“What kind of help?”
“You command the soldiers in Roma. When the time comes, we want you to issue certain orders to your men. We want them to be on our side.”
“When is this happening?”
“Soon. During Saturnalia.”
“What we ask of you will be neither difficult nor dishonorable,” Palta added. “And it will spare the empire much bloodshed.”
“And what is your offer to me?”
“First,” Lamathe said, “you have probably considered seizing power for yourself. You would certainly be a better ruler than Feslund and Gretyx, but you must understand that this is not going to happen. When the priests return to power, however, we will need people like you. We will have to keep the peace, by force if necessary. There will still be wars to be fought with sword and shield. You have demonstrated your competence as a general. Your reputation is high, even among the rebels. You have won many great battles. You governed Egypt fairly. So the priests want you to lead their legions.”
“And what of Decius? Why is he here?”
“Decius, too, is competent and respected,” Lamathe replied. “He will resume his role as governor of the Roman province.”
“We can and must work together,” Decius said to him. “The time has come to rid the world of Feslund and Gretyx. You know it, Ploterus. And you know that, really, you have no choice. Join us, or you will not survive the coming battle. As Lamathe said, we do not want to use weapons like this one, but we will if we have to, to defeat the Gallians. You must understand this.”
Ploterus pondered the viator’s words. Then he turned to Cymbian. “What do you think?” he asked.
Cymbian was silent for a moment before he spoke. “You don’t want to be a traitor,” he replied at last. “I understand that. And you have no love for the priests. Neither do I. But nothing matters more than defeating Feslund and Gretyx.”
“They will not leave without a fight,” Ploterus pointed out.
“Then we can give them a fight.”
“I cannot be sure of my troops.”
“They will follow you, my lord. You can count on them.”
Everyone fell silent then in the cold cemetery, waiting for his response. Ploterus’s ears still rang from the noise of the gun. How could such a small object make a noise that loud? Finally he turned back to Lamathe. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he said.
Liber
Liber walked home from the government building in the Forum, his servants lighting the way with torches. The Forum was usually deserted at this hour, but some people were already getting a head start on Saturnalia, drunkenly shouting out songs as they swayed through the plaza. In a couple of days the Forum would be filled for the official start of the festival. It would be a success—it would have to be a success.
He recalled the night many years ago when he walked through the crowds of Saturnalia having lost his last pupil, wanting only to drink away his sorrow and fear. So much had changed. Now servants lit his way! Now he was in charge of Saturnalia, and all of Roma!
Was he any happier than he had been back then?
He could not say that he was. Now he was consumed by fear—fear that Gretyx would not be satisfied with him, fear that she would rid herself of him as she had rid herself of so many others. A moment of irritation, a passing suspicion of disloyalty. Then arrest, torture, and death.
If he was lucky, she would skip the torture.
But for today he was safe. Everyone felt good during Saturnalia—if things didn’t get out of control. He would not let things get out of control. In the end Gretyx would be happy, the people would be happy, and Liber would be safe for a while longer.
He reached the governor’s residence on the Capitoline Hill. Again, he recalled that night during Saturnalia when he had been brought to this same house, in a drunken stupor, to meet Decius. Decius was gone, but somehow Liber had survived.
The servants escorted him inside. Barascus brought him a cup of wine. “My lord…” he began.
“Not now,” Liber interrupted, swallowing the wine in a single gulp. He held the cup out to be refilled. It was good to be inside, in the warmth.
“My lord, in your study…”
“What about my study?”
“Visitors, my lord.”
“Who let them in? Send them away. I am not available.”
Barascus almost seemed to writhe with discomfort. “My lord, I cannot.”
“What do you mean, you ‘cannot’?” Liber was tired. He had no wish to see anyone. He wished only to sit by the fire and have another cup of wine.
“You had better see them, my lord.”
Liber made a disgusted noise and marched off to his study. If Barascus wouldn’t do his job, Liber would do it for him.
He opened the door, and then he felt his world collapse.
There, seated at his table, were Decius and Affron.
“Governor Liber,” Decius said. “I see you’ve bought new tapestries for the room.”
Liber tried to respond: a cold nod, a call to his servants for assistance…but he could do nothing.
“I remember Barascus. He was always fond of me, I think,” Decius went on, “but not fond enough join me in rebelling against the empire. I have put him in an awkward position, but you shouldn’t blame him. Please, sit down. You recall Affron from your days in the schola, of course.”
Yes, Liber remembered Affron. Affron still haunted his dreams. He sat. “What do you want?” he managed to say.
“First, let me reassure you that we mean you no harm,” Decius replied. “You’re not a bad fellow, I think—and Affron agrees with me about that. And I’m told that you’ve not been a bad governor either, given the constraints placed on you by your masters.”
The brazier in the corner was pouring out heat, but still Liber felt cold. He could barely make sense of the words Decius was speaking. Decius was supposed to be on the run in the wastelands of Africa. And Affron—oh, Affron! Liber had tried so hard to track him down and have him killed. Did Affron know about Harmalo? Perhaps Affron knew everything.
“What do you want?” he repeated. His voice was shaking. He could not stop it from shaking.
Affron spoke finally. “The priests have returned to Roma to reclaim power from the Gallians,” he said. “You will help us.”
“What? How will the priests do this? Where is your army?”
“We don’t need an army,” Affron replied. “You know that, Liber.”
Liber shivered, recalling Affron’s power, which had all but destroyed him. Was that what he was talking about? Could he defeat the Gallians with it? Of course he could. He could do whatever he wanted. “I don’t see how I can help you,” he said.
“We do not ask much,” Affron said. “But we require your help at the beginning of Saturnalia.”
“What? Why?”
“Because that is when it will happen.”
Saturnalia? “There will be troops throughout the city during Saturnalia,” he pointed out. “I do not control the troops. General Ploterus does. He reports to me, in theory, but he won’t obey orders that threaten Feslund and Gretyx.”
“Do not worry about Ploterus,” Decius replied. “He will be assisting us as well.”
Ploterus too? “Who else?” Liber asked. “What is your plan?”
“None of that is your concern,” Decius said. “You need to know only this: you must do what we say. We are going to be victorious, and after our victory, we will remember who helped us, and who refused.”
“If I help you, will I remain governor after your victory?”
Decius shook his head. “No, but you will remain alive. That is all we promise. And that is the most you deserve.”
Liber looked from one man to the other. Their faces were calm, relentless.
It is over, he thought. Not in one of the ways he had imagined—not a sudden summons from Gretyx, not legionaries running him through with their swords as he lay in bed. But whether the priests won or lost, it was ove
r for him nevertheless.
It was a wonder he had survived as long as he had.
And with that realization came a sense of relief. He had done what he could. He was still alive. And perhaps the gods would allow him to live a while longer.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
Fifty-Four
Larry
The priests sat at the table on the second floor of the insula. Darkness was falling; the moment approached. Affron spoke, then Lamathe, then Borafin. They talked of their love for Terra, for the priests’ empire, for Urbis. Now, finally, they were going to take back what had been stolen from them. If anyone had doubts, they weren’t spoken. But Larry could tell they were all nervous. The next couple of hours would determine whether they succeeded or failed.
Larry stood with Palta in a corner of the room. He felt left out. There would be little for him to do tonight, if all went well. And that was fine with him.
And afterward? He forced himself not to think about what would happen afterward; he just wanted to get through tonight. The priests and Decius had talked endlessly about their plans—how they would set up the government, how they would win over the people, how they would defeat the Gallians if they chose to resist. But he had mostly stayed silent; they knew how to run an empire better than he did.
Finally he went downstairs and outside. Palta followed. The night was cold but clear. He could hear music and shouting in the distance. “It will be fine,” Palta said, grasping his hand. “Affron’s idea is brilliant. Your ideas have been brilliant. How can we fail?”
Larry could think of many ways in which they could fail, but then, so could Palta. “Yes,” he agreed. “It will be fine.”
“Do you have your gun?”
“Of course. But I hope I won’t need it.”
“You shouldn’t have to. But just in case…”
They stood there in silence, holding hands. Finally the others joined them, and it was time to begin.
As they walked to the Forum, Larry clicked the side of the gun to put a bullet in the chamber, the way Brendan had taught him. Just in case.
Feslund
In the palace, Feslund practiced the speech in front of Gretyx, Bathanala, and Liber.
“You need to be loud,” his mother reminded him yet again. “The crowd will be large and festive. You must make them pay attention.”
Liber nodded his agreement. Bathanala, as usual, said nothing. They were both useless.
“No one cares about the new Senate House,” Feslund argued. “Especially not during Saturnalia. We should just re-dedicate the temple to the old gods. People still remember them fondly.”
Gretyx looked annoyed with him, as she so often did; he had made this argument before. “We can build such a temple somewhere else,” she replied. “Right now we need senators. We need to make you emperor.”
What she meant was: we need wealthy men to pay us for the privilege of becoming senators. Because there wasn’t enough money; there was never enough money.
“But I don’t like speaking in front of the temple,” he said. “It will remind people of the priests.”
“But that is the point, my lord,” Liber replied. “The old days of the priests are gone. The temple has stood empty for too long. You have defeated the rebels. We must celebrate. We must change.”
Feslund wasn’t stupid. He knew that he hadn’t defeated the rebels; Ploterus had. But it didn’t matter, he supposed. In any event, Gretyx was agreeing with Liber. “Yes, it is time to celebrate,” she said. “In any case, it is all arranged.”
“Must I go?” Bathanala asked.
Now Gretyx looked annoyed with her. As she should be. “Of course you must,” his mother snapped. “Don’t be stupid. The people love you, and they expect to see you. I think it wiser if I stay in the palace, however.”
This was fine with Feslund—he had no wish to have his mother standing behind him as he spoke, judging his performance.
“Your people will miss you, my lady,” Liber protested. “I think you should accompany your son.”
“They will not miss me,” she replied. “They will be delighted that I am not there. I will stay here and watch from the balcony. Is it time?”
“Almost, my lady,” Liber said. “But I really think--”
The queen waved him silent and turned to Feslund. “You will do well, my son. I am very proud of you.”
She was not proud of him, Feslund knew. But in any case he was grateful for the praise. He went over the speech one last time.
Palta
The Forum was filled with people and torchlight. A band played; people sang and chanted and swigged wine from jugs. Palta and Larry stopped a hundred paces from the royal palace. Its huge doors were heavily guarded, and a line of soldiers kept open a path from the palace to the temple.
The soldiers guarding the palace doors wore purple capes. They were members of the Praetorian Guard and were led by Escondo, another one of Feslund’s mates; unlike Cymbian, he had remained loyal to Feslund. The soldiers in the Forum wore red capes; they were regular legionaries: Ploterus’s men. The existence of the Praetorian Guard made Palta nervous; their plan had not accounted for it. They were sworn to protect Feslund and Gretyx; they were not likely to surrender without a fight.
Everything made her nervous, actually. She wished there was something for her to do.
“There’s Amelia,” Larry pointed out. “By the temple doors. Next to Ploterus.”
“Ah, that’s good.”
Everyone had something to do, now or later. Amelia was there at the temple. Larry had his gun to use if needed. Decius would be governor; Lamathe would be pontifex; Borafin would be vice-pontifex. The other priests would have their parts to play.
Everyone had something to do except Palta.
For years she had longed for this moment to arrive. Now it was finally at hand, and she could do nothing but watch.
She shivered in the cold night air.
Ploterus
“Now,” the woman murmured to Ploterus.
So it was beginning. He turned to the soldiers guarding the temple doors. “Open them,” he ordered.
They did what they were told. He grabbed a torch from a bracket next to the doors and walked inside, followed by the woman. The light flickered. The temple was immense and deserted. The place smelled musty; no one used it anymore. Furniture was piled up in corners; the frescoes on the ceiling were faded and water-stained; someone seemed to have taken an ax to the altar. He watched the woman stride to a spot in the middle of the marble floor and reach out her hand. She murmured something to herself in what sounded like a foreign language. Then she turned back to Ploterus. “Mane hic,” she said to him. Stay here.
He stayed where he was. The woman turned away. She took a few steps.
And she disappeared.
Ploterus shook his head in disbelief. He knew that if he went to look for her, he would not find her. Via was in Urbis, so what was this nothingness that she had stepped into? The priests’ new Via, it seemed. He knew what was happening, but still it was strange and terrifying, like the gun.
And these strange and terrifying things convinced him that he had picked the right side.
Amelia
Amelia walked out of the portal and into the woods of Elysium; the woods were magical in the starlight.
Hieron was waiting for her. He looked nervous. He had been nervous ever since he had agreed to the plan. Nervous but excited. Alive. “Are we ready?” he asked.
She nodded. “Almost. You will need to find exactly the right spot.”
“I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
“It’s the rest of it,” he added.
She put a hand on his arm. “You are a god,” she said. “Don’t forget that.”
Hieron smiled. “I am not,” he replied. “But thank you for the compliment.”
She smiled back at him. “A few more minutes,” she said.
Liber
They
left the palace. Feslund smiled and waved to the crowd. Liber heard the usual mixture of cheers and boos. He looked around to see if he could spot Affron or any other priests, but there were too many people to make out individual faces. He knew they were out there, though. He could feel them.
Feslund descended the palace steps, followed by Bathanala and Liber. A few Praetorian guards accompanied them. Legionaries had kept a path clear to the temple. Liber looked over at the temple entrance where Feslund was to speak. It seemed so bare to him since they had removed the statue of Hieron with his hands outstretched. Removing the statue before the speech had been Gretyx’s idea, but it had not been wise. The people may not have liked the priests, but they had always loved Hieron. Liber had tried to explain this to her, but of course she paid no attention to him.
Meanwhile, things had already gone wrong. Affron and Decius had told him to make sure Gretyx accompanied Feslund, and he had failed to do so. They would be upset with him, he knew. They would think he hadn’t upheld his part of the bargain. But surely they would understand—no one could control Gretyx!
He had done his best.
And what if their plan failed because of his failure? And what if Gretyx found out about his treason? That would be the worst outcome of all, of course.
They made their way across the Forum to the temple, then up its steps. The band stopped playing. The crowd began to quiet. One of his aides had told him the people would be upset if Feslund promised them anything less than ten silver denarii. The people were fools. They should have stormed the palace long ago. They should have joined the rebellion, instead of being satisfied with scraps from the royal treasury.
He should have joined the rebellion, like Decius.
But it was all about to end. Wasn’t it?
Ploterus and a woman he didn’t recognize came out of the temple. What were they doing in there?
“Where should I stand?” Feslund asked Liber. He hadn’t noticed the woman.
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