Finding time to write has been the difficult part of getting going for this book thus far. And when I have a bit of time, I can sit and stare at the screen. Sometimes I'm just not "feeling it" for whatever reason. That sucks and there's little to be done for it.
Another obstacle? What to listen to as I write. Readers know I listed to the thirteen-plus hours of the Galactica/Caprica soundtracks over and over, totaling thousands of hours, but what to listen to as I write a story set in a modern Roman Empire? Well, I started by listening to Roman and Greek music (or at least recreations thereof). Eh. Then I moved on to movie soundtracks, but those weren't terribly inspiring and I often got distracted thinking about the movies and scenes I was listening to. I ended up back in the Galactica-verse. Yeah, I'm listening to Bear McCreary's great music, over and over again, again, as I write.
Longtime readers know I love to map things. It helps me immerse myself in the worlds I'm building and maybe it helps readers, too. If nothing else, it shows the readers that I actually put some thought into the bullshit I write. This time, since I am writing about our world in a different dimension, mapping our world with Roman lines and names on everything would be helpful. So here you go:
I had to do a lot of reading on Roman history and indigenous languages to understand how the world might look. Europe was called "Europe," the Atlantic "the Atlantic," and "Africa" to the Romans is what we would call "north Africa." "Oriens" is Latin for "east" and I chose that for Asia's name; thus also the "Eastern Ocean" aka "Oriental Ocean" ("Oriental" not having been used as a slur in that universe). Some of the other continent names come from an ancient map of the world by Crates of Mallus. He called the land south of north Africa "Antoeca" while he also hypothesized a pair of continents on the other side of the world, Perioeca and Antipoda. Thus, when my Romans went exploring, that's what they called these lands in the "New World." Australia gets the name "Marege" from the Makassar people of Indonesia, who, centuries ago, spoke of the land to their south as "Marege," the "wild country."
I had to map Londin a bit, too, so I started with the various police districts and I imagined greater Londin as a bit bigger than the London of our universe:
"Southwark" is a name used in London today, but it's a quite ancient name, so I kept it for the book. Newfield and Broadhand are based on ancient Roman settlements in those areas and I just translated their Latin names into English. If you Google "Londinium," you'll likely see a polygon settlement on the north side of the Thames; that's the "Old City" in the above map. The "New City" is the provincial and city buildings (the governor's palace, the Senate house, magistracy, etc.) that function today on the south side of the River Tames (no "h" in that universe, and it rhymes with "aims"). "LIC" is the "Londin Intercontinental Skyport"; "The Star" is the massive railway and subway (called "underway") complex that got its name because the converging rail lines looked like a star. "Portaper" is a neighboring city that handles a lot of cargo because it straddles the Tames; name derives from Latin for "port" and "opening."
The story of Londinium is set today, but in a world where the Roman Empire didn't go away. (I wrote out a very detailed history of the world that I'll probably include in the book as an index. I did it mostly to keep things straight in my head as ideas came to me and to provide backstory to the various cultures.) The world is governed from Roma and all people born on Earth are citizens of the Roman Republic. Londin has been associated with Roma for almost two thousand years. The Normans never invaded, England never had its own kings or queens, English isn't spoken there ... neither is Italian, for that matter. The language of the Republic is called "Roma," and it's probably some flavor of Italian, but not exactly. (This is why some cities may sound Italian to our ears, like "Bonaventura.") I'm writing in English because that's what I know ... I'm not JRR Tolkien over here inventing a whole new language. Well, at least not this time. The people of Brittan are not reserved ... they are wholly different than the people of Great Britain. That's something I wanted to communicate in this first chapter. These aren't Brits, so don't imagine them speaking with a Cockney accent or something. Slang "yes" and "no" comes from corrupted Germanic, "ya," "na." There's no "OK"; these people are more apt to say "Aye" in its place. The Republic has existed in one form or another for almost three millennia. It is ever-present in the people's lives and no one questions it. It's a different world. I'm curious if all of this is conveyed.
Read the chapter after the JUMP:
SUNDAY, 1 FESTIVAL, 2777
First day in Homicide. Uniform duty at the Festival. Became acquainted with decuri, my new partner and others. No arrests to report.
He stepped out of his car and surveyed the New City. The columns of the Forum were to his right. The large, alabaster structure of the Senate house was before him. To his left, he saw the taller office buildings serving the province as well as the governor's palace. Scattered in between and all about the wide paths were carnival rides, food vendors, and gaming booths. There were only a few dozen people milling about, but he knew that would change.
Armilios Zonara Chogan. If his description were to be called out over the air, it might be, "Number three male, Perry, about thirty years old, under two meters (but over six feet), black hair, clean shaven, medium build, muscular." At the moment, he was wearing the standard-issue brown duty uniform of the Londin Police Force with a brown kerchief and a silver eagle standard over his left breast. The plaque attached beneath it reading, "Inspector," was the only signifier that he was more than a mere watchman.
He walked to the rear of the vehicle and opened the hatch. From within he removed his leather belt and brought it around his waist. On his left side was a silver baton. In the rear, two sets of silver binders. On his right hip, a dull gray VertiGun. A glance toward the sky revealed no ominous clouds so he ignored the raincoat. He looked at the heavy longcoat and thought for a moment before deciding it wasn't cold enough for that, either. He removed the brown hat, placed it on his head, closed the hatch, and started walking toward the Festival.
The familiar slap of his devices against his legs comforted him, but he knew this was only temporary. Tomorrow and every day thereafter, Chogan wouldn't be wearing that belt.
He walked between the automatic traffic posts, locked in the raised position to prevent vehicles from entering the Festival. Zonara nodded at a few watchmen guarding the main entrance several meters away and he lifted a plastic barrier band over his head as he moved under it. He passed a few food stands and sniffed at the aromas. The sizzle of meat on grills was enticing but he'd have to wait a while before he could sample anything. Ahead, he saw a collection of vehicles. One was a medcarrier, its nose pointed toward the street and its rear doors open, ready to accept a patient and spring toward a hospital. One was a standard LPF patrol car: a '75 Windstrong Vayu, white base color with black and yellow stripes, "LONDIN POLICE" lettering on the doors, and blue lights on top. There were a couple of unmarked trucks, too, but the largest vehicle was the Situation Command truck. A long metal cabin, this was the place where the police and Republic Information Control could keep watch over everything. He nodded at the watchman by the bottom of the stairs as he walked up and into the vehicle. An inner door opened and he was awash in near darkness and bombarded with sound.
He blinked a few times to adjust his eyes and finally spotted faces in the room, highlighted by monitors and their various control panels. Technicians along the cabin's length spoke into microphones dictating reports, directing surveillance, or moving officers. He stood rigidly near the entrance because he didn't recognize anyone and then saluted.
Like many things in the LPF, the salute was borrowed from the Republic's military traditions. The right closed fist, supposedly gripping the handle of an invisible downward-pointing dagger or sword, placed against the breastbone. Police ranks come from the Republic Army. General uniform style. Command structure. The sense of duty and honor. The weight of a Roman eagle standard upon the breast and the imperium it represents. Also, inelasticity. Reticence to change. Suspicion of those not in uniform. Suspicion of those in uniform who rank above you. A reluctance to admit fault or weakness.
"Ease." A woman stepped away from the monitors and looked toward him.
He lowered his salute and said, "Inspector Zonara Chogan, reporting as commanded."
She walked toward him and extended her hand. "Decuri Woods Macann."
They clasped hands briefly before she turned toward a shelf and removed a black communications device from its charger. Macann looked at his standard and said over her shoulder, "One eight seven five one." She looked at the device. "Vox forty-seven."
A technician from the darkness repeated, "One eight seven five one, unit forty-seven. Confirmed." The decuri handed it to Chogan and he brought it to his waist where it magnetically clamped onto his leather belt.
"I'll walk you to your post." She gestured toward the door and said to no one in particular, "Back in ten."
They emerged in the fading brightness of the day and the inspector waited for his superior a few steps away from the stairs. For the first time, he could properly see her and form a description in his mind.
"A number one female, Euro, about forty years old, just under six feet, neck-length brown hair tied back, slender build, standard brown LPF uniform with white kerchief and golden eagle standard."
She pointed toward the river and started walking, "This way, inspector." After a moment, she asked, "How did you find the reorientation training?"
"Very helpful. I had some colleagues who said it was a waste of time, but I didn't believe so."
"I'm glad to hear that. You were on time today, but you should know that I expect everyone in the office fifteen minutes before the start of duty."
"Understood, decuri."
"You can call me 'dec.' Most people do." A couple of festival goers stepped out of their way as they walked past. "Ten minutes before duty, we have announcements, postings, and updates. I like to get that done before the start of the shift."
"And this is the first day your unit has been on third shift, yes?"
"Ya. Sixteen to midnight every day for the next two weeks. I'll draft your schedule soon so you'll know your leave days."
"Thank you."
"Do you know about Central Command?"
Chogan looked to his left and saw the governor's palace. "It's two squares to the west of the palace."
"Correct, but it is closed."
The noise level increased as they neared the games and rides set up along the wide paths. A spinning wheel flung children and adults against the walls while loud music played. A rickety metal cage raised ten then twenty meters above the ground before free falling, causing its occupants to scream in terror, only for the cage to be caught and slowed a few meters before disaster. Once they were past the worst of the din, Zonara asked, "Why closed?"
The decuri rolled her eyes, "Amiantos removal." Concern flashed on his face and she said, "It was a surprise to us, as well. They said the process would take six months and we've been out for three months already. Do you know where the old Republic Reserve building is?"
He looked up and saw the River Tames and the ancient Tiberian Bridge, now a pedestrian bridge connecting the New City and the Old. He looked west across the museum buildings and restorations of Londinium to a midsized tower. As he pointed, he said, "There. About a square north of the old fort."
"We're on the fifth floor. It's rather nice in reality. More spacious than the tenth in Central Command. There he is."
Zonara looked ahead and saw the enormous Senate house, where both the provincial Senate and Assembly met. His view of the structure was obscured by a large temporary stage where, presumably, musicians would be performing later. Propped against a lightpost was a man in a brown uniform, smoking a sigan. He was watching the workers prepare the instruments and equipment for the show, oblivious to the two until they were right next to him.
"Inspector Zonara Chogan, this is Principal Inspector Renzo Farese." Farese stood straight and held his sigan by his left side. He offered his right hand and Chogan briefly clasped it. "We team new inspectors with a principal for a time until they get adjusted. Correct, principal?"
"Yes, dec. You're correct."
She nodded at him before turning toward Zonara and offering two cylinders. "Light." He extended his left arm and she slapped the device above his wrist. Two metal bands unwound from the pair of flashlights and then around his forearm to hold it in place. "I'll be in SitCom if needed." She walked away and then it began.
The Assessment.
In the Republic's military, in police forces around the world, in fields of work wherein two people would be paired together for hours on end and depend on each other, sometimes trusting the other with their lives, the first moments of that partnership are fraught with tension as they scan each other for weaknesses, strengths, positives, negatives. Answers to questions like: What's his story? Does he outrank me in society? Does he think he's better than me?
For his part, Farese's evaluation was hidden underneath a cloud of sigan smoke as he casually puffed on the thin, white cylinder. Zonara just blinked slowly and appeared relaxed, but he was assessing his new partner all the same.
Number four male, Anty, possibly fifty years old or more, six feet, close-cut black-and-gray hair, short beard, medium build, overweight. Brown LPF uniform with principal's square on the upper sleeves, brown kerchief, silver standard.
"Smoke?" Renzo offered.
Just because he spoke doesn't mean the Assessment was over.
"Na," Chogan said. "I stopped."
The principal puffed. "How long?"
"When my daughter was born, so seven months now."
"Mm." Farese took a long pull on the sigan and then let the smoke slowly pour from his nostrils. "Not that long."
"It's not."
He flicked the sigan into the short grass and started walking toward the river. "You a Perry?"
Chogan nodded once. "My grandparents are from Perioeca. My parents and I were born in Byzantium."
"Ya?" Zonara nodded again. "What's your first name?"
"Armilios."
The principal chuckled. "Ya, Byzantium."
"Anty?"
"My people not been to Antoeca for centuries. Born here, in Londin."
"First name?"
"George." Chogan smiled and the pair moved away from each other to allow a large family of noisy children and put-upon parents to go between them from the other direction. In the few seconds this took, the inspector could reflect on his initial Assessment and confirm his suspicion. Renzo Farese is just a man. A man whose family was probably chewed by the machine of the Republic at multiple points in the past, just like him. In all his years performing these Assessments, the other person was almost always like this. Someone ground by the gears and not manning the levers. Only once before was it the other way 'round.
"You look like you feel comfortable in the uniform," the principal said.
Chogan understood this question meant the other man's Assessment wasn't over. "I am. Worn one for some time. Not used to the color, though."
Renzo narrowed his eyes and glared at the man. "Thought you were a scrip?"
"No. I haven't been a conscript since I graduated the Academy in sixty-eight."
The principal huffed and shook his head. He staggered away from the younger man and started to laugh. Finally, he stopped and straightened before looking toward the sky. "Shit."
"What is it?"
"You cost me a deccer."
"How?"
"I bet ten aurs that you would be a Dunko."
"Dunko?" Zonara looked away as he thought, "Like the clown on that kids' program?"
Farese laughed again. "That's the one." He sighed and then waved for the inspector to follow him. They turned away from the river and started walking back toward the loud games, rides, and vendors. "What color uniform you wear before?"
"Black."
The principal's eyebrows raised and he asked in a lowered voice, "Information Control?"
"No. I was a lictor."
"Oh."
"A principal lictor in the provincial superior magistracy." He pointed east toward the courthouse three squares away.
"You good with a VertiGun?"
"I haven't had to carry one in years."
"What'd you have at the magistracy?"
"Wenger Nine. Chain-fed, ten shots, …"
"Wait. Principal lictor? They didn't let you keep rank when you came over?"
"Only if I went back to being a watchman."
"Mm."
"With the baby, my wife and me didn't think that was good."
"Ya, ya. How long were you a lictor?"
"Five years. Five years as a lictor, and I could ask to be transferred wherever I wanted."
"And you said Homicide."
"I did."
Renzo shook his head. "Your mistake." Chogan looked at him. "Eh. There's worse." A few moments later, he said, "You were young when you got called to be a lictor. How so?"
"I was at the magistracy escorting a prisoner from Central Command. I saw a man with a knife hidden by his leg stalking up some woman and I tackled him. The woman, it turns, was a superior magistrate."
"Good luck."
"She made the request for me and the transfer was approved."
The conversation paused as they got nearer the games and vendors. Lights flashed and music blared to few attendees … the first day of Festival weeks were often lightly attended as many had celebrations with their families or at Church. The partners turned right when they approached a target game and faced northeast. The provincial Senate filled their view and beyond it, they saw the unusual sight of a clear sky. The factories were all closed for the holidays, giving the people clean breaths for a change.
They had been quiet a little too long for Zonara's comfort. "How's the dec?"
Renzo nodded and reached into his pants pocket. "She's fair. Sharp when she has to be. Stands up to the stripes for us." The sound of a sigan packet could be heard as his fingers probed for it and then, ultimately, decided not to pull one out.
"That's what you want from your super."
"Ya." He coughed and then clasped his hands behind his back. "She's a Wally, you know."
"Is she?" The principal nodded. Chogan's eyebrow's raised, "I didn't hear an accent."
"Comes out when she's redded up. So you know, she hates the word."
"'Wally?'" Farese nodded again. "I understand."
A derogatory term, usually, "Wally" is a centuries-old Britton nickname for the people from beyond Hadrian's Wall. The old perceptions apply – primitive, uncultured, unclean – along with whatever new associations non-Wallys want to attach, including poor, uneducated, and so on.
"How long were you a watchman?"
Zonara answered, "About four years."
"Where were you stationed?"
"The Northeastern and the Western."
"Oh, so you worked some bodies, hm?"
"A few. Had to mark scenes, pull witnesses, and crowd control for Homicide a fair bit."
"Shit," Renzo chuckled. "I haven't seen her in a time."
"Who?" He looked ahead and saw a rather curvy woman walking toward them.
Her streaked hair was pulled back and up, towering above her head. Minus her hair, she would be rather short, save for the green shoes that gave her a few inches. Wide eyes were framed with sweeping swaths of black makeup and her lips were dark, too, possibly purple. Her green dress was tight and a diaphanous green scarf was swaddled around her neck and atop her bulging breasts.
"Inspector?" she asked with a simultaneously high-pitched and gravelly voice. "You get knocked down?"
"Na, Gela," Farese tapped his standard. "We have to do uniform duty one day of the Festival."
"Good to see you," her long arms reached up and over his shoulders. The principal smiled and leaned down to hug her tightly. The new inspector watched with curiosity. As they withdrew from each other, she turned toward Zonara. Her eyes flashed and she asked, "Who's the young one?"
"Inspector Zonara Chogan," he offered with a slight bow of the head.
"Mm."
"Now, Gela," the principal spoke quietly, "you're not lookin' here are you?"
"Na. I came to get food and see the concert later."
Chogan asked, "Who's playing?"
"Banga." She smiled at him, "I like Indian dance music. I'm a good dancer."
"I'm certain."
Farese held the top of his vox which was still on his belt, "When did you last get flashed?"
"Been a time, inspector."
"I give you one now and you'll be good, ya?"
"I'm straight, inspector," she lightly grasped his arm. "You know me."
He chuckled again and muttered, "Ya, I know you."
As he withdrew the vox from his belt, she reached into the top of her dress, pulling her card out from her left breast. She handed it to him with a smile, "Still warm."
Renzo didn't answer. He just smiled wryly as he read the card and brought the vox toward his mouth. He pressed the button on the side and after the typical chirp, he said, "Link Control. Incoming flash." After he released the button, he waited a moment. Then two high-pitched tones responded, letting him know the system was ready to receive the input.
The identification card. Every person on the planet is a citizen and you must carry your card at all times. Fines and even prison may await you if you're caught without it. Across the top, it read, "Citizen of Roma." Underneath, the citizen's four names were listed: praenomen, nomen, cognomen, and genomen. Then the birthdate. Beneath that, the citizen's number. The first digit wasn't; it's always a letter. "A" numbers were reserved for citizens elected to high office or important public officials or officers. Such cases are the only occasions in which a citizen's number could be changed. "B" through "Z" is what most people had, each letter corresponding to one of the twenty-five Regions of the Republic. If you were born in Londin, for example, your citizen number would begin with a "B." After the letter, there were nine digits to represent you for the entirety of your life. And beneath the citizen number, there was the "splash-and-stripe." A wheel showing a prismatic array of colors to the left of a band of black-and-white hash marks. The flash would read the precise mixture of colors in the wheel along with the marks, immediately identifying the citizen in the Republic Information Control system.
The principal held Gela's card flat in his palm and positioned his vox over it. He pressed a button on the back of the black device and a white light blinked quickly from the bottom of the unit, scanning the splash-and-stripe and sending the info to RIC. A tone emerged from the vox, meaning the signal was received.
A clear, feminine voice began to speak, "Ingela Adil Campfort Bavacin, citizen C-six-two-five-five-five-six-three-zero-nine. Number two female, European. Thirty-eight years old. One-point-six meters, fifty-nine kilograms. Black and colored hair. Brown eyes. No unique features."
Gela raised her eyebrows and cocked her hips to one side, "I disagree."
Farese laughed as the voice continued, "No outstanding proscriptions. Licensure with Republic Ministry of Health as prostitute is on record and in good standing."
"Link close," Renzo said before putting the vox back on his belt. "Happy to see you, Gela."
"Same, inspector." She patted his chest next to his standard before turning and winking at Zonara. Then, she walked away.
In a low voice, the principal said, "She's a good one. Helped me on some slicings four years ago. Two were her friends."
"Catch him?"
"Ya. Her former pandar. Vexed over territory or some shit." They started walking again and he asked, "You do much flashing as a lictor?"
"Some. Do we have a mark to reach tonight?"
"A mark?"
"Ya, a goal?" Renzo narrowed his eyes and looked at the younger man oddly. "Do we have to flash a certain number of people tonight?"
"Na, na. Dec doesn't go for shit like numbers that don' matter."
"Solve rate?"
"Well," Farese scoffed, "that's a number that does matter."
"Talking of useless shit," Chogan began, "do you have to file twenty-one sixties?"
"I don't know that one."
"Daily reports."
"Fuck," Renzo shook his head. "Ya, ninety-five forties."
"Ninety-five forty," Zonara repeated.
"You get three days after a completed shift to file 'em. Dec don' care about forties, but if you don' file them in the system in those three days, the centuri will come bite your ass in front of everyone on the floor. No one reads the fucks, but you gotta file 'em."
A story came to Chogan's mind and he chuckled as he started to tell it, "Do you remember the big fight between clans that got loose in the holding cells of the magistracy last year?"
"Ya, one died?"
"Ya."
"I worked it. I was there."
"A week after, one of my lictors was lit by the system and had to see the praefect."
"For letting the clans get loose?"
"Na. For his sixty. After he saw the praefect, I asked him and he said, 'I wanted to test the system, so for my daily, I just said, "Nothing happened today."' On the day of the fight." Chogan laughed, "The praefect bit his ass for an hour for 'testing the system.'"
"Huh. I guess someone does read them."
They finally approached a long line of plastic barriers, marking the edge of the Festival area. On the other side were statues and the colonnade that stretched from the far side of the Senate building toward the magistracy building. They turned back to the west and saw the orange sky as the sun disappeared behind Londin's skyline. The province's government buildings were arrayed before them and beyond were the towering structures of Brittan's largest city.
"I'm hungry," Renzo said.
"Mm. I saw some chicken baps earlier. Smelled great."
They started to walk toward the lights and the burgeoning crowd. "I want a masala."
"Had it last night." Zonara asked, "Sausage petza?"
"Fuck, yes." Farese slapped his partner's arm, "You buy, Dunko."
Thanks for reading.
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