DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Doctor Who, unfortunately D: I own Odie's plot, and Odie's little settlement of immigrants. I am trying to make this story as accurate as possible, but when many sources contradict themselves, according to Doctor Who, I will ALMOST always take the TV-info as the correct. Much of the writing in this chapter is from the book 'Byzantium' by Keith Topping.
How long had she been in there now? Far too long. She didn't like it. There were no windows to tell her the passage of time, and she didn't even know where in Byzantium she was. She had been walking around in the first couple of hours, testing the walls for any possible ways of getting out, but had come up short. She had tried running out when the door had momentarily been opened to put in a tray of food, but she had been pushed violently back.
So now, she was just sitting on the bed. Waiting. And praying quite a bit too. With all the religious talk going around Byzantium, she really felt that was the only thing she could do at this point. No one had tried to talk to her in the time she had been there. She had sort of assumed that it was customary for kidnappers to talk to their victims, but perhaps she had gotten that part wrong. And what had Ian done to get her in this mess?
She was going to tell on him to Theta. Odie hit her head against the wall behind her, allowing her emotions to well up. They couldn't be dead. Not Vicki, not Barbara, not the Doctor. She didn't want to be trapped in Byzantium like this. She wanted to go home.
"Mom," she whispered, cowering on the bed, her knees pulled her chest.
"This is wrong," the Doctor said, loudly, catching the attention of the scribes he was helping. Amos, Reuben and Rayhab, better known as the three scribes in charge of translating texts for the Holy Bible. Forget the Aztecs, or the French Revolution, or Marco Polo. Or the terrible events of the Passchendaele. The Doctor had been at Dunkirk, sailed around the Caribbean in a pirate galleon and had watched the assassination of President McKinley, but they were nothing compared to this – the writing of one of the most significant and well-known pieces of literature in the history of mankind.
It was the equivalent of collaborating with Shakespeare between draft one and draft two of Hamlet. The Doctor was almost humbled by the thought. Almost, but not quite.
Because he had collaborated with Shakespeare between draft one and draft two of Hamlet.
"I beg your pardon?" asked Amos, haughtily, at the mere implication that they had somehow translated the text incorrectly. "What are you saying?"
"This translation is wrong," repeated the Doctor. "Inaccurate. Incorrect. Substandard. Would you like me to elucidate further?" Reuben took the manuscript from the Doctor's hand and read the passage to which the Doctor was pointing.
"He is referring to the story of Jesus curing the apostle Peter's mother-in-law from a fever," he told his colleagues. "And what, please tell us, is wrong with it?" The Doctor waves the two scrolls in Reuben's face, angrily.
"Don't take that tone with me, young man, I've been translating ancient languages into other ancient languages since before you were born. And long after you've died as well!" He paused, and pointed again to the Greek translation. "This is all nonsense. 'Immediately he left the synagogue, and then he entered into the house of Simon and Andrew along with James and John. When he got there he found that Simon's mother-in-law lay sick with a nasty fever, and immediately they told him about this. So, he lifted her up, and the fever left her; and she, being better, served them food.' Utter nonsense!"
"That is exactly what it says," countered Rayhab defensively. "Word for word."
"No, it doesn't!" spluttered the Doctor, laughing at their foolishness. "It says, 'And forthwith when they were come out of the synagogue, they entered into the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. But Simon's wife's mother lay sick of a fever, and anon they told him of her. And he came and took her by the hand, and lifted her up; and immediately the fever left her, and she ministered unto them'."
"What is the difference?" asked Reuben.
"What is the difference?" repeated the Doctor, with a girlish shriek. "There's a whole world of difference. Dear, dear, dear, I can see I'm going to have to go back through all of the work you've already done and double-check it." Amos, Rayhab and Reuben stared at the Doctor, unable to believe that their carefully translated texts were being ridiculed in such a way. And by such a strange person.
"But, but..." stammered Amos. "We translated it accurately."
"Perhaps," said the Doctor, testily. "but your version is as dry as stale bread. It is a chartered accountant's version of the scripture. It ignores the nuances and the flair for language and poetry of the author. The flow of the sentences. The brilliance and sparkling energy of the piece. 'And she served them food'! I ask you, who on Earth is going to get inspired enough to join your religion with phrases like that?! This," he said rattling the recently translated piece. "is soulless."
"So you are suggesting what, exactly?" asked Rayhab.
"That you follow your inspiration, not your sense of accuracy," the Doctor told them.
"Is she behaving?"
"Yes. No problems with that one. Just a pity we can't have any fun," the answer sounded, and Odie frowned. Yeah, she just bet they were sorry about that.
"We have no options. Tribune Octavius commands it," a gruff voice replied, and the sound of stamping on the ground, followed by a series of footsteps made it clear to Odie that one of the two legionnaires outside had gone. She hoped it was the one who wanted fun, rather than the one who sounded loyal to this 'tribune'.
Odie had found that, if she was quiet, and sat by the side of the large door, she could just barely make out what was being talked about on the other side of the door. So far, she had heard precious little. Something about this 'Tribune Octavius', the reformation of Byzantium and that their plans were progressing as planned. The whole 'reformation of Byzantium' bothered her.
"Just bloody brilliant, Theta. How do you manage to land us in the thick of things every single time?"
Vicki was trying hard to fit in. Really, she was. It was an effort at times, having to constantly bite her tongue instead of giving her opinion where it clearly wasn't wanted. But two or three days of being seen but not heard had an impressive effect. Particularly on Evangeline, who had seemingly taken it upon herself to hel Vicki understand the culture of the Greeks better than she had managed so far.
"Now add the flour," Evangeline told Vicki as the girl continued to knead the sticky yellow dough that glued itself to her fingers.
"How long do I have to keep doing this?" Vicki asked impatiently. "It feels like I'm handling brains. I'm sure I'm doing it all wrong." Evangeline shook her head.
"No, you are not. You live life in far too much of a hurry, little one," she said. "Carry on until you have pushed all of the air out of the dough. You will know when the time is right." Well, that explains everything, thought Vicki, but she kept her silence.
"I can't believe you get bread from this," she said at last. For Vicki, bread was something that either came out of an oven, hot, or out of a food machine in the TARDIS corridor just outside the console room, sort of lukewarm and tasting ever so slightly of almonds. The Doctor had been telling her that he would get it fixed one day...
With difficulty, Vicki cleared thoughts of the Doctor from her mind. All in the past. All long in the past. Meanwhile, next door to where Vicki and Evangeline made their bread, the seemingly friendly neighbours of the Georgiadis family, Dorothea and Damien, were at that precise moment entertaining a recently arrived guest.
It had better be worth my while coming all of the way to this place, Greek," said centurion Crispianus Dolavia, removing the black cloak from his head and shoulders. "I am a busy man, and my time is money."
"Have I ever let you down before?" asked Damien quickly. "I am the best spy you have, centurion, and you know it."
"Keep your voice down," Dorothea shrieked. "Do you want the whole neighbourhood to know of these matters?" The Roman soldier gave the couple the kind of look that he normally reserved for something that had just crawled out from under a stone.
"Can you voice your objections a little louder, woman?" he asked Dorothea. "For it is my belief that there is a deaf man in Antioch who did not quite hear your shrillness." Bitterly, Dorothea turned away from the men and sloped off into a corner to brood on the insult. The centurion considered, briefly, threatening her with a savage whipping for her insolence towards him, but decided that this could prove counter-productive. "I am still waiting, potter, to know what information you have that was so urgent it could wait no longer before I heard it?" Damien paused.
"A payment, for the risks that I take on your behalf, is always much appreciated, centurion. For I am but a simple craftsman earning a poor living amongst the impoverished of this quarter." Centurion Crispianus Dolavia sighed deeply, felt into the pocket of his tunic and removed a small bag of coins which he dropped, with a clank, unto the table.
"I am not an ungrateful man, potter. Unless, of course, my time is wasted in which case my gratitude has been known to extend even unto death. Speak and quickly, or forever hold your peace..." So Damien spoke.
"The next house, whereupon lives Georgiadis, the shopkeeper, and his fat wife and their mewling brat. I have evidence that they are involved with the schemes of anti-Roman elements and insurrectionists."
"I am listening," said the centurion. "Continue and present your evidence that I may make a decision upon it."
"They have a new arrival," said Damien. "A girl."
"A Briton," interjected Dorothea, coming to her husband's side, her wounded feeling seemingly healed by the money on the table.
"A Briton in Byzantium is certainly strange," noted the Roman, "but it is hardly proof conclusive of any wrong-doing by these people. Perhaps I should ask them to their face what is their business..." He reached out for his bag of coins but Damien's hand stopped him.
"Forgive me, centurion," he said quickly, as Crispianus Dolavia reached for his sword. "But there is more. The girl asks many curious questions. She seems very interested in the activities of Roman legions. She has been seen in the Jewish quarter."
"She is a spy," Dorothea announced grandly. "Why else would a Briton be sharing a roof with a Greek family?" Centurion Crispianus Dolavia considered this for a moment.
"This matter would seem to require further investigation. Thank you for betraying the presence of this girl. I bid you both good night. A blessing be upon your house."
When Odie woke from her uneasy rest, plagued with visions of Daleks, Robomen, Sou(ou)shi and the like, she wasn't quite sure what had woken her at first. As she blinked her dark eyes, hoping to get her bearing in the dark room, she realized it was the sounds of battle. War cries, the sharp zing of metal hitting metal, the deep drum of blades hitting armor.
She jumped to her feet, scrambling to the wall where she saw the faint light of the lanterns outside coming through the cracks in the doorframe. She put her ear to it, listening closer. She wanted to know what was happening. Who had come to attack them? Were they trying to save her? Trying to kidnap her from her kidnappers? Odie wished everything would just be over already.
She hadn't the time to jump up when suddenly the door opened. She just merely had the time to turn her face so the smack didn't break her nose, as she was slammed back to the wall. She yelped as her head thundered against the stone wall, making little lights dance in front of her eyes.
"Are you all right?" a voice asked, echoing strangely in her ears, and she closed her eyes, attempting to block it out. She felt sorta like she'd just downed two pints of the Boss' special tonic. She reminded herself to never do such a stupid thing again. She must have been bonkers to even try it.
"I'm gear, daddio," she muttered in response, remembering what Ian had said what felt like ages past, and she was carefully pulled to her feet, lifted from the floor and carried from her prison.
Having left the comparative sanctuary of Hieronymous's home, Barbara Wright didn't have the faintest idea of where she would, or could, go next. Or, wherever that was, whether she would be safe from persecution there, because of her nationality and pale skin. By the Jews, or the Romans, or the Arabs, or anyone else for that matter.
She wasn't even sure whether, if she looked at someone in a way that they took exception to, whether she would find herself with her throat slashes, bleeding to death and gasping her final breath in the gutter of some Byzantine backstreet, cursing the dark November evening in London that she and Ian Chesterton had decided to investigate their mysterious and unearthly child, Susan Foreman. Which is a wonderfully paranoid notion to have constantly in the back of your mind, she thought, as you wander through the streets of a strange and glittering metropolis. In a complex political and social landscape where you are a total outsider and with many inexplicable peoples, cultures and creeds. And in a brutal time of troubles and inhumanities. A time of great sorrows.
And, to think, Barbara had been the one who had been excited by the prospect of coming to Byzantium in the first place. That was a good idea. Silly, silly girl, she reproached herself. Next time you want to go exploring the annals of history, stick to the British Library. At least you normally don't get stabbed in the back while in the reading rooms.
Uncertainty was a key word for Barbara just at the moment. More so than usual. The only thing that she knew for certain was that her future lay somewhere other than sharing a house with the old Pharisee, Hieronymous, however painful for both of them that fact was. She cared for Hieronymous. He had been a kind stranger in a dark time for her, but she could not and would not be what he wanted of her.
As she walked along the cobbled and narrow streets of the Jewish quarter, she began to formulate a plan in her mind that would at least point the way towards whatever the future held in store for her. Firstly, she decided, she would need to return to the market square, the scene of the apocalyptic horror that had taken her friends from her and destroyed the one constant thread in her life. It would be painful and hard, but it was necessary.
While Hieronymous had been discouraging about the chances of her companions surviving the terrible atrocity of almost two weeks before, there had still been no definitive word from anyone as to whether Ian and Vicki and Odie and the Doctor had been among the casualties. Unlikely as it was that any or all of them may have survived, it was, Barbara had decided, time to find out one way or another.
Only once that question had been settled within her own mind could Barbara face the prospect of what was to come. She felt a little like someone walking towards their own execution. She felt hollow, sad and alone.
At the entrance to the market was a temple to Isis and Osiris, Egyptian gods drawn into the Hellenistic-Roman spheres of influence, like Byzantium, by those who travelled through the empire and brought back with them to Greco-Roman shores these strange and exotic ideas. Barbara moved to the edge of the square itself. She paused, frozen to the spot by a fear that had no rationality, but was there just the same.
The bloodstains that still marked the spots where so many had been crushed and trampled to untimely deaths made her wince. For a moment she almost turned and ran from the market-place. But, just as fear was present, so also a strange fascination held her steady.
The colours were brilliant. Simply breathtaking. Blues and purples and reds and yellows of every shade of the rainbow. And beyond. The mosaic-tiled floor of the market square was chiefly what caught Barbara's attention, despite the dust, the footprints, the blood and the horse manure – a representation of Zeus at the top of Mount Olympus, looking down upon the world.
The Romans had, of course, replaced the original Greek inscription, renaming the portrait as that of their own Father of the Gods, Jupiter, the centre of family life, of authority and discipline. All around, she noticed statues of Greek deities that had become Roman, like a series of irregular fractions changed beyond all recognition, simply by being rechristened. A beautiful metaphor for the way in which the Romans had simply stretched themselves across the template of Greek culture and had become it. Poseidon into Neptune. Artemis into Diana. Hermes into Mercury. Aphrodite into Venus. Prometheus into Vulcan. Re-Christ-ened... The word, and all of its connotations, amused Barbara greatly.
She resolved that, whatever else happened to her, and wherever she ended up, that she would experience every moment from now on with a spring in her step. So, with this in mind, she conquered her sudden claustrophobic terror and stepped into the market-place of Byzantium, where her friends and companions from the future had (probably) died. And, on standing on the Zeus mosaic, a question raised a moment before was fully answered. How, she had wondered several times in the days she spent with Hieronymous, would she feel when she stood where Vicki, Odie, Ian and the Doctor had breathed their last breath?
Now, she knew.
She felt nothing. Nothing, but a vague sense of outrage that they had died here, of all places. Byzantium. A terrible place to die.
It had been the first time since that day in the market square that Ian had either been allowed, or had allowed himself, to leave the sanctuary of the Villa Praefectus. He had not intended to leave before he had found Odie, but after searching the villa for several days, with no trace of her, he saw the command he had been given as a point in the right direction.
Come to the barracks, the note that had been passed to him by Tobias had said. And come alone.
He hoped the sender had some news of Odie, or this would be one big waste of time. He found the meeting place easily enough and then had to endure a torturous twenty minutes waiting around for whoever had written the note to make themselves known to him. He felt like a spare groom at a wedding as numerous soldiers passed him, going in and out of the barracks.
When general Calaphilus finally arrived, his appearance didn't surprise Ian in the slightest.
"I'd figured that it was probably you who sent the note," Chesterton said flatly. "Less of a requet, more of a command. It smelled of the military a mile away."
"You came alone, as I asked?" the general queried.
"No," replied Ian, sarcastically. "I brought the household cavalry with me."
"Your ways and words are strange and baffling to me, Briton," continued the general when he was certain that they were alone. "One should have thought that a soldier such as myself would prove to be a useful ally to one such as yourself? That you would do all that is within your power to cultivate such a liaison..."
"No offence," Ian noted, "but I still don't know if I can trust you yet," he continued.
"I see that to which you allude," the general noted, slipping behind Ian and drawing the schoolteacher's sword from its scabbard. Calaphilus held the gladius, dramatically, across Ian's chest, inches from slitting his throat. Then, after a moment he withdrew the sword and looked at it. "A finely forged weapon."
"A gift," said Ian. "From the Praefectus." All of a sudden, Calaphilus didn't seem nearly so impressed.
"Get it out of my sight," he said, handing the sword back, hilt-first, to Ian. "You will be wondering why I was so anxious to see you, this day, Briton?" Ian shrugged.
"Intrigue?" he asked. "Nefarious skullduggery of some description? Isn't that was it's all about?"
"I see that you are a man who keeps his ear close to the ground," the general noted in complete seriousness.
"So I am, but as I said, I don't trust you," Ian pointed out, and the general seemed to consider this statement for an age, before he nodded firmly.
"Then let me prove I am worthy of your trust," he said, as he led Ian down the corridor. They passed a few open doors, leading to armories and offices. When they happened upon a closed door, Calaphilus withdrew a key from a pocket in his tunic, unlocking the door. "I made an arrest last night. A young tribune-elect whose mother named him Octavius Kempia. He's probably tied to other tribunes elsewhere in Byzantium," he explained, as he opened the door. Frankly, Ian tuned him out after that.
"Odie!"
He burst into the room, falling to his knees next to the small bed in the corner. Lying upon it was the very girl Ian had spent the majority of the week searching for. He quickly checked her for pulse and heartbeat. Everything seemed normal.
"We found her kept in Tribune Octavius's dungeons. Most likely, she was kept as a means to get to you," the general said from behind Ian, as Odie's eyes fluttered a bit at the sounds around her. Ian almost thought she'd wake up, but instead, she just tossed around, sleeping soundly on the other side. He chuckled at the sight, shaking his head. That girl could probably sleep from explosions.
"Okay. You have my attention. But I'm inclined to blame you for her current condition, so what you've got to say had better be good," Ian admitted, turning around. The general held his palms towards Ian, shrugging with a sigh.
"I have started a fire that will bring the whole rank and rotten corpse of Byzantium crashing down around the ears of those would pollute it with their decadent ways. Last night, guided by the confessions of Octavius Kempia, I arrested Edius Flavia, one of his fellow young and hotheaded tribune-elects, whose libido carries more influence within than common sense. The charges of Edius, however, will not stand to close examination, but I now have him under guard where I can attempt to loosen his tongue. And loosen it I shall, Briton, for Octavius's words tell me there are plots and schemes afoot. Tangled webs like those of a spider that must be delicately unpicked before they can be ruthlessly torn apart.
"You like tearing things down, don't you?" Ian asked, his newly given trust in the general rapidly draining away, as he kept a hand on Odie's shoulder. It took Gaius Calaphilus a long time to answer the question. He seemed surprised by it.
"No," he said finally, and honestly. "If truth be told, I do not. Oh, I am jubilant this day that I have uncovered the first of the conspiring insurgents who attempt to destroy all that I have worked so hard to achieve. With luck, and with your help, I may be able to expose the trail all the way to the door of the Praefectus."
"Those are dangerous sentiments to be voicing in this place, General." Both men looked surprised at Odie, who had apparently awoken.
"Odie! Are you all right?" Ian asked with worry etched into his face, and Odie smiled hesitantly, nodding.
"I have one hell of a headache, and my pride is shattered, but I'm otherwise unharmed," she admitted. "But rather than worry about me, shouldn't the two of you be finding a place somewhere less teeming with soldiers to have this conversation?" Ian nodded, thoughtfully.
"Yes, I think you are right. There was a small outbuilding by the barrack gates. Is there anyone in there at this time of day, general?" he asked, and the general immediately knew what building Ian spoke of.
"No, there is not. That is our armoury." The small group departed, Odie leaning heavily on Ian. She didn't like it, feeling weak like that, but quite frankly, she feared she might have acquired a bit of a concussion from her collision with that door. If any of the guards noticed anything strange of the small group, they said nothing, and the group slipped inside the armoury with no trouble. Calaphilus took a javelin from a rack by the door and weighed the spear in his hand.
"I was once able to put out a man's eye at forty paces with one of these," he said, as if it was a cherished memory. "In Britannia, that was. Have you ever been to Corinium Dobunnorum?" A memory cog rotated and clicked into gear in the back of Ian's mind.
"Cirencester?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Sadly, I have not," Ian replied, thankful that he had at least remembered the place's English name. "I know where it is, though."
"Whensoever you return to the land of your birth, Briton, do me a favour and go there. Go to the fort and the vicus settlement by the river. You will find a beautiful and unspoiled piece of Heaven on Earth. I long for the simple if harsh life that I enjoyed in your land."
"You're not the only one there, squire," noted Ian, and Odie looked up. She had been seated on a small bench against the southern-most wall, and she looked down on the ground, as she realized for the first time how Ian and Barbara felt. Kept from their own time and place, while they desperately longed to return. Odie had wanted to come with the Doctor, with the belief that she could go home if she should ever want to. Technically, was the Doctor still with her, she could. But he wasn't. And she was as stuck as Ian.
"So much more preferable to the corruption and decadence of Rome and all of its civitas replicas, say you not?" It was a rhetorical question and, when he received no reply, Calaphilus threw the spear to the ground and saw down at a rough wooden table. He was clearly upset. "How could so much go wrong in so little time?"
"With Rome, do you mean?" asked Ian. The general nodded.
"Yes, with Rome, and with the Romans. We have grown soft and weak and depraved. We gorge ourselves at banquets and on gladiatorial sports and grow drunk on the power of being just who we are. And all the while, the republic grows a further and more distant memory." Odie's head snapped up. She knew about that! Republic. Barbara had told her about what it meant.
"The republic? Isn't that a rather dangerous view for a general of Caesar to hold?" asked Ian curiously.
"All of the best Romans have been republicans. Including at least two great Emperors. The divine Claudius spent most of his time in Britannia lecturing the troops about how one day, the republic would return to Rome. Of course, there are reasons why it cannot happen at this precise moment..."
"Like, losing the empire overnight?" Ian asked.
"And would that really be such a bad thing?" Calaphilus noted as he slumped in his seat. Ian Chesterton genuinely didn't know the answer to that one.
"Listen," he said at last. "I know that you told me to come alone, but I didn't. I'm sorry, but I thought it was important that someone else hear all of this." The general raised his head and half-stood, snarling angrily at Ian as, with as little intrusion as possible, Gemellus slipped quietly from the shadows. Contrary to how the general probably felt, Odie had never been this happy to see Gemellus. Even if his way of treating her was rather cold compared to most of the others in the Villa, he was still a welcome face.
"You brought the advisor of the Praefectus here?" Calaphilus yelled. "Are you insane, Briton? This meeting, regardless of its contents, could in itself be regarded as treason." Gemellus shook his head quickly.
"I know you are suspicious, Gaius Calaphilus," he said. "That point of view has served you will in a long, distinguished career, but it has also kept men who could have been your allies at arms length when you should have been much closer. The Praefectus and you are more alike than either of you would care to admit, particularly on such subjects as I have just heard you discussing with our mutual friend." Calaphilus began to laugh.
"Thalius Maximus is a republican, say you?" he asked, sarcastically. "I have heard it all now."
"Not a republican as such," acknowledged Gemellus, "but he is a man whose views on the monarchy closely resemble your own. I have talked with him on such matters upon many, many occasions."
"The reason I asked Gemellus to come with me," Ian explained, "is because of an old proverb from my homeland that seems to be particularly applicable in Byzantium: 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'."
"The Praefectus and the general are on the same side, even if they do not realize it yet," Gemellus continued. "The real enemies of both are within their own forces. And if something is not done about those enemies, then we all could perish under a mountain of deceit. And Byzantium shall be lost to the forces of darkness."
Not hours after this surprise had been sprung on the good general did a meeting previously unthinkable take place. The summit reminded Ian of Roosevelt, Churchill and Staling sitting side by side at Yalta, smiling falsely for the official photographs before getting out the maps to partition up Europe. To Odie, it seemed a lot like family night after a big fight. It was the same awkward and tensed atmosphere.
Thalius Maximus was still casting furtive glances all around, wary of plots and treachery. And Calaphilus did not stand in the presence of his Praefectus, but rather remained seated, fanning himself against the dry and oppressive heat of midday.
"Praefectus," he said in a flat monotone. "Welcome to my humble abode. May the gods look kindly upon those who enter this house with liberty in their hearts."
"Oh, for God's sake, knock it off you two," Ian said, which cut through the rhetoric. Odie wished she didn't have to act the part of a will-less slave at that moment. Then she would've told those oh-high-and-mighty Romans just how childishly they were behaving. "You both know full well why Gemellus and I have arranged this meeting. It's in both of your interests that you find some common ground, so get on with it and stop procrastinating or I'll give the pair of you a ruddy good biff on the conk." Neither man looked entirely sure of the exact nature of Ian's threats, and Odie herself didn't really know what he had just blabbered about, but the outburst itself was seemingly enough for them both to sit opposite each other at a table in the centre of the room. Ian and Gemellus joined then, Ian beside the general, Gemellus at the elbow of the Praefectus. Odie remained at the wall, watching the meeting with a small smile. She wasn't sure why, but she had a feeling this was going to be interesting.
Gaius and Thalius eyes each other suspiciously, neither wishing to be the man who spoke first. So Ian did it for them.
"You know," he began, "where I come from, men of honour, of real integrity, are astonishingly rare. Oh, you meet the odd one every now and then, but you remember such occasions because they don't happen very often. Counting Gemellus, I'm sitting in a room with three of them. That should be the kind of memory I carry to my grave. But, you see, the thing is, if you two don't realize that you're on the same side then it's likely that my grave is a damn-sight closer to me than I, nor either of you two, I suspect, would like." Still neither the general nor the politician spoke.
"Our young Briton's sentiments are words of wisdom that belie his tender years," continued Gemellus. "But words of wisdom can also be lies. His words are the truth. You owe it to him to make his vision occur." Thalius Maximus began to say something. Stopped. Started again, then ground to a halt for a second time, shaking his head.
"Wise counsel is always appreciated," he finally noted. "Gemellus gives it to me until I am ready to drown in it. But..." He paused and looked directly at Ian. "By what right do you presume to tell the general and I how to conduct the emperor's business?"
"Good question," chorused Calaphilus. Ian threw up his hands in exasperation.
"Stop talking like men divorced from reality," he demanded. "You are not ostriches, either of you, but unless you get your head out of the sand, you're going to die, and Byzantium will belong to those who would see it drown in an ocean of blood. Is that what you want? Because that's what will happen."
"Do you take me for a squint-eyed dunderhead? For that would be folly in the extreme, young Briton, and our friendship would be at an end," said Calaphilus, harshly.
"You are nobody's fool, Gaius," Ian assured him. "And this is the only way, believe me." An uneasy silence settled over the group. "Come on," Ian bellowed, breaking the hush. "Talk to each other before we all croak."
"We could, I suppose, discuss areas of mutual interest," Thalius said at last.
"Such as?" bullied Calaphilus, and Odie was about ready to throw something iron in his face, just to make sure it would hurt.
"Not dying a horrible and needless death, for one," Ian interrupted instead, effectively saving Odie from one hell of an explanation. "That would seem to be mutually beneficial, wouldn't you say?" The Praefectus nodded, slowly, while the general said nothing. "Wake up, gentlemen. The assassins are at the palace gates; both of your lives are in dire peril. We have to do something."
"I am doing something," Calaphilus countered. "Already I have, under close arrest, two of the men I suspect to be involved in the outrages. Octavius Kempia and," he looked closely at Maximus. "Edius Flavia, Praefectus, a tribune of most high rank whom you, yourself, were instrumental in helping to obtain his posting." Thalius ignored the general's accusing stare and shook his head, sadly.
"I knew his father. A great man. Be you certain of Flavia's involvement in these hideous crimes?"
"Intelligence informs me thus," replied Calaphilus, and Ian and Odie looked at each other, smiling as the two men seemed to have found their common ground; unraveling the plot against them. "And I believe that I know the identities of several others who also conspire against me. As yet, however, Flavia has not been forthcoming with confirmation of these names and, thus, I am obliged not to act upon my numerous suspicions." The Praefectus seemed to find this amusing.
"We all know Marcus Lanilla and Fabius Actium seek both of our deaths with relish, Gaius; one does not have to be the wisest man in the Pantheon to see such a blindingly obvious conceit. I shall go further and suggest that such plots also involve Lanilla's wife, the viperous Agrinella. Add in a plethora of local officials, bruised by perceived blockages to their political prospects, a few middle-ranking army officers, ambitious to crawl up the greasy pole of field promotion, one or two slaves promised their freedom, and yse, gaius, perhaps even the former wife of a weak and tired Praefectus, and you have a ripe and merry band of conspirators, poised for their moment in the sun."
"Proof, however, is another matter, Praefectus," the general replied sarcastically. "For some of us still believe in the tenets of Roman law." Odie scowled. They were regressing again.
"A law including impunity from crucianienturn which you have, presumably, broken in the attempt to extract a damning confession and a conspirator's list from Flavia and Kempia," Thalius argued. "Have you whipped them near unto death, or is there still something left that I may question as the prosecutor of this city?"
"Stop bickering like children," Ian said, rolling his eyes. "Gemellus, what have we done?" he asked.
"Begun a process. A dialogue," the adviser replied. "Gentlemen, we have begun to discuss mutual interests; surely maintaining order amid the anarchy of this part of the empire would fall into such a category?"
"Of course," snapped Calaphilus. "Every good Roman wishes to see the empire strong and well managed." He gave Thalius a positively lethal glance. "Is that not so, Praefectus?"
"I want nothing more than to serve the empire and maintain its position."
"You are two proud men," Ian said. "And perhaps we can make you realize that you have a lot more in common than may, at first, appear to be so." The room was plunged, again, into an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of Gaius's fan swishing through the air. The tension was palpable, and Odie was uncertain if she was just sweating from the blasted heat.
"I am ready to listen to reason," Thalius said at last, making Odie release a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. "And I suspect that the general is also willing."
In another part of Byzantium, a family was held down by Roman Legionnaires. The husband was pinned to the floor by two of the soldiers, a look of anguish and pain on his face as one of them tied his hands together with coarse rope. Beside the fire, a large woman, her face reddened by a single, stinging blow to the cheek, was also sprawled on the floor, a legionnaire towering over her, ready to repeat the dose if she him any cause.
"Where is the girl?" said the captain angrily, for the time since him and his men had kicked in the door.
"here, sir," said one of the legionnaires, throwing back a tough blanket under which cowered two pairs of terrified eyes. Captain Felinistius marched across the room to the two young girls.
"Which amongst you is the Briton?" he demanded.
"Neither of us," said Vicki, quickly. "We're both as Greek as..." She stumbled to a pause. "As Greek can be," she concluded.
"This one," the captain noted, and the rough arms of two soldiers hauled Vicki from beneath the blanket. "She is the one. No Greek child would be so forward. Bring her." He turned to the Georgiadis, struggling against his bonds. "Our business is concluded in this place, Greek," he said, sweeping out of the door without another word, followed by his troops, dragging the terrified Vicki with them.
The following day, Crispianus Dolavia arrived at the home of the potter, Damien, and his wife, Dorothea, with a view to paying them further for information rendered. He had been pleased with the last morsel that they had given him – the revelation about the young Briton girl whose presence in the Greek quarter had been a mystery. The girl was now under the protectorate of the forces of Rome. Soon they would know who she was and from whence she came. And, more importantly, what she was doing in Byzantium.
So Damien and his wife had proved useful, as they had on many occasions past. And Crispianus was grateful to them. He arrived at the door, his pockets full of coins for them if they could provide him with more of the same. But something was wrong, the centurion knew that the moment that he rapped on their door and found that it creaked open by itself.
In the bedroom of the Greek house, he found the blood-splattered bodies of the potter and his wife, murdered in their beds. As he put a hand to his mouth to stop himself from vomiting, Crispianus reflected that such a reaction was most surprising. He had seen death in all of its shades and forms across the empire. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he, and his bargain with Damien and Dorothea, was responsible for their murders that upset the centurion.
But the feeling didn't last long. After all, this was the inevitable fate of all who spy in Byzantium, whether for the Jewish Zealots, the Christians or the Romans. It was simply a question of when.
There! Next chapter up. I am, once again, entering an area of mind where I find it exceedingly difficult to fill in the blanks of the next adventure, but I am working on it... Hopefully... Anyways, hope you all enjoy this chapter! Next time I update will be either on 24th or 25th. I will then post TWO chapters, as a christmas present :)