"Fortunatus, is it over?" panted Viventius as the blade descended.
With the room again quiet, the innkeeper entered. He was no stranger to brawls, but the ferocity of the brief fight left him shaken. One of the town loafers peered around the door and stared at Fortunatus' two companions for a moment.
'These be gladiators, sir," he said in awe. "Auctorati, and good 'uns too. Seen 'em fight at Verona."
'These are gladiators too," panted Lars, gesturing to his companions. "Humiliores, and not from Verona." Nusquam: 29 December 71, Anno Domini
The rubble was cold as Regulus and Doris directed the slaves who were searching for what they already knew was lost. Light snow was falling.
"The work of at least two men, that is for certain," Regulus said as he looked over charred fragments of scrolls that had been collected from the ruins. "If it was a plot to kill the Venenum Masters, they did succeed. The snow cat got one assassin, but died killing him. We found their bodies together on the roof. Nothing outside the venendarium was touched."
"The other assassin was one of our slaves, Sextus Clodius. He fell to his death while trying to escape."
"Or so the report of the guards speculates. I saw the body, but it was not clothed for a long flight through the mountains in winter. He had neither food nor weapons."
"Perhaps he was truly loyal to us, and was chasing another assassin when he slipped from the rope," said Doria hopefully.
"Without weapons? The guards waited until the crane, was repaired before descending the cliff to recover Sextus' body. If there was another, then he had a long start, and the new snow had covered his tracks. It all gathers itself into a plot: the vote to train your women to make the Venenum was won, and almost as soon as the meeting ended the only two men who shared its secret were killed and their venendarium was burned. I just don't understand. Many disagreed with the meeting's decision, but who could profit by the loss of the Venenum Immortale's secret?"
"It might have been a monstrous accident," suggested Doria.
"There are too many odd clues that suggest otherwise. Still, we can't be concerned with them. Our immediate problem is the Venenum Immortale. Does any other person know its secret, or know of someone who knows it?"
"Someone who is frozen might."
"If so, then we have a terrible choice. We do not have enough Venenum left to revive, then refreeze, every Temporian in the Frigidarium."
Snow eddied down around them more thickly, and the slaves digging in the distance began to curse. Doria pulled her robes more tightly about her as Regulus examined the charred fragments of scrolls.
"There is nothing in these scraps," said Regulus. "It's not surprising. The instructions for brewing the Venenum Immortale were not meant to be written down."
"Some mortal outside Nusquam knows of us," said Doria. "If another assassin escaped into the snow, might he have stolen a scroll with the Venenum's secret written out?"
Regulus pulled a scroll out from his robes and checked what the guards had found again.
"That man on the roof was a stranger to everyone here. His body had the scars of a gladiator and the muscles of an acrobat. He was probably a thief, trained to leap about on roofs as silently as a cat. I've also been told that a mule column was ambushed on the way here, yet the mules were recorded as reaching here with their loads intact. The thieves were hiding within the packs, according to the accomplices that were caught and tortured. It all adds up to a plot. Someone is out to steal our secret again, one of those fools in Rome."
"They have tried before. Samples of the Venenum Immortale and the antidote have been stolen a dozen times over the centuries. What harm has it done? The Venenum is of no use without the Frigidarium Glaciale, and we Temporians who operate it. Why, it would be like one man trying to steal a battle galley and operate it alone. He could not tend the rowing, the sails, the steering and the catapults all by himself. If the thief drinks some stolen Venenum without proper preparation and antidote, he will die."
"Except that this thief might well have taken us with him. We have limited stocks of the Venenum, enough to last only about two hundred freezings."
"That at least gives us a margin of centuries," said Doria, squeezing Regulus' arm. "Time enough to rediscover the method of preparing the Venenum."
"We have no such margin," he said peevishly. "We have no more than our normal lifespan: seventy or eighty years at best, and a lot less is left for us two. What good is having two or three centuries of life if you lie frozen for most of that time? This is hopeless, I feel so tired."
He shrugged snow from his cape as a slave came running up with more charred pieces of scroll. He glanced at them.
"Pah, the list of new Temporian recruits to be gathered in for initiation, training and freezing. Gollak Paginius, Vitellan Bavalius, Markus Morilian ... I can't read the rest but
no matter. These young Romans will never know the taste of the Venenum Immortale now. There's barely enough to keep us going until..."
He stared intently at a large scrap with small, close writing, holding it out at the focus of his eyes.
"Until?" prompted Doria.
He passed the fragment to Doria without saying any more.
"Ah, promising!" she exclaimed. "Part of an inventory of ingredients. That helps. Tallinian and Rhea know some of the ingredients too, and the types of insects used. This could fill in the gaps."
"It may not be enough without the method of preparation," Regulus warned, but he wanted to be optimistic. "The Venenum is a poison, even in its pure form, and if everything is just thrown together it could be really deadly. We must set the slaves trapping live rats and mice to test our trial recipes. You must question all the women, too. Those who have shared beds with the Masters of the Venenum may have heard them let clues slip."
Doria took the suggestion badly.
"Now that it's too late you finally try to involve us women!" she shouted angrily, flinging the charred fragments of scroll to the snow. "You beg us for secrets that you would not give us in the first place!"
"That's hardly fair,". sighed Regulus, squatting in the snow to pick up the pieces of scroll. Doria watched him for a moment, tears running along the wrinkles of her face. "I speak of the menfolk in general," she conceded, kneeling beside him to help. "Take no affront, Regulus. At least we know how to make the antidote to be taken with the Venenum Immortale."
"Small comfort, having the antidote for that which we cannot make. It may take decades to rediscover the Venenum by just blindly mixing batches and feeding it to rats, mice, and pigs. Who would be willing to grow old while experimenting for the sake of those who are lying frozen in the bloom of youth? Our ship has sunk and now we try to rebuild it out of driftwood."
Some rubble collapsed where the slaves were digging, and there were shrieks of pain from a trapped man.
"I'm having a search made for a stranger, a fat guard who was seen during the fire," said Regulus, ignoring the commotion. "He may be a companion to the thief that we know about, and he may be still here on the mountain. The dead slave Sextus might have been in league with them."
"So if one of the Masters did write a scroll of instructions, you think this fat thief might have it?"
"Probably not, but we must try everything." He stood up, leaning heavily on his staff, then helped Doria to her feet.
"Our own rigid security keeps defeating us. The method for making the Venenum was never to be written down, under pain of death: the Venenum was our greatest treasure, the base of all our power, so we guarded its secret more closely than gold. Now it is gone, and we seem like such fools."
L i b a r n a , N o r t h e r n I t a l y : 7 J a n u a r y 7 2 , A n n o D o m i n i Milos, a Greek physician, had looked upon the wounded man as a challenge to his skills. The sword wound in his chest had been inflamed, yet he was strong and otherwise healthy. The gash in his arm might have been from a large cat, perhaps the exotic pet of some villa's master. His leg had been badly scratched and the knee
wrenched, as if from a fall. Perhaps an adulterer caught in the act, who had barely escaped with his life? Perhaps a thief who had not been sufficiently careful and silent?
Lars had arrived at the physician's house at night. He had dropped a small bag of coins into his hand, then collapsed. For days he lay in the grip of a fever, rambling about immortals, a mountain fortress, and a huge white cat. Milos examined the pack that he had brought, and found it to be filled with sachets of a golden, bitter oil. A cylinder of butt-leather contained a tiny dog that frantically lapped water from his cup and was ravenously hungry. A scroll from the pack described the use of a substance called Venenum Immortale, wfiich was used to freeze animals and people so that they could be brought back to life later. It read like an instruction exercise for a student, and Milos wondered at the real intent behind it.
The physician forced a rabbit to drink a prescribed mea-
sure of the oil. It died within two hours. He then repeated the experiment, but this time froze the rabbit after one hour. A day later he revived it according to the instructions, and it lived another hour before it too died of the effects of the oil. He fed its flesh to his neighbor's dog, which became violently ill but survived.
By then Lars's fever had subsided. He awoke from a quiet sleep, but had to be fed by hand, and it was several more days before he could get up. Milos remained discreet with his patient.
"I'll not ask too many questions," he said when Lars was at last strong enough to walk, "but I must warn you that soldiers have been asking about strangers in this village. They are particularly interested in wounded strangers."
"And you did not betray me?"
"I considered it... but we are of a kind."
Lars said nothing, but tensed himself. The physician noticed.
"Don't consider killing me," said Milos. "It's not worth it. I'm a fugitive too, fleeing a crime of my own in Thessa-lonica. A stupid, futile conspiracy against Roman rule."
"So, you choose to hide here in Libarna, closer to Rome?" said Lars doubtfully.
"Not for much longer. My contacts tell me that it would be wise to move on soon. You were lucky that I was here to treat you. You were luckier still that I was in no position to go to the authorities about your wounds. What was your crime?" Lars's face remained blank and he shook his head. "Whatever I might have done, my name is attached to no crime. I'll be returning to Rome whenever you say I'm fit to travel."
"And I to Genua, to be a rigger aboard a merchantman bound for, well, it's no concern of yours. Not a very likely sailor, am I?"
Lars pushed a shutter open and looked down the street. It was covered in muddy snow-slush, but people were walking about without great effort.
"I should return to Rome," he said again, gingerly feeling his partly healed wound. "Does what I've paid already cover your fee?"
"I'm willing to be reasonable. Believe it or not, I have enough money for my needs. A skilled physician is never short of customers. First tell me, though, what is the nature of that oil, that poisonous oil that you brought with you? Is it something you stole?"
Lars pulled the shutter closed and turned fluidly to face Milos. "What do you know of it? Have people been asking questions?"
"No, but by following the instructions in the scroll that was in your pack I managed to freeze a rabbit solid, then bring it back to life again. The trouble was that some antidote appears to be required, otherwise the animals die within a few days, and their flesh is too poisonous to eat. I could build up their tolerance to the oil by feeding it to them a little at a time, but the antidote would be quicker."
Lars began to relax as he realized that the physician had not betrayed him. The rush of alarm had drained his weakened body and now he had to sit down, his head spinning.
"It . . . should be obvious, as to its use," said Lars, too weary to think, longing to sleep again. Milos remained bright-eyed and eager. "I think that a pig could be thus frozen for the whole of winter, removing the need to feed it from expensive stores. I think that such a process could be worth a fortune to the farmers of Rome, and perhaps even more could be done too. Remote garrisons could be manned cheaply with perhaps a dozen men over winter, while four or five hundred more lie frozen yet alive. A secret worth more than gold could buy, eh?" Lars nodded gravely at the entirely plausible yet false explanation as he thought out a reply.
"As you say, the process is flawed. The animals die quickly without the antidote and their flesh is poisonous. I stole what I brought here before I realized that the process has not yet been perfected. It brought me no profit for all my injuries. The antidote that they speak of is yet to be perfected."
"How much would you ask for all of your oil and the scroll of instructions? Five hundred sesterces?"
"More like five thousand. What use have you for it?"
"I have some small skill with mixtures. Perhaps I could
detoxify the oil, so that no antidote is needed. Do you have the directions for making it?"
"No. All that I have is in that pack."
"In that case, four hundred sesterces."
"Six hundred or nothing."
Milos smiled at last. "Agreed, but only if you tell me of the man who devised the mixture. Give me his name and tell me where to find him. If I can perfect the antidote while I hide in exile, why, it may buy me a pardon when I return." Lars gave him a fictitious name, but provided accurate directions for finding the villa in the Alps where the Temporians were waging their long war against death. Milos paid the money for the oil and scroll, then set off for the port of Genua that same day. Lars stayed on in the physician's house, as the rent had been paid in advance. He recovered his strength and got to know the area, and with the money he had looted from Fortunatus' room he bought a nearby farm in the name of his wife and five children. He sent letters and money to them under a false name, instructing them to join him. The farm was less than he had hoped for, but with all his other hoarded wealth it would be just enough to begin rebuilding his family's status and fortune.
L i b a r n a , N o r t h e r n I t a l y : 2 5 M a r c h 7 2 , A n n o D o m i n i Publius Varlexus had decided upon a squad of two dozen legionaries to capture the Greek physician. The extra men were more to prevent him from escaping than because of any danger.
The house was shabby and nondescript, neither squalid nor respectable. Varlexus' men surrounded it silently, and more men crawled onto the roof from adjoining buildings. Abruptly a dog began to bark, a high-pitched squeak in the gloom. After a moment the barking stopped, replaced by the clatter of hobnails on flagstones and shouted orders. Varlexus heard wood begin to splinter beneath the blade of an axe. A fire blazed up behind the windows, then came the clang of weapons and screams of pain.
His troops on the roof hastily jumped clear of the spreading flames, then amid the dancing shadows a figure leaped from the tiles across the narrow street. He caught the edge of a roof, hung by his hands for a moment then hooked a leg over the edge. Five bowstrings twanged and three arrows hit the mark. The man fell, crashing down onto a cartload of wicker baskets. A tiny dog scrambled clear and vanished into the shadows of the narrow street. The fugitive was dying as they laid him out on the roadway. The price of capturing him had been high. Three troops killed in a fight in the house, two others injured, and six people trapped and burned in the buildings to either side. Varlexus put his face near that of his dying quarry and said, "The justice of Rome has a very long reach, Milos." The dying man blinked, then frowned and whispered, "Imbecile."
Lars's family prospered on their new farm near Libarna, slowly accumulating a fortune from wine, honey, and sheep. Within three decades his son's wealth had even grown to exceed that of Lars's disgraced grandfather. He used it to build a villa that the family lived in until the barbarian invasions of centuries later.
Primus Fort: 5 May 72, Anno Domini
The government official who arrived at the Primus Fort to see Vitellan was of indeterminate age, and seemed distant and preoccupied. Vitellan som
ehow fancied that he might have been a sad, defeated pagan god out of some tragic legend, setting his affairs in order before his enemies arrived to vanquish him forever. He handed the young legionary a scroll. Vitellan read it, then looked up at the official who would give no name.
"First I am ordered to Egypt, then I am ordered here to the to serve in a legion that does not officially exist, then this arrives telling me that I am to be reassigned to Gaul. What is going on?"
"Young men and women with your skills and talents are no longer required by my masters," the man replied simply.
"May I ask who your masters are, and what skills and talents I am thought to have?"
"No. Remember, too, that if you ever mention the Furtivus Legion once you leave this fort you will be killed."
"Of course, I learned that the day I arrived. So, I am to have no other chance to do ... whatever else I was to do?"
"That I cannot say, but you have served well in the Furtivus Legion and it has been noted. Important, powerful people have noticed you, and you have been given special advancement within die army, Centurion Vitellan Bavalius."
"Centurion!" Vitellan exclaimed.
The newest centurion in the Roman Empire could do no more than stand with his mouth open while the enigmatic messenger smiled, gave an odd, curt bow, then walked away. Vitellan stared after him, noting that Centurion Namatinus gave him a great deal of deference. Whoever he was, he appeared to have a lot of authority.
"Perhaps he's not joking," Vitellan said to himself in wonder. "Perhaps I really am a centurion." The Temporians never recovered from the loss of the recipe for making their Venenum Immortale. Stores of the Venenum were adequate but finite, and although Regulus and Doria spent the remainder of their lives together experimenting with the Venenum's known ingredients, they achieved little more than breakthroughs in the preparation of poisons. The Temporians began to keep some of their number frozen for longer periods, while others were kept awake longer to administer the Empire's affairs. These aged and died before the eyes of those whom they ruled, and this eroded Temporian authority. Legends arose that a group of Christian fanatics was killing them, while the barbarians to the north and east became harder to control. When Rome fell to Alaric's Visigoths early in the fifth Christian century, the last of the Temporians fled their faltering empire on an immense, desperate voyage.
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