Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  ‘You don’t think we can bring America down, Senator?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I reckon you could bring down some of our passenger jets. You might smuggle a few bombs into our country and kill some ordinary folks who are going about their business. That’s what terrorists like you do. But it barely scratches us. We lose more people in road accidents every single week than we have in all the terrorist attacks since – and including – 9/11.’

  Placidia exhaled dismissively. The Senator clearly hadn’t got it. ‘I’m not talking about small bombs, or even big ones, Senator.’ This wasn’t terrorism, she explained. It was about making the United States stay true to its principles. Then she looked him squarely in the eye. ‘America is in decline.’

  Sam Roosevelt jerked back his face. He raised an eyebrow, accepting that she may be half-right. He allowed her to continue.

  ‘You know America’s in decline, Senator. And the American people are starting to realise it too: most of them are working harder than their parents did just to get by. Many know their children will have less than they had. Just like Rome before it fell. So, to help America help itself, I’m threatening to speed up that decline until the United States stays true to its constitution.’

  Myles shook his head. This was a different Placidia to the idealist young woman he had known at university. ‘You’re threatening to kill Americans if you don’t get your way?’ he said, trying to hide the disbelief from his voice.

  ‘Don’t you see, Myles: I’m trying to save people. I’m trying to save these poor people from Chad, Somalia, Sudan – all over Africa – so they can live peacefully in the US. And I’m trying to save Americans, too, to stop the country going the way of the Romans.’

  ‘And you’re doing that by threatening to kill people?’

  Placidia’s face showed she was disappointed with Myles. ‘Don’t you remember what we learned together about the Roman Empire? Have you forgotten everything in The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire? Everything you need to know about Rome is in that book – and if you want to save America, you should look at it again...’

  Calmly, the Senator gestured to Myles that he should be quiet. Sam Roosevelt decided that if Placidia wanted to give a history lesson, he should let her. He invited her to speak.

  Placidia told the story of Rome. From a humble village in a country on the western edge of the known world, it grew in size and strength until it challenged the great powers of the day. Just as the US had faced down the Soviets, the Romans defeated the once-mighty empire of Carthage. Just as America emerged from the British Empire, adopted much of their culture and then overtook it, the Romans did the same to ancient Greece. Rome, like America, was proud to be a republic, led by free men and slave-owners. It became the world’s first superpower.

  At its height, the Romans controlled the whole of civilisation, since beyond its huge borders lived only primitive tribes and marauders who couldn’t hope to match the quality of life enjoyed within the Empire. A system of roads, laws and taxes brought peace. For many centuries, Roman society was the most prosperous the world had ever known. ‘Just like twentieth-century America,’ explained Placidia.

  ‘But in the year 376, war in the east drove a group of Goths and Huns from their land, and the refugees sought sanctuary in the Roman Empire. The Romans put them in what today would be called concentration camps, where they froze. They were denied shelter or food,’ she recounted. ‘Some of the Roman soldiers sold dog meat to the starving refugees in exchange for their girls, who became personal slaves.’

  Myles nodded. He knew what happened next, and listened to Placidia complete the story. ‘So the Goths and Huns made a mass escape, and started fighting the Romans from inside the Empire’s borders. Within fifty years they had raided Rome itself, and within a century the Empire was gone.’

  Dick Roosevelt shook his head. ‘OK, Placidia. Your people have it tough,’ he accepted. ‘But nobody’s demanding they sell their children to get a Green Card.’

  Placidia’s voice became firmer as she addressed her captives. ‘Senator Roosevelt, Richard Roosevelt and Myles: you all need to understand why the Roman Empire fell, because otherwise the United States will fall in the same way. But the real reason the Roman Empire collapsed has become a secret. Powerful people have hidden it, and given us the official verdict of history, which is untrue.’

  The Senator tried to ridicule her. ‘Well, missy, can you give us a clue why Rome fell?’

  ‘Yes, here’s a clue, Senator: Emperor Valerian,’ announced Placidia. ‘Valerian went into battle in the Middle East in 260AD but was taken hostage. Rome found a new emperor, and Valerian never returned. He died as a prisoner.’

  The Senator guessed what was coming next. ‘So you’re taking me prisoner?’

  ‘Yes, Senator. You and your son are the closest thing there is to America’s imperial blood.’

  The Senator wasn’t fazed. He just asked: ‘And Myles?’

  ‘Just as Valerian’s advisors were sent back to the Empire with the terrible news,’ said Placidia, ‘Myles will be sent back to America to tell them of our ultimatum.’

  Eighteen

  Sirte, Libya

  Juma poked his gun into Myles’ ribs, forcing him up.

  Myles obeyed. He bent down to shake hands with the Senator and his son, unsure whether either would survive. ‘Good luck, Dick,’ he said to Richard Roosevelt, who replied with a thin smile but no words. The young hero of New York had much on his mind.

  Myles turned to Sam Roosevelt. ‘Anything you want me to tell people back in the US?’

  ‘Yeah,’ huffed the Senator. ‘Some of the suits in Langley will try to keep this quiet. Don’t let them: the people of America need to know they’re under attack.’

  He said the words looking straight at Placidia. Placidia nodded – she had no plans to keep this secret, either.

  Myles was escorted from the room by Juma and two of his militiamen. He caught sight of Placidia as he left. She glanced at him with a confident look, as if to say ‘we’ll meet again soon’. Myles was too stunned and confused to respond.

  Outside, the sun was about to set. Myles had to step carefully down the uneven stairs from the building which led to the ground. There Juma punched his thigh, indicating he should get into a bashed-up taxi which was waiting for him.

  It was as Myles was climbing in that Juma demanded he take something with him. ‘This is for the people back home…’ laughed the Somali pirate as he handed it over, then turned his back on Myles and swaggered away.

  Myles looked down at what he’d been given: a bottle of All-American Steak Sauce. He checked the bottle was normal – it was – then shook his head in bemusement: Juma was clearly mad.

  One of the militiamen sat down beside Myles and the taxi driver was waved off. Myles was being driven away.

  The swift dusk soon gave way to the full dark of the night. By then, Myles was well on to the open roads and being driven east, back to the safety of Egypt. It was a long journey, but there was no time for sleep. He had too many questions.

  Myles still couldn’t understand Placidia. She had always seemed so idealistic, naively so. So how could she threaten to bring down America? It would mean thousands, probably millions of deaths. Where was the idealism in that?

  And how had Placidia become married to the psychopath, Juma? Myles tried to separate the question from his own feelings for the woman. It was true: he had liked her very much at university. He had hoped their friendship would become romantic – properly romantic. Physical. He remembered once inviting her for a coffee after their tutorial together. Myles had wanted it to lead somewhere, but she had been too involved in her latest student protest. Despite the obvious, almost electric attraction, they had never been able to engage at an emotional level. Myles wondered if Placidia could relate to anyone in the normal way. She was always too driven, too motivated, too determined to save the world.

  Then there was the biggest issue: the threat itself
. What would Placidia and Juma do to America? Clearly they thought they didn’t need to carry out much of their threat to make America concede. But, on this, Myles thought they had made a serious misjudgement. America was not the sort of country to be bowed by threats. The opposite was true: the more America was bullied to do something, the less likely it was to do it. Surely Placidia could see that? Myles knew Placidia was astonishingly intelligent. How could she have made such a mistake?

  Myles tried to remember his history. What had brought down the Roman Empire? He stared up at the stars as the taxi drove along the desert highway. Vague memories wafted through his mind. Why had Rome collapsed?

  He was startled by the door of the taxi slamming shut: the militiaman who had accompanied him had jumped out on a dark corner just before the Egyptian border. This was a different border post to the one Myles had passed through on his way into the country.

  The taxi driver already had Myles’ passport, and showed it to the official border guard as they left Libya, and again to the police as they crossed into Egypt. Myles watched the signposts on the road: he was being driven to Alexandria.

  Day III

  Nineteen

  Egypt

  Myles became bleary again, and only woke fully as the sky began to lighten. The bottle of steak sauce given to him by Juma had fallen onto the floor of the vehicle and broken open. The taxi driver saw it too, but didn’t seem to mind. He was opening Myles’ door. ‘Mr Munro, I leave you now,’ said the driver, patting him on the back and handing him his passport. ‘American Embassy – that way.’

  The man pointed at a heavily fortified building set back some way from the road. Myles recognised it: the American consulate in Alexandria. It had been strengthened since Al Qaeda had destroyed the US embassies in Kenya and Sudan in 1998.

  Myles stumbled alone on the road as the taxi drove off. One of the Egyptians guarding the consulate saw him and came over, offering a bottle of water. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the guard.

  Myles nodded, acknowledging that he was dehydrated. ‘Yes, I need to report a very serious threat to America.’

  Myles was soon welcomed into the consulate by the Senior Political Counsellor – a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a relaxed manner. After his passport was checked, Myles was guided along corridors and through several different secure doors into an underground debriefing room. Sparkling table water and perfectly cut sandwiches were set out for him, and he was invited to eat as he talked, even though the crumbs from his food disturbed the antiseptic atmosphere of the room.

  As he recounted the events of the day before, the Counsellor used a speakerphone on the table to summon ever greater numbers of people into the room: first a security expert to hear how the Roosevelt Guardians had been hijacked at the Libyan border, then a consular official to make contact with the hostages’ families, and an expert on terrorism to take notes on Juma and Placidia. Myles had been interviewed for more than twenty minutes when a voice came back through the phone, asking to clarify a point. Only then did Myles realise even more people had been listening in to the whole of his talk.

  The Senior Political Counsellor apologised. ‘Sorry, it’s Langley,’ he said. ‘Go ahead, Langley.’

  Just as the Senator had predicted, the CIA men from Langley wanted the whole issue kept quiet. ‘We can’t afford this to get out,’ came the voice on the line, squelched by the telecommunications equipment which made the call impossible to intercept as it was beamed across an ocean. ‘It’ll cause panic.’

  Myles shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, the Senator was very clear: the people need to know that they’re under attack.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Munro,’ said the official. ‘Policy.’

  Myles screwed up his face in disbelief. What did ‘Policy’ mean? It sounded just like the sort of word the CIA could use to cut off debate and justify whatever they liked.

  There was a pause, and someone summoned Myles’ host out of the room.

  He returned a few minutes later, frowning in concern. ‘Myles, we’re going to fly you back to the States for a full debriefing,’ explained the Counsellor. ‘We need you there as soon as possible. OK?’

  Myles realised he had little choice in the matter.

  He was soon being driven to a military airfield where a large C130 cargo plane awaited him. He climbed aboard, accompanied by three very tall marine guards. The plane taxied along the runway, and, minutes later, he was flying out west, back across the North African desert and the Atlantic.

  Back to the States.

  From the conversation in the consulate, Myles was expecting to be flown to a large military base in the US where he could be kept confined, so he would not be able to tell the world about the threat from the African migrants of Libya. So he was surprised when the C130 landed in a commercial airport. Only once the main door opened did he realise which one: it was JFK. He was back in New York.

  Myles was even more surprised to see a loving face waiting to meet him. Helen ran up to him as he climbed down the steps. ‘Myles, you’re safe!’ She gave him a hug. Myles held her close. Without words, he smiled, then kissed her.

  Only then, as they embraced on the tarmac, did Myles realise Helen was not the only person waiting for him.

  ‘Is the Senator still alive, Mr Munro?’

  ‘Mr Munro, how serious is the threat to America?’

  Myles squinted as artificial lights were beamed into his face. Journalists.

  Several New York policemen were holding back a crowd of thirty or forty media people, all scrumming for attention. Cameras flashed and microphones were pointed towards him. Myles recognised at least two famous faces amongst them – anchormen from major news channels.

  ‘How did they find out?’ Myles asked.

  Helen looked at him, bemused. ‘The video, of course.’

  ‘What video?’

  But before Helen could answer, a car drove up and stopped in front of them. Myles and Helen were invited to sit in the back seats. Through the window, Myles could see the journalists hunch back in disappointment – they had failed to get their interview.

  Sitting beside him on the back seat, Helen eyed Myles up and down: her Englishman looked battered and weary. Then she noticed a stain on his ankle. ‘What’s that?’ she asked. ‘Looks like you went to a barbecue – is that Steak Sauce?’ She started to pick at it, confirming that it was indeed All-American Steak Sauce.

  Myles gave her a look which said, ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you…’

  Shaking her head, she took out her mobile phone, retrieving a film file from its memory, and setting it to play.

  Myles watched as the screen went black, then faded up to show a street scene from Arab North Africa. Two children – both obviously malnourished – were picking something from an open sewer. Then the picture changed to show a wide shot of buildings in downtown Sirte.

  The voiceover began. ‘This is Sirte today.’ It was Placidia’s voice. ‘Our children die from diseases which could be cured with nickels. Gunmen destroy our homes. Oil companies from America have stolen our best farmland...’ Then Placidia herself appeared, pleading to the camera. ‘North Africa is like this because the people of America have made it this way.’

  Helen looked across at Myles, gauging his reaction. Myles just kept staring at the small video screen.

  The image cut to show Senator Roosevelt looking resigned and weary. Standing outside, in front of a concrete wall, the old man started reading from a sheet. His tone was rich with sarcasm, just to make absolutely clear he didn’t believe anything he was saying. ‘My name is Senator Sam Roosevelt,’ he recited. ‘And I agree that the United States is doomed like the Roman Empire. That’s why we need to change the way we behave and be true to our constitution. And that’s why we need to let the Africans trapped in Libya settle in the continental USA…’

  The picture changed to show Richard Roosevelt standing loyally by his father, and looking more resolute than when Myles had left him. The younger
Roosevelt read his script more seriously. ‘My father and I are now prisoners here in Libya. The people holding us have said they will inflict on America the same fate as the Roman Empire unless their people are allowed to settle in our country.’ Richard Roosevelt looked up at the camera and smiled nervously before continuing. ‘I don’t know exactly what they’re planning. Sam and I will keep trying to convince them not to do it until they kill us. So, I ask all of you…’

  Richard Roosevelt paused, then turned towards someone out of shot and frowned, with a ‘Do I really have to read this?’ frown. He stalled for a moment while he heard the reply – inaudible on the video – then shook his head in refusal. He screwed up the paper in front of him and threw it at the camera in protest. Almost immediately, a rifle butt was thrust into his face and he fell to the floor. Senator Sam was bending down to help him as the picture faded to black.

  A final scene appeared. This time Juma, standing with some of his gang, out in the scrubland far from the city. ‘We people of Libya have the right to bear arms, too,’ shouted Juma.

  The men behind Juma held up their guns and cheered.

  ‘We like America and we want to be good Americans,’ chanted the Somali pirate leader.

  The men cheered again.

  ‘But if you don’t let us in, there won’t be much of America left.’

  The video panned down to the body of one of the Roosevelt Guardians murdered at the checkpoint, then froze.

  Helen looked up at Myles for a reaction, but Myles was too stunned to speak.

  Twenty

  Sirte, Libya

  When he was fourteen, Richard Roosevelt had been given a copy of Winston Churchill’s autobiography, My Early Life, by his father. The Senator had intended it to be an inspiration to the teenager. Instead, it just made him feel inadequate. Dick Roosevelt dutifully read about how the young Churchill had been shot at in Cuba, dislocated his arm in India and, most sensationally of all, escaped from captivity in South Africa. Captured during the British Empire’s war with the Boers and holed up in a prison camp, Churchill had sneaked over a lavatory roof and dodged sentries to get out. Hundreds of miles behind enemy lines, the young man had first smuggled himself aboard a night train, then hidden for a week in a mining pit, before finally making it home to safety. Churchill’s African escape was headline news that established him as a daring patriot. It set up the young man for a parliamentary career.