Omens have weight and worth. The trouble comes in understanding the omen. Twice, the monster passed overhead, and then it turned and raced for the horizon. What did it mean? Octavian's friends and tutors debated the matter. Then, just as they convinced themselves that it was a favorable sign, a small hill appeared on the horizon. The hill quickly grew larger. They soon realized that it was a second apparition, pushing its way through the heavy seas: A great ship, judging by its appearance; but there were no oars flailing at the water, or square sails catching the wind.

  Written on the bow, in simple white letters, was the Latin word:

  VERITAS

  Truth.

  Here was a monster sent by the gods. Some of the crew cried out to Neptune, for help or for mercy. A few leapt into the sea. In horror, Octavian watched the giant ship turn to port and slow, the water behind it filled with foam. Then a smaller vessel slipped away from the monster. It was low and bulky but moved with an astonishing speed, spitting water out of its rectum as it bore down on them. Perhaps a dozen gods were onboard, and one of them spoke with an enormous voice, using clumsy Latin to say, “We mean no harm. Is the boy Octavius with you? We wish to speak with him.”

  Suddenly, Octavian was a boy again. He was no longer an emperor-in-waiting, nor the chosen successor to Caesar, but he was an eighteen-year-old child trembling from simple terror.

  One of Agrippa's soldiers choked down his own fears and leaped into the little boat as it pulled alongside. With a practiced violence, he brought his sword down on an exposed shoulder, but what looked like bulky fabric absorbed the impact without complaint. There wasn't time for a second blow. A second god pointed a piece of metal, and there was a powerful, staggering blast. Then the brave soldier's shoulder was split open, a thin rain of blood spattered on the wooden hull and the cowering faces above.

  The gods climbed onboard. Two more explosions were sent skyward, in warning. Then the crew and passengers were lined up, and one god looked at each of them, comparing their faces to what he saw on a slick piece of paper.

  The paper held the image of a marble bust.

  Pointing at Octavian, he spoke in a foreign tongue. And he laughed. And then he actually bowed to his captive, using his sloppy Latin to say, “My name is Jack Forrester. I am here to invite you and your party to our ship.”

  The boy felt weak and scared, but he forced himself to speak. Quietly, he asked, “What if I refuse?”

  Forrester was an imposing man, strong and amazingly youthful for someone forty years old. He could intimidate with a glower, but his green eyes and his open hands betrayed a genuine distaste for this kind of bullying work. “Then I will bind your hands and feet and carry you over,” he remarked. “And if you put up too much of a fight, then I'm afraid Rome will have to live, or die, without your considerable talents.” * * *

  “You were my idea,” the emperor allows. He glances out at the shadows, and then remembering the cameras, he adds, “Octavian,” for the benefit of future audiences. “My friend and trusted advisor. How long have we been together now?”

  The man in denim trousers says nothing, but he shows his emperor a warm smile and bows at the waist.

  “Ever since that great day in April,” the old man continues. And then, he coughs. His narrow hand curls into a fist and covers his mouth, tired lungs wracked by a string of little explosions. Instantly, his doctors confer, checking the hour and his charts. A fat pink pill is removed from a jar and sent to the emperor through one of his servants, and like the good patient he is, Colfax picks up the medicine and swallows it along with the last of his fizzy sweet.

  The emperor is tired, suddenly. Layers of makeup can no longer hide the hollowness beneath his eyes, and a familiar tremor begins in his left hand, his right hand plopping on top of it to keep it still.

  Forrester's daughter watches him with an easy

  compassion. Using an apologetic tone, she asks, “Do you wish to continue?”

  “Of course,” he mutters.

  She nods, asking, “What did you mean, your excellence? How was Octavian ‘your idea'?”

  One more cough is suffered. Then the man nods, throwing a fond glance at his associate. “Actually, I wasn't the first to make the suggestion. Forrester was. We were still college students, and he was our resident history major, and over a slice of pepperoni, he pointed out that we would eventually need advice from the natives. ‘Advice, and sometimes more than advice,’ he warned us.

  “‘But we have history as our guide,’ Lucian offered with a laugh.

  “Forrester took a long sip of beer, shaking his head. Then he looked at me, not at Lucian; I suppose he sensed that Lucian wouldn't understand. ‘History is a story,’ he growled at me. ‘It's a huge story told by millions, each with their own shifting interests, and there's nothing to be sure about. The books will be wrong, in little ways and big fat ones. And we're going to have to find help from someone who knows better.'”

  Colfax pauses. Nods. “Once we decided on 44 BC, several voices mentioned Octavian. But I was the advocate who convinced Lucian. The future Augustus had skills and insights, I argued. History painted him as a rational man. He knew his people and their history, he understood the Senate, and if we weren't going to use him, we damn well should put him someplace where he couldn't harm us.”

  Octavian puts on a fond, respectful expression—a smile that isn't quite a smile—and again, he bows slightly at the waist, showing anyone watching his pleasure with this very narrow praise.

  “Marcus took the Justice into the western Mediterranean, moving from port to port, showing the local authorities who was in charge. I took the Truth in an easterly cruise, on the same general mission. After some false leads, I found Octavian at sea, and I brought him and his companions to my ship, and I made my introductions, welcoming them as honored guests.”

  Again, the emperor stares out through the glare of hot lights. “You were sick as a boy. We knew this. So I had you taken straight to our sick bay, and the doctors found the ulcer, and they put you on a regime of antibiotics and vitamins. Bacteria typically cause ulcers. I explained this to you and your companions. At dinner that night, out on deck, under the open stars. My Latin's never been strong—I have no talent for languages—but I think we did an adequate job of communicating. Didn't we?”

  Forrester's daughter squints into the darkness, feeling her control of the interview being stolen away.

  “Come join us, Octavian! Please!”

  The emperor wills it; the woman can do nothing but smile and say, “Yes. Come sit with us, Praetor. For a moment.”

  Octavian has no choice. He enters the pool of unnaturally bright light, sitting in the first chair provided, and he looks across the white table, bowing with his head, saying with his best American, “Your excellence. First among equals. It's my pleasure to serve.”

  The emperor coughs again, softly, using the moment to consider his next words. “I want, if I could, to apologize to you.”

  Genuinely baffled, Octavian asks, “For what?”

  “Apollodorus,” the emperor offers.

  Forrester's daughter glances at both men. Then she admits, “I don't know the name. Who is he?”

  “One of Octavian's tutors,” the emperor allows. “A philosopher, and a brilliant man by most measures.” He glances at his hands, spreading his fingers with palms flush against chill marble. “I enjoyed being the host. But I wanted to astonish my guests, too. So what I tried to do, quickly and simply, was explain how the universe works.

  “I had a giant globe brought up on deck, and I showed it to everyone. The Roman Empire was a dark line drawn around a finger of blue water. Any man's hand would cover it up. I showed them the enormity of Asia and the continents they knew nothing about, and the unsuspected rivers and the endless seas. Then a telescope was brought up, and I showed them the planets and moon, and the stars, and I talked about the enormity of space and time. And then a chimpanzee was brought up. I had purchased it in Rome, from an animal dealer. Four years of college helped me explain evolution to my guests, and I gestured at the animal, claiming that it was their closest living relative. And then, finally, I had a microscope delivered, and I made each guest look at cultures made from Octavian's own sick belly. ‘Every man is composed of tiny cells,’ I explained, ‘and each cell is enormous compared to the atoms that build both them and the farthest stars.’

  “Quite the evening, I told myself. I was the wondrous host, and they were my spellbound guests. I was a little boy, smug with what he knows. I know I overplayed my hand. I know because Octavian's tutor couldn't bear this kind of knowledge. I was giving him a universe too vast and far too strange. Sometime that night, alone inside his cabin, he used a shard of glass, slicing his wrists and slowly bleeding to death.

  “To save himself from demons, I suppose.

  “Demons like me.”

  The emperor glances at Octavian, finally, smiling with a waxy sternness. “Is it a question of age?” he asks. “Or is it my illness? Whatever the reason, I seem to keep dwelling on things unseemly and sad.”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  VII

  No one speaks. A nervous gloom takes hold of the Senate House. But then the woman uses her smile and coaxing charms, leaning toward her emperor. “My mother loves to tell about the first time she saw you,” she purrs. “You and my father, and the Veritas.”

  Despite his mood, Colfax smiles.

  “Your ship and little airplane caused a fantastic panic in Alexandria,” she relates. “But then you came ashore beside our little lighthouse, with Forrester, and with Octavian. Your excellence, you couldn't have been more pleasant and respectful. Mother swears that you seemed genuinely humble, bowing to her, begging for permission to tour the Great Library.”

  “That was a beautiful, magical spring,” the emperor remarks, closing his eyes and lifting a hand to his mouth, preparing to cough. But the cough fails. The hand drops into his lap, and he smiles again. “Every port of call was thick with history and awestruck crowds. There were administrators who needed to be frightened, and that was surprisingly fun. Plus there were rebels and assassins to be taken into custody. Brutus and Cassius. And Cicero. Proven troublemakers, and I was a busy god busily defending the future of Rome.”

  He pauses, smiling to himself. “My history books made me wary of your mother. But in the end, I allowed her to remain behind in Egypt. She convinced me and she convinced your father that she wanted only to help her people. She seemed to be a smart, creative person. Yes, the Great Library fascinated me. All those wonderful ancient parchments falling to dust. But Cleopatra was just as enthralled by the old books I had standing in heaps in my personal suite. Detective novels. Science texts. And particularly, the histories written two thousand years after her tragic death.”

  With a fond sigh, the emperor smiles down at his hands. “I returned to Rome,” he continues. “Lucian had several hundred prisoners waiting in the city jails. Marcus sailed home the next day, straight from Gaul, carrying Mark Antony and a few ugly generals in his brig. The inner circle assembled for a quiet meeting onboard the Virtue. We sat inside Lucian's private suite and ate pizza and drank the last of our Budweiser, discussing our various prisoners. Their fates had been sealed long ago, but that evening, in air-conditioned comfort, we decided on their destination.

  “Our prisoners were given a few bars of gold and put onboard a fleet of suddenly out-dated triremes. Their oarsmen were praetorians equipped for war. We put them to sea on a calm day, and Theresa brought the ChronoAble from its slumbers, and when it was fully charged and calibrated, Lucian took the controls. He showed us a smile and pressed the proper button, and moments later—with a fantastic flash of light—the fleet melted away.

  “Until that instant, our Roman friends hadn't fully appreciated our powers. I remember looking over at Octavian. He wore a stunned expression, and despite the heat of the day, he shivered. Through my translator, I explained what had happened. My new friend listened, and then with his own broken American, he asked, ‘Where are those men now?’

  “Lucian overheard. He came right over and slapped Octavian on the shoulder, explaining in his loudest Latin, ‘I sent those bastards back to just before Alexander's born.’ Lucian was proud of himself. He was clever and just, and he wanted this chance to boast. ‘It was my idea. I thought it would be fitting. Politicians and one of your best legions ... with their brains and discipline, maybe they can help Rome conquer the world before that fag Greek gets his chance...!'” * * *

  Now the cough arrives, hard and wet. A cotton cloth is placed in the emperor's hand, and he coughs into it, wiping away the sputum and a thread of bright red blood.

  Pausing, he collects his thoughts.

  “I wonder about our species. I'm sure you have learned there are fossils buried in central Africa. They prove that our ancestors were a diverse collection of species slowly growing smarter. But then Homo sapiens emerge. A hundred thousand years ago, in a remote valley, we seem to pop into existence. And then we explode across the world, killing off every last one of our cousins. Which makes me wonder: Are we the descendants of a few political prisoners? Are we walking this earth before our time, set here before evolution could make us?”

  He coughs, but only to clear his throat. Then he glances at Octavian, remarking with a cold surety, “We are a murderous species.”

  No one speaks.

  The emperor continues to watch Octavian. “A week or two later, I think. There was a party in the main ballroom on the Virtue. Giant televisions had been set up in every corner. We were watching movies from my time. War movies, as it happens. Germans were driving across the borders. Not on horseback, but in Tiger tanks. But you didn't seem interested in the entertainment. A more immediate drama held your attention. Marcus and Lucian were drinking together, and talking, and you studied the two of them. I know that you couldn't have heard much, and I'm sure that your American wasn't that sharp. But you could read postures. You saw Marcus cut the air with his hand, and Lucian looked up at the ceiling, and winced. And then you turned to me, and with a calm, dark voice, you mentioned, ‘I think the little man is going to be a problem for you. For us.'”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  VIII

  A vigorous cough erupts, and trailing after the cough is a bleak little laugh ending with the muttered name, “Marcus.”

  Forrester's daughter sits forward in her chair, delicate elbows resting on the snowy marble.

  “It was late that summer,” the emperor remarks. “I was making a tour of the Po Valley, accompanying a team of our engineers and the best Roman architects. We wanted to build a small steel mill. Decisions had to be made; authority had to be wielded. That sort of humdrum. I didn't expect to see Marcus, but one afternoon, as my team and our guards drove along a dirt path, he just appeared. He was returning from Orange and a big distillery project. Coincidence crossed our paths. He said. I didn't say much, looking at him and his enormous entourage, and not for the first time, it occurred to me that his people—his best friends and advisors—had been with him since long before I ever met the man.

  “He said, ‘Jonathon! What a sweet piece of luck, running into you!’

  “‘How are you, Marcus?’ I asked.

  “‘Great! Glorious! Hey, if you want ... I've got a villa a few miles that way. Stay the night. You and your companions. Everyone.’ Then he smiled, trying to charm me. ‘I've got a feast waiting. And girls. And more girls, if you don't like the first batch.’

  “‘I'll eat,’ I allowed. And that's what I did.

  “At some point in the evening, we went outdoors and sat on folding chairs, watching the sun vanish behind the distant hills. It was the two of us, save for squads of soldiers standing out of earshot. I asked, ‘How did you get this villa?’

  “He said, ‘Honestly, I don't remember. I've got so many of these marble shacks....’ Then he broke into a ridiculous giggle.

  “I said nothing, waiting for his next words.

  “‘Are you having fun?’ he asked. From his tone, I knew that he wasn't talking about just this particular moment. ‘I just have to wonder,’ he explained. ‘When a person dreams of something for so long—something difficult and unique—well, it can be a disappointment to finally arrive and see the sharp reality of things. Know what I mean?’

  “‘I'm mostly happy,’ I offered.

  “‘I thought so,’ he responded. ‘I usually have a good sense about people.’

  “That wasn't true, but I didn't disagree with him.

  “The fields belonged to Marcus. They were planted with old strains of wheat and newer hybrids of corn, and the wheat was in better shape. I couldn't tell if the people working the land were peasants or property. The distinctions are small, as it happens. I watched exhausted bodies marching back through the fields. Hungry, broken down people. My single comfort was in knowing that their children, or at least their grandchildren, would be freed from this sort of bone-breaking existence.

  “‘I worry,’ Marcus confided.

  “I glanced at him, measuring his face. Then I asked, ‘About what?’

  “‘Lucian,’ he said.

  “I gave him silence and a speculative stare.

  “With a smirk, Marcus shook his head. ‘Our good friend doesn't like ruling an empire. Not like he should.’ The little man paused, pretending to wince. ‘I hate to say it. I do. But he's bored. Bored and distracted. Things just aren't exciting enough for him. And don't get me wrong—I like the exciting life, too. But three girls and a pitcher of wine make me happy. And I'll show up the next morning and decide matters of policy, issues of state.’

  “I nodded in a noncommittal fashion. ‘Lucian is fine,’ I offered.

  “‘He's bored,’ Marcus repeated. ‘You must have noticed.’

 

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