by Rob Steiner
It also had the tracker controls built into its console.
Lepidus watched Marcia Licinius Ocella and the boy walk up to the Temple of Empanda, both wearing dirty cloaks with their hoods up. They blended with all the other stinking beggars waiting for their daily ration of soup and bread.
Appius shifted again, which annoyed Lepidus. “What is it, Appius?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Speak, boy. Apprentices learn by asking questions.”
“I’d never question your wisdom, sir, but...”
Lepidus glared at the young man. “If I wanted a slave who took orders without thinking, I would have brought one. What is your question?”
“Well, sir, it's been two days and all they've done is go from one beggar’s temple to another. Perhaps we should just arrest them now and rescue the boy before the woman hands him over to the Liberti.”
Lepidus grunted. “Have you no fear of the gods? That’s a Temple of Empanda. They have sanctuary as long as they are within its walls. Yes we have the power to storm in there, but it would not be proper.”
Appius nodded, but Lepidus could tell he still wanted to enter the temple nonetheless.
“Patience, Appius. They won’t go from one beggar’s temple to another for the rest of their lives. They're wasting time until they find a way out of the city. Once their contact has made all the necessary arrangements, they will attempt to leave. In the meantime, they need to eat.”
Appius frowned. “It just seems like an awful risk, sir. She could hurt the boy any time. I won’t lie, sir, but my first instinct is to save the boy.”
“Your instincts are honorable,” Lepidus said, watching the woman and boy enter the temple. “But what makes you think the boy wants to be saved?”
“You still think he wants to defect?”
Lepidus shrugged. “It’s a theory I won't ignore out of religious piety. The Consular Family may be touched by the gods, but they are still human. If the boy wants to defect to Libertus, than that means the gods have abandoned him, for whatever reason. Which means he is just another boy.”
“And if he does wish to defect? Will you be able to...?”
Lepidus turned to Appius. “Your hesitation is admirable. He is the Consular Heir. This should be hard for you. I would doubt your faith in the gods if it weren't.”
“It's just that—with respect, sir—the thought does not seem so difficult for you, yet you are the most righteous I know. Will you kill the boy if necessary?”
Lepidus sighed, and looked back at the Temple of Empanda just as the boy and the woman entered its open doors and disappeared among the other beggars.
“Did I ever tell you I fought at the Battle of Caan?” Lepidus asked. He turned back to Appius, who’d gone pale. The young man shook his head once.
“It was as bad as the stories and holos say,” Lepidus said. “Never mind the disaster occurred because incompetent generals decided to land our dropships right in the middle of the Kaldethian strongholds. Wanted to end the war in one blow, they told us. Surprise the Kaldethians. We just had to show them the might of the Roman Legions, and they'd drop their guns and flee into the hills, they said.”
Lepidus remembered the pompous General Aulus Pontius, his fat face glistening with sweat in the cold Roman flagship as it orbited Kaldeth. The staff officers had cheered his naive little speech, sure of victory over the Kaldethians. There wasn’t a soldier among them. If there were, they wouldn’t have cheered.
Lepidus, a tribune at the time, had clapped politely, but doubt grew in his belly. He had exchanged a glance with his wife, Triaria, a centurion in the cohort Lepidus commanded. She had the same wariness in her eyes. He remembered the conversation they'd shared the night before as they lay naked in each other's arms, the sweat from their love still cooling. Why not bombard the strongholds first, Triaria had asked. Reduce them to rubble and let the Legions mop up the survivors. Lepidus said that was not an option, for it would destroy most of Kaldeth's wealthy cities. That was the real reason Roma wanted Kaldeth. Roma needed her in one piece. Triaria had still doubted, despite Lepidus's assurances the gods and numbers were on Roma's side.
“Needless to say,” Lepidus continued, “it did not turn out that way. This race of soft, Lost World merchants were waiting for us, and they were prepared. I lost a third of my cohort in less than fifteen minutes after our dropships landed. The other centuries in my legion fared the same. So it was we who dropped our guns and fled into the hills.”
Lepidus regarded the tracker console. Ocella moved slowly, perhaps in the bread line.
“Once we regrouped and reorganized, General Pontius gathered all the tribunes and railed against the cowardice of our cohorts; how they had not only humiliated Roma but had dishonored the gods. He told us the Consul and the Collegia Pontificis had ordered a punishment. Or rather, received a Missive of the Gods, to be exact.”
“Decimation,” Appius said.
Lepidus stared at the console without seeing it, remembering that day. “A Missive of the Gods only comes when the gods make new technology and wisdom available to the Consul and the Collegia. They are rare these past generations. The gods were truly displeased.
“I had everyone in my cohort line up in formation, officers included, as the cohorts from the legions who had not dishonored themselves leveled their guns at us. I counted out each soldier, one to ten. I shot the tenth soldier in the head. Most cried and begged when I got to them. They were the easy ones, for they were the cause of the order. It was the honorable ones that were hard, the ones that stood their ground, their eyes forward as I put the gun to their head and pulled the trigger. I couldn't have been more proud of them.”
Lepidus sighed. “My wife accepted her fate that way.”
Appius was quiet, then said, “Sir...?”
“My wife's number turned out to be ten.” Lepidus chuckled. “I’ll bet Fortuna got a laugh out of that, eh? I admit I hesitated when I got to her. But she looked at me, her chin raised, and she gave me a quick nod. She knew what I had to do. She was a soldier and a patriot. I loved her more in that moment than I had in the five years we'd been married. I pulled the trigger and sent her to her honorable reward in Elysium.”
“Evocatus...I don't know what to say.”
Lepidus turned to Appius. “Why the pity, Appius? The decimation worked. The gods were pleased. We took Kaldeth. Granted, we did not take it in the pristine condition we had hoped. The Kaldethians had to pay some price for Caan. I have no doubt my wife's sacrifice, her honorable death and her advocacy for our cause in the afterlife, is what brought the gods back to our favor.”
Lepidus turned back to the console. Ocella was stationary in a different part of the Temple now. Likely eating her meager dinner.
“I am a pious man,” Lepidus said, “but the gods have revealed to the Pontifex Maximus that Marcus Antonius Cordus may be a traitor. If he is, my duty is to kill the traitor. Even if he is the Consul's son.”
21
The Temple of Empanda had the stench of a hundred years worth of beggars. Ocella resisted the urge to cover her mouth with a cloth as she and Cordus stood in the entrance. Their growling stomachs, however, kept them from fleeing to the fresh air outside. She made sure Cordus’s hood was over his head and then, with clenched teeth, motioned him inside.
They had not eaten in over twenty-four hours, not since the night they left Scaurus's house. They had found another Temple of Empanda near the Aventine, but there were too many lictors about for Ocella's comfort, so they had walked on. They returned several hours later, but Ocella had noticed a single lictor standing across the street from the Temple, his arms folded, leaning against a wall under a discount holo merchant's awning. Despite their hunger, Ocella and Cordus did not enter the Temple. They found this Temple of Empanda in the Suburba, in the shadow of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitoline Hill. Ocella had observed it for an hour from an alley before she was satisfied there were no lictors or Praetorians wat
ching.
Judging from the signs near the Temple door, the cafeteria was fifty feet ahead and around the corner to the right. In the entryway to the left, a stout marble statue of the goddess Empanda stood with her arms open, welcoming all into her sanctuary.
They found the food queue twenty feet past the entrance and joined the shuffling crowd. Most were single, homeless men who looked as if they'd just awoken from a bed filled with their own vomit. Some were hollow-eyed women toting small, emaciated children.
Ocella glanced at Cordus, who held his head high as he waited in line. She wanted to tell him not to act so...regal. He was supposed to be a beggar. His shoulders should have been slumped, his head down, his eyes defeated. Instead he looked as if he stood in a receiving line next to his father, awaiting foreign ambassadors paying him homage. There was nothing she could do now, considering all the people around them. They were so caught up in their own troubles that she doubted they'd notice a child with a noble posture. But if she noticed, a Praetorian would.
Ocella and Cordus did not speak to each other—at Ocella's orders—while waiting. When they got to the cafeteria, the smell of cooked fish and porridge made Ocella's mouth water. Cordus's eyes glittered at the brown-robed Empanda priests handing out plates with slabs of cooked white fish, a bowl of porridge, and a chunk of dark bread. Once they reached the front of the line, a tired priest with a long beard and long brown hair handed them each a plate with food.
“Go with the goddess,” he intoned as he handed them a plate. He gave the same blessing over and over again to the people behind Ocella and Cordus.
They made their way through the crowd toward empty benches in the main worship hall. Baskets of bread and corn sat upon the altar, with another statue of the goddess looking on. Candelabras with lit candles lined both sides of the altar, and a bronze bowl smoked with sweet incense. Two brown-robed priestesses knelt before the altar swaying left and right, the backs of their shaved heads to the worship hall. Ocella could barely make out their monotone incantations asking for Empanda's blessing on the temple, the offering, and the people within its sanctuary.
As soon as they sat down, Cordus began shoving food into his mouth, not bothering to use the spoon in the porridge bowl. Ocella dug into her food with equal fervor. While the meal was not what she'd grown used to as a Praetorian in the Consular residence, right now it was the most divine meal she'd ever eaten. Cordus apparently thought the same; he was done eating before Ocella finished half her plate.
Cordus put his empty bowl aside and sat quietly next to her, watching the priestesses pray. After they finished and had refilled the incense bowl, they both walked away, their mouths moving with silent prayers as they returned to the vestibule behind the altar.
Cordus watched them shut the door to the vestibule, and then he turned to her. “What training do you need to be an Umbra Ancile?”
He said it in a quiet voice, but Ocella still glanced around to ensure nobody was listening. Besides the priestesses, no one was within thirty feet. She chewed her food and then said, “A lot.”
Cordus raised an eyebrow. “Well, yes,” he said, “but what skills do you need.”
Ocella stirred her porridge with her spoon. “It's not so much skills as personalities that are important. You can learn any skill you want so long as you want to learn it. But try teaching an impatient man patience, or a pessimistic woman optimism. Someone who gives up on a task after a little resistance won’t even attempt the impossible tasks Umbra requires of its Ancilia. Umbra looks for people who want to do the impossible.”
“That sounds vague,” Cordus said.
Ocella smiled. “I know,” she said and then took another bite from the bread she dipped into the porridge. “Like I said, anyone can be trained to do a task. But people either have persistence and courage, or they don't. Both are given by the gods, and no amount of training will instill them.”
“I imagine it was hard betraying them.”
Ocella felt her smile melt and a cold shadow fall over her spirit. The boy noticed her change in demeanor, and quickly said, “I have a talent.”
Ocella tried to shake off her sorrow, forcing the smile back on her lips. “Obviously, or we wouldn’t be here.”
“Something more mundane than that talent.”
“Alright, what can you do?”
“I can hold my breath for three minutes.”
Ocella almost choked on her porridge when she started laughing. It was such a normal boast from a child in a situation that was anything but normal. She sat in a Temple of Empanda, listening to the Consular Heir of the Roman Republic brag that he could hold his breath for three minutes. All the stress and worry and fear that had built up over the past few weeks burst from her in uncontrollable laughter.
Through the tears in her eyes, she could see Cordus looked insulted. She calmed herself, and said, “I'm not mocking you. It's just that it was the last thing I expected to hear from you right now.”
Cordus nodded. “Do you want to see me try?”
“No, that’s fine.”
“You do not believe me. How about a wager?”
Ocella hadn't seen Cordus this animated since before they fled Scaurus's house. It was amazing how fast a full belly can lift one’s spirits.
She narrowed her eyes in mock doubt. “If you can hold your breath for three minutes, I'll give you my bread.”
Cordus greedily eyed the bread sitting on Ocella's plate.
“If you can't,” Ocella said, “you have to do what I say without complaining until all this is over. Deal?”
“I never complain.”
Ocella stared at Cordus until he said, “Very well.”
Ocella found a wall clock near the back of the worship hall above the door to the hallway and cafeteria.
“Okay, I'll time you. Ready?”
He nodded.
“Go!”
He took a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out, and held it. He folded his hands in his lap and stared at her with an arched eyebrow, as if bored with the whole contest already.
Ocella poked him in the ribs with her finger. His eyes bulged and he squirmed away from her, but he kept the breath in. She grinned and poked him again. He released his breath in an explosive burst.
“That is not fair,” he cried, a smile brightening his face. “You cannot tickle me.”
“I don't recall a 'no tickling' rule.”
“No tickling, then! No touching me at all. In fact, do not even look at me.”
“How will I know you're holding your breath?”
“Fine, you can look at me, but do not make me laugh, or the wager is off.”
“I promise. Go!”
He sucked in another breath and held it. He watched her warily this time, and she tried her best not to smile or make him laugh. She glanced from Cordus to the clock on the back wall.
“One minute,” she said.
Cordus continued holding his breath, his face flushed from the exertion.
“Two minutes,” she said, nodding. “Impressive.”
He nodded back, a proud smile tugging at his puckered lips. His cheeks now turned pink, and Ocella was tempted to call off the bet for fear Cordus would pass out, but he did not seem to waver nor were his eyes glassy.
“Thirty more sec—”
“Sire?”
A young man with unkempt hair and a shaggy beard stood before them. He swayed on his feet and the stench of sour wine hung heavy around him. He wore the tattered red tunic of a Legionnaire, the golden eagle emblazoned on the breast now brown with grime and wine stains. His right arm ended in a ragged pink stump just above where his elbow should have been.
Cordus expelled his breath.
“Sire, it is you!” the man said, then prostrated himself in front of Cordus. “I saw you last year in Atlantium Auster after we put down the rebellion there. You toured our legion with your blessed father. I knew it was you, sire. I exist to serve.”
Ocella jumped up and yanked the
man to his feet before anyone around them could hear him.
“I don't know who you think the boy is,” Ocella whispered into his ear, “but we do not want to be bothered. Go on your way and leave us be.”
“I am not who you think I am,” Cordus said quietly. “But as a citizen, I thank you for your service to the Republic.”
The man brought himself up as tall as he could, still swaying, then slapped his hand to his chest and extended it in a military salute. “Thank you, sire. I understand you don't want to be bothered,” he said with a slur and then a wink. “Good of you to tour the beggars rows; see the poorest of your people. You're a kind one, sire. My friends won’t believe—”
Ocella grabbed the man's arm and pulled him toward the vestibule hallway behind the altar.
“Hey!” the man protested, barely able to walk.
“I've got more wine,” Ocella said, “for one of Roma's finest soldiers.”
“You do?” He stopped struggling and let her drag him toward the hall. Once they were in shadows and around a corner, Ocella looked up and down the corridor. Seeing nobody, she slammed the soldier against the wall.
“Hey, why so rough?” he said. “Where's the wine?”
“I'm sorry, friend. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She put a hand over his mouth and plunged her knife into his heart. His eyes widened with fear and pain, and he grunted through her hand. He struggled a few seconds, and then his eyes glazed as he slumped to the floor. Ocella pulled her knife free, wiped the blood off on his clothes, and then put it back in her cloak. Her shirt was soaked with the man’s blood, so she wrapped her cloak around herself. She hurried out of the hallway, grabbed Cordus's arm, and pulled the wide-eyed boy toward the temple doors.
“Put on your hood,” she told him, as she did the same.
He complied, his face ashen. “What did you do to him?”
She didn’t respond.
She hurried Cordus out of the Temple, past the beggar line, which had grown larger since they'd been inside. She searched the street for anything out of the ordinary. The usual beggars shuffled toward the Temple, taxis zoomed past while some were parked along the street waiting for fares. There were few merchants in this neighborhood, mostly discount emporiums, money lenders, and shady taverns. She took this all in as she pulled Cordus down the street, expecting an outcry at any moment from the Temple behind them. She did not exhale until they had rounded the corner and were out of sight of the Temple.