Princes of the Universe

[CCRunner]

Chapter Eight: Slavery, Part 2



“Rufus! I need…”

“Here you are, master!” the slave said, appearing as if from thin air and placing a half-dozen sharpened reed pens at Sostratus’ elbow.

“Ah,” Sostratus said, picking up the reed and examining its tip, which was sharpened to an immaculate point. “Good. Now…”

“But first, you must eat, master,” Rufus said. He set down a plate with several slices of bread surrounding a bowl of hot, steaming soup. It smelled wonderful; Sostratus’ mouth watered and his stomach growled at the sight—and the smell.

“Just as soon as I…”

“No!” Rufus said insistently. “No ‘as soon as’. You need to eat now. Otherwise, you will be too tired to focus. You will then be unsatisfied with your work, making me run around scrounging up more papyrus and sharpening more pens, yelling at me the whole time because you are convinced that somehow it is all my fault.”

Sostratus looked at his slave incredulously. “How long have we been married?” he asked sarcastically.

Rufus laughed, but pushed the soup under his master’s nose. “Do you think I’ve learned nothing, serving you these last three years? I may be a slave, but I am not an idiot. Now, my wife worked very hard on this wonderful soup, and she will be very disappointed if I tell her that you did not eat it. You may be my master, but she is my boss. Trust me, I don’t want to make her upset!”

Sostratus smiled and took a sip of the soup; the beefy broth and hearty vegetables tasted excellent, and he felt refreshed almost instantly. He had to acknowledge that Rufus had a point. He did tend to overwork himself, often to the point of exhaustion, and then became more unproductive as a result. He glanced at Rufus as if for the first time; the man was his own age or thereabouts, and had the olive complexion and dark hair typical of many Romans. Sostratus began to wonder, for the first time, what was it about this man that made him a slave instead of free?

“How did you become a slave, Rufus?” Sostratus asked as he dipped some of the bread into the broth.

“My father,” Rufus said with a sigh. “I should like to be able to say he was a gambler, but that implies that he had some skill at it, which, sadly, he did not.”

“He went into debt?” Sostratus deduced.

“Indeed he did,” Rufus said. “So much so that he had no choice but to sell himself, his wife, and his children into slavery to pay off his creditors.”

“How long…?”

“I was six when this happened,” Rufus said. “I don’t even remember my life before I became a slave. You are the fourth master I have had, and though it sounds like something I would say to curry favour, you are in many ways the best.”

“How so?” Sostratus asked, intrigued.

“You have never beaten me,” Rufus said simply. “You work me hard, yes, but no harder than you work yourself. And you are doing great work,” he added, gesturing at the many detailed drawings of the lighthouse, his chest swelling with pride. “I am glad to be a part of it.”

“Thank you, Rufus,” Sostratus said quietly. He didn’t know what else to say; he was genuinely moved. It had never occurred to him that a slave could be glad to serve his master. In fact, before today, he’d never given slaves much consideration at all. They’d always been there, in the background, for as long as he could remember, quietly performing their assigned tasks.

Rufus smiled. “And you are the first master who has ever said those words to me,” he said. “Now eat!”

“Yes, mother,” Sostratus said with a sheepish grin, bemused by the irony of a slave giving orders to his master.



***



Sostratus tilted his head to look out through the wooden scaffolding. Over three hundred feet below him, waves crashed against the rocky shoreline. It had taken over four years, but the first two sections of the lighthouse were finally complete: the broad, lower square section first, then the more slender, octagonal second section. Each section, on its own, made up half the current height of the lighthouse. Now only the top, circular section had to be finished, which would house the light, the structure’s main purpose.

“We’re still behind schedule,” he muttered unhappily.

Standing behind him, Cornelius sighed and shook his head. “I thought we were coming up here to enjoy the view,” the foreman said, “and forget about the damned schedule for a just a little while.”

“I can never forget about the damned schedule,” Sostratus said. “It fills my waking mind and haunts my dreams.”

“Surely Caesar doesn’t expect the impossible,” Cornelius said.

Sostratus laughed bitterly. “You don’t know him very well,” he said. “Both my father and my brother campaigned with him. He led my brother’s legion on a forced march with him through the jungles north of Ravenna to reach Barcelona. Men were dropping like flies from the heat, the humidity, malaria, dysentery… but Caesar drove them on. He goaded them, inspired them, rallied them, rushed physicians and medicine from Rome… but he still insisted that they march and fight and take the city. Whatever the cost. Which they did.”

Cornelius coughed uncomfortably. “Speaking of costs…”

Sostratus sighed. “What now?” he asked tiredly.

“We lost twelve more yesterday.”

“Twelve?” Sostratus exclaimed, turning to glare at his foreman with shock and amazement.

“The scaffolding on the south side collapsed,” Cornelius explained, waving his hand in that direction, which was behind him. Indeed, now that he looked, Sostratus saw that no wooden scaffolding rose above the lip of that section of the tower. “It took the slaves with it, including two of our best masons.”

“Damn it!” Sostratus swore, slamming the heel of his fist against the stone wall. “You’ll just have to replace them.”

“That won’t be easy…”

“I don’t care how hard it is!” Sostratus shouted. “Get more slaves! Go up to Cordoba yourself and round up every Spaniard you see if you have to!”

“It’s not that simple!” Cornelius said testily, angry at having to endure this same confrontation with the architect for the umpteenth time. “The Spaniards make terrible slaves, as you well know! They’re a conquered people—they’re resentful and unruly and damned hard to motivate!”

“Isn’t that why you carry that thing on your belt?” Sostratus hissed, pointing to the leather whip that was hanging over the foreman’s thick right thigh.

“It’s a last resort…” Cornelius said through clenched teeth.

“I’d say were at the last resort stage!” Sostratus said with a bitter laugh. “Caesar expects to come return here from the Spanish campaign in six months and see this lighthouse operational. How do you think he’ll react if he leaves an on-going war for no good reason? Do you want to face his wrath if we waste his time? Because I don’t!”

“Of course not,” Cornelius said in a more subdued tone. Caesar’s rages were few and far between, and the foreman thanked Jupiter for that, as they were renowned to be terrible. He was not a man to disappoint, let alone cross. “It’s just…”

He raised his eyes and fell silent. Sostratus was glaring at him, his impatient expression plainly indicating that the architect was not interested in explanations, only in results. Cornelius had tried to warn him over the preceding years about the dangers of pressing the slaves too hard—how their resentment made them careless, even malicious, despite the fact that their own kind suffered for it. A new team of Spanish slaves had built the scaffolding that had collapsed the day before. Cornelius was sure they had at least built it sloppily, and he wasn’t ruling out intentional sabotage.

But to Sostratus, he knew from long, hard experience, these were irrelevant details. The architect was driven to have his vision made manifest, and on time, whatever the cost. And so Cornelius went along with it.

He sighed heavily. “I’ll find more slaves,” he said. “The Japanese tend to be good workers. Maybe…”

“I don’t care where they come from,” Sostratus said as he turned to walk back down the long, circular staircase of the octagonal tower. “Just get them here and get them to work.”

With those words and without a look back, he disappeared below into the cold, dark interior of the lighthouse.

[CCRunner]

Slavery, Part 3

“Rufus?!” Sostratus cried out. “Rufus, damn it, where are you?”

“Coming, master,” a voice called from the hallway. The dark-haired slave entered his master’s dressing chamber, the loose fabric of a toga slung over one arm. He paused in the doorway and bent over for a moment as his body was racked by a coughing fit.

“Jupiter!” Sostratus said, taking a step back from his slave. “Are you sick?”

“It’s nothing,’ Rufus said, his voice rough and quavering. “Just something I picked up. My wife says it’s all these late nights.”

“Well, I’m working the same hours, and I’m fine, so what does she know?” Sostratus said testily as Rufus draped the toga over his body, which was clad only in a tunic.

Rufus glanced at his master’s gaunt features, taking in the hair that was more grey than sandy blond now, and the eyes, which were sunken and blood-shot. But like any slave, he knew better than to speak his mind.

“Of course you’re right,” he said, then put the sandals he’d been carrying in his armpit upon the floor before Sostratus’ feet.

“Are these new?” Sostratus asked as he stepped into the sandals and noticed their unusual fresh, tight feel. One of them was custom-made to accommodate his malformed club foot.

“Of course,” Rufus said weakly. “As is the toga. Today is the big day. You should look your best for Caesar.”

Sostratus glanced at Rufus, and his expression softened a little. “That was very thoughtful, Rufus. I appreciate it.” He placed a hand on the slave’s shoulder.

Rufus bowed in response, but said nothing as he suppressed another coughing fit. Sostratus did not notice his slave’s distress; he was already out the door by the time Rufus straightened from his bow.

***

The architect stared up at his great achievement. In the falling dark, the great flame at the top of the lighthouse flared magnificently, as though it were a plume from the forge of Vulcan himself. It lit the surrounding countryside for miles, as well as illuminating the roiling sea. Upon that sea bobbed several Roman ships, all gathered close to shore for the ceremonial lighting of the signal fire. When the flame had been lit, the cheer from the sailors on the ships had been deafening. It was understandable; they, and their brethren of other nations, would be the chief beneficiaries of the great lighthouse. For centuries to come, everyone was certain, the structure’s guiding light would save countless lives.

A pity, then, that it had cost so many in its construction.

Sostratus had had little time to reflect on this, however. There were several dignitaries from Rome to meet, speeches made, omens taken, sacrifices ceremoniously offered to the gods. The architect, more used to working at his desk alone, was swept up in the grand event like a ship without oars or rudder on a roiling sea. At least they hadn’t made him speak. Now that it was over, he still felt like that drifting ship—except now he could feel himself sinking.

The first disappointment had been the absence of Drusus, his brother. He sent his regrets, but he had to remain on campaign with the 8th Legion in Spain. Drusus’ letter, arriving by a runner that day, also expressed regrets on behalf of their father, though Sostratus suspect that Drusus had hiimself included the lines out of a desire to comfort his older brother. Sostratus knew his father couldn’t be bothered to come down from Rome to Antium to witness a triumph by his lame-footed son.

The second disappointment followed shortly thereafter: Caesar had sent word that he, also, could not attend due to complications arising from the on-going campaign in Spain. He would return to visit the structure as soon as his busy schedule allowed. Sostratus had smiled grimly at this news; the rush to complete the lighthouse had been undertaken to satisfy a man who, being immortal, had all the time in the world to come and see it.



Worse, though, had been the crowd from Antium. In contrast with the sailors’ enthusiasm, the citizens of Antium attending the official dedication of the lighthouse had been silent. Sostratus had tried to look into their eyes, but could not. Everyone in Antium had a family member or a friend who had worked on the lighthouse, and many of them had died in the process. The last few weeks had been the worst.

In the final push to finish the structure, citizens had been forcibly recruited from Antium. Speed resulted in carelessness, and many of the conscripted workers were unskilled. Several, upon climbing the structure, had been overcome by vertigo, so unused to such great heights were they. As the lighthouse neared completion, workers began to die like flies. Working so long and hard during the heat of summer finished several off; some died of heat stroke, while others, exhausted, missed a step or hand-hold and fell to their deaths from the tower’s great height. Other fatal accidents grew more frequent as the foremen pressed their charges to meet the ambitious building schedule.

Many of the slaves simply died of exhaustion. Their bodies just gave out under the strain of hauling great amounts of stone up over 350 feet. Word spread in Antium: working on the lighthouse was a death sentence. And still the foremen came, hauling off any able-bodied man they could find who did not have the connections or the gold to stave off forced recruitment.

And now, Sostratus knew without even looking, the wives, parents, children, friends, and relations of the deceased were watching him. They did not jeer at him, did not shout abuse or threats or throw rocks or garbage at him. That he could have borne. But their silence brought home to him not their anger, but their sorrow. He knew they blamed him, not Caesar, for the loss of their loved ones. But he had Caesar’s favour, and that made him untouchable. So they said and did nothing other than stare at him balefully, accusingly. It was awful.

The ceremony was complete. The delegation from Rome shook his hand as they made to depart; many even slapped him on the back as though he were one of their own. Which, in all the ways that counted, he realized he now was. A few yards away, the crowd from Antium began to break up, silently and sullenly turning away and making their way back to their homes.

Within minutes, Sostratus found himself standing alone in his toga and his new sandals at the base of his great lighthouse. He placed his right hand upon the stone wall at the base of the structure; it was cold and offered no comfort. Sostratus felt a droplet of water hit his face, then another. Within moments, a steady drizzle was falling.

The architect made no move to get out of the rain. He glanced at the stone wall and then drew his hand back and gasped. Liquid was running down the walls—but it wasn’t water! It was dark and viscous and deep red. Sostratus recoiled in horror. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. When he looked again, mere rainwater was running down the stone wall in sheets.

“A trick of the light,” Sostratus muttered.

Unconvinced, he turned and ran back to his residence.



***

“Rufus? Damn it, Rufus, where the hell are you?”

Sostratus was standing in the entryway to his residence, his sodden toga dripping water onto the marble floor, his new sandals waterlogged and very probably ruined.

“Rufus!” he shouted again.

From the hallway appeared a small woman with long, dark hair, tied simply so it hung down her back. A long, cheap linen gown covered her slender body. She meekly but quickly approached Sostratus and bowed.

“Where is Rufus?” he asked, wondering if this was his house slave’s wife; he realized that he had never before seen the woman, though she had lived under his roof and prepared his meals for over seven years.

“He…” the woman said, then glanced fearfully, and sorrowfully, over her shoulder. Suddenly, her face folded in grief, and she burst into tears.

Sostratus’s impatience vanished. He gently placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and felt it shaking. “What’s wrong? What happened?” The woman looked up at him; her dark brown eyes, he could see, were red and puffy from weeping. “What’s wrong?”

The woman, evidently unable to speak, only shook her head and beckoned him to follow her. Sostratus followed her to the east wing of the residence, which housed the slaves’ quarters. She led him into a small room, bare except for a low table with a lit tallow candle upon it and a cot. On the cot lay Rufus, his body curled into a fetal position. Sostratus quickly moved past the weeping woman and knelt beside his slave’s bed.

“Rufus?” he asked gently. “What’s wrong?”

Upon hearing his master’s voice, the slave’s eyes sprang open. Rufus pressed himself up on one arm. Then his body convulsed as a violent coughing fit wracked his frame. He finished by coughing up a mixture of phlegm and blood. Sostratus’ eyes widened in horror.

“Jupiter!” he exclaimed. “Rufus, you’re sick! I’ll send for a physician…”

Sostratus began to rise, but stopped when he felt Rufus’ hand upon his forearm. The man’s touch was weak, almost limp.

“No need, master,” Rufus said, his voice a rough whisper that Sostratus had to strain to hear. “One has…already been.”

“A slave physician,” Sostratus said dismissively. “I can get you better.”

A sound escaped Rufus’ lips that was a combination of cough and bitter laugh. “So that my death will cost you even more money?” he said, smiling grimly.

“Hang the cost,” Sostratus said. “I won’t let you die!”

“But I will, master…” Rufus said weakly, lowering his head back to the cot. “My wife,” he said, glancing over Sostratus’ shoulder at the meek little woman who had led the architect to the room, “says it’s… all the long hours…” The slave paused to cough violently; his body shuddered as he forced it back under his control. “I think… she is wrong. But even… if she is right… it was worth it.”

Sostratus tried to speak, but his voice caught. His eyes blinked away tears. Some part of him was incredulous that he was mourning for a slave. No, not a slave, he corrected himself. My friend. And at that thought, he could contain the tears no longer, and they spilled from his eyes.

“Rufus… I’m sorry…” he said.

Rufus looked at him his eyes widening in surprise, then shook his head. “No… no!” the slave said. “We built it!” he asserted, his eyes suddenly livening with pride. “The lighthouse. The great lighthouse! A wonder of the world. We…”
He was cut off by another coughing fit.

“Yes, we did,” Sostratus said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. “We built it. You and I. You and I and so many others, so many…”

“Take care of her,” Rufus said, weakly touching his master’s arm. Sostratus frowned, uncomprehending. “My wife… Selene,” he said, again glancing over his shoulder at the weeping woman. “She has no one, master. She’s… a good cook, yes?” Rufus smiled with no small amount of pride.

“Yes,” Sostratus said, forcing a smile onto his own face. “She is. And if you loved her, she must be a good woman. I’ll… I’ll keep her in my service.”

“Good,” Rufus said, “good…” He laid his head down on the cot and closed his eyes. All at once, a violent coughing fit shook his body. “Oh, I’m so sick of this!” the slave muttered. He took one more breath, then went still and breathed no more.

An unearthly wail from behind him startled Sostratus, and he moved back as Selene rushed forward and threw herself, grieving, upon her husband’s body. The architect was at a complete loss. Awkwardly, he reached out and placed what he hoped was a comforting arm upon the woman’s heaving shoulders. At his touch, however, the small woman leapt to her feet and turned on him, her face livid with rage.

“MURDERER!” she cried. “YOU KILLED HIM! DON’T TOUCH ME!”

“I’m sorry… I’m s-so sorry…” was all Sostratus could think to say, and he repeated it over and over as he backed out of the room. Selene turned from him, fell again upon her husband’s body and wept dejectedly while her chagrined master made his exit.

***



Within days, Sostratus found himself sitting beside another bed, attending another deathwatch. The courier had delivered the summons the very day after Rufus had died. Sostratus had parted for Rome within the hour. I suppose it explains why he didn’t attend the ceremony, he had reflected on the journey, though with more bitterness than generosity. It’s just like him, he’d thought. He’s dying out of spite.

The physician had administered a potent sleeping draught; his patient had been in a great deal of pain, as a fatal disorder of the stomach was likely to induce. So Sostratus kept watch, alone, over an insensate man who could do nothing now but die.

“Well, at least you won’t interrupt me when I talk to you now,” Sostratus said to his father, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards in a bitter smile.

“You should be proud of me,” the architect said a moment later. “You were so proud of Drusus when he went into the legions. And of yourself and your glory days with them. So proud of your ability to kill.”

Sostratus leaned forward, his eyes suddenly blazing, his tone intense. “Well, you’re an amateur. So is Drusus. I’ve outpaced you both! How many do you think you killed in all your time in Rome’s Legions? Be honest now; I know how the maniples fight, attacking then withdrawing so fresh troops can come forward. How many? A hundred? Two hundred?

“Ha! I’ve killed at least ten times that many. I’ve bathed in blood, wallowed in it, father! Can’t you see?” Sostratus held up his arms. His voice rose in volume and agitation. “I’m covered in it. Covered in blood, up past the elbows! Aren’t you proud? Aren’t you proud of your son, the killer? Finally, at long last?”

Suddenly, Quintus Camillus’ eyes opened. Weakly, his head turned, and his drug-addled eyes regarded his eldest son. A son he looked at now not with affection, nor with the dismissive contempt Sostratus had so often seen there. No, this was another look entirely, one he had never seen his father bestow upon him.

Quintus Camillus looked at his son with horror.

And then, the piercing blue eyes went blank as all life left them.

Sostratus rose, pushing himself up on his cane. He knocked on the door of the room and the physician entered. The learned man walked over to the bed, inspected the body, then sighed.

“Your father is dead, Sostratus Camillus,” he said gravely. “I’m sorry.” Sostratus said nothing, merely nodded. “Did he have any last words?”

Sostratus shook his head. “Not for me,” he said quietly. “Never for me…”

***

Sostratus remained in Rome for several days, making funeral arrangements. He also took advantage of his time in the capital to seek out his next commission. As he departed the Basilica Romanus one day, a voice called his name, a voice that was familiar even though its possessor had only spoken to him on a handful of other occasions.

“Sostratus Camillus!” Caesar called from across the great covered hall. Rome’s immortal leader broke away from his gaggle of assistants and advisors and strode across the hall to the architect. He walked with purpose yet great dignity, his purple-bordered toga swaying about his tall frame as he approached Sostratus.

“Caesar,” the architect said in simple greeting.

“My dear young man,” Caesar said, gently placing a hand upon Sostratus’ shoulder. “Let me offer you my sincere condolences. One of my advisors told me of your father’s death yesterday, when I returned from the front.”

“Thank you, Caesar,” Sostratus said. He knew he was supposed to appear grief-stricken, but he could not be bothered to fake the emotion, even with Caesar. He stared back, clear-eyed, into his leader’s eyes.

“On a happier note,” Caesar said smoothly, “I have business in Antium, and I’ll finally have the time to see your magnificent lighthouse. Perhaps you’d care to accompany me to the city, and show me the great building yourself?”

The words came out as a request, but Sostratus knew it was tantamount to an order. Even so, he felt it was one he could not obey.

“I’m sorry, Caesar,” he said, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I don’t think I can look upon the lighthouse again.” He paused, sighed, then lifted his head and looked Caesar directly in the eye. “A great many people fell, Caesar, so that my great lighthouse could rise.”

Julius Caesar nodded. “I see,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s any consolation, Sostratus,” he said, “but as a military commander, I can tell you that in any campaign, sacrifices are sometimes necessary. To serve the greater good.”

“I suppose,” Sostratus said.

“In fact, that had me thinking,” Caesar said, smoothly attempting to change the subject. “The Spanish campaign has been a long and hard one, the foe more numerous and tougher than we faced when we conquered Japan so long ago. Once it’s done, I think some sort of monument to those who fell would be appropriate. I’d need someone to design it, of course.”

“A monument?” Sostratus asked, his eyes suddenly lighting up.

“Yes, if you’re interested.”

Sostratus was lost in thought for a moment, his eyes gazing south towards Antium. “Perhaps,” he said. “I’ll consider it. There’s something I have to do first, though.” He turned to look at Caesar again. “I think I will accompany you to Antium after all.”

***



A few days later, Sostratus stood at the bottom of the great stairwell that led up into the lighthouse. He had given Caesar a tour; the immortal had expressed his admiration and appreciation, then they had parted ways. Now the architect laid out his tools. He had hammers and chisels of various sizes, along with a long scroll. He took up a hammer and one chisel, knelt before the stone wall beside the stairs, and began to work.

He began each day at dawn, using mirrors to bring light into the dark stairwell. He spent the hours on his knees, hammering away at the stone with great care. By the end of the day, every muscle in his body ached from the strain, as did his knees; his face, the entire front of his body, was covered with stone dust.

He would have kept working long into the night if he’d been left to his own devices. But to his surprise, Selene, Rufus’ widow, always came there at the end of the day to softly but sternly bid her master home, where she had prepared a meal. She had the other slaves prepare his bath and bed for him. At her insistence, he began to wear a kerchief to help keep the rock dust out of his lungs; he had begun to develop a cough, and it brought back unpleasant memories for her.

Every day he returned to the lighthouse, and every day he progressed higher up the stairwell. The lighthouse keepers passed by him on their way up or down the stairwell as they extinguished the flame each morning and put a great mirror in its place, then did the reverse every evening. It was those men who spread word of what the architect was doing in Antium.

Residents of the city began to come out to inspect his work. They walked up the staircase slowly, gazing at Sostratus’ work reverently. Some broke down in tears; a few, overcome, even wailed in grief, the sound echoing up the stairwell and spurring the architect on with his task. Few people deigned to pay any attention to him, but of course some did. Some citizens climbed the many stairs to find and embrace him; a handful came up to curse him, one or two to spit upon him. Sostratus bore it all stoically and went back to his work after every encounter.

A month went by, and early in the next he was approaching the top of the stairwell, nearly at the peak of the lighthouse itself. He spent two days working in the small, round room that housed the light, the room so brightly illuminated by the great mirror during the day that he had to squint to do his work. Then, after this “break”, he returned to the stairwell to complete his self-assigned task.

It was on the forty-second day that Selene found him at the top of the stairwell, putting the finishing touches on one more piece of work with a small hammer and an equally delicate chisel. She tapped his shoulder, as she usually did. He nodded and held up one finger. She waited patiently. Then she glanced at what he as carving into the stone and could not suppress a gasp.

Sostratus leaned back on his haunches and pulled his kerchief down from his sweat-stained face. He grasped a brush and cleaned the dust out of what he had carved. The letters were as elegant as the finest calligrapher could have managed with ink and paper. Sostratus had begun his career doing this, serving as an apprentice with a stone cutter who specialized in headstones; he felt like he had come full circle. There was, after all, no profound message or proud declaration that he had carved into the stone; just a name.

RVFVS GRACCHVS

“He was the last,” Sostratus told Selene. “So.. he’s the last.”

Selene nodded and wiped away a tear. She glanced down the stairwell. Before it disappeared into the dark, she could read the other names there, all of them carved by Sostratus into the stone with care and reverence.

The Romans kept immaculate records. It had been remarkably easy, therefore, to obtain the name of every slave who had died while building the Great Lighthouse of Antium. The length of the scroll containing their names had both shocked and shamed Sostratus, but had also strengthened his resolve. Their names would now be as immortal as the building itself. As immortal as Caesar, Sostratus reflected. For he had carved the name of each and every slave into the walls that lined the stairs which ascended to the top of the lighthouse. The names, so shockingly numerous, filled the entire stairwell from top to bottom.

Now that he had completed his penance, he could consider the building complete. He sat back upon the stone, exhausted; his head fell into his hands. He would have wept, but he was too tired for tears.

Selene then noticed that Sostratus had not confined his work to the stairwell. Around the lintel of the room at the tower’s pinnacle, she noticed for the first time, he had carved an epigram.

“This building,” she said, reading his words aloud, “is dedicated to those who perished during its construction. May this flame light a course,” she continued, her voice shaking with emotion, “to a day when all slaves shall be free.” A tear coursed down her cheek. “Some might consider that sedition,” she said softly.

“Let them,” Sostratus said tiredly. He gazed at the name of the man who had started as his slave and had become his friend, then looked up at the man’s widow. “He told me to look after you,” Sostratus said. “But I cannot keep you as a slave, Selene. Not you or any of the others. Not after what I’ve done. You are free. I’ll make it official at the basilica tomorrow.”

“And where would I go?” she asked him, smiling serenely even as more tears stained her cheeks.

“Wherever you want,” Sostratus said. “Back to your family.”

“I have none,” she replied. “Only you.”

Sostratus gazed at her in surprise. “I’m not… I’m not your family,” he said.

“Of course you are,” she said, touching the architect’s cheek affectionately. She gazed at the name of her husband where it was carved indelibly into the stone. “He loved you, you know. Adored you. He was so proud to be a part of this,” she said, gesturing at the lighthouse. “He made the same request of me that he made of you. He asked me to look after you. I promised him I would.”

Sostratus sat, gazing at her in wonder, for several moments. “You would… choose to stay? With me?”

“Yes,” she said. “As a free woman,” she said, her voice catching as she said the words for the first time in her life, “I choose to stay with you.”

“Can you… ever forgive me?” he asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“I think,” she said softly, “that you must instead forgive yourself.”

With those words, Sostratus Camillus, architect of the Great Library of Ravenna and the Great Lighthouse of Antium, broke down completely. He threw his arms around Selene’s legs, pressed his head against her belly, and wept. His sorrowful wails echoed down the stairwell; the lighthouse keepers climbing the steps below heard him and paused for several minutes, respectfully waiting for him to stop. Selene merely stood, one hand caressing his sandy hair, now shot through with grey, and waited patiently for the storm of emotion to pass.

When his anguish at last subsided, she bent down and touched his cheek, feeling the wetness of his tears upon her fingertips. “Your work here is done,” she said. “Dinner is waiting. Come home with me.”

Together, they rose and walked down the stairwell, his hand in hers, progressing slowly because of his lame foot. As they walked, his fingers caressed each name he had carved into the stone, and his lips moved silently in prayer.

[CCRunner]

Chapter 9: Great Works, Part 1



“Ling! Good to see you!”

At the sound of the booming, familiar voice, Ling Lun’s slender, youthful face lit up with a broad smile. He dropped his two traveling satchels, spread his arms, and found himself enclosed in the bear-like embrace of his oldest and dearest friend.

“Metellus!” Ling said, stepping back out his friend’s welcoming hug. He cast an appraising eye over his friend’s imposing physique and the shining armour that covered it. “Soldiering agrees with you. I always knew it would.”

“I suppose,” Metellus Gnaeus replied. It was only their long-standing friendship and familiarity that allowed Ling to notice the subtle change in his friend’s tone and expression, how his smile became just a little forced for a moment. “But enough of that! Let me get out of this damn armour and we can share a meal, and some wine, and you can tell me all the news from Rome! You make yourself comfortable… Lucius!” he called to one of his Century’s attendants.

“This is my best friend in the whole world, Ling Lun. Find him a suitable billet. One that would suit Caesar!”

And before Ling could voice an objection to any sort of special treatment, his friend had given him a friendly clap on the back and turned to march away.

“This way, sir,” the attendant said respectfully.

***

An hour later, the two old friends sat down at a table in Metellus’ quarters. His position as the 7th Legion’s Primus Pilus—“First Spear”, essentially the lead Centurion for the entire Legion—meant he commanded better quarters than most. Though the simple Spanish farmhouse, which had probably been abandoned as Roman troops marched upon Madrid, was hardly palatial. But as any soldier would attest, it beat sleeping rough on the bare ground in the rain. The meal before the two old friends consisted of olives, cheese, and bread, along with a little mutton stew prepared by the Century’s cook.

“I hope you don’t mind camp rations,” Metellus said a little apologetically. “It’s simple, but it’s good and filling. We don’t get much of the delicacies that Rome enjoys up here in Spain yet.”

“I know,” Ling said with a grin, “that’s why I brought this.”

He reached into the smaller of his satchels, which he’d brought with him from his billet, and pulled out a bottle of wine. Metellus smiled broadly as Ling handed him the bottle.

“From Capua…?” Metellus said hopefully, his eyes widening as he looked reverently at the bottle.

“Yes. 1020, an excellent year,” Ling said.

To Ling’s astonishment, the eyes of his sturdy, courageous friend welled up with tears. The big man blinked them away.

“Jupiter,” Metellus said quietly. “The comforts of home. You have no idea how welcome this is, old friend…”

“Metellus,” Ling said, “what’s wrong? I know the campaign was long and hard, but…”

Metellus looked at him warily, then sighed. “It’s…” he began to say, then shook his head. “No. No, let’s not spoil the evening. You’ll find out soon enough.” Metellus smiled, though Ling could tell it was a little forced. “I want to hear all the news from Rome. Especially about your work! I hear your latest painting caused quite the sensation…”

***

The friendship of Ling Lun and Metellus Gnaeus, at first glance, seemed like an unlikely mismatch of two completely disparate personalities.

Ling Lun was the descendant, several generations removed, of that small band of Chinese workers who had been “liberated” from servitude in Japan by a band of Roman warriors centuries before. They had formed a small community within Rome itself, and were an accepted minority there…mostly. Some people were still unable to see past their golden skin and dark, almond-shaped eyes and accept them as fellow human beings.

Ironically, this all-to-human susceptibility to prejudice was what had brought the two friends together. Many years before, when he was a boy, some older Roman lads had been bullying Ling outside one of Rome’s many gymnasiums when Metellus came to his rescue. Even then, he’d been taller and stronger than many boys two or three years older than himself, and he had the courage of a lion.

Beneath that formidable exterior, though, was a sensitive boy who inherited a love of the arts from his mother. In the artistic Ling, Metellus found a friend with whom he could share his aesthetic enthusiasms, which his other, sports-loving school chums did not understand. Their friendship blossomed and had withstood the test of time, nearly a quarter-century gone by since they’d first met as boys.

For Ling, the intervening time had been exciting indeed. The most exciting development in the arts in generations had occurred, and within his own lifetime! There had always been music, it seemed—but a group of musicians and scholars in Rome had created a system whereby music could be written down. The development had formalized the field, allowing musicians to record their creations for posterity. Musical notation also made music more accessible to the masses. More and more people were able to learn to play an instrument, and some exhibited remarkable talent that might have gone undiscovered in previous generations.



It was, perhaps, ironic then that Ling Lun had chosen to focus on the visual arts rather than music. But like strings on a lute that vibrated in harmony when one was plucked, the burst of activity in music had energized all of the arts.

Which is partly what had brought Ling to the recently-conquered city of Madrid. Partly, of course, he wanted to visit his old friend. But he also wanted to see, with his own eyes, one of the most astonishing human accomplishments ever created.

For years, Romans had heard of the Pyramids, but none had ever seen them. The fanatical Spanish Queen, Isabella, had closed her borders to Rome and its “heathen religion” of Confucianism centuries before. Now that Spain had been conquered and had become part of Rome, like Japan before it, many Romans were now travelling to the mysterious home of Buddhism to see the city, and its amazing wonder of the world, for themselves.

Almost at the start of their dinner together on his first night in Madrid, Ling asked his old friend to give him a tour of the mammoth monuments. He’d seen them from a distance, of course—one could not miss them; they dominated the cityscape from miles away. But the Pyramids were still cordoned off my Roman troops; visitors could only view the structures from a distance. Ling knew his high-ranking friend, however, could provide him with a closer view.
It surprised Ling, then, that Metellus was so reluctant to grant his request.
“It’s just a big pile of rocks, Ling,” he’d said, a little too dismissively.

Instead, Metellus had showed him around the rest of the city, introducing him to his fellow Legionaries and several of the locals as well. Some of them, understandably, harboured the resentment natural to a conquered people. The Romans considered the city to still be in a state of revolt, and Metellus kept Ling away from the more dangerous areas where the rebels were numerous.

But many Spaniards were gradually adjusting and becoming used to life under Roman rule. Some of the artists Ling met were even enthusiastic about the change in government; they were allowed far more liberties of expression, it turned out, under the more secular-minded Caesar than under the fanatically devout Isabella.



Still Ling persisted with his friend in his request to see the Pyramids, and still Metellus resisted.

Finally, in frustration, Ling confronted his old friend over dinner one night.

“There’s something you’re not telling me about them,” he said firmly. Metellus only looked at him silently in response. “Don’t try to deny it. I know you too well. Not only that, something about them is troubling you. I know you put on a brave face with the troops, but with me? Come on, Metellus!”

His tall, stocky friend sat in silence, staring at the tabletop, for a very long time. Finally, he spoke, in a voice so uncharacteristically quiet and subdued that Ling had to strain to hear him.

“I’ll take you there tomorrow,” Metellus said. “But I warn you. The Pyramids…” He sighed heavily. “Something like that doesn’t get built without a cost, Ling.”
Metellus then rose from the table and left the room to go to bed, leaving his friend wondering what he meant.

***

The next day, Ling got his tour of the Pyramids. The sun shone brightly in the wide blue expanse of Spanish sky. As they approached the Pyramids, the glare off of the polished limestone and the structures’ golden caps made him squint and shield his eyes. He couldn’t believe how tall they were—as tall, they seemed, as Mount Etna, just outside of Ravenna! But they were man-made! It was astounding to contemplate.

Metellus not only took him to the Pyramids, he took him inside, to the once-secret chambers deep within the stone structures where the Buddhist priests conducted their strange, mystical rites. When they left the deep, dark tunnel that led to the chambers, the sun was higher and the gleam of the Pyramids seemed ever so much brighter.

“Amazing!” Ling said breathlessly. “I mean, yes, Antium has its wonders, too--the Oracle is beautiful, and Sostratus' Great Lighthouse is impressive… but this!” He had trouble finding words to express his awe. “They’re majestic. Beautiful. Amazing!” he repeated.

“You think so, do you?” Metellus said glumly. “Come with me, Ling. There’s something you should see.”

Ling followed his increasingly and unusually taciturn friend in silence. Metellus had as much appreciation for aesthetic beauty as he did, in spite of—or perhaps because of—his rough life as a soldier. How could he not appreciate these astounding monuments?

They walked around the far side of the Pyramids, which took a considerable amount of time, until they were on the side opposite the city of Madrid, to its west. Metellus pointed silently in that direction. A few hundred yards beyond the largest of the Pyramids, Ling could see a few soldiers standing guard over…nothing? No. He looked closer. There seemed to be a large, long, rectangular open pits in the ground at the soldiers’ feet. Why were they guarding those?

“What…is that, Metellus?” Ling asked quietly. A feeling of dark foreboding washed over him, though he couldn’t say why.

“The cost,” his friend answered grimly.

They walked towards the pit. Metellus nodded silently towards the half-dozen soldiers watching over it. They reached the pit’s edge and Ling peered inside. What he saw there took his breath away and made the blood drain from his face.

The pit was ten paces wide and about one hundred long. A fresh pile of earth on its far side indicated that it had recently been excavated. How deep the pit was, however, Ling could not tell.

Because the pit was full, nearly to the brim.

Full of bones.

Bones, and skulls, row upon row of them, long dead, their flesh decayed and gone to feed the worms. All that remained were these dry bones, the dirt of the mass grave still clinging to them.

“This is just the first one,” Metellus said quietly.

“The…first…?” Ling stammered. He could feel his gorge rising to his throat.

“We think we’ve found five more. Two for sure, we’re just starting to excavate them. The Spaniards themselves requested it. Many of their ancestors are in here. Spaniards prize their lineage, you know, no matter how lowly born. They’re hoping to identify the remains. I don’t see how, but hope springs eternal. Even in the face of this…”

“How…how many…?” Ling asked, though he was not sure he wanted to know.

Metellus sighed heavily. “We estimate at least five thousand, just in this one mass grave.”

And they think there are at least five more… Ling thought as he silently did the horrible math.

“I’m sorry you had to see this, Ling, but I think you had to,” Metellus said. “Yes, the Pyramids are impressive. But Isabella exacted a heavy toll for her monument. Heavy indeed.”

Ling nodded absently. He turned towards his friend, struggling to find words, something to say, something meaningful. But in the face of such wanton destruction of human life, such loss, nothing came to him. His mouth gaped. He struggled to breathe.

Then suddenly, he dropped to his knees, then forward onto his hands. His slender body convulsed and he retched. He felt his old friend’s big hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t feel ashamed,” Metellus said as Ling wiped the vomit from his lips. “It’s nothing the rest of us haven’t done.”

***

That night, Ling could not sleep. He kept going over it in his mind, trying to make sense of it. The Pyramids were an astounding human achievement, to be sure. But the price… the price! So many lives, snuffed out so a puritanical queen could have a religious monument like no other on Earth. Was it worth it? Were the great stone structures a fitting monument to the thousands of people who had died creating them?

He couldn’t make sense of it. It was too big.

And still sleep did not come.

***

“You look like death warmed over,” Metellus said, not without sympathy, the next morning. “Sleepless night, eh?”

Ling nodded his acknowledgement.

“Hrm. I’ve had more than a few myself,” Metellus went on. “I mean, I’m a soldier, Ling. I kill. I do it well. I do it for Rome, and for a living. But the men I come up against—well, they stand a very good chance of killing me, and living instead of me. But those people—they had no chance, none at all!”

“How…how did they die?” Ling asked.

Metellus shrugged. “They were worked to death, most like. The doctors…” He paused.

“What do the doctors say?” Ling asked.

“That the joints in their sockets had ground away nearly to powder,” Metellus said grimly. “That even their bones bear grooves worn by heavy ropes and chains…”

“Jupiter!” Ling said, shuddering.

“I’m sorry,” Metellus said. “You asked….”

“I know,” Ling said.

“Listen, I have to go to the new basilica today,” Metellus said, referring to the building that housed the courts and government offices and was common to all major Roman cities. “Why don’t you come along? It’s a handsome new building, and it would be good for you to stretch your legs, talk to some other Romans.”
“I don’t know…”

But after a few more minutes of gentle cajoling from his friend, he agreed.

***

The new Basilica Romanus took up one whole side of Madrid’s central city square. It was three storeys high; the façade of the lower two storeys was comprised of a series of sixteen high, broad arches. The upper storey was slightly smaller than those beneath it and less ornate. Inside the arches was a long, two-storey high hall set before a long, bare concrete wall. Set into the wall were doors leading to various offices and shops, as well as stairs to the upper two levels.

“I just have to see the governor,” Metellus explained, then rolled his eyes. “Something about how much were paying the locals for billets, and are we being overcharged… the man’s a damn bean-counter. These people suffered through the war. So what if they’re overcharging!”

“You go ahead,” Ling said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

Ling sat down upon a stone bench in the middle of the great entrance hall and stared at the blank concrete wall ahead of him. The large, empty space was cool, sheltered as it was from the heat of the summer sun, but light reflected from the pale, polished stone floor and lit the interior with a pleasant, soft light.

The young artist sat there for some time, his thoughts still tortured by the magnificence of the Pyramids and the horror of the mass grave. He could understand why the soldiers were keeping people away from the grave, out of respect for the dead. But no one knew about all those people, certainly no one in Rome. Had they died in vain? Would no one tell their story, make them as immortal as the monument they had died building…?

Suddenly, Ling gasped. He rose to his feet and stood staring straight ahead at the high, long, blank wall before him. His almond-shaped eyes were open wide as they ranged back and forth, studying the wall from one end to the other.
His friend found him, still standing and staring like that, a half hour later. Metellus glanced at the blank wall his friend seemed to be intently studying and frowned.

“Ling?” he said. “Are you all right?”

Ling said nothing, but nodded distractedly, his eyes never leaving the wall. Metellus followed his gaze, mystified.

“What are you looking at?” Metellus asked him.

“My masterpiece,” Ling said reverently.

[CCRunner]

Chapter 9: Great Works, Part 2



Caesar finally made the trip to Madrid the following summer. He’d long meant to; the last time he’d been to the former Spanish capital had been at the head of a column of triumphant Roman troops. The city had been a shambles; the Spaniards had fiercely and bravely defended their city, though the fighting meant much of it had been damaged. To honour their courage, Caesar had allowed each captured Spanish city to retain its original name, unlike the Japanese cities that he had renamed.

A symbolic gesture, but it helps appease a conquered population, Caesar thought, reflecting on the resentment some Japanese still harboured and expressed by referring to their cities as “Kyoto” and “Tokyo” rather than “Brundisium” and “Pisae”. Why not allow the Spaniards to be both Spanish and Roman?

I like to think I’m learning a thing or two in my old age, he thought. Not that he was actually aging, of course.

As he entered the city’s gates, Publius Rutullus Lepidus, his appointed governor of Iberia, as the Romans called the conquered Spanish territory, came forth to greet him. A long-time and trusted confidante, Lepidus shook Caesar’s hands warmly, and his leader favoured him with a dazzling smile reserved for only his closest friends.

“It’s good to see you, Caesar!” Publius Rutullus said.

“And good to see you, too, Publius Rutullus ,” Caesar replied, then cast his eyes towards the looming peaks of the Pyramids. “And to see Madrid again, and behold its wonders,” he added in a voice he lifted to carry to the crowd, especially to the locals present.

“We’ve added another wonder since your last visit,” Publius Rutullus said quietly.

“Really?” Caesar asked. “Ah! Are you referring to that mural by that young chap, what’s his name…”

“Ling Lun, Caesar,” Lepidus said.

“Yes! I hear it’s quite remarkable, I should like to see it.”

“You will, and you should meet Ling as well….while there’s still time.”

Caesar frowned at that, but Publius Rutullus turned and led him forward before he could explain himself.

***

Caesar stood in the centre of the Basilica’s great hall, his cold blue eyes taking in the astonishing sight before him.

The mural was called, simply, Madrid. It occupied the entire wall of the basilica’s entrance hall, its full length and height. At its western end, as if indicating the direction of the monuments themselves, was a depiction of the Pyramids, the sun high above them, their polished limestone and gold caps gleaming even in the diffused reflective light of the great hall. A crowd of people were painted before the Pyramids in a mix of Roman and Spanish dress, many of them linked arm in arm in an expression of hope for brotherhood between the two peoples after many years of war.

As the mural spread across the wall to the east, the scene changed. An unfinished Pyramid was depicted; broad earthen ramps spiralled around it, and the tiny figures of people, small as ants, stood upon it. In the foreground was a depiction of these workers, dragging a great stone block on broad lumber rollers. Heavy ropes and chains connected the workers to the stone they pulled, the heavy cords cutting into their flesh until their blood flowed and stained their rough clothes and the ground at their feet. The mural depicted one man fallen from exhaustion, while a foreman towered over him, his whip flung back above his head as he prepared to strike and urge the poor wretch back to his assigned task.

The workers were dragging the huge stone not towards a Pyramid, but to a huge pit, the depiction of which made up the eastern third of the mural. The workers, still carrying the heavy ropes, were marching into the pit; each worker in the gang was painted as progressively more gaunt and desiccated, until those at the forefront were nothing more than walking skeletons with only bloody remnants of flesh hanging from their bones.

At the mural’s eastern edge, the skeletons lay down, row upon row of them piled upon one anther in a mass grave. And finally, at the very end of the mural, stood Queen Isabella, looking westward over her great achievement and her great atrocity with a smug smile and a cold, approving eye.

It was riveting, and Caesar could not tear his eyes away from it. He’d heard talk of it in Rome, of course. Most of the critics who’d seen it attested to its brilliance, though some sniffed and called it distasteful. But what none could deny, including Caesar as he stood before it, was its power.

Not even the local Spaniards. Far from it; the Spanish were among the mural’s greatest admirers. Spanish culture did not shy away from depictions of death or suffering; to them, death was simply part of the cycle of life. And for a Roman to have captured and depicted their great accomplishment and their great suffering under Isabella… Well, many Spaniards and Romans alike attested that the mural had almost single-handedly ended the revolt in Madrid, by showing its citizens that these foreign conquerors were capable of understanding and respecting them. Despite its depiction of suffering and death, the mural, ironically, gave people a sense of hope for the future.

Of all of this, Caesar was well aware, and his mind considered it as he stood, rapt, before the great mural. Then Publius Rutullus Lepidus coughed softly, stirring Caesar from his reverie.

“Caesar, may I present the creator of this great work, Ling Lun,” Publius Rutullus said.

He indicated a slight young man standing to his right. Caesar had to suppress a gasp. For Ling Lun looked like he had walked out from among the dying wretches he’d depicted in the eastern half of his great work. His body was gaunt and bent, his dark, almond-shaped eyes hollow and sunken. He could barely stand; a towering hulk of a man stood beside him, holding the artist upright, as tenderly as one would an aged relative. From his insignia, Caesar recognized the artist’s helper as the Primus Pilus of the 7th Legion.

How could this poor, wasted soul have created this great work? Caesar marveled. He’d heard that Lun had worked tirelessly, day and night, like a man possessed, but had thought the stories mere exaggeration. The sight before him proved otherwise.

Caesar raised his hand in the traditional Roman greeting. “Ave, Ling Lun. I am Gaius Julius Caesar.”

Lun weakly raised his hand in response. “Ave, Caesar. I am… most honoured… to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said, his voice a quiet rasp.

“The honour is all mine, young man,” Caesar said, smiling gently. “Tell me…”

But before Caesar could ask his question, Lun bent over, his frail body wracked by a violent, hacking fit of coughs. Through sheer force of will alone, he manage to quell it, and straightened to look his leader in they eye again.

“You are…not well, my young friend,” Caesar said, his face expressing his concern.

“I am dying,” Lun said matter-of-factly, though Caesar noticed a fleeting expression of pain flash across the face of his tall, sturdy companion. “Like…the poor souls in my painting, I fear I have… worked myself to death…” Lun said. Then a weak, grim smile curled his lips. “It probably didn’t help… that some of the paints I used… are toxic.” If Lun saw the look of shock that appeared on Caesar’s face, he did not indicate it; instead, he turned to glance at his great work. “But the colours… they had to be… just so… to capture the light that…”

Again, the young man’s body was shaken by coughs.

“I should get him back to bed, Caesar,” the tall Legionary assisting Lun said.

“Of course,” Caesar said quietly. Just before he went, Lun quelled his coughs, and Caesar spoke to him. “What you have bestowed upon Madrid and all of Rome is… extraordinary, Mister Lun. As I regarded it today… I was profoundly moved.”

Lun smiled, then nodded, but said nothing more. He turned to leave, his friend at his side.

***

Caesar could not get the images out his mind. Not the astonishing vision of the mural, nor the ruined body of the extraordinary young man who had created it. He tried to distract himself with work, as he usually did when sleep would not come, but for one of the few times in his long life, he could not focus his attention.

So much death…

Among them, of course, Queen Isabella’s.



Fanatical to the last, the Spanish Queen had fought Caesar ferociously in this very palace, screaming and calling him heretic and infidel as she swung her fine Spanish rapier wildly at his broad Roman shield. Eventually he had tired of her vicious but ineffective attacks. He’d let her come in close, then he’d lifted his shield suddenly so it rapped her harshly beneath the chin. As she fell back, hopelessly exposed, he’d swung his sword across her abdomen, gutting her.
As she had awaited his final blow upon her knees, her cold blue eyes had looked up at him, full of malice and spite.

“You will… burn in hell,” she’d spat at him, blood spilling from her lips.

“Ladies first,” he’d said, then he’d finished her and had taken her quickening along with her head.



He’d rested that night in this very chamber, in her own bed, and quite well. But not tonight.

Caesar rose from his desk and walked out upon the balcony that adjoined the luxurious lodgings. Though he was in the former Queen’s chamber, it was not her ghost that haunted the place and kept Caesar from his slumber. Nor was he truly troubled by the deaths of the Spanish soldiers who died fighting his Legions; a soldier knew such a fate could befall him, lived with it daily. No, he was haunted by the many thousands of Spaniards who had died building the Pyramids, and by one more soul, not yet departed, but soon to join all the others.

Lun is just one more. One more mortal. There are so many of them, and they die like flies. What of it?

“It’s not just him,” Caesar said quietly in response to his own, internal devil’s advocate. “It’s all of them. The woman was insane, her lust for blood knew no bounds…”

Oh, so that’s it. You’re comforting yourself with the notion that you’re not like her.

“Well, I’m not. She was a fanatic.”

Irrelevant. Haven’t you sacrificed mortal lives, by the dozens, by the hundreds, even, to serve your ambitions?

“Not like this. Not on this scale.”

Ah, I see. It’s a matter of degree rather than of kind.

“I am nothing like her!”

Of course not. You just keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday you’ll even start to believe it…

A gentle rapping at the door stirred Caesar from his internal dialogue.

“Yes?” he called. “Come In, the door is unlocked.”

The door opened and Publius Rutullus Lepidus entered, looking tired, sheepish, and more than a little sad.

“I apologize for disturbing you, Caesar,” he said. “I saw a light beneath your door, though, and…”

“Think nothing of it, old friend,” Caesar said. “What brings you to me at this late hour?”

“I just received word myself, and I thought you’d want to know…” Publius Rutullus said quietly.. “Ling Lun died tonight, not more than an hour ago.”

Caesar stood stock still for a moment, then took a deep breath and nodded. “So passes the last casualty of the Spanish campaign,” he said softly. “Thank you, my friend. You were correct, I did indeed want to know, as sad as the news is. He has family in Rome, doesn’t he?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Caesar nodded sadly. “I’ll deliver the news and my condolences to them myself. I’ll leave for Rome tomorrow. Good night, Publius Rutullus.”

“Good night, Caesar.”

Publius Rutullus left and quietly closed the door behind him. Once his friend had left, to his own great astonishment, for the first time in several centuries, Caesar broke down and wept.



***

“This is astonishing, Caesar,” Publius Rutullus Lepidus was saying to him, a little more than a month later, in Caesar’s great office in the Basilica Ravenna in Rome. “Do you really mean to go through with this?”

“I would not have recalled you all the way from Madrid for a mere jest, old friend!” Caesar replied.

“But Caesar,” another of his close advisors, the grey-haired Portius Scipio, said to him, “what you’re proposing is… unprecedented!”

“That fact saddens me more than words can express, Scipio,” Caesar said. “But the time for second-guessing is over. Come. The others are waiting.”

***

A short time later, Caesar sat upon a curule chair in the centre of a large oval chamber, surrounded by three hundred prominent Romans, heads of the oldest tribes and families that had been present when the city was founded. The ancestors of every man in the room had, for centuries, served Caesar in some form or another, as military adjutants, as counselors, as diplomats, and in so many other roles.

“Conscript fathers of Rome,” Caesar addressed them, “yes, conscript fathers I call you, for that is what you are, not just those of you in this chamber, but your ancestors as well, fathers to Rome all, called forth to serve your city and your nation.

“As I have been called. Long have I led Rome, conscript fathers, to her prosperity and greater glory. I have done my utmost, I hope, to ensure that all our efforts serve the greater glory of Rome. This is why, I firmly believe, I was bestowed with immortal life by the gods, so that I might lead Rome to its destiny.

“But the citizens of Rome are mortal. They live, ever so briefly in my eyes, and they die, some… far too soon.” Caesar paused, then collected himself and continued. “I have been fond, profoundly so, of all Romans, and your ancestors. Granted, some have been closer to me, fonder to me, than others, but all Romans have a place in my heart.

“And yet I must keep myself a step removed. Some of you have known the terrible sorrow that comes to a parent when he loses a child. Imagine, then, my own immortal sorrow, for you are all my children, yet I must bury you all. So I have restrained by love of my fellow Romans for centuries. Therein lies a danger, that Rome’s immortal leader may grow too far removed from the concerns of his mortal subjects to rule them wisely.

“For this reason, I present to you, today, a plan for a new government of Rome, laid out in the documents you hold in your hands. Our growing and expanding empire will no longer—can no longer—be ruled by a single man, immortal though I may be.



“Instead, what I propose is a more… representative form of government, where the citizens of Rome have a voice, and a hand, in the running of the state. This august body,” he said, sweeping his hand around the room, “this Senate, is part of that, comprised of the head of each family of the patrician class, will serve as a council of guides to the new government. The people of Rome shall also elect representatives to a governing council where the voice of the majority, not one man, shall rule. We shall work together, patrician and plebeian, to bring Rome to its bright, assured destiny.

“For myself, I propose to retain the position and title of Consul-for-life. But at my side will rule a co-consul, elected annually from the members of this chamber. Thus, Rome will have the best of both worlds: an immortal leader to guide it to its destiny with an eye to its glorious past; and a mortal leader to ensure that the concerns of mortal men are given voice.

“I should point out that our first point of discussion will be these proposed reforms. I expect, encourage, and daresay demand your input, contrary to my own vision though it may be. I hope to offer my unique perspective, my guidance, and whatever wisdom I have gleaned during my many years here on earth. Together, we will, through our on-going dialogue, formulate the best future for the People and the Republic of Rome.”

Caesar paused, glancing at the three hundred men gathered in the new Senate chamber, their purple-bordered togas marking each one as the head of the oldest, most noble families of Rome. One could have heard a pin drop in that oval-shaped room, and not just because of its excellent acoustics. To a man, they were stunned into silence. None had ever considered that the immortal Julius would share—would relinquish—his absolute power! But that was exactly what he was proposing.

“Have you nothing to say, conscript fathers?” Caesar gently prompted them.
A moment went by, and then Lepidus slowly rose to his feet.

“I yield the floor to my colleague, Publius Rutullus Lepidus,” Caesar said, and even that simple act, proving his sincerity, amazed the chamber anew. Caesar sat in the curule chair upon the rostra, the raised platform at the centre of the chamber. He looked at Publius Rutullus expectantly.

For a long moment, Publius Rutullus said nothing. Then he slowly raised his hands, held them open before him, and clapped. And clapped again, and again, until he was clapping passionately. Slowly, the other Senators followed his example, until every man in the chamber save Caesar himself was standing and applauding enthusiastically. Some cheered, many were smiling broadly.

Gradually the applause died down and the Senators resumed their seats.

“Well,” Caesar said, allowing a pleased smile to play across his lips, “thank you. Now that the self-congratulations are over, we have a great many items before us to consider, discuss, and decide.” He drew a scroll from inside the folds of his toga, beneath his left arm, and unfurled it. “Let us get to work. First, we must consider the proposed abolition of slavery and the implementation of a merit-based caste system based upon Confucian principles…”

So began a new era in the history of Rome… the era of the Republic.

[CCRunner]

Chapter 10: Good Queen Bess



“So she’s coming here?” Caesar asked.

“Yes,” Gaius Lucius Gracchus, just returned by caravel from the distant continent freshly discovered on the other side of the globe, answered as he helped himself to another grape from the bowl on the table. “She was insistent upon it, in fact. Well, in her own way…”



“What do you mean, ‘in her own way’?” Julius asked, eyes narrowing.

Gracchus thought carefully as he considered his answer. He knew exactly what Caesar was asking: what sort of person is this Elizabeth, Queen of England? Already, he was seeking to prepare himself for their meeting.

“Well, she’s…very much a Queen, Caesar,” Gracchus said. “She’s quite beautiful, but extremely reserved. Regal,” he said with a nod.

Caesar, however, grunted impatiently. “As far as I’m concerned, Gracchus, “queen” and “regal” mean exactly the same thing, and “reserved” could be a way of saying you discerned nothing about her. And I don’t give a toss whether she’s pretty or not. Tell me something useful.”

“She’s…” Gracchus began to say, then threw up his hands. “Oh, you’ll just have to meet her yourself and see! I’ve never met anyone like her, Caesar.”

***

Caesar sat, waiting patiently, on the ivory curule chair high on the dais in centre of the chamber. His oak crown was upon his head, his purple-bordered toga resplendent, an ivory rod cradled in his left elbow. The Senators were fidgeting impatiently, but were doing their best to imitate their leader, who was sitting impassively, like a statue, as though he could wait there all day.

The Senate had convened outside of Rome’s city limits, in a spacious meeting hall built especially for this purpose, pleasantly situated upon the northern shore of Lake Tiber. The Curia Tiberius was rarely used, but was nevertheless painstakingly maintained, and was larger and grander than the Curia Hostilia, its usual meeting place situated in Rome’s forum. For the Curia Tiberius was where the Senate of Rome met with foreign rulers, for no king or queen was allowed within the sacred boundary of Rome itself. Given its purpose, the Curia Tiberius had to be impressive, and it was. The walls, the floors, and the columns supporting the high ceiling were all composed of the finest, highly-polished marble; the ceiling had been plastered and decorated with colourful frescoes. The meeting chamber itself was vast, but acoustically perfect, ensuring that even a pin dropping could be heard throughout.

The great oak doors of the chamber opened. A trumpeter, standing beside them, blew a brief fanfare. As Caesar and the Senators watched, Elizabeth, Queen of England, walked into the chamber. No, not walked; floated was a more accurate description. Her broad, hooped skirt and her graceful, regal bearing created that impression, even when she came down the marbled steps into the centre of the chamber. She seemed ethereal, otherworldly.



Her appearance only added to the impression. Caesar was immediately struck by her hair: it was bright red, such as he had never seen before, and artfully piled onto her head beneath her crown. Two strands of that fiery hair decorously framed each of her ears. She was tall, nearly as tall as Caesar himself. Her face was thin but not gaunt, pale but not unhealthy. Her blue eyes were cool and, Caesar could tell, extremely perceptive. Her forehead was perhaps a little too high, her cheekbones as well…but her features, in combination, were pleasing to the male eye. She had a certain haughtiness about her—after his encounters with Queen Isabella, Caesar had come to expect that—but she seemed to carry herself without any hint of the late Spanish ruler’s arrogance.

And, of course, she was immortal like himself. The tense tingling in his neck and shoulders confirmed it. She would be sensing it as well, but she gave no outward sign whatsoever.

Caesar rose from his chair.

“Greetings, Elizabeth, Queen of the English Empire,” he said, his voice echoing sonorously in the oval chamber. “On behalf of the People and Republic of Rome, I bid you welcome.” He placed the fist of his right hand over his heart, and bowed.

When he raised his head, he saw the slightest of smiles play upon her lips ever so briefly. Caesar was suddenly struck by a desire to see that slender face alight with a full, delighted smile. He nearly gave his head a shake. Now where did that notion come from? he wondered, but knew the answer full well. He reminded himself to be careful.

“Hail, Gaius Julius Caesar, Consul of Rome,” she said, her voice light and lilting as she spoke the words in impeccable, almost unaccented Latin. “We bring you greetings from the English Empire.” With that, she daintily clasped the skirt of her dress and favoured him with an elegant curtsy. She then straightened and regarded him expectantly.

Caesar quickly stirred himself from his reverie. Stepping back, he held out his hand towards the curule chair, indicating she was to assume it and from there, speak to the chamber. After the merest moment’s hesitation, which almost made Caesar wonder if she would turn down the offer, the Queen walked—no, floated, Caesar reminded himself—to the dais.

She held out her right hand. He took it. Her fingers were slender and delicate, but strong. Like the woman herself. Caesar gallantly held her hand as she climbed the steps of the dais and lowered herself upon the chair. She arranged her skirt as she sat, so elegantly that one was barely aware she had done it. She sat in the curule chair as though she, not Caesar and the Senate, ruled here. She released Caesar’s hand, and he actually felt a stab of regret at that. He chided himself silently, then stepped back from the dais.

“Conscript fathers,” the Queen said as she began her address to the chamber, “it is our sincerest hope that this is the beginning of a long, close, and fruitful friendship between Rome and England…”

***

“It was a splendid speech,” Caesar remarked to her later.

“Thank you, Caesar,” she replied equitably.

They were eating dinner together, in his dining room in the Consular palace, which commanded a fine few of Lake Tiber. They were alone; they had lunched with their various ministers and attendants, but Caesar had always found that, one-on-one, people, including rulers, relaxed, opened up, and became more…well, human. Some wine—especially an excellent late vintage from Capua—was intended to help in that regard.



Elizabeth, however, had not relaxed. Not that she seemed tense either; but she sat in her chair, her back straight, and maintained the same air of reserve she had exhibited the entire day. Caesar tried to draw her into conversation, but she did not venture far beyond pleasantries and vague statements of policy. And she kept using that royal “we”, which rather irked Caesar, who was so committed to republican governance.

Caesar sighed a little. He’d been so entranced with her earlier that day, when she’d entered the Senate and he’d seen her for the first time. But nothing, it seemed, broke through that reserved, icy exterior. Talking with Tokugawa had been easier, even if all the man had done was say no to everything. But he’d thought—or was it hoped?—that alone over dinner, she’d thaw… just a little, even if only regarding trade negotiations.

“What are you thinking about?” she suddenly asked him.

Caesar looked at her, surprised. It was the sort of question a teenaged girl asked her beau, not a query one expected from one ruler—especially another immortal—to another. “I beg your pardon?” Caesar said.

“You were lost in thought,” she remarked, then sipped some wine from a finely-crafted gold goblet. “I wanted to know what you were thinking about.”

Was it here? Had he seen it? The same fleeting grin she’d favoured him with earlier that day, when they’d first seen one another in the Senate chamber? He couldn’t be sure. But favouring risk as he always did, he decided to charge ahead. He decided to be honest.

“If you really want to know, your majesty,” Caesar said evenly, “I was thinking how long it’s been since I’ve dined alone with a woman.”

The Queen’s thin, red brows rose; Caesar’s answer spoke volumes, and he knew it. “We find that surprising,” she remarked. “We had not considered that the ruler of mighty Rome should ever be lonely, or lack for…female companionship.”

“I did not say I was lonely,” Caesar replied. “In point of fact, I prefer a certain amount of solitude in order to concentrate on my work. As for female companionship… well, when you live as long as we do, the fires die down after a while, don’t you find?”

She did not answer him. She only watched him. He thought he saw that little smile play across her lips again, ever so briefly. She daintily took another bite of her food.

Ah well, Caesar thought, perhaps honesty isn’t always the best policy. She’s probably still a virgin, this one, he considered crudely.

“I do not,” she said.

Caesar glanced at her in surprise. “Sorry…?”

“The fires burn as bright and as hot as they ever have,” she said evenly, but Caesar heard the intensity behind the words. “One does not survive, rule, and guide an empire for several centuries without a fire in the belly.” She paused, her slender face thoughtful, and let her words sink in. “That is, I think, the first lie you have told me, Gaius Julius. Perhaps you did so because you are lying to yourself, but I will thank you not to do it again.”

She had looked at him directly as she had spoken these words, and it was as though a mask had been stripped away, and the real woman was revealed: strong, bold, passionate, confident… and brilliant as the sun. It took his breath away. He barely noticed that she had stopped using the royal “we”. For possibly the first time in his life, he was speechless. She was staring at him boldly, her blue eyes fastened on to his. He felt a desire, a need, deep within him that he’d not felt in years…centuries, perhaps.

“Tell me, Gaius Julius,” she asked intently, as if reading his thoughts and daring him to express them, “what do you want?”

Caesar considered for a moment. No, he decided, he wasn’t going to tell this Queen exactly what he wanted at that precise moment; whatever else might be going on here, decorum had to be observed. But he considered briefly, then plunged ahead. Let the dice fly high, he thought.

“What I want,” he answered her, his intensity matching her own, “is for my nation to rise and become the pre-eminent power and culture in the world. I want Latin to be the language of choice in every corner of the globe. I want one world, one nation, with Rome as its center, its capital, its heart. I want,” he concluded, “to be the one.”

They sat silently, holding one another’s gaze, for a very long time.

“Well then,” she said, “there’s something we have in common.”

***

They finished their dinner shortly afterwards and the Queen retired to her room. Caesar went to his own, though he found it hard to sleep at first. He laughed softly as he realized the cause: frustration. He’d thought himself long past that. He considered sending for a woman, then reconsidered. With the Queen visiting and his indulgence in that area being so infrequent of late, word would spread and people would draw obvious conclusions. Besides, he thought, it wouldn’t be the same…

He yawned and, a moment later, was asleep.

***

The Queen spent the better part of a two weeks on the continent. Caesar gave her a guided tour, proudly showing her the all the ancient and recent wonders Romans had built. He took her to a hill just outside Rome’s sacred boundary which offered a splendid view of both the Hanging Gardens and the soaring spires of the Hagia Sophia.



They went to Ravenna, where he proudly showed her the Great Library. He then took her to Antium to show her Stonehenge, the Oracle, and the Great Lighthouse. While there, they also paid a visit to the Kong Miao, the Confucian holy shrine.

“It is unfortunate that you have fallen under the sway of a heathen religion,” the Queen remarked, rather archly, at one point. But a sparkle in her eye and that by-now familiar little grin told Caesar that the words had been uttered to placate the Hindu priest in the English delegation.

“We all have our faults, your majesty,” he’d responded slyly, and was favoured with another brief, slight smile. If the sight made his heart beat a little faster, he was careful to give no outward sign.

They traveled to the east and visited the sun-kissed wine estates outside Capua. As Caesar and Elizabeth enjoyed the best wines the vineyards had to offer, their negotiators worked on several trade deals that would be lucrative to both sides.

“We must have a steady supply of these wonderful Roman spices,” Elizabeth insisted to her chief advisor, Lord Burghley. “I am sure that our supple English silk would be much appreciated in exchange…?” she said with a sly glance at Caesar.



And then it was time for the English Queen to return home. As she boarded the English caravel that had brought her to Rome, she turned to Caesar to say her farewell.

“It is unfortunate that England and Rome are so distant from one another, Caesar,” she said evenly. “Though perhaps it is fortunate as well,” she added, one slender red brow rising.

“Indeed,” Caesar responded, understanding her meaning all too well.

“You should visit us in London someday soon,” she said. “We assure you that in England’s heart, Caesar would receive a most warm welcome.”

Again, the fleeting grin played upon her face. And did he see something else? A flash in her eyes that told him this was more than just a standard invitation for a state visit? She was so hard to read, this one. He had to pay close attention to every word, every gesture, every expression to get some sort of read on her. But there had been that moment, just the one, over dinner, when she had stripped the mask away and revealed just a hint of her fire, of her passion.

He liked her. He liked her very much indeed. When he’d met the other immortal leaders, the first and foremost thought in his mind had been when and how he would take their heads. But with Elizabeth, he pushed the possibility aside. An ocean separated them and their nations; it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

She turned and boarded the ship. Caesar watched her go. Yes, and it would be useful…instructive to visit the distant continent. He could visit not only England, but also Greece, and Mongolia as well. A good idea, for diplomacy, for trade… for so many reasons. None of them personal.

Or so he told himself.

[CCRunner]

Chapter Eleven: Noble Men

Part 1 – The Kong Miao



He had been watching the young man for several minutes before he decided what to do about him.

The Kong Miao received anywhere from dozens to hundreds of visitors a day, of course. As the primary shrine of Confucianism, it was an object of reverence to the faithful and one of curiosity to the tourists. Mencius saw no end of visitors when he wandered the peaceful, immaculately manicured grounds of the shrine. Some got a polite nod from him, but he could grant them no more of his attention than that. The High Priest, as one would expect, was a very busy man.

So why should this one young man have arrested his attention this morning? Granted, the fellow was good-looking, but Mencius’ tastes had never run in that direction. The young man looked quintessentially Roman: tall, dark-featured, with jet-black hair in close-cropped curls. Clean-shaven, as was the fashion amongst Romans and had been for centuries. (Mencius, in contrast, wore a long, nearly snow-white beard.)

Perhaps it was how he was dressed that caught Mencius’ attention—or rather, how he wasn’t dressed. The young man, though obviously Roman, was not togate, wearing only a simple white tunic with no stripe that would indicate he held rank as a patrician or even a knight. Yet the way he held himself, back straight, broad shoulders thrown back, and especially with that muscular left arm of his held bent at a right angle, as if to support the folds of a toga, suggested that he was used to the dress of a high-ranking Roman—or had been.

Most of the mysteries the high priest wrested with would never be solved in his lifetime. The one standing before him, in contrast, should be relatively easy to resolve. That prospect—the unusual chance to deal with a relatively straightforward enigma for a change—made up Mencius’ mind. He walked over to the young man.

“Greetings, my young friend,” he said in Latin. “Welcome to the Kong Miao. My name is Mencius.”

The young man turned from his study of the Hall of Great Perfection and regarded the older man with piercing blue-green eyes. He blinked in surprise, then bowed low.

<I am honoured to make your acquaintance,> the young man said in Mencius’ native Chinese. He straightened. <I confess that I did not expect to meet the High Priest on my pilgrimage. This is an unexpected and most welcome honour.>

Mencius smiled beneath his neatly-trimmed beard, pleased not only by the young man’s most polite and proper greeting, but also to hear his native tongue spoken by one who was obviously not of that lineage. Even centuries later, some Romans still never let his people forget that they were descended from escaped slaves. Mencius could tell that this young Roman, however, held no such prejudices.

“You are Confucian, I take it?” Mencius continued in Latin, implicitly inviting his new acquaintance to speak in his own native tongue; it was only proper, since Mencius had initiated the conversation. The high priest gestured towards the Hall of Great Perfection, the centre of the shrine and the heart of Confucianism, and he and his new companion turned and casually strolled towards it.

“Yes, as my father was before me, and his father before him,” the young man said. “Forgive me, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Lucius Rutullus Lepidus.”

Now it was Mencius’ turn to blink in surprise. “Your name seems very familiar to me, Lucius Rutullus Lepidus, but I cannot place it,” he prompted his young companion.



And there it was, in the young man’s suddenly tightened expression, the slight sigh of sorrow and exasperation that escaped his lips. It told Mencius everything he needed to know before Lucius Rutullus filled in the details.

“The Rutullii have served Rome in general and Casear in particular for centuries,” he said proudly. Then he pressed his lips together and seemed to sag, just a little. “But the family has… fallen on hard times. Too many sons and not enough money or land to go around is how my grandfather, rest his soul, used to put it.”

Mencius nodded. He now recalled hearing of the fate of this young man’s family, one of the oldest and most Patrician, descended, legend had it, from Remus himself. Nothing dramatic had occurred—no sudden fall from grace—just a gradual erosion, over time, of the family fortune as it was split repeatedly amongst each new generation, until there was, now, no fortune to be split. Once the Rutullii had been senators, praetors, consuls, and provincial governors. And now…?

“I grew up in the Subura,” the young man told him in a matter-of-fact tone even though he had just admitted his once-noble family now lived in the seething tenements of Rome amongst the lowest of the low—the “head count”, as they were called. “That’s where I learned Chinese, and a few other languages to boot, from the neighbours in our insula.”

Again Mencius nodded. As a young priest he had ministered to those in the dense, crowded apartment blocks of Rome and Antium, where people of different nationalities and tongues lived cheek-by-jowl beside and on top of one another. That this young man’s speech and bearing indicated that he still clung to his Patrician background was remarkable. But Mencius said nothing; he knew that the young man’s pilgrimage was infused with purpose, especially since it must have been exorbitantly expensive for him to undertake, given his limited circumstances. All this talk was leading to something.

Lucius Rutullus stopped just outside the door to the Hall of Great Perfection. His eyes sought the priest’s, and his brow furrowed.

“All the master’s teachings,” Lucius said, “have, as I have been given to understand it, one purpose: to show us our place in the world, and how to accept it and live properly within that place. But I no longer know my place!” the young man cried, his arms spread in exasperation as he finally revealed what had brought him on this pilgrimage. He shook his head and looked at the ground. “I should, by rights, be planning my political career. I should be looking forward to entering the Senate in ten years, on my thirtieth birthday, as is my due. But I’ll never qualify. I should be holding my head high amongst my fellow Patricians. Instead I mingle with the head count.”

He glanced up at Mencius, who was listening to him attentively. “Do not misunderstand me, revered sir. I don’t look down upon those I live with and deal with every day. They’re my friends and neighbours; of the few Patricians I know, most can’t be bothered to acknowledge my mere existence. It’s just…” Again his spread his hands in exasperation, then let them fall and slap uselessly against his thighs. “I try to live up to the Confucian ideal, to be a noble man—not one through birth and blood, though I have that, but through thought and deed. But it’s hard, master. Very hard.”

“Is that all that troubles you, my young friend?” Mencius asked after a brief, respectful pause.

“No,’ Lucius Rutullus said quietly. He glanced at the high, gabled roof of the Hall of Great Perfection and sighed. “There’s… well, there’s a girl.”

“Ah,” Mencius said. “Permit me to hazard a guess: she’s a Patrician.”

“Yes,” Lucius admitted with a dejected nod.

“But her family’s circumstances are… different from yours,” Mencius said delicately.

“Oh, like night and day!” Lucius said with a bitter laugh. “Her name is Claudia Pulchra.”

Mencius couldn’t contain his reaction. He inhaled through his teeth. The Claudii were one of Rome’s highest-ranking Patrician families. The young woman Lucius Rutullus was referring to was the daughter of Marcus Claudius Pulcher, who had been Consul twice and was currently one of two men holding the esteemed office of Censor. From all reports, she lived up to the family’s cognomen, which meant “beautiful”, in both appearance and personality. Such was her reputation, and that of her family, that even the High Priest of the Kong Miao in Antium knew of her. But then, Mencius was a prudent man as well as a holy one, and ensured he kept one ear to the ground regarding the goings-on in the capital.

“You aim high, Lucius Rutullus,” he remarked.

“Too high,” the young man said morosely. “She’s engaged to another man.”

“Forgive me for asking, my young friend, but how did you ever chance to meet her? I would assume you move in very different circles.”

Lucuis Rutullus smiled grimly and nodded. “Quite so. But, strangely, we shared the same pedagogue. An esteemed Japanese tutor, Akiro Matsugane.”

Mencius’ snow-white brows rose high on his head. “Now I know why your name is familiar to me, Lucius Rutullus Lepidus, and not just because of your esteemed heritage. Akiro Matsugane is one of my oldest friends. Our duties—mine here in Antium, his in Rome—keep us apart too much, unfortunately. But the last time I visited him in Rome… it must be, oh, four years ago—he mentioned you to me.”

“Did he?” Lucius said in mild surprise.

“Of course,” Mencius said, grinning now. “Did you never wonder, Lucius Rutullus, why one of the most esteemed teachers in Rome accepted you as a student though you could not afford to pay his fees? Which, as I keep telling him, I consider ridiculously exorbitant,” he added with the good-natured disdain one long-time friend often had for another.

“I always thought it was because he felt sorry for me,” Lucius said with a shrug.

Mencius snorted derisively, a most un-priest-like sound. “Does Akiro Matsugane strike you as the soft-hearted type?”

“No,” Lucius said, his hands rubbing together unconsciously as he remembered the many times his stern tutor had administered a leather strap to them in discipline. “Far from it.”

Mencius nodded. “He took you in because he saw great potential in you, Lucius Rutullus. Potential that would have been wasted otherwise. Potential that you have not yet fulfilled. But you are young, and there is all the time in the world for you to find your way.”

“But how, Master?” Lucius asked. “As a civil servant? I’ll be old and grey—no offence—before I climb that cumbersome ladder high enough to achieve anything even close to my family’s former prominence. And I don’t have a head for business either, I can tell you that. Normally, a man of my age would join Rome’s Legions and make a name for himself there, but we’ve been at peace for decades now.”

Lucius laughed briefly. “Would you believe I even tried acting? Yes, a Patrician Rutullus, on stage!” he said in response to Mencius’ surprised reaction. “There were two thespians living in our insula, and they convinced me to give it a try. They made quite a fuss over me.” He grimaced. “Too much of a fuss, if you catch my meaning, which is why it didn’t last.”

“You must be patient, my young friend,” Mencius said when the young man grew silent. “The world has a way of putting things in our path that we need. We usually regard them as obstacles, when in fact they are opportunities. And sometimes they are difficult to recognize as either. The Master said…”

But Mencius got no further, for from behind him, within the sanctity of the Hall of Great Perfection, a loud, keening wail pierced the air. Before the old priest had even turned his head toward the sound, Lucius Rutullus was running past him towards its source.

There, beneath the many richly-decorated pillars, the dark red walls, the high roof, was the central altar. At one side of the large, intricately-carved marble block knelt the source of the cry Mencius and Lucius Rutullus—and several other priests, now converging on the altar—had heard. He was an old man, his clean-shaven head and snow-white beard giving him the appearance of a holy man, while his long green robe, decorated with colourful feathers of blue, yellow, and red,, made him resemble some exotic bird.

His hands shook even as they clung to the altar like a drowning man to some piece of flotsam. Another loud wail of anguish and rapture erupted from his weathered lips, followed by a stream of what could only be loud, reverent prayer spoken in a strange, guttural tongue. Tears streamed down his withered cheeks and moistened that long, white beard. Lucius was already beside the old man, his strong arm attempting to be a comforting presence on that elderly shoulder. Mencius caught up to his young acquaintance and knelt down beside the aged, distraught worshipper.

“My friend,” the High Priest said, then waited patiently for the old man to notice him and for his reverent wailing to cease. “You are most welcome to the house of Confucius,” he said reassuringly. “Be comforted—you are among friends. Might I ask who you are, and from where you hail?”

The old man only shook his head and muttered incoherently in his strange tongue. Exasperated, Mencius looked at the other priests standing nearby, as perplexed as he, to see if any of them understood the man.

“His name,“ Lucius Rutullus said, “is Itzcoatl. He’s Aztec”

Mencius and the other priests started in surprise, both at the information and that this young Roman had somehow understood it. Rome was a mosaic of the various cultures of the continent, that was true, but the Aztec Empire had long been a closed book. One of the few things Romans knew about that mysterious land, home to a particularly fundamentalist strain of Buddhism, was that travel from it was forbidden to its inhabitants--on pain of death. Very few Aztecs made the hazardous journey to Roman lands, though evidently this man had—and, it seemed, so had at least one resident of the insula where Lucius Rutullus had grown up. The young man turned to the old man and spoke to him gently in his strange, mysterious language.

“He also says,” Lucius added, with no small amount of astonishment, “that he is a Confucian.”

With this remarkable declaration now translated, the old man broke down in tears yet again, leaving Lucius, Mencius, and the other priests staring at him in amazement and confusion.

[CCRunner]

Chapter Eleven: Noble Men

Part 2 –Defending the Faith



“Where did you say he’s from?” Caesar asked.

“Some place called… Cal-ix-tla-hua-ca,” Mencius, the Confucian High Priest said carefully.

The High Priest stroked the dapper, neatly-trimmed beard upon his chin thoughtfully as he sat across from Caesar’s desk in the Consul-for-Life’s office in the Basilica Romanus. Not for the first time, Caesar reflected on how successful the descendants of that lowly group of captured Chinese slaves had become. Confucius himself had been a great-grandson of a Chinese slave; Ling Lun, the great artist, Lao Tzu, the scholar who had founded the competing yet complimentary philosophy of Taoism in Ravenna, and Mencius, the greatest Confucian scholar since the Master himself, sitting before him today, could also trace their lineages back to those humble roots. Every generation of their descendants seemed to find new ways to prove how they thoroughly deserved that treasured prize of full Roman citizenship.

The High Priest shook his head uncertainly. “At least I think that is how it is pronounced. These Aztec place names…”

“Yes, they’re tongue-twisters, aren’t they?” Caesar said, a bemused grin playing upon his lean features.

Mencius smiled and nodded once. “They probably say the same about the names of our cities,” he remarked.

“I suppose so,” Caesar replied. “Now tell me, old friend, why you’ve come all the way to Rome to see me regarding this humble pilgrim?”

The Confucian High Priest took a deep breath. Caesar’s chummy choice of words did not make Mencius forget the place of his faith within Roman society and its immortal leader’s grand plans. In Caesar’s shrewd, ice-blue eyes, he well knew, Confucianism was not a religious faith, nor a system of philosophy, but a tool—something to be used, then potentially—and herein lay the danger—tossed aside once its usefulness came to an end.

To the High Priest, of course, the complex ethical, political, social, and religious system of Confucianism was no mere utensil. He was therefore determined to work with Caesar to prove its utility and thus ensure its preservation. Which was why he had brought the old Aztec pilgrim to Rome, and why he chose his words carefully now.

“His pilgrimage—even his very existence, Caesar—has potentially vast political ramifications. As that is your area of expertise and governance, I thought it appropriate—no, urgent—that I bring this humble but significant man to your attention.”

Caesar smiled knowingly. “You’re far too humble yourself, Mencius. At least a third of all Confucian treatises delve extensively into political thought, and very intelligently. Rome’s caste system is based upon Confucian principles. Some of the best writings on the topic are yours, in fact.”

The High Priest nodded at the compliment. “All the more reason for me to bring this man’s existence—and predicament—to your attention.”

“Predicament?” Caesar asked pointedly.

“We have not had an open borders agreement with the Aztec Empire for centuries, as you know,” Mencius went on. “Yet somehow, Confucianism spread to this distant corner of that mysterious land. Itzcoatl is the first of his people who share our faith to make the pilgrimage to visit the Kong Miao, and I hope he will not be the last. However…” The High Priest paused and shook his head sadly.

“What’s the problem?” Caesar asked, even though he shrewdly knew what it was. He needed the High Priest to state it baldly, however.

“The Aztecs,” Mencius said, “are even more fervently Buddhist than their Spanish brothers and sisters of that faith, as remarkable as that sounds. The Confucian minority is, therefore, ostracized and persecuted, more so because the Aztecs believe that Confucian lay with Rome rather than with their homeland. Confucians are forbidden to exercise their faith; any caught with Confucian works in their possession are severely punished. In addition, a holy pilgrimage such as Itzcoatl’s is absolutely prohibited. It’s a miracle he made it all the way to Antium, and testament to his devotion. He could have been killed just for attempting to make the journey. We have even heard stories of Confucians being used as victims in ritual human sacrifice…” The holy man shuddered. “My Spanish counterparts regard that as a sacrilege and a heresy to Buddhism, yet the practice continues in parts of the Aztec Empire.”

“What would you have the Senate and the People of Rome do, Mencius?” Caesar asked, though he knew the answer to this question before he asked it as well. The way he phrased the question, however, was significant; he was reminding Mencius of the fact that Caesar no longer ruled Rome autocratically. Both the Plebeian Assembly and especially the Senate, which governed foreign policy, would have to be convinced of any course of action.

The High Priest returned Caesar’s shrewd gaze with one of equal clarity and perception. The two men understood one another; they may be on separate paths, with different starting points and end goals in mind, but each recognized that those paths were parallel to one another, and that they could and should act in one another’s mutual self-interest.

Mencius leaned forward and spoke fervently. “The Confucians of Calixtlahuaca need our aid, Caesar. We need to extend the protection of Rome’s might to this persecuted minority who share our faith. Montezuma must agree to respect their right to worship and grant them free passage to travel to the shrine in Antium. No one who meets this elderly Aztec holy man can deny this.”



Caesar nodded and steepled his fingertips together thoughtfully. “I agree with you, of course. What you say strikes me as only reasonable. Montezuma, however, is not a man one can reason with. Or so I understand.”

“You’ve never met him?” Mencius asked in surprise.

“No, but I aim to change that, and soon,” Caesar replied. “And if Rome cannot convince him… then we may have to force him.”

The Roman ruler’s gaze was like cold and hard, like steel; Mencius knew that Caesar was likely looking forward to taking on his Aztec counterpart. The difficulty lay in convincing the Senate and the People to go along with it. How very convenient that Mencius, thanks to this lone Aztec pilgrim, had laid the means to do so very tidily in Caesar’s lap. And yet, Mencius did not seek reward for himself; the High Priest’s concern, as always, was with the preservation and proliferation of his faith.

“The Master said, ‘To see what is right and not to do it is want of courage’,” the High Priest said reverently. “I know from our history and from our friendship that you do not lack for courage, Caesar. Thus I know that you will do what is right. Our brothers and sisters of the faith are suffering. It falls to the Senate and the People of Rome to alleviate that suffering.”

Caesar’s ice-blue eyes levelled an even stare at the high priest. “As I recall, Confucius also had strict guidelines on how to recompense injury.”

Mencius nodded. “With justice,” he said.