Tyrant g-5

by David Drake

  Feeling the heat building in his loins, Demansk pushed the idle thought aside. The official robes of office he was wearing were lightweight, as was necessary in the climate of the isthmus. An erection would be quite noticeable, to those seated nearby, and not even Demansk's new style of public rhetoric was that informal.

  So, he pushed on firmly to the subject at hand. "Time, in short, for me to start thinking of retirement."

  A little stir went around the table. Not much of one, however. Although few of the people at the table had discussed the matter explicitly with Demansk — only four, really; Demansk's own children — he hadn't expected anyone to be that surprised.

  And, here too, he realized, his relief was well-founded. It came as a little surprise to recognize that perhaps he alone, of all those closest to him, had ever really worried about Demansk maintaining his sanity.

  Well. . leaving aside Arsule's frequent pronouncements on the subject. Private pronouncements, of course — but Arsule's definition of "private" hadn't changed in the least over the years, even as her salons and soirees and gala events had trebled and quadrupled in size.

  He was startled to feel her hand slide into his, the fingers wrapping around his palm and knuckles and giving them a little squeeze. In public? How undignified! Was she mad?

  Probably. But he did not spurn the fingers — even gave them a little responding squeeze of his own. It was a mad world, after all, and Demansk's own definition of sanity had undergone a certain transformation over the world.

  Besides, I adore the woman — not that I'd ever say that except privately. And my definition of "private" is — my thoughts alone.

  Arsule's thumb, hidden in his palm, began making a little movement which was so far removed from the concept of "august dignity" that it boggled the mind.

  Although, I don't think I'm fooling Arsule any. The thumb moved, moved. Which is probably just as well. Best exercise I get.

  He cleared his throat noisily. "As I was saying, it's time for a change. The beginnings of one, at any rate."

  From there, his speech took on a more formal aspect. For some time, Demansk orated — hoping he wasn't simply "droning" — on the principles of rule. As exemplified in practice — good and bad — by the experience of the Confederacy; as illustrated in theory — good and bad — by the philosophers of the Emeralds. Perhaps more to the point, as deduced by Demansk himself from a lifetime of experience.

  He saw no reason to add: a thousand lifetimes, actually, since I've spent more hours than I can remember talking to Adrian about it and, through him, his "spirits."

  "— for which reason, until our populace enjoys the wealth and literacy which could make the Speakers' Houses — and the Council, of course — something which truly embodied and represented their desires and interests, it seems best to stabilize the current regime. Which in turn—"

  Hours and hours and hours. Sometimes in face-to-face conversation — as weird an experience as any in Demansk's life, talking to one man who was actually three.

  "— no desire, none whatsoever, to repeat the endless cycle of factional maneuvering for the mere sake of a year's worth of self-aggrandizement — to call it by its right name, plunder of the public treasury, as often as not — by gaining election to the Speakership—"

  No, not that, really. Demansk had come to understand that while two spirits inhabited his son-in-law, they did not possess him. Any more than Demansk's own closest advisers "possessed" him. Adrian Gellert's mind was enhanced, surely. His soul remained his alone.

  "— hence the reintroduction of the hereditary principle seems called for, although—"

  He gave a quick glance at his daughter, seated just four chairs to his right. And, slightly behind her, the stools and attendants which kept her offspring in something vaguely resembling "order" at a public event. Three of them, now — with, judging from the swell of her midriff, yet another soon to join the world.

  Sure as anything, no spirits did that.

  As he droned on — orated, rather — Demansk had to repress a grin. He had no doubt his grandfather would have fiercely disapproved most of what Demansk was doing, not least of all the way he was favoring an Emerald son-in-law. But on one subject, at least, the stern old man would have grudgingly given Adrian Gellert his approval. Keep 'em barefoot and pregnant, whatever you do. Barefoot, you can negotiate, now and then.

  "— so, to conclude, I propose a modification which, I think, will give us, dealing with present circumstances, the best of all possible worlds."

  He was tempted to add: as shown to me by a machine which knows all possible worlds. But he left it unsaid. For almost all of the people gathered around this table, as well-educated and sophisticated as most of them were, the explanation would have been indistinguishable from "magic." Given that Demansk had not yet seen fit to eliminate the laws outlawing magic, that would be. . awkward.

  He was nearing the end of his speech, which was going to probably be awkward enough.

  "— each Triumvirate, therefore, to become a cycle. A training ground, as it were, the senior Triumvirs — with the approval of the others — adopting their own successors. Neither relying on the vagaries of fate—"

  As always, the memory of Barrett ached. Not so much, true, yet never absent. But Demansk had long since realized that particular ache was the surest sign he was still sane.

  "— nor the whims of factional strife—"

  Drone, drone — wrap it up, damnation.

  "So, in conclusion, I take this occasion to announce my own successor. A choice which, I might mention, has the full approval of both of my fellow Triumvirs as well as" — here, his voice grew stern: the patriarch in full glory—"my own magnificent sons."

  And. . that's enough. There'll be endless time for all the squabbling. I'm tired of drama. Have been for a long time.

  He simply pointed to Adrian, seated three chairs to his right. With no one between him and Demansk except Olver and Trae.

  "Him." And sat down.

  * * *

  Three things happened simultaneously.

  Dead silence fell over the small crowd. Except—

  Olver and Trae both shot to their feet, holding up their goblets of wine and calling for a toast.

  Arsule leaned over and whispered into his ear: "I thought you'd sworn off drama and histrionics."

  * * *

  The fourth thing which happened, of course, was a given. Far down the table, one of the officials from — Demansk couldn't quite remember which branch of the bureaucracy; some post in the Registry — rose to his feet and began speaking.

  "— fully agree with the political insights of the Paramount—"

  Again, a whisper from Arsule: "I told you to have the whole lot of them executed. Exile just one of them! Ha! Like trying to drown a redshark."

  "— still, a well-nigh insuperable problem. Difficult, at the very least. As the Paramount's son, of course, the august Gellert will have no choice but to divorce his wife, she now being his sister. But—"

  Adrian choked on his goblet of wine. Helga sat up straight in her chair and bestowed upon the far distant bureaucrat a glare of fury that would have wilted anyone except—

  "I'm telling you, Verice," whispered Arsule, "they're not really human. Trust me! According to the high priest of Jassine, bureaucrats are actually—"

  "— leave the legal problem of the status of the children to be decided. By rigorous interpretation of existing law, of course, exposure on a rock is the only—"

  * * *

  What followed next confirmed for Verice Demansk, anew, the wisdom of always having two strings for his bow. His daughter had long since given up the practice of bearing a sword in public. But — no fool, she — Lortz was always nearby, ready to hand it to her.

  The official from the Registry did manage to escape from the palace grounds with nothing worse than a minor flesh wound. But it was a close thing; and, the guards who witnessed the events all agreed, was saved only by his pursuer's quite
evident state of pregnancy.

  * * *

  When Helga stalked back on to the balcony, she returned the sword to Lortz. Then, glared at the crowd in general. Then, at Adrian.

  To the first, she said nothing. Words would have been, indeed, superfluous.

  To Adrian, hissed: "Go ahead. Say anything about the responsibilities of pregnant women."

  Adrian, confirming again Demansk's judgement of his successor, maintained the silence of a sage.

  For once, Arsule agreed with her tyrant husband. "Well, at least he's not crazy."

  Afterword How It All Came About

  by David Drake

  Many years ago I wrote plot outlines for what became The General series. I used the career of the 6th century a.d. Byzantine general Belisarius as the template for my hero, Raj Whitehall, but I gave him the support of a supercomputer and a purpose greater than that of satisfying the megalomania of his master Justinian. Steve Stirling very ably turned the four outlines into five fat novels.

  Jim Baen liked the result (so did I and so have quite a number of readers) and suggested I plot a series of single-shot spin-offs utilizing other historical templates. I did so, though I'm afraid with less success. The Green Planet was probably a bad idea (no, it wasn't my idea but I acquiesced); it's unlikely ever to be turned into a novel. The Chosen, based on what I considered the reality of Steve's Draka universe, had unexpected practical problems. The result is a good book, but getting to that point wasn't a process either Steve or I would willingly undergo again.

  That left two first-rate outlines, one based on an Ancient Egyptian model and the other on the fall of the Roman Republic. The latter was particularly complex; Steve, Jim, and I agreed that it should be split into two novels (as had happened with the third outline of the Belisarius series) to make up for my failure with The Green Planet.

  Unfortunately there were more glitches. Steve ran into physical problems. The first half of the outline, published as The Reformer, was a lot shorter than anybody had expected, and Steve then decided he wouldn't be able to finish the series on a practical timeline. Eric Flint cheerfully stepped in (well, he was more cheerful about the situation than I was) and took up the slack.

  The Tyrant is therefore the sequel to The Reformer. Eric had a very difficult task in integrating the existing novel with his own, in addition to following the remaining half of the outline and creating a self-standing novel at the same time. I'm extremely pleased with the way he handled it. Those of you who read both halves will be interested in the way two different, able writers have handled the same material.

  The material itself is a subject that I've pondered for all my adult life. The collapse of the Roman Republic looks simple when you simply follow a schematic of the events: Marius and Sulla, victorious generals, fought for leadership of the state. Sulla won, returned the government to what he considered its ideal form, and died. Reckless adventurers, in particular Cataline (who was put down by the heroic efforts of Cicero), attempted to gain power by force but for a time were prevented.

  Then Caesar and Pompey, successful generals in the mold of Marius and Sulla, fought for the throne — first through gangs of thugs in the city, then with armies across the entire empire and beyond. Caesar won, and despite his immediate assassination, his victory had doomed the Republic and even the semblance of democracy in Rome.

  As I said — simple. And almost entirely untrue.

  In large measure the simplicity is what makes it false. Marius and Sulla were only two actors in an enormously complex struggle which involved many parties within the Roman polity and even more outside it. The rights of the elites of the Italian states (the Socii, allies), foreign enemies who used resentment of Roman rule to gain support within the outlying provinces (Mithridates VI was the most prominent but by no means the only example), local resistance movements aided by one or another Roman party (Sertorius and others), piracy on a scale unequaled by illegal enterprise until the appearance of modern drug cartels, and a massive slave revolt were all major factors.

  That was just the prelude. The Civil War, the climactic struggle that gave us genuine works of art in the form of Lucan's epic de Bello Civile and Caesar's prose dispatches collected under the same title, was just as complex. After the fact it's easy to assume that — for example — Clodius was in command of Caesar's street gangs in Rome. Caesar wouldn't have claimed that, and Clodius would have denied it hotly: his blood went back to Attus Clausus at the beginning of the Republic, and he was very much a player in his own right.

  The same is true of scores of others, great men or would-be great men, whose names are forgotten now except by experts on the period. Alliances were circumstantial and unstable (look at the Northern Alliance in Afghanistan for a contemporary model of the situation). Every man had his own vision, and almost every one was out for himself. The Roman conquest of the Near East with its enormous wealth had made the potential prizes (for the infantryman no less than for the warlord) so great that greed generally overwhelmed honor.

  Oddly enough, Caesar himself was one of the few who actually tried to save the state. He saw that the old system was dead: the government suitable for a city-state couldn't effectively rule an enormous empire, especially given the difficulties of communicating over the distances involved. The system he tried to put in place required that all parties recognize that it was the best possible compromise.

  None of them did. Greed and fanaticism won, leaving Caesar dead on the floor of the Senate house.

  Caesar's system might not have worked anyway. He was a very smart man and perhaps a wise one, but he wasn't a saint. At the time of his murder he was planning another military expedition, this time into Mesopotamia. Perhaps he meant it as a way to occupy the tens of thousands of soldiers who were too dangerous to demobilize, but it could as easily have been because Caesar himself had no real plan except war till Rome's armies had marched to the ends of the earth.

  Regardless, Caesar's attempt to turn the Roman Republic into a moderate autocracy was never tried. At his death, another — even messier, even bloodier — civil war convulsed the Roman world for fifteen years. At its conclusion, Augustus — Octavian — reigned supreme in a fashion no one could call moderate.

  One of Caesar's last acts was to send away his German bodyguard, saying that a Roman official didn't need foreigners to protect him against his own people. That was a mistake Augustus never made.

  And Augustus died in bed.

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