Annales Imperii - I. Ostiia

by Ted Mayes

  Getting up she went to the door and looked out through the window, seeing pretty much what she expected, a hallway with other doors like hers. She banged on the door, “Hello, someone!”

  A calm voice spoke in her cell, “Can I help you?”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Who are you?”

  “You can call me Custos. Can I help you?”

  “Can you let me out?”

  “That is not permitted. Can I help you?”

  Figures, she thought to herself, whoever this was couldn't give her the help she really needed. “What can you do?”

  “I can provide music or video, of your choice.”

  She felt a sudden surge of hope. If the police were investigating the battle at noon, she might be able to get out of here faster – and it was a big enough shooting that it should have made national news. “Do you have CNN Headline News?” In answer a rectangle on the wall lit up with the requested program. She settled back to watch, hoping to see something about the shoot-out that had wounded her.

  She was still hoping an hour later, but her hope was fading fast. Apparently the shooting down of 10-15 people and the wounding of others wasn't a very hot topic. It seemed as if the only interesting things were an earthquake in New Zealand, the Pope's upcoming trip to Mexico and President Clinton's latest news conference. If it wasn't for the ache of her arm where the bullet had hit, she would almost have believed she'd had a spectacular nightmare.

  The door opened and Amanda's head snapped around. In the doorway stood the young woman who had bandaged her arm. This time she spoke in flawless English, “Miss Wright, if you'd come with me, please?” Amanda eased carefully through the door. The young woman had walked down the hall and stood in front of another open door.

  “What if I decide to run?” she asked.

  “You can try to run if you want to, but it won't do you any good,” the other woman said calmly.

  Amanda did think about running, but then she remembered that this young woman was one of the bodyguards that had been doing the shooting earlier that day. No, running didn't seem like a good idea at all. She carefully inched her way toward the door that the young woman had entered. What she saw when she got to the doorway was a conference room with four other people seated at a round table. A young man across the table gestured her to the empty seat that was closest to the open door. She sat.

  “Miss … Wright … you may not believe it, but we are here to try and help you.”

  “Then let me out of here!”

  “I'm afraid that's not possible, Miss Wright.”

  “Why not? Sure, I could be accused of industrial espionage, but I don't have the information any more, so what's the big deal?”

  The young man who'd been talking cleared his throat. “Miss Wright, you are not accused of ‘industrial’ espionage. You have been arrested for espionage against a sovereign state.”

  Amanda was speechless for a moment, then began to sputter. “What 'sovereign state'? The last I looked I was in Missouri and I certainly wasn't spying on the state government!”

  The young man nodded to the older man sitting next to her. “Would you like to answer that concern, Agent Reynolds?”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Harrison,” the older man said. “Miss Ochs, I'm FBI Special Agent-in-Charge James Reynolds of the Kansas City office. To answer your question, by a US law passed two years ago, the square mile you are sitting on is not a part of the United States. For reasons unknown to me, this square mile was made sovereign territory of 'the Empire of Man.' Therefore if you did do something … irregular … you technically did it on the soil of another country.”

  “But I didn't know anything about that!”

  “Miss Ochs, Corporal Levi,” the other young man at the table said. “We're aware that you weren't fully informed on what you were getting into. May we ask you, … incidentally, is your driver's license correct, you are Amanda E. Ochs?” At her nod, he continued, “May we ask you what you were told and what you were asked to do?”

  She figured she was in deep enough trouble that she'd better play this straight. She told them about her attempts to get a writing career going, the offer of a possible writing assignment for a national periodical, and the hint of a job after the story. She explained that she'd been told by the editor that a security company had suspicious ties to the mob, and that she was to go to their national headquarters, try to get a job as secretary there and see what she could dig up.

  When she was done, Sergeant Harrison said, apparently into a microphone, “George, tell the First that editor really ought to be investigated.” He listened a moment, then pleasantly observed, “The First said he wouldn't be surprised if someone was handed his head soon.”

  Agent Reynolds gave a small groan and shudder. “Miss Ochs, you have no idea how wrong the information was that you were given!”

  Amanda mentally shook herself. “Sergeant Harrison, what is the punishment for espionage here.”

  “Death,” he said calmly, “unless there are there are circumstances that would indicate a reduction in sentence to enslavement. And I know I will recommend that your circumstances deserve that reduction.” He looked at the other two 'soldiers' and got nods of agreement. “Miss Ochs, I think that does it for us. Private Jordan will remain behind to check your wound and see what you want for supper.” Then he and the other young man rose and left the room.

  The young woman, Private Jordan also rose and left, saying, “I'll wait down the hall in your cell.”

  When she was out of earshot, Amanda turned to the FBI man and said, “Get me out of here!”

  “I wish I could do that, Miss, but you'd be better off praying for strength and begging for mercy.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “Let me give you some facts that your 'editor' should have given you. For the last ten years or so, Imperial Security has been helping just about every police agency in the country, including the FBI, with their surveillance recordings, which have been accepted as good as gold in every court in the land. They, more than anything else, are probably responsible for the huge drop in crime across the country, yet they absolutely refuse any acknowledgement, any publicity, of their help. That willingness to let others get the good publicity has made many, many friends for them in law enforcement. At the same time, neither the CIA, nor any other intelligence service, have been able to develop any reliable information on them. The NSA is tearing their collective hair out because we know they communicate with each other but they can't figure out how that communication takes place. And I've read sober military estimates from the Pentagon, based on their Desert Storm performance, that strongly suggest the US couldn't force these people to do anything, regardless of the force we might try to use. The only thing going for you right now is that everyone who's had any dealing with them seems to think that these are good, fair people.”

  “What good is that going to do me?”

  “I don't know, but there's a special State Department official flying in later tonight with an appeal for clemency from President Clinton.”

  “Will that help?”

  “I don't know, but its the best we can do in this serious a situation. You have to understand that these people, while they are sort of on our side, are very 'serious' people. You heard that Sergeant say something about handing someone their head? Well, its never been proven, and it hasn't happened often in the US, but across the world, people who have tried to make trouble for this 'empire' have been handed their heads, literally. Their bodies have been found decapitated and holding their heads in their hands – and it doesn't matter how protected these people were. A CIA colleague told me that a head of the KGB was once found that way. We will do what we can to help you, but right now there doesn't seem like a lot we can do.”

  * * * * *

  When Amanda Ochs finally came back to her cell, she was subdued, and Beth was not surprised by that at all. She checked Amanda's arm and reset the bandage before she asked
about supper.

  “You mean, the condemned woman's last meal?” Amanda said wearily.

  “Nonsense, you'll get whatever breakfast you want, and then what you might get for lunch depends on your trial,” Beth said with a smile.

  “Trial?”

  “Your trial is at 10 tomorrow morning. Now, Custos, display on the screen the list of restaurants in Ostia she can pick from.”

  The other woman was grumbling, “I've heard about fast justice, but this is ridiculous.”

  “Well, we have the recording of what you did and the reasons why you did it. Was there something more we should wait around for? Pick out a restaurant you like and then you can pick from the menu.” Beth was going to say more, but she received a message to stay where she was, that Mrs. Harrison wanted to see the prisoner. While she thought that was a little strange, she didn't say anything as Amanda picked out something to eat. By the time that was done, Mrs. Harrison was coming down the hallway.

  Beth introduced the two and then sat back to observe. Mrs Harrison was kind and charming and very interested in Amanda, her life, and how she'd wound up where she was. Beth wasn't sure, but she suspected that Mrs. Harrison had the idea that there was some sort of 'something' between the consul and the prisoner. She kept very quiet about it, even in her own mind, but it almost seemed as if Mrs. Harrison were trying to decide whether to do some matchmaking. Finally, after a very polite, but thorough, 'investigation', Mrs Harrison gave Beth a hug and left.

  Amanda looked thoughtful and turned to Beth, saying, “I think that was the strangest thing that's ever happened to me. Was that part of a criminal investigation, or an interview with human resources for a job?”

  Beth smiled, “If you hang around long enough, and you probably will, I'm sure you'll see much stranger things.”

  “If you don't mind me asking, how old are you and how long have you been in this 'empire' business. From your self-assurance and competence, I'd guess late 20's, early 30's, but your skin looks younger than that.”

  On her way out of the door, Beth couldn't restrain a giggle from escaping. “Thanks, I think, but I'm 17. I'll be by in the morning to escort you to your trial. Have a good night's rest.” She shut the door on the other woman's startled face and returned to the residence, alternately giggling and trying to decide whether it was a compliment that she looked, no, acted, older.

  Jon and Ari had already reported to the consul before she returned, but Beth realized she finally had a question that should be asked. She stopped at the consul's desk and waited at attention until she got his attention.

  “Yes, Private Jordan?”

  “Sir, I don't know what you will decide tomorrow, but regardless of the outcome, wouldn't it be a good idea if Miss Ochs could speak and understand Latin for her trial? And wouldn't it be a good idea to 'give' her Latin, especially if is she's condemned to slavery here in the empire?”

  The consul gave a slight start before responding, “Thank you, private, those are very good questions. We'll take them under consideration.”

  Beth saluted, and while she was turning to leave, she caught a broad grin and a wink from the First, which surprised her so much she almost tripped. She went off to catch a few winks before supper and guard duty, but she definitely had a smile on her face – it certainly seemed as if she were doing the right things. She couldn't wait for guard duty, to have some 'quiet time' to talk things over with Jon and the other codjits.

  * * * * *

  When Amanda woke in the morning, she had a little headache, but that was hardly surprising considering all that had happened the day before. She'd taken the time to look at the surveillance recording they had of her, and she had to admit that there was no way she could talk her way out of the situation. The only thing she could think of doing was to admit her guilt, explain her dreadful ignorance and take whatever came her way. She amused herself with a little bit of gallows humor – if she could survive whatever slavery meant to these Imperials, she ought to be able to write one heck of a story about the inner workings of this empire.

  One thing was sure, they didn't seem to skimp on food for prisoners. Dinner had been wonderful, delivered right to her cell. As for breakfast, well, she'd asked for a pastry and a huge cup of coffee, and both had been superb. There was the added bit of humor that the pastry came in a bag that proclaimed it was from the 'Ex-cop's Donut Shop.' She tried to relax, asking for some light classical music to listen to as she watched the time get closer to 10.

  The door to her cell opened at 9:45 and Private Jordan was there, smiling at her. “Good morning! It's time to head upstairs.”

  Amanda set down her now cold cup of coffee. “Do you have to be so cheerful in the morning?”

  “Sorry, I'm still a little wired – we were on guard duty until 8AM, had a morning run, then, after breakfast, all sorts of big shots showed up and we had to deal with them.”

  They had reached the end of the hallway, left the cells and entered an elevator by that time. “Good grief, how can you still be standing upright after all that?”

  The other woman, girl, actually, smiled again. “Actually it's a breeze after basic training.” She laughed gaily. “So, do you notice anything unusual this morning?”

  Amanda thought for a bit – her arm still hurt, but other than that, there seemed to be nothing … wait a minute! She stopped in her tracks and grabbed the private's arm. “We're speaking Latin, aren't we? But that's impossible – I don't know Latin and I've never studied it!”

  The private took her arm, the good one, and led her out into the sunshine, “I told you last night you'd probably see stranger things.” The private led her to one end of the street, where there was a raised platform, a chair, and a pillar with manacles attached. She was led up to stand on one side of the platform. Private Jordan stood behind her and whispered “I'll stand behind you and try to explain the little I know.”

  Amanda stood there for a few minutes as a fairly sizable crowd gathered, including Agent Reynolds from yesterday and some other 'official' looking people. Finally, as she had been afraid, the cowboy from yesterday (though no longer wearing cowboy boots) came down the street, came up on the platform and sat in the chair.

  He paused a moment and then began to speak. “The first item to be judged this morning is a case of espionage. And the first thing to do is judge the person responsible for it.”

  Amanda shivered, dreading to hear what was next, but Private Jordan whispered, “The First said that the boss wanted to demote himself down to private, but the emperor wouldn't let him.”

  The cowboy, no, she should start thinking of him as Michael Baxter, continued, “The emperor did not approve of several suggested punishments, but an agreement was finally reached. For the person responsible for this act of espionage, Michael Baxter, ten strokes.” He stood up, removed his coat and shirt and beckoned to a burly soldier standing to one side of the platform. Although he spoke quietly to the man, they were standing close enough Amanda could hear what was said - “If you try and take it easy on me, I'll crucify you!”

  Amanda also heard a whisper from behind her, “I don't think he's allowed to really crucify anyone.” That didn't affect Amanda's surprise at all. She had taken the documents, so why was Baxter claiming responsibility? Baxter walked over to the column and grabbed a hold of the manacles, nodding at the burly soldier, who uncurled a cat-o-nine-tails, took a hop and skip and laid the lashes on Baxter's back. Baxter barely moved a muscle, but Amanda jumped. In fact she jumped every time the lash came down. Why on earth was he being whipped, she thought.

  Finally, it was over and Baxter came back and sat down again. His face seemed to be carved out of stone, even when a young black woman came over to tend his bleeding back. “There was also good that happened yesterday. Because of her quick and intelligent action, one person rendered a great service to the empire. By the gift of the emperor, an aureus and an honor stripe to Private Bethany Jordan.” The young private stepped up from behind Amanda and recei
ved a coin. She saluted and returned to where she had been standing, muttering, “I did not expect that!”

  Baxter continued, apparently still unaffected by what had happened, “And for the last actor in this case,” he looked directly at her, “Amanda Ochs, having seen the recording of what happened, do you admit that you attempted to steal documents from the consul's residence?”

  “Yes, sir.” Amanda was at least glad that there wasn't a quaver or a shred of fear in her voice.

  “It has also been discovered by this court that you were seriously misled about what you were supposed to do, and about the nature of the empire. Do you swear that the information you provided yesterday is correct?”

  Again she managed a firm “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, though I find you guilty of espionage, I also find that there are ample mitigating circumstances, and you are condemned to slavery, such slavery to end at the emperor's pleasure. First!”

  A soldier with four stripes on his sleeve stepped forward and began talking, but Amanda was in a little bit of shock. She was glad there was no death penalty, but slavery? And she was being sold now?

  She didn't remember seeing anything in the next few minutes, but Private Jordan's voice kept her informed of what was happening. “They started out at 10 aureii, that's $10,000, but it's mounting quickly, already jumping to 100. One of the big shots, who claimed to be your dad's banker, is trying to bid, but he has no money on him, so First isn't letting him bid. That's Centurion Jackson, claiming to bid for the first legion. Don't worry too much about that, First said they're just going to try and bug the boss, who's supposed to be something of a penny-pincher. By the way, the consul is outbidding everyone so far, in case you were worried. Oh boy, the bidding is climbing fast, 1000 aureii, 2000, 3000 – good grief!” The bidding had apparently paused and Baxter had motioned Centurion Jackson up to talk with him.