Strength and Honor (19 page)

“Numa has power and money,” said Calli, but she did not sound convinced anymore. Numa had been with her at Planet Zero.

“Seems to me the person who had motive and means to set up the assassination of Gaius Americanus would be the same person who had motive and means to order the siege of Fort Eisenhower,” said Farragut, and almost as an afterthought, “and the motive and means to set up the assassination of Caesar Magnus.”

The dialogs. V.

JF:
We hold these truths to be self-evident. That all men are created equal.

A:
While we of the Empire recognize your self-evident truth to be buzzard vomit.

13

^T
HE ROMAN SENATE HAD
convened in the Curia. Neither consul was present, not an odd thing in wartime.
Those
men had real work to do, thought Romulus.

The poet had called Romans
masters of the world, the People who wear the toga,
so the toga would be with Rome forever though it could be a bitch to wear. All Senators wore them, white with deep crimson bands of strictly prescribed width. The crimson boots came in and out of fashion. Currently out. The poet had said nothing about Romans being the People who wear the crimson boots.

It seemed some opposition Senators had brought a guest to the Curia today. And Romulus had to wonder what those ferrets were up to. No coincidence that “Senate” and “senile” stem from the same word.

At last a messenger arrived at the palace. He bowed very low before the throne. Caesar’s attendance was requested in the Curia.

“Yes, I was wondering when they were going to let me in on their plot,” Romulus murmured. Romulus deigned to appear. He draped a toga of solid blood red over his short black tunic and trousers.

The colors of his own
gens,
Julius, were black and gold, but Romulus considered black and red the most dramatic combination, and wondered how the damned Flavians had secured those colors.

The stone building of the Curia sat in counter position to the palace on the Capitoline. The Curia had been constructed circular this time, like a theater—rather fitting given the shows put on here.

When Caesar arrived, a young black man was on the Senate floor with Senator Trogus.

Trogus was a weasel—lean, aesthetic, pinched-faced. A suspicious, heel-biting, garbage-picking rodent. Trogus questioned everything put before him. For a man in a position of public trust Trogus showed a singular lack of trust in anyone else, even his emperor.

Trogus had proved himself in battle all right, but he had not supported Caesar’s declaration of war. He opposed it actually, remarkably lacking in vision of
Empire.

Trogus had been one of a handful of Senators who had opposed confirming Romulus in his father’s position. That was to be expected. The five percent rule said that five percent of any population will oppose any given proposal just for the hell of it.

Romulus made a show of tolerating Trogus. It made Romulus look good to be so forbearing of the Senator’s open animosity.

The young man whom Trogus and his troglodytes had trotted in for this show looked to be kin to the late Gaius Americanus. His features and his posture were the same, just younger. This could be nothing but kin to Gaius. Romulus had thought all of Gaius’ family was hiding in the American Fort Eisenhower in the Deep End.

The visitor had been thoroughly screened by security. Trogus gave the young man’s name as Dante Porter, born on Earth in the United States. Security found a birth record of such a Dante Porter, but it was far older than this man appeared. This looked like a younger version of Gaius Americanus. But anyone could appear like anyone these days, so a DNA test had been done.

Romulus entered the chamber quietly, unannounced. He stood next to Senator Ventor who hated to sit for so long, and was standing against the back wall. Romulus muttered aside to Ventor, “Gaius’ bastard?”

“Clone, I should think,” Ventor murmured back. “His DNA is nearly a match to Gaius. Has only the variations you would expect in a clone.”

Romulus did not think that Gaius had ever been cloned. “Just what the Empire needs,” Romulus muttered. “Another Gaius.”

The chamber had gone silent.

Romulus had been noticed.

The Praetor paused the proceedings to welcome Caesar to the Curia.

Caesar Romulus strode down the steps to take command of the Senate floor. He turned round at the center of the open space and looked round to see who was attending this circus.

Quirinius, of course. And Umbrius and Opsius, men of inaction, existing only to lie down in Caesar’s way. Romulus came back round to the young man, Dante Porter of planet Earth.

No toga. This Dante Porter was not a Senator. He wore trousers and a black single-breasted jacket of midthigh length. A white shirt with stand-up collar made him look vaguely like an old-fashioned priest. His hair was very short and lay close-crimped against his dark head.

Romulus walked half round him, sizing him up. The young man let himself be studied. Did not become unsettled.

Caesar spoke at last, aloud, for everyone to hear: “Am I to understand you are Gaius’ bastard?”

“No, sir,” said Dante Porter. The voice was not the voice of a young man. It was elderly and shockingly familiar. “I am that bastard, Gaius.”

Romulus immediately looked to Senator Trogus. As expected, Trogus was enjoying his triumph. Trogus collected the desired shock and murmurs with a superior smile. The Senate chamber stirred with the rustling of togas, the rush of whispers.

Romulus would not be thrown. He had been ready for some attempt to unbalance him. When the chamber hushed, Romulus spoke mildly to the Gaius-thing, “I have been told you are a clone.”

“The outer centimeter is all cloned material,” Gaius explained, pinching his own baby soft cheek. “But my beauty is only skin deep. I earned those sags and wrinkles and spots. I lost them in the fire. And I want them back. Alas, they are ash, and here I am with new skin,” And then, as if reading Caesar’s mind, “Yes, Romulus, like a snake.” The floor seemed to be moving. Romulus fought for balance. The voices swept all around him in the chamber like wind rushing.

Gaius ... Gaius ... Gaius.

Romulus declared loud enough to silence all the whispers. “Gaius is dead. This is an American creation.”

The security guard who had performed the original verification moved down to the floor, brandishing a DNA probe. “With permission,” he solicited Senate’s indulgence. And to Gaius, “May I,
Domni?”

Far from objecting, Gaius opened his arms. “I insist.” He offered all of himself. Let the guard pick a place. Any place.

It was a nanoprobe this time. Too small to see or feel. The nanoprobe could reach deep. The guard extracted random cells from several places within the young-looking man.

The deep cells were not the same as the first sampling. This time they were perfect matches in both DNA and age to Gaius Bruccius Eleutherius Americanus.

Senators fired questions at Gaius—questions to which only Gauis would know the answers. The man on the Senate floor remembered Gaius’ private conversations. He correctly failed to remember any imaginary incidents laid out to trap him.

When the Senators were satisfied, Caesar Romulus had a question for Gaius: “What was the name of your street gang?”

Romulus dredged up Gaius’ squalid past in front of the Senate. Not that any one of them did not know, but Romulus thought they needed reminding.

Dante Porter, as he was called at his birth, had risen up through slime. “East Street Pirates,” Gaius answered frankly, pushing up his sleeve to bare his forearm. He remembered only then with apparent chagrin that his gang leader tattoo had been burned off too. Under his sleeve now was only unmarked young skin.

“Ah. The albatross has fallen off,” he said in slight surprise. “My bones were tattooed here.” His gangland tattoo, the mark of an old sin, had been a garish mark on his forearm. Something he lived with and could not remove for himself, like the ancient mariner’s albatross.

Fate had intervened to take the stain away. “I can start wearing short sleeves,” he said, a little bit astonished, as if he had been absolved.

At the end of the grilling, no one doubted that this young-looking man was the elder statesman, Senator Gaius Bruccius Eleutherius Americanus.

The Praetor asked formally, “What has Senator Gaius to say to the Senate?”

“I am here to tell you that the testament which was read here before this Senate, the document purported to be the last testament of Caesar Magnus, suffered an elision. A line was deleted from Magnus’ true will.”

All eyes turned to Caesar. Waited for Caesar to speak. Waited long. The Praetor finally had to ask, “Have you any answer to that, Caesar?”

“No, of course I have not!” said Romulus. “I have
questions. Does
the testament have an elision? How could it? I read the testament of Caesar Magnus to this Senate. I broke the seal right here in this chamber.”

Senator Trogus spoke out of turn, “No one tested the security of that seal before Caesar allegedly broke it for the first time.”

“I
did,” said Caesar. “I tested it. I wanted to be sure I had my father’s will. Why did
you
not test it? I shall tell you why. So you could come back later and throw doubt on its authenticity, just in case my father’s final word contained something you did not like!”

Gaius said, “Romulus, I thought I left that twisted brand of leadership behind on East Street.”

“All your insinuations are built on vapor,” said Romulus. “Because the author of the testament,
my father,
Caesar Magnus, is dead.”

“There is also the word of the patterner who sealed the testament,” said Gaius.

“We don’t have Augustus’ word. Augustus is dead.”

“You have
my
word, a witness,” said Gaius. “Who was almost dead. Am I vapor?”

“Tell us again, who put you back together, Gaius?”

“The Americans,” Gaius admitted without hesitation. “And how did you get back from your hiding in the Deep, Gaius?”

“An American military transport through the U.S. Shotgun,” said Gaius frankly.

“You took aid from the enemy. In wartime. I accuse you of treason, and of colluding with the enemy in time of war.” He signaled to the guards. “Take this man to a cell.”

Gaius answered back, “Sir, I accuse you of treason and attempted assassination.” Romulus reeled back as if shot in the chest, “You dare accuse me of my father’s murder!”

“No,” said Gaius. “The assassination
attempt
was on
me.
The assassination of your father was rather a success.” Guards moved in to flank Gaius, hesitant yet to touch him. Gaius spoke to the assembled Senators in the rising rows. “Examine the testament. You will find the gap.”

“A gap,” said Romulus, derisive. “Lack of evidence is no evidence. Have
Augustus
come in and testify.” A shadow eclipsed the sunlight that had streamed through the round window at the top of the dome. Something was moving up there, very close. Nothing was allowed to fly over the Capitoline. There followed the deep heavy clunk of something substantial making contact with the stone roof. “What
is
that?” Sunlight glinted around sharp-edged metal landing gear supporting a small spacecraft with lines of a wasp, in red and black. It was a patterner’s Striker.

14

^A
UGUSTUS!”

The entire Senate stared up to the top of the dome.

“What is he doing?”

“Testifying?” Gaius suggested.

The round window at the center of the dome cracked. A metal leg of the Striker’s landing gear jutted through the circular opening with a rain of pelleted glass. Senators fanned out toward the surrounding wall. There was nowhere to run with a Striker out there. There was a bunker deep beneath the Curia, but no one wanted to go underground.

A brass tube struck down from the dome like a bullet in the center of the floor, taking a chip out of the red marble. Bits of tempered glass clattered down around it.

The Senators shied from the canister on the floor as if it were a grenade.

Once the glass stopped raining, they saw the canister was the shape and style of a formal container for a parchment roll, delivered more harshly than usual.

The shadow of the Striker lifted away from the broken window.

Romulus bellowed for the home defense.

Already the hiss of outbound missiles could be heard through the opening in the dome. A cadre of guards trooped into the Curia to surround Caesar. They brought a personal force field for him.

“A little late,” Caesar said, but strapped on the mechanism and activated it. He motioned the guards away from him. They took up stations at the exits.

Senator Ventor was standing at the wall with one finger to his ear in order to listen to a phone in his other ear. He called across the Curia: “Caesar, I am getting word from Imperial Intelligence. That is not Augustus’ Striker.”

“I knew it!” said Romulus. “This is a hoax.”

Ventor demurred, “One moment, Caesar.” He listened some more, then spoke. “They are telling me that could very well be Augustus
inside
the Striker. But the Striker is not the one built for Augustus.”

“What? He
borrowed
one?” Caesar said, losing patience.

“The chirp from the vessel identifies it as a Striker that disappeared sixty years ago. It belonged to the patterner Secundus. It was blue and white. These new colors make Intelligence think that Augustus could be at the controls.”

The Striker up there was red and black. Flavian colors. Augustus was Flavian.

“And it’s certainly not Secundus.”

Romulus’ gaze fell on Numa Pompeii seated in the front row. Numa had held his position rather than scurrying to the wall with most of the others. He was now conferring with someone on his com, appearing discontented.