The Fourth Rome

by David Drake

  By the time he was done, he didn’t want the real H2O shower as much as he had before. He took it anyway.

  When he came out, Nan had let herself into his room.

  “Time to go down and meet Chun’s blind date.”

  “Yeah, well, I want to be wearing clothes when I do that,” he said, peeking around the Russian-style wardrobe at her. She looked downright accommodated to the venue in dark loose pants and shirt over her bodysuit and flat shoes. She’d worked on the color scheme of her comm membrane. It was now displaying something much more like paisley than cammo.

  “Good enough,” she said when he’d dressed in what Central had provided, a dark lightweight jacket and slacks. They’d made adequate padding for the weapons in his gearbag. He shouldered the bag. “I’m not leaving this. You didn’t leave yours …?”

  You couldn’t. Not here. A good investigation of empty guest rooms was part of the culture in Moscow. It would change later, at least on the surface. But not yet.

  Roebeck’s lips twitched. She pulled her own black bag from under the bed. “We’re Americans. All women of this era carried tons of stuff. I’m way ahead of you, Grainger. Don’t forget that.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. He understood the larger message. Keep your place. Don’t cut the line. The addition of Chun to the ground team made this a much different, more formal mission format than their last outing.

  They found Chun with her Academy of Sciences hon-cho/KGB agent, Viktor Etkin, who carried the promised red umbrella. Etkin was six feet tall, smooth as silk, handsome as a Russian TV commentator. He had a firm, dry handshake and a full blond head of hair. He was wearing impeccably tailored Western clothes. Lucky Chun. Maybe she’d get laid in the process. She looked impossibly diminutive beside him.

  Grainger wasn’t expecting anywhere near Etkin’s level of polish from his guy, Matsak of the Ministry of Science, or from Nan’s Mr. Orlov from the Foreign Ministry.

  “Completely my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grainger. And you, my dear lady official, Madam Roebeck. On behalf of the Academy of Sciences of the Russian Federation, let me welcome you to our beautiful capital. You have chosen one of my favorite hotels. This is a place that is truly Moscow, but not… truly Russia, not yet. If you understand me. I apologize for my sorry English.”

  Grainger said, “Nice to meet you, sir. And don’t apologize. Your English is lots better than my Russian. I’ve got another meeting, but we’ll sit for a moment with you.” He put his hand in the small of Chun’s back and pushed her toward the bar in the rear of the Métropole ’s lobby.

  “Yes, let’s have a drink and see what we can do to arrange for follow-on meetings before Tim and I have to dash,” Nan suggested.

  “It is sad you must be leaving us so soon …” Etkin looked disappointed in a polished, insincere way as he strode alongside them. The bureaucrat knew this place like the back of his hand, Grainger realized.

  The bar, despite some uniquely Soviet artifacts still displayed, was comfortingly similar to bars everywhere and every when. Low lights gleamed on wineglasses hanging inverted over a long counter. So early, patrons were sparse. Etkin chose a table, seemingly at random. A white-shirted waiter scurried over. Before the ARC Riders could suggest anything, Etkin said, “You say this is first time in Moscow, yes? Then, Jack Daniel’s for me, in your honor, of course. And for you a special wine—from Stalin’s favorite vineyard.” He spoke rapidly in dialectic Russian to the waiter, who melted away into the convivial dimness.

  Etkin leaned forward. He had shooter’s eyes that stared ap-praisingly at Grainger as if from a thousand miles away. “Tomorrow night, your party will be our guest at my club. This is private club. Very much unchanged since before … the new government. Concretne—concrete business can be done there, has been done there for many years. Tonight, we get to know one another, Dr. Chun.”

  “Professor,” Nan said, pulling out her “visit” card with English on one side and Russian on the obverse, “let me give you my card.”

  Everybody dove for their cards. The Russian put the ARC Riders’ cards in front of him, professionally arranging them so that each card was closest to the person who’d given it to him.

  The ARC Riders’ cards all said, “US Department of Commerce, International Programs.” Under Chun’s and Nan’s names were some likely titles. Nan’s was Assistant Principal Deputy Undersecretary for Special Projects. Central’s choices were savvy, considering the current state of the Russian security system. The titles were junior enough to not raise flags, senior enough to ensure access.

  Chun’s card dubbed her “Doctor,” “Physical Engineer,” and “Staff Specialist.”

  Tim’s said nothing under his name. He wasn’t trying to hide his intent here, just where he was from. It was a calculated risk meant to cut to the chase, through what otherwise might have been a lot of Ruskie hemming and hawing. There were guys with cards like Grainger’s hunting technology all over Russia, and buying it for dollars.

  You had to give a card to get a card. The three for one trade produced Etkin’s “visit” card, with a lot more information on the Russian side than on the English side. The fact that the card was printed on both sides proved that visiting delegations were part of his everyday business. Grainger increasingly didn’t like Chun’s blind date. But he had his own coming up.

  As the waiter brought the wine, the Academy of Sciences official looked at Grainger’s card and then at Grainger again. “Ah, yes. I see.” Etkin shifted his gaze to Nan Roebeck and said collegially, “Madam Roebeck, there are many things I already miss about the old days, and men like this are one of these things. I understand why you have him. And it makes me feel, umm, right at home.”

  Etkin turned to the waiter, who had poured some wine into one glass and was holding it out. His ring finger had a wide white swath on it, as if he’d removed a ring recently. Probably his KGB class ring, pocketed for the duration of this meeting. Etkin’s suit had all the earmarks of a privileged class: real buttonholes on his cuffs, hand-stitched lapels, soft chalk stripes. Only a few prize-winning Russian scientists had the kind of cash it took to buy a suit like that. The ones that did were “show scientists,” trusted party functionaries. KGB Department 6 senior personnel, especially, spent lots of time abroad under the cover of scientific exchanges.

  Etkin tasted the wine, approved it, and pushed his glass aside to make room for two fingers of Jack Daniel’s. “You may leave the bottle.” This guy was not going to miss a free bottle of Western booze. Etkin addressed the ARC Riders as a group, formally:

  “A toast. Today you are here seeing for yourselves how we have screwed up communism. Tomorrow, may you return to see how we will screw up capitalism!” His smile was daz-zlingly white.

  Nan Roebeck and Chun laughed out loud. Grainger forced a grin, but Etkin’s toast chilled him. Too temporally focused. Was Etkin warning them? Acknowledging them for what they really were? Telling them he knew exactly why the ARC Riders were here and now? Volunteering his services? Or merely making amusing conversation?

  “To capitalism,” Nan said, taking a deep swallow of wine that made her eyes grow round in her head.

  “To Russia,” Chun added.

  “And to absent friends,” Grainger amended, picking up the blood-dark wine and looking at his wrist chronometer at the same time. His left arm already hurt when he raised it. The combined injections had made a sore lump that felt as big as a rat under his skin. Stalin’s favorite wine was so dry it tasted like red dust. “Got to run. Please, Colonel, forgive us.” Grainger didn’t like being talked about in the third person, as a “thing” the way Etkin had talked about him to Roebeck. Nothing on Etkin’s card had indicated a military rank or KGB affiliation, but it was time to call a spade a spade.

  Etkin’s pale shooter’s eyes caught his and held him still for a moment. Not unfriendly, just acknowledging a kindred spirit. An amusement drifted in their depths that was colder than a winter wind. Etkin inclined his fine-featured nomenclat
ura head infinitesimally.

  Okay, maybe Etkin wasn’t a mere colonel, but someone of higher rank. Either way suited Grainger’s mood. Tun Grainger wasn’t Nan’s guard dog, some expendable piece of well-conditioned flesh here to provide muscle in dicey moments.

  On second thought, maybe he was. “Come on, Nan. I’ll walk you. Tomorrow night at your club, then, Professor Etkin—it will be my pleasure to accept your hospitality.” He stood and Nan followed suit.

  “Whatever specifics Chun Quo arranges are fine with us,” Nan Roebeck said. “Das vedanya.”

  There was no other way. They had to go meet their own contacts, leaving Chun in the silky smooth clutches of Academy of Sciences Professor Viktor Etkin, KGB.

  Civil Aliso, Free Germany

  August 23, 9 AD

  The breeze had picked up slightly as the afternoon wore on. Occasionally a wave slapped the bank, though the river was low at this time of year. If Gerd fell from the stump on which he leaned outward, he’d land in mud without injury.

  “We need to be inside the gates before sunset, Gerd,” Rebecca Carnes called.

  “Yes, I’m coming,” the analyst said; and for a wonder, he did hop back to her across the trench trampled by the feet of the barge tows. He’d slipped his sensor into his purse for safety.

  “I wanted to get a view of the barges,” he explained. “There’s too much activity at the dock inside the fort for me to record details from close by.”

  Rebecca grimaced. “I thought you were scanning for the other revisionists,” she said.

  “Of course, Rebecca,” Gerd said with a faint smile. “I’m constantly scanning within my sensors’ fifty-meter effective radius. From this angle of the river, I was able to view the barges as well. Did you realize that virtually all the army’s supplies have to be brought in by water? There’s no settled agriculture in this region, only a little gardening.”

  “But there’s people, aren’t there?” Rebecca said. “What do they live on?”

  Evening had brought more traffic, mostly toward the fort. With the army moving out in the morning there wouldn’t be the usual number of overnight leaves.

  “The Ubians and some other of the Rhenish tribes grow crops,” Gerd said. “The Germans of this area and eastward herd cattle. Even if Varus conquered them, they couldn’t support a Roman garrison. The troops’ staple is bread, not meat. Changing the region’s agriculture would take generations.”

  A soldier rode by on a mule, splashing mud. He was very drunk and singing at the top of his lungs about a girl named Lalage. He wasn’t wearing armor, but he carried a javelin from whose tip streamed a woman’s silk bandeau like a crimson flag.

  “So there’s really no risk?” Rebecca said as she tried to process what Gerd was telling her. “Even if we didn’t prevent the revisionists from saving Varus and his army, the Roman Empire couldn’t really expand to the Vistula?”

  “It would make no administrative or economic sense to expand the empire to the east, Rebecca,” the analyst said. “Overland communications with the central government would be a nightmare, and the combination of soil and climate make most of Germany of only marginal argicultural value compared to Gaul and the Rhine basin, which supported Rome’s frontier garrisons in our timeline.”

  He looked at Rebecca with his frequent wistful smile. “But they could have done it, Rebecca,” he said. “Without Varus losing ten percent of the empire’s total army at the critical moment, Central projects that Roman generals would have marched and conquered as far perhaps as the Ukraine. Russian generals conquered Siberia in the 19th century, even though they brought down the czarist state behind them because of the resources they wasted in the effort.”

  “Thereby bringing into being the Soviet state the pair back at the inn wants to expand,” Rebecca said. She laughed.

  A woman coming from the fort looked at them. She led an eight-year-old by the hand and a four-year-old clutching his elder sibling’s other hand. The woman had blond hair and Germanic features, but the children’s complexion was Mediterranean olive.

  “I’m afraid that people don’t often learn from history,” Gerd said in an apologetic tone, as though it were somehow his fault.

  “You’re wrong, Gerd,” Rebecca said. “We’ve learned a lot.”

  She grinned at him, feeling brighter than she had for most of the day. Maybe she’d gotten over the shock of brawling with the revisionists’ bodyguards.

  Gerd raised an eyebrow in question. They were approaching the gate. Both halves were open with outbound traffic on the left side. There was a short line of returnees being checked into the fort; a few civilians argued at their exclusion.

  “We’ve learned that humanity can’t afford to let idiots do idiotic things,” Rebecca Carnes said. “They’ve got to be stopped. And you, me, and Pauli are going to do just that.”

  The garlic sauce had an interesting flavor, but the meat was tough even though it’d been boiled and Varus referred to it as “calf.” Pauli Weigand had trained his palate in meals eaten across ten millennia. He guessed the donor hadn’t been a calf for at least a year, and that it had been a pretty rough year besides.

  As worried as he was about Beckie and Gerd, anything Pauli ate was going to taste like sawdust. His jaws moved stolidly on the bite he’d torn from the slice he held in his right hand.

  “Wine!” Sigimer demanded. His mustache and much of his blond beard were purple with spillage from previous cups. A girl with a ladle of wine reached cautiously toward Sigimer’s cup. Earlier the German had jerked the dress down from her bosom, though that had been several cupfuls before.

  “Why don’t you barbarians make wine yourselves, Arminius?” asked Silius Gallus. The lawyer’d been drinking also or he might have found a more tactful way to phrase the question. “I tried some of your ale when I arrived here and it was terrible. Why, I’d have believed a slave had pissed in my mouth!”

  “Is that the sort of problem you often have, Gallus?” Cisius asked in false concern.

  “Oh, good one, good one!” Varus bellowed. He mopped his lips, like the governor’s tunic, the napkin had a broad violet border to show that he was a member of the Senate. “ ‘Is that the sort of problem you often have?’ ”

  “Ah, most of my poor people haven’t had the experience I have of seeing Rome firsthand,” Arminius said. He’d drunk his share during the meal, but he had a stronger head than Sigimer and, for that matter, many of the Romans. “Soon I’m sure all Germany will have a chance to see exactly what Roman power amounts to.”

  Pauli put the remainder of the meat into his mouth and resumed chewing. He licked his fingers, then wiped them on the napkin he’d brought with him. The linen was dyed to match his dining cape; sauce stains only darkened the fabric.

  He hadn’t been expected to take part in the conversation. The last place at table would probably have been filled by one of the governor’s freedmen had not “the messenger of Augustus” arrived. Nobody thought Pauli’s position gave him status to equal that of the nobles with whom he dined.

  There was commotion in the hallway. The majordomo himself ran in. “Master!” he cried. Varus was looking over his shoulder to talk with the chief steward and didn’t notice the intrusion for a moment. “I would have brought this to your attention properly, but—”

  A big, middle-aged German strode into the garden. He was flanked but not prevented by two soldiers, one of them the centurion commanding the guards outside the residence. Besides his swagger stick, the centurion carried a long sword with an ornate hilt.

  “Quinctilius Varus!” the German said in a voice raised nearly to a shout. “Listen to me, my prince!”

  Sigimer looked up and said, almost sober, “Hey! What’s Segestes doing here? Hermann, look who’s here!”

  Arminius got to his feet, hindered by the pillows and the couch coverlet that tangled with his short cape. Pauli rolled his knees under him though he didn’t rise, not yet.

  He didn’t think things could get t
oo badly out of hand. The carver slicing bits off the veal loin at a side table hopped back, taking the big knife with him. That was the only weapon in the garden besides those the legionaries carried—and the microwave pistol in the lining of Pauli’s cape.

  “Ah, Segestes,” Varus said, pursing his lips in concern. “I had no idea that you’d be in Aliso today or I’d have invited you to dinner. As it is…”

  “Sir, I thought I’d better let him through, being he’s a king and an ally and all that,” said the centurion. He looked relieved that the governor wasn’t tearing a strip off him, at least not as a first thought. “We kept the folks riding with him outside, though.”

  Segestes had a dark red beard and mustache, while the shoulder-length hair of his scalp was blond and speckled with gray. The borders of his long blue cloak were worked with gold lace; the tip of the scabbard poking beneath the hem of the cloak was gold cut-work as well.

  “I didn’t come to eat!” Segestes said. He threw the right side of his cloak back over his shoulder as if to clear his sword arm, though the ornate scabbard was empty. Segestes wore a torque like a giant horseshoe around his neck. It must be made of tubing rather than solid metal or the weight would have bent him double. “I came to warn you that this Cheruscan viper is planning to murder you and all your army if you march against the Chauci tomorrow!”

  Gallus burst out laughing. Cisius stifled a smile in his napkin and said, “The whole army? My goodness, that’s a little extreme even for barbarian hyperbole, isn’t it?”

  Sigimer stood up, swaying noticeably. He looked in puzzlement at the cup in his hand, then cocked his arm back. The chief steward snatched the cup from his hand before he could hurl it at Segestes.