Muses of Roma (Codex Antonius Book 1)
Page 44
Kaeso pressed the open button.
A siren wailed and red lights flashed. The door ramp slowly opened and a loud rush of wind pulled Kaeso toward the expanding opening. He grabbed part of the grating on the ramp in a reflexive move to avoid getting sucked out into space. He caught a glimpse of Petra. She stood in the maelstrom, her prosecutorial robes unmoving. She watched him with an encouraging expression, as if giving him the will to let go. He didn't know if he could. His instincts screamed not to kill himself. He knew what would happen once he entered the vacuum of space. He'd seen “spaced” bodies when he was with the Liberti System Patrol and in Umbra. It was a terrible way to die.
This isn't real. Let go. I'm not going to die. Let go!
He let go. The gale wind was a soft hammer that pounded him through the cargo opening and into space. The cold was agonizing. He clawed at his throat, desperate to bring air into his lungs. His eyes bulged; his tongue flapped. The last thing he saw before his eyes froze was Petra watching him.
He fell through space, blind and praying to all the gods to end this agony and kill him now. But he only fell and fell and fell...
58
Kaeso gasped. He strained against the straps holding him down. He could not think, could not conceive of where he was.
Hands held him down and voices cried out to him. He looked up and realized it was Lucia and Nestor trying to calm him.
“Nestor, is he…?”
“I'm not mad,” Kaeso croaked, taking in deep breaths and settling back into his couch.
Nestor leaned over, held Kaeso's head, and studied his eyes. “I'd say he's still with us.” He laughed. “Congratulations, Centuriae. You’re the first person to make a way line jump awake and come out sane.”
Kaeso checked his implant, but felt nothing from it—no low-level buzz from the interference around Libertus, no concealment protocols. It was as if he never had the implant.
“Centuriae,” Nestor said, staring at him. “What was it like?”
Memories came back to Kaeso in flashes, mostly emotions. He remembered being worried, then afraid, then lonely.
Petra.
He took in a deep breath as the memories of her came back. He remembered her soft, warm skin beneath his fingertips. He remembered the scent of her body, her hair, her perfume. Her dimpled smile. It all came to him in images and feelings. The memories made him ache for her like he hadn't done since she died.
“Centuriae,” Lucia said, putting a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
Kaeso blinked several times, realized tears were running down his face. He wiped them away with his sleeve.
“I’m fine,” he said. Then he looked to Nestor. “I’ll tell you about it another time.” He glanced out the command window. The ship orbited a gas giant with swirling red, pink, and orange clouds. “Where are we?”
“If Gaia's coordinates are correct,” Lucia said, “this is the Saturnist colony. The moon with their base is on the other side of the planet.”
Kaeso nodded. “Ocella?”
Nestor shook his head. “We just woke up. My console says everyone’s awake, but I haven't had a chance to—”
Kaeso unlatched his straps and jumped from the command couch. He hurried down the ladder to the crew quarters, and then to Ocella's bunk. Her eyes were open and she stared at the ceiling. When Kaeso entered, she looked at him, tears brimming.
“They're gone,” she said.
Kaeso watched her a moment, then asked, “What was the name of the stray dog you and Petra adopted when you were children?”
Ocella regarded him blankly, and then understanding entered her eyes. She smiled and said, “His name was Kaeso. And he wasn’t a dog. He was a cat. An orange tom cat who had chased away two dogs trying to steal his mouse on our olive plantation outside Avita.”
Kaeso smiled, then unbuckled Ocella’s restraints.
“Welcome back,” he said.
59
Lepidus stared at himself in the full-length mirror. His barber had done a fine job evening out his hair and scraping away two weeks of facial stubble. The barber had also scrubbed and trimmed his finger and toe nails, making them gleam. Lepidus checked the folds on his white toga, made sure they wrapped securely around his shoulders and left arm in the traditional fashion of Roman men for over a thousand years. Even his sandals were made of aged leather, soft as silk but durable as Praetorian combat uniforms.
It felt good to look like a nobleman again.
Lepidus strode through the atrium in the center of his quiet house. He had allowed his slaves to join the Ascension revelry. Silus had already left, so Lepidus could not say goodbye. The boy would be sitting with his friends in the Coliseum Magnus box seats Lepidus had promised to use with him. But Lepidus would be in the Consular suite, far across the arena from his son.
Lepidus paused at the entryway. He stared at the wax bust of his dead wife several moments, and then he walked out the front door.
He entered the courtyard where the Consular flyer awaited him. The golem pilot stepped forward and opened the passenger side door for Lepidus. He climbed in without a word to the pilot and secured himself in the plush seat. Chilled wine awaited him in an ice bin next to his seat, but he ignored it. The pilot started the flyer and it rose. They floated above his Ostia neighborhood, the blue waters of the Mediterranean gleaming under the sun, then the flyer shot off to the east.
Roma bustled at all times, but today it was particularly crowded. Today was the millennial anniversary of the Antonii Ascension, the day Marcus Antonius liberated Roma and became Consul of the Republic. People from all over Terra—indeed, all human space—streamed into Roma to take part in the celebrations and games. On the ground, the roads were clogged with cars, and the railways jammed with backed-up trains. The skies buzzed with hundreds of flyers, shuttles, and various other air traffic. As Lepidus’s flyer approached the Seven Hills, crowds materialized in the streets as each neighborhood seemed to hold its own parties and games.
The death of the Consular Heir and an ongoing war with Libertus had not dampened the celebratory spirits of the Roman people. The Consul and the Collegia Pontificis had issued a Missive saying the gods had raised Cordus to godhood upon his martyr's death by Liberti agents. The Consular Family proudly unveiled a bronze statue of Cordus in the center of the Capitoline just outside the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. The dead Consular Heir stood at the right hand of a similar statue of Marcus Antonius. It was an amazing work considering Cordus had ascended to Elysium only two weeks before.
Lepidus wondered what really happened to Cordus.
The flyer glided over the Tiber River to the secure lot near the Coliseum Magnus just outside the Forum Borum. Other flyers were landing or had landed, each containing guests of the Consular Family that would sit with them during the Ascension games. Senators, pontiffs, and wealthy equestrians and their families filed up the marble stairs to the Consular terrace. Lepidus joined the line, exchanging arm clasps and pleasantries with those he knew, none knowing exactly what role he played in the hunt for Cordus. He was a simple Praetorian whom the ignorant politicians and noblemen assumed was important to the Consul, but none knew why. So to be safe, they treated him as if he had been given a triumph.
Lepidus approached a security station where the line of Consular guests strolled through a sensor arch. Even the Consul’s most trusted friends needed to be swept for weapons. Lepidus walked through when it was his turn, exchanging nods with the Praetorians manning the station. The younger Praetorians saluted him with a fist over their chests. Lepidus returned the salutes. Over the last few days, he had reviewed the security the Praetorians set up on the terrace—showing them where to sweep for weapons or listening devices, pointing out possible sniper positions in the Coliseum Magnus, setting up checkpoints throughout the Coliseum. The commanders appreciated his advice. While Lepidus never received public recognition, he knew his service to the Republic was at least respected among the Praetorian Guard.
Just before noon, the seven members of the Collegia Pontificis—Vibius Laelius had died during the battle of Menota—and their families took their seats on the raised podium behind the high-backed chairs reserved for the Consular Family.
At the noon hour, a crier approached the back of the terrace and bellowed to the assembled guests, “Pontiffs, Senators, Citizens, rise for Pontifex Maximus Decimus Atius Avitus!” His amplified voice echoed throughout the Coliseum Magnus.
The guests on the terrace stopped talking, stood, and turned around, as did the throngs below. Lepidus watched the entryway as the Pontifex Maximus of the Roman Republic entered the terrace, along with his wife and three sons. The Pontifex wore the blue robes with gold trim of his office, and his wife was beautifully dressed in a traditional white gown with her long black hair pinned up and braided. The Pontifex’s sons ranged in age from seventeen to five years old, all well-dressed in embroidered togas and groomed as befitting young men of their station. The Pontifex strode onto the terrace, his chin held high. When he noticed Lepidus, he gave him a slight nod, his eyes softening. Lepidus returned the nod. The Pontifex and his family sat with the other Collegia Pontiffs behind the Consular Family’s seats.
The crier bellowed again, “Pontiffs, Senators, Citizens, raise your voices for Marcus Antonius Publius, Consul of the Roman Republic, the Light of Humanity, and the Guardian of Divine Wisdom.”
The terrace guests and the crowds below erupted in cheers as the Consul, his wife, and their four remaining children appeared at the entryway. Six Praetorian Guardsmen, all wearing blood-red cloaks under gold breastplates embossed with a scorpion insignia, escorted the Consular Family. The entire Family had the same preternatural air, and Lepidus had the urge to scream his loyalty and love with the noble guests and the throngs of citizens in the Coliseum Magnus below. The Family glided down the center of the terrace and took their seats in the high-backed chairs on the raised podium in the center. The nobles and the crowds continued cheering until the Consul raised his hands. The terrace guests and the citizens below all bowed their heads to receive the Consul’s blessing.
“Citizens and honored guests, I bless you in the name of all the Pantheon Gods, and I bless these games…”
Lepidus bowed his head like everyone else. But while the others took in the blessing with adoration, Lepidus reached under his seat and retrieved the two items he’d stored there during his security sweep yesterday. He hid the items in the folds of his white toga.
Once the Consul finished blessing the attendants, he declared the games open. A deafening cheer arose from the crowd as the first round of gladiator golems marched onto the arena. They used the same formations as Marcus Antonius’s legions when he liberated Roma from the pretender Octavian. On the other side of the arena, Octavian’s forces arranged themselves before a makeshift wall that symbolized Roma’s walls a thousand years ago.
Antonius’s “legions” wielded the muskets they used to roll through Italia and then Roma. They lined up in their formations, the first line dropping to one knee and firing. The front line of Octavian’s legions went down in sprays of blood as the musket balls took out heads, entered chests, and shattered arm and leg bones. Musket balls pinged off the bulletproof shields protecting spectators behind Octavian’s forces.
The wounded golems in Octavian’s legions screamed, while the unhurt golems decided to charge the line of Antonius’s musket legions rather than wait for a musket ball to find them. And like a thousand years ago, the legions of Antonius mowed them down.
As the games proceeded below, Lepidus joined the line of nobles who filed past the Consul’s seat. As tradition allowed, the Consul granted his guests a few brief moments to give them his personal blessings and gods-granted wisdom. At least a hundred guests filled the terrace, the most powerful senators, pontiffs, and wealthy equestrians in the Republic. They had many blessings for which to ask.
By the time it was Lepidus’s turn, the battle for Roma had ended, and the arena caretakers were cleaning up the golem bodies and readying the field for the old-fashioned chariot races. Lepidus stepped up to the podium and stood before the Consul.
He dropped to one knee. “My lord Consul.”
“Rise, Quintus Atius Lepidus,” the Consul said. “You are a friend of Roma and a loyal servant of the gods.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lepidus said, standing. “My only desire is to serve the gods and the Republic.”
“And what blessing or wisdom do you seek from your Consul?” the Consul asked, finishing the ritualistic words.
Lepidus faced both the Consul and the Pontifex Maximus directly behind him. Both men gazed at the chariot races in the arena below, as did their families.
“I have but one question, my lord. May I see the Missive that ordered decimation after the Battle of Caan?”
The Consul's eyes darted to Lepidus. “All Missives of the Gods can be seen in the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus.”
“I do not wish to view a copy of the text, my lord. I wish to view the actual Missive written by the fingers of the gods.”
Lepidus saw wariness in the Consul’s eyes. He felt an instant desire to worship the Consul, to bow low and beg for the Consul's pardon. Only two weeks ago he would have welcomed those feelings as confirmation of the gods instilling the desire to serve the Consul, their Holy Vessel. But he fought the feelings, for they clouded his mind and made him shrink back from doing what he came here to do.
“How would viewing a Missive of the Gods enhance your ability to serve?” the Consul asked.
Lepidus glanced at his brother, who now frowned and looked from the Consul to Lepidus. The Pontifex Maximus. I keep forgetting he is not my brother.
“It would give me peace to view the divine order that told me to kill a tenth of my soldiers...including my wife.”
The Consul’s eyes narrowed. “No one sees a Missive of the Gods besides myself and the Collegia Pontificis. That is the law. Your request is denied.” Then the Consul leaned forward. “It seems to me that peace is not what you need, Quintus Atius. It seems to me you need faith.”
Lepidus smiled. “Consul, you have no idea what I need.”
“Brother,” the Pontifex Maximus growled, “you are treading close to blasphemy.”
Lepidus turned to him. “I am not your brother, Pontifex.”
Lepidus was aware the petitioners and sycophants behind him had grown quiet. He also noticed the Praetorians near the Consul stiffen and watch him with confusion. Lepidus had trained many of the Consul's own bodyguards, so they were likely conflicted between their duty to the Consul and their loyalty to him. Lepidus had counted on that.
He drew the pistol that he'd secured beneath his seat and fired point-blank shots into three of the Guards. They fell before they could reach their weapons. The fourth Guard drew his pistol, but Lepidus dropped him with a shot to the heart. The Guard—a promising young man named Fidelias—stared at Lepidus in shock and anger before the life drained from his eyes.
Just as Lepidus hoped, the guests on the terrace panicked. As one, they rose up and fled toward the exits, many screaming and trampling others. Several Guards from outside the terrace tried making their way through the hysterical crowds, but the stampede blocked them.
Lepidus aimed at the Consul, who stared at him with amusement. The P
ontifex Maximus looked disappointed. The families of both men, and the seven Pontiffs behind them, all Vessels, regarded Lepidus with detached interest.
“What do you hope to accomplish with this childish display, Quintus Atius?” the Consul asked.
“I told you, Consul. I want to know it was the gods that ordered me to kill my wife after the Battle of Caan.”
“Who else would give such an order?”
Lepidus shrugged. “The virus in your brain perhaps?”
The Consul arched an eyebrow, while the Pontifex Maximus clenched his teeth.
“Where did you get such a—?” Then the Consul nodded. “My son. He was a very disturbed boy and had strange notions of aliens living in his brain, whispering to him stories that the Collegia and I were also infected. That is what he told you, correct?”
Lepidus eyed the exits, which were still packed with panicked patricians. The Praetorians were almost through and would soon have a clear shot.
“Fine,” the Consul said. “Before you die, you may know the gods are not real. They never were. But you and all of Roma have worshiped beings far greater than mythical gods. Beings that are just as immortal and just as capable of the wondrous miracles that legends attribute to the divine. These beings have infinite wisdom, and it was from their wisdom that came the order to punish your legions after the Battle of Caan. Did it not work? Did we not inspire our host to take Kaldeth and bring it back to the Roman fold?”
“Brother,” the Pontifex said. “Make your peace with this knowledge and put down your weapon. You are a Hero of Roma. Evocatus of the Praetorian Guard, one of four that has existed in the Guard’s entire history. Do not die a blasphemous traitor. Think of what such an end will do to your son. He will be stripped of his titles and assets. He will be exiled at best. At worst, he will be interrogated...”
The urge to prostrate himself and beg forgiveness enflamed every nerve in Lepidus’s body. He had to concentrate just to continue standing.