The Fourth Rome (5 page)

It was one thing to know that Varus took a disastrously civilian view of administering a region that hadn’t been fully conquered,
much less pacified. It was another thing to see the governor holding court just as he would have done if he’d been assigned
to the administration of Athens or Marseilles.

A thought made Pauli stumble. “We’re going to have to repave these streets pretty quick,” Flaccus said apologetically. “This
time Varus is going to want stone, and tell me
that’s
not going to be a bitch on soil this weak.”

You’re not going to have to repave the camp,
Pauli thought.
In a few days you ’re all going to be dead.

An ARC Rider knew that everyone on the horizons he visited would die before he was born, but he didn’t often look around himself
and realize that tens of thousands of people in his immediate vicinity would die almost at once. There’d been a team in Nagasaki
on August 8, 1945. Pauli had heard that two members had retired shortly after they returned to ARC Central.

“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.