Back on the road, Pierce set a quick pace. Aquilius half jogged to keep up.
“Something is going very wrong,” Pierce muttered.
“What?”
“Someone from Earth has converted the Praetorians to Christianity, and given them modern weapons. All our people have been killed, if the postmen are right. But why do the Praetorians want Trajan?”
*
They walked on through the morning and noon, when most travelers stopped for a siesta under the trees. Aquilius made no complaint about the pace; he recognized the country, and knew how close he was to the family estate. They no longer stopped to talk with northbound travelers, but by early afternoon they had begun to notice a change in the traffic. Many of the carts were raedae, bulky, bath-tub-shaped carriages drawn by mule teams. The drivers were clearly slaves of wealthy families, yet the carriages contained no passengers. Instead, sacks and bundles and chests were piled inside. Armed slaves stood at the rear of the carriages, looking as grim as the drivers.
Interspersed in this slow-moving traffic were smaller, lighter carriages, carrying well-dressed women and children and escorted by mounted slaves carrying pikes and swords. At any delay, the slaves would charge forward to threaten a slow-moving muleteer or even to run a cart off the road.
“I don’t like the look of this,” Aquilius said as a monachus clattered past; it was a two-wheeled cart, pulled by horses and driven by a woman wearing an elegant shawl. A teenage girl sat beside her, and no fewer than six mounted slaves rode escort. All looked frightened.
Soon Pierce and Aquilius came to a mansio, a travelers’ inn. It was filthy and squalid; Pierce remembered riding past it during his trip north to the Alps, and the stink of the place was as strong as he remembered. The innkeeper, a short, fat man with an unfashionable beard, was wringing a chicken’s neck in the foreyard of the inn.
“Hail, friend,” said Aquilius.
“We’re full up, young gentleman.” He tossed the chicken’s head in the direction of a dungheap and let the blood pulse into the dust at his feet.
“We don’t seek lodging, only information.” Aquilius spoke civilly, but Pierce sensed anger in the young patrician: innkeepers should speak more politely to their betters. “A number of well-born persons have been traveling north in some haste. Do you know why? Is it connected with the emperor’s death?”
“I expect. Heard one rich bitch screaming at her slaves to go faster or they’d all be killed.”
“She would kill them?” Pierce asked, not following the rapid country dialect. The innkeeper looked at him with contempt.
“No, they would kill them. Whoever it was killed the emperor. I reckon the emperor’s men are dead or running. Always this way when the succession’s not clear, and the new fellow wants to settle accounts.”
“But where can they run to?”
The innkeeper’s contempt grew tinged with amusement. “Perhaps to your homeland’s forests, my German friend. But no place inside the empire will shelter them long if the new emperor’s got a mind to find them.”
“We hear the new emperor will be Trajan,” Aquilius said.
“I hear the new emperor’s already in Rome, and not Trajan.”
“Who?” demanded Pierce. The innkeeper, sensing a dangerous urgency in Pierce’s voice, shrugged.
“Haven’t heard the name. Probably some adopted son of a great-nephew of Caesar’s next-door-neighbor’s whore.” The innkeeper roared at his own wit, slapping the still-twitching carcass of the chicken against his leg. Blood squirted from the headless neck.
“Let’s go,” Aquilius muttered. “We must get to Vallis Viridis as soon as possible. It’s a proscription.”
Six
At the twenty-third milestone north of Rome they turned east down a narrow, deeply rutted dirt road. The countryside here was orchards and vineyards, interspersed by tiny hamlets of wretched little huts, each with a rickety watchtower.
“These lands belong to our neighbor Calvus,” said Aquilius. “This close to the highway, the fields are always in danger from travelers.” Pierce nodded; he had seen many of the towers on his journey to the Alps.
At most of the hamlets the inhabitants watched them warily; the men all gripped hoes or axes, while the women and children kept back at a safe distance. They were slaves or migrant laborers, which meant little difference, and were clearly frightened of strangers.
Eventually they came to a larger hamlet, at the foot of a low hill crowned with an imposing villa. Here the slaves held leashed dogs that snarled and barked frantically, and some of the men had the look of overseers, not of slaves.
One man, wearing a leather cuirass over his tunic and holding a short sword, kicked the dogs into silence and marched up to Pierce and Aquilius. He was short and stocky, with grizzled hair and a deep scar across his nose.
“Get off this property, you two!”
“By whose right do you give us orders?” said Aquilius coldly.
“I’m the bailiff of Marcus Calvus Quinctius. Now go on, latrones, get back to the highway and find someone else to rob.”
One of the dogs broke loose and lunged at Pierce. He sidestepped it, gripped it by the scruff of the neck, and flung it into the air. The dog fell heavily, and limped away yelping.
The bailiff stared for a moment, then swore and brought his sword up for a blow. With the edge of his hand, Pierce struck the man’s forearm and felt the radius and ulna crack. The sword clattered on the hardpacked dirt as the bailiff lost his balance and fell backward.
“We are peaceful travelers, friend,” said Pierce. “Now we are going about our business. We wish you good-day.”
The bailiff, holding his broken arm, squinted up at them. His face was pale from shock; he would not feel much pain for a few minutes yet. His mouth worked, but he said nothing. The slaves were very quiet as Pierce and Aquilius walked on down the road.
“It’s unfortunate that he attacked you,” Aquilius said after a few minutes. “Here in the countryside, any stranger is likely to be a robber. He must be new; the old bailiff would have recognized me. If the dog hadn’t attacked you, I would have told the man who I am. We are not friends of the Calvus family, but we are neighbors.”
“Why not friends?”
“Calvus is a client of Domitian. If he is in Rome, he has probably been arrested already; if he is here, they will come to get him very soon.”
“I’ve read about this,” Pierce said, “but seeing it is another thing. Does the new emperor really intend to kill all of Domitian’s supporters?”
“Just the chief ones, the ones who might cause trouble later.”
“Then you’re lucky your family had no ties to Domitian and Vespasian.”
Aquilius looked up at Pierce. “Perhaps. But we have ties to the Hesperians.”
Pierce nodded. ‘Then we’ll at least see that your family finds safety before we go into Rome.”
“The innkeeper was right. No one is safe in the empire if the emperor wills otherwise.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The road intersected a fence of whitewashed stones; beyond the fence, the land fell away east into a narrow, well-watered valley, as green as its name. The eastern side of the valley was thickly wooded with pine, though many patches had been logged and abandoned. In the valley bottom, wheat fields rippled with new green under the late-afternoon sun. And across the valley, grapevines followed the contours of the hills in orderly rows.
Pierce and Aquilius strode down the hill, following the road south along the western side of the valley. The land showed signs of long care.
“You don’t seem glad to be back,” Pierce said.
“Until three months ago, this valley was my Elysium, what you call paradise. I thought it would never change. Now I know better. A month ago, I persuaded my Trainer to bring me out here from the Accademia. We found this valley. It was all factories and workers’ apartment blocks. No streams, no trees, the hills themselves were different. My family’s
graves were so much … archaeology.”
Pierce touched his shoulder briefly.
“Now, what shall we tell my family?” Aquilius asked. “It will not be easy to explain time travel, or Doomsday, or even Training.”
“No. For now, let us simply say that you and I have been visiting the Hesperians, and were allowed to return early. We arrived two days ago at Centumcellae, and came here on our way to Rome. We’ve heard alarming rumors about the emperor and the Hesperian embassy, and we’re uncertain what to do next; perhaps your father can offer some advice.”
“He may be in Rome,” Aquilius said quietly.
“Do you have a town house there?”
“Yes, on the Viminal Hill.”
“If we learn that your family is in Rome, we’ll go straight on without resting. If they’re here, we’ll spend the night and then go on in the morning.”
“What if my father forbids me? He’s likely to say that Rome is dangerous, and he’ll be right.”
Pierce shrugged. “You’ll come anyway.”
“I can’t. My father is — my father.”
“Don’t worry about it until the need arises. If he’s worried about our running into the Praetorians, we can show him our weapons. That reminds me: do you know how to use a Mallory?”
“No.”
Pierce pulled one out of his shoulder bag. It rested in his hand, a smooth weapon of white plastic looking something like a small Luger. He passed it to Aquilius.
“The button just above your thumb releases the clip. Right. And the dial next to it shows when the clip or the charger is almost exhausted. Each clip holds fifty flechettes, so you don’t need to reload often. The charger lasts for three clips — maybe two at maximum impact setting. The flechettes are tipped with a shock-inducing drug. At impact 1 or 2, a hit anywhere will knock out even a big man. At impact 6 or 7, the flechette will go through a flak jacket and still have enough energy to penetrate the skin. If he’s not protected, it’ll hurt him badly. At impact 10 it’ll go through a bronze helmet and take out the back of the man’s skull as it exits. All right, slide the clip back in.” They paused in the dusty road. The only sound was the buzz of insects in the noon heat. Aquilius raised the Mallory and sighted carefully at a slender young pine tree twenty meters away.
“You’re set for single fire at maximum impact. All right, squeeze the trigger gently.”
The Mallory was almost silent; it made a faint kissing sound and in the same moment the trunk of the pine burst open with a sharp crack. The tree shuddered under the impact, which had taken out a third of the trunk’s fifteen-centimeter diameter.
“Good,” said Pierce. “Now watch what happens on automatic.”
He took the weapon back, slid a switch, and aimed at the same tree. The first two shots severed the rest of the trunk, sending the top of the tree down with a rush of air through its branches. The stump, about five meters high, exploded again and again and again as Pierce lowered the barrel. The last three shots had left a meter of trunk gouged and splintered.
“Very impressive,” said Aquilius. “It would be a popular weapon for the bestiarii in the games. You could blow an elephant to pieces very nicely.”
Pierce looked at Aquilius and snorted.
*
They came in the late afternoon to a little village, much like the one ruled by Calvus’s bailiff, except that this one was cleaner and better maintained. Its watchtower was of brick, with a wooden roof. The villagers looked almost as poor as the slaves of Calvus, but they seemed much less frightened.
“My father refuses to use slaves except in the household,” said Aquilius. “He rents to free tenant fanners. Often he says slaves only ruin the land.”
Pierce nodded. “This valley looks more prosperous than the country we came through. But how has your father escaped all these years if he’s not a supporter of Domitian?”
“Mostly luck. We are of the senatorial order; our family is old and respected. My father attends the senate when he is in Rome, and honors the emperor, and otherwise tends to his land. He has asthma, so he cannot seek office even if he wished to. Even Domitian could find no reason to attack him. But if the emperor ever found himself short of money, he might accuse us of treason and confiscate our land. The Hesperians kept him rich enough to ignore us.”
Pierce nodded. He looked about as they walked down the village street, noticing an absence of fish graffiti on the walls.
A toothless woman, standing at a fountain with a clay pot, stared at them with amazement and then set up an ululating scream.
“It’s the young master Gaius,” she cried, putting down the pot and hurrying across the dirt road with her skirt gripped in one hard fist. She embraced Aquilius and kissed him noisily.
“Greetings, nutrix.” He chuckled, hugging her in return. “Old Petronia, you’re the best thing I’ve seen in days — in months.”
Other men and women appeared in windows and doorways, or hurried toward the two men and the woman.
“Back from Hesperia so soon? What a wonder! Let me look at you — ah, you’re pale. Did they not feed you properly?”
“I ate very well, and they looked after me quite hospitably.”
“And you’ve come home at such a terrible time,” Petronia went on. “Your father and the rest of the family have left.”
Aquilius frowned. “No. Where have they gone?”
“The old master told that new steward of yours, that Sulpicius, they were bound for Capua.”
“But why — ”
“Indeed, why go where one has no friends or business?” Petronia grinned, showing her gums. Her voice dropped to a conspirator’s whisper: “They’ve gone north, to seek Marcus Ulpius Traianus.”
“Many are seeking Trajan today. Well, old nurse, is Sulpicius at least still at home?”
“No doubt. The old master took most of his household slaves with him, but the steward and a few others stayed on. Ah, and to miss your honored father by only half a day!”
“Dearest old woman,” murmured Aquilius. “The whole village knows I’m here, and no doubt they know why my family’s left.”
“Some say your honored father fears the revenge of the Praetorians; I say he goes to appeal to the noblest of the great generals.”
“Yes.” Aquilius nodded. “Meanwhile, my companion and I must meet Sulpicius and make some plans. If the Praetorians, or anyone else, should come from Rome, can you and the others send them off again? Tell them I’ve gone away in search of my father in Capua?”
“Of course, little Gaius. What else do you think we’d do?”
The old nurse accompanied them through the village to the gate of a walled villa. A dog, looking much like a rottweiler, roared behind the bars of the gate until it saw Aquilius and began to howl and whimper in welcome. A slave with a broad knife stuck in his belt took one look at Aquilius, grinned, and let them through. The dog wagged his tail and licked Aquilius’s hand.
“Good old Custos,” Aquilius said, rubbing the dog’s ears. “Just as noisy as ever. Greetings, Achilleus.”
“Greetings, young master. This is a joyous surprise. Shall I bring Sulpicius out to greet you?”
“No, we’ll find him.”
The slave bobbed his head and pulled Custos back to his post at the gate. Aquilius led Pierce out of the gateway.
They entered a utilitarian garden of vegetables, including Hesperian potatoes and chilies, laid out around a circular fish pond. Three or four small huts leaned against the wall, quarters for slaves or storage sheds. A passable statue of Ceres overlooked the garden.
The path led round the pond to an imposing double door of carved wooden panels showing Roman soldiers defeating warriors in Gaulish trousers. Aquilius hammered happily on the door until the porter swung it open.
By the time they finally entered the house, every slave in it seemed to have greeted Aquilius with bows and kisses to his hands. Aquilius finally broke free, made his obsequies to the shrine of the household lares, and le
d Pierce through the atrium to a long, well-tended peristyle full of poppies and violets. A sallow man in a white linen tunic stood there, holding a wax-and-wood notebook in one hand and a stylus in the other.
“Welcome home, young master!” The man bowed.
“Hail, Sulpicius. I’m glad to see you. My friend Alaricus, a German, also back from Hesperia.”
The slave studied him with intelligent eyes and seemed to respect, if not approve, what he saw in Pierce: a barbarian, but a capable one who had seen the fabled lands beyond the western sea.
“I hear my honored father and the rest of the household have left,” Aquilius said.
“Only this morning, within an hour of hearing of the emperor’s strange death and the burning of the Hesperians’ embassy. Your father said he had urgent business in Capua.”
“Sulpicius, the Via Flaminia is crowded with people fleeing a proscription. Did my father say anything about it?”
“Nothing, sir. But he did say, ‘At least my boy is safely out of this.’ Have you and your companion eaten, sir?”
“No. Ask the cook to bring us something. We’ll eat here while we talk.”
“As you wish, sir.” But Sulpicius seemed to Pierce slightly scandalized that they should be willing to eat without even first washing the dust from themselves.
In very little time, cooks brought in trays of cold sausage, pickled cabbage, and a roast chicken that had probably been intended for Sulpicius. The steward persuaded Aquilius and Pierce to eat in the triclinium, where they could lie down properly for their meal.
The dining room, just off the peristyle, was small but elegant, with landscape murals on the walls and a magnificent mosaic of flowers on the floor. The square dining table was of some dark, heavy wood, thickly varnished, with a broad couch on each of three sides; the fourth side of the table faced the peristyle and allowed new dishes to be served.
Pierce found the ceiling uncomfortably low, and was glad to stretch out on one of the couches. Sulpicius took each course from the hands of the cooks, cut it into finger food, and served it first to his master and then to Pierce.
Rogue Emperor (The Chronoplane Wars Book 3) Page 7