Rogue Emperor

by Crawford Kilian

  “Consider us rich,” Pierce said. “Order a proper cena.”

  As if he had memorized the menu, Juvenal rattled off his order to the attendants. The first course, an appetizer of mushrooms in honey, arrived almost at once.

  “Have you heard anything about the consul Plinius?” Pierce asked.

  “Who remembers Plinius? It’s Comutus who gained all the glory last night. Imagine the whole Amphitheater filled, and magical means to make one’s voice like thunder — and then giving the floor to Comutus Tertullus, one of the dullest orators ever to bray under a Roman sky.”

  “Plinius,” Pierce insisted.

  “The manager of my insula sent a slave off to Laurenturn today with the month’s rents. Plinius keeps close track of his accounts.”

  “So he’s at his villa on the coast.”

  “Unless he trusts his freedmen more than he used to.” Juvenal made a face. “You know, Alaricus, in the days of the deified Augustus, literary men could turn to a Maecenas for patronage. Now a rich man like Plinius sets up as a poet and patronizes himself while real poets starve.” The stewed onager arrived, and Juvenal dug his spoon into the steaming bowl.

  “Is he any good?”

  “As a poet? He’s horrid. Some of his letters, I’ll grant you, have a passable style. When not congratulating himself, or reporting the compliments others have paid him, he shows some powers of description and even some wit. But his precious hendecasyllables — well, this is a poor topic for table talk.”

  Now the courses arrived all at once, their smells making Pierce dizzy and a little nauseated. Roman cuisine was fond of sweet and sour, honey and vinegar in the same dish, and a fish sauce called garum — stinking worse than Vietnamese nguoc mam — was doused over peacock and roast pork alike.

  “How do you read the people’s mood today, after the display last night?” he asked.

  Juvenal laughed, an unpleasant wheezing noise. “Like that of a man who’s drunk too much and gorged on tainted meat. Speaking of which, you’ve scarcely touched your wine.”

  “Is Martellus stronger than he was, or not?” Pierce demanded.

  “Oh, stronger, I suppose. Now he’s got at least some of the people, as well as the Praetorians, and the senate will consider that. But the walls are covered with pasquinades mocking him; I gather he made a terrible speech, very short, so everyone’s calling him the Laconian. Against him he has the aristocrats, and some of the people, and the priests.”

  “And Trajan.”

  Juvenal looked serious. “Now for the important news. This morning, when I went to give the morning salutation to one of my patrons, another client told me that Trajan is already well south of Mediolanum with two legions.”

  “Impossible! How could a Roman army in Germany already be informed of Domitian’s death — and be across the Alps and south of Milan?”

  “It appears he was planning to overthrow Domitian already, and began his march at the beginning of May. He should be at Rome within ten days — perhaps even sooner.”

  Pierce said nothing. The news made a depressing kind of sense. Only Agency support had kept Domitian in power for the last four years, while he grew steadily more despotic and irrational. Many Romans would have yearned for Trajan, and he would have sensed his own growing insecurity: As the likeliest successor to Domitian, Trajan would also be Domitian’s likeliest menace, someone to be eliminated. If Trajan had decided to strike first, he understood the empire.

  Pierce wondered what the Agency would have done if the Militants had not intervened. Domitian had been increasingly unpopular uptime; perhaps Wigner would have shrugged and allowed Trajan to take over. Or he might have sent Pierce downtime again to keep Domitian going for a few more months.

  If Aquilius had gone north, Pierce reflected, he might by now have reached Trajan’s army. If so, and Trajan believed his warning, the army might save itself by halting for a few more days. If Trajan pressed on, he was certain to be destroyed.

  “Why so silent, my friend?”

  Pierce shrugged. He couldn’t pin his hopes on Aquilius, who was probably dead in some pauper’s grave outside the walls, or on the convenient arrival of the Gurkhas and Cubans. All he could do was to stay alive and try to undercut Martel any way possible.

  “Nothing,” he said to Juvenal. “Once more I am grateful for your friendship.”

  *

  They parted as the city began to settle into its afternoon siesta. Pierce returned to the palace and sought out Willard; he was in the terrace meeting room, talking to Greenbaugh while the Trainable watched a computer flickerscreen. Both men looked up as a Praetorian ushered Pierce in.

  “Hail, Alaricus,” Willard said, standing up and taking Pierce’s hand. Pierce looked respectfully baffled by the flashing computer screen, which was feeding Greenbaugh data on existing and anticipated combat supplies. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have learned more about the Roman Christians, my lord, but I do not want to trouble the emperor directly. May I tell you instead? And Brother David?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have been invited tonight to a meeting. They asked me to come alone, and I agreed as a sign of trust.”

  Willard nodded eagerly. “Praise Jesus — a meeting with true Christians. Some of them must have known Peter and Paul. Brother David, can you imagine that?”

  Greenbaugh paused his computer and nodded. “We live in great times.”

  “This is welcome news, Alaricus. The emperor will be pleased.”

  “That is all I seek. May I now attend on the lady Maria?”

  “You may,” said Greenbaugh. “The Lord go with you.”

  “And with you, my lords.”

  As he walked out of the meeting room, Pierce heard Greenbaugh saying in English, “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, putting that young man at the service of a spoiled brat.”

  “Well, he’s doing Dear Michael more good than he’s doing her,” Willard said.

  *

  Pierce knocked softly on Maria’s door. “My lady? It is Alaricus.”

  “Come in.”

  The room was flooded with sunlight; palm fronds just outside the window rustled in a light breeze. Maria sat on the edge of her bed, one of Martel’s books open beside her. She looked depressed and tired. Pierce greeted her and told her his news about the Christians and Plinius.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she sighed. “At least someone here is accomplishing something.”

  “My lady, are you unhappy?”

  ‘The emperor, Alaricus, is punishing me. I was in charge of his safety last night, and I failed. So I sit here while everyone else gets on with the job.”

  “He is kind and merciful, my lady. Soon you will be back in his favor. I will remind him that I was sent to serve you.”

  Her blue eyes brimmed with sudden tears. “What a kind and loving man you are. Come and sit beside me. I’ve been so lonely — I need someone to talk to, someone who understands me.”

  He read her carefully, everything from the dilation of her pupils to the tone of her skin and the scent of her pheromones. She was out to seduce him; he wondered about her motives. Was it simply a spoiled girl’s secret revenge, a way of asserting herself over Martel’s authority? Or was she planning to form some kind of alliance with him, to bind him into a sexual clienthood and manipulate him in her struggles with the Militant hierarchy? Nothing in her dossier indicated any sexual experience at all, but her dossier was six years old.

  Pierce sat on the edge of her bed. “My lady, I have a thought. No one else knows about Plinius. Suppose we went to arrest him and bring him back to the emperor as a surprise? Surely he would forgive you then.

  Her eyes, which had been fixed on his, lost their focus for an instant. She smiled hesitantly and then threw her arms around his neck.

  “Ita est! Ita est! Alaricus, it’s a brilliant idea.”

  After that the seduction went much as Pierce had expected. They made love silently and aggressively, enjoying e
ach other’s bodies. Pierce’s enhanced senses obliged him to hold back, which only encouraged her. When they were finished and lay exhausted in each other’s arms, Maria whispered:

  “When shall we leave?”

  “I should be back from my meeting with the Christians before midnight. We could leave a little before dawn. Laurentum is not far, just a little south of Ostia. We should be back with the consul well before nightfall.”

  “What if he betrays us as Comutus did?”

  Pierce chuckled softly. “Then the emperor will soon be obliged to appoint two new consuls, who will understand what must be done.”

  “So the sooner we have Plinius, the better. Good. And what an adventure it will be,” she added with a mischievous smile. “What a gift for Dear Michael.”

  *

  They discussed the plan for a while, lying naked on her high bed in the sultry afternoon; then Pierce left to make arrangements in the imperial stables. First he went to the pharmacy and obtained another ten Pentasyn caps; the pharmacist refused to give him more.

  “She’s going to be slaphappy if she goes through’em at this rate,” he said to himself in English. Pierce looked blank, shrugged, and left. He swallowed four of them as soon as no one was looking, but even that amount only dulled the ache. Extended B&C, he reflected, was like having one’s pupils dilated and going out in bright sunlight; the intensity was exquisitely painful. The Pentasyn worked like dark glasses, muting the increased sensory input but never blanking it out altogether.

  The stables, on the southern edge of the palace, were relatively quiet at this hour. Pierce found the stablemaster, a Sicilian with a squint and the predictable name of Strabo.

  “The emperor has given me an urgent and secret mission,” Pierce told him quietly. “I must have three horses saddled and ready by the first hour before dawn tomorrow.”

  “As the emperor wills.”

  “No one must know of this. If all goes well, your reward will be a fine farm in Campania, and a million sesterces.”

  Strabo’s jaw dropped, “I will mention it to no one.”

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

  *

  The sun was low in the west when Pierce returned to the baths. At this hour the customers had all gone home and the door was shut; Pierce pounded until a slave unbarred it and let him in.

  “My master awaits you in the library,” he said. “Please come this way, sir.”

  They crossed the exercise yard to a narrow two-story building. Tertius’s office was on the ground floor; they passed it and climbed a flight of creaking wooden stairs to a second story overlooking the tiled roof of the baths. The slave led Pierce along a walkway to a door and told him to go in.

  Pierce found himself in an airy room with four windows in the long south-facing wall and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on all the other walls. Apart from a few stools and benches, the room was unfurnished. Pierce glanced at the tags hanging from the scrolls: plays by Menander and Plautus, philosophical treatises by Epictetus and Pythagoras, the Natural History of Pliny the Elder, The Jewish War by Josephus Flavius the historian and turncoat.

  “Welcome.” Tertius was sitting at the far end of the room among four other men. All were old, with white hair and beards. They wore shabby togas with no sense of style, but all struck Pierce as powerfully intelligent. Whatever else Tertius and his companions might be, they were men of character.

  “Come and sit with us. I have told my friends about you, but perhaps you can explain in your own words what you seek.”

  Pierce walked down the long room and bowed before sitting in a backless chair. “I thank you gentlemen for troubling to meet with me. I am Alaricus, a Goth in the service of the emperor Martellus. He is eager to meet with genuine Christians and to make them part of his government.”

  A dark-eyed man, very old and frail, smiled crookedly through his wispy beard and spoke in a whisper: “Has he not found enough Christians in the last week, declaring themselves in the Forum and every street in Rome?”

  “I said genuine Christians, honored sir. Those who know that the Son of God died for our sins and rose from the dead. Those who have risked and suffered martyrdom for the sake of Jesus.”

  “My name is Ioannes Marcus,” said the dark-eyed old man. “I am a Christian. But I am also a Jew, and this Martellus has slain thousands of Jews. Many of them were Christians also. Why does your Martellus slay his fellow believers?”

  “He believes that the Jews crucified Christ and rejected his message of salvation,” Pierce said expressionlessly.

  Marcus looked surprised. “Crucified Christ. Does he suppose the Romans had nothing to do with it?”

  “I cannot speak further for the emperor on this subject. I can tell you, however, that he urgently desires the support of true Christians, and he intends to make the whole empire Christian.”

  Marcus chuckled and stroked his wispy beard. The setting sun, shining through the windows, turned his wrinkled face to bronze. “And this Martellus has already tried to convert the Gentiles through a display of miracles in the Amphitheater, has he not? He has shown fifty thousand Romans a vision of Hell, and the image of Christ on the cross.”

  “He has.”

  “And perhaps the Gentiles are foolish enough to believe him, but what of us? I was a small boy at Golgotha, but I remember it perfectly. They drove the nails into Jesus’s wrists, not His hands; and into His ankles, not His feet. In the vision of Martellus, where was the peg between Jesus’s legs, to support His weight? Why was the vision’s beard short and brown, when Jesus’s was long and black?”

  “I cannot answer your questions. I am a simple Goth, a servant doing my master’s bidding.”

  “And we are simple Jews, doing our master’s bidding. We have tried to bring the good news of Jesus to Jews and Gentiles alike. And our master has warned us, as we warn others, to know the signs of the end of the world. He told his disciples on the Mount of Olives, ‘Do not be misled. Many will come in my name, saying, “I am he,” and will mislead many. And if anyone says to you, “Behold, here is the Christ,” do not believe him; for false Christs and false prophets will arise, and will show signs and wonders, to lead the chosen astray.’ That is what He told his followers, and so have I written it for all Christians to read.”

  Pierce stood up without willing it. His voice was hoarse: “You are Sanctus Marcus, the author of the gospel.”

  “You are too kind to call me saintly, but I have indeed written a little book on our master. Please sit down, Alaricus. You are too tall, and my neck hurts when I must look up at you.”

  “So you see the visions of the Amphitheater as the signs and wonders of a false prophet,” Pierce said, obeying the old man.

  “Of course. We’re very excited, for it shows that tribulation will soon come, and then our master will return in glory.”

  “And you have no interest in coming forward to support the emperor Martellus.”

  Marcus smiled. “Our master told us to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, but he said nothing about anyone named Martellus.”

  “Even if you could preach to him and his followers, and show them the true faith?”

  “They have clearly had some exposure to the gospel,” Marcus said, “though in a distorted form. Even you, a Goth, recognized the verses of my little book. It is up to the individual to grasp the message or to reject it, and to face the consequences. Is that not freedom? To choose between known consequences? We have chosen eternal life; Martellus and his followers have chosen eternal damnation.”

  The library was growing dark. Tertius had already lighted an olive-oil lamp and now lighted two others. Ioannes Marcus looked tired.

  “What shall I tell the emperor?” Pierce asked.

  “The truth, I hope. Perhaps he will reconsider and repent of his crimes.”

  “Or he may search you out and destroy you as a menace.”

  “With your help, he will not need to search far.”


  “I will tell him nothing of this meeting, but he may discover you through other means.”

  “This, too, our master warned us of: We shall be delivered up to the courts, and flogged in the synagogues, and stand up before governors and kings. Brother shall deliver up brother to death, and fathers shall deliver children, and children their fathers. It has happened already, and will happen again.”

  The old man’s eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “At least I shall not deliver up my children and grandchildren, Alaricus. For they have all, all been slain this week by the Praetorians.”

  Twenty

  Once again Pierce stood in the terrace meeting room, facing the emperor and the Elders. But tonight Maria was not in her chair against the wall.

  “Emperor, the man who was to lead me to the Christians did not appear at the place we were to meet. I have failed, but I will persist.”

  Martel, looking abstracted, nodded. “Keep on, Alaricus; the Lord will guide you.”

  “Shall I take on other tasks as well, Emperor?”

  “Not for now. When you are in the palace you shall guard the lady Maria, but you are free to come and go in your search. You may leave us now.”

  Pierce bowed. As he left, he heard Greenbaugh say, in English, “Back to the agenda. Item seven: Looks like the Agency has closed our knotholes.”

  Already out the door, Pierce paused to look in his shoulder bag while trying to overhear the Trainable.

  “ … means we haven’t got all the weapons we’d like, but we planned for it and we have enough for three cohorts and our own people. I’ve ordered our reception teams to pull back and keep the knothole sites under surveillance. Anyone comes through who looks like Agency will wake up with Satan.”

  Elias’s voice interrupted: “They’ll more likely come through where we’re not expecting them, David.”

  “We’re expecting them almost everywhere, but plenty of locations in uptime Rome just can’t be used. That’s one reason why we’re here. As long as they don’t seize Dear Michael or the rest of us, it doesn’t matter; we have our communications net set up and our forces on alert. When the Agency sees what the story is here, they’ll have to negotiate. But we expect to have some bloodshed before they see the light.”