The Centurion's Empire (5 page)

Nusquam, the ancient palace of the Temporians, could no longer be reached by any path. Centuries earlier, when the
palace had been completed, the access path had been systematically demolished, leaving only the sheer mountainside.
Food, fuel, slaves, and Temporians all came by mule, to be left on the altar.

The snow had stopped around sunset, and a brisk breeze moaned by the cliff. Somewhere in the distance there was a
dull, irregular thumping. Small rocks pattered down around them.

"Something on the way," said Vespus. "Something big. A god's footsteps."

"It's just a noise," Lars snapped impatiently, annoyed at ' his companion's fright. "The footsteps of a real god would
shake the very ground beneath us." He listened for a time. "Something is being lowered from above, and the wind is
blowing it against the cliff, knocking loose the stones that are falling around us. It's probably a great basket to carry all
these goods."

"Soon it's us who will be thumpin' against the cliff," replied Vespus, still unhappy.

"They'll have some arrangement to keep the goods safe, and if the goods are safe then so will we be. Think of yourself as
a bundle of fine garments, Vespus. No harm will come to you."

The thuds grew louder, but they were the hollow booms of a great drum rather than the footfall of gigantic feet.
Suddenly it seemed to them that all was darker than before, then there was a soft thump nearby followed by footsteps
crunching through the snow. Someone had ridden down on the crane's hook.

"Lupus? Vulpus?" asked a voice with a curiously twisted Roman accent.

Lars hesitated, but those were the codenames that they had been told to use. "Lacerna?" he called softly in turn.

"Yes, yes, where—ah, this pile. Quickly now, out with you for a stretch and a piss. It'll be your last chance for hours."

"But we'll be seen from above," said Lars.

"Impossible," said the slave, laughing. "Take a look."

Lars had the impression of a huge canopy resting on five thick legs. It straddled the altar. The slave was an indistinct
shape doing something with ropes nearby.

"The hand of the gods," said Vespus behind him.

"That's it, the mighty wicker and cloth hand of the gods," Lacerna replied. "A hook beneath each finger, and above it all
a crane driven by five horses at a windlass. It's made to boom like a huge drum when the wind bangs it against the cliff,
and it sends the yokels screaming."

Each of the piles of sacks had been placed on heavy net-

ting, and the slave tied the corners of these to the hooks below each finger.

"How long is the arm?" asked Vespus, looking up the black center.

"When fully extended, about two hundred feet. At night, in the mist, it looks to be the arm of a mighty and gigantic god.
When we wind it back up it reaches a spar near the top and is furled like a sail. Now, back in your sacks and lie still and
quiet. I'm to whistle in the guards."

"Guards?" exclaimed Vespus.

"Aye, there's four guards been lying out of sight down here since before dawn. Sometimes we let curious muleteers see
the arm of the gods to keep the. legend going, sometimes we make 'em disappear to show that the gods are dangerous."
The slave blew a shrill, piercing blast on his whistle. Soon they could hear the tramp of feet in the snow.

"Bad hunting tonight, sir?" called the slave.

"Thirty came, thirty went," someone called. "What of the sacks?"

"All in order, sir."

'Then whistle us up. I'd kill for a warm fire and a pot of stew after a day down here."
Lacerna blew another three quick blasts, and almost at once Lars and Vespus felt themselves crushed by the sacks
around them as the net was winched up. The wicker hand began swinging as soon as they left the ground, and it hit
against the cliff with deep, resonant booms.

"When we get to the top the load will have to be carried into the storehouse in case more damn snow falls," shouted the
guard's Temporian leader between booms.

"What say I do the load for a day-ration of wine?" suggested the slave. "I'll not tell my master."

"A day-ration, you say? Done.".

"From each of you."

Groans and jeers floated over from the other guards until another boom cut them short.

"I thought your price was a trifle low," said the Temporian. "Well then, those who can't spare a day-ration can stay
behind and do their share. Who's for it?"

I nc
\_ C IN I UMUIN
O tl ir

There were disgruntled curses, but none volunteered.

Each time the load thudded against the cliff the two thieves were wedged even more tightly in among the other sacks.
Both began to feel something akin to seasickness, but to throw up would be to alert the guards at once. They breathed
deeply and clamped their jaws as the wicker hand and its load swung and bumped. Presently they could hear the clopping
of horses around a windlass track, then the bumping against the cliff stopped as the rope grew shorter. The slave shouted
directions and the load was swung over the edge and lowered to the ground. As the hooks were detached from the netting,
the crane's supervisor locked the gear mechanism and released the horses from the windlass. The guards helped lead the
horses back to the palace stables, leaving Lacerna to haul the sacks in under cover. Even after it had been quiet for some
time the two thieves remained motionless in their sacks.

"It's me, Lacerna," the slave finally called as he passed near them. "I'm alone again, but wait till I carry your sacks into
the store before you get out."

He was strong and efficient, carrying two sacks at a time on a yoke across his shoulders. Within an hour he had the
entire load under cover, while Lars and Vespus extricated themselves and unpacked their gear.

"Where do we stay?" asked Lars.

"That bag by the door has a map and some provisions. Follow it to the ruined lookout tower on the far side of this hill.
I've left more food there, and hay to sleep under. Stay there, but don't light a fire. Dig a deep privy hole and keep it well
covered. Don't let telltale scents give you away, because guard dog patrols are sent out each morning."

"Guard dogs! They could track us from tonight's footprints."

"No, more snow is falling now, and that should cover your scent. Just to be sure I'll carry you both a few hundred paces
clear of this place on my yoke."

"How long must we stay in the tower?" asked Lars.

"Some days. I'll come past and tell you when to move."

"Days?" exclaimed Vespus softly. "Why so long?"

"There's a big meeting soon, but I don't know the date

yet. The inner area of Nusquam, the Upper Palace, will be sealed while they all get together and debate in some strange
language. Every Immortal on the mountain will be in the main hall, so the rest of the Upper Palace will be yours to
plunder as you will." "What about guards?"

"Mortal guards are not allowed in the Upper Palace, only slaves of dull wit—and slaves who feign to be so. I presume that
Immortals are on patrol there, but during the great meeting even these will probably be withdrawn. Get past the outer
walls, frozen moat, and the guard perimeter, and you'll have a free hand. Now that you're up over the cliff the whole of
Nusquam should be open to the likes of you. There's not been one intrusion in all my time here, so the guards are lax."

"And what about this oil that we're supposed to steal? Where is it kept?"

"Oil? How should I know? I've carried load after load of bugs and beetles into the Upper Palace for fifteen years, but
never seen what comes out."

Vespus took a tiny glass phial of oil from his pack and uncorked it. "Have you seen or smelted the like of this before?"
The slave sniffed the contents of the phial. "Never," he said at once. "What's it for?"

"We were not told. I presume it's what their physicians brew out of all those sacks of insects that you carry. The man
who hired us will pay plenty for a larger supply."

The slave shrugged and shook his head, then began to bundle up the sacks that they had hidden in. "Take these with you
and use them for bedding."

"One last word," said Vespus. "Suppose something happens to you, and you can't reach us?"

"In that case, wait seven days then do as best you can." The slave hefted the yoke and placed it over his shoulders. A
leather loop hung from each end. "Step into the straps now, and I'll carry you clear of this place."
Nusquam, 21 December 71, Anno Domini

Regulus broke the wax seal behind Celcinius' panel without ceremony, then supervised as two of the younger Tempori-
ans scraped away the rammed snow to expose the block of ice in which Celcinius was frozen. The block was mounted on
metal skids, and slid out easily once the end was free. Eight blindfolded slaves carried it out on a litter, straining with
the weight and taking small, cautious steps on the ice floor of the Frigidarium.

The journey back up to the palace with the awkward and heavy load took much longer than Regulus' previous visit. It was
two hours past dawn before the exhausted slaves lowered the block on its litter to the floor of the tepidarium in the
women's baths. Already the sides of the block were slick with melting ice, and drips splashed to the flagstones as Doria
and Rhea examined the surface. Once she was satisfied that the ice had not been violated since Celcinius had been
frozen, Doria signed the Register of Revival. Regulus countersigned, and began to shuffle toward the door.

"Regulus, please stay and watch," said Doria. "It's time that men got some appreciation of what we do here."
Doria had been meticulous in her preparations for the revival once it had become probable that Celcinius would be
unfrozen during her term in office. Her teams of women had revived three other frozen Temporians for practice, and all
had been men over sixty. None had died.

Four women began chipping the outer ice away, and it did not take long to reach an inner layer of Egyptian linen. Now
the body was lowered into a marble bath of tepid water, and the cloth soon came away to reveal the body beneath a thin
film of ice.

"Tepid heat," ordered Doria, and Rhea pulled a lever controlling air from a furnace that flowed through the hypocaust
beneath the marble bath.

The women ran their hands along the ice as the temperature of the water slowly increased. "Skin, I feel his skin,"
someone said excitedly. The first hour passed, and the Prima Decuria changed shifts with the Secunda Decuria. Very
slowly the heat from the water penetrated the flesh of Celcinius as the women gently massaged him. The temperature of
the water continued to rise. "Pump heat," Doria ordered as his limbs grew flexible. The shift was changed again.
By noon the air was heavy with steam. The women were slick with sweat, and their robes clung to them, sticky and
uncomfortable. Regulus fanned himself and drank watered wine as he watched. Doria removed the gag that had sealed
Celcinius' mouth and held his head up while Rhea removed the wax ear and nose plugs. The water was drained from the
bath until Celcinius could be laid back with his face exposed above the surface. Rhea and Doria climbed into the bath
with him, and while Rhea blew breath between his lips Doria began the much more difficult task of pounding his heart
back into life.

All the while the temperature continued to rise. "Revival heat," panted Doria as she worked, and Rhea's understudy
moved the lever controlling the hypocaust flow a final notch. In effect, Celcinius was now just an old man with severe
hypothermia.

The procedure was based on experiments with animals and slaves, and through many deaths it had been refined to
perfection. A physician of two millennia in the future would have said that they were attempting to get blood flow to the
brain established while it was as yet too cold to be damaged by oxygen starvation. The Venenum Immortale that
Celcinius had been treated with had both antifreeze properties and a limited ability to carry oxygen.
Other women presently relieved Doria and Rhea, who lay exhausted on wicker couches while lower-ranking assistants
dried them. By now it was mid-afternoon. As soon as she could sit up again Doria went to the edge of the bath and felt for
the pulse at the old man's neck.

"Very faint," she said. "What I feel is all from the hands that pump at his chest."

"Ninety-four is too old," said Rhea, but Doria only glared at her and shook her head.
They kept working, by now with the bath near body temperature. Food was brought in, and the women who supplied the
breath and heartbeat to Celcinius were working in progressively shorter spells. The light behind the mica windows faded
and more lamps were lit. Regulus dozed in his chair, emotionally drained in spite of his inactivity.
Abruptly he sat up. All was still, and Celcinius lay pallid

and still in the bath with exhausted women sprawled all around, some naked, others in soaking wet robes.

"You've stopped," said Regulus breathlessly.

Doria lifted her head and nodded.

"Have you lost him?" he ventured.

"Why waste effort on a man who can breathe for himself?" she replied.