The Emperor's Games

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

  “They’ll never let you through the lines in that,” Ygerna said.

  “We aren’t going through the lines,” Correus said. “I don’t want to be known to have been within a day’s march of Moguntiacum. I just hope to Hades he hasn’t got the stuff in the fort itself.”

  “Wouldn’t he?”

  “I don’t think so. Not with the place thronging with busy little optios. Too risky. I’m betting it’s in his private house with a couple of his own people to sit on it.”

  Quintus went into the bedchamber to shed his armor and his officer’s scarlet for the gray shirt and brown breeches. Correus kissed Ygerna and held her close for a moment. “After we’ve gone, send one of the slaves for Julius, tell him what’s up, and tell him to stay here with you. I’ve left a message for my second that I’ve gone hunting with Flavius. I’ve got leave coming. When he finds it, they’ll think I spent the night carousing at Rhodope’s or somewhere in the vicus, and left in the morning.”

  “No one will swallow that,” Ygerna said.

  “They may. Rhodope always covers for her customers, and they know that. They’d have to take the place apart to be sure I wasn’t there, and they won’t do that. It’s Vettius’s blood the emperor’s after just now. I think. He just wants me to come and tell him if Vettius cheated him on purpose or not. And in any case, it’s the best I can think of.” If they got caught, it wasn’t going to matter anyway.

  Quintus came back in the hunting breeches that belonged to Eumenes. Correus picked up the roll of his own clothes for

  Flavius. Ygerna let them out the back again and watched as they slipped through the neglected bean patch behind the house, into the shadow of a hedge. Correus vanished first. She could see Quintus long after Correus was only another patch of dark against the thorns of the hedge. Correus had done this before, she thought, but never against his own kind. If the Roman patrols caught them, it wouldn’t be good.

  She closed the door and poured some sweet oil on top of the ashes of Berenice’s letter and lit it for the household gods. Then she lit the fire that was laid in the hearth and sat down to stare into it. There had been a time when she could have made a magic with the red heart of the fire, a singing magic to call him back safe to her, but that time had gone with the dead leaves of – how many winters? She put her hands out to it, but nothing ran up through them but the heat of the fire. There was a voice and a knock from the front of the house. I am a Roman now, she thought. I must do this like a Roman. She called for Cottia. “Go and see who that is, and then get Julius from the stables. Tell him I want him here. The master isn’t back yet, and he has Eumenes with him, most likely. I am not going to spend the night in this thieves’ village with nothing but women.”

  She made her voice loud enough for the man at the door to hear, and he came in with an apologetic expression. He had come four times that day already. Ygerna met him with fire in her eyes, but he stood his ground.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but has there been any word from the primus pilus?”

  “He is not here! He is as not here as he was the last time you came, and the time before that! I do not know where he is, and I do not care!” She glared at him. “Likely he has gone with his brother somewhere, to tell each other how clever they have been to risk their necks in that silly horse race. Probably to that – that fat whore with the orange hair in a tent, that your army should not allow to be here!”

  The optio looked embarrassed. “We checked there already,” he mumbled.

  “Then check again, if you want him. Maybe he has gone drinking. Maybe he has been carried off by eagles. Maybe if he is lucky, you will find him before I do!”

  “Uh, yes,” the optio said. They must have had a fight, he figured. He looked at Ygerna’s small, furious face. If he’d been the primus pilus, he’d have ducked out, too.

  “Get out!” Ygerna said.

  * * *

  It was fifty miles to Moguntiacum by the Roman road. Longer to ride around it and dodge the patrols. Flavius and Eumenes were waiting with the horses when Correus and Quintus slipped up out of the ditch beside the road, beyond the vicus.

  “We’ll never make it before someone gets wise,” Flavius said. It was not an argument, only a comment.

  “I’ve tried to cover our tracks a bit,” Correus said. He tossed Flavius the clothes.

  “I was hoping you’d think of that. My rooms are too close to the emperor’s to lift a pin out quietly.” Flavius was still wearing his white harness tunic and cuirass, and if he had cleaned the mud off it earlier, he must have put it back on. The gilt and silver were splotched to a dull gray in the moonlight. But by day, or close up, it would still be as conspicuous as the emperor’s purple cloak. He slid down and pulled it off, tying it on behind the saddle, and put on the shirt and breeches. He tied the cloak over his cuirass to hide it.

  The moon was up, hanging low over the timber walls of the fort behind them. Correus stared at it, trying to think how long they would have its light to ride by. And worse, how long till sunlight.

  * * *

  “You have gone too far this time,” Domitian said flatly. He stood up, tugging the skirt of his tunic into place. He was wearing a gilded breastplate over it, with a cloak of gold and Tyrian purple over that. In this light he looked uncannily like his late brother.

  “Believe me, the emperor is making a mistake,” Vettius said. He stood, too. At this point it seemed as well to be respectful, but his handsome face was composed and smiling.

  “I doubt it,” Domitian said. “You see, I have talked to Tribune Petreius, and I never saw such a frightened man.”

  “Petreius sees ghosts over his shoulder,” Vettius said. “I’m afraid he isn’t suited to an army post. I have been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  “Petreius has one foot in a tar pit,” Domitian said, “and he knows it. I gave him the choice of a rope to pull him out or a shove to push him in, and he split open like an old fruit. I don’t think he feels very kindly toward you.”

  “Oh, come, sir, you must have had your suspicions about that race. I did promise you a sure thing, and that implies some… uh, manipulation. I am sorry that it came unstuck, but—”

  “You have lost me a great deal of money,” Domitian said, “but you’ve scared Petreius witless, and it would take more than getting caught cheating on a horse race to do that.”

  Vettius felt a faint movement at his back and realized that there were guards in the room. “And just what has the tribune had to say?” he inquired softly.

  “The tribune doesn’t know,” Domitian said. “The tribune is very sorry he ever met you. The tribune thinks you stood to win more on this race than anybody knew, and he wonders what you were going to do with it.” Domitian’s voice was low, and there was an edge of menace in it. “The tribune now regrets that he didn’t tell me this sooner.”

  Vettius got a grip on himself and kept his hands from twitching at his sash. “Perhaps I have been lax also, sir. There are certain matters of which I wished to inform you, but not until there was proof available. Grave matters, I am afraid.”

  “I am beginning to be afraid so, too,” Domitian said. He nodded his head once, looking past Vettius. “You should have kept quiet about your documents.”

  “If I have your leave to depart, I will fetch the documents in question,” Vettius said. “I am sure that the emperor will understand then that I have been working for his welfare.” Domitian didn’t answer. Vettius heard a step behind him and spun around as a guard pulled the legate’s sword and dagger out of their sheaths.

  “I feel much more comfortable with you unarmed, Vettius,” Domitian said.

  Vettius began to feel the night close in on him. “Sir, if you will only listen—”

  “Where are these documents, Vettius?” Domitian said.

  “I am afraid they are not accessible to anyone but myself, sir. They would be difficult for anyone to find—”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Domitian said. “A man
looking hard enough can find anything, including treason.”

  “I assure you, sir, I was going to inform you—”

  Domitian looked right through him, to the guards behind. “Go and find them. Start with the legate’s headquarters here, and then Moguntiacum. Has Flavius Julianus turned up yet?”

  “No, sir. Apparently he’s gone off drinking with his brother. His brother’s wife was in a fit over it.”

  Domitian considered, then shrugged. “Just as well perhaps. Flavius doesn’t like you, Vettius. I do wish to be fair about this.” He gave the legate a half smile that was no smile at all and looked at the guard again. “You are personally responsible for the documents. Anything you find is to be brought to me unread. When you have finished with the legate’s chambers here, you may put the legate in them, and see that he stays there.”

  “And leave the Fourteenth without a commander?” Vettius made a last effort, looking worried for his legion, but there was the beginning of panic in his eyes.

  “From what I understand from Julius Frontinus, with whom I spoke since you and I last chatted, Vettius, the Fourteenth hasn’t had a commander since I gave you this post.” Domitian’s eyes narrowed, and his heavy face was flushed with anger. “Frontinus described them as a ‘menace.’ Even if you should prove innocent of treason, which I doubt, if anything goes wrong with this campaign, I will give you to the Germans to hang up on a tree for their gods. You’ve overreached yourself, Vettius. I want this victory and a triumph to go with it. You should have known that.”

  * * *

  The farmstead was still, spread out along the river’s edge, with the checkered pattern of its fields behind it. An unshuttered window spilled out a dim glow of light, but there was no movement in the yard between the hayricks and the house. “Will they have a boat, d’you think?” Quintus whispered. “No one lives along a river without owning a boat,” Correus said.

  “A boat and a dog, most likely,” Eumenes said.

  They were crouched in the trees on a little slope above the farm’s hayfields, with the horses tethered behind them. They had pushed them hard for almost twenty miles through the woods south of the Moenus, praying against rabbit holes.

  “It’ll have to do,” Correus said. “This is where you leave us, Quintus.”

  “Sir—”

  “Somebody’s got to take the horses back,” Correus said. “You’ll get marked Unlawful Absent if you don’t get back, and they’ll pull your rank for it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve got more rank than you do, and so does Flavius.” Junior centurions had very little more freedom than the men they commanded. “And in any case, this is our fight. Leave the horses in the spot we picked with enough grain for a day, and then go tell Julius where they are. We’ll just have to hope the wood elves don’t find them before he gets there.”

  Quintus looked mutinous, and Flavius slipped up and dropped down beside them. “Do what he says,” he said under his breath. “If anyone connects you up with us, we haven’t Persephone’s hope in Hades of getting away with this.”

  Quintus swore, but he stood up and unhitched the horses’ reins. “I was fond of that race pony,” he said. “I’ve had him since he was old enough to leave his dam. He used to eat cake out of my hand.” He settled himself in the saddle and gathered up the lead reins. “I’ll go along back and look innocent, but if you don’t come in on time—”

  “If we don’t come in on time, you’ll sit still and behave yourself,” Correus said. “Now get those horses out of here before they smell the farm animals and make a noise.”

  The moon was still up, running in and out of the clouds, and they picked their way carefully down the slope, feeling for loose stones. At the edge of the hayfield, they went around the long way, downwind of the farm, to the riverbank, and then slowly back upstream.

  “There it is.” Flavius laid a hand on his brother’s and pointed. A shallow boat was moored to a post in the riverbank, swinging gently with the current.

  “Let’s hope he’s left the paddles in it.” A tangled clump of trees and vine blocked their way, and they splashed out into the shallows around it. To their left the river flowed by, whispering to itself over the rocks in the shallows. To the right, the bank sloped up to the farmstead, and there were steps cut into it, set with stones that showed faintly silver in the moonlight. The farmyard was still quiet, but any noise from the men on the riverbank would be bound to wake something. A thief’s life was easier in the city, Eumenes thought, where the night was a constant noise, and people kept their dogs decently indoors. They reached the boat, and he steadied it while Correus and Flavius climbed in.

  “Here’re the paddles,” Correus murmured, feeling in the bottom. “He’s a trusting soul.”

  Eumenes gripped the side of the boat and swung one leg over. There was moss on the stones under the water. His other foot slipped, and he fell back in the river with a splash.

  There was instant chaos from the farmyard above. A dog barked wildly, and a furious honking proclaimed that the farmer kept geese. A door banged open, and shouting voices came from the house.

  “Get in, damn it!” Flavius held out a hand, and Eumenes picked himself out of the water and dove for the side of the boat. He struggled over it as the little craft tipped dangerously, and Correus cut the rope. Above them was more shouting and the sound of running feet.

  “Push off!” Correus jammed his paddle against the bank, and the boat moved into the river as a spear sang past his left ear. Something hurled itself out of the darkness, fangs bared, and he swung the paddle at it. The blade caught the dog across the muzzle, and it fell back with a yelp as the farmer came down the path. He had thrown his spear, but there was a hayfork in the other hand and two more men behind him with spears. A woman was screaming in the farmyard, and the geese were honking in a wild cacophony that would have waked the dead in Erebus.

  “Merciful Athena,” Flavius said. He ducked his head down, and they angled the boat into the middle of the river and let the current take it. Eumenes was spitting out water in the bottom. Another spear splashed in the river behind them, and then the noise receded into the darkness. They raised their heads cautiously.

  “I hate geese,” Eumenes said, his teeth chattering.

  “We were lucky,” Correus said shortly. “They’re living in the middle of a war here. It makes them jumpy. Look around and see if there’s anything to bail with. You brought half the river in with you.” He and Flavius swung their paddles out again and the boat shot forward. Eumenes found a bronze pot and began to bail with it.

  They kept to the middle of the river where the moon would show up any rocks that broke the silvered surface of the water, although Eumenes thought that that would likely only give them a few seconds’ warning that they were going to drown. This was a boat made for the shallows, not the fast-running current at the center. A black and jagged shape rose up, and Correus and Flavius veered the boat. The rock slid by on the side, and Eumenes gritted his teeth, telling himself that he wasn’t drowned yet. He crouched in the bottom of the boat and watched the dark banks glide by.

  He lost track of the time he spent huddled wet and shivering in the bottom of the boat, but they hit no rocks, and it was still black night when Correus and Flavius eased carefully through the pilings of the bridge that spanned the river close above Moguntiacum. There were patrols on the bridge, but the moon had gone, so they kept their heads down and prayed. Below the bridge the river flowed around an island into the waters of the Rhenus: It would be dangerous working their way across to the west bank, with the current of the Rhenus pulling them down toward Moguntiacum Bridge in the shadow of the fort itself.

  “We’ll never make it,” Correus hissed. “We’ll come up smack on their feet.” There would be pickets at either end of Moguntiacum Bridge. “We’ll have to go past.”

  Flavius nodded, and they aimed the light boat carefully between the cutwaters of the bridge and then kept their paddles still a
s the current swept them under it like a shadow on the water. Correus let out his breath as they came out on the far side, and they began to angle the boat carefully for the west bank. Above to their left were the scattered pinpoints of light that marked the Moguntiacum vicus: a night patrol’s lanterns and a wineshop or two. The rest would be dark. They grounded the boat on the sandy edge of the river and left it there, scrambling up the slope in the darkness.

  The Moguntiacum vicus was an old one, a fair-sized city now, with Roman-style houses and a basilica to house its civil business. Correus and Flavius slipped through it quietly, trying to look like honest men, with Eumenes squelching miserably behind them. They tapped at the door of the house that Correus had rented there and where Lucius Paulinus was still staying. They were going to need him.

  Septima let them in and went to fetch Lucius, who came out with a worried frown tightening his face. A midnight visit never boded any good.

  When Correus had told him what Marius Vettius was threatening, the frown deepened and Lucius put one hand in the other to keep them both from shaking. “We should have known,” he said wearily. “I should have just killed him.”

  “Mithras god, a lot of good that would have done!” Flavius snapped. “His precious packet of papers still would have come boiling up out of his grave. We’ve got to get to those tonight, and you’re going to help because you know what he’s got.”