The cat ignored his question and sauntered away. Affron followed him. Out on the street, he recognized where he was—in Trastevere, a neighborhood on the west bank of the river. Close enough to where he needed to be.
He bought a woolen cape to keep him warm. Then he made his way to the waterfront tavern they’d agreed would be their meeting place. As he’d expected, none of them were there. They would arrive eventually, he hoped. Then he wandered through the city—watching, listening. Most of what he saw and heard was just the stuff of everyday life, of course—gossip, work, idle chatter. But he could sense what Hieron had sensed in his short visit to a rural village—the despair, the fear, the sense of futility. In his experience Romans had always resented the priests and expected more from them than they received—it was the Roman people who had created the empire in the first place, after all. But that had been an argument between equals, of a sort. And they had a champion in Decius. This was different. Now they were ruled by foreigners, and they had no champion, and no hope.
Affron had enjoyed visiting new worlds and trying to understand them, trying to speak to the natives and perhaps to help them in some small way. He thought he had wisdom to share. But what wisdom could he share with these people—his own people? They didn’t need wisdom; they needed to overthrow their rulers.
As night fell he ended up in the Forum, where he stared at the Gallians’ garish new palace, right next to the temple of Via. Then his attention was caught by activity in front of the temple. He joined a crowd watching as workmen tore down the statue of Hieron that had stood there ever since the temple had been built—Hieron, his arms outstretched to the people, guiding them, inspiring them.
Affron felt distraught, even though he had left the real, living Hieron only hours before.
“What are they doing?” he asked a group of men.
“Getting ready to replace the temple,” one of them said.
“Shouldn’t be doing that,” another man said. “It’s not right.”
“They don’t care. Why should they care? They need their senate house.”
“What’s the point of a senate house?” Affron asked.
“Someplace for the rich folks to play, I suppose. They give the king money, he makes them senators. They make him emperor, they get to wear old-fashioned togas and lord it over the likes of us.”
“Why does the king need the money, is what I want to know,” a third man said. “The war in Egypt’s over. That’ll save him money.”
“He and his mother have to pay for that palace, don’t they?” the second man replied.
“I hear they’ll use the money for their Saturnalia gift to the people,” the first man said. “A hundred denarii to every citizen, is what I heard.”
“Bah,” the second man scoffed. “Any money they come up with, they’ll spend on themselves. We’ll be lucky if we get an increase in the bread ration.”
Saturnalia, Affron thought. When servants could mock masters, when for a few days the world was turned upside down before grim reality took over once again. What strange things could happen during Saturnalia?
Suddenly Affron could not wait for the others to arrive.
He bought an empty insula from an owner shocked that someone was willing to take it off his hands. “You’ll have a hard time finding tenants,” the man felt obliged to point out. “Ones who’ll pay their rent, anyway.”
“I’m sure things will get better,” Affron replied.
“Can’t get any worse.”
The owner threw in some beds and chairs, and Affron found other furnishings in the neighborhood. And every day he went to the tavern, sipping a cup of wine and listening to Romans bemoan the state of the world.
And then finally Theodosius and Karellia arrived on a ship from Alexandria. It was good to have company. But he was relieved when Larry and Palta showed up from Joppa a week later, bringing with them Decius and his aide. The others would be useful, but the plan could not succeed without Larry.
Larry liked the new version of the plan that Affron proposed as they discussed it in the insula. “We’ll have to convince Hieron,” he pointed out.
“Don’t worry,” Affron replied. “Hieron will agree to it. Now that you’re here, I can go back to Elysium and make sure.”
“Go, then. There’s no time to waste.”
And that’s what he did.
It was good to be home again in Elysium, sitting in Lucia’s café with Amelia and Hieron and the others. He longed to stay, but he knew he couldn’t. He described to Hieron and Amelia what he wanted them to do. And, as he expected, Hieron didn’t hesitate. “I will do it,” he said. “It will be…interesting.”
“You’ll need to practice,” Lucia pointed out. “I’ll help you.”
“You will do nothing but criticize me.”
“Only if you need criticism.”
Amelia smiled and squeezed Affron’s hand. “You don’t need to return to Terra right away, do you?” she whispered. “I have missed you.”
He smiled back. “I can spare some time for you,” he said.
He and Amelia walked back to their home through the moonlit night. And it was hard to leave her the next morning. But he did. In the meantime, Lamathe and Samos had arrived in Roma with the priests from Hibernia. It was delightful to see them again, especially Borafin. At last they were all together, and not a moment too soon.
“We’re ready to begin,” he said to them, as they sat in a chilly room on the second floor of the insula. “And now we will reclaim the empire that we lost.”
Fifty-Three
Ploterus
Ploterus had quickly come to despise everything about Roma, except for its public baths. Feslund had built a spectacular one outside the Forum, and Ploterus had taken to going there every day. He was there now, relaxing in the heated caldarium, eyes closed, thinking.
It was absurd that Feslund and his mother considered these baths an expenditure worth making, along with their absurd palace. Why not increase pay for the legionaries? Why not buy off some of the tribes who continued to pour across the empire’s borders from the north? But this was what Roman emperors did, he supposed. Invading tribes were a problem, but they were far away; the people of Roma were right outside your palace gates. You needed to keep them happy—and above all you needed to keep yourselves happy.
The baths kept Ploterus happy, even if his new assignment did not. Of course, he understood why Gretyx wanted to keep him close, rather than giving him command of distant legions that he could use to march on Roma and seize power from her. Would he do such a thing? Possibly. He was a Gallian, so he felt some loyalty to the royal family. King Carolus had been beloved. But Feslund had turned out to be a drunkard and a fool; Gretyx was neither of those things, but she was cruel and greedy. And the combination of the two of them had created immense suffering for the empire.
Anyway, here he was, commanding the army of the Roman province—a useful but undemanding task for someone who had defeated German tribes and a rebel army and had governed Egypt. The more demanding task was ensuring that Gretyx didn’t kill him.
But right now that wasn’t worth thinking about. Instead he thought about moving back to the tepidarium and completing his bath.
“My lord,” Cymbian murmured.
Ploterus opened his eyes, tensing at the possibility of danger. But Cymbian didn’t look concerned. He held out a piece of paper. “A man asked us to give you this message, my lord.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. He said you knew his master in Egypt. He doesn’t look dangerous.”
Ploterus often received messages asking for favors, though rarely in the baths. He sighed, took the paper, and read it. Then he frowned and read it again. “The man is alone?” he asked Cymbian.
“Yes, my lord. You can see him over there.”
The man was standing by the door to the caldarium. He was middle-aged, stout, and gray-haired, with a long scar on his shoulder—a sword wound? He didn’t look
like a soldier—at least, not a legionary. Could’ve been retired, though. He was sweating profusely. The baths would do him good.
Ploterus looked around; there were others in the caldarium, of course, but his guards always made sure he had a private corner. “Bring him to me,” he said to Cymbian. “Then don’t let anyone else near us.”
Cymbian nodded and motioned to the guard at the door to let the man approach.
The man sat down next to him. “Governor Decius wishes to speak to you,” Ploterus said, reading the message aloud. “But you are not Decius.”
The man nodded. “My name is Corscius. I am his aide.”
Ploterus vaguely remembered the name. “Decius is in Roma?”
“He is, my lord.”
That was strange. “Does he want to surrender, to plead for mercy?”
“No, my lord.”
“What else do we have to speak about, then?”
Corscius glanced around, evidently to ensure that they weren’t being overheard. “My lord, there are priests in Roma as well,” he replied. “They will soon be reclaiming the empire as their own. Decius has joined them; he would like you to join them too.”
This was not a message that Ploterus expected to hear. He considered ordering Cymbian to haul the man away; but he didn’t. “That is absurd,” he scoffed. “What do you mean, priests are in Roma? How can they reclaim the empire? They have no power.”
“My lord, they do.”
“What sort of power? The rebels have been destroyed. We have our legions; we have Via.”
Corscius shook his head. “The priests have created another Via.”
“What?” Ploterus noticed that the man had omitted his obsequious my lord.
“Another Via,” Corscius repeated. “Which gives them access to weapons beyond human understanding.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Corscius shrugged. “We do not expect you to believe anything on my word. Or on anyone’s word. Come to the cemetery outside the north gate of the city at the sixth hour.”
“If they have such weapons, why haven’t they already seized power? What do they want with me?”
“They want you on their side.”
“Why?”
Corscius stood. “You will learn more at the cemetery. Come alone. They will find you.”
“Wait!” Ploterus demanded.
But Corscius was already leaving the caldarium. Ploterus considered going after him and demanding he explain himself further. Have him arrested. Tortured.
But Ploterus did nothing. The aide was nobody. Was this a trick, a trap? If so, what was the point of it? If the priests had weapons like the gants, then what need did they have of Ploterus? He had never believed the story that it was the gods who had given the priests those weapons. He didn’t pretend to know the true story, and really, the truth didn’t matter. The priests either had the weapons or they didn’t.
So what should he do? Follow the man’s instructions? Find out if there actually were priests waiting for him in the cemetery, if they actually had an offer to make?
One thing was clear: he wasn’t going to the cemetery without his bodyguards. He got up and signaled to Cymbian. They had much to discuss.
He arrived at the cemetery at the prescribed time with Cymbian and two others. The weather was cold and gray—a fitting afternoon to visit the dead. He dismounted and waited for something to happen. A procession of mourners walked past him, heading back to Roma; a couple of them glanced at him with a mixture of curiosity and fear. What were these soldiers doing here?
He wondered that himself as time passed and no one else appeared. If Decius or priests were in fact here, they could be observing him from behind some monument. Perhaps they wouldn’t show themselves because he wasn’t alone.
“Not a fit place for a meeting,” Cymbian said.
“No, probably not.”
“We should leave.”
But Ploterus decided to wait a while longer. Finally he spotted a woman approaching along the cemetery’s main path. She was young and pretty, with blonde hair and gray eyes. She wore a dark blue cloak over her robe.
“General, you have not obeyed your instructions, I fear,” she said as he came near. She spoke Latin with a trace of an accent.
“Who are you?” Ploterus replied.
She shrugged. “Come with me—alone—and we can talk.”
“I will come, but I won’t come alone.”
“Palta?” Cymbian said suddenly.
Palta looked at him and smiled. “Cymbian? It’s been a long time.”
“It has indeed. We always wondered what happened to you and Larry. We thought you’d gone off in Via after we left you in the temple.”
“Ah,” Ploterus said. “I should have recognized you as well. We searched for you in Alexandria.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that, my lord. Cymbian can accompany you. Send your other men away. You are in no danger. We just need to speak to you in private.”
Ploterus turned to Cymbian, who nodded. “Very well,” Ploterus said to Palta. He told his bodyguards to wait for him at the north gate. Then he and Cymbian tied their horses to a tree and followed Palta into the cemetery.
The dismal road was lined with large mausoleums—fine places for brigands to lie in wait. If there were enough of them, he and Cymbian wouldn’t survive the fight. Ploterus thought he was safe—but really, he had no idea. Better to be ready for a fight, just in case. He kept a hand on his sword.
Palta took a turn, and then another. The path narrowed. They were now among smaller, less ornate mausoleums. They walked past stunted, leafless trees. A wind sprang up. Damn, he was not used to this cold.
Finally he spotted three men seated on a bench. They stood as he approached. One of them was older than the others—lean, bald, with deeply tanned skin; that would be Decius, Ploterus thought. He didn’t recognize the other two—one was young, with brown hair; the other older, stocky, and black-haired.
“We finally meet, General Ploterus,” the bald man said. “I am Decius.”
Ploterus nodded to him. “I thought as much.”
“My lord—and Cymbian,” the younger man said, bowing to both of them, “do you remember me from Massalia? My name is Larry Barnes. Palta and I were with Feslund and the others as they set out for Urbis.”
“Salve, Larry,” Cymbian said. “I recognized Palta but not you. You have changed greatly.”
Like Cymbian, Ploterus remembered Palta well enough, but he couldn’t summon up any memory of this fellow. Larry Barnes was an odd name. He also spoke Latin with an accent that Ploterus couldn’t place. He nodded to the man.
“And I am Lamathe,” the third man said. “I am a viator. You perhaps heard rumors of my presence in Alexandria.”
Ploterus nodded to him as well. He had never heard of the man by name. “Very well,” he said. “I have come. Someone tell me the offer you want to make me—why I should believe it’s real, and why I should accept it. And why I shouldn’t arrest all of you as traitors to the empire.”
Larry reached into the pocket of his cape and pulled something out. It seemed to be made of hard, dark metal. A weapon, Ploterus supposed. It looked like nothing found on Terra. Except…“You have seen a gant?” Larry asked him. “Cymbian certainly has.”
“Yes,” Ploterus replied. “This is shaped something like it. But not quite the same.”
“It is not a gant. But it is a weapon. Its power is different from a gant’s, but just as destructive. Would you like a demonstration?”
“What do you mean?” Ploterus demanded, reaching for his sword.
“Don’t worry. Do you see that wall over there?” The man gestured at a crumbling brick wall about thirty paces distant.
“Of course I see it,” Ploterus said.
“Watch. And listen.”
Larry turned to the wall. He raised the weapon.
And then Ploterus heard a sound like the crack of thunder, except much louder, much closer—so loud it wa
s painful. And he saw pieces of brick fly away, and part of the wall collapse in on itself.
Larry waited until the sound died away before speaking again. “This is called a gun,” he went on. “Use it on a soldier, and it will kill him instantly from a hundred paces away. Other soldiers will drop their swords and flee in terror at the sound. A dozen of these will defeat an army.” He put the gun back in his pocket.
Plotus’s ears were still ringing. He could feel his hands shake. Gun, gant. The same short, ugly sound. “You obtained this thing through your Via?”
“That’s right,” Palta said. “The gods have sent us another Via as a sign of their blessing.”
“Gods are for children,” Ploterus scoffed. “Don’t talk to me about the gods.”
“As you wish,” Lamathe said. “You are an intelligent man, general. We understand this. And here is what you need to understand. The Gallians have captured a few priests, but none of them have helped them, and many more remain. And we have been waiting for this moment. We have our own Via, as you say. We can obtain weapons like these, and even more powerful ones. The Gallians cannot. The Gallians are doomed.”
Ploterus and Cymbian exchanged a glance. He could tell what Cymbian was thinking: this was just what he had been hoping for. At long last. “If the Gallians are doomed, why do you need me?” Ploterus asked Lamathe. “What is your offer to me?”
“We do not wish to use these weapons,” Lamathe replied. “We do not want to repeat the mistake the priests made with King Harald’s army. Too many people have died already fighting the Gallians. We want to return to the old days, when the empire was ruled with wisdom and fairness. We realize the priests have made mistakes—Governor Decius here is happy to point them out to us. We can do better. We will surely do better than Feslund and Gretyx, in any case. But we need your help.”
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