Where was it controlled from? How far away? How soon would they check? How many guards would come? Lars fought down his panic. The rod would be to check if the trap had been set in the first place, it was only a guard against carelessness, he decided. They would come without suspicion, intending to merely reset the trap. He strung his bow and stepped outside. Behind the dead wolves was a column that would cast a shadow from the lamp of anyone approaching. After a minute two figures appeared, both carrying thumblamps.
Lars watched as they rattled at the bolt. Once inside they would see the scrolls that he had not had time to tidy away. The first stepped through the door as he raised his bow and shot the figure behind him. The man sprawled, dead before he hit the snow. The other turned.
"Mind that step—" he began, but was silenced as a second arrow took him in the eye. At such close range Lars's aim was deadly. He dragged the bodies inside and removed the arrows. Perhaps they would soon be missed—he needed a diversion rather than a silent escape. One of the thumb-lamps continued to burn where it had fallen on the doorstep. Lars picked it up and poured a little olive oil on the scrolls. Sputtery flames blazed up. He dangled a cloth strip in burning oil, then set more fires.
Lars climbed back onto a nearby roof. He took several items of stolen armor and clothing from his pack, and dressed himself to look like an overweight guard. He tried to move quickly; he was aware that the flames would soon be noticed. A tile suddenly broke beneath his weight and his leg plunged through the roof. Somewhere in the distance men were shouting. The security imposed by the Immortals hindered them now. Lars watched as a dozen of them ran back and forth with buckets while the flames spread as if the place had been drenched in olive oil. An explosion suddenly blasted out the side of the venendarium as an amphora of
something volatile detonated. The roof collapsed in a spark-studded, swirling cloud.
Lars noticed that guards from outside had now joined the Immortals. He dropped to the ground and went limping toward the gate, waving a bloodied arm for attention as more guards came streaming in.
"Sheepskins, soak sheepskins in water and bring them, quickly!"
The advice was sensible. Several guards turned and ran with him back to the outer part of the palace, then turned off for a storehouse. Lars made for the shadows, scaled the palace wall and clambered down the outer face with the aid of a rope. The path to the crane was not long, and was by now unguarded. Lars swung the arm out over the edge and chopped the
.pulley free with his gladius. The rope rattled out to its full six-hundred-foot extension and the wicker hand crashed to the altar below. He began by climbing down hand over hand, but as his fatigue increased he dropped longer and longer distances, until his leather mittens were smoking with the friction. Near the bottom of the rope his hands and wrists were so badly wrenched that he could barely hold on, yet he landed safely on the torn wickerwork of the great hand. Barely pausing for breath, he staggered off through the snow. His way was lit by the glow from the burning venendarium reflected against low clouds.
Sextus, the slave that Lars knew as Lacerna, arrived at the edge not long after the thief was out of sight. Behind him was the glow of the fire and the shouts of those fighting it. Only one set of footprints was visible in the snow, so one of the thieves had been left behind. Alive or dead? The question troubled him. The thieves had seen his face by lamplight, even though he had given them a false name. He came to the disabled crane, its mechanism still locked but its rope chopped free and dangling over the precipice. He touched the severed ends of the ropes that Lars had cut, quivering with fright. Two slaves had been scourged to death for merely allowing the rope to fray more than the overseer would accept, and Sextus himself had been given thirty lashes for allowing the pulley wheels to develop a squeak. The crane was the Temporians' only link with the world below, and they took a dim view of anything that endangered it. If one of the thieves had escaped down the rope, then he could too. With his hands trembling, Sextus crawled out along the crane and began to climb down the slick rope. The clouds above still glowed red from the fire; blackness yawned below. He was dressed for the heated interior of Nusquam, he wore only sandals and a tunic, and had no gloves. Voices grew louder above him, they were coming for him. His weakening hands began to slip as he tried to move faster. No food, no map, nobody to guide him through the yawning blackness down there. He had come to the Temporians as a child fifteen years earlier. Even that had involved traveling for ten days wearing a blindfold. Burning torches appeared at the edge of the cliff.
"There! On the rope!"
"I see him."
A bowstring twanged and something swished past the slave's head.
"Don't! We want him alive."
"You on the rope! One move and you're dead."
Sextus lowered his gaze from the torches to the blackness below. Why cling desperately to a rope with aching fingers in order to face death by torture, he asked himself. The rope trembled as a guard began to climb out along the crane. Sextus let go and fell without screaming. The distant thud that obliterated his life echoed up the cliff to his pursuers.
"Shit," sighed the archer, and he spat into the darkness below.
"Climb down the rope, follow me," said the tesserarius of the watch.
Namatinus and his horsemen arrived at the altar only a few minutes later. The reflection of the fire from the clouds was so bright that they could ride without torches now.
"Too late, too damnably late!" shouted Namatinus, looking up at the fire. He turned to his men. "None of you will ever mention this again under pain of death. Understood?"
The riders chorused agreement. Namatinus and Vitellan dismounted and walked to the altar where the wicker hand had crashed. The tesserarius and his guards had already descended from the clifftop by the rope and were examining the body of Sextus.
"Centurion Namatinus of the Furtivus Legion, Primus Fort," Namatinus said as he reached the altar and the guards confronted him.
"What is your business here?" asked the tesserarius war-ily.
"I discovered a conspiracy to breach the security of Nusquam, two thieves were to smuggle themselves up the cliff amid the supplies. I came as fast as I could, but—"
"But you are too late, Centurion—or maybe you are just in time with your men and horses. Did you see anyone on the trail as you approached?"
"No."
"You're sure of that?" "Positive.
"You mentioned a conspiracy, Centurion. What can you tell me about the thieves?" Namatinus beckoned Vitellan forward. 'Tell him your story, Legionary Bavalius."
"I was with Gallus, escorting some mules to meet with the main caravan. Five bandits attacked us. Gallus killed one, I wounded another, then I fell down a cliff beside the trail into deep snow. The bandits emptied two mule packs, leaving enough space so that two men could hide in them. That is all I know."
Namatinus described how Vitellan struggled back to the fort, and how they rode out and met the mule caravan as it returned from the altar.
"We caught and tortured the truth out of the two im-posters," Namatinus concluded. "They said that they left their two leaders concealed in packs on the altar."
"So, there's definitely only two outsiders to find," the tesserarius said with relief. Namatinus pointed up the cliff. "What happened up there? Are you allowed to tell me?" The tesserarius shrugged one shoulder and gestured upward.
"A large section of the palace is pretty obviously alight,
iut nobody is sure how the fire started. At least two Tempo-ians and several guard beasts have been killed. We saw the
>ody of one thief on the roof of a building before it col-apsed."
Namatinus looked at the body lying crumpled on the altar n the surreal red glow reflected from the clouds. "And that one makes two."
"Probably not, Centurion. I know him as a slave from the >alace, and he was probably helping the thieves. The second hief has not been found."
"Well as I said, we saw nobody as we came u
p the trail."
"Good news, the first good news of this terrible night, vlaybe he cut the crane loose but stayed above, maybe he ;limbed down the rope and is hiding nearby. He is armed with a bow and his aim is deadly."
Namatinus turned to his men. "I want you to split into groups of three and search the area for footprints. Never go alone, this thief is very dangerous and he has a bow. Now, I also want three volunteers to ride back to the mule caravan and tell them to guard the trail and let nobody past until I return. Who knows the trail well enough to ride all the way in the dark?"
One of the tesserarius' men stepped forward. "I can guide your men, Centurion."
"Then you will go. Vitellan, you've seen enough action in the past few days. Give him your horse and stay here with me."
The portly guard mounted Vitellan's horse and led the other two volunteers down the trail and into the darkness. It was morning before the tesserarius realized that of the six guards who had climbed down the rope with him, all six were still present. By then Lars had killed Namatinus' two legionaries and was so far away that there was no hope of ever capturing him.
Libarna, Northern Italy: 29 December 71, Anno Domini
Libarna nestled securely in the foothills of the Alps, a prosperous little market town servicing a patchwork of farms.
"The most boring place on earth," Fortunatus sneered as he looked out across the melting snow. "No games, no chariots, no feasts, ugly harlots and sour wine."
Viventius came from a rural family, and did not find Libarna so very bad. "Why not return to Rome, then? I'd gladly stay here and wait for the thief."
Fortunatus ignored him. He sipped a little wine and looked out along the northward road again.
"Five days. We know there was a fire at Nusquam five days ago. Lars Lartorius must have had a part in it. The body of a thief was found on the roof, but it was not he. Lars is known to cover his tracks with fires. He was said to be near the Circus Maximus seven years ago when the fire was started that consumed much of Rome." They fell silent again, watching children flinging snow at each other and laughing. A farmer drove an oxcart along the road, bringing hay for the stables.
'They barred me from joining them, they deserved to burn," muttered Fortunatus. "I have earned the right to be immortal many times over."
"Any more than Emperor Vespasian?"
"More than he. I began my career while Caligula still ruled, then I helped hold the Empire together during Nero's excesses. Now the Temporians tell me that I'm too old to become one of them. Too old at fifty-one!"
"There could be more to it than that. Gaius remembers how you manipulated the Senate and lost him money on the grain market."
"Gaius is not an Immortal."
"Gaius has friends among the Immortals. He slept with one of their women when he was younger, now he's a senator."
"I believe none of that. The Sons of Romulus are afraid of me. They want me dead but one hundred thousand sesterces more will see the end of their plans. Lars has robbed the Emperor himself, he will not fail me."
"He's a master thief in Rome, but Nusquam is a fort in the mountains."
"Lars is a master of his trade. He will steal what I want as a matter of pride, if not for money."
"I want a great deal of money," said a hoarse voice from somewhere above them.
• The two conspirators jumped to their feet, swords in hand. A moment later their lookout, Portulus, was marched in by the thief's two men.
"They arrived in one of the haycarts," he mumbled, his face flushed with humiliation. 'The thief wanted to spy on you before talking."
Fortunatus and Viventius sheathed their swords and sat down again. Lars descended from the beams of the roof. He had an ugly scratch on his arm, and he favored one leg.
"Just the sort of entrance I should have expected from a master thief," said Fortunatus genially. Lars grinned at the deference. "Here is a little sample of what you wanted," he said, handing a small glass phial to Fortunatus. "I have twelve sachets of it."
Lars watched as Fortunatus uncorked the bottle and sniffed at the contents. "I know the scent, an Immortal named Rhea once taunted me with a cup of it." He poured a drop onto his fingertip and licked it. "Pah! Vile stuff. As bitter as gall," he said, squeezing his eyes shut.
"A philter for immortality, according to what was on the scroll beside it," said Lars, "but you will need more than this."
"How much?"
"I have enough for fifteen treatments. It's buried safely at a day's journey from here."
"It smells more as if it would kill me than grant immortality."
"I force-fed some to a rat. It died."
"Not surprising. Did you see any of the Immortals?"
"I saw several. They're not good at fighting fires."
"What were they like, apart from that?" Fortunatus asked. "I have only ever knowingly met one."
"They are not truly immortal. They have merely learned to extend their lifespans, and accidents can kill them as easily as you or me. They do get older, but very slowly."
"The one that I know, Rhea, has not aged in thirty years."
"Not that you would notice but. . ." He reached into his robes and took out a scroll. "Read this. It outlines the use of the
'Venenum Immortale,' as they seem to call it."
Fortunatus snatched the scroll eagerly and began to read. His smile soon vanished.
"This—this is a monstrous trick!" he exclaimed. "This is not immortality at all. It will not renew my youth."
"But it will allow you to cheat death for quite a long time."
"But this says that the Sons of Romulus live such a long time just by freezing each other in ice."
"Yes, they take turns. At any one time four out of every five are frozen, and that means that they are only awake to get older for perhaps one year in five. At that rate the oldest of them may have been born over four hundred years ago. The scroll shows that the women look after the revival process, which is dangerous and difficult. The men prepare a philter which must be drunk before one's body is frozen. It's quite a complex matter, their type of immortality. I was not able to steal the instructions for the manufacture of the oil itself, but I got you a good supply of it. If you follow the directions in that Method and Usage scroll, and if you have reliable friends to freeze and revive you, well, you can live as long as there is ice to preserve you. You might find that reliable friends are harder to find than ice, of course." Fortunatus sat with his mouth open. "But ... in effect they 'live' only as long as any mortal. Why do they do it?" Lars grinned. "You ask me, a mere thief? What understanding of the affairs of state would I have?"
"Don't patronize me, I know about your background."
"Then you know that one hundred thousand sesterces will not buy what I want. You can grant influence and favors: the return of my family villa, and the slaves and artisans to make it prosper."
Fortunatus looked from him to the scroll.
"What about the Relagatus faction that ruined your family? Do you want them punished?"
"Oh no, they are to be left alone. I want the pleasure of dealing with their people myself."
"Granted, granted. Now tell me how the Immortals govern."
"They freeze themselves for, say, eight years, then appear again among mortals as if they have not aged at all."
"Yes, yes, that makes sense. They seem to spend a lot of time away on their estates, or on long journeys."
"Now ask yourself how the Emperor governs. Does he train his troops personally, or pave the roads himself? No, he has trusted minions of one rank or another to run off and see that his orders are carried out. The Immortals work the same way, with some differences. They work as a team, and they recruit only the most highly skilled administrators and leaders to their number. They set schemes in motion, long-term schemes that span decades, and they are unfrozen from time to time to supervise them. They act as if they were gods with lifespans and concerns well beyond those of mortals."
"But
the emperors do not disappear for years at a time."
"As far as I can tell, the emperors are never Immortals, Fortunatus. They are their puppets, the same as you and I." Fortunatus hunched forward, wringing his hands and staring at the phial of oily liquid that Lars had given him.
"This will make me neither young nor immortal," he said in a high, thin voice.
"But you have their secret, and their philter too. Now I want my payment."
"Payment? For something as useless to me as this?" He snatched up the phial and flung it against the wall where it shattered, leaving an oily, golden patch. "I want to know where that Frigidarium chamber is. If I can't share their immortality I can at least break their power. Find the Frigidarium and I'll pay you." Lars glowered, but seemed to have expected such a reaction.
"That was not in our agreement, Fortunatus. Besides, I burned their villa-fortress to cover my escape. They will have ten times as many guards on everything now."
"If you were stupid enough to start a fire, then that's your business. What you brought me is useless."
"What I brought is what you asked for, even if it is not what you expected. My services don't come free, and I have given you the best of my services."
Fortunatus slowly got to his feet, suddenly smiling and affable. "Lars, friend, we are of a kind. You brought no more than a taste of Venenum here, while I brought no more money than you brought Venenum—" A sign to Portulus sent him lunging at the nearest thief with a dagger in his hand. The point stopped in hidden mail, and Lars flung a pugio that plunged into his neck. Fortunatus raised his gladius as the second thief leaped at him, chopping it into the side of his head as Viventius' sword messily hacked into the thief pinned under Portulus. Fortunatus closed with Lars, sword in one hand and a stool in the other.
Lars's blade dug into the stool, stuck and snapped. For all the pain in his leg, Lars still managed a heavy kick to Fortunatus' groin, just as Viventius' sword burst through the light mail under his tunic and slid a short way between his ribs. Lars rammed the stump of his blade into Viventius' face, and was rewarded with a scream of pain. The conspirator blundered into Fortunatus, blinded by his own blood, and hacked at him in panic. With quizzical detachment Lars stood watching them fight for a moment, then drew another heavy pugio and flung it. It buried itself up to the hilt in Fortunatus' back. Lars picked up a fallen gladius.
The Centurion's Empire Page 6