by Rob Steiner
Gene coats were Umbra technology, but they were no longer under Umbra concealment protocols. They were still classified since the “mainstream” Liberti security forces used them, but Kaeso found he could speak of them without his implant driving a spike through his brain.
“Interesting,” Nestor said. “Liberti magic always amazes me.”
Kaeso grinned inwardly at the Greek medicus, wondering what he'd think of Umbra’s other Muse-revealed tools.
Lucia scoffed. “Sir, you would need our help even if you had the skills for this mission. Besides, leaving us behind would be an insult to our honor. We've pledged ourselves to you.”
“We’re not military,” Kaeso said, his voice hard. “We’re merchants. My first responsibility as your merchant centuriae is to ensure you don't get killed following my orders.”
“Like going to Menota?” Lucia asked, glancing at Dariya behind the glass. Kaeso also looked at Dariya, but her eyes did not meet his.
“Yes,” Kaeso said quietly. “Like going to Menota. I won’t make that mistake again. So un-pledge yourselves. You will wait on Libertus until I come back. After that, you will have Liberti citizenship and then you can find a more respectable job.”
Kaeso hated pushing his crew away. His guilt over the anger and hurt he saw on their faces was almost enough to compete with the pain brought on by his memories of Spuria (Ocella!). But he would not risk their lives and freedoms by taking them to Roma, especially for a mission he wanted for his own reasons. They could rage against him all they wanted, Umbra could threaten to cancel the mission for not bringing them, but he would not budge. Even if he risked losing their friendship. At least they'd be alive to hate him.
“Well,” Lucia said, her face twitching, “if the Centuriae is so eager to be rid of us, I suggest we not to waste another moment. Everyone prepare for way line jump in twenty minutes.”
She turned around without being dismissed, strode down the corridor, and climbed the ladder up to the command deck. Daryush gave Dariya a plaintive look, but she nodded at him to follow Lucia's orders. He went to the loaded lift with sad eyes and pushed it toward the engine room. Blaesus and Flamma glanced at each other, at Kaeso, and then left the corridor.
Nestor said, “Centuriae, I will help Dariya with the sleeper crib.”
“Give us a minute first.”
Nestor nodded, then walked down the corridor. Once he had climbed the ladder to the upper levels, Kaeso said to Dariya, “You ever been in one of these?”
“Once,” she said, eying the sleeper crib. “As punishment.”
Sleeper cribs were only used in extreme emergencies these days, like when a starship was out of way line plasma in a system without a way station. Almost every world required its space merchants to undergo sleeper crib training to obtain a commercial space license.
But Kaeso knew she referred to her time as a Roman slave. Kaeso had watched sadistic Roman masters throw a slave into a vat, seal the top, and then pump in sleeper fluid. The slave thought it was water. After the vat was full, the slave would try to hold his breath as long as he could, but then his body would betray him and he'd take a breath, thinking he was about to drown...and breathe the oxygenated sleeper fluid. Kaeso had watched Roman masters bet hundreds of sesterces on whose slave would hold their breath the longest.
“Centuriae, your plan is crazy.”
“I’m going alone, Dariya.”
“I hate to admit this, but I agree with Lucia. Your time with the Liberti Defense Force does not qualify you for a spy mission in Roma.”
“The decision is final,” he said in a tone that told Dariya he was finished discussing the matter. She closed her mouth. Her eyes were red-rimmed and thin blue veins crawled in delicate patterns around her neck.
“When we get to Libertus,” Kaeso said slowly, “they will take you to their medical facilities.”
“What will they do to me?”
“They’re going to help you.”
Dariya smiled sadly. “Of course they will.”
“I need you to do something for me first,” Kaeso said. When he told her, Dariya nodded.
“If I can get in that coffin, I can take a blood sample from my arm,” she said. “Centuriae, I need you to do something for me as well.”
“Of course.”
“Take care of Daryush.”
“You can take care of him yourself.”
“Please, Centuriae, I see it in your eyes. I am going to die. I do not believe in this miracle cure for a minute, but I want Daryush to have his freedom. I want him to—” Her voice caught, and then she paused to collect herself. “I want him to be happy and free. Can you promise me that, sir?”
Kaeso didn't know what to say to Dariya. She had never made such an emotional plea before, and he knew how it grated on her to do it now, even to her centuriae. Knowing that made it all the more powerful. How could he not give a dying woman such a promise? Yet how could he make a promise he knew he couldn’t keep if he went back to Umbra?
“When we get back,” Kaeso said, “I will make sure Daryush is free. But his happiness depends on you surviving. I can't promise you this cure exists, because it’s all a rumor. If it does exist, you will have it.”
Dariya nodded. “I suppose that is the best I can get from you, Centuriae.”
“You'll need to get in the crib now,” Kaeso said, “but I need that sample before you do.”
She nodded, went to the medical kit strapped to the wall and pulled it down. She went through the contents until she found the syringe. She plunged the needle into her arm and withdrew enough blood to fill the container. She did it without flinching, and Kaeso was never more proud to be on the same crew with her.
After she finished, she put the blood-filled syringe on the box next to her. Kaeso said, “We don't want to waste any time. Can you get in the crib on your own?”
She stood and started taking off her clothes. “I can do it. I have no choice.”
Kaeso thumbed his collar com. “Nestor, she's ready.”
“Should we tell Daryush first?” Nestor asked over the com. “Not to be fatalistic, but he may want to say goodbye?”
Kaeso glanced at Dariya, her naked back to him. “No,” she said. “We have already said what we need to say to each other. I do not want to talk to him again until I am healed.”
Nestor climbed down the corridor ladder and approached Kaeso.
“She’s ready,” Kaeso said.
“Centuriae, our jump sacrifice—”
“We don't have any more chickens,” Kaeso said, striding down the corridor. “Besides, there's not much more the gods could do to us.”
Nestor groaned.
14
“Does Libertus put on games?” the boy asked.
“Games?” Ocella said absently. She continued studying the tabulari, where she searched for transportation routes out of Roma that the Praetorian Guard had not yet secured. So far, Fortuna had not been with her. Even the ground car merchants required gene scans before they would rent vehicles. While the sudden security restrictions—without official explanation—puzzled average Romans, it was something they had grown used to over the years, especially since the Kaldethian Rebellion.
“Yes, games,” Cordus said. He pointed to the visum where two gladiator golem teams sliced at each other with swords, spears, and spiked clubs. The coliseum spectators cheered and whistled insults and praise at the combatants. An unseen moderator described every swing and strike with as much passion as the mob in the stands.
“Not exactly,” Ocella said, frowning at the spectacle and turning back to the tabulari. “Liberti prefer 'games' with no killing.”
The boy looked at her, curious. “There is no killing in Roman games either.”
“Not even golems.”
“Really? Why not? They’re not human. They're controlled by drivers on the sidelines. See?”
He pointed to the “driver” teams wearing goggles, black gloves, and black boots. The drivers made th
e same hacks and swings as the golems they controlled on the battlefield. The camera zoomed in on a large, muscled golem as he was decapitated by an equally massive golem. A gout of blood erupted from the dead golem’s neck. On the sidelines, the dead golem’s driver threw up his hands, then ripped off his goggles and slammed them to the ground.
“We still don’t like it,” Ocella said, turning back to the tabulari.
“Strange. What sort of games do Liberti watch?”
Ocella sighed. When Cordus was in a curious mood, it was better for her to answer his questions than work and have him constantly interrupt her. She’d learned much about the boy's personality in the two weeks they’d been trapped in Scaurus's basement. She tried to put herself in the boy's place. He’d led as isolated a life as anyone save a prisoner. He was educated in Roman culture, and maybe a sprinkling of other Terran cultures that still retained a non-Roman identity, but any planet beyond Roman space would be a mystery to him. Though Liberti culture, entertainment, and goods found their way to Roma despite the embargoes, the Consular Family chose not to be “tainted” by such barbarian garbage. So naturally the boy wanted to learn everything he could about Libertus.
“We like almost any kind of racing you can imagine,” she said. “Humans, horses, ground-cars, aero-flyers, space sails. We even have leagues for dog racing.”
“Dog racing? But they're so filthy.”
Ocella smiled, knowing the Roman nobles’ aversion to dogs. If a Roman noble had a pet, it would be a cat. Long ago they adopted the ancient Egyptian veneration of felines as vessels through which to communicate with the gods.
“Dogs are quite intelligent actually,” she said. “Many Liberti keep them as pets.”
Talking about dogs suddenly made Ocella homesick. She had a dog when she was a child, a Laconian hound named Horace that loved nothing more than to chase her through her parents’ vast maize fields on Libertus. She had loved him more than her siblings at times. She thought of purchasing a dog when she got home, but quickly dismissed the idea. Her life as an Umbra Ancile kept her from forming any attachments. Dogs, cats, fish, husbands, children...
The boy wrinkled his nose. “Yes, I heard people in the Lost Worlds keep dogs as pets. How do you keep them from getting cac all over themselves?”
“They usually don’t, but they do require more maintenance than cats.”
The boy shook his head. “I do not think I would like a dog when I get to Libertus. I prefer cats. Although I suppose I would like to see a dog race.” He drifted into his own thoughts, watching the last gladiator golems stab at each other with tridents.
Ocella turned back to the tabulari, wondering not for the first time what the boy's life would be like after he left Roma. He had no idea how to care for himself. Would he adjust to a new life in the real world, or would he want to return to the comfort and security of his old life? Ocella prayed his “talents” would enable him to adjust. So much depended on those talents…
Ocella flinched when the grinding of stone on stone came from the top of the stairway. She jumped up and drew the pulse pistol from her hip holster. She stood to the side of the stairs, hearing boots on the steps. When Scaurus came down, he eyed her drawn pistol.
“Your wariness is commendable,” he said, “but I thought you'd recognize my footsteps by now.”
Ocella holstered her pistol. “Steps can be faked.”
“Indeed.”
Ocella glanced at the boy. He had not even noticed her get up, or Scaurus come down the stairs. He watched the gladiator games with that faraway expression.
Scaurus chuckled. “He hasn't moved since I left this morning.”
“He's bored.”
“He’s done exploring my texts?”
Ocella nodded. “Finished them last week.”
“Well you two may not be here much longer if my source is correct.”
Cordus sat up and looked at Scaurus as if seeing him for the first time. “Salve, Scaurus. You found us passage off world?”
“It’s not guaranteed. My source still has a bureaucratic hurdle to overcome.” Scaurus smiled. “But I'm rather confident he will come through.”
“Where?” Ocella asked.
“Linthius.”
“Linthius,” Cordus said. “A good choice. On the edge of Roman space, one way line in and out. A dead end.”
“Which means minimal security,” Ocella said. “It doesn't border any other power. Nothing beyond Linthius but empty space.” She looked at Cordus. “Sooner or later you’ll have to tell me about the planet you seek. The one with the proof.”
Cordus shook his head. “Not until we reach Linthius. If you are captured…”
“Right,” Ocella said. The Praetorians broke everyone eventually.
Scaurus broke the uncomfortable silence. “We still need to get you two to the spaceport without—”
A low chime sounded from the stairwell. Scaurus’s eyes narrowed. “I'm not expecting anyone at this hour.”
He hurried up the stairs, and Ocella went to the tabulari. She accessed the security cameras from the front door. A tall, thin man with gray-blond hair cut short to his scalp stood at the door. He had a hard, angular face, but his lips had a friendly turn. He was dressed well in a dark blue coat with gold embroidery along the sleeves.
Ocella drew her pistol again and hurried over to Cordus.
15
Lepidus tapped the chime again. He grew impatient from the wait, but he did not let it show in front of the small camera embedded in the frieze above the door. It was well concealed, though not to Lepidus’s professional eye. Let them see a courier or a Zoroaster evangelist. Just not a Praetorian.
The door opened, and a dark-haired slave squinted at him. “Yes?”
“I'm here to see Numerius Aurelius Scaurus,” Lepidus said. “Is your master home?”
“I'm sorry, my master is away. May I take a message?”
Lepidus nodded. “Tell your master my employer has secured the travel papers he requested. I have strict orders to deliver them only to him. I will come back tomorrow.” Lepidus turned and walked back down the street.
He had barely walked past the home when he heard the door open further.
“Wait,” a voice said from behind.
Lepidus allowed himself a brief smile, then he affected the surprise of a courier who did not expect to see the house master chasing him.
“Dominus,” Lepidus said, bowing his head, “your slave said you were out.”
“I was occupied. Who sent you?”
“Your man at the travel officiorum. He wanted me to tell you the travel papers you requested are ready.”
“I requested no travel papers.”
“I...I'm confused, dominus. My magister said—”
“Who are you?” Scaurus asked, his eyes narrow.
Lepidus smiled, then stood straight and walked to Scaurus. “I'm glad we can dispense with this fiction, Scaurus. I don't think I could have kept it up much longer.”
“Who are you?” Scaurus repeated.
“Someone trying to save your hands and feet from crucifixion.”
“What?”
“May I come in?”
“Not until you tell me who you are.”
Lepidus pulled a small scroll from his cloak and handed it to Scaurus. He took the scroll, unfurled it and read it. “Office of the Pontifex Maximus?”
“We have questions concerning your associations. May I come in, or do I need to call the lictors and bring you before the magistrate tonight?”
Scaurus smirked and then handed the scroll back to Lepidus. “I fail to see what the Pontifex Maximus needs with an old Praetorian like me, but you are welcome to come in.”
Scaurus turned on his heel and strode back into his home, leaving the door open for Lepidus. He smiled at the old man's back and then followed him inside.
Upon entering the home, Lepidus noticed two curious wax busts displayed in a prominent position reserved for the family’s ancestors.
“Gaius Julius Caesar and Marcus Tullius Cicero,” Lepidus said, studying the busts. “Interesting. Were you related to either?”
Scaurus glanced at the busts. “Not to Gaius Julius, but a distant relation to Cicero. Though I doubt you’re here to discuss my lineage.”
“If not for Gaius Julius, I’d almost think you were a democrat.”
When Scaurus shrugged, Lepidus laughed. “How does an old Praetorian who served the Consular Family his whole life end up an advocate for mob rule?”
Scaurus raised an eyebrow. “I'm sorry, sir, you know my name but I do not know yours.”
Lepidus bowed. “Quintus Atius Lepidus.”
“Well, Quintus Atius, I have always been a ‘democrat,’ even while I served the Consular Family. I never saw a contradiction then, nor do I now.”
Lepidus folded his arms. “How can you believe mob rule is preferable to decrees that come directly from the gods? Do you believe the Senate can give the Consul and the Collegia better advice than the gods?”
Scaurus's slave brought a pot of kaffa from the kitchen and set it on a table next to two couches. Scaurus walked over to the pot and poured two cups, handed Lepidus a cup, and then motioned him to a couch. Lepidus sat down, but set the cup of kaffa on the table next to the pot.
“The gods are all knowing, obviously,” Scaurus said, sipping his kaffa. “But surely they have better things to do than set tax policy or direct sewer repairs or even provide for public safety. That’s something a freely elected Senate can do.”
“The Consul’s bureaucrats do that quite well. If they didn’t, the Roman race would never have conquered Terra much less the stars.”
“Ah, but have we conquered Terra? Rebellions flare up around the world every few years. Have we conquered the stars? Humanity is more fractured now in space than it ever was on Terra. I believe that if our people have a voice in public affairs, then other races would be more willing to accept Roman rule.”
“The people only need to obey the will of the gods expressed through the Consul and the Collegia. That will bring them happiness and prosperity. It has made Roma strong for a thousand years. Why change?”