And still he smelled roses.
The doors slid closed. The machine started to move, slowly at first, and then impossibly fast. How did it do this? No horses were pulling it; no sails were atop it, catching the wind. Decius was not just baffled; he was terrified. Nothing, no one, should move this fast.
And then they entered darkness.
“We are perfectly safe,” Liber murmured. “We are in a tunnel. This is all normal here.”
This was not normal. It could not be normal. How did people stand the speed? Why did they not go mad?
“What are we doing in this place?” Decius asked when he felt able to speak.
“We simply need to buy something in the city,” Liber replied, “and then we will return to Terra. There is little danger. This is a world like countless others. People live their lives here. They have jobs and families. They worship gods, perhaps; they fight wars on occasion, I’m sure.”
“But they don’t have those weapons the Gallians used—the gants,” Decius said.
“No. Weapons like that destroy a world. You do not want to visit a world with gants, and I was never taught how to travel to any of them.”
Decius tried to make sense of what he was seeing and feeling. Countless worlds. How could this be? But here he was, sitting in a machine speeding faster than thought through a tunnel. Above him machines flew through the air. Across from him a woman with green hair, her eyes and ears covered, silently talked to herself.
He felt dizzy. He felt a twinge of what he had felt as Affron stared at him in the bowels of the Circus Maximus.
Eventually the machine glided to a stop, in another long hall. The doors slid open, and everyone got off. Liber led Decius to a long passageway. And the floor of the passageway moved, like the staircase outside the station. No need to walk, no need to do anything except hold on to a railing. It seemed to move slowly upwards after a while. The passageway let them off at a huge, open plaza—far larger than the Forum.
Thousands of people milled, wandered, sat. Decius was used to crowds, used to the mix of smells and sights and sounds of people jostling on the streets and plazas of Roma. But everything was different here. Far above the crowds huge devices hung in mid-air; on them colossal heads were speaking, visions of outdoor scenes moved past, strange devices and strange images appeared and disappeared. Around them shops were selling goods he did not recognize. He heard music playing—at least, he thought it was music, but it sounded harsh and dissonant and without melody. What was everyone doing? Where were they going?
And then Decius noticed something—the plaza was not open. Far above them was some kind of transparent substance that kept out the cold and the snow. They were in an immense bubble.
This was what he had seen in the distance as they stood in the snow.
“The entire city is enclosed in some kind of thick glass,” Liber said. “I cannot explain it—I cannot explain any of it. I do not think people go outside often—the weather here is too foul.”
This seemed impossible to Decius, but he supposed it was true. “What is the thing you need to buy?” he asked.
“It is merely a cream that you rub on your skin. It is common here—at least, it was.”
“What does it do? Why are you buying it?”
“Ah, let me have my surprise. We may have to search for it a bit. It has been many years since I was last here. I don’t remember where the shop is.”
Decius didn’t respond. He just wanted to get out of here; he wanted to go home. How did viators travel to such places without going mad?
After wandering for a while Liber got onto another moving staircase and went up to another level, where there were more people, more shops. Decius followed him reluctantly. The staircase was transparent somehow; they seemed to be moving through thin air.
On the upper level Liber finally stopped in front of a large shop; a yellow sign above the open door flashed blue letters that were meaningless to Decius. In the shop windows were images of smiling, green-haired men and women. “Here, I think,” Liber said.
They walked inside. Decius saw aisle after aisle lined with shelves filled with jars and boxes and oddly shaped containers. The same strange, unpleasant music was playing here, but he could see no musicians. Decius thought he smelled cinnamon. Liber walked up and down the aisles until he stopped in front of a row of jars, each with a red paper affixed to the front. Each paper had the usual indecipherable letters on it.
Liber picked up one of the jars. “This is what I came here to find,” he said. He brought the jar to a counter at the front of the shop. No shopkeeper stood there to accept his money; instead, he simply set the jar down in front of a device and inserted a piece of the paper money into a slot on the device. A light went on, and Liber picked up the jar. “Let’s go,” he said.
They walked out of the shop. Liber seemed excited and relieved.
“Did you visit this world often?” Decius asked.
“Several times. My mentor liked to bring me here for practice. It is safer than many worlds, and it has some interesting features.”
“Are all the other worlds so different from Terra?”
“Many are. Ours is just one pathway through time. This is another.”
Decius felt dizzy again. “Do we return home now?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Can we rest for a moment first?”
“Of course.”
They found an unoccupied bench and sat down. Decius looked out at the immense, throbbing scene in front of him. Through the glass-like material he could see huge snow-clad mountains towering above him. Were there other cities in this world? Was each city replicated in world after world?
“What Affron did to you and me,” Decius said finally, “is this, multiplied thousands upon thousands of times.” He gestured out at the crowds in their odd clothes and the strange-looking spectacles, the immense faces floating in the air, the awful music, the pictures that moved, the lights and voices that came out of nowhere—the inconceivable otherness of what he was experiencing.
Liber shrugged. “What he did was far worse, I’m afraid. This is real, but it is outside us. We can leave it behind, forget about it. What Affron did was to make it part of us—the whole thing, every world, all at once. Our minds are not built for that. It changes a person, and not for the better.”
Decius contemplated that, and decided that Liber was right. And he decided that he couldn’t think about it anymore. “This thing,” he said, pointing at the jar. “Will it save the Gallians?”
“It will certainly help, if they used it wisely. As I told Feslund, their gants will not be enough, because the gants will run out of power and stop working eventually, and the Gallians won’t be able to obtain more. They will look for viators who will help them get these weapons, and they will fail. If the Gallians are smart, they will find ways other than fear to ensure the loyalty of the people.”
“Feslund is not smart,” Decius noted.
“His mother is.”
“Yes,” Decius agreed. “But as you have seen, she is not interested in ruling; she is not interested in the empire.”
“She will not be able to sit in the temple mourning her daughter forever. Eventually she will decide to live. And then she will take charge.”
“And use this jar?”
“Perhaps. There are other ways to rule; none of them very effective in the long term. But perhaps she will not care about the long term.”
“I do not understand any of this,” Decius admitted.
“No matter. We will see what happens. Let’s return to Terra—unless you’d like to stay here longer.”
Decius shook his head and stood. The dizziness had passed; he could not wait to leave this world. “The sooner we get back to Terra, the better,” he said.
“Come, then,” Liber replied. “Via awaits.”
Eight
Feslund
“The matter is simple, my lord,” the man was saying, as if he were talking to a child.
“One of the Germanic tribes has crossed the Rhine. For generations they have not been allowed to cross the Rhine. But now they have done so. They are raiding our villages. They are carrying off our women. This must not be allowed. This must be stopped.”
The man had a black beard and a swarthy complexion. He wore flowing trousers and a gray tunic. Feslund hadn’t caught his name. He was annoyed with the man and the others in his delegation. And with Redegar, Feslund’s chief minister, who had insisted that he listen to them. Feslund understood the problem. Did Redegar think that he didn’t? The soldiers on the borders of the empire hadn’t been paid, so they weren’t doing their jobs. And this was the result. “We are doing all that we can,” he responded.
“My lord,” Black-beard replied, “our people wonder why you will not use those wonderful weapons that the gods have bestowed upon you.”
Ah, the gants. The gants were supposed to solve everything. “We can’t just send the weapons everywhere people ask us to,” Redegar pointed out. He was old, with a high-pitched, querulous voice. Feslund’s father Carolus had sent him to provide counsel to his son. But he was useless.
“But why not, my lord?” Black-beard asked. He sounded desperate. “Surely the gods—”
“Our women are being raped,” a younger man from the delegation interrupted, stepping forward. He had absurdly long red hair; his voice quivered with outrage. “Our stores of grain are being stolen. Many of us will not survive to see the spring. Every day that Urbis does not defend us the enemy grows bolder. They sense weakness, my lord. They think perhaps the weapons do not exist, or that they are powerless so far from Urbis.”
“Of course the weapons exist,” Feslund snapped. “I have one right here in my robe. Would you like to see me use it?”
Black-beard’s eyes widened and he pulled the younger man back. “My lord,” he said, “We are just reporting what people are saying.”
“We of course are very concerned for your safety,” Redegar replied, gesturing for calm, “and we will do all in our power to assist you. But there are many complexities in the situation that you do not understand.”
Many complexities, Feslund thought. They had no money. How complex was that? Redegar was supposed to figure out who collected the taxes, how the money ended up in the treasury, how the money was paid out, and a thousand other things. As far as Feslund could tell, Redegar had done none of them.
“We are very grateful for your assistance, of course,” Black-beard said. “But we wish to point out that it is not just our people. The entire northern border of the empire is at risk. My lords, we need a plan to save it.”
Feslund spotted Decius standing in the doorway at the far end of the room, with Liber just behind him. They had returned successfully from Via, it seemed. And they had changed out of those ridiculous clothes they had put on. He had little wish to speak to them, but he had even less wish to listen to Black-beard and the red-haired youth and Redegar. He stood up. “My minister will discuss this matter further with you,” he said to the delegation. “I am sure we can devise a plan to help you.”
Everyone bowed deeply, even the red-head. Feslund inclined his head and strode out of the room.
He walked up to Decius and Liber. “Well, then?” he said. “You are still alive, I see.”
“We are, my lord,” Decius responded. “May we have a few moments of your time?”
“Anything to get away from these fools. Come.”
He led them out into the hallway. They were in the pontifex’s palace, which was even more ornate than the royal castle in Lugdunum. The pontifex, of course, no longer resided here. Feslund assumed that Tirelius was enjoying the jail cell that he currently occupied.
Liber was holding a jar with strange writing on it. “What is this thing?” Feslund asked. “You entered Via and returned with this? I was expecting something interesting.”
“I think you will find this interesting enough, my lord,” Liber replied. “Will you come to the hospital with us?”
“The hospital? Why?”
“I would like to demonstrate why this jar is interesting, my lord.”
“Where is my mother?” Feslund asked.
“Your mother declined to accompany us,” Decius said. “She leaves this matter in your hands.”
This annoyed Feslund. His mother needed to get over Siglind’s death. It was sad—of course it was—but they had an empire to rule. And you couldn’t rule it by sitting in the temple day after day, mourning the past. Siglind wasn’t coming back to life, and meanwhile the German tribes were pouring over the Rhine. “Very well,” he said. “Lead the way.”
He had only a vague idea where the hospital was, but Liber knew. He led them out of the palace and across the forum. Darkness was falling, and a cold wind blew into their faces. Feslund longed for excitement. Day after day, sitting in a cold room and listening to complaints…what he really wanted was to mount his horse and gallop across the countryside with his companions from Gallia. With Arminius especially. But Arminius was dead, like Siglind—drowned in the great sea on the way to Urbis. He missed Arminius almost as much as he missed Siglind. But he had no time to mourn. He had to listen to the likes of Black-beard and the red-head.
Did they not see the problem with using these weapons to solve their border problems? Of course they didn’t. You couldn’t arm soldiers with gants. First of all, there weren’t enough gants, and they ran out of power if used too frequently—Feslund himself had experienced this in the raid on Urbis. Second, anyone with a gant was a potential threat to the throne. Did they expect Feslund to hand them out to every legionary? That was impossible. No, the few gants they possessed weren’t going to be shipped to the northern border. They would be kept locked up—more securely than they had been locked up under the priests.
Perhaps he himself should go to the border, Feslund thought. Get out of Urbis, get out of the endless meetings with advisors and audiences with petitioners. Of course Decius would object, and Redegar too, although more timidly. But Feslund didn’t care. It was all up to him, ultimately. Not them, not his mother, certainly not his father, enjoying himself back in Gallia. The empire was his to rule, his to save.
Yes, he would get out of this place. The idea excited him. This was what he needed to do.
“Here is the hospital, my lord,” Liber murmured.
It was a small stone building tucked behind the palatium, with no statue in front, no grand motto chiseled over its doors. It reminded Feslund of the armamentarium where the gants were stored, except that lights shone from its windows, and its door, when they reached it, was unlocked.
Liber led them inside. The building was warmer than most—to keep the patients comfortable, Feslund supposed. A pretty young woman sat at a desk, writing on a parchment. She looked up, and when she recognized Feslund she hurriedly rose and bowed. “Y-yes, my lord?” she stammered.
Feslund simply gestured to Liber, who inclined his head to the woman. “We wish to speak to the doctor in charge,” he said. “Will you bring us to him, please?”
“Yes, of course. Come this way, my lords.”
She led them down a long, plain corridor. In the distance Feslund could hear a man groaning. He could smell the strong cleanser used in such places. He didn’t like being here. He didn’t like being reminded of death.
Tomorrow. Perhaps he would leave tomorrow. Why not? He would take Mellor, Escondo, Cymbian—they deserved a new adventure.
The woman stopped in front of a closed door and knocked. An irritable voice muttered something from inside. “I am sorry to bother you, sir,” the woman said, “but Prince Feslund wishes to speak to you.”
They heard movement inside, and a moment later the door opened. A gray-haired man with a full beard and splotchy skin peered out, saw Feslund, and then opened the door wide and bowed deeply. “I am sorry, my lord,” he said. “I did not expect…I am honored…”
Behind him, Feslund spotted a desk, with a jug and a cup on it. He could smell wine on the doc
tor’s breath; his eyes were wide with fear.
“Never mind,” Feslund said. “This man is named Liber, and next to him is Marcus Decius, governor of the Roman province. Do what they say. And be quick about it.”
The doctor bowed. “Of course, of course. But…”
“I am seeking a patient,” Liber interrupted. “Any patient, as long as he is gravely ill, ideally with an infected wound. One who is beyond your powers to cure, with only days to live.”
The doctor looked confused. “I do not understand.”
“Why do you not understand?” Feslund demanded, although he didn’t understand himself. “Do what the man says. Have you such a patient?”
The doctor scratched at his beard. “Well, I suppose. There is a boy upstairs. Will a boy do?”
“What’s wrong with him?” Liber asked.
“Cut himself badly with a rusty sword he found somewhere or other. The parents delayed far too long in bringing him here. They are simple folks from outer Urbis, the kind who don’t want to be a bother. The poor lad is unconscious, delirious. I do not expect him to last the night.”
“Bring us to him,” Liber said.
“There is nothing to be done, you know,” the doctor insisted. “We used all the means at our disposal, but the wound—”
“Yes, yes. That is perfect. Come, then. No time to waste.”
The doctor left the room and led them to a staircase, adjusting his robe as they went. He was unsteady on his feet, Feslund noticed. The drunken fool. He would have the man replaced in the morning.
Upstairs they found themselves in a long open area filled with cots and lit by flickering lamps. Patients lay on the cots, sleeping or moaning. Family or friends sat on stools next to some of them. Nurses walked here and there. The room quieted as people noticed Feslund. A couple of them rose. Feslund waved at them to sit.
The doctor brought them to a cot in the corner near a row of large windows. On the cot lay a boy of six or seven, sandy-haired, pale, eyes closed, breathing irregularly. A young man and woman stood next to him, their faces streaked with tears. “The parents,” the doctor muttered.
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