“It was ‘His father would kill the entire regiment if something happened to the tribune, so that snobby aristocrat will just have to deal with an escort,’” Paulus interjected, the joy at remembering the words suddenly shattered by the realization that he had just referred to the heir to the Imperial throne, the second most important person in the Empire, as a snob. “Er. .”
Constantine assumed his coldest glare, and directed it at the two soldiers. They cringed, expecting a full chewing-out. “Well, I hope you gentlemen enjoy standing outside all day long.” He turned abruptly and left the legionnaires staring after him, mouths sagging.
Constantine was almost to the next block before the legionnaires recovered and scrambled to catch up to their commanding officer. Constantine ignored them. I understand why they are here, but I don’t need them. These are my people; I haven’t seen any glares recently. An older man passed by, saw the uniform, and gave him a nasty look. Scratch that.
As he wandered the streets, his mind turned to Senatora Pelia. As a member of the royal family, Constantine had been in the Senate or at official functions with senators, but had only briefly met the senatora once before their meeting the other night. I remember that war. It almost got so bad at one point that we were about to be sent away. Father at least knew he wasn’t a great general, but some of those “soldiers” from the war ministry should never have been given command. Father simply owed too many favors to too many powerful families to keep them all out of battle. I wonder what she thinks about our family? I suppose. . we could be the ones to blame for her father’s death.
He grimaced at the thought as he stopped at a street corner for a motortrolley to roll by, then a small knot of cavalry officers on their mechanical ostrichines, ungainly-looking metal birds that nonetheless could outrace a trained stallion. He crossed the road, eyes on the overcast sky, with his sheep-herders (as he liked to think of them) following at a respectful distance.
They arrived at the administration building just as a light drizzle began to fall. Adjusting the segmented steel plates of his lorica over his shoulders, Constantine turned to the men following him. “You’ll have to stay outside, men. Officers only in the administration building.” He grinned evilly. They all knew this wasn’t true, but the tribune knew they would follow the direct order.
Sighing, the men looked around for somewhere to huddle and ward off the cool fall rain. They looked enviously at the governor’s palace guards across the plaza, hunkered down under the small gatehouse roof.
Leaving them behind, Constantine pushed open the double doors and walked inside, his boots echoing on the large entry hall’s marble floor. Gray light filtered through lofty skylights to wash over gilded ceilings and finely carved columns. The administration building was the beating heart of the Imperial presence here in Copendrium, and the opulence of the building contrasted with its utilitarian purpose. Clerks pushed carts loaded with packages and paperwork. Servants studiously cleaned busts of famous figures as some of the most powerful men in the city strolled down the hallways, their assistants scurrying in their wake.
Constantine hesitated as delicious smells coming from the room to the right teased at his nose. Like a magnet to a lodestone, his body followed the smell of roast beef, grilled onions, and other delicious things into the cafeteria. Faced by the realization that they needed to offer food to their workers or they would lose hours of productivity, the bureaucracy had caved and begun installing cafeterias to feed their masses of workers. Of course, some cafeterias were nicer than others.
A doorman greeted him as he walked through the glass-paneled wooden doors, taking his cloak and proffering a small metal tag in exchange. Tucking the check tag into his pocket, Constantine took a few steps into the room and paused, examining the occupants with a critical eye.
By the window sat a pair of men in perfectly starched legionnaire uniforms and gleaming black boots. Officers, probably attached to the III Cimbrian; I don’t think a local guardsman would dare wear those boots. According to ancient tradition, the Cimbrians wore black leather boots instead of the standard-issue brown. Only they remembered the reasons why.
His arrival had not gone unnoticed. Constantine heard the whispers cross the room like ripples on a pond at his entrance. He registered this while his gaze continued around the room. Closest, a small knot of sea captains, resplendent in their tunics and jackets, engulfed a large platter of vegetables and grilled chicken. Beyond them, several toga-clad senators lounged on traditional chaises as they sampled bowls of delicacies brought out by servants in dark uniforms. Sixty years ago, it would have been slaves, not paid servants, Constantine thought. His grandfather had put an end to that. A brilliant political action: curb the power of the senators and the might of their lobby while enshrining himself as a hero of the newly expanded plebeian class. Anything is possible when you outnumber and outvoice the competition.
Suddenly a hand clapped him on the back. “Tribune Appius! How wonderful to see you!”
A smile came to Constantine’s face as he turned toward the familiar voice. His eyes met a pair of green eyes regarding him from under bushy eyebrows. They belonged to Captain Rufius Tiveri Alexandros, commanding officer of His Majesty’s Airship Scioparto, who must have come from the buffet door. He threw his hand up in a half salute, and Constantine, grinning, gave the captain his sloppiest salute in return. Chuckling, the men shook hands.
“Great to see you, Captain. How fortunate that we’re here at the same time!” Constantine whispered excitedly.
Rufius Alexandros looked around at the faces of the many gentlemen in the room. “Indeed, it is fortunate, Tribune. Have you seen the way these people look at you? It seems they’d rather be feasting on you!” Alexandros was right; many of the room’s occupants had a decidedly hungry look on their faces that Constantine found all too familiar.
He followed Alexandros to a seat near one of the multi-paned picture windows that gave a view of the plaza. The single panes didn’t do much to keep out the cold, but they did afford a beautiful view of Arminius’ Column, which dominated the center of the plaza. Alexandros ordered for the both of them as Constantine kept his gaze firmly locked on the world outside. He could feel eyes boring into him, and his ears warming. I thought that old wive’s tale about your ears heating when people are talking about you was make-believe, he thought.
Finally, Alexandros asked, “So, how are things, Constantine?”
Constantine shrugged, then described to Alexandros the aftermath of the Brittenburg Incident-his month-long recovery in a sick ward, the desperate search for survivors after the explosion that had torn open the sea wall and flooded half the city, the eventual realization that the rebellion and assassination of the Primus Caesar, the heir to the throne, in Rome, were connected. And the growing anger that had begun to seep into his men. Constantine had never really felt close to any particular person before, never been willing to share his secrets. When you grow up in a family like mine, secrets keep you alive longer than the truth will. But he trusted Alexandros with those secrets. Alexandros was a sympathetic ear. He didn’t interrupt and didn’t look away as Constantine told the tale of the last few months.
“. . and after we got our marching orders, we took the train here. I know we’re headed north. Hades, the entire city, half the countryside, and most likely every possible spy here in the entire province of Cimbria knows we’re heading north. No way to disguise it. Only thing of consequence is when.” Alexandros was nodding.