When the plan was settled, they talked of other things in the cool evening air. He and the other priests asked questions of Hieron. There was so much they wanted to know. They had spent their lives in the service of Hieron’s ideas, and now he was here, sitting with them, happy to explain himself.
And what did Lamathe learn? There was so much, but mostly this: though he and his fellow priests tended to think of Hieron as like a god, someone whose opinions and beliefs were to be treated as sacred, he was just a man like any other, a person who had tried to do his best with the gift that had been given him. “I made many mistakes, I’m sure,” Hieron said. “I saw so many worlds, so many ways of living. You have seen them, too. What was best for our world? I was overwhelmed with knowledge, overwhelmed with choices. What worked in one world seemed not to work in another. Many improvements were impossible for Terra; others would take lifetimes to implement, and in the meantime many people would suffer. Others people would have made different choices, I know; other people would certainly have done better.”
Lamathe did not think that this was possible.
And at last the meeting was over. Larry was staying; the others were returning to Elysium. Hieron hugged each of the priests. Then he, Affron, and Amelia returned to the garden, stepped into Larry’s Via, and disappeared.
Those who remained on Terra stood in silence for a moment. And then Theodosius said what Lamathe himself had been thinking: “With Hieron on our side, we cannot fail.”
Lamathe looked at Samos, the anger-filled cynic. “What do you think, Samos?” he asked.
“This is the first time I have ever agreed with Theodosius,” the young priest replied.
Lamathe smiled. “Well, then,” he said, “I am going to bed. There is much to be done, and there is no time to waste.”
Palta
“Thank you,” Palta whispered to Larry. They sat alone in his room. His arm was around her shoulders; her head was on his chest.
She had worried every moment since he left. The last time he had left her it had taken him years to return. She did not think she could have survived if that had happened again.
“Affron was very pleased to see you again,” Larry noted.
“He looks well,” she replied. “Older—there’s gray in his hair.”
“I hadn’t noticed. But you’re right.”
“And Amelia is lovely.”
“Yes,” Larry agreed. “And she has been good for Affron. Elysium has been good for him, too. I wasn’t sure if he would help us. I think she convinced him.”
They fell silent. Palta listened to the wind in the palm trees. “You went home,” she said finally.
“Yes,” Larry said. “That was the plan—I knew how to obtain a weapon on Earth, more or less. And the gun will be sufficient, I think.”
“How was it, being on Earth? How did it feel this time?”
He was silent for a moment. “It was better than the first time,” he said finally. “I didn’t feel so scared, so alone, so out of place. Things had changed in ways I didn’t quite understand, but that was all right. I’m used to not quite understanding things. But I still didn’t visit my family. I saw my friend Kevin, and that was hard enough.”
Then Palta asked him the question she had been waiting to ask. “Do you want to go back again?”
“I don’t know. Not right now, anyway. We’ve got a job to do. We should focus on that.”
“Yes. Of course.”
She burrowed deeper into his embrace. She never wanted to leave it. Soon enough more decisions would have to be made. But not now, not now.
Now they had to go on a journey together.
Fifty
Ploterus
Ploterus arrived at the newly built palace in the morning. Gretyx was in the ornate meeting room, of course, along with Feslund, now king after the death of his father, and a man named Liber, the governor of the Roman province. He supposed that Liber’s presence told him what he needed to know.
“Welcome, General!” Gretyx said, actually bowing to him. “We glory in your achievements. Come, sit with us.”
Ploterus sat and listened to a few minutes of their praise. It all seemed forced, perfunctory. He didn’t care. He had done his duty. They understood what he had accomplished, and if they didn’t understand, he did.
“We have read your dispatches, of course, but tell us what is left to be done in Egypt,” Gretyx said.
“The rebel army no longer exists as a cohesive fighting force,” Ploterus replied. “But there is still scattered resistance. Memmilon is a very competent general; he will take care of the situation.”
“And the government of the province?”
“Things will proceed as they have been, I’m sure. The grain will continue to be shipped. The Egyptians are happy enough—they just want peace after years of conflict. I don’t foresee any problems.”
“What about Decius?” Liber asked. “He has not been captured, I take it?”
Ploterus recalled that Decius was Liber’s predecessor as Roman governor. “Decius is still at large,” he said. “But he isn’t a problem. He has no troops, no support among the people. He ruled Alexandria well enough, it seems, but he was an outsider—like me. They had no particular affection for him.”
“And what about priests?” Gretyx asked. “Did you find any?”
“None, my lady. There have been rumors, as I mentioned in my dispatches, but nothing we could ever track down.”
“That is troubling.”
Ploterus said nothing. The priests, too, were not a problem, except apparently to Gretyx.
“We will instruct Memmilon to pursue the search more vigorously,” Gretyx said.
“As you wish, my lady.” He didn’t care what she instructed Memmilon to do.
“I expect you want to know why you’ve been recalled to Roma,” Gretyx went on.
“I am hoping you have another assignment for me in which I can serve the king and the empire,” he responded.
“Of course. Well said. As you may know, General Gregorius, the leader of our armies in the Roman province, has died. He was a worthy man, but far advanced in years. We would like you to replace him.”
As Ploterus had feared and expected. “I am honored, my lady, but would not my skills be better used elsewhere? Roma is safe at the moment, is it not?”
“Protecting the city and the province is our most vital task,” Liber pointed out. “I fear that Gregorius was somewhat lax in his leadership. The Roman legions need discipline; they need a new sense of purpose.”
Their main purpose in recent years had been to kidnap peasant boys and send them to fight in Egypt, Ploterus recalled. And, of course, searching for priests, whom they never found. But he said nothing of that. “Roma is quiet,” he pointed out, “but I’m told there are problems elsewhere—incursions from Parthia, the Caucasus…”
“There are always incursions,” Gretyx said, waving away the problem. “We know your capabilities, General. We know that, in another crisis, you would be able to assist us as you have in the past.”
“Why not enjoy the city while you are here?” Feslund asked. “The citizens of Roma love you—see how they turned out for your arrival yesterday. How did they know you were coming, I wonder?”
Was Feslund jealous of him? Of course he was. And afraid of him, as well. “I didn’t try to hide my plans,” Ploterus replied. “I wrote ahead to friends and colleagues, so many people knew the date of my arrival. I apologize if what happened yesterday was not appropriate.”
“Of course it was appropriate,” Feslund replied. “You are our greatest general. You have saved the empire. Why wouldn’t the people show their gratitude to you?”
Ploterus inclined his head. “You are very kind, my lord.”
“Well then, will you accept the appointment?” Gretyx asked. “We too would be grateful to you.”
And what choice did he have? “Yes, my lady, of course I will. I am at your service.”
“Excellent!
You and Liber can work out the details. Saturnalia is coming before long, and we are planning special celebrations. We cannot allow any disturbances.”
“Of course, my lady.”
He arose, bowed deeply, and left the room; Liber followed him. Liber was a short, unprepossessing fellow, but his eyes were intelligent. They walked along a hallway lined with tapestries depicting the glories of the Gallians. “You saw this coming, I assume,” Liber said.
Ploterus shrugged.
“Gretyx and Feslund are afraid of you,” Liber went on.
They have reason to be afraid of me, Ploterus thought. “They have no reason to be afraid of me,” he said. “I am merely here to do my duty.”
“Of course,” Liber replied.
They walked down the grand marble staircase, across the vast entrance hall, past a pair of guards, and out of the palace, where Cymbian and three other soldiers awaited. He had felt the need for bodyguards upon his return to Roma, and Cymbian had been eager to lead them. It had occurred to Ploterus, of course, that Cymbian could be a spy planted by Gretyx or Feslund, but Ploterus felt that he could trust the man. One needed to make such judgments every day in his position. And he needed people who understood what was going on in Roma.
“Gretyx has revived the ancient Praetorian Guard,” Liber said, noticing Ploterus’s soldiers. “They report only to her and Feslund. They are sworn to protect the lives of the imperial family.”
“Why are you telling me these things?”
“Because I would like to be your friend. And I want you to know the situation here.”
You are not going to be my friend, Ploterus thought. And he already knew about the Praetorian Guard. “That is very kind of you,” he said.
“Life is not bad for people like us,” Liber went on, “if we give Gretyx what she wants.”
“I have always striven to do so.”
They walked across the Forum, past the temple of Via, a replica of the one in Urbis. Outside it was a statue of Hieron with his arms stretched held forward, palms up, as if presenting Romans with the future. Why was that statue still there?
“They are going to tear down the temple during Saturnalia,” Liber said, as if reading his mind. “We are going to build a senate house, just like the one that stood there in the old days. And the senators will name Feslund emperor, as they did in the old days. It will be as if the priests never existed.”
“Won’t people object to having an emperor?” Ploterus asked.
“What does it matter to the people? They know who their rulers are. Why should they care about their titles? They certainly won’t complain if we distribute enough denarii to them.”
“Where will all the denarii come from?”
“Ah, that is a problem. Gretyx’s palace has emptied the royal treasury. I suppose the people of Egypt will be paying higher taxes before long. As well as everyone else in the empire. Come, here is the provincial government’s building. Not nearly as glorious as the royal palace, but that is at it should be. Let’s go inside and discuss your important new role. I am very pleased you are here.”
Ploterus followed the governor into his building. No, this man would not be his friend, he thought. He would look out only for himself.
Perhaps it had been a mistake, he thought, to return to Roma without an army.
Gretyx
“I do not trust Ploterus,” Feslund said.
“Of course not,” Gretyx replied.
“He has hired Cymbian to be on his personal staff,” her son continued. “That is unacceptable.”
Gretyx didn’t bother to respond; Cymbian didn’t matter in the slightest. She stared out the window at the Forum below. Ploterus and Liber were walking past the temple, deep in conversation, surrounded by soldiers.
In moments of weakness, she regretted everything that had happened since Siglind returned from Roma with her two friends and their gant. Now Gretyx was the most powerful woman on Terra, but her family was all but gone. Siglind was dead. As was Carolus, victim of a wasting disease that even Feslund’s magic medicine could not cure. And Feslund was a drunk who could scarcely be trusted to give a speech, never mind lead an empire. She had longed for a grandchild, but that fool Bathanala had failed to give her one, miscarrying time after time until finally she produced a sickly creature who died within a month. Now she scarcely left her rooms, unwilling to speak to anyone, unwilling to let Feslund touch her. And this, of course, did not bother Feslund at all.
So it was all up to Gretyx. Regret was unacceptable, a weakness she could not allow herself. The only way to succeed was to ignore the past and refuse to admit the possibility of failure.
“If we don’t trust Ploterus, why is he here?” Feslund demanded. “Why not leave him in Egypt, or send him to win the war with the Parthians?”
“We have discussed this,” Gretyx responded with all the patience she could muster. “We can keep our eyes on him here. Do you remember the history of the empire? Before the priests, armies regularly proclaimed their generals to be emperor. Their loyalty was to their general, not to some far-off ruler they had never seen. He could promise them whatever he liked—land, treasure—and they would follow him. Do you think we could have withstood an invasion by battle-hardened legionaries led by Ploterus?”
“He will command legions here,” Feslund pointed out.
“They owe no loyalty to him—at least not yet. The people love him because he has been victorious, but the people have no swords. And they are fickle. They will love us when we shower them with gifts at Saturnalia.”
“We should murder him.”
“He has surrounded himself with bodyguards. He is too clever to let himself be murdered.”
“We should have had him killed in Egypt.”
“Perhaps. But what if the assassin was captured and told Ploterus that we sent him? Then he would surely have attacked us.”
Feslund slouched in his chair, brooding. “I need a new wife,” he blurted out finally.
Gretyx didn’t respond.
“Don’t you agree?” he went on. “This isn’t working. I can barely stand to look at Bathanala. And she certainly isn’t interested in me. I have done my duty by her, but she hasn’t produced an heir. Let’s find someone else.”
“You know the problem,” Gretyx responded wearily. “Her father—”
“I don’t care about her father!” Feslund roared.
Gretyx glared at him. He fell silent. “We do not need any more internal rebellions,” she said, explaining to him what she had already explained to him a dozen times. “We cannot risk losing Aquitania. If the king decides to sever ties to the empire because we have treated his daughter badly, we lack the soldiers to stop him. As it stands, there’s little reason for him to continue supporting us.”
“But Bathanala doesn’t want to be here. She hates us all.”
“I am well aware of that. And so is her father. He doesn’t care, and neither do I. He wants a grandson who will rule the empire. He won’t get that if he accedes to her wishes—or yours. So both of you will continue to do your duty. You don’t need to like it. But we have no choice.”
“What if we find a baby and pass it off as hers?”
“Will she agree to that?”
He shrugged. “We could find another bride with a rich father,” he suggested.
“Do you think I haven’t tried?”
And Gretyx thought: what if she had Feslund adopt Ploterus as his “son” and successor? The Roman emperors had done such things in the past. It had worked after a fashion. It might be better than waiting for Feslund to sire an heir.
It wouldn’t happen, though. Ploterus would be foolish to agree—and Ploterus wasn’t foolish. Why wait decades for Feslund to die when he could seize power now? Or he could let himself be adopted and then poison Feslund. And her.
It was difficult, always difficult. If only they could find a viator who could bring them more gants. They thought they had found one recently. He was married, and they
had kept his wife as a hostage. He had walked into Via—and didn’t return. It seemed that the wife had agreed to this with her husband, knowing she would be killed as a result. Better that than help the Gallians.
Sometimes Gretyx thought: could they have done something else along the way? Used the gants more wisely, perhaps, or been more merciful, as Carolus had forever been urging? But it didn’t matter. This was the path they had chosen. There were other worlds where other decisions had been made, apparently—where Siglind was still alive, and they were all happy back in Gallia. But she didn’t care about those worlds, and she didn’t care about the past. They were here, now. Nothing else mattered.
And she would defeat anyone in this world who challenged her.
Fifty-One
Decius
He lived in Judea now, in a small port town called Joppa, sharing a cramped flat with Corscius, who refused to leave him. The flat was in a building on a hillside overlooking the harbor, and every day he looked out at the harbor and wondered if this would be the day when they would board a ship that would take them far away from this place. Or, more likely, if this would be the day that soldiers would arrive to arrest them and lead them off to their deaths. He had governed the province of Roma; he had governed Egypt. Now he eked out a living as a scribe for a local merchant. Corscius was better at this sort of thing, and earned more than he did as a secretary to the owner of an orange grove.
Did anyone suspect that they had been rebels—that he had been one of the leaders of the rebellion? It seemed possible. But no one here cared much whether the Gallians or the rebels or the priests ruled the empire, as long as the harvest was good and there were markets for what they produced. Most people probably saw them for what they were—two foreigners among many who had washed ashore here, victims of a world in ferment. And they were left alone.
Until, finally, a knock came on the door.
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