The Fourth Rome

by David Drake

  “Wait here,” Flaccus said when they reached the back of the crowd. He pushed through to the chief lictor and spoke urgently, gesturing toward Pauli.

  The lictors were attendants whose bundles of rods and an ax indicated the magistrate they attended had the authority to beat or behead. In court sessions they were his bailiffs as well as symbols of power. Nowadays the rough work of flogging was probably delegated to a slave, and the execution of a Roman citizen required imperial approval, but you could never tell.

  A lawyer was in full cry, making broad gestures and speaking in sonorous Latin about the inalienable rights of free peoples. His clients were a group of German nobles wearing dyed woolen cloaks, leather trousers, and long swords. Their dirty blond hair was knotted above the right temple; the tassel of horsehair worked into the bun was probably a clan marking, because none of their otherwise similar opponents had it.

  The Germans looked puzzled or bored. One of them was picking his nose. The groups glared at one another, and the way their hands patted their sword hilts looked to Pauli like more than mere posturing.

  Publius Quinctilius Varus sat on the dais in a folding ivory chair. He was a balding man in his mid-fifties, heavy enough that Pauli wondered how he got a breastplate that fit. As he listened he picked at grapes from a silver dish held by a handsome slave boy.

  Standing on the dais with Varus were a group of toga-wearing Roman citizens, including one who was obviously German by birth: Arminius, a powerfully built man in his late twenties. The German’s gaze swept the crowd and lingered for a moment on Pauli, obvious for his height and mail shirt.

  Pauli met the prince’s eyes with equal staring arrogance. Not only was the ARC Rider staying in character, it was the way he instinctively responded to a challenge. He’d never been quite civilized enough for 20th-century society. That was why he’d become an ARC Rider.

  Flaccus made his way back to where Pauli stood. The lawyer spoke, the Germans fidgeted; the folk on the dais chattered among themselves, ignoring the proceedings. Varus ate his grapes.

  “There’ll be a recess in a minute or two and you can speak your piece to his nobility then,” Flaccus said. He nodded scornfully in the direction of the orator. “Them Fritzes don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.”

  “He’s not talking about anything,” Pauli said. “He’s telling a creation myth that I suspect he’s just invented. What’s this all about, anyway?”

  “Making money for the governor’s friends,” Flaccus said, lowering his voice slightly so that he could at least claim he’d been misunderstood by the nearest civilian onlookers. “It’s a cattle-stealing case, the usual barb sort of problem. Instead of letting the Fritzes knock each other’s heads in, which is what they’d do if we weren’t here. And instead of us knocking some heads in—”

  He spat in the dirt beside his heavy ankle-laced sandals.

  “—which is what we’d be doing if Tiberius were still here in command,” the soldier continued, “why, they have to hire lawyers to sue it out in court. Wonder of wonders, the governor brought a bunch of lawyer friends with him, and don’t they charge dear. Somebody might guess that part of the fees migrate to the governor’s strongbox.”

  A water clock stood beside the dais, watched by a slave. Water dripping from the reservoir above filled the fourth bowl, which promptly overturned. The slave struck a tubular gong with a wood block. Its musical tone cut through the whispers and shuffling feet.

  The lawyer held his pose for a moment, hand raised and finger pointing to heaven. Then he turned and bowed to the dais before walking off to where servants held beakers and a drinking cup ready.

  “What a twat,” Flaccus muttered. “What a mob of twats!”

  A lictor pushed through the crowd. “Gaius Julius Clovis?” he called. “Attend me, please, I’m taking you to his excellency!”

  Flaccus patted one javelin against his chest, a half-mocking salute before he walked away.

  A pretty good soldier, Flaccus. So was his noncom, whose name Pauli would probably never learn. They’d be dust scattered evenly across the surface of the globe in 2,500 years whether or not they’d had the particular misfortune to be commanded by a man without a clue about his situation.

  But still… a pretty good guy.

  Varus was talking with the civilians on the dais. The lawyers for both parties had joined the group and were laughing at a joke one of them had made. The military guards watched Pauli’s approach attentively though without concern; and Arminius watched also.

  “Your Excellency!” the lictor said. “I present Gaius Julius Clovis, the messenger of Augustus Caesar, First Speaker of the Senate, Tribune for Life, and Father of his Country.”

  Varus turned and eyed Pauli coolly. “The words of our father in Rome are always welcome,” he said. If he spoke without enthusiasm, there was at least nothing sarcastic in his tone. Varus owed his position to the emperor’s favor. He wasn’t the sort of man to get worked up about political issues like restoration of the republic when there was money to be made under the current system.

  Pauli unlocked his iron belt safe and handed the parchment scroll to the lictor, who passed it in turn to the governor. Varus checked the signet impression on the wax seal, then broke the thread and read the document.

  “This just says you’re to accompany me and report at the end of the summer on the conduct of the campaign,” he said. As the governor spoke, he lowered the scroll. One of the lawyers took it from his hand and read it in a circle of other staff members squeezing close to see it themselves.

  Pauli nodded agreement. “Yes, Your Excellency,” he said. He closed the belt safe. Its thin iron sheets wouldn’t keep out a thief with a cold chisel, but they were proof against casual pilferage.

  “Well, whatever Caesar wants, of course,” Varus said. “You’re German, aren’t you? Why don’t you dine with me tonight. You’ll have some of your fellows to chat with, won’t he, Arminius?”

  “It’s always a pleasure to meet another of my fellows who realizes the future is with Rome,” the big German said.

  “I’m giving a dinner for the chiefs who’ll be aiding us in the coming campaign,” the governor continued to Pauli in a conversational voice. “If Augustus wants to know how we conduct things in Germany, I’ll be glad to oblige him. You’ll make nine at the table, Clovis. ‘Not fewer than the three Graces nor more than the nine Muses,’ that’s the rule for dinner.”

  He looked suddenly concerned. “You do have proper garments, don’t you?” he asked. “That sort of thing may be well enough in a legionary tent, but we of the better classes try to keep decent standards even here in the wilds.”

  Pauli brought his heels together with a hobnailed click, then bowed. “As do we who serve the emperor in Rome, Your Excellency,” he said.

  “Fine, then go get yourself cleaned up,” Varus said. “We’ll recline in my quarters at the tenth hour”—late afternoon—“since I don’t think we’re going to be through this case before then. Are we, Gallus?”

  The second of the lawyers involved in the action had passed Pauli’s perfectly counterfeited orders on to another civilian. “I’m very much afraid not, Your Excellency,” he said. “I’ve already told my clients that they must be prepared to recompense my services for another two days still.”

  “How many daughters do you have to provide dowries for, Gallus?” the first lawyer asked. Everyone laughed.

  “Well, if it takes that long, it’ll have to stand over until I’ve handled this business with the Chauci,” Varus said. “Though I shouldn’t think that will take long either.”

  He looked at Pauli. Seated on the dais, the governor’s eyes were on a level with the ARC Rider’s. He frowned. “Till dinner then,” he said.

  Pauli made a crisp about-face and strode away. Crispus, the soldier who’d gone with Gerd and Beckie, was waiting to guide him.

  Varus had a very capable army here. Pity the troops didn’t have a capable commander, but Pauli couldn’
t worry about that. It was Team 79’s job to make sure they all died …

  Rebecca Carnes carried the three-gallon ewer of water on her right shoulder, her right hand lifted to the handle to balance it. It was her job to see that her master’s washstand was prepared for him. The well serving this group of barracks was on the far end of the building.

  The barracks block was intended for a company of eighty troops, but almost half of Varus’ army was on detached assignment. The building was empty except for two legionaries just out of the hospital, and now the three ARC Riders.

  An anteroom divided the legionary quarters on one end from the suites for the centurion and the two junior noncoms. Rebecca walked through the outer doorway and found a pair of well-groomed civilians lounging on either side of the door to the officers’ quarters. They were obviously waiting for her.

  “Do you speak Latin, girlie?” the older man asked. His outer tunic was of fine wool. Its border was embroidered in saffron thread that matched the dyed leather of his sandals.

  “Bit long in the tooth, isn’t she?” said the younger man to his companion in Greek. He wore an undertunic cut higher and with longer sleeves than the outer tunic so that everyone could see that it was of expensive violet silk.

  “I speak Latin,” Rebecca said. Her pronunciation was thickened to fit her guise as a slave from Caria in Asia Minor. Switching to a better grade of Greek she went on, “My master, being a man, has no need of perfumed boys like you.”

  The younger man tossed his curly head; his nostrils flared in anger.

  Rebecca stood hipshot. Because of the society in which the team had to blend for this operation, their weapons were limited to microwave pistols. She wasn’t carrying even a pistol at the moment because there wasn’t a place to conceal it in a pocketless tunic and shift. A three-gallon bronze bucket would make a decent club if she needed it, though.

  The older man laughed. “She’s a spunky one, Nestor,” he said. “Sometimes an old mare gives the best ride.”

  He turned to Rebecca and continued, “We’re all friends here, girlie. We just came to let you know that our master, Lucius Silius Gallus, is a very generous man.”

  “I can see he keeps you well fed,” Rebecca said. She’d been called worse than “girlie,” but it wasn’t the way to get on her good side. Whatever this pair had in mind, it didn’t affect the team’s mission. Rebecca had no reason to pretend friendliness.

  “Spunky indeed,” the man said with a chuckle. “You know, I wouldn’t mind running you through your paces myself.”

  Rebecca’s expression was hard enough to break stones. The man raised his hand and said, “Peace, peace. I didn’t mean to offend a lady of such high standards. The point is, the noble Gallus would be very interested to learn what the emperor’s spy is thinking.”

  He mimed pouring coins from one hand to the other. “Very profitably interested, if you catch my drift.”

  “Then I suggest,” Rebecca said carefully, “that you talk to an imperial spy. If you know one.”

  The younger man, Nestor, said, “This wouldn’t have to affect your master’s mission, you see. Gallus is on the governor’s staff, but if something were going to happen abruptly to the governor, important business might call Gallus home ahead of time to avoid mistaken impressions. You could come out of it well enough to not only buy yourself free but also to buy yourself some companionship.”

  Rebecca smiled. Gerd had planned that Varus and those around him would assume the imperial guard was being sent to spy on the governor’s personal life as well as to observe the conduct of his campaign. Fear of Clovis’ secret agenda provided cover for anything he or his servants did that didn’t fit with their public duties.

  “My master may not be as generous as yours,” she said. “But he has a very strong arm with a whip. If there’s something about his business that you or your master think you need to know, you can ask him yourself. But I don’t recommend it.”

  “Girlie,” the older man said with a trace of frustration—the first honest emotion he’d displayed during the interview. “This isn’t idle curiosity. If the noble Gallus is prosecuted for having the wrong friends, that’s his lookout. But if it happens here, in this wart on the hide of the empire—who’s going to buy his estate? Some hairy centurion whose idea of the good life is to drink till he pukes? A German princeling who hasn’t bathed since the last time he fell in the river? It’s important to us to know if the ax is about to fall!”

  “And we’ll pay,” Nestor said. Desperation tightened the lines of his face, making it less handsome but far more human. “Just give us the chance to get back to civilization before it happens.”

  Rebecca realized that she was talking to slaves, not men. Under Roman law they were furniture. Their apparent wealth couldn’t change that unless their master chose to sell them back their freedom … which Gallus hadn’t done, or they hadn’t asked him to do until now when the arrival of the emperor’s agent made them think it might be too late.

  “I don’t need your money,” Rebecca said, lowering her voice. “But I don’t think your master has anything to fear from the emperor.”

  The older slave nodded. “Come along, Nestor,” he said. “We won’t forget this.”

  No, you won’t, Rebecca thought. But at least the Germans will treat you the same as they do free men when they sweep over the army.

  The slaves closed the outer door behind them. Before Rebecca could touch the latch of the suite’s entrance, Barthuli pulled it open from inside. He held a microwave pistol.

  “I thought we could give them an overdose of sedative and hide the bodies in the storage room,” he said. “No one would notice the smell until long after we’ve left the horizon.”

  Gerd had come to terms with mortality, his own and others’, when his condition was diagnosed as incurable. He was a gentle man, as kind as he was intelligent; but he was also as ruthless as a cobra.

  Rebecca entered the suite and set the ewer on the triangular table. “Close the door,” she said. She felt drained She knelt and rested her forehead against the cool bronze container. “Gerd,” she added, “slavery is evil.”

  “Umm,” the analyst said, a noncommittal syllable with a vaguely positive lilt. “The most likely place for our revisionists is the settlement outside the camp, Rebecca. I thought I’d go check it over.”

  Rebecca stood and managed a smile. “We’ll both go,” she said, “because I don’t trust you alone, Gerd. But we’ll wait till Pauli gets back and discuss it with him before we act.”

  She didn’t want to call Pauli unless there was an emergency. Interrupting a busy teammate was a good way to screw up both him and the operation.

  Gerd nodded. “All right, Rebecca,” he said. He projected a shimmering display on his multifunction sensor and seemed to be concentrating on it. In a tone of mild interest he added, “I’ve always wished I could understand the concept of evil in a meaningful way.”

  TC 779

  Displacing to 1992 AD

  Nan Roebeck had her issue weapons spread out before her on her command station’s console. The team in TC 779 was about to go operational.

  Everybody was rechecking their equipment one last time before insertion. Her people were nervous. She understood that. She listened with one ear to them as she repacked her own weapons carefully in the black nylon gearbag she’d be taking into Russia on 9 March, 1992. She checked the weaponry she had in front of her against Central’s manifest.

  Then she went through the nonweapons essentials her team had been issued. If these items weren’t perfect, all weapons could do was get you out of a disintegrating situation alive. Entry documents: invitation, visa, passport. Local currency: a roll of Russian roubles. Venue-correct clothing: suit, shirt, underwear. She hoped she’d pass for a middle-aged American bureaucrat. She was probably a little too tali, a little too straight in bearing to really look the part. Her brown hair was a little too short, her skin a little too tanned, her muscle tone a little too goo
d. Maybe she’d look like a US bureaucrat who happened to lift weights. Oh, well. She rubbed her fingers through her brush-cut hair. This was the age of women’s liberation they were displacing into.

  Roebeck added the little extras she always took along, things that were never on any manifest: a half-dozen redundantly spare power packs, an assortment of replacement circuits. You never knew what was going to go wrong. But something always did. You didn’t join the operational arm of the ARC in order to spend life in an error-free environment.

  Grainger was saying, “Can’t you print us some US dollars, Chun? Forget about these roubles Central gave us. They’re nearly worthless. And these plastic credit cards won’t be good for anything but ID. Another typical ARC screw-up.”

  Before Chun could answer, the temporal capsule around them hummed, shivered, and stabilized with a slight whining sound. It didn’t sound right to Roebeck. Her hands froze on the quaint metal zipper of her gearbag.

  It didn’t sound good to her ops specialists, either.

  The three ARC Riders exchanged glances. Chun’s control wands knitted and purled a systems check. Chun gave the ARC Riders’ thumbs-up hand sign. “Just a little boundary turbulence. Nothing to worry about.”

  Everybody relaxed. In the close confines of the TC, Nan Roebeck could smell the shock and fear leaking from her team’s bodies as acrid perspiration. The air circulator hummed comfortingly. The waft of nervousness was quickly replaced by machine-cooled air, tainted only by hot, thrumming components.

  If your temporal capsule malfunctioned coming out of phase, nobody ever found your remains. Time travel was relatively safe. The dicey moments were during displacement phase-in and phase-out. If you were hashed during either one, nothing rematerialized for an investigation team to find. That was why they called it “hashed.” You were static. Forever.

  Nan Roebeck had no interest in becoming a bit of cosmic background noise. None whatsoever. She dragged the gearbag across her console and dropped it onto the deck, by her feet.