“It worked in an era when most legionnaires weren’t professional soldiers,” Caesarion retorted, his face grim. “When they were slaves, sent to serve in place of their masters, or criminals, sent into the Legion instead of prison or slavery. When they were all plebeians, aside from the officers. The Legion is a very different organization now, than it was two thousand years ago. Decimation, forcing the soldiers to murder one tenth of their comrades, selected at random? Would deplete our forces and seriously damage morale!”
“But they would understand their place is to follow orders,” Julianus returned. “The entire western half of the Empire is in rebellion, Caesarion. I do not have time for pretty methods and diplomacy. Come home. Offer your fealty. Things are afoot, brother. Things that you do not know about. They have attacked our gods. No mercy can be offered.”
He hung up, and Caesarion pinched the bridge of his nose. After a moment, he asked, “What did he mean, that they’ve attacked our gods? Proselytizing Atenists are one thing, and those Blood Pact buffoons are irritating. The Nahautl began their glorious revolution by slaughtering priests of Jupiter and Mars, and breaking the statues in the state temples. But to my knowledge, no Goth or Gaul has pulled down the statues in any of our temples. And no mad godlings have dared attack Rome, either.”
Adam ben Maor swore internally. “I have it on good authority that Jupiter authorized the deaths of Xipe Totec and Tohil, and demanded the deaths of a Gothic and Gallic god in an effort to quell the rebellion,” he offered, his voice colorless. “It’s rumored that Mercury took action, killing Zeus, thus weakening Jupiter. He has taken refuge with the gods of Valhalla.”
Every mouth in the room fell open. “Do I want to know how you know that?” Marcus Livorus asked, the first to recover.
Adam shook his head. “No, dominus. I truly wish I did not know these things, myself.” He was all too aware of the look he was receiving from the Judean legate.
Caesarion sighed. “I liked the world better when the only interaction I had with gods was maybe at the Lupercal, or when I tossed a coin at Mars’ altar before a major battle. The supernatural has no place in Roman governance. And yet, it obtrudes itself, anyway.”
He stared off into space, as the legate raised a hand, anxiously. “Dominus. Please. I cannot carry out the Emperor’s orders. We are already in grave danger of an attack by Persian forces, with our effective fighting force depleted in this way. The Persians don’t need to use any intelligence-gathering tools beyond turning on their far-viewers to see that we’re weakened.”
“And our ‘deserters,’ if they’ve been fired on, if they’ve seen their comrades crucified for desertion? They won’t return to their posts in the event of a Persian attack,” Marcus warned.
“It’s worse than that,” the legate replied. “Do you really think that the landsknechten—such as the jotun who carry miniguns and rocket launchers, the fenris, the lycanthropes, the . . . god help me, lindworm riders and everyone else—will just watch as we attack their countrymen? If we attack the deserters, the landsknechten will turn on us.”
Marcus Livorus nodded. “There are literally millions of Goths here, in the city. There are several million Picts in the lands surrounding Jerusalem. A million jotun. If we follow the Emperor’s orders, the result will be the destruction of Judea, and probably eastern Carthage, as well.”
“I am aware,” Caesarion said, his voice weary. “I’m going to need the Roman governors of Tyre and Damascus here. I’m going to need King Trennus, the Temple elders, and the mayor of Jerusalem, as well . . . and someone who can speak for the Hellene refugees. Do we have any Byzantine officials available?”
“We can get the legate in charge of the Lydian resistance on a radio line,” his secretary offered. “He might be busy dealing with the grendels and ettin, but . . . .”
“Make the arrangements. Also, let’s get the Roman governor of Egypt on a phone line for the meeting, as well.” Caesarion’s expression became determined. “I will not let the Empire fall, gentlemen. It was built on conquest, but it’s been sustained by commerce and rational agreements between nations. The rebellion of the Goths and the Gauls wouldn’t have happened, if my father had . . . just lived a year longer.” He exhaled. “He could have kept things calm, and the gods might have sorted out their disagreements among themselves.”
“We’re going to rebel?” Adam asked, very quietly.
Caesarion’s head rose. “Certainly not.” Adam’s heart sank within him, and Caesarion raised a finger at him. “I have never given my brother my oath of loyalty. And I do not recognize the legitimacy of his rule. It is impossible to rebel against an illegitimate government. I am, simply, ensuring the continuance of the legitimate one.”
Marcus Livorus chuckled faintly. “I’ll make a note for the historical record.”
Caesarion grimaced. “Judea, and hopefully Carthage and Egypt, and the remnants of Hellas, are, from this moment forwards, the Roman Empire. Gaul and Germania may agree to rejoin our loving embrace, or we may have to come to terms with them as recognized and separate nations in a . . . mutually-agreeable alliance. The Italian peninsula will find itself quite isolated without food shipments from Iberia, Egypt, Judea, Carthage, and Caesaria Aquilonis.” Caesarion’s face had gone increasingly grim. “There is a pretender on the throne of the Rome, gentlemen. I’ve had my suspicions about my father’s sudden demise.”
“We don’t have proof of malfeasance,” Adam warned, though he had much the same opinion.
“We don’t need proof to question the legitimacy of Julianus’ rule,” Marcus Livorus returned. “The fact that the investigation has been stifled is enough to give us an opening.”
Adam winced. “Your father would have preferred proof.” In fact, I think your father might be very disappointed in you, Marcus.
“My father was above all else, a pragmatist,” Marcus countered, evenly. “He might not have stooped to manufacturing evidence, but in this case, I believe he would have said act now, before it’s too late, and uncover the truth when we’re in a position to tally the evidence. Hopefully, before it’s all burned.”
Adam exhaled. That had a certain ring of truth to it.
“It’s been several centuries since the Praetorian Guard has had to remove a bad Emperor from the throne,” Caesarion murmured. “I hope the main Praetorian office begins to see the need, and in very short order.” He cleared his throat. “That will pave the way for my father’s second son, Hadrianus, to take the throne. Hadrianus isn’t any more god-born than Julianus, but . . . he’s always been sensible. Quiet. And he’s a priest of Mars Pater.”
Adam’s head came up. “Your father was god-born. Are you?”
Caesarion raised two fingers, half an inch apart. “The blood’s run thin. We have the blood of Venus and Isis in our veins, and Mars has granted luck to those of us who’ve served in the Legion . . . but while my skin’s a little tougher than average, I don’t heal like the child of a war-god. I can also lift a fog and summon snakes.” He shrugged. “Not very impressive abilities in this day and age, but the snakes might have impressed a crowd back in the fifth century BC. It won’t hold the Empire together.”
Adam shook his head. “Caesarion . . . once you split the Empire . . . it’s not going to go back together easily.”
“It’s already split,” Caesarion said, grimly. “I’m going to preserve it if I can, ben Maor. And I’ll turn the entirety of it over to Hadrianus, when the time comes, so that no one has to swear fealty to me, as a . . . rebel. Incidentally, we won’t use that word outside of this office, gentlemen.” He exhaled. “Perhaps Julianus will back down when he sees the entire Empire turn against him.”
Marcus Livorus shook his head. “He’ll order the legions, directly, to depose you. Declare you a traitor, and have you executed, and buried at sea so that no one can find your grave.”
Caesarion looked around the room. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take. Gentlemen, I know you are all in equal danger if yo
u go along with me. This is your chance to leave.”
The Judean legate—head of the Judean Defense Forces—shook his head. “My responsibility is the defense of Judea. I’m with you.”
“My father’s job was keeping the Empire from destroying itself. Working with all the subject nations, negotiating with them. Holding the peace.” Marcus looked away for a moment.
“Livorus also knew that there was a time for war,” Adam said, quietly.
“Yes. Yes, he did.” Marcus sighed. “I’m with you, Caesarion. Ben Maor?”
“If we do this, I don’t have to choose between my friends, my wife, and my country,” Adam said, with a sigh. “I’m in.”
Deep in Chaldean territory, the first Rig knew about the situation was opening his eyes to see his men training their guns on him. “Sorry, sir,” one of them said, glumly. “Radio operator got the message. Every Goth or Gaul currently in the Empire has to renew their oath of loyalty to the Emperor, or be declared a traitor. And we’re supposed to take you back to headquarters under guard.”
Rig closed his eyes as one of his men edged closer, holding up a pair of shackles that would have usually been reserved for valuable enemy assets. Working as quickly as he ever had in his life, he built an illusion of himself, still in his sleeping bag, rendered himself invisible under it, and rolled away. His double blinked and offered its wrists, reluctantly, for the shackles. It took a little work to make the shackles invisible under another duplicate, and to create a hallucination in the mind of the man applying them, that ensured that he believed that he felt skin. Felt the tension in the chain of the manacles. Didn’t feel them hit the ground at his feet. And the clatter was easy enough to suppress as well. It just took attention to detail.
Once the seed of reality had been firmly implanted in every mind, Rig could relax a little, and came up on his feet, behind all his men now. His eyes flicked around to verify that they were all there. That there weren’t any others who might be holding back to look for him elsewhere. They all knew his abilities. “I’m no traitor,” his double said. “You know that. What’s going on?”
“Your people rebelled. They’re leaving the Empire. Any Goth or Gaul who leaves their post is to be considered a deserter, and to be executed.”
I knew it was coming, but damn it all. My father, Aunt Sig, and even Saraid didn’t warn me. Gods. “And you already knew what my answer was going to be?”
“The legate called in personally. You’re . . . well, you. He wants you back at headquarters, sir.”
As a hostage, or a propaganda asset. Wonderful. You’d think they’d know better. Rig watched the eyes and faces of his men. Saw which ones were not looking at his double. They knew him too damned well. He touched their minds, very gently, and crafted a second illusion there, letting them see what they suspected—a shimmer of a shadow, on the other side of the camp, scrambling out of the dry wadi in which they’d made camp, making for the shelter of the desert hills. “He’s getting away!” one of them shouted.
“What the fuck? He’s sitting right there!”
“He’s a god-born of Loki, damn it! Have you been asleep every time he’s walked us into enemy camps under the cover of illusion? I’m telling you, that’s a fake, and he just left the camp!”
“I don’t care—he’s our gods-be-damned centurion! I’m not shooting him just because the fucking Emperor’s lost his mind!”
“Lokison, you don’t have to run!” another one of them called, in the wrong direction. “Just give your oath of fealty, and everything will be fine!”
They were too well-trained to fire at something unknown, in the dark. The sound of the single shot could carry for miles in this desert, and could attract unwanted attention. There’s that, at least, Rig thought, as he slipped back to his gear, listening as everyone argued. He let his double vanish, which only heightened the debate. The hard-bitten veterans, the ones who’d been with him the longest, were arguing with the more recent additions to his company. An even split.
“If he’s loyal, he wouldn’t run.”
“Who the fuck says he’s running? Ten gets you one our centurion is sitting somewhere in this camp, listening to us argue!” That, from one of the veterans. “And if we don’t keep our voices down, something or someone is going to hear us, and then we’ll be up to our eyeballs in ghul.”
That silenced everyone. Rig was dismayed by how many guns were still in hand, fingers on triggers. He slipped his sword—the sword of Antonius Livorus—out from under his pile of gear, once more shielding every movement with illusion. The sword had been given to him by his father, Loki; he’d killed Immortals with its edge. It had some of Hel’s own essence in it. He couldn’t leave it behind.
He crouched there, listening to the debate go on, now in harsh whispers, and wondered what he was supposed to do now. Walking out of Chaldea alone sounded like folly. But then, Reginleif had taught him to maintain illusions even in his sleep. His father had taught him a few tricks Aunt Sigrun and Reginleif didn’t know, too. He’d probably make it back to the Wall inside of three days, at most, could slip past the gates with some JDF patrol, and . . . steal a truck or something.
The question wasn’t could he do it. The question was, should he? Should he leave his men here? He had a responsibility to them. And yet, if he stayed, the hotheads might well shoot him if he didn’t swear the oath. Though an oath under duress isn’t an oath at all. On the whole, he found this all grossly insulting. He’d been a good commander to his people. He’d saved their lives. They’d saved his. And now, his loyalty was somehow in question, because he happened to have been born to a Marcomanni woman . . . and a god of Valhalla, a corner of his mind whispered. Don’t forget that. Or that your wife and daughter are probably in more danger than you are, right now. Inghean and Vigdis can’t disappear with a thought.
And that, really, was what tipped the balance. Rig straightened from his crouch. He didn’t like using the abilities he’d picked up from Baal-Hamon. Aunt Sig had been quite straightforward about them: dominion over others could be abused.
But then, so could any form of command.
Hold still and be silent, Rig ordered them all, and every last one of his men froze in place, their voices cut off in mid-word. He let his illusions dissolve, and simply stared at them all, his face expressionless. Then he pulled on his uniform tunic and his helmet, with quick, decisive gestures. He wasn’t deserting. He was, however, going to be very much absent without leave for a while. Sidearm, check. He even rolled up his sleeping bag, just as if he were packing up from camp with the rest of them, and slung it over his back, as well as his automatic rifle, before taking a filled canteen, and sheathing Livorus’ sword by his side. Then he faced them all once more. “It’s been an honor serving with you,” he told them, looking at those who’d defended him. “If and when the political bullshit gets sorted out, I’ll be back. I swore to defend the Empire when I joined up, the same as the rest of you.” He paused. “I’ve served in the Legion with pride. But I’ll be damned if I’ll be forced to take a special oath to the Emperor, as if my birth makes me a criminal.” He paused, and gave an unsparing glance to the ones who’d been in favor of shooting him or detaining him. “But apparently, these days, loyalty is something that can be turned on and off with a single word.” Rig shook his head. “Ben Avram? You’re in command. Bring them home safe.”
He turned to leave, and he heard a single harsh whisper behind him, through gritted teeth. “Fuck. The. Emperor.” Rig turned, and saw ben Avram sweating, trying to fight off the weight of Rig’s power on his psyche. “Shouldn’t . . . go . . . alone . . . centurion . . . .”
Rig nodded, touched in spite of his simmering anger. “I know. But I can’t disarm half the squad and truss them up for my protection . . . the first Persian patrol or ghul pack we run into, they’d be dead. No. Get them home. I’ll find my own way.” He turned to look at the others, his expression grim. “For the record? I could have done this to you at any time. I didn’t. Consi
der that, as you’re deciding whether or not to track me through this wasteland. And consider the fact that I could, next time, leave you like this. Permanently.” It was, and wasn’t, a bluff. He’d never tried a permanent suggestion before. But he thought he had the power.
He covered himself in invisibility, and ran off, treading lightly. The command he’d implanted in his men’s minds would last until he was a mile away; he took his time, covering his tracks as best he could, and headed north, rather than due west. Found the highway they’d crossed the night before. Good. No tracks. He trudged along the dusty shoulder of the poured-stone road, still invisible, and ducked off the road when he saw a Persian convoy approaching; other than his men, this was the first sign of actual life he’d seen in four weeks. He tucked himself into the scrubby thornbushes, lying down flat, releasing his invisibility. He’d rely on the desert camouflage of his uniform and the paint smeared on his face to protect him from physical eyes . . . and nullified his aura instead, rendered himself invisible to othersight. That should be enough to deter any spirits they might have along. He could have maintained both, but it was tiring.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 72
