figures in a great barn, framed by metal webbing. Down the long bay were hauled spidery constructs. They bulked out by accreting parts attached by the lines of humans to either side of the growing machines. Everything was glare and motion. Overhead pulleys spun belts which in turn drove tools at the direction of the workmen. The noise
was unheard but obvious from the way everything trembled, from motes of dust in the air to the greasy windows in the roof. It all danced in the abnormal clarity of the agent’s vision. The crudity and raw-edged power was at contrast to the slickness of the scene immediately previous – and even more at contrast to the sterile perfection underlying the chaos of the initial set of images. It was evident to Perennius that he was seeing a regression, despite the unfamiliarity of the concept to a mind attuned to stasis rather than to change. The regression was evident, even before the workmen – all men – downed tools together and the vision shimmered to –
a kaleidoscope, a montage of discrete images. Imperial troops advanced across a field while their opponents fled. The wrack the defeated left behind included the standards of units the agent knew to be stationed in Britain; the paraphernalia of the barbarian mercenaries fighting at their side; and their dying leader. The sullen rain washed blood from the usurper’s gaping belly and the sword onto which he had fallen.
Elsewhere – perhaps a thousand elsewheres – identical proclamations were tacked to the notice-boards of municipal buildings. Perennius recognized a few of the cities. He could have identified other settings at least by province. As many more scenes and the races of those who read the proclamation were beyond the experience of even the agent’s broad travels.
And at the center, at the core, though it was no more a physical center than the melange of images was actually viewed by the agent’s eyes – there, connected to all the rest by cords of documents and bureaucracy, sat a man enthroned in a vaulted hall. He ruled in state, wearing the splendid trappings which no Roman leader had been permitted save during a military procession, the diadem and gold-shot purple robes.
And the Emperor’s face registered as he signed a document with a vermilion brush –
GAIUS AURELIUS VALERIUS DIOCLETIANUS
Perennius knelt on a narrow trail, holding a woman’s cool hands and staring at his unconscious protege and friend. “Almighty Sun,” the agent whispered. His mind was fusing the youthful face before him with the same face on the throne marked by thirty years more of age and power. “Gaius …”
“I had to change him, Aulus Perennius,” the tall woman said. “The shock made massive repair necessary and … he could not have brought the revival I promised you if he remained the Gaius you knew. I’m sorry, Aulus, there was no other tool available . . . and my time is short.”
“Almighty Sun,” the agent repeated. He drew a shuddering breath. “Always wanted him to be a leader,” Perennius went on. He leaned forward to stroke the younger man’s stubbled cheek. “Always did want that, he could be a good one.” The agent’s eyes met Calvus’. “Not like me. I can’t lead and I won’t follow. Wouldn’t be room for me where you come from, would there, Lucia. That’s what you were showing me.”
“I was showing you a progression toward order and stability in human affairs, Aulus,” the woman said. Only Perennius of all living humans could hear the smile behind her flat delivery. “The realization of the goal to which you have devoted your life.”
Perennius began to laugh. He could not remember an equal outpouring of gusty humor in the past twenty years. Welds in his armor broke as he hooted and bent over despite the stiffness of his casing. Objectively, the agent realized the literal madness of the scene. At a deeper level, he felt that for the first time in his adult life, his vision was clear enough to be called sane.
“Blazes!” he gasped with his palms clasped to his diaphragm. “Blazes! Well, by the time it comes, I won’t be around to get in the way, will I?”