Authors: K.D. Wentworth
“LISTEN, YOU LITTLE TURD, GET OUT THERE AND FIND ME SOME VIRGINS!”
“Right,” he mumbled, making frantic gestures to the girl to come out of the temple. “I’ll have them here in a few hours, tomorrow at the very latest.” Amaelia ran past him and on down the steps. Kerickson bowed deeply one final time, then rose to his numb feet and lurched backward after her.
Red-eyed and trembling, Amaelia waited for him at the first corner beside a wine shop. He took her arm and walked her on down the busy street, noticing how much more . . . mature she looked than the last time he had seen her, even with a tear-streaked face.
“Listen,” she said as they passed a German barbarian, “I’m really sorry about the sacred fire going out. I only left it alone for a few minutes. It
should have been perfectly all right.”
“Well . . .” The faint spice of her perfume tingled all the way down into his toes. He suddenly remembered his manners and draped his cloak around her shivering shoulders. “These things happen.”
“But you don’t understand. The message said I was to meet my father down at the Public Baths right away, but he never came.” Covering her coppery hair with the cloak’s hood, she gazed back at the golden-roofed temple. “I guess it was somebody’s idea of a joke.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes.
“I never wanted to be a Vestal Virgin anyway,” she said finally. “My stepmother made me do it so our family would get the double experience points.”
Of course, what she wasn’t mentioning was that those experience points had been enough to turn the tide in her father’s favor. Micio Metullus had been able to trade in those points for an increased charisma ranking, which in turn had subverted the Praetorian Guard last quarter. Micio was now entrenched in the Palace as Emperor, as firmly as anyone could be who had to play against the rest of the Imperium to keep his place.
“What’s it like on the outside?” She turned wistful green eyes upon him. “Tell me about airhoppers and gravity wells and things like that.”
“Airhoppers?” He glanced sideways at her creamy profile. “Just how long have you been here, anyway?”
“My father enrolled before I turned five. I really don’t remember anything else.”
“But surely you take vacations, visit relatives—” He broke off, shocked.
“People who take vacations lose points.” She sighed. “That’s the way my father looks at it.”
“Oh.” A nasty thought suddenly occurred to Kerickson. He reached for her wrist and pulled it closer to examine her Game bracelet; the status light was flashing yellow. “I’m afraid her holiness has blanked you. You’ll have to start over like everyone else—down in the Slave Market.”
“The Slave Market!” Her face paled. “Are you—isn’t there anything that can be done?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Then, stricken by the expression on her face, he added, “But I don’t think that it would break any rules if you stopped off and saw your father on the way.”
She nodded.
Well, she was too lovely to be locked up in a moldy old temple anyway, he thought as he watched her turn toward the Palace. At her age and with her looks, she could do much better for herself in the Game than being stuck with playing nursemaid to Vesta’s boring sacred fire twenty-four hours a day.
Fifteen minutes later he was on his way to the Brothers Julian Restaurant for a light snack when his wristfone squawked. He punched the button the same way he wanted to tag the person or persons who had messed up Minerva. “Kerickson here.”
“Kerickson, what’s this nonsense about Amaelia having to be sold down at the Delos Slave Market?”
“Not too worried about authenticity points today, are we, Micio, old man?” He shrugged even though Micio Metullus, current Emperor of the Imperium, would not be able to see it. “Well, you know how it is and all. She, well, you know—
sinned. “
“She may have erred in judgment—a little.” Micio’s words were hard, almost bitten off. “But she did nothing compromising, and she is Imperial progeny. She cannot be sold as a common slave. What will people think?”
“Look, I know how you feel—”
“Do you have children?”
“No,” Kerickson said stonily. A muscle under his eye twitched. His wife, Alline, known these days as Demea, had left him before they had gotten around to starting a family, but of all people, Micio should be perfectly aware of that, since
he
was now married to her.
“Then you do not know how I feel.”
Kerickson closed his eyes, picturing the heavy face quivering beneath a thinning layer of red hair, the deep folds around Micio’s mouth, which reminded him of a bull walrus.
“I cannot send my only child down to the local market to be sold as a slave. I just can’t. I mean, what’s the good of being Emperor if I can’t have my way?”
After six years working in the Game’s Interface, Kerickson couldn’t see any good at all in being Emperor, but since Micio had managed to acquire Kerickson’s own wife in the process of ascending to the pinnacle of Imperial power, it didn’t seem a point he could argue from a position of strength. He made a hasty change of subject. “Look, Micio, why don’t you just withdraw Amaelia from the Game? Send her to live outside, book her a vacation, or something like that.”
There was a long pause. “You know very well that the Empress cannot bear to be without her only daughter.”
“You mean stepdaughter.” Yeah, Kerickson thought, she can’t bear to be without the poor kid’s points. That was why Demea had shut her up in the Temple of Vesta, where she didn’t have access to any of them. “Well, there’s only one solution that I can think of.”
“Which is?”
“That you and her Imperialness get yourselves down to Delos first thing tomorrow and buy Amaelia when she comes up for bid. Once she’s your property, you can free her, adopt her, or do anything you want with her.”
“Well, I suppose we could do that.” Micio’s tone was petulant. “But that’s bound to cost a lot of gold, and it takes a bundle each week to keep the Praetorian Guard in line.”
“I’m sure a clever player like you will think of a way to handle them.” Kerickson punched the wristfone off, then rubbed at the knotted muscles in the back of his neck, thinking wistfully of an Imperium where all the characters were played by robots programmed to anticipate his every whim.
* * *
The water spraying out of the leaping dolphin’s mouth into the garden pool tinkled invitingly, but Empress Demea watched it from behind the house force field that separated her from the nasty, crudely cold air currently circulating through the dome. There were, of course, limits to authenticity, even in the Game.
“Massage, mistress?”
Turning her head, she met the round, night-dark eyes of her Nubian servant, Flina, wondering, as always, if the girl were human or only one of the robot surrogates used here in the Game. She’d tried to find out a number of times, but Flina was either human or the best surrogate that money could buy. “No,” she said shortly. “Leave me.”
Bowing her graceful neck, the girl dropped her eyes and retreated from the inner colonnade that surrounded the courtyard.
Tiresome things, slaves. Demea paced a few steps as she rubbed her aching temples with her fingertips. Outside the Game, they sounded like ever so much more fun than they actually were. For one thing, she had to give extremely explicit instructions or even the smallest chore could be totally bollixed. And then they were always watching her, no doubt trying to catch her in something un-Roman that would cost a roomful of points if revealed to the computer or repeated to the proper ear.
And there was always this look in their eyes, as though they knew something that she didn’t, and—
“This whole damn thing is your fault!” Striding suddenly through the open doorway, her husband’s face had that unappealing purple quality that always foretold trouble. “I told you she’d never pull it off!”
Folding her hands, Demea reminded herself that the computer might be watching this very moment, and unmatronly behavior right here before the Saturnalia could cost them big in authenticity points. Unfortunately, they had little to spare at the moment. “Some . . . problem, my pet?”
“Don’t you ‘my pet’ me!” Micio’s squinty eyes searched the garden, then returned to her. “Amaelia’s been blanked. You’ll have to go down and buy her at Delos tomorrow before someone else does!”
“Delos?” Demea sniffed, then arranged herself on a backless chair so the folds of her elegantly long white tunic fell for the best effect. “I think not. The little wretch is your flesh and blood, not mine, and besides, I’m sure no true Empress would ever set foot in such a disgusting and vulgar place.”
“Vulgar?” Micio sidled up next to her, his chin twitching. “You want to talk about vulgar? Like that little purchase of four matched male slaves fresh off the boat last week from Thrace?”
A warm flush crept up her neck. “It’s only a role, dearest. You know that. I have to play out the expectations of a true consort in my position.” Her stomach tightened; she hadn’t realized Micio had been aware of that rather personal transaction. What else did the little sneak know? “May I remind you that my extremely in-character behavior is one source of the points that made you Emperor?”
“Is that so?” A deep crevice appeared between her husband’s eyes, a sure sign of a coming fit. “Just whom do you think you’re basing your character on, then—Messalina, the Imperial whore?”
She studied him—the warty chin, the jowly cheeks, that disgusting red hair. Whatever had possessed her to marry him when she might have had any number of others? Who knew? Even her former husband, Arvid Kerickson, might have enrolled if only she had tried a bit harder to persuade him. She smiled, remembering his blue eyes and willingness to please. Yes, for all his faults, Arvid had definitely had his moments.
Micio’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I see.” Knotting his hands behind his back, he glared at her. “You realize that all of this might be avoided—if you come back to my bed.”
“In your dreams,
dearest.
”
She resisted the urge to reach out and twitch a fold of his toga into place. In ancient Rome a man had often been judged by how well he wore his toga; of course, Micio would never have made it there. “Give my regards to the Senate.” She watched him retreat.
“WELL PLAYED, MY DEAR.”
“Why, thank you, your exaltedness.” She managed a quick curtsy as she looked around for the manifestation. “But I was, of course, only following your own divine example.”
The air shimmered, then resolved into the form of Juno as a middle-aged woman about half again as large as life, dressed in a flawlessly white floor-length gown with a daring décolletage. “KEEP THIS UP AND THERE MIGHT JUST BE A FEW EXTRA POINTS WAITING FOR YOU AT THE SATURNALIA NEXT WEEK.”
“You’re too kind,” Demea murmured. “I don’t suppose that you could grant a few favors before the blessed event?”
“WHAT SORT OF FAVORS?”
“Well . . .” she began, then sighed. “Oh, I’m sure I shouldn’t put you in that position. After all, I already pleaded with
his
exaltedness for this teensy little boon, and he said absolutely not.”
Juno cocked her head. “JUPITER REFUSED YOU?”
“Yes, well, I’m sure I was entirely too forward for a mere woman, at least that’s what he said, but I—I miss my little treats so much.” She hesitated. “I just thought that maybe now, at Saturnalia, when we’re all supposed to be enjoying ourselves anyway, it might be permitted.”
“WHAT DO YOU REQUIRE?” Juno’s blue-green eyes narrowed. “AS PROTECTRESS OF MARRIED WOMEN, IT FALLS TO ME TO SAY YES OR NO.”
“Well, it’s nothing, really—just a crate or two of slightly illegal goodies. Nothing really harmful, you understand.”
“DRUGS?”
“Good heavens, no!” Demea looked shocked. “Just a little refined sugar and some pork rinds.”
“PORK RINDS . . . AND PERHAPS A BIT OF COLA?” Juno’s eyes gleamed with appreciation. “FOOD FIT FOR THE GODS, INDEED.”
“Then you’ll help?”
“COME AND SIT DOWN, MY DEAR.” Juno conjured up a velvety green divan for herself, then indicated Demea’s chair with a graceful sweep of her overlarge hand. “IT JUST SO HAPPENS THAT I HAVE A BIT OF EXTRA LEEWAY AT THE MOMENT. LET US PLAN THIS LITTLE VENTURE TOGETHER. AS I HAVE TOLD YOU MANY TIMES, NO MERE MAN CAN WITHHOLD WHAT A WOMAN IS TRULY DETERMINED TO HAVE.”
* * *
“A nice young morsel.” Rufus closed the door behind the City Guard, then winked at the red-haired beauty they had just delivered, his mind leaping ahead to calculate the price that this particular delicacy would bring on the block. It was an intriguing question, because as far as he knew, the Slave Market had never had the opportunity to auction off an Emperor’s daughter before.
She met his stare without flinching. “Let’s just get on with this.”
“In time, my little chicken, in time.” Closing his eyes, he could almost hear the credits clinking into his account this very minute. His role here as Slavemaster, after all, was such a plebian occupation, and he had known ever since his enrollment in the Game over two years ago that he, Rufus Tiro, formerly known as Vinnie Siskel on the outside, was destined for great things in the ongoing saga of the Imperium. The problem was that it not only took good Roman gold to advance in rank, but veritable mountains of it. Here, as in ancient Rome, that was just the way things were done.
But . . . He studied the new acquisition, then suppressed a sigh. This delicate flower had such lovely skin, smooth and pale as the underside of a newborn mouse’s belly, and such eyes, green as the finest plastic, and teeth as white as . . . something, exactly what eluded him at the moment. Perhaps he should just claim her as a portion of his share for running the Slave Market that supplied all of the Imperium. He hadn’t selected anything for himself lately, what with the miserable quality of newly enrolled personnel, and profit being what it was.
“It’s not necessary to chain me like this.” She held up her slender wrists. “I’d much rather be here than stuck back in that boring temple with Vesta.”
“Vesta, is it?” He twined a red strand of her hair about his hand as a chuckle rose into his throat. “I should have known. We get two or three girls from Vesta every year. Virginity is so tedious, don’t you think?”