The Imperium Game (3 page)

“I think this whole place is stupid, and I—I don’t want to play anymore.” Seating herself on the divan in his office, she turned her face to the wall.

“Oh, but this is the best of all Romes.” Pulling out his ledger, Rufus sat down at his desk and began to make notes. “The best and the truest. I’m sure you’ll come to appreciate that, once you’re purchased by your new master.”

But although he meant to be comforting, for some reason his words only made her cry.

ORDERING
his nosy little body servant, Pimus, to stay behind, Micio Julius Metullus, current Emperor of the Imperium, huddled into a plain brown cloak and set off for the Public Baths.

The Imperial Palace had its own facilities, of course—marvelous ones with vast expanses of white marble and gold fixtures that sprayed water out of the most imaginative orifices, not to mention deliciously naughty mosaics that portrayed everything larger than life. But the matter he needed to discuss could have been overheard in the Palace, and it was imperative this meeting be kept secret.

Of course, there was that nagging little problem of his daughter being sold down at the Slave Market, but he had sent Quintus Gracchus, Captain of the Praetorian Guard, to make his bid. After all, a man couldn’t be in two places at once, and this was business.

Walking along the Via Appia, he passed the expensive Trajan Inn with its red brick facade and sparkling fountains. People clad in the finest of fabrics bustled in and out of the portico, no doubt mostly tourists. He ducked his head to avoid their eyes. Even though most of them probably wouldn’t be able to recognize him, he wasn’t taking any chances—not with the Saturnalia so close and the incoming shipment.

Oh, he knew his partners were supposed to handle those things, but it was better to keep his finger in the pie, so to speak. And it wasn’t as though he was incapable of handling the details himself. After all, one didn’t get to be Emperor without breaking a few heads.

The arches of the Public Baths were visible just ahead, and he let himself relax a bit. Wonderful invention, the baths. Although he considered the ancient Romans an uncivilized lot on the whole, this was one institution that could enrich modern times. If he could hold on to the Emperorship long enough to complete his outside fortune, he would see what he could do about reintroducing the concept into society—or at least filthy-rich society, which was the only portion worth bothering about.

He hurried up the broad marble steps and entered the outer reception area, queuing up in the nearest line instead of pushing them all aside, commoner and patrician alike, as his rank entitled him to do. Steam wafted out from inside, fragrant with the scent of perfumed bath oils and accompanied by laughter and shouting, no doubt from the gambling area.

Shuffling after the tunic-garbed back in front of him, he presented his Game bracelet to the Keeper of the Baths at the door, letting him insert it in the recorder to debit his account. “Have a nice day,” the keeper said blankly. Micio examined the man’s square-jawed face closely, but saw no sign of recognition. More than likely it was only a robot surrogate, not human at all.

“Thanks.” He dropped his head and went on into the bathing area to meet his business partner. In the changing room, he ignored the waiting bath slave, dropped his clothes to the floor, and strode on, good Roman that he supposedly was, as though nakedness meant nothing to him. Actually it made him rather nervous, but that was the way it was done here, and he knew full well that if you wanted to be Emperor, you—if no one else—had to do things the way they were done.

He watched the elderly slave scuttle forward to pick up his clothes and hang them on a hook, then went on into the warm bath. Gratefully, he waded down the broad steps into the tile-lined pool and relaxed back in the tepid water up to his neck, ignoring the other men after a quick look around. The one he was waiting for had not yet arrived.

But soon, he told himself and stared up at the vaulted ceiling and its inlaid stars. His contact would come. They would conclude their business, and then he would go on making money until he could jettison this stupid Game and be done with armor and Praetorian Guards and the idiot gods forever.

The sound of water lapping against the sides of the pool echoed through the room. Micio closed his eyes and floated on his back. At some point the low murmurs of the other men ceased.

Finally, he stood up and gazed around at the lavish blue-and-orange mosaics, realizing with a start that he was alone. Blinking, he heaved himself out of the water and perched on the tiled side of the pool. It was far too early in the day for the Baths to be empty. The facilities were available to everyone above the level of slave; this room should be crowded with men, playing roles that ranged from senator to freedman.

Shivering, he pushed himself up and walked around the pool to reach the door to the hot bath, his feet slapping wetly on the slick tile.

In the room beyond, the heated water beckoned his goose-bumped flesh with lazy curls of steam. Rubbing his hands over his arms, he hurried down the steps into the pool, then stopped thigh-deep to let his skin adjust to the much higher temperature.

“Well,” a familiar voice said from the other side of the room. “I was beginning to think you were going to renege.”

“You’re in the wrong goddamned room!” Micio advanced another step into the fragrant, steaming water. “We agreed upon the warm bath!”

“Details, details.” The dimly seen figure waved a careless hand. “All unimportant as long as we come to an agreement today.”

Leaving the steps, Micio started to wade across, but the water was deeper than he remembered and he was forced to dogpaddle toward the opposite side. It was a damn good thing no one else was present, he thought angrily, since he could lose authenticity points for this; the male nobility were supposed to be extremely fit and athletic.

When the side of the pool was close enough, he flailed at the tiled edge and finally got enough of a purchase to pull himself to safety. Spitting out a mouthful of water, he coughed, then squinted up at his partner. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Of course.”

“My final offer stands.” He coughed again, then rubbed at his eyes. “The next Emperor may prove to have a scruple or two and not be nearly as cooperative as I am.”

“Five million credits is too much.”

“This deal is cheap at the price.” Micio felt the urge to cough again, and suddenly realized the air smelled funny—acrid, hot. He looked up and saw a thin curl of smoke. Hurriedly he started to haul himself out of the water.

“Not so fast, my Imperial friend.” A sandalled foot kicked him in the side of the head.

Stunned, Micio lost his balance and fell backward, windmilling his arms as the hot water closed over his face. For a terrifying second he couldn’t tell up from down in the water’s diluted gravity; then he struggled back to the surface.

As he sputtered and gasped for air, it became apparent that something was definitely wrong. “What—”

A hand clamped down on his arm and extracted him from the water, dropping him on the floor to lie there like a beached whale, trying to breathe air that burned his throat. A racking cough overtook him again, and then he understood. “Out!” he gasped, pushing himself to his knees. “We have to—”

“Micio, old pal, I thought the matter over while you were having your little swim.” The voice sounded funny, tinny, as though whoever it was were speaking into a metal box. “Five million is just too stiff for me.”

His eyes were burning, brimming with tears. The air seared his throat until he could barely speak. “Help!” he croaked hoarsely, and tried to crawl in the direction of the door.

A foot caught him in the kidney and flipped him over on his back, then stamped down on his chest and pinned him to the floor like a dying fish impaled on a spear. The smoke was swirling, growing thicker and thicker, he couldn’t breathe—had to get out. “Anything!” he gasped. “Your terms—anything you—” Coughing overtook him again, racking his lungs until he thought he would turn inside out.

“A pity,” said the cool, metallic voice above him. “We might have done such lucrative business together.”

* * *

Dragging into the Interface, Kerickson glanced uneasily at his fellow programmer. Wilson looked at least ten years older than he had yesterday, maybe fifteen. “Have you thought of finding another line of work—maybe something with a bit less stress?”

“Give up the Game?” Wilson ran a hand through his brown hair, a stunned look on his haggard face. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that I’ve been up all night running diagnostics on Minerva.”

There was a long silence interrupted only by a faint background hum from the monitors. “And?” Kerickson finally prompted.

“And—it’s coming.” Wilson plopped into his chair.

“So, let’s have a look at the old girl.” Kerickson punched in the call code for Minerva, and the center screen erupted in a blaze of light.

“I AM MINERVA, GODDESS OF WISDOM, REASON, AND PURITY, PROTECTRESS OF CIVILIZED LIFE AND THE CITY.” The light coalesced into a tiny brown owl holding a writhing gray mouse in the talons of one foot.

“So—” Kerickson tried to sound nonchalant. “How are the Saturnalia plans coming?”

“I CAN’T BE BOTHERED WITH SUCH TRIVIALITIES NOW.” The owl tore off a bit of bloody mouse and swallowed.

Shaking his head, Kerickson turned back to his partner.

“I’ll work on it,” Wilson said under his breath, then punched Minerva off.

“Great.” Kerickson closed his eyes. “Just great. Three more days until the Saturnalia and her exaltedness is eating mice. She’s a goddess; she’s not supposed to be eating rodents!”

“So she’s a little confused.” Wilson punched in some figures and studied the screen. “I almost have it, unless you think that you could do better yourself.”

“No, I haven’t got time.” Kerickson limbered his fingers up, then reached for the console. “I have to find some virgins pronto or old Vesta’s liable to burn down the city.”

“You mean you still don’t have any?” Wilson glanced up.

“Well, I offered triple family experience points, but everyone seems to have heard about Vesta’s strict standards, not to mention her nasty temper. No one is biting.” Kerickson punched the code for access to the Imperium newsnet. “I didn’t get one offer of a new girl over the age of three, and Vesta is only programmed for six and up.”

“I could write her some new parameters.” Wilson reached for the keyboard. “It won’t take that long.”

Kerickson grabbed Wilson’s hand. “Isn’t that what you were supposed to be doing last week?” A muscle jumped underneath Kerickson’s eye. “Just before she went—down?”

“That had nothing to do with me.”

“Yeah, right.” Placing Wilson’s hand on the arm of the chair, well away from the keyboard, he turned back to his own console. “You touch Vesta, bud, and you’re dead.”

The ventilation kicked in with a soft whir, then he heard Wilson mumbling softly to himself. He frowned. He didn’t like to push old Wilson past his limits, but Vesta was too important to screw with right before the Saturnalia. With Minerva down and Juno so touchy, Vesta might be the only supernatural voice of sanity left in the Imperium for the next few days.

Wilson turned to him. “Holy shit, I don’t believe it!”

Kerickson sat up with a wrench. “Don’t believe what?”

“Fire!’” Wilson’s voice was panicked as his fingers flew over the keyboard. “The Public Baths are burning!”

* * *

“I understand you have a rather special package of goods for sale,” the tall, military-looking man on the other side of Rufus Tiro’s door said.

Rufus didn’t recognize this particular patrician face, and that was strange. He had made it his business to know most of the thirty patrician families by sight. “What . . . can I do for you—sir?”

“I wish to arrange a private sale.”

The man pushed into the atrium, and belatedly Rufus realized he should have asked this potentially valuable customer inside.

“Although I am willing to pay top price for this particular piece of goods, I have no desire for the whole Imperium to know my business.”

“Of course,” Rufus murmured, in what he hoped was a soothing manner, then quickly closed the door behind him. “How may I assist you?”

The man threw back the hood of his cloak. His jaw was strong and square, his eyes gray and hard “I wish to buy the Vestal Virgin consigned to the Delos Market.”

“Ah, yes, an exquisite young morsel with perfect skin and a disposition to match.” Rufus winked. “I have even thought of keeping her for myself, but I’m sure she would be much more appropriate in a higher household” Walking over to his desk, he pulled out a sheet of paper. “To whom shall I make out the bill of sale?”

“Leave the buyer’s name blank.” The man’s full Roman lips twitched into a faint smile. “I’ll fill it out later myself. I want this to be a completely private sale.”