Romulus Buckle and the Luminiferous Aether (The Chronicles of the Pneumatic Zeppelin #3) (14 page)

XXV

TITUS AND BELARIUS

The table surface crawled with dozens of red lobsters with rough armor jackets, snapping claws and scrabbling legs, though the creatures were in poor condition from their alien juice cooking, staggering and blind. Philo and servants dashed about, collecting the lobsters, expertly binding their claws and legs with quick twists of green seaweed shoots and delivering them, one after another, into jerking piles on everyone’s plates.

“Eat, my guests, eat!” Octavian enthused, ripping a large claw off his lobster and cracking it open to expose the light pink meat inside.

“I’d like an assurance from you,” the Vicar said, his demeanor noticeably darker than it had been the moment before, “that the Atlanteans have made a commitment to their pact with the Founders clan.”

Buckle looked at Odessa; she hadn’t touched any of her food but rather kept her cool green eyes on Sabrina, who stared right back.

“All possibilities are still on the table,” Octavian said, full of his own momentum, high in the catbird seat. “So many possibilities and potential outcomes.”

“That was not what you told me before,” the Vicar replied, his voice shifting low and quiet, menacing.

Buckle heard a number of boots approaching, leather soles padding softly across carpet from the opposite archway, and fought the urge to jump to his feet. An Atlantean officer marched into the room, a tall man with a rectangular face dressed in high-ranking Roman armor similar to that of Marius except his robe and helmet brush were purple instead of red. Behind the tall officer walked two older men, both wearing white togas with purple trim, both looking indignant and frightened. Two purple-robed soldiers loomed at their backs.

“Ah! Now the guests are all here, finally,” Octavian announced. “And the scene can be set.”

“Apologies, First Consul,” the tall officer said. “The senators would not come willingly. They had to be arrested.”

“That is most unfortunate, Horatus,” Octavian replied. “Senators should be loyal, don’t you think?”

“What is the meaning of this, Octavian?” the older of the two senators, a man with a shock of white hair and a pugilist’s nose, roared with a powerful voice made for the pulpit. “This is an outrage!” Buckle saw his eyes widen when he noticed the Vicar.

Octavian tossed aside his lobster claw and clapped his hands together. “Captain Buckle, may I introduce to all of you the leader of the official opposition in the senate, my good enemy Titus Septillus, and his boot-lapping lackey Belarius.”

“Does loyalty to one’s own ideals warrant such name-calling, First Consul?” Belarius asked pleasantly. He was a well-built man with a handsome face and he held himself with far more grace than Titus.

“I ask again, Octavian. What is the meaning of this?” Titus repeated.

“You always wish to be included in important matters of state, my dear Titus,” Octavian said. He was relishing the moment, Buckle realized. “And so here we are. This is the Vicar, envoy of the Founders. But wait, I do believe that you and the Vicar have met before, have you not?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure, no,” Titus replied smoothly.

“I’ve never seen this senator before,” the Vicar said. “Be careful with what games you choose to play, Octavian.”

“Games?” Octavian said. “I am too old for games. Ah, I am mistaken then. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He laughed. It was a smug, dark, self-satisfied sound. “Everyone please sit and indulge in the orphanmaker. More food is coming, far too much of it. The vomitorium is down the hall should any of you feel the need to overindulge.”

Philo pulled out an empty bench but Titus and Belarius did not move, staring at it with trepidation. “With all due respect, First Consul,” Titus said. “I want to know why we have been brought here.”

Octavian swung his mallet down atop another lobster, resulting in another crack of carapace, a splatter of blue-black liquid and the sickly wet smack of crushed flesh. “Sit down, Senator. I have invited you, Titus, not for your brilliant etiquette and table manners, but because we have a problem.”

“Surely any problem the First Consul may have should be brought to the floor of the Senate and not here, in his private chamber filled with Praetorian knives.” Titus replied.

“At least my Praetorian’s blades are clean,” Octavian said, “and not stained with the blood of men’s backs like those of the filthy Capitolines. But then, you are well familiar with the Capitoline house, are you not, Titus?”

“I shall not stand here and be insulted,” Titus answered evenly.

“Then sit,” Octavian replied.

“If you plan to accuse me of something, I would prefer you do it now,” Titus said.

“Why doesn’t anyone wish to sit down and eat today?” Octavian blurted with exasperation. “Very well, Titus, though I was hoping you might have an opportunity to enjoy the orphanmaker first.” Octavian nodded to Marius.

Marius pulled a piece of folded parchment from his pocket and approached Titus, shoving the paper into his hand. Titus stared at the paper like it was his own death warrant.

“I believe that belongs to you, Titus,” Octavian announced, chewing, working on his lobster.

“I do not know what this is,” Titus said.

“Read it,” Octavian pressed. “Read it out loud.”

Titus didn’t move.

“If Titus is unwilling to read it I can elaborate,” Octavian announced. “It is a secret transmission, intercepted by my faithful Guardians who managed to catch and kill the messenger porpoise in transit last night. The recipient was to be a notable Atlantean, a member of the Capitoline House, a criminal I know well: one Lavinia Pompey, who has since her birth, along with her wretched family, been plotting to overthrow our Aventine House and usurp the power of Atlantis for herself. The sender, well, the letter marks the signature and signet wax of our very own Titus Septillus.” Octavian pointed at Titus, whose face reddened with fury. “Do you deny that this letter is yours?  Do you deny that this be your own handwriting and your own senatorial seal?”

“This is criminal,” Titus hissed.

“Would you like to read the letter out loud, my dear Titus?” Octavian asked. “Or would you prefer Marius do you the honor?”

Titus yanked the parchment open, reading: “Lavinia Pompey, let it be known among the House of Capitoline that the time has arrived for us to act. Soon the Founders shall take the Aventine dome by whatever means necessary. We shall do our utmost to assist them in this action and we shall reap the rewards predetermined. Titus.”

“Do you deny that you are the author of this message, Senator?” Octavian asked, dropping the scooped-out claw of his lobster on the table with a splattering thump.

“I have the right to defend myself from this false accusation,” Titus roared, but he was trembling. “I have the right to defend myself on the floor of the Senate and in front of my peers!”

“Defend yourself, hah!” Octavian snapped. “This is indisputable evidence of a conspiracy hatched between yourself, the Capitolines, and the Founders.”

Buckle glanced at the Vicar, who did not look the least bit perturbed by the goings-on.

“This paper is not mine,” Titus replied. “The message is not mine. You prove your own unworthiness, Octavian, in the attempt to disgrace me in such an obvious manner. I am loyal to the office of the First Consul. I am loyal to Atlantis.”

“As am I,” Belarius added.

“And this is not your seal, Titus?” Octavian asked, pointing to the wax mark on the parchment.

Titus shook his head. “No, it is not. It’s a forgery.”

Octavian glared at Titus. “Bring the next course!” Octavian shouted.

XXVI

THE KETTLECRAB IS A TERRIBLE DISH

Philo and three other servants took hold of the dining table and hauled it away with one practiced heave. Marius retrieved his helmet from the table as they passed. The remains of the eviscerated orphanfish and its surrounding stacks of lobsters vanished through the wide kitchen doorway, the creaking of the doors the only sound in the room afterwards. Buckle glanced at the Vicar and Odessa—it was odd to no longer have the broad table between them, now replaced by open space.

The Vicar stood from his bench, Odessa immediately standing with him. “Perhaps we Founders should take our leave. I have no desire to witness petty internal squabbles.”

“Sit down!” Octavian shouted.

The Vicar and Sabrina remained standing.

“Sit down,” Octavian repeated, this time with less volume but more poison.

“I do not take orders from you, First Consul,” the Vicar replied.

“You shall obey me as you sup at my table and find yourself implicated in a conspiracy against me and my house,” Octavian growled. “This is far from over, negotiator.”

The Vicar seemed to grow larger, more ominous. “I assure you, First Consul, that the Founders need not connive in shadows with pipsqueaks in order to make House Aventine do our bidding.” He motioned toward the windows. “Have you not seen our mighty submersible fleet? If we wish we would crack your domes open like rotten eggs and be done with it.”

“If you think I would believe one word spilling from your silver-tongued mouth you sorely underestimate my intelligence, Vicar,” Octavian said.

Odessa grabbed the hilt of her sword but a wave of the Vicar’s big hand stilled her. “If you wish to make these negotiations unpleasant, Octavian,” the Vicar said with measured cool, “things will go badly only for you.”

Marius leaned into Octavian’s ear but Buckle heard his whispers; “Be careful, First Consul, of whom you openly impugn,” Marius said.

Octavian, his jaw working, glared at the Vicar.

The kitchen doors banged open as Philo and the three servants, all wearing ornate silver face masks and black rubber gloves pulled up to the elbows, carried another big table—this one with a fine white tablecloth—into the room. As the table was inserted into the midst of the benches Buckle saw it was empty except for a large black cauldron, boiling hot from the fire, resting on an ornate copper trivet, its contents hidden under a heavy cast iron lid.

Buckle placed his hands on the table and he suddenly felt odd, almost buzzing sensation. His fingertips tingled and the hair on his arms stood on end.

Titus gasped.

“The kettlecrab,” Belarius whispered, his voice shaking. “The kettlecrab.”

“Yes, the kettlecrab,” Octavian announced. “The traitor’s favorite dish.”

“This, this is assassination,” Titus mumbled, as if he could not believe what was happening. “The Assembly shall not stand for this, this infamy and coercion.”

Octavian nodded to Marius, who lifted the lid of the cauldron. Inside a blood-red soup bubbled and steamed. Buckle saw things swirling within it—slithering, snake-like things. A head popped up from the greasy liquid—a cobra-like, dark blue-green head with slit red eyes atop four antennae shoots and a circular, sucking mouth festooned with hundreds of tiny white teeth.

Sabrina gasped.

Octavian laughed. “One should fear the kettlecrab, my dear. Actually they are delicious to eat but they have to be dead. They’re a crossbreed of electric eel and an alien snake-crab called a pontu. They’re boiled but boiling does not hurt them, you see—the boiling is to get them agitated and mean—one must lop their head off in order to kill them, much as one must do with traitors. I have heard of a number of Atlanteans who, drunk at parties, forgot to decapitate a beastie before forking it from the bowl and, sadly, lost an eye or tongue when the creature was lifted to the face for eating.”

“Quite the entertaining meal,” the Vicar said coldly.

Octavian turned to Titus. “I give you one more opportunity, Senator, to confess your crimes against Atlantis and my ruling house. Do so and I can promise you that your family shall be spared after your death.”

“Death?” Belarius shot back. “It is you who has betrayed us. This is an outrage!”

“Save your words, Belarius,” Titus said. “The First Consul has baited us into his trap. He has already decided our fate.”

“Confess!” Octavian roared.

Titus raised his chin. “You cannot do this. I am a Senator! You sent your Praetorians to arrest us over our lunches, threaten our spouses and frighten our children. You are no republican. I call you king. I call you tyrant.”

Octavian nodded to Horatus, who wrenched Titus’ hands behind his back, tying them with a long strip of leather he had at the ready.

“Confess, and do it quickly, Titus,” Octavian said.

“I am innocent of all charges,” Titus replied, his eyes darting around. “You cannot condemn me without trial. I can only be sentenced to death through a verdict of the Senate.”

“Confess,” Octavian continued. “It won’t take the kettlecrab long to realize you’re on the menu.”

“Damn you to hell, King Octavian,” Titus spit back.

Octavian nodded to Horatus again. Horatus shoved Titus to the edge of the table and forced his head down until his face was within a few inches of the swirling orange-red soup in the cauldron.

“I am innocent!” Titus howled.

“Innocent?” Octavian laughed. “An innocent Senator? You would be the very first, then.”

“Stop this, First Consul!” Belarius shouted, lunging forward. “You know the Senate shall not stand for it!”

The Praetorian yanked Belarius back, one belting him in the midriff with the butt of his sword handle. Belarius crumpled to his knees, retching.

“Titus!” Octavian exulted. “I await a confession!”

Buckle rose to his feet, backing up from the table.  Sabrina was at his side. They both had their hands on their swords.

Titus, blinking against the hot steam, howled as he fought to shake free of Horatus’ grasp. His struggles only caused him to dunk his face in the soup. The orange liquid roiled as the creatures under the surface grew more and more agitated. Titus froze, his nose dripping.

“You only have a few seconds, Titus,” Octavian announced.

Titus strained, his neck muscles almost bursting out of his skin. “Go to Hades!”

Blue flashes erupted inside the cauldron, some of them striking Titus in a way that made both him and Horatus jerk. A green-black head slashed up out of the soup, followed by a long exoskeleton lined with hundreds of small, webbed fin-legs in the manner of a centipede. It bit and vanished. Blood poured from a ragged hole in Titus’ left cheek. Titus screamed.

“Missed the eyes,” Marius growled. “Lucky.”

The blood gushing into the soup sent the kettlecrabs into a frenzy of coiling black spines whirling in the orange whirlpool.

“Better you talk quickly, dear Titus,” Octavian said. “They have tasted blood now.”

“Vicar! Help me!” Titus howled.

The Vicar raised his hands. “I do not know you, sir.”

“Tell them to release me or die!” Titus shrieked, though his words were slobbered by the hole in his cheek. “Tell Octavian the Founders are coming to crack Atlantis open unless they submit! Tell them House Capitoline is with us! Now! Damn you, now!”

The Vicar tossed an easy smile at Octavian. “Your man has lost his mind from terror, First Consul.”

“Let him up,” Octavian ordered.

Horatus, maintaining his grip on the back of Titus’ neck, slowly lifted the man into an upright position. Titus gasped, his white hair sticking up in all directions, eyes half-rolling in his head, black burn marks on his forehead, ripped red muscles and bloody teeth visible through the gaping hole in his cheek.

“The Senate will not stand for this!” Belarius growled, having recovered from his blow and returned to his feet

Marius shoved Belarius against the wall “Speak again and you may also kiss the kettle.” Belarius swallowed and looked at the floor.

“The Senate will accept what I must do to defend it!” Octavian said. “Do you, Vicar, still claim the confession of the traitor Titus to be a lie? He has implicated you in every word.”

“Lies,” the Vicar replied. “Every word. Every syllable.”

“Mercy,” Titus mumbled. “Mercy.”

“There is no mercy for traitors in Atlantis,” Octavian snarled, nodding to Horatus. “And you are a traitor, Titus. You are a traitor to your house, to me, to the Senate, to all that your life has stood for.”

Horatus took one step back from Titus, holding him at arm’s length as he drew his short sword and, in one fluid, powerful motion, drove the blade into Titus’ back with enough force to make the tip of the blade erupt out of his chest.

Belarius gasped and covered his eyes, but no one else moved.

Titus looked down upon the bloody steel protruding from his chest. “Damn you, Octavian,” he gurgled.

“Let him swim in the soup,” Octavian commanded Horatus. “And I shall feed the broth to his children before I slit their stomachs and take it back.”

Horatus slammed Titus’ face on the table, stepped back and chopped the Senator’s head off with his sword.

Blood sprayed across the fine white tablecloth in front of the Vicar. “Well, that ruined my appetite,” he sighed.

As the quivering body of Titus slid to the floor, Horatus dropped his severed head into the kettle. The alien-eels went wild, sending up dozens of blue electric arcs as they swirled, rotating the head like some ghastly planet in the midst of a turbulent orange galaxy. It only took a few seconds before the kettlecrabs wrapped the head, slithering and wriggling as they gorged themselves, plunging into the eye sockets, mouth and ears and out again.

Octavian turned to Belarius and placed his hands on his hips. “And now what must I do with you, lackey?”

The Praetorians released Belarius and he raised his chin, defiant. “I shall not beg you for mercy.”

“Let it be known that Octavian and the Aventine House do not suffer conspirators gladly,” Octavian said. “You shall not die this day, Belarius, for you shall be my winged raven, my whispering snake. Though we have arrested some of your cabal I am certain there are many more of your fellow rats in the Senate, rats who conspire with the usurper Capitolines, rats who have sent secret messages to the Founders. Run to them now. Tell them of what you witnessed here. Tell them that in this time of war they must prove themselves either friends or enemies upon the floor of the Senate. Tell them the First Consul has eyes and ears among them. I know of their every collusion, every transgression. Tell them they have one chance to save themselves and the lives of their spouses and children, and that is to recant, to confess and throw themselves upon my mercy. If they do, I shall spare them. If they do not, then the Senate floor will run with their blood and the kettlecrabs shall be busy. Now, go!”

Belarius held his ground though his obvious wish was to run. A loose lobster dragged itself across the floor, skittering in what looked like death throes. Something inside of it burst and it collapsed, its claws clicking as a blue-black pool widened underneath it on the carpet.

“I will tell them,” Belarius said. He turned and strode out of the room, his sandals clicking away down the corridor.

Octavian spun to the Vicar. “And you, you and your submersible may take your leave as well, Vicar.”

The Vicar looked Octavian up and down as a butcher might inspect a slab of meat. “Very well. May I inform Isambard Hawkes that the great clan of Atlantis has elected to join our pact of mutual protection?”

Octavian appeared as if he was about to scream but controlled the urge, though his voice rattled with anger. “I have the evidence of your conspiracy, Titus. I have taken it apart piece by piece.” He pointed at the head of Titus rolling in the soup cauldron, now more white skull than anything else. “You have been unmasked by the confession from the very lips of Titus Septillus himself.”

“A man will say anything while he is being tortured,” the Vicar said evenly.

“Tomorrow the conspirators shall be purged from the Senate in a river of blood,” Octavian answered. “You underestimate me, fogsucker. I hold power here by knowing more than men think I know. And I know far more about your machinations than you could imagine I might.”

“I would be careful if I were you, First Consul,” the Vicar responded.

“A thousand earth-eels might swarm an oyster, Ambassador, but never crack it, never win the pearl and find their ruin in the attempt,” Octavian said before flinging his arm out and pointing to the archway where the Vicar and Odessa had entered. “Now, get back on your boat and go tell Isambard Fawkes that his assault upon Atlantis from within has failed, and to attack us from without is suicide.”

“I thought we’d already come to an understanding but, very well,” the Vicar suddenly grinned. “Thank you for a lovely meal. And I shall say this: you Atlanteans are most surely not lacking in dinner entertainments. And to you, dear Sabrina, it is wonderful to see you again. Are you certain that you do not wish to come home with us?”

Sabrina said nothing.