Robert Silverberg - With Caesar

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First published in Asimov's, October 2002

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The newly arrived ambassador from the Eastern Emperor was rather younger than Faustus had

expected him to be: a smallish sort, finely built, quite handsome in what was almost a girlish kind of way,

though obviously very capable and sharp, a man who would bear close watching. There was something a

bit frightening about him, though not at first glance. He gleamed with the imperviousness of fine armor.

His air of sophisticated and fastidious languor coupled with hidden strength made Faustus, a tall, robust,

florid-faced man going thick through the waist and thin about the scalp, feel positively plebeian and

coarse despite his own lofty and significant ancestry.

That morning Faustus, whose task as an official of the Chancellery it was to greet all such important

visitors to the capital city, had gone out to Ostia to meet him at the Imperial pier—the Greek envoy,

coming west by way of Sicilia, had sailed up the coast from Neapolis in the south—and had escorted him

to the rooms in the old Severan Palace where the occasional ambassadors from the Eastern half of

Empire were housed. Now it was the time to begin establishing a little rapport. They faced each other

across an onyx-slab table in the Lesser Hall of Columns, which several reigns ago had been transformed

into a somewhat oversized sitting-room. A certain amount of preliminary social chatter was required at

this point. Faustus called for some wine, one of the big, elegant wines from the great vineyards of Gallia

Transalpina.

After they had had a chance to savor it for a little while he said, wanting to get the ticklish part of the

situation out in the open right away, “The prince Heraclius himself, unfortunately, has been called without

warning to the northern frontier. Therefore tonight's dinner has been canceled. This will be a free evening

for you, then, an evening for resting after your long journey. I trust that that'll be acceptable to you.”

“Ah,” said the Greek, and his lips tightened for an instant. Plainly he was a little bewildered at being left

on his own like this, his first evening in Roma. He studied his perfectly manicured fingers. When he

glanced up again, there was a gleam of concern in the dark eyes. “I won't be seeing the Emperor either,

then?”

“The Emperor is in very poor health. He will not be able to see you tonight and perhaps not for several

days. The prince Heraclius has taken over many of his responsibilities. But in the prince's unexpected and

unavoidable absence your host and companion for your first few days in Roma will be his younger

brother Maximilianus. You will, I know, find him amusing and very charming, my lord Menandros.”

“Unlike his brother, I gather,” said the Greek ambassador coolly.

Only too true, Faustus thought. But it was a remarkably blunt thing to say. Faustus searched for the

motive behind the little man's words. Menandros had come here, after all, to negotiate a marriage

between his royal master's sister and the very prince of whom he had just spoken so slightingly. When a

diplomat as polished as this finely oiled Greek says something as egregiously undiplomatic as that, there

was usually a good reason for it. Perhaps, Faustus supposed, Menandros was simply showing annoyance

at the fact that Prince Heraclius had tactlessly managed not to be on hand to welcome him upon his entry

into Roma.

Faustus was not going to let himself be drawn any deeper into comparisons, though. He allowed himself

only an oblique smile, that faint sidewise smile he had learned from his young friend the Caesar

Maximilianus. “The two brothers are quite different in personality, that I do concede. —Will you have

more wine, your excellence?”

That brought yet another shift of tone. “Ah, no formalities, no formalities, I pray you. Let us be friends,

you and I.” And then, leaning forward cozily and shifting from the formal to the intimate form of speech:

“You must call me Menandros. I will call you Faustus. Eh, my friend? —And yes, more wine, by all

means. What excellent stuff! We have nothing that can match it in Constantinopolis. What sort is it,

actually?”

Faustus flicked a glance at one of the waiting servitors, who quickly refilled the bowls. “A wine from

Gallia,” he said. “I forget the name.” A swift flash of unmistakable displeasure, quickly concealed but not

quickly enough, crossed the Greek's face. To be caught praising a provincial wine so highly must have

embarrassed him. But embarrassing him had not been Faustus's intention. There was nothing to be gained

by creating discomfort for so powerful and potentially valuable a personage as the lord of the East's

ambassador to the Western court.

This was all getting worse and worse. Hastily Faustus set about smoothing the awkwardness over. “The

heart of our production lies in Gallia, now. The Emperor's cellars contain scarcely any Italian wines at all,

they tell me. Scarcely any! These Gallian reds are His Imperial Majesty's preference by far, I assure

you.”

“While I am here I must acquire some, then, for the cellars of His Majesty Justinianus,” said Menandros.

They drank a moment in silence. Faustus felt as though he were dancing on swords.

“This is, I understand, your first visit to Urbs Roma?” Faustus asked, when the silence had gone on just

a trifle too long. He took care to use the familiar form too, now that Menandros had started it.

“My first, yes. Most of my career has been spent in Aegyptus and Syria.”

Faustus wondered how extensive that career could have been. This Menandros seemed to be no more

than twenty-five or so, thirty at the utmost. Of course, all these smooth-skinned dark-eyed Greeks,

buffed and oiled and pomaded in their Oriental fashion, tended to look younger than they really were.

And now that Faustus had passed fifty, he was finding it harder and harder to make distinctions of age in

any precise way: everybody around him at the court seemed terribly young to him now, a congregation of

mere boys and girls. Of those who had ruled the Empire when Faustus himself was young, there was no

one left except the weary, lonely old Emperor himself, and hardly anyone had laid eyes on the Emperor in

recent times. Of Faustus's own generation of courtiers, some had died off, the others had gone into cozy

retirement far away. Faustus was a dozen years older than his own superior minister in the Chancellery.

His closest friend here now was Maximilianus Caesar, who was considerably less than half his age. From

the beginning Faustus had always regarded himself as a relic of some earlier era, because that was, in

truth, what he was, considering that he was a member of a family that had held the throne three dynasties

ago; but the phrase had taken on a harsh new meaning for him in these latter days, now that he had

survived not just his family's greatness but even his own contemporaries.

It was a little disconcerting that Justinianus had sent so youthful and apparently inexperienced an

ambassador on so delicate a mission. But Faustus suspected it would be a mistake to underestimate this

man; and at least Menandros's lack of familiarity with the capital city would provide him with a

convenient way to glide past whatever difficulties Prince Heraclius's untimely absence might cause in the

next few days.

Stagily Faustus clapped his hands. “How I envy you, friend Menandros! To see Urbs Roma in all its

splendor for the first time! What an overwhelming experience it will be for you! We who were born here,

who take it all for granted, can never appreciate it as you will. The grandeur. The magnificence.” Yes,

yes, he thought, let Maximilianus march him from one end of the city to the other until Heraclius gets

back. We will dazzle him with our wonders and after a time he'll forget how discourteously Heraclius has

treated him. “While you're waiting for the Caesar to return, we'll arrange the most extensive tours for you.

All the great temples—the amphitheater—the baths—the Forum—the Capitol—the palaces—the

wonderful gardens—”

“The grottos of Titus Gallius,” Menandros said, unexpectedly. “The underground temples and shrines.

The marketplace of the sorcerers. The catacomb of the holy Chaldean prostitutes. The pool of the

Baptai. The labyrinth of the Maenads. The caverns of the witches.”

“Ah? So you know of those places too?”

“Who doesn't know about the Underworld of Urbs Roma? It's the talk of the whole Empire.” In an

instant that bright metallic facade of his seemed to melt away, and all his menacing poise. Something quite

different was visible in Menandros's eyes now, a wholly uncalculated eagerness, an undisguised boyish

enthusiasm. And a certain roguishness, too, a hint of rough, coarse appetites that belied his urbane gloss.

In a soft, confiding tone he said, “May I confess something, Faustus? Magnificence bores me. I've got a

bit of a taste for the low life. All that dodgy stuff that Roma's so famous for, the dark, seamy underbelly

of the city, the whores and the magicians, the freak shows and the orgies and the thieves’ markets, the

strange shrines of your weird cults—do I shock you, Faustus? Is this dreadfully undiplomatic of me to

admit? I don't need a tour of the temples. But as long as we have a few days before I have to get down

to serious business, it's the other side of Roma I want to see, the mysterious side, the dark side. We have

temples and palaces enough in Constantinopolis, and baths, and all the rest of that. Miles and miles of

glorious shining marble, until you want to cry out for mercy. But the true subterranean mysteries, the

earthy, dirty, smelly, underground things, ah, no, Faustus, those are what really interest me. We've rooted

all that stuff out, at Constantinopolis. It's considered dangerous decadent nonsense.”

“It is here, too,” said Faustus quietly.

“Yes, but you permit it! You revel in it, even! Or so I'm told, on pretty good authority. —You heard me

say I was formerly stationed in Aegyptus and Syria. The ancient East, that is to say, thousands of years

older than Roma or Constantinopolis. Most of the strange cults originated there, you know. That was

where I developed my interest in them. And the things I've seen and heard and done in places like

Damascus and Alexandria and Antioch, well—but nowadays Urbs Roma is the center of everything of

that sort, is it not, the capital of marvels! And I tell you, Faustus, what I truly crave experiencing is—”

He halted in midsentence, looking flushed and a little stunned.

“This wine,” he said, with a little shake of his head. “I've been drinking it too quickly. It must be stronger

than I thought.”

Faustus reached across the table and laid his hand gently on the younger man's wrist. “Have no fear, my

friend. These revelations of yours cause me no dismay. I am no stranger to the Underworld, nor is the

prince Maximilianus. And while we await the return of Prince Heraclius he and I will show you everything

you desire.” He rose, stepping back a couple of paces so that he would not seem, in his bulky way, to be

looming in an intimidating manner over the reclining ambassador. After a bad start he had regained some

advantage; he didn't want to push it too far. “I'll leave you now. You've had a lengthy journey, and you'll

want your rest. I'll send in your servants. In addition to those who accompanied you from

Constantinopolis, these men and women—” he indicated the slaves who stood arrayed in the shadows

around the room—"are at your command day and night. They are yours. Ask them for anything.

Anything , my lord Menandros.”

* * * *

His palanquin and bearers were waiting outside. “Take me to the apartments of the Caesar,” Faustus said

crisply, and clambered inside.

They knew which Caesar he meant. In Roma the name could be applied to a great many persons of high

birth, from the Emperor on down—Faustus himself had some claim to using it—but as a rule, these days,

it was an appellation employed only in reference to the two sons of the Emperor Maximilianus II. And,

whether or not Faustus's bearers happened to be aware that the elder son was out of town, they were

clever enough to understand that their master would in all probability not be asking them to take him to

the chambers of the austere and dreary Prince Heraclius. No, no, it was the younger son, the pleasantly

dissolute Maximilianus Caesar, whose rooms would surely be his chosen destination: Prince

Maximilianus, the friend, the companion, the dearest and most special friend and companion, for all

intents and purposes at the present time theonly true friend and companion, of that aging and ever lonelier

minor official of the Imperial court, Faustus Flavius Constantinus Caesar.

Maximilianus lived over at the far side of the Palatine, in a handsome pink-marble palace of relatively

modest size that had been occupied by younger sons of the Emperor for the past half dozen reigns or so.

The prince, a red-haired, blue-eyed, long-limbed man who was a match for Faustus in height but lean

and rangy where Faustus was burly and ponderous, peeled himself upward from a divan as Faustus

entered and greeted him with a warm embrace and a tall beaker of chilled white wine. That Faustus had

been drinking red with the Greek ambassador for the past hour and a half did not matter now.

Maximilianus, in his capacity as prince of the royal blood, had access to the best caves of the Imperial

cellars, and what was most pleasing to the prince's palate was the rare white wines of the Alban Hills, the

older and sweeter and colder the better. When Faustus was with him, the white wines of the Alban Hills

were what Faustus drank.

“Look at these,” Maximilianus said, before Faustus had had a chance to say anything whatever beyond a

word of appreciation for the wine. The prince drew forth a long, fat pouch of purple velvet and with a

great sweeping gesture sent a blazing hoard of jewelry spilling out on the table: a tangled mass of

necklaces, earrings, rings, pendants, all of them evidently fashioned from opals set in filigree of gold,

opals of every hue and type, pink ones, milky ones, opals of shimmering green, midnight black, fiery

scarlet. Maximilianus exultantly scooped them up in both hands and let them dribble through his fingers.

His eyes were glowing. He appeared enthralled by the brilliant display.

Faustus stared puzzledly at the sprawling scatter of bright trinkets. These were extremely beautiful

baubles, yes: but the degree of Maximilianus's excitement over them seemed excessive. Why was the

prince so fascinated by them? “Very pretty,” Faustus said. “Are they something you won at the gambling

tables? Or did you buy these trinkets as a gift for one of your ladies?”

“Trinkets!” Maximilianus cried. “The jewels of Cybele is what they are! The treasure of the high

priestess of the Great Mother! Aren't they lovely, Faustus? The Hebrew brought them just now. They're

stolen, of course. From the goddess's most sacred sanctuary. I'm going to give them to my new

sister-in-law as a wedding present.”

“Stolen? From the sanctuary? Which sanctuary? Which Hebrew? What are you talking about,

Maximilianus?”

The prince grinned and pressed one of the biggest of the pendants into the fleshy palm of Faustus's left

hand, closing Faustus's fingers tightly over it. He gave Faustus a broad wink. “Hold it. Squeeze it. Feel

the throbbing magic of the goddess pouring into you. Is your cock getting stiff yet? That's what should be

happening, Faustus. Amulets of fertility are what we have here. Of enormous efficacy. In the sanctuary,

the priestess wears them and anyone she touches with the stone becomes an absolute seething mass of

procreative energy. Heraclius's princess will conceive an heir for him the first time he gets inside her. It's

virtually guaranteed. The dynasty continues. My little favor for my chilly and sexless brother. I'll explain it

all to his beloved, and she'll know what to do. Eh? Eh?” Maximilianus amiably patted Faustus's belly.

“What are you feeling down there, old man?”

Faustus handed the pendant back. “What I feel is that you may have gone a little too far, this time. Who

did you get these things from? Danielus bar-Heap?”

“Bar-Heap, yes, of course. Who else?”

“And where did he get them? Stole them from the Temple of the Great Mother, did he? Strolled through

the grotto one dark night and slipped into the sanctuary when the priestesses weren't looking?” Faustus

closed his eyes, put his hand across them, blew his breath outward through closed lips in a noisy,

rumbling burst of astonishment and disapproval. He was even shocked, a little. That was something of an

unusual emotion for him. Maximilianus was the only man in the realm capable of making him feel stodgy

and priggish. “In the name of Jove Almighty, Maximilianus, tell me how you think you can give stolen

goods as a wedding gift! For a royal wedding, no less. Don't you think there'll be an outcry raised from

here to India and back when the high priestess finds out that this stuff is missing?”

Maximilianus, offering Faustus his sly, inward sort of smile, gathered the jewelry back into the pouch.

“You grow silly in your dotage, old man. Is it your idea that these jewels were stolen from the sanctuary

yesterday? As a matter of fact, it happened during the reign of Marcus Anastasius, which was—what?

Two hundred fifty years ago?—and the sanctuary they were stolen from wasn't here at all, it was

somewhere in Phrygia, wherever that may be, and they've had at least five legitimate owners since then,

which is certainly enough to disqualify them as stolen goods by this time. It happens also that I paid good

hard cash for them. I told the Hebrew that I needed a fancy wedding present for the elder Caesar's

bride, and he said that this little collection was on the market, and I said, fine, get them for me, and I gave

him enough gold pieces to outweightwo fat Faustuses, and he went down into the Jewelers’ Grotto this

very night past and closed the deal, and here they are. I want to see the look on my dear brother's face

when I present these treasures to his lovely bride Sabbatia, gifts truly worthy of a queen. And then when

I tell him about the special powers they're supposed to have. ‘Beloved brother,'” Maximilianus said, in a

high, piping tone of savage derision, “'I thought you might need some aid in consummating your marriage,

and therefore I advise you to have your bride wear this ring on the wedding night, and to put this bracelet

upon her wrist, and also to invite your lady to drape this pendant between her breasts—'”

Faustus felt the beginnings of a headache. There were times when the Caesar's madcap exuberance was

too much even for him. In silence he helped himself to more wine, and drank it down in deep, slow,

deliberate drafts. Then he walked toward the window and stood with his back toward the prince.

Could he trust what Maximilianus was telling him about the provenance of these jewels? Had they in fact

been taken from the sanctuary in antiquity, or had some thief snatched them just the other day? That

would be all we need, he thought. Right in the middle of the negotiations for a desperately needed military

alliance that were scheduled to follow the marriage of the Western prince and the Eastern princess, the

pious and exceedingly virtuous Justinianus discovers that his new brother-in-law's brother has blithely

given the sister of the Eastern Emperor a stolen and sacrilegious wedding gift. A gift that even now might

be the object of an intensive police search.

Maximilianus was still going on about the jewels. Faustus paid little attention. A soothing drift of cool air

floated toward him out of the twilight, carrying with it a delightfully complex mingling of odors, cinnamon,

pepper, nutmeg, roasted meat, rich wine, pungent perfume, the tang of sliced lemons, all the wondrous

aromas of some nearby lavish banquet. It was quite refreshing.

Under the benign mellowing influence of the fragrant breeze from outside Faustus felt his little fit of

scrupulosity beginning to pass. There was nothing to worry about here, really. Very likely the transaction

had been legitimate. But even if the opalshad just been stolen from the Great Mother's sanctuary, there

would be little that the outraged priestesses could do about it, since the police investigation was in no way

likely to reach into the household of the Imperial family. And that Maximilianus's gift was reputed to have

aphrodisiac powers would be a fine joke on his prissy, tight-lipped brother.

Faustus felt a great sudden surge of love for his friend Maximilianus pass through him. Once again the

prince had shown him that although he was only half his age, he was more than his equal in all-around

deviltry; and that was saying quite a lot.

“Did the ambassador show you a picture of her, by the way?” Maximilianus asked.

Faustus glanced around. “Why should he? I'm not the one who's marrying her.”

“I was just curious. I was wondering if she's as ugly as they say. The word is that she looks just like her

brother, you know. And Justinianus has the face of a horse. She's a lot older than Heraclius, too.”

“Is she? I hadn't heard.”

“Justinianus is forty-five or so, right? Is it likely that he would have a sister of eighteen or twenty?”

“She could be twenty-five, perhaps.”

“Thirty-five, more likely. Or even older. Heraclius is twenty-nine. My brother is going to marry an ugly

old woman. Who may not even still be of childbearing age—has anyone considered that?”

“An ugly old woman, if that's indeed the case, who happens to be the sister of the Eastern Emperor,”

Faustus pointed out, “and who therefore will create a blood bond between the two halves of the realm

that will be very useful to us when we ask Justinianus to lend us a few legions to help us fend off the

barbarians in the north, now that our friends the Goths and the Vandals are chewing on our toes up there

again. Whether she's of childbearing age is incidental. Heirs to the throne can always be adopted, you

know.”

“Yes. Of course they can. But the main thing, the grand alliance—is that so important, Faustus? If the

smelly barbarians have come back for another round, why can't we fend them off ourselves? My father

managed a pretty good job of that when they came sniffing around our frontiers in ‘42, didn't he? Not to

mention what his grandfather did to Attila and his Huns some fifty years before that.”

“'42 was a long time ago,” Faustus said. “Your father's old and sick, now. And we're currently a little

short on great generals.”

“What about Heraclius? He might amaze us all.”

“Heraclius?” said Faustus. That was a startling thought—the aloof, waspish, ascetic Heraclius Caesar

leading an army in the field. Even Maximilianus, frivolous and undisciplined and rowdy as he was, would

make a more plausible candidate for the role of military hero than the pallid Heraclius.

With a mock-haughty sniff Maximilianus said, “I remind you, my lord Faustus, that we're a fighting

dynasty. We have the blood of mighty warriors in our veins, my brother and I.”

“Yes, the mighty warrior Heraclius,” Faustus said acidly, and they both laughed.

“All right, then. I yield the point. We do need Justinianus's help, I suppose. So my brother marries the

ugly princess,her brother helps us smash the savage hairy men of the north for once and all, and the

whole Empire embarks upon a future of eternal peace, except perhaps for a squabble or two with the

Persians, who are Justinianus's problem, not ours. Well, so be it. In any case, why should I care what

Heraclius's wife looks like?He probably won't.”

“True.” The heir to the throne was not notorious for his interest in women.

“The Great Mother's jewels, if their reputation has any substance to it, will help him quickly engender a

new little Caesar, let us hope. After which, he'll probably never lay a finger on her again, to her great

relief and his, eh?” Maximilianus bounded up from his divan to pour more wine for Faustus, and for

himself. “Has he really gone up north to inspect the troops, by the way? That's the tale I've heard,

anyway.”

“And I,” said Faustus. “It's the official story, but I have my doubts. More likely he's headed off to his

forests for a few days of hunting, by way of ducking the marriage issue as long as he can.” That was the

Caesar Heraclius's only known amusement, the tireless, joyless pursuit of stag and boar and fox and

hare. “Let me tell you, the Greek ambassador was more than a little miffed when he found out that the

prince had chosen the very week of his arrival to leave town. He let it be known very clearly, how

annoyed he was. Which brings me to the main reason for this visit, in fact. I have work for you. It

becomes your job and mine to keep the ambassador amused until Heraclius deigns to get back here.”

Maximilianus responded with a lazy shrug. “Your job, perhaps. But why is it mine, old friend?”

“Because I think you'll enjoy it, once you know what I have in mind. And I've already committed you to

it, besides, and you don't dare let me down. The ambassador wants to go on a tour of Roma—but not to

the usual tourist attractions. He's interested in getting a look at the Underworld.”

The Caesar's eyes widened. “He is? An ambassador, goingthere ?”

“He's young. He's Greek. He may be a little on the perverse side, or else he'd simply like to be. I said

that you and I would show him temples and palaces, and he said to show him the grottos and the

whorehouses. The marketplace of the sorcerers, the caverns of the witches, that sort of thing. ‘I've got a

bit of a taste for the low life’ is what he told me,” Faustus said, in passable imitation of Menandros’

drawling tones and Eastern-accented Latin. “'The dark, seamy underbelly of the city,’ is the very phrase

he used. “'All that dodgy stuff that Roma's so famous for.'”

“A tourist,” Maximilianus said, with scorn. “He just wants to take a tour that's slightly different from the

standard one.”

“Whatever. At any rate, I have to keep him entertained, and with your brother hiding out in the woods

and your father ill I need to trot forth some other member of the Imperial family to play host for him, and

who else is there but you? It's no more than half a day since he arrived in town and Heraclius has

succeeded in offending him already, without even being here. The more annoyed he gets, the harder a

bargain he's going to drive once your brother shows up. He's tougher than he looks and it's dangerous to

underestimate him. If I leave him stewing in his own irritation for the next few days, there may be big

trouble.”

“Trouble? Of what sort? He can't call off the marriage just because he feels snubbed.”

“No, I suppose he can't. But if he gets his jaw set the wrong way, he may report back to Justinianus that

the next Emperor of the West is a bumbling fool not worth wasting soldiers on, let alone a sister. The

princess Sabbatia quietly goes back to Constantinopolis a few months after the wedding and we get left

to deal with the barbarians on our own. I like to think I'll be able to head all that off if I can distract the

ambassador for a week or two by showing him a little dirty fun in the catacombs. You can help me with

that. We've had some good times down there, you and I, eh, my friend? Now we can take him to some

of our favorite places. Yes? Agreed?”

“May I bring along the Hebrew?” Maximilianus asked. “To be our guide. He knows the Underworld

even better than we do.”

“Danielus bar-Heap, you mean.”

“Yes. Bar-Heap.”

“By all means,” said Faustus. “The more the merrier.”

* * * *

It was too late in the evening by the time he left Maximilianus's to go to the baths. Faustus returned to his

own quarters instead and called for a hot bath, a massage, and, afterward, the slave-girl Oalathea, that

dusky, lithe little sixteen-year-old Numidian with whom the only language Faustus had in common was

that of Eros.

A long day it had been, and a hard, wearying one. He hadn't expected to find Heraclius gone when he

came back from Ostia with the Eastern ambassador. Since the old Emperor Maximilianus was in such

poor shape, the plan had been for the Greek ambassador to dine with Prince Heraclius on his first

evening at the capital; but right after Faustus had set off for Ostia Heraclius had abruptly skipped out of

the city, leaving behind the flimsy inspecting-the-northern-troops excuse. With the Emperor unwell and

Heraclius away, there was no one of appropriate rank available to serve as official host at a state dinner

except Heraclius's rapscallion brother Maximilianus, and none of the officials of the royal household had

felt sufficiently audacious to proposethat without getting Faustus's approval first. So the state dinner had

simply been scrubbed that afternoon, a fact that Faustus had not discovered until his return from the port.

By then it was too late to do anything about that, other than to send a frantic message after the vanished

prince imploring him to head back to Urbs Roma as quickly as possible. If Heraclius had indeed gone

hunting, the message would reach him at his forest lodge in the woods out beyond Lake Nemorensis, and

perhaps, perhaps, he would pay heed to it. If he had, against all probability, really gone to the military

frontier, he was unlikely to return very soon. And that left only the Caesar Maximilianus, willy-nilly, to do

the job. A risky business, that could be.

Well, the ambassador's little confession of a bit of a taste for the low life had taken care of the issue of

keeping him entertained, at least for the next couple of days. If slumming in the Underworld was what

Menandros was truly after, then Maximilianus would become the solution instead of the problem.

Faustus leaned back in the bath, savoring the warmth of the water, enjoying the sweet smell of the oils

floating on the surface. It was while in the bath that proper Romans of the olden days—Seneca, say, or

the poet Lucan, or that fierce old harridan Antonia, the mother of the Emperor Claudius—would take the

opportunity to slit their wrists rather than continue to endure the inadequacies and iniquities of the society

in which they lived. But these were not the olden days, and Faustus was not as offended by the

inadequacies and iniquities of society as those grand old Romans had been, and, in any event, suicide as

a general concept was not something that held great appeal for him.

Still, it certainly was a sad time for Roma, he thought. The old Emperor as good as dead, the heir to the

throne a ninny and a prude, the Emperor's other son a wastrel, and the barbarians, who were supposed

to have been crushed years ago, once again knocking at the gates. Faustus knew that he was no model

of the ancient Roman virtues himself—who was, five centuries after Augustus's time?—but, for all his

own weaknesses and foibles, he could not help crying out within himself, sometimes, at the tawdriness of

the epoch. We call ourselves Romans, he thought, and we know how to imitate, up to a point, the

attitudes and poses of our great Roman forebears. But that's all we do: strike attitudes and imitate poses.

We merely play at being Romans, and deceive ourselves, sometimes, into accepting the imitation for the

reality.

It is a sorry era, Faustus told himself.

He was of royal blood himself, more or less. His very name proclaimed that: Faustus Flavius

Constantinus Caesar. Embedded within it was the cognomen of his famous imperial ancestor,

Constantinus the Great, and along with it the name of Constantinus's wife Fausta, herself the daughter of

the Emperor Maximianus. The dynasty of Constantinus had long since vanished from the scene, of

course, but by various genealogical zigs and zags Faustus could trace his descent back to it, and that

entitled him to add the illustrious name “Caesar” to his array. Even so he was merely a secondary official

in the chancellery of Maximilianus II Augustus, and his father before him had been an officer of trifling

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ThisebookispublishedbyFictionwisePublicationswww.fictionwise.comExcellenceinEbooksVisitwww.fictionwise.comtofindmoretitlesbythisandothertopauthorsinScienceFiction,Fantasy,Horror,Mystery,andothergenres.Fictionwisewww.Fictionwise.comCopyright©2002byRobertSilverbergFirstpublishedinAsimov's,October2002N...

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Robert Silverberg - With Caesar

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