It was time to get some advice.
He made his way to the café, where people had already gathered for dinner. They were delighted to see him.
“It’s done, then?” Hieron asked him.
“Yes, but I don’t know how to use it. How do I go where I want to go?”
“Ah, it will come to you with practice.”
“How do I make sure that I arrive in the world I’m going to at the same time I leave Elysium?”
“You will arrive when you want to arrive.”
He should have expected this kind of response. No one seemed to disagree with Hieron, so it seemed that this was the best advice he was going to get.
“Where do you want to go, Larry?” M’Nasi asked.
“Home,” he replied. It was the only answer that made sense.
“You mean Earth?” Affron asked. “Your Earth?”
And that was the question that needed to be answered, wasn’t it?
“Yes,” he said. “My Earth.”
“It’s been a long time,” Affron pointed out.
“I know.” He closed his eyes and felt tears pressing against his eyelids as he thought about how much time had passed, how much his family had probably suffered because of his disappearance.
“Going home is hard, Larry,” Amelia said. “I could never do it.”
“But you must do what your heart tells you to do,” Lucia added.
“You’ll need clothes,” Rigol pointed out. “You can’t go home looking like that,” he said, gesturing at the white tunic and loose red pants Larry was currently wearing. “I have the right kind of clothing, if you think you need it.”
“Yes, okay, that would be helpful.”
And so it began to become real.
The next day he went to Rigol’s rooms, which looked like they belonged to one of those hoarders Larry had once seen on a TV show. The place was jammed full of books, clothes, and assorted junk. Even the narrow bed was covered with stuff. Where did he sleep? “You could move into a bigger place, couldn’t you?” Larry asked.
“Yes, I suppose I could,” Rigol replied, as if this were the first time the idea had occurred to him. “Really, though, I should just clean this place up. But I never seem to get around to it.”
You have absolutely nothing to do all day, Larry wanted to point out. But he didn’t. Rigol was wearing his Grateful Dead t-shirt. Larry realized that he’d never seen him wear anything else. He was a refugee from a world where people thought he was a sorcerer and had wanted to burn him at the stake. That could affect a fellow, he supposed. Rigol’s hands shook a little as he searched for clothes. He seemed amused by the difficulty he was having in deciding what he could spare.
“What about these?” Larry asked, grabbing a pair of faded, paint-stained khakis. “Can I borrow these?”
“Of course. But be sure to bring them back—I’ve been meaning to wear them.”
Rigol would never wear them, Larry suspected. He tried them on. The waist was too large, and the legs were too short. But they would do. He found a t-shirt that look like it was for the American tour of another rock band. But he didn’t recognize the band’s name, and he only recognized a couple of the cities on the tour. Perhaps it was from another Earth? The shoes were too big; the socks had holes in them. But again, they would do.
“If you happen to come across a Milli Vanilli t-shirt on Earth, kindly bring it back for me,” Rigol said.
“Sure thing.” Larry had never heard of Milli Vanilli. “Why do you have all this junk, by the way?”
Rigol shrugged. “Because I have a psychological disturbance, perhaps? I’m definitely not normal, I will grant you that. But then, none of us here are especially normal.”
“I can’t disagree with you.”
Later that day, Hieron helped him practice with his portal.
“Earth is there, in your mind,” Hieron said. “We have all spent a lot of time understanding such things. But it is impossible to describe them with words.”
“It was misty inside Via,” Larry pointed out. “I thought there was a control panel you could use to set your course.”
“It was an illusion I created for Via,” Hieron replied. “The viators needed to be trained. The controls were an aid in their training.”
“OK, but when I found the portal on Earth, I just walked into it and came out on some random world. I don’t want that to happen now.”
“We will make sure it doesn’t, Larry. You need a different kind of training than viators had. Because you are now much more than a viator.”
And so Hieron led him through his portal into and out of world after world, until Larry began to sense what he needed to sense. It took him a long time to understand what he was doing, but nowhere near as long as it had taken him to build a portal in the first place.
“Shall I go with you to Earth, to make sure you arrive safely?” Hieron asked.
Larry shook his head. “I want to go by myself,” he replied.
“I understand. I’m sure you won’t have a problem.”
He decided to do it the next day. He slept badly, and in the morning he went to the baths and then put on Rigol’s clothes. Several of his friends walked with him into the woods—Affron, Amelia, Hieron, Lucia, Rigol. It felt like a procession, he thought.
He was nervous. What would he say? How would he act? How would he explain where he had been all this time?
Would he ever return to Elysium? Would he ever use his portal again?
Larry stopped in front of his portal. He looked around at the others. They looked back at him with sympathy, with understanding, with love. He hugged each of them in turn. “Thank you,” he whispered.
And he walked into the portal.
It was misty inside, as usual. There were hints of objects just outside his field of vision. But that was an illusion, his mind trying to make sense of where he was.
He took a step, another step. And Elysium disappeared.
Thirty-Six
Ploterus
The first thing Ploterus noticed as he rode up to Roma was the human heads on spikes above the gates to the city. A dozen of them, perhaps, men and women, wizened and pathetic-looking. He glanced at the officers traveling with him, but they seemed unconcerned. They had witnessed enough horrors that something like this wouldn’t bother them.
It bothered him, though.
Tomorrow he would be meeting the woman who had ordered those heads displayed there.
He and his men made their way into the city, dusty and tired after their journey from the north. Ploterus had never been to Roma before, and he didn’t like what he saw: the streets were dirty and crowded, the people were sullen, the buildings large and pretentious. Ah well, he hadn’t expected anything different. And he didn’t expect to be here long.
They made their way to a barracks near the center of the city, where he dined with Gregorius, the general in charge of the legions in the Roman province. Gregorius was white-haired and rheumy-eyed; his hands shook, and he leaned on a stick when he walked. He looked as though he wouldn’t survive the winter. He was happy to finally meet Ploterus. “You have done wonders keeping the German tribes under control,” the old man said. “We are most grateful for any good news from our armies in the north.”
“Conditions are bad in Roma, I take it.”
Gregorius shook his head. “Alas, yes. Bread must be rationed, taxes are high, and our legions are undermanned. But we carry on.”
“Do you have any idea why I’ve been summoned to Urbis?”
Gregorius smiled wearily. “You are our savior, don’t you see? You are from Gallia, and you were friends with Prince Feslund. You are trusted.”
“I wasn’t quite friends with him, but I knew him of course,” Ploterus replied. “I was in charge of the garrison in Massalia when he and his mates showed up looking for ships and men for his attack on Urbis. I was dubious about the attack, of course, but no one asked my opinion.”
“No matter. You have been suc
cessful where others have failed. And that is what we need.”
“Prince Feslund has failed in Egypt, I’ve heard.”
“Yes,” Gregorius said. “Things did not go well for him there, even with his magical weapons. The rebels are still in power, and the grain does not arrive. Queen Gretyx was displeased, as you may imagine.”
“Queen Gretyx is the real ruler here, I take it,” Ploterus said.
“Ah, we don’t say such things out loud. But that is the truth of it.”
Ploterus had always liked King Carolus, as every Gallian did. But Queen Gretyx had always seemed cold and distant. She enjoyed power, and she’d had precious little of it in Gallia. She had it here, though, if she could hold onto it. “Will the queen send me to Egypt?” he asked.
“Without a doubt,” the general replied.
“Do you think I should go?”
“I don’t see that you have much choice, I fear. A competent general with enough men should be able to defeat the rebels, I think. In any case, going to Egypt will keep you away from Roma. You should stay as far away from Roma as you can. It’s harder for them to kill you when you’re a thousand miles away.”
“You’re here in Roma. Are they going to kill you?”
“Oh, no, I’m old and feeble. I’m no threat to them. But you are. You are popular and successful. The queen is neither at the moment, and she will see you as a threat. Go far away, my friend, and stay there.”
Ploterus inclined his head. “I thank you for the good advice.”
Gregorius bowed in return. “These are difficult times,” he replied. “I pray that you survive them.”
The next day Ploterus went to the baths early, put on his best military robe, and rode to Urbis. He was pleasantly surprised by the reception he got—soldiers lined the road in Inner Urbis and saluted him as he passed. Was Gregorius behind this? Or perhaps even Feslund? In the old days a victorious general returning to Roma would have been accorded a triumph—a parade, a feast, a crown of olive leaves. Those days were long gone, but he would take what was offered.
“A moment, general?” a soldier murmured to him after he had dismounted. The soldier wore Gallian blue and looked familiar.
“Cymbian?” Ploterus guessed. A companion of Feslund’s if he recalled correctly.
“Yes, my lord. The same.”
He shook the man’s hand. “You look well,” he said. The man didn’t, actually. He looked hung over, unshaven, and worried.
“My lord, there is no time to speak, but you must save us,” Cymbian said. “I don’t know who else will.”
“Save you?” Ploterus asked, confused.
“Save all of us. It’s gotten very bad, general. You must know that.”
This was strange. Was it a trap? He wouldn’t put it past Gretyx to test his loyalty. But Cymbian didn’t look like the kind of fellow you’d use for that sort of thing.
“Well, Cymbian, we must all do what’s best for the empire,” he said.
Cymbian seemed to consider this, and then he shrugged and walked away. Ploterus went into the palatium to meet the royal family.
Carolus looked tired and thin—feebler than Gregorius, it seemed. Feslund looked annoyed. And Gretyx—ah, she had the same cold, appraising stare she’d had back in Gallia. He bowed deeply to each of them. Carolus embraced him. “So wonderful to see you,” he said. “You have given us good service in the north. We are very proud of you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He too will not last the winter, Ploterus thought. And he thought: everyone and everything here is dying.
They sat down to an elegant luncheon; at least Ploterus was being well fed. Afterwards Carolus retired, needing to rest, and Ploterus was left with Gretyx and Feslund. Feslund had drunk too much wine at lunch and looked very unhappy.
Gretyx got directly to the point. “We need to retake Egypt,” she began.
“Yes, my lady,” Ploterus replied.
“We cannot survive without it,” she went on. “The grain shipments are vital.”
He knew all this. “Yes, my lady,” he repeated.
“Besides the grain, the rebels are now emboldened. Before long they will invade Italia. As things stand now, we will not be able to resist such an invasion.”
This statement puzzled Ploterus. “My lady, forgive me, but do you not still possess those magical weapons—the weapons that defeated King Harald so long ago?”
Gretyx and Feslund exchanged a glance. Ah, that glance was interesting! “I am about to tell you something,” Gretyx said to him. “You are forbidden to repeat it to anyone.”
“Of course, my lady.”
She folded her hands on the table. “We had such weapons, but they no longer work. They have lost their power.”
This statement confused Ploterus. Of course, he knew nothing about such things. “Lost their power?” he repeated.
“We knew this would happen eventually, but it has taken place faster than we expected. Prince Feslund took some of them with him to Egypt, but they proved to be ineffectual.”
“Can’t you, uh, obtain more?”
“To do this we must find a viator who will cooperate with us. So far, we have been unsuccessful.”
“This is not what I understood,” Ploterus said carefully. “In the north, we always wondered why—”
“Now you understand,” Gretyx replied. “We must defeat the rebels the way you defeated the German tribes—with swords and spears and arrows. With superior strategy and overwhelming force. And with fear. And we want you to lead the army who will defeat them.”
“I heard a rumor that the rebels had one of those weapons,” he pointed out.
The queen shrugged. “They apparently used a single weapon in their initial attack on Alexandria. How they got it, we do not know. They used it to great effect, sinking three of our ships. After that, we have little evidence of its use. It is likely that it has lost its power as well.”
Ploterus considered. This was good news, he supposed. He knew how to fight wars with swords and spears and arrows. He did not know how to fight them with magical weapons from Via.
“Very well, my lady,” he said. “I will go to Egypt. And we will win the war without the weapons.”
The queen’s expression relaxed. “Thank you” was all she said in response.
“I know nothing of the strategic situation in Egypt,” he went on. “I will have to discuss this with Prince Feslund. But I expect that the rebels will have trouble recruiting more soldiers. We must raise an army large enough to crush them.”
“We also find it difficult to recruit soldiers, as you well know,” Gretyx pointed out.
“We must pull legions from the north,” he said. “The tribes on the borders are less dangerous than the rebels at this point. We must scour the countryside for every able-bodied man. And we must do it quickly, before the rebels gain the courage to attack.”
Gretyx nodded. “Yes, very well. Talk to Feslund. Determine the number of men you need. We will see that you get them.”
Ploterus inclined his head to her. “Thank you, my lady.”
Gretyx left the room then to check on Carolus, leaving Ploterus alone with Feslund. The discussion with Feslund was difficult. He was defensive, argumentative, and not altogether coherent. “We can’t defeat the rebels in Egypt,” he insisted.
Of course, this was what someone who had lost to the rebels would say. “It seems that we must try, my lord,” Ploterus murmured.
“Alexandria is impregnable if properly defended,” Feslund insisted.
“Then we will attack them elsewhere.”
“Hippolytus is a wily general. His soldiers trust him.”
“Any general can be defeated, my lord. You were unlucky, I’m sure. Every general risks defeat in the face of events he cannot control.”
“Yes, yes, of course. You too may well fail.”
“I will need your help, my lord.”
This seemed to make the prince feel better. He finished his w
ine and pushed the cup aside. But he wasn’t ready yet to discuss Egypt any further. “Remember that night in Massalia, Ploterus? All of us staying in your barracks before we sailed to Urbis?”
“It was unforgettable, my lord.”
“Ah, I had dreams back then.”
“We sit here in Urbis,” Ploterus pointed out. “Your dreams have come true.”
“I do not wish to sit in Urbis,” Feslund retorted. “I hate Urbis. We are going to build a palace in the Forum, did you know that? To be nearer to my people.”
“I did not know that, my lord.” This seemed to Ploterus like an extraordinarily foolish and wasteful thing to do while the empire was in grave danger, but it was not his place to say so.
“And I’m married now, of course. I will be a father soon.”
“Yes, I heard about your marriage. Congratulations, my lord.”
Feslund played with his empty cup. Ploterus found himself feeling sorry for him, which was an odd emotion. How did the prince end up being so unhappy? And, of course, how had he managed to lose the war in Egypt? He had been trained—better than Ploterus, perhaps. And Hippolytus was not a wily general, he knew. From all accounts, the man was barely competent.
Ploterus was the youngest son of a poor farmer in Gallia. He had entered the army only because the family farm wasn’t big enough to support him along with all his brothers and sisters. The army wasn’t a glamorous, or particularly dangerous, occupation under the priests—its role was mainly to protect the borders from occasional raids, and to dissuade foreign powers from considering an invasion. Until Feslund conquered Urbis, Ploterus had never even been in battle. He expected to live out his life in Massalia or someplace like it, a competent administrator, a man who accomplished whatever he was asked to do. But then suddenly the Gallians ruled the empire, and there were threats on all sides, and the royal family needed military men they could trust.
And now Ploterus knew that he had a talent for war—a talent that Feslund apparently lacked.
“My lord,” he said, “I must learn everything you know about Egypt and the rebel army. And I need to know how many men I’ll need to defeat the rebels. We cannot delay.”
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