- 7

The chair creaked under the weight of Caius Marius Marselius, onetime Prefect of the Western Marches, now Caesar by right of conquest and proclamation of the legions. It was not a title he had sought, but once the proclamation was made it was one he had to win—or be killed for. Not just him. His son as well. All his house. Flaminius would leave none alive.

And when Marselius marched in triumph to Rome? What of the house of Flaminius? Time to think of that when it happened.

Outside they were lighting the streetlamps. Marselius could see them go on, one by one, down at the base of the hill where his villa stood. Benevenutum was a large city, third largest in the empire, and in many ways as pleasant as Rome; but it wasn’t Rome, and an Emperor who did not hold Rome was only a rebel.

Marselius bent forward to squint at the parchment he held. The late-afternoon light was fast failing. His freedman Lucius wrote with a firm hand, but it seemed harder to read lately.

Well, neither of them was getting any younger. His own eyes were not what they used to be. He summoned a servant to bring lamps, then he waited until the man went out before spreading the letter again. Not that he did not trust his servants, but this was too important. The confidential report on the embassy coming to him from the Lord and Lady of Chelm and the Kingdom of Drantos, written by the one man he trusted entirely . . .

—Drumold, father to the Eqetassa Tylara, would seem a typical barbarian chieftain. However, he is very intelligent and entirely trusted by the Lord Rick. He has made enemies among the clan chiefs of his own land in his loyalty to the Eqeta, which hints of a kind of courage most uncommon among barbarians. They are often brave in battle, but seldom understand and still more seldom show the higher civic virtues.

Lucius, Lucius, my old friend, thought Marselius. You spent too long as tutor to my son Publius. Now you will lecture, whether it is needed or not. Or perhaps you are rambling as old men often do. Well, before the snow comes again we shall both be so high in the world that everyone will listen to us for as long as we want, or else we shall be forever silent.

The Lady Gwen Tremaine is of the star-folk, but knows much history and reads Latin well. She is said to be very intelligent but is certainly young for the place she holds in the embassy. It is said that she owes this to having been Lord Rick’s mistress, after the death of her husband.

Marselius skimmed the description of the embassy’s escort until he found mention of star weapons. Good. They were bringing one which used the firepowder. Too many of his officers were skeptical about the star weapons and badly needed a demonstration, his own son among them. He himself would not mind learning more about these new war machines, so that if the alliance came about he would be able to plan the battles properly.

Certainly he would not need that many more ordinary soldiers. He had two full good legions of his own and a third which was neither so full or so good, plus enough cohorts of foot archers and pikemen to make up two more legions if that honorable title could ever again be allowed to foot soldiers. Then there were the light horse and foot scouts recruited locally. No lack of men.

Except—if Lord Rick did send a strong force as well as star weapons, it would release more of his own men for local defense. The reservists in the legions whose homes were close to the boundary between the two Caesars would fight better if they knew their own homes were safe. More militiamen would come forward. And there were the borders to the south to be held. He could use what Rick might send—and it was never good to let a man know that he could buy your friendship cheaply. No, Lord Rick would have to be ready to send an army to Rome if he ever wanted an army from Rome.

Marselius got up to pace back and forth in front of the great map on the wall. Mentally he shifted a cohort here, sent a tribune to raise more militia there. Everything would of course be discussed at length in the council of war he must hold before the embassy came, but he wanted his own ideas fully prepared before then. The older he grew, the more necessary it was to appear infallible and the harder it was to do so.

Gwen Tremaine stretched luxuriously and let herself slide down into the hot water until only her face was above the surface. The tiled tank wasn’t quite large enough for a swimming pool, but otherwise it was living up to everything the name “Roman bath” implied. It was the first really adequate bath she’d had since Les dumped her on Tran.

It had surprised her, how much more important the little things of civilization seemed when you didn’t have them. Sometimes they loomed larger than the big ones. She knew that if she got a cavity the tooth would have to come out, with no anaesthetic except ethanol. She knew that if she had another baby and needed a Caesarian, she would probably die, and the baby hadn’t a much better chance. She could accept these dangers, at least intellectually.

Hot baths were another matter. You missed them every morning and every night and every time you got sweaty or dirty. It was the same way with Vivaldi concertos, cold beer, Chicken Kiev, pantyhose—

Gwen controlled a foolish impulse to plunge out of sight. Instead she sat up, crossing her arms over her breasts. “Yes?”

Which was no surprise. She’d rather expected someone waiting for her when she went in to take her bath. If Marselius was going to do her the courtesy of letting her bathe alone, he would certainly not leave out things like servants, towels, and scented oil.

“Thank you, Octavia.” Gwen ducked under to get the last of the soap out of her hair, then climbed out of the bath. Octavia clapped her hands, and two older girls came in with deliciously warmed towels. When they wrapped her in a robe of fine wool, Gwen felt she had found civilization at last. Eventually the others were dismissed, and Gwen was alone with Octavia.

Who was she? While the others had dried her body and combed her hair, Gwen examined the girl minutely. Octavia looked to be about twelve or thirteen, and was already at least two inches taller than Gwen. With her big bones she’d grow even more. She was red-haired, but apart from that her strong, rather plain features had a lot in common with Marselius’s.

And although her manners were impeccable, she spoke to the servants in a voice which made her requests orders to be obeyed. Gwen looked down at the hem of the girl’s robe. It was embroidered with an elaborate pattern done in gold thread and what looked like pieces of blue enamel or seashells.

When the others had left, Gwen said, “You’re kin to Marselius Caesar, aren’t you?”

The girl dropped the towel and blushed as red as her hair. She didn’t seem to know which way to look, other than not at Gwen. Finally she said, with an admirable effort to control her voice, “Are you a witch?”

“No. You just look like Marselius, and your gown doesn’t look like a servant’s clothing.”

Octavia looked down at the hem but couldn’t blush any brighter. “Grandfather will be angry with me for not changing my gown. It’s the sort of thing he never forgets himself. I suppose you learned to notice it too, when you were a soldier.”

“I’m not a real soldier,” said Gwen. “My husband was. After he was killed they needed someone to read all sorts of books for information about our enemies. I was going to have a baby, so they wanted to help me and gave me the job.” Gwen had told that story so often that she almost believed it herself. She smiled. “Don’t imagine me in armor and a plumed helmet, waving a sword at the head of my troops.”

“If we had your kind of soldier in Rome, I could be one too,” said Octavia. “I like to read. In fact, my father says I spend too much time with the books.”

Impulsively Gwen hugged the girl. She stiffened but didn’t draw away. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you sound like me when I was your age. My father said the same thing about me.”

Fortunately she’d been able to do other thing besides read, and get straight A’s, like sell stale bread to chicken farmers and other things which made money. Also, she’d never been short of boyfriends, although none of them stayed around for more than three dates after they realized how much brighter she was. Octavia wasn’t going to be able to do much except read her books until she was old enough to be married off. That wouldn’t be long. Caesar’s family must marry, and quickly, to cement alliances . . .

Octavia giggled. “Yes, but it’s not what you think.” She paused, then said impulsively, “Lady Gwen, if you promise not to tell anybody what I say, I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

What an offer! Gwen didn’t hesitate a moment. “By Yatar Skyfather and Hestia I swear I will never tell anybody what you say except the Lord Rick, and then only if he needs to know. I can’t break my oath to him, you see. Is there anything else I should swear by?”

“No.” Octavia looked thoughtful. “You must tell me sometime of Yatar, and I’ll tell you about Christ.” Then she really smiled for the first time. “You see, my father Publius wants to sleep with you. So my grandfather asked me to be in your company a lot. That way my father will be unable to get you alone. He would be ashamed to ask you to go to bed with him while I was around.”

“I should hope so!” said Gwen indignantly. Then she laughed. The idea of this likable twelve-year-old girl as a chaperon to Gwen Tremaine was impossible to take with a straight face. If Octavia only knew how Gwen had lived—

Except—if it really did save her from having to either refuse Publius or submit to him, there was nothing funny about it. She hadn’t heard that Publius was a Don Juan, but she had heard that he was arrogant and hot-tempered. That sort of man often disliked being turned down, enough to make trouble for the woman. Refusing him could be trouble.

And some day Publius would be Caesar, if Rick’s plans worked, and they probably would.

Actually, the offer was flattering. Caesar’s heir must have his choice of women. And there were advantages to being Caesar’s lover . . . but not on a planet with no contraception except the rhythm method and very little obstetrical knowledge! If she’d wanted a man in her bed, she could have had Caradoc for a husband a year ago. Or Larry Warner, who was kind and gentle and intelligent and a very good partner in managing the University. Or—

“He saw your arrival. When your party was greeted by my grandfather’s officers, my father was among the guardsmen. He often does that.”

“I see.” So. Intelligent, if devious. At least Publius knew the value of information. “I’m flattered,” she said. “But I’m still really in mourning for my husband. Sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s dead. You know they never found his body?” Another story she’d told so many times that she had to fight not to believe it herself.

“Yes.” Something could be made of this girl. Caesar’s granddaughter. “Have you brothers?” Gwen asked, although she was certain she’d heard—

“No. I’m my father’s only child. To his great disappointment.” She lowered her voice. “He doesn’t even have illegitimate children. Not since he was ill—”

Mumps, probably, Gwen thought. “That makes you an important girl.” It also removes one chief reason for refusing an offer by Publius. We’ll play that one as it lies—

“They say I will be. If Grandfather can capture Rome, then some day my husband will be Caesar.” Octavia looked very serious. “I don’t think I’ll have much to say about who that is, either. Did you choose your husband?”

“Yes. Where I’m from women always choose their own.” And it doesn’t seem to work any better than arranged marriages, either. “Octavia, you must swear an oath to me, one like I swore to you. You must not talk about anything I tell you, except with your grandfather and your father. Then we can be friends.”

“Do I have to tell my father? Grandfather doesn’t tell him a lot of things he thinks he should know. I’ve heard Father cursing about that.”

So Marselius did not entirely trust his own son and presumptive heir. That was information worth a good deal—so much so that Gwen almost felt guilty about making friends with the girl. She was so obviously lonely, desperate for intelligent company where she didn’t have to hide her talents, that—

The next moment Octavia made matters worse. “I’m glad we’re going to be friends, Lady Gwen. It will be a lot easier to keep my father away from you, if you know what I’m doing. I told my grandfather that, but he didn’t seem to understand what I was talking about.”

“He has a lot on his mind,” said Gwen absently. And even when he didn’t, Marselius Caesar didn’t seem like the sort of man to listen to his granddaughter’s complaints.

She needs a friend, Gwen thought. And I can be that to her. Our cause is her cause, and she may some day come to see that. And she needs a teacher, someone to tell her of the changes coming to Tran. If—when her grandfather becomes undisputed Caesar, Octavia will hold power enough. Power during The Time, power for two generations after. In Rome, the best organized nation on Tran. I will deceive her as little as I can, but I have no real choice. This opportunity—

“By Saints Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and by Holy Mary, I swear that I shall say nothing of what the Lady Gwen tells me, except to my grandfather Marselius Caesar,” said Octavia. “And him only if he asks me.”

“Good,” said Gwen, in a normal tone. She was tired of whispering. She dropped her robe on the couch and started pulling on her clothes. “And you can tell me of Christ,” she said.

After all, Gwen thought, I was raised Christian. If I have a religion, that’s it. If I let the Romans convert me—I’ll have to ask Rick about that. It might be useful.

Marselius Caesar’s chair creaked not quite in rhythm with his pen. This letter to Lucius could not be trusted to any scribe. If he could have sent it by a bird of the air or a starman’s flying machine he would have done so.

—would have seen their way clear to aiding us anyway, certainly the utter folly of Flaminius the Dotard hastened matters. He not only refused to permit the embassy to enter his claimed land, he even refused to offer them safe conduct. When the Lord Drumold heard this last, his anger was frightful.

In fact, the clan chief had nearly provoked a fight with Flaminius’s patrol by the language he used about their Caesar, his habits, and all his ancestors back to the founding of Rome.

So we will have the aid of the Lord Rick, in whatever amount we may need. I still hope we will not need any. Flaminius may not be his own master; that evil message may have come from Senators and officers who fear to lose everything if he submits himself to me. It is to be hoped that these men will listen to reason after we issue a proclamation of a general pardon. I do not think the Senate will delay long in issuing it, although there is some opposition.

He started to add, “including Publius,” then decided against it. Lucius had known Publius since the boy was six; he could fill in that sort of detail for himself.

Much honor is also due to the Lady Gwen. She has done good work, particularly in choosing the scribes and clerks we are sending to Drantos under the treaty. The Westerners’ asking for them helped convince many of the Senate that we were not dealing with barbarians, much as the firepowder weapons helped convince the army. The Lady Gwen showed so much knowledge of scribes’ work that one wonders how a woman of equestrian rank came by it.

She has also become a good friend to the Lady Octavia. This I welcome. Except for yourself, none of Octavia’s teachers have been worthy of her. As she will be of an age for betrothal within no more than a year and a half, this has caused some concern.

Another sign of age—worrying about your grandchildren’s fitness for marriage.

What we can ask for from the Westerners, is likely to be more than we need. However, we can ask for two legions of foot, one of pikes and one of archers. There will also be a force of horsemen equal to another legion, including mounted archers. We will have firepowder weapons, and the starmen will bring all of their star weapons which are fit for a long campaign.

I hope there will be no need of a long campaign. With such strength, we can stand up to Flaminius in a pitched battle with a good hope of winning it. One such victory would be enough to give us Rome, before men and wealth which will be needed for The Time is destroyed.

Back | Next
Framed