happy, but he gave a slow nod. “Very well—so be it. I’ll pay Gwenhwyvaer’s price.” He stood up and stretched, catlike. “Plenty of time to work out the details later. I need a turn on deck.” He paused at the hatch and looked back at Sarnac. “The tail wagging the dog!” He shook his head and chuckled as he left the stifling cabin, followed by the others. But Sarnac touched Tylar’s sleeve, and the two of them remained.
“I seem to recall you saying,” Sarnac began without preamble, “that the plotters who tried to assassinate Ecdicius were an aristocratic clique motivated solely by power politics. You never mentioned anything about them being a bunch of Monophysite fanatics.”
“Quite.” Tylar pursed his lips. “Strictly speaking, I never actually told Ecdicius that the assassins were Monophysite conspirators, did I? I merely pointed out that their course of action would be a logical one for Monophysite conspirators to take. If he chose to jump to conclusions…”
“Also,” Sarnac interrupted, “I remember you telling Gwenhwyvaer that Ecdicius would accept British independence on condition of her recognizing him as Augustus of the West—which is exactly the reverse of what you just told him.”
“Ah, well, I’m afraid you have me there. But look at it this way, my dear fellow: each of them will get what he or she wants from the other. And these, um, hypothetical conditions will cancel each other out, as it were. So in the end…”
“In short,” Sarnac cut in again, “you’ve been lying your ass off, as usual!”
“It could be argued that I haven’t been entirely candid with them. But it’s all for the best, you know. In fact, it’s necessary if all we’ve done isn’t to go for nought. Ecdicius must be provoked into a separation from the East, not into an attempt to assert his right to the throne of a unified empire which he’d probably succeed in keeping unified, as the usurpers did in Andreas’ history. And Britain’s independence must be assured.”
“You ve never explained that. Why is an independent Britain so crucial to your plans?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Our whole object here is to bring about the kind of political pluralism that arose in our world and prevented any one entrenched power structure from stifling scientific innovation to preserve the status quo. The division of the Roman Empire into East and West is a start—but it isn’t enough; the two empires might reach some kind of rapprochement in the coming centuries. In our history, Europe was carved into nation-states by the invading barbarian tribes. Our friend the Restorer put a stop to that here. So the same result must be obtained through provincial separatism. With the example of an independent Britain…”
“But you just told Ecdicius that Britain is a special case and won’t constitute a precedent!”
““That’s quite true—in the legal sense.” (Sarnac snorted.) “But in men’s minds, the empire will have irrevocably given up its claim to universality. Britain will stand as irrefutable proof that political existence apart from Rome is possible, that chaos is not the only alternative to imperial centralization.”
“I still think it’s a rotten trick to play on Ecdicius.”
“Oh, the long-term effects won’t manifest themselves in his lifetime. Probably not even in his son’s. But his more remote successors will, I think, be living in interesting times, to quote the old Chinese curse.”
“I suppose,” Sarnac said slowly, “that bringing ‘interesting times’ to this world is what we’re here for.”
“Well put. And now we need to confront another problem: Artorius’ emotional state.”
“Oh, yeah. I could tell he’s been down in the dumps because his counterpart is dying.”
“Is dead,” Tylar corrected bluntly. “Koreel informed me last night. We can’t let Ecdicius and Sidonius know, of course. But Artorius knows.”
They had passed between the Peloponnese and Crete and set a westward course into the Ionian Sea when Sarnac found Artorius standing alone in the bows, one arm draped around the artemon mast, staring fixedly ahead into the setting sun.
He’d been present when Tylar had tried to help the erstwhile High King past the news from Constantinople. But this was the first time he’d found himself alone with the man who, alone of all the human race in all the ages, knew the feelings he now felt. Well, Sarnac reflected, he always had something unique about him.
He searched desperately for something brilliant to say, but Artorius came to his rescue by noticing him and smiling. “Ah, Bedwyr,” came the musical British, “it’s a rare fine sunset, is it not?”
“It’s all of that,” Sarnac replied in the same tongue. For a while he gazed at the sun toward which Nereid’s Wake seemed to be steering. When its lower edge touched the watery horizon, he gathered himself. “Look, Artorius, I realize I can’t possibly know what you’re experiencing…”
“No, you can’t.” Artorius gave his head a shake of self-reproach. “Sorry, old man. I know how that must have sounded. And I can’t claim I didn’t have time to prepare myself; I’ve known from the first that this was going to happen while we were here. But…” He shook his head again. “I’ve lost friends in plenty, and relatives, and parents. We never used to let ourselves be bothered too much by death; it came so easily, and so early for most people. A human life can only hold so much tragedy. Besides, we believed the dead were only passing on to a better world. We really did believe it, you know. Even I believed it, and I was never especially devout Since then, of course… the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve learned…” His voice trailed off, then firmed up again. “And besides, another person, however well-loved, is still someone different. He doesn’t remember what my mothers loom looked like when the afternoon sunlight came through the window, aswarm with dust-motes, as I played at her feet. He doesn’t know how a remark someone made when I was twelve felt. He doesn’t know the innermost thoughts and feeling that can never be shared with anyone, for they define the true self that none of us ever really reveals. Well, that man—” he gestured vaguely toward the northeast, toward Constantinople where Artorius the Restorer lay in state “—held all of that in his head. And when he died, it all vanished” He smiled wryly. “Or w
hatever it does. I don’t know, anymore. Not even Tylar’s people know.”
“That universe of memory he held within him hasn’t really been snuffed out,” Sarnac said cautiously. “Not as long as you hold it And he wasn’t really you—not anymore. He had a different destiny. In our world, you passed into legend. In this one, he’ll be locked into mere history, like’ an insect in amber.”
The sun had sunk into the Ionian Sea, and Artorius’ expression was hard to read. “Yes; very astute of me to fail before emerging from obscurity, leaving posterity to fill the vacuum with fables I wouldn’t have dared invent myself! I constantly amaze myself with my own cleverness!” Sarnac started to say something reassuring, but thought better of it. He’d never seen Artorius in this mood. Then he was relieved to see a smile flash in the light of the ships lanterns. “Ah, well, you’ve the right of it: the poor sod that I became in this world is stranded in documented history, of all the dreary things! So the least we can do is make that history better!” Artorius stood up straight and clapped Sarnac on the shoulder. “Instead of mourning my own death, I should be seeing to my future reputation!”
They entered the Tiber and landed at Ostia, the seaport of Rome, amid dumbfounded jubilation.
The news of the Restorers death had reached Italy overland, along with rumors of the death of the Pope and the Heir. A pall of depression had hung over this land and radiated outward through the Western provinces at the speed of couriers’ horses. When they established their identity, it was like a summer thunderstorm over Ostia that dissipated a stifling, stagnant closeness.
“You say there’s a new emperor in Constantinople?” Sidonius had to shout at his secretary Gelasius to make himself heard over the ecstatic roar of the crowd that hemmed them in, straining for a glimpse, as they left the harbor.
“Yes, as we only just learned,” Gelasius shouted back. He was a native of North Africa, dark to the point of duskiness, with tightly curled iron-gray hair. It was sheer good fortune that he was in Ostia on business, though the local clergy could have provided positive identification of Sidonius. “Since the Augustus died, the conspirators who tried to murder you have seized the initiative and now dominate the Sacred Consistory. At first they squabbled among themselves, trying to agree on a successor. But now they’ve agreed to bestow the purple on Wilhelmus, governor of Illyricum.”
“Wilhelmus!” Ecdicius exploded. “But he’s a joke! A nobody! The army will never accept him—everyone knows he’s a coward who used influence to avoid military service in his youth.”
“And,” Sidonius put in, “everyone also knows that his word means nothing—even if anyone could divine what his word is, under all the qualifiers that obscure everything he says!”
“Perhaps,” Tylar put in diffidently, “that’s precisely why the conspirators settled on him as a compromise choice. Since no one is ever quite clear as to what he’s saying, everyone distrusts him equally. And, being weak, he should be controllable.”
“Maybe that’s what they think,” Ecdicius replied. “But they’re wrong if they think they can control him. They’ll find they’ve just turned the empire over to his rabid bitch of a wife!”
Koreel had notified Tylar two nights before that the power struggle in Constantinople was over. But of course they couldn’t reveal that knowledge. Instead, Sarnac subvocalized to Tylar via implant communicator. “Gelasius seems pretty well informed, given the comm technology—or lack of it—he has available.”
“Quite. A most impressive man. It’s easy to see why he became Pope in our history.”
“He what?!”
“Oh, yes. He was secretary to Felix III, who was Pope from 483 to 492, and was elected to the pontificate after Felix died. In this world, he serves the same secretarial function for Sidonius, and it’s entirely possible that he may become Pope when Sidonius is gone. I certainly wouldn’t disapprove. He’s death on heretics—he originally fled from Africa to escape the rule of the Arian Vandals, you’ see. And he’s an intellectual champion of papal supremacy within the church, including the Eastern church. In short, he’s precisely the sort of man we want in the position in the immediate future.”
They and the prudently hooded Artorius stayed in the background as they made their way through the cheering crowd, with the local troops—whose commander had recognized Ecdicius—running interference. Ahead of them, Gelasius talked animatedly. “No one in Rome knew what to do when the demand for homage to Wilhelmus arrived. Everyone thought you were dead, though there was no proof. But now that you’ve been returned to us through God’s mercy, the armies of Italy will rise as one man and acclaim the Restorers adopted heir as Augustus. Especially when they hear what a vipers nest of Monophysite heretics were behind the attempt on his life—and that of the Holy Father! You must proceed to Rome without delay.”
“Yes,” Ecdicius nodded. “And we must send word to Gaul.”
“Of course, Noblissimus… er, Augustus” Gelasius agreed From some men it would have been blatant brown-nosing, but from Gelasius it wasn’t. “Being your native land, Gaul will be the center of your support.”
“And we have to get it consolidated as quickly as possible. It’s only a matter of time before it has to face the Army of Germania.”
Sarnac knew what he meant. The newly organized province of Germania, between the Rhine and the Elbe, was now Rome’s first line of defense against Europe’s unconquered barbarians, and accordingly it held an army that was in a different class from the garrison troops of Gaul and the other Western provinces. He quickened his step and touched Ecdicius’ arm.
“Any chance of getting the support of that army’s commander?”
“I wish to God there were. He’s a good man, and a friend.” Ecdicius shook his head regretfully. “But those snakes in Constantinople know how crucial he is, and I’m sure they’ve already sent word to him. We can’t possibly get to him first. And they’ll play on his loyalty to the Restorer. They’ll lie and say they’re carrying on the work of the man he worshipped. Yes, that will be the way to win Kai over…”
He talked on, but Sarnac heard nothing more. Nor did he see the thronged streets of Ostia, for he was suddenly beside a forest lake in the Burgundian uplands watching the sword he’d thrown flash in the afternoon sun as it tumbled end over end through the air into legend. And beside him was bluff, honest, decent Kai, who’d subsequently carried the tale home to Britain.
After awhile he became aware of Artorius’ grave regard. “I don’t suppose you knew, did you? I never thought to mention it. But I remember that he was your friend.”
Sarnac nodded mutely. Well, what did you expect? he asked himself. What made you think he didn’t exist in this world as well, like everybody else? He shook free of the thought. “So he’s made general here?”
“Indeed,” Tylar affirmed. “He’s become an important man in this timeline. And I fear you and he are going to find yourselves on opposite sides of the war that’s coming.”
The chamberlain Nicoles entered the imperial dressing-room, bowing profoundly as was proper when entering the Sacred Presence. Wilhelmus Augustus acknowledged him absently, most of his attention on the shapely servant-girl who was bringing more of the regalia that would be draped over the somewhat overweight imperial form. The pudgy face formed the vacant smile that seemed to ooze insincerity like a kind of pus.
“Ah, Nicoles. What do you think of the adjustments they’ve made to the coronation regalia for me? It’s very important that everything be just so, don’t you agree? Especially in light of…” He gestured vaguely, leaving the circumstances of his accession unstated.
Wilhelmus’ ancestors had been among those Teutonic soldiers who had come to dominate the empire late in the last century—the Romanized German name was typical of his family. A classic case, the chamberlain decided, of passage from barbarism to decadence with no intervening phase of civilization. Aloud, Nicoles spoke in the voice that had been carefully trained to be pleasing. “Rest assured, Lord” —Wil
helmus preferred this form of address to “Augustus”— “that your coronation will be…” Nicoles hesitated, then reminded himself that no flattery was too blatant for this creature. “Your coronation will be Rome’s next moment of greatness.”
Wilhelmus considered this and nodded. “Yes, I rather like that. Although, of course, I would not in any way denigrate my illustrious predecessor. But on the other hand…”
Good God, he even does it in private! It must be sheer habit by now, Nicoles thought, and composed himself to listen until the Lord of the World had finished qualifying all trace of meaning out of what he’d said. He was saved by the arrival of the empires ruler.
“Augusta,” he murmured, bowing particularly low.
Hilaria acknowledged with a nod as she swept into the room, and Nicoles raised his head. She wore her usual fixed smile. Most people never saw her closely enough to be startled by the way that expression extended no higher than the mouth. Nicoles, who was taken aback by very little, was still stunned by the distilled bitterness in those eyes.
“Ah, my dear,” Wilhelmus said, hastily waving the servant girl away. “I’d sent for the chamberlain to receive his report concerning the courier who’s just returned from General… ah, General…”
“Kai, Lord,” Nicoles prompted. “A difficult name to remember, of course. He’s a Briton, an old follower of the late emperor Artorius—and, like him, descended in part from Sarmatian cavalry auxiliaries, which is the origin of the name.”
“Yes, yes,” Hilaria cut in, forestalling her husband. “But what was his response to our message?”
“Favorable on the whole, Augusta.” Nicoles decided to dispense with the middleman and address her directly. “His personal loyalty to Artorius extended to his adopted heir, so he had searching questions concerning Ecdicius’ fate. But the courier reports that he’s provisionally accepted our story, and is prepared to give his allegiance to y… to the Augustus.”
