huge metal frames contained conveyor belts and empty hooks. Bins were positioned about the walls. Mechanical arms stood at the ready and tools were in their holsters by the workstations. None of it had been touched. It was all brand new.
One of the foremen overturned a bin and the suited man climbed atop it. "Welcome to your new jobs. You have all been chosen because you are hard workers and because you know your place." A few workers began to speak among themselves but the foreman spoke louder, "Before anyone asks, you'll be allowed to go home after the first run is finished. That's at least five weeks."
Rovil glanced to his left and right. He recognized a few people, but not many.
"When you do go home, you will be watched." Everyone went quiet and still. "This is important because your silence is needed. What you're about to do comes from the Caesar himself." The man waved to the side. Then, a loud metallic thumping echoed in the plant.
A golden-armored machine walked in front of the workers and stopped just beside the bin. There was a loud gasp and Rovil stared, open mouthed, at the robot. It was holding an automatic rifle and it was looking across the crowd with its circling blue eye.
"This is a Cyclops and they are the future." There was some chatter among the workers but the foremen clapped their hands. "This one and two others will be stationed here to keep an eye on you all. Don't underestimate them."
Rovil swallowed hard and looked again at the machine. He had read stories. He knew that these warriors were deadly.
"You're going to be building the Caesar's armies. You are now part of the greatest war effort the world has ever seen."
The foremen entered the crowd and began to divide them into groups. Rovil was herded to one side.
"They're going to go get situated in the living spaces while we begin the unpacking process," the foreman said. "Once that's done, we'll all meet to learn our new jobs. Go on over and start uncrating the supplies."
Ahljaela moved toward the large boxes. They had been haphazardly spraypainted with a stencil reading, "Siler River Robotics." Beneath that, there were more words. Rovil couldn't read the foreign language but he did recognize the flag of Nandia.
XXXVIII
CAESAR
144 Years Before the End
"Lord Imperator, Princeps Senatus, Caesar Maxentius the Ninth!" Before the echo of the senatorial praetor's voice left the hall, the emperor strode into view. The five hundred or so patricians gathered there stood and applauded.
Caesar clicked his heels together and bowed toward the people before turning and walking to the left side of the platform. He flung his deep purple cape behind him, reveling in the lack of cables.
"Don't move too quickly," Ouranos warned. "Don't expend too much energy."
Caesar didn't care. He was free of that box. And his puppet. Free for only a few hours, perhaps. Still, it was a measure of freedom.
"I am humbled, most humbled, to be here in this ancient and holy place on the day of my Triumph," he said. Maxentius looked across the sanctuary at the assembly once more, grinned, and then turned to face the priest before him.
The Synoptic Church in Avantine Square was more than a thousand years old. On this same spot stood another Synoptic Church for nine hundred years before that. It was leveled in a fire that swept the city. And before that building was raised, this was where the Temple of Saturn stood for centuries more.
Saturn, Caesar thought. The Atticans called him Cronus. He smiled again. I've got Cronus in the palace working for me. His body didn't require it but he took a chest-puffing breath. The gods work for me.
He looked up and saw the murals on either side of the antique glass window. On the left was Saturn, his face molded from ancient red clay, holding his sickle and hourglass. On the right, Saturn again. Here he was seated in his golden throne, holding a lightning bolt scepter, surrounded by the other Titans. The window itself formed the shape of the sun wreathed with myrtle, in honor of the most ancient beliefs of Tiberians. In front of it hung the symbol of the Median faith, a circle bisected vertically by a simple line.
The white-robed pontifex maximus approached and raised his hands. "Let us pray." Caesar knelt and lowered his head. He studied the contours of his blood-red boots as the head priest of the Synoptic Church spoke. "Lord of all, we ask for your blessings this day. We honor you and ask your blessings upon our leader on this day of his glory, and we pray that he will use it to further your glory."
The pontifex maximus removed a small cylinder from his sleeve and pressed a lever. There was a light spark inside and the incense began to burn. Once the first wisps emerged from the device's vents, he extended his arm fully and slowly made a circle in front of the Caesar.
"Benedictus Deus," the priest said.
"Benedictus Deus," the audience responded.
The imperator's eyes widened. I can smell it! Like vanilla … I can smell it. He hadn't smelled anything in almost two decades. Ouranos and Donovan's last upgrade was well worth the time spent.
"Confiteantur tibi populi, Deus," the priest said.
"Confiteantur tibi populi omnes," the people answered.
The circle motion was complete and the pontifex maximus held the device upright in his hand; his forearm remaining perfectly still and perpendicular to the ground. After a few moments of stasis, the tendrils of incense that left the device clung to the priest's hand and sleeve. Then, he pursed his lips and blew the smoke onto the top of Caesar's head.
"Deus tecum."
The emperor lifted his chin and inhaled the remnants of the incense. When the molecules hit his olfactory sensors, he smiled again.
The pontifex maximus left the platform and exited the sanctuary. From the opposite side of the room, the flamen entered. A priest representing the pre-Median faith of the Empire, the flamen was primarily ceremonial and he performed few duties beyond Triumphs and festivals.
Wearing a heavy wool cloak over his fringed, off-white toga, the priest bounded up the stairs and stood on a small stool beside a marble table. He bowed low, showing off the leather skull cap that marked him as an official of the old religion.
He clasped his hands above his head and said, "Great Caesar! Son of Tiber! Come before the gods of old and make good our bonds to tradition!" The cheer in the man's high-pitched voice was contagious and Maxentius smiled as he rose from his kneeling position on the left side of the dais and walked to the right. He stood in front of the marble table with his left side angled toward the audience.
The flamen pushed a tray of items across the table toward the imperator and he placed a golden bowl next to him. The priest struck a long match and then laid it inside the receptacle. The fuel inside began to burn and the flame rose several centimeters above the rim.
"We honor the Titan of Titans first," the flamen said. "Saturn, god of harvest, god of time, god over all. Place the spoils of conquest in the flame."
Caesar lifted the prepared sheaf of wheat from the tray with his left hand and, in his right, he held a small sickle. Holding the bundle above the fire, he raked the blade about the top of the wheat, allowing grains and chaff to fall and be quickly consumed.
"Now we honor Polus, god of knowledge." The flamen took the sheaf and sickle as Caesar gathered the parchment and quill. "Place the knowledge gained in the conquest in the flame."
The emperor had thought for some time on what to write on the slip. He knew the parchment would be small and the time to write short … then he recalled the moment he stepped off his chariot and the shock that spread around that tent. He scribbled, "Power," folded it up and then dropped it into the bowl. It took a moment, but the velum caught light, popped a couple of times, and was consumed.
"Let us honor the first god of Tiber," the flamen said. Caesar laid down the quill and picked up the sickle again. "Before the Titans, there was Quirinus. God of war, god of the city. Honor the dead of Tiber with your blood."
Caesar practiced this se
veral times over the last week. He put the blade against his "skin" on the arm just above his wrist. With a flourish to hide what actually happened, he lightly raked the sickle across the top of his arm. Red liquid, which he stored within his fluid metallic covering hours ago, poured out and into the flame, where it sizzled.
The flamen clasped his hands again and bellowed, "The Caesar has honored the Titans of old! Now let them honor him!" He removed a wooden box from under the table. He opened the dual panels and reached into the purple velvet to withdraw a silver shape. "As the gods honor you, you will also honor your forefathers by bearing their triumphant visage!"
It was the lifemask of Gaius Marius Caesar, the first emperor of the Tiberian Empire. More than twenty-four hundred years old, it was Tiberia's most revered object. Several in the audience gasped as the flamen held it aloft. It was only removed for the coronation of new emperors and the triumphs of emperors. Given Maxentius' lengthy reign, very few alive today had ever seen it before.
The priest lowered it to the tabletop and removed a small crystal flask from the wooden box. He pulled the stopper and poured the contents into the concave side of the mask. Then he lifted the silver artifact and tilted it in every direction. Caesar watched the red liquid spread out over the contours.
The flamen lifted it again briefly before placing it in front of the imperator's face. He leaned forward, trying to