Robert Silverberg: With Caesar in the Underworld

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 outweigh two 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 opals had 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.”

“Forty-two 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.