Constantine stopped in the doorway, and looked out onto therain-drenched training fields. “It’s time to decide. What will you choose-orderand prosperity, or chaos and destruction?”
One of his recruits-Julius, Constantine recalled-lookedaround. “Sir, I don’t speak for all of us” he stated, “but I know what I think.I’m loyal to the Empire and to you, sir.” He ended abruptly, but that was allthat needed to be said.
For a moment, blue eyes met brown. An unspoken message ofsupport passed between the two men.
“Thank you,” Constantine said. “Now get some sleep, men;we’ve got weapons drills in the morning.” His back straight, Constantine turnedand marched out of the room. Vibius saluted him as he exited, then turnedsmartly on his heels and marched out as well. In his heart, Constantine knew hehad made the right, and the only, decision possible. Outside, the moonbeamsfinally pushed through the retreating storm clouds, bringing light to thedarkness.
Back inside the barracks, quiet conversations sprang upalmost immediately after the tribune’s departure.
“Anyone actually believe that swine slop?” Recruit Traxionsneered to the bunkmates gathered conspiratorially around him.
“Seems like the others bought it,” another recruit observed,looking around the barracks.
Green eyes flashing anger, Traxion swatted him across thehead, rocking him back onto the squeaky bunk. “They’re just mindless drones,blinded by their subservience to the Empire,” he said, his sarcastic voicemildly singsong, as if mouthing political dogma. Color flushed his pale cheeks,making him appear almost embarrassed at the vehemence of his own statement.
His comrades looked at each other uncertainly, and remainedsilent. “Don’t worry, I’ll have a few friends take care of this problem,”Traxion continued smugly. Taking the cue, his men began to chuckle, and a slowsmile stretched his lips. “Oh yes, I think they’ll be overjoyed to hear of ourtribune’s parentage.”
Chapter 4
It was often said that even the fog feared to tread in thedepths of Sludge Bottom. Only the brave, the foolhardy, the desperate, or theconniving dared to venture into that economically stagnant and most run-downsector of Brittenburg, where seedy gambling halls, dank, smoke-filled bars, andautomaton-fighting pits in abandoned warehouses were the chief attractions. Theoperators of these businesses, always tight-fisted and tight-lipped, hadtightened their vigilance as well, with the auxilia more active recently.Anyone who seemed a bit out of place or a tad too eager to learn more abouttheir companions at the gambling table was “taken care of,” right along withanyone who happened to develop an exceptionally strong winning streak at thedice tables or during a rigged card game.
Here, Domino Grex ran the notorious Atrium, five stories ofevery kind of disreputable entertainment imaginable. The building stank ofdesperation and ill-gotten gains. The fact that it was neither as well-lit noras well-ventilated as its name implied appealed to the con artists, runawaypeasants, prostitutes, loan sharks, and the city’s assorted riff-raff whofrequented the establishment. And no one crossed Grex. The survival rate forthose who did was zero. Even the auxilia dared not raid the place. Domino Grexhad so many illicit connections that his complex was untouchable; any officerwho tried to impose the law soon found himself transferred to the city’sSanitary Division.
Though the private rooms on the fifth floor could providefor any vice or perversion, they seemed to exude the evil, hatred, anger, andviolence they’d witnessed over the years. No member of Grex’s staff wasassigned up there for any length of time. Too many seemed to disappear, go mad,or simply see things that … shouldn’t … be there.
One of the largest of these rooms had been booked for theevening. Two muscular street toughs stood on either side of a dented copperdoor, the verdigris of age belying its well-oiled mechanisms. The men leaned onheavy clubs, and short swords and daggers were sheathed at their belts. Thetoughs stepped together in front of the door as three cloaked figuresapproached, blocking their passage.
The cloaked figures each withdrew necklaces from withintheir cowls to display small medallions with intricately geared movingcomponents. Newly alert eyes lighting up their dull expressions, the thugsnodded to one another and moved aside to let the strangers pass. The leaderinserted his medallion into an opening in the wall as if it were a key; afteran audible hum, the door hissed open, sliding slowly into the wall. The figurespassed between the two toughs, who ignored them-their job was to guard thedoor; what happened inside was not their business.
With another hiss, the door squealed shut behind the lastcloaked figure to enter, and the gaslights blazed in their wall sconces,casting a yellowish haze throughout the room. Two of the figures moved to thelast remaining high-backed chairs surrounding a massive brass table, designedin the shape of a gear, in the center of the room. The third figure stoodbetween and slightly behind the two chairs, keeping his face in shadow.Anticipation weighted the air, seeming to make movement a challenge.
One of the cloaked figures already at the table pulled adagger from within the depths of his cloak and rapped its pommel three times onthe tabletop, making the ruby liquid jump in the wine pitcher surrounded byglasses in the center of the table. “Let this meeting come to order. Deus ExMortalitas! From the gods comes death,” he intoned. “We are the handof that death-the death of the abomination that is the Roman Empire. So has itbeen decreed by our gods. Let us hear the words of our leader, Brimmas Amalia.” He sheathed his dagger as all heads turned toward the newcomers.
The voice that emerged from the folds of that black cloakwas feminine, cold, and precise. “Let us reveal ourselves, for all of us hereare friends in a cause that is just and right and worthy of each other’strust.” She lifted pale hands to push back her hood, revealing a narrow facewith thin lips set in a perpetual expression of disapproval, and piercing blueeyes. Only crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and lines framing her mouthsuggested her age. Her colorless face appeared to float within the shadowyblackness of her curly hair.
The others revealed themselves as well-severaldignified-looking older men, a woman with several chins, an average-looking manwith ink-stained hands, and a gentleman with a brass monocle clenched over hiseye. Several young men, barely out of their teens, completed the assembledgroup. Amalia’s seated companion lowered his hood as well, and the yellowgaslight gleamed on his clean-shaven head. Between the bald pate and a full,coarse brown beard, level brown eyes drank in every detail and aspect of theroom.
“The Romans are corrupting this land,” Amalia hissed. “Theyabuse good citizens. They tax us until we cannot support our own families.These are facts; they are not new to us. Nor are they new to any citizen of theRoman Empire. Yet the people dare not fight back against the iron heel of theEmpire and its monolithic bureaucracy. They have forgotten how to resist, howto strike back at the corruptors and defilers of our lands and our heritage.”She paused and swept the gathering with her eyes. “The rabble has forgotten,but we have not. We shall strike, and we shall be victorious. This city willmake the perfect example of our new power. For when we have torn her from thegrasp of the Romans, no one will doubt our resolve, and the masses will flockto us in droves, eager to turn against their corrupt leaders and elitistmasters.”
The others at the table nodded as she spoke.
“Independently, we control several different, butunorganized, branches of this city that could benefit from the elimination ofImperial controls. Together, working simultaneously toward the same goals, weare unstoppable. The industrialists,” she nodded toward the three men inexpensive-looking tunics and cloaks. “have provided us with the walkers andweapons we need to take on the auxilia and the governor’s lackeys face toface.”