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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

North of Vindobona,

Province of Pannonia Superior

September 7th, 166 CE

“Now this is a new experience,” Artorius murmured.

As they waited while the troops marched—or rode—past the other side of the reviewing stand well up the long slope.

“What, meeting a bigwig, Prof?” Jeremey asked.

The hard tramp of thousands of hobnailed caligae covered anything they said, as long as they didn’t turn their heads. The noon sun was bright overhead and it was a fine summer’s day with a scattering of fleecy clouds in the pale washed-out blue of a central European sky, and the Danube glittered behind them to the east. By no particular coincidence, the reviewing stand was on about the same place where the command group of Legio X Gemina had positioned itself during most of the battle with the Marcomanni that day in late May.

With the barbarians expecting a crushing victory and rich booty and murder-and-arson fun, Artorius thought. Which is precisely what they’d have gotten, if it weren’t for us. They would have made it as far as Italy, if it weren’t for us. That farmhouse we saw repeated a thousand times and more.

The battlefield had been cleaned up and it didn’t even smell of death anymore, only the frowsty-musky, sweat-leather-oil-metal-dirty-socks scent that massed troops had in this era. But the unit standards and the Eagle of the Tenth Legion had been placed roughly where they’d been during the battle too, stretching behind the timber construction draped in purple cloth where the Emperor and his bigwigs waited and which put them ten feet in the air. Mostly they were military, but with a scattering of his comites, his close advisors and the equivalent of the Cabinet.

“Meeting bigwigs? No, I’ve done that before.”

Artorius and his companions were here in a clump downslope toward the river; behind them were Josephus and Sextus Hirrius Trogus. Behind them were the families of both, who’d at least be able to watch the formalities from a good vantage point.

The Tenth Legion itself led the parade, marching northward along the highway that ran from Vindobona, then swinging off it toward the river and passing from south to north before the reviewing stand. After it passed the Emperor, the legion marched all the way to the bare hill that had anchored its line during the battle, looped around in a 180-degree turn, and the units each took up the places they’d had on that day.

Minus the dead and crippled, of course, Artorius thought. Quite a few of those.

The long line of armored men kept marching, each unit halting when it reached its standard, until the last cohort came to its station on the south. Then the tubae called, and the whole mass did a right turn to face the Emperor with its standards to the fore.

Close order drill really means something in a fight, here, Artorius reminded himself. “Their drills are bloodless battles, and their battles but bloody drills,” as the man said.

“Plenty of generals, and the President, once,” Artorius went on after a pause.

The other troops, about six thousand, followed and formed up behind the Tenth. That put more and more helmeted heads between the Americans and the platform, but the slope gave them a clear view of it, helped by the fact that a wide clear path was left stretching to the steps on the eastern side. The men on the platform simply had to turn to face the troops when the last had passed before them.

Silver spears glittered there behind the Emperor, and a great banner fell from a crossbar on a pole topped by an eagle; the crimson silk had a golden fringe on the bottom, and the main part of it was occupied by an embroidered wreath of golden leaves, the image of the one the Emperor himself wore around his head.

Within it were letters in capitalis monumentalis:

SPQR

For Senatus Populusque Romanus. The Senate and the People of Rome.

He shook himself back to the question: “No, it’s not that. It’s not that Marcus Aurelius is a panjandrum,” Artorius said quietly.

The President had pinned the medal on him, in fact. He hadn’t much liked or disliked the man, unlike the usual passionate reactions he generated, but he’d appreciated that. As much as the pain and drugs allowed.

“It’s that I’ve met plenty of Romans by now, but this is the first time I’m going to meet one I’ve really studied,” he said. “As an individual. Someone whose life and death I’ve gone over in detail for years. Someone whose book I’ve read!”

“Prof, you are indeed a Prof, even now,” Paula said, and Filipa snorted under her breath.

“No, he’s right, that’s—” Mark began, and then gave a muffled yip as someone kicked him in the ankle.

They had guards, columns a century strong on either side. They’d been Praetorians originally, but those had marched off as part of the ceremony. Now they were from the First Cohort of the Tenth, and considerably smaller because both centuries were understrength more than half, between casualties and detachments sent east. The legions had high standards, and it would take six months of hard training before the first of the replacement recruits fully joined the Tenth’s ranks; they’d go into the lowest-ranked cohorts, bumping men upward until some got into the elite First.

Primus Pilus Lucius Sextius Caelius was at the head of the century on the right, mail glittering; the medallions on his chest that showed his record and his valor polished to an even brighter finish, and his vine-wood swagger stick was oiled and gleaming. The red transverse crest of bristling dyed horsehair across his helmet moved slightly in the cooling wet breeze from the river, and his scarred, brutal-looking face was impassive as he muttered at his men, something clearly audible to Artorius too:

“We got this job instead of those mincing Praetorian fungos from the city, and the Emperor is watching. So, you pantomime clowns, let’s get this right. Or by Mithras and our Eagle, you’ll wish the Hermanns had killed you!”

When Artorius looked back at him for a moment, he could have sworn Lucius gave a hint of a wink.

Reminds me of some lifers I’ve known, he thought.

When the last unit was in place, scores of curled cornua and straight tubae beside the platform sang; it was in a complex pattern, but basically meant commander present and attention to orders. Marcus Aurelius stepped forward to the edge of the platform, raised his right hand high and called:

“Soldiers of Rome!”

His voice was a medium tenor, and it carried very well.

Well trained, Artorius thought; public speaking and upper-class Roman education were very closely linked.

Then he started very slightly: every soldier on the field—over ten thousand of them—shouted in chorus:

“ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!”

It was like the voice of a God or a giant, loud enough to numb the ears for a second or two, a little blurred but thudding and rumbling in your chest. None of their escort seemed surprised; evidently this was an everyone-knows part of an address.

By the Big Panjandrum, he thought.

Artorius caught most of what followed, and was mildly surprised at the tight focus and the way it said what these soldiers wanted to hear and could understand, without many rhetorical flights. This man had a long-lasting reputation as a philosopher and writer, but apparently he knew how to temper the words to the audience. There was a faint murmur in the distance, as designated men repeated what he said for those too far away to take the words in directly.

In essence it amounted to:

The barbarian filth crossed our border and attacked our people; we’re going to make them suffer to show them what messing with us means, put a boot on their necks while they squeal and beg, and take everything they have.

He didn’t quite promise “rape and pillage/in every village,” but that was the general direction of things, and there was a tense growl.

Then the troops reacted as one, a chant of:

“AVE! AVE IMPERATOR!”

The word had become “emperor” in English and a dozen other languages, from Lithuanian to Portuguese, with variations on “Caesar” as the alternative—the German version even sounded very much like the way Romans he’d met pronounced it, hard and clipped. Probably because they’d borrowed it early and it hadn’t changed, that was common with loan words. Here and now imperator meant something halfway between that and its original Latin sense: Victorious leader, with overtones of fit to command Romans.

Roman emperors didn’t just use “imperator” as a title and part of their official names, they counted the times they’d been acclaimed as imperator by the troops.

Marcus Aurelius went on: “We are also here to celebrate the valor of the Tenth Legion Gemina and the loyal auxilia who fought with them. From the time of the Divine Julius and the first Augustus, the Tenth Gemina has fought with courage and skill. On this field, it showed its mettle once again, never wavering, against great odds. Today I award it this phalera, to be carried below the Eagle!”

The legion’s aquilifer with the lion’s tanned head on his helmet and its skin falling down his back took up the Tenth’s eagle and marched—strutting just a little—to the platform and up the steps. The Eagle dipped, and a polished golden disk about the size of a dinner plate was affixed, showing a low-relief rendering of the bull’s-head symbol of the unit and the date and place of the action. Slightly to Artorius’ surprise the standard-bearer and his escorts stayed there, behind Marcus Aurelius and with the twin Eagles now looming above him.

A rolling cheer went down the Tenth’s ranks, along with a rhythmic thunder of spears beaten on shield bosses. It fell into silence again as he raised his hand.

“And to the honored name of Legio X Gemina, I add—inexorabilis!

That meant “unyielding strength.” The cheers this time were even louder.

“And every soldier who was on this field in that great battle will receive a donative of one third of a year’s pay.”

Now, that’s a real cheer, Artorius thought ironically. The crowd goes wild! The auxiliaries are cheering as loud as the legionnaires.

The other units here would want to get the same, the recognition and the bonus as well, and would fight the harder for it.

The ceremony now went into particulars—individuals were called up to receive decorations and rewards; the primus pilus of the Tenth had a shiny new medallion on his harness, but unlike the others he remained on the platform, near the Eagle of his legion and in the equivalent of parade rest.

At last the Emperor said:

“Let the man whose timely aid turned the tide of battle approach! Approach, Lucius Triarius Artorius, to receive the thanks of the Senate and the People of Rome!”

That was the signal for the whole party waiting between the two centuries of the Tenth to move forward. They did, the legionnaires at a slow march so as not to leave the civilians behind, then halting to line the immediate approach to the stairs.

I’ve got some sense of what to expect, at least, given this getup.

A tunic had been delivered by one of the servants of the Emperor’s aides that morning, carefully wrapped. It had turned out to be of dazzling white wool, beautifully woven from fine thread, with narrow purple stripes down from each shoulder. That was the garb of an eques; Sextus Hirrius Trogus was wearing the same, beneath a toga, as he came up on Artorius’ right. So was Josephus, on his left, and he hadn’t been an eques any more than Artorius. The other four Americans were in their best Roman clothes including togas for the men, and came directly behind Artorius; the other two men’s families were a bit further back.

Artorius was conscious that Julia was in that group, and that she’d given him a long smile when she saw the new tunic. Though he himself had been told not to wear a toga.

Theoretically, they were now of the same class . . . 

Damn, but that’s one fine woman, he thought. She deserved better than that creep her father married her off to. Though their little Claudia is a pleasure, bright as you could want, cute as a bug’s ear, and she has beautiful manners, for a nine-year-old. Julia’s smart, she’s good-looking, and I think she’s good—not sappy, but good. The staff at the Villa Lunae actually like her, as opposed to the way they put up with her mother, which is significant. She could treat them any way she pleased, after all, and she had reason to be irritable, sent into quasi-exile with that harpy.

They all walked up the steps of the purple-draped platform, except for the families, who waited to either side of the risers. That was a privileged position in itself, of course.

His first close-up view of Marcus Aurelius was a slight shock, because he was so much like the portraits on his coins and the faces on statues seen eighteen hundred years later.

A little older, possibly, or simply more worn.

A long face, curling dark hair and beard with a few first gray hairs, over a very slightly receding chin. The eyes were deep brown, and—

Tired, he thought. Not physically, but he’s tired. That’s the look of a man doing his very best on a job he doesn’t like. And you can see thoughts there, like fish in a deep pool. Definitely someone there, there. Remember that; you have more information on some things, but there are no flies on this one at all.

The Emperor of Rome was about a decade older than he was, or a little more; shorter, but not by much, about average height for a twenty-first-century American, tall here. He looked vaguely Mediterranean, with light-olive skin and hair that was a very dark brown but not quite black.

Like a Tuscan or Sicilian or someone from Spain. Surprise! And they call me Prof, but he looks a lot more like one, Artorius thought. And when you’re looking at his face you don’t notice the diadem and the purple tunic and toga picta and the standards and things behind him.

The Americans and their companions bowed and stood waiting. Surprisingly, Marcus Aurelius’ attention went first to the local landowner and the Jewish merchant.

“Lucius Maecius Josephus, Sextus Hirrius Trogus, you both gave aid and support to Lucius Triarius Artorius upon his arrival here, and not only when it was to your advantage, and hence contributed to his great deeds. Therefore you are also deserving of the thanks of the State. Sextus Hirrius, you are hereby freed from all taxation on yourself or your lands for the remainder of your life; and the Imperial fiscus will immediately pay all your debts.”

He turned his head to Josephus. “Lucius Maecius Josephus, you are hereby elevated to the Equestrian Order . . . whose property qualification I understand you now meet.”

Artorius kept his face impassive, but he couldn’t suppress an inward grin; he thought from his eyes Marcus Aurelius was smiling inside too. The Emperor had just given two different men large gifts with the same money; Sextus went from deeply indebted to debt free in one fell swoop, probably doubling his disposable income by eliminating the interest payments and his taxes, and Josephus got his biggest single investment back all at once and quite a bit more than doubled from what he’d paid for it, vastly increasing his cash reserves.

Both men stepped back, leaving Artorius and the other four Americans behind him facing the Emperor. The sovereign placed a hand on Artorius’ shoulder for a moment before he stepped back, and there was a slight murmur—that was a signal of honor—and a sort of huge, muted sigh from the watching troops.

His brief grip was firm, a strong hand but one with nothing to prove.

“This man,” he said, pitching his voice to carry, “is one to whom we owe a great debt. Next to the unyielding strength of the Tenth Legion, it is to him and his followers that credit goes for the victory won here. He has given to me the secret of his great weapon, and given it freely, without request for reward. Yet rewards he shall have.”

He made a sweeping gesture toward the American:

“I hereby elevate him to the Equestrian Order, and confer upon him the rank of tribunus angusticlavius attached to the Imperial headquarters.”

That was roughly equivalent to being a divisional staff officer, something like a staff colonel or even brigadier-general, though the Roman concept of rank was deeply alien and less definite. It was considerably better paid than the American Army’s equivalent, though, about the same as a primus pilus’ sixty thousand sesterces a year.

“That he may maintain the dignity of his new state and rank, I hereby grant him sufficient estates from the res privata, for himself and his heirs.”

Artorius felt a moment’s surprise as a rolling cheer went through the assembled army. Starting with the Tenth, almost all of whom knew perfectly well what he’d saved them from, but spreading to the reinforcements as well. Artorius the War-Wise was genuinely popular with the troops, for the good and sufficient reason that he’d made it much more likely they would win victories . . . and much less likely they’d be killed or crippled doing so.

Now I’m a landed aristo, junior grade. Not bad, after arriving . . . well, moderately rich and with a nosebleed.

Emperors tended to guard the res privata jealously because it provided a large chunk of their revenues without the unpopularity of general taxation, but they could tap it for rewards as well. And it was enormous, something like twelve or fifteen percent of all the farmland in the Empire, not counting mines and urban land.

An aide handed the Emperor a scroll, and he passed it ceremoniously to Artorius, who bowed as he accepted it with both hands, then tucked it into the crook of his left arm in the gesture that Romans used carrying this type of writing.

That would be his copy of the transfer deed. Others—handed over by the aide, not the Emperor—went to Mark, Filipa, Jeremey and Paula . . . or to Marcus, Philippa, Julius and . . . 

Paula, he thought. Some things don’t change even with the fall of empires. Probably they’re getting a fair chunk each, enough to live comfortably for the rest of their lives, and pass on something to their children if they have them.

“Now behold the weapon he brought to the fight, his gift to me and to the Senate and People of Rome, who now hold this godlike power!”

Orders rippled down the massed formations, and they did an about-face. So did everyone on the platform who wasn’t already looking that way.

At the base of the long slope toward the Danube, in the location where the Marcomanni and their allies had massed for the initial advance, was a forest of stakes supporting scarecrow figures rigged out in German war regalia, including helmets and mail shirts for many, and the banners topped by skulls bestial and human that the barbarians had borne.

A large flock of sheep had been driven in among them and confined with wicker hurdles. They were grazing on the sprouting barley and weeds and grass and ignoring everything else with the idiot concentration of their breed. They didn’t understand humans, and unlike dogs or cats they didn’t try, either.

Gear captured after the fight, on the scarecrows, Artorius thought. I’m glad I managed to talk them into using sheep instead of German prisoners. Of course, the prisoners fetch a higher price than sheep . . . and once the sheep are dead, you can eat them.

Then the carroballistae came bouncing onto the field, the six he’d made over the winter, and twelve more they’d gotten functional since, with the help of the governor and the Tenth since the battle, all moving at a brisk canter. Having official backing for the collection of saltpeter had been a big boost too.

Getting people to be careful around stored gunpowder . . . or thunderpowder . . . was coming along too. Not without several gruesome accidents, but after those they started listening to his warnings.

And to getting the concept of explosive into their heads. Odd to meet people who just don’t have the idea, but they don’t. Didn’t.

They deployed smartly about three hundred yards from the targets; he’d used his original crews as cadre, getting special permission from Bassus to enlist the freedmen who normally were barred. There was a tense silence as the trails were spread and the horse teams pulled back the cable that cocked the throwing arms; only the Tenth had seen the bombs in operation before, and most of them hadn’t been really conscious of it at the time. The army was going to see it all, now.

The rest of the Tenth were sort of busy, Artorius thought. The First Cohort got a good look, though.

The reinforcements who’d come in over the last few months had only rumors.

Mental fingers crossed. I really hope this comes off smoothly!

The horse teams spanned the mechanisms with a ratcheting clatter; it was clearly audible, because the troops still kept silence as they waited to see what rumor had spoken of. The string—thick and strong, another cable really—linking the arms on each machine through a hardwood block carved into a cup went back . . . 

And now the moment of truth. I think I got it through all their heads about not lighting the fuse too early.

“I wish I could see this more clearly,” the Emperor said quietly. “For it will be an experience unique in my life.”

Artorius was wearing a balteus and a sword, the gladius on his left hip in the officer’s position. He’d been told to bring the belt and weapon; the reason was obviously the military rank he’d just been granted, which was also the reason he wasn’t wearing a toga.

That was explicitly civilian dress. The bleached white tunic was just what an officer wore, especially on special occasions.

He’d kept one of the sets of cased field glasses from Fuchs’s treasure trove on the belt as well; they were the older type with no electronics, but well kept. Nobody objected, since Roman uniforms and gear weren’t all that uniform; they tended to be more-or-less similar, not identical.

“Sir, try these,” Artorius said, uncasing them. “Put them to your eyes and move the screw between them with your thumb, until things become clear.”

Marcus Aurelius did; then he started a little as the distant targets became clear . . . and close.

“How is this accomplished, Tribune?” he said.

And he does pronounce the final -us and -um sounds, Artorius thought, unable to resist academic curiosity even then. It’s like people here in Pannonia speak Old Deep Texan and he’s J.R.R. Tolkien at Oxford.

“If you put a stick in water, or look through water in a clear glass cup, you see things bent and distorted, sir,” he replied. “That is the materials bending light, the light that gives us sight. There are glass circles in these . . . we call them field glasses, for their military uses . . . that are ground to careful shapes. Depending on how they are made, they can magnify the small, or bring that which is distant close.”

“Aristophanes and Seneca both remark on how a round glass jar of water can make things appear larger. Another secret . . . can you do the like? These would be very useful to officers and scouts, and I would like to train them on the heavens!”

“Perhaps, sir, but not very soon and not easily. I know the theory, the explanation . . . but producing glass of the right purity, and shaping it . . . that would require much trial and error. We might use rock crystal of exceptional clarity . . . ”

“One thing I have noticed in your letters, and now in your speech, Tribune Artorius, is that you do not boast and make grand promises that cannot be fulfilled. This encourages me. And now . . . ”

He raised his arm, and chopped it downward. The centurion in command of the ballistae was watching, tiny at this distance. He saluted in the arm-up style, then barked an order which couldn’t be heard from here.

The distinctive vibrating-smacking impact of the throwing arms could and was:

Tunng-WHACK, repeated eighteen times. Then—

CRACK!

A first flash of red fire, and a great puff of dirty-gray smoke.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

A broad swath of the targets disappeared, hidden in the smoke. The carroballistae were reloading even as the breeze from the river wafted the burnt-sulfur firecracker stink over the massed spectators.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Another eighteen bombs burst, and another, and another. The volleys continued, until nearly a hundred bombs had been launched. It was good theater and the target zone looked as if it had been under hot steel rain, but Artorius’ teeth clenched.

Because it’s also half the ammunition I’ve been able to get made since that little show with Sextus last fall.

When the volleys ceased, a goodly proportion of the scarecrow figures were down, and the sheep had been butchered like . . . 

Butchered like . . . why, like sheep in a pen! he thought mordantly. Not that men in the same situation wouldn’t be ripped to pieces too. With sheep ghosts cheering from the sidelines, probably.

The murmuring of the troops grew; then the horns and trumpets sounded again, and it died away. A man from each century and turma came forward, and walked through the area of devastation. The Emperor returned the field glasses with a rueful smile.

“You are more likely to need these in the service of Rome than I, Tribune,” he said.

Then slightly wistfully: “Though if at some time you can make more of them, I would like a pair. That was like being a young man again, and with the eyes of an eagle. Mine were never so keen.”

“Sir.”

I am impressed, Artorius thought as he nodded soberly. There aren’t that many men who could be supreme autocrat of, from his point of view, virtually the whole civilized world, every third member of the human race, and who would still do that. The problem is that men like Marcus Aurelius are rather rare, and ones like the disaster his son Commodus will turn into are distressingly common.

Artorius refocused the field glasses; evidently the Emperor was shortsighted. As he’d suspected, the sheep were all dead or badly wounded, a couple of hundred of them . . . and the soldiers were looking thoroughly impressed. He focused the field glasses on one poking the tip of his dagger through the hole in a helmet, another doing the same with a mail shirt and his little finger, and a third picking up a shield . . . and standing with a piece of it in his hand as the rest dropped in fragments at the toes of his hobnailed caligae.

Still another—a Middle Eastern-looking auxiliary archer in a chain-mail shirt over an ankle-length tunic and with a spired helmet on his head, long bearded and hook nosed and dark—bent over an eviscerated sheep, and gave it the mercy stroke with his knife, then wiped it on the wooly hide while he examined the wounds.

The trumpets called them back. When they’d returned to their centuries and squadrons the brass spoke again, and the whole formation did another about-face.

The Emperor stepped forward again. “This weapon can do nothing—nothing—without your good swords, strong arms and brave hearts. But with those swords, those arms and hearts and this weapon and others still to come, Rome will have imperium sine fine.”

Which meant something like rule without limits or eternal Empire everywhere.

“Rome! Rome forever! And all the world under the protection of the Roman peace, beneath the wings of our Eagles!”

“ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!”

The chant went on for some time, and the booming thunder of weapons drummed on shields. When it died down, the Emperor spoke again:

“There is one more reward to give the excellent Artorius, but it is not mine to dispense.”

Artorius blinked; nobody had told him about this. Marcus Aurelius went on:

“Lucius Sextius Caelius, carry on!”

The primus pilus of the Tenth Gemina kept his face grave, though Artorius had the distinct impression he wanted to grin like a hungry wolf. Instead he stepped forward, his ceremonial scarlet cloak swinging from his armored shoulders, and spoke to the soldiers—specifically, those of his own legion—in his parade-ground bellow.

“Legionnaires! Soldiers of the Tenth Gemina and the auxiliaries who fought by our sides! Generals give crowns of distinction and armbands and medallions of reward to soldiers. But there is one crown that is given only by the soldiers to the man who saved them.”

His optio came up beside him, a scarlet cloth over his hands. On it rested a wreath, a diadem—but made of grass and twigs and shattered stalks of barley from this very field.

“Fellow soldiers! Shall I give this crown of grass to the noble Tribune Lucius Triarius Artorius, as we recognize our debt to him?”

Ave, Artorius!”

The cry grew louder and louder as more of the 2,738 armored troopers of the Tenth present today and the auxiliaries who’d fought with them took up the cry. The rest of the field remained silent—this was a matter between those who’d been present at the battle.

The senior centurion waited until they were all shouting it before he took the wreath between surprisingly gentle fingers and marched three steps to stand before Artorius.

“For you, sir, the corona graminea.”

Artorius swallowed, suddenly moved far more than he could have expected. That was the highest and rarest of all Roman military decorations, not awarded more than once a decade even in times of war and sometimes not for generations at a time.

And by the men to the one who gets it. For saving them from death.

He bowed his head so that the centurion could reach it, and felt a prickle on his scalp as the rough material touched it; Lucius was an inch or so below average height for a Roman of this era, though stocky and troll strong, which meant he’d had some sort of pull to be allowed enlistment. Then he led Artorius to the edge of the platform, and the men cheered again.

A sudden thought came to him. He raised his arm. Silence fell, a little slowly.

“Soldiers of Rome!” he called, thankful that the accent was mostly out of his Latin.

Not that there aren’t plenty of accents here today, and I doubt one in a hundred of these men have ever even seen the City of Rome. Maybe less. Most of them would have been born on the frontier, even the ones who are Roman citizens by birth. The Roman Empire’s a bit like a lobster: these are the claws and armored shell that protect the soft, yummy-tasty interior. North of the border . . . there’s no interior. No area of peace.

“Our Caesar Augustus has rewarded me beyond my worth, and so have you.”

He turned slightly, toward the great eagle-topped banner and the man who stood before it and saluted:

“To Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus . . . Ave, Imperator!

The whole assembled throng barked it out in a chorus that echoed from the road and forest to the river and back.

“AVE, IMPERATOR!”

Marcus Aurelius acknowledged it, and made a gesture. The curled cornua and straight tubae sang again, a single long note for silence. Then another volley of orders. The formations faced left and marched, swinging along in a perfect order that would leave the Tenth—the newly decorated Tenth, with a new title to be inscribed on their banners, and a hundred denarii burning a hole in their belt pouches—in the lead on the road back to Vindobona and celebration.

The Emperor and his inner circle waited until the last were on the road.

Marcus Aurelius spoke, when the earthquake rumble of thousands of boots and hooves died down enough for him to be heard speaking in ordinary tones:

“Great changes will come of what you have brought to the Empire, Tribune.”

Artorius smiled to himself, and said:

“Sir . . . What can take place without change? What then is more pleasing or more suitable to the universal nature? And can you take a bath unless the wood that heats the water undergoes a change? And can you be nourished, unless the food undergoes a change? And can anything else that is useful be accomplished without change?

Marcus Aurelius looked at him quizzically, then smiled more broadly than Artorius had seen before.

“You echo my own inner thoughts on the matter, Tribune, but I had not yet reduced them to so compact and eloquent a form.”

No, I echo your own book that you haven’t written yet, Artorius thought. Talk about stealing a man’s credit! But I do think that’s true.

Aloud he went on: “Caesar Augustus, I am glad your inspiring speech included the words: and others yet to come when you referred to the new weapons.”

Marcus Aurelius smiled, this time a more typical very slight curve of the lips, as much a matter of eyes and the way he cocked his head slightly to the side as anything.

It was the commander of the Praetorians, Sextus Cornelius Repentinus, who spoke. There was an underlying guttural accent in his polished Latin, probably something regional:

“How so, Tribune?”

“Sir, if the Germanii or other enemies face us the way those scarecrows and sheep did”—he pointed eastward—“we’ll give them exactly what the targets got, and what Prince Ballomar got in the battle here. Then our troops will butcher any who live long enough to run away.”

“Good work for the cavalry,” the commander of the First Thracians said. “And with the new gear you’ve gotten us, Tribune Artorius, it’ll be a grand old day chasing them. Spearing them in the buttocks with the new couched-lance style and betting on how high they can jump.”

That got a general laugh, though not from the Emperor.

“They’re barbarians, but not necessarily stupid,” Artorius said. “They’ll realize that. Perhaps already, certainly after a few more lessons like the one they got on this field. Then they’ll try other tactics. Falling back before a Roman army, harassing, ambushes, rushes from cover, attacks on supply trains. They’ll try to do as much damage as they can without giving us a massed target.”

Marcus Aurelius nodded. “Quite likely.”

Repentius grinned, a coldly unpleasant expression. His dark olive face had scars on it that showed as lines of white through his dense black beard, and he had two narrow purple stripes on his white tunic—command of the Guard was an equestrian post.

Whatever else the Praetorians might become . . . 

Might have become, in a history that now will never be. Who knows what this future holds? I don’t know, any more than anyone else on this piece of purple-draped boards. The more we change things, the less use our knowledge of that history is, at least the political details.

 . . . they were still elite troops here and now. Their commander went on:

“Very likely, that’s a shrewd prediction. I can see you’ve led men on campaign before, Tribune. But Romans have seen the same before from tribes who don’t dare to face us in open battle and abide the results. We have an answer to it that always works.”

And he continued with a single word:

Vastatio.”

That meant to lay waste. In the sense that you left nothing human behind you except ashes, bones and chained coffles heading for the slave markets and mines. And when the Romans set their hand to something, they tended to do it very, very thoroughly and usually with any amount of patience necessary.

Marcus Aurelius nodded.

“That is sometimes necessary, Prefect Repentius,” he said. “Remember though, that the Gaulish chief Brennus burned Rome once, and the Divine Julius fought for eight hard years to subdue Gaul itself—sometimes employing vastatio, yes. But now . . . Marcus Iallius Bassus here comes from the land of the Helvetii, who the Divine Julius fought and defeated. And he is a senator of Rome, a commander of legions, a man of culture and virtue who has governed provinces well. Carthage was our great enemy. Rome destroyed Carthage and sowed the city itself with salt. But now Carthage is a great Roman city . . . and the former domains of Punic Carthage have given us men like you, Repentius. All human beings are of one creation, all men brothers in potentia; it is the great task of Rome to make that potential real. Someday the descendants of today’s barbarian Germanii may be loyal Romans as well, speaking our tongue, working and fighting for Rome. I certainly hope so. Imperium sine fine, eh?”

He turned to Artorius again. “You and your clients . . . and good Sextus Hirrius, and you, eques Maecius Josephus . . . are bidden to dinner with me tonight. It will be a small affair, and humor me that we may dine sitting upright; no slight is intended, but such is my inclination and what I take to be the fruits of philosophy.”

Artorius inclined his head. “No slight taken by me, sir. In fact, lying down to eat is one Roman custom I have found hard to acquire. Swallowing takes more effort without the food’s weight assisting you.”

Marcus Aurelius departed amid the semiscandalized chuckle that got, a valet taking his toga before he mounted a horse held by a Praetorian at the foot of the stairs . . . one that had the new type of saddle, Artorius noted. So did the Equites Singulares Augusti, the select horse guards who formed up around him. The rest of the party went down the stairs with a smooth juggling of rank and precedence that was next to instinctive in Romans who moved in these circles; Artorius was a little surprised how far forward the position he was subtly nudged into was.

At the foot of the stairs strict precedence yielded to a more ordinary order. Paula spoke . . . in English:

“You know, that entire ceremony . . . did you get the impression there ought to have been rows of searchlights around the whole thing? Imperium sine fine, yup.”

“Hey, everybody who makes wheels makes them round, and that’s how you get guys fired up to fight,” Jeremey observed. “Us good, them bad; us tough, them wimps; kill-kill-kill. Sure seemed to work, didn’t it?”

“And that Repentius . . . I think they make a desert, and call it peace was coined for people like him,” Filipa added.

“Well, he’s not going to win any sensitivity contests, yeah,” Jeremey said cheerfully, unconsciously patting his new title-deed scroll. “No lashings of universal empathy, nosiree Bob. It’s sort of scarce around here, just in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“But keep in mind what Prince Ballomar had in mind for the area. And not in the cause of anything but fun and profit,” Artorius added. “Fun being defined as what we saw at that farmhouse.”

“There is that,” she admitted, grimacing a little.

“And the Emperor did do the all men are brothers thing. Sort of,” Mark replied.

Paula snorted: “Yeah, brothers . . . once they’ve been clubbed, cuffed and kicked into Romanitas.”

Mark chuckled, or almost giggled. “Rome—the seven-hundred-pound green alien amoeba of civilizations. Shloop—Rome absorbs the sofa! Shloop—Rome absorbs the dog! SHLOOP! Rome absorbs you.”

“We’re committed,” Artorius said. “And we all got tangible evidence of the Emperor’s appreciation.”

Paula looked dubiously at the scroll in her left hand, barely showing past the fold of her palla draped over that arm:

“I don’t think I’m the plantation-owner type, lolling on the verandah sipping a mint julep and watching the . . . um . . . pinkies . . . at work.”

Artorius grinned. “You don’t have to be. Imperial estates are rented out to contractors and subcontractors and so on down to the tenant farmers of various sizes. Not much management required if you don’t feel like taking it in hand. You just get the rents sent to your banker instead of the provincial procurator who’s doing it for Caesar Augustus. You could live in Rome . . . or Alexandria . . . and have them sent to you. No need to do more unless they drop off without a good excuse.”

He shifted back into Latin as Sextus and Julia came up to them; their mother was still on the Villa Lunae, feeling—quite genuinely—indisposed and cursing her own bowels for keeping her away from a massive status boost.

And I didn’t offer her ampicillin.

“Greetings, eminent sir,” Julia said to Artorius, with that wry expression he liked in her hazel-green eyes.

Her curtsey-bow gesture was subtly mocking, but in a friendly way.

“As you told the Emperor with such eloquence, change is constant! A year ago you had a terrible accent in your Latin and didn’t know how to wear a toga! Now . . . an eques, a tribune on the staff of the Emperor himself, recipient of his largess . . . given the Grass Crown, the first to receive it in many years! And all for throwing around a few bronze balls full of everyday ingredients that can be bought from street vendors and apothecaries!”

Artorius laughed. Just what I needed to bring me down to earth, he thought.

Her brother laughed too. “Fortunate was the day Josephus came to ask for the loan of the Villa Lunae!”

“Fortunate was the day I . . . met Artorius on the road,” Josephus said.

Said carefully.

“Many the gifts that that chance and he himself have brought me. Some of high price; others beyond all price.”

“I’d like to speak with you of two things, if you would, Sextus, Josephus,” Artorius said, a final decision crystalizing.

I’m going to go through with it. Life’s too short for much waiting when you don’t have to.

“Matters of business. And no, Lady Julia, please stay too; this concerns you as well.”

He handed the title-deed scroll to Josephus. “What do you make of these properties?”

Josephus read, moving his lips without much sound, closed his eyes for a moment in thought as he consulted the files in his memory about the neighborhood of his hometown, and shook his head.

“Caesar has been generous! Very! These properties are just southwest of Sirmium. Fertile land of the highest quality, and well placed to deliver valuable produce to the city by road, or by river barge on the Savus”—which would be the Sava river in Artorius’ birth century, and was a tributary of the Danube—“to more distant markets as well.”

“What would you say of their value relative to the Villa Lunae?”

“Easily three times the value,” Josephus said promptly, and showed the transfer document to Sextus. “Even allowing for the, ah, recent improvements.”

The eques pursed his lips in thought. “Yes, that’s fair,” he said, after a moment. “I know that land.”

“I would like to propose a contract between us, Sextus my friend,” Artorius said. “A portion of these lands equivalent to the value of the Villa Lunae plus . . . say five parts in one hundred . . . to be yours, in return for title to the Villa Lunae. I will also give you a first share of the seeds for the new crops, and examples and instruction for your smiths and other craftsmen in all the new engines and methods for the improvement of the estate, now and in the future.”

Sextus was a little taken aback, but his eyes narrowed as he looked at the deed again.

“These are closer to Sirmium and to my other properties; the Villa Lunae is inconvenient in that respect. Yes. Yes, this an excellent proposal, my friend. At least from my point of view. Indeed, I would hesitate only because my debt, my debt of honor, to you is already so great.”

“I’ve come to a fondness for the place,” Artorius said.

And I really have, he thought. For a number of reasons.

They shook hands, a firm pump. “I’ll have the documents drawn up?” Sextus said. “Wait, why don’t we have Josephus do it, yes, and specify which of these lands will be transferred. If I would trust any man on earth to do so skillfully and fairly, it would be him.”

“I agree,” Artorius said promptly. “None better walking the earth to do so, for wits and honesty both, as you say.”

“Flattery from both of you balances out,” Josephus said. “With honored Sextus, it’s probably relief at having no more payments to make.”

“You were a prince among creditors, and will be a credit to the Equestrian Order, my friend,” Sextus said to him. “But yes, I feel as if I am Sisyphus . . . but I’ve finally managed to heave that boulder over the top of the hill and I now watch it bounding away, crushing all my critics as it goes!”

Well, that’s an easy adjustment to the change in relative status, Artorius noticed. He’s already treating Josephus as a near equal.

Aloud he went on, clearing his throat to cover a sudden dryness in his mouth:

“Which brings me to my next proposal. I would like . . . like very much . . . to receive your permission to pay court to your sister, the lady Julia.”

This time Sextus was surprised. With virtually no property of her own, only a brother cash-strapped until today to provide a dowry, already burdened by a daughter who’d need a dowry herself in a decade or less, and by Roman standards distinctly old for marriage at twenty-six, Julia had little prospect of a good match.

A man in Artorius’ position could do much better in terms of wealth and useful family connections. The Emperor’s favor was with him, after all, and with Sextus only through him.

“You ask for her hand?” the Roman said, a delighted smile breaking through his frown of puzzlement.

Artorius looked at her and shook his head. “No. I ask your permission to ask her for her hand.”

Sextus wasn’t shocked at that. As her legal guardian, he could refuse, or technically in strict law grant her hand regardless of her wishes, though it had been centuries since that was actually commonly done. But even in the upper classes where weighty matters of property were involved, it had long been customary to allow women widowed or divorced far more latitude in making their own marriage choices than young maidens.

“What of her daughter Claudia, my niece?”

If the lady Julia accepts my suit, I would adopt Claudia as my own, and give her the shelter of my name.”

Which was fairly easy under Roman law. Adoption was simple, quite common in the upper echelons of society, and conveyed pretty well all the rights of the equivalent blood relationship.

As witness the way the last four Emperors came to the purple.

Effectively little Claudia would be exchanging a dead deadbeat father who she scarcely remembered anyway for a living one with excellent prospects.

“And I would guarantee her an equal inheritance with any children of the union,” he said. “I have become very fond of her in any case, as if she were my own blood in truth.”

Which is gospel, he thought. Great kid!

“You are my friend and my benefactor, and the savior of this province. You are an eques now, and a wealthy one, and you have the Emperor’s favor and will probably go far. And you are also a man of virtue, whose word is good and who I trust to give my sister all due honor, and the mutual gift of heirs, uniting us in blood. Though I admit my own father was wrong in his judgment with her first husband, for all his ancestors! You have my blessing,” Sextus said.

That was a tactful way of saying: Hot damn, I get an Imperial favorite as a brother-in-law! while snapping his fingers over his head like castanets and dancing a fandango.

“But as you say, it is in Julia’s hands now,” he added.

Julia was smiling. “You ask permission to pay me court?” she said. “You ask for my hand in marriage, but give me leave to consider the matter as it suits me, rather than in familial obedience to my brother?”

“Yes, lady.”

Her smile grew. “You, Lucius Triarius Artorius, are a man of unmatched courtesy . . . and even sweetness . . . but also a peerless warrior—the Grass Crown!—and a fine scholar. And courtship is, I think, what we have been doing since the end of last year, though under other names. Life with you would never be tedious, even if it will be strange. I accept.”

Artorius felt his own grin break loose, and he was only vaguely aware of the other Americans pounding him on the back.

Then he gestured them aside and cleared his throat. “Lady Julia, among the people of my birth it is the custom for the man proposing a marriage to offer a ring to the woman, and for her to signify her acceptance to the world by accepting it, and wearing it on the third finger of the left hand.”

“Why, we have exactly the same custom!” Julia said, and the Romans all nodded.

“Very civilized, these Americans!” her brother murmured, beaming. “They might almost be Roman!”

“Yes, but it is offered in a particular way. May I?”

She put her hands together before her throat—not quite in a clap—and said:

“By all means!”

Artorius reached into the pocket he’d had hastily installed in his new tunic. The little box was there, and he pulled it out and went to one knee. Her brows rose, but she kept smiling.

Then he offered the open box. The ring within had one of Fuchs’s synthetic diamonds in a setting of braided gold. There were a few gasps from the Roman spectators. Partly because it was a diamond at all; they knew about them here, but they were few and all imported at vast expense from India. They weren’t used to symmetrically faceted ones either, but the hard glitter was unmistakable.

And Julia smiled with unaffected delight—not so much at the gem, he knew, but at the thought. In his long naturalis historia Pliny had said they were the property of royalty.

“For the queen of my heart,” he said very softly.

Josephus was very impressed; he knew that if this jewel could have been sold at all, it would fetch at least as much as all the coins the Americans had landed with.

Sextus had some idea of that, if a less exact one, and started to say something, then subsided as Josephus touched him gently on the arm. Behind him Josephus’ wife Deineira smiled and wiped the corner of her eye with a fold of her palla.

“Lady Julia, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” Artorius said gravely and formally, for all to hear.

“Lord Artorius, I will, and gladly,” she replied with equal solemnity.

He put it on her ring finger, and when he rose their left hands stayed clasped as Artorius formally said to her brother:

Spondesne?”

Which meant:

Do you promise?

Sextus extended his hand and clasped Artorius’ right.

Spondeo!” he said heartily, giving it a firm pump:

It is promised.

“We shall be kin,” he added. “Our children will be cousins!”

Then his happy face fell very slightly; glancing sideways, Artorius met his fiancée’s eyes and knew they shared a thought.

He just realized he’s going to have to find a home for his mother again. Because she is most certainly not staying with us! Not for long, at least!


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