"Another woman?"
Lourdes dashed away the tears. Sniffling, though trying not to, she answered, "No, no, it's not that. He's barely left the house and never left the grounds since he came back."
"He sure ain't been trying to hammer my old ass," offered the cook, preparing dinner twenty-five feet behind the two.
At that, Lourdes couldn't help but laugh, even as her fingers continued to brush at her eyes. "Thanks, Tina," she said, adding sardonically, "You've no idea how much better that makes me feel."
"Well," Arti boasted, "over sixty or not, Mac's a randy goat. So I doubt Patricio is too old for sex."
"Mac has you for inspiration," Lourdes answered. Lovely eyes downcast, she added, "Patricio only has me."
Artemisia snorted. "Only you, eh? I would kill for your eyes, your lips, and your ass. To say nothing of your legs. No, honey, it isn't that any man would find you unattractive, still less Patricio. I think it must be something else."
For the nonce, Alena kept her own counsel.
* * *
"I feel unclean, you know," Carrera said. "Ever since Hajar I've felt dirty and unworthy of my wife or the kids she gave me."
"Did you ever tell her that?" asked McNamara, reverting once again to Spanish.
Carrera shook his head. "She doesn't know about Hajar. Not that I gave the order to destroy it, I mean. And if I told her, I'm afraid she'd feel the same way I do, that she'd feel I was unclean. I don't think I could take that."
* * *
"He thinks I don't know about the destruction of Hajar," Lourdes whispered, low enough that the cook couldn't hear. Alena caught her breath.
Artemisia leaned in and cocked her head to one side, whispering back. "What about Hajar?"
"He did it. He's never said so but . . . as if a man could keep from screaming during nightmares, or a wife not be able to figure what he was screaming about."
"He did," Alena confirmed.
"John never told me," Arti said, slowly. Turning to Alena she asked, "How do you know?"
"I rarely know how I know," the Pashtun woman answered. "Nonetheless, I know."
"I shouldn't have said anything either. Arti, you can't tell anyone. Ever. Not anyone. Nor you, Alena."
Both the black woman and the Pashtun looked scandalized, if for different reasons. Artemisia said, "Me? Tell someone we nuked a city? And maybe get ourselves nuked in return? Oh, no, Lourdes. That secret is safe with me."
"I don't talk much," Alena added, "and anything that might bring a risk to Iskandr? That's simply impossible." The Pashtun woman looked scandalized at the very thought.
Lourdes shook her head. "Whatever are you going to do when you have children of you own, Alena?"
That might not have been a sore point with another woman. With Alena, raised in a culture that placed a very high value on female fertility, it was an embarrassment. Nor was it lack of trying. As much as she knew, she simply didn't know why she hadn't yet conceived.
Nonetheless, she answered, "Raise them to serve my lord, Iskandr."
Rome, Province of Italy, United Earth
Though Moore had politely offered to bed her, Wallenstein had begged off, citing fatigue and the need for rest. He'd taken it quite well, she thought, but then sex was the cheapest and freest commodity on Old Earth.
She'd claimed the need for rest, but she wasn't resting. From a balcony of her guest quarters, overlooking the brown-flowing Tiber and the Mausoleum of Augustus on the other side, Marguerite stared in the direction of the Ara Pacis.
I wonder if that was the secret we'd never admit to, that war is a constant and the only choice you have is war between outsiders and war against your own. Funny that they never discussed this at the academy.
And so we have peace, here, on Old Earth. If, by "peace," we mean a constant series of insurrections, a vast secret police apparatus to quell the lowers, terror in the form of human sacrifice for any of the lowers that raise their heads from the muck . . . beautiful young girls being dragged off to have their hearts cut out to terrorize the families of beautiful young girls.
Oh, and a ruling class that's taken to wearing the emblems of demigodhood to let the rest of us know our places. That must be very important to "peace," as well.
Could I change any of it? If I get permanent command of the Peace Fleet and get myself raised to Class One, I mean? I am inclined to doubt. After all, the direction we're heading is all down. Ten years ago there was a little trouble in the outlying provinces. Now rebellion is open in many of them, simmering just below the surface in others. Ten years ago there were no human sacrifices. Now the Orthodox Druids—thank whoever may be listening that I am Reformed—hang and burn men to propitiate the gods. Now the Azteca cut out the hearts . . .
Marguerite turned away from the balcony and its view of Mausoleum and ancient flood. Sitting down on a broad sofa in the suite's salon, she drew her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her shins.
On the other hand, these simpering nancies of the First Class are weak. Weak! Martin was among the best of the lot and I was a lot more capable than he was. Give me enough time, and as a Class One I'll have all the time in the world, and put me in a position to elevate some other Class Twos—that Moore fellow seemed unhappy enough at the current set up—and maybe, just maybe, I can reform this planet. Make me a Class One, give me those assistants, and leave me in command of the Peace Fleet and what would the diadem wearers have to stop me with?
Which still doesn't answer the question: What does one do to reform a planet gone so rotten? But, again, as a Class One, I'll have all the time in the world to figure out the answer to that.
If, that is, I can stop the barbarians on Terra Nova from springing out of their hole like Temujin's hordes and upsetting everything here before we can right ourselves.
That's my advantage over Martin. He could only think of a way to make Terra Nova cease being a threat to us as we are. That's why he had to be so absolute. I, on the other hand, can think of a way to make us something Terra Nova will not be a lethal threat to . . . given the power and given the time.
Wallenstein looked around at her temporary quarters, which went way past adequate and even opulent all the way to decadent. And there are some perks to the effort.
Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova
"We've kept Quarters One open for you, on the Isla Real," McNamara said.
Jimenez snorted. ""We'd have had a mutiny if we tried to fill them." More seriously, he added, "Really, Patricio; we've been able to keep things going as well as we have in good part because we could tell the troops you would be back. That's been getting pretty threadbare for a while now."
"I've missed the boys," Carrera admitted with a sigh that sounded as if it were of longing. "But you might as well have turned the quarters over to the commander of the Training Legion. And your own, as well."
"Why's that?" Mac asked.
"Because we're going to have to move the legions and tercios—yes, almost all of them—from the Isla Real to the mainland."
"We're?" Jimenez asked.
Carrera sighed once again. "Yes. 'We're.' Bastards.
"And I'll need to talk to Raul . . . and the leaders of the legislature. I'm not taking sole responsibility for the shit that I do anymore, if only because I don't quite trust my own judgment anymore."
Chapter Three