Fireball (11 page)

Simon weighed the satisfaction of thumping Brad against the possibility of there being something in what he said. He undoubled his fist. Some things improved with waiting.

He said: “Okay. We'll leave it till this lunatic business is over. That ought not to be too long.”

Brad kept a wary eye on him. “You think it's lunatic?”

“Planning to overthrow an empire that's lasted two thousand years? What would you call it?”

“Everything comes to an end some time. There's no more magic in two thousand years than two hundred. Julian did a good job stabilizing things, but there's no way you can build a system that gets rid of all resentments. The Christians stopped martyring themselves when he dropped the religious oath of allegiance, but that didn't mean they were happy. A fuse being long and slow doesn't make the explosion any less violent.”

“So what? One legion could put down the Bishop's crazy revolt. A single cohort could! And there are three legions in Britain and another four just across the Channel, in Gaul. What else but lunatic?”

Brad leaned against the window ledge. It was the eleventh hour, and the sky was darkening behind him.

“The Bishop is a pretty remarkable man,” he said.

“Maybe. But he'd need to be more than remarkable to take on the Roman army.”

Brad shook his head thoughtfully. “It didn't take long to work out what he wanted from me. He's well aware what chance a revolt against the Romans would have under normal conditions. The only way of reversing the odds would be to bring in some devastating new weapon. This world has seen nothing new in that line for over twenty centuries. It's very different in the world we came from.”

“What does he want you to do,” Simon asked, “—build him an H-bomb?”

Brad grinned. “That's something I never did read up on. I guess the basic technology would take awhile to develop; and the Romans might get curious if they saw something like Oak Ridge going up. My idea was gunpowder. Mortars, cannon, primitive rifles. I could have helped him there.”

“But you didn't?”

“He didn't want it. It would still take too long. The Bishop wants faster action.”

Simon was curious. “What, then?”

“We went through the history of warfare in our world. We picked two technical developments which
switched the odds and guaranteed victory for the side that had them.”

“Which were?”

“The stirrup and the longbow. The stirrup was introduced in the eighth century and made the Frankish cavalry the masters of northern Europe. Before that cavalry meant only what it still means here: a way of getting soldiers to the scene of the action quickly. They have to dismount to fight.

“Five hundred years later, Edward the First came up with the longbow, and at Crécy and Agincourt those conquering horsemen got themselves massacred. The longbow stayed dominant for more than two hundred years—until the invention of firearms, in fact. Either one could do the trick probably, against an army which has spent centuries rehearsing stale tactics, with no real fighting. The Bishop plans to make sure by using both. Both are simple to make and to learn to use. You don't need factories or complicated machinery. That's what I mean by remarkable.”

Simon shook his head. “I still think it's crazy.” He paused. “If it could happen, would you be in favour?”

“I haven't been asked. But I think I might. This place is overdue for a change.”

“I don't see much wrong with the way things are.”

“No? With worldwide ignorance—organized brutality like the Games? And how about slavery? Have you forgotten what it's like to squat in the dust, wearing nothing but a length of rope? Or is slavery okay now that it doesn't apply to you?”

Simon ignored the questions. He really didn't care what happened with the Bishop's revolt. The important thing was getting back to the villa, and Lavinia. And probably the best hope of achieving that was to do what the Bishop said, for the time being, at any rate.

•  •  •

Simon had been given instructions for locating the tavern, but he still didn't find it easily. It lay in the centre of a warren of dilapidated streets east of the barracks and was one of many—in some streets, branches of ivy seemed to hang from every roof. The ivy was the only thing to show wine was sold; there was nothing like an inn sign. But though his first choice was wrong, Bos was known there. He was directed to a place even more squalid in the next street.

A couple of men were drinking from battered metal pots. Simon found an empty pot and rapped
with it on the stone counter. There was a shuffle of feet beyond a narrow doorway, and a woman came through. She had to turn sideways slightly; she wasn't tall, but she must have weighed close to two hundred pounds.

She looked at him suspiciously; her face was round, but not soft. He asked for Bos, and after a long stare she called into the back room for him.

Could this be the girlfriend of whom Bos had spoken with such affection? Bos himself provided confirmation by entering and giving the woman a loving pat that set the mass of flesh quivering. Then he said, shaking his big head in amazement: “Simonus! Is it you?”

Simon put a hand out, but it was disregarded; he was embraced and felt his ribs creak. Then Bos stood back and looked at him with concern. He touched Simon's shaven chin and, with a quick glance towards the two men, pushed him through to the back room. It was mainly furnished with kegs, but there were a couple of chairs. In a troubled voice, Bos said: “Running away is bad enough, Simonus. But to pass yourself off as a freedman . . . It means the beasts.”

“I have been freed.” Bos regarded him
suspiciously. “And I've come here as a messenger. From His Holiness the Bishop.”

“The Bishop?”

Bos shook his head again. Simon had been told to administer the oath of secrecy, and he decided to get it over with. He felt like a fool doing it, but Bos took it seriously. And it seemed to remove any doubts he had. He listened solemnly as Simon began to explain what was required.

He was almost immediately interrupted by a girl appearing in another doorway, but Bos barked a dismissal which sent her scurrying off.

“Macara's sister,” he explained. “Go on, Simonus.”

Macara must be the fat one, which meant that this was the girl Bos had had in mind for him. Thinner, certainly, but with lank, greasy hair, a sallow skin, and a mouthful of bad teeth.

He stated the case as plainly as possible, simply saying that the Bishop was planning a holy war against Rome, that he had new weapons which would overcome the legions, and that Bos's mission was to win over the gladiators to be the spearhead of the rebellion.

It sounded thin and unconvincing, an invitation to disaster. Bos, whose profession was fighting,
would surely see that. For that matter, why should someone who so far had uncomplainingly accepted everything that fate sent his way turn rebel anyway? He waited for the slow, judicious headshake he had grown familiar with during the long days of training as a
secutor.

But all Bos said was: “His Holiness has greatly honoured me. It will be done.”

He was a Christian, of course. Loyalty to his Church could outweigh professional reservations. He was, too, a man accustomed to facing death and long odds.

Simon said warningly: “You're to win over all the gladiators—not just the handful of Christians.”

The big face broke into a grin.

“Leave it to me, Simonus!”

A
LTHOUGH UNIMPRESSIVE AS A BUILDING
, the Bishop's headquarters was extensive; it took up an entire block of small dwellings linked by a maze of alleys and yards. At the heart was the chapel, the one place richly decorated. The walls were painted gold, and rounded corners gave you a feeling of being inside a big golden egg.

It was a feeling Simon had plenty of opportunity to experience. There was Mass twice daily, and you needed a better excuse than he could think up to be absent. Morning Mass, though it involved unpleasantly early
rising, was at least fairly brief, lasting not much more than an hour. (An hour, at this season, was approximately sixty minutes, though since the Roman day was divided into twelve equal parts, it would get shorter with the approach of winter.) In evening Mass, though, the interminable succession of psalms and hymns and Scripture readings dragged on for nearly three hours. He drowsed through it, watching the flickering candles and thinking of more attractive things—usually Lavinia.

The remainder of the day was not much less boring. Brad spent a lot of time with the Bishop, but Simon was left to kick his heels. There was no prospect, it was made clear, of his returning to the country. On the other hand, there was no prohibition on going out into the streets, and he did that. It was more interesting, but there was one big drawback. The Christians presumably used money, since food was bought in the market, but no one seemed to think it necessary to provide him with any. The smells from the food shops—fresh-baked bread, hot pies, fried fish, meat stews—were tantalizing after the plain and meagre fare of the community, but the
cheapest thing appeared to cost a couple of brass
sestertii,
and he didn't even have a copper
as.
He would have liked to visit one of the music-and-dance shows in the booths beside the forum, but they required money, too.

So he wandered aimlessly, watching people and looking at the buildings. The Temple of Julian was the most impressive, bigger even than the temples of Jupiter and Venus. It stood isolated, with traffic passing all round, approached by marble steps on each side. From the shadowy darkness beyond the columns at the top came the sound of chanting, and sacrificial smoke plumed into the sky. Its magnificence, compared with the poky Christian chapel, put the Bishop's wild ideas into proper perspective.

Autumn had come, bringing chill grey days with the wind blowing the dust or the sharp rain laying it. He had a
birrus Britannicus,
something like a duffle coat with a hood, but it was well worn, threadbare in places: poor protection against a northeaster. The wind was knifelike as he turned away from the temple and trudged back.

He found Brad packing and asked: “Going somewhere?”

“Yep.” Brad's face was expressionless.

“Where?”

“The planning's over. From here on we're into armaments. I've got a foreman's job at last.”

“Away from here?”

Brad shrugged. “Has to be. No room here to swing a
feles,
let alone stockpile longbows.”

Simon said nothing. The place was going to be even duller, he realized, without Brad. Brad said: “Don't you want to know where the factory's to be?”

He shook his head. “Not much.”

“Has to be off the beaten track, to escape prying eyes. And within reach of a good supply of the right wood. So, would you believe, it turns out Quintus Cornelius has a plantation of yew trees on the other side of the valley from the villa. They make a special line of furniture from them.”

Brad was smiling. “Anyone down there you'd like me to give regards to?”

•  •  •

The next day Simon was given another errand. Two prototype longbows had been made. Brad had taken
one to the villa; the other was to be delivered to Bos. It was raining when he set out, the bow concealed in a bolt of cloth on his shoulder. There were few people about; anyone with any sense would stay indoors.

He was hoping for a rest at the tavern and a chance to dry off a bit in front of a fire; but Bos was eager to try the weapon out, and they set off again at once. They slogged on through still meaner streets, in thickening rain, to a disused brickfield on the outskirts of the city. It was about a hundred yards long, surrounded by a broken-down wooden fence. Piles of bricks stood like islands in the mud, and a lean-to provided some shelter at one end. There Simon unwrapped the cloth and gave Bos the bow.

Bos said: “The Parthians use little ones, shooting them from horseback. I have seen them in the Games. But you could not fire this from a horse. You have arrows?”

“One.”

He produced it. It had a tip of beaten iron, which Bos examined critically. Simon said: “You fire these standing. I'll show you.”

He fitted the arrow to the string, drew it back,
and let fly. It landed some fifty feet away. He said: “I'll get it back and try again.”

“Leave it to me,” Bos said.

He tentatively shook one of the timbers supporting the lean-to, then with a grunt uprooted it. It was about eight feet by two and a couple of inches thick. Bos carried it effortlessly about twice the distance Simon's arrow had travelled, and wedged it upright in a pile of bricks. He picked up the arrow on the way back.

Taking the bow from Simon, he flexed it experimentally. Simon's effort had scarcely bent the bow; in Bos's hands it gave like rubber.

Simon said: “The arrow's supposed to be capable of penetrating a breastplate.”

Without answering, Bos fitted the arrow, took aim, and fired. Even the hiss through the air sounded different—a stabbing, purposeful snake instead of a feeble, listless one. The arrow stuck quivering in the plank, and Bos and Simon went out to look. The head had gone through the plank as though it were cardboard, and stood inches clear on the other side. Bos nodded approval, shaking raindrops from his grizzled hair.

“A good weapon, but it wants learning. I aimed for his chest, and it went a foot over his head.”

“All right for someone with your muscles,” Simon said. “Mine wouldn't have scratched a bare chest.”

“It will come with practice.”

Bos twitched the arrow and broke the shaft close to the point of impact. He drew it through and gave both parts to Simon.

“Go back and tell His Holiness if he gives me fifty such weapons, I will find him fifty good right arms to use them.”