Debt of Ages (22 page)

"I suppose," Sarnac said slowly, "that bringing 'interesting times' to this world is what we're here for."

"Well put. And now we need to confront another problem: Artorius's emotional state."

"Oh, yeah. I could tell he's been down in the dumps because his counterpart is dying."

"Is dead," Tylar corrected bluntly. "Koreel informed me last night. We can't let Ecdicius and Sidonius know, of course. But Artorius knows."

* * *

They had passed between the Peloponnese and Crete and set a westward course into the Ionian Sea when Sarnac found Artorius standing alone in the bows, one arm draped around the
artemon
mast, staring fixedly ahead into the setting sun.

He'd been present when Tylar had tried to help the erstwhile High King past the news from Constantinople. But this was the first time he'd found himself alone with the man who, alone of all the human race in all the ages, knew the feelings he now felt.
Well,
Sarnac reflected,
he always had something unique about him.

He searched desperately for something brilliant to say, but Artorius came to his rescue by noticing him and smiling. "Ah, Bedwyr," came the musical British, "it's a rare fine sunset, is it not?"

"It's all of that," Sarnac replied in the same tongue. For a while he gazed at the sun toward which
Nereid's Wake
seemed to be steering. When its lower edge touched the watery horizon, he gathered himself. "Look, Artorius, I realize I can't possibly know what you're experiencing . . ."

"No, you can't." Artorius gave his head a shake of self-reproach. "Sorry, old man. I know how that must have sounded. And I can't claim I didn't have time to prepare myself; I've known from the first that this was going to happen while we were here. But . . ." He shook his head again. "I've lost friends in plenty, and relatives, and parents. We never used to let ourselves be bothered too much by death; it came so easily, and so early for most people. A human life can only hold so much tragedy. Besides, we believed the dead were only passing on to a better world. We really did believe it, you know. Even
I
believed it, and I was never especially devout. Since then, of course . . . the things I've seen, the things I've learned . . ." His voice trailed off, then firmed up again. "And besides, another person, however well-loved, is still someone
different
. He doesn't remember what my mother's loom looked like when the afternoon sunlight came through the window, aswarm with dust-motes, as I played at her feet. He doesn't know how a remark someone made when I was twelve felt. He doesn't know the innermost thoughts and feeling that can never be shared with anyone, for they define the true self that none of us ever really reveals. Well, that man—" he gestured vaguely toward the northeast, toward Constantinople where Artorius the Restorer lay in state "—held all of that in his head. And when he died, it all
vanished
." He smiled wryly. "Or whatever it does. I don't know, anymore. Not even Tylar's people know."

"That universe of memory he held within him hasn't really been snuffed out," Sarnac said cautiously. "Not as long as
you
hold it. And he wasn't really you—not anymore. He had a different destiny. In our world, you passed into legend. In this one, he'll be locked into mere history, like an insect in amber."

The sun had sunk into the Tyrrhenian Sea, and Artorius's expression was hard to read. "Yes; very astute of me to fail before emerging from obscurity and leave posterity to fill the vacuum with fables I wouldn't have dared invent myself! I constantly amaze myself with my own cleverness!" Sarnac started to say something reassuring, but thought better of it. He'd never seen Artorius in this mood. Then he was relieved to see a smile flash in the light of the ship's lanterns. "Ah, well, you've the right of it: the poor sod that I became in this world
is
stranded in documented history, of all the dreary things! So the least we can do is make that history
better
!" Artorius stood up straight and clapped Sarnac on the shoulder. "Instead of mourning my own death, I should be seeing to my future reputation!"

* * *

They entered the Tiber and landed at Ostia, the seaport of Rome, amid dumbfounded jubilation.

The news of the Restorer's death had reached Italy overland, along with rumors of the death of the Pope and the Heir. A pall of depression had hung over this land and radiated outward through the Western provinces at the speed of couriers' horses. When they established their identity, it was like a summer thunderstorm over Ostia that dissipated a stifling, stagnant closeness.

"You say there's a new emperor in Constantinople?" Sidonius had to shout at his secretary Gelasius to make himself heard over the ecstatic roar of the crowd that hemmed them in, straining for a glimpse, as they left the harbor.

"Yes, as we only just learned," Gelasius shouted back. He was a native of North Africa, dark to the point of duskiness, with tightly curled iron-gray hair. It was sheer good fortune that he was in Ostia on business, though the local clergy could have provided positive identification of Sidonius. "Since the Augustus died, the conspirators who tried to murder you have seized the initiative and now dominate the Sacred Consistory. At first they squabbled among themselves, trying to agree on a successor. But now they've agreed to bestow the purple on Wilhelmus, governor of Illyricum."

"Wilhelmus!" Ecdicius exploded. "But he's a
joke
! A nobody! The army will never accept him—everyone knows he's a coward who used influence to avoid military service in his youth."

"And," Sidonius put in, "everyone also knows that his word means nothing—even if anyone could divine what his word
is
, under all the qualifiers that obscure everything he says!"

"Perhaps," Tylar put in diffidently, "that's precisely why the conspirators settled on him as a compromise choice. Since no one is ever quite clear as to what he's saying, everyone distrusts him equally. And, being weak, he should be controllable."

"Maybe that's what they think," Ecdicius replied. "But they're wrong if they think
they
can control him. They'll find they've just turned the empire over to his rabid bitch of a wife!"

Koreel had notified Tylar two nights before that the power struggle in Constantinople was over. But of course they couldn't reveal that knowledge. Instead, Sarnac subvocalized to Tylar via implant communicator. "Gelasius seems pretty well informed, given the comm technology—or lack of it—he has available."

"Quite. A most impressive man. It's easy to see why he became Pope in our history."

"He
what?!
"

"Oh, yes. He was secretary to Felix III, who was Pope from 483 to 492, and was elected to the pontificate after Felix died. In this world, he serves the same secretarial function for Sidonius, and it's entirely possible that he may become Pope when Sidonius is gone. I certainly wouldn't disapprove. He's death on heretics—he originally fled from Africa to escape the rule of the Arian Vandals, you see. And he's an intellectual champion of papal supremacy within the church, including the Eastern church. In short, he's precisely the sort of man we want in the position in the immediate future."

They and the prudently hooded Artorius stayed in the background as they made their way through the cheering crowd, with the local troops—whose commander had recognized Ecdicius—running interference. Ahead of them, Gelasius talked animatedly. "No one in Rome knew what to do when the demand for homage to Wilhelmus arrived. Everyone thought you were dead, though there was no proof. But now that you've been returned to us through God's mercy, the armies of Italy will rise as one man and acclaim the Restorer's adopted heir as Augustus. Especially when they hear what a viper's nest of Monophysite heretics were behind the attempt on his life—and that of the Holy Father! You must proceed to Rome without delay."

"Yes," Ecdicius nodded. "And we must send word to Gaul."

"Of course, Noblissimus . . . er,
Augustus
," Gelasius agreed. From some men it would have been blatant brown-nosing, but from Gelasius it wasn't. "Being your native land, Gaul will be the center of your support."

"And we have to get it consolidated as quickly as possible. It's only a matter of time before it has to face the Army of Germania."

Sarnac knew what he meant. The newly organized province of Germania, between the Rhine and the Elbe, was now Rome's first line of defense against Europe's unconquered barbarians, and accordingly it held an army that was in a different class from the garrison troops of Gaul and the other Western provinces. He quickened his step and touched Ecdicius's arm.

"Any chance of getting the support of that army's commander?"

"I wish to God there were. He's a good man, and a friend." Ecdicius shook his head regretfully. "But those snakes in Constantinople know how crucial he is, and I'm sure they've already sent word to him. We can't possibly get to him first. And they'll play on his loyalty to the Restorer. They'll lie and say they're carrying on the work of the man he worshipped. Yes, that will be the way to win Kai over . . ."

He talked on, but Sarnac heard nothing more. Nor did he see the thronged streets of Ostia, for he was suddenly beside a forest lake in the Burgundian uplands watching the sword he'd thrown flash in the afternoon sun as it tumbled end over end through the air into legend. And beside him was bluff, honest, decent Kai, who'd subsequently carried the tale home to Britain.

After a while he became aware of Artorius's grave regard. "I don't suppose you knew, did you? I never thought to mention it. But I remember that he was your friend."

Sarnac nodded mutely.
Well, what did you expect?
he asked himself.
What made you think he didn't exist in this world as well, like everybody else?
He shook free of the thought. "So he's made general here?"

"Indeed," Tylar affirmed. "He's become an important man in this timeline. And I fear you and he are going to find yourselves on opposite sides of the war that's coming."

* * *

The chamberlain Nicoles entered the imperial dressing-room, bowing profoundly as was proper when entering the sacred presence. Wilhelmus Augustus acknowledged him absently, most of his attention on the shapely servant-girl who was bringing more of the regalia that would be draped over the somewhat overweight imperial form. The pudgy face formed the vacant smile that seemed to ooze insincerity like a kind of pus.

"Ah, Nicoles. What do you think of the adjustments they've made to the coronation regalia for me? It's very important that everything be just so, don't you agree? Especially in light of . . ." He gestured vaguely, leaving the circumstances of his accession unstated.

Wilhelmus's ancestors had been among those Teutonic soldiers who had come to dominate the empire late in the last century—the Romanized German name was typical of his family. A classic case, the chamberlain decided, of passage from barbarism to decadence with no intervening phase of civilization. Aloud, Nicoles spoke in the voice that had been carefully trained to be pleasing. "Rest assured, Lord"—Wilhelmus preferred this form of address to "Augustus"—"that your coronation will be . . ." Nicoles hesitated, then reminded himself that no flattery was too blatant for this creature. "Your coronation will be Rome's next moment of greatness."

Wilhelmus considered this and nodded. "Yes, I rather like that. Although, of course, I would not in any way denigrate my illustrious predecessor. But on the other hand . . ."

Good God, he even does it in private! It must be sheer habit by now
, Nicoles thought, and composed himself to listen until the Lord of the World had finished qualifying all trace of meaning out of what he'd said. He was saved by the arrival of the empire's ruler.

"Augusta," he murmured, bowing particularly low.

Hilaria acknowledged with a nod as she swept into the room, and Nicoles raised his head. She wore her usual fixed smile. Most people never saw her closely enough to be startled by the way that expression extended no higher than the mouth. Nicoles, who was taken aback by very little, was still stunned by the distilled bitterness in those eyes.

"Ah, my dear," Wilhelmus said, hastily waving the servant girl away. "I'd sent for the chamberlain to receive his report concerning the courier who's just returned from General . . . ah, General . . ."

"Kai, Lord," Nicoles prompted. "A difficult name to remember, of course. He's a Briton, an old follower of the late emperor Artorius—and, like him, descended in part from Sarmatian cavalry auxiliaries, which is the origin of the name."

"Yes, yes," Hilaria cut in, forestalling her husband. "But what was his response to our message?"

"Favorable on the whole, Augusta." Nicoles decided to dispense with the middleman and address her directly. "His personal loyalty to Artorius extended to his adopted heir, so he had searching questions concerning Ecdicius's fate. But the courier reports that he's provisionally accepted our story, and is prepared to give his allegiance to y . . . to the Augustus."

"Excellent," Wilhelmus spoke up, reentering the conversation. "The Western provinces are still wavering, and it may well become imperative for the Army of Germania to intervene in Gaul and Britain to . . . assure an orderly transition. Naturally, we hope that none of our subjects will be harmed any more than necessary. In fact—" he paused momentarily and sought for just the right phrase "—I feel their pain. Nevertheless, any disturbances that might arise would probably work even greater harm, so it is our Christian duty to maintain order in this difficult period. But at the same time . . ."

Hilaria's schooled smile had begun to resemble a rictus. "Run along, Wilhelmus," she got out through gritted teeth. The Lord of the World complied with visible relief, exiting by the same door the servant girl had used. Hilaria's eyes followed him with an expression that was no more venomous than usual.
She doesn't hate him, except to the extent that she hates everyone,
Nicoles reflected. Indeed, in many ways it was a marriage made in heaven. She, so eaten away by the lust for power that nothing else was left inside her, had always egged him on to rise higher and higher up the ladder of office; which suited him well enough, if only for the access to women that came with exalted status.