Strength and Honor (25 page)

Of course that would mean allowing Roman engineers in to the U.S. Northwest.

The LEN relayed the offer to its member nation. The American response ran along the lines of: “We’ll consider that while we check the weather forecast in hell.”

The nations on the other side of the Pacific rim also declined Rome’s generous offer of engineers. Those nations would engage their own repair crews. They only needed to know where to send the invoices for restitution.

As the faults under the Pacific Northwest lay close to the surface, the Roman strikes had caused—and continued to cause—intense shaking. The Romans may as well have been shooting at the civilian centers for the fire, upheaval, chaos, injury, and death they caused in the state of Washington.

Civilians in the area had died by the thousands. Rome could not bring them back to life. More civilians by the millions had been left homeless. Seattle’s airport and spaceport were clown. Commerce was at a stop, and the military bases suffered ruptures.

The U.S. Secretary of State told the Roman Praetor Peregrinus, “This isn’t war. It’s terrorism.” The Roman response was frosty. “And what do you call kidnapping, torturing, and murdering children?”

“Propaganda,” said the Secretary. “You
do
realize you are reciting your own propaganda, don’t you?”

“No. It’s not.” The Roman Praetor stood by the official line. But analysis of his vocals and his body language said that he had inwardly blinked. The State Department considered that progress, however small, to get someone of Peregrinus’ station in the Empire to question his own information.

This was not the Rome of Caesar Magnus. Magnus flew with eagles. Romulus crawled with termites.

Senator Ventor and Senator Philadelphus joined Caesar in the bath. The baths in Roma Nova were patterned after those in ancient Bath in England, though the new baths were not lined in lead and the frisky frescoes here had been lifted not from Bath but from ancient Pompeii.

Men spoke more freely in the soothing waters, naked, with a glass of wine at the side, and pictures of uninhibited men, women, and goats on the walls.

Romulus knew a lot of Senators had begun to question his leadership and the direction of the war.

These two, Ventor and Philadelphus, were counted among Caesar’s allies. But Romulus was always sensitive to changes in the current. It was time to get these two in the water and see which way they floated.

Ventor propped himself at the edge of the long pool. “Is it true there are gorgons on Thaleia,” he asked, pseudo-casual. “Or is that U.S. propaganda?”

“A bit of both,” Caesar answered, sounding unconcerned. “There have been gorgons seen on Thaleia. That much is fact. The Americans have puffed up the numbers. The gorgons’ numbers are few and Intelligence suspects they were planted.”

“Planted!” Philadelphus sputtered. His hand gestures made a splash. Caesar’s casual attitude was no comfort at all. “Who could have planted gorgons on Thaleia!”

“The United States,” Caesar suggested. “Or Augustus.”

Philadelphus had investments on Thaleia. “Where can I get the names of the children whom the Americans killed and the ones they are holding prisoner?”

Romulus brushed the question aside. He was Caesar, not a directory. “Where is Augustus?” Caesar looked from one Senator to the other. “I am unhappy knowing he is out there. No one claims to see him. Did he defect to the Americans?”

“Don’t know, Caesar,” Ventor said.

“Does Augustus not have a kill switch?” Romulus said.

“No, Caesar,” said Philadelphus. “He is not a PanGalactic product.”

“Shall we then fight fire with fire?” said Romulus. “Where is the next generation patterner? Send
that
after the rogue!”

“There are no more,” said Ventor. “Augustus is the last.”

“Your father killed the project, Caesar,” said Philadelphus.

“Damn him,” said Romulus.

The Senators went rigid with a start.

Romulus met their stares. “Why should I not damn Augustus?”

“Oh. I—” Philadelphia started. “Sorry, Caesar.”

“The patterner project has always been too costly,”

said Ventor. “Huge overruns are the usual. Too many failures, not enough good candidates. And the final product is short-lived and dangerous. It’s just too much power to put in a single being. The patterner Secundus was turned to work for the enemy. And now we have Augustus out there apparently acting for Augustus. That should not be happening. A patterner is programmed to serve Rome absolutely, unquestionably, even to his death.”

“And when the hell is that going to happen? His death?”

“He could already be dead for all we know,” said Ventor. “We do know there will be no others.”

Imperial Intelligence received a recording from an anonymous source. Anonymity was rare in the modern age, and the message did not stay anonymous long.

At first the message was assumed to be from Augustus. But Imperial Intelligence traced the message back to Caesar Magnus’ dead assassin, Julius Urbicus.

Until
now
the death of Caesar Magnus had
been
a murder without motive. A lot of men had wanted Magnus dead, but Julius Urbicus was not one of them.

Julius Urbicus had been a longtime associate of Magnus. He had served with distinction in the earlier wars. He had lost his sons in those wars. His wife left him. Julius Urbicus had not remarried. He had been entirely too interested in young girls—one in particular, though he never acted on those impulses. He was always a quiet, tightly contained, disciplined man. Magnus had trusted his steady statesmanship.

Few people knew about Urbicus’ fascination with girls until he killed Caesar. Julius Urbicus had less than nothing to gain by killing Magnus.

The message from the late assassin originated from a secret cache. Its posthumous release had been triggered by an obituary.

A young girl had died.

Lilia.

She was the object of Julius Urbicus’ obsession. Pictures of young Lilia clogged his database. Images of ten-year-old Lilia moved around the walls of his bedchamber. Lilia’s innocent smile, her deep brown eyes.

Lilia had died earlier today. An accidental drowning. The message arrived at Imperial Intelligence seconds after Lilia’s death notice was posted.

Imperial Intelligence summoned Caesar’s sister Claudia to their center.

She answered the call peevishly. She had a public appearance this evening and must get her hair done. That probably meant her face, too, which changed according to the fashion of the day.

Imperial Intelligence headquarters was away from the Forum, mostly underground, constructed like a catacomb. It exuded a creeping dread—all without illusions. It was cut from unpainted weathered stone, like a ruin.

Ancient Rome had been full of color. As was modern Roma Nova. Everything was tinted.

Intelligence headquarters had no color. It stood naked as if bleached by age. Going down into it gave you a sense of walking into your own tomb. And that you had died a very long time ago.

Claudia paused in the corridor to touch a carved limestone figure, a muscular male haunch. She ran her fingers along its solid sinews. Claudia liked male bodies. That was no secret. Nor should it be. Romans prided themselves on living at full throttle.

Over a decade and half ago, Claudia had attended the Imperial Military Institute in the same class as her brother Romulus and the young American woman Calli Carmel. Claudia had never intended a military career. Claudia was there for the men. Officially Claudia had withdrawn to pursue other interests. Actually she was sacked for a plethora of disciplinary infractions. She had only been admitted to the Institute out of deference to Caesar Magnus. Magnus, who never expected anyone but himself to put up with Claudia, was not upset or surprised by her sacking.

Claudia was only ever prepared for a career as imperial brat. At the Institute, all the attention given to Calli’s beauty set Claudia to fury. Claudia made a point to sleep with anyone Calli did. Calli was selective, so she was pitiably easy to keep up with on that score. The looks were more difficult. Claudia, accustomed to being the center of all attention, was determined to be the most beautiful woman in the world, something Calli never worked at. Calli just had beauty. At one point Claudia was physically identical to Calli, and still everyone could tell them apart. They said Calli was the prettier one.

Calli claimed looks were not that important.

“Then you shan’t mind if I take a razor blade to your face,” Claudia said. “I should mind that a lot,” Calli had replied. Claudia made her entrance at Imperial Intelligence briskly, as if she had only a few moments to spare for the
curiosi.

Dour agents took her to a secure area, and played a recording for her.

It was a bad amateur work. Audio and video only. Fiat. No enhancements. Obviously done in secret by a nonprofessional.

It opened to the sound of pounding, as of fists on a closed door, and the visual of a figure recognizable as Julius Urbicus scurrying toward the camera. You saw his fingers, huge in the frame, adjusting the position of the tiny camera. Then he drew back.

Julius Urbicus’ seamed face frowned into the camera. He threw a piece of gauze over it, very thin, something that would hide the camera from view without opaquing the recording. The image softened, became slightly fuzzy.

A woman’s sharp shout sounded from off camera, “Urbicus! Open up, you pervert!”

Julius Urbicus left the frame. He returned with a woman following him. He sat at the edge of the frame, and anxiously watched the woman approach. His posture tensed as if he were mentally guiding the woman to sit in a chair positioned at center focus of the camera.

She sat. And her face came into the picture.

One of the many incarnations of Claudia Julia. Long chestnut hair. Brown almond eyes. Long gown with a loosely draped bodice. Evening gloves up over her elbows. “Here.” Claudia threw a static photograph at Urbicus. “I brought you a present. Bet you don’t have this view of her.”

Urbicus bent over the photo. He did not present it toward the hidden recorder. A groan found its way out of him, of some extreme emotion. Could have been fear, anguish, lust. It was impossible to tell.

Claudia produced a fistful of cartridges from her glittering handbag. They were ink cartridges for antique style pens.

“Load
all
the pens so you don’t need to worry about getting them mixed up,” she instructed. “I promise it will be a fast death.
Hers
won’t be if you fail.”

Urbicus could not tear himself away from the photograph. Claudia held out the cartridges in her gloved fist. “Her fate is in your hands.”

Urbicus received the cartridges into trembling hands. One of them would kill Caesar. And Julius Urbicus would die shortly after.

He begged, abject, “Promise you won’t hurt her.”

She flashed a brief eye roll. “Oh, I
swear.”

She rose, bending forward to flash her breasts at him. Might have been a cow flashing her udder for his reaction. She let herself out.

When she was thoroughly gone. Julius Urbicus tottered to the camera. The image became nothing but his palm reaching toward it. The picture went black.

No message had accompanied the delivery of the recording to Imperial Intelligence.

How would one compose a cover message like that? Julius Urbicus was barely holding himself together, and he was about to murder Caesar. How would he say he was killing Caesar because of a girl? Betraying his country, himself, his friend, for her? What could he say: If you are seeing this recording, Lilia is dead and I have killed Caesar for nothing. You are seeing this because I, the lying treacherous assassin pedophile, have been betrayed.

No, there could not have been a message to go with this record.

Claudia looked to the Intelligence officers who were looking at her, waiting.

She waited. They waited.

Then finally, irritated, Claudia said, “Why do you show this little horror show to me?”

They were not expecting her to say that. Behind their stony masks they were reeling. They waited for something more.

And Claudia waited back.

They stayed silent.

She became agitated. “Why am I here?” She stood up, pointed toward the door as if to dispatch them.
“Go get her!”

An agent, confounded, explained to her, “Claudia, you are under arrest.”

She gave a shrill little laugh at something so very not funny. “Who do you think that is, you
coiens asine
who pass for Intelligence!”

They were not seeing what she was seeing.

One prompted politely,
“Domna?”

Claudia said, as if the picture ought to be clear even to the blind and the dead, “That is the American spy, Calli Carmel!”

———

IT LOOKS LIKE you.”

Claudia coughed, drew her chin inward, affronted. “She can only try!”

The
curiosi
looked from the image in the recording to Claudia. It was not an exact match, but Claudia was a work of art and the work was constantly in progress.

Claudia had, during her days at the Imperial Military Institute, looked nearly identical to Calli Carmel.

To hear Claudia tell it, it was Calli who mimicked Claudia in those days, not the other way around, and Claudia changed her own looks because Calli’s mimicry struck her as too weird.

“Just why do you suppose Calli cut all her hair off and changed her face again!” Claudia challenged the stunned Intelligence agents. “Bit of a mutt face now, isn’t she?”

One of the
agentes
told her, “Captain Carmel’s face was recently burned in an attack outside Fort Eisenhower.”

“Of course it was,” Claudia said, patronizing, nodding in nostril-deep sarcasm. “The same attack that made Gaius Americanus change his face and pretend to be dead. Where is the intelligence that is supposed to be down here?
There was no attack on Gaius Americanus and Calli Carmel!
It was a story made up by the American CIA! So there you have it—the Americans and their spy Calli Carmel killed my father. And Gaius Americanus was in on it!” She stood up to go.
“Do something!”