The Emperor's Games

by The Emperor's Games (retail) (epub)

  Correus stood with his family among the crowd that had gathered by the bridge to watch the Germans come in. His eyes widened as they neared and the chieftain’s oddly crooked face swept into focus.

  It was not for the emperor of Rome to stand and watch a barbarian chief ride in, but Flavius was there to see the show, standing at Correus’s other side, and he took interested note of his brother’s expression. The Germans drew rein at the triple arch of the river gate, and the governor and his staff stepped forward with much official grandeur to usher them through in the name of Rome.

  “What are you looking at?” Flavius said in Correus’s ear.

  “The chieftain,” Correus said. “The successor to Nyall Sigmundson.” His voice had a disgusted tone. “The man I shared a six-foot cubicle with for a whole winter.”

  “Him? The pirates’ other prisoner?” Flavius whistled. “Prisoner, my ass!”

  Correus nodded gloomily. “To give myself credit, I did think that he might be Chatti, one of Marbod’s warriors, if the Chatti were playing smuggler. The more fool I. I even heard him sing a song that Forst knows.”

  “I don’t imagine that the Semnones are the sole tribe that knows Forst’s song,” Flavius said.

  Correus still looked disgusted. “He even let something slip about a man he had been close to being maimed, and I didn’t catch on. Worse, now I’ve got to tell him about Nyall.” He glared at Ranvig. “When Marbod sprang it on the governor about a Semnone alliance, he did cross my mind again, but the rest just never occurred to me.”

  Flavius shrugged. “What good would it have done if it had?”

  “Not much, I suppose. But I lied my head off to him and got his allies crucified. I rather liked the man. Now he’s decided to stick his head in front of a catapult, and he won’t be in much of a mood to take my advice.”

  “Germans don’t take anyone’s advice,” Flavius said with conviction.

  “Neither do Romans,” Ygerna said shortly, and Flavius grinned at her because that was as close as she would come to being rude about the emperor in his presence. She still hadn’t forgiven either Titus or Domitian for refusing to condemn Vettius after Correus had risked his neck to find out what was swallowing up Roman shipping. Ygerna was not a woman to

  Flavius’s taste, but he had a hefty respect for his brother’s wife; she had stood up to their family without going mad. And there was a certain weird kinship in the fact that he had been the first Roman she had ever seen. That had been just before her uncle’s allies had cut off his fingers, but that could hardly be laid at Ygerna’s door. She had been nearly as scared of her uncle as he had.

  Felix had been hopping up and down trying to see around a broad, bowlegged auxiliaryman who was part of the honor guard lining the gateway. Correus stooped down and put Felix on his shoulders. The baggage wagons, which had come across at a more sedate pace, were just beginning to pass by, and Felix peered at them interestedly.

  “What is in there?”

  “Clothes, I expect,” Correus said.

  “What else?”

  “Jewelry,” Ygerna said in the voice of one who had learned that Felix never left a question until all possible information had been extracted, “to dress up for the council. Spare pony bridles, in case they break one. Things for the priest to cast omens with; I don’t know what kind of things. The chieftain’s spare riding boots. Presents for the Chatti and the emperor.”

  “Why is he giving the emperor presents? I thought he didn’t like us.”

  “They always give presents,” Correus said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s part of the game. The bigger the present, the higher you score.”

  “Like giving bigger banquets,” Felix said thoughtfully.

  “Precisely.”

  Everyone gave everyone else a present, wildly valuable and useless as gifts of state were apt to be – gold bridles and drinking cups set with uncut gems. The citizens of Colonia watched the show like theatergoers enjoying the action as long as the canvas-armored armies of Greece and Troy stayed on the stage and out of the audience. The more enterprising among them sold souvenir glass and pottery with the likeness of the emperor.

  The German chieftains and their attendants were housed in Colonia’s inns, and after much negotiating it was agreed that their warriors would be billeted on a farmstead three miles to the west. The farm’s German owner protested loudly that he was a Roman citizen and didn’t have to put up with that, and Flavius was sent to calm him down as well.

  By evening a field command was beginning to look good. Flavius fled the emperor’s wing of the palace and hid himself in his brother’s private office. He had cajoled, sympathized, argued, and pulled rank all day long to sort out the myriad crises that had risen like bubbles in a pot.

  “And the worst of it is, nothing is going to come of these talks. They’re a fancy dance while both sides get ready for war. The emperor has already given orders to pull detachments out of all four of our British legions and the Twenty-first from Bonna, and ship ’em up to Moguntiacum to ‘await events.’ And he’s called out Velius Rufus to take charge of ’em. That old buzzard eats a pilum every morning at breakfast just to keep his spirits up. And Marbod looks to me like a man with the temper of a pig.”

  Correus groaned. “He’ll frighten our German interpreters silly, just like Nyall did. The interpreters’ farms are all too close to this war. I mentioned that to the governor, and now I’m assigned to the talks as a ‘German expert,’ which only means I speak the language fluently enough to be rude in it. I hate interpreting.”

  Flavius chuckled. “Unfortunately, it’s a talent of yours. Well, it’ll give you a chance to look Ranvig in the eye.”

  “I’m not sure I want to. I’d hate to get to liking the man again. There’s no way he’s going to come out of this with his skin if he decides to fight Rome.”

  “It’s a mystery to me why you wanted an army career,” Flavius said seriously. “You can’t spend your life weeping for the enemy, Correus.”

  “I’ve thought that one over, believe me. I wanted an army career because it’s what I’m good at and because Rome does something valuable out here. This was forest and bog before we came. Wasteland. We cleared it and drained it and built on it. Now it’s productive and safe. A free man can live on it without sleeping with a knife under his pillow. Civilization – the progress of man. That’s our justification.” He thought for a minute. “What’s the emperor’s, Flavius?”

  “Oh, no,” Flavius said. “I’ve argued that one with Lucius, and I’m not going to argue it with you. He’s the emperor and I’m his servant, and that is that. I’ll provide what influence I can, but I won’t oppose him.”

  “No one expects you to, although I imagine the local farmers would be grateful. It’s likely to be their land that gets fought over. There was a good chance of keeping the peace out here before Domitian arrived. He provoked this war, and you know it. And if it’s to buy him popularity in Rome, Flavius, I wouldn’t bet on it working. I’ve heard nothing good about the emperor’s standing at home, and a great deal that’s so bad I’m afraid to repeat it.” He waited for an argument from Flavius, but there wasn’t one. His brother was too loyal to agree and too honest to deny it.

  * * *

  In Rome, Marius Vettius read the sentiment in the wind with pleasure. Domitian didn’t have to be encouraged to alienate the Senate. He was doing it naturally, Vettius thought, amused, by grasping for every penny he could gain and allowing his appointees to do the same as long as the appearance of respectability was preserved – and as long as some of it came home to Domitian’s treasury. Thus the Senate grew disgruntled, the emperor grew nervous, and his ear became more open to the whispers of informers.

  These days, there were few men in Rome who didn’t fear a midnight knock at the door. It wouldn’t be long before they began to think of defending themselves. Marius Vettius had insured that that idea was put carefully into a number of ears, and he had a spy in nea
rly every great house in Rome. When someone took the bait, he would know about it. Already old Gentilius Paulinus, who had once been in the service of Domitian’s father, Vespasian, was beginning to make rumbling noises. Vettius chuckled. Gentilius Paulinus was Lucius Paulinus’s uncle. It would be pleasant to pull the nephew into the net and settle a score. There was a tidiness that appealed to Vettius about tricking his enemies into doing murder for him and then executing them for it.

  The war that Domitian was stirring up in Germany was to be encouraged, Vettius decided. It was easy for an emperor to be killed on the frontier. Easier still for a new one to be made there. When the time came, Vettius would put himself in the right place, but there was no hurry. He had business to conclude in Rome, and Domitian would never leave Germany until he had his triumph. Vettius clapped his hands for a slave to bring him his accounts book. Only money would keep him in Domitian’s favor in the meantime, and there was still the matter of contriving to call in that note from old Aemelius. Vettius would give himself the present pleasure of settling that much of his score with the house of Julianus.

  * * *

  In Colonia, the emperor made an offer of peace that no one believed in, from a dais in the Hall of Justice in the Colonia Basilica. He sat on a gold chair with his Praetorians behind him, plumed and gilded and arrogant, and presented his terms to Marbod of the Chatti. Ranvig he treated as a disinterested representative of the outlying barbarians whose territory lay beyond the proposed boundaries of Roman control. Ranvig responded in kind, but Correus said afterward that he would have eaten his horse if Ranvig believed a word of it. Domitian would go as far as he could to match his brother’s triumphs.

  Marbod of the Chatti listened grimly, his hand where his sword would have been if he hadn’t finally, furiously, agreed to the protocol that forbade it in the emperor’s presence. There were signs that Domitian was also going to demand from the Germans presenting themselves to him the sort of emperor worship that could sometimes be got away with in the East. Fortunately Flavius managed to persuade him of the unwisdom of that. Marbod would no more have been willing to prostrate himself before another chieftain than he would have to put on a dress and pick flowers.

  The sun had come out, and the Basilica was overly warm with the press of bodies. Domitian leaned comfortably in his chair with a page boy to fan him, and presented his terms.

  “The emperor says,” the interpreter began nervously, watching Marbod’s thin mouth clamp down as if he were biting something, “that he will allot to the Chatti the lands that they now hold, in the forests called the Taunus, to be held henceforth by the emperor’s favor, with due taxes to be paid for their protection from the barbarians to the east and the upkeep of the roads in their district. In addition,” he went on hurriedly as Marbod appeared to boil over, “there will be three cohorts due in a draft to the auxiliaries of the empire every third year and a double tribute on every fifth year for the upkeep of the frontier.”

  “By what right?” Marbod shouted furiously. “By what right does the chieftain of Rome allow the Chatti to keep the lands that are ours and ask tribute in exchange?”

  “By right of the fact that the Chatti have become a danger to the peace,” Domitian said, “and to the tribes that are Rome’s allies. If Marbod of the Chatti will agree to the terms, then he will also be allowed to keep his chieftainship so long as there is no further interference with any other tribe in alliance with Rome, and no further fostering of piracy against Rome’s commerce.”

  Correus was watching Ranvig. Marbod’s reaction was plain to anyone, but Ranvig’s crooked face was only thoughtful. He had come to the council with the young priest who had ridden with him and two of the women, and now they all sat quietly and listened to Domitian’s lazy voice, the nervous stutter of the translator, and Marbod’s angry answers. Correus turned his eyes to the women. They would have some importance among the Semnones or they wouldn’t be here. One was middle-aged, with a beautiful lined face and with red hair going gray. Correus wondered sadly if she could be Nyall Sigmundson’s mother. There was very little other red hair among the Semnones. The other woman was younger, with an ivory white face and pale blond hair, like wheat. Her only color was in her lips and in the sky-colored eyes that reflected the blue of her gown. He noticed that Flavius, seated to one side of the emperor on the dais, was looking at her, too. She wasn’t Ranvig’s wife; the chieftain’s lady had been pointed out to him earlier, a beautiful child with rose-gold hair and a slightly sulky look, shopping with her women in the perfume market.

  “Let the chieftain of Rome remember, while his towns are burning, the insult he has put on the Chatti.” Marbod had stopped shouting, and his words were clipped off, short and menacing. He had not come to the council with any intention of making peace with Caesar, but Domitian’s lazy ultimatum had forestalled his own. “We have seen the ‘peace’ that Rome has made with the Usipi and how Rome has broken it by raiding like a thief for its Eagle army. I will put your ‘peace’ to my council, Caesar, because that is their right, but I will tell you now that we will burn your frontier for you and put your peace down your throat before we will be whistled to Rome’s heel!”

  He spat on the Basilica floor and turned his back on the emperor. The Praetorians put their hands on their swords. Flavius shook his head at them. When, after a second or two, Domitian did too, they sank back into their places. Domitian was furious, almost out of control, but to let the Praetorians hack Marbod to pieces here in the Basilica would stain his reputation forever. And Marbod’s two hundred men would loot the farmhouse where they were billeted, and the villages around it, in a vengeful rampage, and then Domitian would have an angry countryside at his back as well as ahead. Marbod walked out of the Basilica untouched, with his attending warriors behind him.

  Ranvig sat, apparently unmoved, and watched the emperor trying to get his temper back. Domitian’s teeth were clenched, and his face was red with anger. His staff shifted warily in their seats. The aide who crossed the emperor today might find a very short career ahead. Ranvig spoke in a low voice to the fair-haired woman and then to the interpreter who appeared to be scared witless and was still trying to translate Marbod’s last speech in terms that wouldn’t anger the emperor further. The emperor wasn’t listening to the interpreter, and the interpreter wasn’t listening to Ranvig. Ranvig apparently didn’t feel inclined to speak personally to the emperor, although his heavily accented Latin was good enough.

  Correus sighed and stood up. He walked over to the polished oak table where the Semnone delegation sat and stood for a moment to let Ranvig take notice of him. He wasn’t sure whether the Semnone chieftain had recognized him among the crowd of Romans in the room, but it appeared that he had.

  Ranvig smiled a slanted smile and said in Latin, “I see you reached home safely, Julianus. Or is that your name?”

  “Oh, it’s my name, all right. I was relieved to find that you had been… uh, ransomed as well, when we went back to the camp. I would have hated to have crucified you.”

  “Is that what you did with Theophanes’s other prisoners?” Ranvig made a shocked face.

  “Certainly not,” Correus said. “And you were no more a prisoner than I am the great god Wuotan.”

  “I thought,” Ranvig said, “of telling Theophanes to put you in the bog. I am not sure now why I didn’t.”

  “Theophanes should not have taken on Rome,” Correus said pointedly. “Someone would have come along to hang him up soon enough. If you wish an interpreter,” he added in German, “I am to translate for you. Marbod has given our local interpreter a stomachache.”

  Ranvig showed only mild surprise at Correus’s sudden ability to speak German. “He will give the emperor one. The Chatti are quarrelsome by nature, but their warriors obey without question. They fight like Romans.” Most German war hosts were unmanageable once launched at the enemy, each man fighting for the place of honor at the fore, dangerous but undisciplined. “Marbod won’t make any threats he can�
��t carry out.”

  “And you?” Correus asked.

  “I haven’t made any,” Ranvig said. “Yet.”

  Correus shrugged and told the frightened interpreter to sit down. He bowed to the emperor and began to translate.

  Domitian presented his terms to the Semnone delegation with assurances that Semnone lands lay outside the territory that Rome wished to incorporate. Rome wanted only peace with the Semnones and old wars to be forgotten.

  The Semnones wished exactly that, Ranvig agreed gravely.

  But – Rome needed to be assured that the tribes outside her borders would make no threat to her frontier. And there was the matter of fostering piracy, an unfortunate break of the agreement between the Semnones and the emperor’s father. It was time perhaps to renegotiate the old treaty. A stronger alliance…

  Ranvig leaned back in his chair. It was ebony, elaborately carved and slatted in keeping with the chieftain’s dignity. His long-fingered hands moved in graceful explanation: The Semnones would have to discuss that in a council of their own. The chieftain had come, it was understood, merely to advise on the Caesar’s dealings with the Chatti…

  Unfortunately, Rome needed an answer now. Domitian was still playing at politeness, but there was a thin edge of iron in his voice that needed no translation.

  Ranvig bowed to the emperor’s wishes. But there were many details to work out, and a chieftain did not possess the powers of an emperor. Perhaps in two days’ time?

  The room was overpoweringly hot, and everyone was lying. Correus breathed a sigh of relief when the emperor raised a ringed hand and announced that he would spend two days in sacrifice to the gods, and the chieftain of the Semnones might use them to make his council.