The Centurion's Empire (3 page)

"Doria, please—there are complex issues here. The Adjudicators cannot be forced to rely on their own authority and
judgment when they rule on Vespasian making himself Emperor."

She sat back, shaking her dyed black curls. "With Celcinius frozen, at least we still have our founder symbolically alive.
The Adjudicators must learn to make their own decisions without a nod from him."

Regulus slowly picked up his cup and took another sip of wine. "I'm confused. Would you have Celcinius frozen forever?

What is so bad about such an old man's death?"

Doria sat watching the condensation of her own breath as she considered her reply.

"It is bad for the woman in charge of the revival team that fails to restore Celcinius to life, and I am that woman," she
said slowly and clearly, then closed her eyes.

"So, a hidden agenda."

"In the ice he is at least not dead, but if we try to revive him he will almost certainly die. Why bother, why not leave him
alone? What is
your
hidden agenda, Regulus?"

The slave appeared at the door of the alcove, bowed and entered.

"We shall continue this later," said Regulus with some relief.

The slave reported that the cage was secure for his inspection. Regulus grumbled, but got to his feet, pulling himself up
hand over hand with his staff. The slave bowed again and backed out of the alcove, and Doria followed them with the pan
of hot wax. Regulus gave the cage a cursory check, tapping bars, pins, and gears with his staff, then he gestured to Doria.
With a practiced flourish she poured the wax over the master lock pin of the windlass, and after a moment Regului
pressed his ring seal into the soft, warm wax. The heat was welcome on his chilled fingers, and he withdrew the ring with
reluctance.

"Did you attach the tag plate for young Vitellan Bavalius?" Doria asked as they walked through the blackstone access
corridor.

"Yes, yes, yes, I'm not senile yet. When is he due to be initiated?"

"In a few months. He was to be sent to Egypt, but I had him sent instead to the Furtivus Legion that guards the
approaches to this palace. He is stationed in Primus Fort, and Centurion Namatinus has been sending me reports on
him—in fact he is due to be part of the escort for our next mule caravan of supplies."

"How has he reacted to being in a secret legion?"

"Extremely well. He is our first Christian recruit, did you know that? The Christians have a strong sense of discipline,
dedication, and duty, and they teach their children to keep secrets almost as soon as they can talk. They could well
become a prime source of new blood for us Temporians. Vitellan is certainly a model recruit."
Regulus spat and cursed. "Damn cruel, it is, taking a boy of seventeen and freezing him for fifty years. It's killing his
friends and family for him, even though they will live out their lives unharmed."

"But he must have all his personal ties severed while he is young and flexible, Regulus. He must become accustomed to
living as we do. It may be a sharp wrench for him, but the rewards are great. Our reports certainly indicate that he has
the rare combination of qualities that makes a good Tempo-rian."

"He may not want to join us, once he has been told of our existence. He may have a girl somewhere."

'Then he will be killed," said Doria simply. "You know that as well as I do."
They emerged into the palace, but Regulus insisted on going out onto a balcony at once. The winter sky was blue and
clear, although the lower part of the mountain was shrouded by mist. The air was still and crisply cold. He breathed
deeply, savoring the pure, fresh air and swearing to himself that he would never again drink the Venenum Im-mortale
and sleep frozen in the Frigidarium Glaciale.

An Alpine Trail: 17 December 71, Anno Domini

Gallus was thankful that this was the season's last trek through the Alps to feed the gods. Already the snow was deep,
and within a few weeks his mules would find it impossible. An unseasonably heavy fall could easily happen as early as
tomorrow, he reminded himself. Vitellan rode the last mule in the line, alert and keenly observing everything. He was
young and enthusiastic, like all the other Roman legionaries that had been assigned to escort Gallus' mules over the
years. In the spring Vitellan would be transferred somewhere else, but Gallus could look forward to many more years of
hauling grain, oil, firewood, and luxuries through the mountains, and leaving it all on a huge altar for the gods to take.
Why are my assistants transferred so quickly yet I remain here, Gallus wondered. Have I failed some unspoken test of
the Furtivus Legion?

In all his years of travel Gallus had never seen the gods.

Their altar was at the base of a sheer cliff whose top was generally obscured by mist. Occasionally a muleteer-legionary
would stay back and hide among the rocks to see what took the piles of sacks, bales, amphorae, and firewood from the
altar, but the story was always the same. An enormous hand would reach down and snatch away the piles during the
night. Some muleteers who stayed back were never seen again.

Gallus was steady and conservative in his work. He displayed no curiosity about the gods, did as he was ordered, and was
always punctual. It was a hard but secure life, as there were no bandits to fear in such a remote part of the Alps. Later
that day they would meet with the main convoy of seventy mules, and from there it was another two days to the altar.
An arrow thudded into his chest. Gallus stiffened, then toppled across the neck of his mule. His thick butt-leather
breastplate had taken most of the impact so that the point barely scratched his skin, but Gallus was not about to let
anyone know that. Behind him came shouts and curses from Vitellan and their attackers: "He's hiding!" and "Mind the
mule!" The animals were in a panic already, but the snow and their leads prevented them from bolting.
More shouts echoed through the mountains, mingled with the clang of blades. Vitellan was fighting from behind his
mule. The mules had value, and the bandits would not risk injuring them. Gallus listened to the voices. Four or five of
them. "Grab the lead mule!" That was his cue. Footsteps came crunching through the snow, lungs wheezed that were
unaccustomed to the thin alpine air. "Off with ye," said a voice with the intonations of a pleb from the lowlands cities,
but as the bandit tried to push Gallus from the mule the old legionary suddenly reached forward with an un-threatening,
fluid, even gentle gesture and plunged a dagger into his throat.

Now Gallus slipped from the mule and looked back, the arrow still protruding from his chest. Vitellan had sent one of
the bandits staggering away clutching his side and was engaging the other two. Two down. No more than five in total,
including one hidden archer. Gallus started back, sheltering

behind each mule in turn. An arrow struck a grain sack, fired from the rocks to the side of him. Good, good, nearly past
the archer, Gallus thought.

"Keep 'em fighting, Vitellan, they'll tire before we do," Gallus called, but even as he spoke he realized that he was
tiring fast himself. With dagger and gladius he engaged a bandit who was working his way behind Vitellan. The man was
skilled with his weapons, but was hampered by the thin air, cold, and snow. Another arrow hit Gallus' breastplate, but its
point barely pierced his flesh. Somewhere to one side a bandit cursed with pain as Vitellan's blade slipped past his guard.
Gallus was by now all too aware of a lethargy sweeping over him. He tried ineffectually to parry a curving snap and the
blade thudded into the side of his head, cutting flesh and bone. Gallus collapsed to the snow, but felt as if he was still
falling and falling and falling. In the distance Vitellan screamed, an echoing, fading scream.
Lars scrambled down from his vantage, brandishing his bow and cursing with fury.

"One dead and two wounded!" he shouted. "And from fighting only two legionaries."

"Tough buggers," gasped Vespus, who was draped across a mule's packs.

"You're veterans of the arena."

"Gladiators don't have thin air . . . and snow. These legionaries ... are stationed here. They're used to it."
The mules were standing still, but were frightened and restless. Lars began to strip Gallus' body.

"Butt leather," exclaimed Vespus. "The old fox wore butt leather under his furs."

"It slowed my arrows and scraped most of the poison from them. No wonder he took a while to die."
Lars tramped over to the edge of a steep drop where the two other bandits sat resting and binding their wounds.

"The other one tried to run, and lost his footing at the edge of the cliff," one of them explained.

"Yes, I saw it all," Lars said sharply. "Now climb down and get his clothes."
The man groaned with dismay. "Master Lars, that's a fearsome drop and we've been badly cut about."

"Do as I say!"

"If we do, it'll take all afternoon. That will make us miss the rendezvous wi' the main caravan in a few days' time. D'ye
know the way to the altar without them?"

Lars glared at the black smudge that was Vitellan, half buried and motionless in a snowdrift far below, then tramped
back to the mules. "Here's his cloak and a spare tunic," he said, flinging a bundle to the wounded men. "Strip the
clothing from this dead one, and that will have to do. What are your injuries?"

"Three broken ribs and a long cut," said one.

"Deep thrust to the leg, but I can ride," said the other.

"Then bind yourselves up and dress as the legionaries. Try to fight like 'em too, if needs be. You will be Vitellan, and
you will be Clavius, a new recruit. When you get to the rendezvous tell the trailmaster that Gallus fell ill."

"True enough," laughed the new Vitellan, then winced at the pain from his ribs.
They threw the bodies of Gallus and the dead bandit down after Vitellan, then unloaded two of the mules and flung the
sacks over the edge as well. After an hour of frantic labor in the thin air, the line of six mules moved on again. The
animals were nervy and cantankerous at being driven by unfamiliar masters. Lars and Vespus rode in padded sacks
marked as woollen cloth. The sun was already down when they reached the rendezvous. They found it only because the
mules knew the way on their own.

Vitellan revived soon after his fall, but he had the sense not to move until after dark. Deep snow had broken his fall, and
beyond a few minor gashes and sprains he was unwounded. He examined the two bodies nearby. Gallus had been
stripped, but the dead bandit's body was fully clothed. Vitellan was surprised to find sacks from two mule packs lying in
the snow as well. There was costly cloth, fine smoked fish, dried beef and even a small amphora of very expensive wine.
With a prayer of thanks to the God of the Christians he crawled under a rock shelter in the face of the cliff, wrapped
himself in the bolts of cloth and settled down to a more than satisfactory meal to recover from his ordeal.

"Yet again the cold has saved me," he whispered to him-

self as he gazed out at the starlit snowdrift that had preserved his life.

The next morning it took five hours for Vitellan to climb back up to the trail with a makeshift pack of provisions on his
back. At the site of the ambush there was nothing of any use left behind. He considered his options as he examined the
mule tracks. The bandits had continued along the trail right after the ambush, and there were at least four of them. Even
if he could catch up with them there was no point in a lone man attacking four. Besides, they had stolen no more than
supplies for some temple deep in the mountains where offerings were made to the old gods. As a Christian, Vitellan thus
felt no sense of outrage or sacrilege. He would walk back to Primus Fort and alert the centurion. A couple of dozen
legionaries would be sent to hunt the bandits down.

Vitellan started walking back along the trail. At first he estimated that he could reach the fort in three days or less at a
brisk pace, and provided that no more snow fell. The distance was no problem, as he had plenty of food and warm bedding
for the trek. Presently he slowed his pace. Aware that death from bandits, snowslides, or just sheer cold was never far
away, Vitellan decided to travel more slowly and cautiously. He had been badly shaken by Gallus' lonely death and his
own narrow escape. He had not known the older legionary long enough to be a real friend, but his death nevertheless left
a distinct hole in Vitellan's sense of reality. As it turned out his trek was without incident, but he took five days to reach
the fort. Had he hastened and made it in three, the course of history would have been changed.
The Temporian palace of Nusquam had been built between two mountain peaks, and the original building was over four
centuries old. The walls were carved out of the mountain itself, while the buildings of the palace rose in terraces up the
side of one peak. The design was such that it was not obvious to anyone looking up from below. It was divided into the
Upper Palace, where thirty Temporians lived, and the Lower, which housed seventy slaves and guards. Three hundred
frozen Temporians lay far below in the Frigidarium Glaciale, and the other forty Temporians were scattered
throughout the Roman Empire, attending to its business and expanding their control.