Birds of Prey (11 page)

“How did you get that imperial rescript?” Perennius asked without preliminaries.

“The way I told you,” the other man said. “I can't force a decision, but I can influence one. Like the wheels just now.”

“Eh?” The agent glanced back from the road, but only for an instant. They were overtaking an official carriage. Common sense and the quartet of tough-looking outriders enjoined caution.

“Normally the vibrations of the wheels cancel themselves,” Calvus explained. “There for a moment, the bumps and the period of oscillation of the carriage were perfectly in tune. Instead of a constant tingle, each bounce was higher and higher—until you changed the rate at which we encountered the bumps.”

He paused. The agent continued to watch the road as they swept by the larger vehicle. Nothing in Perennius' face betrayed emotion. He was gathering information. From past experience with Calvus, it would make sense eventually.

The bald man went on, “I can advance an idea. Nothing complex, nothing like—what the ability was meant for. Pure communication with my siblings. But ‘Help this man' or ‘Believe this'… or simply, ‘Run!' A little prodding of the recipient's mind at a level of which he isn't aware, so it becomes his thought. And it keeps returning, a little stronger each time, until he acts on it. Nothing that he might not have done anyway, of course, but there are so many actions that are within the capacity of an imperial usher, for instance, that it isn't hard to find one that prepares for the next stage of action. And at last, the Emperor comes to believe something which is in fact true but which he would probably not have acted on if approached in any other fashion.”

The rumble of their iron wheels on the road made Perennius' bowels quiver and his head nod toward the sleep it had not gotten the night before. Everything was going smoothly now. He had conceived his plan and put it into operation. The agent's mind was ready to relax, now, until the next of the inevitable disasters lurched into its path to be dealt with. “Calvus,” the Illyrian said.

“Yes, Aulus Perennius,” the other replied.

“Don't screw with my mind. I know myself pretty well. If I ever find myself acting … some way I don't, I'll come after you. It … This world doesn't always seem to have a lot for me in it, but
that's
always been my own.”

“Would you file the edge of a good sword?” asked the tall man.

Perennius had been avoiding Calvus' eyes. Now he glanced back at the tall man. “Hell no,” he said.

“Neither would I, Aulus Perennius,” Calvus said.

They were nearing the formal boundaries of the city. Both sides of the road were lined with tombs and funerary steles. In recent years, many of those who could afford it were being buried whole instead of being cremated as their ancestors had been. Instead of a single stone plate with a prayer for their spirits and a base on which a wine and food offering could be left by relatives, they wanted to be embalmed to await resurrection. Fools and their mystery religions, their Isis and Attis and Christos. But when there was increasingly little hope or security in the world, how could anyone blame people who looked for hope elsewhere?

Perennius muttered a curse. Easily. If the damned cowards would buckle down and
do
something about the present, they wouldn't need to despair about it. Miniature pyramids, polished granite sarcophagi with peaks on the corners in Syrian style … Those were the fancy ones. For the poor, there were boxes of tufa, so strait that even short men must have their legs folded at the knees or separated by a bone saw.

The agent's face stayed blank, but his hands were gripping the reins so tightly that the skin striped white and red over his knuckles. Calvus watched him closely. With the care of a scout trying to disarm a deadfall, the tall man said, “I couldn't have affected the gang which waylaid us last night, even if I hadn't been immobilizing the Guardian's weapon. There were too many of them, too hopped-up, and it was too sudden. But I did encourage the group behind us to run, after you killed the Guardian.”

“What?” Perennius said. Curiosity dissolved from his mind the anger directed at his whole world. The agent's muscles relaxed to the normal tautness of a man driving a pair of spirited mules. “What were you doing to the thunderbolt thing? That is what you mean?”

The bald man nodded. “For the weapon to work, two small metal parts had to touch each other inside it. While I could, I kept them from touching by keeping a layer of—” he risked a gesture with his left hand—“part of the air between them. Until I was hit on the head, that is.” He smiled.

Perennius had the impression that the smile was real, not a gesture trotted out for a suitable occasion. That lightened the agent's mood as much as did the interesting problem which the statement posed. The stable from which they had rented the carriage was in sight. Wheeled vehicles were unlawful in the city during daylight, and only goods wagons were permitted on the streets even after dark. They would walk to Headquarters. Perennius had a dislike for sedan chairs, a fear of being closely surrounded by four strong men who had every reason to dislike him as a burden. No doubt chairmen who really did hate the folk who hired them soon enough found another line of work, but the feeling persisted.

“Then you can make things move without touching them,” Perennius asked in a neutral voice. Calvus' abilities interested him, but he was able to discuss them without concern except for when they involved meddling in his own head.

“Nerve impulses, very easily.” the bald man said with what was only the semblance of agreement. He buffed his thumb against the two fingers as if there were something in between. “Tiny bits of the air, not so easily … but that too. If you mean move a sword or a key, no. No more than you could lift those mules and throw them.” He nodded toward the team. The mules, familiar by years of experience with the route, had left the road without command and were turning into the stable to be unharnessed. Calvus held onto the frame with both hands again as the wheels rang over the curb. “It's important that you know my limitations, you see.”

“Whoa,” called Perennius to the mules. They had already stopped, and he drew back on their reins needlessly. The ostler was walking toward them, turning a sharp eye on the condition of his animals. Habit, habit. The agent jumped down to the stable yard and walked around the back of the vehicle to help Calvus dismount. “Just remember,” Perennius said as he reached a hand up to his awkward companion, “I have limitations too. I'm only human.”

“Actually, Aulus Perennius,” said the tall man as he stepped down, “you aren't even that, not entirely … not at least as we would define the term, my people.” He released the callused, muscular hand that had just braced him. “That's what makes you so valuable, you see,” Calvus concluded with a smile.

CHAPTER TEN

The crew was marching aboard the forward gangplank of the liburnian
Eagle
under the eyes of a squadron of Household Cavalry. Working over the stern gangplank was a gang of a dozen slaves with their tunics knotted up around their waists. The slaves were singing cheerfully as they brought aboard the last of the provisions, grain and wine in sealed pottery jars. Their light-heartedness was in stark contrast to the attitude of the free crewmen.

“Blazes,” Gaius complained as he squinted against the sunlight, “what prison do you suppose they rounded the crew up from?”

Perennius was on the
Eagle
's poop with Gaius, Calvus, and a pair of preoccupied ship's officers. The agent watched the shuffling column with an interest equal to his protégé's and with far greater experience to draw from. The number of sailors was right or close to it. The men were more or less of working age, with the swarthy complexions and muscles of men used to labor outdoors. For that matter, they seemed to be in good health when one made allowance for the sores, scars, missing limbs and eyes, and the other similar blemishes to be expected in any group of sailors. “No,” the agent said, “they were probably all free men until last night or so when the Army swept some fishing village.” He frowned as he considered. “Or maybe some boarding houses here in Ostia. Bad in the long run. Bad for taxes, bad for trade … bad for the Empire, I guess, for an imperial decree to affect its citizens like—” he gestured to the glum file of seamen—“this. But in the short run, it had to be done.”

Gaius snorted. “You're convinced of that?” he gibed.

Perennius looked from his friend to Calvus, standing beside the young courier and showing no concern at the conversation. “I'm always convinced that what I'm told to do is necessary,” the agent said. He laughed. “I only get into trouble when I come up with ideas myself.”

Gaius started to laugh with the older man, but the question on the surface of his mind made the laughter thinner than he had intended.

“Who are these, then?” asked Calvus. He pointed to a separate contingent marching down the quay toward the
Eagle.
There were scarcely twenty of them. They carried arms—spears and belt gear, with helmets and plain shields slung on their field packs—but they showed no more capacity to keep step than the sailors had. The section leader was at the left front of the short column of fours. He gave a sharp salute to the officer in charge of the detachmen of Household Cavalry. That worthy ignored the salute after a disdainful look at the newcomers.

Perennius swore with a bitter fury. He leaped to the main deck with the lithe twist of a cat charging. Officers were trying to organize the milling seamen, sending rowers below to their benches to clear the vessel for casting off. The agent slipped through the mass behind the point of his left shoulder, making as little contact with the other frustrated men as was consistent with the swiftest possible progress through them to the stern gangway. Gaius followed, using his greater size to make up for his lack of finesse. His chest and shouted threats cleared a path for Calvus, behind him, as well. By the time they caught up with Perennius, however, the agent was already reading the diploma handed him by the leader of the section of troops.

“By the icy shades of
Hell!
” Perennius shouted. He slapped the wooden tablet closed against a palm no less hard and handed the document to Gaius. “Read
that,
” he snapped. “How in the…” The Illyrian's voice trailed off as he glared at the contingent of troops. The tight-lipped leader of the unit had made two attempts to defend himself against the agent's fury. Now he was staring straight ahead. His men were describing a series of variations on “At ease.”

Aloud, Gaius read, “‘Master of Soldiers, West, Bureau of Assignment, to Commanding Officer, Liburnian
Eagle.
April 14. This order transmits Draft 737, twenty effectives under a watch-stander, as Marine complement of said vessel. In accordance with instructions 12th instant, Director of Administration.'” The courier looked up from the document to the troops. “But Aulus,” he said, “you said there'd be a full eighty men including the ones that'd be getting off with us. And none of these are missile infantry.”

“None of them are goddam infantry at all!” the agent snapped.

The troops were an assortment more varied than the sailors had been. One in the front rank was a Nubian from well below Elephantine. His head had been shaven, but the hair was beginning to grow out again in tight ringlets against his sepia skin. By contrast, several of the others were Germans—tall and blond and sunburned to the point of blistering. The remainder of the draft fell between those extremes with a certain bias toward eastern physiognomies, Syrians and Cappadocians predominating. The closest thing to a common denominator among the troops was the prevalence of shackle-scars on their ankles. In some cases, the marks were fresh enough to be bleeding.

“You,” said Perennius to a blond man. “How long have you been a soldier?”

The fellow turned to the man beside him and whispered a question. Without waiting for the other to translate, Perennius switched from Latin to Border German and repeated, “How long have you been a soldier?”

The blond man drew himself up proudly. His exposed skin was pocked with sores, and a sunburn gave him the complexion of an over-rouged corpse. “All his life, Hermann has been a warrior,” the man said. He spoke in heavy Schwabish, the dialect of the tribe which had grown to the point of calling itself the ‘All-Men,' Alemanni. He gripped the pommel of his standard-issue sword. It looked absurdly small beneath his huge, bony hand.

“But Hermann's leg irons got struck off some time this morning, didn't they?” Perennius said bitterly. He turned to Calvus. “Our so-called Marines are a draft of freed slaves,” he said. “The orders were clear, so somebody's playing games in the Ministry of Soldiers. Well, we'll send these back and start looking for the whoreson who's getting in my way!”

“How long will that take?” the tall man asked.

Perennius had not really expected a response to his diatribe. He paused in mid-stride and looked back at Calvus. His mind was assimilating the implications of the question. “Two, maybe three days,” he said carefully. “Do we have a deadline you haven't told me about?”

Calvus glanced down the section of Marines. The agent made the same calculation simultaneously. He walked along the quay toward a lighter unloading hyenas destined for the amphitheatre. Gaius frowned, but this time he did not follow the other men without being summoned. Perennius had a useful vocabulary in a score of languages, and the traveller had proven his fluency in still others. Neither of them were willing to bet that they had a language in common which was not shared with at least one of the newly-conscripted Marines, however.

“I haven't made a point of this,” said Calvus against the backdrop of growling beasts, “because I knew you were acting as quickly as possible. But the—” he swallowed—“Guardians located me once. By now it seems evident that the one you killed was here by himself and that there will not be another attempt until another can arrive from Cilicia.… But even if they must rely on—locally-available transportation, every day makes the second attempt more probable.”