Muses of Roma (Codex Antonius Book 1)

by Rob Steiner

  “I don't know what you want me to tell you, Consul. Your son is special. He can hear...the gods, but he has a choice as to whether or not he obeys their orders.”

  The Consul's head gave a slight jerk, and Ocella thought it was how this emotionless man scoffed.

  “The gods give us direction. It is not up to us to choose a different direction. The proof is in Roma's greatness. If my ancestors had disobeyed the gods, they would not have given Roma and all of humanity such prosperity.”

  “You really don't know, do you?”

  The Consul stared at her. She tried to maintain eye contact, but it was like looking into a puppet’s eyes.

  Before she turned away, the corners of the Consul's mouth upturned in a smile. Life came to his eyes, and his grin widened.

  “We know more than you think.”

  And just like that, a different man stood before her.

  “So my influence does not work on you. He told you about it, yes?”

  Ocella stared at him.

  “There are other ways to influence you.” He held his hand out to the flamens behind him.

  A flamen stopped chanting, reached into her vestments, and produced an ornate curved dagger that gleamed in the candlelight. The flamen who held the bronze bowl hurried beside the Consul.

  Now it begins, Ocella thought, taking a deep breath and clenching her teeth. Her heart thundered in her chest and ears.

  The Consul rolled up the sleeve of his cream coat, exposing his pale wrist. He moved his wrist over the bronze bowl the flamen held and sliced it from the base of his hand almost four inches down his forearm. Blood flowed in rivulets down the Consul’s wrist into the bowl, sounding like a faucet left slightly open.

  The Consul watched her as his life seemed to drain from him.

  After filling the bowl halfway with his blood, the Consul grabbed a nearby candle and held it directly onto his open forearm. His skin sizzled, and the smell of cooking meat filled the room.

  He continued staring at her with the same relaxed grin.

  The candle cauterized the wound, but the Consul's wrist was a gruesome mix of black and red flesh.

  “Our pain threshold is quite high,” the Consul said, rolling his coat sleeve over his wrist. “So are our healing abilities. Not even a blemish will remain tomorrow.”

  The Consul dipped the knife’s blade in the bowl, turning it over until he covered every part of it in his blood.

  “The Muses, as you Liberti call them, are really quite stupid. Yes, they are a marvelous source of knowledge and physical power, but they do not control us. We are free to make our own choices. Except in one small instance.”

  Ocella's throat was dry, but she managed to ask, “What is that?”

  The Consul smiled, straight white teeth showing. “You'll see.”

  With a fluid movement, he pulled the dagger from the bowl and plunged it into Ocella's heart. As her vision faded, she lamented she never made him work for her death.

  Lepidus frowned when the two flamens wheeled Ocella’s body from the room. She lay on a long wooden board adorned with carved Egyptian glyphs. A white gauzy shroud covered her entire body, and a dark red stain filled the area around her heart. The Consul strode from the room, and Lepidus fell into step slightly behind him.

  “Sire, I don't mean to question your—”

  “Then don't. Have you followed my instructions, Quintus Atius?”

  Lepidus cleared his throat. “Yes, sire. Though I am confused as to what—”

  The Consul stopped and regarded him with dangerous eyes. “Quintus, you are questioning me again. When you question me you question the will of the gods.”

  “My apologies, sire,” Lepidus said, his gaze cast down. “I would never question you or the gods. I was just hoping for...clarification.”

  “All you need to know is what you do today will please me and the gods. They know of your service, Evocatus. Your reward will be great.”

  Lepidus lifted his head higher. All his life he wanted the approval of the gods, to know he did the right thing. If his place was not to know the entire plan, then so be it. He would gladly perform his part and trust his role would contribute to the greater good. Just as he had on Caan.

  Lepidus bowed his head. The Consul regarded him a moment more and then strode away following, Ocella’s body.

  Lepidus strode in the other direction. He had to contact Appius. He’d not heard from his apprentice in hours.

  44

  Lucia and Appius dragged the three bodies of Praetorian Unit 202 into Cargo Two and stripped off their uniforms. Lucia tried not to look at their headless necks or the bloody trail they left behind. One uniform was somewhat less bloody than the others, so Lucia removed it from the body, took it to the washbasin, and scrubbed it with a heavy brush. Fortunately the material was a black, waterproof mesh that resisted stains. All it needed was a few splashes of water and a quick scrub.

  Their plan was to go at “night,” which on the South Pole meant they’d approach the Praetorian compound in broad daylight. It was mid-summer, and the sun shown the entire day. Appius told Lucia the compound still had a day and night watch.

  “If we enter during the shift change,” he explained, “we’ll have a better chance getting in and out.”

  The plan made sense to Lucia, but she still didn’t trust Appius. Yes, he had killed his own men. Yes, he got them through Terra’s electronic shields. He had done a lot to help them. And if he wanted to capture her and the ship, he could have done it on the way station.

  But it took a long time for Lucia to trust anyone, especially strangers who just hopped onto her ship.

  After they stripped the bodies, she and Appius stacked them in a corner and threw a red plastic tarp over them.

  “These rifles are older models than what the compound Praetorians use,” Appius said, handing Lucia a pulse rifle, “but they will do at a glance. Just try not to let anyone get a good look at them.”

  Lucia checked the magazine, pulled back the firing mechanism, and then chambered a pellet. She sighted the rifle on a point at the far end of the bay.

  “Better than what they gave you in the Legions, eh?”

  “What makes you think I was—?”

  “I read your file before I was sent to kill you.”

  Lucia stared at him, wondering whether she should turn the rifle on him now and silence her doubts. He never gave her concrete proof that Kaeso and Nestor were at the South Pole compound. But how could she doubt him after what he’d done?

  If there was even the slightest chance she could rescue Kaeso and Nestor, she would do it. She couldn’t get into the Praetorian compound without Appius, so for now she had no choice but to trust him. Actually “trust” was the wrong word. She would follow him in. If things went bad, he would be the first to die.

  Blaesus came down to Cargo Two carrying an armload of his white Senatorial togas.

  “I can’t decide which toga I'd rather be captured in,” he said. “This one I wore when I first took the Senatorial oath, or this one when the Senate censured and exiled me. Which do you think would give a more dignified appearance?”

  Lucia sighed, then decided to play along with the old man’s theatrics. It could be the last time she got to banter with him. “I like the gold frills on the second one. Makes you more regal. It shows you've returned to Terra as you were on the day they censured you—undefeated.”

  Blaesus nodded with a determined set to his jaw. “Absolutely. Well, back to the storage closet with you,” he said to the older toga. He scooped them up and left the cargo bay.

  “He’s not really going to wear a toga, is he?” Appius asked from behind.

  “No,” Lucia said, then returned to her uniform.

  Lucia and Appius went back to the command deck after they both secured their thermal uniforms. The ship was on autopilot, just crossing the shore of Terra’s southern continent at 40,000 feet. The Praetorian compound’s guidance systems took control of the ship's fli
ght once they'd reached the southern Mare Atlantic, so all Lucia could do was watch the ship obey the compound's commands. It was always hard for her to give control to any planetary guidance system. But her nerves were all the more jittery knowing the Praetorians had control.

  Appius strapped himself into the command couch. “Any questions before we land?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me the plan again.”

  She glared at him. “I'm not some green draftee. I've completed missions before.”

  “I know. But tell me the plan again.”

  Lucia exhaled, then related the plan as they had worked it out.

  Appius nodded.

  She put her pulse rifle on her lap, the barrel pointed at Appius. “Now tell me why you're doing this?”

  Appius raised an eyebrow. “We're going to land in six minutes. Do you really want to discuss this now?”

  “Be quick.”

  “I told you, I'm a Liberti agent.”

  “How did you know where Caduceus was docked? How did you know we were here to extract the Consular Heir?”

  Appius rolled his eyes. “I'm also Praetorian, soldier. I've been hunting Marcia Licinius Ocella and the Consular Heir with another Praetorian named Lepidus. Your centuriae met with another Liberti agent in Roma named Gaia Julius. She contacted me and asked for my help to keep you out of Roman hands. Now are we through with the interrogation? If I wanted to capture you, I could have done it much easier on the way station. Without killing my own men.”

  He was very convincing. But her service in the Legions taught her Praetorians had their own agenda. Everyone else, including their own people, were pieces in a latrunculi game. Every piece was expendable.

  She continued pointing the barrel at him, but she turned away and monitored the flight into the Praetorian compound. She caught Appius's frown from the corner of her eye, and she took some satisfaction in that.

  The landscape below the ship was a flat white plain that gave off a painful glare from the bright sun. Lucia enhanced the ship's window filters to shield her eyes. She watched the feed from the ship's external cameras as they approached the compound. The main structure looked like a brown letter “E” that sat on stilts, which Lucia guessed prevented snow build-up. Steam billowed from a separate block-shaped power plant near the compound. There were no fences because they weren’t needed—nobody could escape into the frozen desert and hope to survive more than a few hours, even with cold weather gear. Lucia glimpsed several crosses with bodies just outside the compound’s bottom prong, but the ship’s descent soon blocked the view.

  A long runway for airplanes sat on the compound’s east side, and two large jets were docked at the top “E” prong. On the compound’s west side sat six grav-powered starships on a flattened landing area. Four were standard cargo freighters. While not of the same manufacture as Caduceus, they had a similar spheroid structure. The two other ships were passenger shuttlecraft from the way station, the red paint on their streamlined wings contrasting sharply with the white pad on which they sat.

  The compound's guidance system flew Caduceus to the starship landing area. The ship touched down near the other spheroid cargo freighters with a slight bump. Lucia’s stomach lurched when the ship's grav deactivated and the planet's gravity took over.

  Lucia powered down the engines and then spoke into her collar com. “Blaesus, Daryush, meet in Cargo One.”

  Appius unbuckled himself from the command couch and stopped Lucia before she could leave the command deck.

  “I don't expect you to trust me,” he said. “I wouldn't either in your position. Just remember your friends are dead if I don't help you. You have nothing to lose here.”

  Lucia slung the pulse rifle over her shoulder, walked past him, and descended the ladder to Cargo One.

  Blaesus and Daryush were already in the bay. Blaesus wore gray thermal coats and a thermal head mask. Daryush was similarly dressed, but standing in front of Dariya’s sleeper crib staring at his sister through the crib’s portal. Lucia put on her black coat and mask. Though the sun shined bright outside, the cold air would freeze exposed skin within minutes. Once she secured her coat and mask, she took out plastic wristbands and placed them on the outstretched gloved hands of Blaesus and Daryush.

  “I don’t mean to question your professionalism, my dear,” Blaesus said, his voice muffled through the mask, “but I take it you've ensured these bands are loose.”

  “Even you should be able to break them, old man.”

  The old Senator’s eyes crinkled from a grin.

  Daryush allowed Lucia to place the bands on his wrist, but he stared at them with furrowed brows.

  “You know what you need to do, right?” Lucia asked.

  Daryush nodded. He made a motion to break the bands. Lucia patted his arms.

  She turned to Appius, who had donned his thermal coat and mask. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Lead the way,” she said.

  Appius turned, moved a few sliders on the tabulari near the cargo doors. Red lights flashed in Cargo One and a small alarm buzzed. The door ramp at the end of the hold clanged and hissed, and then lowered. A cold blast shot through the opening, and it felt good to Lucia. It had been weeks since she’d smelled fresh air and not the ship's stale, coolant-tinged, body-odoriferous air. Appius marched down the ramp, leading Blaesus and Daryush in their bindings, while Lucia came last, serving as the rear guard with her pulse rifle cradled in her arms.

  The air was even colder outside, and she had to lean into a sharp bitter wind. A wave of fine snow blew off the ground and into her face. She blinked constantly to keep the moisture on her eyes from freezing. In front of her, Blaesus grunted from the effort of steadying himself in the frigid gusts. Daryush bore the cold in silence, but he bent his head low into the wind and flying snow.

  Ocella thanked the gods the march to the compound wasn’t long. They entered a tall, white cylindrical structure that looked like a grain silo. Appius went to the controls on the left side of a metal door at the base of the silo and said through his mask, “Outer door: open. Authorization: Gnaeus Hortensius Appius.”

  The controls chimed, then in a male voice, said, “Voiceprint acknowledged.”

  The lock clicked, gears whirred, and the door slid open. A second set of doors was just inside the structure. Once they were all inside, Appius said, “Outer door: Close.”

  The outer door whirred shut, and Lucia was instantly warmer, though the temperature inside the vestibule was well below freezing. The inner doors clicked and slid open. Appius led them through the doors to a guard station on the other side. One guard sat at a desk with camera displays showing various parts of the compound. Another guard stood to one side, his pulse rifle cradled in his arms, eyes trained on the new arrivals. Both young men seemed fresh out of the Praetorian Academy, which made sense to Lucia. South Pole duty did not seem like a coveted post for veterans.

  Appius pulled back his hood, removed his thermal mask, and withdrew a com pad from his coat pocket.

  “Prisoner transfer. Authorization code 988-89-WSW. You should have received documentation from the way station and a copy of my voice print.”

  The Guardsman at the desk scrolled through his terminal, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I have Way Station Control approval and your voiceprint checks out. However, your prisoners have not yet been processed. I will need their names, and I'll need a skin sample and pictures.”

  Appius narrowed his eyes. “Do you understand what a 988 code is, Guardsman?”

  The Guardsman blinked and then glanced at his partner. The Guard shifted his stance. Lucia forced herself not to move her free hand to her rifle’s trigger.

  “Yes, sir, but my orders are to—”

  “Obviously you don't understand a 988 code because you're still speaking. 988 prisoners are high-risk, high profile prisoners that are not documented. They do not exist. In fact, if they took their masks off right now, I'd have to kill you and your partner to keep their identi
ties secret.”

  The Guardsman swallowed. The other Guardsman's eyes widened, and the right side of his face twitched.

  “Of course, sir. I will not log their arrival. B-But, sir, should know the whole 988 wing is closed by order of Praetor Quintus Atius Lepidus. We’ll need to house your prisoners in another wing, sir. That’s why I assumed I’d need to run them through the standard prisoner transfer procedures.”

  “Why is the 988 floor closed?”

  “Other 988 prisoners were brought in this morning, sir.”

  Appius nodded. “Arrange two cells in another wing. I want them on a deserted floor. These men are dangerous manipulators and cannot be underestimated. I don't want them talking other prisoners into a riot.”

  The desk Guardsman nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. There aren’t many prisoners here, so I can put yours on an empty floor. With your approval?”

  “Fine,” Appius said. “Transfer the protocols to my com.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Guardsman typed on his terminal, while Appius watched his com for the protocols. Satisfied, Appius put his com into his coat pocket.

  “Er, one more thing, sir,” the Guardsman said. “Compound regulations require you surrender your weapons while in the prison wings.” A fine sheen of sweat materialized on the Guardsman's forehead.

  But Appius unslung his rifle and placed it on the desk, and then pulled the pulse pistol from the holster at his side and lay it next to the rifle. Appius motioned Lucia forward. It went against every instinct in her blood, but she laid her weapons on the table next to those of Appius. He said they would ask for the weapons. She hoped they wouldn’t insist on a body search and find the small pistol inside her coat.

  The relived Guardsman stood, collected the weapons, and stacked them in a storage cage behind him with racks of rifles and pistols. The Guardsman sat back down at his terminal and said, “I've arranged two cells in wing two on the third floor. You go through the doors behind me to—”