Strength and Honor

by R. M. Meluch

  The deep cells were not the same as the first sampling. This time they were perfect matches in both DNA and age to Gaius Bruccius Eleutherius Americanus.

  Senators fired questions at Gaius—questions to which only Gauis would know the answers. The man on the Senate floor remembered Gaius’ private conversations. He correctly failed to remember any imaginary incidents laid out to trap him.

  When the Senators were satisfied, Caesar Romulus had a question for Gaius: “What was the name of your street gang?”

  Romulus dredged up Gaius’ squalid past in front of the Senate. Not that any one of them did not know, but Romulus thought they needed reminding.

  Dante Porter, as he was called at his birth, had risen up through slime. “East Street Pirates,” Gaius answered frankly, pushing up his sleeve to bare his forearm. He remembered only then with apparent chagrin that his gang leader tattoo had been burned off too. Under his sleeve now was only unmarked young skin.

  “Ah. The albatross has fallen off,” he said in slight surprise. “My bones were tattooed here.” His gangland tattoo, the mark of an old sin, had been a garish mark on his forearm. Something he lived with and could not remove for himself, like the ancient mariner’s albatross.

  Fate had intervened to take the stain away. “I can start wearing short sleeves,” he said, a little bit astonished, as if he had been absolved.

  At the end of the grilling, no one doubted that this young-looking man was the elder statesman, Senator Gaius Bruccius Eleutherius Americanus.

  The Praetor asked formally, “What has Senator Gaius to say to the Senate?”

  “I am here to tell you that the testament which was read here before this Senate, the document purported to be the last testament of Caesar Magnus, suffered an elision. A line was deleted from Magnus’ true will.”

  All eyes turned to Caesar. Waited for Caesar to speak. Waited long. The Praetor finally had to ask, “Have you any answer to that, Caesar?”

  “No, of course I have not!” said Romulus. “I have questions. Does the testament have an elision? How could it? I read the testament of Caesar Magnus to this Senate. I broke the seal right here in this chamber.”

  Senator Trogus spoke out of turn, “No one tested the security of that seal before Caesar allegedly broke it for the first time.”

  “I did,” said Caesar. “I tested it. I wanted to be sure I had my father’s will. Why did you not test it? I shall tell you why. So you could come back later and throw doubt on its authenticity, just in case my father’s final word contained something you did not like!”

  Gaius said, “Romulus, I thought I left that twisted brand of leadership behind on East Street.”

  “All your insinuations are built on vapor,” said Romulus. “Because the author of the testament, my father, Caesar Magnus, is dead.”

  “There is also the word of the patterner who sealed the testament,” said Gaius.

  “We don’t have Augustus’ word. Augustus is dead.”

  “You have my word, a witness,” said Gaius. “Who was almost dead. Am I vapor?”

  “Tell us again, who put you back together, Gaius?”

  “The Americans,” Gaius admitted without hesitation. “And how did you get back from your hiding in the Deep, Gaius?”

  “An American military transport through the U.S. Shotgun,” said Gaius frankly.

  “You took aid from the enemy. In wartime. I accuse you of treason, and of colluding with the enemy in time of war.” He signaled to the guards. “Take this man to a cell.”

  Gaius answered back, “Sir, I accuse you of treason and attempted assassination.” Romulus reeled back as if shot in the chest, “You dare accuse me of my father’s murder!”

  “No,” said Gaius. “The assassination attempt was on me. The assassination of your father was rather a success.” Guards moved in to flank Gaius, hesitant yet to touch him. Gaius spoke to the assembled Senators in the rising rows. “Examine the testament. You will find the gap.”

  “A gap,” said Romulus, derisive. “Lack of evidence is no evidence. Have Augustus come in and testify.” A shadow eclipsed the sunlight that had streamed through the round window at the top of the dome. Something was moving up there, very close. Nothing was allowed to fly over the Capitoline. There followed the deep heavy clunk of something substantial making contact with the stone roof. “What is that?” Sunlight glinted around sharp-edged metal landing gear supporting a small spacecraft with lines of a wasp, in red and black. It was a patterner’s Striker.

  14

  AUGUSTUS!”

  The entire Senate stared up to the top of the dome.

  “What is he doing?”

  “Testifying?” Gaius suggested.

  The round window at the center of the dome cracked. A metal leg of the Striker’s landing gear jutted through the circular opening with a rain of pelleted glass. Senators fanned out toward the surrounding wall. There was nowhere to run with a Striker out there. There was a bunker deep beneath the Curia, but no one wanted to go underground.

  A brass tube struck down from the dome like a bullet in the center of the floor, taking a chip out of the red marble. Bits of tempered glass clattered down around it.

  The Senators shied from the canister on the floor as if it were a grenade.

  Once the glass stopped raining, they saw the canister was the shape and style of a formal container for a parchment roll, delivered more harshly than usual.

  The shadow of the Striker lifted away from the broken window.

  Romulus bellowed for the home defense.

  Already the hiss of outbound missiles could be heard through the opening in the dome. A cadre of guards trooped into the Curia to surround Caesar. They brought a personal force field for him.

  “A little late,” Caesar said, but strapped on the mechanism and activated it. He motioned the guards away from him. They took up stations at the exits.

  Senator Ventor was standing at the wall with one finger to his ear in order to listen to a phone in his other ear. He called across the Curia: “Caesar, I am getting word from Imperial Intelligence. That is not Augustus’ Striker.”

  “I knew it!” said Romulus. “This is a hoax.”

  Ventor demurred, “One moment, Caesar.” He listened some more, then spoke. “They are telling me that could very well be Augustus inside the Striker. But the Striker is not the one built for Augustus.”

  “What? He borrowed one?” Caesar said, losing patience.

  “The chirp from the vessel identifies it as a Striker that disappeared sixty years ago. It belonged to the patterner Secundus. It was blue and white. These new colors make Intelligence think that Augustus could be at the controls.”

  The Striker up there was red and black. Flavian colors. Augustus was Flavian.

  “And it’s certainly not Secundus.”

  Romulus’ gaze fell on Numa Pompeii seated in the front row. Numa had held his position rather than scurrying to the wall with most of the others. He was now conferring with someone on his com, appearing discontented.

  Caesar strolled across the floor, leaned on the railing that separated them. Caesar asked faintly, casually, looking up through the broken skylight. “Pompeii, what was that?”

  Numa Pompeii clicked off his com. “They’re telling me it is Augustus.”

  “Not dead, is he,” Romulus observed.

  Numa, unapologetic, said, “My information on that did come from the Americans.” Romulus turned from the rail. “Senator Gaius, make Augustus come in.”

  “I do not control him,” said Gaius. “I never have. I never supported patterner technology. Augustus already knows the truth of it, and he has made the judgment. He only needs to execute the sentence.”

  Caesar’s eyes widened. He pointed, the full length of his arm extended toward Gaius, imperious. “Now that is a threat.”

  Caesar’s guards did not hesitate to lay hands on Gaius this time and take him to a secure cell under the nearby Coliseum.

  There were no pr
isons for punishing criminals in Rome. Imprisonment was not a sentence in the Empire. Cells were only for holding the accused for investigation and trial. And for holding slaves likely to flee.

  Of the canister lying on the Senate floor in a scatter of glass bits, Caesar commanded: “Have a bomb squad destroy that!”

  “No!” Senator Quirinius shouted, moving between the guards and the canister. “In the name of the Senate and the People of Rome, no! That was delivered to the Senate! The Senate must be allowed to view the message inside!”

  Many other Senators shouted, murmured, grunted agreement. Even some of Caesar’s followers added their voices, curious to see what the patterner sent them.

  The guards hesitated, torn between Caesar and the Senate. Caesar clearly feared what was inside the canister, which made even more Senators want to see it.

  Romulus abruptly reversed himself. He waved off the guard. Told Senator Quirinius, “Go ahead. Take it. See what the traitor fed you through your roof before he ran away.”

  Quirinius moved around Romulus to get at the canister.

  Romulus spoke as Quirinius stooped to pick it up. “Clean it first. I would not want you to come down with something lethal and incurable.”

  Imperial Intelligence opened the message canister before a room full of witnesses, and withdrew from it a document that turned out to be a copy of Magnus’ testament, date-sealed with a chemical tag. The seal’s molecules came from a specific numbered batch created for just this purpose. The molecular decay gave the document an indisputable time stamp.

  “It is the testament of Caesar Magnus,” said the Intelligence magister. “The authentication copy.”

  “Authentication copy?” said Caesar. “There is such a thing?”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  “How would Augustus just happen to have it?” Caesar asked with heavy scorn.

  The magister dropped his voice. “As the witness who sealed the original document, he is supposed to have it, Caesar.”

  The document proved identical to the testament Romulus had unsealed before the Senate. Except this one had one more provision.

  This one named Gaius Bruccius Eleutherius America-nus as heir to Caesar’s position. Caesar’s choice of his own successor was not binding. But Caesar’s choice was always due heavy consideration. Caesar Magnus’ nomination of Gaius had received none.

  Gaius, brought before the assembled Senators in old-fashioned chains, was allowed to speak. “Romulus deleted the line,” said Gaius. “That is the reason Romulus waited until he believed Augustus was dead before he unsealed Magnus’ testament. Then I, as the only other witness, became target of an assassination attempt ordered by Romulus—Caesar Pretender.”

  Gaius was returned to his cell while the Senate ordered data experts to make a close analysis of the testament Romulus had first presented to them.

  Upon analysis, the experts concluded: Yes, there was evidence of an elision.

  Romulus was then called to speak.

  “Gentlemen,” said Romulus. “I am irritated. I am insulted. Know that this pains me deeply. I don’t deserve this. It is demeaning for me to have to explain this. Very well. Let us play this charade to the end. Let us assume, to argue on behalf of the devil, that someone may have deleted a line from my father’s testament. May not that someone have been Augustus, who is more than capable of perjury and data manipulation? The same Augustus who orchestrated my father’s murder? May not that someone have been my father? Could my father not have had second thoughts on naming an heir? And Gaius? My father named Gaius?

  “We have a story—from Gaius and the Americans— that someone made an attempt on the life of Gaius Bruccius Eleutherius Americanus. We have no proof that this attack ever occurred.

  “Oh, yes, I know we have Gaius’ new skin as evidence of something. Is it not interesting that this purported attempt on Gaius’ life left Gaius in much better condition than he was in when he ran away? Better than when he ran away from Rome directly after my father was murdered!

  “Yet you look at me with suspicion. Was I ever a gang leader? If my father’s testament was altered, why are you assuming it was done by me? I wasn’t named Caesar’s heir. If I changed the testament, why did I not put my own name down as heir!”

  “Because it would be too obvious,” said Senator Trogus. “Because this way you can use the absence of your name as a sign of your innocence.”

  “That is pathetic,” said Romulus. “That is so—never mind. The Senate confirmed me as Caesar based on my competence. But since you think you need to, go ahead. Retake your confirmation vote. I will abide by the decision of the Senate and the People of Rome. Do it. On belief that a rogue cyborg and a runaway American Senator— beneficiary of this fraud—have uncovered my father’s true—nonbinding—testament. Take your vote.”

  There had been no Roman strikes on American soil for days, while rumors of political turmoil on Palatine made the rounds. With both Merrimack and Wolfhound orbiting Earth, Captain Farragut seized on the relative quiet to invite Captain Carmel to his Mess for dinner.

  “Permission to come aboard,” Captain Carmel requested in Merrimack’s shuttle dock. “Come on in, Cal,” Farragut welcomed her in with a huge wave of his arm. At Farragut’s side, his normally sedate XO, Commander Gypsy Dent, saw Calli and cried, “Your hair!”

  Gypsy and Calli embraced, Gypsy crying, “Your hair!”

  Calli laughed, “What about my face?”

  “The face is fine,” said Gypsy. “It’s a face. But, oh, honey, we need to do something about this.” Gypsy fluffed up a brown tuft on Calli’s head.

  “Cal, don’t take help from Gypsy,” said Farragut.

  Gypsy held up a warning forefinger. Didn’t say it, but the words were in her flashing eyes, Speak not of the hair. Gypsy’s own elaborate and carnivorous-looking hair was still banished to her cabin.

  The three officers proceeded to the Captain’s Mess. They were on appetizers when Lieutenant Hamilton appeared in the hatchway. She motioned down their looks of alarm and told them all to stay seated. “Nothing wrong with the boat, Captain,” she anticipated Farragut’s first question. “I just wanted to tell you this in person as soon as we heard it. Augustus is back.”

  Farragut knocked over his champagne glass. Gypsy pushed away from the table to avoid the spill over the edge.

  A small maintenance bot unobtrusively saw to the cleanup as Farragut demanded, “Where!” His heart leaped in eighteen different directions.

  “On Palatine. Over Roma Nova.”

  “Romulus is dead then,” Farragut concluded.

  “No. Augustus dropped Magnus’ complete testament on the Senate floor.”

  “And the Senate turned on Romulus like a pack of wolves,” Farragut wrote the end of that scene.

  Lieutenant Glenn Hamilton hesitated on distasteful reality. “The Roman Senate reconfirmed Romulus as Caesar.”

  Farragut could not stay in his seat. “They have proof that he’s a liar, probably a patricide, and—!”

  “They don’t care,” said Hamster.

  “Romans don’t back down, John,” Calli said. “It’s a proven fact that even Americans tend not to back down once they’ve taken a public stand, even in the face of compelling argument or new facts. Changing your mind makes you look indecisive. It’s a sign of weakness.”

  “I thought—” Farragut strode to one end of the table. “I knew—I mean I knew—” To the other end of the table. “Once the truth came out, the Senate would toss their original vote. What the Senate did was—” Farragut sat back down, stunned. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Welcome to the real world, sir,” said Gypsy, with a hand on his broad shoulder. She sounded rather sad. She liked John Farragut’s version of the world. “I hear you were an Eagle Scout.”

  “I am an Eagle Scout,” said Farragut. You never stopped being an Eagle.

  “Strength and Honor are worshiped in adjoining temples,” said Calli. “Rome’s been hitting the Strength pr
etty hard, a little light on the Honor.”

  “It gets worse,” said Hamster. “On behalf of these United States, President Marissa Johnson recognized Romulus as head of state of the Empire of Rome.”

  “What?” Farragut and Gypsy spoke as one.

  Only Calli was not surprised. “I have to guess Johnson doesn’t want to look like she’s undermining a foreign country’s legitimate government.”

  “The CIA has been in that business for centuries,” said Farragut. “What’s different now?”

  “Opposition to Romulus only reinforces popular support for him. Johnson’s recognizing Romulus defangs him. He can’t keep calling us lying, scheming tyrants if we’re saying hail Caesar.”

  “Hope I didn’t ruin dinner,” said Hamster, taking a backward step, preparing to return to the command deck.

  “No. Good call, Hamster,” said Farragut. “That was definitely a need-to-know.” He detained her with one more question, “Where is Augustus?”

  “On the loose,” said Hamster. “With a price on his head.”

  Chef Zack had peered into the Mess. He sent in the salad of Centaurian greens, broiled ostrich, and tussah fruit with a stronger bottle of wine.

  Farragut speared one of the lavender-colored fruits. “So Romulus got Marissa to salute. The man can get anyone to do anything. I’m still wondering how Romulus got Magnus’ own friend to kill Magnus.”

  “Money is the usual tool,” said Gypsy.

  Assassinating a Caesar was clearly a suicide mission, so any money would be paid to a survivor. Though Imperial Intelligence would follow that money trail to the beneficiary, who would not remain a survivor for long.

  And the assassin—his name was Urbicus—was an old friend of Magnus. He belonged to gens Julius same as Magnus and Romulus.

  “This was not a work for hire,” said Calli.

  Farragut tried another angle. “If someone were leaning on Urbicus, why wouldn’t Urbicus have just reported the threat to Imperial Intelligence? Does that mean it was Imperial Intelligence who was doing the leaning?”

  “No. It means it had to do with sex,” said Gypsy.

  “Of course it had to do with sex,” said Calli.