The Fourth Rome Page 10

“That’s a damned lie,” Arminius said. “Segestes, you’re a damned liar!”

  The Cheruscan prince turned to Varus. “The Ubians are cowards who grub in the dirt and forget how a man lives,” he said. Under stress his Latin had become more guttural, though it was still more intelligible than Segestes’. “This king of cowards can’t raise his men to march with you, so he tries to frighten you into not marching at all. He doesn’t want anybody to get loot and glory because he has no chance of that for himself!”

  Segestes started for his younger rival. His knees bumped the serving table before the young legionary put an arm around his throat from behind and started to choke him. The centurion dropped the sword to help. Segestes might be a king, but to Roman soldiers he was still a member of an inferior race.

  “Now, now, friends,” Varus said. He found it awkward to look up at Arminius standing behind him, particularly when he wanted to keep an eye simultaneously on the Ubian whom his guards were wrestling back on the other side of the benches. “Why don’t we all sit down and have a friendly drink together?”

  He twisted his head in the opposite direction and said to the steward, “Grommus? There’s a jar of Falernian still sealed in the storehouse. Have it brought in immediately.”

  Segestes relaxed. The soldiers let him go, though they braced themselves to crush the German between their armored shoulders if he tried violence again.

  “My prince,” Segestes said a little hoarsely. “This whole business is a conspiracy, and there—”

  He pointed at Arminius with his full arm.

  “—is the one who planned it. This so-called Chauci rebellion is just a ruse to draw you into the middle of nowhere so you can all be massacred!”

  “Liar!” Arminius repeated. He sounded angry, but Pauli could hear an undertone of concern. The Cheruscan was trying to goad his rival into a physical attack that would get him ejected before he could argue his case.

  “Your chief of engineers did seem to think the roads to the Weser were difficult, Publius,” a lawyer said. His eyes drifted toward Arminius with dawning suspicion.

  “What he said was that there aren’t any roads,” Cisius added. “Just a track Tiberius cut five years ago, with corduroy on the low spots. The logs will have rotted away.”

  He looked at Arminius also.

  Sigjmer’s flushed face went pale. He grabbed the small figure of a faun standing in a wall niche beside him. For a moment Pauli thought the German meant to use the statuette as a missile, but he was merely reaching for support.

  The faun came away in his hand. Sigimer leaned forward and vomited across the bench on which he’d been lying. Because Arminius had risen also, only Cisius was in the target area.

  Sigimer had eaten more than Pauli thought between cups of wine, but he hadn’t wasted much effort on chewing. Spasms ejected slices of meat the size of a man’s hand in the midst of the vividly purple wine.

  Cisius leaped to his feet with a cry of horror. The bench drapery tangled the lawyer’s ankles and sent him pitching backward into a rosebush.

  Sigimer straightened. He had a dazed expression. His eyes rolled and he toppled face-first onto the dripping bench.

  The servants who’d been keeping their distance when it looked like a brawl between German chiefs now rushed from all sides. Some tried to rescue the yelping lawyer without damaging the rose, while others gathered the snoring Sigimer. The chief steward gave high-pitched orders, raising the hem of his expensive tunic for fear it might get stained.

  Pauli stood and moved to the shelter of a Lombardy poplar where he could watch but also avoid wild blows or missiles. “Oh, Hercules!” Varus said, scrambling to his feet. The other diners were getting up as well.

  “This is all very entertaining, Publius,” Gallus said. “But before we go off to make our wills in anticipation of the wild barbarians slaughtering us, I think we ought to recall that King Segestes and Prince Arminius here have a long history of disliking each other. Eh?”

  Gallus and Cisius had been sticking verbal pins in one another throughout dinner. The present comment seemed to be Gallus’ way of showing appreciation to the Germans who’d discomfited Cisius so thoroughly.

  “Segestes claims he’s a friend of the Romans,” Arminius said. “I’ve proved a hundred times that I’m your friend, Publius, haven’t I? What do vague words count against real deeds and gifts?”

  “Faugh!” Segestes shouted. The centurion waggled his swagger stick in the king’s face, but Segestes didn’t try to lunge forward. “Are you going to sell your army and your life because this Cheruscan dirt finds blond boys to warm your bed? Don’t be such a fool!”

  Varus’ face went chilly. He stiffened, gaining a certain hard dignity that Pauli hadn’t previously thought the governor was capable of. “Thank you for your concern, King Segestes,” he said. “You and I can discuss the matter further when I return from putting down the rebellion among the Chauci as my duty requires.”

  “Even so,” said a lawyer who’d kept out of the discussion to that point, “if there’s some question about the business, it’d be common prudence to investigate before we sashay off into the boggy asshole of the continent. After all, the Fritzes only killed a few traders—and most of them lower-class types besides. Nothing much is going to happen if we take our time on this.”

  Gallus pointed at Pauli. “The emperor’s courier is an Ubian, too,” he said. “What does he think?”

  Segestes turned, really looking at Pauli for the first time. “Who’s this?” he demanded. “I don’t know him!”

  “I’m Clovis, Ludwig’s son, of the Robin Clan,” Pauli lied. “The Emperor Augustus’ man now, not yours, King.”

  His cover was as complete as possible. There was an Ubian of the assumed name in the emperor’s guard, and there were more than twenty thousand men of military age in the tribe. Segestes couldn’t possibly know every male born in the scattered farms and hamlets that he ruled in theory.

  This still wasn’t a situation Pauli would have picked if there’d been a choice.

  Segestes was angry. That anger was the card Pauli needed to play, just as Arminius had done. He turned to Varus and said, “Everybody knows why Segestes hates Hermann. Hermann’s been poking Segestes’ daughter Thusnelda ever since she was old enough to bleed. She’s like a mare in season, Thusnelda is, and Hermann’s the stallion she twitches her rump for!”

  “You—” the king bellowed as he lunged for the ARC Rider. The legionary stepped into his way and held him for the centurion to get a chokehold with his vinewood swagger stick. Pauli folded his arms across his chest and sneered.

  Four slaves lifted Sigimer to carry him out of the garden, holding him by wrists and ankles. He was facedown and still snoring. His beard dragged in the dirt.

  “Thank you, Gaius Julius Clovis,” Varus said formally. “Your remarks are in line with my own thinking.” He turned to Segestes and continued in a cold, clear voice, “King Segestes, I think it would be as well if you rested after what I’m sure was a hard ride.”

  “You fat fool!” Segestes shouted. “Do you think I’m going to sleep under the same roof as these vermin?”

  “Barbarians usually wait for me to offer them hospitality before they refuse it,” Varus said. His tone by now was icy. “Centurion, see to it that the king is escorted out of the fort. At once!”

  “Come on, old boy,” the centurion said as he tugged Segestes backward with the swagger stick. “You’ve outstayed your welcome.”

  Segestes swung an angry fist. His knuckles thudded on the centurion’s mailed breast. “Temper, temper,” the Roman murmured and tightened his grip. The legionary picked up the king’s sword and followed his superior out of the garden.

  “Well, I certainly have to go change, don’t I?” Cisius said, looking in theatrical dismay at his splashed garments. “Publius, your cook could be improved on, but your dinners are always so entertaining.”

  “Segestes is a fool,” Arminius said to the governor. “He bel
ongs back on his farm, threshing grain.”

  He was still tense, though everyone but Pauli would blame the Cheruscan’s concern on the scene that had just occurred. By the standards of German drinking parties, this fracas had been pretty mild. Arminius couldn’t believe that his planned victims would completely disregard the warning they’d just received.

  The majordomo had a rancorous discussion with the chief steward and three lesser slaves carrying buckets and towels. Finally the trio carried off the bench as well as their cleaning equipment. “There’ll be a slight delay, Your Excellency, while we prepare other seating arrangements,” the steward explained. “Some of the furniture has been packed.”

  Pauli blinked. Varus was taking dining benches on a punitive expedition? But of course he was.

  “My, that was an impressive piece of barbarian candor, Clovis,” Silius Gallus said to Pauli. “I don’t suppose you intend to return to Ubian territory until there’s a new king, hey?”

  “We are a free people,” Pauli said. To stay in character he glared at Arminius and added, “Even though we don’t chase cattle through the marsh the way some tribes do.”

  “I have no quarrel with the Ubians,” Arminius growled. “Only with their fool of a king. Here, my hand to seal our friendship!”

  He stepped forward and reached across the serving table. Pauli hesitated for a moment, then clasped the Cheruscan forearm to forearm, each gripping the other at the elbow. Arminius’ muscles were firm though there was a layer of fat over them.

  Servants were coming out with rushlights, tallow-soaked slips of pine that burned with smoky, yellow flames. The sun had well set, though the sky was still pale.

  “Excellency,” Pauli said to the governor, “I thank you for your hospitality. I must return to my quarters now.”

  “Oh, surely not,” said Cisius, returning from the interior of the house in fresh garments. “Why, the meal’s not over.”

  “And the drinking has scarcely begun for most of us,” Gal-lus said. Isn’t that so, Cisius?”

  “My master expects me to keep a daily log,” Pauli said. “I want to dictate it to my secretary while there’s still light.”

  He needed to know what Beckie and Gerd had found, and there wasn’t anything more to be gained by staying here. Though he didn’t have a sensor pack as discriminating as the analyst’s, Pauli’s headband had swept the electro-optical spectrum as he was guided through the governor’s residence.

  He hadn’t found anything out of place. He’d thought the revisionists might have planted a device to frighten Varus out of the expedition by “ghostly voices” or other faked omens. That didn’t appear to be the plan, or at any rate the revisionists hadn’t managed to execute it.

  “Well, as you please,” Varus said, frowning in irritation at the replacement bench. It was a settee with a flat seat instead of a proper dining bench that sloped up toward the serving table. “Chresimus, lead the emperor’s man to the door. Grommus, can’t we do better than this bench?”

  The majordomo, Chresimus, looked shocked at being directed to so menial a task but he didn’t argue with his owner in a peevish mood. He bowed, led Pauli into the large meeting room just inside, and there passed him off to a boy carrying an armful of pillows toward the garden.

  For several minutes nobody seemed to know where Pauli’s cloak had been deposited. He found it himself in a side cubicle, serving as a pad for a sleeping slave.

  “Oh, by my fortune!” the usher with Pauli said. “Cams!”

  “I’ll wake him,” Pauli said.

  Pauli gripped the embroidered hem with both hands and jerked the cloak out from under the man. Carus spun into the wall with a startled squeal.

  Pauli pinned his cloak over his right shoulder as the slaves watched in concern. He was nervous and angry. He was controlled as well, but he hoped nobody was going to push him very far. His barbarian persona suited his present mood a little too well.

  The guard detachment had changed at sunset. There were only six men, under a junior noncom rather than a centurion. Pauli nodded to them and walked down the building’s columned facade in the direction of the barracks he’d been assigned.

  A trumpet blew Stand Down from the roof of the headquarters building. The long curved horns of each cohort repeated the signal. The garrison’s whole strength was supposed to stand to for half an hour at dawn and sunset, the most likely hours for surprise attacks. At Aliso the command stood for the action, though perhaps the process of preparing for a change of base had made troops less scrupulous than they’d otherwise have been.

  There seemed to be the full thirty horns, though many of the cohorts were only skeleton formations with their strength dispersed in small detachments throughout Free Germany. The scattered forces were Varus’ way of preventing raids and banditry. A general revolt would sweep them away like sand castles before the tide.

  Pauli sighed. Humanity had by the 26th century achieved a unified society bound by common standards of ethics and justice, in balance with itself and with the remainder of the Earth’s life-forms. Pauli understood that if history changed, it would change for the worse … but there’d been a lot of nasty spots before that balance was achieved, and an ARC Rider got to see most of them.

  “With hindsight,” said Gerd Barthuli from the shadows beyond the range of the glass-windowed lantern above the residence door, “it would be possible to change things for the better in the very short term. Our duty is to stop folk who would change them for the worse.”

  “You had some excitement,” Beckie said. She deliberately let the concern show in her voice.

  A column of wagons jingled past, heading for the warehouses on the fort’s river side. Slaves drove the teams, overseen by a dour-looking soldier in tunic and hobnailed sandals.

  “The problems with this mission seem to be more the local circumstances than the revisionists,” Pauli said. The colonnade of the governor’s residence was as safe a place in the bustling camp as any for the team to plan. “Of course that may change if we ever learn what the revisionists are planning to do. Gerd?”

  “The two men we’ve located, Hannes and Istvan as they call themselves, carry short-range radios and submachine guns,” the analyst said. “I’ve dusted their cloaks and footgear with finely divided rubidium. It’s not an active emitter, but because the element is so rare I can set my sensors to extreme sensitivity and locate the subjects at a distance of over a hundred kilometers now.”

  He gave Beckie a tight grin and said, “One hundred klicks,“ using the military terminology of her own day.

  “The weapons are significant, Pauli,” Beckie said. “They’re carrying Czechoslovak M61 Skorpions. Not Soviet products, so they didn’t grab what was closest. The guns fire a very light subsonic cartridge, the 7.65 by 17 millimeter round, and they’re fitted with sound suppressors.”

  “Assassination weapons,” Pauli said, nodding in agreement with her unstated conclusions. “No other equipment?”

  “Night-vision goggles and short-range radios,” Gerd said. “And gold.”

  “The two we haven’t found may be waiting to use tactical nukes on the Germans,” Beckie said. “But this pair can’t be planning to fight off the barbarian attack themselves. It looks to me as if they hope to kill Hermann.”

  “Or Varus,” Pauli said. “That’d stop the expedition. Probably. And heaven knows, any general who replaced Varus would be an improvement.”

  “You should study Roman generalship, Pauli,” Gerd said dryly. “There was more incompetence than you might think in the Roman high command.”

  “Judging from what I saw in Viet Nam,” Beckie Carnes said in a distant tone, “you needn’t limit that statement to the Roman high command, Gerd.”

  “All right,” Pauli said. The phrase was a placeholder to take charge of the conversation; a placeholder borrowed from Nan Roebeck, and how he wished Nan were here to run the operation. He felt as though he were diving through muddy water, unable to see either his goal or the sh
arks he knew shared the darkness with him.

  “I don’t want to eliminate the two revisionists we’ve found until we locate the other pair,” Pauli said. He didn’t know if that was the right decision or not. He had to decide; it was his responsibility to decide. “We’ll observe the pair we’ve got unless they force our hand with some overt action or until they bring us to the others. I’m aware that we might be able to find the others faster by interrogating one of these two.”

  “The radios Hannes and Istvan have in their luggage are short range, no more than ten kilometers or so,” Gerd said. “I believe the equipment’s intended for the pair of them to coordinate, not to communicate with the other pair.”

  The analyst looked at Beckie and added, “I’d be able to locate a nuclear weapon at a considerable distance, Rebecca; at least two hundred kilometers. Though nerve gas or biological weapons wouldn’t be nearly as easy to detect before employment.”

  “The target’s too dispersed for area weapons,” Pauli said with a brusque shake of his head. “Until the Germans come in contact with the Roman army, at least; though the revisionists may not realize that. Well, we’re still going to wait a few days.”

  “Hannes and Istvan have a gang of local goons around them,” Beckie said. “It’d be risky to try to snatch them with the equipment we’ve got. If we wait till they’re deep in their own operation, then the chances are a lot better.”

  Pauli looked at her and grinned broadly. What she said was about half true. You could just as easily claim that hitting the revisionists before they got keyed up to act themselves greatly increased the chances of success. Beckie was supporting his decision because that’s the sort of person she was: supportive.

  Pauli put a big arm around each of his teammates, hoping the darkness would disguise the hug he gave them. “Come, faithful slaves,” he said as he broke away. “Back to the barracks. Gerd, I want to see all the imagery you’ve got of this pair and their local talent. And I also want to get a night’s sleep, because I think we’re going to need it in the next few days.”

  A group of two-wheeled mule carts carrying light catapults trotted down the road. The soldiers driving the vehicles laughed and sang. They were looking forward to loot and a chance to kill people they didn’t really think were human.