Vulcan's Fury: The Dark Lands (3 page)

Rome held sway over all, save for a landmass to the north known as the Dark Lands. It was somewhere in that vaguely defined region, legend said, where Vulcan’s hammer had fallen, smashing open the Earth and releasing evil spirits to haunt the land as a constant reminder of the wrath of the gods. The black, razor sharp mountains and smoldering volcanoes of the Dark Lands were often visible across the narrowest part of the Haunted Sea from Rome’s northernmost province of Aquitania, but those alien shores may as well have been on the moon. While the sea provided a bounty of fish to those who stayed close to the shores of Aquitania, to venture over the horizon toward the Dark Lands was to court death. The boats of those who had gone too far eventually washed ashore, the crews dead, as if they had fallen asleep and never awakened. The few foolhardy souls that had managed to return alive told tales of bubbling waters and the stink of sulfur, and the sight of strange and terrible creatures. While more than one Emperor had sent forth naval expeditions to the Dark Lands, none had ever returned alive.
 

Of course, that had not stopped rumor from becoming truth and drunken gossip from becoming legend. Local lore in Aquitania abounded with tales of dreadful creatures and even more terrible deeds dating back to the days of the First Spring, but not a soul could be found who was able to prove setting foot upon the far shore. That the Dark Lands were forbidden by the gods was indisputable. That any man had visited there and returned alive to tell the tale was not.

Tiberius stared at the Dark Lands on the map, inwardly wishing that he were there rather than here. He would have gladly taken his chances at the head of a legion marching into the unknown than fight the battle into which he had cast himself. Taking a deep breath, struggling to retain his outward calm, he turned to face his guest. “Julius,” he said, “we have had this discussion before, and my answer remains the same: I will not support an increase in taxes on any of the provinces simply to fill the Senate’s coffers. I don’t begrudge you or any other man his wealth, but squeezing our citizens dry in this way only leads to unrest that I then have to quell with the legions, which in turn costs more money, not to mention lives!” He shook his head. “I simply will not have it. Not again.”

Julius Livius, Senator of Rome, narrowed his eyes, which were close set over a hawk’s beak of a nose. Half a head shorter than the Emperor and balding, his toga concealed what was still a lithe and powerful body, made so by many years as a soldier, most of them serving beside the man who now took him to task. “We have been friends for many years, Tiberius,” he warned, “but be wary of taking that tone with me. The will of the Senate is the will of the people.”

Tiberius lost his temper. “
The will of the people?
My gods, man, I had to put to the sword twenty thousand of
our
citizens in Galatia after the Senate inflicted the grain tax three years ago and ignited a rebellion. Seven years ago it was the slave tax on Lusitania, and eleven years ago the same foolishness resulted in the Southern Rebellion, which cost over a hundred thousand lives. I’ve had to kill more of our own people during rebellions in the last dozen years than barbarians in the last battles of the war.” Tiberius recalled the old saying that the Rome that
is
, is not the Rome that
was
, and wondered if the emperors of old had to endure similar challenges. He suspected that they had. The world had changed a great deal since Vulcan’s Fury had been unleashed, but men had not. Greed, avarice, the lust for power: none of these things had they left behind.

Livius remained unmoved. “These new taxes will bring badly needed infrastructure improvements to the provinces. You’ve said yourself that the Imperial road network is in great need of repair and expansion, not to mention the demand for new aqueducts and temples.”

“That would be wonderful, Julius, if the taxes actually went to pay for those things. But you and I both know that the Senate skims off at least a quarter from what is collected, and the work is given to cronies who not only skim off more for themselves, but pay kickbacks to their senators as a reward for being granted the work. In the meantime, the work
does not…get…done!
” He slammed his palm against the table that stood between them to emphasize his words. “The only thing the Senate doesn’t interfere with is the pay for the legions, and that’s only because the senators during the reign of Marcus Trajanus were put to death by the army for embezzling their pay.” He favored his guest with a grim smile. “The Senate learned that lesson, at least.”

With a frown that bordered on a scowl, Livius said in a cold, quiet voice, “Then we cannot expect your support?”

“Absolutely not. As I told you, I will not willingly add more useless deaths to the butcher’s bill of the Senate by putting down more rebellions.”

“Do you mean that my parents died useless deaths?”

Both men turned to find Valeria and Paulus standing at the entrance to the emperor’s chambers. Centurion Tullius stood to one side, still as a statue, while the scribe Pelonius looked down at the floor. Behind them, peering over their heads, were the guileless orange eyes of Hercules.

“Is that what you mean, sir?” Paulus added in a wooden voice.

Turning his attention back to Tiberius, Livius said, “As I have your answer, I would take my leave.”

“Of course,” Tiberius growled. “Centurion, please see the senator out.”

“Sir.”
 

As the two men departed, Tiberius turned back to the others. “Pelonius, if you would give us a moment, please. Children. Sit down.”

Valeria did as he asked, taking a seat at the table. Hercules curled up on the marble floor behind her, while Pelonius bowed and left the room.

Paulus came in, then stood at stiff attention beside the table. He looked to be near to tears. “I’d prefer to stand. Sir.”

Tiberius glared at him. “I said, sit…down.”

Doing as his emperor ordered, Paulus took the seat beside Valeria, his back ramrod straight, his eyes fixed directly ahead.
 

“My words were chosen poorly,” Tiberius told him gently, “for they were not meant for your ears and were spoken in anger.” He sighed. “But the truth of the matter is that their deaths, like all the deaths in that terrible campaign, were both tragic and unnecessary. I sent them as special envoys to try and defuse the situation before it got out of control, but I didn’t understand how bad things truly were from the information in my possession. By the time they arrived…” He bowed his head and closed his eyes for a moment. Paulus’s parents, who had been close friends of Tiberius, had not only been killed, they had been crucified and then flayed alive by the rebels. He had gone to some lengths to spare the boy knowledge of those particular details. “The point I was trying to make to the good senator was that the entire rebellion should never have happened. I should never have had to send your parents there, just as I should never have had to send in the legions. It all could have, and should have, been avoided. But we must deal with reality, and as such I accept responsibility for their deaths.” He paused. “I wouldn’t blame you for hating me, but the Senate has just as much blood on its hands for that affair, even if they refuse to admit it.”

“But you’re the Emperor,” Paulus said, “with more power than anyone but the gods.”

Tiberius let loose a mirthless chuckle. “Would that such were true. I do what I can, but the days of the emperor holding absolute power are long since gone. And despite the folly of the Senate, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Such power led to terrible, bloody disaster more than once in the past.” Looking the young man in the eye, he said, “Now, do you understand that the words I spoke to Senator Livius were not meant as disrespect or to dishonor your parents? Do I have your forgiveness?”

Paulus nodded, relief evident on his face. “Of course, sir. And I, too, apologize. It was very impudent of me to interrupt your conversation with the senator. That won’t happen again. I was just…taken aback.”
 

“And with good reason, Paulus, with good reason.” Pouring wine for the three of them, he asked, “That brings me to the next question, which is why are you two here instead of at your studies with Pelonius?” He grinned. “For the outrageous sum I pay the man, every minute is precious.”

“I want to go to Aquitania,” Valeria blurted.
 

Paulus rolled his eyes.

“Aquitania?” Tiberius looked puzzled. “Why?”

“Because she has too much of her impetuous father in her.”

The trio looked up as the Empress Octavia joined them, her shapely body moving with languid strides beneath the sky blue dress she wore that mirrored the color of her eyes. The gleam of the ornate gold pin at each shoulder set off her flaxen hair, which was coiled in a set of elaborate braids. Like her husband, she was tall for a Roman, her stature and looks bequeathed to her by some long ago barbarian ancestor. She was the light to her husband’s dark, for his hair and eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and his skin was olive to her creamy porcelain. A philosopher had once postulated that opposites held a unique and powerful attraction, and no more perfect example could be found than the Emperor and his beloved wife.

She leaned down to kiss Valeria on the cheek, and did the same to Paulus, just as she had every day since he had come into their care. Then she kissed her husband, lightly on the lips, after murmuring something softly in his ear. He chuckled and shook his head as she sat down beside him, then filled her goblet with wine. “And so, daughter, tell us about Aquitania,” Octavia said with a nod of encouragement.

For a moment, Valeria paused, suddenly afraid that she was going to make herself look foolish. She never hesitated to open her mouth about what was on her mind, but once she did she often found it would have been better if she hadn’t.

As had so often happened in the past, Paulus came to her rescue. “She heard tell of the most recent strange reports coming in from the northern coast,” he explained with a sidelong glance at Valeria, “and wants to go play explorer.”

“Darling, there’s nothing to those reports,” Tiberius told her. “I’ve seen them, and they speak of the same things that have been reported for many, many years. If you dug deep and long enough in the Imperial Library, you could probably find such reports going all the way back to the First Spring.”

“But that just reinforces my argument,” she countered. “And I did research some of the reports, and not all of them are from drunken fishermen telling tall tales. Just three months ago, a Greek merchant saw a fish like a giant shark in the Haunted Sea that was longer than his ship…”

Tiberius looked pained. While Greece itself had been destroyed, a branch of its collective lineage and elements of its culture had survived Vulcan’s Fury and had continued on as part of the new Roman Empire. But they were still considered Greek, and not truly Roman. “A Greek? Who knows what the man really saw.”

“…and a tribune of the provincial government witnessed the mass death of a great flock of birds wheeling far out over the Haunted Sea,” Valeria went on as if her father hadn’t said a word. “Hundreds of birds were flying low over the water when it erupted with bubbles and then —
poof!
— the birds fell into the water, dead. Isn’t that
amazing?
”
 

Tiberius raised his hands in mock surrender, but Valeria wasn’t about to give him quarter. “Reports of that sort have been around a long time, I grant you,” she went on. “I read other accounts of boats washing ashore with monstrous creatures aboard.”

With a laugh, Tiberius said, “I’ve read some of those accounts myself, dear daughter, and none of them is more recent than three hundred years ago.”

“That may be true, but there’s the story of the Ghost reported by citizens of Augusta Viromanduorum, which is something completely new.”

“All right,” Tiberius said.

“At least ten different witnesses have had things stolen,” she rushed on, “and the governor has even reported the Ghost has been poaching on Imperial lands and sent out soldiers to arrest him, but they never so much as laid eyes on him. They say that you can only see him if you’re looking right at him, but that…”

“All right.”

“…if he doesn’t really want you to see him, you can’t. He can just disappear, vanish into…”

Leaning forward, waving a hand in front of her face, Tiberius, smiling, said, “
All right
, Valeria!”

She paused, her mouth hanging open. Beside her, Paulus looked like he was crying. Except he wasn’t. He was trying, without a great deal of success, to hold in his laughter. She reached over and slapped him on the shoulder, but he was still wearing his armor and all she got for her trouble was stinging fingers. “You’re terribly undignified,” she scolded him. Turning back to her father, she said, “So we can go? Really?”

“Yes,” Tiberius said with a look at his wife, who nodded, a smile painted across her face. “You can go.”

“Wait a minute,” Paulus said, turning to Valeria. “What do you mean
we?
”

“You have to come with me,” Valeria told him. “You’re not going to let me go alone, are you?”

“
I’m
not going to let you go alone,” Tiberius told her, “and Paulus will be part of your escort, just as he is now. Perhaps during this adventure the two of you will finally come to terms with the issue of marriage.”

Valeria rolled her eyes. “We already have. We’re not.”
 

Paulus looked away and shrugged, the expression largely lost within the bulk of his armor.

“Your father and I have been discussing something like this for a while, actually,” Octavia said after taking a sip of wine. “A trip, that is, in addition to marriage. Most of what you’ve seen of the Empire has been through the eyes of a little girl when we traveled earlier in your father’s career. It’s time that you — both of you — saw with more mature eyes what lies beyond the walls of Rome. You, Paulus, are just taking the first steps along the
cursus honorum
, and a tour of the provinces will give you some of the perspective you’ll need for responsibilities yet to come.”