“I know you are capable of defending yourself. You wouldn’t be a lictor if you weren’t.” Sigrun flapped a hand at him in annoyance, and sawed at her steak again, as, outside, the blue-and-red lights of a gardia vehicle appeared on the road, and turned into the hotel’s parking lot. “But this is my land, or close enough that jurisdiction wouldn’t be much of an issue, even without our . . . other credentials. And enforcing the laws of that land, and of the empire, is my business. People like that,” she jerked her chin towards the bar, where new people were filtering in slowly to take seats, and the noise of conversation in the room had picked back up again, “are half the problem with the world today. They can’t distinguish metaphor from reality. The philosophers of Hellas and Judea and Nippon and Rome have studied fossils in the rock. We know that humanity evolved over time, and that the gods taught us creation stories that we could understand easily, when we were all savages together.” She rubbed at her face. “The natural philosophers launched a rocket into space in . . . . when was it? Twenty-nine, thirty?”
“Nineteen twenty-nine. The year I was born.”
That got him an odd look, one that seemed to be comprised of mild incredulity, and then she shook her head. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Sigrun shook her head again, and shrugged. “We know that the sun is a flaming ball of gas. Even our Mithraist acknowledged this. And we know that there are gods who are associated with its power. Sol Invictus, Aten, Mithras, Sunna.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “No offense intended.”
“Sig, I don’t approach my monotheism with idiocy. I’m perfectly aware that there are other gods. They’re just not my god. I don’t have a covenant with them. Whoever the rest of you unwashed unbelievers,” and here, he gave her a lightning-quick smile, “choose to worship, is between you and your gods.”
“This particular unwashed unbeliever really wants a bath.” Her tone was plaintive. “The plane ride to Marcomanni from Britannia was quite long, and the drive here from Marcomanni was almost equally so. Every muscle I have is stiff.”
Adam did his best not to laugh. “I still can’t believe that you’re scared of planes.”
“I’m not in control on a plane.” She sounded nettled. “It’s a chariot in the sky. Technomancy. I don’t pretend to understand entirely what keeps it in the air.”
“One hundred percent natural philosophy, if you’re flying Hatasahl or Hellene Air. It’s only technomancy if it’s Alroma, Qin Air, Air Carthage . . . eh, you know the list.”
“You say that as if natural philosophy were any more of a comfort.”
“It’s science, Sig. It’s all perfectly explicable natural forces, the burning of fuel for combustion engines, lift, force, and thrust. Things my people and the Hellenes have been working with for centuries.” He found a tomato at the bottom of his salad and popped it into his mouth, chewing for a moment, before adding, “Ley-power, though . . . that’s where I draw the line. Tapping into the earth, into raw creation itself, for power? It makes me uneasy. And the rest, eh. Sorcerers at least train to use their power. Most of their lives, in fact. Discipline their minds. Technomancy . . . putting magic-powered devices in the hands of any idiot with enough money to afford it . . .” He shrugged, uncomfortably. “It makes me uneasy.”
She shook her head, frowning faintly. “That’s a little parochial, Adam. Ley-power has given people light and power for devices in their homes—without being bound to smelly coal-burning plants—”
“Judea uses nuclear reactors, these days—” He felt compelled to defend his homeland.
“Oh, that is obviously so much better.” A hint of sarcasm in her tone. “And think of this. Ley-powered devices, like those motorcars out there? Travel used to be something reserved for the wealthy, in the main. People well-enough off to own horses, which required stabling, fodder, land, exercise, and constant care. Ley-taps and ley-power are a miracle of the modern age, and the ley-grid employs thousands of technomancers and ley-mages. Sorcerers . . . the users of seiðr, as my people call it . . . have not always been held in high esteem. The Gauls have treated their ley-mages better. And the result is a better standard of living for everyone. It’s hard to see the harm in that.” She glanced up, as he, too, caught sight of the gardia officers looking into the lounge, and speaking in low and earnest tones with the barkeeper.
“That doesn’t make it right.” His voice was low. “But looks as if they’re playing our song over there. Well, yours. But I can hum along, and pitch in when I know the words.”
That netted him a reluctant chuckle as they stood, pushing away from their meals. “At least they’re meeting us indoors. You dislike the cold here.”
“I don’t think your northern climate is going to give me pneumonia.”
“No, but I will get to hear you complain about it every time we’re outside for the duration of this trip.”
He grinned at her again. “Of course. That’s the fun of it.”
They stepped out into the hall outside the lounge for the modicum of privacy from the prying eyes of their fellow diners. From the windows out here—windows that Adam stood well back from, out of long habit—he could see more of the modest, eight-story brick building that made up their hotel. There was a chain-link fence around its parking lot, separating the vehicle zone from the complimentary outdoor pool behind the building.
The gardia were the enforcers of provincial law throughout the Empire. They were trained in local laws and ordinances, and also handled the bulk of everyday enforcement of Imperial-level laws. If someone committed murder, for example, they could be prosecuted under either provincial or Imperial laws. When someone crossed provincial borders in the execution of a crime, however, the gardia’s jurisdiction was limited. Such crimes fell into the hands of higher legal organizations.
These gardia officers were all Gauls, and wore heavy wool mantles, which they flipped outwards to expose badges on the leather vests underneath. Each badge displayed the horned head of Cernunnos the Hunter, on a star-shaped background. “You want to explain what happened here?” one of them asked, tiredly, getting out a notebook with thin pages of foolscap.
“Unlicensed proselytizing,” Adam told the pair, calmly. “The Egyptian was told, by my count, three times, to stop, before he descended to personal insults.”
“Hmm. His version of the story . . . now that he’s regained consciousness. . .” a sidelong and slightly disapproving look at Sigrun now, “is that your lady friend here used magic on him.”
“I wouldn’t stoop to using the power of the gods on one such as him.” Sigrun’s voice was flat. “It would be dishonorable. After he insulted me personally, I did, however, execute justice on him.”
“Justice? In your opinion, I take it?” More than a hint of an edge there. These officers had been called out from whatever warm hole they’d tucked themselves for the duration of their shift and now were being asked to deal with something that they’d rather not.
Sigrun’s reply was crisp. “I am a sanctioned ælagol.”
“You’re a god-born of Valhalla. This is Novo Gaul’s soil. You’re claiming jurisdiction?” A note of pure skepticism, and not unwarranted, from one of the two men.
“I think I can safely claim that, yes.” Sigrun’s tone was calm.
Headshakes from the two men. “We’re going to need to see some identification.”
Both of them moved slowly, so that the officers could see their motions. Sigrun opened her poke again to display a leather folder containing her identification, handing it over silently . . . and letting both of her badges be seen this time. Adam’s id was in a wallet, carried in the rear pocket of his jeans, and he held it open for the officers to examine.
The two officers’ expressions changed, tightening into grimaces. “Oh . . . gods damn it . . . you’re both with the Praetorian Guard?”
The Praetorian Guard had become, over the centuries, far more than just the bodyguards of the Emperor of Rome. They were the single largest security
and intelligence network on the planet, with jurisdiction in any client state or province of the Empire. They had divisions devoted to forgery, illegal magic use, murder, kidnapping, sedition, intelligence, and counterintelligence, and remained the bodyguards of high officials throughout the Empire as well.
Sigrun carried an ælagol badge and identification card, which identified her as Sigrun Caetia. God-born, resident of Burgundoi in Nova Germania, and ælagol. Opposite that, she also carried a silver badge engraved with the fasces, an Imperial eagle, and the name of the sitting Emperor, Caesarion IX. Her technical title, inscribed on it, was Special Agent to the Regional Praetorian Office of Nova Germania, and the badge also had the word lictor engraved beneath that. That gave her two levels of jurisdiction, Imperial and Gothic provincial.
Adam’s card informed anyone who cared to read it that he was Adam ben Maor, resident of Jerusalem in the province of Judea. Special Agent to the Regional Praetorian Office of Judea. And a lictor, as well. Lictors were the personal bodyguards of high-ranking Roman officials. They added weight and gravitas, and kept the official from being assassinated by random locals. The more powerful and impressive an entourage of lictors, the more weight an official really had, in many ways.
“We are, believe it or not, trying to keep our presence here quiet,” Adam said, softly. Local gardia, in his experience, had something of a love-hate reaction for Praetorians on their turf. Praetorians were highly trained and professional, but they were also the elite. And where they went, there was usually a solid chance of trouble.
“Focáil,” one of the officers swore, handing the badges back. “Sounds like our boy over there had a really bad night then, eh?”
“I was going to let him walk away with a warning, at first,” Sigrun replied, shrugging. “He knew I was god-born and an ælagol before he made his insults personal. A broken nose is the least he deserves, and now, you will not be put to the trouble of putting him in the stocks and whipping him, as I could have requested.”
“You could have just challenged him to a duel, ah . . . domina.” The officer wasn’t entirely sure how to address her, it was clear, and had opted for the Latin respectful form of address, rather than the Gothic one.
“That, too, would have had him at an unacceptable disadvantage. I do not use the powers of the god-born unfairly.” Sleeping atop a glacier would have seemed warm and comfortable, compared to her voice. “However, I should note that once he progressed to personal insults, he did say a few things that warrant further investigation. For example, he suggested that some day soon, the power of the gods would be in the hands of all.”
“A revolutionary?” An uneasy glance between the two.
“If one far from home, perhaps.” She shrugged, expression distant. “I will put in a call to regional Praetorian headquarters. Hold him on the proselytizing charge and suspicion of sedition for his comments about the ancestry of the Emperor. That should enable you to keep in him the cells for a day or two, until someone can be spared to come and question him, and then perhaps take him off your hands.” She exhaled. “May we go now?”
“Ah, can we ask what the two of you are doing in town?” The voice held little hope. These two members of the local gardia were out on a nightly beat patrol, after all.
“I’m afraid we can’t discuss that, but we’re trying to stay out of any jurisdictional disputes.” Adam put a smile in his voice, and with that, they could finally go back upstairs. They headed for the brass cage around the elevator, and stepped inside, and Adam shifted uneasily as the ley-powered device jolted into action. Even after two years in India, and a year on this continent, he still didn’t entirely trust anything that didn’t run on electricity.
As the doors slid shut, he draped his cloak over his shoulders again, just to get it out of his hands. “You know, Sig? If I ever get to drag you to Judea, you’re going to melt from the heat.”
“May all the gods forbid. I’ve been to the deserts here in this hemisphere, for training. The Mojave is an unkind place for those of my blood.” She shuddered, and the elevator dinged softly, the doors swinging open to deposit them on the fourth floor.
He walked her to the door of her room, with instinctive courtesy. “Don’t envy you having to explain tonight to the propraetor. So much for our low profile.” He grimaced. “Not to mention the fact that the other lictors won’t be thrilled with all our jobs being made more difficult.”
“I’ll apologize to our colleagues, and explain everything to Livorus. He’ll listen. He’s Roman. They appreciate reason, but they also understand when it is necessary to say this far, but no further.” Sigrun found the room key in her poke, and unlocked it, giving the room a cautious glance from the hall. “Will you call your home?”
“They’re eight hours ahead. If I call now, I’ll wake the whole house.”
“All right, then. See you in the morning. The Chahiksichahiks await, after all.”
Adam turned away, his hood still up over his head. Then paused, and turned back. “You don’t think they’d have already sacrificed the girl, do you?”
Sigrun paused in the act of closing the door, and poked her head back out into the dim light of the hall. “She was kidnapped from Marcomanni three days ago. The vehicles used in the kidnapping were spotted along Imperial Highway Eighty several times between there and here. We know she’s in the vicinity, and we received a call from within Chahiksichahik territory, telling us both that she’s being held there, and why.” She shook her head, her expression tight. “It’s a five-day ritual, Adam. They used the first day just to transport her from Marcomanni, get over the Aeturnus River, and into their own territory. Then they need to ‘purify’ her for four days. They can’t sacrifice her for at least another three days.”
He counted off on his fingers. “Today’s dies Lunae . . . Martis, Mercurii, Jovis . . . .”
“Yes. Thunresdæg. Wodensdæg, at the earliest, if they somehow started the rituals in the back of their motorcar.” Her countenance had taken on a grim cast once more.
He smiled without much mirth. Arguing over the names of the days among the people on their team had become a running joke. He occasionally tossed out the names in Hebrew, just to get a reaction, just as Ehecatl would say them in Nahautl, or Ptah-ases spoke them in Egyptian. “I’ll leave you to call the propraetor’s room, then.”
“I’ll just walk down the hall and tap on the door. I have been with him for five years. He does not stand on much ceremony with me.” She shrugged. The fact that she didn’t look a day over twenty-two, but she periodically made references that suggested that she was far older than she appeared, was part of what intrigued Adam about his partner. She was a puzzle. And Adam ben Maor enjoyed puzzles.
For now, he chuckled, bade her good night, and headed for his own room. It was next door, and, technically, part of a suite they shared. The Empire didn’t spring for sumptuous accommodations for its agents, unfortunately, and every line in an expense report needed justification.
Inside, Adam flicked the switch on the wall, and incandescent bulbs lit up, dulled by translucent, amber-toned Bakelite shields to a dim golden glow. Bland, white walls, with a single black and white print of Gallic knot-work, which hung above the headboard of the wrought-iron bed. A cabinet, with a spherical, ley-powered far-viewer device in it dominated the wall opposite of the bed, so someone could, if they wished, prop themselves up in bed and watch cinema or news until they went to sleep. Beside the far-viewer, a cabinet for clothing, and, between that cabinet and the bathroom area, a locked door into Sigrun’s half of the suite. There was a bathing area—quite Roman in style, with tiny blue and white tiles all over the floor, a deep tub, and a shower head jutting out of the tiled wall. An indoor toilet, an amenity for which he was grateful; this area was semi-rural, and there were places in the world where Roman hygiene had not pervaded.
Out of habit, Adam turned off the room lights and moved to the room’s window to look out warily, checking his surroundings. He was uneasy ar
ound almost any window, and the large, broad ones that were common in Novo Gaul and Nova Germania just seemed like security risks to him.
The gardia vehicles were just pulling out of the parking lot, the old-fashioned, boxy motorcars spinning their wheel as they rounded the corner, lights no longer flashing. Adam shook his head. Sigrun has a temper. His lips quirked under his beard. Sigrun was a battle-maiden. What her people called a valkyrie. She was the god-touched descendant of Tyr—or Tiwaz, depending on which Goth you happened to be speaking to, on any given day. Of course she had a temper. But she has control, too.
Before Sigrun, he’d never met another god-born. Judeans had none of their own, and magic had been outlawed in Judea under the rule of Saul, some three thousand years ago. Adam had heard that the statistics outside of Judea for people born with the gift of sorcery in their veins might be as few as one in a thousand. God-born were even rarer than that. He’d managed to pin Sigrun down to some numbers a month or so ago; she’d stated that between Germania, Nova Germania, and the petty kingdoms of northern Europa, like Gotaland, her gods claimed some two hundred and twenty-five million worshippers. And that there were some twenty-two thousand god-born, total, spread among those lands. Except that they didn’t make up one out of every ten thousand births. Some of them had lived for centuries. And the lineage did not necessarily pass directly from father to son, or mother to daughter. The odds of meeting a god-born in a given life-time were low. The odds of working with one? Almost impossible.
Adam exhaled as he stared out the window. No danger seemed to be lurking in the night. The streetlights burned steadily, only tiny fluctuations visible from the unconditioned ley-line power they were receiving. Beyond them, he could see the slumbering city of Ponca. The terrain here was so incredibly flat, like a table. And even with only the slight elevation of being on the fourth floor, he could see a large swathe of houses around the hotel, many of which still had lights burning in their windows. The skyscrapers at the heart of the town were . . . modest. Hardly worth the name. Just tall office buildings in a city whose economy largely revolved around the grain and cattle industries of the fields that extended pretty much forever on all sides of it.
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 3
