The Centurion's Empire

The

centurion's empire

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. Ft was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE CENTURION'S EMPIRE

Copyright © 1998 by Sean McMullen

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Jack Dartn

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010

Tor Books on the World Wide Web:
http://www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. ISBN: 0-812-56475-8

Library of Congress Card Catalog Number: 98-10257

First edition: July 1998

First mass market edition: May 1999

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

For my daughter, Catherine

The Tyrrhenian Sea: 22 September 71, Anno Domini

Vitellan's journey to the twenty-first century began on the Tyrrhenian Sea, during an equinox gale in the autumn of the
year 71, Anno Domini. In that year, in that century, his name was still Vitellan Bavalius.
The
Venator
was not a big ship, and because of that the sturdy transport vessel handled storms well. One of the severe
gales that lashed the Campania coast around this time of year had boiled into life, and the
Venator
ran steadily with a
northeast wind, its mainsail and foresail trimmed to storm-rig as it rode the rolling procession of huge waves.
Captain Metellus cautiously worked his way forward along the railing. At the bow, the great iron and timber anchor was
loose in its lashings and rocking back and forth with every movement of the ship. The
Venator
had survived more than its
share of storms because Metellus took nothing for granted, not the rigging, nor the packing of cargo, nor anything else.
He always bought new sails and ropes long before renewal was due, and he personally inspected the hull with the
carpenters—not merely to check that the leaks and seepages were under control, but to make sure that there were no
leaks or seepages at all. From a distance the anchor looked loose but safe, yet that was not good enough for the
Venator.

Metellus stopped amidships, beside the mainmast. One of the new deckhands was holding on to the railing and was
looking out to sea.

"Don't worry, it only gets worse," Metellus shouted to the youth above the wind.

"I'm not sick," Vitellan shouted back. "I'm here to see the storm."

Metellus laughed. "You're mad. Every one of the men on deck would give a week's pay to be below and dry."

"This is my first storm. How can I talk about it to my grandparents if I've been cowering below? I'd miss the huge waves,
the sailors struggling with the steering oar, and the danger."

"Hah, there's not much danger on the open sea for a well-rigged, tight ship, Bavalius," shouted Metellus proudly.

"Danger comes from stopping suddenly on rocks or a shoal. Turning beam-on to the wind and waves could sink us too,
but I won't let that happen. Your family chose well when they—"

Vitellan saw it first. He pointed ahead and shouted a warning to the captain. Another ship, a very large vessel, was
directly ahead of the
Venator,
lying on its side with its masts and rigging smashed and tangled. Captain Metellus turned
and stumbled aft across the rolling deck, shouting to the steersmen above the wind. The five seamen working the
steering oar frantically tried to turn the
Venator
to starboard, but even such a small ship does not turn easily. The
Venator

struck the wreck nearly square-on.

The shock snapped the mainmast, bringing down a tangle of rigging to snare those on deck. The hull split as thousands
of mortise and tenon joints ripped apart, then the
Venator
slowly swerved about until the wind had it pinned beam-on to
the waves against the wreck of the other ship. The two vessels crashed together amid the mountains of water, rupturing
their hulls further.

The
Venator's
bow was underwater scarcely a minute after the impact. Vitellan was still clinging to the rail, paralyzed
with shock, as the legionaries that the ship had been taking to Egypt began struggling out of the main hatch amidships
and crawling aft. The
Venator's
newest deckhand seemed to wake from a dream and he realized that death was very close.
The ship was doomed, and in a matter of minutes the only living men would be those with wreckage to cling to. Best to
have first choice of the wreckage, he decided.

Vitellan could hear muffled screams beneath his feet as he slid down the deck to the water amid fallen ropes, sails, and
spars. Part of the pinewood foremast spar was floating nearby, and he waded in and swam to it. Groping under the
water he blindly hacked and cut the hard, strong ropes trailing from the spar. This thing had to be his vessel when the
ship was gone, and long ropes that trailed away into the water still might be attached to the ship. They would drag him
down when it sank, he kept reminding himself as he frantically hacked at the ropes. How long before—Vitellan looked
about to find himself alone amid the waves and debris. The ship had already sunk but the spar was still floating.
In sheer relief the youth nearly let go of the spar, then he hooked a leg over it and rested as well as he could. He would
not drown for a few moments at least, but even hanging on was exhausting work in the storm. Minutes passed, and he
began to tire quickly. Knowing that rescue would be days away if it came at all, he bound himself to the spar while he
still had the strength to do it properly. After that it was all he could do to snatch breath while his head was above water.
The worst of the squall passed after some hours, but Vitellan was insensible by the time the wind shifted again and
began to drive him back toward the coast.

The Campania Coast, Italy: 27 September 71, Anno Domini

A jagged piece of wreckage tumbled ponderously amid the waves breaking on the beach, too heavy to be washed in any
farther. Antonius stared at it from the seat of his cart, noting that it was part of the decking of quite a large ship. Further
along the beach his children searched the flotsam and wreckage that had been washed up by the choppy autumn waves.
The sky was heavy with gray clouds, and the wind flung sand and spray at his face in stinging gusts. It was the season for
shipwrecks, and thus it was his family's time of prosperity. Antonius shuddered, recalling that it was almost ten years to
the day since he had been washed ashore clinging to the wreckage of his own vessel.

His son Tradus called to him in a shrill voice, but Antonius did not look away from the shattered section of decking. A
few days ago it had been part of one of the finest ships in all of the Roman Empire, he thought as another ragged wave
burst over the wreckage. Tradus called out

again, and this time Antonius did turn. His son was waving and pointing to a shape in the sand. A flick of the reins set
his horse plodding along the beach.

"Part of a spar with metal fittings, and a lot of rope tangled around it," Tradus said as he drew near. "A good find,
Papa?"

"Not as good as a bag of gold, but better than firewood. Here, take the axe and chop the metal free, then untangle the
rope and coil it neatly. Ah, now Domedia is waving too. I'll leave the cart with you and see what she has."
The girl was standing over the naked body o£a man in his early twenties. It was chalk white and bloated, already in the
early stages of decomposition. Using his staff Antonius pointed to a well-healed scar high on one shoulder.

"That's a spear thrust, and it's at least a year old," he explained. "See the marks here and here on his chin, and the
calluses on his left arm? He once wore a helmet and used a shield."

"So he was a legionary?"

"I'd bet my right hand on it," he said, holding up the hook on the stump of his right wrist. "He was probably from one of
those troopships from Neapolis that sank in the storm last week."

"He smells," Domedia complained, then moved upwind.

"He's been in the water five days, and been dead for about the same time. A pity that he's naked, there's nothing for us."
As they started back toward Tradus, Domedia's sharp eyes picked out something in a mound of seaweed and she skipped
away to investigate.

Antonius scratched at his beard with his iron hook. It was just past the autumn equinox, a dangerous time to be on the
Tyrrhenian Sea. The captains of the troopships had taken a chance and had lost their gamble with fate, Antonius
thought as he looked out to sea. Then again, perhaps they had been under orders: some new rebellion against Roman
rule, troops needed urgently somewhere.

Antonius brandished his hook at the sea as if in defiance, then let his arm drop to his side. He had gambled too, putting
his savings into the price of a fishing boat and sail-

ing late in the season when others did not dare. A storm finally, perhaps inevitably, claimed his boat and the crew of five.
He had struggled ashore with his hand so badly mangled that it had to be cut off. Fate had been cruel to his family that
year. They were reduced to wretched poverty, and two months later his wife had died in childbirth. Ever since then he
had lived off the folly of others who had also given the Tyrrhenian Sea too little respect.

"Garum, there's garum in this!" called Domedia.

Antonius strode over to where she was pulling seaweed away from a large amphora tied to a wooden framework by its
handles. He cut it free and hefted it.

"From the ship's kitchen, not the cargo," he said as he licked the fish sauce from the cork seal. "It's nearly full."

"Lucky it was tied to that beam or it would have sunk."

"The cook probably secured everything in his kitchen when he saw the storm coming. The beam it's tied to was once part
of a wall. This will fetch a good price, a very good price."

Tradus began shouting and waving in the distance. Antonius stood up and beckoned to him. "Forget the spar, Tradus,
bring the cart over to us," he called back.

"There's a man here, alive!" Tradus replied.

They ran across to him at once. A youth was lying unconscious under a mass of seaweed and rope. He wore a ragged tunic
and had apparently bound his arms to the spar before he became too weak to hold on. A small purse was at his waist, tied
to his belt by its drawstrings. Antonius dropped to his knees and drew his knife. His two children stared at him intently
as he knelt in the sand. Waves thundered raggedly onto the beach behind them, and a spatter of rain stung their faces.

"He may be from a rich family," Domedia said at last. Antonius sighed, then nodded slowly and began to cut the youth
free. His skin had been chafed and torn by the rope, and was cold to the touch. Domedia brought sacks from the cart to
cover him.

"Five days in the water, five days without food or drink," muttered Antonius as he uncorked a waterskin. "It's amazing.
He's young, but he must be tough."

"About seventeen," ventured Domedia. "No more."

Antonius forced a little water past the youth's swollen tongue. "And fair of face, eh daughter?"

"You gave him only a trickle! Give him more."

"Too much water after so many days of thirst would kill him. Just a little more now. Domedia, take your brother over to
the amphora and load it onto the cart. After that, check the rest of the beach. I'll stay here with the boy until you get
back."

"But we must take him straight home. He'll die otherwise."

"If he dies he dies. If we don't search the beach for what the sea offers us, we'll die too." He held up his hook-hand. "I've
been a sailor, I know how to tend the like of this one."

The youth did not die while they finished searching the beach, and he survived the cart ride back to Antonius' cottage.
That evening he revived for a short time as they tended him beside the central hearth, and he began to babble a
disjointed account of what had happened. He had been aboard the troopship
Venator,
which had foundered after a
collision during a squall.