Liber pointed to the spot. “Right there, my lord.” Right next to where the statue of Hieron had stood.
Liber motioned to Bathanala to step back a few paces. He went and stood next to her.
Feslund raised his arms to acknowledge the scattered cheers, and finally he began to speak.
Affron
“Io Saturnalia!” Feslund roared the ancient greeting.
The crowd shouted the greeting back. Some of them, anyway.
He paused for a few moments, evidently waiting for the crowed to be quiet, but silence never came, and so at last he simply began his speech.
He was not a good speaker, Affron thought. He thought he was cleverer than he actually was, and he did not understand the mood of the crowd. They didn’t want to hear about the brave soldiers fighting in Egypt. And they didn’t want to hear about his plans to tear down the temple and build a new Senate House. That was not what they were here for.
But Feslund’s speech didn’t matter. The timing mattered; where Feslund stood mattered. The Praetorian Guard mattered. Affron didn’t see Gretyx with her son. That was bad. The fool Liber was supposed to make sure she was there.
He kept his eyes on Amelia up by the temple doors, standing next to Ploterus with her arms crossed. She didn’t look worried; nothing seemed to worry her. He was so lucky that she loved him. Now they just needed to accomplish this.
“The priests have finally been defeated,” Feslund orated. “They will trouble us no more. The old gods have risen again, stronger than ever, to make Terra a better world for all of us.”
Modest cheers from the crowd. Somebody shouted out a demand for denarii.
And then it began.
In the midst of the boisterous, drunken crowd, Affron finally smiled.
Lamathe
It was barely visible at first—just a shimmering in the air. It could have been caused by the smoke from the torches. But then the shimmering turned the lightest shade of blue, and it revealed its shape—it was a large sphere, floating a couple of paces to Feslund’s right.
The crowd around Lamathe began shouting and point as they noticed what was happening.
To get things started, Lamathe shouted: “Via! It is Via!”
From somewhere else in the crowd he heard Borafin’s voice: “Via!”
And then Samos, and Karellia, and all the others.
And Lamathe’s heart soared as others in the crowd began to shout. “Via! Look, it’s Via!”
Feslund
The speech had been going fairly well, Feslund thought. And then…
From the crowd came screams and pointing and confusion. He didn’t understand.
He turned and saw a shimmering blue sphere, just paces away from him. He heard voices shouting “Via!”
He fell silent and stared helplessly, uncomprehendingly at the sphere. One of his guards came up to him. “I think you are not safe here, my lord,” the guard said. He look frightened himself.
Ploterus came over. “Take him into the temple,” he ordered the Praetorian guards. “And the wife with him.”
They looked doubtful. He was not their general
“Go, you fools!” Ploterus shouted. “Before it is too late. Do you not see this thing? It is Via. The priests have returned.”
Feslund stared at Ploterus. He stared at the sphere. Via. Here.
He felt hands on him, pulling him backwards, into the temple.
Ploterus
“What is happening?” Bathanala asked when they were in the temple.
Ploterus ignored her. They were supposed to grab Gretyx along with Feslund, but Gretyx hadn’t been with Feslund. Liber had failed, and now the plan had become more complicated.
Ploterus motioned to his own soldiers, who were standing behind the Praetorian guards. In an instant their daggers were out and they had slit the guards’ throats.
Good men.
Bathanala screamed. Feslund saw what had happened and wheeled around, seeking escape. There was no escape. He reached for his sword, but he was not wearing a sword. Why would he need a sword to give a speech? Two of the soldiers grabbed him; another grabbed Bathanala.
“You’re a traitor!” Feslund shouted at Ploterus.
Ploterus shrugged and took out his dagger. “It is over, my lord,” he said to Feslund. “And I have no time to waste.”
“What do you mean?” Bathanala cried.
Feslund stared at Ploterus. Understanding seemed to dawn on him. “Spare my wife,” he said. “She is nothing to you.”
Ploterus considered, and then said, “As you wish. Avert your eyes, my lady.”
Bathanala began to howl. Not out of grief for her husband, Ploterus thought. Out of fear for her own life. Without Feslund, what protection did she have? Ploterus could give her none. But no matter.
“Are you ready, my lord?” he asked Feslund.
Feslund looked as though he wanted to argue, to plead. But then, once again, he understood. Now it was not about saving his life; it was about leaving this world properly. “I am ready,” he said. His voice was shaking, but he didn’t flinch. That was good. He would die like a Gallian soldier.
It would have been easier to use a gun, Ploterus thought. But no matter. He took out his dagger and did what needed to be done.
Hieron
Hieron waited, as Affron had told him to do. Let the crowd see and understand what was happening. Finally he stepped out of his Via and out onto the broad entrance to the temple. He wore an ancient toga—the kind depicted on his statues; he hadn’t put on such a toga since he’d left Terra. He put his left hand on his breast and raised his right arm into the air—a gesture of greeting and of triumph.
“Hieron!” a voice shouted. “It is Hieron!”
“Save us, Hieron!” someone else shouted.
The crowd roared. They were confused. They were drunk. Perhaps they thought it was a spectacle like those they witnessed in the Circus Maximus. He waited for them to understand. It didn’t take long. The priests in the crowd helped. “He has returned!” someone shouted. “Let him speak!” shouted another.
And then people started to kneel. Soon all were kneeling—even the soldiers; some were weeping. Just as Affron had predicted.
Wait, Affron had instructed him. Make sure you have their attention. Then step forward.
And that is what he did. “I am Hieron,” he said, “and I have returned to save Terra. You have not deserved the suffering you have undergone at the hands of those who have ruled you these past few years. With your help, I will change all this. And the change begins now. The rule of the Gallians has ended. Peace and justice have returned.”
He looked to his right, and Amelia was there, smiling at him. A general, who must have been Ploterus, came out of the temple with a few soldiers.
And then he heard a voice.
Gretyx
Gretyx watched Feslund speak from her balcony in the palace. She could make out little of what he said. She heard occasional cheers, and that was good.
And then she saw a blue sphere forming next to him. What was it? It could not be Via.
She saw Feslund and Bathanala hurry into the temple with Ploterus and some guards.
She saw a man wearing an ancient toga step out of the sphere.
She saw the crowd fall to its knees.
What was happening? What was Feslund doing in the temple? Who was the man in the toga?
It was Hieron, she realized.
She was terrified, but she would not give in. She would not be defeated.
Larry
Everything seemed to be working beautifully. Here was Hieron, exactly where he was supposed to be. And the crowd reacted exactly as they had hoped. His voice was strong and clear, his words inspiring.
And then Palta grasped his arm and pointed. Larry looked up to see Gretyx on the palace balcony. Hieron fell silent as her voice rang out.
“My fellow citizens,” she said. “Pay no attention to this magic conjured up by evil priests. Their only p
urpose is to enslave you once again. My son has set you free. My son has brought you peace. My son—”
“Kill her,” Palta urged Larry.
Kill her? Yes, he supposed that this was his job. He and Palta had been kneeling like all the rest of the crowd. He got to his feet and took out the gun. His hand was shaking. His whole body was shaking.
“…We have worked tirelessly to make your lives better. In this festive season, we have promised to give every citizen—”
He raised the gun and tried to aim. Finally he pulled the trigger.
And there was the deafening sound again.
Gretyx spun backward against the door to the balcony. Larry tried to shoot again, but she staggered back into the palace and out of sight.
In the Forum, chaos erupted. People rose to their feet and started running, holding their hands over their ears. Children wept. Women screamed.
Had he hit her? Had he seen her clutch her shoulder? He thought so.
Palta was tugging at his sleeve. “We need to get into the palace,” she shouted into his ear. “We can’t let her escape.”
They pushed through the crowd. Cymbian stood next to the palace doors with a few of his men. Two purple-caped guards lay dead next to them. “We need to capture the queen,” Larry said.
Cymbian nodded and gestured to his soldiers. “Don’t worry,” he said to Larry. “We have posted soldiers at all the doors to the palace. She is trapped inside.”
The doors were locked, so the soldiers put their shoulders to them till they opened with a crack, and then rushed inside. A few Praetorian guards met them in the huge, gilt entrance hall, swords drawn. Escondo was there with them, shouting orders. Larry aimed the gun at Escondo and shot him; he fell with a thud onto the marble floor. The rest of the guards turned and ran.
“Go after them,” Cymbian instructed his men, who were now staring in terror at Larry. “Kill anyone who doesn’t surrender. Disarm anyone who does. Find the queen and bring her back here.”
Ploterus and several soldiers entered behind them, escorting Hieron. Hieron looked shaken. “It’ll be fine,” Larry told him. “Gretyx has been wounded, but we’ll capture her.”
“This is not what I’d hoped,” Hieron said, shaking his head.
“Plans never go as smoothly as one would like, my lord,” Ploterus replied. “But Feslund is dead, and Gretyx can’t have gone far. Come, sit in this room,” he said, gesturing to a large, frescoed chamber just off the entrance hall. “You’ll be well guarded, and the other priests will show up soon. Someone will find wine for you.”
As they took care of Hieron, soldiers started returning from their search. A few of them brought prisoners with them, but none of them had found Gretyx.
“She’s not in the palace,” Palta insisted. “She would’ve given herself a way to escape.”
Cymbian shook his head. “All the doors are—”
“There’ll be an exit we don’t know about. Like the tunnel in Urbis.”
“Bring me the servants,” Ploterus ordered. “One of them will have to know.”
Soldiers left and soon returned, herding frightened servants into the entrance hall. “Come then,” Ploterus said to them, “we must find the queen. You have heard our magical weapon.” He pointed to Larry’s gun. “We don’t want to kill you with it, but we will. If there is a secret passage or other means of escape from the palace, we need to know about it. Right now.”
The servants stared at the gun, glanced at one another. Women clutched each other, weeping. Finally a wizened old man wearing a green tunic and dirty trousers stepped forward. “There’s a door just off the kitchen, my lord,” he rasped. “Always locked. We were told never to open it. I thought I heard footsteps on the stairs a while ago, before the soldiers came for us. People in a hurry, I thought. And the door was open.”
Ploterus grabbed the man. “Show us,” he demanded.
Larry and Palta followed Ploterus with a couple of soldiers as the man led them down into the bowels of the palace. Gretyx couldn’t have gone far with a gunshot wound, Larry thought. But of course she’d have guards with her; perhaps they carried her.
“There, my lord,” the old man said, pointing at a door with a trembling finger. “It’s open, you see. Never been open before.”
Ploterus grabbed a torch and shone it into the darkness beyond the door. Stone steps descended to a passageway.
They went down the steps, then along the damp cobblestones of the passage. Larry remembered making his way through the tunnel in Urbis with Palta and the others. That seemed like a lifetime ago. He could barely speak to Palta then—he knew no Latin, and she knew no English. He had been young and terrified. He had only wanted to go home, and everything he did seemed to take him further away from his home.
“Up ahead,” Ploterus muttered after a while.
Larry saw a wooden staircase. When they reached it they clambered up the steps. Ploterus pushed open the door at the top and rushed through it with Larry, Palta, and the soldiers following.
They were in a stable. Horses snickered. A frightened boy stared at them in astonishment.
“Is the queen here?” Ploterus demanded, drawing his sword.
“No, my lord,” the boy answered. “She was here. I think it was the queen, anyway. No one has ever come through that door before. Septimus says—”
“How long ago?”
“Not long, my lord.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“No, my lord. She demanded a carriage and a driver. And horses for her guards. She was hurt, I think—holding onto her shoulder, like so. And in a hurry. She threatened to have us whipped if we went too slow. We’re not used to—”
Ploterus waved the boy silent and turned to Larry and Palta. “Now what?”
“She’ll head north,” Larry said. “Back to Gallia. She’ll have support there. We need to stop her.”
“She could be going to the port,” Palta suggested. “She might have a ship waiting for her.”
Ploterus pondered for a moment, and then gave orders to his soldiers. “Return to Cymbian and tell him to send troops to the waterfront in case the queen is headed there.” He handed one of them the torch. They bowed and headed back through the door and down into the passage.
Then Ploterus turned back to the boy. “Saddle three horses for us—the best you have. Quickly, now.”
“Yes, my lord. I’ll need Septimus to help. I’ll just go and—”
“Yes, yes.”
The boy hurried off to get Septimus.
“She can’t get far,” Larry said to Ploterus. “The streets are too crowded.”
“They’ll be crowded for us as well,” Ploterus replied. “And her guards wielding swords can scatter people in short order. Once she makes it through the north gate, the Via Flaminia will be clear.”
“But dark and dangerous,” Palta pointed out.
Ploterus nodded. “True enough.” No one traveled at night if it could be avoided.
They walked out into the stable yard. Their breath made clouds in the cold night air. Palta grasped Larry’s hand. “We’re so close to victory!” she murmured as she waited. “We just need to catch her.”
“Gretyx must die,” Ploterus said in response. “There is no victory while she is alive.”
Finally their horses were ready. Larry chose one and mounted it. He knew it would be hard for him to keep up with Palta and Ploterus. But he’d have to try.
The boy opened the gates of the stable yard for them, and they headed out into the city.
Palta knew the way to the north gate, of course; she always knew the way. Even with Ploterus roaring at people to get out of his way and whipping them if they refused, they made slow progress through the streets for a while. But finally the crowds thinned and they sped up.
Larry wondered what would happen if they didn’t find Gretyx. She could gather loyal troops, he supposed. She could raise an army, especially if she made it back to Gallia. And with an army to fight
for her, perhaps she could defeat the priests. Why not?
But really, he had no idea—about that or anything. No idea what the future would bring here on Terra. No idea if the priests would succeed, or if they would rule wisely. So many versions of Terra; so many possible outcomes.
Finally they reached the north gate. “Queen Gretyx!” Ploterus shouted at the guards. “Did she pass through here in a carriage?”
The guards looked confused. “A carriage did pass through, my lord,” one of them said. “There was a woman in it. Don’t know who it was.”
“With soldiers on horseback,” a second guard pointed out.
“Praetorians,” another guard added. “Wearing the purple cloaks.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, my lord—not long ago, I suppose. They were in a hurry, it seemed.”
“Let us through, then,” Ploterus ordered. “We’re in a hurry, too.”
The guards hastened to obey. When the gates were open the three of them rode out of the city and onto the Via Flaminia.
The night had turned overcast, and as expected it was difficult to make their way along the road. Larry looked over at Palta; he couldn’t see much of her face, but as always, she rode easily and well. Horses loved her, and she loved them back.
Yet another adventure for the two of them, he thought. He was getting tired of adventures.
And he thought about all that Kevin had missed, staying behind on Earth. And all that Carmody and Valleia had missed, raising their children in Scotia. But each of them was happy. There were so many ways to be happy.
They rode for a while and encountered no one. Then suddenly Ploterus slowed his horse and raised a hand. Palta and Larry came up beside him. He pointed to a light bobbing up and down ahead on their left. A torch. But it was low to the ground—whoever was holding it was not on a horse. And not moving away from them.
Larry heard curses, a horse’s whinny, indistinct voices.
“Something’s wrong with the carriage,” Palta whispered.
HOME (The Portal Series, Book 3) Page 35