The Shadow of Ararat (15 page)

"A bit of lead?" Maxian asked. The Briton nodded, taking it back. With one scarred hand, he cleared a space on the tabletop. Then he carefully took the bit of lead and dipped it in his wine cup. Even more carefully, he then pressed the bumpy end into the tabletop.

"Look," Mordius said, moving his hand away. Maxian leaned over and squinted down at the table in the poor light. "An alpha," he said. A tiny, almost perfect, letter was scribed on the tabletop in dark wine. The Briton nodded.

"Joseph and his sons made hundreds of them from lead scrap, all of the letters of the alphabet, even all the numbers. Each little peg was scored at the flat base, so that they could slide into a copper slat to hold them straight. Seventy slats per frame, each frame made of wood with a backing. Each frame a whole page of printing." The Briton paused a moment, watching Maxian's face closely.

Maxian stared at him in dumbfounded astonishment. After just a moment fear replaced astonishment, and then a universe of possibilities unfolded before him. He sat back stunned, unable to speak. Mordius reached out, turned over the wine-cup, and then filled it. The Briton pushed it toward Maxian's hand, which of itself moved, took the cup, and brought it to his lips.

After a time, Maxian could speak. "And then what happened then?"

The Briton shrugged. "There were troubles, of course. Papyrus was no good to use with the frames; the scrolls kept splitting when they were pressed against it. None of the inks used with a brush or quill would stick right to the lead and they smeared anyway. The frames were awkward and really no faster than a trained scribe to use. Joseph and Menacius and their families labored for weeks to solve the problems. That was what had led Joseph to the mill and the weavers. He was looking for something that would make a better writing surface than papyrus. His sons had found that there were fine-grained woods that would hold the ink and fine linens that were flexible enough not to split when the frames were pressed upon them.

"By this time I was a partner in the enterprise, though they kept the details to themselves. The deal that I struck was for the right to use the frame-scribe for my own business and to export books made with it to the north. A scroll is like gold there, there are so few, so I knew that my fortune was assured. One copy of Plato or Sophocles could become a thousand copies, each easy to transport and worth a hundred times its own weight in silver.

"Only a month ago one of Joseph's sons came to me at the warehouse and bade me come and visit the shop that night. His father had finally solved the last puzzle. They were determined to make a clean copy of the Regulations that very night and do the rest of the lot over the following days. The deadline was very close and I know they must have been overjoyed.

"But when I arrived that night, the shop was shuttered and dark. I knocked and knocked, but no one came to the door. At last a neighbor saw me in the street and told me that they had all gathered for a late-afternoon meal and none had gone out. Fearing that something was wrong, I forced the door—no easy task at a jeweler's shop!—and went inside. I was back out again in minutes, gagging at the smell and the sights I saw within. They, of course, were all dead amid the clutter of their meal."

Maxian, unbidden, felt a great pressure upon him, seemingly from the air all around him. For a moment he was back in the dim kitchen in Ostia, dragging Dromio onto the table, pleading for his friend to hold on just a little longer. Trembling, he drank again from his cup. The eyes of the Briton, hooded, were on him.

"I have seen much the same," the Prince said, his voice weak. "Like loaves of bread."

"The neighbor saw me, of course," Mordius continued, "and ran out of his house. I gasped something about them all being dead and the smell. He thought it was the plague and ran off shouting. Within minutes half of the neighborhood was in the street with buckets and torches. The
vigiles
came, but could not reach the house for the press of the crowd. The shout of
plague
,
plague
was like a drumbeat. They burned it, the whole house and the ones on either side, to keep the plague from them. I fled, knowing that I would be next on that pyre.

"I went back a few days ago. There was nothing left, only the burned-out shell of the house and, in the ashes, a few of those, unmelted. I took that one as a souvenir, but nothing else. I account myself lucky that my visits were few and I knew little of their work. I am alive."

Maxian stared at the little lead token on the table. He scratched his beard. That odd feeling was back, tickling at the edge of his perception. "No one else now, save you and I, know of what they had devised. No other scribes, no officials?"

Mordius nodded. "I thought the same thing. But these Jews are a secretive lot and they do not talk to strangers, particularly Roman ones. Someone killed them, but who I cannot say. There would have been many who cursed their names, if they had been successful, but now they are unknown."

"What are you going to do?"

The Briton snorted, putting his cup down. "Leave. Go back to Britain and dig in the fields, I suppose. Fight with my father and my half brothers. The city has a cold feeling to it now, more so that I've told you. No good will come of this, I fear. Thank you for the wine." The gangly foreigner stood up, bending his head to avoid the low timbers of the ceiling.

"Thank you for telling me this," Maxian said, standing up straight. He dug in his purse and brought out two solidi, which he pressed into the Briton's hand. Mordius raised an eyebrow at the weight of the coins, then bowed. "My lord." Then he was gone, out into the sunshine in the street. Maxian stood by the table for a long time, looking down at the little lead slug. Finally, he picked it up and put it in his purse before going out himself.

As Maxian entered the great suite of rooms that formed the office of the Emperor of the West, an unaccustomed sound echoed over his head. The courtiers and supplicants who crowded the chambers arranged in front of the octagonal chamber that housed the secretary were nervous, shuffling their feet and talking in low tones. Passing by the pair of Praetorians at the doors of the octagonal room, he was startled to realize that one of the voices, raised in anger, was that of his brother, the Emperor. In the octagon, the Secretary was absent and all of the scribes were warily watching the half-open set of double doors that led into the inner chambers.

Maxian stopped and made a half turn. The nearest of the Praetorians turned his head a fraction, his eyes questioning. Maxian nodded at the doors to the waiting rooms. The two guards immediately closed them with a heavy thud. At this the scribes looked up, then hurried to resume work. Maxian walked among them, idly looking over the papers and scrolls that littered their desks. After a moment he found the senior man. Dredging at his memory, he recovered the man's name.

"Prixus, everyone here can take a break to the
triniculum
and get a late meal. Go on."

Prixus bobbed his head and began putting away his pens, ink stone and other assorted items. The other scribes, seeing him, began to do likewise. Maxian continued to the double doors, quietly closing them behind him after he had entered. Within, a cluster of men blocked his view of the apartment that Galen used as his office, but another voice, strong and clear, had joined the argument.

"Caesar, I disagree. This policy of recruitment is open to abuse at all levels. Here before you stand loyal men who can raise as many legionnaires as this levy at half the cost, and these men are already trained in war."

Maxian edged around the back of the room. At least twenty men, all senators or knights crowded the chamber, and many were officers in the Legions. This was unexpected—after seven centuries the ban remained, barring the Legions from the precincts of the capital. In the middle of the room stood an elderly figure: Gregorious Auricus, the man known as "the Great." Garbed in a clean white toga of fine wool, the magnate looked every inch the Senator that he was by right of birth. A mane of fine white hair was combed behind his head, and his craggy face was calm and composed. Across the green Tarpetian marble desk from him, Galen stood as well, his face clouded with anger. The Emperor had chosen to wear the light garb of a Legion commander, a deep-maroon tunic with gold edging, laced-up boots, and a worn leather belt. The
gladius
that usually hung from that belt was on the desk, pushed to one side by a great collection of scrolls, counting tokens, and pens.

"What you propose, Gregorius, is against the laws of the Empire, the Senate, and the people." Galen's words were clipped and short—a sure sign of anger. "The relation of the Empire to
feodoratii
is well defined, and they are used only as
auxillia
, not as Legion-strength units. It has never been the practice of the Empire, nor will it be mine, to bring foreign armies, whole, into the service of the state. Further, you have stated, here and on the floor of the Senate, your opposition to the levy. I respect your position, but it is the will of the Empire to proceed in this manner."

Gregorious shook his head, turning to declaim to the nobles and officers who looked on from the edges of the room. "My friends, colleagues. This levy is a dangerous act. Its offer of manumission to any able-bodied slave or foreigner in the Empire in exchange for a mere ten years of service is a blow to the very foundations of the state. There are other ways to provide for the defense of the Empire in this dangerous time. I urge you to support me in pursuing these other means."

Galen stepped around the desk, and Gregorious stepped back, halting his incipient oration. The Emperor slowly surveyed the faces of all those assembled in the room. If he spied Maxian at the back of the room, he made no sign of it. At last, he turned back to the magnate, who had been a firm supporter of his rule since that blustery day in Saguntum nine years before. The two men locked gazes, and the tension in the room built a little higher.

Maxian continued to work his way around the periphery, for he had finally made out his brother Aurelian standing in a doorway on the far side. Galen began speaking again; "We are here, Senators and officers, to discuss an expedition that has already been set in motion, to plan, to prepare for victory. The Senate has already voted to allocate funds for the relief of the Eastern Empire. This expedition is crucial, not only to the beleaguered East, but to ourselves as well."

A mutter went up in the back of the room, though Maxian only caught a fragment: "...the East rot!"

Galen heard the whole statement, and his face darkened further.

"We speak of a Roman East, fool. Half the extent of our great Empire, the half that holds nearly two-thirds of the citizens of our realm. It is easy for us in the West to forget the long watch the East has kept, holding back the Persians and their allies, providing grain to the great cities of Italia. While we struggled in the West to drive back the Franks and the Germans, the East stood by us. Gold, men, and arms came to us. Now they are at the precipice. Persia seeks not just tribute but conquest, to drive their frontier to the
Mare Internum
, to seize Egypt itself."

Another murmur rose, this one at the edge of laughter. Galen slapped his hand on the green tabletop, the sound echoing like a slingshot.

"Do you venerate the memories of your fathers? Do you sacrifice to the gods of your household?" He turned, his gaze baleful and filled with venom. "You dismiss the Persians as 'trouser-wearing sybarites,' unfit to take the field of honor against a Roman army. You do not think they threaten us. You are twice the fools to count a man a coward and a weakling because he wears pants of silk. The Persian has smashed four Roman armies in the past three years. He stands at the brink of success, all brought by his strength of arms.

"But I think he has heard your insults. Yes, even in the East, the nonsensical maundering of the Senate is dissected and considered. Our enemy has found new friends to help him against us. The King of Persia accounts necromancers, sorcerers, dead-talkers, and alchemists among the tools that he raises against us."

The room suddenly grew very quiet. Maxian paused. He had never heard this before.

"Yes," Galen said, a grim smile on his face. "This time, when the Persian comes, he will come with dark powers at his command. Ever before the Persian Kings acted with honor, eschewing the malignant tools of the magi. Now he cares only for one thing—victory and the defeat of Rome. The tombs of your fathers will be despoiled and broken open. You will fight against your dead brothers, and their cold hands will clutch at your throat..."

Maxian tuned out the polemic of his brother, finally shouldering his way past two pasty-faced regional governors to reach Aurelian's side. His brother clapped him fondly on the shoulder and nodded toward the closed door that stood behind him. Maxian nodded in agreement and the two slipped through into the private chamber. The door, a heavy oak panel carved with a two-part scene of the victory of Septimus Severus over the Arabs, closed with a muffled thud. Blessedly, it cut off the angry rhetoric from the council room.

"Ah!" Aurelian sighed in delight, collapsing into a pile of cushions and pillows on the couch against the opposite wall of the little room. "Is there any wine left in that basket?" he asked. Maxian poked through the wicker basket set on the little marble ledge inside the door. Afternoon light slanted through the triangular panes of the high window set into the wall to the right.

"No, only some bread, cheese, and a sausage." While he talked, Maxian's nimble fingers had found a knife and were cutting a circular hole in the end of the loaf. Cheese followed, and chunks of sausage, to fill up the cavity he gouged out. When he was done, he cut the loaf in half and tossed the lesser piece to his brother on the couch.

"Piglet!" Aurelian laughed. "You've taken the larger."

Maxian nodded, though his mouth was too busy biting the end off of the loaf to speak. He felt exhausted and hungry, though he had eaten several hours before, when he had left his apartment in the palace on the southern side of the hill. Despite this, Aurelian was licking crumbs off his fingers before Maxian was even half done. Finished at last and thirsty, Maxian stood up and walked to a bronze flute that stood up from the floor near the door. He uncapped the end and shouted down it, "Wine!" When the flute-pipe made an unintelligible muttering back at him, he recapped it. Then he took up the other couch, opposite Aurelian.