Tullius bobbed his head toward the silver-haired man in the white tunic. “Greetings, Pelonius. Thank you for coming to save what little remains of our dignity.”
“Ah, centurion,” Pelonius, chief scribe to the Emperor, said with a smile, “I take it that the fearsome beast again took you to task?” Hercules very gently butted his massive head against the old man’s chest, and was rewarded with a vigorous scratch behind the ears. “Hercules, you must at least pretend to let them win once in a while.”
“Pelonius,” Valeria said, “I want to see my father before we begin our lesson for the day, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Paulus, directly behind her and at the head of the guards, groaned. “Please tell me you’re not going to bother the Emperor about that silly business in Aquitania that caught your fancy.”
She turned and favored him with her best glare, squinting her eyes and scrunching her lips together. “I most certainly am. And why not? Father won’t mind. Come on, Paulus, you must admit that it sounds intriguing!”
He shook his head. “It’s just another attempt by a bunch of discontent provincials to get the Emperor’s attention, and yet more proof that you’ll use any excuse to try and get away from the capital.”
“Of course, I will,” she pouted. “It’s so boring here.”
“Aquitania?” Pelonius’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Ah, yes, now I remember. Strange goings-on have been reported along the coast. Sightings of odd beasts upon the land and in the sea, that sort of thing, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Valeria nodded, that single word laden with the breathless excitement she had felt building inside her since she had first heard the rumors from one of her friends, a daughter of a senator, who had overheard her father discussing a report from a business associate in Aquitania. Rome was the greatest of the Empire’s many cities and a marvel to behold, for certain, but it was all old hat as far as Valeria was concerned. Performances at the Colosseum, be it stage plays or gladiators in combat. Boring. Parties and social gatherings, to which endless invitations were extended to the Emperor and his family. Boring. Visiting the temples to pray to the gods. Boring. Listening to government functionaries babbling in the palace, or having senators old enough to be her grandfather trying to woo her, or woo her on behalf of their sons or grandsons. Boring. “You at least have the prospect of some excitement deploying with the legions,” she told Paulus. “But I’m trapped by the status of my birth, just as much as any slave.”
Pelonius looked at her, his outward expression unchanged, but disappointment reflecting clearly in his eyes. He had been born into slavery, and after many years of servitude had been granted his freedom by her father, who had at last come to the conclusion that while animals such as horses and oxen were given by the gods for men to use as they would, other men were not. From that day on, the Emperor was served only by free men and women. But granting Pelonius and the other palace slaves their freedom had ignited a political war with the Senate that was still being waged, and it was yet unclear if the Emperor would emerge the victor.
“Forgive me, Pelonius,” she said bowing her head in shame. “That was a thoughtless thing for me to say.”
“You need not ask forgiveness, princess,” the old scribe told her, reaching out with a hand to gently raise her chin so their eyes could meet, “for there is truth in what you say. You were born into a gilded cage, just as I was born into one of rusty iron. Neither of us were then free to choose our destiny.” He held his arms out as if embracing the world. “But look at me now. I am free of my cage and I am in the service of the Emperor himself as a free man, his personal scribe and tutor to his daughter and ward.” Taking gentle hold of her shoulders, he said, “You are in your gilded cage now, child. But someday you will work open the door and make your own flight to freedom, wherever it may lead you. But until then,” he said, dropping his voice, “remember that your cage is of gold, that you sleep in a soft bed with every comfort, and not in the filth of a slaver’s pen, your back lashed with a whip.”
“Yes, Pelonius,” she whispered. Last year he had taken her, with a doubled guard, of course, to tour the slave market as part of her education. “You cannot truly be Roman until you understand the darker side of what that means,” he had told her. He had not just shown her the auction pits, which was all that most people saw. He had taken her to see the pens and cages where the slaves were kept before they were sold to their new masters, the flogging posts where they were tortured, and the hellish ships that brought many of them to the capital. It had been a horrifying experience, and since that day she had prayed for her father’s success in his battle to abolish it.
Pelonius, as if reading her mind, smiled, the bright white of his teeth gleaming against the deep black of his skin. “Come now, let us go see your father about these mysterious goings-on in Aquitania.”
CHAPTER TWO
Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus, Emperor of Rome, stood alone in his private study. While the throne room (such was it still called, even though no king had ruled Rome for centuries) and most of the other chambers here in the palace were festooned with columns, statues, and tapestries befitting the grandeur of his office, his study was spartan, the furnishings comfortable but utilitarian. This one room reflected the soul of a soldier, one who had risen to the highest rank over a long and glorious military career that had finally led him here. On one wall hung a great map of the known world that occupied his attention, and for a moment he imagined his distant predecessors doing just the same, reflecting upon the past while considering the opportunities and perils of the future.
Of course, their maps of the world, drawn before Vulcan’s Fury had been unleashed, would have been far different from his own. If the historians could be believed, at least three thousand years had passed since the God of Fire’s great hammer had struck from the heavens to cleanse and reshape the Earth. The old Roman Empire had been completely destroyed, along with Greece, Egypt, and the other ancient civilizations nurtured by the Mediterranean Sea, and everything beyond. Nothing had been spared, from the frozen wastes of the far north to the tropics of Africa and the distant, mythical Orient. All had been consumed by titanic ocean waves that scoured clean the land, or volcanic eruptions that filled the sky and covered the land with lava and ash. The initial cataclysm had been followed by the Endless Winter, which buried the entire world in frozen white for many, many years, and drove Mankind to the very brink of extinction.
How his ancient forebears had survived, and where they had been to avoid the great catastrophe, no one knew precisely. Some believed that a legion in Britain, together with some of the barbarians there, had weathered the great storm. Others thought the Survivors had been scholars in Alexandria on an expedition in some far corner of the empire, or in a caravan taking goods along the Silk Road. Regardless of whom they had been, when the First Spring came at last and the snow and ice began to melt away, the descendants of the Survivors emerged into the sunlight and gave great thanks to the gods.
As the world’s blanket of frozen white receded, the people saw that the land and seas had been transformed, rendering every map in their possession utterly useless. Even the positions of the stars were different, the constellations having moved in the sky as if the Earth had fallen over on its side. The flora and fauna were also greatly changed, save for those species the Survivors had managed to preserve in their underground sanctuaries. Many animals and plants recorded in the histories had disappeared, and over time others — often strange, frightening, and sometimes deadly — began to appear, as if the gods were filling in some of the gaps with new animals to replace those they had taken away.
Throughout their long ordeal, the Survivors and their descendants had preserved much of the history of what had once been Rome, and had never stopped thinking of themselves as Roman. And, as Romans, they were builders, explorers, and conquerors, well suited to the challenges of taming the new world into which they emerged.
And so, over the centuries that follo
wed, they had. It had not, of course, been a bloodless conquest, for the gods had left other survivors upon the world. Some had been easily vanquished, while others had come close to destroying the newly rebuilt Rome, nearly finishing what the gods had started. But, in the end, Rome had triumphed. Fifteen years before, Tiberius himself, then a general of the army, had seen to Rome’s final victory, bringing the southern barbarians to heel and solidifying Rome’s hold over the entire known world. As he stood now, looking upon the map before him, the world was one tremendous land mass bounded by great seas, beyond which lay the ends of the Earth.
Rome held sway over all, save for a landmass to the north known as the Dark Lands. It was somewhere in that vaguely defined region, legend said, where Vulcan’s hammer had fallen, smashing open the Earth and releasing evil spirits to haunt the land as a constant reminder of the wrath of the gods. The black, razor sharp mountains and smoldering volcanoes of the Dark Lands were often visible across the narrowest part of the Haunted Sea from Rome’s northernmost province of Aquitania, but those alien shores may as well have been on the moon. While the sea provided a bounty of fish to those who stayed close to the shores of Aquitania, to venture over the horizon toward the Dark Lands was to court death. The boats of those who had gone too far eventually washed ashore, the crews dead, as if they had fallen asleep and never awakened. The few foolhardy souls that had managed to return alive told tales of bubbling waters and the stink of sulfur, and the sight of strange and terrible creatures. While more than one Emperor had sent forth naval expeditions to the Dark Lands, none had ever returned alive.
Of course, that had not stopped rumor from becoming truth and drunken gossip from becoming legend. Local lore in Aquitania abounded with tales of dreadful creatures and even more terrible deeds dating back to the days of the First Spring, but not a soul could be found who was able to prove setting foot upon the far shore. That the Dark Lands were forbidden by the gods was indisputable. That any man had visited there and returned alive to tell the tale was not.
Tiberius stared at the Dark Lands on the map, inwardly wishing that he were there rather than here. He would have gladly taken his chances at the head of a legion marching into the unknown than fight the battle into which he had cast himself. Taking a deep breath, struggling to retain his outward calm, he turned to face his guest. “Julius,” he said, “we have had this discussion before, and my answer remains the same: I will not support an increase in taxes on any of the provinces simply to fill the Senate’s coffers. I don’t begrudge you or any other man his wealth, but squeezing our citizens dry in this way only leads to unrest that I then have to quell with the legions, which in turn costs more money, not to mention lives!” He shook his head. “I simply will not have it. Not again.”
Julius Livius, Senator of Rome, narrowed his eyes, which were close set over a hawk’s beak of a nose. Half a head shorter than the Emperor and balding, his toga concealed what was still a lithe and powerful body, made so by many years as a soldier, most of them serving beside the man who now took him to task. “We have been friends for many years, Tiberius,” he warned, “but be wary of taking that tone with me. The will of the Senate is the will of the people.”
Tiberius lost his temper. “The will of the people? My gods, man, I had to put to the sword twenty thousand of our citizens in Galatia after the Senate inflicted the grain tax three years ago and ignited a rebellion. Seven years ago it was the slave tax on Lusitania, and eleven years ago the same foolishness resulted in the Southern Rebellion, which cost over a hundred thousand lives. I’ve had to kill more of our own people during rebellions in the last dozen years than barbarians in the last battles of the war.” Tiberius recalled the old saying that the Rome that is, is not the Rome that was, and wondered if the emperors of old had to endure similar challenges. He suspected that they had. The world had changed a great deal since Vulcan’s Fury had been unleashed, but men had not. Greed, avarice, the lust for power: none of these things had they left behind.
Livius remained unmoved. “These new taxes will bring badly needed infrastructure improvements to the provinces. You’ve said yourself that the Imperial road network is in great need of repair and expansion, not to mention the demand for new aqueducts and temples.”
“That would be wonderful, Julius, if the taxes actually went to pay for those things. But you and I both know that the Senate skims off at least a quarter from what is collected, and the work is given to cronies who not only skim off more for themselves, but pay kickbacks to their senators as a reward for being granted the work. In the meantime, the work does not…get…done!” He slammed his palm against the table that stood between them to emphasize his words. “The only thing the Senate doesn’t interfere with is the pay for the legions, and that’s only because the senators during the reign of Marcus Trajanus were put to death by the army for embezzling their pay.” He favored his guest with a grim smile. “The Senate learned that lesson, at least.”
With a frown that bordered on a scowl, Livius said in a cold, quiet voice, “Then we cannot expect your support?”
“Absolutely not. As I told you, I will not willingly add more useless deaths to the butcher’s bill of the Senate by putting down more rebellions.”
“Do you mean that my parents died useless deaths?”
Both men turned to find Valeria and Paulus standing at the entrance to the emperor’s chambers. Centurion Tullius stood to one side, still as a statue, while the scribe Pelonius looked down at the floor. Behind them, peering over their heads, were the guileless orange eyes of Hercules.
“Is that what you mean, sir?” Paulus added in a wooden voice.
Turning his attention back to Tiberius, Livius said, “As I have your answer, I would take my leave.”
“Of course,” Tiberius growled. “Centurion, please see the senator out.”
“Sir.”
As the two men departed, Tiberius turned back to the others. “Pelonius, if you would give us a moment, please. Children. Sit down.”
Valeria did as he asked, taking a seat at the table. Hercules curled up on the marble floor behind her, while Pelonius bowed and left the room.
Paulus came in, then stood at stiff attention beside the table. He looked to be near to tears. “I’d prefer to stand. Sir.”
Tiberius glared at him. “I said, sit…down.”
Doing as his emperor ordered, Paulus took the seat beside Valeria, his back ramrod straight, his eyes fixed directly ahead.
“My words were chosen poorly,” Tiberius told him gently, “for they were not meant for your ears and were spoken in anger.” He sighed. “But the truth of the matter is that their deaths, like all the deaths in that terrible campaign, were both tragic and unnecessary. I sent them as special envoys to try and defuse the situation before it got out of control, but I didn’t understand how bad things truly were from the information in my possession. By the time they arrived…” He bowed his head and closed his eyes for a moment. Paulus’s parents, who had been close friends of Tiberius, had not only been killed, they had been crucified and then flayed alive by the rebels. He had gone to some lengths to spare the boy knowledge of those particular details. “The point I was trying to make to the good senator was that the entire rebellion should never have happened. I should never have had to send your parents there, just as I should never have had to send in the legions. It all could have, and should have, been avoided. But we must deal with reality, and as such I accept responsibility for their deaths.” He paused. “I wouldn’t blame you for hating me, but the Senate has just as much blood on its hands for that affair, even if they refuse to admit it.”
“But you’re the Emperor,” Paulus said, “with more power than anyone but the gods.”
Tiberius let loose a mirthless chuckle. “Would that such were true. I do what I can, but the days of the emperor holding absolute power are long since gone. And despite the folly of the Senate, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Such power led to terrible, bloody disaster more tha
n once in the past.” Looking the young man in the eye, he said, “Now, do you understand that the words I spoke to Senator Livius were not meant as disrespect or to dishonor your parents? Do I have your forgiveness?”
Paulus nodded, relief evident on his face. “Of course, sir. And I, too, apologize. It was very impudent of me to interrupt your conversation with the senator. That won’t happen again. I was just…taken aback.”
“And with good reason, Paulus, with good reason.” Pouring wine for the three of them, he asked, “That brings me to the next question, which is why are you two here instead of at your studies with Pelonius?” He grinned. “For the outrageous sum I pay the man, every minute is precious.”
“I want to go to Aquitania,” Valeria blurted.
Paulus rolled his eyes.
“Aquitania?” Tiberius looked puzzled. “Why?”
“Because she has too much of her impetuous father in her.”
The trio looked up as the Empress Octavia joined them, her shapely body moving with languid strides beneath the sky blue dress she wore that mirrored the color of her eyes. The gleam of the ornate gold pin at each shoulder set off her flaxen hair, which was coiled in a set of elaborate braids. Like her husband, she was tall for a Roman, her stature and looks bequeathed to her by some long ago barbarian ancestor. She was the light to her husband’s dark, for his hair and eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and his skin was olive to her creamy porcelain. A philosopher had once postulated that opposites held a unique and powerful attraction, and no more perfect example could be found than the Emperor and his beloved wife.
Vulcan's Fury: The Dark Lands Page 2