Chapter 3: The Fall of Rome

1. EDDORE

Like two high executives of a Tellurian corporation discussing business affairs during a chance meeting at one of their clubs, Eddore’s All Highest and Gharlane, his second in command, were having the Eddorian equivalent of an after-business-hours chat.

“You did a nice job on Tellus,” the All-Highest commended. “On the other three, too, of course, but Tellus was so far and away the worst of the lot that the excellence of the work stands out. When the Atlantean nations destroyed each other so thoroughly I thought that this thing called ‘democracy’ was done away with forever, but it seems to be mighty hard to kill. However, I take it that you have this Rome situation entirely under control?”

“Definitely. Mithradates of Pontus was mine. So were both Sulla and Marius. Through them and others I killed practically all of the brains and ability of Rome, and reduced that so-called ‘democracy’ to a howling, aimless mob. My Nero will end it. Rome will go on by momentum--outwardly, will even appear to grow--for a few generations, but what Nero will do can never be undone.”

“Good. A difficult task, truly.”

“Not difficult, exactly ... but it’s so damned steady.” Gharlane’s thought was bitter. “But that’s the hell of working with such short-lived races. Since each creature lives only a minute or so, they change so fast that a man can’t take his mind off of them for a second. I’ve been wanting to take a little vacation trip back to our old time-space, but it doesn’t look as though I’ll be able to do it until after they get some age and settle down.”

“That won’t be too long. Life-spans lengthen, you know, as races approach their norms.”

“Yes. But none of the others is having half the trouble that I am. Most of them, in fact, have things coming along just about the way they want them. My four planets are raising more hell than all the rest of both galaxies put together, and I know that it isn’t me--next to you, I’m the most efficient operator we’ve got. What I’m wondering about is why I happen to be the goat.”

“Precisely because you are our most efficient operator.” If an Eddorian can be said to smile, the All-Highest smiled. “You know, as well as I do, the findings of the Integrator.”

“Yes, but I am wondering more and more as to whether to believe them unreservedly or not. Spores from an extinct life-form--suitable environments--operation of the laws of chance--Tommyrot! I am beginning to suspect that chance is being strained beyond its elastic limit, for my particular benefit, and as soon as I can find out who is doing that straining there will be one empty place in the Innermost Circle.”

“Have a care, Gharlane!” All levity, all casualness disappeared. “Whom do you suspect? Whom do you accuse?”

“Nobody, as yet. The true angle never occurred to me until just now, while I have been discussing the thing with you. Nor shall I either suspect or accuse, ever. I shall determine, then I shall act.”

“In defiance of me? Of my orders?” the All-Highest demanded, his short temper flaring.

“Say, rather, in support,” the lieutenant shot back, unabashed. “If some one is working on me through my job, what position are you probably already in, without knowing it? Assume that I am right, that these four planets of mine got the way they are because of monkey business inside the Circle. Who would be next? And how sure are you that there isn’t something similar, but not so far advanced, already aimed at you? It seems to me that serious thought is in order.”

“Perhaps so ... You may be right ... There have been a few nonconformable items. Taken separately, they did not seem to be of any importance; but together, and considered in this new light...”

Thus was borne out the conclusion of the Arisian Elders that the Eddorians would not at that time deduce Arisia; and thus Eddore lost its chance to begin in time the forging of a weapon with which to oppose effectively Arisia’s--Civilization’s--Galactic Patrol, so soon to come into being.

If either of the two had been less suspicious, less jealous, less arrogant and domineering--in other words, had not been Eddorians--this History of Civilization might never have been written; or written very differently and by another hand.

Both were, however, Eddorians.

2. ARISIA

In the brief interval between the fall of Atlantis and the rise of Rome to the summit of her power, Eukonidor of Arisia had aged scarcely at all. He was still a youth. He was, and would be for many centuries to come, a Watchman. Although his mind was powerful enough to understand the Elders’ visualization of the course of Civilization--in fact, he had already made significant progress in his own visualization of the Cosmic All--he was not sufficiently mature to contemplate unmoved the events which, according to all Arisian visualizations, were bound to occur.

“Your feeling is but natural, Eukonidor.” Drounli, the Moulder principally concerned with the planet Tellus, meshed his mind smoothly with that of the young Watchman. “We do not enjoy it ourselves, as you know. It is, however, necessary. In no other way can the ultimate triumph of Civilization be assured.”

“But can nothing be done to alleviate... ?” Eukonidor paused.

Drounli waited. “Have you any suggestions to offer?”

“None,” the younger Arisian confessed. “But I thought ... you, or the Elders, so much older and stronger ... could...”

“We can not. Rome will fall. It must be allowed to fall.”

“It will be Nero, then? And we can do nothing?”

“Nero. We can do little enough. Our forms of flesh--Petronius, Acte, and the others--will do whatever they can; but their powers will be exactly the same as those of other human beings of their time. They must be and will be constrained, since any show of unusual powers, either mental or physical, would be detected instantly and would be far too revealing. On the other hand, Nero--that is, Gharlane of Eddore--will be operating much more freely.”

“Very much so. Practically unhampered, except in purely physical matters. But, if nothing can be done to stop it ... If Nero must be allowed to sow his seeds of ruin...”

And upon that cheerless note the conference ended.

3. ROME

“But what have you, Livius, or any of us, for that matter, got to live for?” demanded Patroclus the gladiator of his cell-mate. “We are well fed, well kept, well exercised; like horses. But, like horses, we are lower than slaves. Slaves have some freedom of action; most of us have none. We fight--fight whoever or whatever our cursed owners send us against. Those of us who live fight again; but the end is certain and comes soon. I had a wife and children once. So did you. Is there any chance, however slight, that either of us will ever know them again; or learn even whether they live or die? None. At this price, is your life worth living? Mine is not.”

Livius the Bithynian, who had been staring out past the bars of the cubicle and over the smooth sand of the arena toward Nero’s garlanded and purple-bannered throne, turned and studied his fellow gladiator from toe to crown. The heavily-muscled legs, the narrow waist, the sharply-tapering torso, the enormous shoulders. The leonine head, surmounted by an unkempt shock of red-bronze-auburn hair. And, lastly, the eyes--gold-flecked, tawny eyes--hard and cold now with a ferocity and a purpose not to be concealed.

“I have been more or less expecting something of this sort,” Livius said then, quietly. “Nothing overt--you have builded well, Patroclus--but to one who knows gladiators as I know them there has been something in the wind for weeks past. I take it that someone swore his life for me and that I should not ask who that friend might be.”

“One did. You should not.”

“So be it. To my unknown sponsor, then, and to the gods, I give thanks, for I am wholly with you. Not that I have any hope. Although your tribe breeds men--from your build and hair and eyes you descend from Spartacus himself--you know that even he did not succeed. Things now are worse, infinitely worse, than they were in his day. No one who has ever plotted against Nero has had any measure of success; not even his scheming slut of a mother. All have died, in what fashions you know. Nero is vile, the basest of the base. Nevertheless, his spies are the most efficient that the world has ever known. In spite of that, I feel as you do. If I can take with me two or three of the Praetorians, I die content. But by your look, your plan is not what I thought, to storm vainly Nero’s podium yonder. Have you, by any chance, some trace of hope of success?”

“More than a trace; much more.” The Thracian’s teeth bared in a wolfish grin. “His spies are, as you say, very good. But, this time, so are we. Just as hard and just as ruthless. Many of his spies among us have died; most, if not all, of the rest are known. They, too, shall die. Glatius, for instance. Once in a while, by the luck of the gods, a man kills a better man than he is; but Glatius has done it six times in a row, without getting a scratch. But the next time he fights, in spite of Nero’s protection, Glatius dies. Word has gone out, and there are gladiators’ tricks that Nero never heard of.”

“Quite true. One question, and I too may begin to hope. This is not the first time that gladiators have plotted against Ahenobarbus. Before the plotters could accomplish anything, however, they found themselves matched against each other and the signal was always for death, never for mercy. Has this... ?” Livius paused.

“It has not. It is that which gives me the hope I have. Nor are we gladiators alone in this. We have powerful friends at court; one of whom has for days been carrying a knife sharpened especially to slip between Nero’s ribs. That he still carries that knife and that we still live are proofs enough for me that Ahenobarbus, the matricide and incendiary, has no suspicion whatever of what is going on.”

(At this point Nero on his throne burst into a roar of laughter, his gross body shaking with a merriment which Petronius and Tigellinus ascribed to the death-throes of a Christian woman in the arena.)

“Is there any small thing which I should be told in order to be of greatest use?” Livius asked.

“Several. The prisons and the pits are so crowded with Christians that they die and stink, and a pestilence threatens. To mend matters, some scores of hundreds of them are to be crucified here tomorrow.”

“Why not? Everyone knows that they are poisoners of wells and murderers of children, and practitioners of magic. Wizards and witches.”

“True enough.” Patroclus shrugged his massive shoulders. “But to get on, tomorrow night, at full dark, the remaining hundreds who have not been crucified are to be--have you ever seen sarmentitii and semaxii?”

“Once only. A gorgeous spectacle, truly, almost as thrilling as to feel a man die on your sword. Men and women, wrapped in oil-soaked garments smeared with pitch and chained to posts, make splendid torches indeed. You mean, then, that... ?”

“Aye. In Caesar’s own garden. When the light is brightest Nero will ride in parade. When his chariot passes the tenth torch our ally swings his knife. The Praetorians will rush around, but there will be a few moments of confusion during which we will go into action and the guards will die. At the same time others of our party will take the palace and kill every man, woman, and child adherent to Nero.”

“Very nice--in theory.” The Bithynian was frankly skeptical. “But just how are we going to get there? A few gladiators--such champions as Patroclus of Thrace--are at times allowed to do pretty much as they please in their free time, and hence could possibly be on hand to take part in such a brawl, but most of us will be under lock and guard.”

“That too, has been arranged. Our allies near the throne and certain other nobles and citizens of Rome, who have been winning large sums by our victories, have prevailed upon our masters to give a grand banquet to all gladiators tomorrow night, immediately following the mass crucifixion. It is going to be held in the Claudian Grove, just across from Caesar’s Gardens.”

“Ah!” Livius breathed deep; his eyes flashed. “By Baal and Bacchus! By the round, high breasts of Isis! For the first time in years I begin to live! Our masters die first, then and there ... but hold--weapons?”

“Will be provided. Bystanders will have them, and armor and shields, under their cloaks. Our owners first, yes; and then the Praetorians. But note, Livius, that Tigellinus, the Commander of the Guard, is mine--mine alone. I, personally, am going to cut his heart out.”

“Granted. I heard that he had your wife for a time. But you seem quite confident that you will still be alive tomorrow night. By Baal and Ishtar, I wish I could feel so! With something to live for at last, I can feel my guts turning to water--I can hear Charon’s oars. Like as not, now, some toe-dancing stripling of a retiarius will entangle me in his net this very afternoon, and no mercy signal has been or will be given this day. Such is the crowd’s temper, from Caesar down, that even you will get ‘Pollice verso’ if you fall.”

“True enough. But you had better get over that feeling, if you want to live. As for me, I’m safe enough. I have made a vow to Jupiter, and he who has protected me so long will not desert me now. Any man or any thing who faces me during these games, dies.”

“I hope so, sin ... but listen! The horns ... and someone is coming!”

The door behind them swung open. A lanista, or master of gladiators, laden with arms and armor, entered. The door swung to and was locked from the outside. The visitor was obviously excited, but stared wordlessly at Patroclus for seconds.

“Well, Iron-heart,” he burst out finally, “aren’t you even curious about what you have got to do today?”

“Not particularly,” Patroclus replied, indifferently. “Except to dress to fit. Why? Something special?”

“Extra special. The sensation of the year. Fermius himself. Unlimited. Free choice of weapons and armor.”

“Fermius!” Livius exclaimed. “Fermius the Gaul? May Athene cover you with her shield!”

“You can say that for me, too,” the lanista agreed, callously. “Before I knew who was entered, like a fool, I bet a hundred sesterces on Patroclus here, at odds of only one to two, against the field. But listen, Bronze-head. If you get the best of Fermius, I’ll give you a full third of my winnings.”

“Thanks. You’ll collect. A good man, Fermius, and smart. I’ve heard a lot about him, but never saw him work. He has seen me, which isn’t so good. Both heavy and fast--somewhat lighter than I am, and a bit faster. He knows that I always fight Thracian, and that I’d be a fool to try anything else against him. He fights either Thracian or Samnite depending upon the opposition. Against me his best bet would be to go Samnite. Do you know?”

“No. They didn’t say. He may not decide until the last moment.”

“Unlimited, against me, he’ll go Samnite. He’ll have to. These unlimiteds are tough, but it gives me a chance to use a new trick I’ve been working on. I’ll take that sword there--no scabbard--and two daggers, besides my gladius. Get me a mace; the lightest real mace they’ve got in their armory.”

“A mace! Fighting Thracian, against a Samnite?”

“Exactly. A mace. Am I going to fight Fermius, or do you want to do it yourself?”